by Evans, Ilsa
‘She’s what?’
‘Sorry,’ said Deb, looking embarrassed. ‘I didn’t have any say in it.’ She trailed off as she spotted the two doll’s houses by the window. ‘Oh my god! Are they yours?’
I nodded, pleased. ‘They’re something of a hobby.’
‘How amazing! Look at the detail!’
‘They’re substitutes,’ said Petra. ‘Well, at least they were.’
Ignoring her, I waved Deb towards the couch. ‘Take a seat. Make yourself comfortable. Lunch is on the way.’ I returned to the kitchen and folded smoked salmon onto the bagels, then sprinkled some dill on top.
‘Nice boots,’ said Petra, eyeing off a pair that were almost identical to hers.
‘Ditto.’ Deb smiled. ‘Mountfords?’
Petra nodded. ‘Love that store. I believe you were with Nell yesterday. Horrid business.’
‘Yes. To be honest, I’m still in shock. Then to find out about Ned Given. God.’ She turned to me. ‘That’s part of the reason I came here, for some company that I don’t work with. And there was another reason too.’ Her voice rose slightly. ‘I found out something, and I really wanted to share it. He left a note!’
‘We know.’ I brought the tray of bagels over to the coffee table, pushing the coffee containers aside to make room. ‘It’s beyond me. Sorry, Ned.’
Deb looked deflated. ‘Oh. Elsa Poxleitner told me in confidence so I thought …’
‘Elsa Poxleitner told everyone in confidence.’ Petra reached forward for a bagel. ‘So it seems that Ned must have killed Sam and then killed himself out of remorse.’
‘Not so fast. I have news also.’ I took a seat next to Deb. ‘It seems that there are several anomalies regarding the apparent suicide. The major one being a large bruise that is consistent with Ned being dragged over the handbrake. By someone else.’
Petra’s salmon began to slide off her bagel as she stared at me. She pushed it back with one finger, which she then used to point at me. ‘Are you saying …?’
‘Not necessarily. In fact, I think the police are still leaning towards the murder/suicide scenario. Apparently the bruise could also have been caused by him dragging himself over. They’re just keeping their options open.’
Deb was frowning. ‘But how do you know this?’
‘Oh, that detective probably told her,’ said Petra quickly, before I could answer. ‘Ashley Armistead. He was here this morning, probing her. Isn’t that right, Nell?’
I glared at her. ‘In a manner of speaking.’
‘It has to be murder/suicide,’ continued Deb. ‘An argument that ended badly, or something like that. Because there’s no reason why someone would murder them both, and go to such lengths to cover their tracks. A simple break-in doesn’t make sense, and if it was someone with a grudge, how did they even know they were both there that night? Come to think of it, why were they both there that night?’
‘The Discovery, of course.’ I suddenly realised that she was not aware of this aspect of the situation. ‘Pet, you explain while I get something.’
I jumped up, hurrying into the study to fetch the whiteboard. I took a moment to wipe off my suspicions beneath the mayor’s name and then carried the board back to the family room. I propped it on the spare armchair and waited for Petra to finish the explanation before gesturing with a flourish. ‘Ta-da.’
They both stared, moving forward a little so that they could read the information.
‘This is so interesting!’ Deb was clearly enthralled and I suddenly remembered that it was her family. Her ancestors. She pointed from Mate to James. ‘Kata Dragovic? So was she married to both of them?’
‘I’m not sure. I saw a printout of the wedding certificate in the Historical Society room. It must have been part of their research.’
Petra frowned. ‘But if Kata was Beloved, that would mean she fitted Petar in between her two marriages. Busy girl.’
‘I don’t think she was.’ I picked up a bagel. ‘Because she still had Mate’s surname at her second marriage, which means if there was anything between her and Petar, it must have been a fling. It’s unlikely that she’d advertise that with the graveyard inscription, especially given she was about to be remarried the same year.’
‘But your theory is that Sam Emerson discovered who Beloved was,’ said Deb. ‘Is that right?’
I nodded. ‘And if it was a double murder, then the likely culprit was someone they rang, other than me. Someone who was invested in not letting it get out.’
