by Vicki Tyley
Jemma hadn’t seen or heard from Ethan since Wednesday, when she had left him at the café engrossed in a phone call. She wasn’t about to front up to him now, especially not when he was otherwise engaged. She scooted across the grass to the other side and, putting as much distance between herself and the amorous couple as she could, cut through the trees toward Rathdowne Street. The fountain would have to wait.
She couldn’t work Ethan out. He ran hot and cold. One minute he was openly flirting with her, the next she didn’t exist. Perhaps the problem wasn’t with him. Perhaps she had misread the signals. Perhaps her man antenna was faulty. Why it bothered her, she didn’t know. Or rather didn’t care to admit.
The sun pinking her fair skin, she looped around past the giant Rubik’s cube angled in the ground, continuing on behind the vast, postmodern Melbourne Museum. It was the long way round, but she had plenty of time before she was due to meet Fen for lunch, hopefully a less rushed one than the day before. Fen’s phone call so soon after their last less than productive meeting had surprised Jemma, but didn’t stop her jumping at the chance to try again. Third time lucky?
It took Jemma a lot longer to locate the address than she expected. Mopping her face with a tissue from her bag, she gazed up at the faceless grey building. Thirty-centimeter high burnished steel numerals – a one and an eight – on the vault-like front door were its only identifying feature. She checked her note again and stepped up the three concrete steps to the entrance.
In the foyer, she looked twice at a bowler-hatted male mannequin wearing a turquoise bowtie. She took a second to compose herself and then followed the sound of voices and the occasional clink of glass into an elegant lounge bar. The interior belied the establishment’s bleak façade. Abstract and contemporary artworks adorned the aubergine walls, complementing the room’s vivid red leather couches and Blackwood furniture. Only about half the couches were occupied. A couple of heads turned at her approach, but not for long. She wasn’t that interesting.
According to Fen, if she followed the long curved bar to the end and turned left, she would see the door leading outside to the beer garden. She stood there for a moment, looking at the rows of sparkling wineglasses hanging above the bar, and wondered if she should order a drink before she ventured outside. Before she could decide, a svelte middle-aged woman, her auburn hair framing her fine features, materialized at her side.
“Welcome to Eighteen. How may I help you?” asked the woman, her voice as glossy as her appearance.
Jemma hesitated, the thought that she had inadvertently strayed into an upmarket gentlemen’s club flashing through her mind. The clatter of approaching heels on the polished floor distracted her. She turned to see Fen sweep through the doorway, her lipstick the same bright color as her fuchsia-pink halterneck dress.
“Fen, darling,” said the woman, greeting her with an air-kiss, “how lovely to see you again.”
“You, too, Natalie. I see you’ve met Jemma.”
“Just in the process. Pleased to meet you, Jemma,” their hostess said, extending a manicured hand in her direction. “Natalie Goldring.”
Natalie’s hand felt limp, the fingers tensing when Fen announced Jemma was Tanya’s sister. Gushed condolences quickly followed.
Five minutes later Jemma found herself seated with Fen at a mosaic-topped table in the shade of a huge leafy pergola, menu in hand. A faint citronella scent laced the warm air. More tropical rainforest than beer garden, the terracotta-paved outdoor enclosure was clearly more popular than the inside lounge, with all but one of the tables she could see taken. The centerpiece, a two-meter high water feature of what appeared to be stainless steel pipe offcuts piled atop black granite, acted as both sculpture and humidifier.
A shaven-headed waiter at the next table acknowledged Fen with a wink and continued to clear plates. “Hi Fen,” said another waiter waltzing past.
“I take it you and Tanya were regulars here,” Jemma said.
Fen nodded. “It was one of your sister’s favorite haunts. Her little piece of calm, as she used to say.” She shrugged. “You wanted insight…”
“And I do, so thank you,” Jemma said. “Did Tanya come here often with Sean?” Concealed from the street and the outside world, Eighteen’s garden made the perfect lovers’ retreat. Especially if the main light source at night came from the tall metal-latticed lanterns dotted in amongst the lush greenery.
