by Vicki Tyley
His face slackened. “We used to be best mates. To be honest, I would have liked it to have been more, but she always said she valued our friendship too much to let sex get in the way. In truth, I think it had more to do with… Shit, what am I saying?” He pinched the bridge of his nose, something she had seen his father do. “You don’t need to hear this.”
“But I do. I don’t know if you know, but there was a time when Tanya and I used to share everything: aspirations, fears, secrets, the lot. Or so I thought. Now, I can’t be sure I ever really knew my sister at all.”
“She talked about you all the time, you know.”
“Really?” A lump rose in her throat.
He nodded. “Really. How else would I know you graduated with honors from Curtin University, landed a position with a prestigious IT firm, worked hard and saved enough money for a home deposit, and have a boyfriend called Ross. Don’t look so surprised. Tanya was unbelievably proud of her little sister.”
Jemma bit her lip, unable to find the words she was looking for.
“She was a beautiful woman,” he continued, his voice soft. He ran a finger around the rim of his glass. “Not just on the outside either. I should have been here for her. I owed her…” He stared into his drink.
They sat in silence for a few moments, Jemma gathering her thoughts, Ash no doubt doing the same. Here was someone who had once been close to her sister, but someone who had obviously wanted more out of the relationship than Tanya had been prepared to give.
He gave a stifled laugh. “Do you know she used to call me her toy boy? In jest, of course. The age difference was only eight years. It didn’t matter to me.” He went silent again.
Jemma took a breath. “How long were you and Tanya friends?”
“From the moment we met. As clichéd as that sounds, it’s true. We clicked straight away. It’s hard to explain. It was as if we had known each other all our lives. But that doesn’t really answer your question, does it?” He downed half his drink in one gulp. “Let’s see: it was probably not long after she came to work for Dad, so that would be what, 17 or 18 years ago?”
A long time to hold a torch for someone, Jemma thought. Especially if the feelings weren’t reciprocated. “And you stayed friends?”
“What a strange question,” he said, his frown deepening. “What did Tanya tell you?”
“That’s just it: I don’t recall her saying anything about you. But,” she quickly added, “that reflects more on my relationship with Tanya than yours.”
Confusion clouded his face, morphing to realization. A small smile played on his lips. “Did she ever talk about a Bart?”
“Oh, of course. Bart as in short for Bartlett. Why didn’t you say?”
He gave her a sad smile. “Your sister was the only one who ever called me that.”
“I had this image in my head of a spiky-haired… Never mind what I thought. At least now I know Bart wasn’t just an imaginary friend. You were away overseas a lot, if I remember rightly.”
“Too much. London mainly. Mostly my father’s doing. I’m still not convinced it’s because I was the best person to represent the company in the UK.” He finished his drink, setting the empty glass on the floor beside him. “It was more like the further away I was, the less chance I would interfere with what he was doing here. You really don’t want to hear about my dysfunctional family life. Let’s talk about something more interesting, like you, for instance.”
“You already know more about me than I know about you. Tell me more about your relationship with Tanya.”
He leaned back in the chair, swinging a leg over one of its upholstered arms. “Not sure there’s much to tell. Boy meets girl, boy falls for girl, girl falls for a different boy… well, anyway, you get the gist.”
“Are you talking about Brent or Sean?” Tanya’s marriage to gentle-giant Brent in the early nineties had been short-lived, its Achilles’ heel his fixation with his first wife’s memory. No woman could compete with a ghost.
“Both. Brent, I understood – genuine guy, if not quite all there.” He threw his hands in the air. “But the other wanker – excuse my French – is another story. Not to speak ill of the dead, but I never could work out what she saw in the sleazoid.”
Snap, she thought. It wasn’t just her.
“Sean did his damnedest,” he continued, “to cut Tanya off from all her old friends, me included, or should I say especially me. Mind you, I did threaten more than once to hang him by his balls if he even thought about doing the wrong thing by Tanya.”
“Seems he beat you to it.” Jemma stretched her legs out along the couch.
