The Celibate Mouse (23 page)

CHAPTER 32

The Stalker

Daniella Winslow

Friday: mid afternoon.

‘D
aniella! We haven’t got enough chairs. You’ll have to borrow some from the Cultural Centre. No wait, they’ll charge us for them. Get yourself over to Edna’s and count how many she has in the shed. You can call the carrying company to pick them up.’

By tomorrow?
Daniella sighed. Ferna was doing what she did best–bullying. All the lounge room furniture was moved onto the back verandah. ‘We don’t want anyone sitting down, they must circulate!’ she’d announced. Then she changed her mind and they had to move some pieces back in. ‘Her Majesty has realised there’s no throne for her to sit on,’ someone hissed, as they struggled with a particularly massive armchair.

Her formerly willing helpers, members of the regional Country Women’s Association, were wilting and looking for places to hide. Not easy with Ferna patrolling the house and grounds for shirkers. In one aspect Ferna and the CWA ladies were united: the Australian flag should be draped over Edna’s casket. Arthur announced they were talking a lot of rot and suggested they use the white lace bedspread from one of the guest suites. This was greeted with such scorn that he retired to consider his position.

Daniella sighed again. ‘Best to get this over with,’ she muttered. On the way to her car, she caught sight of Genevieve peering out of an upstairs window. Even from below, Daniella could see the cat’s mouth opening and closing with piteous yowls. ‘I know just how you feel, old girl,’ she muttered, hoping she wouldn’t be around for the drama when Arthur discovered his cat relegated to the attic.

Edna Robinson’s cottage already wore the abandoned air of an unloved home. Libby pronounced the building unfit for human habitation–the colours were all wrong–and refused to move in until it was completely refurbished. If it wasn’t, she’d sell. However, on being advised that her inheritance was conditional on her keeping the property, she’d begun a tantrum, which was abandoned when, out of the corner of her eye, she’d spotted a doubtful look in the eye of her fiancé. Daniella reckoned Libby ought to be damned lucky she’d been given the place, because the little cow never saved a cent.

The shed where the chairs were stored stood a short distance from the house. Daniella put her shoulder to the door. It creaked open and stuff stacked against it fell over, sending dust motes dancing in the golden glow of the afternoon sun. A large quantity of harness, caked with dust and stiff from disuse, dangled from hooks on the walls, alongside some implements of agriculture–hoes, rakes, mattocks and a rather vicious-looking axe.

A mouse streaked down a pair of blackened hames and dived into the straw, which poked out of an ancient draughthorse collar. She shuddered, making a mental note to ring the historical museum committee and invite them to come and take what they thought they might be able to restore.

An old spring cart stood in one corner, shafts tied up to keep level the load of pumpkins, harvested for winter stock food. Daniella thought she would ask Penelope Harlow if she wanted the vegetables for her cattle and sheep. Not for the first time, Daniella felt that being the executor of Edna’s Estate had knobs on it. There seemed to be a thousand-and-one things to do, but she cheered up considerably when she remembered the provision of a $5000 fee for the Executor.

She advanced into the building, holding a handkerchief over the lower half of her face to prevent the dust penetrating her nostrils. An ancient Austin car was crammed beside the spring cart. Curious, she went close and peered inside. A huge carpet snake slept coiled on the tattered back seat. Panting with fright, she stumbled away from the vehicle, pressing a hand to her pounding heart. She knew the snake wouldn’t hurt her, but she cast nervous glances over her shoulder as she scuttled across the shed to where the light aluminium chairs were stacked.

It was getting late. Sighing with frustration, she took out her mobile and rang the local carriers to ask them to collect and transport the chairs to Arthur’s stronghold. The Estate would pay. After a short but triumphant scuffle with the manager, he agreed the truck would arrive shortly. She didn’t want to know his definition of ‘shortly,’ but when she advised him the chairs were for Edna’s wake, he assured her the truck was practically on its way.
Scared of Ferna, I expect,
she thought, with vicious pleasure.

