Murder with the Lot

Sue Williams is a science and travel writer and a chartered accountant who also holds a PhD in marine biology. Her articles have been published in a range of magazines and on ‘The Science Show' on ABC Radio National. Sue lives in Melbourne with her husband.
Murder with the Lot
is her first book.

SUE
WILLIAMS
MURDER
WITH
THE LOT

textpublishing.com.au

The Text Publishing Company
Swann House
22 William Street
Melbourne Victoria 3000
Australia

Copyright © Sue Williams 2013

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright above, no part of this publication shall be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

First published by The Text Publishing Company, 2013

Cover design by WH Chong
Page design by Text

National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry : (pbk)
Author: Williams, Sue I.
Title: Murder with the lot / by Sue Williams.
ISBN: 9781922079787 (pbk.)
ISBN: 9781921961984 (ebook)
Subjects: Detective and mystery stories.
Dewey Number: A823.4

For Ross

Contents

Murder with the Lot

Author's note

Murder with the Lot

If I wanted to hide somewhere there's no way I'd choose Rusty Bore. A hundred and forty-seven residents and every single one of them is watching. No one here forgets a thing. Especially your mistakes.

It was a normal Friday evening in December, or so it seemed. I was auto-cleaning my spotless counter, considering putting up my row of knitted Santas in the window, when Madison Watkins arrived and tied up her ferrets out the front. I don't permit animals in my shop, particularly not the frenzied, hissing kind. The doorbell jangled as Madison sashayed in.

‘The usual, thanks Cass.' She slipped into one of my white plastic chairs and crossed her long legs.

I dropped her dim sims in the oil, gave her the welcome smile.

Madison is an overflowing-looking girl, fond of green eyeshadow and clothes that strain to contain. She's not what you'd call fat, more a person that stores her weight in the right places. Sometimes I allow myself to toy with the idea that I still look a bit like Madison. I was runner-up Chiko Chick 1983, after all. Dim the lights and I could be Madison with twenty years' more wisdom and experience. And two adult sons; some extra smile lines; supplementary stretch marks.

She picked up a copy of
Truckin' Life
from the pile on the plastic table. ‘You've gotta get better reading material in here,' she said. ‘Something with a few hunky blokes.' Maybe that meant she'd split up with Logan. Maybe he was back in jail. Since she broke up with Brad, Madison had been steadily working her way through the local dropkicks.

‘I'll bring in a few copies of
Cleo,
' she said
.
‘You should read the article about settling for Mr Reasonably OK. It'll help you understand why you're single.' She sighed. ‘It's your standards, Cass. They're too high.'

I straightened up my pile of white paper, ready for precision wrapping. Reasonably OK didn't sound exactly tempting. But it was true I could probably find space in my life for a nice fella, someone who made me laugh.

‘I mean, I know forty-five is getting pretty old, but…'

‘I'm in my prime.' I tried not to bristle. I had to admit it was a drawn-out and alone type of prime since Piero died, what, one year, ten months and fifteen days ago. I met Piero when I was seventeen. And fell pregnant shortly after. Piero had a ferocity of fertility that was bloody well uncalled for.

‘Course,' she said quickly. ‘And you still look terrific. Really.' She gave me an appraising stare. ‘You could use a bit more makeup maybe. And a better hair cut. But you've got bones, and the voice isn't bad. Blokes love that molasses-over-gravel thing.' She uncrossed and recrossed her legs. ‘You know today's forty-plus woman is having miles more orgasms than ever before? Saw that in
Cleo
.' She paused. ‘You only get so many orgasms before you die.'

I shook her order in the oil.

‘Hey, I've just had a brainwave.' She threw aside the magazine. ‘What about Vern? You two have got a lot in common. His shop, your shop.'

Vern's general store and my place constitute the CBD of Rusty Bore, along with a row of three galvanised-steel silos. It's a town endowed with a royal flush of used-to-haves since the school, the pub and even the op shop closed down.

‘And Vern fancies you. He's motivated. Definitely.' Madison stood up and walked over to my counter, all fired up. She put her arms up on the glass top, bangles jingling.

‘Uh huh.' I'd experienced Madison's brainwaves before. First up there was Ben, the McKenzies' Landcare volunteer: tall, tousle-haired and divorced. I'll admit I didn't mind the way he wore his shirts unbuttoned and his jeans tight. But Ben wasn't sure. He stopped at a very inconvenient time to tell me so, a serious case of lustus interruptus. He could be gay, he said, or maybe bi; he needed more experience to figure it all out.

Next was Will, sixty-two, soon-to-be-retired wheat farmer, on his own since Bronwyn died of dementia. Will had looked into my eyes and asked if I had Alzheimer's in the family, then spent the evening sobbing into his chocolate and hazelnut terrine.

‘Reckon you need someone a little younger,' Madison had said, lining up Adam, saggy-stomached computer sales rep from Mildura. Adam got down on his knee in the foyer of the Deakin cinema on our first date and asked me to marry him. Turned out he was already married. In three states. And a territory.

