by G. S. Bailey
She really liked him, more so than she could recall actually liking any other man.
He served bacon, scrambled eggs, tomato and toast, with coffee. He made Clair and Amanda sit there waiting and wouldn’t allow them to help. He served them wearing a tea-towel as an apron.
Clair caught Amanda watching her watch him. Amanda had that see-I-told-you-you’d-fall-for-him look on her face. Clair gave her an as-if roll of the eyes, but she was lying. She really wanted to kiss the guy.
“So, what do I have to do?” she said to David an hour later when he had backed a red ride-on mower off his trailer. He had already explained that she would be mowing while he did edges with some other gadget.
He pointed left with his finger then right with his thumb. “The whole lot,” he answered. They were at the school. “From here back to the car park and all the way down to that fence.” It was a broad, grassy nature strip dotted with trees, along the two road-fronts of the school. The sporting fields were out the back and not on the agenda for the day.
“It’s huge,” Clair complained.
“That’s why you’ve got a motor.”
She sat on the machine. It was to be her first go on a ride-on mower. David turned the key and set the cutting level, engaging the rotor and making the little machine vibrate quite seriously.
“That’s back and forward—off you go,” he said.
Clair was driving again. It had become like the theme of her holiday, to drive. She did a circuit of the area to be mowed then did another one inside that. David was cutting the grass around the trees, so she only had to swerve around them. He also went all the way around the fence and along the footpaths with his brush-cutter, and Clair waved and smiled each time she passed him. It took a few hours to complete that job, and they spent another hour pulling weeds from the gardens around the administration building and spraying with herbicide.
They bought lunch from the takeaway on the main street and parked by the cove to eat.
“No, that’s all I had planned for today, and it only took half the time with you helping,” David was saying. “You’re a good worker.”
“I am. This is easy compared to my job.”
“I suppose it is,” David agreed. “Are you good at stripping—at dancing and that?”
“Pretty good. You get to understand what the individual customers want after a while. I’ve been doing it for longer than most girls ever do. They don’t usually last.”
“Must be a lot in the physical side too. Keeping fit and looking good.”
“Plenty!” Clair said, sighing at the thought of it. “Constantly on a diet and exercising… Try dancing all night. It’s hard work!”
“And what about later?” David asked. He seemed genuine, and Clair liked that. “I mean, when you finish with the dancing side of it. Like you must eventually get, um—I mean, you can’t do—like, some jobs you can only do them for a while.”
“Are you saying I’m getting too old for it?” Clair demanded in mock indignation.
“No!”
“But I will be soon?”
“No—it’s like with famous sports people. You can’t do it forever,” he explained, carefully.
Clair smiled. “I know. I’m near done!” she confessed. “I’m dreading the thought of going back this time. It gets harder every time I have a holiday.”
David nodded acknowledgement. He appeared pleased to get out of that corner of the conversation. “You look good, though,” he shot sideways at her, his eyes deliberately roving over her sitting there swivelled toward him. “Even in that!”
“What, this old thing?” Clair asked, looking down at the rugby jumper he’d given her to wear.
He chuckled.
“Anyway, what about your studies—what’s that about?” he asked with interest.
“Oh, that’s nothing. I watch all the true-crime shows, but I don’t really want to get into any of that. I like my flowers. I’m thinking about doing something with that.”
“Like, growing them, or as a florist?”
“A florist—maybe to find work, or even open a shop. I’ve done a few different courses and some part-time work so far.”
“Yeah, that’d be cool. Like, up there at the Gold Coast, eh? There must be heaps of floristry work up there.”
Clair nodded. She shied away from talk of where she was going to spend her future. She didn’t reason it, but he was asking if she was settled, and she didn’t want to answer.
“Anyway, what about tonight—we’re going to karaoke but we were supposed to go snooping?” she challenged the guy. “You have to help me snoop Granddad’s old garage tomorrow night.”
“No, I was thinking about that and I’ve got an idea.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, rather than doing a break and enter, how about we go do some gardening and sneak a look while we’re there?”
“Really? Can we do that?”
He shrugged. “Don’t see why not. I’ve got to clean up that back corner, so why not get started today?”
“And I can come?” Clair asked hopefully.
David didn’t know whether or not that would be allowed. He had never taken anyone into the mansion grounds with him before. He had been entrusted with the keypad combination but decided to pull up at the gate when they arrived. He pressed the button on the intercom box and shrugged to Clair. She smiled back.
It took a moment to get a response. “Yes?” It was the widow’s voice.
“Mrs Mulvane, it’s David Barrett. I want to get started cleaning up down the back today. I have a friend with me. Is that okay?”
There was a long silence before a response.
“Stop in at the house please, David?”
Clair mouthed the words, oh shit, her eyes wide with surprise.
David glanced at her. “So, you ready to meet the widow?”
The widow was waiting. David pulled up at the front steps, and she approached his window. She was dressed in jeans and a heavy woollen jumper. Her hair was unkempt, her arms folded. She looked in the car and across at Clair as she spoke.
