Forbidden Fruit (18 page)

‘Oh my lord, Nell. What goings-on up your neck of the woods!’

‘Yes. Very disturbing.’ I regarded her thoughtfully. ‘Ah, did you know Dallas Patrick? Or was she before your time?’

‘Oh, I knew her very well.’ She cleared a space on the counter and rested her plump arms there, settling in. ‘They didn’t move until about six months after I took over here. Lovely little thing, she was. But I can’t tell you how shocked I was to hear about the man! In your house!’

I nodded. I wasn’t sure that a six-month acquaintance, particularly during such a busy time in Dallas’s life, qualified as knowing someone very well. ‘What about him? Paul Patrick?’

‘Oh, lovely chap. Bit free with the innuendo, if you know what I mean, but no harm done.’

‘I see. Listen, were there any artists living around here then?’

She gave this some thought. ‘Artists, you say? No, not that I can think of. Although your mother’s pretty handy with the brush.’

‘Yecch,’ I said involuntarily. From outside, Gusto whined, his lead rattling against the A-frame. ‘I’d better go. I just wanted to collect the drapes.’

‘Of course, of course.’ She straightened with a groan and then made her way through the piles of stock towards a curtained back room. Moments later she reappeared with a large, fat brown-paper parcel. I looked at it doubtfully, realising that I hadn’t really thought this through. ‘Here you go. All adjusted. Hopefully this time you got the measurements right!’

‘Yes.’ I nodded fervently as I pulled the parcel across the counter. It wasn’t just cumbersome, it was also quite heavy. A pyramid of colourful cotton reels collapsed, rolling every which way. I tried to collect them with my spare hand.

‘No matter.’ Svetlana waved me away as she gathered them up. ‘But you
must
tell me, why were you asking about Dallas? And artists? Is it anything to do with that man?’

With excellent timing, Gusto gave a plaintive, undulating whine. I grimaced apologetically. ‘No reason. Just curiosity. Sorry, but I really have to go. My dog’s going to destroy your A-frame next.’

She looked a little perturbed at the possibility so I made my escape.

Even without the added burden of the package, I would have struggled to repeat my fence-climbing exertions of earlier. Instead, I continued down the arcade to the main street and turned towards home. Passing Renaissance, I lifted my parcel slightly to act as a cover. I glanced up at the pole at the corner of my lane and smiled to see the street sign had not yet been replaced. Gusto had started to slow now, and I was in serious danger of tripping over him with my limited view. We must have made a rather strange sight, with me doing little sideways leaps every so often to avoid lassoing an ankle with the leash. I made a sudden decision as I neared Lucy’s and detoured to her front door, kicking at it gently with my foot. She answered after the third kick. I wondered if that meant Kate had now gone home.

‘I have a present for you,’ I announced grandly, thrusting the package towards her. ‘Curtains! For your bedroom.’

‘Really?’ she said doubtfully. She peeled a portion of the brown paper to reveal the regency-inspired pattern, with gold-rimmed burgundy stripes. ‘Oh.’

‘What’s wrong with them? They’re lovely!’

‘Yeah, okay. But they’re, well, more you than me, Mum.’ She pointed skywards. ‘Besides, didn’t you see?’

I took a few steps back so that I could peer up towards the window in question. Gusto, who had curled on the porch, simply swivelled and then elongated himself so that he didn’t have to rise. Shimmery white scrim covered Lucy’s window, shot through with threads of silver that caught the mid-morning sun. I was sure they weren’t there this morning. ‘When did you get those?’

‘They were a belated housewarming present from Grandma.’ Lucy came out to join me. ‘Wasn’t that nice of her? She came round just before. Aren’t they gorgeous?’

‘Yes, gorgeous.’

‘But thanks anyway.’ Lucy ducked forward and gave me a kiss on the cheek. The brown paper rustled as her belly pressed against my side. I had a sudden urge to cup it, feel the baby kick. ‘Anyway, hadn’t you better go see to your visitors?’

‘Visitors?’ I frowned even as I turned. In my driveway was an unmarked police car. I knew it was an unmarked police car because Detective Sergeant Eric Male was sitting in the driver’s seat, staring at me. He did not look happy.

‘You better go,’ said Lucy. ‘He does not look happy.’