Finally, in desperation, she suggested Showbag. But even Madison knew there was no way that could ever work, not after what happened that time at Vern's.

To be fair, it was Madison who told me about the blindfold speed dating night in Muddy Soak. That was a night with some real potential. I got talking, blindfold on of course, to a bloke with a gentle voice. He managed to make me laugh before the three minutes was up. He reached across the table and touched my hand, ignoring the signal bell to move on to his next date. But then the fire alarm went off, sprinklers gushing water, people stampeding everywhere. My chair got knocked over and I ended up on the floor. By the time I got my blindfold off, the bloke had gone. I had no idea of what he looked like; hadn't even got his name.

‘Look, Madison, it's nice you care…'

‘Standards,' she wagged a finger. ‘You're as bad as Tamie. She's picky too.'

‘Tamie?'

She pointed at the six ferrets squirming on their leads outside. One was sitting alone, away from the others, staring at the road. The wind whipped some leaves against the shop window. Clouds stained the colour of rust were building in the sky, a dust storm on its way.

I hooked up Madison's dim sims to drain. I don't suppose anyone likes being compared with a ferret, especially one that's a failure at the basic pursuit of ferreting. But was it possible Madison had a point? Was I being picky? There was nothing really wrong with Vern. He was mostly intact. It was just…

‘Thing is, Madison, just because the fella's motivated doesn't mean I am.'

‘Well, think about it. Vern's not a bad bloke. I bet he'd stick by you. Not like…um.'

‘Not like who?'

‘Oh you know. Half the men around.' She rubbed her face.

I wrapped up her order in fresh white paper.

‘So, um, Brad around?' Madison cupped her chin in her hands and tried to look casual.

Brad's my youngest, a certified organic vegetarian and friend of the earth, albeit with a weakness for the smell of frying bacon. He's six foot one, straight black hair, exact spit of Piero. I just hope he doesn't have the hyperactive fertility as well.

‘Abseiling the Hume Dam wall at the minute. Putting up a banner.'

‘Oh? What's the banner say?'

‘Save the Murray.' I'd tripped over that banner enough times, laid out for days along my hallway, held down by piles of old
Australian Geographic
s and
Chain Reaction
s. Before he left, Brad had borrowed another hundred bucks and was now categorically overdue the parental pep-talk. The one that mentions getting a job that pays some bills. And moving himself and those magazines out of my place. Trouble was, I liked having Brad around, and not just because he reminded me of Piero. I'd have to do it though. It's not good for a boy to grow up viewing his mother as a slush fund.

‘Brad's got so much passion,' said Madison with a sigh. ‘Anyway, think about Vern. Seriously. Chicks like us need to get realistic.'

Chicks like us? I handed over her order. Maybe a woman my age couldn't afford to be too picky, but Madison needed to raise her standards, not lower them. Madison could have almost anyone. Especially if she ditched the ferrets.

Not long after Madison left, trailing ferrets, the dust-storm hit. All living creatures fled the street as the red waves of wind ripped through town. The shop roof shuddered, corrugated iron screeching overhead. Within minutes the street was shrouded in a red–brown haze and Best Street's solitary streetlight clicked on. My nose tingled as the air filled with the dust storm's distinctive burning smell. I galloped around the shop, armed with towels and rags, plugging up every tiny gap. But the hot, gritty air still swirled into every crevice you might imagine and a few you'd rather not.

My doorbell jangled and I looked up, thinking it was Madison returning, taking cover from the dust.

It wasn't Madison. A young fella in a grey suit. He was kind of oily looking, but then I operate in a permanent atmosphere of oil so I couldn't hold that against him. And I know better than to turn away a customer based on looks.

‘Yeah, burger with the lot and chips.' He flicked a look at my door. ‘And make it quick.'

Quick? Superior fast food takes time. I pride myself on quality chips; crisp on the outside, fluffy in the middle. And a top-notch burger with the lot requires precision stacking. With unhurried and steady hands. Comfort food's been in my family for generations. I plonked his patty and onions onto the grill, then turned back round to give him the glare.

‘Oh, no onions,' he said. ‘Or beetroot or egg. And I hate pineapple.' Another glance at the door.

A burger without the lot, in fact. I scraped his onions off the grill. Dumped his chips into a basket and lowered it into the oil. I kept up the glare.

Skinny and slope-shouldered, he was holding tight to a briefcase, a scruffy-looking number with one of those combination locks near the handle. There were gold letters next to the lock that I couldn't quite make out. His suit was torn, the sleeve shredded and bloodstained.

He looked like an accountant who'd been shoved backwards through his ledger. Or maybe he was a crook, a grubby white-collar kind. He didn't let go of the case. He didn't put it on the floor near his feet. He didn't put it on the table while he waited for his order. He gripped it in a white-knuckled hand and darted glances out my window.