He looked at the time. It was nine o’clock already. He lifted the lid off the big cold case box. Maybe there was some DNA he could test. Tomorrow he would head up to Tiromoana.
C H A P T E R 2 0
Audrey was pacing. Things were out of her control and she didn’t like it one bit. Uncle Steve’s demise was unfortunate. Not that he didn’t deserve what he got. He was always a dirty old man, just like his brother. But unfortunate in the sense she had had to take care of business in her own back yard. Three deaths in one week and a damn detective sniffing around. She called her sister’s cell. “Honey, have you seen Matt? I see. I thought he had a meeting with that detective today. Oh, really? Well, have a great time. I’ll see you both tonight maybe.”
So the meeting was off. Great news! Audrey took the first deep breath of the day. Now she had time to think. The meeting must not take place. Ever.
Becka, Simone, John and Piper had all left for a day at Whangaroa harbor. A day of boating, water skiing and fishing. Audrey was left in charge of arranging Uncle Steve’s bloody funeral. This time she could insist on cremation. The funeral was scheduled for tomorrow. Closed casket, private ceremony and no announcement in the paper.
Audrey pulled out the box of Greta’s belongings she had kept, and began to sort through the contents. Her notebooks were full of clients’ names with corresponding personal data. An hour later Audrey sat back in stunned silence. Obviously Greta had not planned on dying so soon. She had her own box of secrets. Secrets she wouldn’t want anyone to know. Who would have suspected the frail old woman of blackmail? But it was all there in black and white – she had been blackmailing her clients. What’s more, there was over two hundred thousand dollars in her bank account. Deposits corresponding with entries in her notebook. Greta, you cunning old fox. The whole town must be pleased you are six feet under.
She knew she was covered. If any suspicion ever fell on her, she had proof that any one of Greta’s psychic-reading seeking clients could have taken their revenge. Audrey poured herself another glass of wine and raided the fridge in celebration. Nothing like having ammunition in her back pocket for a rainy day.
C H A P T E R 2 1
The view from the lighthouse was astonishing. The Pacific Ocean and the Tasman Sea colliding – one blue, one green. Honey and Matt sat motionless as they looked at the farthest tip of the North Island. It was a day they would both remember. Honey couldn’t remember ever being so happy in the company of a man. All her life she had avoided forming a serious relationship. Today was different, somehow. Matt was different from any man she had ever known. Especially her father.
It was just flashes, like photos in the mind, that stirred up those awful memories of the past. She was just a child. Daddy’s favorite. Memories of lying on a towel on her bed as they rubbed her little body with a soapy flannel. Tubes, rubber tubes, water. The memories came in bits and pieces. Nothing tangible, nothing she could grab hold of in her mind and understand. Secrets. Shame. She didn’t ask to be Daddy’s favorite. She wished she could just play outside like her older sisters did.
She remembered her father waking her on her tenth birthday. “You are a decade old, my little Tinkerbell. Now you are a big girl.” Little did she know the secret fondlings under her skirt would evolve into acts that made her cheeks burn and leave red blood spots on her pretty dresses.
It wasn’t until that fateful afternoon that everything changed. She remembered wearing her favorite dress. It had belonged to one of her sisters. All her clothes were hand-me-downs – but she didn’t care. She had felt so pretty that day. Daddy had said he had a special surprise for her. He had whispered to her when he tucked her in the night before that he would come home early today. He said for her to wait for him in his room after school. Daddy had his own room. He read the bible in his room. No one was allowed in his room. Except for that day. She remembered waiting for him in her pretty dress wondering what the present could be. Maybe a new bike? She had never had a new bike. Or a dressing table like the girls in the movies had, with a round mirror and flowers painted on the drawers?
It seemed like forever before she heard his footsteps in the hallway. She knew they were all alone. Her sisters often stayed late after school. Ben and Simone didn’t live at home any more. She missed them, especially Ben. She looked up when her father entered the room. “My little Tinkerbell,” he said. Honey liked being called his Tinkerbell. He took off his jacket and hung it in his wardrobe. He kicked off his shoes and began to remove his trousers. Honey looked the other way. She didn’t like to see her father getting undressed.
“May I see my present now?” she asked hopefully.
“Not yet, my little Tinkerbell,” he said as he folded his trousers on the bed and sat down. Then he patted the space beside him. “Come and sit here and I will show you your present.”
It was then that Honey realized that her father didn’t have a present for her. She closed her eyes as he inserted her little hand into the opening of his underpants.
Suddenly there was a commotion. Her brother Ben was standing in the room with a look of sheer horror on his face. “You pig! You filthy pig!” How dare you! Your own daughter! Go Honey… Go… Get out of here! Now!
Honey had fled. She ran across the street to the park and lay on the soft grass and cried. They knew her secret. She was so ashamed. It was all her fault. She liked being Daddy’s favorite even though she hated what he did to her.
She stayed at the park for a long time – it was a long time before she heard the sirens coming down the street. When she tried to go back into the house, they stopped her. The police were everywhere.
