She blew out a big puff of air, still looking worried. ‘Oh well, I better go earn the rent,’ she finally said. She blew us all kisses before leaving the bar.
I had wanted to talk to her about the killings, but it was apparent from her body language that whatever it was that had Lizette and Rosie scared stupid, she didn’t know about it.
Martine gave me directions to the tobacconist, which was just up the road from work, and I left soon after, keen to get home to Cocoa and my bed.
The red light on my answering machine was flashing when I got in. It was a message from Mum telling me she was coming to visit and giving me the details of the train she would be on in a couple of days’ time. I wasn’t sure I wanted her to come while the killer was still on the loose, but then I didn’t want to tell her that because then she’d be worried about me. In the end I figured she wouldn’t be going out after dark unless she was with me anyway so I needn’t worry.
I entered the details of her train in my phone and then I crawled into bed.
***
I was waiting impatiently outside the tobacconist when he opened at nine-thirty the next morning. I had arrived there fifteen minutes earlier and spent the wait fretting over what to say. I didn’t want news of what I was doing to get around, certainly not back to the police station or, even worse, the killer.
‘Hello love,’ he said as he pushed up the shutters. His forehead was already covered in a fine mist of perspiration. It was going to be a hot day.
I followed him into the shop and looked around. All of the cigarettes were behind the counter, in line with government regulations. The rest of the shop was filled with Darrel Lea chocolates. I amused myself by picking out some rocky road; putting off the awkward conversation for as long as possible.
‘I was wondering if you could help me,’ I finally said, pulling out a plastic bag with a butt in it. I handed him the bag and said, ‘Could you tell me what type of cigarette this is from?’
‘That’s not a cigarette,’ he said, ‘it’s a cigar.’
‘But it’s so thin.’
‘Not all cigars are the big thick type.’ He opened a cupboard under the counter and pulled out a box of thin dark brown cigars. There was a picture of a woman in a grass skirt and bikini on the front.
‘Hula girl?’ I said.
He placed a few more packets on the counter, each slightly different from the last.
‘Vanilla, mango, chocolate, coconut,’ I said, reading the packets.
I looked at the cigars through the cellophane wrapping on the box. The end was identical to the ones I had found. A surge of triumph burnt through my chest.
‘Do many people smoke these?’ I said.
‘Flavoured cigars?’ He scratched the tuft of hair on his chin and cocked his head to the side. ‘They’re a bit of an acquired taste. The coconut ones seem to be the most popular.’
‘Could you tell which flavour this one is?’ I asked.
‘I’d have to light it.’
I thought about it for a second, quickly discarding the idea. Lighting it would potentially destroy any DNA and probably wouldn’t give me any useful information. For all I knew every butt was a different flavour.
I paused while I considered my next move. ‘So do you think it would be possible to get a list of the people who buy them regularly?’ I asked.
‘Who’s asking?’
His face had hardened and I gulped as I pulled my badge out of my handbag and showed it to him. ‘Probationary Constable Smith,’ I said.
‘Well Probationary Constable Smith,’ he said, almost spitting out the probationary, ‘I think if people want to smoke flavoured cigars, then they have the right to do that.’
‘Yes of course they do,’ I said. ‘It’s just… well… you could help solve a case.’ I was hoping he had played cops and robbers when he was a little boy and was left with the yearning to be a policeman.
‘And I could alienate my clients,’ he said. I was guessing that was a no on the cops and robbers.
‘Surely they would understand,’ I said, smiling sweetly.
‘Understand that I’d sold them out?’ He scratched his beard again and I thought I saw something scurrying out of the way of his fingers. It looked like a flea. ‘Are you going to buy that?’ he said, pointing to the rocky road, ‘cause if you’re not a customer I’m going to have to ask you to clear out.’
I thought about not buying it out of spite, but I’ve never been a spiteful person, and besides, now I had a real craving for it. I passed him the money and then placed it in my handbag thinking hard of some other way to convince him. In the end I realised the only way to do it was to get a search warrant. I was going to have to pass the evidence over to Roger and let him deal with it.
