Murder with the Lot (28 page)

‘The bullet in Mona was definitely from Monaghan's gun. And the ones in Ernie's walls,' said Dean.

Vern came back with the salad. ‘What I don't understand is why he killed that Donald fella. Mind you, a lot of dodgy things probably went on in the back of that bloke's van.' He gave me a significant nod.

‘Aurora asked Donald for help after she saw him in the bush near Ernie's. Monaghan had handcuffed Clarence to a tree.' Dean passed me the overflowing bowl of salad. ‘Monaghan wanted the Pocket Money file. But Clarence couldn't give it to him, since he'd lost the key to the gun cabinet.'

‘I told you Clarence was handcuffed to a tree. Didn't I?'

A pause. ‘Maybe,' said Dean, the closest he could get to an apology.

‘Why was the briefcase in the rubbish dump?' I said.

‘Mona. According to Aurora, Mona thought Clarence was writing about her, about the Kota gas leak. So she dumped the case, thinking it contained his book, but he'd already emptied it.'

I took one lettuce leaf from the salad bowl. ‘Aurora should have gone to the police. To you.'

‘Come on, Mum. She saw a cop chase Mona and Clarence out of the shack while she hid in the outside toilet. And then found Mona dead and Clarence handcuffed to a tree. We weren't exactly looking like the citizen's friend.'

‘And why did she steal my car?'

‘She thought she and Clarence could get away, hide interstate. But your car ran out of petrol straight away. Don't you fill your car, Mum?'

So Aurora's failed getaway attempt was my fault now? ‘And Donald?'

‘He was stealing eggs, part of the bird-smuggling racket the North-West Parrot Trust was running,' said Dean. ‘Aurora saw him and begged him to buy a hacksaw so they could open Clarence's handcuffs. And some food. Monaghan saw Donald and knew he had to get rid of him. So he got him drunk, crashed his van, pinning Mona's death on Donald.'

Yep, those moist-wipes must have been for Aurora. She would have needed to moistly wipe the dust off her skin, after all that.

If Dean had only listened, Clarence and Donald might have lived. And Monaghan, of course. Although I wasn't quite as sorry about him.

I zapped two Chiko Rolls in the microwave. It's not the same serving takeaway in Vern's old caravan. The impact on quality control is a worry. But good old Vern got that van cleaned up pronto, dredging it out from his shed once he got wind of the taskforce. He still sees many advantages in a merger, he tells me. I've told him I'm determined to rebuild.

‘My customers demand it, Vern. Once the insurance comes through.' Me and my insurer are currently negotiating over the definition of a fire although personally I fail to see the area of ambiguity.

It had been a week since the silo and my split lip, bruised face and dog-bitten leg were almost healed. But it would take longer before I could sleep again. It wasn't just the lumpiness of Vern's couch. I kept waking at three a.m., heart jack-hammering, after dreams involving mad oozy eyes, guns and suffocation underneath a tonne of wheat. I'm probably too sensitive.

Between them, Clarence and Monaghan had turned the top-grade wheat in that silo into pig food. Still, their families gave them proper funerals. I didn't go, I was too busy serving takeaway to the taskforce. And all the TV crews.

Good little eaters, those TV crews. The ABC even found some money for a documentary. All about Monaghan and what drove him to do it. A sympathetic type of show. The producer, Quinn, told me about it as he waited for his burger.

‘We're focusing on the strain country police officers are under. And the terrible isolation of the psychopath. It's an under-explored area.' Quinn put his elbows up on the window frame.

I nodded, as I wrapped up his order. It didn't sound to me like the show would have much of an audience.

‘Shoot the flaming bastards, every one of them,' said Ernie, his yellowed moustache quivering.

Quinn raised his eyebrows.

Ernie was on day-release from the home.

‘Fella's already dead, Ernie,' I said. ‘Not to worry, I'll do you a nice piece of grilled whiting.' I grabbed Ernie's fish from the mini-freezer. ‘See ya, Quinn.'

It's not been easy to settle Ernie down after recent events. Poor bugger still thinks Grantley Pittering is somehow related to Hugo Pitterline and therefore Grantley should be forced to hand over Ernie's unpaid sixty dollars plus inflation since 1988, however much that is.

