by Ilsa Evans
‘It’s a different time.’
‘So what? You’re grasping at straws.’
‘And I don’t have children.’
I smiled. ‘And now we’re at the crux of it. This isn’t about what they got up to; it’s about the impact on you. Him leaving and all that.’
‘What if it is?’ she said defensively.
‘Well, then you’re probably being a bit rough on Yen. She didn’t leave anyone. And besides, nobody’s making excuses for him. Not even he is. So be angry if you want to, you’ve got every right, but don’t let it rob you of the chance to get to know him a little. It might be your only chance.’
Rather than answer, Petra just stared at me. But I was the expert in that game, not her. She soon gave up. ‘Okay, let’s put all the psychoanalytical crap to one side, hey? Get back to our suspects, of which he’s still number one. He had the means and the motive. Never underestimate the bitterness of spurned love. All that jovial matey stuff may be just a front.’ She ran a manicured nail beneath his name.
‘All right. What about Yen then?’
Petra laughed. ‘You seem a lot more willing to throw her under the bus!’
‘I’m just trying to be as clinical as you,’ I replied stiffly. ‘She could have seen him go over there that day, been overcome with jealousy.’
‘Number one, Dallas knocked him back. Number two, she was already in a relationship with Jim Hurley. Number three, can you imagine her involved in a crime of passion?’
‘Never underestimate the bitterness of spurned love.’
‘But it wasn’t … never mind.’ Petra fetched her mug from the coffee table and brought it over to the bench. ‘Okay, next we have Rex Fletcher, who has just been ruled out on account of being left-handed. He could, of course, still be the lover she was on her way to meet.’
‘And in that case, I’m moving Clare Fletcher up my list. Anyone who dyes their hair the night their husband kills himself is capable of murder.’
‘Are we sure he killed himself?’
‘It seems that way. The police haven’t said anything about suspicious circumstances. The only thing they seem to be unsure about is the note. I think that’s what Ashley was trying to tell me. Maybe the note was added afterwards, to make it look like he also killed Dallas.’
Petra grinned at me. ‘Speaking of the ruggedly charming Ashley Armistead, how’s it all going there?’
‘Okay.’ I shrugged, took a sip of my coffee. ‘He wants to move forward.’
‘That bastard! How dare he? What a cheek!’
‘Very funny. But I think I’ve sort of been given an ultimatum. Either move forward or he’ll find someone who will.’
‘I see.’ She hesitated for a moment. ‘Well, don’t get pressured into anything you don’t want. But, look, you met him so quickly after everything fell apart with Darcy that I don’t know if you fully appreciate how rare it is. Meeting someone when you’re older, I mean. Someone without serious baggage, anyway. Ex-wives, troubled children, phobias.’
‘Ah, so you think I should go for it regardless? Because this might be my best hope?’
Petra looked exasperated. ‘That’s not what I meant and you know it.’
‘Let’s get back to this.’ I waved my hand, dismissing Ashley and his idiosyncrasies. ‘So the scenario is that Clare finds out Rex is leaving her for Dallas. She waylays and kills her. Which makes sense – except how would she have known that Dallas would even be here?’
‘Which rules her out,’ Petra sighed. ‘Okay, moving on we have the Hurleys, but no reason for either of them to kill Dallas Patrick. If Rita was going to kill anyone, it would’ve been Yen. And I can’t see him as the lover either. Apart from anything else, I can’t see him writing those notes.’ She looked up at me, frowning. ‘Hang on. The notes. Can you print them out?’
‘Sure.’ I raised an eyebrow but she had dragged her phone out and was scrolling rapidly. I went into the study and pulled up the email with the scanned copies, and then printed them both. I handed them to her at the bench and she laid them beside her phone.
‘Rex wasn’t her lover,’ she said flatly. ‘Bugger it.’
‘What? Why?’
‘I took a photo of the suicide note. It’s on my phone. Compare the writing.’