I left the shop, stopping to open the rocky road and stuff a piece of it into my mouth. The marshmallow and smooth chocolate helped a little but I still had an urge to cry. I wanted to cry for the dead women and cry because I was lonely and cry because it was that time of the month. But most of all I wanted to cry because even though I had succeeded I had failed. I was going to have to risk exposure to hand over the evidence, but the alternative was to allow more deaths to occur. I felt hopeless and helpless but I knew one thing. I couldn’t live with myself if I let someone die for my own selfish needs.
I stuffed more chocolate into my mouth and then I went home to get ready for work.
***
My feeling of misery lasted right up till about three minutes after I got to work when it spiralled into something far worse. I was desperately hoping that Roger would be there so I could give him the evidence in private. He wasn’t, but the paperwork scattered over his table told me that he hadn’t finished for the day.
I glanced up at the case board and stiffened in horror. Leticia’s photo had been the last one when I’d left to go home that morning. It wasn’t anymore. The new photo showed a woman slumped next to a dumpster. Her front was covered in blood from the tell-tale neck wound. Even though her eyes were glassy, her skin pale, I recognised her.
When Bianca had been searching for Rosie and Lizette last night, I now knew where Rosie had been.
Tears clouded my vision and I turned and ran smack bang into Roger’s chest.
‘Sorry,’ I sobbed, trying to get around him to the sanctity of the toilet.
‘Hey,’ he said, ‘what’s up?’
I nodded my head at the board as tears streaked down my face. ‘I knew her,’ I said. ‘Well met her,’ I corrected, hiccupping and sobbing.
He pulled me into him and put his arms around me, rocking me while I cried. I put my face into his chest and snuggled into him, partly because it felt so damned nice, and partly to hide my face. I’d never been a pretty crier, and I knew that at that moment, my eyes would be red and puffy and my nose would be running.
The thought of getting snot on his shirt made me jump back and wipe my eyes. I dug around in my handbag for a tissue and came across the sealed plastic bags containing the butts. I handed him the bags and then blew my nose, trying to sound delicate and feminine. I sounded, instead, a bit like the lead horn in a brass band.
‘What’s this?’ he said when I had finished warming up my trumpet.
‘I found them at the murder sites,’ I said.
‘The murder sites?’
‘Yesterday,’ I said. ‘I found one at each of the sites a body was found.’ I was hoping he wasn’t going to be too angry.
He looked at the bags one by one, holding them up to get a better view.
‘What do you think they are?’ he said.
I was guessing that was a rhetorical question. ‘I think the killer smoked one every time he made a kill.’
‘But they could be anyone’s cigarettes.’
‘They’re not,’ I said. ‘They’re Hula Girl Flavoured Cigars. The probability of there being one at each site is a billion to one.’
He raised his eyebrows and smiled.
‘Give or take a few million,’ I ad
ded.
‘I tell you what,’ he said, ‘tomorrow I’ll have a look at the new site and if I find one I’ll enter them all as evidence and go talk to the tobacconist up the road.’
‘You’ll need a search warrant.’ I could feel myself blush as I said it.
He shook his head. ‘What are we going to do with you?’
‘Spank me,’ I thought, but what I said was, ‘Please don’t tell Ramy.’
He looked thoughtful, ‘So even if this helps break the case you don’t want him to know it was you?’
‘If it breaks the case I’m hoping he’ll retract the formal warning. If it doesn’t I’d prefer he not know. He’d probably find a reason to give me another warning.
He sighed. ‘I didn’t think the way he treated you was very fair; if anything Trent should have been reprimanded for being spotted.’
It felt good to have him defend me, even if it was in private.
‘All right I won’t tell Ramy, but I’ll see what I can do about the front desk.’
I could have thrown my arms around his neck and kissed him, and that was before he’d promised to help me. Now I was ready to carry his first-born child.
9
Alright…Who Stole My Mother?
