Dastardly Deeds

It was supposed to be the holiday of a lifetime …

When Nell Forrest’s life hits a speed bump (which is most definitely
not
a midlife crisis) a cruise around the Mediterranean seems like just the ticket.

Unfortunately, that’s an idea shared by her mother, her ex-husband, his new partner, and a police detective with whom Nell has a stormy history. Fortunately, meditation is just one of the many activities offered aboard the luxury liner, but Nell will need more than that to face what lies ahead.

A tragic death in Rome is quickly followed by another in Turkey. Then an unexpected discovery provides a link between the two, and Nell must stow her plans for relaxation once and for all.

One of her shipmates is a cold-blooded murderer, and it seems that Nell is the only one with the wherewithal to figure it out. But figure it out she must, because the murderer, like the cruise, has only just begun …

Dastardly Deeds
is the fourth book in Ilsa Evans’ Nell Forrest Mystery series. The other three are
Nefarious Doings, Ill-Gotten Gains
and
Forbidden Fruit.

This cosy mystery is perfect for fans of Alexander McCall Smith, M.C. Beaton, Kerry Greenwood and Joanna Fluke.

In memory of
Charlotte Anna Evans
1933 – 2015

News of the woman’s death swirled around the Colosseum like the echoing moans of ancient Christian martyrs. Actually, that’s probably a trifle dramatic. It was more a waft than a swirl; a single pocket of conversation that was overheard simply because I happened to be skulking nearby. Also, according to the sign I was reading at the time, and despite the compelling evidence offered by Hollywood, it seemed that there was little to support the whole martyrs versus lions scenario anyway. Historical research had uncovered a single cleric who was accused of treason, not religious fervour, and subsequently disembowelled. So while undoubtedly a game-changer for him, this does not a pattern make.

It was the excitable tone that first caught my attention, closely followed by the realisation that the accent was Australian. In the two hours I had been wandering around the Roman Colosseum, having become separated from my family almost immediately after entry, I had been surrounded by a cornucopia of languages – few of them English and none spoken with the flat vowels I was accustomed to. Not that I was complaining; after three days sharing a room with my youngest daughter, next door to my mother and her partner, with assorted other Australians behind every other door in the hotel corridor, some non-Australian alone time was just what the doctor ordered. In fact, I had spotted various familiar faces several times during the past two hours and had promptly made myself scarce. Fortunately, the Colosseum was literally studded with plinths, pillars and porticoes. It was possibly the best hide-and-seek venue in the world.

It was only through an unexpected series of events that I was at the Colosseum in the first place. In December, four months ago, I had barrelled into a bit of a wall, both professionally and personally. In retrospect, it was no surprise. The two previous years had been a rollercoaster, with my twenty-five-year marriage imploding and my ex-husband promptly impregnating his new partner. I had moved house, become a grandmother (twice), reconnected with my estranged father, watched my sister move to Europe, sabotaged a fledgling relationship of my own, and been somehow caught up in the aftermath of several murders.

If I’d had any other employment, I probably would have taken a chunk of personal leave. Perhaps pottered around the garden or taken up some therapeutic macramé. But as a columnist, I needed to produce at least five hundred pithy words each week, usually using my own life as fodder. At a certain point this stops being cathartic. December was hard, January was worse, and February was impossible. Every so often I managed to produce a handful of words that gambolled incoherently, forming the occasional sentence more by good luck than good management. I soon exhausted my collection of back-up columns and began dodging increasingly irritated calls from my editor.

While all this was going on, a close friend, Deb Taylor, who managed the local community centre of our little country town, was busily making arrangements for an amazing reunion trip with some old university friends. Five days in Rome followed by a ten-day cruise that took in Gallipoli, Istanbul, Athens and the island of Santorini. Her husband, Lew, a little peeved that the trip did not include partners, started actively recruiting for his own tour group. Initially I was dismissive, but the long hours spent staring blankly at the laptop had to be occupied somehow and fantasising about a Mediterranean cruise seemed as good a way as any. I had never been on a cruise, Mediterranean or otherwise. Plus, getting away from it all had never held so much appeal.

