by June Whyte
I chewed on my bottom lip. Even thinking about what Simon witnessed while undressing me sent flashes of heat pulsating up my neck and into my cheeks. What could I say to him? Did you by any chance take advantage of me while I was drunk? As if. Simon always treated me like his younger sister. On the other hand, perhaps I’d taken advantage of him. I let out a frustrated breath and my shoulders drooped. How had I managed to paint myself into so many corners in the last few hours?
I didn’t want to see Simon—in case I’d disgraced myself in his eyes—and yet every time I turned a corner, I looked for him. Hoped he’d be waiting for me.
More than anything else, I needed a friend right now.
When I pushed through the swinging doors leading into reception, I couldn’t mask my smile. There was Simon. Dressed in a khaki jumper two sizes too big, faded corduroys, and a Crows AFL cap flattening his untidy hair, he leant against the charge desk exchanging pleasantries with the policeman on duty.
Simon never cared much for fashion, always dressing for comfort and to please himself. When he first shifted into our neighborhood I was twelve and he was a senior in high school; so, of course, had little to do with me. It was my older sister Penny he had his sights set on. No matter what he wore though, he turned every girl’s head. The only head he didn’t turn was Penny’s. When my sister eventually married Joe, Simon lost interest in dating and put all his energies into his new job in the police force. He became a Detective Sergeant at a young age and worked hard for years, retired at 52 on the verge of promotion to Detective Chief Inspector. No one knows why he didn’t take the promotion. He suddenly left the force to spend the rest of his life doing as little as possible. And what’s more, he didn’t want to talk about it.
When Simon spotted me, he excused himself and hurried over, his dark eyes serious.
“You okay, Dani?”
“I will be when we get the hell out of here.”
“Give you a hard time, did they?”
“You could say that.” I frowned at him. “Why are all cops so bloody minded?”
His arm went around my shoulders, pulling me closer. When he spoke, it was through gritted teeth. “Bloody Gung-ho Turner got to you, did he?”
I nodded. His brotherly sympathy lodged a lump in my throat.
“Listen, don’t let that asshole upset you, darlin’. Turner’s so bloody minded and focused on brownie points from the top brass, he’d jump up and down on his sainted mother’s stomach if he thought she’d confess to a crime.”
I grinned up at the big lug. He was a good guy. Scruffy, yeah, but handy to have around in a crisis.
As we made our way toward the front entrance, I checked out the fly-speckled posters stuck on the walls along the way. A Policeman’s Ball held six months ago with a prize for the best vampire costume. Warnings of dire retribution to anyone caught smuggling drugs or reptiles into or out of the country. Half a dozen Wanted posters. And in pride of place—attached to the wall between a basic black pay phone and a coffee machine sporting a cardboard Out of Order sign—was a picture of a bearded man with cruel thin lips and mean sunken-in eyes. Fitted my earlier description of a bad guy to a tee.
“Jeez…take a gander at that crook.” I stopped and pointed a finger at the poster. “Anyone can see he’s rotten to the core. Probably wanted for multiple axe murders in every state of Australia.”
Simon glanced across at the poster, did a double-take, and then burst out laughing.
“What?”
He shook his head. “Rotten to the core, you say?”
“Hey, you only need to look at that ugly sneer and those black malevolent eyes to see how rotten the guy is. Ugh.” I shivered. “Fancy waking up in the middle of the night to find him standing beside your bed with an axe raised ready to strike.” I gave Simon a friendly push to get my point across. “You might have been a cop, Simon, but trust me, I know evil when I see it.”
“Oh, Dani, you’re a breath of fresh air. Who needs pep pills when you’re around? Why don’t you read the small print under the photo, darlin’? That sinister crook with the evil eyes you’re getting all shaky-legged about is none other than Brigadier General Tremaine.”
“Who?”
“Brigadier General Tremaine,” he repeated. “Head of National Security. It says here he’s due to visit this station and give a series of anti-terrorism workshops next month.”
“Well…I guess that’s why he looks so um…stern. No good having some namby-pamby feel-good guy to lecture on terrorism,” I said looking around for a crack to wriggle through before quickly changing the subject. “Now, I don’t suppose you have a fifty cent coin in your pocket so I can ring for a cab?”
