Murder with the Lot (18 page)

Madison put her head on one side. ‘You maybe don't want to risk looking trashy. I'd steer away from anything skin-tight.'

I pulled off the skirt. Finally, I found my red silk top, good lowish neckline, sleeves covering an adequate portion of the upper arms. Black pants, not too tight, covering up the bitten leg.

Madison nodded her approval. ‘And have you decided on your signature sex move?'

‘It's just a discussion about Dean's career,' I said. ‘Terry's brother is a cop. It's not like it's a date or anything.'

The ferret squealed in her arms. ‘Well, don't forget, your underwear should make you feel sexy. I always find a G-string works well.' She headed towards my kitchen. ‘Come on Hazel, time for your bath,' she said to the ferret.

I directed my mind firmly away from images of Madison, ferrets and G-strings. The RSL was hardly G-string central. I fought my way into my best hold-me-even-tighter underwear, leaning against the wall while I struggled for breath. I got dressed, lipsticked, then popped my head out into the hallway, looking left and right.

Brad's room was surprisingly tidy, no clothing on the floor. No mouldering socks in the corner. No half-made banners covering the floor. His computer was on. I scrolled through the inbox. No emails from Noel/Donald. Lots of emails from DA. As in DirectAction? I opened one.

Everyone. We're on for Mission Capture & Storage. DA rocks.

Then:

Tyre biters have got our list of members. Don't worry, we'll find the leak, whoever you are.

The message had been sent to a long list of people. I scrolled through the names, most meant nothing. Then ahlee93. A. H. Lee. Aurora Hocking-Lee?

‘Mum?'

I wheeled around.

‘You look nice.' Brad sounded surprised. ‘What are you doing in my room?'

‘Look at all your washing, Brad. I could smell your bedroom from the hall.' I pointed at the empty floor.

He looked puzzled. ‘Listen, I'm going out after I close the shop. Decided to take your advice and invited Madison out for dinner. She said yes.' He beamed.

‘Terrific. Must go; mascara.' I fled.

Looking around the RSL, I realised I'd never eaten in the presence of so many guns. Guns in paintings and photos, twelve actual guns hanging from the wall.

Sitting as quickly as my constrictor-pants allowed, I gave Terry a nervous smile.

We busied ourselves with the menu while the banks of pokies chirped in the background.

‘What'll it be?' he said.

I glanced at my watch. A fast decision was in order. The RSL special ends at seven. I went for the roast. You don't choose fish and chips when you're out, not when you're a professional.

‘So.' He seemed nervous too.

We both reached for the wine list, our hands touching. A little sizzle travelled to my knees.

‘Can I apologise? For rushing away like that.' His voice had more husk than a woman in death-grip underwear can generally withstand. ‘It was rude. And pretty, ah, inconvenient.' He smiled. ‘It's…work. I'm doing some tree-planting near Hustle.'

‘You plant at night?'

‘Yeah. We're up against a deadline. Things are a bit dicey at the moment.'

I fiddled with the wine list.

‘Balance Neutral hasn't planted all the trees it should. We're way behind. The punters have to get what they've paid for. Their carbon offsets and that.'

I hoped Terry wasn't about to get all Brad on me. ‘How about some of the local pinot grigio?' I said to change the subject.

‘Sounds good.'

Before he could start up on trees again I said, ‘I might forgive you, if you answer a question. When was the last time you were on a date? One without a blindfold, I mean.'

The Moisy-Taylah-Madison grapevine had said Terry lived next door to his brother, no post-divorce de factos, not gay.

He shrugged, thickly buttering his bread. ‘A while. And you?'

‘Same.'

The wine arrived, he poured us both a glass.

I drank mine more quickly than I'd intended. I needed to soften a few of the things on my mind. Son-related worries, closing police stations, un-fathered babies, murdered women. The wine helped. And it was nice to be out with someone friendly. Someone with warm hands and a deep voice.

Terry refilled my glass.

‘I don't normally drink this much. It's been a bit of a week,' I said.

He gazed at me.

And there'd been that awful meeting with Monaghan, no doubt he'd have told Terry. Probably had a big laugh. I imagined them up there at Muddy Soak, somewhere swanky, trading hilarious yarns about that stupid rustic from the Bore. My eyes stung.