“Never, as far as I know. I don’t think he even knew this place existed.”
“Another man then?”
“You’re not going to let it go, are you?”
“Do you think I should?”
Fen’s fuchsia lips pursed.
“Do you?” Jemma prompted.
“Yes, but if you’re anything like your sister, I know you won’t.”
Jemma leaned in, lowering her voice. “If you know something, some reason why I shouldn’t pursue it, tell me now. Please, Fen.”
“I honestly don’t know anything. I wish I did.” Fen tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “But that doesn’t mean I’m going to let you tackle this mission or investigation – or whatever you want to call it – of yours on your own.”
“You’re offering to help?”
“Against my better judgment,” Fen said, tipping back in her seat.
The shaven-headed waiter who had given Fen the eye earlier arrived at the table armed with two champagne flutes, a silver ice bucket and a gold-foiled bottle of wine. Jemma frowned as he proceeded to pop the cork and pour two glasses. He immersed the bottle neck-deep in the ice bucket and walked away. All without exchanging a word.
“Deutz, Tanya’s favorite tipple.” Fen raised her glass.
Jemma’s mind spun. Toasting her dead sister’s memory with bubbly didn’t feel right. She took a tentative sip, the yeasty bubbles teasing the tip of her tongue, before realizing she had it all wrong. It wasn’t Tanya’s death they were celebrating, it was her life. Fen met her gaze, her almond eyes etched with sadness. Neither spoke.
Fen broke the silence, her voice higher pitched than normal. “We should order,” she said, before burying her face in the menu.
Biting down hard on her lip, Jemma did the same. Meaningless characters swam before her eyes. Why was it that whenever she finally thought she was past the worst of her grief, something would happen to send her hurtling back to square one? Would it ever get easier? She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, opening them again when she sensed someone standing at the table.
She ended up ordering the same as Fen: spicy vegetarian samosas with raita and salad greens. Not that she had the appetite for it.
Drinking more than they talked, they finished the bottle of bubbly before lunch arrived. Fen’s eyes were glazed, her cheeks flushed, but at least her voice had lost its stiffness. And though Jemma wasn’t about to trust her legs, she had a tighter rein on her emotions. She hoped.
Fen cocked a finger at the empty bottle, one eyebrow arched. Jemma shook her head. Any more to drink and she might let those reins go. She had the rest of the day to get through first.
“Are you and the electrician guy – what’s his name – still together?” Fen asked. “I don’t recall seeing him at the funeral?”
“No, Ross and I had a parting of the ways. Nothing ugly – we’re still mates. I just think we outgrew each other, wanted different things from life.”
“Does Ash know you’re single again?”
“I haven’t told him, if that’s what you mean.”
“Well, don’t. He’ll think all his Christmases have come at once. You’ll never get rid of him.” Fen swiveled in her seat, her empty glass held aloft. “Where are they when you need them?”
“But it’s not that sort of relationship.”
“No, but if he thinks you’re available, that might well change. Unless of course, you want to encourage him.”
Jemma shook her head. “Don’t get me wrong, I like him a lot, but not in that way. He’s not really my type.”
“Oh my God,” Fen said, no longer fixated with attracting the attention of a waiter, “talk about déjà vu, that’s how Tanya felt about him. Poor Ash, he can’t win. So what is your type then?”
“Good question. I only wish I had an answer. Maybe type is the wrong word. How do you explain the attraction to one man over another? Instinctual?”
“Yes well, it has to be something as abstract as that. Look at your sister. What in God’s name drew her to Sean? Or rather, what kept her there?”
Jemma let the question slide. No one could explain the inexplicable bond between her vibrant sister and the narcissistic womanizer she had planned to marry. “How about you? Any significant other in your life?”
“Not at the moment. I’m still waiting for Mr Right to make an appearance.” She made a show of scanning her surrounds. “You haven’t happened to see him by any chance?”
