by Vicki Tyley
The group of friends stood side by side, all eyes on the empty baggage carousel going round and round. While going to Melbourne had almost cost her own life, it had been worth it to bring her sister’s killer to justice. Full circle.
***
Thank you for reading Brittle Shadows. I love to hear from my readers: [email protected]
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Based in rural Victoria, Australia, she writes fast-paced mystery and suspense novels in contemporary Australian settings. More information about Vicki and her books can be found at: www.vickityley.com
OTHER BOOKS BY VICKI TYLEY
THIN BLOOD
Craig Edmonds, a successful stockbroker, reports the disappearance of his wife, Kirsty. What starts as a typical missing person's case soon evolves into a full-blown homicide investigation when forensics uncover blood traces and dark-blonde hairs in the boot of the missing woman's car. Added to this, is Craig's adulterous affair with the victim's younger sister, Narelle Croswell, compounded further by a recently acquired $1,000,000 insurance policy on his wife's life. He is charged with murder but, with no body and only circumstantial evidence, he walks free when two trials resulting in hung juries fail to convict him.
Ten years later, Jacinta Deller, a newspaper journalist is retrenched. Working on a freelance story about missing persons, she comes across the all but forgotten Edmonds case. When she discovers her boyfriend, Brett Rhodes, works with Narelle Croswell, who is not only the victim's sister but is now married to the prime suspect, her sister's husband, she thinks she has found the perfect angle for her article. Instead, her life is turned upside down, as befriending the woman, she becomes embroiled in a warped game of delusion and murder.
PROLOGUE
Craig Edmonds stared at hands sticky with darkening blood.
His hands.
He held them away from his body and looked down at his chest in horror. Large, dirty-red blotches marred the once pristine white shirt. Forgetting the blood on his hands, he tore at the buttons, ripping the shirt open.
Breathing in short, sharp gasps, he frantically examined his torso, looking for the wound. No cuts. No injuries. No holes where there shouldn’t be any. His chest heaved in relief. He wasn’t dying, after all.
But then, mid-sigh, it struck him: if it wasn’t his blood, whose was it? His head whipped around, his eyes scanning the room like radar on overdrive.
Even in the half-light, he quickly saw all was not as it should be. The glass shade from one of the bedside lamps lay in shattered fragments on the floor. The curtain rail over the bedroom’s bay window hung at a precarious angle. Usually a black-and-white photo of a nude, tattooed woman hung above the bed; now the frame lay in pieces in the doorway.
He focused on the queen-sized bed. His stomach clenched as he took in the twisted and dishevelled bedclothes. Instinctively, he knew the dark patches on the sheets weren’t shadows that would disappear once the curtains were opened.
He swallowed, the acrid morning-after taste of whisky harsh in his parched mouth.
“Kirsty?” he croaked. Clearing his throat, he called again, hesitant but louder.
In the crushing silence, time stood still.
“Kirsty!” he screamed, as he dashed into the master bedroom’s compact, white-tiled en suite. He stumbled, clutching at the doorframe. He took in the bloodied handprints adorning the vanity unit and walls like some sort of macabre finger-painting. Fighting an intense wave of nausea, he looked down at the blood-smeared floor.
Trying desperately to rein in his growing panic, he raced to the main bathroom. His wife wasn’t there either. Next room.
Out of breath, heart hammering, he reached the internal door that led to the double garage and opened it. The external roller door was down and his red Alfa Romeo and Kirsty’s silver Lexus were parked next to each other.
Gripping the door handle, he sagged against the door. He took a deep breath. Fought for control of his adrenaline-charged body. He lurched into the kitchen, heading for the sink.
Hands shaking violently, he somehow managed to turn on the cold water tap. He watched, mesmerized, as the blood from his hands, diluted by water, swirled in a pink eddy in the bottom of the sink before disappearing down the plughole.
