by June Whyte
“You’re my hero,” I told him. “If trashy photos of Jack and me had appeared in Gape I’d have booked a flight to Timbuktu.”
A waitress carrying two servings of roast duck with tiny roast potatoes, pumpkin and green beans on the side stopped beside us and set the steaming food down on the table.
“Mmm…smells good,” Simon enthused, dragging his plate closer and spearing a green bean. “Did Rivers pay for this lot when he ordered?”
I nodded, my grin widening at the thought. “Paid with his credit card.”
“Excellent.” Simon popped the bean in his mouth. “Come on, Dani, dive in. We can’t let good food go to waste, can we? No good getting your knickers in a knot over what happened tonight. Better to show Super Sleaze how much you care by licking the plate clean and asking for seconds.”
Thinking about how close Super Sleaze had come to actually knotting my knickers, I almost choked on my first forkful of roast duck. And then I wondered, would Jack really have had sex with me? And if so, would his photographer have followed us to Jack’s house and taken photos of us…at it? The mouthful of roast duck turned to sawdust in my mouth. If Simon hadn’t intervened, a photo of me, stark naked, revealing all my rolls of fat and other dubious bits and pieces I normally take great care to keep well hidden, would have been displayed for everyone to see on page 3 of Gape, even my eighty-one-year-old mother. Although knowing her weird sense of humor, she’d probably cut the picture out and display it on the Sunny Days Retirement Home notice board and incite the residents to throw darts at it.
After pushing the food around my plate for five minutes, I decided I couldn’t eat a thing. If I forced food down, I’d only throw up. So, I’d have a liquid meal instead. Booze. Gallons and gallons of the mind-numbing alcoholic stuff….
Until I couldn’t see the image of Jack Rivers’s double-crossing face whenever I closed my eyes. Until I couldn’t remember my name, gender and phone number. Until I slid off my chair and disappeared under the table to curl up in a ball and sleep for a hundred years.
“Get me a Virgin Scream and a Wet and Waiting,” I yelled at a passing drink waiter. When he smirked and asked for the recipes, I bared my teeth in a snarl. Hell, no reason for me to be embarrassed. I was the Tribute’s notorious sex therapist and if I couldn’t experience the real deal tonight, I’m damned if I’d settle for anything less than the liquid variety.
Simon, a dribble of orange and mushroom sauce on his dimpled chin, looked up and his smoky blue eyes crinkled in a grin. “That’s my girl, Dani,” he said with a chuckle. “And in case Rivers did go to the little boys’ room, when your poison arrives let’s drink to the slimy bastard getting his dick stuck in the washroom dryer.”
3
Tuesday, 10:30 a.m.
Not only was I two hours late for work, but I felt like the masticated mouse who’d barely managed to escape from the cat’s jaws.
After passing out at Erika’s the night before, I’d woken to the hangover of the century. It came complete with memory loss and a Titanic-sized headache, so bad I swear there were loose nuts and bolts rattling around inside my skull.
The question of how I got home from the restaurant was still a complete blank. I guess, after I keeled over, Simon must have driven me home. But had he also put me to bed? For the life of me I couldn’t think who else could have performed this little task. My pet greyhound Horace is an exceptionally clever canine, but the fact that I’d woken in nothing but my Pooh-bear nightdress this morning, surely put him out of the running. And I’d found my little black dress, plus my underwear—all reeking of booze and vomit—stuffed in the washing machine with a load of whites I’d put in the day before and forgotten to wash.
On the way to work I’d stopped off for a refill of black coffee at three different coffee shops, swallowing painkillers with every cup. But still I winced and held my fragile head at the loud squeak of unoiled hinges when I pushed open the front door of the Tribute’s office.
My plan was to quickly thank Simon for bringing me home—God knows what I’d say or do to him if he grinned and did that stupid cartoon eye-waggle of his—snaffle the pile of readers’ letters that had me stumped, and then blow the office to have lunch with Megan. It had become a ritual to catch up with Megan every Tuesday. We’d have a gossip, a giggle and then iron out any of my readers’ sticky sex problems. Between Internet surfing and Megan’s hands-on experience, I always managed to come up with the goods.