I leant in and realised instantly that she was right. On Petra’s phone, the grey square of notepaper had the words I did it all for love written in a rearward slanting, measured script, while both the letters were written in a cursive scrawl. The former spoke of control and methodology, the latter of passion and persuasion. They were written by different people.
‘This is ridiculous,’ I said crossly. ‘So now he wasn’t the killer or the lover? What did this guy do? Just go around looking for attention?’
Petra was still frowning. ‘No, just a minute. It doesn’t mean he’s definitely not the lover. Just that, if so, then someone else wrote this suicide note thing. Which seems a little sloppy. Anyway,’ she went on, lifting her head, ‘I think he might be a red herring. We need to push all his stuff aside so that we can be objective. The key is the lover. Who was she running away to that day? All the rest will fall into place after we work that out for sure. Hey, do you have anything our father has written?’
I gave this some thought, but the only missives received nowadays were Christmas cards and they had been binned weeks ago. Had Yen been a more sentimental type, she might have kept some of our childhood letters but, as it was, I suspected they were long gone. ‘No. But there must be a way of getting a sample. In fact, we need to talk to all the players again. No pun intended. We’ll divide and conquer. Find out more about the Fletchers. Ask if Dallas showed any special fondness for anyone during that Queenscliff weekend. We also need to find out if anyone liked drawing. That sketch took talent.’
‘What about the police?’ Petra didn’t look very enthusiastic about my divide-and-conquer strategy. ‘I mean, as much as I’m looking forward to all the answers, shouldn’t we just leave it all for them?’
‘Definitely not. For starters, I don’t think that Eric Male is terribly bright. It’ll take him forever to solve it all, and by then our father will have been tried and convicted.’ I glanced sidelong at Petra. ‘And all that swinging crap will have come out.’
‘God.’
‘Besides, I’m tired of it all hanging over our heads. I want to get it all sorted before I become a grandmother. It’ll be my present to them.’
‘It’d be easier to buy a stuffed toy,’ grumbled Petra. ‘But okay then. I’m in.’
A vibration in the floorboards heralded Quinn, who seconds later hurtled down the stairs and leapt into the lounge room. She was wearing a singlet top, boxer shorts and ugg boots. ‘I’m going to be an aunt today!’
‘Not necessarily.’ I felt my pulse quicken regardless. ‘Just because it’s her due date doesn’t mean it’ll happen today. First babies are often a little late.’
Quinn turned to Petra, ignoring me. ‘I’m going to be an aunt today!’
‘Congratulations. I hear you’ve taken up smoking?’
‘No.’ She cast me a baleful look, but one that was still tinged with puzzlement. ‘I’ve quit. I’m setting an example for the babies.’
‘That’s very mature of you.’ Petra nodded approvingly. ‘Tell you what, if you can look me in the eye in twelve months and say that you have not had one cigarette in that time, then I’ll give you one hundred bucks.’
I held up my hand before Quinn could accept. ‘Petra! For god’s sake, that’s just bribery.’
‘So? Isn’t parenthood all about bribery? Positive and negative effects? It’s just I don’t think telling a fourteen-year-old that her reward will be good health is going to swing it.’
‘I love you, Auntie Pet!’ Quinn bounced over to hug Petra. ‘You’re the best! Can I have a cup of tea, Mum?’
‘Only if you go and grab some milk. Use some of your hundred. We’ve run out.’
‘Are you kidding?’ Quinn looked
at me as if I had just suggested she stroll to Uluru. Clearly I was not the best. I stared at her, something niggling.
‘Come on.’ Petra straightened, draining her coffee. ‘I’ll go with you. We’ll take the dog. I want to get the paper anyway, find out what they’re saying about all this. Might be some clues there.’
Quinn bounced back upstairs to get changed, the endeavour being accompanied by a pulsing soundtrack that was still pulsing after she and Petra left. I heated up my coffee in the microwave and then sipped it as I stared at Dallas’s timeline. Everything pointed towards her departure having been a last-minute decision. One moment she had remained committed to trying to save her marriage, the next she had thrown it to the wind. The key lay in the intersection between the two extremes.