“My car’s in the car park.” Simon opened the front door and stood aside for me to go through first. “Where do you want to be dropped?”
“Back at the Tribute, I guess.”
“Sure you don’t want me to drive you straight home? You look like you could do with a couple of hours’ sleep.”
“That bad, eh?”
“Don’t worry. I’ve seen you look worse.”
Like when he put me to bed last night?
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Meaning?”
“Meaning I’ve seen you look worse.” He repeated and shrugged. “Jesus, Dani, I’ve seen you with a face the size of a hot air balloon when you had mumps at eighteen. I’ve seen you in a funk that lasted a full month after that low-life Jack Hornsby up and told you he wanted to be a woman two weeks after he asked you to marry him. I’ve seen you with a raging case of influenza and a temperature that skyrocketed to 109.”
“And what about when you brought me home from Erika’s and undressed me and put me to bed last night?”
His lips twitched as he tried to suppress a grin. “Yeah, that too.”
“Simon,” I said and stopped him by grabbing hold of his arm. “I didn’t…you know?”
His grin broke free of its confines. “Didn’t what?”
“You know what I mean,” I insisted, hating the fact that I was embarrassed but determined to discover whether I had reason to be or not. “I didn’t do anything er…untoward…while you were undressing me, did I?”
“Untoward?” His lips twitched again and his eyes danced. “You mean like when you kissed me and told me I was your bestest, oldest friend and you loved me more than blue M&Ms? Or when you fell on your face the moment I let you go to drag your skirt down over your ankles? Or when you offered to be the mother of my six nonexistent children? Or—”
“Simon!”
He flung one arm around my shoulders and chuckled. “No darlin’. You did nothing untoward. You were so sloshed I had to sling you over my shoulder and carry you from the car to your bedroom.”
I groaned.
“And you were a perfect lady the whole time I undressed you. Just lay there snoring while I wriggled you out of your clothes, dug a nightdress from your dresser, and then covered you over with a doona.” He paused, his eyes twinkling. “Yep, a perfect lady.”
Oh, God. If my face grew any hotter it would self-combust and burst into flames. How much longer before he refrained from being a “perfect gentleman” and brought certain rolls of stomach fat and wrinkly boobs into the conversation? “If there’s no reason for you to go back to the Tribute,” I said pointedly changing the subject. “I could always catch a cab or demand a ride from Gung-ho Turner. I don’t want to put you out.”
“Nah. I’d better show my face at work for an hour or two or our esteemed boss might have second thoughts about employing me. After all, it was only to stop Penny nagging him that he gave me the job in the first place.”
“You and me both.” I laughed as I squashed into the passenger seat of Simon’s little red Echo. More like a toy than a car, he insisted it was the right vehicle for him. No need for space when he was normally the only occupant. “Joe might be a bully-boy editor,” I continued, “but he’s merely a second-rate squib at home. It’s Penny who wears the trousers there.”
“And the jack-boots and the facial hair,” Simon said pulling out of the police car park and onto the main road. “I’ve often thanked my lucky stars I didn’t win the fair Penny’s hand when I was young, in love, and thinking with my dick instead of my head.”
“Ahhh…too much information!” I said plugging my ears with my fingers. “What went on between you and my sister is ancient history. So let’s keep it that way.”
“Just imagine,” he persisted, a slight catch to his voice. “If Joe hadn’t proposed when he did, I could have ended up marrying The Nag.” He shook his head. “That woman’s like a black hole waiting to swallow you up, boots and all.”
“Oh, come on, Penny’s not that bad.” As much as I tried to steer clear of my crabby sister, especially on her bad days, it was my duty to stick up for her. “She’s got good intentions.”
“So, do you recall much of what happened last night?”
What? My head swiveled in his direction in time to catch the blatant laughter in his eyes. How did the subject swing from Penny the Nag back to last night’s fiasco? Where was the connection? Taking a moment to realign my senses, I licked my lips before answering. “Er…not much after falling off the table.”
