Forbidden Fruit (20 page)

‘What about the police?’ Petra didn’t look very enthusiastic about my divide-and-conquer strategy. ‘I mean, as much as I’m looking forward to all the answers, shouldn’t we just leave it all for them?’

‘Definitely not. For starters, I don’t think that Eric Male is terribly bright. It’ll take him forever to solve it all, and by then our father will have been tried and convicted.’ I glanced sidelong at Petra. ‘And all that swinging crap will have come out.’

‘God.’

‘Besides, I’m tired of it all hanging over our heads. I want to get it all sorted
before
I become a grandmother. It’ll be my present to them.’

‘It’d be easier to buy a stuffed toy,’ grumbled Petra. ‘But okay then. I’m in.’

A vibration in the floorboards heralded Quinn, who seconds later hurtled down the stairs and leapt into the lounge room. She was wearing a singlet top, boxer shorts and ugg boots. ‘I’m going to be an aunt today!’

‘Not necessarily.’ I felt my pulse quicken regardless. ‘Just because it’s her due date doesn’t mean it’ll happen today. First babies are often a little late.’

Quinn turned to Petra, ignoring me. ‘I’m going to be an aunt today!’

‘Congratulations. I hear you’ve taken up smoking?’

‘No.’ She cast me a baleful look, but one that was still tinged with puzzlement. ‘I’ve quit. I’m setting an example for the babies.’

‘That’s very mature of you.’ Petra nodded approvingly. ‘Tell you what, if you can look me in the eye in twelve months and say that you have not had one cigarette in that time, then I’ll give you one hundred bucks.’

I held up my hand before Quinn could accept. ‘Petra! For god’s sake, that’s just bribery.’

‘So? Isn’t parenthood all about bribery? Positive and negative effects? It’s just I don’t think telling a fourteen-year-old that her reward will be good health is going to swing it.’

‘I
love
you, Auntie Pet!’ Quinn bounced over to hug Petra. ‘You’re the
best
! Can I have a cup of tea, Mum?’

‘Only if you go and grab some milk. Use some of your hundred. We’ve run out.’

‘Are you
kidding
?’ Quinn looked at me as if I had just suggested she stroll to Uluru. Clearly I was not the best. I stared at her, something niggling.

‘Come on.’ Petra straightened, draining her coffee. ‘I’ll go with you. We’ll take the dog. I want to get the paper anyway, find out what they’re saying about all this. Might be some clues there.’

Quinn bounced back upstairs to get changed, the endeavour being accompanied by a pulsing soundtrack that was still pulsing after she and Petra left. I heated up my coffee in the microwave and then sipped it as I stared at Dallas’s timeline. Everything pointed towards her departure having been a last-minute decision. One moment she had remained committed to trying to save her marriage, the next she had thrown it to the wind. The key lay in the intersection between the two extremes.

I followed the sequence of events. They had argued the night before, but the Anzac Day plans had remained intact. No doubt they had been quite stiff with each other the following morning, but still the plans remained. It was not until she returned from the walk with her son that she suddenly announced she would be staying behind. Had she used the time to think through her situation? Or had they perhaps met someone? Seen something? Bought something?

As soon as the last thought popped into being, it was followed by the answer. Clear, concise and, I had no doubt, correct. She had bought a magazine. The one that was later to be found in her handbag, the one that had puzzled me, the one that had seemed incongruent with her movements that day. She had bought a magazine with her milk, perhaps intending to read it during their picnic, but instead something in that magazine had changed everything.

I parked my car outside my mother’s house and then checked my mobile in case Lucy had tried to contact me during the seven minutes I had been driving. Nothing. Nor was there a message from Ashley, who I had texted earlier, inquiring whether the quid pro quo arrangement extended to him telling me the name of the magazine that Dallas Patrick had bought that day. Petra sent a similar text to Paul Junior, on the off chance he might remember his mother’s purchase. It felt a little like the battle of the boyfriends. Who would come through first?