I followed the sequence of events. They had argued the night before, but the Anzac Day plans had remained intact. No doubt they had been quite stiff with each other the following morning, but still the plans remained. It was not until she returned from the walk with her son that she suddenly announced she would be staying behind. Had she used the time to think through her situation? Or had they perhaps met someone? Seen something? Bought something?
As soon as the last thought popped into being, it was followed by the answer. Clear, concise and, I had no doubt, correct. She had bought a magazine. The one that was later to be found in her handbag, the one that had puzzled me, the one that had seemed incongruent with her movements that day. She had bought a magazine with her milk, perhaps intending to read it during their picnic, but instead something in that magazine had changed everything.
Chapter Twenty-six
I totally disagree with you about the benefits of diet and exercise. This is an agenda pushed by the health industry, which is worth trillions of dollars. I mean five serves of vegies and two of fruit per day! That’s not even practical. It’s disappointing to see you fall for their propaganda also.
I parked my car outside my mother’s house and then checked my mobile in case Lucy had tried to contact me during the seven minutes I had been driving. Nothing. Nor was there a message from Ashley, who I had texted earlier, inquiring whether the quid pro quo arrangement extended to him telling me the name of the magazine that Dallas Patrick had bought that day. Petra sent a similar text to Paul Junior, on the off chance he might remember his mother’s purchase. It felt a little like the battle of the boyfriends. Who would come through first?
With that done, we had listed and then divided the necessary tasks. Petra, much to her disgust, had scored the out-of-town ones on the grounds that she wasn’t due to become a grandmother at any moment. That meant a trip to Ballarat, in the hope that Paul Patrick Senior had recovered enough to discuss the latest developments, and then a drive all the way to Queenscliff tomorrow to make discreet inquiries about the Fletchers, including the state of his Alzheimer’s disease. I had been left with the Hurleys and our parents. It was debatable who had drawn the short straw.
I had a feeling that, as confusing as everything seemed at the moment, we were nevertheless poised on the edge. All that was needed was one piece of information and everything was going to fall into place, like dominoes toppling one after the other. Suddenly the pattern would be revealed and we would nod sagely and mutter about the wonders of hindsight. Then everything could return to normal.
Yen’s front door slammed and I jerked into alertness. My father was the one who must have done the slamming as she was already on the pathway, shading her eyes as she stared in my direction. I took a deep breath and exited my car, meeting up with her at the top of the driveway.
‘Is it Lucy?’ she asked briskly. ‘The baby’s come?’
‘No, no. Just thought I’d drop in.’ I gave what was intended to be a casual laugh but what sounded, even to me, like a small animal being choked. ‘Can’t a girl drop in on her parents?’
She frowned at me. ‘What on earth is wrong with you? Have you been drinking?’
‘Yen, it’s eleven o’clock in the morning!’
‘And yet you are in my driveway, apparently “dropping in”. So my question stands.’
‘Nellie darling! How the hell are you?’ My father was beaming. Clearly casual socialising was not as foreign to him.
‘Good thanks. Are you two just leaving?’
‘Yeah, bad luck there.’ He did indeed look disappointed. ‘Damn police want to talk to me again. Get a sample of my handwriting as well. I said you can get a sample, mate, but there’s no guarantee you can read it!’
‘I have no faith in the ability of that lead detective,’ said Yen, unlocking her car. ‘He does not appear to be terribly bright.’
I nodded. ‘I agree. And that’s why –’
‘I never thought I would say this, but it’s a pity that one you were doing isn’t around.’
‘That I was doing?’ I repeated, gaping at her.
‘Were you?’ asked my father curiously. ‘Not the fellow with a face like concrete, I hope?’
‘No, a different one,’ explained Yen. ‘Better-looking, fortunately, but a little smug.’
‘Dear god,’ I said. I tried to get back on track. ‘Before you go, can I ask you one question? Yen, did you go to the Anzac Day march in Majic that day? When Dallas was killed?’
‘No, I was busy setting up the shop.’
‘In that case, who was helping you and at what times?’