He replied with a dry chuckle. “Yeah, it seems so. He poisoned her mind so much that in those last months, she wouldn’t even reply to my emails, let alone speak to me. Not even after Sean topped himself.”
“You weren’t the only one. Didn’t you know, I’m the Wicked Witch of the West, W-W-W for short.”
He laughed, a full-throated and resonant guffaw. “Yes, well,” he said, his mood sobering, “when it came to Sean, all your sister’s clear thinking went out the window. As far as she was concerned, everything that came out of his mouth was gospel. Estranging her from her family and friends gave him even more power. And then to discover in the worst possible way, his dirty secrets, must have been earth-shattering.”
Jemma sighed, her shoulders sagging under the weight of more self-recrimination. “I should have been there for her, been more understanding—”
“Don’t go there. We can blame ourselves as much as we like, but it can’t change what’s happened.”
“Yes, but—”
Ash sliced the air with his hand. “No buts. You know how strong-willed Tanya was. It wouldn’t have mattered what you or I said or did.”
“Have you ever thought that she might have been right about Sean’s death, that it wasn’t an accident? After all, don’t you think she would have known or at least suspected if her fiancé were that way inclined?”
He cocked his head at her, saying nothing.
CHAPTER 11
On her way downstairs to check the mail, Jemma thought about Ash Bartlett and smiled. She liked his easy manner and straight-talking attitude. But more than that, she felt an affinity with him, as if somehow being in his company brought her closer to her sister. He understood what Jemma was going through; understood it because he was experiencing the same grief. Given the choice between Ash and Sean, she knew whom she would pick. What had Sean had that Ash didn’t? Besides arrogance and an over-inflated ego, of course.
The lift doors opened and she stepped out, her keys at the ready. Other than a pony-tailed youth hard at work polishing the glass doors, the lobby was empty. Wrinkling her nose at the faint ammonia smell, she searched the wall of brushed-steel fronted mailboxes to her right for number 367, finding it in the sixth row from the bottom.
Sifting through the handful of post, she found what she was looking for: the envelope from the State Coroner’s Office addressed to her Perth address, redirected in Gail’s rounded handwriting. Satisfied, she closed the mailbox and headed back up to the apartment, resisting the urge along the way to open the letter. She needed to be sitting down first.
Except when she got inside, she couldn’t bring herself to open it. Leaving the post on the kitchen’s raised counter, she went to check her emails, returned, went for a pee, returned. She stood in the middle of the kitchen, scratching the backs of her hands and staring at the top envelope, as if somehow she could absorb its contents without touching it.
After another minute or so, she walked around to the living room side of the counter and climbed onto one of the leather-seated bar stools. The letter hadn’t moved.
She flexed her fingers in readiness for the task ahead. Then, before she could change her mind, she snatched up the envelope, ripped it open and drew out the enclosure. Taking a quick breath, she unfolded it, smoothing it out on the counter top with her hands. Typed on letterhead, the front page referenced her request for
a copy of Tanya’s autopsy report, but not much else.
Flipping to the attached report, she scanned through the first pages, not understanding all the terminology, but getting the substance of it. Tanya had choked to death on her own vomit after ingesting a lethal cocktail of prescription drugs and alcohol. Jemma turned to the next page, the sharp intake of breath she heard, her own.
Pregnant? Tanya pregnant? Her sister pregnant? Six weeks? How? At the time of Tanya’s death, Sean had been dead two months. Who was the father?
She scoured the report, looking for an answer, but there was nothing to suggest a DNA analysis on the embryo had been done. She shook her head, struggling to come to terms with the news. The autopsy report raised more questions than it answered.
Her mind racing in circles, she sat motionless, staring at the kitchen wall. Who had fathered Tanya’s baby so soon after her fiancé’s death? How long had the relationship been going on? Had it been a one-night stand or something more enduring? She had to have known, or at least suspected, she was pregnant. So why then, would she have risked taking one pill, let alone the toxic quantities found in her system? None of it made any sense.
She had to speak to Gail. Needing more support than a stool could offer, she took the report and her mobile phone with her to the couch.