With that done, we had listed and then divided the necessary tasks. Petra, much to her disgust, had scored the out-of-town ones on the grounds that she wasn’t due to become a grandmother at any moment. That meant a trip to Ballarat, in the hope that Paul Patrick Senior had recovered enough to discuss the latest developments, and then a drive all the way to Queenscliff tomorrow to make discreet inquiries about the Fletchers, including the state of his Alzheimer’s disease. I had been left with the Hurleys and our parents. It was debatable who had drawn the short straw.

I had a feeling that, as confusing as everything seemed at the moment, we were nevertheless poised on the edge. All that was needed was one piece of information and everything was going to fall into place, like dominoes toppling one after the other. Suddenly the pattern would be revealed and we would nod sagely and mutter about the wonders of hindsight. Then everything could return to normal.

Yen’s front door slammed and I jerked into alertness. My father was the one who must have done the slamming as she was already on the pathway, shading her eyes as she stared in my direction. I took a deep breath and exited my car, meeting up with her at the top of the driveway.

‘Is it Lucy?’ she asked briskly. ‘The baby’s come?’

‘No, no. Just thought I’d drop in.’ I gave what was intended to be a casual laugh but what sounded, even to me, like a small animal being choked. ‘Can’t a girl drop in on her parents?’

She frowned at me. ‘What on earth is wrong with you? Have you been drinking?’

‘Yen, it’s eleven o’clock in the morning!’

‘And yet you are in my driveway, apparently “dropping in”. So my question stands.’

‘Nellie darling! How the hell are you?’ My father was beaming. Clearly casual socialising was not as foreign to him.

‘Good thanks. Are you two just leaving?’

‘Yeah, bad luck there.’ He did indeed look disappointed. ‘Damn police want to talk to me again. Get a sample of my handwriting as well. I said you can get a sample, mate, but there’s no guarantee you can read it!’

‘I have no faith in the ability of that lead detective,’ said Yen, unlocking her car. ‘He does not appear to be terribly bright.’

I nodded. ‘I agree. And that’s why –’

‘I never thought I would say this, but it’s a pity that one you were doing isn’t around.’

‘That I was
doing
?’ I repeated, gaping at her.

‘Were you?’ asked my father curiously. ‘Not the fellow with a face like concrete, I hope?’

‘No, a different one,’ explained Yen. ‘Better-looking, fortunately, but a little smug.’

‘Dear god,’ I said. I tried to get back on track. ‘Before you go, can I ask you one question? Yen, did you go to the Anzac Day march in Majic that day? When Dallas was killed?’

‘No, I was busy setting up the shop.’

‘In that case, who was helping you and at what times?’

‘Are you trying to establish my alibi?’ she asked, regarding me keenly. ‘I’m surprised you’ve waited so long. I was on my own in the morning, but as soon as the march finished, Jim Hurley came over, and then your father about half an hour later. And I hate to point out the obvious, but that was three questions, not one, and we need to go.’

‘Okay.’ I also wanted to ask whether Dallas had seemed particularly enamoured of anybody during the Queenscliff weekend, but that would mean bringing up What Should Not be Mentioned. And even though I was hovering on the cusp of forty-eight, my mother still scared me. I turned to my father instead. ‘I just realised that I don’t have your mobile number – to let you know about the baby. Do you want to write it down for me?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ snapped my mother. ‘Ring me and I’ll let him know. Now, is that it?’

It was. I watched as they clambered into the car, my father waving cheerfully from the passenger seat. The hatchback reversed neatly from the driveway and drove off. I thought for a moment and then went up to the front door to try my luck. It was locked.

Somewhat handily, particularly for my mother and Uncle Jim but perhaps not so much for Rita, the Hurleys lived right next door. The houses were almost identical, having been built around the same time, and even the gardens were very similar. This was not that surprising given Uncle Jim was in charge of both. I thought I could see my father’s hand, however, in a new herbaceous border that licked along the fence.

