I gave her a look over my sunglasses.
‘What?’ she said.
‘That’s very nineteen fifties of you.’
She shrugged. ‘So? I’d swap places with you any day, babe. Sean’s paying your rent, buying the food and the booze. Not only that, but he’s a fucking spunk, everyone likes him and that accent makes me cream my jeans every time I hear it. Sure, he’s a copper, but he doesn’t act like one and he doesn’t mind a smoke, which makes him okay in my books. Can’t trust a person who won’t have a choof every now and again.’
‘I don’t choof.’
‘Yeah, well, I put that down to you growing up on a marijuana plantation. Too much early exposure put you off for life. Point is, you don’t know how lucky you are. Plenty of chicks would kill to have a guy like Sean. Why don’t you just relax and enjoy lying around on your arse, for once?’
‘I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Feels weird, as though I owe him or something. I like having my own money.’
‘I like having someone else’s better!’ She laughed and drained her Coke, then looked around for the pool boy so she could order another. ‘Why the hell did I have to get knocked up by a broke journo? Why couldn’t it have been some rich dude?’
‘Maybe because you never fucked any.’
‘Oh yeah, that’d be it.’ She twisted in her chair. ‘Who’ve we gotta blow to get some pool service around here?’
I couldn’t see the pool guy either so I hoisted myself up and wandered over to the covered bar area, careful not to slip on the wet tiles. I had to suck in my stomach with a lot more force than usual and cursed all those indolent hours on the couch with Sean, drinking wine and eating cheese and crackers. One good thing about stripping was that it simultaneously provided cardiovascular exercise and a damn good reason to stick to a diet. I wondered if all the slothful evenings and indulgent snacks had actually been a ploy of his to fatten me up and keep me off the stage.
There was still no sign of the pool guy but I did see a menu mounted on a clear plastic stand, so I picked it up and looked it over. The usual hotel snacks: nachos, club sandwiches, potato wedges, chicken Caesar salad. I rang a small brass bell and leaned against the counter watching the television set that was bolted to the wall. Dr Phil was on, talking in his Fozzie Bear voice, telling a teary American woman that she couldn’t change what she didn’t acknowledge. I hadn’t seen any crap shows for ages, since Sean hated daytime television almost as much as he hated cheese singles. I knew that both were bad for you, but couldn’t resist their synthetic charms.
The good doctor threw to an ad break, but instead of a commercial for margarine or washing powder there was a news desk and a banner headline announcing a ‘breaking story’. When I heard what it was I dropped the menu.
‘N
ick’s escaped!’ I told Chloe.
‘Wasn’t he half dead?’
‘Just a pretty bad flesh wound. He knocked out a police officer, apparently.’
‘Rock and roll.’ She yawned.
‘Fuck,’ I said.
‘It’s not your problem, mate. Cops’ll catch him eventually. More importantly, what about Sean, did you tell him you’d quit stripping?’
Luckily Chloe’s mobile started singing: Madonna, ‘Justify My Love’.
‘Chloe’s Elite Strippers, this is Chloe.’ She was silent for a moment, then: ‘I dunno, who’s calling? Oh hey. Yeah, I’ll put her on.’
I shook my head but she handed me the phone anyway.
‘Hello?’ I said.
‘Hi, Simone, it’s Elisabeth Austin. Liz. We met at the Summer Sessions?’
Nick’s sister. Christ, what was it now? Probably wanted to talk about her brother.
‘I remember. Hey, did you see the news about Nick escaping from hospital?’
‘Um, yes.’ She muttered something about it being an unfortunate situation and I got the feeling she really didn’t want to talk about it. Pretty cold, considering it was her twin on the run. ‘I’m actually calling about Curtis Malone’s book. There are a couple of things I need to go over with you from a legal standpoint.’
‘When?’
‘As soon as possible. Are you busy at the moment?’
I groaned inwardly. The last thing I wanted to do was read what he’d written about the Emery Wade case, but if I didn’t want Jimmy Olsen to slander me I was going to have to. I figured I may as well get it over with so I could race back and spend all afternoon by the pool.
‘No. I’m free. Where do you want to meet?’
‘Is St Kilda convenient for you? Our offices are based in Albert Park so it’s handy for me. It’s almost twelve, how about I buy you lunch?’
The thought cheered me somewhat. She probably had an expense account.
‘Sure. Where?’
