Dead Men Don't Order Flake (6 page)

I ran faster, my breath choking out in gasps. My legs burned; my hair and clothes were saturated. The house grew closer; I could see movement across a lit-up window. Another fence. Bugger, this one was electric: tell-tale orange sheep netting. On or off—that was the question.

I slowed and glanced over my shoulder. A shape running towards me; slightly lopsided, limping. Getting closer. I sucked in a frantic breath. Sprinted the last few steps towards the fence and took a leap up, up, over the netting, my best effort for high-jump gold.

Agh. Not high enough. My foot trailed against the fence top just as my other foot touched the soil; the kick of the electric current jolted through my body. I crashed
to the ground, face-first in the mud. Lay there a second, my breath juddering.

A goat mehh-ed at me. I groaned, then crawled to my feet. My left foot squelched, shoeless. I spent a frantic, fruitless moment looking for the shoe.

Just a few steps now to the house. A dog started barking. I ran across the gravel yard towards the back door. Flew up the three concrete steps. My socks full of mud. I'm fond of rain, but not when it's in my shoes. Shoe.

I banged on the door; leaned, hard-panting, against the frame.

The door opened. A tall bloke; blond hair gleaming in the light.

‘Cass?'

Unbelievable. It was Leo Stone.

9

Leo grabbed my arm and pulled me inside. I stood, bent over, hands on my knees, dripping mud onto the floor. Sucking at the air, trying to catch my breath.

‘What's going on, Cass? And what happened to your eye?'

‘Brown Fairlane. Break-in. Stalker.' I managed in staccato gasps.

Once my breath started to remember normal, I explained as quickly as I could.

‘Right.' He frowned. Marched over to the kitchen door and went outside. Two minutes later, he was back. ‘No sign of anyone. He could be out somewhere on the road though. You OK to come with me? I don't want to leave you alone.'

‘I'm head-to-foot mud, Leo. I'll ruin your sheepskin covers.'

He laughed. ‘No sheepskin to worry about these days.'

I walked out to his Land Rover and hopped into the passenger side. He got in, fired it up; put on the heater. My teeth were chattering.

He glanced at me. Reached over to his back seat and handed me a blanket.

When we got out to the road, the brown car was gone. No sign of anyone. Leo drove me back to his house and bustled me inside. While I dripped more mud onto his kitchen floor, shivering, he found me a huge fluffy blue towel, then pointed me in the direction of the bathroom. As I left, he started lighting a row of tea lights on the kitchen table.

The shower was hot and welcome. I held my face up under the flow of water. My swollen eye throbbed. I was tempted to stay in there for a lasting period and not just because I was cold, mud-encrusted and slightly overwhelmed. Where I'd ended up was also unsettling. Of all the kitchens in all the world, I had to run into Leo Stone's.

I turned off the water, reluctantly, and got out of the shower. Towelled myself. A tantalising kitchen smell wafted in. Onions, meat, something peanutty. A sudden thought: Serena. Oh shit, that was probably their dinner he was cooking. Maybe she was due back any minute. A cosy dinner for two, followed by an energetic evening. Of course, that's what the tea lights were about.

Leo had acted all cool and calm, but he'd be keen to bundle me out of here as soon as common decency allowed. It never helps when a woman arrives home for the cosy-tea-light-sexual-frenzy only to discover the fella's old flame in the shower.

Even if the flame is only an ancient-history-flame, busy
guttering out. And immune to men, or as near as humanly possible.

I glanced around the bathroom—it didn't strike me as advertising the presence of a woman. No bath bombs, no mousse or candles. Maybe she didn't live here? So it was a wooing romantic early-days type of evening? Of course—what bloke would bother with tea lights once he'd got beyond the groundwork?

I groaned. Clearly, I'd arrived at precisely the wrong moment, just in time to do the complete gooseberry routine. I took a deep breath. Well, at least I was no longer a mud-encrusted gooseberry.

I stepped out of the bathroom, wrapped in a couple of acres of towel and headed into the kitchen. Leo was standing by the stove, stirring the tantalising-smelling something in a huge pot.

‘That feel better?' He smiled; picked up some clothes from a chair: a big, blue blokey shirt and way-too-narrow-hipped jeans. He held them out.

‘Thanks. Although those jeans are the wrong shape.'

