Forbidden Fruit

by Ilsa Evans

  ‘Give me a hint!’

  ‘No.’ She crossed the room and pulled open the door. The sun was now glowing pink on the horizon. ‘Look after yourself. And get some curtains for your daughter. Perhaps you could spare one of your red sheets.’

  ‘They’re burgundy,’ I replied automatically. ‘But okay. And thanks, Yen. Ah, I love you.’

  She looked at me, surprised. ‘No need to get mushy,’ she paused. ‘Love you too.’

  I watched her small trim figure stride down the walkway and around the corner. I did love her, very much, even if she was one of the most infuriating people I knew. It had also been extremely brave of her to come tonight, knowing that I knew.

  I shut the door, sat back down and took the lid off my satay chicken. I picked up the little plastic fork and ate the tepid food slowly, thinking. Do the maths, she had said. Rita had been married to Uncle Jim for at least fifty years, as they had been together before my parents moved into the street. In all that time she had only been pregnant once.

  I got up to pour a glass of water. In all the years that my mother had been seeing Uncle Jim, she had not fallen either. As far as I knew. Meaning he had no progeny at all. And suddenly it registered. I slid my mobile from my bag and brought up the internet, then searched for the dates of Easter, 1970. Good Friday had fallen on 27 March. One week before had been the Queenscliff weekend and a few weeks later had been the sudden announcement of Rita’s pregnancy. Even I could do the maths. It wasn’t that hard. It hadn’t been Uncle Jim’s baby.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  You are wrong. Middle age is a battle, and one that a woman must commence in her teens, if possible. Vanguard action, so to speak. And there is so much that can be done nowadays that there is no need to settle. There is no such thing as ageing gracefully; it is a fight from beginning to end. You are doing women no favours pretending otherwise.

  I watched the morning news from bed, fluffy pillows piled behind my head and a coffee in my hands. It felt like the lap of luxury. The odd thing was that I had a television in my bedroom at home, plus fluffy pillows and the ability to hold coffee, and yet it would never occur to me to nestle in bed and watch the morning news. Another example of how context was more important than content. I filed the thought away for a column.

  Midway through the report, my house appeared in the snapshot behind the immaculate blonde presenter. I had expected it, but it was still a surprise. I turned the volume up.

  Her face was set with gravitas. ‘A body found at the country home of columnist Nancy Forrest, noted for her Middle-aged Spread franchise, has been formally identified as Rex Fletcher, a seventy-four-year-old man from Queenscliff. Reporter Richard White is live from the small rural town of Majic, and has more on the details of this bizarre case.’

  I had flinched as soon as she mentioned my name, or something resembling it, but when my house appeared in widescreen, from the front, my flinch became a grimace. There should be some type of protocol here, where permission had to be obtained. It wasn’t so much that the place was particularly untidy, but rather that the burgundy sheet, not a good look at the best of times, now had a tear on one side through which the interior light shone like a laser pointer. Besides, country home? It made it sound like I had residences dotted over the entire state.

  A young male reporter was speaking, clutching the microphone so close to his mouth that at times it looked a little personal. ‘Thank you, Tamara. Yes, police made the formal identification last night, but what remains a mystery is why this elderly man was so far from home, and why he chose this particular house.’ He allowed a moment of silence, as if to let viewers form their own conclusions about this particular house. ‘It has also been revealed that Mr Fletcher was suffering from Alzheimer’s disease, although it is not sure how advanced his condition was. Police are not ruling out a connection with the discovery of human remains here last week, buried in the backyard. These were found to be those of missing Ballarat woman Dallas Patrick, last seen in 1970.’

  ‘Have they released a cause of death?’ asked Tamara, leaning forward.

  ‘Not at this stage.’ Richard shook his head sadly, and then brightened. ‘However in a further twist, it has now been revealed that the man arrested for the murder, Harold Forrest, who was extradited from England earlier this week, is also the father of the woman who purchased the residence only a few months ago.’

  ‘And this would be the columnist Nancy Forrest?’ asked Tamara, rather unnecessarily.

  ‘That is correct. But this latest development has, of course, thrown that murder investigation wide open.’

