by Polly Holmes
Kayne’s silence on the other end of the line sent a warning jolt through her body. “I’m sorry, Clair, but no-one came into the station today claiming to be Dario’s son.”
Who was it then that I spoke to? Oh no, what have I done? She felt the blood drain from her face as the harsh, icy reality of her actions slammed into her like a freight train out of control. The murderer. “I have to go. I’ll be in touch.” Clair hung up on Kayne before he had a chance to fire any questions at her.
She turned and saw the horrified expression on Charlotte’s face. “I’ve done something terrible.”
“I’m guessing it has something to do with Pierre’s son,” Margarete said. Her voice trailed off as she caught sight of Charlotte’s shaking head.
“But I know for a fact Pierre couldn’t have children,” Charlotte snapped.
Clair shuffled from one foot to the other, ignoring Charlotte’s terse tone. “This really isn’t the type of discussion to have in a public forum.”
“Let’s go out back into my office,” Margarete said as the followed her each choosing their own spot in the cell-sized office. “Now, Charlotte, you were saying?”
“A few months back, when we agreed to have Pierre do Mum and Dad’s cake for the party, he and I were supposed to get together and plan it. We’d arranged to meet one evening after hours at work and when I got there, he was so drunk I could barely understand what he was blabbering about. Turns out he had tests done and thanks to a zero sperm count he can’t father children. I don’t know all the details, but apparently, it had something to do with his mother. She was taking some sort of medication to prevent miscarriages. While it worked and she had Pierre, the side effect was his inability to father children.”
“Wow, are you serious?” Clair blurted, heated panic rising inch by inch through her body. “And you didn’t think to mention this?”
Charlotte threw her hands up in the air. “Why would I mention it? It was personal to him and I didn’t think it was my place to share such news. After all, he was drunk and I’m not sure I was supposed to know. I guess he and Olivia were planning a future. How was I supposed to know it would be that important?”
“Okay, let’s just all calm down.” Margarete shot up from her office chair and stood between the girls. “So, Pierre couldn’t have children, which means whoever this Nathan is, he isn’t Dario’s son. He’s an imposter, and if I had to guess, our murderer. Which means it’s doubly important we find him and quick.”
“The key,” Clair whispered, her head swimming as she slapped her forehead.
“What key?” Charlotte asked.
Clair knew she’d screwed up. Her pulse quickened and she stood stock still, Margarete’s pleading gaze imploring her to maintain focus. “Okay. I know I’ve made a complete mess of this, but I promise I’ll do everything in my power to fix it.”
“The key?” Margarete asked in desperation two octaves higher.
“This Nathan guy did a real number on me. I believed every word of his gut-wrenching story. The sorrow and pain in his eyes gutted me.” Fury took over her embarrassment. A ball of anger grew in her belly, ready to shatter her into a gazillion minute pieces upon detonation. “He played me. He played me like the gullible fool that I was, but no more. Pierre had a key in what looked like a jewellery bracelet box. That must have been what this guy was after. We find out what it opens, and we find our imposter.”
“It could open anything,” Margarete said.
Clair shook her head, adrenaline spurring her into action. “No, it doesn’t. If that’s what he’s after, it’s obviously something worth hiding. I’d say in a town like Ashton Point, there could only be a few public places a key like that could open. Think.”
While silence filled the compact room, the energy spiked. Margarete snapped her fingers. “What about a gym locker? There are only two gyms in town.”
“Let’s not forget the country club,” Clair added. “After all, that’s where the murder was. What if he stashed something in one of the lockers and he was meeting someone there after the party?”
“Good idea,” Charlotte said, a smile popped her cheeks and she nodded. “The bus-slash-train station. There’s always lockers there.”
Clair felt like she was stuck in a game of Cluedo. Mrs Scarlet, in the library with the candlestick. She chuckled to herself. “You do realise this may be a long shot.”
“Maybe, but what have we got to lose? Especially me,” Margarete said, desperation edging her voice. “If we leave it to the police, we could miss our chance and I, for one, am not too keen on giving cooking lessons to inmates for the remainder of my natural life.”