“Hello, David… Clair?” The woman was smiling lightly.
“Yes. Clair Wells,” Clair responded. “You must be Susan Mulvane?”
The surprisingly normal looking woman nodded. “Do you remember me?”
The question confused Clair. “What?”
She didn’t repeat herself. “No matter.” She dismissed the issue with a wave of her hand. “I hear you’re researching the death of my husband.”
“Yes, I am… I’d love to talk to you about that,” Clair stated bluntly.
“Okay,” the woman replied easily. “Cup of tea?”
She offered a seat on her veranda as Clair and David followed her up the stairs. She retired inside, closing the door. David and Clair looked at each other.
“She seems really nice,” Clair said under her breath.
David nodded in agreement. “I sit here sometimes with Mandy.”
The veranda was a dusty timber floor. The boards were dry and faded and in need of re-staining. There were cane chairs to sit in and a small, mismatched wooden table that was clean but also weathered and in need of rejuvenation. The windows to the house were flaking dry paint. The curtains were drawn closed. It was not the magnificent sandstone mansion it appeared from a distance.
Clair didn’t have her notebook with her. She had been in no way expecting to interview the widow. She was shocked by the appearance of the woman, who was much like her house, dry and weathered and in need of rejuvenation. She looked entirely normal and life-like, while Clair had built her up to be some mythical wicked witch.
The widow backed through her doorway and left the thick wooden door open, beckoning secrets from within the house. There was a sweet, warm scent emanating from in there. Clair had taken the chair closest to the door, and she could see a coat rack with raincoats and muddy boots on the floor beneath it. It looked like a small foyer, with a marble floor.
�
��And what have you found about the death of my husband—any new leads?” the widow asked directly. “Are you in on this too, David?” she added with an unfathomable grin.
David shrugged, gestured with his hands, shook his head and nodded all at the same time. “I’m just helping,” he stammered guiltily.
“I’ve heard a few rumoured versions around town and seen the police report. There’s nothing new,” Clair answered the woman frankly. She sensed the widow was a strong, no-nonsense type. That suited Clair.
“Ahh—the rumoured versions,” the widow repeated ponderingly. She was pouring tea. There was a small glass milk jug and a bowl of sugar. She handed Clair her saucer and cup. “It’s been quite a few years, but we’ve had to deal with those rumoured versions many times before.”
“I don’t mean to be a bother, Mrs Mulvane,” Clair said. “Are you satisfied with the findings of the police? They have an unknown assailant, possibly someone associated with the Mulvane family’s business dealings in Melbourne. They seem to think the robbery was staged and murder was the motive.”
“The Mulvanes had their enemies in business,” the widow offered, sipping her tea.
“So, you are satisfied with that conclusion?” Clair pressed. She wanted to ask the widow if she loved her husband, but she wasn’t game.
“My husband was an evil man,” the widow said without emotion. She looked from David to Clair. “I think we each reap what we sow. I think there’s nothing truer than that.”
David looked pale. Clair was gripped and shaken by the subtle power of the woman. She was refuting none of the rumours about her killing her husband or her lover doing the deed.
“So, you’re saying that all is well?” Clair returned bravely. She really liked this woman.
“I don’t know… How are you, anyway, Clair?”
“Me? I’m fine thank you.” Clair was confused again.
“You used to visit your grandparents next door… You’ve grown to be a successful young woman?” the widow went on warmly. “I remember you well from back then.”
“Oh, you do?”
“Yes. I remember your pretty face. You haven’t changed at all.”
“Oh, really? Thank you,” Clair returned just as warmly.
“So, you’re a journalist? Studying to be?”
“No. It’s just a ditsy college course. Criminology. It’s more for fun. Too many true-crime shows, you know?”
There was movement at the window behind where they were sitting.
“Is that your daughter?” Clair asked.
“Yes. She’s shy,” the widow replied. It was her first guarded tone. “How are your grandparents these days?” she asked Clair.
“Grandfather passed away five years ago. Nan is going strong.”
“Ahh—another old fisherman passing before his time. My father too. He and your grandfather were good mates.”
“I sort of remember playing at the lighthouse,” Clair said, trying to summon those vague flashes of memory again. “We must have visited your father there.”
The widow nodded. “I’m sure you would have. What do you do now that you’re all grown up, Clair? I’ve heard you’re an exotic dancer.”
Clair smiled. “You’ve heard?”
“Yes—rumoured around town, as it were,” the widow countered with a smile too.
“Yes—stripper, lap dancer, pole dancer,” Clair stated forthrightly. There had been some kind of judgement in the widow’s original question. Clair was well used to that. “There are a lot of us girls and lots of guys in the industry these days. It’s quite professional.”
“I’m sure,” the widow said. There was something in her tone there too but no—not judgement. “Is all well with you doing that?” she asked Clair, using Clair’s own words right back at her.
