Home Truths (7 page)

‘Yes, we must run,' Shirley said, flustered.

Jennifer glanced down at the jacket around her shoulders. ‘Wait, you'll probably see Calum before I do, would you mind taking it? And please tell him thank you from me.' She put the basket down and muttered, ‘Hope Veronica doesn't mind me borrowing her clothes, but I was wet through last night and my suitcase was in the car.'

Connie's eyes sparkled. ‘Of course she wouldn't.'

‘Veronica and Uncle Bob must have been close. No doubt she'll be at the funeral. We've never met. Would you mind introducing us? We should pass on our condolences.'

The two women seemed taken aback. Jennifer regarded them closely. ‘Is everything all right?'

Ignoring the Veronica question, Connie reached forward to pull the jacket back over Jennifer's shoulders; drawing it together at the front, she prattled on. ‘You know what men are like, best not confuse matters. Calum left his card in the basket. He said to call him when you're ready and he'll drop by for his jacket.'

‘Okay.' She could do that. The flutter of anticipation at seeing Calum again wasn't a problem. No
siree
. ‘Thank you both, it's very much appreciated, Connie, Shirley,' Jennifer smiled. ‘I'll ring Calum later this morning.'

‘Lovely, dear. We'll see you at St Mary's.'

Jennifer watched them as they walked arm in arm down the footpath, and the old classic movie
Arsenic and Old Lace
came to mind. Connie wore a sensible straw hat, pale lilac slacks, and darker lilac blouse and Shirley wore a beige T-shirt and serviceable baggy brown cotton slacks. They both looked genteel — on the surface, but something was going on, and Jennifer didn't have a clue what it might be.

With a clack-clack of stilettos, Jennifer moved back to close the door. She peered at her feet one more time, shrugged and made her way to the upstairs kitchen. She set the basket down on the scrubbed pine table and gazed around the room. Memories flooded back of times when she and her sister had huddled around the black combustion stove while their uncle flipped pancakes for them. He hadn't changed any of the décor. The stove still sat in the cream tiled alcove with its green border and chimney above. All dated, but not tatty. The cupboards, with sturdy brass hinges, hadn't been updated either, except for a coat of paint. Through the tall windows, she could see the neglected courtyard below. She looked up and beyond the outskirts of town; grapevine-covered hills stretched into the distance until they reached the dark-green foothills of the blue-tinged mountains.

What a view. No wonder her uncle had loved living here.

Jennifer sniffed the air. She could almost smell apple pie and cinnamon, herbs and spices imbedded in the old timbers and paintwork. She unhooked a mug hanging from a bench-top stand and peered into it, making sure there weren't any spiders; swallowing one down with coffee was not her thing.

Jennifer pulled a chair out and sat at the old table. Drawing the basket closer, she grabbed the thermos and opened it.
Real
coffee. She poured herself a cup, enjoying the quietness, and wondered when Sofie and Claudia would turn up. Perhaps she should ring.

She glanced at her watch, still on London time. She'd never been good at maths, but tried to work it out anyway. ‘It must be around seven-thirty.' Her forehead hit the kitchen table. ‘I can forget about ringing Sofie. I'll be here talking to myself for hours.'

She finished her coffee and walked back to her room to unpack her clothes and hang them in the massive, antique mirrored closet that for some reason gave her the creeps. ‘Silly goose,' she muttered. What if her uncle's clothes were in this closet — would seeing them bring her undone?

He had been a powerful ally, and a shoulder to lean on when her family tried to howl her down for wanting to move to London to study
haute cuisine
. He'd given her the confidence to go for it, and was so proud of her when she did. Now her champion was gone.

‘I have to fight my own battles now,' she told the closet.

Steeling herself, she threw open the doors. Her uncle's winter clothes hung under plastic covers as if they'd just come back from the drycleaners. She shoved them aside to make room for her things. Strange scents wafted out — dry-cleaning fluid, cedar wood and something she couldn't put her finger on. Lavender? She hung all her clothes in and shut the door. With a backward glance, she strode out of the room and into the kitchen to have breakfast.

Jennifer poked about in the cupboards and found an old flip-down-sides toaster. She cut two slices of the bread from Connie's basket of goodies, popped them into the toaster, and switched it on. No sooner had she turned her back than crackling noises erupted. Jennifer cringed. A pungent smell of burning bread and electrics filled the room. When she dared to look over her shoulder, she saw blue smoke billowing out of the socket.