Simone came and took her to her flat on the other side of town. The next morning her sister said their father and mother were dead. She felt responsible. What had happened? What had Ben done?
When the police asked where she was that day. She told them she was playing in the park across the street. She never told anyone what had happened. No one. She never would.
Matt took her hand as they walked the track on the high ridge back to their car. “Let’s stop at the Mangonui Fish ‘n’ Chip shop on the way back. I’m hungry. Are you?
“I’m starving.“ She shivered in the cold sea breeze.
Matt took off his coat and wrapped it around her shoulders. “I’ll keep you warm.”
C H A P T E R 2 2
Audrey changed her mind and decided to email the death notice to a couple of online newspapers. Short and sweet. She didn’t know her uncle very well. She just remembered that when she was a child, he would visit with her father and they would lock themselves in his room and the children were never allowed to intrude. He always smelt the same – of cigarettes and booze. She never trusted the man. Looking back, she wondered what they did all those hours in secret. Maybe it had something to do with those slides her father kept in boxes. She would hear the film projector whirring behind the closed door.
She looked at what she had written.
Stephen John Brown, 73, died Sunday, February 21st, 2016 at the Tiromoana Cabin Resort in Hihi where he was visiting his family.
He was previously married for twenty-five years to Betty (née Perkins).
Until recently, Mr. Brown lived and worked in Western Australia driving trucks for numerous Mining Companies.
His four nieces, Audrey Wetherby, Becka Simpson, Simone Mayflower and Honey Brown, survive him.
A funeral service will be held tomorrow, 23rd February, at the Kerikeri Funeral Home, followed by a private cremation.
It was done. The funeral was tomorrow. They would all be there. Her sisters had planned to stay until the end of the week. She presumed Matt would stay on too. He and Honey were like two lovebirds. She was happy for Honey – she’d often wondered why Honey had never married. Audrey knew she had suffered more than they had as a child. Her father’s debauchery worsened with age. Simone and Becka were less affected by his warped sexual practices. Audrey simply funneled her repulsion into a hatred of all men s
haring the same characteristics. Ben was another story. When he discovered what his father had become, he reacted violently. Discovering his mother knew all along of her husband’s sexual deviancy made him hate her even more.
Audrey had been there that afternoon. She had walked in on Ben and her father fighting like wild dogs. She watched silently from the doorway as Ben tried desperately to hold her father down. She feared Ben would lose the battle and her father would kill him. She walked calmly into the kitchen and opened the knife and fork drawer. She was never allowed to touch the carving knife. The knife her father sharpened every Sunday before carving the roast lamb. She would watch him scrape the knife either side of the sharpening tool in a rhythmic and deliberate motion. She removed the big knife and returned to the bedroom. Her father was straddled on top of Ben with his hands tightly around his neck. It was as though she was watching someone else, another girl, stabbing and stabbing, over and over again. The knife was sharp and it cut easily through the plaid shirt and white cotton underpants.
It seemed like a long time before Ben took the knife from her hand. They walked out of the room together and closed the door behind them. Ben knew what to do. He told her to change out of her blood–soaked clothes and run a hot bath. He would take care of everything. She obeyed. Her hand hurt where she had cut it on the knife. She soaked in the bath tilting her head back into the hot water. She was never allowed to bath alone and never with clean water. She was always the second or third one in the bath water and always had to bath with one of her sisters. She had filled the tub right up to the top. Her father couldn’t scold her now. She could use all the water she wanted.
Her mind went back to a conversation she had with her Father on her fifteenth birthday. He told her she was old enough to support herself and it was time for her to leave home. She didn’t care. She couldn’t wait to leave. Now she didn’t know what would happen. Her father was dead.
Audrey didn’t know how long she had stayed in the water but she did know it was no longer hot when she climbed out and went in search of her brother.
Ben had told her to go for a ride on her bike and not to come back until after the police had come. She never asked Ben why he killed their mother. He just said, “she knew”. Audrey had read the diary in her box. The box Ben had kept. Pages and pages of her witnessing the sexual abuse. She had known. For years she had known, but had done nothing about it. Ben must have kept the diary to justify what he had done.
The police never knew that Ben and Audrey had been at home that day. They may have suspected it, but proving it was another matter. It was bad enough listening to everyone saying her parents had been such good Christians. Christians, my arse. They were incestuous pedophiles – both of them. If the police knew their parents had been molesting them, they would have had even more reason to suspect them. So they never knew. No one did. Except, of course, the four sisters and Ben.
C H A P T E R 2 3
He held the large carving knife in gloved hands. The knife had been found in the kitchen drawer and had been identified as matching the size and shape of the wounds found on the father’s body. It was in the evidence box, marked as ‘Exhibit 12’. It had been carefully sealed in a paper bag. The tag said there was no evidence of fingerprints or blood, nothing. But times and forensic science had changed. The detective sent the knife off to the forensics lab – maybe there was some DNA on it. Maybe he would get lucky.