But I had good news for Ernie. Aurora didn't want Clarence's five grand, she'd said she wanted to have nothing to do with Clarence's affairs. After I wrapped up Ernie's whiting, I presented him with his cash.

‘Five bloody grand?' Ernie spat on the ground. ‘Mafia money? Not on your life. Filthy people.' He threw the money back at me.

‘Clarence wasn't…'

‘Lack of bloody judgment, Cassandra Ariadne. It's always been your problem. That's the reason you're still flamin' well single after all this time.' Ernie snatched up his fish and shuffled off.

Brad paused from cutting up the chips. ‘Don't worry, Mum. There's someone out there for you, I'm sure of it.' He must have seen my face.

‘Yeah. Listen, give that microwave a little wipe-over for me, will you?'

‘Look at male chimps. They're totally into older females—they don't let a bit of wrinkled skin or weird bald patches put them off.' He waved the dishcloth. ‘And chimps are our closest relatives. Only two per cent of our DNA isn't in a chimpanzee. There'll be a nice bloke for you out there somewhere.'

‘Thanks son. Although to tell the truth I'm not really in the market for a chimp.'

I went through the contents of the mini-freezer. I'd be needing more whiting before tomorrow. Bloody Ernie. Lack of judgment. Thing is, Dean had made that point as well.
A person has to be careful about the company she keeps
.

Turned out Victoria Police could reverse a decision, like I'd always said. Instead of transferring Dean to Traffic Management, they lined him up quick-smart to take over Muddy Soak. He'll be busy: that town is just teeming with crime. There's even talk of awarding Dean a medal. Injured in the line of duty. There'll be no need for him to mention exactly who injured him.

I had a thought. ‘Brad? Why was your laptop in Donald's van? Was that something to do with DirectAction? Monaghan mentioned it.'

Brad looked up from his potatoes. ‘He lied, Mum. Murderers do that.'

‘And you and DirectAction? No orchestrating?'

‘No.' He gave me a smile.

Working in the van hasn't exactly hit Brad's G-spot, but it's giving him a chance to save up for university. He'll soon be starting his course in eco-bio-whatsit. I'm getting ready to miss him.

While he cut up the chips, he started on a mini-lecture: how small, fast-moving birds experience an entire lifetime in what seems to us barely an instant.

‘Their perception of time is quite different to ours, Mum. To them, we move as slowly as a sloth.'

‘Yep. Speaking of which, you gunna clean that microwave?'

‘There's no way I'm letting incredible animals like that just disappear, Mum.'

I've never seen Brad look so determined. His face is all aglow. It's possible he's in love, Madison's been around a bit.

I had to point out to Madison the sad fact that the van's too small for the run of any type of ferret, even the vulnerable, abandoned kind. Plus health and safety etcetera. She stood at the caravan window, looking forlorn, surrounded by those hissing animals jerking on their leads.

After Madison left I started cutting up some onions. ‘Listen, Brad,' I said. ‘You can't just bugger off to uni without a word to Claire. You need to ask her out, have a chat, sort it all out with her about the baby. She can't stay on forever with those Hustle rellos. The baby needs a father.'

He stopped wiping out the microwave, turned and looked at me. ‘Mum. I have to tell you something.'

‘I'm fully briefed on chimps, Bradley. What we need to talk about is you. And your responsibilities.'

‘Jesus. Will you just sit down and listen for once?'

Right then. I sat down on the wooden stool.

‘You know how Dad kind-of, ah…remember when he went to Perth?'

Well, yes. That was years ago. What did Piero going to Perth have to do with anything?

‘That time when he went over for Auntie Vanni's wedding? Twenty years ago?'

‘Yeah, he went for the weekend. What's this got to do with anything?'

‘He met Claire's mother while he was in Perth.'

I felt cold suddenly.

‘I won't be asking Claire out, Mum, since she's my sister.'

A quiet afternoon, apart from all the calls to my mobile.

I sent Brad out to Hustle. ‘Need more potatoes. Urgently,' I said.

He looked at the two twenty-kilo bags of spuds in the corner, then at my face. I pushed his car keys into his hand and shoved him out the door.

Each time my phone rang, I saw it was the same number. Sophia's. I didn't answer.

