by June Whyte
I flashed him a weak grin. “Okay, Dad.”
“That’s enough of the Dad stuff,” he ordered with a mock frown. “Now, are you coming into the Tribute with me or are you chickening out and taking off to meet Megan?”
I shook my head and began rooting around in my tote bag for the keys to my car. “I’ll leave Joe until tomorrow. After I’ve had a sleep.” Suddenly I couldn’t face the prospect of my brother-in-law’s blustering face and loud voice. “If I go in there now, who knows, the old buzzard might have a heart attack. And I’m in no condition to listen to Penny rant at me at his funeral.”
“Okay, Dani. Go home after you see Megan and I’ll write up a disclaimer for you and add it to your column.”
“Appreciate it.”
“Maybe I’ll ring later and fill you in on what our exulted leader had to say. And remember, if you need to talk, or just want someone to eat pizza and watch a movie with tonight, I’m only a phone call away. Okay? “
“Thanks, Simon. You’re a good mate.” Leaning over, I kissed him on the cheek before climbing out of the car. Then, crouching low, so I couldn’t be seen by anyone inside the office, especially Joe, I dodged quickly from car to car until I found my Futura.
Tuesday, 4:00 p.m.
Megan Starr amazes and sends me aback all over again, every time.
When my co-researcher sashayed through the door of the little coffee shop, I thought for the hundredth time, how could this exotic, movie-star-look-alike be a middle-aged ex-prostitute? Hell, the woman looked 28 instead of 48. Flawless skin, model thin and ready to pose for any passing cameraman at the drop of a garter belt.
Definitely not good karma for a mere mortal’s ego.
When I’m with Megan, I feel so far down the food chain, the dogs won’t even look at me. And today was no exception. My hair, slipping from its confines, straggled around my face, while Megan could have stepped straight out of a trendy hairdressing salon. Okay, I’d just stepped out of a police station so maybe I had an excuse, but even on my best days, the dogs still didn’t give me a second glance.
Megan smiled at a passing waiter who almost tripped over his feet in his hurry to attend to her. “We’ll have two caramel lattes and two carrot cakes, please.”
Dropping several shopping bags under the table, she made a great production of wriggling into the chair opposite me. I could see by the swanky labels, most of the bags were from Le Faye, an exclusive, up-market shoe shop that had only opened a month ago.
“So,” she drawled, “how the hell are you, Danielle?”
“Not great,” I replied, unable to take my eyes off the woman. How did she do it? She was dressed in red leather—which on me would have been a joke—but on Megan only emphasized her spectacular body. Of course, it also made every male over twelve go weak in the knees. Her feet were resplendent in a pair of strappy high heels that would have cost more than I made in a month. Yet Megan was retired. Just showed how lucrative prostitution was. As opposed to working at McDonald’s part time until I graduated with a useless BA degree, and then spending several unexciting years managing a coffee shop. It wasn’t until my sister Penny coerced her husband into giving me a job writing for the paper that my work suddenly became important to me. More so since I’d taken over the “Sex on…” columns.
“Sorry I couldn’t make it for lunch,” I said, leaning forward and catching the overpowering scent of her Poison perfume. I coughed. “As it turned out, I had other things on my plate.”
Megan lifted one beautifully penciled eyebrow. “From what I hear, it wasn’t a boiled egg with toast fingers, either.”
Geez. The grape vine moves quickly, but this was ridiculous. Here’s me, spat out of the police station less than two hours ago and the rest of the world knew. I lifted my never-been-plucked-and-not-likely-to-be-plucked eyebrows at her. “How do you know that?”
“Alice.”
Of course.
“That woman is so emotional,” Megan went on, accepting her coffee and cake from one enraptured floating-on-air waiter, while mine was dropped in front of me. “When Alice rang to let me know you couldn’t make lunch, she told me you’d been dragged away to the police station by two detectives. Poor dear sounded so excited, I thought she’d come crashing through the phone at me.” She patted at the corner of her lips with a serviette before leaning forward and giving me a stern look. “So, what’s going on, Danielle?”