“Gail, it’s me.”
“Is everything all right?”
“Yes… no… I mean I don’t know. Did you know Tanya was pregnant?”
Silence.
“Are you still there?” Jemma checked her phone in case the call had dropped out. “Is there something you’re not telling me, Gail?” She was about to disconnect and redial when she heard a cough.
“Sorry, love, you caught me by surprise, that’s all.” Gail cleared her throat. “Are you sure?”
“I’ll take that as a no, then. Yes, I’m sure, unless the pathologist made a mistake.”
Silence.
“Gail?”
“Sorry, what did you say?”
“I said, yes, I’m sure.”
“How far… how far along was she?”
“Six weeks.”
“Oh, the poor girl. What must she have been going through?”
Jemma’s grip on the phone tightened. She had asked herself the same question over and over.
“Six weeks, you said,” Gail continued. “But Sean’s been dead longer than that.”
“Exactly. I was hoping Tanya might have confided in you, especially since she wasn’t talking to me. She had to have told someone. If not you, then a friend. Do you have the condolence cards handy?”
“Hang on a sec,” Gail said, her voice fading for a moment. “Got them.”
“Okay, I think there should be one there from Tanya’s friend, Fen.”
“Such a lovely girl.” Everyone was lovely to Gail. “Here it is.”
“Is there a phone number or a street address?” Directory had no listing for an F Luk in the Melbourne area and Jemma had yet to gain entry to Tanya’s notebook.
“Not on the card, but I’ve got the envelopes here, too. I kept them for when you’re ready to do the thank you notes. Jemma, love, why don’t you let me look after that? You have enough to worry about.”
Sighing, Jemma kneaded her left temple. Another forgotten task. “That would be such a great help. Thank you, dearest aunt.”
“Only aunt, you mean.”
“Still the dearest.” Jemma hauled her bag from the floor and scrambled in the bottom of it for something to write with. “Did you find the envelope?”
“Yes, but there’s no phone number, only a post office box, if that’s any help.”
Better than nothing. “Shoot,” Jemma said, pen poised.
Gail read out the details. “Pregnant?”
“I couldn’t believe it either. I’ll let you know if I find out anything.”
Hanging up, Jemma racked her brain, trying to think whom she could call or what she could do to track down Fen. Would Ash know how to contact her? Except she had forgotten to ask him for his phone number. Rising from the couch, she stood in the middle of the room, struggling to recall where she had put Marcus’s business card.
Then she remembered Tanya’s mobile phone charging in the other room. What was it Gail used to say? If she didn’t have her head screwed on, she would forget that, too? She wasn’t far wrong. With a sigh, Jemma gathered up the coroner’s letter and autopsy report and headed to the study.
She had found the phone buried amongst clothes in the bottom of one of the moving boxes, but only because the low-battery alarm had alerted her to its presence. Leaving it connected to the power point in the wall, she picked up the mobile and scrolled through the names until she found Fen’s. Without thinking, she pressed Call.
“Hello?” answered a quiet, hesitant voice.
“Fen, it’s Jemma, Tanya’s sister. We met at the funeral.”
Fen gave a titter. “Thank Christ for that. You can’t imagine what was going through my head when I saw Tanya’s name come up on the caller display.”
“Sorry,” Jemma said, apologizing again. She seemed to be doing a lot of that of late. “Forgive me. My brain’s all over the place. I should’ve thought.”
“No worries. It’s good to hear from you. Where are you? In Melbourne?”
“Yes, how did you know?”
“A wild guess: you’re using Tanya’s phone.”
Jemma smacked her forehead. “See what I mean.”
Fen chuckled. “Don’t beat yourself up,” she said, as if she had seen Jemma doing just that. “You’ve been through a lot. I guess you’re in Melbourne to sort out Tanya’s affairs.”
“Yes, and that’s one of the reasons I’m calling. I’m trying to piece together what happened in the lead-up to her death and I’m hoping you might be able to help, you being her best friend and all.”
“Of course. I’ll do whatever I can,” Fen said, her voice somber.