  ‘Thank you, Richard. That was reporter Richard White, live from the small country town of Majic. And we’ll be keeping you up to date on further developments as they come to hand.’

  I turned the volume down and then, for good measure, flicked the television off. I had wondered when they would make the connection; had, in fact, thought them a little slow not to have done so before now. Not because I was particularly famous, as I wasn’t, but rather because it was the habit of journalists to grasp at anything to give the story depth. Plus, if a man with the same surname as the homeowner was arrested, then you would think that in itself was a likely lead.

  I rolled out of bed and dragged the chair into the bathroom. Through the glass, I could see that all was calm at Lucy’s house, with her car still in the driveway. I was also glad to note a complete absence of police vehicles, which was good news, although there was a lone news van parked on the spare block next door. I wondered if Richard White was inside, and whether I should knock on the window and inform him that (a) my father had not been extradited, (b) I did not have a ‘country’ home, or a franchise, and (c) my name was not, and never had been, Nancy.

  As I watched, Quinn exited Lucy’s house with her schoolbag slung across her back and walked purposefully down the path towards the hotel. Just before reaching it, however, she veered to the side and then squatted down behind the far wall of the beer garden, almost exactly opposite me. She rummaged through her bag and pulled out her pencil case, then peered inside, sifting through the contents. Finally she rose and, leaning against the wall, nonchalantly lit a cigarette.

  My mouth dropped open. The only smoker among my five girls was Ruby, and even then she was on the lighter end of the scale. I was hoping, also, that her stint in a developing area of the world might cure her of the habit. I closed my mouth and narrowed my eyes instead. Quinn coughed, smoke puffing from her nose. And here came Griffin Russo, strolling around the corner and past the hotel in that loose-jointed manner of teenage males. He glanced up and down the road and then ducked over to join her.

  I clambered down and grabbed my mobile phone, keying in her name as I got back into position. He had just taken a puff and was passing the cigarette back to her. At least sharing did not suggest true commitment to the habit. The ringing tone sounded on my end and I watched as she thrust the cigarette at him before squatting to retrieve her phone.

  ‘Hello, Mum?’

  ‘Put that cigarette out.’

  Quinn froze momentarily and then jumped up to peer frantically around. ‘What?’

  ‘I said put that cigarette out. Right now.’

  ‘Whaddya mean?’ she asked, taking a few steps out onto the footpath to gaze up and down the road, shading her eyes. ‘I don’t have a cigarette.’

  ‘No, because you just passed it to Griffin Russo.’ I was thoroughly enjoying myself now. ‘And I’ll be ringing his mother next.’

  She clapped her hand over the phone and turned to hiss at Griffin. He dropped the cigarette and ground it out, then stuck his hands into his pockets.

  ‘Don’t litter,’ I instructed. ‘Put it in the bin.’

  ‘Where are you?’ Quinn was scanning the area. For a moment she seemed to look straight at me, but then moved on. ‘Like, how are you doing this?’

  ‘I see everything, young lady. That reminds me, first base only at your age. Don’t you forget it.’

&
nbsp; ‘What!’ She turned again to stare at Griffin, as if concerned that he might have overheard this last. I thought it best to stop there, before I gave her a complex. Forty-year-old virgin seeks psychiatric help with mother issues. Prognosis: poor.

  ‘Now off you go,’ I said cheerily. ‘Otherwise you’re both going to be late. I’ll see you tonight and we’ll have a little chat about this.’

  ‘Okay,’ she replied in a subdued voice. She cast one more searching glance up the road, towards our house, and then said something to Griffin. He picked up the cigarette butt with two fingers, holding it fastidiously, and stared at it for a moment before dropping it in his schoolbag. They set off, keeping their distance from each other, and rounded the corner into the main street.

  I climbed down and carried the chair back. I was disappointed in Quinn, but not overly concerned, being fairly sure it was simply stupid teenage experimentation. They certainly hadn’t seemed like experts. It was tempting to blame Griffin, particularly as his mother Lyn was a smoker, but Quinn had to take responsibility for herself. And this evening, she would. However, the episode had almost been worth it for the restoration of my good humour. That had been the most fun I’d had in days.

