She drummed her fingers along the side of the laptop. Through the window, she could see the early cloud cover had burned away to a fine clear day. New Hope’s courtyard was bright with sunshine. All that was missing were people. Where were the police? Had they rounded up everyone and forgotten her?
Someone knocked at the door.
She jumped up to open it, and confronted Jack, who looked awful.
“How’s Alan?”
Jack took off his glasses and rubbed his face. “I don’t know if he believes Lillian’s dead. He’s in the QNA lab going on with his work. I offered him time off…”
“Sometimes it helps to be busy.”
“Immediately?” He replaced his glasses. “I’ve spent all morning either with the police or our clients. I need some time out. I hoped you might come home with me, see my house, have some lunch?”
Without a pang of conscience, Charley consigned Dr. Solomon’s invitation to the cold perils of cyberspace. Jack needed space from New Hope and a reminder of normality after the upset of Lillian’s death. She could sympathize with his need to escape, and the need for company, especially the company of someone who wasn’t dependent on him. He carried a heavy load of responsibility. “Let me shutdown my laptop and grab a jacket.”
He watched from the doorway as she stacked away her work and ducked into the bathroom to tidy her hair, messy from a morning’s work. Absently, he flashed and retracted the claws of his left hand.
“You’re showing your claws,” she said lightly, re-entering the room.
“Pardon?” he asked, startled.
Charley regretted her unconsidered flippancy. He had every reason to be stressed. She offered him a small smile and reached out to touch his left hand in explanation. “You have a new nervous trick, unique in human history.”
He sheathed his claws and turned his hand to grip hers. “I’m worried.”
“Why?”
“Huh?” He gave a short splutter of laughter. “For a minute, I forgot you were a journalist.”
“Jack.”
“It’s not a criticism.” He pulled her out of the apartment and checked that the door had locked behind her. “I had a moment of self-pity and expected sympathy, but you’re right. The real issue is the reason I’m worried.”
She waited, but when he didn’t add anything to his statement, she interrupted his frowning contemplation of the ground. “Where are the police?”
“Gone.”
“No way.” Police procedure took forever. She studied his grim expression. “Did Michael pull some strings to get them called off?”
“Who knows?” His attempt at a shrug was jerky and tense. He unlocked the Jaguar and helped her in. “Michael’s been conspicuous by his absence this morning.”
The Jag took the corner from New Hope’s driveway to the road with smooth precision, then accelerated with a sudden moody burst of speed.
“So Michael turns up after a break-in, but not after a death?” She watched Jack’s mouth tighten further at her question. “What have the police called Lillian’s death?”
“An accident.” He checked the speedometer and lifted his foot from the accelerator. “Apparently there was blood on the rocks. They think Lillian slipped and fell during a late night walk.”
It was a convenient explanation. If it made the paper, Charley could imagine a reporter padding it with a mention of freak waves and global warming tide swells. “Does…did Lillian have any family other than Alan?”
“No.”
“So, if Alan doesn’t challenge the police explanation, it’ll be an open and shut case. No publicity.”
Jack damned publicity to hellfire, and swung off the main road. Gravel splattered.
The narrow side road snaked away from the ocean. He drove along it with the casual speed of familiarity before slowing at a driveway where he turned in and pulled up in front of a sprawling house. A small patch of lawn and a giant jacaranda tree, only just hinting at the purple flowers that would soon burst forth, did little to soften the strong, square lines of the house; yet it had a friendly air.
Jack turned off the car engine and sighed. New Hope and its demands had no place here.
The house was built of local limestone, white and gold, in the same shifting colors as a golden retriever’s coat. It was old enough that the limestone blocks had grown a faint overlay of gray, although in the glare of a summer sun they’d still appear dazzlingly white. The center of the house was double story, flattening like a children’s block house to single story wings on either side.
“This is your home?” It wasn’t what she’d expected, and the unexpectedness increased as Jack led the way around the house.