She was about to leave, when she noticed something square, covered by a tarpaulin. She edged nearer, hoping the carpet python’s partner hadn’t chosen to roost under the cover, took a deep breath and pulled up the corner. Neatly stacked underneath were four ammunition boxes. Daniella couldn’t remember seeing them before, but their squat military appearance, with connotations of war and death, made her uncomfortable.

She unclipped the catch on the top one and slowly lifted the lid. Her heart sank. Exercise books crammed the box. About to close it, curiosity overcame her indifference. She picked one off the top and opened it.

The writing had the appearance of the forerunner of the beautiful Gothic script which Edna had used as long as Daniella knew her. The margins were decorated with painted flowers.

16 March 1939

Today Mummy took us to town to get ribbons for our school hats. I was bored and tried to sneak away to buy sweeties, but Grace told on me, so I missed out and have to make do with the old ribbons. I’ll get her for that!

She snapped the book shut and threw it back into the top of the box, muttering, ‘Oh stuff, I don’t want to read the meanderings of a child.’

What on earth would she do with them? She couldn’t bring herself to trawl through the pile, but deep down, understood this was because she feared answers to the questions she dared not ask. Flashes of brilliance were not part of Daniella’s mental makeup, but an idea seeped through. Briony Feldman!
She
could wade through them and then get rid of them. Daniella didn’t have a clue what Edna had written and didn’t care.

She closed the shed door and marched briskly to her car, leaned on the side and punched Briony Feldman’s phone number into her mobile. ‘Ms Feldman? It’s Daniella Winslow here. How are you?’ Convention completed to the satisfaction of both parties, Daniella launched into the reason for the call. ‘So you see, Ms Feldman, you might find a lot of information for Arthur’s biography in the diaries,’ she finished, pleased with herself. The carrier’s could take the ammunition boxes when they collected the chairs.

Having neatly disposed of the problem, she had nothing to do but wait for the carrier’s truck. Daniella glanced impatiently at her watch and settled herself into the one remaining chair on the verandah of the cottage. She would have been astonished if she’d realised an excited Briony Feldman could hardly wait to show the diaries to Susan Prescott.

Daniella had been shocked by the murders for she was fond of Edna. She hadn’t associated with Jack since the early 1980s when, looking for Dutch courage to overcome the paralysing shyness with which she was afflicted, she’d drunk too much. This was why, in spite of the earlier episode with him at the family wedding, at fifteen, he’d managed to lure her into a horse float in the far corner of the racecourse during the local Cup. Fortunately, what happened then was almost clouded in alcohol.

Pain, embarrassment and Jack’s threats dictated she could never tell. Twenty-one years later, his words occasionally echoed in her mind like poisoned knives. ‘If you ever tell anyone what happened, Danni, I’ll make sure your parents know you weren’t a virgin. That you were tonguing for it.’

‘That’s not true!’ she’d screamed.

‘But who are they going to believe? I only need to whisper in a few ears about how ‘talented’ you are in certain areas, and bingo! Everyone will believe it then, not just your parents!’

When Jack married Penelope, Daniella tried to warn the girl she’d be taking on a lifetime of infidelity and betrayal, but Penelope either didn’t understand or chose not to. When the vicar asked if there was any reason why the wedding shouldn’t take place, Daniella pressed her bottom down on her hands so hard they stayed numb for the rest of the service.

Over the years, she’d been tempted to tell many times, but having carved a sophisticated, respected reputation for herself as a leading member of the community, she couldn’t bring herself to face the resultant scandal. Daniella knew that, in spite of Jack’s acknowledged recreational pursuits, she would be lumped in with his “women” and disgrace would automatically follow. Eventually she had managed to bury the incident. Even her late husband hadn’t known. Tears came to her eyes, as his dear face swum out of her memory, for they loved each other right to the day his car blew a tyre and rolled on the way to town on the sharp turn at the Cord, many years previously.

‘And now John Glenwood’s come off the road at the same place,’ she thought, dabbing her eyes with a tissue. ‘But one thing’s for sure, I’d pin a medal on the person who shot that reptile, Jack.’ But Edna was a different ‘kettle of fish.’ If she knew who killed Edna ... Daniella’s fists clenched at her sides. She had to face it; someone she knew was a murderer.

