Dead Men Don't Order Flake (8 page)

‘Yeah, I heard you're looking into that. So it wasn't an accident? Don't tell me Dean stuffed up again?'

I tried not to bristle. ‘I wouldn't go assuming anything. Dean did a terrific job. By the book.'

‘Sorry. I didn't mean…'

‘Anyway, my role is more of a…well, her father's keen
to put up a memorial. Yeah, he came to me in search of inspiration.'

‘Really? I didn't know you were like a memorial expert.'

‘Oh, well,' I gestured vaguely at the wall behind her, ‘it was me, after all, who came up with the wording on Bob and Dottie Stone's grave. You know, for Leo.'

‘Oh yes, that was lovely. You know, I've always wondered…?'

I gave her a distant smile. ‘Anyway, I'm currently in the information-gathering phase. Talking to people who knew Natalie. And I suddenly thought: Taylah or maybe Jacinta might have known her.'

‘Well, Jazzy did, sure. She met her through Morris Temple. Natalie and Morris worked together at the
Muddy Soak Cultivator
.'

Aha.

‘He could give you some stuff for the inscription, maybe. Although Jazzy's in an off phase with him at the moment. Bloody good thing, I say.'

I waited.

‘He's weird, Cass. And I keep telling her: weird men, they're a
huge
risk, OMG. Everyone goes on about shark attacks but men, well, a woman is killed every week in Australia thanks to a guy, and how many violent men are we culling?'

I shifted my weight a little.

‘And. Most victims of domestic violence don't report it until after thirty attacks 'cause they know no one will help. D'you reckon you'd need to be attacked by a shark thirty times before someone would come and help?'

Taylah recently started an online course in social work.

‘Are you saying Morris was…bothering Natalie?'

‘Couldn't say. Anyway, it's a bit rough, you having to check up on Dean's…I mean, being a memorial consultant. You must be flat out with all this. And the shop.
And
you're a nanna again. How is Jessie, anyway?'

It's important to mention that I'm an exceptionally young person to be a nanna. And that middle age is smack dead centre in a person's prime. Anyway, I wasn't a nanna in this instance, not biologically speaking. Claire had her baby, Jess, sixteen months ago. Claire's…not exactly my daughter, but since she's Brad and Dean's half-sister, there is a family connection. It's a bit of a long and tedious story, actually, and I don't always feel up to going into it.

I was just working out how I could ask Taylah for Jacinta's address when the phone started up again. Taylah grabbed it and I mooched off down the hallway to Ernie's room.

13

The lighting throughout the home is yellow, as if the decorator thought people in the twilight of their lives might not be able to cope with the brightness of white light. Pastel paintings of flowers line the walls. Very funereal-looking flowers. I passed Mrs Watkins out on her walker; called out a friendly hello. She looked through me as though I wasn't there.

Hopefully, today was one of Ernie's good days. He lets his marbles come and go and sometimes I think it's intentional. Maybe he could help me get into this dropped phone: marbles permitting, Ernie's pretty good at getting into things he's not supposed to. And he could have useful information about Natalie Kellett, as long as I managed to keep him focused.

Ernie was in his room, sitting in his armchair, facing the TV. He doesn't like watching the TV in the communal lounge. Full of people who've lost it, he tells me. It was
three in the afternoon and Ernie was in his dressing gown, the one I gave him last Christmas. His shoulder blades finned through the navy blue material. I hoped he was eating properly; he looked like he was getting thinner.

I put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Ernie, how you doing?'

‘As good as a dying war hero can be on his final flaming birthday. Spent alone, of course.' He glared at me, his yellowed moustache quivering. His old-bone hands plucked at the red blanket spread across his knees.

I flicked through my mental calendar. ‘No, no, it's not today. Your birthday's Friday. And we're going out.' Although admittedly I didn't have anything organised yet.

‘If I'm still alive.'

‘Of course you'll still be alive, especially if I've got anything to do with it,' I said in a brisk tone of voice. ‘And we're doing something special.'

He humphed. ‘So where the hell were you yesterday?'

‘Yesterday?'

‘No need to flaming well repeat everything I say. I
am
compos, Cassandra Ariadne.'