A babble of excited voices greeted me as I let the heavy wooden door slap shut behind me…immediately followed by silence. Sensing six pairs of eyes following me as though my dress was tucked in my knickers, I hoisted my bright red imitation-leather bag more firmly over my right shoulder and turned in the direction of my desk. The moment I moved, my colleagues went back to work. It was like the director of a movie had clapped his hands for action in the second take of a scene. All the cast members frantically pressed numbers on their mobiles, clicked on their keyboards or dug for envelopes in desk drawers.
“Hi Tracy. What’s up?” I asked pausing beside the desk of the Tribute’s feisty book reviewer and literary guru and forcing my numb lips into a smile.
She spoke without taking her eyes off the floor. “Nothing! Nothing’s up!”
“Good,” I said and bent my head to peer at the floor. “Sorry I couldn’t go to your lingerie party last night. How did it go?”
“Fine! Fine!” The Tribute’s literary contributor sent every one of her exclamations in the direction of the grey industrial carpet at our feet.
I shook my head. Couldn’t see a damn thing of interest down there. So what the heck was going on?
“Good day, Rob,” I said stopping at the next desk. “Bet you took some top photos at the one-day cricket match yesterday. Great win by Australia, hey?”
“Mmm….” Robert Pilgrim, the Tribute’s normally garrulous photographer bashed the side of his head in his hurry to get said piece of anatomy under the desk so he wouldn’t have to continue the conversation.
Another few steps along, “Hi, Dee Dee. Love your Jimmy Choo boots. They go well with that caramel colored skirt.”
“Thanks.” The Tribute’s fashion writer stared at a spot on the far wall like she was afraid if she didn’t keep it under surveillance it might change into a huntsman spider.
Had I stepped into the wrong building? If not, why was everyone treating me like I was invisible?
Blanking out the bongo drums banging away in my head, I dumped my bag on my desk and fisted both hands on my hips. “Okay,” I declared to all and sundry, “why is everyone acting like I’m the reason Lindy Chamberlain’s baby was taken by a dingo?”
All eyes slid away from me.
“Well, if you’re not going to answer that question, at least tell me, where’s Simon?”
Jerry Cook, the sports editor, glanced up from his copy. “Simon’s not in yet, Dani.” He squirmed in his chair and sent me an apologetic grin. “Have you read your column in this morning’s paper yet?”
“No. Should I have? Did I miss a blaring typo? Did those idiots in the front office spell my name wrong again?”
Before answering, Jerry flicked a furtive glance over his shoulder. “Um…there are two cops in the chief’s office, Dani.” Fascinated, I watched his prominent Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallowed. “Also, the boss wants to see you as soon as you get in. And if I were you, I wouldn’t keep him waiting.”
“Danielle! My office! Now!”
I flinched as the voice of doom roared from the top office. The office with the sign, Editor in Chief emblazoned in six-inch gold letters across the half-glass door. The office where Joe, my cantankerous brother-in-law, ruled with a fist of iron.
“Okay, okay. Don’t blow a gasket, I’m coming,” I mumbled scooping my bag under my arm and scurrying in the direction of his office. What was up his nose? And why were two policemen camped in his office? Even if Joe had heard about my blind date with Jack Rivers—so what? It wa
s none of his business. And anyway, Simon smashed the camera phone so there’d be no tacky photo of me sucking the guy’s digits in Gape for Joe to get all uptight and snarky about.
The moment I pushed open the chief’s door, I knew this was far more serious than me being lured on a blind date with a scummy opposition newspaper. Joe looked ready to self-combust. Shaking, his face the color of a ripe plum, he clutched a copy of today’s Tribute in one closed fist, waving it at me as I hurried into the room. Any minute I expected him to grab at his chest and drop to the floor in the throes of a heart attack. To add to this perplexing scene, beside his desk, their faces blank masks, stood two men dressed in badly fitting suits, both exuding plain-clothes policeman vibes.