“You don’t remember passing out while eating a bowl of chocolate fudge ice cream and landing face first in the bowl?”
“Oh God…”
“Or grabbing Erika’s shy brother Con and dancing the tango with him until you tripped over his feet and sprawled in a heap on the floor?”
“I don’t want to know…”
But Simon was just warming up to his subject. “And chucking up on Erika’s shy brother’s shoes when he tried to help you up?”
“And all because of that creep, Jack Rivers.”
Simon shook his head at me. “I honestly can’t work out why you let the guy get to you, Dani. We sent him on his way without a story or pictures, so why drink yourself into oblivion?”
Why?
Men…they knew nothing.
Because of my damaged ego—that’s why.
“Well, you didn’t try to stop me, did you?” I snapped, intent on shifting the blame onto a larger set of shoulders. “In fact, wasn’t it you who ordered the bottle of champagne when you knew I’d been drinking cocktails for most of the night?”
“Darlin’, you looked so cute dancing the can-can to ‘Yellow Submarine’, I thought we’d celebrate your new talent. You added life to a tired and grating tune. It was the highlight of the evening.”
“Thank you. I think. And while we’re on the subject of last night, I haven’t thanked you for taking me home when I passed out. You’re a good friend.”
“Hey, my pleasure, Dani,” he said turning to me with a smile that made me feel warm and needed and even wanting to give him a hug. “What are friends for?”
Exactly.
6
Tuesday, 2:30 p.m.
It wasn’t until we pulled up in the car park behind the Tribute and Simon switched off the engine that he brought up the reason we’d both been interviewed by the police.
“Hold it. Don’t get out yet,” he ordered, putting a gentle hand on my arm as I went to unfasten my seat belt. “I’m worried about you, Dani. You’ve got yourself mixed up in something mad-dog serious here.”
As if I didn’t know.
He let the seat belt flip back against the seat, took his hand from my arm and began to drum restless fingers against the steering wheel. A car horn blared nearby followed by a screech of brakes and angry shouting. Normal everyday sounds that barely penetrated the buildup of confusion intent on taking over my brain cells.
“You know,” he said at last. “I’ve been trying to nut this whole hot poker thing out.” Simon paused, a frown creasing his broad forehead. “And the same thought keeps popping up over and over again. Whoever changed the last letter in your column, either murdered DF’s wife, or knows who murdered her. Right?”
I nodded.
“So, if we’re going to get the police off your back,” he went on, “it’s the biggest clue we have to go on.”
We? So Simon was prepared to help me. A warm glow spread through my tired body and I smiled up at him. “Actually, Simon, it’s our only clue.”
“You’re right.” His eyes twinkled and then went serious again. “Think hard, Dani. Have you any idea who could have sabotaged your column?”
“Let’s face it, the saboteur could be any one from the Tribute. From our esteemed boss—right down to the sandwich-shop girl who comes across to take our lunch orders. They all have access to my computer.”
“What I don’t understand is who would want to drag you into the murder? Who at the Tribute has that sort of a grudge against you?”
“Alice!” We blurted at the same time.
A grin tickled the corners of Simon’s mouth. Eyes questioning, he turned towards me.
“Nah….” After giving it a second’s thought, I shook my head slowly. “Alice might put salt in my coffee but, hey, murder is a far cry from causing me to spew up. And then there’s the actual murder itself. What could Alice possibly have against DF’s wife?”
“What about if she was in love with DF?”
“Alice?”
“Well, she could be his secret mistress.”
“Alice?” I repeated, in disbelief.
“Hmm…you’re right,” he agreed. “I saw a photo of the dead woman on the news this morning and believe me, no man with two eyes in his head would prefer Alice. The victim was not only a stunner, she looked intelligent. Beauty and brains compared to obnoxious and stupid. Alice would need to be blackmailing DF for him to risk losing his gorgeous wife to a middle-aged, sallow-skinned, wannabe witch.”
“Well, perhaps she was blackmailing him.”
“But if that was the case, wouldn’t DF be more likely to murder Alice? Why was the wife murdered?”
“So you reckon it’s the husband?”