Ernie's one of the few people that knows the catastrophe of my full name. It was my dad's great idea, that name. He loved anything classical, which wouldn't necessarily be a problem—my sister's called Helen—but I copped the whole Cassandra Ariadne.

‘You missed a ripper movie, one of those Trinity deals.
My Name's Not Bloody Trinity
, I think. No bosoms though, not a single one,' Ernie leaned down and snatched up a copy of the
Green Guide
from the pile beside his chair, rustled through it. ‘Anyway, your loss. Dunno what you were thinking. First Monday you haven't been in since I don't know when.'

‘Um, yesterday was Saturday, Ernie. Sorry, I had a bit to do in the shop.'

‘Oh, for God's sake. Haven't got time to listen to all your shopping rigmaroles. I'm busy: got a wheat farm I'm trying to run here.' His hands were clenching and unclenching on the
Green Guide
.

I patted his hand. Maybe I'd confused him by coming in on the wrong day.

Normally, I go and see Ernie on Mondays: I close the shop, drive to Hustle and visit him for our regular appointment with the midday movie. He might not be quite as fit as he once was, but there's no way Ernie'll ever give up on those movies, him with a rustling bag of mini Cherry Ripes, me with a strong cuppa and a packet of Panadol. You need an adequate supply of Panadol to get through an afternoon with Ernie.

‘Let's have a nice cuppa and watch one of your favourite DVDs.'

‘Don't have time to waste on your films today. I'm occupied.' He dropped his
Green Guide
on the floor, a theatrical kind of motion.

Ernie spends his days in his room, or lurking outside by the roses on his walker, smoking. No way he was occupied. ‘What with?' I said.

‘None of your bloody business.'

I pulled up a chair beside him; sat down. ‘Ernie, I'm in urgent need of your help. If you have time, that is.'

Was I going to have to tell every single person I knew about Natalie Kellett? One of those people was bound to go and say something inflammatory to Dean. Time for some emergency lying. I leaned in closer. ‘It's an important technical question.'

He gave me a suspicious look. ‘You got any of your Anzac biscuits on you?'

‘I'll pop in with some tomorrow. Promise.'

He sniffed. I took that as acquiescence.

After a cuppa and three Scotch Fingers, carefully halved and dunked, Ernie seemed slightly mollified.

‘So this question,' he said. ‘Historical, is it?'

No, no
. Last thing I needed was for Ernie to get focused on the past. The number of times he's given me one of his lectures about the Mallee's long and tedious history, which probably isn't actually tedious, it's just the way Ernie tells it.
Back when I was a little tacker
, he'll say, and then give me one of his smelly-breath cackles.

‘More of a technology type of question.'

‘Well, if it's about Dennis flaming Stanley, I'm not in the mood.'

‘No, it's to do with a girl called Natalie Kellett. And your knowledge could be vital to a…sort of…investigation.'

He shot me a look. ‘Investigation? That girl's tragic death was just another accident on Jensen Corner, wasn't it? Death trap, that corner, I've always said that.'

‘Uh huh.' You can have enough pointless lamenting over that bend in the road. It'll be there long after I'm gone.

‘Mind you,' he went on, ‘wouldn't be too hard to force someone off the road just there. A nefarious type could make it look like an accident, easy.'

A small silence while I considered that. Ernie used to compete in the Mallee Rally, way back. He was known across three states for his ultra-tricky driving moves.

‘S'pose you're helping Dean? That kid needs serious help.'

‘Look, it's not a criminal investigation, nothing like that. And there's no need for anyone to stir up Dean. Anyway, it's about this phone.'

I reached into my handbag to pull out the book basher's phone. A business card fluttered out.

Ernie reached down and picked it up; peered at it. ‘What you doing with Bamfield's card?'

‘Bloke left it with me. Anyway, this phone…' I held it out.

‘Reginald Larry Bamfield. You know he built that swanky place near Muddy Soak? Rhapsody Downs. Some name for a business based on a flaming gravel pit. Always full of it, that fella.'

‘Forget the Bamfields, Ernie. Can you get into this phone?'

He sailed on regardless. ‘Dodgy bastard too. Bought that couple of rocky-as-shit paddocks from Graham Stone for a song. Told Stone this whole sob story how it was for his cousin's starving sheep.'