She stretched her legs out, admiring her new Gucci boots, regrettably dusty. At least she’d thought to wear thick, dark cord slacks, but wished she’d brought a cardigan. There was no sign of the carrier’s truck.
Come on, hurry up, I’m cold and it’s getting late.

So far, the family, apart from Euon Jellicott, the presiding solicitor, had taken no interest in the contents of the cottage, which Edna’s will stipulated were to go to anyone who wanted them. Ferna was heard to snort something about ‘stinking animals.’ Daniella arranged for a neighbour to keep an eye on the animals, which she would need to deal with once the funeral was over. She sighed again. Perhaps Penelope might help out with that too. At least Fat Albert scored a good home.

Jack’s “send-off” would be a right spectacle, if what she’d heard about the honour guard of dogs was true. The only reason why Daniella would attend Jack’s funeral was to make sure the bugger was well and truly planted. She’d tried to find out from Adam what line the police were taking in the investigation and got her head snapped off.

‘Mum, I can’t talk about it because I’m a male in this family, therefore a suspect and a police officer as well. Okay?’

‘So they think it’s one of the men in the family?’

He rolled his eyes and stormed off to his room. The door slamming shook the whole house and caused one of her Royal Copenhagen vases to rock on its pedestal.

She didn’t get any further with Carissa, who looked up from her Nintendo with barely concealed impatience. ‘Mum, its booooooring. They’ll find out who did it!’

‘But I’m sure it’s someone in the family!’ Daniella wailed.

‘Who said? Adam’s like, stringing you along, Mum. Get real and just leave it, okay?’ Carissa smirked. ‘Unless
you
did it of course!’

‘Carissa!’
Daniella scolded, feeling guilty because she wanted to dance on Jack’s grave.

A slight breeze rustled the trees around the silent house, sending shivers up her bare arms. A twig snapped somewhere close by.

She froze.

Goose bumps popped out on her arms.

Another twig snapped.

Was someone sneaking up to the house? A stalker? She glanced wildly around, clutching the arms of the chair in a death grip. Standing up and peering around the side of the building was not an option. Perspiration prickled in her armpits; her heart thudded against her breastbone.

I’ve got to get to the car. Hurry, hurry!

She stood abruptly, but just as she was about to run to the vehicle, the delivery van from the carrying company trundled into view at the front gate. She bolted down the steps into the garden, risking a glance over her shoulder. A row of dark-eyed beauties returned her scrutiny with great conviviality.

Edna’s goats!

‘How stupid could you be? Fancy getting het up over a few goats!’

Daniella giggled with heady relief, tripped over a small stone statue in the garden and pretty much wet herself in the effort to remain upright.
What if she’d fallen over and the carrier’s had seen
–she’d never live it down. It didn’t occur to her to check if the house was still locked. If she had, she would have found the back door of the cottage open, just a little.

The watcher inside smiled grimly as he paused in the search for Edna’s diaries. He stood behind the curtains, watching the carrier’s van back into the shed, but couldn’t really see what they were loading in there. He thought it might have been boxes and for a moment, wondered if Edna’s diaries were in them, but then one of the men dropped a chair.
Seats for the funeral and probably linen.

The dairies had to be somewhere in the house. He knew where all the photos were gone, and made sure they were taken care of. Maybe Edna put the diaries in the roof. He looked around for a chair to stand on to reach the manhole, reflecting that it was just as well for Daniella she hadn’t come into the house.

It might have been the last thing she’d ever done.

CHAPTER 33

Pass the Parcel

Susan

Friday: afternoon.

I
drive home from town after the aborted lunch with David, my mind in turmoil. I have no idea how to tackle the subject of Harry’s rejection without deeply wounding Brittany. Her car is nowhere to be seen. Has she left and persuaded Marli to go with her? A cold lump settles in my stomach. I can’t hear any head-banging music or voices to indicate the girls are home. Has the intruder been back?