“I bet Alice wet herself with excitement when the cops took me away.” I rolled my eyes. “And I’m sure I saw her waving that damn voodoo doll at me and muttering incantations.”
Megan stirred sugar into her coffee. “I read your column this morning and was rather surprised at the answer to your last letter.” She attempted to force her botoxed forehead into a frown, but merely sent a shimmer over the smooth creamy skin. “‘Shove something hot down the bitch’s throat?’ What were you thinking, Danielle? Sounds like something I’d lap up, but definitely over the top for you.”
Suddenly, bone weary, I leaned my weight on my elbows and rested my aching head in my hands. “I didn’t write that, Megan. And don’t ask me how it got there, because I don’t know. That’s what all this business with the police was about. DF’s wife did have something hot shoved down her throat in the early hours of this morning and it wasn’t her husband’s hot pulsing love-stick. It was a red hot poker.” I shook my head and let out a sigh that felt like it came from the soles of my shoes. “That poor woman was murdered by someone who used my column as a weapon. And now it’s up to me to find out who did it.”
“Up to you?” Megan finished chewing on her mouthful of carrot cake and gave me a what-the-hell-do-you-mean look. “For crying out loud, Danielle, it seems to me you need to keep a very low profile here, not go soliciting trouble. If, as you say, the police suspect you, won’t you make their day if you go chasing after some hard-assed killer and get yourself blown away? It will mean one less suspect they’ll have to keep an eye on. Take my advice and keep your nose where it can’t be shot off.” She washed the carrot cake down with several sips of coffee. “Instead of chasing a murderer, why not use your inner energy chasing your soul mate?” She raised one penciled eyebrow again. “You are still looking for Mr. Right?”
I gave a half-hearted nod.
“There’s a guy I’d like you to meet. He’s rich, not bad looking and like you, he’s out there, actively looking for a partner.”
“Megan I don’t think this is the time for—”
“Rubbish—now is the best time. It will take your mind off all this nasty murder business.”
“You wouldn’t say that if you knew how my blind date turned out last night.”
“Phooey. Edward Granger is exactly the sort of guy you need. I can even guarantee his expertise in the sack.”
I screwed up my nose. “Don’t tell me he was one of your regulars.”
“Okay, I won’t. Suffice to say, Edward is a real kinky operator.”
“I don’t like the sound of that.”
“Pish. You’ll love him.”
“Does he carry?”
Megan pretended to look confused. “What do you mean?”
“Carry. As in pack a gun. I know you’re only trying to help, Megan, but the last guy you introduced me to worked for The Mob.”
“You mean, Stefan?”
I nodded.
“Oh, don’t worry about Stefan. He’ll never bother you again. He’s not around anymore.”
Oh God, I hoped she meant he’d left the country and was living a comfortable life in some warm exotic clime.
“So,” said Megan, breaking into my dark thoughts, “shall I get Edward to give you a call?”
“You say this guy’s rich, handsome and good in the sack? Sounds like the best thing I’ve been offered since puberty. And what’s more, if he is carrying, he can shoot all the bad guys for me.”
Megan, realizing I was glassy eyed and starting to babble, finished her latte and placed one beautifully manicured h
and over mine. “I can see you’re in no condition to discuss sex therapy today, Danielle, so if you leave that pile of letters with me I’ll go through them tonight. What say we meet here again, same time tomorrow?”
“Sure. And you’re right. I’ll end up face first on the table if I stay here much longer. And if that happens, they’ll need a forklift to move me.”
Megan dropped the letters into her Gucci handbag. “See you tomorrow, girlfriend. Drive carefully. And don’t go to sleep at the wheel and plough through some old lady’s front fence. You don’t want to give that blood-sucking brother-in-law of yours any more material for his Danielle Summers Complaints File.”
After the hungry way Joe had stared at my neck while I was being escorted to the police car earlier in the day, I’d say that was a definite.
7
Wednesday, 5:15 a.m.
