Sex on Tuesdays

by June Whyte

  I blinked. Road Runner DVD? The cartoon where Wile E. Coyote accidentally blows himself up at least ten times, yet still continues to chase the fast-moving, beep-beeping, road-running ostrich?

  “It’s a classic,” he persisted, and for a split second a splinter of insecurity pierced his usual tough guy, I’m-alright-mate, shield.

  And then Mum’s profound words: “Life’s a gift” popped into my head and I nodded. “Sure,” I told him. “I’d love to.”

  “How about I get to your house around 7:30 and bring a family-size pizza with the lot?”

  “Great. I’ll provide the wine and the popcorn.”

  “Don’t bother dressing up,” he said—meaning he would be wearing his baggy trackpants and his favorite out-of-shape jumper. “We can just lounge around. Have a laugh.”

  Have a laugh? While watching the devious coyote set up a TNT roadblock for the ostrich before blowing himself to smithereens? Right. And then the rest of Mum’s profound words imprinted themselves upon my brain: “Life’s a gift. So tear off the wrapping and enjoy the hard throbbing centre.”

  The thought of Simon’s hard throbbing centre had the blood rushing from my head to the pit of my stomach. And lower.

  Did I really want to tear off Simon’s wrapping?

  You bet.

  * * *

  By the time I dropped Simon off at the Tribute, called into a bottle shop for a carton of my favorite Fox Creek Red Baron Shiraz, and hit the supermarket for a couple of those micro popcorn bags that swell up and pop once they’re introduced to a microwave oven, it was gone six thirty. Still confused re my new feelings for Simon, but content to see where the night led, I parked the car in the garage and struggled up the path towards my front door—wine, tote bag, coat and popcorn bags spilling from my arms.

  “Hi there little fellows,” I said to a family of magpies, who, along with half a dozen seagulls and two doves, flew down from the roof to greet me. “G’day, Tonto. Feeling hungry?” I smiled at my favorite feathered visitor, a tame grey dove with white feathers cresting its head. Tonto was always the first to greet me in the mornings when I stepped outside the front door to pick up the paper, and the last to pay his respects when I sprinkled breadcrumbs on the lawn at night. “Let me get this shopping inside and I’ll see what I can find for you to eat.”

  A cardboard box about the size of a shoebox sat on my front step. I hadn’t won any items from eBay recently and there was no writing on the package—or stamps—so it hadn’t come in the post. Maybe those feral kids from number 60 were playing a practical joke on me, filled the box with stones—or something more unsavory—and dumped it on my doorstep. Probably watching and giggling from the top branches of the tree in their garden right now.

  With no hands free to check the box out, I fumbled my key into the keyhole and when I bumped the front door open with my hip, Horace greeted me, eyes alight with anticipation, a drool-covered tennis ball gripped between his jaws.

  “Sorry, sweetie,” I apologized, tumbling coat, tote bag and popcorn onto the kitchen table and sidestepping my tail-wagging dog to store the wine in the refrigerator. “No time for us to play ball tonight. Simon’s due in forty-five minutes and I have to make myself beautiful.”

  Horace tipped his head to one side and blinked.

  “Okay, I know, impossible. However, there’s a hot shower and shampoo and a bag of make-up on my dressing table that’s calling me.” I closed the fridge door and felt my heart lift at the thought of not being alone tonight. Of having a laugh with Simon. Thing is, I wasn’t imagining him laughing—in my head, I was picturing him naked.

  Smiling at the thought of a naked Simon, I brought the mysterious box in from the front step and set it on the kitchen table, hung my coat on the back of the door and stored the popcorn in the food cupboard.

  When had I started to think of Simon as more than a good friend? The night he rescued me from outside Edward’s house? Or before that, when he brought me home from Erika’s, put me to bed and took care of me? Or was it when I saw him in a different environment at Sunny Days, interacting with the elderly residents?

  My mind still on Simon, I tore the lid off the box and peered inside. A loaf of pumpkin bread? Yuk. I hated pumpkins. It was a vegetable only fit to be fed to pigs. I couldn’t work out how people could enjoy eating pumpkin pie or worse still—pumpkin ice cream. Hell, the next in-thing would be broccoli cupcakes. Or parsnip pudding. Or what about corn-on-the-cob chewing gum?