Oblivious to the water dripping from his hands, he dropped onto the pine storage-box-cum-bench beneath the window at the end of the kitchen. Elbows on knees, he dropped his forehead into his hands. If only the infernal pounding would let up, he could think straight.
His memory of the previous evening was patchy, to say the least. He had a vague recollection of arriving home stressed after a late-night meeting at the office and, bypassing the dried-out dinner Kirsty had kept warm for him, heading for the bottle of Chivas Regal. After that, it was anyone’s guess as to what had happened.
A series of short clips flashed through his mind. In one, he saw himself shouting at Kirsty, her throwing up her hands and yelling back. What had they been arguing about? In another, he was picking up his car keys, and…
Damn it! Why can’t I remember? he thought, glancing towards the door leading into the garage. It was then he saw the set of four smudged, rust-brown streaks low on the doorframe. He closed his eyes, praying for the nightmare to end.
Except he had a feeling the nightmare was only beginning…
SLEIGHT MALICE
SLEIGHT ~ use of dexterity or cunning, especially so as to deceive.
MALICE ~ the intention or desire to do evil; ill will.
One cold Melbourne winter's night a suburban bungalow goes up in flames. Despite their best efforts, firefighters are unable to save the home. When a badly charred body is discovered in the remains, web designer Desley James is devastated. Her best friend, Laura Noble, had been the only one in the house that night - her partner, Ryan Moore, is away in Sydney on business. Then Desley learns the unidentified body is male. But it's not Ryan. He and Laura have disappeared…
Not realising until it's almost too late what some people will do to cover their tracks, Desley teams up with private investigator Fergus Coleman to search for the missing couple.
“In perfect Vicki Tyley fashion, ‘Sleight Malice’ entertains and stuns its readers.” – Lit Fest Magazine
CHAPTER 1
Rough hands grabbed her. Clamped across her waist, his powerful arm squeezed the breath from her lungs. He hauled her backwards, her thrashing arms and legs no more an inconvenience to him than if she had been a pinned fly.
She coughed, her eyes watering as the hot, acrid air seared the inside of her throat. With both hands, she tried in desperation to prize the immovable weight from her stomach. “Let me go! Get…”
Her chest convulsed against the heavy, grit-laden smoke. The man’s hold on her eased. She seized her chance and wrenched herself from his grip. She stumbled forward, shielding her face with her arms, but the fire’s intensity drove her back.
Back into the arms of the firefighter.
“What do you think you’re doing? You can’t go in there!” shouted the hulking black and yellow protective-clad figure. “You’ll get yourself killed.”
Desley James scarcely heard him over the din of the fire trucks, pumps and roar of the blaze. Her only concern was for Laura. Where was she? Had she been at home? Had she escaped the inferno? What about Ryan?
She opened her mouth to speak, inhaling a mouthful of burnt air instead. Spluttering, she bent her head forward and drew the thin cotton T-shirt she wore over her mouth and nose.
“Have you got everyone out?”
The firefighter leaned down, his ear almost touching her face. “Sorry, what was that?”
She repeated her question, watching his face as her words, muffled by the fine weave of her makeshift filter, sunk in. He averted his gaze, but not before she had her answer.
“Oh dear God, no. Please tell me it isn’t true. It’s not possible,” she added in a whisper only audible to herself.
This time when he lifted her off her feet she did
n’t resist; all the fight had left her. A female police officer joined them, draping a blanket around Desley’s shoulders as the firefighter set her down beside the open back door of a police car.
She shivered, pulling the blanket in tighter as she sunk onto the backseat, the wool fibers bristly against her hot skin. The vehicle’s interior light cast a ghostly pall over the two faces staring down at her.
