Murder with the Lot

by Sue Williams

  Picking up the phone, I scrolled though his contacts. No names that seemed especially female. Three messages from Dale. I took another sip of Milo. Maybe Monaghan had texted something relevant, something important that could help Dean keep his station. I clicked on the first message:

  Mate. How’d it go?

  Then:

  Call me.

  Third message:

  Where are you? That stupid bloody woman sorted out?

  And who exactly would she be? Gritting my teeth, I went into Terry’s sent messages. One to Dale:

  Got the old bag. Now what am I supposed to do?

  I blinked twice. Old? I flung the phone across the kitchen, it smacked against the wall, I got up and stamped on it. Swore out loud. Slumped at the table, I was holding the cool glass of Milo against my hot cheeks when Brad ambled in, yawning, his hair sticking up in tufts.

  ‘What’s going on, Mum? And why’s there coconut all over the kitchen floor?’

  ‘Long story.’ I didn’t move. I was considering staying slumped there for a longish period.

  Brad pulled out a chair, sat down. ‘I saw Terry’s car out the front when I got home. Did you have a nice night?’

  ‘Terrific.’

  ‘Is everything OK?’ He paused. ‘Is that your phone smashed up on the floor?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  He put his hand on my arm. ‘You know, I was never too sure about Terry. There was something not quite right. Something about him didn’t add up.’

  ‘Thanks for that compelling data.’ I sniffed.

  ‘Come on, Mum. There’s plenty more fish in the sea.’ He passed me a tissue. ‘Well, strictly speaking there aren’t… But you know what I mean.’

  He patted my arm. ‘Lots of nice blokes out there. Looking for someone kind-hearted and loyal and conscientious, someone like you.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I blew my nose. ‘Look, I’m fine. Having a quiet Milo. You go back to bed.’

  Brad mooched back along the hall.

  I crunched through my Milo. Terry probably left that phone there for a reason. One of those subconscious things, like how a person will be talking to another person, knowing there’s one thing she mustn’t say.

  ‘Is that a wooden leg?’ or ‘How’d you lose that arm?’ or ‘Noel bought some moist-wipes,’ that type of instance.

  A person can freeze right up, in that position, can’t think of anything except the one thing she mustn’t say. Until she blurts it out.

  I sat still. Yes, I still hadn’t found out why Noel-slash-Donald bought those moist-wipes. Or why Aurora wanted to talk to me.

  I limped along the street, torch in one hand, precautionary plate of lamingtons in the other. It was just after ten p.m. I’d had a slow day in the shop; plenty of time to hone my master plan.

  Vern would probably be out, playing the pokies down at Hustle, Boofa tied up out the front of the pub. Going to make his fortune someday, Vern often tells me. See the world, pay off his debts. ‘And what’ll you say then to my little merger proposal?’ he asks.

  Vern would have information in that notebook, information he wouldn’t even recognise as significant.

  I scurried on past Showbag’s gate. Arriving at Vern’s out of breath, I paused. His hammock was swinging white and ghostly in the wind. A car’s headlights approached and I froze against the wall, Cat Burglar Barbie. The car went by. I slipped around the side of the shop, to the house behind.

  At the back door I heard a noise, darted a look over my shoulder. The Hill’s hoist creaked, turning slowly in the wind. Vern’s chooks clucked from inside their shed as they settled for the night.

  No problem getting in. The shop’s a different matter, but Vern never locks his house. By the door, I had a twinge of scruples. But it’s not exactly breaking in, not when you’ve brought a plate of lamingtons for the fella. Freshly made. Vern’s quite partial to a lamington, he’s often told me so, with a hopeful look.

  ‘Vern? You in?’ My voice sounded edgy. Of course he wasn’t in. The lights were off, his car was gone.

  The only sound was something scratching in the roof. A small and scuttly something, possibly a rat type of something. I opened the door. I listened, plate balanced in one sweaty hand. No telly noises, no stomping around the house sounds, no bathroom sloshing. I slithered in, as noiseless as a scrap of whispered scandal.

  In Vern’s dim kitchen, my breaths came quick, in nervous pants. It was a kitchen full of dark corners. The air had the musky tang of bloke-on-his-own. Was that breathing I could hear? I clicked on my torch, flicked it round. The air moved behind me. I whirled around. Nothing. Just the back door swinging. Calm down, Cass. Just rats or mice.

