Hana Du Rose Mysteries Boxed Set: Books 1 - 4

by Bowes, K T

  As she left through the double doors she heard Anka’s loud rebuke, “Pete you dirty pig, pack it in! No! Don’t eat that!”

  Miss Dawlish stood in the same spot but the sweat had dried on her brow and her breathing was back to normal. Hana felt relieved. She was rubbish with medical emergencies. “Through here,” she said, indicating the doors to the common room. “If you want to set up, I’ll grab an extension cord from the office.”

  Hana scrabbled around in the corner cupboard, bending to reveal a curvaceous pair of legs as she searched for the cord. “Come on, I know you’re here somewhere,” she muttered to herself.

  North ambled into the room behind her, accompanied by the grey-eyed English teacher and Hana sensed the powerful presence without turning around. She stood up brandishing the spaghetti-like cable and met his serious gaze with a small well practiced smile. Logan’s eyes narrowed as he saw again the cut to her lip and anger flashed across his face, leaving a trail of heightened colour. Hana pulled the neck scarf closer to hide the horrid marks on her throat, self-consciousness blossoming. Logan’s lips parted as though desperate to question her, but Hana looked away and evaded his piercing grey eyes. Between them the men blocked the door to the common room and Hana felt panic flutter in her breast at Logan’s magnetic proximity. He had that familiar Māori authority and it snaked across the room towards her, catching her up in his mana, the ethereal sense of power which came with tribal leadership.

  “Who’s the hottie out there, aye?” Pete asked and Hana looked at him in confusion. Logan Du Rose peered at his friend, his lips parting in surprise.

  “What? Who?” Hana said.

  “Woman out there by the window.” To Hana’s horror, Pete held cupped hands up to his chest and wiggled his fingers graphically. “Gorgeous!”

  Hana’s mouth gaped open and the English teacher turned away and rubbed his hand over his face, his lips biting back a smile. His white shirt looked meticulously pressed, the material sumptuous and expensive. Hana narrowed her eyes as she heard him stifle a snort.

  She looked at Pete, misunderstanding. “Sorry, who’re we talking about?” The shambling mound that was Henrietta Dawlish did not come within the description of ‘hottie’ and she assumed North must be referring to someone else.

  “Oh, there you are. Do you have that cable?” Miss Dawlish popped her broad face around the door and the look on Peter North’s weathered face, left Hana in no doubt it was the veritable Henrietta’s beheld beauty he lusted after.

  As Miss Dawlish simpered into the cramped room, the English teacher left through the back, his tall, muscular shape slipping through the gap with incredible grace. “See ya,” he said quietly. His lips were full and the look of amusement suited him. He shook his head at Pete and smiled at Hana, an awkward, lop-sided motion that showed lovely teeth and defined cheekbones. Hana felt the familiar pang in her stomach and remembered his touch on her hand, recognising it as attraction. She bit her lip and looked unsure, but then he was gone.

  Behind her, Henrietta Dawlish drew like a magnet to the appraising smile of Peter North and they stood in front of each other like blind date contestants.

  “Excuse me, er, please excuse me.” Hana squeezed between them to retrieve her evaluation sheets from the desk, so the boys could rate Henrietta after she left.

  The woman smiled encouragingly at the sports teacher and he rose to the occasion. North’s chat up lines were basic and known to invite a slap at staff parties, but he was persistent. “Do you come here often?”

  Hana kept her eyes facing the carpet to hide her snigger. Good grief. In a minute, he would ask her to come and look at his pencil drawings. Or worse. The one which promised the most slaps was...

  “I’m told that I’m hung like a...”

  “Pete!” Hana screamed. Miss Dawlish jumped. “Go and sort the boys out, please?”

  Miss Dawlish assumed a ballerina type pose and acted like a horse in season, sticking her proverbial tail in the air by way of invitation. Hana brandished the power cable as she’d seen a bucket of water used on over-affectionate dogs, thrusting it between them. They both reached out for it, missed and it clattered to the floor. Hana used the diversion to say one more, “Excuse me,” and headed for the common room, her escape timed to meet the first few boys who used their lunch hour to learn about the school for hotel management.

