Bones of Contention (12 page)

“Now why is that?”

She bit her tongue. “Dr. Fisher wouldn’t stop talking about it.”

“Everyone agrees he was a bit of an earbasher,” said Jacko, letting her off easy. “A bit of a boozer, too, from what I hear.”

“That’s right. And after he got loaded, he became belligerent. He stammered and slurred his words.”

“The slurring was probably worsened by the fugu. It numbs the lips, puts a man in an expansive frame of mind right up until the convulsions and the respiratory paralysis.” He crossed the room, picked up the didgeridoo, and secured a plastic baggie over the end. “As for the belligerence, who did the doctor go off on?”

“Everybody.” She didn’t know what information the others had disclosed, but she saw no reason to call undue attention to the fact that Fisher had told Cleon to sod off and Margaret to stick it up her jumper. Somebody else would no doubt have recounted Mack’s angry tug-of-war with Fisher over the didgeridoo and their odd little tiff over whether doctors had been threatened by Aborigines. But Fisher’s most unsettling run-in was the one with Tanya. What was that word she spat at him? Galka. Was it a curse? A threat? It had certainly jolted Mack. But if it was the fugu that killed Fisher, Tanya had served it long before that incident.

She said, “Fisher was a complete jerk to Tanya. But if it was the fugu that killed him, I’m sure it was an accident. Tanya was flustered, too many pots bubbling on the stove. And her nephew? He’s a handful. Keeping track of him would’ve exacerbated her stress. Her mind must’ve wandered.”

Jacko, took off the plastic glove and stuck it in his pocket. “She’d prepared it for him correctly once before. She says he gave her a demo on how to clean it and cook it as soon as he lobbed in at the lodge.”

“Well then, he should have quit while he was ahead. Anyone who’s eaten even one meal here would know that Tanya’s no master chef. She’s not to blame if a sliver of gonad ended up on the doctor’s plate.”

“You’ve an aptitude for the tidy closure, luv.”

“Will you let us know the results of the autopsy?” she asked.

“I’ll keep you informed. And if you see or hear anything sussy, I’d appreciate it if you’d give me a call.”

“Sussy?”

“Suspicious, whiffy on the nose.”

“You’re asking me to spy on my own family?”

“Not all are related by blood, are they? You’ll have to decide for yourself. I’m asking you to consider the possibility that somebody in the house is a killer.”

A knee-jerk defensiveness boiled out of her. “I know something about the police mentality, Jacko. You assume the worst about everybody because you spend your life rubbing shoulders with lowlifes and scuzzballs and floozies. You’re disrespectful and deceitful and you have the power to wreak havoc in people’s lives.”

“He was that sort of a bugger, was he?”

“Who?”

“The policeman who disappointed you.”

“And another thing about policemen, they think they hear significance behind every casual remark. My point is, what happened to Dr. Fisher was a tragic accident due entirely to his own negligence. And furthermore, I don’t know what connection you think there is between my family and that dead journalist, but none of us has so much as set foot on Melville Island. If one of us killed him, we had to do it by remote control.”

“Like pointing the bone,” he said.

Her attitude crumbled. Looking into his steely, seen-it-all eyes, it was impossible to mistake him for anything but a cop, and a cop who meant business. Anyone who failed to take him seriously or who willfully obstructed his investigation would do so at his or her peril.

She said, “I accidentally kicked the doctor’s cigarette holder under the sofa. You’ll probably want to check it for poison.

“Just in case.”

Chapter Twenty

Djang is the Aboriginal equivalent of the Big Bang. It formed the world and is the constantly recharging energy that sustains it. Djang is the collective spirit of the whole race, the stored-up powers of the ancestors, a latent creative force that resides in certain sacred objects and places and, like the power of the atom, it can be tapped and released in frightening ways. Cyclones. Floods. Earthquakes. Death by remote control.