I picked Mum up from the train station the following evening. It took both of us to carry all her luggage to the car.
‘Geez,’ I said, as I struggled to load her enormous suitcase into the boot, ‘how long are you visiting?’
‘Well,’ she said, ‘the thing is I’m thinking of staying.’
I almost dropped her vanity bag in shock. Mum living in the big city? Mum, who had always preached about the peace and quiet of the country, giving it all up? My prudish, old-before-her-time mother, rubbing shoulders with my gay and drag queen friends? It didn’t bear thinking about.
‘Ahh Mum,’ I said, ‘King’s Cross is pretty full on.’
‘Bring it on,’ she said as she hopped into the passenger seat.
Bring it on? I mouthed. What the hell had happened to my Mother?
‘But won’t you miss all your friends?’
‘There’s always the phone,’ she said. ‘Oh and I’ve got an email account now.’
It took us a couple of trips to get all of Mum’s stuff from the underground parking area up to the apartment, where it crowded my small living area. Mum was going to be sleeping on the sofa-bed, and I wasn’t sure how long it was going to work if she did indeed stay.
‘Did I mention it only has one bedroom?’ I said.
‘Oh it will do just fine until I find a place of my own.’
‘Wow,’ I said, ‘you’ve really thought this through.’
‘You’re not the only one who got bored with Hickery. Speaking of which, have you heard from Becky?’ She opened the fridge, pulled out a bottle of wine out and poured some into a couple of glasses she found in a cupboard.
‘Mum,’ I said as she took her first sip, ‘you don’t drink.’
‘What ever gave you that idea?’
She handed me a glass and I took a huge gulp as I sat down on the couch. ‘Becky’s good. They’re working in Kalgoorlie.’ I took another sip of my wine before saying, ‘What are you planning to do for work?’
The words were just out of my mouth when there was a knock on the door. I opened it to find Martine with a bottle of bubbly in her hand.
‘I heard about Rosie,’ she said.
‘Martine,’ I said, raising my eyebrows, ‘meet my Mum.’ I hoped she’d get the hint. I didn’t want to freak Mum out just yet.
She nodded her head slightly and I moved aside to let her in. Bouncing straight over to Mum she held out her hand and said, ‘I’m Martine. So pleased to meet you Mrs Smith.’
‘Call me Lorraine,’ Mum said.
I glanced between the two of them. In truth they were far closer in age than Martine and I were. Mum had popped me out at the tender age of 19, so she’d celebrated her 40th when I’d had my 21st.
I pulled the cork on the bubbly while they chatted, desperately trying to put a finger on the change in Mum. The problem was that my fingers just weren’t big enough. The changes in Mum were huge. When I’d left Hickery her favourite words had been ‘swear jar’, now she was letting fly with language so colourful even I didn’t use it, and when she dropped the ‘F’ bomb I almost dropped a glass.
‘Jesus,’ I said, waiting for her to say, ‘swear jar’, but she didn’t even break stride in her rendition of being mugged and hit by a car.
‘Chanel never told me what a hoot you are,’ Martine said.
‘That’s because I didn’t know she was a hoot,’ I said, standing in the door to the lounge room.
‘Now now Chanel,’ she said, hopping up and relinquishing the glasses from me, ‘someone had to set a good example for you.’ She handed Martine a glass and took a seat beside her. ‘Although even with that good example I did wonder.’ She put her glass on the coffee table and pulled out a packet of cigarettes.
‘You smoke?’ I felt like I was in an alien body-swap movie.
She paused in the act of lighting up and raised an eyebrow at me.
‘Not in here,’ I informed her.
‘Spoil sport.’
‘You can smoke at the club,’ Martine said.
‘Club?’
‘Where I work. We do a show each night. You should come down and check it out.’
‘A show?’ Mum said.
‘We dance and sing.’
‘Sounds fun. Chanel?’ Mum said.
‘We can go tonight.’ I was surprised she’d even thought to ask me.