  Twenty boys graced the common room to hear Miss Dawlish. She was scintillating, entertaining and stimulating. Hana, who had sat through her talk for a few years couldn’t believe it was the same speaker who once gave twelve students and her, cause for a good nana nap. Three of the Year 12s signed up for more information and Hana was impressed.

  She stopped Peter North as he reached for an enrolment pack. “No. You can’t go, you’re too old. Clear up Miss Dawlish’s belongings for her please. And don’t steal anything!”

  Chapter 8

  Hana knew of the forthcoming swimming event because the purple marker wouldn’t wash out of her blouse.

  Sheila Jennings rushed around calling boys and press-ganging them into entering various underwater exploits in the name of competition. She cajoled and entreated with the practiced expertise of a mother. “I want our tutor group to beat my husband’s,” she stated with maniacal insistence.

  Peter North skived in the office and enjoyed a post lunch nap under the guise of student mentoring. He grumbled about the constant foot traffic as boys responded to the flurry of notes generated by Sheila, negotiating their respective representation in the swimming sports. “Why are you doing this?” he bawled, ushering another knot of scrawny Year 9s into his darkened boudoir.

  “Come in, come in.” Sheila bustled them into her tiny office and closed the door, bags and boys squeezing together like sardines.

  “Do you think she’s wall mounting them?” Hana asked an irritated Pete with a snigger and he stamped his foot and postured.

  “I don’t bloody know. Why does she have to do it here?”

  “Because it’s her office, duh!” Hana turned back to her work, rolling her eyes.

  Crosser with every new arrival, Pete slammed out of the office chuntering to himself and scaring a group of Year 13s defacing a university prospectus in the common room. Hana listened to the sound of the brochure hitting the office door as he snatched and threw it in a fluid movement.

  Later, Hana wandered to reception armed with another armful of notes for the receptionist to call boys for Sheila. She handed over the scribbled instructions in Sheila’s panicked handwriting, and the woman behind the counter glared at her. “Does she think I just sit here waiting for her instructions? Tell her I’m too busy for this rubbish!” The receptionist hid the notes beneath a pile of papers marked urgent.

  Lacking a ready answer, Hana turned away, hearing the unmistakable sound of tinkling glass. “Did that come from the car park?” she asked a passing student and he nodded and looked behind him as though fearing she might accuse him. Perplexed, Hana pushed her face against the front window, peering out against the glare of the sun.

  “Miss!” A Samoan student ran in through the doors, casting around him in panic. His eyes rested on Hana and he gushed, “Miss, someone’s busted your windscreen!”

  Hana’s heart thudded in her chest and she groaned out loud. “What? You’re kidding!” Believing she’d find a group of guilty boys wielding a rugby ball, Hana strode towards the chapel and her parking space. “It’s fine Rewa, accidents happen, love,” she said, trying to remember the number for the windscreen company.

  The boy bounced along next to her, bristling with importance as they made their way across the courtyard. A window in the English faculty opened with a creak. A teacher poked her head out. “He kept his hood up and ran away before we realised what he’d done.” She turned her head back towards the class of curious boys and raised her voice. “Sit down, Bradley Hackett! Nobody asked you to get involved. Take that eraser out of your nose, you silly boy.”

  Hana’s footsteps slowe
d, her heels on the concrete clicking a slow largo beat. Her smashed windscreen hung like an old curtain across the front of her truck. Glass glittered on every surface and a dent in her bonnet housed a clay brick. Sickness rose into Hana’s throat, not helped by the excited tactlessness of Rewa. “Did you upset a gang, miss? I can ask my bro’ to sort it out for youse. He can put the word out and get you some protection. He’ll do it cheap if I ask him.”

  “No, thanks, Rewa.” Hana’s hands shook as she handled the brick. A child’s elastic hair tie bound a sheet of crumpled paper to the coarse surface. Hana pulled it out. ‘Give it back!’ the note screamed. “Oh.” Hana swallowed and pushed the thin paper beneath the elastic, seating the brick back in the dent. “Someone’s being silly,” she said to the boy, injecting calm and dignity into her poise, despite the clattering of her heart in her chest.