  None of my friends would make me a loaf of pumpkin bread. So where did it come from? Unless it was the woman across the road—the one who only moved into our street last week. Yolande someone-or-other. She’d called out to me yesterday when I waved as I hurried past on the way to the shops—and I’m sure she said something about having purchased a new bread-maker. That must be it. She’d made a batch of fresh loaves and dropped one off for me. Very sweet of her. Okay, I’d make sure I knocked on her door and thanked her for the bread, and then hint that out of all the varieties of bread in the world, my all-time favorite was honey-oat.

  After I’d fed the pumpkin loaf to the birds….

  One eye on the clock, I grabbed the still-warm loaf and hurried out onto the front lawn. The moment I appeared, the birds surrounded me. Fighting, squawking, hassling each other to get closer. Demanding I get the hell on with it.

  “Okay, calm down. No need to get your wings in a flap. There’s plenty for everyone.”

  With a satisfied smile, I watched each bird grab their own personal chunk of bread, shake it until the bread broke into even smaller pieces and then, protecting their meal with aggressive body language, proceed to scoff every crumb.

  I glanced at my watch. No time to dash across the road and thank Yolande for the bread now. I’d make it a priority first thing in the morning. There was still Horace to feed and let out in the back yard for a run, and the house to tidy before I could turn myself into a bargain-basement version of Cameron Diaz for tonight’s date with Simon, Wile E. Coyote and the Road Runner. They might be happy to wear their sloppy, lounging-around clothes—I wasn’t.

  Half-hour later, freshly showered, hair blown and dried until it sat snugly around my ears in a sleek bob, face pampered and painted, I stood in the bedroom in my black lacy bra and knickers, surrounded by piles of discarded clothes. What to wear? Would Simon take one look at me and bolt in a commitment-phobic cloud of dust if it seemed like I’d tried too hard? Especially as he’d be in his old trackpants and beloved out-of-shape sweater. This wasn’t a date—as such—we were merely spending a couple of hours together watching cartoons. And when did watching cartoons ever turn into a romantic interlude?

  Maybe tonight, I reasoned, as with a wistful smile I slid silky black slacks up my legs and hunted in the bottom of my wardrobe for that new, creamy, low slung pullover I bought at Target last month.

  * * *

  A knock on the dot of seven thirty had me patting a last dab of vanilla perfume behind both ears before hurrying to open the front door.

  “Dani?”

  My first thought was how great Simon looked. He was wearing an olive-colored cashmere jumper that I hadn’t seen before over a smart pair of khaki Dockers. I smiled. He’d thought enough of our date to ditch his out-of-shape jumper and trackies.

  My second thought was why was he cradling a dead bird?

  “Simon? What’s going on?”

  “You tell me. Your lawn is covered with dead and dying birds.”

  “Nooooo!”

  It took me a full ten seconds to comprehend the sight that greeted me after I’d pushed past Simon in my hurry to get outside. My friends—my birds—once bright and spilling over with life, lay on their sides, blood trickling from open beaks, wings fluttering weakly—or absolutely still, already dead.

  “The bread…” I gasped.

  I heard Simon come up behind me. “What bread? What’s going on, Dani?” His voice sounded thin and scared.

  “The…the pumpkin bread,” I stam
mered, bending to scoop up Tonto, the dove with the white top feathers. The dove that spent most of his day perched on my TV antenna on the roof and hoo-hooed to me the moment I arrived home. “Nooo…not my little Tonto,” I whispered through a throat choked with tears.

  “Dani?” Simon clasped my shoulders and gently turned me to face him. “What bread are you talking about? And what does it have to do with these birds dying?”

  “There was a box on my front door step when I got home.”

  “Jesus!” Simon’s eyes widened. “And you opened it?”

  I nodded. “There was a loaf of bread inside the box. Pumpkin bread.” I gazed down into the lifeless eyes of the little grey dove in my hand and felt the lump in my throat tighten. “Oh, Simon, what have I done?”

  “You? You’ve done nothing, Dani.”

