Sex on Tuesdays

by June Whyte

  “Find anything?”

  My heart, ready to run up the white flag, did a somersault with a backward flip as Simon’s voice grazed my ear.

  “Geez, Simon, don’t sneak up like that! You scared the stuffing out of me.”

  “Nothing to find in here, Dani?” he said glancing across at the empty bed. “Forensics would have gone over the room with a fine tooth comb.”

  “Just thought I’d take a peek.” I shivered. “Wish I hadn’t.”

  His arm came around me as he moved me out of the room and closed the door behind us. “Derek’s finished his shower, so we’d better make like polite guests and return to the kitchen. I want to get him talking about the night of the murder.”

  When Derek limped into the kitchen—wet hair pushed back, clean shorts and polo shirt with the Port Adelaide Football club’s motif on the pocket—I was sitting at the table staring into a giant-sized first-aid box that Simon had unearthed from a cupboard. It had so many tubes and bottles and packets of gauze and little tweezer thingies inside, I figured a degree in medicine would be required to identify and classify them all.

  “Like me to treat those cuts and grazes?” I asked Derek tentatively.

  He smiled. “Thank you.”

  Of course, his smile didn’t last long. Instead, he hissed and yelped as I dipped cotton wool in some purple antiseptic and dabbed it on any open cut I could find.

  That part was easy, but I couldn’t work out what to do next. Frowning, I picked up a 250ml bottle half-full of thick, green, gooey liquid. Perhaps a dose of this stuff might help. My patient looked as though he needed a boost of something extra strong to soothe his nerves.

  “No. Not that!” yelped Simon, his eyes wide. “Not unless you want Derek squatting on the toilet for the rest of the day.”

  “Oops!” I dropped the offending bottle back into the box and picked up a packet of what looked like white chalky powder.

  “Here, let me finish him off.” Simon reached across in front of me and dragged the box towards him. “I have a certificate in first-aid.”

  “You do?”

  “It’s a prerequisite to joining the force.”

  Pleased to leave the doctoring to an expert, I stood up. And while Simon dabbed and plastered and applied a couple of little butterfly clips to the gash on Derek’s face, I went for a wander around the large living room. A network of computers was set up on desks along the opposite wall. All ultra modern—all state of the art—all flashing menacing screen savers showing severed sections of the human body.

  “Into dissecting people, are you, Derek?” I asked him while pouring myself another coffee. After adding a slurp of milk and three heaped spoonfuls of sugar, I straddled a chair and watched as Simon closed the First Aid box and returned it to its cupboard.

  “What?” Derek looked up from the bottle of St. Agnes he’d removed from the top shelf of another cupboard. “Oh that? No, I’m a fitness coach. I study the human body.” He turned to Simon and lifted the bottle in salute. “Join me in a brandy?”

  “No thanks, mate. I’ve already had one brandy today and I’m driving, so I’ll stick to coffee. But you go ahead. You look like you could use one.”

  I drank my coffee in silence while Simon tried to convince Derek that if he wanted to stay alive, he only had two options. Well, three, actually: talk to the police, confide in us, or shift to another planet.

  “Confide in you?” Derek, drinking brandy straight from the bottle, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and then shook his head at us. “You come here, bang on my front door, chase me up the street, almost get me killed, and now you want me to answer your questions. Well, how about answering one of mine.” Belligerent now, he scowled, slammed the bottle down on the table, and stuck out his chin. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Surely we introduced ourselves earlier, Derek. I’m Simon Templar and this is Danielle Summers.”

  “That tells me nothing. If you’re from the police, I’ve already answered your questions. In triplicate. And if you’re journos after a juicy story, I’ve had it with the media. You lot are like a mob of wild dogs slathering over a bitch in heat.”

  Wow! Perhaps I could pilfer that simile and use it in my column to advise a woman who’d written in about her husband who stalked her for sex every five minutes of the day.

  “Okay, Okay,” I said, ready to placate the writhing beast. “We’re not here after a juicy story. We’re here to help you find out who murdered your wife. Simon is a crime reporter for the Tribute, and I write their sex-therapy column.”