The book didn’t say that in so many words, but death by remote control is what Dinah made of it and she had no time to get bogged down with semantics. She shut
The Illustrated Atlas of Aboriginal Storytelling
and replaced it on the shelf. When you’re tossing a man’s study, you can’t let yourself be sidetracked by his mythology, although she had hoped to find in Mack’s extensive library some reference to payback law and the Aborigines’ animus toward kill doctors.

Seth had gone off by himself to photograph the morning light through the foliage; Tanya had gone AWOL; Mack had gone to Katherine to restock the now-empty bar; and Dinah had made sure everyone else was gathered around the dining room table comparing notes about their recollections of last night and their interviews with the police before she slipped out of the room to snoop. They’d be finished soon and dispersing throughout the house and she didn’t have time to dip into every tome.

She couldn’t articulate just what it was about Mack that aroused her suspicion any more than she could articulate why she kicked Fisher’s cigarette holder under the sofa. Everything was in turmoil and she was operating on nerves and her iffy intuition. There’d be time to rationalize and reflect when the dust settled. With any luck, this would not take place inside an Australian prison.

In the corner, covered by a cloth screenprinted with Aboriginal symbols and a cairn of art books, she found a two-drawer metal filing cabinet. She flipped through the folders in the top drawer. Most contained information on the various clans in the Northern Territory and there were a few poignant, handwritten narratives telling of children removed from their families.

The bottom drawer yielded a basket full of shells and stones and tree bark and underneath, a permit to visit Melville Island dated May 15, some three weeks ago. Well, well, well. It was a leap to infer that a man who’d merely visited a place committed a murder while there, but the fact did confer a certain distinction. She tried to picture the dignified and rather punctilious former concierge spindling a man on top of a sea turtle with a spear. The image didn’t jell.

When did he arrive on Melville and how long did he stay? From the way Jacko had described the body, it had already begun to decompose by the time it was discovered. She didn’t know anything about forensic medicine, but it was probably impossible to pinpoint the exact time of death. She could only pray that her assertion held true and the family hadn’t arrived in Australia until long after the deed was done.

There was a leaflet detailing the history and artistry of pukamani burial poles, for which the Tiwi people apparently were renowned, and a bill of sale for twenty poles, twelve pots, and four bark paintings. As there were only a couple of burial poles in this room and no pots or bark paintings, the rest must either have been resold or stored someplace else. She thought about the crude, half-painted pole in the dumpster. Was Mack trying to become an artist, himself?

He was clearly out to hoover up native art, probably with the aim of reselling at a higher price to affluent tourists. There was nothing illegal about being a “commerce man” unless Australia had some kind of anti-exploitation law or something. But what if Mack had sold pukamani poles that weren’t carved by the Tiwi people and Fisher found out about it? Maybe to keep Fisher quiet, he poisoned him in a house full of people who’d known the doctor from way back in order to spread the suspicion around.

It went against Dinah’s grain to spread suspicion to people she hardly knew, people she liked and wished well, but she couldn’t conceive of a member of the family doing murder and she felt bound to provide Jacko with a viable alternative. Her allegiance, first and foremost, was to her kin and Jacko was wacko if he thought that being kin was only about blood.

She had never doubted that Cleon and his wives and children were her family. They were family for the same reasons that anybody takes root in another person’s life—fate, custom, history. Choice, too. In spite of their many warts, she’d chosen them and nobody had the right to dictate who did or did not deserve her loyalty. She might not agree with the Dobbses on much. She didn’t even like them half the time. But they were formative and familiar and, however much they feuded among themselves, they weren’t the bloody Borgias.

It would be sad if Mack or Tanya turned out to be a murderer, but they weren’t the only candidates nor were they the best. Seth Farraday gave rich new meaning to the word whiffy. How whiffy was it that he turned up just hours after Fisher hit the floor dead? Seth had no motive to kill Cleon. Not before he’d changed his will. But if the doctor was the intended victim, as Jacko seemed to believe, the possibilities broadened. She wasn’t at all convinced that Seth was Cleon’s son. Maybe he and the Kellerman guy who vetted him had a scam going to search out ailing rich men and foist Seth off as a missing heir. Maybe Fisher had run into them before and Seth killed him to keep from being recognized. And hanging over all of their heads like a lowering phantom was the dead man on Melville Island.