  “But I killed them. Don’t you see…I killed them all.” Fighting tears, I lay Tonto on the grass next to his still-twitching mate. It didn’t matter that I’d seen many dead birds over the years. Nor how mature and world-wise I’d become. Nothing eased the pain of guilt. “Simon,” I croaked, shaking my head. “I detest pumpkin bread so I fed it to the birds. And I killed them.”

  “Dani, darlin’,” Simon groaned and draped one arm around me. “That bread was meant for you.” And then he pulled me against the soft down of his new cashmere sweater. I snuggled deeper in an attempt to control the shaking that threatened to take over my limbs while his large hands rubbed my back and slid up and down my arms. “Can’t you see…some murdering asshole left that bread for you to eat? Instead of dead birds, it could have been you writhing on the floor in agony right now. Whoever did this monstrous thing expected you to be found by a neighbor, cold and stiff as a chunk of ice tomorrow morning. They didn’t know I was coming.”

  Still in Simon’s arms, I shook my head. “But who? Who would want me dead?”

  “Whoever murdered Mary.”

  “Jack Rivers?”

  “If it is Jack, I’ll shove his leery grin down his throat and then pound him senseless with his own laptop before they toss him into jail,” Simon snarled. “Although, to be honest, this whole poisoned pumpkin-bread thing stinks of Alice.”

  “Alice? But why would she want me dead?”

  “Same reason her stepsister is dead, I suppose.”

  By now, the heat from Simon’s embrace had stopped my shaking but the grim reminder that Jack or Alice or someone unknown, wanted me dead, had me loathe to move away from the security of his arms. “Simon,” I said looking up at his familiar face with its strong jaw and slightly crooked nose. “What am I going to do?”

  “Well, honey, for a start, I want you to go inside and sit by the heater with a blanket wrapped around you while I sort this lot out.” His lips brushed against my forehead. “Okay?”

  “No. No, I can’t,” I objected, rocking back on my heels as I struggled to get away from him. “I can’t let you throw my birds in the rubbish bin. I need to bury them. In individual graves. I couldn’t bear the thought of Tonto and the others tossed out like bits of trash.”

  “Dani, when I said, ‘sort this lot out,’ I meant contact the station and get onto my mate in forensics, ask him to check the box for fingerprints and take the birds away so he can do an autopsy. We have to know what killed them.” Simon put one arm around me, pulled me close again and brushed a stray lock of hair from my eyes. “I’ll stay here until Gazza arrives and then I promise I’ll come in and massage your shoulders until the tension’s all gone. Meanwhile, all you have to do is keep yourself warm and stay calm. You’ve had one hell of a shock.”

  “I’d love a relaxing massage,” I told him and then grabbed the bull by the horns. “But I’m afraid that won’t be enough. You see, I don’t want to sleep on my own tonight.”

  His lips were soft as they met mine. The flavor of spearmint tingled on my tongue as his mouth opened and invited me in. And then, in full view of anyone walking past the house, his kiss deepened until I swear my limbs were ready to melt into treacle. “Dani, honey,” he said, finally letting me up for air before pushing me gently towards the front door. “You couldn’t get rid of me tonight if you tried.”

  18

  Thursday, 7:40 p.m.

  Operating on auto pilot, I walked inside, lit the fire, dragged a rug from my bed and curled up on the couch. Now that Simon’s arms were no longer around me, the enormity of a killer leaving poisoned bread on my doorstep hit me with a punch to the stomach.

  Who wanted me dead?

  And why?

  Okay, let’s say Jack Rivers murdered Mary. An affair gone wrong? Blackmail? But why involve me? And what reason did he have to kill me? I hardly knew the man and as for Mary Foster, I’d never laid eyes on her, in life or death.

  I shook my head. Simon and I must be missing a vital piece of this jigsaw puzzle, because none of it made any sense. And then another thought hit me. Perhaps Mary Foster herself was the key to everything.

  Reaching across the table, I snagged my laptop, pulled it onto my knee, powered the computer up and proceeded to Google Mary Foster.

  Well, what do you know…

  Fifteen minutes later, after surfing from one internet site to another, my research eventually hit pay dirt. Mary Foster wasn’t merely a sweet innocent homemaker who collected garden gnomes. Until her death, Mary Foster, alias Sweet Lips Barbarella, had also been a prostitute.

