by Sue Williams
‘Bit of a rigmarole, Ernie. Can you get it open?’
‘Give it here.’ He looked it over. ‘Simple enough mechanism, two levers. I’ll need a paperclip.’ He snapped his old-bone fingers.
While the movie started again and Ernie settled back into it, I searched his room for a paperclip. Nothing. I headed out to Reception where Taylah was busy on the phone, winding a strand of long dark hair around a pen. I stood at the desk and waited. It’s not easy for Taylah to manage all her work when so much of her time is occupied with phone calls to her friends.
Behind her a TV screen flickered Jerry Springer.
‘Nooo,’ Taylah’s voice was low and breathy. ‘I don’t believe it.’ Some moist clicking while she worked her Spearmint Extra.
‘Taylah?’ I said.
She held up a hand. The phone system shrieked as a call came in. ‘Hold a tick, Moisy.’ Taylah pressed a button. ‘Hello, Garden of the Gods Extended Care, can you hold a moment?’
She looked at me. ‘Can you believe it, Cass? Everyone’s going. Almost everyone. To Muddy Soak. To the inaugural Muddy Soak Christmas Fringe Festival.’
Muddy Soak is a swish type of place despite the name, casually bestowed by an explorer, who may not have fully grasped the marketing potential to be squeezed from a town’s name. It used to have an Aboriginal name but no one remembers it.
Two hours south, it’s a place unfairly endowed with the world’s largest mallee stump and permanent above-ground water. The water, Brad tells me, is visited by an unusual number of rare migratory birds. Birds that are followed by people keen on watching them and keen on comfort food when they’ve finished watching for the day. Exactly the type of person we could do with attracting to Rusty Bore. And now they have a bloody Christmas fringe festival as well.
‘Terrific,’ I said. ‘What’s a Christmas fringe festival?’ A CWA event, a charming share-fest of home-crafted fringes?
‘Plays,’ she said. ‘Installations, street theatre, performance art. All that. You want Moisy to get you tickets? You should go. You being such an old acting buff and everything.’
‘I watch the midday movie, Taylah. I wouldn’t call myself an acting buff.’ Although…Muddy Soak. Maybe it was worth a thought. I might run into that nice fella from the blindfold speed dating. Although, really, I had Buckley’s of finding him since I didn’t know his name or even what he looked like.
‘You could like take Mr Jefferson,’ said Taylah. ‘He’d love it. It’s being hosted by that drama group, you know the one. The one where the fella handcuffed himself to the rail. You know. That grain train smash. Fella in the fabulous dress, um, Pearson. No.’
‘I’m just after a paperclip, Taylah.’
‘Not Pearson. Phillips. No, that’s not it either.’ She ferreted around her desk, then held out a handful of paperclips. ‘Pittering. That’s it. Someone Pittering.’
Paperclips in a frozen hand, I stood, gaping. ‘Oh?’
But the phone was going off. Taylah waved me away.
I headed back to Ernie’s room. He was staring at the movie, briefcase open in his lap.
‘Got her unlocked, no thanks to you,’ he held up a piece of wire. ‘Pulled it out the back of the TV. Lot of irrelevant wires in there. Now shut up and shoosh.’
The TV was still working and Ernie didn’t appear to be electrocuted, although after the last time I wasn’t sure I’d be able to tell. He held onto the case and said he wouldn’t let me take it until the movie finished. I fidgeted and worried about Pittering and his son, grain trains, men in dresses and their connection, if any, to Mona’s death.
Ernie tsked. ‘Will you flamin’ well concentrate.’
It’s times like these I realise I’m too good to Ernie. But he looked out for me when I was young. Looked after me and Helen after Mum died. He helped me set up the shop as well. Even made sure Piero stuck by me through my pregnancy with Dean. There were a lot of extraneous women interested in Piero, not to mention his fertility. I huffed a bit to myself and tried my best to sit still.
As the credits rolled, Ernie finally relented. ‘Here you go.’ He smirked as he handed it over. I grabbed it and looked inside. Nothing. What? It couldn’t be empty; I scrabbled through the pockets. Nothing.
‘I think you’d better tell me what’s going on,’ said Ernie.
After I’d explained, he gave me an intent look. ‘Course, there was that time when you thought I was dead, so I can understand Dean’s point of view.’ He looked out the window for a moment, blinking.
