Ill-Gotten Gains

by Evans, Ilsa

  ‘Well, we think he was murdered. We still don’t have confirmation.’

  ‘Of course. Because the other option is that he locked the door and then sat down to have a heart attack. Maybe the lock was a bit stiff, took some effort. Yes, that’s plausible.’

  ‘Do you want me to order?’ asked Lucy, rising. ‘I’ll use my card and we can sort it out after. Parmigiana for Quinn. What else?’

  ‘Gold-fever fettuccine,’ said Petra. ‘But I’ll come up as well. Get a bottle of wine.’

  ‘I refuse to use those ridiculous names.’ I scanned the menu, feeling cross. ‘So just chicken and avocado risotto please. And if anyone orders the Sheridan Special, I’m leaving.’

  I pulled my chair forward so Petra could pass and then poured myself a glass of water. Quinn was already on her mobile, thumbs dancing. My original intention had been to dine at the local pub with just my sister, however I seemed to have accumulated extra company – even being persuaded to act as a chauffeur for Lucy, who shared a long tale regarding the whereabouts of her own car that included at least two of her sisters, an Indian taxi driver, and an allegedly hot mechanic. By halfway through the story I would have agreed to anything. My sister was another matter. She was an excellent sounding board; one who could play devil’s advocate when needed, but also switch to supportive in an instant. I needed a little of both.

  The promised conversation with Ashley Armistead had been brief. Just a repeat of the questions that Matthew had asked, plus a brisk exploration of the previous night’s phone call from Sam. He had given no information in return, not even a hint of what the coroner had found that had brought him to the centre in such a hurry. Downstairs, in the hall, much of the talk skirted around Sam’s penchant for bacon burgers and beer. But then they didn’t know what I did.

  ‘Cab sav,’ said Petra, putting the bottle down in front of me.

  I pulled some money out of my purse and slid it over to Quinn. ‘Here, go get yourself a Coke. Now.’

  ‘If you want to get rid of me, just say so.’ Quinn rose, scooping up the money.

  Petra squeezed past my chair and sat down. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Darcy wants a divorce, and he also wants me to sell the house, or buy him out, or let him buy me out. Because that woman’s pregnant.’

  ‘What? I mean … what?’

  ‘She’s pregnant. Don’t tell the girls.’

  Petra leant forward to grab the wine. She opened it deftly and poured us each a glass. ‘That fool.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you okay?’

  I toyed with my wineglass, watching the liquid slosh. ‘Not really.’

  ‘Christ. Five kids and he still hasn’t mastered the condom.’ She shook her head. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Buy him out, I suppose. I don’t have much choice.’

  Petra examined me thoughtfully. ‘That’s not quite true. I mean, don’t dismiss the alternatives altogether. Maybe you should sell up.’ She put a hand up to stop me interrupting. ‘Nell, that house is big. And full of memories. Maybe this is your chance to move on.’

  I shook my head. That house was like family.

  Quinn and Lucy returned, the latter placing one hand over her glass as Petra proffered the bottle. ‘No thanks, I’ll stick to water. I’m on a health kick.’

  ‘I think Mr Emerson rang someone else as well, Mum,’ said Quinn, who had clearly been giving this some thought. ‘After all, if he was so excited, he’d have been, like, bursting to tell someone. So he’s rung this mystery person and they decided to have him stuffed.’

  ‘Snuffed,’ I corrected.

  ‘Whatever. But that means you’re probably next.’

  ‘Fine. All I ask is that they make it quick.’

  Lucy glared at her sister. ‘That’s ridiculous. Mum doesn’t know anything.’

  ‘Ah, but does the murderer realise that?’

  ‘Depends on how well he knows her,’ said my mother, looming over the table as she examined the seat formation. She dragged a chair from an adjoining table with a teeth-jarring scrape and hung her handbag on the back as she sat down, glancing from my glass to Petra’s. ‘What are we drinking?’

  ‘Good evening, Yen,’ said Petra with exaggerated politeness. ‘A glass of wine, perhaps?’

  ‘Obviously.’