‘You OK, Cass?'

‘Had a meeting with your brother yesterday.' I stared out through the windows, at the kangaroo paws, their regimental rows blurring fast. I blinked the moisture back. ‘He was a bit, um…'

‘Pushy? Bossy? Completely up himself?'

‘Oh, I wouldn't put it quite like that,' I said, cheering up. ‘He's…into authority, though, isn't he?'

‘He's a bully.' Terry tore his bread, a vicious type of tearing.

‘Anyway.' Maybe his brother wasn't the best of topics. I drank some more, feeling a little dizzy.

‘What'd he see you for?'

‘He probably told you all about it. I bet you had a good laugh.' My voice was wobbly. I've never been much of a drinker.

‘I would never laugh at you.' His voice was low. ‘Anyway, Dale wouldn't tell me, he thinks I'm an imbecile.'

‘I just wish one single person would believe me.' To my horror, my eyes filled with tears.

He put his hand on mine. ‘I believe you.'

‘You'd be the first.' I looked at him, at his anxious eyes. ‘Anyway, no point in moaning.' I did my best to use a brighter tone. ‘Terrific little place, this. Terrific decor.'

We looked around at the guns, the display case of figurines dressed as soldiers in Afghanistan, complete with a tiny toy mine-detecting dog.

He held out a hanky. ‘Reckon you need a moan. Get it out.'

I pretended to dab my eyes with his hanky. It had a lot of oily stains.

My roast arrived. Huge piles of meat on a giant plate.

‘Your brother's blaming Brad for Mona's disappearance. And closing down Dean's station. That stupid briefcase was nicked as well.'

He stroked my hand, an absent expression on his face.

‘Your parmigiana's getting cold, Terry.'

He smiled. ‘You're more important than a parma.'

I drank another glass of wine. I was starting to feel better. Terry's hand was warm and kind, the underwear was clamping less, in fact, I was probably getting thinner from all the worry.

‘You need to eat something, Cass.'

Suddenly hungry, I cleared the plate.

‘You ever fancied travelling?' he said.

I nodded.

‘I wouldn't mind getting away from the family for a while.' He wiped his mouth.

‘Yeah. You can have too much of family.'

‘Happiness is having a loving, close-knit family at the opposite end of the bloody state,' he said.

I laughed.

‘I nicked that from George Burns.' He leaned over the table. ‘How about we get out of here?'

‘Without dessert?'

‘I know a place does a terrific line in rumballs.'

‘Oh no, I'm right out of them.'

He whispered in my ear, ‘I've always wanted to learn how to make a quality rumball. Any chance of a…lesson?'

It was probably the wine that made me swoon.

We took precautions this time. Terry removed his phone from his pocket and put it on the mantelpiece. Then we got started on the rumballs, and towards the coconut finale we started on some sticky kissing, followed by urgent-style unzipping. My skin tingled beneath his hands. He liked my underwear, liked it more as it came off. He held me, tight and hot, against the fridge.

Later, a sticky condensed milk, chocolate and rum kind of later, Terry was ready for another lesson.

‘I didn't follow it all. Can we go over the recipe again, slowly?' He stood behind me, arms around my waist, hands moving across my skin. My breathing quickened. I've always had a lot of sympathy for a slow learner. There was a noise at the front door. I grabbed Terry's hand and we scooped up our clothes and scampered to my room. We lay there, breathing hard, trying not to giggle at Brad clumping around the house. Finally, I heard his door click as he headed off to bed.

Later—much later—Terry and I sat against the pillows and got our breath back.

He stared out the window, at the moon rising across the railway line, then glanced down at his watch. Leaning towards me, he whispered, ‘Let me help you with this briefcase thing. It's a big job, all alone. Tell me about it.'

‘It belonged to Grantley Pittering's brother.'

He sat still.

‘You know anything about him, Terry?'

‘Yeah, Grantley's my cousin.'

And people say Rusty Bore's inbred.

‘We were never apart. Dale, me, Kev and Grantley.'

‘What happened to Kev?'

‘He died.'

‘How?'

He stared at me.

‘Sorry, Terry. Sorry for your loss. I don't mean to be insensitive. I'm just worried…about Aurora.'

