Lessons in Murder
Page 17
Sybil couldn’t believe they were in her sunny kitchen discussing murder in such conversational tones. Lynne leaned forward confidentially. “And you know what, I thought it wouldn’t take long, but really, Syb, it was unbelievable. I don’t think I was away more than seven or eight minutes at the most, and when I got back, there was my class, happily working. I just circulated, acting as though I’d been there giving advice from the beginning.”
“And no one noticed you carrying a baseball bat around?”
“I put it in a roll of cardboard I took from Edwina’s desk. There’s nothing odd about a teacher carrying a roll of cardboard, Syb. And I had a scarf of yours to wrap around the bat if there was blood, but that didn’t turn out to be necessary. I saved the scarf for later, and I should have left it on the Headland with the bat, but you can’t think of everything, and besides, it might have looked a bit too obvious.”
She looked at her hands. “I chipped my nail polish dragging Bill into position for the drill,” she said. “Stupid of me—I hadn’t taken that into account. I knew better than to use the same polish to repair them. Had to send a kid out of the school to the local shops to get me another bottle. The little fool brought back a revolting color I wouldn’t normally use, but I had no choice. Repaired my nails by painting over them. You didn’t notice, did you?”
“No,” Sybil said, thinking, what can I talk about? She’s getting worried about the time. She said, “You’ve got a red leather writing case.”
“Oh, you noticed that, did you? Doesn’t matter, I’ve got rid of the paper and envelopes. Won’t need to write any more letters—pity really, I enjoyed imagining Farrell’s face when she read them. But I don’t want to discuss that now. You’re just stalling, Syb.” Now she was standing, head to one side, considering the best way for Sybil to sit. “You might as well cooperate,” she said with a smile. “I wouldn’t want to make a mess of it for both our sakes.”
“Both our sakes?” said Sybil, incredulous.
“Quick and clean, better than a slow dying. And I don’t have much time, Syb, so if you’d just lean forward a bit . . .”
Behind Lynne’s smooth dark head Sybil caught a movement. She didn’t dare look past her, but she knew it was Carol. Relief, love, and anger swelled in her throat. “You’re pathetic!” she snapped at Lynne.
“What?”
“Well, what would you call it, Lynne? Murdering two people because you wanted to be loved. I call that pathetic.”
“You’re making it easy for me to kill you, Syb,” said Lynne between clenched teeth.
“It’s easy anyway, isn’t it? You can’t stand to think I’ve succeeded where you’ve failed, can you? Bill loved me, Tony loved me, and Terry certainly loves me . . . but who loves you, Lynne?”
It was over in an instant. A policeman in uniform suddenly appeared from the doorway into the hall, and, as Lynne’s rifle swung to cover him, Carol stepped from the back yard into the kitchen and smashed down at Lynne’s hands with the butt of her gun. The rifle clattered to the floor. “Hope I haven’t ruined your nail polish,” said Carol.
Chapter Fourteen
Sybil’s head was ringing with fatigue. She had endured the gauntlet of the media as she had entered police headquarters (statements about the death of Sir Richard’s son could not be given in a suburban police station, Bourke had said to her with a satirical smile) and spent hours answering questions and making a detailed statement. Carol had been there, of course, but it was the cool, decisive, executive Carol she had first seen in the school common room the morning of Bill’s murder.
Sybil wearily refused yet another cup of coffee and rested her aching head on her clasped hands. “Come on,” said a silver voice, “I’ll drive you home.”
They avoided the reporters, leaving by a back entrance to where Carol had parked her car in the street. “Tsk,” she said as they reached it, “I’ve got a parking ticket.”
Sybil didn’t respond, but slid into the seat with a silent nod of thanks. They started off, Carol driving, as usual, with smooth efficiency. The car was on the Harbour Bridge before she spoke again. “Don’t laugh, but. . .” she began, her voice uncharacteristically uncertain.
Sybil had to smile at the energy a laugh would need. “I’m too tired to laugh,” she said.
“What I was going to say,” said Carol casually, “was that when I knew you were in danger this morning. . .” She shot Sybil a quick look. “. . . the things I said last night . . . they were just empty words.”
Sybil was silent. Carol changed lanes abruptly and was rewarded with a blast from a horn. “Damn,” she said, “you’re ruining my concentration.”
Sybil said, “When I realized Lynne was going to hurt me—”
“Kill you,” interrupted Carol savagely. “She was going to kill you.”
“When I realized Lynne was going to kill me, I told you I loved you, but of course, you couldn’t hear.”
“Couldn’t I?” Carol reached over and took Sybil’s band. “Come back to my place,” she said. “And before you answer, I can give you three good reasons why you should.”
Sybil curled her fingers around Carol’s. “Oh? They’d better be convincing.”
“Okay, here they are: if you come home with me you will, first, avoid any stray reporters; second, you’ll avoid Terry Clarke; third, we’ll make love, and then sleep together all night and wake up to the birds and the trees and anything else you might fancy.”
“Breakfast?” said Sybil, “do I get breakfast?”
Carol pursed her lips. “Only if you say you love me, and you can’t live without me.”
“I’ll have bacon and eggs, and then toast and marmalade,” said Sybil.
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Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
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