by June Whyte
“You have to do something about Sarah,” I wailed. “She’s been in my room again and this time she’s read my diary. My diary. I don’t let anyone read my diary.”
“Chiana’s growing boobs. Chiana’s growing boobs.” It was Sarah, her sing-song voice like a chant from a skipping game.
Ken, in the act of licking his finger, looked down at Mum and raised his eyebrows. “Isn’t Chiana a bit young for boobs, Marg?”
“You’ve got a lot to learn, Ken,” Mum answered, rapping him across the knuckles with the wooden spoon as he reached for another finger full of thick yellow cake-mixture.
“Mum…do something!”
Putting down the spoon she ruffled a floury hand through my hair and I could see her lips twitching as she spoke. “Have your breasts really grown, Cha?”
My life as a member of this insensitive family was over. Terminated as of that moment. I’d join a circus. Spend the rest of my life dressed as a clown riding on the back of an elephant. Or perhaps I could fly through the air doing death-defying acts on the trapeze.
I could feel the mortifying heat creeping up my neck, spreading across my cheeks and threatening to make me look like a totally dumb jerk.
“I’m going to visit Patsy,” I mumbled.
They’d all be sorry when I solved this murder and was presented with a commendation from the Chief of Police.
Mum went back to stirring the cake-mixture and added more cinnamon. “Why don’t you take Sarah with you, Cha—introduce her to Patsy’s family?”
As if…
The front door, already a little weak, shuddered on its hinges as I slammed it for the second time in one day.
Five
Home sucked.
As I crunched up Patsy’s driveway, I shoved aside my angry thoughts and swallowed the cement lump in my throat.
Sarah wasn’t going to win.
Instead, I’d interview Patsy—and as they say in cop-shows—see if she could help me with my investigations. Hey, if I helped catch the killer and wrote a mega-story, maybe my family would stop treating me like the last sweet in the bag, the one that dropped on the pavement and everyone trod on.
I kicked at the gravel and sent shiny white pebbles clattering onto the cement base of an ugly birdbath. It was so ugly no bird in his right mind would come with a hundred meters of the thing.
Patsy’s family lived in a sprawling, odd-shaped house. It reminded me of the old woman’s shoe in that nursery rhyme where she has ‘so many children she doesn’t know what to do.’
The bright orange and purple front door swung open as I approached. I smiled. “Hi, Mrs. Turner. Is Patsy home?”
The woman standing there was so skinny if a strong wind gusted through town it would lift her off her feet and blow her away. But this woman was what people called ‘wiry’. She’d brought up nine kids, the eldest Patsy, down to the youngest, a jammy-mouthed toddler who was poking his tongue out at me from behind his mother’s legs.
“Hello. If it isn’t little Chiana. We haven’t seen much of you since you grew too old for Patsy to baby-sit. Come in, love. Patsy’s in her room.” She stood aside to let me in, not stopping for breath before continuing. “Real shook up Patsy was about findin’ that dead bloke squashin’ the pansies in her front garden. Why pay good money renting a house, I keep telling her, when there’s a perfectly good one here. Time enough for that when she finds the right bloke to put a ring on ’er finger.
“Not like her ex. That good-for-nothing Zane. Back-packin’ across Europe. Huh. If I had my way I’d send him down Niagara Falls stark naked and without a barrel. Strings my girl along for over a year then up and leaves. Always said he had mismatched eyes. Told my Arthur he was a good-for-nothing lay-about. He didn’t have a job for the last twelve months so where’d he get the money to go traipsin’ across Europe? That’s what I’d like to know.”
Her unbroken chatter flowed like a tap turned on full blast. I followed Mrs. Turner through cheerful rooms chock with everything from colorful graffiti to towering piles of well-read comics and magazines. “And as for this dead bloke up and getting himself killed in my Patsy’s garden—don’t know what the world’s coming to.”
She bent down and slapped the little boy hanging onto her skirt. “Johnny. Stop pokin’ your tongue out. A big blackbird will come and peck it off if you’re not careful.” Her gaze swung back to me. “That happened to one of my brothers years ago. He was forever poking out his tongue and one day this kookaburra came flying down out of a tree and must have mistook it for a worm. He couldn’t talk for a week—tongue too swollen to eat anything but strained soup and custard.”
