by Ilsa Evans
I made the phone call at ten-twenty, about fifteen minutes after my last guest left. I probably wouldn’t have made it at all, had not the last two glasses of wine woken all the others from slumber. One moment I was absolutely unaffected, the next I was buzzing. Another glass therefore became mandatory, if only through scientific curiosity.
The house smelled vaguely of roasting meat and percolated coffee. Plates smeared with pavlova were piled in the kitchen sink, alongside dip platters and leftover salads. Empty bottles, wine and beer and soft drink, were lined beside the rubbish bin like a regimental parade. I had received many offers to help tidy up, but the truth was that I just wanted the house to myself. Quinn, who wasn’t one of the offerers, had vanished upstairs with Gusto before the front door even closed.
He answered on the third ring, surprise lifting his tone. ‘Nell? What’s up?’
‘Nothing,’ I said brightly, already regretting the call. We didn’t have that type of relationship. ‘Just wanted to say hi.’
‘Hi.’
‘Hi.’
‘Um, did you get my text?’
‘Yes, thanks.’ I dragged my mind from Tony’s cousin. ‘So did you find out anything?’
‘If I did, I wouldn’t be telling you. I’m serious, Nell, stay away from this one. It’s too close.’
‘Can you tell me one thing? Is he an actual suspect?’
‘What do you think?’
Thinking wasn’t really my strong suit at the moment. My periphery was slightly blurred.
‘Nell? Are you still there?’
‘Have you met someone else?’ The words escaped before I could stop them. I tried to rein them back. ‘That is … have you?’
There was a long silence. ‘What makes you ask that?’
‘A little bird told me.’ I tried to let loose a soft laugh, in order to appear nonchalant, however it emerged rather like a damp giggle.
‘Have you been drinking?’
‘Don’t change the subject.’
‘This isn’t really a good time.’ He paused, and now I could hear someone talking in the background. ‘I wanted to talk when I got back, next week.’
‘She’s there now, isn’t she?’
‘What? No. I’m just having dinner with some friends.’
‘At quarter past ten?’
‘No, at quarter to nine. You’ve forgotten about the time difference. Hang on.’ He put his hand over the phone and I could hear muffled conversation. Minutes later he came back on the line. ‘So, do I detect a note of jealousy?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘Then why are you asking about Holly?’
‘Holly? Holly?’ For some reason all I could think of were rhymes. Holly, folly, golly.
‘Look, nothing’s happened. She’s just a friend. But …’ He let the word hang for a moment before continuing in a harsher tone. ‘You’re the one who wants to keep things the way they are. You’re the one who doesn’t want to get serious. You know I want a relationship, something more. Not just a weekend every now and again, but more.’
I frowned. ‘So what you’re saying is that if I don’t want that, then you’ll find someone who does? Like Holly?’
‘No. Well … Look, Nell, I want to be with someone. I want to wake up next to them in the morning, hear them in the shower, ring them during the day and ask what they want for dinner. Watch movies, argue, make up.’ He took a breath. ‘And I want that person to be you. The problem is that’s not what you want. Is it?’
I wanted to answer because I loved his words. They settled in my chest, warm and light.
‘Just say the word, Nell. Even half a word.’
But I couldn’t.
Chapter Fourteen
I really identified with your column about Facebook friend requests – I don’t know how many times I’ve looked up old friends but held back from reaching out because they seemed to have such wonderfully full lives. So I bit the bullet and did as you said. Sent out ten friend requests and haven’t heard back from a single one. Thanks.
The police were back at six-thirty on Saturday morning, but this time the investigation was centred next door. Woken by their arrival, closely followed by Lucy’s departure, along with Red and Kate, I sat in the downstairs bay window, nursing a coffee and watching their comings and goings with bleary eyes. No doubt I looked terribly guilty of something, perhaps illicit drug use, but I didn’t much care. Apart from the obligatory uniformed presence, there were police in puffy plastic coveralls carrying what looked like large toolboxes. One even had a face mask attached, which seemed a little superfluous. But they all moved with focused determination and I knew that Dallas Patrick was finally in good hands. It was my father I was worried about now.
