by Ilsa Evans
Dearest, dearest Dallas,
I cannot accept your answer. Things will not change for you and him in Ballarat, or anywhere. I know you love me and I cannot live without you. If you really want me out of your life then I challenge you to write the word NO here and send this note back to me. Otherwise write YES and we will conquer all obstacles together. Nothing is insurmountable. To thine own self be true. Life goes on.
The box was compelling, its emptiness testament to a decision never finalised and a life cut short. I shuffled the sheets and then stared at the final one. It was stunning. A pencil sketch of a naked woman, almost certainly Dallas Patrick, reclining with her head on one hand, a cloud of hair tumbling across her shoulders. The artist had used the bare minimum of lines, just languid sweeps of pencil that delineated the arc of her figure, the curve of her breast, the gentle mound of her belly. But as sensual as her body was, it was her face that drew the eye. Cupid-bow lips just partly open and a heavy-lidded gaze, direct and knowing. This was a woman who was satiated, physically and emotionally. A woman in love.
I dragged my eyes away from her and reread the last note, with its desperate appeal. I looked up. ‘Wow.’
‘Wow indeed,’ said Lucy. She was no longer smiling. ‘How beautiful is that drawing?’
‘I wish it was mine.’ Kate was sitting on the armrest of the couch, ruffling Gusto’s fur. ‘It’s Shakespeare, you know.’
I raised my eyebrows. ‘Shakespeare never looked like that.’
‘Not the drawing.’ She grinned. ‘The quote. To thine own self be true. Hamlet, I think.’
‘Fascinating.’ I returned to the picture. ‘So we think this is what she came back here for. Maybe she left the tin here when she went to Ballarat because she really meant to give her marriage a chance, but then came back for it after changing her mind.’
‘I don’t know much about the rest of it,’ said Kate, ‘but I think she was going to fill in that box. Write a big yes.’
‘So you think it was him?’ asked Lucy. ‘The guy on the news who topped himself?’
I shrugged slowly. ‘Rex Fletcher. I suppose it makes sense.’
‘That must have been very upsetting,’ said Kate. ‘You finding him like that.’
‘Yes.’ I pushed Rex Fletcher aside, mainly because meeting his wife had complicated that scenario. Plus his brown old-man shoes simply didn’t go with what I held in my hands. ‘The only thing I don’t get –’ I laid the papers on the bench ‘– is why she didn’t just run upstairs, grab it and go. I mean, she was up there long enough for my father to confront her and then, most probably, someone else. Maybe Rex Fletcher. Why did she spend so long looking for it? Surely she would have known exactly where it was?’
Kate was shaking her head. The spikes remained rigid. ‘No, it wasn’t easy to retrieve. Like I know you guys had the place painted, so that didn’t help, but after I noticed the ridge, I had to actually get a flat-head screwdriver to lever it loose.’
I ran a finger gently over the curve of Dallas’s hip and stared into her somnolent eyes. They were trusting, vulnerable. I couldn’t believe that whoever sketched this picture was also responsible for her death, whether it was Rex or someone else. The love that had guided the pencil seemed utterly and appallingly discordant with murder. I felt a shift in responsibility, not wholly putting aside my father and what he was going through, but moving this woman in from the periphery. She had been let down by so many; someone needed to have her back.
*
I left the sheets of paper on the bench for the afternoon, only moving them to scan and then email to Petra. I had stuck Dallas’s timeline and the list of suspects up on my study wall the day before, so now I updated them, underlining both Rex and Clare Fletcher with hot-pink highlighter. I thought of the latter, and her freshly dyed hair. A very odd type of recently-bereaved widow. But perhaps she had always known of his affair with Dallas, and was mortified, and a little furious, at his mode of death. Or perhaps she had killed Dallas, out of jealousy, and then he had taken the rap. It made a strange sort of sense alongside Yen’s insistence that he was wholly devoted to his wife. But then why start the affair in the first place? I sighed.
An email came through from my editor, with a receipt confirmation required. I obliged and then read it, with mounting amusement.