‘Is upstairs at the Stokehouse alright?’
An expensive, two-hat restaurant on the beach. Was it ever. I livened up some more.
I left Chloe by the pool, changed into denim pedal pushers and a singlet top, and caught the number 16 tram down the wide, tree-lined boulevard that was St Kilda Road. After the junction the tram shunted right into Fitzroy Street, sliding past innumerable cafés, bars and restaurants. Just after it veered left on the Esplanade I jumped off and took the footbridge to the beachfront.
The temperature had to be somewhere in the high twenties, but it wasn’t as stif ling as it had been by the pool due to the light breeze floating in off Port Phillip Bay. The air smelled like summer holidays: sunscreen, salt water, hot chips and battered fish bubbling in hot oil. Out past the yacht club sailboats rose and dipped on the swell, and in the park near the foreshore families picnicked on the grass, shaded by chunky date palms.
The restaurant was in a nineteen-twenties weatherboard building painted dark olive with white trim; it had the feel of an expensive, minimalist beach house on Cape Cod. A waitress with a black shirt and apron and a long blonde braid led me through a room full of whitewashed wood, widely spaced tables and giant picture windows. As we made our way out to the large deck overlooking the sea I half expected to see toothy Kennedys lounging about drinking gin and tonics, contemplating a turn around the bay on the yacht.
Liz sat in the far corner wearing large round sunglasses and clutching a glass of white wine. Her silver-streaked blonde hair was carefully flicked, as before, and she wore a pair of expensive-looking beige slacks and a gauzy white sleeveless top with unobtrusive ruff les down the front. Her bronze bracelets were inlaid with mother-of-pearl and had probably cost quite a lot in a South Yarra boutique.
‘Hey.’ I nodded as I sat down opposite her. Close up she looked thin, her upper arms stringy. She’d been almost plump at the writers’ festival. Not anymore.
The waitress poured me a glass of crisp pinot grigio from a nearby ice bucket, placed a menu in front of me, then quietly disappeared.
‘I’m really sorry about . . . everything that’s happened,’ I said. ‘How you holding up?’
‘I’m alright. And you?’
‘Not bad considering your brother showed up at my place with a gun.’ I smiled, but the joke fell flat. Liz must have thought I was an insensitive cow because her mouth set into that schoolmarm line and she looked away. I guessed being the sister of a fugitive murder suspect wasn’t exactly a barrel of laughs, but hell, being the supposed accomplice of one wasn’t either. It was an awkward situation and I decided I’d quickly stuff my face, check the facts and leave.
‘That the manuscript?’ I pointed to the package and she nodded, still looking over my shoulder as though scanning the restaurant behind me. ‘Shall we look over the pages now? Or you wanna eat first?’
Liz leaned forward, pushing her sunglasses onto the top of her head. I noticed for the first time that she looked a lot like Nick. Strong jawline, straight, prominent nose. Her grey eyes were puffy and red-rimmed.
‘Simone, can I trust you?’ she said softly.
I shrugged. ‘I dunno. Trust me to do what?’
She grabbed her wine glass and took a big mouthful.
‘Do you think he did it?’
‘What?’ It dawned on me that she’d lied about Curtis’ manuscript. I was so pissed off I considered walking—until I saw fresh tears shimmer in her swollen eyes.
‘Nick,’ she mouthed, then sat back and looked around again.
‘I don’t know.’
‘But you were there.’
‘Unfortunately that’s true. But it was after the fact.’
‘The police think he’s guilty.’
‘Maybe. Maybe not. The official line is he’s wanted for questioning. He ran. Shit. He’s still running. They’ve got to bring him in.’
‘Please keep your voice down,’ Liz whispered. I looked over my shoulder. The nearest patrons were two tables away and deep in conversation. ‘But do
you
think he’s a killer?’ She leaned forward, the table wobbled and I had to grab my wine glass before it tipped over.
‘Didn’t strike me as one when we first met, and I’m sure you don’t think so, but believe me, you never know. Still, I don’t think he was there to kill me last night.’
‘He wanted your help.’
‘Maybe.’ I shrugged again. ‘Look, Liz, I really can’t say either way. All I know is I saw Isabella’s body. I saw Nick with blood on his shirt.’
‘How much blood?’
‘’Bout this—’ I indicated a fist-sized area.
‘His blood. From the festival. He was wearing the same clothes, right?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And there was a lot of Isabella’s blood in his office?’