They arrested him two days later, on Monday morning, at nine o’clock exactly. As if they kept shop hours and had clustered outside my mother’s house staring at their watches. Okay, men, business is open. Let’s go! It was all very civilised, with no battering of the door or raised voices or even handcuffs. Just two plainclothes detectives strolling from the house either side of my father, all three deep in convivial conversation, and then hopping into the car. They might have been off for a round of golf, or some fishing.
I received these details less than an hour after the event, while working at Renaissance, courtesy of Lyn Russo. She lived in the next street across and, at the vital moment, had rather fortuitously been walking her dog Jaspyr (with a y) past the old dairy at the end of my mother’s road. She also provided a wealth of incidentals, such as the colour of the car, the uncanny resemblance of the lead detective (that one from telly the other day) to the Grim Reaper, and the fact that Jaspyr (with a y) got such a fright he defecated in my mother’s new herbaceous border. And if she says anything, could I please tell her that Lyn would be around there with a plastic bag this afternoon. But only if she says anything.
I had been growing increasingly concerned by my mother’s absence from the shop, with the worst-case scenario involving a car accident and the best-case a lazy post-coital breakfast with my father, or vice versa, so Lyn Russo’s explanation almost came as a relief. I retired to the back room to ring Yen, who gave me short shrift. It was being sorted out, no need for any concern, and under no circumstances was I, or my sister, to get involved. Furthermore, if she saw me anywhere near the Bendigo courthouse when he came up for bail that afternoon, she was going to fire me. And there would be hell to pay, she quickly added, as if belatedly realising the emptiness of the first threat.
I rang Petra next, but this was also a brief call as she was in Melbourne, having breakfast with friends at some place called Come Hither & Partake. I was never sure whether I envied Petra’s rather decadent, relatively commitment-free lifestyle, or pitied her lack of offspring, and partner, and roots. Right now, with a busy day ahead and just Sharon and I on the floor, plus a column needing to be written within the next few days and Quinn’s textbooks to be collected even though she started back at school today (I’m going to be the only one without books! How could you do that to me!), and two daughters due to give birth with legal action looming over one of them, plus now my father, and a street sign that seemed to be wedged in bureaucracy, and a boyfriend with commitment issues, mostly mine, and a garage full of unpacked boxes, and an indentation in my backyard where a body had recently been, I was most definitely coming down on the side of envy. I too wanted to be sitting outside Come Hither & Partake, hithering and partaking to my heart’s content.
Perhaps fortunately, the day unfolded too busily for me to dwell on anything. Along with the usual custom, we had a plethora of local residents drop in after having heard the news. These latter tended to stay for quite some time, mostly chatting with each other. Those that still remained after lunch drifted into my book group. When I bustled in, clutching my copy of Lisa Heidke’s Stella Makes Good, there were twenty-six women and six men in attendance. Which was about twenty women and six men more than usual.
‘Lyn was just telling us abou
t her fright this morning,’ said Kat Caldwell, by way of a welcome. She shivered theatrically. ‘It must have been terrifying seeing three men saunter from a house.’
Lyn Russo folded her arms. ‘You had to be there.’
‘How is your father, Nell?’ asked a woman I didn’t recognise. Beside her, a plump, middle-aged man shook his head sadly.
‘Fine, thanks.’ I held up my book. ‘Okay, shall we get started?’
‘Soap on a rope,’ said Betty Rawlings.
There was a scattering of rather embarrassed laughter from the more quick-witted. Lyn Russo frowned. ‘Soap on a …?’
‘Rope.’ Betty measured out an imaginary rope between her hands. ‘No danger of dropping it then. Because those men are quick as cats, take it from me.’
I regarded her thoughtfully, but decided it was best not to ask questions. I tapped the book. ‘Fascinating. But did you happen to read this?’
Betty nodded. ‘Certainly. And quite liked it. Nicely nuanced characterisation, realistic dialogue, multi-layered yet accessible plot. I give it a four out of five.’