‘He never does,’ I replied. Nevertheless, I readjusted my parcel and gave Gusto’s leash a tug. The dog reluctantly rose and then stretched before trotting over to my side. As we neared my house, Eric Male opened the car door and got out. Richard White had also emerged from the news van, still positioned by my kerb, but after a few brisk words from the detective, remained where he was. I reached my front door just as the passenger side of the police car opened. Juggling my keys, the parcel and the leash, while sidestepping the dog, I glanced over and my stomach immediately constricted to the size of a walnut. A very heavy walnut. Ashley Armistead was back.

‘Ms Forrest, I noticed yesterday that you had a timeline of events pertaining to this case stuck to your study wall. Can I ask you why?’

I frowned at Eric Male, who was now standing in the middle of my lounge room. Gusto was sprawled across the couch, breathing heavily, and Ashley stood beside him, idly ruffling the dog’s fur. Both men were looking at me. ‘What were you doing in my study?’

‘A man was found deceased in your home, Ms Forrest. Generally, we tend to look around when that type of thing happens.’

‘I see. Well, if you must know, I was simply trying to get a handle on what happened the day Dallas Patrick died – especially as you so quickly assumed that my father was involved.’

‘He was the last person to see the victim alive.’

‘Apart from Rex Fletcher.’

‘That is yet to be ascertained.’ He picked up the tin, Dallas’ treasure tin, from the coffee table and idly turned it over in his hands. I made a conscious effort not to stare at it. Instead, I moved over to the bench and pushed the three sheets of paper to one side. I knew that I should show them to the detectives, and the sooner the better, but I felt a strong reluctance to give them up, particularly the drawing. To have them stare at her naked form and not see the beauty within it.

‘I suppose what we’re struggling with,’ said Ashley suddenly, speaking for the first time, ‘is why Rex Fletcher would pick this particular house in which to commit suicide.’

I met his gaze. He looked a little tanned, and also as if he might have lost a kilo or two, but it suited him, streamlined the ruggedness. ‘I should think that was obvious. Guilt over having killed Dallas Patrick. He was able to live with it while she remained buried, but the discovery of her body pushed him over the edge. As he said in his note, he did it all for love.’

‘So you think he killed her?’ asked Ashley quickly. He stopped patting Gusto and the dog immediately began butting his hand, trying to get him started again.

‘Well, yes. Of course.’

‘But by all accounts, he was committed to his marriage,’ said Eric Male. ‘Even if he had a brief involvement with Dallas Patrick, there seems to be no question of him leaving his wife. Do you have a theory, therefore, as to why he would kill her?’

I wasn’t sure what this visit was all about, and why Ashley was making an appearance. I hadn’t even known he was back. It was his job, I knew, but I also felt a little betrayed. My gaze flicked down to the tin, still in Eric Male’s hands. I spoke slowly, aware that Ashley was watching me. ‘Well, she’d packed a suitcase, so I think it’s safe to assume that she
thought
she was starting a new life. I think he led her on, and then changed his mind. She probably became a little hysterical when he told her; after all, she’d just burnt her bridges for him. She threatens to tell his wife. He kills her.’

‘Makes sense.’ Eric Male was nodding. Then he sighed regretfully. ‘But unfortunately it didn’t happen that way.’ He flipped the tin once, twice, before continuing. ‘The one thing we know for sure is that it wasn’t him. Dallas Patrick was killed by a blow to the back of the head, most probably made as she was turning away from the assailant. This blow caused her to fall forward and strike her temple on the window ledge.’ He indicated the soft spot just up from the corner of his eye. ‘And this blow was delivered by a right-handed person. No question. The problem is that Rex Fletcher was left-handed.’

I stared at him, trying to absorb this last piece of information. Everything was suddenly upended. If Rex Fletcher hadn’t killed her, then who had? And why had he been here, left the note? Who wrote the letters in the tin?

The detective’s expression was unreadable. ‘The only reason I’m telling you this is because it is clear that you are making your own inquiries. Would I be correct in assuming you mean to do a journalistic piece?’

‘Not likely. I write a weekly column about middle age, not investigative journalism.’

He was frowning now. ‘But then why …?’

‘Exactly what I said before. My father is involved.’ I regarded him thoughtfully. ‘Were you going to offer some type of arrangement? Where I pass over anything I stumble across in exchange for an exclusive?’

‘You are of course legally required to pass on relevant information anyway,’ said Eric Male stiffly. He flipped the tin one more time. ‘It’s a criminal offence to hinder or impede a police investigation.’

