Murder with the Lot (20 page)

‘I know he's a bird smuggler, I'm not stupid. That's why he's in for questioning at Muddy Soak. Been in there all night, the pub was full of it. News travels like wildfire in that town. At least here people know how to respect a bit of privacy.' He paused. ‘Some of us, anyway.'

‘I was onto Donald, ages ago. I've been helping Dean. He doesn't mind me helping out, from time to time.'

‘Can't see why he'd want your help. He's got that brother he could turn to; young, resourceful bloke. You'd prob'ly just end up shooting the wrong person.'

‘There's no need to be insulting, Vern. A person does her best. And don't forget you were implicated in the Showbag incident, so I wouldn't get too cocky if I were you. Dean's still got his eye on you.' I always held it was unfair of Showbag to hold Vern partly responsible since Vern wasn't anywhere near the gun. But no need to let him know that.

‘Ah.' Vern shot me an anxious look. ‘Maybe I should nick off home and get my notebook. Do my bit to help. Could be something crucial in my book. I seen a few cars lately, heap of visitors too.'

‘Oh? Anyone in particular?'

He paused. ‘Well, a woman came in the other day after a big sack.'

‘And her name was…?' I said.

‘Didn't say.'

‘What kind of sack?'

‘Huge sack. Showed me how big with her hands. Yeah,' he licked his lips. ‘Good big hands.'

A pause while Vern was lost in a reverie.

‘What was she like, Vern?'

‘Persistent type of woman,' he said. ‘Not something I carry love, I told her, suggest you head up to Hustle, bigger range. But she wouldn't leave. Friend had an urgent need for a sack, she said, very particular about the dimensions. Anyway, wrote it all down in the book.'

I nodded. It wasn't in the notebook I'd just read. Was it on the ripped-out pages? ‘This could be important, Vern. Reckon Dean'll want to know this. Do smugglers stuff birds in big sacks, you think?'

‘Nah. Tuck 'em down their undies, don't they?' He tapped his fingers on the dashboard. ‘Well, in the end, I went and rummaged out the back, found an old jute wool sack for her. No one's used them for years, mostly nylon now. Got a good price for it, too. See, just one of the many reasons you should give my merger proposal due consideration.'

I stood there a tick, pondering.

‘You better get in,' he said, ‘don't want to do too much on that buggered leg.' He leaned over and popped his passenger door open. ‘In you hop. I know exactly where it is, that book. There's bits I reckon will be deeply relevant. Wrote it all up before I went out tonight, while the memories were fresh.'

I reached for his door.

‘And you know,' he looked thoughtful, ‘I've got a bit of a thigh problem at the minute. Could do with a touch of womanly massage in the vicinity.' He looked at me. ‘Reckon you'd have not-bad hands for massaging.'

‘Is that the time?' I said, looking at my watch. ‘I'm feeling terribly tired, suddenly. I might head home to bed. Maybe we can chat about your notebook in the morning.'

I shuffled off as quick as any creeped-out person can with a large notepad stuffed deep inside her knickers.

Back at home, I worried. Maybe I should have gone back with Vern and slipped the notebook back while I had the chance. Had a quick rootle through his bins. I'd missed the moment now. Thing is, I wasn't wild about proximity to Vern's vicinity.

What if he found the notebook gone and got worked up? What would he do? Report it to Dean?

I parked myself on my couch, too tired to think clearly and feeling slightly nauseous. Maybe eating that plate of lamingtons hadn't helped. I wouldn't have minded heading to bed but I knew I'd have to wait up a bit and then take the notebook back. Give Vern time to go to sleep, then return it on the quiet. I'd be as soundless as a tiny sigh, he wouldn't hear a thing.

Yawning, I put my feet up, like Dean said I should. I leaned back, closed my eyes a moment. I tried to relax but I could feel the wind was building. The lounge window rattled. A loose piece of corrugated iron scraped across the roof and the wind whipped the flystrips against the shop door.

The last time I'd waited up like this was the night Piero didn't make it home. The CFA siren went off around midnight, all the town's dogs howling along with it. Piero leapt out of bed and into the truck with Ernie. I waited right here for him, on the couch. And waited. The news report said the flames broke over the truck like a wave. Ernie didn't say much at all.

The dream started, the one where I'm running, the red wave a roar behind me, spitting tiny burning sticks into my back and legs. My hair catches alight. I scream, keep running, holding Brad—a much younger Brad—by his wrist in death-grip.