“In most cases it’s someone close to the victim.”
“But why frame me? I have no motive.”
I rubbed both hands over my face and let out a sigh. Nothing made sense. It was like waking from an incredibly horrific nightmare only to find the damn thing was real after all. To think, yesterday I was a boring spinster whose biggest concern was that the herbal remedies I’d bought for my hot flushes didn’t do a spit of good. Today, I was almost seduced by a rival paper journalist, late for work, escorted from the office by two detectives, accused of murdering a woman I didn’t know. And if the decibels of Joe’s yells when the detectives assisted me into the police car were anything to go by, my job could very well be in jeopardy.
After today’s debacle, perhaps getting fired would be a relief. And yet I loved my job as a sex therapist—advising people who wrote in to me, baring their souls, ready to give up on a relationship because the magic had gone out of their sex lives. No, what I needed to do was get better at my job—not give up and go back to selling lattes and cappuccinos.
And then my mobile phone rang and my mother’s ID showed up on the screen. Which just goes to show—problems in life can always get worse. If she’d gone ahead and booked herself into hospital for that boob job, I’d have to bring in the heavy artillery—my sister Penny.
“Hi, Mum, what’s up?”
“It’s that dickhead Henry,” she yelled in a voice loud enough to crack china. “It’s his nintieth birthday on Saturday and he wants me to buy him a friggin’ skateboard. What’s the silly bugger gonna do with a skateboard? Hey? He can’t even get around without his walking frame, so how does he think he’s gonna stay upright on the damn thing?”
The image of 90-year-old Henry on a skateboard did not compute. “So,” I said, giving up on her question, “what are you going to do?” Henry and my mother have this on-again off-again relationship that hits the rocks and bounces back at least twice a day. In between, she has ongoing relationships at Sunny Days Retirement Home with Billy, and Percy, and a 78-year-old guy called Tug whose cl
aim to fame is that he once drove the getaway car for the Mafia.
“Well, that’s what I’m ringing you for, sweetie. Will you have time to shop for a hot pink skateboard—that’s the color he’s hanging out for—and bring it to the Home before Saturday?”
“Of course, Mum. Any special brand?”
“Nah. Just make sure it’s pink,” she said. “I knew I could rely on you. It was no good ringing that tight-assed sister of yours. She’d end up buying poor Henry a coffin cover or a bag of boiled sweets, regardless of the fact that he has no teeth. No imagination at all, that one. Takes after her father, God rest his soul. Well, I’m off to Bingo now, sweetie. And get this! There’s a new resident at the Home with a full mop of hair. His name’s Johnny, and he’s going to fight both Henry and Tug for the honor to sit next to me at dinner. Should be a doozy.”
On that note, my mother hung up.
It was so unfair. My mother’s sex life was more prolific than mine. But then again, a dead person’s sex life was more prolific than mine. Did this make me a phony? Answering other people’s sex-related questions without naked, hands-on, hip-grinding research?
I stuffed the phone back in my shiny red bag and closed my eyes, so tired that my brain had erected an Out of Order sign, which left it operating on only two of its six cylinders. The only cure for this ailment was to drive home, soak in a hot tub and go to bed. But before leaving the police station, I’d left a message on Megan’s voicemail arranging to meet me at Tamali’s, a little coffee shop in the city, at four o’clock. After that I might go home and sleep until this whole nightmare was over.
Perhaps Simon noted the slump of my shoulders or heard the tiredness in my sigh, or just thought I might end up crying all over his new seat covers. Anyway, next minute, he took my hand and his voice gentled. “Just take care, Dani. Okay?” he said, giving my hand a squeeze. “I’ve asked my mate, Brian, the sergeant I was chatting to at the police station, to let me know if anything new comes up with the case. But meanwhile, I want you to watch out for Alice. She’s a loose cannon, that one. She had access to your rubbish bin so could have found your longhand draft and I’m sure I heard her chanting over what looked like a dead frog and some ratty looking feathers the other day.” He let go of my hand and pushed a wispy strand of hair back behind my ear. “And don’t eat or drink anything she offers you. Right?”