  *

  I paid my bill at reception and then wandered out into the sunshine. Petra had sent across a bronze and black striped skirt and black singlet top, together with a silky bronze scarf. It wasn’t the type of thing I usually wore at all, but I felt flirty and feminine, which was totally wasted on my short stroll to the car. I had just unlocked the door when a divvy van cruised into the U-shaped driveway and Matt Carstairs jumped from the driver’s seat. He hurried around to open the passenger door and a tall, red-haired elderly woman exited stiffly. I recognised her from reception the previous evening, except that her strip of white hair had now vanished, a good indication of how she had spent the previous evening.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said brusquely in a husky smoker’s voice.

  ‘That’s quite all right, Mrs Fletcher. Please call us if you have any problems.’

  My mouth dropped open, again. I was starting to make a habit of it.

  Matt drove off, leaving her to make her way slowly up to the portico. I shut my own car door and moved rapidly across to intercept. ‘Mrs Fletcher? Mrs Clare Fletcher?’

  She glowered at me. ‘What of it?’

  ‘I’m Nell Forrest.’ I stuck out my hand. ‘Lilly and Harry Forrest’s daughter.’

  ‘Never heard of you,’ she said, ignoring the outstretched hand.

  I folded my arms, a little embarrassed. ‘Oh. Ah, they stayed at your holiday house once, in Queenscliff.’

  She peered at me, her eyes deep-set but bright. ‘It was your house then.’

  ‘If you mean where your husband …’ I petered off. ‘The other, Dallas Patrick, was next door.’

  ‘Yes, so I’ve been told now. Still, not a good look, is it? You’ll have trouble selling.’

  ‘But I don’t want to sell.’

  ‘So what’re you after here? An apology?’

  I shook my head. For a grieving widow, she was remarkably confrontational. I understood what Yen had meant; this woman would have been the driving force in any relationship. ‘No, of course not. I just wanted to talk. I’m, ah, trying to clear my father’s name …’

  ‘Well, I should think Rex did that for you,’ she said snappily. ‘Very obliging of him.’

  I stared at her, uncertain how to reply. She was a handsome woman, despite the red hair, with fine bones and an aquiline nose. She also had the arrogance of the once-was-beautiful, framed by a lifetime of entitlement. ‘I am sorry for your loss.’

  ‘Don’t be. Serves him right. Karma always gets you in the end.’

  ‘Um, okay. Are you staying here long?’

  ‘No longer than I have to.’ She began moving again, stiffly. ‘Three days in this godforsaken place is more than enough.’

  I kept pace. ‘Three days? But I thought that you just came up, ah, afterwards?’

  She looked me up and down. ‘You resemble your mother. If you must know, he dragged me up here the day before he did it. Not that I knew what he planned to do.’

  ‘Oh. But I thought he had –’

  ‘Don’t believe everything you hear –’ a corner of her mouth twitched ‘– Nancy.’

  ‘My name’s –’

  ‘I know.’ She waved a hand dismissively, as if bored, and then set off again. She paused at the automatic doors before going through into reception. I wasn’t sure if I liked her or hated her. One thing was for sure: she had just become interesting.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  I would like to congratulate you on your very amusing column. I particularly enjoy the fact that you write about NORMAL things. How refreshing to read something that rarely includes a Kardashian mention, or speculation about Brad Pitt’s facial hair, or a reference to the latest ‘accidental’ PR celebrity sex tape. When the hell did sex tapes become currency? No wonder I’m broke.

  Of course, one of the few times a hat would actually have been handy, and not just aesthetically pleasing, I didn’t have one on me. I pushed my chin down into the scarf and ducked my head as I left the car. But Richard White saw through my cunning disguise. He was also a quick mover, reaching me as I thrust my key into the front door.

  ‘Excuse me, Mrs Forrest? Could we have a word?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’ I pushed the door open. ‘Too busy.’

  ‘So is that no comment?’ asked Richard, his words floating around the door as I shut it.