FATAL LIAISON
“...easy, fluid readability factor. I didn't want to put the book down, and it was immensely enjoyable.” -MotherLode blog
The lives of two strangers, Greg Jenkins and Megan Brighton, become inextricably entangled when they each sign up for a dinner dating agency. Greg's reason for joining has nothing to do with looking for love. His recently divorced sister Sam has disappeared and Greg is convinced that Dinner for Twelve, or at least one of its clients, may be responsible. Neither is Megan looking for love. Although single, she only joined at her best friend Brenda De Luca's insistence. When a client of the dating agency is murdered, suspicion falls on several of the members. Then Megan's friend Brenda disappears without trace, and Megan and Greg join forces. Will they find Sam and Brenda, or are they about to step into the same inescapable snare?
CHAPTER 1
As he listened to the second phone call from his mother, Greg Jenkins noted the increased tremor in her voice.
“Samantha still hasn’t arrived. And she’s still not answering her phone. I’m so worried. Should I call the hospitals? What—”
“Whoa. Slow down, Mum. Don’t stress out. Remember what the doctor said. Don’t worry about Sam. We all know how bad she is with time. She’d be late for her own funeral.” Greg laughed, hoping to ease his mother’s tension.
“Yes, but—”
“Please, Mum, I’m sure you’re worrying unnecessarily. Sam has—”
“Gregory, dear, I wish you wouldn’t call her that. Sam’s a boy’s name.”
“Okay, Mum.” He started again, using the name Sam herself loathed. “Samantha’s a big girl now. I’m sure she’s all right, but just to put your mind at rest I’ll go and check on her. She’s probably so wrapped up in her new man she’s forgotten she was supposed to visit you this weekend.” He laughed again.
“What new man?” The pitch of her voice rose.
Greg could almost see her gripping the phone in both hands as she waited for her eldest child to answer. Silently berating himself for opening his big mouth, he wrestled with what he could say without digging himself into a bigger hole.
“Gregory?”
“Sorry, Mum, there’s someone at the door. I’ll have to go, but I promise I’ll get Sam… Samantha to phone you as soon as I can. Now don’t get all worked up. There’s nothing to worry about, you’ll see. Bye, Mum.”
He hung up, sucked in a deep breath and slowly released it. There was no one at the door but at short notice, it was the only thing he could think of to get out of what would’ve been the inevitable interrogation. His sister needed her butt kicked for letting down their mother like that. Sam, of all people, knew how over-protective their mother was, more so since Sam divorced her no-hoper of a husband and moved to Melbourne.
Greg picked up the phone again, and pressed the two buttons that would dial his sister’s home phone a suburb away. As he waited for the call to connect, he wandered through the house into the kitchen. The phone started ringing. Cradling it between his chin and shoulder, he filled the kettle. The phone rang out, which was good. It probably meant Sam was en route to their mother’s place. Maybe she’d been unlucky enough to end up with a flat tire or broken down. It was bound to be something as simple as that.
The kettle boiled as he tried Sam’s mobile number. It too went unanswered, but at least this time Greg was able to leave a message. He looked at his watch. He’d give her half an hour and if she hadn’t called him back by then, he would have to think of what else he could do to try to track her down. Younger sisters, who’d have them?
Twenty minutes later, he’d emptied the coffee pot and finished off the best part of a packet of shortbread biscuits without realizing it. His mother’s anxiety had started to rub off on him. He didn’t wait the half hour out. Instead, he reached for the phone and dialed Sam’s mobile first and then her home again, ending up with exactly the same results as before. No answer at either.
Had it been a Freudian slip when he’d inadvertently mentioned the new man in Sam’s life to his mother? Greg knew nothing about the guy except he was, in Sam’s words, “tall, dark, and drop-dead gorgeous.” He didn’t even know the guy’s name. What he did know was that Sam had met him through one of those agencies that specialized in dinner dating. Dinners for the desperate and dateless. He found the whole concept repugnant, but his sister had assured him that all was civilized and above board. He’d taken those assurances at face value, happy she was making an effort to get on with her life.
CHAPTER 2
Megan Brighton peered around the edge of her menu, flinching as her eyes met the ginger-mustached man’s stare across the table. What a sad lot her dinner companions were. Even the strained smiles pasted on the majority of faces at the table did little to lighten the atmosphere.