  Our mother was an interesting character. The name ‘Yen’ had arisen from her initial insistence that my sister and I not call her ‘Mum’. She hadn’t counted on the difficulties a baby would have with the three syllables of Lillian, and the instinctive abbreviation that would occur. By the time she realised that she had traded the traditional moniker for a unit of Japanese currency, it was too late. The name seemed to suit her anyway. Spiky, but with a hint of softness, because she herself was a melange of contradictions. Acerbic yet insightful; parsimonious yet generous; critical yet protective. She belonged to an array of social and special interest groups, serving as secretary on at least three, yet hadn’t invited anyone to her house for over thirty years. Except for our family friend next door, Uncle Jim, but she was having an affair with him so it didn’t quite count. Certainly his wife was never invited.

  ‘So what does your mother’s lack of knowledge have to do with anything?’

  ‘It’s about poor Mr Emerson. And how Mum’s life is in danger now.’

  ‘Highly unlikely.’

  ‘She can’t die, anyway, not till she’s finished all the doll’s houses,’ said Lucy, sounding rather more resigned to my fate than she had three minutes before. ‘One for each of us.’

  The doll’s houses she was referring to had originated with a Tudor cottage that I started about twelve months ago, as a hobby to keep me busy. It was far cheaper to renovate a doll’s house than a real house. The problem, however, was that each of my offspring had immediately laid claim to the finished product as part of their inheritance. In a moment of weakness I promised to do one for each. So far I had just started the second, which meant that my lifespan required at least another five years.

  Yen gazed around the table for a subject more interesting than my impending demise. ‘Petra, your fingernails look absurd. Which reminds me, did you order extra sour cream?’

  ‘Shit,’ said Petra.

  ‘I see. Did you order my meal at all?’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Excellent. Thank you.’ Yen rose again and treated us all to a withering glance before stalking off towards the bar.

  ‘Shit,’ said Petra again, taking a sip of wine.

  ‘Nothing to do with me,’ I said equably. ‘You’re the one who invited her.’

  A young couple with a baby settled themselves noisily at the table from which Yen had filched her chair. While the woman divested herself of various infant paraphernalia, the man went in search of a highchair. He returned quickly and hefted a rather leggy baby from the pram.

  ‘That’s a really ugly baby,’ whispered Quinn, staring.

  I followed her gaze. She was right.

  ‘Like, what would you do if you had such an ugly baby? Wouldn’t you be embarrassed?’

  ‘Let’s change the subject,’ said Petra, looking at me.

  ‘Yes,’ said Lucy, fidgeting with her water. ‘Let’s.’

  I glanced at her curiously but she avoided my gaze. My eyes widened. Maybe she knew.

  ‘It looks like one of those … what are those animals that sit up and stare?’

  ‘Well, that’s done.’ My mother rehung her handbag, sat back down. ‘Fortunately I’m not hungry. I hope you lot don’t get put off by your meals arriving before mine.’

  ‘I’m sure we’ll be fine,’ I said pleasantly. ‘Besides, it had nothing to do with me.’

  ‘I am sorry, Yen.’ Petra dug a manicured nail into my hip. ‘We were talking about Sam and totally forgot.’

  ‘Meerkats!’ Quinn nodded, pleased. ‘That’s what it looks like. A meerkat.’

  ‘What does?’ asked Yen, looking a little like a meerkat herself as she peered around.r />
  ‘Just some ugly baby,’ replied Petra dismissively. ‘Now, Yen, you were going to drop in at Loretta Emerson’s house. See if she needed anything.’

  ‘She didn’t.’

  ‘Yes, but …’ Petra paused to give me a smug glance. See, this is why I invited her. ‘But didn’t she say anything about how he, well, died?’

  ‘Actually, she did, now that you mention it.’ Yen continued to peruse the room, and then twisted in her seat to take in the adjoining table. She raised her eyebrows. ‘Yes, Quinn, you’re correct. That is a remarkably unprepossessing child. How unfortunate.’

  ‘Sssh!’ I hissed, particularly as I had full view of the unfortunate, but not deaf, parents.

  Petra rapped her fork against Yen’s glass and spoke through the echoing tinkle. ‘Yen – Sam Emerson?’

  ‘Murdered,’ replied Yen flatly, and rather dramatically. ‘Asphyxiated, to be precise. Not sure with what as yet. They also suspect that he was drugged, but confirmation will have to wait. Approximate time of death, somewhere between the hours of six and nine pm.’

