Dead Men Don't Order Flake (10 page)

I'll admit the food was welcome.

‘This pepper spray Natalie had in her bag—was someone hassling her? An ex-boyfriend, maybe?'

‘She didn't have a boyfriend.'

‘You sure about that?'

‘I'm sick of people insinuating things about Natalie. OK?' A vein bulged in his neck.

‘What kind of things do they insinuate?'

‘Nothing!' He thumped the table with his fist.

An awkward pause. Preston did his best to fill it with a new round of bark-sneezes.

‘Listen, Gary, I'm not asking to be nosy. I'm trying to find out who killed Natalie. So if there's something I need to know, don't you think you'd better tell me?'

‘Sorry,' Gary said. ‘I know I've got a…short fuse.'

I guess if I had a daughter who'd been killed, I'd be a touch unstable too.

‘This town is full of people who love nothing more than to destroy other people's reputations.'

‘Right.'

‘Andy Fitzgerald's, for example.'

I once knew Andy Fitzgerald as a red-faced pimply
creep with a bum-fluffed attempt at a moustache on his upper lip. Since then he'd lost the pimples and gained a sense of self-importance. Probably related to him being state minister for innovation, major projects and energy.

‘Their latest pigswill is that Natalie and Fitzgerald spent a lot of time together.'

As in an affair? ‘And the, err, police took this into consideration?'

He shrugged. ‘Your son decided early on that Natalie was just a driver who'd taken Jensen Corner too fast. He wasn't particularly interested in any detail.'

‘And he knew she had a history of speeding. Any reason you didn't tell me about her fines?' I said.

He looked at me blankly. ‘Natalie was always a careful driver.'

I kept my voice gentle. ‘Dean said she'd been booked twice for speeding.'

‘Yeah, but you know what he's like.'

‘What does
that
mean?' I didn't bother keeping my voice gentle this time.

‘Well…' He shrugged. ‘Frankly, I think you've got more chance of finding out what happened than he has. He's too busy with his clipboard.'

‘He's just doing his job, Gary.' To the best of his ability. Which, of course, is the problem. I didn't say that. If you don't have family loyalty, what do you have?

I forked in a mouthful of bacon, chewed and swallowed.

‘What about Natalie's friends? Might be useful if I talk to them.'

‘I have no idea who her friends were. There were so many strange faces at her funeral.'

Right. The bloke was totally out of touch with his daughter's life.

‘Sometimes I worry that…' he paused.

‘What?'

‘Well, what if Natalie drove off the road deliberately?

‘Why would she do that?'

‘Natalie was always so…intense. She had to excel at everything. Won every damn award going at school. If she couldn't be the best, it just wasn't worth doing, in her view. Leaving the job like that, well, she'd have been very upset. She had this whole career path mapped out for herself: she wanted to work for the
Guardian
. Anyway…' he stood and gathered up our empty plates; stacked them with the piles of others beside the sink. ‘Let me show you her room.'

He shut Preston in the kitchen, then led me up the red carpeted stairs, past another muddy painting—possibly a lake?

Natalie's room was behind the second door on the right. It was a room that made a big and confusing impression. The floor was strewn with an array of items: ropes, a helmet, coloured slings, metal things that I guessed might be used for rock-climbing, a pair of walking boots and a rucksack. The bed was unmade and had piles of clothing lying on it. A row of framed photos on the wall. A desk in the corner of the room.

‘I haven't touched anything in here. I should probably get rid of her things, but…' his voice trailed off.

I picked my way over to the desk with a paddling kind of movement, like I was wading through a swamp. It was hard to tell what colour the carpet was, or if there was, in fact, any carpet, underneath all this crap. I wondered for
a moment if all overachievers tend to have messy rooms. Achieving takes time—you wouldn't want to waste any on tidying.

‘Did Natalie ever bring work home?' I said.

‘Occasionally. Take anything you need.' He swallowed. ‘Look, I don't like being in here, to be honest. I'll leave you to it—and I need to organise a few things for the Lions Club meeting tonight. I'll be downstairs if you need anything.' He backed out rapidly.