His hand wrenches free. I turn and he's fallen into the flames. I scream again; my dress is on fire. His small dog, Blacky, whines near Brad. I grab Brad's arm, heave him up. Blacky snarls, and in one twist, turns into Bubbles. She spits a blast of white-hot embers, setting Brad on fire. Smoke everywhere, I can't breathe. Choking, dragging Brad, I crawl low to the ground. The wave surges, hot wind roaring in my ears. There's a ripping, a crack, a boom. The fire wave breaks over me and everything goes black.

I woke in a white room, feeling like a piece of mutton scrag. There was something hammering behind my eyes. I looked around, trying to figure out where I was and how to turn the hammer off. Brad sat in a chair beside my bed, hunched over a
New Scientist
, his left arm in a sling, his face red and blistered. I read the headline upside down, ‘Mammoth clue to climate change'. A picture of a frozen baby woolly mammoth lying stiff and desiccated, white-coated people peering at it. I could identify with that baby mammoth. I felt pretty stiff and desiccated myself.

‘Where am I?' My throat felt like it had been done over with a set of skewers. It didn't feel good to move my head.

‘Don't you move,' said Brad. ‘The doctor said you have to take it easy.' He resumed his reading.

‘What happened?' I lay still a moment, then lifted the bed cover an inch. Legs, two; one still showing dog bites. Arms and hands accounted for. It didn't look like I'd had any surprise liposuction either.

He sighed. ‘Be quiet and rest, Mum. Just do as you're told for once.'

Someone was lying in the bed opposite, a mop of grey hair. I hoped she wasn't dead.

‘Well, I'd find it a lot easier to rest if you told me why I'm here.'

I was on my couch, last time I looked. When was that? My memory was fuzzy, like I was peering through a film of oily steam.

Brad gave me a frightened look like people get when they're about to tell you something nasty, like they're sorry and really didn't mean it, but they've run over your dog.

‘What?' I snapped, then coughed.

‘Did you leave a burner on, Mum?'

He wasn't making sense. ‘I never leave the burners on.'

‘I woke up to find the house on fire. You were unconscious on the couch, breathing in the smoke.'

‘And the shop?'

‘The shop's a big pile of ash.'

I caught my breath.

‘We'll talk about it later,' he patted my arm with his un-slung hand. ‘When you're better. There'll have to be some changes.'

‘Changes? What kind? Is my house OK?'

‘All gone,' he said in the falsely bright voice used on those who've lost the greater part of their brain. ‘Although I saved your handbag. Anyway, I'll go and find the doctor.'

He loped off down the hall.

Gone? I tried to comprehend the enormity of that, while the hammer kept on hammering. My box of photos of the boys. My framed photo of Piero. Brad's whole series of sea monster drawings from when he was eight. Gone? I slumped back on my pillow. And my insurance, was it up to date? Thinking about paperwork didn't help the nausea. I closed my eyes and went over shutting up the shop, my endless cleaning routine. I'll admit I do it all on autopilot.

Had I checked the burners? I must have, surely. I remembered the wind, all those banging sounds. The back door, I never lock it. An icy feeling crept up my arms.

In bustled a plump, bright-eyed figure in a white coat, looking more than ready to assist any baby woolly mammoths that came his way. A badge on his coat said Doctor Rangarajan. Brad followed in his slipstream.

‘Mrs Tuplin. Marvellous!' The doctor beamed. He had a face jam-packed with enthusiasm. Picking up a chart hanging from the bed, he did some rapid ticking.

‘You've done extremely well. We'll just need to keep you in a little longer. Smoke inhalation can be a serious business.' He hung the chart back on its hook.

‘How much longer?' I tried sitting up, feeling sick, ‘Thing is, I'm not sure I'm safe in here.' I've seen enough midday movies to know how easily your average murderer gets into a hospital when he's motivated. It only takes one discarded white coat and he's in. Then he creeps up to your bed, gives you the nasty final look and
bam
he pulls out all your plugs.

Doctor Rangarajan stared. ‘Of course you're safe. Our care here at the Hustle Public Hospital is absolutely first-rate. And you have your son here,' he beamed at Brad. ‘What a son, you must be proud.'

Brad looked at the floor.

