by Sue Williams
I explained to Taylah that Ernie had to go to Muddy Soak for a while. ‘A funeral,’ I said into the phone. I used my Sunday-best doleful tone. ‘Old friend of his.’
Taylah gasped. ‘His friend wasn’t murdered, was he?’
‘No, no, nothing like that.’
‘It’s just terrible, that poor woman in the wool bag. I can’t believe we’re losing Dean, as well. We could all be murdered in our beds.’
‘Don’t worry, Taylah. They won’t let Dean go, I’m sure of it.’
‘You wanna collect your tickets? Moisy dropped them in,’ she said. ‘For the Muddy Soak Christmas Fringe Festival. Starts tomorrow.’
‘Ah. Yep.’
‘It’s so exciting! All those artistes in Muddy Soak! I just hope none of them get murdered.’
‘Now, now, no one will be murdered, Taylah.’
Wet sounds while Taylah worked her chewing gum. ‘So who is it? This friend of Ernie’s?’
‘Awfully tragic,’ I stalled. ‘And sudden.’
‘Uh huh?’ A pause.
‘Fella he knew from the war.’ I had a moment of inspiration. ‘No one local. Stanley Robbins. Lived down south. Nice bloke. Always wore a tie. Fell out the back of an Armaguard van, doing up his tie, would you believe. Hit his head and died.’
‘Armaguard van?’
‘Haven’t got time to go into it all right now, Taylah. I’ve got flowers to organise. I’ll be in to collect Ernie tomorrow morning. Don’t be surprised if he doesn’t seem to remember Stanley. You know what Ernie’s like.’
I spent the night on Vern’s couch, ignoring his offers to share his bed. After breakfast—muesli, starfruit and yet more green tea—we set off to pick up Ernie from the home.
Ernie was waiting in his room, dressed in a carefully ironed khaki shirt and matching shorts. He looked like one of those aged birdwatchers Brad is fond of bringing into my shop. The type that launches into earnest debates about sixth extinctions and carbon miles. Launched. Back when I had a shop.
‘Managed to free up the diary,’ Ernie brushed down his khaki. ‘And a trip will do you good, Cassandra Ariadne. Might even find yourself someone. Don’t know what you’ve been doing all these flamin’ years. High time you found a fella, one that doesn’t need too much improving and comes without a lot of debt.’
Ernie gathered up the tools he’d laid out on his bed: a hammer, some pliers, a crowbar, wire cutters, a hip flask, skeleton keys, a stethoscope. He crammed them all into a bag and hung it on his walker. I don’t know how he got that stuff past Taylah.
We walked slowly down the corridor, and I reminded Ernie of Piero, since he seemed to have forgotten my marriage. I was starting to wonder if I’d be better off forgetting it myself.
He stopped a moment. ‘Piero Tuplin? You want to marry him? Well, if you want my opinion, I’m dead against it. He’ll be a faithless bastard. Stay right away from him, Cassandra Ariadne.’ He stamped ahead.
He struggled into Vern’s van, took off his hat, then stared out the windscreen, clicking his false teeth.
I felt a faint swell of pride as I looked around at our little group. We’d become our own version of the Fantastic Four, minus Brad unfortunately. Minus the superpowers bit too, of course. Vern took off at top speed, resting his arm stump on the window ledge.
As anyone will tell you, there’s a lot an able, or reasonably able, group can achieve without any bloody superpowers.
I watched the world roll past while Vern drove. Salt haze trailed silver above a dry lake. A distant row of power lines, milky through the glaze. I wound down my window, ran my fingers through the curtain of hot air. I wasn’t happy, not exactly, not with Brad missing and my house and shop burnt down and the humiliation thanks to Piero, but somehow, I felt free. On the loose.
Pocket money. Presumably Grantley wasn’t paying money to those people. They’d be paying him. His pocket money.
‘We’ll need to interrogate Grantley,’ I said. ‘And maybe visit the people on the list.’
‘We can’t put you in danger, Cass,’ said Ernie, leaning forward in his seat. ‘You haven’t even met a fella yet. No, I vote we bring Dean into the operation.’
Vern nodded.
So much for democracy. Terribly inefficient, democracy. No one ever mentions that. ‘Here’s the plan,’ I said. ‘Vern, your job is to distract Grantley while Ernie and I search his premises. You’ve always been good at extracting information without people knowing what you’re up to.’