As Mum and I were getting ready to go to Dazzle I said, ‘Hey Mum there’s something you should know about Martine.’ I wasn’t sure if I was trying to prepare her or shock her.
‘Apart from the fact she’s a drag queen?’
I stopped putting on my lipstick and turned to stare at her. ‘You knew?’
‘Honey… she’s got size thirteen feet and an Adam’s apple. What’s not to know?’ She smoothed her skirt down over her hips and swivelled in the mirror. ‘What do you think?’
‘Don’t get me wrong,’ I said, ‘you look great, but…you don’t look like my Mum.’ I mean obviously she still had the same face, but that is where the similarity ended. My mother had never donned a short black skirt, or a red silk blouse. She’d certainly never worn a shade of lipstick that would match that blouse, or put on high, high heels.
‘Does it matter how I dress?’ she said.
‘No, of course not.’
‘Well then, tell Mother what the problem is.’
It was the most she’d sounded like the old Lorraine since she’d got there. ‘There’s no problem,’ I said. ‘This,’ I waved my hand at her, ‘new you is just going to take a little while to get used to.’ I didn’t want to tell her the truth because it was selfish and mean, and I knew if I voiced it out loud I would become less of a person.
What was my problem with the metamorphosis of my mother from a dull boring housewife to this vibrant glowing creature? Well the truth was I was used to being the rebel and the rule breaker, had taken a certain amount of pride in it. I had also taken comfort in the dullness of my mother, the one stable in my normally turmoil-filled life. If the person who was my contrast suddenly became like me then where did that leave me? Would I slowly morph into the old version of her? Would I become her contrast – the dull boring daughter, old before her time? The fact that the very thought of it terrified me meant it probably wouldn’t happen, but deep inside, the fear niggled, and it lessened the pleasure I had at seeing my mother shine.
***
I awoke to the smell of bacon cooking and the noise of ceramic clacking. She may have been flitting around the kitchen in a skimpy camisole, rather than her full length nightie and slippers, but her urge to cook hadn’t abated. She had taken charge of the catering situation a few days before when she’d looked in the fridge and hadn’t found a single vegetable.
I had taken a leave day to
finish an assignment that was due, but had put in such a good effort the night before that I only needed a few hours this morning to finish it. That meant I could go with Mum and Martine on a second-hand shopping spree. Martine had promised us there would be designer clothes galore at bargain basement prices. I could feel my pulse beating faster at the thought of it. It had been far too long between designer clothes for me.
We started at a small St Vincent’s shop on the main drag, and to my delight some rich lady my size had dropped off a bundle of clothing the day before. Although her taste didn’t exactly coincide with my own I managed to get a Gucci black velvet jacket and jeans at the bargain price of forty dollars. Mum and I had a scuffle over a Louis Vuitton handbag, but I spotted the lining and realised it was a fake so I graciously let her win.
We were walking toward The Wayside Chapel – a community service centre that also housed a second-hand shop – and Mum and Martine were chatting about the club. I was concentrating on the feel of the sun on my face, enjoying the start of summer when I heard Mum screech.
A boy in a black hoodie had grabbed her handbag and was tug-o’-warring with her. As I watched, he reached out with his spare hand and shoved her to the ground. She still clung to her bag, screaming obscenities at him while Martine hit him over the head with her clutch. It would have looked hysterical to an onlooker, but the sight of him touching my Mother, hurting my Mother, filled me with fury. I let out a scream and launched myself at him, grabbing him around the waist and taking him to the ground.
‘Get off me you crazy bitch,’ he yelled, flipping over in my arms and getting his legs underneath him. He had Mum’s bag tucked under his arm.
‘I’m…not…crazy,’ I said through my teeth as I held onto his pants.
He propelled himself upwards and away from me, slipping out of my grasp, and took off down the street. I jumped up and chased him, running as fast as I could in my Nine West sandals. I had managed to loosen his belt with my grappling and his pants were sliding down, limiting the length of his stride and allowing me to gain on him.
Donna Joy Usher - Chanel 01 - Cocoa and Chanel Page 11