‘If only I could be fortunate enough to assist my own mother in such a way, but sadly, she's passed away.' His smile faded. ‘At least we believe she has. She disappeared, climbing Mount Kilimanjaro. It broke my father's heart.' He stared off into the distance. ‘And my heart too, of course.' Hauling himself away from his African-mountain middle distance, the doctor gave himself a little shake.

‘Yes, your heroic Brad. Saving your life like that.'

Brad? Saved my life?

‘A little bump on the head as he dragged you from your burning house.' He waved a hand. ‘Thus the bandages. But you'll be fine. Astonishingly fine. All thanks to Brad's quick thinking.'

Brad turned red.

‘And did he tell you he sat here by your side these last two nights? He maintained a constant vigil. Beyond compare, this young man.' He thumped Brad on the back.

Brad staggered and coughed.

‘But you know this, of course. You're his mother.' The doctor gave me a radiant we're-all-happy-families smile. He swept out of the room in search of other baby woolly mammoths in need of cheer.

Brad dumped himself into the chair, reaching for his magazine.

‘Brad. I didn't leave the burners on.'

‘It's OK, Mum, accidents happen. The important thing is you're alive.'

‘Did you turn them back on?'

He flung down his magazine. ‘Bloody typical. I should have known this would all be my fault.'

I was too nauseous for an argument. ‘I'm not blaming you. I'm just trying to work out what happened. You didn't turn anything on after we closed, you're sure?'

He nodded.

‘Nor me. And the shop smoke alarm. It wasn't going, was it? It would have woken us. And Showbag would have heard it. You know he hears everything.' Showbag doesn't sleep too well, not since the accident. He can't get comfortable, or so he claims.

Brad spoke slowly. ‘There was a car…'

‘What car?'

‘It drove off while I was getting you out of there…'

‘The arsonist!'

‘Calm down. Maybe the alarm was faulty, we hadn't tested it in a while. Anyway, the CFA will look at all that.' He sounded like he was trying to convince himself.

‘I bet someone took out the battery. That someone snuck in the back and set the place on fire. To kill us. Me.'

‘Jesus, Mum! I told you not to get involved. How many times?'

Dean walked in, heavy boots clomping on the hospital floor.

Good old Dean, six foot one of reassurance, dressed in blue, his gun close at hand, hanging in its holster. He held a bunch of deep pink roses. General MacArthurs, my favourite. Trust him to know that.

Dean'd sort this out, especially now he knew about Donald, and with Mona reported missing, he'd believe me now. Dean wouldn't leave me on my own to grapple with a faux-doctor-murderer.

‘Thank God you're all right.'

His voice was gruff. He bent down and kissed my cheek, looking deep into my eyes like he was searching for something he'd lost down there. ‘You remember me, don't you? It's Dean.'

I struggled up against the pillows.

‘Perfect timing, son.' I lowered my voice. ‘Can I borrow your gun?'

Dean stared.

I suppose there'd be regulations about lending out his weapon, even to his relatives.

He cleared his throat, looked at the roses in his hand. ‘Anyway, let me put these in some water. I see Brad didn't think to get you flowers.'

Brad humphed, got up to fetch another chair. He plonked it down like he was planning on using it to stab a hole right through the floor.

Dean gave Brad a little nod. ‘Colours are good for them, Brad, smells, sounds, anything that stimulates the brain.' He spoke in a low voice, as if he thought I couldn't hear.

Brad looked at Dean from under lowered eyelids.

Moving his chair closer to me, Dean said, ‘Now, Mum. You can't go on like this. I'm really worried.'

He wasn't the only one. ‘I don't mind if you lend me some old spare. As long as it shoots OK.'

Dean patted my wrist. ‘Poor old Mum. When you're better, we'll have a little family talk.'

‘I could be dead by the time I'm better, Dean. I'm telling you I need a bloody gun.'

‘We'll have a proper family conference.' Dean sailed on. ‘There'll have to be some changes. It's sad you lost the place, but it's time you made a change. It's a young person's game, takeaway. Time to put your feet up.' He smiled a Gladwrapped smile.

What did he think I'd be doing with my feet up? Sounded boring as all hell. ‘Anyway,' I said, in a louder voice, ‘Can you spare a few minutes today to show me how to use it? So I'm ready for tonight? Although I don't mind if you stay here and fight him off yourself. Actually, I can see how you might prefer that.'