Things came to a head work-wise in early March. Sympathetic but business-like, the editor-in-chief proposed that a series of guest writers take over my column until I worked through what she just stopped short of calling a midlife crisis. She also embraced the idea of my upcoming holiday with rather unflattering eagerness. It would ‘give me something to write about’, a chance to win back some of the readers who, apparently, would soon begin fleeing like rats deserting a sinking ship. Her faith in their loyalty was not exactly inspiring.

So there I was, in one of the most breathtaking cities on the planet. Photos didn’t do Rome justice. Ancient buildings that surged seamlessly from well-worn cobblestones, soaring domes that glinted gold in the sunshine, monuments that eulogised men who were footnotes in the encyclopaedias I had read as a child. In Australia, two-hundred-year-old buildings were heritage-listed; here, plaques bore dates that were one thousand, two thousand years old.

I was drunk with history. But instead of bearing down heavily, it felt as light as gossamer. My problems were inconsequential, a whisper in the fabric of time. It was a heady realisation, providing a perspective that, with a surge of optimism, I thought might break through my writer’s block. But no such luck. Putting pen to paper, or finger to keyboard, still felt like drawing blood from a stone – and then using the same stone to beat oneself repeatedly against the forehead.

History might have whispered but the tall Australian woman at the Colosseum definitely didn’t. Her voice broke through my perusal of the Christian martyrdom sign. Somewhat fittingly, the first words she uttered were: ‘Oh my
god
!’

I turned to see her staring at two men around my age. They were frowning with surprise.

‘Oh my
god
!’ she repeated, clapping her hand to her chest. ‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere! April is dead!’

This seemed a trifle melodramatic, not least because we were only midway through the month in question. The breathless woman was clad in a voluminous skirt and several layers of loose tops, one of which looked like a doily. Long salt-and-pepper hair hung down her back in a plait, but her face was framed by tendrils of fluffy white. It looked quite odd, although I was hardly in a position to judge given my own hair generally looked like I’d put my finger in an electric socket. Hence my predilection for hats, today’s being a brown felt number that I fancied brought out the green in my eyes.

My first inkling that the tall, plaited woman was not, in fact, referring to the calendar came with the shocked reaction of the men she was addressing. One of them, a well-built guy with artfully ruffled hair, recoiled, shaking his head.

‘What? No.’

‘Yes! April’s
dead
!’ The woman burst into tears, damp and noisy. ‘She – she
jumped
.’

‘What the hell are you talking about?’ The other man stepped forward. He was slim and bespectacled with thick eyebrows that were currently meeting in the middle. ‘We were all together last night. She was fine.’

‘She’s
not
fine. She’s
dead
.’

The slim man took her by the arm. ‘Phoebe, calm down. You have to tell us what’s going—’ He suddenly paused and looked straight at me. ‘You right there? Want us to speak up?’

I flushed. Then I did something as instinctive as it was foolish. ‘
Pardon
?’ I said, with as good a French accent as I could muster.
Pardon
was the only French word I knew, apart from a phrase that my daughter Scarlet had brought home from school many years ago. However, ‘
Voulez-vous venir à une fête dans mon pantaloons?
’ – or, ‘Do you want to come to a party in my pants?’ – did not seem terribly appropriate under the circumstances.

‘Nothing,’ said the man dismissively. He guided the now sobbing Phoebe over to a stone balustrade, with his companion supporting her from the other side.

I was left alone, feeling embarrassed.
Odd spot: Has-been Australian columnist sprung using fake French accent in Rome. ‘She used to be normal,’ says former editor sadly.
I shrugged, turning instead to wonder who April was and why she had jumped. Shading my eyes, I glanced up towards the top tier of archways but it seemed unlikely she had leapt from there. Tourists still milled contentedly along the pathway, posing for photos against the familiar backdrop. But there were plenty of other places in Rome that would have the requisite height – or, indeed, plenty of places outside Rome also. April may well have been based elsewhere.

It didn’t really matter though. It had nothing to do with me. I just hoped that whatever April had done, and wherever she had done it, it had been a decision she was comfortable with. And that she was now at peace.

The room I was sharing was a compact one, with three single beds dominating much of the space. The bathroom, however, was massive, with a toilet and matching bidet perched atop a marble platform. Every visit was a performance, made a little more adrenalin-fuelled by the absence of a lock on the door.