The conversation meandered towards the book, which was unfortunate for our added extras, who either nodded sagely or shuffled uncomfortably, depending on individual chutzpah. But the book-related discussion only endured for about fifteen minutes before once again breaking into pockets of friendly gossip. I accepted defeat, moving over to the refreshments table for a cup of tea.
‘Psst, Nell,’ hissed Grace June Rae from her chair in the corner. Bernice of the shoe-polish brown hair was sitting beside her, hands folded primly in her lap. Grace gestured for me to come even closer and then leant forward on her walking stick to shout into my ear. ‘Did you get what you needed from us the other day?’
I took a step back, grimacing. A dozen conversations faltered. ‘Yes, thanks. Very helpful.’
‘You’re yelling, Grace,’ said Bernice, enunciating each syllable as she pointed towards her friend’s ear. ‘Fix your hearing aid.’ She turned back to me while Grace performed the necessary adjustments. ‘You’re not to worry. Your father didn’t do it. Not capable of it.’
‘Why, thank you. I mean –’
‘Your mother, now that’s another matter. But your father, no.’
‘Although he was madly in love with her,’ said Rita Hurley in a conversational tone.
I stared, taken back not just by the casual assertion, but the inappropriateness of it being divulged like this, with an audience. I was his daughter.
‘What did she say?’ asked someone at the back. ‘Who was in love with who?’
Rita was now flushing, her soft, pudding face turning the colour of minced meat. Once upon a time Petra and I had called her Auntie Rita, but we had grown out of that in a way that we hadn’t with her husband. Uncle Jim would always be Uncle Jim, no matter how old I was, or if he was still sleeping with my mother. This last thought provided perspective for Rita’s off-the-cuff comment, and I felt a surge of sympathy. Bitterness was a bitch.
‘I’m sure he wasn’t,’ snapped Bernice, turning in her seat to glare at Rita. ‘He was a good family man. He’d never have done that to Lilly.’
I raised an eyebrow. That good family man ran off to England and deserted his family. Drawing the line at adultery didn’t seem all that noteworthy.
‘Shenanigans,’ put in Betty Rawlings. ‘Wee Willie Winkies running through the town, upstairs and downstairs in their nightgown. Rapping at the windows, crying through the lock, “Are the ladies all abed, eager for my –”’
‘Betty!’ shouted Grace, having fixed her hearing aid in time to hear the last stanza. ‘Let’s leave Wee Willie Winkie alone, shall we?’
I took advantage of the laughter that had broken out across the room to move around to Rita Hurley. Her face was still flushed. ‘Could I have a word, Rita?’
She rose and followed me over to the table. I popped teabags into two cups. ‘Was that true? About my father being in love with Dallas Patrick?’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry, Nell!’ The words tumbled from her mouth. ‘I never should have said it like that! Jim would kill me!’
‘Hopefully not.’ I filled the cups from the urn and passed one across. ‘So were they having an affair, or was it unrequited?’
She busied herself with sugar and milk. ‘I really wouldn’t know. None of my business.’
‘If you knew enough to know he was in love with her, then surely you could take a guess.’
‘No, that would be presumptuous. Hardly knew them, after all.’
I frowned. ‘Rita, my father lived next door to you for five years. Your husband was his best friend. My mother …’ I hesitated as her face closed. ‘My mother still lives next door. And I have a photo, that is, I’ve seen a photo with you and Uncle Jim together with my parents and the Patricks and another couple, and it looks like you all knew each other pretty well. Pretty well indeed.’
Behind us the conversations came in fits and starts with the occasional burst of laughter. A few people had risen to help themselves to afternoon tea so I took Rita’s elbow and gently steered her away from the table.
‘Of course, we did mix together a bit,’ said Rita, reclaiming her elbow. She stirred her tea. ‘We were all around the same age, after all. And it was pretty obvious how your father felt. It may well have been one of the reasons Paul and Dallas moved away. But I didn’t have much time for that. Too busy at home, and with Jim and –’ She stopped abruptly and then glanced at me with an odd expression. ‘Getting ready for my baby.’