Petra was still staring at the whiteboard. ‘Well, that could only be one person.’
‘Ah … yes.’
‘No.’ Deb shook her head. ‘If you mean James, then not a chance. I’m not saying that just because he’s my uncle. Believe me, he’d be far more likely to bribe them than kill them. Apart from anything else, he is too invested in his image. No, it doesn’t fit.’
I nodded, because she made sense. ‘It’s probably not important anyway, because the odds are on the murder/suicide scenario. The Discovery, whatever it was, is probably only relevant because it’s what they were working on at the time. Maybe it even sparked their disagreement. We’ll never know.’
‘No, I suppose not.’ Deb was still staring at the whiteboard. ‘Seems a shame, though.’
The telephone rang and I abandoned my lunch to answer it. ‘Hello?’
‘Nell. It’s Ashley. Look, I can’t stop thinking about … what happened.’
‘Me too,’ I said warmly. Petra looked across with interest so I took the handset out to the passageway and propped myself against the wall. I felt like a teenager.
‘No, I mean … that is, naturally I mean that way too, but more that, well, it was so totally inappropriate.’
‘Oh, I see. Of course.’
‘I’m supposed to be investigating a crime, not bedding the witnesses.’
‘Not bedding the witnesses? Charming. And so it’s plural?’
‘Of course not. Have you seen some of them?’
I stayed silent. I could see my bed through my open door, now neatly made.
‘That was a joke.’ He paused. ‘Look, I’m doing this wrong. You know I’m interested and you also know that I wanted to set something up last year. My only regret now is the timing. That’s it.’
I nodded slowly, even though he couldn’t see. ‘Fair enough.’
‘It’s an ongoing investigation and you’re linked. However slightly.’
‘I said fair enough.’
‘So can we put this to one side till afterwards? Just sort of forget it happened?’
‘Well, I’m not sure I can forget exactly.’
‘No, me neither.’ He laughed. ‘But it’ll give me something to look forward to.’
‘We’ll see,’ I replied, pulling back. ‘That is, we’ll have a chat then.’
‘Talk is overrated. But fine, if that’s what it takes. So we’re agreed?’
‘Agreed. Good luck with the investigation.’
‘Thanks.’
I hung up the phone and stood for a moment, replaying the conversation. Then I returned to the family room. ‘Sorry about that. Now, where were we up to?’
‘Anyone we know?’ asked Petra, with one eyebrow raised. I shook my head and she grinned. ‘Well, while you were otherwise occupied, Deb and I have made a decision. We’re going to discover the Discovery. Her husband is an amateur genealogist, so he can help.’
‘This is only the historical side of things, mind you,’ added Deb. ‘Because it’s rather fascinating. But the whole murder/suicide stuff we leave to the police. Agreed?’
I flopped back on the couch and regarded them both thoughtfully. Then I grinned. ‘Yes. Absolutely. It is intriguing, isn’t it? And also, well …’ I paused, trying to find the right words. ‘I sort of feel like I owe it to Sam, and even Ned. I started them on this research and if we work it out, then we can give them the credit. Because no doubt the police will sort out the crime itself, but there’s no way they’re going to
dig into the Discovery.’
‘Probably not,’ said Petra. ‘Not with their attention being distracted, anyway.’
Deb held up her mobile. ‘So, for starters, Nell, could you just recollect the phone call from Sam as best you can? I’m recording this.’
‘Ah, yes. Okay.’ I cleared my throat. ‘Well, he was terribly excited and I think he got a little deflated because I wasn’t. There was a lot going on here. But he did say the Discovery was huge, several times, and that it concerned all of them. He also said it would have been highly unlikely that Beloved ran off with Mate Dragovic, and that she lived in Majic for the rest of her life.’ I paused, trying to recall details. ‘Oh! And he said something about a photo! Something he wanted to show me, see if I could work it out.’