I scrabbled through my suitcase for a pair of heels and tugged them on as I checked my make-up. Tonight was the get-together dinner, organised by our fearless leader – a chance for ‘Lew’s Crew’ to touch base mid tourism. Lew was also the one who had come up with the sobriquet ‘Lew’s Crew’, which he had then used liberally until we all stopped laughing. He had even created a masthead for the weekly newsletter,
Stay Afloat with Lew’s Crew News!

My stomach was airy with nerves. But it was not the get-together that was unsettling me; rather, it was the imminent arrival of my sister and my daughter from England. I hadn’t seen Petra since Christmas, and I hadn’t seen my second-eldest daughter for even longer. Sixteen months and twenty-three days, to be precise.

I had five daughters, and there was rarely a moment that at least one of them wasn’t in crisis. Sometimes it was like they were playing tag, occasionally it was a more a team effort. My eldest, Scarlet, currently seemed to have everything together. She had a secure job, a happy engagement and a gorgeous fourteen-month-old son. The next daughter had none of that. After dropping out of an array of university courses, Ruby had abruptly sold most of her worldly possessions the year before last and signed up for a year of volunteer work abroad. This had ended last November, but instead of coming home, she had flitted over to England to join her aunt. I had no idea how she had been supporting herself, nor did I know if she even had the money to return to Australia; I certainly didn’t know how she was paying for the cruise we were about to embark on. Skype had severe limitations when it came to transparency.

My third was Bronte, more commonly known as Red because of her gingery hair. She was the most private of my children but, to all intents and purposes, she appeared to be doing just fine. I was happy to take that on face value. Next in line was Lucy, my airy-fairy twenty-two-year-old. She had given me a great deal to worry about until the birth of her own daughter, Willow, who had turned one in February. Lucy had grown up overnight. She was now halfway through her business diploma, working full-time in my mother’s bookshop and doing a truly remarkable job as a single mother.

Last, but never least, was sixteen-year-old Quinn. My accidental, slip-of-the-condom daughter. So far she was giving me no more than typical teenage angst, but no doubt she would up the ante in the years to come. I cast a glance at her bed, where an open suitcase was spilling entrails of clothing. There were also
two
hair straighteners and a dog-eared copy of Germaine Greer’s
The Female Eunuch
.

I was running late. I slid the swipe card into my jacket pocket, pulled the door open and almost walked straight into my sister’s fist, which had been raised ready to knock.

She grinned. ‘That was close! Nearly punched you in the nose!’

‘Petra!’ I leant in to give her a quick, fierce hug and then stepped back, feeling a little embarrassed. We weren’t a particularly tactile family.

‘Missed me, huh?’

There was no doubt about that. I’d missed her company, her devil’s advocacy, and the fact she was the only other person who fully appreciated the complexities of our mother. Petra was a more streamlined version of me – a little taller, a little slimmer, a little more certain of her place in the world. Even her hair was more manageable. It was like our parents had used me as a practice run. Yet there was no envy and only a sliver of competitiveness between us. I wanted her life no more than she wanted mine.

‘You’re looking well,’ she said, examining me. ‘You’ve cut your hair again.’

‘Yeah, I was starting to look like a cartoon. How long have you been here? Where’s Ruby?’

‘We got here about an hour ago. I think she’s still downstairs. Quinn waylaid us.’

‘I see.’ I made an effort to sound blasé, but I had assumed, since Ruby hadn’t arrived at the room with her suitcases, that they had been running late. Instead, it seemed, she was downstairs socialising.

Petra gave me a shrewd look. ‘I think Ruby’s nervous about seeing you. Worried she’ll get the third degree. Perhaps she figured there’s safety in numbers.’

I didn’t reply. We walked down the stairs, changing the subject to updates about the family members who weren’t joining us on this holiday, focusing most particularly on the two newest members, whose advanced development could keep me talking for hours. I had just finished sharing an anecdote which had Willow naming not one but two of the colours of her birthday balloons when we reached the dining room. Petra pushed the door open and we were faced with Lew’s Crew, clustered around a long table that ran the length of an ornately decorated room. I ran my eye over the gathering as they turned.