‘Shit-shit-shit!' Jennifer searched the room for a broom, anything to extend her reach and flip the switch off from a safe distance. ‘Help!' came out as a pathetic squeak. Yanking drawers open, she found a wooden spoon and a pair of red, polka-dot oven mitts. She ran to the toaster. Leaning back, Jennifer held the spoon end under the archaic brass switch and flicked it off. But what if that wasn't good enough? She grabbed the cord and yanked it out of the socket, causing a small explosion. Sparks flew out of the socket. Jennifer squealed. The toaster was on fire. The room quickly filled with acrid blue smoke. ‘Bloody hell!' Jennifer wrestled with one of the tall sash windows, tugging at it until it opened. Cool air wafted in. She turned back to the toaster and smacked it with the polka dotted mitts, again and again. This had no effect. She needed something to smother the flames. She saw an old tea towel hanging on the oven door. She grabbed it, and threw it over the burning toaster. Holding the lot at arm's length, she chucked it out the window. As the wind caught the towel, it ignited, releasing tiny embers that drifted away until they became ash. ‘Shit!' Jennifer cursed, wiping perspiration from her forehead with a mitt as the toaster clattered onto the flagstones below. Filled with burning holes, the tea towel floated after it. She watched as it smouldered out of harm's way, a wisp of blue smoke trailing up.

Jennifer slumped down on a chair to catch her breath. With her hands still wedged in the oven-mitts, she plonked her elbows on the table, and rested her head in her hands. Big mistake.
‘Phew!'
She wrinkled her nose. The acrid stench of blackened fabric and melted stuffing was horrible. Without looking, she chucked the gloves into the sink.

‘I need more caffeine,' she told herself. ‘Once I have caffeine, everything will be all right.' She poured another coffee, gulped down a mouthful.
Shit!
She'd nearly burnt the place down. Jennifer let out a long, drawn-out sigh of relief and reached for the basket. She removed the scones, cream and jam. ‘Who needs a toaster when you've got the Country Women's Association?' she quipped, and glanced up to see a cloud of blue smoke floating above her head, before it trailed out the window. Good. She'd be able to stand up soon and breathe without passing out from toxic fumes.

As her nerves slowly eased, she heard sirens blare in the distance.

Was the day about to become even more interesting?

Chapter 5

Jennifer glared at the blackened socket. What could that be — ambulance? Police? She could never work out which was which. ‘Fire!' The truck was coming closer with every second. The siren was deafening. Thankfully the noise wound down like a dying beast as the truck stopped in the back lane. Jennifer watched in fascination as its flashing red light reflected around the walls of her uncle's kitchen.

Hands on the table, she pushed her chair back and moved to the window. ‘It's got to be next door.' She leant out to see who the unfortunate neighbour was; perhaps she could help. Immediately, she knew that was an irrational thought.

The morning was going to get a whole lot crazier.

Half a dozen firemen, all wearing protective gear, paused to manhandle an enormous hose through the gate. Their boots clomped over the flagstones in her uncle's courtyard. Two more firemen arrived, carrying large, bright red extinguishers, nozzles at the ready. They aimed them at her smouldering toaster — and shot it. The toaster disappeared under a pile of white foam.

The man holding an enormous fireman's hose aimed it up at her window. ‘Oh my God!' Jennifer leant out as far as she dared and frantically waved ceasefire style. The rest of her made ready to duck in case he decided to blast her with the hose — which had a brass nozzle the size of a cannon.

‘No-no!' she shouted. ‘It's all right — there's no fire!'

As if they hadn't heard a word she'd said, one of them yelled up, ‘Don't panic, lady — we're here!' Seconds later, a fireman with an extendable ladder appeared. He lunged forward, aiming for the window. It landed with a thump against the wall directly under the window ledge.

In a matter of seconds, a burly fireman, his weather-beaten face grinning with expectant heroism, clambered up the rattling ladder.

‘I can sling ya over me shoulder, no worries,' he said, arms reaching for her.

Someone shouted from below, ‘You did that in record time, Bruce. Only five seconds!'

Bruce looked down and gave the shouter the thumbs up. He turned back to the open window and Jennifer, patting his broad shoulder.

‘Okay, luv. C'mon.'

Horrified, Jennifer stepped back, hands out, palms up. ‘Hold on just a minute! I'm quite capable of going down the stairs by myself.'