I blinked with surprise. ‘Your baby?’
‘Yes. I was pregnant that year, you know. He was going to be a Christmas baby.’
‘Oh, Rita.’
‘Yes. So you see I wasn’t really taking a lot of notice of what was going on around me.’
‘What happened?’ I asked softly.
‘Car accident. On the ninth of October. He was just too little, see. Perfect – but little. James Henry Hurley. Maybe nowadays they could have saved him, but …’ She stirred her tea again, the spoon clinking against the china like a bell. ‘Ah, well.’
‘I’m so sorry. How awful.’
‘Do you know, I think I might sit down, Nell. Was there anything else you wanted?’
‘No, of course not.’
I watched her make her way back to her chair. I was silenced by the revelation. It made the whole situation with my mother so much worse. To poor Rita, Yen must have seemed to have everything. Children, grandchildren, Rita’s husband. I felt a surge of anger. At least my father had left the area afterwards, whether his love had been requited or not, and he certainly hadn’t lived next door to Dallas Patrick for over forty-five years. No, said a little voice, throbbing against my temples. No, but he may have done the next best thing.
*
I arrived home to find my answering machine light blinking rapidly. One, two, three, four, five, six. The first message was from Deb Taylor, apologising for the delay in having the street sign fixed. Apparently she was having trouble convincing the mayor that it wasn’t just false modesty on my part. The second was from Red, concerned about Lucy, and the third from Scarlet, who had just had a brilliant idea that she wanted to discuss over dinner. Next was Darcy, who wanted to share the fact ‘they’ found Matt’s family lovely, and wasn’t Scarlet lucky to be marrying into such pleasant company? I grimaced as he signed off cheerily, wondering how we were suddenly on such easy, chatty terms. Next he’d be dropping by with a bottle of wine, paramour and offspring in tow.
The fifth message was left by my mother, informing me brusquely that my father was now bailed and everything was under control, and the sixth, and last, was from my father with the somewhat contradictory observation, delivered with a chuckle, that things were ‘up shit creek’. He followed this pithy remark with a request that Petra and I meet him that evening at the hotel on the corner. We needed to hear some things, apparently, before we heard them from anyone else.
There were no messages from Ashley.
I checked my computer and even turned my mobile on temporarily but there was nothing there either. There was, however, an email from Ruby, complete with a photo showing her surrounded by beaming caramel-skinned children, and a text from Quinn, asking me if I’d remembered her textbooks (no) and then informing me, almost as an aside, that we were all invited to Scarlet’s for dinner. She was going ahead with Lucy and Kate. For a moment, I was a little confused about the easy inclusion of Kate, whoever she was, but then I recalled Matt’s spiky-haired sister.
I dialled Scarlet’s mobile and waited.
‘Hey, Mum.’
‘Hi there. How are you feeling after the big move?’
‘Oh, fine. Better now everyone’s left and I can straighten things out.’
I wandered into the lounge room, where Gusto was asleep on the couch, and eased myself into the armchair. ‘I thought they were still there? Quinn mentioned Kate was there for dinner.’
‘Yeah, just Kate though. She’s staying with Lucy for a while.’
‘Really?’ I frowned. That friendship seemed to have developed very quickly.
‘Oh my god!’ Scarlet shouted suddenly. ‘Your father! I saw him on the news! Murder!’
‘He didn’t do it,’ I said quickly, because to hesitate suggested doubt. ‘He’s just helping them with their inquiries.’
‘Nuh-uh. They don’t arrest people to help with inquiries, they arrest them when they think they have a case. Mum, this is serious.’
‘I know that. But I really don’t want to discuss it right now. Now, about Lucy –’
‘Yes! My idea! You know how the lawyer said she was stuffed?’
‘No, actually, I don’t. I’ve tried to ask several times but she either won’t talk about it or she has company.’
‘Well, basically she’s stuffed. But listen, I’ve had this great idea that solves everything.’