  “You!” gasped Derek. “You’re Dani Summers?”

  Oh! Uh!

  Derek’s mouth twisted in a snarl and his hand tightened around the neck of the St. Agnes bottle. Apprehensive of his body language, I braced my hands on the table top ready for a quick getaway if he started swinging in the direction of my head.

  “So it was you who wrote that filthy piece about shoving something hot down Mary’s throat?” Derek’s eyes, bloodshot at the edges, bored into mine.

  “I didn’t write that letter, Derek. Someone hacked into my computer and changed my column. And once we find out who did, we’ll probably know the identity of the murderer.” I looked pointedly at the rows of computers blinking along the wall before continuing. Okay, Derek may be scrubbed off my suspect list but there was still something suspicious about him. “You seem to know your way around computers. I don’t suppose you had anything to do with hacking into the Tribute’s computer and sabotaging my column?”

  “Noooo!” He leaped to his feet, spilling brandy down the front of his clean polo shirt. “Can’t you see I just want to be left alone?” He slammed the bottle onto the table and wrapped both arms around his shaking body. “My wife was murdered two days ago. Even though I have an alibi, the police are treating me as if I killed her. Can’t you understand—I don’t need more of the same from you two.”

  Simon took a sip of his coffee and looked over the rim at Derek. “This alibi of yours, mate. Watertight is it?”

  Derek threw himself down on the chair again, grabbed the brandy bottle by the neck and took another long swig before answering. “Yes. As a sealed bottle.”

  “Are you positive about that? A little bird told me you weren’t in the pub at the time your wife was murdered.” Simon shook his head. “Your alibi is full of holes.”

  Derek’s snarl reminded me of a dog that’d just had its bone stolen. “And who’s this little bird?”

  “Come on, Derek. Cut the crap. I know you left the pub for half an hour. Enough time to drive home, shove a poker down your wife’s throat, and get back to the pub to set up your alibi.”

  Derek slumped into his chair, his face crumpling. “Why would I murder Mary?” he wailed. “I loved her. She’s been part of my life for almost twenty years.”

  I felt like crying with him. Maybe Harry and Bettina were right and Derek was innocent. One thing for sure—the man was a nervous wreck. And if Simon continued this barrage we’d have a melted pool of fitness coach all over the floor and no answers to our questions. I reached out and squeezed Derek’s hand. “We really do want to help. Just tell us who rang you that night. Who enticed you out of The Fish Inn on the night of your wife’s murder? Was it Mary asking you to come home?”

  Derek snatched his hand away and scrubbed at his eyes. “No, it wasn’t Mary,” he said, his voice starting to slur from the brandy, his eyes bloodshot. “I don’t know who rang me. A woman. Her voice was muffled like she was trying to disguise it.” He closed his eyes and sighed. “She said to meet her at the Port Lighthouse. She threatened to tell Mary I’d been having an affair if I didn’t show up.”

  Hmm…so skinny Derek had been having it off with someone other than his wife. I leant forward, my fingers clasping the back of the chair. “And was this mysterious woman right, Derek? Were you having an affair?”

  “No.” He opened his eyes, glared at me, and then his shoulders sagged. “Yes. But it was all over. I’d alr
eady told the woman I didn’t want to have anything more to do with her. I loved Mary.”

  “What was your mistress’s name?”

  “None of your damn business,” he snapped beetling his brows at me. “It’s over. And I have no intentions of dragging her name into this sordid mess. Anyway, there was never anything between us other than great sex. It wasn’t as if I’d ever leave Mary for her. The woman was just a good lay.” He shrugged, took another swig of brandy, and then flicked a glance at Simon. “You understand, don’t ya mate? Men can’t do without sex. Mary was always a bit disinterested in bed, so naturally I had to satisfy my urges elsewhere.”

  Simon nodded at Derek in a conspiratorial secret men’s business way. I scowled at the pair of them. And here I was currently on the look-out for a man. I’d be better off buying a cat to go with my dog.

  “I’m with you, Derek,” Simon said agreeably. “But it might help with our enquiries if you told us the name of your bit on the side.”