In the pause, I stared at the crocheted cover on his teapot that Mrs Watkins had made for him. She makes him little gifts, saying someone as brave as our Napoleon deserves his comforts at his time of life. It’s unclear how she formed the view that Ernie’s a dead French general.
‘Found this key near her body,’ I said.
‘I don’t hold it against you, not really,’ he said, still staring out the window.
‘I’m sorry, Ernie, I didn’t mean it. Anyway, the key.’ I grabbed it from my handbag, using my hanky, held it out.
He looked at it, turned back to the window. ‘And I’ve told you a thousand times to put a padlock on that flamin’ gate.’
‘You ever heard of a Pittering or a son?’ I said.
‘He one of the Pitterlines, the harness makers?’ said Ernie, finally looking at me.
‘Pittering, Ernie. And I meant this century.’
He glared. ‘Fella by the name of Albert. His son ran off to the Northern Territory with the Hustle grocer. Owed me sixty dollars, the bastard.’
Before Ernie could slide full-tilt into a past-injustice rant, I said, ‘He have any relatives? Fellas keen on dresses? Anyone that killed themselves?’
He grunted. ‘His cousin Andy was the undertaker. Depressing job, but he never killed himself. Not that I recall.’
Maybe we were still talking about the Pitterlines or the 1950s, or both. ‘And more recently? Any Pitterings involved in drama groups?’ Would being in a drama group get you down?
‘Drama group? Not the Pitterlines I knew.’
‘Any connection with Muddy Soak?’
‘The Soak? That bastard was the last criminal in Muddy Soak. The very last.’
‘Who?’
He glared at me. ‘You’re not listening, are you? Hugo Pitterline, who took off with my money. In 1988. No crime in Muddy Soak since then.’
‘None at all?’
‘Nup. Crime free for over twenty years. Probably should have a festival.’
‘Not one single crime?’
‘Nope.’
‘How’s that possible?’
He heaved himself to his feet. ‘Look, I don’t have time to sit here all day explaining local history to you. I’ve got things to do. Off you go now, run along.’
I headed home, fairly demoralised with the key-slash-briefcase situation. I parked the car, unstuck my thighs from the driver’s seat, squeezed out over the handbrake through the passenger side and walked into my kitchen. I made myself a cuppa. Sitting at the table, I sipped, staring at the briefcase. I opened it and rootled around the pockets one more time. Nothing. Closing it, I held it up. It felt too heavy to be empty. I shook it from side to side. Something moved around inside. I opened it again.
There was a long slit in the inside fabric. I reached inside the slit. Books. The Art of Writing Memoir. Then, The Big Sleep. One more, Death of a Lake, by Arthur Upfield.
I phoned Taylah. ‘I’ll take that ticket for the Christmas Fringe Festival.’
‘And one for Mr Jefferson?’
‘Yep. Thanks. You know,’ I tried to sound casual, ‘that drama fella who died, whatsisname…Pittering. Did he have a son? Or a father, maybe?’
There were some moist breathing sounds while she adjusted her chewing gum. ‘Well, everyone has a father, don’t they? It’s just, like, biology. I mean maybe those sperm donor children, you could argue that they don’t, but in reality…’
‘I meant as in Pittering and Son.’
‘Oh. You mean the accounting firm in Muddy Soak.’
Dean turned up as I put down the phone. He usually comes by on a Monday, for some fruitcake and a cuppa. On a normal Monday. Today he knocked on the shop door instead of coming around to the house. So not a tea and fruitcake visit. I shoved the briefcase into the kitchen cupboard and headed into the shop.
Sure enough, Dean didn’t want a cuppa. No fruitcake either. ‘Where have you been? I tried to call. There’s been a couple of break-ins,’ he said.
He didn’t think I’d done them, surely? Stop, I told myself, this is just paranoia. It was that hidden briefcase weighing on my mind. ‘I was visiting Ernie, of course.’
‘Two house robberies. People around here really need to learn to lock their doors.’ He flicked through his notebook. ‘Cash and jewellery taken. I thought I’d better warn you, in case you’re next. They seem to be targeting old ladies.’
Old? ‘I’m in my prime.’
A moody look from those brown–black eyes.
