Lessons in Murder

by Claire McNab

  The coroner had given Tony Quade’s probable time of death as somewhere between ten and twelve o’clock on Wednesday night, the warm night and the complication of cooler sea breezes making it difficult to be more accurate. Bourke had confirmed that Pete McIvor had been at the pub with friends until about eleven, when he had announced he was going home. Although he shared a flat with two other people, one had been out when he had arrived and the other was very vague about the time, so Pete certainly had the opportunity to dispose of Tony Quade if he had wanted to.

  She turned to the notes on Sybil. At the very beginning of the assembly she had taken the microphone to give details of an excursion to the drama theatre of the Opera House. She said she then went down to stand by the students, but no one remembered her definitely being there. Then, because she didn’t have a roll call or a first lesson, she was free to go to Bill Pagett’s workroom and kill him. She said she was sitting in her empty classroom preparing lessons, but no one had seen her there.

  As far as her husband was concerned, the day before he died Carol had confronted Sybil with the note she had written to Pagett and the results of the tests on the power drill in her garage. Carol had left her silent and white-faced. Had she then coolly planned to meet her husband so that she could kill him before he was able to incriminate her in some way?

  Carol stared at the papers in her hands. Be objective, she thought—wanting her not to be guilty doesn’t make her so.

  Terry was furious. Ignoring the others in the staff room, he confronted Sybil. “Where’d you go Saturday? Why wouldn’t you see me yesterday? Syb? I want an answer.”

  “Will you shut up! I’m trying to mark essays,” snapped Lynne.

  Alan Witcombe thought it politic to intervene: “Yes, Terry, we’re all very upset, but please do show some consideration. It’s a difficult time—”

  “Mind your own business!”

  Before Alan could respond to this challenge to his position, there was a knock at the staff room door.

  Terry snatched it open. “Well, what do you want?”

  The small student, intimidated, said with a rush, “Ms. Simpson’s lunch. Asked me to get it for her. From the tuckshop.”

  Terry took it from him, and he scuttled away. “Think everyone’s your servant?” he said, dumping the lunch on Lynne’s pile of essays.

  “It gives the kids a sense of responsibility,” said Lynne airily. “Besides, they love running messages.”

  Terry grunted, and turned back to Sybil. “I want to know what you did this last weekend.”

  Sybil felt she could scream with frustrated irritation. “Please Terry, I’ll speak to you later,” she said in an effort to placate him.

  “When? When later? I want a time.”

  “After school. I’ll ring you.”

  “All right,” said Terry, “I’ll follow you home, straight after the final bell.”

  Sybil felt trapped and angry, but before she could speak Edwina, blinkworthy in luminescent green, said, “Terry, I’m so sorry to upset your plans, but Syb’s promised to call in to my place for a cup of coffee after school.” She beamed at his frown. “We girls must stick together at times like this, you know,” she said archly, “and who knows how long Syb will be? It would be much better if she rang you when she got home, wouldn’t it?”

  Hiding her surprise at this unexpected invitation, Sybil said briskly, “Yes, Terry. I’ll ring you, okay?”

  Terry nodded and stalked out of the staff room. “Dear, dear,” said Edwina. “He’s so possessive, isn’t he? Dangerously possessive, do you think, Syb?”

  She smiled at Sybil’s resigned expression. “You sure can pick them,” she said. “Come to my place straight after school, I think you need to escape for a while.”

  Sybil drove to Edwina’s house with her teeth clenched so tightly her jaw ached. She felt battered by demands and emotions, filled at one moment with bitter anger, and the next with helpless anxiety.

  Detective Bourke had contacted her to make an appointment at lunchtime. She expected Carol to be with him, and was disconcerted to find him alone in the deputy’s office. Unable to resist, she heard herself saying, “Is Inspector Ashton here?” and was startled at the shaft of disappointment when he shook his head.

  She answered his questions about the supply and storage of sports equipment with a puzzled frown. “Surely Physical Education could help you more than I could,” she said.

  He smiled and continued. She wanted to know why he was so interested in the bats, although, suddenly, she knew the answer. “Was one used. . .” she began. Bourke looked encouraging. Sybil retreated. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I didn’t mean to interrupt you.” A few more questions, then Bourke had thanked her and she left to walk back to the staff room. She had walked unheeding through the lunchtime din, thinking of Carol.