“So what’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?” asked the man seated on her right, before laughing.
She groaned inwardly. Why’d she allowed herself to be talked into this? She didn’t belong there. She was single because she chose to be. A single, professional career woman. Well, at least that’s what she told anyone who cared to listen, including herself.
“I’m not sure,” she said, her gaze not shifting from her menu. “It’s not quite what I’d imagined.” If it hadn’t been for Brenda, Megan knew she would have scarpered as soon as she caught sight of the ten or so white-tableclothed tables arranged around the room, each set for a dozen diners. From the company’s blurb, she’d been expecting to be one of “twelve carefully matched diners” eating at your standard everyday restaurant with normal people. Where she’d ended up looked more like a function centre, reminiscent of a wedding reception. The only difference was a lack of bride and groom, and the guests weren’t related by blood or marriage. Or at least she hoped not.
A beefy hand cut through her vision. “It’s Wayne, by the way. Wayne McGurk.”
She blinked and forced a smile. “Nice to meet you, Wayne. Megan Brighton.”
“So what do you do?”
“Recruitment consultant. And you?”
Wayne puffed out his chest. “Property entrepreneur. Units, villas, townhouses, duplexes, houses, vacant land, commercial, residential. You name it. Not good to have all your eggs in one basket. The key is to buy well under market price to minimize risk. Instant equity…”
Megan’s gaze swept the table. Next to Mr Ginger Moustache, whose place tag actually named him as Robert, sat Nick, a square-jawed man with dark-rimmed spectacles. Thanks to Brenda switching place tags, Nick had to be content sitting between two males. He was looking off into the distance, his thoughts obviously further afield than the immediate table. Adam, a hollow-cheeked pasty-faced man sporting a dark goatee beard was deep in conversation with Kate who was seated at the end. The boy-girl pattern continued as it was meant to around the table.
“…investment. You have to have the gift.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Megan caught Brenda smirking. Under the cover of the tablecloth, she kicked her foot sideways and connected with her friend’s ankle. Brenda chuckled before wincing in overplayed mock pain and indignation.
A giggle bubbled in Megan’s throat. She swallowed hard. The guy with the spectacles was looking her way, a smile playing on his lips. Heat flooded her face. What the hell was she doing there?
Shielded by her menu, Megan leaned to her left and elbowed Brenda in the ribs. Her so-called best friend had cajoled her into signing up with Dinner for Twelve with the ruse that she needed her support. Had Megan believed her? Of course not. Brenda was the last person who needed any help finding a date
. Men literally fell over each other in their efforts to impress her. Discounting the permanent mischievous glint in her eyes, Brenda had the face of an angel and the type of body those tiny midriff tops and low-rise jeans were specifically designed for.
More importantly, she exuded a warmth that men and women alike were drawn to. They’d been friends since high school and Megan, like others, found her hard to resist. So, here she was in a room full of strangers trying to put together an escape strategy that wouldn’t offend her well-intentioned friend.
Oblivious to the elbow jabbed in her ribs, Brenda turned to Megan and grinned. Brenda actually looked like she was enjoying herself. No accounting for some tastes. “Hunk alert at nine o’clock.”
“What?”
Brenda cupped her hand around the left side of her face. “Over there,” she said, holding a finger close to her cheek, but still managing to indicate the general direction of the door.
Twisting in her seat, Megan watched the man ambling across the room towards the table. At first glance, he reminded her of a younger and darker-haired version of David Bowie. But as he neared the table, she saw he didn’t possess the relaxed raffish air of the singer. Quite the opposite. He looked nervous and unsure of himself, like a five-year-old boy on his first day at school.
He reached the table and, smiling half-heartedly, moved to step around it to one of the two vacant chairs at the back. Megan glanced at the place tag. Lawson. The name appealed to her, but she would’ve expected it to be attached to a man who carried himself with more confidence, arrogance even.