I started with the desk—covered with papers—news cuttings, magazines, brochures. I unearthed a plate covered with what might once have been segments of mandarin. I put the plate on the other side of the desk and then sifted through the papers. A pile of flyers.
Climate change: what the science really says
.

I picked one up. It was for a talk later this week at the Turning Leaf Spectacular. Maybe it would be useful for Brad. I checked the desk drawers: three pens and an expired credit card.

I took a look at the photos on the wall. One of Natalie in a parachute. Another of her in an off-road car, with a caption:
At the Mallee Rally!
Next to it, a photo of her climbing a rock face:
Me leading Mantis at Arapiles!

Looking at the rock-climbing photo made my knees wobble. I'm not fond of heights; it's probably a good thing I live in pretty much the deadest-flattest area in Australia.

After close to an hour of searching Natalie's room, I was more than familiar with her tendency to chuck things on the floor, but no closer to understanding what the story was that she'd been working on. I went downstairs to find Gary.

He was sitting at a laptop in the corner of the kitchen.

‘OK if I take this?' I held out the flyer I found in Natalie's room.

‘Sure. That's the speaker I'm organising. Dr Eric Buckland. Come along, if you want.'

‘Not my kind of thing. My son might find it useful though, for one of his uni assignments.'

‘What's he studying?'

‘Marine biology.'

‘Well, at least it's not one of those ridiculous courses on renewable energy.'

‘You don't like the idea of renewable energy?'

‘The
idea
is fine. The reality though…well, we don't know enough about the dangers. It's a damn good thing the council pulled the plug on that solar farm before we all came down with solar sickness. That poor man and his goats. It just shows we're better off sticking with the things we know.'

Christ, the Showbag effect—it's everywhere.

‘I wouldn't go around believing everything you hear, Gary. Showbag isn't actually sick. And his goats are fine. In fact, I'm sure he made the whole thing up.'

‘Why would he do that?'

Damn good question. For the attention, quite possibly. After all, he ended up in the paper. And he certainly got the attention of the local council, not to mention that government inquiry into the safety of solar power.

‘Anyway, I'm not sure how useful that flyer will be for your son. I don't think many uni science courses teach the work of Dr Buckland.'

‘Oh?'

‘He's…got his own ideas. Not really establishment.'

Maybe Buckland was one of these climate deniers Brad's always on about.

I put the flyer in my pocket. ‘I'll go over to the
Cultivator
and talk to the editor. What's his name again?'

‘Shane Millson. But he's away, on long service leave. He left not long after Natalie died.'

‘Oh. So how do I contact him?'

‘Dunno. He's travelling in Europe somewhere.'

‘That's a bit…inconvenient.'

Gary's face was grim. ‘Seems very convenient to me.'

17

I drove past three upmarket restaurants, one boutique brewery and a bookshop. Plentiful retailers of antiques and expensive clothing, a wine merchant and a gelateria. All framed by that avenue of excessively spectacular autumn trees, of course. I pulled up beside a rose-filled park opposite the
Muddy Soak Cultivator
.

Their office looked like it had been built around the time of Federation. A double-fronted wooden place with a wide verandah and huge windows—the kind you might see in a western, filled with wanted posters. The only thing filling up the
Cultivator
's windows was a set of pale green vertical blinds.

I stood there a moment and chewed a fingernail. If Morris was the book basher, would he recognise me? It was dark, I reassured myself. And if I hadn't got a look at him, there was a good chance he hadn't seen me properly either.

I opened the door and a bell jangled. A waiting area to my right; three blue chairs and a low pine table. To my left, an office, with the door not quite closed. The sign on the door said
Editor
.

Lots of posters on the walls:
Our Thirsty Earth
—arty shots of cracked soil;
Our Land in Flood
—aerial shots of roofs surrounded by brown water;
Our Land Ablaze
—photos of, well, you get the drift.

Someone was talking behind the editor's door. I took a seat; leafed through the pile of flyers from the table.

It's very annoying when people whisper, isn't it? I mean, really, what is the point? Just send an email and save the rest of us the ear strain. Snippets of whispered conversation drifted out:
Wasted here…Obituaries…Old bitch
.