I left my car where it was as I walked across to the Hurleys’ front door, ringing the doorbell before I could change my mind. It had been years since I had been inside this house; the last time had probably been back in primary school, when Rita minded Petra and me after school each day. Ding-dong chimes echoed within the house, a sound that always reminded me of Avon cosmetics. Moments later the door was opened and Rita Hurley was staring at me. She was wearing a flour-spattered floral apron and a surprised expression.

‘Nell! How lovely! Oh, how are your girls? Are you a grandmother yet?’

‘Not yet. Imminent though. Lucy’s due today. Ah, I wondered if I could have a minute of your time? Just a few things I wanted to clear up. Nothing major.’

Her brow had furrowed. ‘Oh my, I don’t know that I’d be of much help.’

‘Well, let’s find out!’ I said brightly. ‘Can I come in?’

She hesitated, and then stepped back. ‘You’ll have to come through to the kitchen, dear, I’m in the middle of making pasta.’

I followed her down the passage and into a yellow and white kitchen. A daisy-patterned blind was pulled to half-mast, the sun still managing to filter through, dappling the yellow counter tops. A chrome pasta machine sat on the island bench, with a pile of letters and leaflets on one side and a large pine breadboard on the other. The latter held a lump of freshly-made pasta dough.

‘Sit down.’ Rita waved me towards a pair of white-cushioned barstools.

‘Thanks.’ I hoisted myself onto a stool, the air escaping from the padded seat with a long, slow belch. ‘That wasn’t me!’

‘I know, dear. Those dratted stools. They’re always doing that.’ She began kneading, her palm pressing hard into the dough. ‘So what is it you want to get straight?’

‘Firstly, well, my father told me everything. About … you know.’

‘No, I don’t think I do.’ She glanced across with polite curiosity. ‘About what?’

‘Ah, the weekend away. At Queenscliff.’

‘Oh, you mean our little holiday. We spoke about that already, Nell.’ Her voice was faintly chiding. ‘And I did tell you that I could barely remember. It’s all so long ago.’

‘I see.’ I frowned as I watched her hands work. I didn’t believe her, but then I’d probably want to forget also, if it was me. ‘Ah, can I ask if you recall Dallas Patrick being particularly close to anybody that weekend? Apart from her husband?’

She gave snort of laughter. ‘Seeing as she was
never
close to her husband, that wouldn’t be hard. In fact –’ her face hardened ‘– I suspect she was using the weekend to scout for husband number two. She was a dreadful flirt, you know.’

I felt a curl of defensiveness. ‘Why do you say that?’

‘Why wouldn’t I?’ She thumped the dough onto the floured board, pressed it with the heel of her hand and then deftly rolled it up again. ‘She was all over those Fletchers like a rash. Truth be told, it was a little embarrassing.’

For someone who remembered little of the weekend, she certainly had the details to hand. ‘But I thought you said she and my father were an item?’

‘No, dear. I said your father was in
love
with her. I doubt she was an item with anyone. Bit of a tease, was Dallas.’

‘I see,’ I said again. ‘Can I ask you about the day she disappeared? Anzac Day 1970?’

She squeezed the dough until it oozed fatly through her fingers, and then began working it once more. ‘I’ll try my best. But, as I said …’

‘Yes, I know. It’s a long time ago. There was a march that year that finished at the cenotaph.’ I phrased my question carefully. ‘Do you remember who was there that day?’

‘Well, everyone of course. Just about the whole town. Except your mother. I’m pretty sure that was when she opened her little bookshop.’

‘The Fletchers wouldn’t have been there, would they? The Queenscliff couple?’

‘Certainly not. No reason for them to be. Not their town.’

I sighed silently. It would have made everything so much easier. ‘I believe Uncle Jim went to help Yen afterwards, with the shop. Did he just, well …’ I smiled, to soften my next words ‘… leave you stranded then?’

‘Certainly not,’ she said again, but this time she clipped the words firmly. A rather plain grey cat came slinking in from the lounge room and rubbed itself against the legs of my barstool. ‘He wouldn’t do that. I had my car. I would have helped, naturally, but not in my … the way I was.’

