by Ilsa Evans
And it also explained Clare Fletcher, and the bitterness that bubbled fitfully around each word she spoke. She had lost the love of her life, all these years believing that Dallas had never changed her mind, never chosen her. I realised in an instant that when she heard of the discovery of Dallas’s body, Clare had immediately assumed her husband had done the deed. Somehow she had persuaded him to come up here, check into the motel, and then kill himself in the room where she thought Dallas had died. But she had the room wrong, and the killer also.
I rocked back in my chair, stunned by the revelations, tumbling one on the other. The C.F. in the corner bore mute testament to Clare’s desperation. She had entered the sketch in the Ballarat Art Show on the off-chance that Dallas might see it. Lost Love. Amazingly, it had worked. Dallas had gone to fetch milk that morning and picked up the leaflet, perhaps to read during the day’s festivities, perhaps to further acclimatise herself with her new home. She must have been dreadfully unhappy herself. At some stage over the next hour she had flicked through the leaflet, seen the drawing, and it had been enough to tilt her over the edge. An hour later she was on her way to Majic with the rather romantic idea of picking up her tin, left behind as part of the fresh start. Perhaps she had intended on marking that box in the second letter, or reuniting the two sketches. Instead, she had been killed.
I pushed myself back from my desk, eager to share my breakthrough. I used the landline to ring Petra but it went straight to voicemail, indicating that she was probably on the road. The next best thing was to take my discovery next door, share it with the mother-to-be and perhaps even take her mind off her lack of labour. Gusto was still cowering under the couch so I cast him another bad boy before crossing to Lucy’s house. I had the lover now, but not yet the killer. Unfortunately, my father was still leading the field in that regard.
I pushed the door open and made a dramatic entrance, holding up the sketch. ‘I know who it was! Dallas’s lover! And you’ll never guess!’
‘Mum.’ Lucy was sitting on the couch. She looked pale. ‘Mum.’
‘Oh my god, has it started?’
She shook her head. ‘No. Not that.’
‘Then stop scaring me!’ I waved the sketch again. ‘C’mon, guess. Who was Dallas’s lover?’
‘Me,’ said Clare Fletcher, rising slowly from the other side of Lucy’s island bench. She was wearing a black cowl-necked tunic top over patterned, black-on-black slimline pants. Her red hair was pulled back into a bun that emphasised the fine bones of her face. And a black pistol was pointing straight at me. ‘Now give me that before I blow your hand off.’
My stomach felt like water. I walked slowly over and laid the sketch on the bench. Her eyes flicked down and lingered for a moment. Now I could see Kate sitting in the corner of the kitchen, her knees drawn tight to her chest. She stared at me without expression.
‘Is that everyone you were expecting?’ asked Clare Fletcher of Lucy. She kept the pistol pointed in my direction. Lucy nodded. She looked tired and pale.
‘She’s pregnant,’ I said, anger clipping my words. ‘You could at least let her go.’
‘Soon enough. I’ve just got a little business to attend to upstairs and I’ll be out of your hair.’ She moved around the island bench, gesturing towards Lucy’s circular table. ‘Sit. And I can see your mobile in your pocket. Hand it over.’
I chose the furthest seat and placed my phone down on the table before sliding it across to her. She transferred it to the bench, beside the sketch.
‘Hands behind your back,’ she said briskly. ‘Just a precaution. Nothing to worry about.’
She fished inside a small backpack that was sitting on one of the other chairs, and brought out a plastic cable-tie contraption with two large loops at one end. It looked like a super-sized contraceptive device but I was fairly sure that wasn’t the case. I was also fairly sure I would only have one chance at preventing what was about to happen, and that chance was now. As she came behind me, I twisted, flinging my right hand up to clip her under the chin. But even as her head flew back, she brought the pistol down in an arc that ended abruptly on the top of my head. There was a sharp crack and my vision blurred with shock. Yet another time a hat would have been useful.
‘Mum!’ I could hear the fear in Lucy’s voice. ‘Are you okay?’