Eventually, the whispering ended and a young man bustled out the doorway. Dark suit, red spotted tie, dark wavy hair. A touch overdressed for the Mallee, in my opinion. Maybe he was heading off to a funeral; probably had to do a bit of that in his line of work. He held his head jauntily to one side and grinned, like he was trying hard to convince himself he felt confident. There was a bruise on his left cheek.

I stood up and held out my hand. ‘Ariadne…Smith, from, ah,
Grooming Monthly
. And you must be Shane Millson. Terrific to meet you at last!'

He stared at me, mouth open.

‘Oh, don't worry about this,' I waved a casual hand at my black eye. ‘You're probably wondering if it was a barber unhappy with a review.' I chuckled. ‘No, no. Just an office accident.'

‘Err—Morris Temple.' He still had the shocked expression, but he gingerly held out his hand to shake mine.

‘Oh? I thought with the sign there…' I waved at the door.

‘Shane's on leave,' his voice was flat.

‘But we had a meeting scheduled…'

‘Glenda Fitzgerald's acting editor. She's not in today but she's contactable on her mobile.'

‘Oh, no need to disturb her. In fact…well, it's a confidential matter…perhaps you can help?'

His eyes flitted from side to side, as if he was thinking. ‘Maybe.'

‘Shane probably mentioned our meeting…'

‘No.'

‘Well,' I turned on my best beam. ‘Firstly, let me tell you I'm an
enormous
fan of the
Cultivator
. A top-quality publication. And the people you feature are just
fascinating
.' I glanced around the room in search of inspiration; saw a flyer for James Wong's dog-washing business. ‘James Wong, for example. Now, didn't you run a story on him recently?' I crossed my fingers and hoped they'd run a bit of advertorial.

He fiddled with a cufflink. ‘Yeah, that was one of mine.'

‘Oh? I seem to recall Shane telling me Natalie Kellett worked on features?'

‘She helped out. But I'm the one who does most of the work.'

‘I see.'

I watched him carefully. A red stain was creeping up Morris's neck.

‘Well, it was a good piece,' I said. ‘
Lovely
style. This is a writer going places, I told myself. The fact is,' I leaned in closer, ‘we're keen to run a feature on James Wong in
Grooming
. Of course, we'll need someone really good,
with local knowledge. We offer top whack, naturally. We don't skimp on our people.' I gave him a wide, toothy smile. The value of a credible cover story to an investigation can't be overstated.

‘When I spoke to Shane about it, he quite generously suggested Natalie. Well, I emailed Natalie and she sent me some ideas. But then there was a…silence from her end. Of course, I understood once I heard…Anyway, the thing is, her terrible tragedy leaves me with a small gap.' I paused significantly.

Morris's mouth opened and closed.

‘Why don't we discuss this in Shane's office? I'm sure he won't mind,' I said.

He led the way into the office. I do like a young man who knows when to obey a person. I haven't met many of them in my life, unfortunately.

There was a limp-looking plant by the door. A large wooden desk with a pile of books at one end:
A Year Full of Recipes
;
Grumpy Old Git's Guide to Life
; a Lonely Planet guide to Spain. A huge bookcase against the wall, filled with folded-up faded newspapers. Beside the desk a bin overflowed with cardboard coffee cups.

Morris sat in the swivel chair and I settled myself into a seat on the other side of the desk.

‘So what did Natalie send you?' said Morris.

‘Oh, just some initial ideas. There wasn't time to get too far into the detail.'

‘What sort of ideas?'

‘Err, I'd have to dig out the emails. Anyway,' I waved a hand, ‘no point in going over old ground. Obviously we'll need to start again.'

‘Was it anything to do with the Ignition Group?'

‘Well, yes, I think she did mention that, actually.' What exactly was the Ignition Group? A bunch of arsonists?

He nodded. ‘And when was the last email you received from her?'

‘Ah, about a week before she died. Terribly sad.'

I leaned forward, put an elbow on the desk. ‘You must really miss her, given how closely you worked together, co-writing articles and so on. And she seemed such a charming young woman, in her emails, at least. Although…I understand there was some…trouble? I won't pry into details, but I must tell you I have a zero-tolerance approach to troublemakers. There's no space for anyone who's not a team player at
Grooming Monthly
.' I gave him a firm look.