‘Are you trying to establish my alibi?’ she asked, regarding me keenly. ‘I’m surprised you’ve waited so long. I was on my own in the morning, but as soon as the march finished, Jim Hurley came over, and then your father about half an hour later. And I hate to point out the obvious, but that was three questions, not one, and we need to go.’
‘Okay.’ I also wanted to ask whether Dallas had seemed particularly enamoured of anybody during the Queenscliff weekend, but that would mean bringing up What Should Not be Mentioned. And even though I was hovering on the cusp of forty-eight, my mother still scared me. I turned to my father instead. ‘I just realised that I don’t have your mobile number – to let you know about the baby. Do you want to write it down for me?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ snapped my mother. ‘Ring me and I’ll let him know. Now, is that it?’
It was. I watched as they clambered into the car, my father waving cheerfully from the passenger seat. The hatchback reversed neatly from the driveway and drove off. I thought for a moment and then went up to the front door to try my luck. It was locked.
Somewhat handily, particularly for my mother and Uncle Jim but perhaps not so much for Rita, the Hurleys lived right next door. The houses were almost identical, having been built around the same time, and even the gardens were very similar. This was not that surprising given Uncle Jim was in charge of both. I thought I could see my father’s hand, however, in a new herbaceous border that licked along the fence.
I left my car where it was as I walked across to the Hurleys’ front door, ringing the doorbell before I could change my mind. It had been years since I had been inside this house; the last time had probably been back in primary school, when Rita minded Petra and me after school each day. Ding-dong chimes echoed within the house, a sound that always reminded me of Avon cosmetics. Moments later the door was opened and Rita Hurley was staring at me. She was wearing a flour-spattered floral apron and a surprised expression.
‘Nell! How lovely! Oh, how are your girls? Are you a grandmother yet?’
‘Not yet. Imminent though. Lucy’s due today. Ah, I wondered if I could have a minute of your time? Just a few things I wanted to clear up. Nothing major.’
Her brow had furrowed. ‘Oh my, I don’t know that I’d be of much help.’
‘Well, let’s find out!’ I said brightly. ‘Can I come in?’
She hesitated, and then stepped back. ‘You’ll have to come through to the kitchen, dear, I’m in the middle of making pasta.’
I followed her down the passage and into a yellow and white kitchen. A daisy-patterned blind was pulled to half-m
ast, the sun still managing to filter through, dappling the yellow counter tops. A chrome pasta machine sat on the island bench, with a pile of letters and leaflets on one side and a large pine breadboard on the other. The latter held a lump of freshly-made pasta dough.
‘Sit down.’ Rita waved me towards a pair of white-cushioned barstools.
‘Thanks.’ I hoisted myself onto a stool, the air escaping from the padded seat with a long, slow belch. ‘That wasn’t me!’
‘I know, dear. Those dratted stools. They’re always doing that.’ She began kneading, her palm pressing hard into the dough. ‘So what is it you want to get straight?’
‘Firstly, well, my father told me everything. About … you know.’
‘No, I don’t think I do.’ She glanced across with polite curiosity. ‘About what?’
‘Ah, the weekend away. At Queenscliff.’
‘Oh, you mean our little holiday. We spoke about that already, Nell.’ Her voice was faintly chiding. ‘And I did tell you that I could barely remember. It’s all so long ago.’
‘I see.’ I frowned as I watched her hands work. I didn’t believe her, but then I’d probably want to forget also, if it was me. ‘Ah, can I ask if you recall Dallas Patrick being particularly close to anybody that weekend? Apart from her husband?’
She gave snort of laughter. ‘Seeing as she was never close to her husband, that wouldn’t be hard. In fact –’ her face hardened ‘– I suspect she was using the weekend to scout for husband number two. She was a dreadful flirt, you know.’
I felt a curl of defensiveness. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘Why wouldn’t I?’ She thumped the dough onto the floured board, pressed it with the heel of her hand and then deftly rolled it up again. ‘She was all over those Fletchers like a rash. Truth be told, it was a little embarrassing.’