‘I told you there was nothing to worry about,’ said Clare furiously, dragging my hands behind my back again and then slipping them inside the loops. The contraption was immediately pulled tight, the plastic biting slightly against my skin. ‘You’ve only got yourself to blame.’
‘Sure I have.’ I closed my eyes, willing my blood to stop roaring within my head. It was deafening.
Clare ignored me. She gestured to Kate. ‘You there. Up on your feet and over here.’
I heard stumbling as Kate rose and realised that her hands had already been bound. She came around the side of the bench and Clare waved her towards the chair beside me. My mobile pinged loudly.
‘Who’s Scarlet?’ asked Clare, leaning across to read the text.
‘My eldest daughter.’ I focused through narrowed eyes. ‘Why?’
‘Apparently she’s in labour.’
‘Well, that’s not fair!’ wailed Lucy. She glared at me crossly.
Clare continued reading. ‘She’s dropping off Quinn on her way. Who’s Quinn?’
‘My youngest daughter.’
‘How many do you have?’ she asked with what seemed like genuine interest.
‘Five.’ I was trying to think but the rhythmic pulsing of my scalp was not making it easy. How could I get a message to Quinn to stay away?
‘That’s ridiculous.’ She looked at me with disapproval, then shook her head. ‘Ridiculous.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Never mind. Okay, this is what’s going to happen.’ She straightened, dropping the mobile into her backpack and drawing out a handful of the cable ties. She laid them on the table in front of Kate and me. ‘I don’t want to bind your ankles, but I will if I have to. Now I’m going back upstairs for my unfinished business. I’m sorry this has to involve you all but a price has to be paid, and it should be paid in the right place. Then you can go back to your lives. In the meantime, I’ll let you –’ she motioned to Lucy ‘– stay free. But if I come down here and find you gone, I’ll put a bullet through your mother’s head. Clear?’
Lucy nodded. She looked annoyed, but I suspected that was more about her sister having just gone into labour than the prospect of me being shot.
‘Is that the pistol your husband used?’ I asked, staring at the object in question.
‘No. Although they’re both Berettas. He had a bit of a collection.’ She gazed at the pistol for a moment and then visibly shook herself. ‘Okay, if this Quinn arrives before I am done, you tell her to sit and I’ll come back down.’ She looked us each in the eye, one by one. ‘I have no quarrel with any of you, so don’t do anything stupid. Again. This should all be over soon.’ She picked up the backpack and slung it over her shoulder before heading rather slowly up the stairs. I suddenly remembered that the woman was at least seventy. That did not make me feel any better about my thumping head.
I watched as she disappeared towards Lucy’s bedroom and a moment later I thought I heard a muffled cry. I turned back to the others. ‘Who’s she got in there?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Lucy. ‘What does that mean, about Scarlet? Like, isn’t she early?’
‘Yes.’ I turned stiffly towards Kate. ‘Did you see who? Was it my father?’
She was already shaking her head. ‘She was up there when we came in. We were talking and next thing she’s on the stairs, pointing that gun at us. What do we do now?’
‘I’m not sure.’ I felt a little flattered that she thought I might have an answer, but overriding everything else was concern for whoever was in the bedroom, particularly if it was my father, and worry that Quinn would come bouncing into the middle of all this. Should I call out a warning, or would th
at put her, and us, at greater risk? These thoughts had barely crystallised when the doorbell rang. I stared, appalled.
‘Don’t move,’ said Clare from the top of the stairs. She levelled the pistol at me and then moved it across to Kate and then finally Lucy. The doorbell rang again and she started down the stairs, using the handrail for extra support. Geriatric gradually murders entire family with occasional pauses for nanna nap. Victims showed extraordinary patience, say police.
‘Do you want me to …?’ said Lucy, shuffling towards the edge of the couch. It was nice to know I had raised such polite children.
‘Yes. You answer it. But remember I’ve got this.’ Clare waved the pistol menacingly.
Lucy nodded. She walked heavily over to the door and opened it. My sister immediately breezed through, holding a bottle of wine. ‘Well, it took you long enough! How are you feeling?’ She spotted me at the table and raised the bottle. ‘C’mon, break out the glasses. We’re celebrating! I know who the lover was!’