  Our suspect, Jack Rivers was interviewing prostitutes for Gape at the moment. Coincidence? Or part of his master-plan?

  On a hunch, I decided to go into MySpace and after trawling around for another fifteen minutes, discovered Sweet Lips was quite popular—even judges, lawyers, doctors and a couple of prominent politicians (unnamed of course) were part of her clientele. That’s if you could believe the blogs and videos I’d skimmed through.

  Had Mary’s husband, Derek known about his wife’s secret life? If so, he hadn’t mentioned it when we’d spoken to him. In fact he’d blamed Mary’s lack of interest in sex for having his affair. What if he believed his wife worked night-shift at the local supermarket as a shelf-filler and discovered she’d been getting paid big bucks to get it off with other men and not him? Wouldn’t that be a strong enough motive to kill her?

  Certainly more of a motive than I could dig up for Jack Rivers.

  Stumped, my mind whipping around in circles, I dragged the cordless phone from its base next to the couch and dialed Megan. If anyone could give me the goss about Sweet Lips Barbarella it would be Megan.

  Although I hadn’t spoken to my breezy sexologist assistant since she’d arranged the disastrous date with Spanky Eddie, I kept my hostility in check. After all, if I wanted Megan’s cooperation, this wasn’t the time to inform her that her choice in men sucked. Big time.

  “Megan, the reason I’m ringing,” I explained after a couple of minutes of exchanged pleasantries and her polite query re my health, “is because I’m after information and I figured you might be able to help me.”

  “Okaaay,” she said, a definite uneasy note creeping into her voice. “Um…although, if you’re looking for another blind date, Dani, I’m—”

  “No!” I put in so quickly I almost swallowed my tongue. “No more blind dates! It’s to do with a prostitute who calls herself, Sweet Lips Barbarella. Ever heard of her?”

  The silence on the other end of the phone stretched into several seconds. “Megan? Are you still there?”

  “Yes, I…lost you for a moment.” She cleared her throat. “Um…Sweet Lips Barbarella?”

  “Yeah. Know her?”

  “No…no, I don’t think I’ve ever come across anyone with that name, Dani. What is it you need to know about her?”

  “Anything and everything you can find out.”

  “Right.” She cleared her throat again. Probably been shagging some guy in the park at midnight just to get an adrenalin rush and caught a cold instead. “So…why are you interested in this woman?”

  I sighed and slumped back against the c
ushions. There was an unknown killer out there with a penchant for baking poisoned bread and he/she wanted me dead. Hell, I was interested in everyone. “Megan, I think this woman could be the key to what’s been happening over the last few days. Her real name is Mary Foster. You know, the woman who was murdered on Monday night. DF’s wife.”

  “Okay, I’ll ask around,” she said. “And if I find out anything of interest, I’ll get back to you.”

  “Thanks Megan, I appreciate it. You’re a real mate.” And then I couldn’t help adding. “Even if you do have a lousy collection of males in your harem. None of whom I’d ever be interested in dating again, thank you very much.”

  “Your loss,” she purred, and I imagined her casual shrug as she examined the perfectly manicured talons on the end of each finger before ending the call.

  * * *

  “How ya doin’, darlin’?” Simon barreled through the front door and strode into the lounge room where he plumped down onto the couch beside me and flung one arm around my shoulders.

  “Getting there,” I told him, scooting closer and liking the feel of his solid body against mine. “How’d it go with the forensic guy?”

  “Okay. Although Gazza doesn’t hold out much hope of finding fingerprints on the box. Crooks tend to be clever enough to wear gloves these days. I blame all these television crime shows. Too many hints given for free on what not to do when breaking the law. Anyway, he did say he’ll get back to me when he’s finished doing the autopsies on the birds.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t worry…I buried Tonto in the garden before Gazza arrived. Couldn’t send him off to be cut up, could we?”

  “You buried Tonto?”

  “Under the rose bush. Thought you’d like that.”

  “Simon Templar,” I declared, throwing both arms around his neck and kissing him full on the mouth. “Did I ever tell you that you really are a saint?”

  “Not that I recall,” he answered, eyes twinkling. “But don’t let me stop you. Especially if you kiss me every time you feel the need to tell me.”