‘Dunno how I’ll distract him, though.’
‘He’s a reformed gambler. Tell him there’s a terrific gambling loophole you’ve just found. A not-quite-right pokie you’ve found at the Muddy Soak RSL. It spills out all its money when you press a certain button.’
‘Nah. No one would share that kind of knowledge. He’ll be suspicious. And the RSL would fix that machine pronto, can’t let a profit margin leak away.’
‘Well, OK, how about you’re an old mate of his brother, Kev. You don’t know he’s dead. Kev’s got something of yours and you want it back. A book, a footy jumper, a DVD of something dodgy. You’ll have to act all amazed and sad when he tells you Kev’s dead. But you’ve always been a good actor.’
Vern grunted. I took that as assent, and dialled Dean’s number.
‘Yes Mum. I am, in fact, looking for Brad. Right now. I’m at Ernie’s shack.’
‘And the helicopters?’
‘I don’t need my mother to help me organise a missing persons search. Look, there’s a lot of footprints around Brad’s car. I’m taking photos, measurements, all that. Or would be if you’d get off the phone.’
‘Terrific, son.’ I hung up.
I filled in Vern and Ernie.
‘Good old Dean,’ said Vern. ‘Vital development, footprints.’ I stared out the window a tick, at the puffs of dry fairy grass on the fractured soil.
‘As long as Brad turns up OK,’ I said.
‘Course he will,’ said Ernie. ‘And everyone knows how critical footprints are in your average criminal investigation. How many crooks don’t leave a flamin’ footprint? They can’t help it, they all have feet.’
Grantley’s mother, Mrs Pittering, must have been around ninety. She was bone-thin, her white hair worn in a wispy ponytail. She was in an emerald green silk outfit, her mouth a gash of red lipstick. ‘Grantley isn’t here. He has…an appointment at the RSL.’ Her blue-veined hand was tensed on the door, ready to swing it closed.
Vern spoke. ‘After Kev, actually. Friend of his. Vern Casey. Passing through the Soak with my colleague here, Dr Tuplin. She’s an expert on historic homes, here to tour Hocking Hall. This is her uncle, Ernie. Anyway, thought I’d look up Kev while we’re here.’ Vern smiled a tooth-filled smile.
‘Kevin passed away.’ She moved to close the door.
Vern organised an ashen face. ‘I didn’t know. Been away.’ He even managed some tears.
‘There, there,’ she patted his arm. ‘Perhaps you’ll come in?’
We trooped inside. I was worried about this Dr Tuplin role, about Vern’s too-inventive faculties. It wouldn’t have hurt to have warned me. Just a few short words to assist a fellow-conspirator.
Mrs Pittering led us down the hallway, into a lounge room. Not the kind of lounge I was expecting, not what I’d call a normal old-lady lounge. No brown velvet armchairs or hypnotic ticking clock. The lime green carpet was covered with broken glass. One wall had been sprayed with graffiti. Tall red letters, spelling words some old ladies would profess they didn’t know. Arranged across the room were three rows of plastic chairs, each containing a dead hand. The wall beside me was lined with decapitated heads on sticks, twisted faces full of pain.
We stood there in gob-smacked silence.
Mrs Pittering didn’t seem to notice, just silk-rustled out to make some tea.
We found three chairs without dead hands and carefully sat.
‘Milk and sugar?’ Mrs Pittering put her head around the door. She saw us staring at
the heads on sticks. ‘Oh, don’t worry, they’re not real.’
I nodded.
‘It’s for the festival. We’re envisioning and manifesting an immersion play.’
‘I see,’ I said, not seeing.
‘The audience will be immersed in crime. Not real-time crime, unfortunately, but we’ve worked hard to do our best.’
‘Very nice,’ murmured Vern.
‘Bloody creative.’ Ernie leaned forward on his walker.
‘It’s a portal to the experiences of those in other towns, towns that aren’t crime free.’ Her voice had a hint of smug. She rustled back into the kitchen.
Ernie had been staring at the mantelpiece behind the heads, at a row of photos. He got up and shuffled closer. One young and lovely woman in a bathing suit, circa 1950, signed in the corner. A more recent photo of four young men in footy jumpers. Red and blue, Muddy Soak–Patchemilda colours. I picked out a young Dale Monaghan, then Terry, younger, thinner. There was a third bloke who looked like a shorter, dark-haired version of Grantley with a twisted nose. Kev? The fourth man looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him. They stood in a row, muddy-kneed, all with their arms around each other.