‘Clare Fletcher?’ I asked.
She lowered the wine, looking disappointed. ‘How did you know?’
‘Because she’s behind you, with a pistol.’
Petra whirled around, coming face to face with Clare, who was holding the pistol steady with both hands. She gestured towards the table with her head. The two of them walked sideways across the room.
‘Sit down,’ said Clare. ‘Hands behind your back.’ She grabbed one of the cable ties and secured Petra’s hands. ‘Are you Quinn?’
‘Certainly not,’ I said, affronted. ‘This is my sister. Petra.’
Petra was staring at me. ‘Nell, is that blood in your hair? Christ.’
‘Scarlet’s in labour,’ I hissed. ‘She just sent a message.’
‘And I’m not,’ added Lucy, rather unnecessarily.
‘Okay. Well, how about you all catch up in your own time? I’m busy.’ Clare moved away and began her steady ascent back up the stairs.
I turned to Petra. ‘How did you know? That it was her?’
‘I peeked through their lounge-room window and there was a big-arse framed drawing on the wall. It looked like a pair to the one you have. It had her initials in the corner.’
The doorbell rang again. Clare, who had almost reached the top of the stairs, turned to glare down at us. ‘Are you kidding me? What is this, Grand Central Station?’
‘It’s probably Quinn this time,’ I said worriedly. ‘She’s only fourteen.’ The last thing I wanted was the woman with the pistol to be irritated when my youngest came through.
Clare had already begun her descent. She waved the pistol at Lucy, who made a show of sighing as she rose cumbersomely and went to open the door. Amy Stenhouse stood on the threshold. She clapped a hand to her chest when she saw Lucy and let out a gasp of relief. ‘Oh, thank God. I thought I must have missed it. Oh my, what a scare.’
Lucy stared at her and then glanced at Clare, behind the door. ‘Um …’
‘I know I shouldn’t be here, and I am so very sorry,’ continued Amy. ‘I hate the fact we parted on such bad terms. But – oh look, there’s your mother. Hello, Nell!’ She stepped into the lounge room, waving cheerfully at me. From behind her, Clare pushed the door with some force and it slammed shut. Amy jumped.
‘Over to the table and sit down,’ said Clare, a little breathlessly. She brandished the pistol. ‘Now.’
‘Oh my lord.’ Amy took short little crablike steps across the room, without taking her eyes from the pistol. She dropped onto the spare chair. ‘Oh my.’
‘Hands behind your back.’ Clare used yet another tie to secure Amy’s hands. ‘So who the hell are you?’
‘She’s the mother of the father of my daughter’s baby,’ I answered, when it became clear that Amy wasn’t going to. If I had known it was so easy to keep her quiet, I would have purchased those cable ties myself.
‘This one, or Scarlet’s?’
‘This one.’
‘And is it safe to assume we won’t be having any more visitors tonight?’
‘Apart from Quinn.’ I jerked forward. ‘Clare, please tell me. Is my father up there?’
She stopped at the foot of the stairs and regarded me with interest. ‘Why on earth would your father be up there?’
‘Because I know someone is. I heard them before. And I’m thinking it’s whoever you think was responsible for Dallas’s death. It wasn’t Paul Patrick, and it wasn’t your husband, and I can’t see it being Uncle Jim. And my father did see her that day.’
‘Yes. He did.’ She took a deep breath and then released it in a sigh that trembled. ‘She was beautiful, you know. Not just physically, but inside as well. I thought I’d lost her. All these years, I thought I’d lost her. And then to find out …’ Her voice cracked harshly. ‘To find out she wasn’t with him after all, she wasn’t playing happy families, that she was buried here. All. That. Time.’
The silence hung for so long that I felt compelled to fill it. ‘It must have been awful. Just awful. Is that when you thought Rex had been responsible?’
‘Yes. Of course. He’d always known about us, about how it went so much further than any other one. He had watched it get serious.’