‘Excellent,’ said Deb, tapping lightly on her mobile. She stared at it for a moment, nestled in her hand, and then looked from Petra to me. ‘But we still have to be careful, just in case it turns out that it was a double murder.’ She continued to gaze steadily at me. ‘Because that would mean there’s someone who’s equally determined to keep this all hidden. Actually, more determined. We don’t want to place ourselves in danger.’
I tried to decide whether I was offended that she appeared to feel I was in particular need of this warning, or flattered because the subtext had me as some type of fearless investigator, full of pluck and derring-do. I decided to go with the latter, predominantly because it matched my new hat. While they continued to discuss the task ahead, I rose and went over to the kitchen to put the kettle on. It seemed the afternoon had lived up to the challenge thrown down by the morning, by delivering an unexpected friendship with the sister of the woman who was even now bedding my husband. To borrow a turn of phrase from Ashley. I watched them while the water heated up, and realised that it probably wasn’t all that surprising. We had quite a lot in common. Under other circumstances, Tessa herself may have fitted right in. Two pairs of sisters, with one half sharing a similar taste in boots, and the other a similar taste in men.
Chapter Ten
Instead of carrying on with stupid stuff, why don’t you right about stuff that realy matters? Like how the bleeding hearts and bra-burners and illegale ilegal imigrants are taking over the country. Be warned!
To my surprise, there was little in the media the following day either and I began to suspect that somebody had pulled some strings. That did sound more like James Sheridan the Latest, and most likely reflected attempts to protect the upcoming commemoration. There was, however, a flyer delivered to the letterbox that detailed a community meeting to be held the following night at Sheridan House, which was probably a good idea. Even though the choice of venue was questionable given it was also the site of the first murder.
It was a grey, drizzly day, the type that permeated body and soul; a perfect day to spend at home, buoyed by hot food and warm drinks, tying up loose ends. I rose in time to have a chat with Quinn about school and friends, particularly of the male variety, and then made myself unpopular by insisting that she focus her Petar Majic project away from the graveyard inscription. On the off-chance that there was somebody who was determined to keep this side of things quiet, I thought it best that my youngest child not position herself on the hit list. Having aggravated one daughter, and inspired by the community meeting flyer, I then rang the remaining four and informed them we would be having a family meeting on Sunday night. Apologies would be accepted, however efforts to attend would be reflected in the quality and quantity of individual Christmas presents later this year.
I spent the remainder of the morning polishing my column on school reunions and then posting a teaser to the blog. Tomorrow I would use the subsequent reader comments to add some quotes before submission. An email arrived from each of my research and/or investigative partners while I was working, which I interpreted as indicative of their commitment to the task in hand.
From: Petra
Date: Thursday 9 August 2012 11.15AM
To: Nell
Subject: evaluation
So how was he? (circle one) Ho hum? Not bad? Worth repeating?
From: [email protected]
Date: Thursday 9 August 2012 11.56AM
To: [email protected]
Subject: Thanks
Dear Nell, I didn’t have your email so I hope you don’t mind me emailing via your blog. I wanted to say thanks for lunch yesterday, it was delicious. And so nice of you to invite me after I turned up like that. I’m so excited about our research and Lew has said he’s happy to help. It’s a pity he doesn’t have access to the Historical Society records, because apparently they have quite a collection, but he’ll do his best. He said give him a week, so how would you like to come over to our house next Tuesday or Wednesday evening?
Regards,
Deb (Taylor)
Debra Taylor
Arts & Entertainment Officer
Majic City Council
Lunch was leftover smoked salmon bagels, uninterrupted this time, and then I tidied the house in readiness for the real estate agent. I never expected this visit to be easy, and it wasn’t; having personal space transformed into value-added features, favourite colour schemes proclaimed not neutral enough, rooms that framed a child’s growth reduced to a tick on a carbonated sheet. I compartmentalised, providing efficient guidance and answers, before accepting the valuation with a promise that I would get back to them shortly.