  I pressed my hand against the jamb, taking a deep breath and letting it out with a hiss that reminded me of Quinn and her cigarette. The house was quiet, serene, the police gone. I walked upstairs slowly. My bedroom was much as I had left it, apart from a fine dusting of black and grey powder over every surface. For a moment I had an image of Mary Poppins’ Bert, the chimney sweep, doing his whirling dance around the room. I rather wished that were the case, because Mary would have been very helpful with the clean-up.

  I moved forward, towards the end of the bed. The area where the body had lain looked exactly the same as the rest of the floor, with nothing to set it apart. I licked my finger and ran it over the top of my dresser, idly signing my name and underlining the Nell. It immediately became apparent that this was an error, as the damp fingerprint powder metamorphosed into a version of Indian ink. I had to scrub it off in the bathroom, and even then I was left with grey whorls on my finger pad. I felt a surge of anger towards Rex Fletcher. This was going to be a bitch to clean.

  Back downstairs, I checked the answering machine, but the only messages were from Svetlana’s Haberdashery, informing me that my curtains were ready for collection, and then a parade of family and friends ostensibly concerned about my emotional state, and really just wanting the inside news. The computer yielded a good deal more messages, but either in the same vein or work-related. I couldn’t concentrate on either at the moment. I walked back into the kitchen, restless and unsettled, and put the kettle on. It had just come to the boil when the front doorknob rattled noisily, followed by the doorbell and a series of agitated knocks.

  ‘Mum!’ called Lucy. ‘Mum, are you there?’

  I ran across the room and wrenched the door open. ‘What is it? Is it the baby?’

  ‘No, of course not.’ She pushed past me, followed by a beaming Kate, who was carrying Gusto. ‘Quick, that reporter guy is coming.’

  I shut the door behind them. ‘What then? Are you okay?’

  ‘I’m fine. But we found it!’

  ‘Whatever “it” is, it’d better be good.’ I put a hand up to my chest. I could actually feel my heart leaping giddily. ‘Because you just gave me a heart attack.’

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, looking gleeful. ‘You’ll never guess. It was in the windowsill! Just tucked in a little alcove behind the wood!’

  Kate put Gusto down. The dog ran straight into the kitchen to check his bowl.

  ‘We searched last night. Q
uinn helped, but we gave up in the end. Then this morning Kate goes, “I reckon it’d be in the bay window somewhere. That’s where I’d hide something.” And she was right!’

  I realised that Lucy was holding a small tin with a tarnished silver-black rim. Faded and scratched flowers adorned the lid, alongside the name: MacRobertson’s Begonia Chocolate Assortment. She held it out to me proudly.

  ‘Process of deduction,’ said Kate smugly. Her dark hair was spiky once more and her eyes rimmed with black eyeliner. The sparkle of her nose-ring seemed incongruous in comparison.

  ‘Amazing,’ I said, taking the tin. It felt like a ceremony, as if I should say something. Acknowledge Dallas’s contribution. Instead, I prised the lid off and stared at the contents. There was some folded paper, pearly in colour, a champagne cork and a grey shell. I gently sifted the contents with one finger and uncovered a small gold-edged paper ring.

  ‘It’s a cigar thingamajig,’ said Lucy. ‘We’ve already looked. Sorry, couldn’t resist.’

  ‘Ritmeester,’ added Kate. ‘From a Ritmeester cigar.’

  ‘So you’ve read these?’ I removed the paper and passed the tin back to Lucy. She nodded, smiling. There were three sheets folded together, their creases stiff and stubborn. I straightened them gingerly. The first was a letter with fine, spidery handwriting.

  Dearest Dallas,

  I am looking at the spot where you lay only an hour ago and your absence is a weeping wound. I miss you. But I am determined to concentrate on the good things: the silkiness of your hair, the feel of your lips, the thought that I will see you again next weekend. The knowledge that nobody knows you as I do. Certainly not Paul. The thought of him, with you, in your bed, is a dagger in my wound. It cannot go on. Just say the word, my love, and we can be together. Together we can conquer anything. Apart, and I am dying slowly.

  I glanced up at Lucy and grimaced. It had been Dallas who had died, not the writer. I slid the letter to the bottom of the pile and read the next.