He looked me up and down with an appraising eye, the smile broadening. The kind of look that's no help to a person in the process of cultivating her immunity.

‘Sorry, but I'm right out of my stock of woman-shaped clothing, Cass.'

‘Got a pair of tracky dacks?'

Ten minutes later, I emerged from the bathroom a second time. The tracky dacks and shirt-tent combo didn't make the greatest fashion statement, but it was dry and not plastered with rust-coloured mud. I sat down at the kitchen table. It was very dim in that kitchen—just flickering
shadows from the row of tea lights. I'd phone for a taxi in a moment; get the hell out of here and leave them to their romantic dinner.

Leo handed me a mug of hot chocolate. I wrapped my hands around the big red mug and took a warming sip.

He moved back to the stove. ‘Hungry?'

‘Oh no. Been eating all day.'

My stomach gave a rumble you could have heard in Muddy Soak. I hadn't eaten anything since that boiled egg at lunchtime. It felt like hours ago, probably because it was.

Leo filled up a plate with some of the contents from the pot on the stove and put the plate in front of me.

‘Thanks for all your help, Leo. I should really head off now.'

He poured a glass of white wine and put it in my hand, as if I hadn't spoken, then poured one for himself. He filled another plate with food and sat down in front of it. ‘Cass, come on, you need to eat something.'

‘Err, you sure there'll be enough for Serena?'

‘What's she got to do with it? Eat.'

‘Well, just a mouthful.' I tasted the food. Tomato, chicken, peanuts, a little chilli. When had Leo become such a good cook? I tried not to shovel it all down too quickly. ‘What is this, anyway?'

‘Chicken mwamba. Got the recipe from a mate in the Congo.'

A silence while I tried not to gobble.

‘I'd say your distributor's shot, Cass.'

‘Yep, I'll phone for a taxi in a minute.'

‘No rush. Anyway, you haven't told me why this Fairlane was following you.'

‘Well, I thought I was working on a small, non-dangerous job for a bloke I felt sorry for.' I explained about Gary, Natalie's accident, her bag, the whole sinister break-in-development.

‘Jesus, Cass. I wish…'

‘What?'

‘Yeah. A lot of things.' His voice was soft.

Maybe it was the warm kitchen, the gentle tone in Leo's voice, the wine or all three, but for some reason I teared up a bit.

I blinked rapidly. Don't be a bloody fool, Cass. The simple reality is that I should never have taken this job on. Should have just said ‘no' and played it safe with iffy ferret dealers and Edna's non-existent knicker thief. I pushed my plate away; suddenly not hungry and stood up.

‘Well, I'm off. Thanks, Leo. Appreciate it.' I made a move towards the door, quickly wiping my eyes.

A warm hand on my shoulder. ‘Cass, you're upset. Don't go. Not yet.'

‘I'll head outside and call for the taxi. Better reception out there.'

A hand on my other shoulder. Leo turned me around, looking down into my eyes. His face was serious. ‘I don't like the idea of you heading off alone, not with this strange bloke around. Don't go, please. You'll be safer here.' He pulled me close.

I sucked in a breath. It felt way too good there against his broad chest.

‘Got to get back to the shop,' I cleared my throat. ‘Busy day tomorrow…'

He put his hand below my chin. Lifted my face towards his. There was a light dusting of blond stubble on his face.

He stroked my cheek with a finger and it sent ripples through me. He pulled me closer, so close I could feel his warm breath on my face, as his lips brushed my cheek. His skin smelled like Imperial Leather, dust and sunshine.

Our mouths seemed to find each other all on their own, in that dim, tea-lighted kitchen. A long, hot kiss that did something diabolical to my knees.

My focus slipped away, far away, from phoning taxis. Leo's lips were on my ear, my neck. His hands warm around my waist. The thought of those hands against my skin, under my shirt, between my legs.

He unbuttoned my shirt-tent; fumbling, hurrying fingers. Kissed my neck, down, down into my cleavage. Reached around to unfasten my bra. His hands were warm against my breasts. I breathed harder. My hands slid down his waist, his hips. Onwards my hands moved, nothing to do with me, towards his zip. He groaned.

There was a hammering at the kitchen door.

10

Quick-smart, I stepped back from Leo, way back, into my electric-fenced Cass immunity jurisdiction. Caught my breath. Buttoned up my shirt. Leo gave me a smouldering look, then turned abruptly towards the door.

