Murder with the Lot (3 page)

I pulled over, struggled out over the handbrake and strolled across to the Mercedes. ‘Need some help?'

She was young, anywhere from thirteen to eighteen. Her face had that perilous blend of innocence and over-confidence, a girl her parents would never stop worrying about. For the first time I was glad I'd only had sons.

‘Yes. I must have like mixed up the directions,' she said, a too-bright smile.

Something about her nagged at my memory.

‘I told you not to rely on that stupid GPS.' There was a woman in the driver's seat. Map spread out over the steering wheel, its edges crumpled in her white-knuckled hands. Lines chiselled around her eyes and mouth, age spots on her hands. She was wearing a gold knit dress. ‘Where you headed?'

‘We're fine, thank you.' The woman's voice was glacial. ‘Get back in the car, Aurora.'

‘Just a second. She might have seen him.' The girl fiddled in her apricot-coloured handbag, exact match with her dress. She held out a photo. Her wooden bracelet, sculpted into waves, clunked against her bag.

‘Oh, for God's sake. This…person won't know anything. Get back in the car.'

I took the photo. Two people. The girl standing in front of me, and Clarence. I'd seen the same photo in his wallet. ‘Yeah, I've seen him. Friend of yours?'

Aurora stiffened. ‘He's my brother.'

This girl had a brother with Mafia connections? Did she know it? Jesus, wasn't it a family thing? What about her?

‘We need to find him. Nanna's really worried. About what he's going to do. It's kind of urgent,' said Aurora.

‘Urgent how? If he's just writing a book?'

The woman flung the crumpled map aside and shoved the car door open. She stepped out, a tiny woman, an angry sunbird in gold heels. ‘Book? What's your involvement in this? Are you hiding Clarence? How dare you.'

‘Why would I be hiding him?'

She compressed her lips, then looked at the girl. ‘I should have sent Ravi. I simply don't have time to deal with this, with people of this…ilk.'

‘Now you listen here. Clarence is, as far as I am aware, staying in Mr Ernie Jefferson's shack, which is fifty kilometres that way.' I pointed one firm finger to the north. ‘And as the agent for that property, I require him to leave the premises immediately. Leave the district, in fact. We don't tolerate criminal types around here.'

‘Criminal types?' The woman's voice had gone up an octave.

‘Nanna.' Aurora gripped the older woman's arm.

The sunbird sucked in a breath.

I fossicked in my handbag, found Clarence's wad of money and held it out. ‘Here. Take his stupid money. We don't want your kind around here. Now on your way.'

She frowned, pushed the money back, then put her hand into her bag. A bag easily big enough to hold a gun. I swallowed.

The hand came back out and she held out something small. ‘My card. Mona Hocking-Lee. Look, we seem to have got off to rather a poor start…'

I took it.
Managing Director, Balance Neutral
. No mention of the Mildura Mafia. But then they probably wouldn't put
Cosa Nostra Enterprises (North-West Division)
on their cards. An address in Muddy Soak.

‘What's Balance Neutral?' Some kind of neutralising business? Hit-women maybe?

‘I run a group of environmental organisations. Carbon offsets. Bird protection charities. But I'm not here on business. I'm here to talk some sense into my grandson. Before he does something stupid.' She glanced at Aurora.

‘What kind of stupid? I'm not letting Ernie's shack out to the Mafia. I don't care whether they're tree-huggers or not.'

‘Mafia?' Mona's voice was tight. She ran a hand across her forehead. ‘Aurora, you didn't say anything about Mafia. You little idiot.' She got into the driver's seat. ‘Get in the car. Quickly.'

Aurora folded her arms. ‘I don't see why I'm getting the blame. I did the right thing, told you about his phone call. I'm not responsible for his like completely immature behaviour.'

Mona snapped me a look. ‘What exactly did he tell you about the book?'

‘Not a lot,' I said. ‘It'll be a bestseller. That's it. How an accounting textbook could be a bestseller beats me, but what would I know?'

She sat up straight like a piano teacher, handbag in a death-grip on her lap. ‘Accounting textbook? Is that what he said?'

‘Well, no, not exactly.'

‘No way it's some textbook, Nanna. He said we'd all be sorry.'

‘Sorry for what?' I said.

Mona held up a hand. ‘Oh, for God's sake. We're wasting time here. I really must talk to Clarence. This property, it's north of here? Get in the damn car, Aurora.' Aurora scurried around the Mercedes and got in the passenger side.

