Murder with the Lot (15 page)

Something clunked and he pushed the door open. I got out and held the door, watched him roll up his sleeves. I liked the set of his wide shoulders.

‘You're obviously a woman who notices things,' he jiggled the door handle. ‘A smart sort of woman. But you'd have been on edge. You're probably worried with Clarence on the loose.'

A woman who notices things. I wondered if Terry was partial to a rumball. He was a fella who deserved a rumball, a hard-working decent bloke like him.

‘You…ever considered acquiring someone to look out for you?' He looked up at me, a long steady look from those blue eyes.

I smiled. I might be used to running my own show, but I'm quite adaptable to change.

He smiled back.

‘What's Clarence done that I should be so worried about?'

But Terry just shook his head.

Door fixed, he stood, brushing his hands on his trousers. Strong-looking legs, despite the limp. I tested the door, enjoying watching it close.

‘Right then…I'd best be off,' he said.

‘Oh no, I'll put the kettle on. Fancy a rumball? I made them fresh today.'

He followed me into the kitchen. I filled the kettle. ‘What happened to your cheek?' I touched his bruise lightly.

‘Boring story. Involves a door.' Another steady look from those eyes. ‘And Dale.'

‘Sergeant Dale Monaghan?'

He nodded.

Who did this Monaghan think he was? No wonder Terry dreamed about his wood-carving life by the sea, miles from here. He deserved some quiet; long peaceful evenings eating rumballs with a decent woman. A mature woman who noticed things.

‘Maybe you should request a transfer. I'm not sure Monaghan's the right boss for you.'

He laughed sadly. ‘There's some bosses you can't ever leave.' He looked down at his hands.

He had nice hands, square, solid hands. They'd known exactly how to fix that door, would probably be good at other things as well. Knocking up a coffee table, working on your broken bed-head. Hands that were lingering and warm and would know how to hold your shoulders later on, much later on, after he'd finished with the fixing and the rumballs.

Get a grip, Cass.

‘Nice place you've got.' His lips were parted.

Close enough to feel his breath, warm on my face, I swayed slightly. I glanced around for distraction; saw the Balance Neutral brochure. ‘You're a busy fella, all your tree planting plus being a cop. Your work must never end.'

He stared. ‘Me? A cop? Ha, that's good. Nah, I'm self-employed. Do a bit of this and that.'

Huh? Didn't he say Monaghan was his boss? ‘But Monaghan relies on you?'

‘Yeah, course. He's my brother.'

I got out the rumball container, started struggling with the lid.

‘Need a hand?' His warm fingers touched mine. Fingers that would be warm on your face, moving along your arms, your neck. Deft fingers that would know how to unbutton a woman out of silk.

The kettle boiled.

Moving away, holding onto the table for balance, I carefully filled the mugs, arranged the rumballs on a plate. ‘Terrific rumballs, Cass. I'm very partial to a rumball.'

I made my decision. ‘Got something to show you, Terry.' I grabbed the briefcase. ‘Reckon it's Clarence's.'

He stood so close beside me, I could feel the heat of his body.

‘Jesus, Cass. I knew you knew something. You better take this in to Dale.' Those blue eyes gazed at me. I'd never realised something blue could burn like that. My thoughts drifted, a rapid type of drifting over which I had no control, way beyond briefcases, onto shoulders, buttons, skin, his skin on mine.

Terry reached out and gently took my hand. He kissed the back of my hand, my wrist, my arm. Drawing me towards him, he kissed me then, a proper drawn-out kiss.

It wasn't any trouble kissing him back.

Something turned to liquid in the region of my knees. He held me tight against him, his mouth moving to my ears, my neck. It's possible I let out a little sigh. Looking at me, a hot molten look that didn't help the knee condition, he slowly untied my apron, hung it on a chair.

‘I can't resist you,' he breathed into my ear.

‘Actually, don't feel you need to,' I whispered back.

He sat me on the kitchen table and kissed me a whole lot more. When I started unbuttoning his shirt he didn't try to stop me. I opened it to his belt, ran my hands down along his chest, felt the line of hairs leading into his jeans. He shivered, pulled my hands away and put them by my sides. More kissing, then he unbuttoned me, an urgent unbuttoning, rough-sliding my dress off my shoulders. His hands were hot on my breasts, his mouth firm against my neck. He pressed his body, long and hot, against me, kissed me, touched me more, more. My back cracked a bit. I didn't care.