Hi Nell, was a little shocked to hear your name on the news. Dreadful business. Thought I would share some concerns, though. Last year’s business was terrific PR, and drew a lot of interest to your brand. This of course is all about the everyday middle-aged woman and, as you put it once, the ‘paraphernalia of life’. But everyday MAW don’t generally have this sort of stuff happening on a regular basis. And I worry about the association of ‘bizarre’ (quote the news) with your image. Too much of this type of notoriety may start to be detrimental. Anyway, food for thought. Love from Ali.
I typed a quick reply, apologising for my thoughtlessness and assuring her that I would immediately hire a storage container, so that next time I found remains, whether in my backyard, bedroom or hanging piñata-like from the porch, I would be able to squirrel them away without involving the police. But as soon as I finished, I deleted it. Ali was lovely, but she had little sense of humour when it came to work. She would probably offer me the storage fees out of petty cash.
Leaving my reply for later, I googled for advice on cleaning up fingerprint powder, rather surprised at the amount of information out there. Perhaps I had led a sheltered life. I swept and dusted, removing as much as possible while dry, before finally mopping not once but twice. The stuff was lethal. The experience would have made for a very interesting column but I suspected Ali, in her present state of mind, would veto it. It didn’t come under the parameters of everyday MAW.
I showered after finishing and then dressed in exercise leggings and a sloppy T-shirt. I fetched Gusto’s lead, the sound alone causing him to run in excited circles and then dance along on his hind legs as I walked to the front door. At the last minute I remembered Richard White so did an about-turn and exited via the sliding door. At the back corner, close to where everything started, I tucked a wriggling Gusto under my arm and then clambered awkwardly over the fence, nearly garrotting the dog in the process. Ali would have been furious. Columnist strangles own dog at notorious country house. Franchise in disarray.
We both took a moment to recover our equilibrium, and our breath, and then set off diagonally across the uneven ground towards the rear of the main street. There was an alley that ran along here, abutting the little backyards of each shop, lined with garbage bins and empty containers. I waved at Sharon, flattening some Pan Macmillan boxes behind Renaissance. She gestured at me, no doubt wanting to hear the latest, but I shook my head apologetically.
We walked through to the end of the alley, and then took a left to wind our way around Kata House before doing two circuits of the football oval. It was a beautiful summer’s day, the sky dotted with the type of puffy white clouds that, if painted on a canvas, would look too perfect. The cenotaph was tucked to one side amid a grove of mature trees, midway between Kata House and the footy clubrooms. Each time I passed, I glanced towards my two shops. There was a clear view of the land next door, and a partial view of the lane. Dallas’s Volkswagen, while not obvious to those clustered around the monument, would have been visible soon after somebody started walking in that direction. My father had been one of these, but had there been anyone else?
By the time I rejoined the alley, Gusto had begun to pant by my side. Sharon had finished and the back door to Renaissance was closed. I turned into the tiled arcade leading through to the main street. Halfway down was Svetlana’s Haberdashery, a store that had been in the same position since shortly after Majic had been founded. This was one hundred and fifty years ago, however, so ownership had changed several times. I clipped Gusto’s lead to a solid A-frame sign and pushed my way through the fly-strips. The latest Svetlana, a buxom woman with a florid complexion and piles of brown hair held in
place by a collection of antique hatpins, greeted me with enthusiasm.
‘Oh my lord, Nell. What goings-on up your neck of the woods!’
‘Yes. Very disturbing.’ I regarded her thoughtfully. ‘Ah, did you know Dallas Patrick? Or was she before your time?’
‘Oh, I knew her very well.’ She cleared a space on the counter and rested her plump arms there, settling in. ‘They didn’t move until about six months after I took over here. Lovely little thing, she was. But I can’t tell you how shocked I was to hear about the man! In your house!’
I nodded. I wasn’t sure that a six-month acquaintance, particularly during such a busy time in Dallas’s life, qualified as knowing someone very well. ‘What about him? Paul Patrick?’
‘Oh, lovely chap. Bit free with the innuendo, if you know what I mean, but no harm done.’
‘I see. Listen, were there any artists living around here then?’
She gave this some thought. ‘Artists, you say? No, not that I can think of. Although your mother’s pretty handy with the brush.’
‘Yecch,’ I said involuntarily. From outside, Gusto whined, his lead rattling against the A-frame. ‘I’d better go. I just wanted to collect the drapes.’