  How hard can it be to find a stupid notebook anyway? I searched all through Vern’s bedroom, rootling through his drawers, rustling through the pile of newspapers beside his bed, flipping up his mattress. There was a pile of vivid magazines underneath that mattress. I flipped it down again real quick. For a fella his age, Vern has a shocker of a libido. Finally I found the notebook under the kitchen table and I limped home as fast as I could with the book tucked underneath my arm. I remembered to take the lamingtons as well, no point in wasting them.

  Back home, I shoved Brad’s magazines aside and sat down on the couch to leaf through the pages of Vern’s book. I found notes on a bewildering array of cars coming and going from Rusty Bore, a list of Vern’s customers each day, what they bought and what they said. All in his terrible spider-handwriting. It wasn’t easy relearning how to write using his wrong hand, he told me once. Exactly how Vern lost that arm is a mystery. It was gone when he arrived in Rusty Bore twenty years ago, and he’s never mentioned it. I asked him about it once, but he just frowned; puzzled, like he couldn’t remember where he’d put it.

  He’d noted down the details of that grisly day when Showbag had his accident. I didn’t linger there, flicking forward to study these past few days, see who’d been in town. There was a lot about myself. That Tuplin woman’s holding back on something. I just know it.

  Another entry: Why’s that orange ute pulled up outside her place again?

  She came in today in that blue number she wears to show off her figure. She had suspicious drycleaning.

  And another: Is she up to something with that fella in the white van? She’s a mantrap, that woman. She watched his every move around my shop with a hungry kind of expression. Was that what she was doing at Perry Lake? Has she been up to something filthy in the back of his van?

  This was followed by some densely written Vern-fantasy involving a swarm of energetic women who held him down inside a van and wouldn’t let him out.

  Finally, I got to the list of items Donald had bought. Fella bought a pack of moist-wipes. What’s a bloke like that doing with a moist-wipe? Can’t be good. Good old Vern, maybe he could recognise significant after all. Vern’s a natural note-taker. He could have been a court reporter if he’d had the arms.

  Come on Vern, I whispered, tell me about Aurora. What’s her mobile number? I ate a lamington, then turned the page, looking for his notes on the last two days. Nothing. I held the book up to the light. Rough edges, where…What? Three pages had been ripped out.

  I searched, no other torn-out sections. I remembered those sounds I’d heard in Vern’s kitchen, the swinging back door. Had someone been in there? The hairs on my arms stood up like an Antarctic breeze just gusted in.

  A mopoke let out a hooting call. My leg throbbed. I rubbed it and ate another lamington to ease the pain.

  Torch in hand, I headed for my front door. I was turning the handle when I heard a car pull up outside. Opening the door a crack, I peered out.

  ‘Mum?’ Dean walked across the gravel, heavy crunching footsteps. ‘You should have that leg up.’

  Quick smart, I stuffed the notebook down my dress and opened the door wide. ‘Dean, how nice! But I’m just heading off to bed.’ The notebook was riding up my chest.

  ‘Have you put on weight?’ He peered at me. ‘I don
’t know why you won’t use that tongue patch Melissa found for you at Whitey’s.’

  Holding my arm, he walked me slowly towards my bedroom, like I was some kind of prehistoric invalid. ‘Melissa could stick it on for you. You’d definitely lose weight. Apparently you get agonising pain on your tongue every time you eat.’

  He paused outside my bedroom door. ‘Look, I know it’s late but I wanted to warn you about Donald Streatham. He’s got history. Been in jail for smuggling native bird eggs to overseas collectors. He might be up here after local cockatoos. Worth millions to collectors, Mum, bloody millions.’

  ‘Like Brad said.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Dean’s mouth turned down like it always has when something doesn’t suit him. ‘Look, promise me you’ll stay away from Streatham?’ He gave me a pleading look, the kind he used to give me as a kid when he was after a third serve of ice cream. ‘A bloke like that could be very nasty.’

  I nodded, crossing my fingers behind my back. I wouldn’t normally lie to a police officer. Dean’d understand, later on.

  Waiting until his car started, I scurried out my back door. But as I limped along the road towards Vern’s place, past Showbag’s gate, I heard a car behind me. Dean again? I whirled around. A ute slowed beside me, the sound of country music surging out.