  Bit on the side?

  “Nah! Shan’t tell. Ya wasting ya time.” Derek was smashed. “She might have been my bit of nookie but I reshpect ’er.”

  “All women are tarts under their make-up, Derek, so it won’t hurt to whisper her name in my ear.”

  Tarts under their make-up?

  “Never.” His tongue seemed to get caught up in his teeth and he began to dribble. “You can pull out my fingernails if you like. I’ll never tell.”

  Don’t tempt me.

  “No woman’s worth the pain, Derek. They’re only—”

  The kick aimed at Simon’s shin under cover of the table struck paydirt. I smiled angelically at his muffled yelp of pain. Even though I wanted to know the name of Derek’s “bit on the side” —because hey, here was another suspect to add to our list—even Blind Freddy could see Derek wouldn’t reveal his ex-lover’s name. And more importantly, Simon was pissing me right off.

  “Sorry to break up your little boys’ chat,” I said sweetly. “But I have a meeting with my assistant at four and I need you to drop me off at the Tribute first, Simon.”

  I turned to Derek who was almost cross-eyed, trying to keep his eyes open. St. Agnes had done her job. “Will you be okay on your own?” I asked him.

  All talked out, he nodded.

  “Would you like me to call a friend, ask if they’d come and stay with you for awhile?”

  This time he blinked owlishly before shaking his head.

  “After what happened out there on the road, it might pay to lock your door behind us. Can you manage that okay?”

  His nodding head must have been too heavy to hold upright any longer because it bounced off the table a couple of times and then lay still. A second later, the room reverberated with pneumatic-drill snores.

  I looked at Simon. “Should we put him to bed?”

  “Nah!” He gave the sleeping form a disparaging glance before picking up the empty brandy bottle and tossing it in the disposal under the sink. “Let him be. He deserves to wake up feeling like he’s been chewed up and regurgitated. Anyone who cheats on his wife and thinks it’s his God-given right to do so, doesn’t need our sympathy.”

  “You were all for it a moment ago. ‘Men can’t do without sex’,” I said, imitating his voice with an exaggerated John Wayne gruffness. “The way you two were going on, anyone would think sex was an item you picked up and paid for at the corner shop.”

  “Of course I went along with him,” Simon explained. “How else was I supposed to get the name of the other woman?” Opening the front door, he beetled his brows at me. “And if you hadn’t kicked me in the shins and distracted him, Derek would have told me her name.”

  I glanced at the prone figure slumped on the kitchen chair, head on the table, slack mouth drooling. “I wouldn’t bet on it, Templar.”

  11

  Wednesday, 4:00 p.m.

  I was parked down by the River Torrens, which is right in the heart of the city of Adelaide, but eons away from Tamali’s coffee shop. As it was already four o’clock, I knew I was in trouble. Megan had this annoying habit of ordering coffee as soon as her bum hit the seat and if I hadn’t rocked up by the time she finished drinking, she’d up and leave.

  I particularly didn’t want to miss her today, as there were a couple of touchy subjects I needed to discuss from today’s letters.

  So, I’d have to jog.

  At fifteen minutes past four I staggered through the open doorway at Tamali’s, both heels blistered and my breath rasping in my chest.

  Note to self: body in need of attention—e.g., more exercise, less chocolate, and ask my niece to buy me a vibrator for my birthday.

  Collapsing against the shop wall to find my breath, I looked for Megan. It was standing room only in the coffee shop. All these fresh, vital twenty-somethings toting laptops or backpacks, had made Tamali’s their own. University students sipping coffee, working on assignments, debating everything from the Seven Wonders of the World to the sexual activities of frogs.

  In the far corner sipping a caramel latte, sat Megan. She appeared completely relaxed and tuned out to the bustle. Today she wore blue velvet. On anyone else, her dress would look like she’d cut up the lounge room curtains—on Megan it looked fabulous.

  She glanced up, noticed me watching her, and I swear her botoxed forehead shimmered in displeasure. Maybe it was the rip in my jacket or the dirt on the knees of my jeans. Could even be the graze on my cheek that had her attempting to use her fossilized frown muscles.