I cleaned every surface in that old van. Shining shelves, shining windows. I cleaned every knife, cutting board and egg lifter. I cut potatoes and made enough chips to feed eight Homicide units. Maybe the ABC team as well.

A voice at the window. ‘Cass.' Vern.

‘Sophia called.'

‘Yep.' I started peeling another potato.

‘You need to get up to the hospital.'

Claire was propped up in the bed, face flushed. Sophia was sitting in a brutally upright chair, beside the bed, Brad next to her. Piero's three older brothers stood in a military-style row behind them, arms folded.

I took the chair on the other side.

Sophia held a tiny baby wrapped in pink, one hand smoothing up and down its pink back.

‘
Cara.
' Sophia looked at me, her eyes too shiny. Her hand still moved across the baby's back. Those hands had once been olive-brown and tanned. Now they were papery and rustled as she moved.

‘Congratulations Claire,' I smiled. Tried to. ‘She's beautiful.'

‘Brad came over,' said Sophia. ‘You have to understand, Cassie, I couldn't tell you.' Had Sophia shrunk since I'd seen her last, a few days ago? Her skin looked loose, like it might flap in the wind.

I folded my arms. ‘Course not. I was only his wife. Told everyone else, though, didn't you?' I glanced at the row of brothers. They looked at their feet.

Sophia bit her lip. ‘Not me.'

‘Well, who then?'

She shrugged. ‘Does it really matter now?'

‘What a good laugh you all had.' It didn't feel like it was me who was talking. The real me was somewhere else, watching. ‘For twenty years. Poor old Cass. A living cliché.'

Sophia coughed. Tony the middle brother surged forward, taking the baby, holding a glass up to Sophia's mouth. ‘Mum. Drink. Don't upset yourself.' He scowled at me.

She took a tiny sip. ‘It wasn't like that,
cara
. We would not laugh at you. Everyone love you. Except one or two possibly…Anyway, I didn't want you hurt.'

A pause.

‘Look, come over Monday for coffee. Claire be home by then.'

I looked at Claire, at Tony, at his brothers. A row of nods.

‘I make biscotti. You like my biscotti. I'm teaching Claire. She learn quickly.'

‘Got a bit on at the minute.'

‘The thing is Claire, she could do with a little bit help right now.'

I looked at the baby, looked at Claire, at the baby's pointy head. I remembered my life after Dean was born. That wonderful cushion with the keyhole-shaped opening. Hardly being able to go outside, not in a Rusty Bore summer with a tiny baby's skin. Claire gave me a tired lopsided smile.

‘And you always say, Cassie,' Sophia's eyes were moist, ‘you always tell me you would have like a daughter.'

Sophia's almond biscotti are famous for good reason. As is her ability to hold a family together, regardless of its dim-witted blunders.

When I got back to the van there was a letter waiting. From Terry. They let them send out letters, apparently, and don't cut out half the words like I'd expected. He's on remand, expecting to serve a minimum of four years.

He'd scribbled at the end:
Any chance of that takeaway place by the sea someday? I'll wait for you if you can wait for me.

I folded up the letter. In the circumstances it didn't seem like that generous an offer. Still, maybe it meant Terry wasn't just using me like Dean had said. I sighed and stared off into a shop-by-the-sea middle distance. I shoved the letter in my pocket.

I'll write back, maybe. When I'm ready. Four years is a long time, and I could be anywhere by then.

Author's note
I would like to swear categorically that there is no such place as Rusty Bore. Furthermore, this book does not contain any real people, dogs or ferrets.

But if, like me, you'd quite like it if Rusty Bore did exist, you could try turning off the Calder Highway somewhere north of Wycheproof. You never know what you might find. Please let me know if you do find Cass, I'd love to know if she's real.

I'd also like to thank a number of real people for their support: Euan Mitchell, Nick Gadd, the novel work-shopping groups at Box Hill TAFE, Eileen Hamer, Michael Kurland, Peter Garland, Selga and Sarah Langley and Evelyn and Bill Williams.

Special thanks are also due to the folks at Text, particularly Penny Hueston, Michael Heyward and Mandy Brett.

To Small But Big, aka Nicki Reed, thanks for never letting go.

And to Ross, thanks for never once telling me to quit. In fact, it could be argued this is all your fault.