  Vern wound down the window and leaned out. ‘What you doing wandering the streets at bloody midnight?’ He turned down his radio.

  Quick as I could, I flipped up the back of my dress and shoved the notebook down my undies.

  ‘You hiding something? And why have you got a torch? You’re not thinking of snooping in my private regions again, are you?’

  ‘A person has a right to walk around when she feels like it.’ I gave him my dignified expression. ‘And I didn’t mean to snoop the other day. I’m just terribly worried about that girl, Aurora. I think Donald’s taken her as a hostage.’

  ‘Donald Streatham?’

  ‘Yeah. He’s an international bird smuggler.’

  ‘I know he’s a bird smuggler, I’m not stupid. That’s why he’s in for questioning at Muddy Soak. Been in there all night, the pub was full of it. News travels like wildfire in that town. At least here people know how to respect a bit of privacy.’ He paused. ‘Some of us, anyway.’

  ‘I was onto Donald, ages ago. I’ve been helping Dean. He doesn’t mind me helping out, from time to time.’

  ‘Can’t see why he’d want your help. He’s got that brother he could turn to; young, resourceful bloke. You’d prob’ly just end up shooting the wrong person.’

  ‘There’s no need to be insulting, Vern. A person does her best. And don’t forget you were implicated in the Showbag incident, so I wouldn’t get too cocky if I were you. Dean’s still got his eye on you.’ I always held it was unfair of Showbag to hold Vern partly responsible since Vern wasn’t anywhere near the gun. But no need to let him know that.

  ‘Ah.’ Vern shot me an anxious look. ‘Maybe I should nick off home and get my notebook. Do my bit to help. Could be something crucial in my book. I seen a few cars lately, heap of visitors too.’

  ‘Oh? Anyone in particular?’

  He paused. ‘Well, a woman came in the other day after a big sack.’

  ‘And her name was…?’ I said.

  ‘Didn’t say.’

  ‘What kind of sack?’

  ‘Huge sack. Showed me how big with her hands. Yeah,’ he licked his lips. ‘Good big hands.’

  A pause while Vern was lost in a reverie.

  ‘What was she like, Vern?’

  ‘Persistent type of woman,’ he said. ‘Not something I carry love, I told her, suggest you head up to Hustle, bigger range. But she wouldn’t leave. Friend had an urgent need for a sack, she said, very particular about the dimensions. Anyway, wrote it all down in the book.’

  I nodded. It wasn’t in the notebook I’d just read. Was it on the ripped-out pages? ‘This could be important, Vern. Reckon Dean’ll want to know this. Do smugglers stuff birds in big sacks, you think?’

  ‘Nah. Tuck ’em down their undies, don’t they?’ He tapped his fingers on the dashboard. ‘Well, in the end, I went and rummaged out the back, found an old jute wool sack for her. No one’s used them for years, mostly nylon now. Got a good price for it, too. See, just one of the many reasons you should give my merger proposal due consideration.’

  I stood there a tick, pondering.

  ‘You better get in,’ he said, ‘don’t want to do too much on that buggered leg.’ He leaned over and popped his passenger door open. ‘In you hop. I know exactly where it is, that book. There’s bits I reckon will be deeply relevant. Wrote it all up before I went out tonight, while the memories were fresh.’

  I reached for his door.

  ‘And you know,’ he looked thoughtful, ‘I’ve got a bit of a thigh problem at the minute. Could do with a touch of womanly massage in the vicinity.’ He looked at me. ‘Reckon you’d have not-bad hands for massaging.’

  ‘Is that the time?’ I said, looking at my watch. ‘I’m feeling terribly tired, suddenly. I might head home to bed. Maybe we can chat about your notebook in the morning.’

  I shuffled off as quick as any creeped-out person can with a large notepad stuffed deep inside her knickers.

  Back at home, I worried. Maybe I should have gone back with Vern and slipped the notebook back while I had the chance. Had a quick rootle through his bins. I’d missed the moment now. Thing is, I wasn’t wild about proximity to Vern’s vicinity.

  What if he found the notebook gone and got worked up? What would he do? Report it to Dean?

