Murder with the Lot (11 page)

A road train overtook us, the blast of air juddering against the car.

Brad started up on his favourite desert rant, the one where he lists the two hundred endangered Mallee species. ‘The place is dying, Mum.' He thumped the steering wheel. ‘Once the last desperate hangers-on have left it'll just turn into one big empty salt plain.'

Did he consider me one of those hangers-on? I knew I wasn't going anywhere. It's the potential of the place that gets to you. What it could be, if it rained.

We crossed a dry river bed. A kestrel landed in a paddock, its feet extended. Maybe the weather was getting to Brad. It was headache weather, oppressive, like it wants to rain but can't remember how.

I told Brad about the weird stuff in Noel's van, those spikes and the mini-scimitar, Clarence and his handcuffs. ‘So what's Noel up to with that lot?'

Brad looked at me, his face had a worn-down expression, like he'd packed on some extra years today. ‘Well, it's obvious,' he said. ‘You've got a choice of three.' He gave me a little list:

One, the mini-scimitar was an actual mini-scimitar, used for slashing unarmoured opponents either mounted or on foot.

Two, the spikes were used for tree climbing and the mini-scimitar was some sort of handsaw used by an arborist for pruning trees, or maybe by a scientist collecting tree samples.

Three, they could all be tools used for some weird sex game.

Options one and three were fairly unappealing. Option two seemed too sensible for Noel somehow; too law-abiding. Anyway, not much call for an arborist around here.

‘And surely a reputable scientist type of person wouldn't look so scruffy,' I said. ‘He'd drive a natty car provided by the uni, neat logo down the side, not that rusting van.'

He snorted. ‘You met many scientists, Mum?' Then he shrugged. ‘Look, he's probably an environmentalist. He'll be doing something useful for the planet, maybe bird research.'

‘Without binoculars? And what's an environmentalist doing with handcuffs?'

A long wait and three injections later, I was declared dog-infection-free. Leaving the hospital, I spotted a parked ute, dusty orange in Hustle's main street. Terry got out and started limping along the street, staring at the footpath.

‘Terry,' I called out. He turned. He still had that bruise on his cheek.

‘What happened to your leg, Cass?'

‘Oh, a minor accident,' I waved a careless hand. ‘I see you've got them, then?'

He gazed at me, an intent type of gazing. Like there was nothing else around to see. I didn't mind it at all. I moved a little closer.

‘Sorry?' he said.

‘Clarence and Aurora. I see you've got their ute. From Ernie's shack.'

Terry expelled his breath. ‘Wow. You're one observant woman.'

I smiled.

Brad folded his arms and stared at the road, suddenly fascinated by the bitumen.

‘Nah, that ute's mine. Had it years,' said Terry. ‘Your little Corolla out of action?' He was looking at Brad's car.

I explained about the vandalised lock.

He stood closer. I could feel his warmth. ‘You need your vehicle fixed, Cass. A woman needs good access to her vehicle. Want me to fix it?' He looked into my face and smiled. What would he be like to kiss?

I was out of breath and words for a moment.
Pull yourself together, Cass.
‘That'd be terrific. Suit you to pop over sometime?'

Terry nodded, glanced at his watch. ‘I can swing over tomorrow night. OK?'

I nodded. He turned and limped away.

‘I just haven't had the time, Mum. Anyway, it'll give you a chance to see him again. You fancy that bloke, don't you.'

‘What a peculiar thing to say, Bradley.' I folded my arms, stared at the wall behind him. It featured a colourful mural of the Mallee Farm Days. Tractors, smiling children. No mention of how Hustle stole those Days from Rusty Bore, of course.

‘Yes, you do. And it's about time you started seeing someone. Just don't go making a fool of yourself.'

‘Seeing someone? As if I could find the time. No, my interest in Terry is purely Mona-related.'

His mouth twitched.

‘Yep, I'm like one of those Mexican whiptail lizards you're always on about. She doesn't have time for males, remember? She has her little lizard kids without him. Some special bio-whatever-genesis.'

‘Parthenogenesis.'

‘That's me. Partho-woman.'

‘I'm sure you needed Dad for us.'

‘Your father was different, Brad.'

‘OK. Sorry I brought it up.' He got back into the car.

I limped over, got in, shut the door.