An empty chair sat at the head of the table, beside my mother and her partner, Jim Hurley. Opposite them was Jim’s much older sister, Enid, a triangular woman with skin like molten lava. Next were the Russos, Michael and Lyn, just across from the couple from hell, my ex-husband Darcy and the new love of his life, Tessa Sheridan. Their inclusion had come as something of a shock. I strongly suspected that, despite his protestations to the contrary, Lew had deliberately withheld the information until I committed to the holiday. He assured me that it was a large ship. About the size of Tasmania should be sufficient.

There were a few spare seats around the centre of the table and then came the cohort of generations Y and Z, Griffin Russo alongside my two, Quinn and Ruby. My stomach hollowed. Ruby looked thinner, her cheekbones more defined, and I thought I could detect lilac smudges under her eyes. Even as I was washed with a desire to hug her, sharp words were already forming on my tongue.
So nice of you to stop by and say hi before you caught up with your sister. Great to see I’m such a priority.
Swallowing them was painful but I didn’t want to embarrass her – or draw attention to her lack of filial affection.

‘Why, hello, Petra,’ said my mother from the other end of the table. ‘So nice of you to call in and say hello before you caught up with your sister. Perhaps you could prioritise me later. No rush.’

I stared at her, gobsmacked.

‘Close your mouth, Nell, you look daft.’

Uncle Jim leant back, placing an arm casually around my mother’s shoulders. His Buddy Holly glasses glinted under the chandelier. She relaxed almost imperceptibly into him, even as her gaze remained steady. He winked at us.

‘Hey, Mum,’ said Ruby quietly, redrawing my attention. She pushed her chair back and stood so it seemed only fair to meet her halfway. We hugged.

‘How are you? You look tired.’

‘I am a bit. Didn’t you get my text saying I’d got here?
Dad
met me in the lobby. So did Quinn. Bet you haven’t even checked your phone.’ She paused, as if expecting me to contradict her. Instead I cast a glance towards her father, who paused in his own conversation to send me a smile. His teeth looked at least three shades whiter. ‘
Any
way,’ continued Ruby, ‘so I sort of got stuck here, haven’t even been able to take my stuff up yet. I bet you’re pissed because I didn’t go say hello to you first.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. How petty do you think I am?’

Instead of answering, she kissed me on the cheek and then pulled back to grin. ‘You’ve cut your hair. Looks good. And how exciting is this? Rome!’

‘Rome,’ I agreed. A slick-haired waiter had begun taking orders at the other end of the table. There seemed to be some problems with translations and Enid’s hearing aid, so he was probably going to be a while. I could see Petra over at the bar and hoped fervently she was bringing me wine.

‘Sit next to me,’ said Ruby.

I slid into the empty chair and examined her once more. ‘So how are you?’

‘You already asked me that. And we can talk later, anyway.’ She smiled to soften the words, but clearly something was being avoided. I wasn’t surprised.

A major problem with this seating arrangement, I noticed as I turned away from my daughter, was that it put me beside my ex-husband. Apart from the teeth, he was looking very familiar. His dark hair was flecked with grey, his eyes creased with humour.

He gave me a wry smile. ‘Hey, I saw you at the Colosseum today. You looked like you were hiding.’

‘Clearly not well enough.’

‘Don’t be like that.’ He flashed me another smile.

I put up a hand protectively. ‘You’re blinding me! What’s with the teeth?’

‘Um. Ah, just a treatment. Nothing much, just—’

‘I think they look wonderful,’ interrupted Tessa from his other side. She beamed at him. ‘Just like George Clooney.’

‘More like Woody Allen,’ said Petra, placing a glass of wine in front of me.

Darcy nodded agreeably. ‘Fine, just call me Woody then. I quite like Woody.’

‘Yes. So I’ve heard.’ Petra walked around to sit beside a portly Michael Russo, who gave her an appreciative glance. She raised her glass at me. ‘Cheers.’

‘Cheers,’ I said enthusiastically. The wine was tangy and delicious.

‘You should try some of this.’ Darcy swivelled his bottle until the label faced me. He was a wine aficionado, having even been recently re-elected to the presidency of our local Wine and Cheese Society back home.