I considered telling him about the briefcase. Maybe I’d be in trouble for tampering with important evidence. Although, technically, it wasn’t me who’d opened the case. That part was Ernie, and his fingerprints would be all over it. I opened my mouth to tell him, but Dean spoke before I had the chance.
‘Mum. About all that silly business yesterday.’ He took off his hat, put it on the table.
I gave him a relieved smile, Dean’s not a bad lad, he’d thought it over and he was ready to apologise. Maybe Sergeant Monaghan had been up to see him and set him straight on a few facts.
‘We all know you’ve got an active imagination.’ He took my hand. His was dry and warm. ‘Nothing wrong with an imagination.’ He smiled as if I was six years old. ‘And around here, it’s important to be able to keep yourself entertained. Especially now so many people have moved away. I’d worry less about you if you had more social life. You could always join the Hustle CWA. Or get involved in that new historical society.’
I tried a casual laugh. ‘Don’t you worry, Dean. I’ve got plenty to keep me busy. There’s Brad. And Ernie. And the shop, of course.’
He continued. ‘And I know business is slow. It can’t be easy managing. If you need my help, you’ll ask, won’t you? Financial, anything.’ He paused. ‘The thing is…’ He took his hand away and wiped some sweat from his forehead, put his hand back on mine, a little stickier this time. ‘It’s…’
‘Yes?’ I smiled encouragingly. It’s never been easy for Dean to dismount and apologise.
‘Well, I have to warn you. If you do anything like that again…’ He let go of my hand.
I suddenly didn’t like where we were headed. ‘Well, what?’
‘I’ll have to arrest you for wasting police time.’
‘Dean. Son.’ I held up my hand to stop him interrupting. ‘Listen. You’re missing important data. That poor dead Mona is out there somewhere, and, more importantly, so’s her killer.’
‘Mum!’ He spat out the word, as though he didn’t like how it felt against his tongue. ‘I’m not taking any more of your bullshit.’ He stood up and stamped over to the doorway. ‘I bloody will, I’m telling you. Next time I’ll arrest you.’ And he left, slamming the door.
Brad met me at the kitchen door. ‘I’m off to Madison’s. She needs emergency dim sims for the ferrets. Thérèse has been unwell.’
‘The ferrets? But I thought you said those animals are a menace?’ Irreconcilable differences is what split up Brad and Madison. He’s into banners, native wildlife, birds; she’s into introduced predators.
‘I haven’t actually declared a formal policy position on ferrets, Mum.’
‘So…you and Madison?’
He shrugged.
‘But what about Claire?’
‘Claire’s resting in the spare room. In case you hadn’t noticed, she’s pregnant.’ He slammed the door.
Jesus, Brad. What did he think he was doing with all these poor girls? Should I warn Madison? And Claire? Should a person be expected to warn girls off her own son? I really needed to give Brad that parental pep-talk. I’d have to galvanise myself. I’d do it soon. I would. And then he’d be moving out, far away, in search of a proper job.
I sighed, staring out the window, at my dried-up backyard, at the struggling pepper tree friendless and alone, its red-fading-to-pink berries carpeting the dust. Piero and I were proud of this place way back when we’d set up. He planted General MacArthur roses around the fence. Piero loved those roses. I scattered his ashes under them, he would have wanted that. But these days the place just looked parched and tired.
I got up, had a quick, unsatisfying rootle through the briefcase, in case I’d missed something the first forty times I’d looked. No go. I put it back.
A car pulled up on my gravel driveway. Brad must have forgotten something. I heard a car door open then close. Footsteps crunched over the gravel and a face appeared at the window. It wasn’t Brad. It was yet another visitor, in a week full of them: the tousled-looking fella. The assistant cop who’d pulled me up yesterday, who’d stood behind Sergeant Monaghan. He was on his own, no Monaghan in sight. He seemed a bit old to be the assistant.
I opened the door.
‘Afternoon.’ He smiled.
He wore a leather jacket over a creased white shirt. His jeans were dusty. His front teeth overlapped a bit, an endearing kind of overlap.
‘Sorry to bother you. I didn’t realise you’d be closed. I was hoping for a feed of fish and chips.’ He eyed me hungrily. ‘And maybe a couple of Chiko Rolls?’
There was definitely something about that voice. Where had I heard it? I never like to turn away a customer, so I led him into the shop. He sat and I started up the burner. ‘It’ll take a tick for things to heat up.’