‘Of course, of course.’ She straightened with a groan and then made her way through the piles of stock towards a curtained back room. Moments later she reappeared with a large, fat brown-paper parcel. I looked at it doubtfully, realising that I hadn’t really thought this through. ‘Here you go. All adjusted. Hopefully this time you got the measurements right!’
‘Yes.’ I nodded fervently as I pulled the parcel across the counter. It wasn’t just cumbersome, it was also quite heavy. A pyramid of colourful cotton reels collapsed, rolling every which way. I tried to collect them with my spare hand.
‘No matter.’ Svetlana waved me away as she gathered them up. ‘But you must tell me, why were you asking about Dallas? And artists? Is it anything to do with that man?’
With excellent timing, Gusto gave a plaintive, undulating whine. I grimaced apologetically. ‘No reason. Just curiosity. Sorry, but I really have to go. My dog’s going to destroy your A-frame next.’
She looked a little perturbed at the possibility so I made my escape.
Even without the added burden of the package, I would have struggled to repeat my fence-climbing exertions of earlier. Instead, I continued down the arcade to the main street and turned towards home. Passing Renaissance, I lifted my parcel slightly to act as a cover. I glanced up at the pole at the corner of my lane and smiled to see the street sign had not yet been replaced. Gusto had started to slow now, and I was in serious danger of tripping over him with my limited view. We must have made a rather strange sight, with me doing little sideways leaps every so often to avoid lassoing an ankle with the leash. I made a sudden decision as I neared Lucy’s and detoured to her front door, kicking at it gently with my foot. She answered after the third kick. I wondered if that meant Kate had now gone home.
‘I have a present for you,’ I announced grandly, thrusting the package towards her. ‘Curtains! For your bedroom.’
‘Really?’ she said doubtfully. She peeled a portion of the brown paper to reveal the regency-inspired pattern, with gold-rimmed burgundy stripes. ‘Oh.’
‘What’s wrong with them? They’re lovely!’
‘Yeah, okay. But they’re, well, more you than me, Mum.’ She pointed skywards. ‘Besides, didn’t you see?’
I took a few steps back so that I could peer up towards the window in question. Gusto, who had curled on the porch, simply swivelled and then elongated himself so that he didn’t have to rise. Shimmery white scrim covered Lucy’s window, shot through with threads of silver that caught the mid-morning sun. I was sure they weren’t there this morning. ‘When did you get those?’
‘They were a belated housewarming present from Grandma.’ Lucy came out to join me. ‘Wasn’t that nice of her? She came round just before. Aren’t they gorgeous?’
‘Yes, gorgeous.’
‘But thanks anyway.’ Lucy ducked forward and gave me a kiss on the cheek. The brown paper rustled as her belly pressed against my side. I had a sudden urge to cup it, feel the baby kick. ‘Anyway, hadn’t you better go see to your visitors?’
‘Visitors?’ I frowned even as I turned. In my driveway was an unmarked police car. I knew it was an unmarked police car because Detective Sergeant Eric Male was sitting in the driver’s seat, staring at me. He did not look happy.
‘You better go,’ said Lucy. ‘He does not look happy.’
‘He never does,’ I replied. Nevertheless, I readjusted my parcel and gave Gusto’s leash a tug. The dog reluctantly rose and then stretched before trotting over to my side. As we neared my house, Eric Male opened the car door and got out. Richard White had also emerged from the news van, still positioned by my kerb, but after a few brisk words from the detective, remained where he was. I reached my front door just as the passenger side of the police car opened. Juggling my keys, the parcel and the leash, while sidestepping the dog, I glanced over and my stomach immediately constricted to the size of a walnut. A very heavy walnut. Ashley Armistead was back.
Chapter Twenty-four
Yes, I too am the opposite of a green thumb. Does green have an opposite? All I know is that seeds never sprout and plants shrivel and die within days. I do, however, feel a little seedy after a night out. Does that count?
‘Ms Forrest, I noticed yesterday that you had a timeline of events pertaining to this case stuck to your study wall. Can I ask you why?’
