‘Just some stuff.’ I let myself in before she could ask any more questions, walked through the kitchenette, slid behind the desk and booted up the computer. The room was stuffy and smelled stale from being shut up for weeks, but I wasn’t going to be there long.
While the computer got started I rooted around in one of the cluttered desk drawers for a CD-Rom. It contained a reverse white pages, where you could type in a phone number and bring up the name and address attached to it. Unfortunately they didn’t make the CDs anymore—I’d bought that one from the post office when I was just starting my PI course—and with people moving house, changing numbers and buying mobile phones, it was becoming more redundant with each passing day.
I typed in the number Jenny had called from and held my breath. It got a hit. Barrett, P, 28 Bougainvillea Drive, Berwick. It could be her, remarried. Just to be sure I got on the internet and searched Jenny Barrett together with Berwick and turned up a hit on a Christian school in the area. Jenny was the head of the English department. There was even a photo. She’d obviously been home half an hour ago. If I left straight away maybe she’d still be there.
‘Stuff, huh?’ Chloe said behind me, and I jumped and fumbled to shut down the page, like a husband caught surfing sex sites.
‘Yep.’
How could she be so big, yet so quiet?
‘Who’s Jenny Barrett?’ She’d wrapped herself in a hot-pink sarong with a hibiscus print that stretched tight across her belly and matched the cowboy hat tilted back on her head. Her eyes shone in the low light. She didn’t miss a trick.
I considered lying for a second or two, but knew I’d never get away with it.
‘Nick Austin’s ex-wife.’
‘You’re on a job, aren’t you?’ She flopped down on the blue armchair in front of the desk and grinned.
‘Sort of,’ I admitted.
‘Sweet!’
‘You can’t tell anyone. Not even Sean knows. Someone’s hired me to find out why Nick keeps running: they said he needs money and they think it might be blackmail or bad debts. They reckon he didn’t kill Isabella.’
‘Who hired you?’
‘Sorry, babe, can’t say.’
‘Doesn’t matter. It’s just good to be back on a case. I’ve been so bored. Business is dead over the holidays, apart from New Year, which I’ve already organised. So, what do you need me to do?’
‘Nothing, except maybe ease off on the sun.’ She was tanned as a cow hide.
‘No way. For once Melbourne gets a real summer. It’s like the solarium for free.’
‘You’re browner than George Hamilton.’
‘Who?’
‘Listen, I don’t want you running around doing anything crazy, you’re about to pop.’
‘Don’t be sexist.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘I’m sick of people treating me differently. I’m preggers, not dying—I can still help. In fact, you need me. I look at things different to how you do, and I find shit out you wouldn’t even think of.’
Damn her, it was actually true.
‘Okay, you can help.’
‘Good.’ She smiled triumphantly. ‘What angle you taking?’
‘Gonna talk to people who knew Nick, find out what anyone would have against him.’
‘Right.’ She thought for a minute. ‘Nick and Isabella were writers, so . . . there might be clues in their books, yeah?’
If you were watching some crappy show like
Murder She
Wrote
there would be.
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘That’s a great idea. Why don’t you get reading?’
It would keep her out of trouble and since she didn’t usually read anything more literary than
Picture
magazine, I figured she’d lose interest soon enough.
‘I’m off to the bookshop.’ She hauled herself out of the chair. ‘About time something exciting happened.’
I stared at her belly but didn’t mention the obvious.
‘Didn’t you think Nick Austin was boring?’ I asked. ‘You seemed more interested in me and Sean.’
‘That’s before I was on the case. What is happening with you and Sean, by the way?’
I got up to leave. ‘Let you know tomorrow. He’s taking me to dinner tonight, got something important to tell me, apparently.’
Chloe started humming the wedding march. ‘Dum-dum-de-dum.’
‘Oh, fuck off,’ I said.
•
Berwick was to the southeast of the city, about fifty k’s away, one of those suburbs that had once been farmland and were now filled with housing estates. I took the Laser because she was less conspicuous than the Futura, and because I figured that if she wasn’t driven now and again she’d seize up.