I watched as she rolled the dough out thinly and then began adjusting the machine. The sound of a clock ticking from the lounge room punctuated the silence. There should have been children tumbling through this house, a dozen of them, plus grandchildren, hanging out for homemade pasta. Not just one homely cat. ‘Where’s Uncle Jim?’

‘Out the back, gardening.’ She gave me a sharp look. ‘And I don’t want you bothering him with all this, dear. He’s already upset enough about everything going on. Although so pleased to have your father home, of course. We all are. As I’m sure you girls are too.’

‘Oh, yes. Ecstatic. Just one more thing, Rita. Do you remember anyone from around that time who was an artist? Rex Fletcher, perhaps? Uncle Jim? Or my father?’

She looked surprised at the question but gave it some thought. ‘No, not that I can think of. Certainly not your uncle or your father. Neither of those two have an artistic bone in their body. Here, look at this.’ She wiped floury hands on her apron and then pulled a scrap of cardboard from among the papers at the end of the bench. It was a golf-scorecard with a series of pencilled notations and then a very odd-looking, almost octagonal smiley face in one corner. ‘Your father did that the other day. See what I mean?’

I did indeed. I turned the card over and was delighted to see, scribbled across the back in rather infantile handwriting, the words
Got me, you canny Aussie bastard!
My visit may not have yielded a wealth of information, but it had confirmed one thing: my father had not written the letters to Dallas.

‘D’you know, I remember now.’ Rita was holding the flattened dough aloft. It was tissue-thin, almost sheer. ‘Grace June Rae used to teach a painting class up at the community centre. Still lifes, I seem to remember. Bowls of fruit, that type of thing.’

Somehow I couldn’t see Grace June Rae sketching a somnolent, naked Dallas Patrick. But then I also couldn’t see this woman before me, in her flowery, floury apron, playing
Whose Turn Next?
with my father and Paul Patrick Senior and the man who had owned those elderly brown loafers. I couldn’t see any of it, not the bits I knew or the bits I didn’t and certainly not all those in between.

*

I passed the entrance to the motel on the way back to town and, on a sudden whim, made a left turn into the sweeping driveway. It was impossible to know whether Clare Fletcher was still in residence, as I didn’t know which was her car, but Amy Stenhouse’s small white sedan was still parked neatly outside number twenty-one.

It seemed remarkable that so much had happened in the past few days that the stalker-ish behaviour of this woman had been pushed to one side. Perhaps we had all been playing the waiting game. Amy was waiting for the legal system to deliver her a winning hand, Lucy was waiting for fate, and I was waiting for her to lay eyes on her child and fall in love. That, I was hoping against hope, would change everything.

I had a choice. I could confront Amy Stenhouse, let her know that I knew she was here, but then I ran the risk of giving her ammunition to use in court. Particularly if I lost my temper. After all, she wasn’t actually doing anything illegal. By the same token, I heartily disliked the idea of her being allowed to continue standing on the chair in the bathroom, peering through the window for the first sign of a labouring Lucy to be led from the house. And then what? Would she hightail it over to the hospital, settle herself in the waiting room, be among the first to see the baby?

I slid down in my seat, thinking carefully. Strategy was not usually my strong suit, but needs must when the devil drives. I pulled out my mobile and flicked through the contacts until I found Ashley Armistead. This time he answered. ‘Hey there, I was going to ring you tonight. No can do on the magazine, I’m afraid.’

‘Why on earth not?’

‘Not sure. Eric’s digging his heels in.’ He laughed. ‘I don’t think he likes you.’

‘The feeling is mutual. Hmm, what about if I traded something?’

‘Like what?’

‘Like the name of someone who has been keeping an eye on the front of my house for the past week or so, and would have seen Rex Fletcher go inside – alone or not?’

Silence stretched. ‘Rex Fletcher committed suicide. There’s no doubt there.’

‘No, but there is doubt over that note. Perhaps someone came along later, and left it?’

‘Why the interest in the magazine?’

‘I’m not a hundred percent sure,’ I said honestly. ‘But if I find anything, I’ll pass it on straight away. So it’s really a win-win deal.’