“I seldom use the front door.”
The backyard was ordered chaos. A large chicken run occupied the ground beneath an old and spreading mulberry tree at the back of the garden. In front of it, and partly screening it from the house were rows of late winter vegetables—spinach, cabbage, broccoli and leeks going to seed—and new spring seedlings. Grapevines that climbed over the chicken run were uncurling fresh green leaves and stretching out to the lattice that hid the unsightly necessities of a garden—a compost heap, shed and tools—and supported a vigorous passionfruit vine. A fig tree was similarly shedding winter’s bareness, while two lemon trees flaunted glossy green leaves, the reddish tinge of new growth, and added the sweet scent of lemon blossom to the garden.
“It’s a permaculture garden. It was here when I bought the house and I didn’t want to destroy it or let it die of neglect. George comes in three times a week to keep everything ticking over. When I have time, I find I enjoy doing some of the work myself.”
“It’s lovely.”
Small gray-brown birds darted from tree to tree and visited the grevilleas massed along the western side of the garden. A willywagtail chirruped loudly, scolding or applauding—who knew?—as it chased and gobbled garden insects. And over it all came the lazy, contented clucking of the chickens as they scratched in their run or dozed in the late winter sun.
Charley forgot Lillian’s death and smiled. “I thought you would have a smart, modern house overlooking the sea.”
“I planned to.” Jack returned her smile a little ruefully. “Until I saw this house. I seem to fall in love with the oddest things.” He turned and unlocked the backdoor. “Come in and see what you think of it.” He held the door for her.
With a last glance for the quietly humming garden, she stepped in.
After the efficiency of her Sydney flat, Jack’s house was huge.
The back door led directly into a living space separated from the kitchen by an island counter. Both rooms overlooked the back garden and were bright with sunlight.
“The house is really too big for me. I live mainly in the kitchen and west wing.”
He detoured through the formal dining room, living room and music room—“I really should make it into a library. I can’t play a note”—before returning to the kitchen where he opened the fridge and frowned at its contents. “Will sandwiches be all right?”
Breathless from the whirlwind display of comfort and luxury, she agreed.
He pulled bread out of the freezer to defrost, and piled the contents of the fridge on the counter: butter, two types of cheese, smoked sausage, homemade tomato relish, cucumber pickle and strawberry jam. A jar of olives came out, too, then he shut the fridge and turned to smile at her. “I hope there’s something here you’re willing to eat. I haven’t been shopping for a while. There’ll be some lettuce in the garden.”
He started for the door, but she stopped him. “This is fine.” The food was less important than the break from New Hope. The tense muscles around his mouth had eased.
“We can eat outside,” he said as they finished making their sandwiches. “A creek runs along the bottom of the yard. There’s a path through the garden.”
“Sounds lovely.” The kettle shrilled and she poured boiling water into two mugs before jangling tea bags. “Milk? Sug
ar?”
“Milk, no sugar.” He unearthed a wooden tray from a high cupboard and placed their plates of sandwiches and the jar of olives on it. “Local olives,” he said, although Charley hadn’t commented. “They’re my addiction. I love the salt.” He waited till she’d finished making the tea, then shifted the mugs onto the tray and lifted it. “Can you grab the door?”
She pushed the door wide and held it.
He maneuvered past her and onto the narrow track that wound past the rows of vegetables, skirted the chicken run and then darted right to duck between a cherry and an apricot tree, both just in flower.
Beyond the fruit trees, the cultivated garden gave way to rough grass and low bushland. A wire gate was set into a fence designed to keep marauding rabbits and gray kangaroos from the vegetable garden. The creek, itself, was shaded by tall eucalypt trees, and wooden benches, made of recycled fence posts, invited visitors to sit in their shade.
Charley and Jack had a bench each. She put her mug of tea down beside her and accepted a plate of sandwiches.
The creek ran gently, freed of snags and clumping reeds.