Forty minutes later I found the entrance to ‘Boronia Estates’ where Bougainvillea Drive was located. I drove through an unmanned gate, then around clean asphalt streets with names like Acacia Avenue and Waratah Way, mazelike roads taking me around in circles. The whole estate was scrupulously neat, and I was sure they had some sort of bylaw in place whereby you’d be publicly flogged for leaving your wheelie bin out or neglecting to maintain the nature strip. The place had the sterile, disinfected look of Disneyland or a display village and I couldn’t see any sign of life. Perhaps everyone was on holidays or inside in the air-conditioning, glued to the plasma screen.
I wondered how much these plaster-pillared McMansions cost. Probably less than the inner city, but more than I could afford. With my erratic income I doubted I’d ever own a house, but it wasn’t all bad. I could hold an entire conversation without once mentioning property prices. Not everyone could say that.
I finally found Bougainvillea, indicated left and crawled down the wide, empty street, counting out numbers until I got to twenty-eight. There was a big silver SUV parked in the driveway, its hatch open, a man loading in suitcases, a giant umbrella and beach toys: boogie boards, coloured balls, def lated rings with dinosaur heads.
The man had a trimmed beard and a full head of brown hair, styled like a schoolboy. He wore long beige shorts with a tucked-in, matching polo shirt, a tan belt and sandals, and he turned and waved as I cruised slowly by. I lifted a couple of fingers in return before pulling into the kerb a little past the house. Apart from the absence of long socks, he looked like a geography teacher I’d once had, and I had a feeling he’d sport the knee-highs whenever the weather cooled.
As soon as I stopped the nerves hit, then the heat, and I started sweating into the cloth upholstery. The bloke by the four-wheel drive presented a new problem. My plan, such as it was, had been to show up at the front door and beg Jenny to talk to me. From the looks of him, he’d probably try to accost me in a jocular fashion before I even got there. I craned my neck and looked around the car for a ruse. Clipboard? Too many questions. Collecting for charity? He hadn’t seen me knock on any other doors.
Then I noticed a tube of wrapping paper in the rear foot-well, left over from before Christmas. I grabbed the street directory from the seat beside me, parcelled it with the last of the paper and got out of the car, holding the package together with my thumb.
I hustled towards the house like I was frazzled and in a major hurry, not much of a stretch since the sweat had already plastered strands of hair to my forehead. As I approached he straightened up and turned to me, wiping perspiration off his brow with his forearm. He’d made neat work of the packing and the back of the vehicle looked like a finished jigsaw puzzle.
‘Hi there.’ He started offering his hand but I pretended not to see it.
‘Hi.’ I put on a harried expression and didn’t stop. ‘Thank god I didn’t miss you, Jenny inside?’ I held up the present as I passed.
He nodded, looking slightly confused.
‘Thanks,’ I called over my shoulder as I walked between the entrance columns and through the open front door.
Liz had described Jenny as a religious freak, and I’d half expected the McMansion’s interior to resemble the house from the seventies horror flick
Carrie
. However, there were no obvious religious icons in the entrance hall, no crucifix with an anorexic Jesus attached. Straight ahead was a flight of beige carpeted stairs with the sort of wooden gate people install to corral toddlers.
I stuffed the fake present into my shoulder bag and took a deep breath before announcing myself.
‘Jenny,’ I called. ‘Yoo-hoo.’
There was no immediate answer so I poked my head around an archway into the lounge room. Another archway connected the living room to a dining room and I guessed that the kitchen was around the corner next to it, just out of sight. I heard clattering and a streaming tap.
‘Hello, Jenny?’ I said it a little louder the second time, then retreated to the hallway so I wouldn’t look too bold. My heart was thumping and blood rushed to my head. Cold calling was almost scarier than getting shot at.
‘In the kitchen!’ she sang out.