‘Aurora?' He stiffened.

‘Vern saw her outside my place with Noel. He's really Donald Streatham. They were poking around here. I bet it was Donald who nicked the briefcase.'

Terry expelled a breath. ‘What's Aurora doing with him?'

‘Maybe she's a hostage. Vern knows, but isn't telling me. He spoke to her.'

‘What about?'

‘She wanted to see me. Left a message with Vern. Who wouldn't hand it over.'

A silence while Terry took that in. ‘Be careful, Cass. Dale's a stickler for doing things by the book. He won't tolerate any kind of interference. Seriously.'

‘I thought you wanted to help.'

‘I do. I want to help you. I have an enormous need to help you.' He worked a slow line of kisses across my shoulder.

That sizzling feeling in my legs again. I had to get a grip. ‘Focus, Terry.'

He snapped upright. ‘OK.'

‘How did Kev die?'

‘He was hit by a grain train. At the Tallabung Road crossing.' Terry stared out the window.

‘What, did his car break down on the line?'

‘Nah, Kev was handcuffed to the line. Wearing a bridal dress.'

I hit him. ‘I'm not stupid, Terry. Tell me the truth.'

He looked at me, dead serious. ‘It is the truth.'

‘Well, who handcuffed him?'

‘Did it himself.'

‘What, he killed himself?'

‘No. It was an accident. Auto-erotic, the coroner said.'

‘What does that mean?'

‘Look, I don't really want to go into it, OK?'

A pause.

‘It was awful, Cass. There was a fire. There wasn't much left of…'

I watched the moon come out from behind a cloud.

‘What sort of fella was Kev?' I said.

‘I dunno if our relationship is sufficiently advanced for me to update you on my family. You might not like them. I mean, I'm on probation here.' He looked at me with worried eyes.

‘Very brief probation period around here, Terry. It ended around the desiccated coconut point in that batch of rumballs.'

‘The coconut. Mmm.' He nibbled my ear. ‘What do you do with it again?'

Later, the moon higher in the sky, I lay in the crook of Terry's arm. ‘Tell me about Kev,' I whispered.

‘Well, he was a sad sort of bloke. Never did what he really wanted to. He went into the family business…'

‘Pittering and son, the accountants?'

‘Yeah. His dad insisted. Uncle Tony wasn't an easy bloke. Kev did as he was told. He became an accountant, worked like blazes at that place. But what he really wanted was to be an actor.'

‘Was he good at acting?'

‘Yeah, pretty good. But he didn't look right. He could play minor parts, weedy henchman types. Character parts, I suppose they'd call them.'

‘He was weedy?'

‘Yep, weedier than anyone I've ever known except Grandad. Luckily, that aspect didn't pass down my side of the family.' He waited.

‘You're not
very
weedy.'

‘I knew he didn't like accounting, but I never knew it was that bad. I feel a bit…regretful. Like I should have done something.'

‘Like what?'

‘Dunno. Given him a cousin-to-cousin chat, maybe. Although he might have been just as miserable as a two-bit henchman actor.'

‘People don't have to make it to the top to be happy.'

‘Yeah. It's probably better to fail at something you love than be successful at something you hate.'

There was a pause.

‘That's somebody's bloody quote, isn't it?'

‘Yeah, another one I nicked from George Burns.'

‘Have you memorised everything he said?'

‘Not everything. He said a lot.' Terry smiled. ‘Anyway, truth is I would have been sadder if Kev'd been, you know, someone I really liked.'

‘What a terrible thing to say about your cousin. I hope that's not what people say after I die. “I'd be sadder if I'd liked her.”' I paused. ‘Someone must have missed him.'

‘His mum.'

‘Is that why he did it? Because no one liked him?'

He shrugged. ‘Cass, this is more detail than I can give. When I said I wanted to help, I was thinking more along the lines of something physical.' He nuzzled my neck. ‘Protection,' he whispered. ‘You can outsource the non-thinking, beefy stuff to me. Leave you to focus on the brainy bits.'

The brainy bits. That sounded all right. Someone, at last, who appreciated my intellect.

‘How can you be sure it was an accident?' I said. ‘Clarence said someone would be sorry. Maybe Kev was murdered.'