He studied the crime scene photos for the hundredth time. Then he saw them. Three children’s school bags in the hallway. He read the report again. The children were not in the house at the time of the murders so why would their school bags be in the house. Had they come home? Had they witnessed the murder? Three school bags? Becka, Audrey and Honey were the only children living in the house and attending school at the time. Were all three involved? Shit! This was big!
“Excuse me?” Higgins looked up and saw a middle-aged woman standing at the counter.
“Can I help you?”
“Are you Detective Constable Higgins? I was told you are handling the Greta Baywater case.” The woman leaned towards him urgently.
“There is no case. Greta Baywater died of natural causes.”
“She did nothing of the kind.” The woman reached into her bag and removed an envelope. “Look at this, then tell me she died of natural causes.”
The detective took a familiar pink envelope and removed a handwritten note
My spirit guides have insisted I contact you.
Your future is in jeopardy.
The love you are seeking is within reach but is hindered by your lack of faith.
I can work on this for you but I will need four sacred candles immediately.
Love and Money will be yours very soon.
Please send me $2,000 to purchase these candles.
Failure to pay the spirit guides can only lead to misfortune.
“When I didn’t pay her the $2,000 she sent me another note.” The woman handed him another pink envelope containing a note in the same handwriting.
Your lack of faith has resulted in negative energy from my spirit guides.
Your love has turned away and is seeking solace with another woman.
A bad situation is developing at your workplace.
Your job is now in jeopardy.
Eight candles need to be flaming within 48 hours.
Deposit $4,000 immediately as instructed.
Now the woman was distraught. “I didn’t have $4,000. I couldn’t sleep. Greta was hounding me for the money. Then she died. I got to thinking that if she was asking me for money, maybe she was asking for money from other people from my church. We would all go to her with our problems. No one spoke about it, but we all knew. I think someone murdered her. It has been on my conscience. Now you know. I have done my duty.”
“May I keep these letters?” The detective remembered receiving a call from a crazy woman a few days ago. “I don’t suppose you called me before about
Greta being a psychic?” he asked.
“No. I didn’t. It must have been someone else. She had many, many clients. She did readings for most of the congregation at our church. I don’t want the letters. You can keep them. They give me the creeps.”
“Your name?” he asked
“Mary Hastings. I live on the same street at Greta. You can find me in the phone book.”
“Thanks, I will be in touch if I need you.” The detective watched her leave and immediately compared the handwriting with the handwriting in the letter Greta sent to her nephew before she died. The writing was identical. Who would have guessed? The old lady really was a fortuneteller. Or, more likely, a scammer living off other people’s fears. I wonder if her nephew knew what she was up to.
He put the letters away in a file. He had bigger fish to fry. He checked the time. I’m late. He would have a few words with Audrey Wetherby while he was in Tiromoana. He wondered if Greta’s nephew knew about his aunt’s psychic abilities. She must have kept records of her client’s readings. Had Ben been one of her clients? He hoped Matt had not destroyed any of her personal effects.
C H A P T E R 2 4
Becka didn’t want to attend her uncle’s funeral. It bought back too many memories of the past. He was an awful man. A drunk and a child molester like her father. She had watched Piper yesterday with Simone and John. She admired Simone’s choice of lifestyle. They were a happy family and it showed in Piper’s attitude to life. She wished her family had stayed whole. She knew it was what happened the afternoon of her parents’ deaths that changed the course of her future forever.
That dreadful afternoon she had come home after school to find her brother burning clothes in the incinerator in the kitchen. “What the heck are you doing?” she had asked him as he squeezed more clothes into the small opening with the poker.
Her brother turned and looked at her. His face was distorted as if he was in pain. “Go away Becka, this has nothing to do with you.”
“I’m not
going anywhere.” She had insisted. “Tell me what you are doing.”
“They’re dead. Father and Mother are both dead. He was molesting little Honey. I saw him.” He poked at the fire.
She remembered that moment like it was yesterday. “He did it to me too,” she whispered.
“I know, and to Audrey. He was an evil man. All that praying, all that preaching about purity and God’s will to be chaste and he was molesting his own daughters.” Her brother stuffed the rest of the clothes into the incinerator and slammed the door closed.
“Where are they?” she asked.
“He is in his bedroom. Mother is in the lounge.
She knew, you know. She knew everything. She never stopped him. I told her once and she denied it. Told me I was a liar.”
Becka turned and headed down the hall to her father’s bedroom. She opened the door and gasped. There was blood everywhere. On the walls, on the floor, on the bed, on the rug, everywhere. She looked around the room. She was careful not to stand in the blood. She closed the door and went to find her mother.
Her mother’s body lay on the carpet. There was no blood. As she leaned over her she heard her mother gasp. She is still alive! Becka remembered the time she told her mother what her father was doing to her. Her mother called her a little slut for saying such things. She took a cushion off the couch and placed it over her mother’s face. She held it there for a long time.
Walking back into the kitchen she saw the bloody knife on the kitchen sink. She scrubbed the knife until she was sure all the blood was gone. They waited until the clothes had turned to ashes and the fire had burned itself out. They worked in silence. There were no words to describe how they felt. Not relief or regret. It was just something they knew they had to do.
Murder In The Family Page 4