“Okay.” Clair pointed at Margarete. “You take the gyms. I’ll take the country club and Charlotte you take the bus station. Be careful and don’t forget to take your phones for evidence. If we come up empty-handed, we hit up Olivia Boothman. She has to know something. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
She gave them a quick run-down on his appearance and what he was wearing, careful to give as much detail as possible.
Here I go again, sleuthing. Best Mason doesn’t find out.
Chapter Sixteen
Margarete swiped her membership card at Fab Fitness and waited for the click of the lock before she pushed through the glass security door, favouring her injured foot. “Darn stupid foot,” she said leaning against the doorframe, her chest heaving for air. Her gaze swept the twenty-four-hour gym. She’d downed some painkillers before she’d left the café. Waiting for them to kick in was agonising.
Empty, thank goodness. Like it’s going to last long.
She limped to the seating area and sat. A moment of recovery was in desperate need. Where was Logan when she needed him? Margarete had tried to call him again between gyms with no success. “At least he can’t get angry with me for not asking for help. I did try and call. I guess his stepmother’s visit is taking longer than expected.”
When she’d entered Big Al’s Gym, she hadn’t expected it to be manned. Weren’t most gyms self-service these days? It surprised her to see Doug behind the counter. The last time she really spoke to him was at Beth and Lincoln’s wedding. He’d not long moved back into town after his disastrous break-up with his high school sweetheart, Annabelle.
He’s new buff body stunned her and had her heart pumping. He certainly hadn’t looked like that at the wedding. He was no McDreamy, but it couldn’t hurt to admire a healthy, toned male specimen once in a while. She pretended interest in joining Big Al’s in order to do a search for their mysterious visitor. Leaving empty handed and discouraged, she hoped Fab Fitness held better results.
“I hope you ladies are having better luck that I am,” she muttered, hoisting her tired body off the couch. There weren’t many places to search, so she eliminated the easiest first: the ladies’ change rooms. Clear, as she predicted.
Margarete’s hand pulled the change room door open an inch and she froze to the spot, her heart leaping into her throat. A brusque male voice yelling in the corridor stopped her in her tracks. He stood less than five meters from her location.
“That’s your problem, not mind. I don’t give a crap. That was not part of the deal.”
Holy cow, it’s him. Shivers danced over her skin as she peered through the inch gap she’d made. It was hard to get a clear picture. She squinted, closing one eye and the image clarified. His back was to her. Medium height, worn cardigan, short, golden locks of hair that sat just above his neckline and a voice that sent a quake through her body. Shoved under his left arm was a black duffle bag.
Bingo.
“I’ll not put up with your garbage a moment longer,” he said in a frightfully commanding tone.
Margarete strained to hear the voice on the other end of the line. Scattered words here and there, but nothing she could decipher. It did, however, sound high pitched. Maybe it was a woman.
“You’ve got one chance you hear me. One chance.” He paused obviously listening to the other per
son. “Yes, I know Sabarcle street… Left at the Anglican Church. Where? By the lookout sign. …in twenty minutes and don’t be late, otherwise it can be arranged that you end up just like this town’s beloved chef.”
Margarete’s hand flew to her mouth to mute a gasp rolling up from the base of her chest. She held her breath, her thoughts zoning in on the conversation on repeat in her head.
He eyelids snapped open. She knew exactly where he was going. After all, that was the direction Ryder Stone had been headed before she’d sprained her ankle. The puzzle was coming together with the mysterious stranger and Ryder Stone smack bang in the middle.
But how can that be? Kayne said Ryder Stone was in the clear. Was he wrong?
The click of the door glass door closing jolted her, and she peered through the door. “Damn, he’s gone.”
Ignoring the pain shooting up her leg from her ankle, she hobbled out of the ladies’ change room, careful to check that the coast was clear. She paused as a female giggle greeted her when she rounded the corner.