“It’s so quiet,” she marveled. In Sydney, she lived with the constant background hum of people and traffic noises, and even at New Hope, she was aware that there were people close by.
“You should be here in the evening. The frog chorus is loud.”
She smiled.
However, Jack looked down at his sandwiches and grimaced. Something in his own words had stolen his lighter humor.
“Actually, Charley,” he began awkwardly. “I wondered if you’d consider moving from New Hope to here. I have plenty of room.”
“Why?” she asked, although it explained the tour of the house. “I mean, I won’t be here for much longer. You’re not closing New Hope because of Lillian’s death, are you, or asking your clients to leave?”
“No.” He scratched a claw along the edge of his plate. “They’re not in danger.” He flicked the plate and it gave a little ting as his claw hit it. “But they’re not journalists. They won’t put themselves in danger by asking ‘why?’.”
“And I will.” She put her plate down. “I haven’t been an investigative journalist for a long time.” She wanted to ask what danger he suspected, but if she asked, then it was a commitment: a commitment to stay and follow up something more than a medical breakthrough.
There had been a break-in and then a death, and Charley had long ago grown skeptical of coincidence. In the peace of the creek, it was possible to think of Lillian’s death without the overlay of emotional response. What did her death mean? How important was sensory bio-enhancement, and the secrets of Jabberwocky, to the military establishment? And how did Jack feel about Lillian’s death? He had worked with her on a daily basis and she’d accompanied him and Alan to the Sydney conference. He would feel her absence in his life, not least in the running of New Hope if Lillian had been the organizer he called her.
Stay or go? Charley stared at the creek, watching the water swirl around and past a loaf-sized rock. If she held to her non-involvement policy of two years, then she had to leave, now. She had enough information for half a dozen articles on Jack and his work, and if she had any further questions she could phone or email him from Sydney. If she was bowing out, now was the time to go gracefully.
But if she was staying…“Jack, do you want me to leave?”
“No, only New Hope.”
“I could stay at a hotel in town.” And she wanted to stay, didn’t she, if she was making these suggestions?
He shook his head. “It makes sense to stay with me. You save money. I’ve plenty of empty rooms. And this way you can ask me all the questions you want, and you get transport to New Hope for client and staff interviews.”
“I’d like to stay,” she said, slowly. There were questions that needed answers, questions that went beyond her articles. “But I feel I’d be imposing, staying here. We’re acquaintances rather than friends.”
“You were Eric’s girlfriend, his wife.” Jack stopped, and found other words. “I’d like you to stay here. I’d like us to be friends.”
She drew a deep breath for courage and accepted.
He let out his breath. For an instant he turned aside, face hidden. He picked up the jar of olives and held it out. “Have some.”
Charley took three and smiled. “Thanks.”
Chapter Eight
Jack finished his mug of tea and set it down. “I have to return to New Hope.”
Charley nodded. She finished her own tea, while he piled their plates and mugs on the tray and carried it back to the house, placing the few dishes in the dishwasher. She handed over her mug. Their fingers touched before she released her hold.
“Thanks for coming out here with me. “I needed time out.”
“We all do, at times. At least you have a lovely retreat.”
“Yes.” He closed the dishwasher and looked out the window at the quiet garden. “It’s idyllic, yet—” His hands tightened on the edge of the kitchen counter.
She waited, but whatever his doubts or regrets, he wasn’t about to share them.
He picked his car keys up off the counter, tossed them in the air and caught them, claws flashing. “Let’s go.”
In the car, and she was fast growing to love its luxury, she broke the silence; asking the crucial question. “Was Lillian’s death an accident?”
Jack sighed, fingers flexing against the steering wheel. “It could have been, except the timing’s wrong. If she’d died at any other time I would accept it as a tragic accident. The rocks are slippery. But after my announcement of bio-enhancement and the break-in at New Hope.” He shrugged, and pushed his glasses more firmly onto the bridge of his nose. “What I can’t understand is why Lillian would be killed. What could she have done or known? What would be worth a woman’s death?”