Disappointment flashed across his features. ‘It's a ladder, luv. I can still help ya.' His hopeful expression returned. ‘Don't look down, just climb out the window backwards. I'm right behind ya.'

‘Not the ladder — the stairs!' Jennifer tried to explain. A flash went off from somewhere below. She glanced in the direction it had come from and saw a tall, thin man with a comb-over and an enormous camera pressed to his face. It seemed the local paper's newsman-slash-photographer had arrived. He stood apart from the crowd to get an unobstructed view with his telephoto, wide-angle lens.

‘C'mon darl, let him carry ya down,' the photojournalist yelled up. ‘Treat it like a fire drill. Great practice for Bruce.'

‘There
is
no fire. The toaster blew up, that's all!' Jennifer yelled back.

‘Are you sure?' the fireman on the ladder asked with a friendly but awkward grin, a grin that didn't reach his gentle brown eyes. Damn, he was disappointed, could she live with that? ‘Ya face is all black, luv, and I can smell burning wires.'

‘Face? Black?' Jennifer rubbed at her cheeks, smearing the soot she'd put there with the oven mitts.

‘Can't be too careful with these old buildings, they're heritage listed, ya know. That means
old,'
he added, peering past her into the kitchen. ‘I've heard you're Bob Feldman's niece, is that right?'

Jennifer nodded.

‘Great to have you here, Jennifer. Bruce Stiles,' the fireman said. She took his extended hand, thinking this was the weirdest introduction she'd ever had. ‘This is a great old building, isn't it? It's one of the best examples of Edwardian architecture in the area. I s'pose ya know it used to be a pharmacy,' Bruce informed her, elbows resting on the sill, chin in hands. ‘You're not a pharmacist, are ya?'

‘No. Is that a problem?'

‘Nah, just curious.'

‘Bruce!' a fellow fireman called up. ‘Stop flapping ya gums. Do we have a fire or not?'

‘Nah, false alarm!' Bruce called down. He turned back to Jennifer. ‘You should get yourself a small fire extinguisher and smoke alarms,' he told her earnestly.

‘I won't be here that long, but I promise to keep it in mind for the future.'

‘Aw, c'mon darl,' the journo yelled encouragingly. ‘Let Bruce carry ya down, at least their trip here will be worth their while. It's ya duty to the community!'

‘That's not fair!' Jennifer shouted angrily. She pointed her finger at the journalist just as a flash went off. ‘Damn!' she muttered, guilt-ridden as well as embarrassed.

‘Pay no mind, Jennifer luv,' Bruce advised. ‘He's just spoil'n for a bit of fun.'

From the hopeful look on Bruce's face, Jennifer could see that he would love this opportunity to put his fireman's skills into practice. She scanned the scene below. Neighbours had started to arrive. People were hanging over fences and out of upper-storey windows for a better look. She'd better do something quick before the whole town showed up.

The sea of faces below looked up with eager anticipation. They were Bob's friends and neighbours. How could she let them and her uncle down?

‘Oh hell, Bruce, I'm community minded enough to give it a go.'

Bruce's face beamed. ‘
Yeah?
'

Jennifer nodded. ‘Don't drop me — it's a long way down to the flagstones,' she said, peering over the sill and checking out the ladder. The graphic mental picture of Bruce rattling up the ladder mushroomed.
Shit!
There'd be extra weight going down. She didn't want to be here. She didn't want to do this.

‘Just relax,' Bruce told her. ‘Let yourself flop over me shoulder.'

Jennifer pulled back. Eyes wide, she stared into his face. ‘Flop! Oh sure, Bruce.' She covered her sarcastic tone with a smile. ‘I'm an expert at flopping out of second-storey windows!'

Bruce chuckled and corrected, ‘First storey.' Pointing down, he said, ‘Ground.' Tapping the windowsill, he said, ‘First.'

‘Bruce, it's a very high first storey!'

‘Sure it is, luv. But don't you worry; you're in safe hands.'

‘
Oh?
' Jennifer leant forward, grabbing hold of Bruce's broad shoulder. ‘That makes me feel a whole lot better.' Shouts and applause erupted from below. A surge of butterflies exploded in her stomach as suddenly the distant ground below swayed before her eyes. ‘How often,' her voice strained with the pressure of his shoulder digging into her stomach, ‘have you done this?'