His pocket pulsed. I may have moaned a bit. It kept pulsing.

Terry sprang away and took out the phone. I leaned on the table, trying to catch my breath.

‘Yep, yep. On my way.' He hung up. ‘Sorry, Cass. I'm not meant to…I've gotta go.' He stumbled towards the doorway, doing up his buttons, tucking in his shirt.

What, now? What type of emergency required him this very minute?

A marital bloody emergency.

‘Course,' I stood, buttoned my shirt, tied on my apron, as if nothing had nearly happened. I breathed deeply in and out.

‘Thanks for the rumballs,' he paused by the door. ‘Best I've ever had.'

I knew it. No wedding band, but there's a wife. Or an STD. Or bloody both.

A disturbed night with dreams of blood and multi-killing. Grantley shot Brad, then Terry. Dean chased Grantley; Mona, eyeless, managed to stab them both. She ran off hand-in-hand with Aurora, throwing the briefcase through Ernie's window. Glass shattered everywhere.

I woke with a start, lay awake, listening. Nothing. I switched on the light, started reading
Death of a Lake
. My attention wandered. Arthur Upfield never had female characters I liked. Misogynistic times, perhaps.

My thoughts drifted to Terry. Was he just pretending he was interested? He'd been amazingly convincing.

I woke just before dawn, as Brad was getting home. Groaning, I decided to get up. I found him hunched over the kitchen table.

‘Might call in on Dean before we open,' I said. ‘You want to come?'

‘No.' He played with his toast.

‘Pleasant evening at Madison's? How'd the flea dipping go?'

His shoulders slumped.

‘Ferrets OK? Not depressed? They didn't bite you, did they?' I searched his hands for signs of bites. ‘Dangerous little animals.'

He sighed. ‘I'm not really a ferret person, but I try. You know that, don't you, Mum? That I try?' His eyes were a bit too shiny.

I patted his arm. ‘Course.'

‘Madison said she needs someone the ferrets can look up to. She's decided to go to the Christmas Fringe Festival with Logan.'

‘I thought she'd split up with him.'

Brad shook his head. ‘Not exactly. He's out of jail.'

‘And into Christmas fringe festivals now?'

Brad shrugged. ‘Apparently he's interested in all the heads on sticks.'

‘Oh.' What Madison thinks she's doing with Logan ‘Skull' Mathieson is beyond me. Drugs, theft, jail time, Logan's done it all. He was a nice little kid, way back. A maths whiz. Helped out after school in his auntie's clothes boutique in Hustle. Until she discovered he was a bit too good with the credit card machine. He's muscular though, maybe that's what appeals to Madison. And it's possible they share an interest in animals. After all, he's got that giant squid tattoo covering the whole of his right arm.

‘Well, never mind,' I said. ‘Plenty more girls out there for you. That Claire, she seems nice. And Aurora. If she didn't kill her nanna. You sent that email to Noel yet?'

Brad shook his head.

‘Want me to send it? I'll need his address.'

He stood up, hurled his toast into the bin. ‘Leave off about the bloody email, Mum. I can't concentrate. My life's in crisis.'

Crisis? ‘Listen. I'll call in on Logan, point out some facts.'

‘You stay away from Logan.'

‘I'm just trying to help get your life on track.' I poured some cornflakes into a bowl.

‘You lied to me. Dean didn't ask us to meet Noel.'

‘Course he did.'

‘He did not. I texted him last night.'

I scowled. ‘Checking up on me, are you?'

‘I asked him when I should pick up the disguise. Thanks to you, Dean now has new evidence that I'm not only a waster, but a gullible one as well. Listen, Mum. Just leave this alone. If not for your own sake, for Dean's. Monaghan's got the power to close Dean's station.'

‘He's hardly going to close Dean down for solving a big murder case.'

‘He could if he knows Dean's family is interfering in the investigation.'

‘There isn't any investigation to interfere in. That's the bloody point.'

‘If Monaghan wants Dean's station closed, he'll make it happen. Loads of one-man stations have been closed.'

I pushed away the bowl. ‘Well, let him! It could be Dean's chance to be promoted. The change he needs, so he can move up into Homicide.'