I sighed.

‘Larry Bamfield had no damn cousin. He knew there was a fortune in crushed rock lyin' underneath those paddocks. Dug 'em up within the week.

‘Built a bloody impressive house, though. Looks like a huge ocean liner, even got the curving windows. They knew how to build things properly in those days.'

He cackled. I moved back from the gust of breath.

‘Still a social hub, you know. Black tie dos most Saturday nights, women in coloured silk swishin' up the steps…Huge party cave in that joint, connected to the house by this tunnel. Top spot on a hot day, that cave, when I was a little tacker—nice and cool in there,
underground. Larry flaming Bamfield dug out that tunnel, all on his own. So he said.'

Maybe it'd be best if just tried getting into the phone myself while Ernie carried on with his history lesson. I started swiping finger patterns.

‘Helluva lot of wild things went on in that party cave. Bloody wild.' He paused. ‘Didn't anyone ever tell you it's rude to fiddle with your phone while you're having a conversation?'

‘Can you save the Bamfields for another day, please? I promised Gary Kellett.'

He glared. ‘What I'm trying to tell you, if you'd give me the chance, is that this could be a good little job for you. I lost me watch in that cave, when I was a little bloke.'

I groaned.

‘Never found it neither. Spent hours looking. And Dad belted me—still got the scars. Reckon those Bamfields nicked it; sold it on me. Bastards.' He whacked his hand on the arm of his chair.

‘OK. Now we've got through all that, any chance of your help with this phone?'

Another watery-eyed glare. ‘You're not listening, are you? You could find that watch. If you could be bothered. A proper detective would.'

The phone battery went flat and I put the damn thing away. This is why I tend not to ask Ernie historical questions. He might forget what he's had for dinner, but he never lets go of a grievance.

‘Come on, let's get you dressed.'

I stood up, rootled through his wardrobe, looking for a blue shirt. Pretty much everything Ernie wears is navy blue.

‘Now, this is the million-dollar question: what are we gunna do on your birthday?'

Taylah had mentioned the Turning Leaf Spectacular. I wondered briefly what the difference was between the Falling Leaf Festival they had there last year and this year's Turning Leaf Spectacular. A more excitable naming committee, possibly.

‘How about we go out for lunch in Muddy Soak?' I laid his shirt on the bed; hunted through a drawer for his trousers. ‘We could eat outside, bit of autumn sunshine.'

‘So I have to eat me meals on the footpath now?' He stared moodily at the wall.

‘Ah, no, we'll eat indoors. Then go for a nice drive and look at the autumn leaves.'

‘Leaves are for old people, Cass.' He got up and shuffled over to the bed. ‘Might as well shoot me now.' His voice was sad and wobbly.

I said nothing. Sometimes the harder you try with Ernie, the more you upset him.

‘You know what I'd really like for my birthday?' He peeled off his pyjama top and flung it on the bed. He pulled on his shirt. ‘My watch. Bet it's still in that flaming party cave.'

14

I got home to find two cars parked out the front of my shop. Claire's red ute, and a battered Land Rover. Dark blue. I straightened my dress, reflex-patted down my hair. Breathe, Cass, just breathe.

I headed inside: no smell of anything burning. Maybe Claire had managed today without any new BBQ chicken emergencies. She was standing by the coat rack, slipping into her multi-coloured jacket.

‘Can't stay, Cass, Sophia's expecting me. Anyway,' she nodded towards the plastic chairs. ‘I'll leave you to your visitor. He's managed to survive, despite Jess's best efforts.' Claire smiled.

In one of those plastic chairs, the plastic chairs I'd been studiously avoiding looking at, sat a broad-shouldered bloke; blond hair. Jessie was whacking his leg with a yellow plastic paddle. Jess has an endearing kind of whack. If you know her.

‘Come on Jess. Leave poor Leo alone.' Claire gathered up Jessie and her plastic paddle. ‘Really sorry about your jeans,' she said to Leo.

He smiled. ‘No worries.'

Claire and Jess headed out the door and I stood there a moment, feeling awkward. ‘I see you've met Jessie, then.'

‘Yeah. Been a while since I've received such a thorough beating.' He grinned.

I ducked in behind the counter, slipped on my floral apron.