Brad started the car and looked over. ‘You'll be careful, won't you?'

Brad, the big expert on life. He started the car, hunched over the steering wheel, staring ahead, not speaking. Not one single update on extinctions, not even as we passed the miles of shimmering salt. He was like one of those Alaskan caterpillars he's told me about, all frozen and inert in winter, before they bound into life in spring. He'll be right, I told myself, Brad'll spring to life. When he's ready.

With the worry about rabies-related foam no longer hanging over me, I could focus properly on the Mona business. ‘I need your help tomorrow, Brad. We'll close the shop.'

‘What?'

‘We're going to Muddy Soak.'

‘Muddy Soak? Listen, you need to stay at home and look after that leg, Mum. Anyway, we can't close the shop. There'll be customers queuing all along the footpath.'

I liked his optimism. I couldn't remember when we last had an actual queue, possibly not since we lost the Farm Days.

‘Good point. OK, you can mind the shop. Don't worry, I'll be fine on my own. I've got a plan. I'll head to Hocking Hall. Return the briefcase, ask some questions.'

‘Jesus. Just take that briefcase to Sergeant Monaghan.'

‘I'm not taking anything to Monaghan. He was bloody rude. If he wants the case, he can ask. Politely.'

His hands tightened on the steering wheel. ‘Mum. Can't you just be a normal mother for a change? You've got to stop putting yourself in dangerous situations. You don't want to run into that dog again. This time it might kill you.'

‘Don't you worry, son, I'll be staying right away from Bubbles. Look, that briefcase is important, I'm sure of it.' We passed a row of dead kangaroos hanging from a fence.

‘And anyway,' I said, ‘life is full of danger. I mean, a person could die any old day at home, from something completely uninteresting. Heart failure, heat stress, a stroke or anything, just while she's cooking fish. Having done not a single thing with her life. No one wants to look back on all this and think, I should have done more, I could have done more, now, do they?'

‘When?' he said.

‘When what?'

‘When would this nameless person be thinking that? After she's had the stroke?'

‘Yes, quite possibly,' I said. ‘On her deathbed, waiting for the second, decisive stroke. Anyway, my point is…' I paused while I fossicked for my point, ‘…I'm doing this for the populace of Rusty Bore.'

‘Well, I just hope they're grateful to you, Mum.'

Near the road, a flock of little corellas sat on a bore-water pump. They dipped their heads up and down, drinking from a spurting leak.

‘So, what questions you planning on asking at Hocking Hall?' he said.

‘I'm considering that at the minute. Making a list. Happy to hear suggestions.'

‘You going to talk to Mona Hocking-Lee's sister?'

‘Yep, probably.' Stripes of golden wheat stubble flashed by. What sister?

‘Her name's Alexandra.'

‘I know, yep. I'll be talking to her.'

Brad stopped to decant some petrol into my car, still sitting by the road near Ernie's shack.

‘Alexandra's got an antiques shop, in the main street of Muddy Soak,' Brad said.

‘Course she does.'

‘You could go there first. It's on the way.'

‘Uh-huh.'

‘But, remember, they don't get along, not since, you know…'

‘Yep, yep.' Bloody kids.

Back at home, I limped around the place, going through my normal routine of closing up for the night, checking and rechecking all the burners were turned off, wiping down my stainless steel counters and the flystrips, mopping the chequered floor.

Shop closed, we got on with tea. Fish and salad, minus the fish, since Brad (while I was at Perry Lake, busy being bitten) had decided I would become a vegetarian, to reduce my carbon footprint and the misery we humans have imposed on all creatures, including fish. So he'd gone through the fridge and binned the salmon.

‘Fish may not be cute and cuddly and have eyelashes, Mum, but they can feel pain. More than probably. If you watched more TV, you'd know all this. You'd know, for instance, that an octopus can plan, can figure out how to defend itself with a coconut shell it's found. They're capable of making all kinds of decisions. Don't tell me that an animal that can plan like that can't feel pain.'

‘Jesus, Brad. I can't believe you've thrown out good food. What a terrible waste.' I put down my fork and stared out the window. The sun was setting. It looked as though someone had taken a blood orange and smeared it across the sky.

‘Now, listen,' I said. ‘We'd better pool resources. Tell me what you know about this Alexandra.'