  As Sybil parked outside Edwina’s fence she was surprised to see Lynne’s RX7 draw up behind her. Lynne slid languidly out of the seat and waited for Sybil to lock her car.

  Edwina met them at the open front door, full of enthusiasm. “Hi. Come on in. Slipped out a few minutes early to beat you home. Have you two noticed how Farrell’s losing her grip? She isn’t patrolling the school perimeters with her usual regularity, is she?”

  Lynne was amused. “Lucky she isn’t. I’ve cut enough classes short in the last few days to earn an official reprimand.” She glanced at Sybil. “We aren’t all conscientious saints like you, Syb. Besides, the way I feel at the moment, facing a difficult class is enough to send me off into screaming hysterics.”

  Edwina raised her eyebrows. “Frankly, Lynne, dear, I can’t see you having anything but simulated hysterics at any time. Those of us privileged to know you well realize beneath that glossy exterior there beats a similarly glossy, hard heart.”

  Lynne just laughed at Edwina’s sarcastic words. Sybil looked from one to the other. In what uneasy alliance did they stand? Their usual relationship ranged from indifference to loathing. “Did you ask me here for some particular reason?” she asked Edwina.

  Edwina ignored the question, leading them to the back veranda overlooking the sheltered waters of Pittwater. Sybil’s eyes followed the yachts tacking against the breeze. But however serene the view, she couldn’t relax. “Edwina?” she prompted.

  “The fact is,” said Edwina, smugly confidential, “both Lynne and I have been approached by Pierre Brand for exclusive interviews.”

  Sybil said nothing. I’m learning the value of silence from Carol, she thought fleetingly.

  “Pierre really is the most delightful man,” said Lynne, to fill an awkward pause. She smiled at Sybil. “Anyway, Syb, he asked us if we could arrange for him to meet you, especially as you don’t seem keen to speak to reporters.”

  “Not seem keen! Lynne, I won’t speak to anyone. I don’t want to discuss anything. I don’t want to be photographed, pawed over, chewed up and spat out by Pierre Brand or anyone else.”

  The doorbell rang. Edwina bounced up to answer it, returning a moment later with Pierre Brand in tow.

  Sybil stood to go.

  “Oh, not yet, Syb,” exclaimed Edwina, “Pierre’s just arrived.”

  Brand thrust out his hand. “Mrs. Quade, please accept my condolences. I know this must be a very difficult time for you.”

  Sybil shook his hand reluctantly. He was smaller than he appeared on television, but he had the same slightly plastic, artificial air. Sybil imagined ripping open his shirt and finding circuits and switches. “I was just leaving,” she said.

  “There’s a great deal of public interest in this case,” said Pierre Brand smoothly, “particularly because of Sir Richard’s son. A painless interview, a few moments of your time—that’s all I ask.”

  “No.”

  He smiled ingratiatingly. “And it’s to your advantage. As soon as the other media people know that you’ve signed an exclusive contract with my program, they’ll leave you alone.”

  “No interview.”

 
“Has Edwina mentioned a payment? My channel can afford to be generous when such an important story breaks.”

  Sybil shook her head. “You’re very persistent, Mr. Brand, but the answer is still no. Now, I’m sorry, I have to go.”

  “Please, take my card. Ring me day or night when you change your mind, or even if you’d just like to discuss things with me. I think you’ll find, upon reflection, that I’m offering a valuable opportunity.”

  How like Terry he is, thought Sybil, wanting something from me and not really caring how he gets it or what it means. “Please don’t waste your card,” she said, handing it back to him.

  Edwina followed her out to the car. “Syb, no offense. Didn’t think you’d take it this way.”

  “How do you think I’d take it!”

  A sulky resentment rose in Edwina’s face as Sybil let her anger show, and glancing back as she rounded the corner Sybil could see her standing slack-armed, her head turned to watch her go.

  At home she was restless, fretful and impatient with herself. She glared at the recording equipment. All it did was invade her privacy. There had been no further threatening calls, and she didn’t expect any more. Whoever it was had other plans. She dialed Terry’s number and was irrationally annoyed when he snatched it up on the second ring.