I go into their room, push the door open and peer inside. Clothes are strewn all over the place, their makeup scattered on the dressing table. I am even glad to see powder spilt on the carpet. At first I don’t see the note half-hidden under the fruit bowl on the kitchen table.

We’ve gone to a party in Brisbane. Staying at Althea Barbour’s place. You can get us on my mobile. Be back in the morning. Luv ya, Marli. xxxx

P.S Took Titch. Fed the rats.

I burst into tears of relief. The dogs gather around, thrusting their silky heads into my lap. I don’t know how long I sit there, but eventually I pull myself together and go to take a steaming, hot shower. Clean, powdered and exhausted, I give in and go to bed.

It’s no good. As soon as I close my eyes, my mind conjures up my attack, the hands wrapped around my throat. My breath comes in short spurts, perspiration prickles my flesh. I’d been alone then too. I tell myself to get a grip, there’s no one out there. Fifteen minutes pass before I give up, hop out of bed and scurry to the back door, passing a huge lump of ginger fur crouched outside my door. Albert is awaiting his chance to join me. The dogs surge inside, amid a flurry of waving tails and hot panting breath on my knees. I dive back into bed, only beaten to the sheets by Albert. The dogs arrange themselves on the floor and the bottom of the bed.

The notion of being strangled under a sea of animals is ridiculous.

***

I’m sitting in the lounge, making notes and a time-line of the events leading up to this moment, when David arrives home at five o’clock. I slept until three, then drank a cup of soup, fed my wee assistant under the sink–I still don’t know what to do about her–and lit a fire in the lounge. The weather report after the news this morning warned we were in for a cold snap and they were not wrong. Tomorrow’s forecast is for rain, strong winds and a sharp drop in temperature. Not a good day to be standing in a cemetery.

David tells me John Glenwood has regained consciousness. ‘But he can’t remember who he is or his wife, and George Harris tells me they’re coming up for their twenty-seventh anniversary. The doctors tend to think it is temporary, but I wouldn’t hold my breath. He’s still under guard. God only knows what this bastard’s going to do when it gets out he’s still alive. The insulin was bad enough, but now he’ll be getting desperate. Carlson wants us to keep the guard low-key and use Glenwood as bait. We–Harris and I–aren’t happy. It’s been too close already and if it all goes pear-shaped again, heads will roll.’

My ex-husband looks frustrated and tired. He jingles loose change in his pocket, and stares out into the garden, obviously thinking the first head to get lopped off will be his own.

‘I don’t see what else you can do, David. Perhaps move Glenwood to the city?’

‘Can’t. It’d be easier for the bastard to get to him there.’

I don’t agree, but David is a “hands-on” cop. ‘Does Glenwood know about the attempts on his life? Or about Edna and Jack’s murders?’

‘No. The shrink warned us not to overload him with information. We had to tell John about the attack on the road because of the head wound, but the medicos thought it best to keep quiet about the murders. They’ve decided to keep the news about the insulin and the fire until he’s stronger.’ David sits down, stretches his long legs out to toward the fire and rubs his hand over his eyes.

‘His wife’s been causing a fracas, but they’ve sent her home and threatened not to let her in to see him again until she calms down. They’re concerned about how Glenwood will react if she spills the beans, of course. He’s not out of the woods yet in respect of the head wound. Apparently his brain’s still swollen.’

I feel sorry for Mrs Glenwood. After umpteen years of marriage, to be helpless and forgotten would be horrendous, no matter what the situation. No wonder she isn’t coping very well. David asks where the girls are and looks somewhat relieved when he hears they’ve gone away for the night. He is still angered by Harry’s latest edict.

‘I think we need to discuss how we’re going to handle this one before we talk to Brit, don’t you?’ he says, going to stand in front of the fire to warm his hands. True to male form, he then stands right in front of it with his back to the flames, effectively blocking the warmth.

‘My sentiments exactly, but you won’t be alive to talk to anybody if you keep the heat away from me, David!’ I announce, not entirely joking.

He moves aside and leans on the mantelpiece, to stare into the flames. I recognise that stance. He’s avoiding my eye. ‘I’m sorry you got chased away at lunch today, Susan.’