“Margarete? What are you doing here?” Emmerson Bancroft asked, closing her phone and dropping it into her gym bag. One eyebrow raised as her gaze scanned Margarete’s body from top to toe. “Please don’t tell me you’re here to work out with a sprained ankle.”
Margarete pouted. Emmerson was always a joy to chat to, and now—with her perfect, size-ten, sun-drenched, tanned body neatly tucked into her pink-and-purple-neon, designer gym outfit—she made Margarete wish she’d made better use of her membership. Ashton Point’s own Kate Moss.
“Emmerson, hi. Don’t be silly. How am I supposed to work out with this foot? I just came in because I thought I left my spare phone charger here the other day while I was working out.”
Emmerson pouted. “I see. You know, you really should pop by and chat. We’ve had some great fashions come in lately. I’m sure we can find you an outfit that will emphasise your positive attributes.”
Positive attributes? What’s that supposed to mean? Time to catch a murderer. “Sure. If you’ll excuse me, I have somewhere to be,” Margarete said as she side-stepped Emmerson and made a beeline for the door.
“I’ll show you positive attributes.” she said, her face etched with lines of frustration. She shook Emmerson’s comments from her mind and punched Clair’s number into her phone. “I’m positive I’m about to catch a murderer.”
Leaning against her car, she waited. Engaged. Her message bank kicked in. “Hi, Clair, it’s Margarete and I think I hit the jackpot. He was here, at Fab Fitness. At least I’m pretty sure it was him. He fit the type of description you gave us, and he had a black duffle bag. Something’s going down. Call me when you get this. I’ll try Charlotte.”
Margarete dialled Charlotte’s number. A sense of foreboding came over her as the battery symbol flashed on her screen. “Great. Engaged. I bet they’re talking to each other.” She was out of time, and battery power. “Charlotte, if you get this message, I’m pretty sure I found the guy. The key opened a locker at Fab Fitness which had a black duffle bag in it. He’s headed to meet someone at the lookout sign, you know the one down past Sabarcle Street after the Anglican Church? Meet—” She sighed and looked at the black screen of her useless phone.
As she turned the car engine over, she felt a prickle on the back of her neck. “I have a bad feeling about this.”
With each spin of the car wheels, she prayed Charlotte got her message. Confronting a murderer alone was not high on her bucket list. Margarete turned past the Anglican Church and slowed to a crawl pulling her car off to the side of the road and sat in horror at the site before her.
Scattered red and blue lights from a police car flashed, creating a light spectacle ahead. She could hear no sound, only the thump of her own heartbeat. A cold sweat broke out on her brow and the image of Clair or Charlotte in trouble fleeted through her mind.
“Oh no.” Her watery gaze gave the scene ahead a ghost-like feel. Margarete hadn’t realised she’d been holding her breath, but now it rushed painfully out. “Please don’t be Clair or Charlotte.” Refusing to let the images in her head take over, Margarete headed toward the commotion as fast as her injured foot would allow. She paused behind the police car out of sight of the organised panic, her heart catapulting against her ribcage.
Shoes, still and motionless jutted out from behind Robert as he made copious notes in his notepad. The upper part of the body was obscured by the bushes. But it was clear that they were male legs. Relief lapped at her stomach. “Thank goodness it’s not Clair or Charlotte.”
Margarete moved around the police car and crept toward the crime scene. The hard, distant, unemotional look on Roberts face twisted her gut until she realised, he was talking on the phone. “Yes, mayor. I’ll see that it’s done… I understand, Brad. I’ll sort it from my end. You just look after Sheryl.” She edged her forward just enough to gain sight of the body. She gasped, the image before her chilled her to the bone.
Robert spun at the sound and his eyes locked her to the spot like an arrow travelling at high speed. “I’ll get back to you,” he said abruptly ending the call and returning his phone to his pocket. “What are you doing here, Margarete this is a crime scene. Shouldn’t you be home resting?”