  “Is it the same person what hurt youse neck and lip?” the boy asked and Hana’s blood pressure hiked.

  “I don’t think so,” she said, offering reassurances she didn’t believe. “It’s probably an accident.” She turned away from the student and the broken mess, leaving him open mouthed.

  “Aren’t youse gonna sort this out?” he called after her and Hana waved a shaking hand and kept moving. Back in reception, she could hardly hear her voice as her pulse pounded a beat in her head. She cringed at the receptionist’s narrowed eyes and made her request through gritted teeth.

  “Please can you call the police?” she asked. Again.

  She climbed the winding staircase to the office on shaking legs, feeling frightened and nauseous. Give what back? And to who? The office door creaked open at the pressure of her hand and Hana jumped, finding Gwynne sitting in her chair. Stubby grey shorts rode above his knees, bearing painful looking grazes on his hairy legs. They oozed a garish yellow liquid through fragile scabs. Shared horror at the scuffle in the car park fostered camaraderie and relief washed over Hana. She blurted, “Someone smashed my windscreen on purpose.”

  Gwynne rose from the swivel chair, his brow creasing. “Why?”

  “I don’t know.” Hana sank into Pete’s seat and then rose again, brushing pie crumbs from her skirt. “I feel sick,” she breathed, rubbing at her stomach.

  “It’ll be ok.” Gwynne’s arms felt strong around her shoulders and he smelled of mint and garlic. Hana pushed her face into his chest, the male contact unusual and jarring. She closed her eyes and forced the image of her deceased husband away, missing companionship and the assurance of safe harbour.

  “Why is this happening?” she demanded, her voice muffled against his pullover and felt him shrug.

  “I don’t know.”

  The police arrived within a short time, not because it was the crime of the century but they had a community office nearby. Two male cops wandered around the vehicle, poking in the glass and using gloves to collect up the brick. Hana groaned as the man with the brick dropped it again with a clang. Another dent appeared in the bodywork, the second larger than the first. “Thanks!” she snapped. “Would you like to do the other panels while you’re at it?”

  The policeman ignored her and Gwynne placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “The classrooms opposite would’ve seen what happened.” He raised his voice and directed the statement at the cop clutching the brick. He dropped it again and another dent appeared.

  “Bloody hell!” Hana stamped her foot and balled her fists. Gwynne’s pressure on her shoulder increased.

  “Ask the kids,” he repeated. “They notice everything.”

  “What?” The first cop looked up, notebook in hand. He removed his glove and rubbed white powder across his face. “You’ll need a new windscreen.”

  “Really?” Hana faked surprise. The shattered mess draped inwards in thousands of deadly shards. “I thought I’d wait until pay day.”

  The cop shook his head. “No way! You can’t drive that away. I’ll pink sticker it if you do that.”

  “Don’t pink sticker it!” Gwynne raised his hand. “She won’t drive it. It was a joke.”

  “Na, this kind of thing’s not funny.” The officer scratched his nose and increased the breadth of the powdery smudge. “You’d be driving blind.”

  Hana dug her nails into her hand and bit her lip until blood oozed from the healing cut. The first policeman finished retrieving the brick and placed it onto his passenger seat with more care than he’d shown whilst rolling it around Hana’s bonnet. He turned with a smile on his face. “Now, miss, I need to take some details from you.”

  “Talk to the boys,” Gwynne said, glancing across at the English block where two full classes rubber necked out of an abandoned lesson.

  “Don’t tell me how to do my job, sir.” The officer postured and Hana glanced at her watch and heaved out an exaggerated sigh.

  “Yes, Gwynne, don’t tell the man how to do his job,” she said through gritted teeth. “Heaven forbid!”

  The officer asked Hana questions and she answered, glancing at her watch and waiting for the inevitable. Gwynne tapped the toe of his brogues on the floor. “You need to talk to the boys,” he said. “They had the best vantage point for witnessing what happened.”