Jacko had searched Fisher’s room, but for whatever reason—probable cause or its Australian counterpart—he hadn’t searched any of the others’ rooms. Maybe he needed the results of the autopsy before he brought the full weight of the law to bear. But her hands weren’t tied. As soon as she found out which room was Seth’s, she’d give it a going-over for evidence of a prior acquaintance with Fisher and a recent visit to Melville.

She looked at her watch. Time was wasting. She closed the cabinet, replaced the cover cloth and books, took a last gander around, and oozed out into the hall.

Jittery from her sleuthing, she headed to the veranda for a steadying fix of nicotine. Through the cloudy panes in the back door, she saw Cleon and Wendell talking. She opened the door a crack.

“How can you think such a thing?” protested Wendell. “That one of your children would murder you for a few thousand more? It’s preposterous.”

Cleon shielded his eyes with a sheet of paper and squinted into the sun. “As many chances as you’ve had at me over the years, I’m inclined to believe it wasn’t you or Lucien.”

“That leaves Seth Farraday,” said Wendell, sounding portentous. “That dossier you’ve got there is ludicrous. No P.I. in the world could verify that stuff. It’s like he cribbed it from
Soldier of Fortune
magazine.”

Cleon folded the piece of paper and put it back in his pocket. “Things have come to a pitiful pass when a man’s obliged to verify what his own flesh and blood tells him.”

“Well, if Farraday is your flesh and blood, which I very much doubt, he must hate you for the way you treated his mother.”

“You don’t hate me for the way I treated yours,” said Cleon. It wasn’t exactly a question, but it finished with an un-Cleonlike inflection.

At first, Wendell seemed nonplussed. Finally, he said, “Of course, I don’t hate you. I, I revere you.”

“Revere me.” Cleon smiled an odd, bashful smile and draped an arm around his shoulders. “Let’s mosey down the lane a ways and talk. After last night, I could use a mite of reverence.”

Dinah watched the two disappear around the side of the lodge. It was a sweet moment. She wished that Lucien could repair his relationship with Cleon before it was too late. Maybe he would yet. Maybe Fisher’s death would shake him up and bring about a rapprochement, or at least a state of affairs where Lucien could speak Cleon’s name without snarling.

Curious about Seth Farraday’s Soldier of Fortune dossier, she cancelled her cigarette break and went straight to the kitchen to find somebody who could give her the scoop. Margaret was the only one still at the table.

“I just ate the last piece of Eduardo’s quiche, but there’s bread and butter and there’s some fried mutton in that skillet on the stove if your digestion’s up to it.”

Dinah looked at the slab of meat in a pool of grease. “I’ll make do with toast and jam.”

Margaret buttered a chunk of bread and smeared on a half inch of jam. “Our Martha Stewart has ordered duck à l’orange for dinner. She’s acting like one of those characters in an Agatha Christie mystery. The dinner must go on.”

Dinah saw no benefit in taking sides. “It’s her way of coping, I guess.”

“True. I shouldn’t criticize poor Neesha. Cleon hectoring, Thad rebelling, Dez dropping dead.”

Not to mention your campaign to steer Cleon’s money away from her to your son, thought Dinah. She wondered if eating was Margaret’s way of coping.

She poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down. “Margaret, have you seen the P.I.’s report on Seth Farraday?”

“No. Cleon has kept the Farraday person and anything to do with him away from me. Doesn’t want me dumping cold water on his happiness.”

“Happiness?”

“Oh, yes. He may not look it, but he’s a new man this morning. Something’s put the spring back in his step—maybe the arrival of Farraday. More likely, it’s the moratorium on his own death.”

Dinah had had misgivings about Cleon’s health from the minute she first laid eyes on him. “Is he really and truly dying, Margaret? He doesn’t act like a man about to face his maker.”