She glanced past Robert’s tall frame. It’s him. The same short, golden locks. The same pants and shoes from the gym. The same worn cardigan and the same death as Pierre. While this wasn’t the first dead body Margarete had seen, this new death struck ice-cold fear into her heart. They were wrong. Nathan was a victim. The murderer is still out there.
“I’m sorry. I was driving past and saw the flashing lights, so I stopped to help.” Margarete surprised herself with how easily the lie rolled off her tongue.
“No car accident, but it would be wise if you kept clear of the scene,” he said.
Something was missing. Her brow furrowed and it finally registered. Where’s the black duffle bag? Fraught with nervous fear, her gaze skipped from one place to the next in search of the missing bag.
“What’s wrong?” Robert asked, his police skills picking up on her nervous actions. “Do you know the victim?”
“No, sorry. I’m just nervous,” she said twisting her hands together at her stomach. “What if the murderer is still here?”
A calming smile eased across his face and he squeezed her hand in reassurance. “It’s fine. Clint and I secured the area and Kayne is en route as we speak. I promise there is no-one here except us and, well…” He paused and nodded toward the lifeless body, the stale smell of death permeating the natural scents of the Australian bush. “Mr no-name over here.”
“Oh.” Mr No-name? That meant they had no idea he was the fake Nathan Bates. She rubbed her temple. “I guess I should leave you to it. I heard you talking to the mayor. I bet he’s not pleased he’s got another murder to deal with before his term ends.”
“Actually, Brad is out of town. Has been for the past two weeks. He’s taken Sheryl to see the Crown Jewels,” Robert said, his focus back on his notebook.
“Out of town…the Crown Jewels?” Margarete’s mind whirled a mile a minute churning over this latest information.
If Brad and Sheryl have been out of town these past two weeks, then why did Mary-Jane buy cupcakes for Sheryl this morning?
“You know the Queen’s crown, in the Tower of London. It’s the one place Sheryl wanted to see and with her health deteriorating, Brad didn’t want to wait any longer. The deputy mayor will just have to step up.”
She plastered a cheesy fake smile on. “I’m sure you and Clint have this all under control. I think it would be best if I headed home like you said and rested my foot. I have been on it far too much today.” She turned and was hobbling to her car before he had a chance to respond.
Seconds later, a gust of wind howled up around her ears and the cry of seagulls overhead startled her. Not knowing where Clair and Charlotte were, her phone battery dead and her head pounding as if she’d been hit with a flying b
owling ball, her only option was to head home and work out what else Mary-Jane had lied about.
Chapter Seventeen
“Why Mary-Jane? Why lie about the cupcakes?” Margarete pondered as she sat curled up in the corner of her L-shaped lounge. Her brain was fried. Her third black coffee hadn’t even helped soothe her frazzled mind. She’d been tossing information around in her head for the past hour and a half, trying to work out what was fact and fiction.
Clair and Charlotte had been frantic when she’d finally managed to get a hold of them and until she knew for sure Mary-Jane was the murderer, there was no use raising their hopes with hearsay.
“This is useless. I’m not going to find out why this way.” Margarete snapped up her recharged phone and dialled the number for the chemist. Her hand fidgeted with the trim on the lounge cover while she waited. Each second that ticked by, only served to grow her impatience.
“Hello.” A breathless voice barked down the phone. “Oh, Terry Smith’s Chemist, can I help you?”
“Mary-Jane, is that you?” she asked. Unease crept into Margarete’s gut.
“Yes. Who is this?”
“It’s Margarete.” No need to be so rude, she thought. “I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time.”
“Well, actually,” Mary-Jane muttered over her words.
Refusing to be brushed off, Margarete’s back stiffened and she went straight for a home run. “Why did you lie to Clair this morning?
“I beg your pardon?” Mary-Jane asked in a flustery tone. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Margarete’s heart began to race. “I think you do. Why did you say you were picking up cupcakes for Sheryl, when they have been out of town for the past two weeks?”
The deafening silence was cut only by Mary-Jane’s blunt voice. “I did no such thing.”