By this time we’d passed through the house and onto the closed-in back veranda where Patsy slept. Mrs. Turner’s voice didn’t stop. I blinked and rubbed a hand between my eyes. A headache, woollier than an old jumper, was starting to unravel inside my head. No wonder Patsy had wanted to move out.
“Look who’s here to see you, love. Little Chiana Ryan,” said Mrs. Turner, poking her nose inside Patsy’s door. “Remember the time she blocked our toilet trying to flush sausages away because she didn’t want to hurt my feelings by not eating them. Turned out they’d gone maggoty and I hadn’t noticed.”
This must be Embarrass Chiana Day.
I could feel my face growing hot and wondered if they’d notice if I buried my head in a nearby bin-tidy.
“Hi Patsy,” I said, closing the door so quickly I almost chopped off little Johnny’s tongue. “How’s it going?”
Patsy looked up from the book she was reading and gave me a wobbly smile. “Pretty lousy, if you really want to know.”
“It must have been mega-scary tripping over a dead body like that.”
“You gotta believe it.”
I dragged a chair from the corner, turned it back to front and sat down. Just like you see P.I.’s do in the movies. After all, this was my chance to grill a star witness. I rolled both shoulders slowly and sat up straight before starting the interrogation.
“Jack says you knew the dead guy.”
Patsy frowned. “Not really. That morning was the first time I’d ever laid eyes on him. And when I arrived home was the second.” She suddenly shivered, wrapped both arms around her body. “But by then he was dead!”
My shoulders slumped. “Gross.”
“Yeah. So much for the doctor prescribing a visit to a Laughing Class for therapy. Since Zane left me I’ve been on a bit of a downer and the doctor said laughter was the best medicine. It wasn’t. I felt like an idiot. It’s put me off laughing for life. When the class finished I told the leader where she could stick her class in future.”
Knowing that once Patsy got her teeth into a subject, it was hard to pry her away, I quickly butted in. “Patsy, can you describe the dead guy to me?”
She gave me a suspicious stare. “Why?”
“Umm…just curious.”
“Well…he was sort of creepy. Said his name was Frank Skinner. Shifty eyes. Long pointy nose. Looked the type who went around raiding little kids’ piggy-banks, if you ask me.” She rolled her eyes skywards. “What made it worse, he flirted with me. Yuk! Of course I told the sleaze to drop dead…but hey, how was I to know he’d actually do it.”
Patsy just sat there. Head in her hands, scraggly ginger hair coming undone from her bun. When she spoke again, I had to lean closer to hear her.
“Oh, Cha. What if the killer comes back for me?”
She began shaking. All over. I’d never seen Patsy come unglued like this before. From the time she was sixteen, trying to earn extra money to buy make-up and clothes by babysitting, she’d always been so sure of herself. Yet here she was falling apart in front of me.
Seeing Patsy’s fear gave me goose bumps. Hit me with a thwump right in the gut. This wasn’t a game. It was murder. Chips of ice settled in my chest and threatened to cut off my air supply. What the heck was I doing here? Who did I think I was—acting like some storybook detective?
Patsy dra
gged her handkerchief out of her pocket and wiped her eyes. The scent of tropical mango spilled out into the room making me blink.
Handkerchief?
Like magic my fear disappeared and my newly-found P.I. instincts kicked in again.
“Er…Patsy. Do you or Zoë know anyone whose name starts with a K?”
She blew her nose. “Not that I can think of.”
“You don’t know anyone called Katherine? Katy? Kerry? Kimberley?”
“No. I used to know a Katrina but she shifted to Queensland a couple of years ago. Why?”
“Oh—no reason.” Changing the subject I said, “When are the police letting you back into your house?”
“I’m never going back there. Neither is Zoë. She’s shifted in with another friend and I’m staying here for a while.”
Her face had that drawn look you sometimes see on TV when they flash across to a person who has just fallen off a three-story building and the interviewer says, “And how do you feel?”