‘It was in the
Muddy Soak Express
. Big story, didn't you see it? Their father, James L. Hocking, left his estate, including Hocking Hall, to Mona when he died eight years ago. He left next to nothing to her sister. Just an allowance. Alexandra was married at the time to Grantley Pittering.'

‘As in Pittering and Son?'

He nodded.

I ate a lettuce leaf.

‘So tell me, Mum, what information do you have to pool?'

I glared. ‘I'd have time to look things up too, Bradley, if my days weren't filled right up with running everything.'

Galvanising Brad. And Ernie. The shop. Galvanising every damn thing for everybody else.

I started early. Soon I was into red sand hills and abandoned farms. I passed a derelict homestead, a mass of broken timber, red-brick chimney standing all alone. Maybe I should start up one of those schemes like they have in Wycheproof. Rent out a house for a dollar a week to some nice family and boost the population. Ernie's shack. Brad could do it up. Although we'd need to choose a family that likes takeaway.

I unstuck my thighs from the car seat, massaged my dog-bitten leg. I sailed on through Hustle, past their public toilets. I refuse to use those toilets, no matter how badly I need to go. Those bastards nicked the design from Rusty Bore, back from when we had a public toilet.

Grey wheat stubble thickened to shimmering green as I got closer to Muddy Soak. I passed a fancy farm stay, excessively surrounded with lacy ironwork verandahs. The rounded Dooboobetic Hills were hazy in the distance.

I crossed the river, more a string of muddy waterholes than a raging torrent, as I entered town. Red banners hanging from every street pole proclaimed the Christmas Fringe Festival. I parked outside Déjà Vu Antiques Boutique, in the tree-lined main street. Everywhere you looked in Muddy Soak, there was green. It was a place well-endowed with shady trees, football teams, fringe festivals, drama groups. And antiques boutiques.

There was a closing-down-sale sign in the window.

I snapped off my seat belt, stepped out of the car.

I opened the shop door and three anorexic dogs leaped towards me with a surprising abundance of licking and enthusiasm for such bone-bag animals. I staggered back, guarding my bitten leg. Italian greyhounds, I found out later. They wore diamante collars and fleecy blankets.

A woman stood at the cash register, on the phone. ‘Well, you'll just have to. Sort. It. Out. Grantley.' She wore more silk scarves than I would have considered possible, all different colours. Latin music strummed in the background.

The dogs took turns to sniff my nether regions. I pushed them away and looked around. Antiques boutique? A dump for junk, more like. Inside a glass case by the door, a stuffed parrot in moth-eaten red stood on a dusty branch. A sign below:
Our dearest Rufus. We'll never forget you.
The place was chock-a-block with chipped plates, bent saucepans and a sea of books. I screwed up my nose at the smell of incense. A multitude of Chinese lanterns, red and white, hung from the ceiling.

‘No. You will pay me
now
. I'm not taking any more of your excuses.' She slammed down the phone.

One of the dogs barked, a deeper sound than I'd expected.

The woman strode over, grabbing the dogs by their collars. ‘Get here. Traitors.' The last word was just a hiss. She was a woman who jangled as she moved. ‘Can I help you?' No welcome-smile.

I collected myself. ‘Alexandra Hocking?'

‘Depends who's asking, darling.'

‘Mona left this behind in my shop.' I held up the briefcase.

‘What kind of shop?'

‘The Rusty Bore Takeaway. We're known for our quality fish and chips…'

‘Friend of Pauline Hanson's are you?' She laughed, a hard tinkle like a detonating chandelier.

For years the female fish and chip shop monopolist has been saddled with the flak created by that woman, her destruction of our good name. ‘There are hundreds, probably thousands of towns in Victoria,' I said. ‘And almost every one of them has a takeaway shop. Not a single one is run by Pauline Hanson. So, no, I don't know her.'

‘Hit a nerve, my sweet?' A nasty smile. ‘Anyway, Mona wouldn't go anywhere near oil. My precious sister doesn't do grime.' She blinked her long black eyelashes.

‘Well, she came in,' I said, ‘and I think the case belongs to Clarence.'

‘What's Mona doing with Clarence's case? And why's it all torn?' Her irises were purple. Contacts maybe.