  She lied without compunction. “Look, Terry, I’ve got a splitting headache. I’ve taken something and I’m going to bed. For God’s sake, I know it’s only six o’clock. There’s some law that says I can’t go to bed this early? Don’t badger me! All right, tomorrow night. Yes, we’ll have dinner. Okay. Sorry about tonight. Bye.”

  She paced around, getting a drink, nibbling corn chips, cuddling the cat. Sybil knew she was in that unsettled state where she could neither sit still nor move with any purpose. Finally she turned on the television and flung herself into a chair. Her wandering attention was suddenly riveted by the sight of herself in the school car park.

  “Sybil Quade, close friend of Sir Richard’s murdered son, was too upset to be interviewed about the new and even more dreadful tragedy in her life,” the voice-over said enthusiastically, “as mystery surrounds the death of her estranged husband, Tony Quade, who was found broken and bruised at the bottom of Bellwhether Headland by a young student of Bellwhether High.” The picture switched to a long shot of the school with several kids clowning for the camera. “This is where,” the voice continued cheerfully, “Sir Richard’s son met his death in the bizarre Black and Decker murder, as yet unsolved.”

  Sybil’s heart turned as the picture switched to a close-up of Carol, the voice continuing with a few flattering comments on her career. Then followed a brief interview, with Carol, confident and patient, answering reporters’ questions.

  As the next story began, Sybil found a card in her purse and sat biting her lip. She switched off the television and stood uncertainly by the phone. She stared at the recording equipment attached to it, then flipped open the lid and removed the tape. She unwillingly dialed the number, saying as soon as the receiver was picked up, “Carol?”

  After the slightest pause, the calm silver voice replied, “Yes?”

  Sybil shut her eyes, imagining Carol’s face. “I want to see you.”

  “Has something happened?”

  “No.”

  “Sybil, I don’t. . .”

  “Please.”

  A pause, then: “I’ll be there in about an hour. Is that okay?”

  As she put down the receiver, Sybil released her breath in a long sigh. She replaced the tape cassette in the recorder, then moved restlessly around the house, unable to concentrate, even to sit down. Why had she rung Carol against her will and certainly against her better judgment? Why was she pacing like a nervous kid waiting for a date?

  Carol was ten minutes early and unnervingly polite. Sybil felt a jolt seeing the reality after the image on the television screen. “Would you like a drink?”

  Carol shook her head. “Why did you call me?” she said.

  Sybil was swept with a totally unexpected rage. “I couldn’t help it! I didn’t want to or mean to!” In the silence that followed her anger evaporated. “Carol, you feel it too, don’t you?”

  Carol smiled ruefully and turned away to gaze out at the sea. “Yes.”

  The insistent tingle of desire began to spread a slow fire in Sybil. “It’s just some kind of physical thing, Carol. It’ll go, I know it will.”

  Carol turned, saying mockingly, “A couple of cold showers and we’ll be all right?” She saw Sybil’s expression and her smile faded.

  The air vibrated between them as their eyes locked. “Oh, God,” said Sybil, “I feel as if I’m addicted to you.” Her eyes dropped to Carol’s mouth. “You’re not going to ask me to go cold turkey are you?”

  Carol was breathing as though she had been running. “Sybil, we have to be sensible.”

  “Can we be sensible tomorrow?”

  Carol’s mouth was as deliciously responsive as she remembered it, her arms as strong. Sybil struggled to stand back from herself, to see her want as an irrational physical need, but she began to drown in Carol’s presence, in the warmth, of her skin and the rhythm of her heartbeat. She could not remember feeling like this before—safe and afraid at the same time, torn between the rightness of her actions and the conviction that they were wrong.

  Carol began to undress her slowly, letting her hands slide across Sybil’s ribs, around her back, down her hips, all the time kissing her with a controlled passion that aroused Sybil until she was seized with such impatient desire she gasped against Carol’s mouth, “Not too long.”

  Carol lowered her gently onto the couch and, kneeling beside it, began to run her fingertips over Sybil’s naked body in complex patterns, weaving paths of sensation that sang in corresponding paths of light against her closed eyelids. She arched under the soft brush of her hands. “Carol, please. I can’t stand it.”