Patsy’s eyes grew bigger as she looked at me. “I’m too scared to even go back and clean the place.”
I sat up straighter. Hey, here was a perfect opportunity to see inside Patsy’s house. “Don’t worry,” I said. “Tayla and I will clean the house for you.”
A wobbly smile trembled at the corners of Patsy’s lips. “Would you really?”
“No problems.”
“My brother Josh said he’d collect my things in his van but if you and Tayla could tidy up a bit—” She leaned across to the dresser, pulled a key off her key-ring and handed it to me. “I’ll pay you. How about ten bucks each?”
“Great.”
Ten dollars should help talk Tayla into helping me.
“Thanks, Cha.”
While I had her in a good mood it was time to push on.
“Patsy, can you tell me what sort of knife the killer used?”
“Cha…what’s with you? You’re a kid. You don’t want to know these things.”
“I’m going to be a writer when I leave school. Write crime stories. So yeah, I do want to know these things.”
“Since when have you decided to be a writer? Just six months ago you told me you wanted to be a mountain-climber.”
“That’s baby stuff. And anyway, I’m not real good with heights. Come on, Patsy. Can you remember anything about the murder weapon?”
“Murder weapon?”
“The knife.”
“Oh. I dunno.” She stood up and started pacing up and down the room. “I guess it was narrow. Sharp. Looked something like one of those Chinese daggers you see in Kung Fu movies.”
Hmmm…what did we have so far? The suspect was a kung-fu, dagger toting, Chinese female carrying a pink handkerchief. Shouldn’t be too hard to find.
“Who do you think killed Frank?”
Patsy shrugged. “Hey, I didn’t even know the guy.” A thoughtful frown flitted across her forehead. “But come to think of it, there were a couple of men watching Frank outside the class. When they poked their heads around the door Frank got real agitated and sort of tried to hide behind me. I quickly shoved him away though.”
“What did they look like?”
Could they be members of the Chinese woman’s gang?
“Wasn’t paying much attention at the time but I remember they both wore overalls. You know—like painters.”
“What happened to the body?” I asked standing up and watching Patsy pace.
She blinked, shook her head as though she was having trouble keeping up with me. “That’s the funny part,” she answered at last. “I went inside to ring the police and when I came back out, the body was gone. Thought I heard a car, but couldn’t be certain. You know, like my heart was pounding so loud I could barely hear the cop on the phone.”
“You mean someone pinched the body?”
“How do I know?” She shook her head, let me out of the sleep-out and closed the door behind her. “I guess some people will pinch anything.”
“But a body?”
“Hey, all I know is Frank was gone. There was just a flattened row of pansies to show where he’d been.” She led the way through the house. “Weird.”
“Totally,” I agreed, clasping the key to Patsy’s house in my sweaty little hand as I waved goodbye at the front door.
“Hey, Cha,” Patsy called as I started down the driveway. “Funny you should ask about knowing someone whose name starts with a K.”
I stopped. “Yeah?”
“Krystal Masters is the leader of our Laughing Class.”
Six
Krystal Masters?
Hmm…that didn’t sound much like a Kung fu, dagger throwing Chinese woman who carried a pink handkerchief. Oh well…I guess she could have changed her name when she decided to become a crook.
A sudden gust of wind straight off the sea stood my hair on end, tugging at it like a giant vacuum cleaner. I staggered toward my bike and unchained it from the fence. Now what? I didn’t want to go home—that wasn’t a fun place to be—so figured I’d go dig up more clues.
Which sounded pretty cool. But how?
There was always the Semaphore public library. I could spend an hour searching through old newspapers, hoping Krystal Masters’ name popped up somewhere in the crime pages.
Sounded a bit dull though.
Or, being dead keen to practice more P.I. stuff, I could ride my bike to the church hall. Who knows? Someone other than Patsy might have seen those two suspicious painters hanging around.
Arriving at the hall, I chained my bike to the fence and looked around. Not a soul in sight, which meant I had to knock on doors.
Aaaargh!