I frowned at Eric Male, who was now standing in the middle of my lounge room. Gusto was sprawled across the couch, breathing heavily, and Ashley stood beside him, idly ruffling the dog’s fur. Both men were looking at me. ‘What were you doing in my study?’
‘A man was found deceased in your home, Ms Forrest. Generally, we tend to look around when that type of thing happens.’
‘I see. Well, if you must know, I was simply trying to get a handle on what happened the day Dallas Patrick died – especially as you so quickly assumed that my father was involved.’
‘He was the last person to see the victim alive.’
‘Apart from Rex Fletcher.’
‘That is yet to be ascertained.’ He picked up the tin, Dallas’ treasure tin, from the coffee table and idly turned it over in his hands. I made a conscious effort not to stare at it. Instead, I moved over to the bench and pushed the three sheets of paper to one side. I knew that I should show them to the detectives, and the sooner the better, but I felt a strong reluctance to give them up, particularly the drawing. To have them stare at her naked form and not see the beauty within it.
‘I suppose what we’re struggling with,’ said Ashley suddenly, speaking for the first time, ‘is why Rex Fletcher would pick this particular house in which to commit suicide.’
I met his gaze. He looked a little tanned, and also as if he might have lost a kilo or two, but it suited him, streamlined the ruggedness. ‘I should think that was obvious. Guilt over having killed Dallas Patrick. He was able to live with it while she remained buried, but the discovery of her body pushed him over the edge. As he said in his note, he did it all for love.’
‘So you think he killed her?’ asked Ashley quickly. He stopped patting Gusto and the dog immediately began butting his hand, trying to get him started again.
‘Well, yes. Of course.’
‘But by all accounts, he was committed to his marriage,’ said Eric Male. ‘Even if he had a brief involvement with Dallas Patrick, there seems to be no question of him leaving his wife. Do you have a theory, therefore, as to why he would kill her?’
I wasn’t sure what this visit was all about, and why Ashley was making an appearance. I hadn’t even known he was back. It was his job, I knew, but I also felt a little betrayed. My gaze flicked down to the tin, still in Eric Male’s hands. I spoke slowly, aware that Ashley was watching me. ‘Well, she’d packed a suitcase, so I think it’s safe to assume
that she thought she was starting a new life. I think he led her on, and then changed his mind. She probably became a little hysterical when he told her; after all, she’d just burnt her bridges for him. She threatens to tell his wife. He kills her.’
‘Makes sense.’ Eric Male was nodding. Then he sighed regretfully. ‘But unfortunately it didn’t happen that way.’ He flipped the tin once, twice, before continuing. ‘The one thing we know for sure is that it wasn’t him. Dallas Patrick was killed by a blow to the back of the head, most probably made as she was turning away from the assailant. This blow caused her to fall forward and strike her temple on the window ledge.’ He indicated the soft spot just up from the corner of his eye. ‘And this blow was delivered by a right-handed person. No question. The problem is that Rex Fletcher was left-handed.’
I stared at him, trying to absorb this last piece of information. Everything was suddenly upended. If Rex Fletcher hadn’t killed her, then who had? And why had he been here, left the note? Who wrote the letters in the tin?
The detective’s expression was unreadable. ‘The only reason I’m telling you this is because it is clear that you are making your own inquiries. Would I be correct in assuming you mean to do a journalistic piece?’
‘Not likely. I write a weekly column about middle age, not investigative journalism.’
He was frowning now. ‘But then why …?’
‘Exactly what I said before. My father is involved.’ I regarded him thoughtfully. ‘Were you going to offer some type of arrangement? Where I pass over anything I stumble across in exchange for an exclusive?’
‘You are of course legally required to pass on relevant information anyway,’ said Eric Male stiffly. He flipped the tin one more time. ‘It’s a criminal offence to hinder or impede a police investigation.’
‘That’s an unusual tin,’ said Ashley suddenly, watching me. ‘Quite old, is it?’
‘Yes.’ I hesitated a moment, and then reached over to collect the two letters from the end of the bench. Ignoring Ashley, I passed them to Eric Male. ‘My daughter’s friend found it hidden in an alcove behind the window frame next door. It contained what seem to be mementoes of a love affair, including these two letters.’