  The policeman opened his mouth to reply and a bell tolled from speakers around the site. With the scraping of chairs and instantaneous laughter, sixty potential witnesses stomped away to different classes.

  “Oh.” The man’s colleague strolled across to Hana. “Can you find them for us later?”

  “No!” Hana stamped her foot and closed her eyes. “Not easily. They’ve all moved off to different classes.”

  “We’ll leave that with you then.” The cop pushed his notebook into a pocket of his stab vest. “We’ll see them one at a time.”

  “Don’t bother!” Hana snapped. She turned on her heel and stomped away, temper flaring in her breast and creating colour in her porcelain cheeks. “This is a nightmare!” she hissed as Gwynne caught her up. “Vik bought me that car. I don’t think they gave a damn!” She felt the stinging tears behind her eyes, resenting her body for its show of weakness.

  “It’s ok. I know how you feel.” Gwynne rubbed Hana’s arm as they walked. He glanced over his shoulder at the police officers chatting next to Hana’s car, their attitude nonchalant.

  “No, no you don’t know how I feel!” Hana bit. “After the accident, Vik’s car was a write-off. He bought me that one before he died!” She pressed her hands over her eyes and concentrated on her breathing as boys walked past, staring with childish interest.

  Gwynne caught her arm and led her back towards the school building. “Actually, I do know. Let’s go away from prying eyes.”

  Hana looked up and saw the surging knots of boys slowing around them. Chaos ensued as they watched her instead of where they were going. “Why me?” she complained, hearing the ugly whine in her voice as Gwynne led her past the Science block and into another car park. “That note made it look like I’d stolen something. Rewa thinks I’ve upset a gang!”

  Gwynne’s engine turned over and they left the grounds, heading north towards Chartwell. The mall hummed and they used the lift to get to the food court. They headed for Starbucks and Hana found a corner seat while Gwynne ordered. She watched his back while he waited for the drinks and remembered the feel of his arms around her. She realised she knew little about him, apart from his widower status. Older than Hana, he looked wiry and capable. His blonde hair greyed at the temples and into his sideburns. Hana sized him up, recalling Pete saying Gwynne liked her, but when she reached for a response from her heart, felt nothing.

  A picture of the commanding English teacher rose unbidden into her mind. Her lips curved upwards thinking of the taut fabric of his trousers over his neat backside as he wedged long, thin fingers into his pockets. His muscular torso pushed against his shirt, outlining defined pectorals and strong, work hardened shoulders. She remembered the smell of his aftershave and the sense of maleness he exuded as he rescued her from the scary Russian. Hana’s stomach
tingled and she panicked, desperate to switch off the budding attraction. His striking grey eyes could stop her in her tracks with the force of his psyche as it quested into her soul. He stared at her like he wanted to ask something and Hana shivered at the memory. He’s too young to be interested in you, she told herself, a familiar mantra over the last few weeks.

  Gwynne looked over and smiled and Hana chewed her lip, rebuked for her impure thoughts. She clasped her writhing fingers in her lap and consoled herself with people-watching. A young couple sat with a baby in a buggy. The infant mouthed on a toy in relative contentment while his parents argued overhead. “I know you’re having an affair!” the woman hissed, angry tears glittering in her eyes. Her companion took a sip of his coffee and shook his head.

  “It’s all in your head,” he replied and Hana felt her stomach lurch with sickness. His smugness made her want to leap across the furniture between them and hurt him. The baby’s mother left her drink untouched and Hana prayed for strength for her whilst wanting to scream. She picked at her fingernail and thought of her husband Vik, who went to work one morning and never came home. Fate could be a bitch.

  “You don’t know what’s around the corner,” she whispered. “Here one minute and gone the next.”

  “What?” Gwynne put drinks on the table.

  “You don’t know what’s around the corner,” Hana repeated and he nodded.

  “I got you a hot chocolate,” he said. He sat in the armchair next to hers and crossed his legs. “And no, we can’t predict the future. Probably a good thing.”

  “Probably,” Hana conceded. She turned and met his narrowed eyes. “I’m sorry for what I said. You do know how I feel. I remember Tessa died a few months before Vik. I shouldn’t have said that.”