“What about Ash?” Jemma asked, only half tongue in cheek.
Fen studied Jemma’s face, the corner of her mouth lifting in a slow grin. “Good looking? Sense of humor? Caring? Rich daddy?” She flapped her hand. “Nah. Even if I thought he was the one, he’s not interested in me. I’m not his type. I know, hard to believe.” Chortling, she raised her empty glass. “Here’s to singledom.”
The aromatic samosas when they arrived were served on white, rectangular platters, a bowl of raita at one end, crisp rocket and other leaves Jemma didn’t recognize stacked at the other. She hadn’t realized until then how hungry she was.
“Can I get you ladies something to drink?” asked the waiter, lifting the empty bottle from the melting ice.
Fen looked at Jemma.
She held up her hand. “Not for me, thanks. I have to go out later.”
“Ooh… with a man? You’ll have to tell me more.” Fen turned to the waiter, glancing across the table at Jemma for confirmation. “Make it just one glass of bubbly and a couple of bottles of Perrier, please Hans,” she said, her fingertips brushing his forearm.
“Who don’t you know?”
Fen gave her a lopsided grin. “I don’t know who your date is with tonight. You’re blushing.”
Jemma flushed on cue, the heat rising up her neck and into her face. Wine invariably did that to her, though its effect on the petite Fen was more dramatic. Half a bottle of sparkling wine had transformed the reticent, straight-faced woman of the day before into a wisecracking chatterbox. Not that that was a bad thing.
Fen laughed, drawing glances from a nearby table. “And here I thought you had sworn off men. Silly me.”
“It’s not a date. Far from it. You’ve probably met him or at least heard Tanya mention him. Chris Sykes?”
Fen frowned.
“Detective Sergeant Christopher Sykes?”
“Nope. More information, please. Oh, hang on, it’s coming back to me. Wasn’t he one of the cops investigating Sean’s death?”
Jemma nodded and picked up her knife and fork. She was ready to eat, even if Fen wasn’t.
“That was fast work.”
“Sorry?”
“I didn’t realize you had already talked to the police about your suspicions.” Fen picked up a samosa in her fingers and dipped it in the raita.
“I haven’t, not really. Chris and his partner turned up the first night I was here. Then, of course, I dragged him out of bed in the wee small hours when that guy broke into the apartment. I—”
“Whoa. Go back. What’s this about a break-in?”
Jemma recounted the ordeal of waking to someone entering the apartment, her subsequent SOS call to Chris, through to being sprung trying to prove she hadn’t imagined the shadowy intruder.
“Man, you have been having fun,” Fen said, her half-eaten samosa still clutched in her fingers. “No wonder you’re on first name terms with this DS Sykes. So what happens now? Are you going to make an official report?”
“Sorry, did I forget to mention that I know Chris from when he dated Tanya?”
Fen tilted her head.
“Before Tanya moved to Melbourne,” Jemma continued, “when they were still teenagers.”
“She kept quiet about that.”
“How many people have you told about your first love?”
A slow smile spread across Fen’s face, her eyes filming. “Lyall Henderson. That was his name. Not what you would call a conversationalist, but hey, who cared, he had lips to die for.”
“Aren’t they all like that at that age?” Jemma asked, remembering the one-tracked, testosterone-fuelled fumblings of her first boyfriend.
“What, six?” Fen laughed and slapped the table. “Right on. Ahhh, why do they have to grow up?”
“They have a name for that.”
Fen snorted. “Correction: why do any of us have to grow up?” She stuffed the second half of her samosa into her mouth and reached for another. “Life was so much simpler back then, don’t you think?”
“Undoubtedly.” Although the death of first her father and then her mother had made Jemma’s childhood anything but simple, she had no wish to burst Fen’s bubble.
“After our conversation yesterday, I did some thinking,” Fen said, her tone sobering. “Actually, that’s an understatement, that’s all I’ve been doing. Tanya kept on about Sean’s death not being what it appeared, but I just assumed grief was clouding her judgment. Not that I blamed her. Hell, what woman wouldn’t find it hard to accept her lover led a double-life?”
