Dead Men Don't Order Flake (21 page)

I flopped into a chair. You know, there are times when I wouldn't mind all that much if the whole world decided to buzz off. They could nick right off with all their needs: their impossible investigations, unfathomable life crises, cries for me to run my shop the way they'd run it (that is, if they were at all interested in running a shop).

Sometimes I have this little dream where everyone's forgotten I exist. I'm invisible and they're just sorting out everything on their own. I'm relaxed in a comfy chair, sipping a cup of tea, watching them get on with it. And I don't even need any Panadol.

Later that evening, I got on with some top-quality mouldering into the ground. I slipped into my flannelette PJs
and went to bed early with a spot of Phryne Fisher. But at 3am I'd finished
Death at Victoria Dock
and still wasn't sleepy.

I put down the book. Tried not to think about Leo. I hadn't phoned him back, of course. In fact, maybe tomorrow I'd find a moment to go scrape off that headstone.
Nothing can take your memory away
.

I groaned. I wished there was something that would take the bloody memory away. Not every single memory of Leo Stone; I wasn't after an early-onset dementia kind of cleansing.

If only I could wipe out
that
memory, though: the night of Leo and Irene's engagement do. It had all started out so well. I'd whizzed around all those happy people with my big platters of flash finger food. My first ever catering event. Piero had left me to it—he was off in WA at the time, on one of his so-called nature photography jaunts. Ha—I found out too late what that was all about.

I'll admit I should probably never have had that glass of wine. But it wasn't my fault Leo asked me to dance. Or that the DJ put on ‘Heaven' by Bryan Adams. Our damn song. Leo strode over, took the platter out of my hands and set it down on the table. He took my hand and led me out onto the floor.

The lights went down low.

‘A dance with the world's most beautiful woman.' Leo whispered into my ear.

‘Yes, Irene's looking very lovely. And that colour suits her.'

‘Nope.' He looked at me, serious-faced for once.

‘You don't like Navajo white on her?'

‘It's not Irene.'

‘Right. Anyway, I should go get onto those prawn cocktails. Don't want them drying out.'

‘In a minute.' He held me closer. Enfolded me against his entire body. ‘One last dance,' he whispered. ‘And then I'll have you out of my system. I will, honest.'

‘Actually, I reckon those prawns probably need me right now.' My voice was muffled against his neck. My breasts pressed firmly against his chest. A chest that was warm, broad, muscled, under his white shirt, under that loosened tie. I'd never really had the chance to actually see those muscles. Muscles that would probably be perfect for chopping firewood, carrying the shopping, gripping a woman hard and tight on her bed. My nipples hardened.

Focus, Cass. Prawn cocktails.

There are some things a person can have difficulty moving on from, no matter how hard she tries to think about canapés. My hands moved down his back.

My focus slipped away, far away, from the prawn cocktails. Leo's cheek against mine, his lips on my hair, my ear, my neck. I caught my breath.

The lights suddenly went back up, white-bright. Tina Turner came on.

‘Right. Must get back to it,' I said, somewhat breathless.

I wrenched myself away and marched over to my platter. I could feel Irene's Navajo-white folded-arms glare behind me.

Really, it was that damn dance that was the beginning of it all. And before you start up, don't go asking why he wanted to dance with
me
at his own engagement do. I mean, OK, I was a woman he had once been sort-of involved with. And, yes, OK, a woman who he'd repeatedly asked, since his return from Rockhampton,
Cass
,
leave Piero and come travel the world with me?

To which I'd said no. Well, of course I did. I wasn't going to desert my baby—Dean was only six months old. And I could hardly take him off around the world, a million miles from his father.

Irene looked a bit hurt, as you might imagine. And not that I saw her after the do, but Ernie told me later that
Irene wasn't real flaming pleased
when Glenda told her that after that song she'd discovered Leo in a sort-of compromised vicinity. In the kitchen.

Well, prawn cocktails can be quite fiddly. It's all about the sauce, of course. And for the rookie caterer, it's important to snap up assistance if it's offered.

I thumped my pillow, trying to get comfortable.