‘Thank you, Mrs…' Mona said, starting the car. She reached to close the driver's door.

I grabbed the door, held it open. ‘Tuplin. Cass Tuplin. Of the Rusty Bore Takeaway. Best Street, Rusty Bore. Not so fast, though. You should contact the police if you're worried. In fact, my son…'

‘No, no; no need to involve the police.' Her face had a hunted expression.

‘Right, well, I'll come with you. I need to evict your grandson.'

‘Ah, we really mustn't detain you, Mrs Tuplin. This is a family matter and I'm sure it won't take long.' Mona's tone was firm. ‘I'll return your keys later today, I promise.'

‘Hang on, what about this five grand? I don't want to carry all this around.'

‘Yes, yes, we'll sort it out then.' She batted me away with a hand. ‘I'm sure I can trust you with it.'

She stomped on the accelerator. The car jerked forward, ripping the door out of my hand, and she slammed it shut. The Mercedes tore off in a cloud of dust.

Mona didn't come into the shop that afternoon. She didn't pop around that evening, or even phone. I spent Saturday night fretting about that woman and Clarence and his five grand. In my distraction I burned Edna Rawson's snapper and chips.

‘Acrylamide, Cass—carcinogens.' Edna waved her walking stick at the fryer. ‘Millions of the bastards everywhere.' I stared at the blackened snapper in my basket. I never burn an order.

A bad night's sleep, tossing around, worrying about the money, the Mafia, the whole rental debacle. At dawn I decided I'd had enough. I rolled out of bed, got dressed and picked up my handbag. Check. I stood in the doorway of my bedroom, uncertain for a tick, then grabbed the sawn-off star picket from beside my bed. I headed out to my car.

The horizon was turning pale lemon as I took the turn onto the highway, past the row of silos, black silhouettes against the sky.

I'd make a quick call in to Ernie's shack to return the rent. A polite request for them to be on their way, and life would go back to normal.

But what if they got violent? Come on, I whispered, Mona drives a Mercedes. And she's a grandmother. Hardly likely to get violent. I wound down the window and sucked in a deep lungful of dawn air.

I swerved for an early-morning kangaroo. The clouds were turning pale pink, blood-red wisps near the horizon. The twisted multi-trunks of the mallee gums were visible now, like long, pale necks above nests of fallen bark and leaves.

I passed the turning for Perry Lake. The gate was open. Shit, I really should put a padlock on that gate. I slowed the car and pulled over. Perry Lake's part of Ernie's place, a kilometre of so south of the shack. The lake was mined for salt once. It was long abandoned by the time my sister Helen and I used to come here, a wonderland of dereliction for a kid. Now it's become a spot for four-wheel-drives, trail bikes and joy riders, a free camping spot for cash-strapped grey nomads and a general dumping ground. I don't mind the campers, it's all the crap—the broken bottles, discarded tyres, cars and rusting fridges—that bothers me. I'd told Clarence to keep the bloody gate shut.

I turned onto the sandy track towards the lake, the track twisting through the spinifex and clumps of scrappy native pines. I should get Brad in here with his environmental whatsits, they could clean up the place, maybe turn it into a national park, like that Pink Lakes park over to the west. Perry Lake was just as good as that damn place. We've got miles of pink water; a long shore of pink sand with a rim of blinding, salty white. Visitors could marvel at the colour of the water and learn about the algae that cause it. Kids could play beach cricket while Dad burned their sausages on the barbie.

The lake smelled salty and faintly rotting, like the sea. There were fresh tyre marks in the sand. Muffled noises came from somewhere near the lake. Then a dull popping sound. A firecracker? A gun shot?

Maybe I should call Dean. I tapped the steering wheel. No, not after yesterday. It'd just be trespassers, and they were my problem, not his. And I had my star picket on the back seat.

I drove around the piles of decaying cars and fridges and the dumped sheets of rusted corrugated iron. A gust of wind buffeted the car. Brown clouds were building in the sky, more dust on its way. The lake appeared, clouds reflected in its pink–brown surface. The pink sand was crimson in the morning light. I scanned the perimeter of the lake. No strange cars in sight. But there was something over there. Yes, by the edge of the lake, a shape. A shape that didn't look right.