It was higher than I expected, but also not high enough. I faxed a copy through to Darcy, not because he had asked for it but because I wanted to make him feel guilty. This page of checks and calculations and potential profit was our home. I rang the bank and inquired about rates for the necessary mortgage, making notes on a pad; then I stared at the figures until the calculations cupped my eye sockets and my head throbbed with the pressure. Pushing the pad aside, I went out to the family room to sit by the picture window, gazing over the valley. This view had always been one of my favourite things about the house, along with the familiarity, the security and the permeation of memories. This house breathed me, and mine.
Gusto came over to nuzzle my thigh. I patted him absentmindedly as I recalled a wonderful anecdote about a scorned wife who had filled the curtain rods with tuna before handing her house over to the ex-husband and his new partner. Unfortunately, our drapes were on tracks. I sighed and then stood, casting one more glance towards the valley before heading back to the study. But now the house felt claustrophobic, as if punishing me for even daring to contemplate the options. I paused in the hallway and then grabbed my jacket and Gusto’s lead. I had to get out.
The rain had finally ceased so we drove aimlessly towards town and then slowly down the main street. Renaissance now had a window display with piles of books dispersed between chunky gold-painted rocks, my freshly cleaned tools, and a large horse saddle. It also had a sign of its own: READING IS MAJIC!
In fact, there were so many signs along the street that they were something of a traffic hazard. Apart from the ones that jutted out from awnings, there was the plethora of banners and posters and A-frames each colourfully designed to grab attention. As a result, drivers resembled those swivelling sideshow clowns, and the odds of rear-ending another car or mounting the kerb or taking out a random pedestrian were considerably higher than usual.
I swung past the reopened community centre, glancing noting that the largest mullioned window on the third floor remained dark. It was probably the only room in the building that was unoccupied as the remainder appeared to be a hive of activity. Even the car park was full and several knots of people stood around, no doubt catching up on the latest news. Bruised buttock baffles. Dominates discourse.
I left the main thoroughfare behind and drove two blocks over, towards what had once been the outer-lying edge of Fletcher’s farm. I had examined Petra’s brochure and she was right, the townhouses were both affordable and appealing. Red brick within creamy render, set a
mong luxurious gardens; walking distance from the township and with a beautiful view of the sweep across to Lake Eppalock. Unfortunately the reality was somewhat different. I slowed by the kerb and stared, feeling disproportionately let down. They were Lego houses, little boxes on a hillside, each with two neat storeys and a single garage that abutted the neighbouring abode, which then abutted a single garage, and so on. And on. Not a skerrick of foliage in sight. A black dog lay outside one of the open garages, head on its paws, looking depressed. I sympathised.
A large sign depicted a finished townhouse, complete with a beaming young couple and tow-haired toddler. With minimal effort, I replaced the image with me, holding a bottle of scotch and packet of Prozac, and a recalcitrant Quinn. Fittingly, the rain chose that moment to recommence. I turned on the windscreen wipers and Gusto let out a throaty whine. I ruffled his neck as I nodded agreement. ‘I know. They’re horrid.’
He commando-crawled onto my lap as I continued to stare at the estate. Was this my future? Not these, but a compromise somewhat similar? Or should I dig my feet in, stay where I was, and force Darcy to take me to court? That would probably drag on for a couple of years, giving Quinn a chance to grow up. But then lawyer fees would no doubt take a significant chunk of the proceeds and I would be left with even less; maybe not even enough to afford one of these. No, I’d be forced to finish up in a share-house, or as someone’s boarder, or in a cave as the hermit on the hill. Or perhaps the easiest option would be to set up a tent outside the retirement home, and simply wait my turn.
Chapter Eleven
Are you the same Nell Forrest that entertained the troops at Puckapunyal in 1967? You look a little younger in your photo, but I thought it worth a try. My name is Stanley Elton and you may remember we danced twice after the show. I’ve thought about you ever since.
The largest function room on the second floor had been allocated to the community meeting and although I’d arrived very early, there were already people settling within. These were probably the kind who, as children, had sat up the front of the class and infuriated their fellow students by always having at least one question as the bell rang. I continued up the stairs to the third floor and then walked down an echoing passage to the Historical Society room. Deb was right: it was still sealed with crime tape and there was also a printed notice that instructed anybody with business within to contact Will Akermann at reception.