  “You can.”

  And now Carol’s fingers were in her, and she pushed herself up against their pressure. She was floating in the most exquisite pain, knowing that it would soon explode in waves of release. But the tension grew higher and higher, the sensation more unbearably delightful, until she heard herself call out. And then she came in great shuddering waves that went on and on until she sank exhausted and smiling.

  She opened her eyes. Carol, still fully dressed, sat on the floor, her face hidden against Sybil’s side, her pale hair tickling Sybil’s bare skin. “Carol, look at me.”

  Carol turned her head. “This must never happen again,” she said.

  Sybil sat up, her hands on Carol’s shoulders. “Do you believe I killed Bill? And Tony? Do you really believe I could do that?” She watched the indecision on Carol’s face. “Tell me what you really think—not a lie.”

  “I want to believe you had nothing to do with either.”

  “You want to believe, but you don’t know, do you? Is that it?”

  “Sybil . . .”

  “You’d arrest me if you thought me guilty, would you?”

  Carol shook herself free and stood up. “Of course. I’d have to.”

  Sybil was shaken with anger and fear. Her voice rose as she said, “You make love to me, even though you think I’m capable of murder? Aren’t you frightened of me? Don’t you worry I might slip a knife between your ribs?”

  Carol’s face had grown hard with a matching anger, but her voice remained even. “I didn’t realize you had a motive to kill me.”

  She wanted to slap Carol, shake her, hurt her in some way. Where Carol had been slow and careful undressing her, Sybil was rough. She felt the pulse pounding in Carol’s throat and knew with a twisting exultation Carol wanted her so much that she could be defeated, as if she were an enemy.

  Sybil pushed her back into a deep chair, kneeling between her outstretched legs. Carol’s eyes were closed, her head thrown back, the light catching the line of her jaw. Sybil, aroused, angry and determined to dominate, slid her mouth across the hollows
of Carol’s throat. The nipples under her fingers were hard, the tanned skin sweet. She sank her teeth into Carol’s shoulder much harder than she intended and was excited by the murmur of protest. I’ll control you, I’ll play you, I’ll make your body sing for me, she thought.

  The world became Carol’s body. She slid her fingers into the wetness and Carol closed around them tighter and tighter.

  The scent of Carol’s body was at once familiar and strange. How could I ever imagine doing this, Sybil thought, her mouth seeking and finding the center of sensations. Carol’s breath caught in her throat. Her hands were in Sybil’s hair. “Ah, darling,” she gasped.

  The word spun in Sybil’s head. Darling? Carol had only said that in an excess of passion, not as a term of love. Not that Sybil wanted love, she wanted nothing, especially not this physical obsession, not this consuming need. Carol had grown still, rigid—and then, sucking against Sybil’s fingers, her climax began. Sybil raised her head and watched the convulsions ripple through Carol’s body and then the calmness descend, knowing bleakly she was as near to love as she dared to be.

  Sybil slept late and woke tired and heavy. Although she knew she should hurry or she would be late for school, she lay there while the events of the evening rushed back: how Carol had calmly dressed, not meeting her eyes; how stilted their conversation had been—and Carol’s last words, “We just have to forget this.”

  Sybil had smiled at that. “I’ll try,” she had said.

  And when Carol had gone, she remembered the mixture of guilt, alarm and excitement that had filled her. Lying here, images of making love danced behind her closed eyelids and she groaned, half in pleasure, half in exasperation as she began to burn with reawakened desire. How long before she got over this obsession with another woman? How long before this unnatural passion burnt itself out?

  Driving to school, she tried to be honest with herself. She wanted to make love to Carol again, and again, and again. It was obviously a mindless physical need to be satisfied before she could resume a normal life. It wasn’t love, and never could be—rather, it was an infatuation that had been caused by the circumstances and her own loneliness. And what was last night to Carol? An unwelcome interlude because it threatened her career? It wouldn’t have the shattering impact it had had on Sybil. After all, Carol had said she’d made love to another woman, or was it women? Sybil felt an unexpected stab of jealousy. Was Carol in a relationship now? Did someone else taste that mouth and feel those fingers?