‘That’s an unusual tin,’ said Ashley suddenly, watching me. ‘Quite old, is it?’

‘Yes.’ I hesitated a moment, and then reached over to collect the two letters from the end of the bench. Ignoring Ashley, I passed them to Eric Male. ‘My daughter’s friend found it hidden in an alcove behind the window frame next door. It contained what seem to be mementoes of a love affair, including these two letters.’

Eric Male blinked, clearly stunned. With a flash of insight, I realised that he hadn’t really expected to gain anything from this quid pro quo deal. Ashley had probably suggested it, no doubt telling him that it couldn’t hurt, that he’d be better off with me on side than not.

‘There’s a shell inside,’ I said helpfully. ‘And a cigar ring. Ritmeester.’

‘Do you realise I could charge you for this? No doubt you’ve destroyed evidence. Fingerprints for starters, with all the handling.’

I looked pointedly at the tin. ‘Actually,
we
hadn’t handled it much. And it
was
found on my property. At this stage, it’s only supposition that connects it with your ongoing case.’

‘Really.’ He gave me one of his level gazes and then laid the letters down on the coffee table, placing the tin beside them. ‘Please refrain from touching any of these items, Ms Forrest.’ He turned to Ashley and nodded briskly before making a call on his mobile. He moved over to the side of the room, giving instructions.

‘When did you get back?’ I asked casually.

‘Last night. So, I see you’ve been making yourself popular?’

I shook my head. ‘Actually, I’ve had very little to do with him. Were you going to tell me you’re back?’

‘Of course.’ He flicked a glance towards Eric Male. ‘But not at the moment.’

‘Oh, I think I’ve guessed now. But I can pretend to act surprised, if you like.’

‘Same old sense of humour.’

‘That’s me, same old everything. Listen, was that true, about Rex Fletcher?’

‘Absolutely. The coroner came through with the details yesterday. It’ll be released during the press conference this afternoon. Along with the elimination of him as a suspect in the original murder.’

‘I see.’ I felt unaccountably cross. ‘I have to tell you that I’m not convinced, though. Nothing makes sense if it’s not Rex Fletcher.’

Ashley gave one of his half-smiles. He lowered his voice. ‘I did it all for love.’

My breath caught in my throat. ‘Pardon?’

‘I did it all for love. Google it. It’s a song, Nell, not a suicide note.’

*

He was right. ‘I Did It All For Love’ was a 1978 disco number released as a single by Lorna Luft, the daughter of Judy Garland. The suicide note could just as easily have been a song request from live band night at the local pub. However, there appeared little doubt that Rex Fletcher had, in fact, committed suicide. Just perhaps not for the reasons first assumed.

I sat back in my study chair and stared at my list of suspects as I ate a ham and salad sandwich. The first thing I needed to accept was that Dallas’s killer and her lover were two different people. Rex Fletcher must have been the lover; there were no other options, even if this went against all those assurances that he was devoted to his wife. Perhaps it had been intended as a mere dalliance, part of their habitual shenanigans, but became much more.
Just say the word, my love, and we can be together. Together we can conquer anything
.

Clare Fletcher flitted across my consciousness, her gaze needle-sharp. I didn’t for one moment believe that she had jumped into the car with her husband without any idea of where they were going or why. It may well have been an impromptu decision, hence the need to touch up her dye job that evening, but she knew more about everything than she was willing to share. Karma gets you in the end, she had said, with a flicker of triumph. Had
she
been the wronged woman? Distraught that her husband planned to leave her for another? Had she killed Dallas?

It suddenly occurred to me that I held a temporary ace. The right-handed/left-handed information was to be released at this afternoon’s press conference. I wasn’t sure what time that was scheduled for, but as it had just gone one o’clock, I could safely assume that I had some time up my sleeve. No doubt the detectives planned to visit the grieving widow, but it was likely the discovery of the tin had delayed things somewhat. I knew they were still next door talking to Lucy because the unmarked car remained in my driveway. Richard White was also in position, leaning against the side of the van chatting with his cameraman.

Fortunately, I was still dressed in my exercise gear. I let myself out through the sliding door, pushing Gusto back inside this time. Then, for the second time in one day, I scrambled over the back fence, this time scraping my arm as I stumbled into the spare block of land. I rubbed the offending spot as I limped around the corner into the alley. My intention was to make a detour past the pub and cross the lane with plenty of distance from my house. From there I could walk around to the front of the motel and then it would be a process of elimination to discover Clare Fletcher’s room.