And I’ll kill you if you do it to me again!
‘Oh I don’t mind,’ I respond airily. ‘After all, I’ve got a dinner date myself tonight! In fact, I should start getting ready. Mark Gordon’s picking me up at a quarter past six.’ I am excited, and it shows.

Will David head straight back into town as soon as I’m gone?
I tell myself it doesn’t matter.
Who are you kidding?
I spray my favourite, Tabu, around my breasts, reminding myself the Archdeacon is just a man. A sound from the doorway almost sends me into orbit. David is staring at me sitting there in my bra, knickers and lacy slip. My heart pounds in a distinctly unseemly manner. I snatch my robe around me and turn to face him. He apologises and launches into all the things I need to ask Mark tonight, reminding me to be careful not to let him pump me for information.

Is it beyond all the bounds of possibility that a man fancies me? And what does he think I’ve been doing for a living the past twenty years? Flushed with anger and disappointed by his business-like attitude–
did you expect him to pounce on you?
–I fling off the robe, fully exposing my lacy-slip clad body, and slowly pull my dress over my head. As I come up for air and pull the folds down, I run my hands over my hips and thighs, smoothing it into a neat fall of soft green. I glance at him and another kind of flush rushes through me. We make eye contact and suddenly I don’t want to go out with anyone.

‘I always liked you in that colour, Susan.’ he says, his voice husky. ‘Any buttons at the back?’

‘Only a zip,’ I whisper, watching him come toward me. I turn my back and force myself not to show any reaction, as his hands press against the bottom of my spine, hold the fabric closed and pull the zipper up slowly. As it reaches the top, I open my eyes and look at the two of us in the mirror. Our eyes meet, his darken, mine widen and I feel his warm breath skate over my skin, in a tiny sigh. Oh my God.

The dogs break into hysterical barks, completely crashing the moment.

David drops his hands. ‘I’ll get it,’ he says and leaves the room. My legs feel like cotton wool. I sink onto the chair. God help me, I still care about him and want him in my bed; desperately. But he has Blondie, apparently aka Donna, in town and is probably just waiting for me to leave so he can pole-vault in there. I try not to allow pain and jealousy to overcome common sense. Don’t be so stupid, you nitwit. He’s a man.
He can switch his feelings on and off like a light switch.

The sound of male voices filters through from the lounge room. With a final glance at my reflection and a tweak of my dress, I pick up my coat and bag. My mobile phone rings as I head for the door. The number in the screen is unknown, but the voice on the other end of the line is vaguely familiar.

‘Mrs Prescott? Susan? It’s Euon Jellicott here. Sir Arthur’s nephew, John’s son.’

‘Uh ... oh ... yes, I remember you. We met at Sir Arthur and Lady Ferna’s luncheon yesterday.’
What the hell does he want?

‘Look, I’m aware I was a bit abrupt with you when we were walking in the garden and I’d like to show you I’m not at all like that. Please let me take you out tomorrow night?’
What? After the funerals?

‘It’s not necessary to do that, Euon. Really. I didn’t mind.’
Didn’t I just, you little turd.

‘I’d like to talk to you, Susan. Won’t you please forgive me and let me take you to dinner?’

Euon’s got to have an ulterior motive; I’m hardly attractive enough to warrant such enthusiasm. Has he worked out I’m a police officer and needs to find out what I know? I don’t want to go out with him and am about to frame a regretful reply, when I remember he’s an Olympic-standard archer and change my mind. Perhaps he will let information about the family slip in conversation. He will have to collect me from the house where I will make sure he is well aware that David knows where I am and who with.

‘All right, thank you. That would be very nice.’

‘Great! Shall I pick you up at six thirty?’ I can hear the smile in his voice.

We exchange goodnights and he hangs up. Quelling my anxious feelings, I go to greet my date for this evening. The men are ensconced in front of the fire engrossed in male bonding. David is full of good fellowship and graciousness about handing me over to the Archdeacon. The word “mate” is bandied about a good deal. I want to smack him out; it feels as though he can’t wait to get me off his hands.