‘But didn’t your affair only start during that Queenscliff weekend?’ asked Petra. ‘When everyone was there?’
‘No.’ Clare shook her head emphatically. ‘Oh no. We’d met months before. I only arranged that weekend so I could spend time with her. But it was wrong of me. She hated them, see. She hated … men.’
I was frowning. ‘But – my father?’
‘He was certainly persistent.’ She laughed, but without humour. ‘Thought he was some type of knight in shining armour. No, it was me she wanted. It was always me.’
‘She kept mementoes, you know.’ I wanted to give her something, despite the circumstances. ‘In a little tin. Two letters you’d sent her plus a cork and a shell. We think that’s why she came back here. To pick them up.’
‘And a cigar wrapper,’ added Kate. ‘Ritmeester.’
Clare had paled. She clutched at the banister with her spare hand. ‘Oh, god. I always wondered why. I knew she’d kept things but …’ She closed her eyes and then snapped them open, lifting the pistol as she stared at me greedily. ‘Where are they?’
‘I’m sorry, but the police took them.’ I drew back slightly, my eyes on the pistol.
‘What’s going on?’ wailed Amy Stenhouse suddenly. ‘What’s happening?’
Before anybody could respond, an incredibly loud thump came from upstairs and then Lucy’s bedroom door flew open. A figure stumbled out, hands secured behind the back, and continued blindly across the landing until hitting the far side of the banister. For a moment it remained upright before crumpling backwards and tumbling in slow motion all the way down the stairs. It came to a sprawled heap at the bottom, right beside Clare Fletcher’s feet.
I stared, certain the person was dead. Beside me I heard Petra gasp as she too leant forward. Clare had jumped to one side and was holding the pistol levelled at the recumbent figure. I could hear my heart beating, and it was the only sound in the room. Then the figure moved, just a leg at first, and then there was a groan as a head was slowly lifted to gaze piteously towards the table. It was Rita Hurley.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Absolutely LOVED your column about the twilight-like nostalgia of the past. I too would like to visit and grieve the fact it has gone forever. But I wanted to also let you know that there is actually a word for this. Hiraeth (HEER-eyeth): homesickness for a home to which you cannot return; the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past.
‘Help me,’ said Rita in a ragged voice. She shuffled herself away from Clare. ‘She’s mad.’
Clare’s shock at the unexpected turn of events instantly turned to anger. ‘I’m mad? You murdered a woman! In cold blood!’
‘It was an accident,’ said Rita. She struggled sideways, groaning, until she was half leaning against the wal
l. ‘I keep telling you it was an accident.’
‘Oh, well that makes all the difference.’ Clare waved the pistol. ‘Practically erases the past forty years where I thought she’d rejected me, the times I drove past her house in Ballarat just to feel like I was close to her. The fact that all this time we would have been together, happy.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t –’
‘Oh, and her children! I’m sure that must help balance out all these years when they thought she’d just run out on them. Not caring enough to make contact.’
‘She’s hurt,’ said Amy Stenhouse suddenly. ‘Look, she’s bleeding.’
Sure enough, both of Rita’s knees were badly scraped, the blotchy redness beaded with blood. She was wearing a loose cotton dress, patterned with trailing ivy, and one chunky-soled orthopaedic sandal. The other must have come off on her ungainly descent. Lucy stood but Clare instantly waved the pistol in her direction. She sat again.
‘Are you okay?’ I asked Rita gently. ‘How did this happen?’
‘It was an accident,’ repeated Rita. She appeared to be committed to this explanation even though it was doing her no favours. She shuffled along the floor on her bottom, flinching with each centimetre gained. At this rate she would reach the door in about three hours. Even then she would have to rely on somebody else to open it as her hands were still bound.
‘You all think I’m being cruel,’ said Clare suddenly, staring at us. ‘You think I’m being cruel.’
Petra glanced at the pitiful figure of Rita Hurley and then back. ‘Well …’
‘Tell them.’ Clare kicked out at Rita, who pulled her leg in. ‘Tell them what happened. Go on, otherwise I’ll end it right here.’