“Yes, all is well with me doing it.” Clair tried for defiance, but the widow wasn’t challenging her. There was something else in her eyes and tone that Clair couldn’t fathom. “I’m thinking about giving it away, though,” she added, backing down in self-defence.
“And you two are to be the next item rumoured around town?” the widow went on mercilessly.
David blushed, grinning. He was chicken shit, Clair decided. He was scared to death of the widow.
“Probably,” Clair answered the woman.
“Clair’s only in town for a week or so,” David offered, finding his voice.
“Oh, I see… You look good together, though.”
“And do you and John Phillips still see each other?” Clair asked.
The widow took a moment to respond, but did so with her chin up and her eyes not wavering from contact. “We do… We’ve been the rumoured item around town for many years.”
“I’ve heard you’ve been stashing all your money and you’re going to run off together one day,” Clair tossed out there lightly, though fishing for something more.
“Oh, yes. That’s my favourite one,” the widow replied. “Somewhere warm and sunny all year round.”
She didn’t bite at all, and Clair wasn’t game to ask straight up what she did with all her money, though she wanted to. Then there was movement at the window again, and the widow left them and returned after a little while to collect the tea tray and see them off.
They parked down the back of the mansion grounds, near the old garage. David set to work with his brush-cutter, and Clair used a push-mower to help him tidy up. It was an overgrown corner that was well obscured from the mansion. They left off working and approached the old garage sneakily.
“It’s just junk,” David commented, peering in through a window.
There were wooden tea-chests and some metal drums. There was an old timber boat on its side, leaning against a wall. There were shelves and a work bench with a vice bolted to it, and paint cans and jars of nuts and bolts.
“There’s a trapdoor just inside this old door,” Clair said. “You climb down a ladder and there’s a big basement where Granddad used to park the car.”
The old door Clair was pulling at was chained. David got his bolt cutters and pulled the chain around, snipping a link that would normally sit inside. He waved Clair’s query away with a trust me gesture. He was getting into the snooping.
He pulled the door open and lifted the trapdoor, unsettling a thick layer of dust that made Clair sneeze. She got down on the ground and looked in under the floor of the old garage. She was on her hands and knees, poking her head down the hole. The light from the open trapdoor would have been the only light to enter the basement in years. There was a thick layer of dust covering a square, green vehicle.
“There’s a car down here!” Clair announced.
“What sort of car?” David asked, getting down beside her.
“I don’t know—a big one.”
He stuck his head through the opening. “That’s an LTD. An early-eighties Ford LTD.”
“Oh, yeah? And what’s a Ford LTD when it’s at home?” Clair quipped.
“Expensive,” David replied. “Expensive is what it is. And in immaculate condition by the look of it.”
“Well, we need to know what it’s doing down here and who owns it,” Clair said practically.
“There’s no number plate, though.”
“What about the registration label on the window? Don’t they have the licence plate typed on that?”
Clair was climbing down.
“We’re not supposed to be in here,” David reminded her.
“I’ll just get the number,” Clair whispered back to him. “You keep a look-out, Tarzan… And give me your phone.”
David handed his phone down to her. She used the light from it to see the registration number on the label, and she typed that into the keypad and saved it as a message. The registration had expired in November 1987.
“Come on,” David said anxiously, helping her up out of the hole in the floor. He then repaired the chain with a piece of wire and pulled it through so the broken link was on the inside again.
Ch
apter 15
Clair modelled her new dress in the wardrobe mirror. They were getting ready in Amanda’s room. Amanda was doing her makeup at the dresser.
Clair imagined that after twenty years of suspicion, the widow was entitled to be sarcastic and blasé about her husband’s death, and about speculation over her relationship with John Phillips, and about stashing all her money somewhere for them to run off to. Clair got all of that, and understood David’s shocked reaction at being around when she decided suddenly to open up and talk about it.
Clair imagined that being a young child the widow remembered had given her some sort of privilege that the local people of Everly Cove had not been afforded. Clair was indeed trying to pry into the widow’s secretive life, but the widow had accepted her more so as that young child from next door all grown up. She had offered warmth and genuine interest. She had not been entirely positive about Clair stripping for a living, but she wasn’t the first older woman to react that way. Clair put it down to that for the time being.
The floor in the foyer of that big sandstone house lingered in Clair’s mind. It was a small area of marble bordered by a groove between the edge of it and the polished wooden floor boards. It was difficult to clean in the groove. It was a job that Clair had to do once. She remembered sitting there on the cold floor with a small, soft brush and a bucket of soapy water. It was a paint brush.
The memory of that crept up Clair’s spine as she stood there staring blankly in the mirror, staring at the face of a young girl all grown up. The memory was vivid, yet surrounded by darkness. The feel of the paintbrush in her hand and the cold marble beneath her were in high definition, the reason she was there and the world beyond the groove in the floor were unclear. It was some sort of chore that she was helping with. It was some sort of punishment, she could almost remember.
“So, let’s do this?” Amanda said. “We ready?”