“There was something,” Charley said. “I didn’t know Lillian, but she demanded Michael meet her yesterday.”
“I remember.” He scowled at an oncoming truck. The country road was narrow. He hugged the edge as the truck roared past. “I phoned Jabberwocky and left a message for Michael to call me. He hasn’t done so.”
Unanswered phone calls reminded her of Solomon. “Has Dr. Solomon contacted you?”
“Solomon? No.” Jack blinked at the change of subject.
“He’s in town. I’d like to know why. He said he was flying home to Chicago from the conference.”
“Professional curiosity.” Jack wasn’t much interested. “I thought Michael would be curious about Lillian’s death. His guards must have reported to him.”
She considered that. “I’d have thought he’d insert himself into the center of things.”
“Seems you summed him up pretty quickly.” Cool satisfaction laced his voice. “Michael likes to be in control.”
Two of a kind, she thought, amused. “I don’t know how you two came to be partners.”
“We met through a client I helped during a year I spent in America. Michael had the money and he believed my clinic, New Hope, was a sound investment.” Jack tapped his claws on the steering wheel. “He’s not such a bad guy.”
Once back at New Hope, Charley packed her bag, preparatory to moving to Jack’s house. Then she frowned at her phone. At the least, she owed Solomon the courtesy of a phone call after his helpful kindness at the Sydney conference.
He was delighted to hear from her. After a brisk greeting, his voice warmed as she identified herself. “I’ve hired a car,” he said. “You’re staying at New Hope, yes? I’ll collect you and we can have a coffee in town.”
“It’s a longish drive out to New Hope,” she began.
“No problem. I’d enjoy seeing John Bradshaw’s center.” He hung up before she could say that today wasn’t a good day to bother Jack.
“Damn.”
Outside, the day was bright with sunshine. A person could imagine it was spring. She looked around the guest apartment, so impersonal and small
after Jack’s house. She decided to wait outside, and carried her bag across to the central building where she popped her head into Jack’s office.
He wasn’t there, so she retreated to the porch and sat on the swing seat. Its blue denim fabric, patterned with yellow and white daisies, covered luxuriantly soft cushions. She sighed as she set the swing in motion. The gentle rocking was soothing.
The graveled car park to the right of her was half-full of cars, several parked to take advantage of the shade provided by a tall red gum. From the open door of the center came the sounds of someone settling at the front desk and briskly typing, indicating that someone was filling, and filling with a degree of competence, Lillian’s role.
People died, and life went on. Charley shivered.
Solomon’s rental car was white and nondescript. He drew up in the car park, close to the porch, and switched off the engine, opening the driver’s door with swift purpose.
Charley, who’d been on the point of standing and walking down to the car, compromised and met him at the base of the steps.
His approach from the car, when he must have seen her, could have been good manners, or then, it could have been his interest in New Hope.
“Hi.” She smiled a polite greeting.
He looked rumpled. His long-sleeved, white shirt was rolled up to his elbows, and open at the neck. His dark gray trousers bagged at the knees. “Good afternoon, Charlotte.” His gaze drifted on, past her, to roam the building.
She waited, but nothing else was forthcoming. “I’m afraid Jack’s busy at the moment.”
“That’s all right. I’ll catch him later,” Solomon said, but he seemed to realize his own abstraction and brought his attention back from studying the appearance of New Hope. “It’s you and I who have the engagement, Charlotte. Shall we go?”
She hesitated. New Hope’s clients were encouraged to have occasional, quiet visitors and the center had the facilities to entertain them. Moreover, Jack hadn’t seemed bothered by Solomon’s appearance. So it would be okay for Charley to invite the doctor to stay and share a cuppa at New Hope. What would it hurt for her to give him a chance to see some of New Hope?
Beyond Regeneration Page 8