  I parked myself on my couch, too tired to think clearly and feeling slightly nauseous. Maybe eating that plate of lamingtons hadn’t helped. I wouldn’t have minded heading to bed but I knew I’d have to wait up a bit and then take the notebook back. Give Vern time to go to sleep, then return it on the quiet. I’d be as soundless as a tiny sigh, he wouldn’t hear a thing.

  Yawning, I put my feet up, like Dean said I should. I leaned back, closed my eyes a moment. I tried to relax but I could feel the wind was building. The lounge window rattled. A loose piece of corrugated iron scraped across the roof and the wind whipped the flystrips against the shop door.

  The last time I’d waited up like this was the night Piero didn’t make it home. The CFA siren went off around midnight, all the town’s dogs howling along with it. Piero leapt out of bed and into the truck with Ernie. I waited right here for him, on the couch. And waited. The news report said the flames broke over the truck like a wave. Ernie didn’t say much at all.

  The dream started, the one where I’m running, the red wave a roar behind me, spitting tiny burning sticks into my back and legs. My hair catches alight. I scream, keep running, holding Brad—a much younger Brad—by his wrist in death-grip.

  His hand wrenches free. I turn and he’s fallen into the flames. I scream again; my dress is on fire. His small dog, Blacky, whines near Brad. I grab Brad’s arm, heave him up. Blacky snarls, and in one twist, turns into Bubbles. She spits a blast of white-hot embers, setting Brad on fire. Smoke everywhere, I can’t breathe. Choking, dragging Brad, I crawl low to the ground. The wave surges, hot wind roaring in my ears. There’s a ripping, a crack, a boom. The fire wave breaks over me and everything goes black.

  I woke in a white room, feeling like a piece of mutton scrag. There was something hammering behind my eyes. I looked around, trying to figure out where I was and how to turn the hammer off. Brad sat in a chair beside my bed, hunched over a New Scientist, his left arm in a sling, his face red and blistered. I read the headline upside down, ‘Mammoth clue to climate change’. A picture of a frozen baby woolly mammoth lying stiff and desiccated, white-coated people peering at it. I could identify with that baby mammoth. I felt pretty stiff and desiccated myself.

  ‘Where am I?’ My throat felt like it had been done over with a set of skewers. It didn’t feel good to move my head.

  ‘Don’t you move,’ said Brad. ‘The doctor said you have
to take it easy.’ He resumed his reading.

  ‘What happened?’ I lay still a moment, then lifted the bed cover an inch. Legs, two; one still showing dog bites. Arms and hands accounted for. It didn’t look like I’d had any surprise liposuction either.

  He sighed. ‘Be quiet and rest, Mum. Just do as you’re told for once.’

  Someone was lying in the bed opposite, a mop of grey hair. I hoped she wasn’t dead.

  ‘Well, I’d find it a lot easier to rest if you told me why I’m here.’

  I was on my couch, last time I looked. When was that? My memory was fuzzy, like I was peering through a film of oily steam.

  Brad gave me a frightened look like people get when they’re about to tell you something nasty, like they’re sorry and really didn’t mean it, but they’ve run over your dog.

  ‘What?’ I snapped, then coughed.

  ‘Did you leave a burner on, Mum?’

  He wasn’t making sense. ‘I never leave the burners on.’

  ‘I woke up to find the house on fire. You were unconscious on the couch, breathing in the smoke.’

  ‘And the shop?’

  ‘The shop’s a big pile of ash.’

  I caught my breath.

  ‘We’ll talk about it later,’ he patted my arm with his un-slung hand. ‘When you’re better. There’ll have to be some changes.’

  ‘Changes? What kind? Is my house OK?’

  ‘All gone,’ he said in the falsely bright voice used on those who’ve lost the greater part of their brain. ‘Although I saved your handbag. Anyway, I’ll go and find the doctor.’

  He loped off down the hall.

  Gone? I tried to comprehend the enormity of that, while the hammer kept on hammering. My box of photos of the boys. My framed photo of Piero. Brad’s whole series of sea monster drawings from when he was eight. Gone? I slumped back on my pillow. And my insurance, was it up to date? Thinking about paperwork didn’t help the nausea. I closed my eyes and went over shutting up the shop, my endless cleaning routine. I’ll admit I do it all on autopilot.

  Had I checked the burners? I must have, surely. I remembered the wind, all those banging sounds. The back door, I never lock it. An icy feeling crept up my arms.