I stopped the car. Swiftly performing the exit manoeuvre over the handbrake to the passenger side, I leapt out and grabbed my star picket. I crunched my way across the sand, avoiding the squishy mauve clumps of glasswort, to the edge of the lake. The wind tugged at my dress. Grains of sand blew against my legs.

The shape beside the water was a woman. Her white fingers were curled up like claws. She was wearing a gold knit dress. There was a hole in her forehead, fringed with blood. More blood had pooled onto the sand.

Something had taken her eyes. I turned away, leaned over my star picket and threw up.

‘Dean. Quick,' I said into my phone. ‘There's a dead woman.' The reception wasn't real flash. Dean's voice came back a series of meaningless syllables, unconnected ‘aps' and ‘ets'. Still, he'd be speeding down the highway in a jiff, siren on full whack, strong jaw jutting out, like the cops in the midday movie.

The wind gusted, hot, hard breaths against my face. A posse of hungry-looking ravens stood near the woman.

‘At Perry Lake,' I bellowed. More jumbled noises from the other end. I walked around, trying for better reception. I tried not to step in the uneven footprints around the body.

‘A dead woman. It's that Clarence's grandmother, Mona Hocking-Lee. I told you that fella was trouble. You hear me, Dean? It's your mother.'

‘What?' Dean finally connected his syllables. ‘Is that you, Mum? What do you mean, you're dead?'

‘No,
I'm
not dead.' For God's sake. ‘It's your mother, me,
calling
. To report a body.'

Choppy bits of his voice. ‘…you're sure, really sure?'

‘Sure of what?' I snapped. ‘There's a dead bloody woman. Here in front of me. Hurry up and get here.'

The ravens edged closer to the body.

Dean's voice was back. ‘What makes…think she's dead?'

Jesus, Dean. ‘Because it's obvious.'

‘It's just that there was that other time. You know, when you thought Ernie was dead.' Dean was coming through loud and clear now that it suited him.

‘What's that got to do with it? No need to bring that up.'

Can't anyone ever make a little mistake around here? Ernie had looked dead. He smelled it too. And how could anyone sleep that deeply with their neck twisted in that position?

‘I'll phone for the ambos,' said Dean.

‘She doesn't need the ambulance. She's dead. There's a bullet hole in her forehead.'

I waved the cawing ravens away and bent over to peer at her face. A cloud of flies rose to greet me. I moved back quickly.

‘And something's ripped out her eyes, ravens probably. Ernie still had his eyes.'

‘I'm on my way.' Dean's voice was grim. ‘You wait there.'

‘You want me to phone Homicide?'

‘No, that's my job. Just wait there, I'm not phoning anyone until I've seen things for myself. And Mum?'

He paused.

‘Don't go touching anything.' He hung up.

What, am I an idiot? I know about not tampering with a crime scene. I scuffed some sand over my little pile of spew.

The grey-brown clouds were thickening in the sky, the wind gusting around my face. I put my phone back in my bag. My stomach moved uneasily. Maybe I was going to be sick again.

All right, Cass. Think of something cheerful. Homicide would be up from Melbourne, probably send in a team. A whole big team to investigate. Possibly a full-scale taskforce. How many people in a taskforce? Stressful work for them. They'd need comfort food. Maybe I could set up a delivery service. My stomach moved again. No, the thought of food wasn't helping.

Leaning on my star picket, I settled in to wait. I'll admit I felt a sense of anticipation. Here I was, at Dean's crime scene, his first actual murder. Had to be murder, surely, who'd come all the way out to Perry Lake to shoot herself? Poor old Mona. I hoped it had been over quickly.

Whipped-up sand stung my legs. I glanced up at the sky. The storm was almost here now, a huge wall of rusty cloud approaching from the north. I'd have to take shelter in my car. I didn't fancy hanging around out here, filling up my lungs and eyes with grit. But by the time Dean arrived, Mona would probably be covered over with sand and dust. What was left of her, that is, after the ravens had their go. I clapped them away, my dress billowing in the wind. I'd have to take a quick look around now, so I could describe everything to him in detail.

Mona's body was six feet from the lake's edge. Grains of sand were gathering in her brittle-looking hair. No gun in her hand. Two gold bracelets. A gold watch. Not a robbery then, they hadn't killed her for her jewellery. Heaps of footprints and gouged-up pink sand all around her. Something glinted in one of the footprints. Using my hanky, I picked it up, turned it over. A key. Silvery, small and ordinary, it looked like the key you'd buy with a padlock at any hardware shop. So where was the padlock?