  Smiling, I gave her a finger wave and hurried towards the corner table. “Sorry I’m late. Bumper-to-bumper traffic along the Main North Road all the way from Gawler.”

  “Never mind. At least you’re here now.” Her forty-eight-year-old face creased into a smile—all perfectly aligned teeth, but next to no laugh lines.

  No wonder she turned the head of every male in the shop with a mere eyebrow hike.

  I sometimes wondered what Megan got out of our friendship other than the very small fee I gave her for helping me answer my more exotic letters. Certainly not my scintillating conversation. For it was me who usually hung on her every word—especially when she slipped into storytelling mode and filled me in on some of her more hilarious escapades as a prostitute. But ever since we bumped into each other six months ago in a shoe store where she was buying Manalo Blaniks while I was scratching together the cash to buy on-sale 50% off Nikes—and we finished up in a coffee shop chatting about work—our friendship had blossomed.

  Yet we had nothing in common. She’d had sex with hundreds of guys. I only needed the fingers of one hand to count my conquests. She’d retired rich. I had to work to pay my monthly bills. She was tall and classy. I was short and slightly out-of-date. She was beautiful. I was….

  Well, you get my drift.

  Dropping my tote on the floor, I gave Megan an appreciative eye roll. “Love your dress.”

  “What? This old thing?” she said removing a shopping bag from the wooden chair next to her and indicating for me to sit down.

  “Don’t give me that crap,” I told her. “I saw that dress in the window of The Parisian Joint only last week.”

  She let out a laugh. “And here’s me thinking you only shop at Kmart and Target.”

  “Oh, I do. But let’s just say my window-shopping sorties tend to be a lot classier than when I’m out to make a purchase.”

  She took a sip of coffee and eyed me over the rim of her cup. “I thought you weren’t coming today. What happened? In trouble again?”

  “Mm…” I agreed, noting the gold shine on each well-shaped nail as she placed her cup back on the table. “Been a bit of a rough day.”

  “Do the tear in your sleeve and the black marks down the front of your top have anything to do with the rough day?”

  “Could say that.”

  When I filled Megan in on exactly how rough my day had been, she wasn’t at all impressed. I told you so dripped from her glossy pumped up lips even though she didn’t actua
lly voice the words. I guess she was right. Playing detective wasn’t at all as straightforward as it was in the Nancy Drew books.

  “You need to keep your nose out of this, Dani.” Her fingers dug into my arm as though she wanted to shake some sense into me. “There’s a killer on the loose out there. A real killer—not a story book villain. I want you to promise me you’ll leave it to the police.”

  I nodded. What else could I do? Her nails were like eagle talons. I half expected her to rise in the air and carry me off to her nest.

  Evidently satisfied with my acquiescence, she unhooked her fingers and glanced down at her diamond Rolex.

  “God, is it that time already?” She lifted her coffee cup and drained the last of her caramel latte. “Mind if we get started on the letters now? I have an appointment with my hair professional at five, and you know how Carlo gets cranky and turns into a drama queen if he’s kept waiting.”

  I flicked my eyes to Megan’s stylish hairdo, which to my eyes needed as much attention as a Mona Lisa smile. In fact, if her hair was any more perfect it would be a wig. Yet as soon as Carlo spotted her, he’d bounce around on his $2000 Italian handmade ostrich-skin loafers, flick scissors, and comb through the air like a magician’s wand—and then charge her more than I made in a week for the privilege of cresting his salon door.

  Bending down I produced a sheaf of letters from my tote. “Most of these are straightforward; nothing I can’t handle, but there’s a couple I’d like to run by you first.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Okay, the first is a premature ejaculation—”

  She smirked. “Oh God, did I say shoot?”

  “And the other is a ninety-year-old guy who wants his eighty-eight-year-old wife to dress up in a school uniform and suck on him. It’s true,” I said grinning at Megan’s open-mouthed disbelief. “See, this old guy can’t get it up anymore. Viagra is too dangerous for his heart. So he figures if he can’t have the real McCoy, a little game-playing might be fun.