The dream was weird. A real spin-out.
Whether it was brought on by the sight of Alice waving her voodoo doll as the police led me away, the thought of DF’s wife with a poker wedged down her throat, or just a bad batch of pepperoni on the pizza I’d eaten before falling asleep, I’ll never know.
I was trudging the streets of an unfamiliar town, hunting for DF’s wife. Somehow, I had to warn her she was about to get murdered. And although I’d seen her slip down this dark alleyway no more than fifteen seconds ago, I’d lost her. Like a ghost in the night, she’d up and disappeared.
There was a chill in the air. Grey fog swirled in eerie snatches around me. I shivered, feeling the wintry cold touch my insides. Instinctively, I pulled my knitted cap further down over my ears. “Come on, Mrs. DF.” I called out. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m here to help.” My words, weak and unconvincing, were snatched away by the fog as soon as they left my mouth.
A sudden movement caught my eye, halting me in mid-step.
“Is that you, Mrs. DF?” I whispered, nerves stretched like rubber bands. I could just make out what looked like a dark figure standing beside a row of garbage bins.
A woman in long flowing robes and long pointy shoes stepped away from the bins and caught me in the headlights of her fiery, green-yellow eyes.
Alice.
But this Alice had bent claw-like fingers, a hooked nose, and black hairy spiders crawling over her neck and shoulders. This Alice wore flowing black robes and a tall black hat, and her teeth were broken and rotten.
Just as I’d convinced myself it was time to turn tail and run, Alice spat a live frog from her mouth, caught it deftly with one talon, and bit off its head. I was transfixed. And then a large black cauldron, bubbling and spewing putrid-smelling gas, appeared beside her. After dropping the remains of the frog into the cauldron, she mumbled something in a language I couldn’t understand and a Harry Potter wand sprang into her hand, snarling and growling and snapping, like an angry tiger.
I turned to run, only to find my legs wouldn’t work. They’d been turned into soggy wet noodles. Whimpering, I crashed to the ground.
“You can’t write for treacle, Danielle Summers!” she screamed, spitting a frog leg in my direction.
“Y-you’re right, Alice. My writing is crap.”
In the blink of an eye the wand turned into a stun gun.
“You can have my column. I don’t want—”
The zap from the stun gun left me floundering and twitching like a fish hauled up onto a wharf. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t stand. I could barely get a thought going in my head. But I tried. “Alice, what have I ever done to you?” I asked her. But it came out like, “Oooh, aaah mmm aaah ggg shhh oooh?”
“That was my column you took over—mine!” she yelled, her eyes two spinning tops on a background of tight sallow skin. “I killed my stepsister Daisy Mae—and it was all for nothing. You came along and spoilt everything.”
“But Alice—” I started to say in my head while my thickened lips continued to blub and drool.
“Tell me, Danielle,” she said, her voice now chillingly polite as she picked me up and tossed me into her bubbling cauldron. “How does that feel?”
“Glugg uggg,” I answered, trying hard to get my negative point of view across.
“What about this?” And she pushed me all the way under.
It was hot and dark inside the big cooking pot and smelt of Bombay curry. A bloated spider with a face like Megan’s, swam past as fast as her eight skinny legs would allow. She hitched one perfect eyebrow at me, but didn’t stop to chat.
Still cackling at her little joke, Alice produced a giant spoon and began to stir the cauldron, chanting over the rancid bubbles. The spoon crashed on the side of the pot in time to her chanting.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
The noise growing louder and louder until it woke me up.
Terrified, I flung back the doona and sat straight in bed, traces of the nightmare clinging like spider webs to my subconscious. The banging was for real. But where was it coming from? My heart skittered upwards, leaving a black hole where it should have been anchored. My face pulsated with heat. Sweat beaded on my forehead and trickled into my eyes.
On top of the nightmare, I was now having a hot flush. So clammy, so stifling, it was more like a mini-vacation in the tropics.