Our breath turns to puffs of steam in the brisk night air. I beam joyfully at Mark, snuggling into his protective arm as he guides me down the steps. He hands me into the car and I feel his lips brush my cheek in the merest of butterfly kisses.

I’m smugly gratified to see David’s thunderous expression.

***

It’s been years since a man other than Harry has kissed me ‘with intent.’ Mark Gordon is an attractive, sexy and interesting companion. I haven’t dined in such style for years, certainly not on a police officer’s salary. We ate exquisitely grilled lobster, mushroom, banana and macadamia nuts in white wine sauce, with tiny potato balls rolled in garlic; to follow, crème caramel topped with brandy cream.

Our conversation roves from travel, to the arts, music – his job, but not my job, I haven’t lost my head completely. I announce my intention to look into the history of the district and the Robinsons in particular. ‘After all, they are such an interesting family,’ I flutter.
Oh silly, giddy me.

‘You’re going to stay down here for awhile, then?’ he asks. ‘Where are you going to start your investigation?’

I become aware that I’m within a skerrick of blowing my cover. I back-pedal hastily. ‘Oh, I might not be here long enough to bother. I’ll think about it.’

We arrive back at the farm just after eleven o’clock. I am not prepared for him to stop the car a little way down the track from the house. Before I can speak, he swoops across the front seat of the car and sweeps me into his arms. His mouth presses insistently on mine, his tongue flickering around my lips, seeking an opening. His left arm is holding me tightly against his side, his right hand slips inside the neck of my dress and under my bra to cup my breast.
And this is a vicar?

My mind is in free-fall. My nipples leap to attention. He squeezes and strokes, before his hand slides onto my stomach and is working its way further down when the front verandah light goes on and in lieu of my father, David appears. We spring apart. Mark starts the engine and we drive slowly to the house while I re-arrange my clothing.

‘Would you like to come in for a nightcap?’ I ask, in defiance of my ex-husband’s ferocious scowl. Perhaps my date decides discretion is the better part of valour, because he declines gracefully, helps me out of the car and escorts me to the bottom of the steps. With a gentle push, I’m passed back to ‘the man of the house.’ Then, with a cheery wave, my date drives off.

‘Did you have a good time?’ David growls, closing the front door behind us with unnecessary force.

‘Of course I did. Good food and good company!’ I throw my coat and handbag onto the lounge. Fat Albert blinks at me from the armchair nearest the fire, where David has organised a comfortable nest. A bottle of port and a book are on the coffee table.
He didn’t go into town to see Donna.

I’m tired and sexually frustrated; celibacy is no fun. I am also cranky about being passed from man to man like a parcel. He wants to know why I have a mouse family residing under my kitchen sink. I’m not inclined to give a lengthy explanation, but he is so insistent I finally tell him about the rodent’s part in the investigation. When I finish, he snorts with laughter.

‘You should be thankful they’re little scavengers,’ I snap. ‘There’d have been nothing left of the photos if my mouse hadn’t dragged them into her nest.’

‘I’m sorry, Susan. You’re right of course. Did the Archdeacon try to get information out of you?’

I’ve experienced a hell of a time trying to prevent the man finding out I’m a police officer and I’m not in the mood for verbal skirmishes. ‘No. He was a perfect gentleman.’

‘That’s not the impression I got from where I was standing on the verandah,’ he says waspishly. ‘Anyway, I want to talk to you about Brit.’ He ignores my yawns, prepared to debate the matter here and now.

‘It’s after midnight. We’ll talk about it in the morning. The girls won’t be back until later in the morning.
Goodnight,
David.’

I scoop up my coat and handbag and head for my room, leaving him taken aback by my abrupt departure. Good. I am about to close the door when Fat Albert slips inside and camps on the bed. It’s comforting to have at least one male wanting to sleep with me.

The warm, furry body is snugly tucked into my back, but I am unable to sleep. My mind scuds over the events of the day– the session with Briony, Harry’s call, the tantruming child, the heat between David and myself. Am I imagining it? Perhaps it’s all in my fevered, sex-starved little mind. I forgot to tell him about my date with Euon Jellicott.