Jemma debated whether to come straight out with it over the phone or arrange to meet up with her later. “Did you know Tanya was pregnant?” Patience wasn’t one of her greatest virtues.
“What? Are you serious? Tanya pregnant?”
Either Fen was a brilliant actress or she was genuinely shocked. “Six weeks.”
Silence and then a gasp, as Fen did the math. “No, that’s not possible. How can that be?”
“I don’t know. I was hoping you could tell me.”
“I obviously didn’t know your sister as well as I thought I did,” Fen said, her voice taking on a hard edge. “I didn’t even know she was seeing anyone.”
“So you had no idea, not even an inkling?”
“Nothing. Her grief over losing Sean was real. I’m sure of it. You can’t feign emotion like that.”
“Something happened that neither of us was privy to, though.”
“Quite.” Fen sniffed. “Sorry, but I have to go…” Her voice cracking, she hung up.
Tears welled in Jemma’s eyes. Her chest hurt, the pent-up tension crushing her insides. Raising her hands above her head, she drew in a deep breath, holding it for a count of ten before releasing it through her mouth. She was trying so hard to stay strong, but how long could she keep it up?
The intercom buzzed. Wiping her eyes with the backs of her hands, she went to answer it. She glanced at the clock. “Mr Punctuality Plus,” she said, a light heartedness to her voice she didn’t feel. “I’m nearly ready. Come on up.”
She spent the short time it took for Chris to get from street level to the sixth floor focused on composing herself. Though not in the mood, she knew an outing had to be better than staying holed up in the apartment with nothing but regrets and memories of her sister to keep her company. Jemma only hoped she could be better company than that for Chris.
Greeting him at the door, she said, “You didn’t have to do this, you know.”
“Yes,” he said, his face deadpan, “I would have much preferred to have stayed home fighting the flies and the heat to mow what’s
left of my lawn.”
“So I’m just an avoidance tactic then?”
He smiled. “Something like that. Ready? I’m parked across the street.”
Five minutes later, ensconced in the air-conditioned comfort of Chris’s RAV4, they headed east along Victoria Parade. Crossing Hoddle Street was like crossing the border into another country. Vietnamese eateries, grocery stores and other exotic businesses lined both sides of the street for as far as the eye could see.
“Little Saigon,” Chris said, reading her thoughts.
Because cars shared the street with trams, all the traffic moved in the same start-stop rhythm, giving Jemma time to take in her surroundings. Even with the vehicle windows up, she was convinced she could taste fresh ginger, lemongrass and coriander; hear the rapid-fire chatter of the slight-statured Vietnamese people populating the footpath. An impatient motorist tooting his horn only added to the atmosphere.
Chris turned left at the next traffic lights and pulled over. “I packed a picnic lunch, but if you prefer, there’s a great little French café just up the road.”
She dipped her head, peering at him over her sunglasses. “Picnic?”
“Not your scene?”
“Definitely my scene, but where?” She waved a hand around at their manmade environs. Did he intend to lay out a rug on the footpath?
He laughed. “Wait and see.”
One U-turn and two left turns later, they ended up in a cul-de-sac. Chris squeezed the four-wheel-drive into the only available space, a park between a van and another car scarcely large enough for a Mini, let alone a RAV4. With his assistance, Jemma managed to clamber over the seats and out the driver’s door.
She followed him to the rear of the vehicle, offering to help carry something.
“All sorted,” he said, hoisting a large blue-and-white esky out of the back. He locked the car and steered her toward a set of concrete steps leading down to a steel and timber footbridge spanning a clay-colored river. Melbourne’s iconic Yarra, no doubt.
She grabbed the guardrail and started down, keen to explore the parkland on the other side. Halfway across the bridge she stopped and looked down. Dark shapes glided through the murky water below: fish or perhaps turtles. Chris came up beside her, pointing across the river to what he called the world’s most urban vineyard. It all felt so surreal. Only a few kilometers from the city centre, they had already traversed a foreign land and visited the bush. She must have been in a trance, because she didn’t see or hear the approaching cyclists.