‘Mum.' He sighed. ‘Dean doesn't want to go to Homicide, even if they'd take him. He'll be made redundant. And you know how hard it is to find work around here.'

‘There's always the shop to tide you boys over.' Although Dean has his fish allergy, unfortunately. ‘Well, I'll have a chat with the people up at headquarters. Don't you worry, I'll sort this out.'

Brad sank into a chair. ‘Jesus, Mum. That's just it, isn't it? You're so sure you can sort everything out. All you do is make things worse.' His voice was low. ‘Will you ever let Dean grow up?' He whacked the table, dishes clattering. ‘Or me?'

‘A mother knows what's good for her child.' I took a dignified sip of tea.

Brad stood. ‘Good for us? You don't know the first bloody thing about either of us. You ever listen to Dean? His incessant rants about the technicolour Mallee sunsets, terrific neighbours, mates you can count on, blah blah? He'd hate living in the city. But you wouldn't know that, would you? You never listen.' Stamping out, he slammed the door.

Oh, for God's sake. Twenty-two and still slamming doors like a teenager.

‘Vern. Come to pick up my drycleaning.'

Vern rolled himself out of his hammock and walked inside, clutching his notebook. ‘Where'd you go yesterday? Gone all day. Bloody outrageous.'

‘Had to go to Muddy Soak. Dim sim emergency.'

He brought in my dress from the back room. ‘Someone came by your place while you were out. That scraggy-haired fella with the white van.'

Noel? Out in broad daylight, while Dean was looking for him?

‘He was peering in your windows, tried your door. Thought he might intend breaking in, so I strolled over.'

Brad hadn't mentioned any of this. ‘Where was Brad while this was happening?'

Vern shrugged. ‘Musta had to duck out. Probably helping out with those ferrets. Hell of a lot of work, those animals.'

Great. Thanks for your reliability, Brad.

‘Noel say what he wanted?'

‘Nah. Asked me where you were. Gave me a shifty look. You been up to something not quite right with him?' Vern's eyes narrowed.

‘What do you mean?'

‘Well, I don't know what you get up to in your private life, Cass Tuplin. Widow like you could be up to anything.'

‘I'm not up to anything. His dog bit me.' I pointed at my leg.

He glanced at the bandages. ‘Probably had its reasons. Anyway. He had a young girl with him.' Vern laughed, a sound like a tractor firing up. ‘Reckon you mighta missed your chance there.'

I didn't laugh. ‘What kind of young girl?'

‘Blonde hair, scruffy-looking.'

‘Orange dress?'

‘Maybe.'

‘She say anything? Her name?'

‘Thing is, she did. Weird type of name. Fella jumped quick-smart into the van, started her up. The girl sidled up to me and said, hush-hush voice, she needed to see you. Urgent, she said. Course, if I'd known where you were, I could have pointed her in the right direction. Shame when people decide to act all secretive.' He made a minor adjustment to the crotch of his shorts.

‘What she want to see me for?'

He shrugged.

‘What did you tell her?'

‘Told her to wait, you'd be back eventually. “Can't wait,” she said, “got to get it now.”'

‘Got to get what now?'

He smoothed out a non-existent crease in my drycleaned dress. ‘Didn't say. She pushed a bit of paper into my hand. Then the fella yanked her into the van. Sped off.'

‘Jesus, Vern. Why didn't you call last night and tell me?'

He scowled. ‘I could see you had a visitor. I'm not a person that pries into other people's business.'

‘What was on the paper?'

‘Got it filed somewhere.' He bent down. Paper rustled as he searched through the shelves below his counter. He pulled out a heap of invoices, scrappy handwritten notes, a pile of dog-eared Tattslotto tickets, three postcards of bronzed topless women lying on beaches.

Vern might not be intact but he's fully functional.

He put all the bits of paper on the floor while he searched.

His phone rang from out the back. He stood up. ‘Gotta get that. Waiting on a call.'

‘What was on the paper, Vern?'

But he'd lumbered out to his back room. The curtain of blue and white fly strips swished behind him.

I stood and waited. What was Aurora doing with Noel? Why did she want to talk to me? To murder me? My hands went cold.

Or was Aurora some kind of hostage?

Vern took ages, his voice murmuring from the other side of his flystrips. It'd be quicker to search for the note myself. I knelt and rummaged through the pile of papers.