  I blinked, feeling a little flummoxed by the information. I had known there was more to the death than a simple heart attack since registering the implications of the locked door and Ashley Armistead’s presence. But it was still a jolt to have this verified, particularly so baldly. Drugged. Asphyxiated. Murdered.

  ‘Excuse me …’ The father from the adjoining table was staring narrowly at Yen. ‘You called my kid unprepossessing. What the fuck does that mean?’

  ‘Remarkable,’ replied Yen. ‘As in possessing something to be remarked upon.’

  He frowned. ‘Then why’d you say that was unfortunate?’

  ‘Because it is always easier to fit in with the crowd than be remarkable. Out of the ordinary. It can be a difficult road to traverse, that of being significant. Takes character.’

  ‘Oh. I see. Okay, um … thanks.’

  ‘And next time, watch your language when addressing your elders. Unacceptable.’

  ‘Yeah, okay. Fair enough. Sorry about that.’

  The waiter hove into view, carrying a tray loaded with plates. After some confusion, mainly because he kept trying to give one to Yen, the order was sorted and we were left to stare at our dishes.

  ‘Eat up!’ said Yen jovially. ‘Don’t let me stop you!’

  I took a sip of wine, still thinking. ‘Asphyxiated. Unbelievable. How’s Loretta?’

  ‘Doing it tough. She had a lot of family there, support. But I imagine the shock of his death is compounded by the circumstances. And the questions.’

  We ate in silence, each wrapped in thoughts that were no doubt similar. Except perhaps for Quinn, who alternated each mouthful with an examination of her mobile. I knew I should take it away but lacked the energy for an argument. Instead, I thought back to my own phone conversation with Sam. Was it possible that I was the last person who spoke to him, other than the murderer? Nell, this is huge. Huge! If it weren’t for you and Quinn, we wouldn’t have started down this path. We. Sam had said we. We have news for you, we discovered, we should be hung, drawn and quartered!

  ‘He wasn’t alone!’ I stared at my companions. ‘Sam! In our phone conversation, he kept using the word we. There was someone else there!’

  ‘And you have only just realised this?’ asked Yen.

  ‘Well, I was … busy at the time. I do have a life, you know.’

  ‘Temporarily,’ said Quinn darkly, glancing up from her phone.

  ‘Interesting.’ Petra drummed her fingernails again. ‘Very interesting. Of course, it doesn’t mean that this person is the murderer; just that at some stage Sam had company. It’s likely that this company was one of those there that afternoon, when you and Quinn dropped in.’

  ‘How do you figure that?’

  ‘Elementary, my dear Forrest. Sam didn’t introduce the other part of the we, which he would have done had he known that you were unaware of their presence. So the probability is that it was somebody whom he already knew that you knew was involved.’

  ‘What?’ asked Lucy, looking from me to her aunt. ‘I mean … huh?’

  ‘That sounds like a series of suppositions,’ I commented, unconvinced.

  ‘No, it’s the balance of probabilities. In the absence of other evidence, it becomes the best avenue of inquiry. So …’ After pushing her meal to one side, she plucked a fresh serviette from the stand and began tearing it up. ‘Anyone got a pen?’

  Yen passed her one just as the waiter materialised with a plate containing a baked potato lathered with bacon-studded sour cream. Yen beamed. ‘Perfect! Thank you.’

  ‘So, who was at this meeting yesterday?’ Petra was writing SAM in large letters on a scrap of serviette. She pushed it into the centre of the table and then looked up expectantly.

  ‘The mayor, Willy and Leisl Ackermann, and Deb Taylor.’

  ‘Tessa’s sister,’ added Quinn, looking at her own sister.

  I ignored her. ‘Oh, and Edward Given. He came in at the end.’

  ‘Okay.’ Petra was writing furiously. She lined up the pieces of serviette next to each other. ‘Now let’s eliminate them.’

  ‘Unfortunate turn of phrase,’ said Yen. ‘Particularly regarding Sam.’

  ‘You can also get rid of Willy.’ I was staring at the names. ‘Because I was talking to him as he unlocked the centre this morning and he didn’t even know why I was there.’

  ‘Which most probably eliminates Leisl too.’ Petra hesitated with her hand over Leisl’s name. ‘If one of them had been with Sam when the discovery was made, they would definitely have shared it with the other. No doubt.’