“What maker? Cleon made himself.” One corner of her mouth turned up slightly, like a grapefruit knife. “Yes, he’s dying. He could probably live five or six months if he went through another round of chemo, but he nixed that. Said the time for torture’s when he gets to hell, not before.”

“Why did no one tell me that he had cancer?”

“He didn’t tell anybody, not even Neesha, until two weeks ago. His Australian client wasn’t the only reason he moved to Sydney. He didn’t want anyone to see him go through chemo. Dez made sure he got the best care available, but the cancer had spread. You didn’t see Dez at his best. He was an extraordinary man in many ways, but full of contradictions. Like Cleon. Like they all are, I suppose.” In the strong morning light, she looked careworn. Her skin had a crepey texture and her eyes were rimmed red. She’d been glib about not missing Cleon’s final parting. Could it be she was more broken up by Dez Fisher’s?

“Did you know Dr. Fisher well, Margaret?”

“As well as he let anyone know him. Dez and Wen are…were business partners. They co-owned a fish processing company in Brunswick.”

Fish again, the leitmotif of Fisher’s life. “I didn’t know Wen had any business other than his job as bank manager.”

“The plant’s more of an investment.”

“Investment requires a lot of extra capital lying around, doesn’t it?”

Margaret’s eyebrows climbed toward her widow’s peak. “Anyone with the sense God gave a goose invests. And don’t you poor-mouth, young lady. You have a trust fund.”

Dinah did not suffer allusions to her father’s ill-gotten gain gladly. The little pile of dirty money he’d left her in an offshore trust was an open secret, but not one she cared to have thrown in her face. Her quarterly stipend was a posthumous communication from her father, important to have, but shameful to spend. She’d never told anyone that after she graduated from college, she began to donate the money to tsunami relief or whatever other catastrophe happened to be in the headlines when the check arrived.

In deference to Margaret’s emotional strain, Dinah let her breach of manners pass. “Did Dr. Fisher have a family or is Wen now the sole owner of the business?”

“I hadn’t thought about it, but I guess he is. Dez was a widower with no children. He used to come to Georgia several times a year to visit Cleon and check on his business and I visited him a few times in Sydney. I guess you could say that Dez and I…dated.” A wisp of sadness skirred across her face. She banished it instantly. “We shared an enjoyment of food and wine. I don’t know if it was because of our friendship or because Cleon recommended it, but last year Dez made Wendell a partner.”

“Does Wen participate in the business?”

“No. The way Dez explained it, Wen’s the go-to man in the event there’s a strike or an immigration problem or some trouble at the plant and he couldn’t get there from Australia quick enough to handle it. Nothing like that’s come up. Cleon prepared the legal documents. There was a nominal buy-in, but it’s been all gravy for no work. Almost a gift. It allowed Wen’s highfalutin wife to hire an au pair and a full-time maid.”

“Do you think Dr. Fisher was murdered, Margaret?”

She expelled a derisive phtt, almost a belch. “If he was, it was Seth Farraday who killed him.”

“Why? Did he know Seth before he came?”

“Whether he did or didn’t, it’s irrelevant. Farraday needed more time to get his hooks into Cleon. He’s a designing piece of work, but he may luck out. One thing about Cleon Dobbs, he’s captivated by fly-by-nights and flibbertigibbets.” She scarfed down a last bite of bread. “Wen and I are off to Katherine in an hour to arrange for Dez’s cremation as soon as the police release the body. We plan to have lunch in town and discuss what to do about Farraday. You may be a legatee, yourself, Dinah. The paintings may not be all Cleon leaves you. Do you want to sit in with us?”

“No thanks. I’ll hang here with Lucien and Eddie.”

“Lucien said he wasn’t interested either, but then you’re Swan’s cygnets. Cleon would never shortchange you.” And on that note, she scorched out of the room without a backward glance.

One of these days, thought Dinah. One of these crazy, flaming days.