“She never suspected anything?”
“You know what they say: the wife is always the last to know.”
“So, you’re saying getting off on gay porn while strangling himself was something he did a lot?”
“God knows, but it wouldn’t surprise me. That man was all about self-gratification.”
Jemma couldn’t argue with that. “Okay, let’s say for argument’s sake, that it wasn’t suicide and it wasn’t an accident, what possible reason would anyone have to want him dead? And who?”
“Who knows what shady deals he was into. Maybe he trod on someone’s toes once too often.”
“You mean as in organized crime?”
Fen stared at her for a moment. “No, the Melbourne underworld bosses aren’t into subtle. They would’ve just blown his head off and left his body as an example to other wannabes.”
“Nice. Something more personal, then? Revenge perhaps.” The note fragments she had found under the washing machine flashed through her mind. “Or blackmail.”
“If you’re going to go down that road, you better put Sean’s ex at the top of the list.” Fen clapped her hands to her cheeks. “God, what am I saying? We can speculate all we like, but it won’t prove a thing. And Kerry Mullins, she’s scary, man. I wouldn’t want to be on the wrong side of her, that’s for sure.”
“How scary? Enough to think her capable of murder.”
Fen’s voice took on a hard edge. “Everyone’s capable of murder, Jemma. Everyone.”
CHAPTER 17
Jemma started at Chris’s voice. “Sorry, what did you say?”
“You’re quiet,” he said. “Is everything okay?”
She looked out the RAV4’s window. They were driving across a busy, multi-laned bridge, yet she had no recollection of how they had got there. “I was just thinking about something Fen said.”
“Fen?” He glanced sideways at her and then back at the road. “Tanya’s friend, right?”
“Her best friend. I had lunch with her today.”
“Twice in two days – you obviously like her.”
“I do. She was a bit standoffish at first, but I think I’m starting to see the real Fen now.”
“So what did she say that’s got you so preoccupied?”
Jemma hesitated.
“Just making conversation. Tell me to mind my own business if you want.”
“It’s not that. It’s more about getting it straight in my own head first. What can you tell me about Kerry Mullins, Sean’s ex?” She paused and added, “Of course, you can tel
l me to mind my own business.”
He laughed on cue. “Quid pro quo?”
“Deal. You first.”
“Has anyone ever told you that you drive a hard bargain, Ms Dalton? Okay then, the ex Mrs Mullins. Let me think.” His fingers drummed the steering wheel. “Not bad looking, short blonde hair, athletic physique – personal trainer if my memory serves me right.”
“That’s not exactly what I had in mind.” And he knows it, she thought.
Chris flicked on the indicator, checking his rear-view mirror before swapping lanes. “Even if I could remember, you know I’m not in a position to divulge information. It’s more than my job’s worth.”
“What about information on public record?”
“Such as?”
“Such as the restraining orders Sean took out against her on more than one occasion.”
“If you already know about them, what is there to tell? And they’re called intervention orders in Victoria.”
“Intervention orders then. I was hoping you would be able to tell me a bit more about the whys and wherefores.”
“I can’t give you any specifics off the top of my head, but I would have to assume the ex was threatening him in some way or at the very least harassing him.”
“Was Kerry questioned over Sean’s death?”
He frowned, but kept his gaze on the road. “Where are you going with all this?”
“My sister is dead. Her fiancé is dead. I’m trying to make sense of why two young people with their whole lives ahead of them would take their own lives.”
Chris sighed. “It’s not as uncommon as you think, Jemma. I can’t count the number of suicides I’ve attended over the years. What you’re feeling is natural, part of the grieving process.”
“I understand that,” she said, fighting to keep the frustration from her voice, “but you can’t tell me that two related suicides happening so close together occur that often.”
“No, but the coroner ruled Sean’s death an accident.”