“Dani, what’s the meaning of this?” snarled Joe, throwing a copy of the Tribute onto his desk. The paper was open at “Sex on Tuesdays.” Confused, I picked it up, noticing a thick red ring drawn around the last item in my column for the day.
Dear Dani,
My wife, who recently went through a difficult menopause, can’t seem to focus during sex. Unless the radio is on a talk-back show in the background, she even refuses to let me kiss her. I feel as though she’s just going through the motions. What should I do?
Distinctly Frustrated
Okay, I remembered that letter and if I say so myself, I did a good job with the answer too. My eyes flicked further down the page.
Dear Distinctly Frustrated,
Why don’t you shove something red hot down the bitch’s throat?
Dani
What?
My head reeling in disbelief, I blinked and scanned the words again. They weren’t mine. That hadn’t been my answer to DF’s letter. Okay, I admit, if DF shoved his red hot weanie down his wife’s throat it would certainly get a reaction, but when I first took over this column I resolved never to write anything remotely crude. And this was beyond crude.
I glanced at Joe and then at the two plainclothes detectives. One detective lounged against the desk while the other held up the office wall. Although relaxed, they both had that predator look about them, of wolves waiting for the last death throes of a dying animal.
“I didn’t write that!” I bleated, my suddenly constricted throat making it difficult to get the denial out. “Joe?” I protested, turning to my brother-in-law. “You know I’d never write anything detrimental to the paper. Can’t you see? Someone’s tampered with my column.”
“So you claim you didn’t suggest shoving anything red hot down this woman’s throat?” The bigger detective, the one with his gut hanging over his belt, caught me in his beady headlights.
“I’m a sex therapist—not a…” I frowned at him. Why was I explaining myself to this guy? I snapped another look at my brother-in-law, but he was too busy attempting to shred the end of his tie with his bare hands to notice. “Joe, what has this to do with the police?”
As though I hadn’t spoken, the smaller cop unfolded himself from the wall and took a step towards me, his cougar-eyes never leaving mine. “If you didn’t write the answer to DF’s letter, Ms. Summers, who did?”
“Beats me,” I said, refusing to drop eye contact. “But I repeat, why are you here? Surely my column is of no interest to the police. Slow day down at the station, is it?”
His eyes, chillier than a graveyard at midnight, sliced through me. “At 2:30 this morning, someone stripped DF’s wife naked, tied her to her bed, and then proceeded to shove something hot down her throat. Exactly as you suggested in your column.”
“But I didn’t—”
“And the ‘something hot’ you so tastelessly recommended, Ms. Summers, turned out to be a red-hot poker.” He paused to watch my jaw plunge to the floor as I grabbed at the desk for support. “The Medical Examiner said DF’s wife probably died when the poker burnt all the tissues in her throat, causing rapid swelling, obstruction of the airway, and finally asphyxiation. That is if the poor woman didn’t die from cardiac arrest brought on by extreme pain and shock beforehand. The final report hasn’t come through yet.”
I gripped Joe’s desk like it was the only life raft in a swirling sea. Surely this was a nightmare brought on by too much alcohol, and any minute now I’d wake up tangled in my sweaty sheets. “Are you saying DF’s wife was…murdered?”
The detective nodded, his sneer matching his cold eyes. “Yes, and the something hot you suggested, Ms. Summers, was definitely not a pleasant experience for the victim.”
When I closed my eyes to block out his words, all I could see was that poor woman’s face as the killer hovered over her, taunting her, explaining exactly what he was going to do to her. I could imagine the burning poker coming closer. The stark fear turning to wild panic in her eyes. I could hear her strangled screams as the poker gouged and sizzled a path down her throat. Smell the sickly odor of burning flesh. See her violent spasms, her back arched in pain, the cords of her neck bulging like steel bands.
My voice, hesitating as it climbed up through my dry throat, came out as a croak. “But…like I told you before…that wasn’t my suggestion. I didn’t write those words.”
Now it was the bigger detective’s turn to interrogate me. “Is this yours, Ms. Summers?” he asked, producing a crumpled sheet of paper from the inside pocket of his suit coat.