Of course, what made the whole thing worse, much worse, was that I actually did some serious thinking after I got home that night. I ended up packing a suitcase. Slipped out with the case and Dean, early the next morning, and drove to Leo's place. Got out of my car and crunched my way up his gravel drive. I had a plan. A good plan, not a perfect one, after all, nothing in life is perfect, but it was workable.

I'd leave Piero. Me and Leo, we'd live together, with Dean. Might as well, since it seemed Leo and I had Buckley's of moving on from each other. We'd stay in Rusty Bore, of course, so Dean could see his father.

Except Leo wasn't there. He'd buggered off already. Moved on very fast to life as a gun dealer, as it turned out.

Well, Sophia could go on all she liked about my last chance at love. In my autumn—ha! If I wanted to make it into my winter, it was probably best if I didn't hook up with any arms smugglers. Thinking about Leo made
me ache. Move on, Cass, move on.

I sensed some three-in-the-morning sorry-for-myself coming on. We should all be thankful for three in the morning: the perfect time to realise you've made a few wrong turns in your life.

A tear slipped out. Harden up, I told myself. You're just suffering from a straightforward case of sexual anorexia. I wiped my eyes and lay there listening to the wind: its fractious mewing sounds. Huh, I refused to lie awake all night feeling terrible. I bet Leo wasn't feeling terrible. He'd be too busy arranging a new brand of gun to smuggle, or having breathless Skype-sex with one of those Congolese wives. Or breathless actual sex with Serena. Actually, I didn't want to think about what Leo was up to.

Such is the mature woman's lot, as my Nanna was fond of saying. She'd never have lain here blubbing over some stupid bloke. No, she'd have got up, bustled into the kitchen and found something to pound: a big heap of meat, most probably. Yeah, Nanna would have told Brad precisely where he could go with his Meatless Mondays.

Eventually the wind eased off; it seemed like it had run out of things to blow. Silence, finally. I wrestled a little longer with Leo-related memories and then, eventually, I fell asleep.

35

Some time later, I jumped awake. A noise. A car? I looked at my alarm clock: 4am.

A sound. Footsteps? I lay there a moment holding my breath.

The sound of a dog whining. I waited, hoping it would go away, but no go. I got up, pulled on my dressing gown and peered out of the window. The sky was a shade darker than navy, the moon bright. I grabbed my sawn-off star picket. Bustled up the hallway, firmly dressing-gowned and star-picketed, ready for any intruders and their whining dogs.

I peered through the shop window, looked up and down the street. No burglars visible. No cars. I could see clearly enough: Best Street's solitary street light was still on. Somewhere in the distance, a cat wailed. Another sound—the whining dog again. Outside my door? I put down my star picket and unlocked the shop door; opened
it. Boofa was out there, pawing at something on my step. A suitcase-shaped something.

I squatted down beside Boofa. He looked up at me with those dark liquid eyes, looked back at the suitcase and whined again. I gave him a little pat. Boofa's a dog with a pretty free rein in Rusty Bore. Not a lot of dog catchers in the area.

It was an ordinary-looking suitcase. The old fashioned kind. Soft, zipped-up, no wheels. It was navy blue, a bit dusty and battered around the edges. Big enough for a short trip, but if you were going off on a year-long jaunt around the world, you'd need to be a light type of packer.

‘What's this you've brought me, Boofa? You planning on us heading off travelling, are you?' I said, then realised I sounded like an idiot, talking to Vern's dog in the middle of the night. Get a grip, I told myself. You're not in a Lassie film.

Who'd leave a suitcase on my step? Kids? Some middle-of-the-night joke? I considered shutting the door and going back to bed. Maybe whoever had left it there would come back for it once they realised their joke wasn't so hilarious after all.

Boofa started pawing at the case, like he was trying to dig his way into it.

‘Hey, hey, boy,' I said. I reached out, unzipped the case and pulled it open.

I leapt back in shock. Boofa yelped.

I steadied myself and looked at the contents of the case again. A dog's head looked back at me, a wet pool of blood where the dog's body should have been. Its dead eyes were unblinking in the streetlight.

Something about one of its ears was familiar—the ear
was partly missing, like half of it had been bitten off. There was a note stuck to the inside of the case. Glued-on letters cut out from a newspaper.

Back off. Or you'll regret it.