He had wide blue eyes, like a baby’s. Wide eyes, but somehow disappointed, like the baby’s figured out way too early that life’s not all it’s cracked up to be.
I scooped up some chips and put them in the basket. ‘I didn’t catch your name yesterday.’
‘Terry.’ He stifled a yawn.
Maybe he’d spent the night in the car, with Monaghan beside him, snoring, taking up all the space. Maybe Monaghan was a brutal boss. That weepy eye might make him ratty.
‘Sergeant Terry, is it?’ I put his fish and Chiko Rolls into another basket and set it in the sizzling oil.
‘Just call me Terry.’ He twisted a ring around his little finger. No wedding band, although that never tells you. ‘Nice place you’ve got here, Mrs Tuplin.’
I smiled. Terry’s a name I’ve always liked. ‘Call me Cass.’
‘Um…’ he said, ‘probably sounds stupid, but there’s something about your voice, it sounds familiar.’ He gave me the endearing overlap-tooth smile.
Muddy Soak, Terry was from Muddy Soak.
‘Blindfold speed dating!’ We both said it at the same time.
‘Yeah, I was sorry I lost you after that fire alarm went off,’ he said. ‘I waited around outside for ages. Trouble was…’
‘You didn’t know what I looked like. Yep, me too.’
We had a silent little moment while his order hissed in the oil.
‘Look.’ He leaned forward in his chair. ‘You weren’t, ah, holding back on anything yesterday, were you? You look like a smart sort of woman, Cass. A woman who notices things.’
A smart sort of woman. I didn’t mind that. I slipped an extra Chiko Roll in his order, courtesy of the management.
I’d bet Terry wouldn’t mind hearing about a briefcase. He wouldn’t go on about arresting helpful people. And he didn’t have Dean’s glued-on glare. Terry had quite nice eyes. I snuck another look as I shook his basket. Those eyes were a faded, comfortable kind of blue. He had a thickish lower lip, tender looking, like it could be nice to kiss.
Pull your-bloody-self together, Cass.
Trouble was, how could I tell him about the briefcase without going into the finer points about Mona’s body? I di
dn’t want Dean in trouble for botching up the job.
‘If I knew anything, I’d tell you.’ I smiled as I fibbed. ‘What I do know is that Clarence paid a suspiciously large sum of rent.’
I served Terry’s order on a plate at the table. The poor fella deserved to sit and eat properly, instead of filling up his car with the smell of fish. And he looked like he could do with some company.
‘Yeah. He’s one of the Muddy Soak Hocking-Lees,’ said Terry. ‘No shortage of cash in that family.’
‘So Brown isn’t his real name?’
‘Told you that, did he? Nope, he’s a Hocking-Lee. And Clarence is his grandma’s grandson, all right. Although he’s not up to the atonement stage just yet,’ he said.
‘Oh? Mona got something to atone for?’
‘You haven’t heard of her? Heard of Kota though, I bet.’
‘Um. Course.’ Who the hell was Coata?
‘Mona was never prosecuted for that.’
‘Uh-huh. Why was that exactly?’ I carried on with my auto-wiping of the counter.
Terry was a bloke who ate with sincerity. I’ve always liked a fella who knows how to appreciate a plate of chips.
‘Well, the CEO was convicted, finally, last year. He got two years. Mona was the major shareholder, said she didn’t know about the safety standards. Or lack of.’ He ate another chip. ‘The company paid out compensation. Didn’t bring anyone back, of course. Or their farmland. Soon after, Mona set up all her environmental charities.’
He must have seen the confusion on my face. ‘Kota,’ he said. ‘You know, that gas leak in India. Killed thousands of people.’
Ah, Kota. ‘Yep, yep,’ I said. ‘So what’s Clarence got to atone for?’
But Terry was eating with some concentration. Polishing off his chips, he leaned back in the chair and put his hands behind his head. ‘You’re lucky, you know, running your own show. I’ve always fancied a little takeaway shop.’ He had that dreamy I’ve-just-eaten look. ‘By the sea, somewhere I could fish. In the evenings, I’d do a bit of wood-carving, listen to the waves hissing up the shore.’ He sighed. ‘You can tire of big-town life. Especially in a life like mine. Especially at the moment.’