Mrs Pittering came in with a tray. Vern surged forward to assist, earning him a red-gashed smile. She sat and poured tea into dainty, gold-rimmed cups.
Clearing his throat, Ernie said, ‘Gladys Wilson!’
I’d never heard him so excited.
‘I suspected when I first saw you, and that photo there confirms it.’ He pointed at the mantelpiece. ‘It was you who kept me going in 1944, love.’
She smiled. ‘It’s been quite a while since anyone called me Gladys Wilson.’
Ernie snickered. ‘They didn’t show all their bosoms…’
‘Anyway,’ I said. ‘Thank you for the tea. Especially since you must be so busy at the moment.’ I waved my hand at the sticks.
A pause.
‘Where did you meet Kevin? In Bendigo?’ she said to Vern.
‘That’s right,’ he beamed. ‘Through a mutual friend. Soon worked out we had a lot in common, me and Kev.’
‘Acting? You’d get a lot of leading parts, good-looking man like you.’
Vern smiled. ‘It was Kev who truly had the leading-man looks. Everyone told him so.’
‘Really?’ She looked puzzled, then sighed. ‘He was a terribly gifted actor. He could have done anything.’
‘He must have been a clever fellow,’ I said, ‘good at both acting and accounting.’
‘Kevin never wanted to be an accountant, it was his father who insisted on it.’ A tear slid down her cheek.
I reached out, patted her hand. ‘You mustn’t blame yourself, it’s not your fault.’
She wiped her face angrily. ‘Of course it’s not my fault.’ A pause. ‘Kevin was murdered.’
‘I thought the official verdict was…’ I shut my mouth suddenly. I wasn’t supposed to have heard about Kev’s death. But Gladys wasn’t listening.
‘An accident, they said. But there is not the slightest chance that Kevin would have wanted to, would have done, would have…And ivory organza? How ridiculous. Kevin detested polyester.’ She sniffed.
‘Did you let the police know your concerns?’ said Vern.
‘Of course. And Dale investigated it personally. He was always terribly good to Kevin. He was such a support for him, after that little motoring misunderstanding. But Dale said he’d looked and he could find no evidence of murder.’
Vern nodded.
‘My poor Kevin had just been offered a part he really wanted. A terrific play, in Sydney. He was finally going places.’
‘His wife must have been pleased for him,’ I said.
‘Kevin wasn’t married.’
‘You’ll have to forgive my colleague,’ Vern said. ‘Terribly nosy, writers. Part of the job description. She doesn’t mean anything by it.’
She sniffed. ‘What do you write, Dr Tuplin?’
My stomach did a little whirl. I gabbled, ‘I’m writing a series of romances set in Australia’s historic houses. And of course, Hocking Hall, being as it is, well, as you know…’
‘I see.’ She sipped her tea.
Cringing at my forlorn lie, I shot a look at Vern, but he just nodded as if everything was following his carefully plotted plan.
‘Kev must’ve inherited his artistic streak from you,’ said Vern, pointing at the heads on sticks. ‘I’m sorry I missed the funeral. I’ll bet it was a big crowd, he was such a popular fella.’
‘Yes, he had many friends.’
‘I should call in on some of them, pay my respects. Not sure if I remember many surnames, though. It’s been a while. There was this one fella he used to mention…’
‘Terry? Or perhaps Dale. He spent a lot of time with his cousins.’ She waved a hand at the photo of the four footballers.
I peered at it. ‘Is that Kev on the left? What a…handsome young man. Who’s the other boy on the right?’
‘Ford Hocking-Lee.’ She looked at me with suspicious eyes. ‘Don’t you know him, Dr Tuplin? He was Mona Hocking-Lee’s son.’
‘Well, my focus has really been on the building,’ I said, ‘and the complexities of my storyline, not so much on the Hocking-Lees, not as such.’ Now I thought about it, he did have Clarence’s weaselly chin. ‘The four boys are close?’