  ‘Agreed.’ I took a sip of wine, thinking. ‘You can also lose Deb Taylor. She had no idea that Sam was there, or that I had an appointment, and I know genuine shock when I see it.’

  ‘Okay, so goodbye to Frilly Willy and spouse, plus Deb Taylor. I’ve always disliked the name Deb. It’s more like a sound than a name. Like a tap dripping.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s going to devastate the woman.’ Yen tapped her knife against the mayor’s name, leaving a smear of sour cream. ‘Not him. He’d have asked for an update on anything they uncovered but he wouldn’t have been there so late, doing the research. Not a chance.’

  I looked at her doubtfully. ‘He did volunteer to go out to the cemetery with them.’

  ‘Curiosity, that’s all. Believe me, when it comes to the background stuff, that man is nowhere to be seen. He’s strictly foreground material.’

  ‘Which just leaves us with Edward Given.’ Petra was staring at the single remaining scrap of serviette. ‘I suppose that makes sense.’

  ‘Actually, it does,’ I said. ‘He’s the most likely to get involved in something like this, given his love of history and intense curiosity. He’s also the one with the most time.’

  Yen pushed her plate aside. ‘In fact, Sam would have been hard pressed getting rid of the man. He would have been in his element. But he’s no murderer.’

  ‘Everybody has some potential for evil.’ I looked over Yen’s shoulder to the adjoining table where the young woman was now feeding the unprepossessing baby. It made a grab for the spoon, missed, and then clapped its hands. The father took a photo with his mobile phone. I thought of Darcy and Tessa. He had been a good father, and no doubt would be again. Taking photos of his own. My risotto felt like lead in the pit of my stomach; like bullets. If I could feel like this about someone I once loved, then surely anybody could be a murderer under the right circumstances. Or the wrong ones.

  Chapter Seven

  I am writing with regard to your weekly column, in particular your sentence structure. While I do enjoy your writing, the short and/or incomplete sentences are very off-putting. There were six such examples in your March 10 column, eight in March 17, and nine in March 24. Nine! This suggests an upward momentum that I find rather concerning. As a reader.

  Faint light came from the half-open curtains at Edward Given’s house, suggesting tha
t he was somewhere towards the rear. I ran through the various scenarios in my mind. One: he and Sam had disagreed and he had lashed out; two: he had left Sam before anything untoward had occurred; three: he had witnessed something untoward but was too frightened to come forward. Four: he had no idea about anything and we were on totally the wrong trail. Local woman points finger at innocent man. Again.

  ‘I’m a bit surprised he’s not peeking through the curtains,’ said Petra, who was still sitting beside me in the car despite the fact we had been parked in her driveway for ten minutes. Lucy had long since dragged Quinn into her house, on the corner, to show her something or other. Yen already had her own lights off and curtains drawn, no doubt just in case we felt compelled to visit.

  ‘Yes, that is strange.’

  ‘So, what are you going to do?’

  I sighed, but didn’t turn. ‘Get a realtor in, find out the market value. Speak to the bank.’

  ‘Nell, it’s just a house. Don’t beggar yourself for a house. Maybe you’d be better off selling, and not just in a financial sense. Let yourself move on. He has.’

  ‘Thanks for reminding me.’ I glanced at the dashboard clock and back towards Ned’s house. ‘This really is rather strange. It’s only eight-thirty so he can’t possibly be in bed.’

  ‘Here.’ Petra leant over and pressed the horn before I could stop her. A rather pathetic bleating emerged. ‘Good lord.’

  ‘Yes, it’s embarrassing. If someone cuts me off I have to rely on a forbidding expression.’

  Petra beeped the horn again, twice. ‘Sounds like its balls haven’t dropped.’

  ‘Which is how I prefer my cars, thanks.’

  A dog barked in the distance, frenetic at first and then slowing into intermittent bursts that punched the silence. Quinn appeared at Lucy’s lounge-room window, frowning. I shook my head and waved her back, then returned my gaze to Ned’s windows. Nothing.

  ‘Let’s go over,’ suggested Petra. ‘We’ll just knock, see if he’s there.’

  ‘Last time I suspected Ned of nefarious doings, I ended up making a fool of myself.’

  ‘Ancient history,’ said Petra breezily. She opened her door. ‘Come on.’