I broke into a jog when I reached the footpath, trying to look suitably energetic. Just an afternoon run, nothing suspicious. I checked for traffic at the edge of the lane and then was halfway across the road when a discordant image registered, bringing me to a halt. I turned, already frowning, and stared back towards the pub. But I hadn’t been mistaken. There, sitting at the table nearest to the kerb, were both of my parents, plus Jim Hurley and Clare Fletcher. The latter was wearing a large floppy rattan sunhat and stylish sunglasses. With her red hair hidden, she looked like a mature Audrey Hepburn. All four of them were watching me, but only my father was smiling.

The sight was so unexpected that I really wasn’t sure how to react. In the long term, of course, I might be required to sear my retinas, but the short term was calling for more immediate action. Particularly as I was still standing in the middle of the road.
Woman imitating Road Runner in country lane crushed by oncoming truck. The end.
I walked slowly back to the table. They each had a mug of beer, and were sharing a plate of nachos.

Clare Fletcher was the first to break the silence. She turned to Yen. ‘Did your daughter tell you that we met yesterday?’

‘Yes,’ said Yen smoothly. She was an excellent liar. It was a little scary.

‘We just ran into each other here,’ said my father heartily. ‘There we were, having a drink with Jim, and along comes Clare! Hasn’t changed a bit. Takes me back …’ He cleared his throat, then pointed towards the street sign. ‘Hey, did you know your sign’s missing? I wanted to show Clare, but it’s gone.’

‘Never mind,’ said Clare. ‘I’ll allow my imagination to fill the gap.’

My father nodded, pleased. ‘Good-o. Nell, can I get you a beer?’

‘She doesn’t drink beer,’ interjected Yen. ‘And she shouldn’t drink anyway, not at this time of day. Turns her stupid.’

‘That’s a bit harsh, Lilly,’ said Uncle Jim in his deep voice. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen our Nell stupid.’

‘That’s because you don’t pay attention.’ Yen gave him a half-smile to soften her words and then returned her attention to me. ‘So what brings you down here? And at a jog?’

I slapped my stomach. ‘Exercise. Just trying to get rid of some of that Christmas excess, that’s all. Ah, have you heard the latest?’

‘The latest what?’ asked Yen, her eyes narrowing.

I ignored her, concentrating on Clare Fletcher instead. She had taken off her sunglasses and was polishing them with a soft cloth. ‘The coroner has just released the cause of death for Dallas Patrick. A blow to the back of the head, most likely as she was turning away from her killer, which then caused her to fall forward and strike her temple on the window ledge.’ I paused for a moment. Her lips had thinned almost to the point of invisibility. ‘The one thing they know without doubt is that the killer was right-handed.’

‘Oh, excellent,’ said Yen. ‘Seeing that around ninety percent of us are right-handed, that represents a significant finding. Bring out the brass band.’ She suddenly realised that nobody was paying any attention. She followed my gaze, her eyebrows rising.

Any doubts I had harboured over Clare Fletcher’s belief in her husband’s guilt had been vanquished by her response to the news. She had frozen, sunglasses in hand, and was staring at me. Her face had leached of colour, lending her dark eyes a luminosity that only served to emphasise her evident shock. She shook her head, the overlarge hat wobbling. ‘That can’t be true.’

‘I’m afraid it is,’ I said gently.

She pushed herself away from the table quite suddenly, her chair scraping across the concrete. She remained like that for a few seconds, leaning forward with her hands clamped on the table rim, looking oddly like a woman in labour, and then she rose. She focused on Yen. ‘Excuse me. I must go.’

Both men had also risen. My father took hold of her arm. ‘Are you all right, Clare?’

‘Yes, yes.’ She shook him off. ‘Just everything catching up with me, I suppose. I must go.’

I flinched as her hip glanced against the chair. She gathered up her bag and nodded to us briskly before striding off in the direction of the motel. I wondered what she would do now.

My mother ran a hand over her chin, fixing her eyes on me. ‘Would I be right in assuming that Rex Fletcher was left-handed?’

‘You didn’t know that?’

‘No. I only met the man for a weekend. And we weren’t making crafts.’