What was it that self-righteous, smug, size 8 assistant at the local health shop had told me? Whatever you do, don’t let the doctor talk you into using HRT. Try our Black Cosh-Cosh. That’s the best treatment for menopause.
I had news for her—it wasn’t. I’d like to see her survive a hot flush while ingesting crushed black beetles or fungus or whatever it was they made their herbal remedy from.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Horace barked from the bottom of my bed. Someone was knocking on my front door. And by the racket they made, were determined to get in.
Glancing across at my bedside clock radio, I scowled at the little red digits dancing on the black background. Who in their right mind would knock on my door at 5:30 a.m.? My friends knew I wasn’t a morning person and normally steered clear of me until well after my first cup of coffee.
I shoved my feet into a pair of fuzzy bunny slippers and reached for my dressing gown.
Could it be Simon?
Doubt it. He’d rung last night, quickly realized I was falling asleep over the phone, and arranged to meet me for breakfast at McDonald’s.
Penny?
God, I hoped not. I wasn’t in the mood for a lecture from my interfering big sister.
“Okay! Okay! I can hear you,” I shouted as I unlatched the front door and peered myopically through the space left by the security chain. “And so can everyone else in the damn street!”
Note to self—pick up glasses from the Optician sometime soon, before people start calling me Ms. Magoo.
“Alice? What are you doing here?”
“You’re not the murderer!” she screeched, her eyes rounds of cheese in her thin pasty face.
“I know that, you idiot!” Unsure whether I was still hooked up to my nightmare, I peered at Alice’s hands. No magic wand. No stun gun.
But she was banging on my door an hour and a half before I was due to gulp down my first caffeine fix for the day.
“Oh, Dani, please forgive me,” she went on flicking her tangled mane from her crazed eyes. “You’re not the murderer.”
“Will you get a grip!” I snarled at her, unhooked the latch, and opened the door. “Of course I’m not the murderer. I don’t need you to tell me that. What the hell are you doing here?” I paused, studying Alice’s wrinkled face. “Why aren’t you home concocting an anti-aging cream from cuckoo eggs and bats’ dribble?”
“He’s the murderer!” Alice yelled dramatically. Her hands trembled as they covered her mouth. “I saw it all. You didn’t kill that woman with the poker—he did!”
“Alice, for God’s sake, calm down. You’ll wake my neighbors,” I said in what I considered a soothing voice, but probably came out as frustrated, even snappy. With Alice, she probably wouldn’t know the differenc
e. “Why don’t you go home and take a couple of pills, or some of that chamomile tea you’re always raving on about. You look like you’ve just gone ten rounds with a bad-tempered billy goat.”
“I saw the killer in my crystal ball,” she continued, as though I hadn’t spoken. Fair dinkum, the woman was batty. Certifiable. “He looks like an angel,” she whispered, clutching at her throat. “But don’t be deceived by his good looks. The man’s evil. I saw him laughing at her. Laughing while he tied her to the bed. Laughing while he forced the poker down her throat. Oh, Danielle, I am so sorry. I thought you killed her. The tarot cards assured me it was you. I even told that nice policeman with the suede shoes I heard you telling Simon that DF’s wife was a tease and needed to be taught a lesson.”
‘You what?” I screeched. “Why, you—” I grabbed a handful of her baggy old sweater, black of course, and shook her.
I was going to kill this woman.
“You’re insane, Alice! Crazier than a neutered croc!” I shoved my face into hers and then quickly pulled back as the smell of garlic almost floored me. “Why did you lie to the police? You know I didn’t say anything to Simon about DF’s wife. The letters that come into the office are confidential.” I paused. “And while we’re on the subject of murder—you could have taken my longhand copy from the trash can and you also had access to my computer. So, where were you and what were you doing at the time DF’s wife was killed?”
“Alice was in bed with me. All night.” A well-spoken man in his late fifties stepped out from behind my overgrown geranium bushes. Bald, except for several strands of grey hair combed neatly across the top of his head, he was dressed in brown corduroys and a red-and-white checked flannel shirt.