‘Only two of those boys are alive today.’ She sighed. ‘Dale and Terry. Poor dear Mona. No mother wants to outlive her son. Not that Ford was…’
Ernie had been looking at Gladys in a dazed fashion. Now he leaned forward. ‘That fella give you trouble? Attractive woman like you might have a bit of trouble.’ ‘Well…I never trusted him. I was worried he was a bad influence on Kevin. Little Kevin was easily led. I know how hard Mona tried with Ford. And then, of course, he died so tragically. With his young wife, in that traffic accident.’
‘No,’ I breathed.
She stiffened. ‘You’re not some kind of reporter? They’re circling the town, since poor Mona was found.’
Vern reassured her, I reassured her, Ernie tut-tutted about the true evils of gutter journalism from across his walking frame. ‘Gladys Wilson,’ said Ernie. ‘I don’t suppose…’ he paused.
‘Yes?’ she smiled.
‘You probably get asked this all the time. But I’d love an autographed copy of one of your terrific photographs. Bloody patriot, you were.’
She beamed, got up and opened a drawer. Returning with a photo, she handed it to Ernie. In black and white, she sat against a striped beach ball, her fair hair streaming around her face. No heads on sticks anywhere near her back then.
Ernie and I sat on the bench outside the RSL, trying to look normal, trying to blend in. Red posters of the Christmas Fringe Festival were hanging from poles, glued to walls, displayed in every shop window. Endless drifts of shoppers inched along the street.
‘That Pitterline bastard disappeared with my money, you know,’ Ernie said to no one in particular. A CFA truck with Santa ho-ho-ing on the back sailed past.
‘Yep.’ I watched the door of the RSL, fretting over Brad, chewing a fingernail. The sky was a hard dark blue, black clouds on the horizon.
‘Bloody oath. Owed me sixty dollars.’ Ernie stabbed a bone-like finger in the air. ‘Buggered off to the Northern Territory. 19-bloody-88. Shit year in a shitty decade.’
My phone rang. ‘Brad! Where are you?’ I said.
‘Pittering.’ His voice had a nasty, choking sound. The phone crackled.
‘Where are you? Are you OK?’
‘…locked me in…’ More crackling.
‘Where? Locked you in where?’
The wind wrapped an empty Twisties packet around my feet.
‘I’m hanging…’ something garbled.
‘Hanging?’ My voice rose.
‘…middle…low…send help. Quick.’ The phone cut out. ‘Brad? Can you hear me?’
Silence.
‘Brad?’
I dialled his nu
mber. My hands were shaking.
My call went to his answerphone. I tried three times, then waved my phone wildly at Ernie, as if that might make it work.
‘Whole century was crap, you know. And Hugo flaming Pitterline…’
‘Shut up, Ernie!’
I called Dean. ‘He’s locked inside somewhere,’ I said. ‘Hanging. In terrible danger. You have to do something.’
‘Whoa, stop yelling, Mum. What are you talking about?’
‘Brad, for God’s sake.’
‘Where is he?’
‘I don’t know. Why I am always expected to know every single thing? You’re the bloody cop. Get out there and find him.’
‘All right, calm down. Leave it with me. Where are you, anyway?’
‘Be back soon.’ I hung up.
I sat vice-tight on my hands. ‘Brad’s in danger and it’s all my fault.’
‘Can’t believe you told me to shut up. And after everything I’ve done for you,’ said Ernie.
‘He told me not to get involved in this.’ My voice was croaky.
‘Help a person out, and that’s the thanks I get.’ Ernie shook his head. ‘I spent years telling all those hanger-on women that Piero had something nasty.’
‘Ernie. Please. I need to think.’ I stood up, paced along the pavement. I should have let Brad waste his life with all those banners. It might have been a waste, but at least he’d be alive.
I stared up at the darkening sky, hoping I’d find some kind of answer. I set my shoulders. Pittering, Brad had said. Grantley, surely. ‘We’ll get that devious bastard Grantley to talk,’ I said.
‘Piero’s got a weepy little infection, I told them, every one of them,’ said Ernie. ‘And now you just tell me to shut up. Brutal way to treat a fella in my time of life.’
When Grantley stepped out through the doors of the RSL, Vern was by his side. They wove a zig-zag line along the path towards us. Vern slipped his arm through Grantley’s as they got closer.
I gave Ernie a nod. He stepped over to them, jabbing two fingers held together, into Grantley’s back. Ernie’s fingers are old-bone and icy, not a bad impression of cold steel.
‘Hey?’ said Grantley, staggering.