36

I flung the suitcase shut over the dog's head. Stood up, feeling a little shaky. I grabbed Boofa by his collar and whirled into my shop. Slammed the door shut and locked it. Boofa looked at me boggle-eyed. I was feeling pretty boggle-eyed myself.

No point calling Dean. He'd be too busy reading me my rights to take in anything I said. Boofa looked up at me, tail wagging. Yeah, Boofa, but you don't know Dean, not really. I sighed. Where in hell does a person turn to find a normal cop?

Or you'll regret it.

Boofa whined; pushed his head into my hand. I gave him a reassuring stroke, his head was warm and comforting. I went round the house, checked the doors were locked; checked all the windows too.

I rubbed my arms, trying to warm up. Maybe I should phone Gary Kellett. I didn't want to distress him, though.
Not when he had so many reasons to be distressed, and so early in the morning. Gary would be very upset: that dog was all he had of Natalie.

What sort of person kills a dog, anyway? Anger surged the blood into my arms, my legs. Bastard. And how dare he/she (more than probably it'd turn out to be a he—I know, just call me prejudiced) think he could threaten me with that pathetic note.

The problem was: who exactly was he? Morris Temple? Andy Fitzgerald? Or was it actually a she—Glenda Fitzgerald?

Whoever it was, it was time for action. I'd assemble a team and pay the good citizens of Muddy Soak a little visit. Starting with Morris Temple. He wasn't a big bloke. That shrimp'd stand very little chance against Rusty Bore's finest. There are plenty of people in this town who are far from useless in a crisis.

I hoofed out to my bedroom and rootled though the wardrobe. Found my yellow gloves, a gift from Raquel and the Knitters Knot, as yet unused. I slipped them on and headed back along the hallway and into the shop. I didn't want to mess up any fingerprints or other important evidence on that suitcase.

I opened the shop door. It was dim outside in the grey pre-dawn light. The suitcase was still there. I lugged it into the shop, down the hallway and into the kitchen. Boofa whined again when he saw it. I went and shut him in the laundry so as not to upset the little bloke any further.

I carefully unzipped the suitcase again, doing my best to ignore Preston's head and the pool of blood. Searched the case for any identifying marks. Nothing special. A dusty outer. No name on it, no address label. Manufacturer:
Jaguar Brown. I peered into the inner pocket, felt around inside: nothing.

I was just stuffing Preston's cold dead head into a jumbo-sized zip-lock plastic bag, when Brad shuffled in.

‘What are you doing, Mum?'

‘I'll explain in a tick.'

I tucked Preston's double-bagged head in behind the ice-cream. Not ideal, but it wouldn't be for long, I hoped. Might help put me off eating ice-cream for a while, which could be a good thing. And I could hardly put it in the shop freezer: health and safety et cetera.

I put the suitcase down the bottom of my wardrobe, slung the gloves into my washing basket and hurried back into the kitchen.

‘Mum? What the hell…?'

I quickly put Brad in the picture.

He looked dazed, like he was having trouble taking it in.

‘Now, are you coming to Muddy Soak with me or not?' I said.

‘No way. We're not going down this path again. Remember what happened last time? You could have been killed. No, this is definitely a police matter. I'm not having you end up decapitated in a suitcase.'

He screwed up his mouth good and tight. Brad's always more than ready to catastrophise, just like his father always was. Although on this occasion it was possible he had a point.

‘Best way to prevent that is to come and help, Brad.'

‘Stay out of it. Whoever wrote that note: they're dangerous.'

Thanks for stating the bloody obvious.

‘Phone Dean.'

‘I can't do that. Dean's…well, I'm staying away from him.'

I never set out to raise Dean to be an irritable, prone-to-unnecessary-arrests kind of person. I don't suppose any parent aims for that. But surely it was remediable; Dean and I probably just needed more quality time together. I'd make that a priority, I would. Once I got a moment.

‘I'm going to Muddy Soak to see a few people. Starting with this bastard Morris. Either he's done this to Preston or he knows something about it. Are you in?'

‘This will end up with you dead. Or in jail.'

‘Look, no one else is going to do it, Brad. It's like all your shark-rescuing efforts. Your climate change concerns. Your fake press release. Sometimes you have to make a stand.'