The label meant nothing to me though. He was probably mixing me up with someone else. I picked up the menu and glanced surreptitiously at Tessa. I was pleased to see that she still hadn’t dropped her baby weight although much of it appeared to be concentrated around her breasts, particularly the left. They were like lopsided topographical features.
Breaking news: Woman chuffed by disproportionate weight gain of ex-husband’s lover.

‘Anyway, so nice to see you Darcy,’ said Petra chummily. ‘It was such a pleasant surprise to hear you were joining us on the cruise.’

‘I can understand the pleasure but I’m not sure why you’d be surprised.’ Darcy gave her one of his thousand-kilowatt smiles. ‘After all, Deb is Tessa’s sister, which makes Lew her brother-in-law. Plus, of course, two of my daughters are here, including one I haven’t seen for a year.’

‘Sixteen months,’ I corrected curtly. ‘And twenty-three days.’

Ruby grabbed my hand and squeezed it. ‘You know the exact days!’

The slick-haired waiter finally made it to our side, looking slightly harassed. He plastered a smile onto his face and opened his mouth.

‘Don’t even have to look,’ said Darcy. ‘We’ll have a margherita pizza for two. Can’t be in Italy without having pizza!’

Tessa was nodding. Her left breast was definitely more wobbly than the right.

‘Lasagne, please,’ said Petra. ‘With salad.’

‘Same here, thanks.’ I passed the menu to Ruby and took another sip of wine.

‘What’s going on with our youngest?’ asked Darcy, nodding towards the end of the table. He wasn’t smiling now. We watched as Quinn whispered something to Griffin Russo. I had known this boy all his life, even had a photo of him as a sturdy kindergartner, but burgeoning adulthood lent him a subtle unfamiliarity. His small, tight man-bun didn’t help matters. It looked like a tumour.

‘Maybe they’re on again.’ I swallowed a sigh. I would far rather they remain off, but I wasn’t in the mood for bonding with Darcy over Quinn’s turbulent relationship with the youngest Russo boy. No doubt by tomorrow Griffin would have looked sideways at another girl or forgotten the anniversary of the first time they bought KFC together and it would all be over again.

There was the tinkling sound of a spoon against glass from the top end of the table. Lew had arrived, having manoeuvred his wheelchair into position beside the empty chair. A blond giant of a man, even seated, he had been a paraplegic since a car accident about twenty-five years ago. Conversations petered off as everybody turned to give him their attention.

‘Hello, all!’ Lew tossed the spoon onto the table, where it clattered against the other cutlery. ‘I think I’ve managed to catch up with you all individually, apart from our latest arrivals—’ he flashed a grin towards Petra ‘—but this is my first chance to give an official welcome to Lew’s Crew en masse. Welcome to Rome!’

Reciprocated welcomes echoed around the table, a little staggered, with Enid adding hers about a second after everybody else.

‘I hope you’ve been enjoying all the delights that this wonderful city has to offer. I’ve seen some amazing photos posted to our Facebook page. Anyone who hasn’t done the Colosseum yet, don’t forget there’s a package available that includes the Forum and the Pantheon. It’s a full day, but you need to make the most of tomorrow, because at noon on Tuesday, the minibus will be arriving to take us all down to the port of Civitavecchia to board our cruise ship!’ He paused for scattered applause. ‘All of us except for Michael, of course. We’ll bid him farewell for a few days.’

Michael Russo beamed regally. I had heard about their plans so many times from Lyn that I knew them off by heart. Michael was attending a Very Important Meeting in a few days, after which he would fly to Turkey and meet us at Gallipoli. The Russos would then be hiring a car and driving to Istanbul, where they would meet up with us again before departing for some Family Time. Bulgaria was on their itinerary, and then Greece. The truth, according to Quinn, was that the Very Important Michael Russo got horribly seasick.

Lew was speaking again. His smile had faded. ‘Now, on a more sombre note, I should tell you that my wife’s reunion group, which as you know will be joining us on the cruise ship, has been hit by some dreadful news.’ He paused again, this time to give his words weight. ‘One of her friends here … well, there was a tragic accident. She didn’t make it.’