My stomach did a double somersault with a twist. Perhaps I should have left the questioning until the following morning and brought Tayla with me. Her curly hair, big blue eyes and sweet smile could get answers from a fence post. Me—I seemed to have the opposite effect on people.
Okay…stop with the negative thoughts.
I lifted my chin, straightened my shoulders and banged the heel of my hand against my forehead.
“Get lost bad thoughts,” I shouted, scaring a scavenging seagull into flight.
Now…think like a professional. P.I.s do not need big blue eyes. They need sneakiness, brains and the right clothes.
I glanced down at my raggedy kneed jeans, sloppy Harry Potter tee-shirt and scuffed sneakers and a tiny negative thought tried to sneak its way back in again. I growled and batted it away. Okay, these clothes may not be standard Private Investigator gear, but hey, I could always poke around in the Op shop—see if they had a trench coat, beret and a long silk scarf. Today would be a practice run.
From this moment, I am Chiana Ryan, Private Investigator, ready to grill witnesses, take notes and get a lead on the two dodgy painter guys.
Who knows, if I cracked this case wide open, I might even make a name for myself. In six months’ time, when I turned thirteen, Ken could nail a brass plate on our front door, saying, Chiana Ryan: Teenage Private Investigator for Hire.
I paused for a mega-chilling thought.
What if I got myself killed looking for Frank Skinner’s murderer and never made it to thirteen?
Pushing that image from my mind as too icky to spend time on, I used my fingers to tame my wind-blown long hair. Then I put on the chewed sunglasses Leroy had mistaken for a Tim Tam and strode toward the first house. It was an old cottage, rusty, run-down, and tired looking. Lace curtains out of place with the crumbling window frames and the front door had a crack wide enough to stick two fingers in.
I knocked softly. Waited. Nibbled my thumb nail. Then waited some more. Butterflies and moths and even a couple of possums started having a party in my stomach. What was I really doing here? No-one in their right mind would talk to a twelve year old kid with bird’s nest hair and freckles marching across her nose.
I stood first on one foot then the other, but no-one answered the door. Good. Now, I could go spend the two dollars in my pocket on a choc
olate bar and eat it sitting on the beach watching seagulls peck at each other. Instead of investigating bad guys. There were plenty of true crimes already solved that I could use for my book. Why did I need a ‘happening now’ crime?
In self-disgust, I trudged towards the half-open gate, kicking at the sea of junk mail on the path. This wouldn’t have happened to a real P.I. A real P.I. would ring first to arrange an appointment.
“Yeah. Wottayawant, kid?” The abrasive voice came from behind, making me jump. “If ya after money, I aint got any.”
One hand on the rusty iron gate, I turned and pasted a size ten smile on my face. “Good afternoon, madam, do—”
“Nah…don’t want none.”
The woman peered at me through her long dirty yellow hair, a half-smoked cigarette dangling from her stained fingers.
“But I’m not selling anything,” I bleated as the woman went to shuffle back inside. She turned and stood one hand on her hip, the other on the door handle.
“Well,” she barked, “I aint got all day, kid. Spit it out! Wottayawant?”
My smile a bit wobbly, I took a step forward. “Hi, I’m Chiana Ryan and I’m here about a murder. I’d like to—”
The door banged. The hinges jerked. And the crack widened to three fingers.
Hmm…perhaps I shouldn’t have brought up the word ‘murder’ quite so early in the conversation.
Across the road, a bent old man in a gray cardigan and baggy trousers was pruning his roses. Okay, I was a fast learner. This time I wouldn’t come on so strong. I’d just lean over the fence, not mention the word murder and ask if he’d seen anything suspicious going on outside the church hall the day before.
I hitched my shoulder-bag a little higher, pushed the stained hem of my tee into my jeans out of sight, and crossed the road.
“Hi, Mister,” I began, checking him out for ‘scary’ or ‘dangerous.’ “Bit cold and windy today.”
“I love the cold,” the old man answered, looking at me and smiling. “I was born and raised in Tasmania. High up in the snow country.” His smile was really sweet, even if his false teeth did distract me by jumping up and down as he spoke.