Confusion had my heart hammering against the walls of my chest. And I didn’t blame it. I wanted out too. As though he’d handed me a blood-splattered knife, I carefully lay the sheet of paper on Joe’s desk, and after smoothing out the creases, discovered my longhand copy of yesterday’s column.
What was that doing here? “Yes, it’s mine,” I admitted warily. “I always write and edit my column in longhand before typing it up on my computer.” I ran a hand through my already tousled hair. “But how did you get hold of it and why?”
“Read it, Ms. Summers. And take your time.”
Everything appeared normal until I came to the last entry of the day. My answer to DF’s letter: ‘Why don’t you shove something hot down the bitch’s throat?’
Unable to speak, I shook my head. Was I going crazy?
“We obtained a warrant to search your house and did so after you left this morning,” Detective Turner informed me. “While there, one of our constables found this piece of incriminating evidence in your black handbag, under the bed.”
“You searched my house?” I gasped, horrified at the thought of heavy-handed policemen going through my personal belongings while I unwittingly sat in a coffee shop in Gawler’s main street, guzzling black coffee and bemoaning the after-effects of too many expensive cocktails with sex-related names.
And then the chilling fact of what had been discovered in my tote bag made me quickly realize I had far worse things to worry about. Things that had me drowning in confusion. “But I threw this paper in the trash can yesterday. Here. At work,” I whispered. “And it didn’t have…”
As my legs buckled, Joe had the presence of mind to push a chair toward me. With the room spinning, I sat and dropped my head between my legs in an attempt to prevent a total mental burnout.
Who had removed my draft copy from the trash can, forged the last answer, and then stashed it in my handbag? Or, in my drunken stupor had I somehow rewritten the answer to DF’s letter myself? Unless…unless…what about Simon? Had Simon stashed the paper in my handbag after putting me to bed? I closed my eyes. Of course not. How could I even contemplate such a ridiculous thought?
I lifted my head and snatched a gulp of fresh air. Only to find Joe staring at me as though I was the infamous Black Widow. Surely he couldn’t believe I had anything to do with taking the life of another human being? He’d known me since before he married my sister Penny twenty-eight years ago and often teased me about the way I apologized to ants when I stepped on them by mistake, and how I’d go the long way around to reach my rubbish bins rather than disturb an ugly old blue-tongue lizard who’d taken up permanent residence in my backyard.
So how could he believe any of this?
/> Finally, anger and frustration drove me to my feet. “I don’t know exactly what you witch-hunters are accusing me of, but at 2:30 this morning, the time DF’s wife was murdered, I was home in bed, passed out, drunk. Ask the staff at Erika’s Eatery who had to scrape me off the floor at closing time. Ask Simon Templar, who drove me home and put me to bed.” I paused, letting this information sink into their three thick skulls. “So…you tell me…what the hell is going on here?”
“That’s exactly what we’d like to know, Ms. Summers. Which is why we need you to accompany us down to the Elizabeth Police Station for further questioning.”
4
Tuesday, 12:30 p.m.
Hospitals, dentists and police stations…It’s their smell that gets to me every time.
The moment I shuffled through the doorway of the interview room, my mouth tasted of chalk, my breath gave a hitch, and that overwhelming blackness that begins in the pit of the stomach and snakes its way up into the chest grabbed hold and wouldn’t let go.
The door shut behind me with a dull thud, and immediately I wanted to throw up what was left of my four coffees and half a dry biscuit. How could I be a suspect in a murder case? Me? Danielle Lee Summers. Single, white middle-aged female whose biggest crime was refusing to pay a parking fine when my car was stolen by joy riders and left overnight beside a no-parking sign.
It had me wondering how many innocent people were framed and found guilty. How many poor souls were incarcerated in a four-by-six cell, with a wooden bench for a bed and toilet facilities straight from an 18th century movie-set, while the real culprit walked free.
I started to shake as I pictured myself in a prison shower facility, surrounded by pale-skinned naked women with mean lips and even meaner minds. I’d watched enough prison shows to know about corrupt warders who looked the other way. And how many uses could be made of a wooden spoon.