‘More than I ever want to see again.’ I felt sick having to recall it.
‘If he’d killed her he would have been covered with it.’
She had a point.
‘Yeah, I’ve thought about that. Unless, I dunno, he wore some sort of plastic raincoat he got rid of? Or maybe some other clothes, and then he changed back into the old ones.’
‘But he was dead drunk, right?’ she continued, leaning further forward, gripping the edges of the table.
‘I thought so. He smelled like it. If he wasn’t he’s a great actor.’
‘If he was that drunk, then how could he manage to change or get rid of his clothes? And if he wasn’t that drunk, why did he pass out and leave the body there for anyone to find it?’ She almost sounded angry at me.
I held up my hands. ‘Hey, I agree. It doesn’t make sense. I don’t know what forensic evidence the cops have, but from what I’ve seen it doesn’t really add up.’
She finished off the rest of her wine, grabbed the dripping bottle and refilled her glass. Rare for someone to finish a drink before I did.
‘He’s not a killer,’ she stated.
‘Statistically, women are most likely to be murdered by their exes. Especially when they leave. Apparently the divorce papers were on the desk.’
She shook her head and drank more wine. So did I, having to slug the stuff to keep up with her. The bottle was almost gone.
‘What does your gut feeling tell you?’ she asked.
‘Seems unlikely, but then, why did he run? What’s this all about?’
‘I can’t tell you unless I trust you.’
‘Okay.’ I was so exasperated I told her what she wanted to hear: ‘You can trust me with your life and I believe your brother is innocent, cross my heart and hope to die.’
She narrowed her eyes. I had sounded kind of sarcastic.
‘Honest.’
The waitress returned, and I ordered crab and caulif lower ravioli, followed by seared tuna with a white bean puree. Liz finished her drink and ordered just an entree: goat curd, roasted beetroot and rocket. No wonder she was so thin. I was already anticipating the cheese plate for dessert.
‘Sure you don’t want a main? I’ll feel like a pig if you only eat salad.’
‘Forget eating. I want to hire you.’
‘To do what?’
‘Shh,’ she hissed. ‘Someone could be listening.’
‘Who?’
‘The police. Nick called me three days ago . . .’
‘You serious?’ It came out a little loud and she gave me a worried look so I lowered my tone. ‘I’m guessing you didn’t call the cops.’
She shook her head.
‘What did he say?’ I asked.
‘That he didn’t kill Isabella, and he needed money or someone else was going to die.’
‘He tell you who
did
kill her?’
‘No.’ She bit her lip.
‘Who’d he say was going to die?’
Liz emptied the bottle into her glass, then finished it in one go.
‘Me.’
‘W
hat? Who would want to kill you?’
‘I don’t know. No one. It’s not personal, just someone using me for . . . leverage. Nick said if he didn’t come up with the money it’d be me, then our younger brother, then Mum. Dad’s passed away.’
‘You think someone’s blackmailing him? How much money does he want?’
‘As much as he can get. At least a million, maybe more. I cashed in my shares and raised almost fifty thousand. I’ve put my flat on the market but it’s going to take months to sell and even then it’ll only be four hundred. He said he’d try and pay it back as soon as he sorted out the mess he was in. But I got the feeling he needed a lot more.’
‘Mess?’
‘That was as specific as he got.’
‘Why do people usually need large amounts of money in a hurry?’
‘Bad debts?’ she suggested.
‘Or blackmail. We already know he liked a drink. Did he gamble? Coke? Was he a kiddy fiddler?’
‘No!’
‘And all this is assuming he wasn’t just scamming the money off you?’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘He’d need cash to leave the country. They would have frozen his bank accounts.’
‘I know Nick better than anyone. He wasn’t scamming me,’ she insisted. ‘And why would he show up at your place if he was about to leave?’
‘No idea.’ I shrugged. ‘Couldn’t have been to scab cash because I don’t have any. Maybe he’s just . . . unhinged?’
She bridled. ‘He’s not.’
‘Did you see him? Do you know where he was hiding out for six weeks?’
She shook her head. ‘No. I talked to him on my assistant’s phone. I had to drop the money off in a park, so I didn’t see him face to face. He said it wasn’t safe.’
‘Christ, sounds just like one of his books.’
The waitress came back with more wine and the entrees, so we kept our mouths shut until she was gone.