It swung open before he'd even touched the handle.

‘Mum? Are you in there? You all right?' Six foot one of extremely unwelcome cop barged in and there stood Dean, a little breathless, dripping rain onto the floor. ‘Saw your car on the road. You OK? Who's this bloke?'

‘Leo Stone.' He held out his hand. ‘Showbag's cousin. I've been away a while…' He trailed off.

Dean gave him a suspicious look. ‘The dead bloke, right? Who isn't dead.' He looked at me. ‘Mum? I was worried sick when I saw your car. Is everything OK? Your face is all red.'

‘I'm fine, Dean. Thanks.' Now he was motivated?

‘So what are you doing here?'

‘Ah, having dinner.'

He looked at my clothes. ‘Why are you wearing those?'

‘Sit down, Dean, and let me explain.'

Over a glass of wine—none for Dean,
I'm on duty
—I managed to explain the situation. The brown car situation, that is. There was no need to go into the confusion of the Leo situation. Obviously.

‘Anyway, Leo was kind enough to help me out.'

‘Well, you should have called me, Mum. Immediately.' His mouth turned down. ‘Anyway, I'll drop you home.'

‘Oh no, it's miles out of your way.'

‘Yeah. I'd be happy to drive Cass home,' Leo said quickly.

Dean stared pointedly at the glass of wine in Leo's hand.

‘Or you'd be welcome to stay here the night, Cass. And we'll take a look at your car in the morning.'

I smiled. A tempting idea, but hardly likely to be acceptable to Serena. In fact, nothing about this evening was likely to be acceptable to Serena. Leo might well have a bit of explaining to do.

‘No.' Dean's face was stony. ‘Not with this bloke out there after you. And we don't yet know who he is.' He gave Leo a glare.

What did that mean? Did Dean think Leo was the driver of the brown Fairlane?

‘I insist on driving you home, Mum. I won't hear any other suggestion.'

Leo tried again, but there was no shifting Dean.

It rained nonstop on the drive home.

‘I want you staying right away from him, Mum.'

‘The bloke with the brown Fairlane? Absolutely.'

‘Well, yes, him too, if he exists. But I meant that weird bloke calling himself Leo Stone.'

‘What? No, no, he's definitely Leo.'

‘I don't see how you can be so sure.'

‘I'm absolutely sure that's Leonard Michael Stone. I went to school with him.' No need to mention all the other stuff. The other non-stuff.

‘You haven't seen Leo Stone in over twenty years. No one has. So who'd have a clue if this bloke was an impostor?'

‘Well, I would.' There was no mistaking that was Leo. Those hands. Those lips. Christ, you'd think the feelings would have faded just a tiny bit after twenty years. So much for immunity.

‘Yeah, who else?'

‘Showbag. They're cousins. He'd know.'

‘I mean who else in the sense of someone who could be considered reliable?'

‘So you're saying I'm unreliable?'

The headlights of a passing truck lit up Dean's face for a moment. His jaw had a worryingly rock-hard look about it.

‘I'm just saying you don't know this bloke. The whole set-up's suspicious. Why'd he fake his own death?'

‘He didn't fake it. There was a yacht accident…' I trailed off.

‘Well, someone's faked his reappearance, then.'

Oh for God's sake. The combination of two glasses of wine, unresolved sexual tension and Dean's warped logic was making my head hurt.

I slumped against the side window and pretended I'd gone to sleep.

11

The next morning I spent a good half-hour elbow-deep in sausage mince and reflected on Natalie Kellett. It was blindingly obvious there was something not-quite-right about her death: this wasn't just another crash on Jensen Corner. Jacinta obviously knew something. And I'd say there was a good chance the owner of that brown car was somehow involved. How to get answers, though? It would really help if I could get Dean energised. Maybe this batch of sausage rolls would do the job.

I'd just taken the sausage rolls out of the oven when my shop bell rang. I put the tray down on the stove top and headed up the connecting hallway into the shop.

Madison Watkins. She'd tied up her ferrets out the front, of course. Madison knows I don't allow animals in my shop. Especially the frenzied, hissing kind. The unfortunate requirements of health and safety et cetera.

She sashayed over, a pile of magazines tucked underneath
an arm. ‘The usual, thanks Cass.' She plopped the magazines on my counter.