I followed her voice to a large room furnished with granite-look benches and a silver stove and fridge. The windows looked out onto a grassy backyard where a young boy played tennis-on-a-stick. He must have been about five but wore an outfit that made him seem like a miniature adult. Long shorts, button-up, short-sleeved print shirt and teeny trainers. A baby crawled in a playpen nearby. Jenny stood at the double sink, wiping down the drip tray with a Chux.
‘Hey there,’ I said.
The expectant smile froze as soon as she saw me. She’d have seen my face on the news, and after the phone call would know exactly who was trespassing in her kitchen. Her mouth dropped open.
She looked like she had in the pictures, just a little older and broader. She’d tamed the hair to a wavy, shoulder-length bob, wore similar shorts to her husband and kids, and a plaid, sleeveless blouse that buttoned up the front. As well as the anguished saviour, I’d anticipated an Assembly of God type outfit with a headscarf and Amish-style apron, so I was pleased to find her so normal looking. She even wore a touch of brown eyeliner and some coral lipstick. I wasn’t sure where Liz had got the idea she was a religious nut.
‘What—’
‘I’m Simone Kirsch.’ The words all came out in a rush. ‘We spoke on the phone earlier? I’m sorry to barge in like this but I really need to talk to you.’
‘How did you find—?’
‘I’m a private detective.’ I shrugged modestly even though I felt quite pleased with myself. ‘It’s kind of what we do.’
‘Get out of my house. Now.’
I
’d anticipated as much. Time for the sob story I’d been concocting on my drive down the freeway. I stuck my palms out, all non-threatening-like.
‘Please, Jenny, just hear me out. I know you’ve probably read about me in the papers, but I’m not here to hassle you or cause any trouble. I just really need your help.’ I paused for a quick breath. She didn’t interrupt, which meant she was listening. Good.
‘Your ex-husband came into my office one day and from then on in my life’s been a mess. I’ve been implicated in a murder and lost my investigator’s licence, and then Nick breaks in the other day, so the police think we’re in cahoots. I’m just trying to understand what’s going on and why he’d do that, so I can hopefully clear my name and get my licence and my livelihood back.’ I’d run out of air by the end so I sucked in another deep breath. I opened my eyes wide, imploringly, and tried to look as though I was about to cry.
‘I don’t know . . .’
‘I have no one else to turn to.’
I was banking on the fact that, contrary to popular belief, most people liked to help. And if she really was a major god-botherer, then how could she refuse? I also tried to imagine I was a puppy. A really sad one who’d been separated from his mum too young and trucked off to the pound. I very nearly whimpered and peed on the lino.
She sighed. ‘I don’t see how I can possibly help you.’
‘You were married to him for years and I don’t know the guy from a bar of soap. I just need to ask a few questions, get to the bottom of this.’ Sounded lame, even to me, but I kept it up, operation puppy-eyes making my retinas smart.
‘We’re about to go on holiday.’
‘It’ll only take five minutes. Please. I’m desperate.’
She glanced at her small gold watch, which wasn’t so good. I had one card left to play. I didn’t want to do it, but I hadn’t come all that way for nothing.
‘If you’ve seen the news then you probably know I used to work as a stripper. I became a PI because I wanted to get out of that life and, as well as wanting to help people, it was the only other thing I was good at. If I don’t get my investigating licence back I’ll be forced to . . .’ I looked down as my words trailed off, feeling like a total turncoat. I really hated that victim stereotype of strippers and generally did what I could to dispel—not reinforce—it, but in the heat of battle you used what you could.
Jenny sighed again, dropped the dishcloth on the sink and crossed her arms. The hard look had left her eyes.
‘I really don’t want to talk about my ex-husband,’ she said. ‘That part of my life is over. I’ve been doing what I can to avoid journalists and—’
‘I know what you mean, they’ve been hassling me no end.’
A squeal from outside. I turned to look. ‘Are those your kids? They’re gorgeous.’ I tried to appear clucky, but probably just looked squinty and cross-eyed.
‘Joseph, the youngest, is. The older one is Isaac, from Gordon’s first marriage.’
‘They’re sooo cute.’
‘They’re a blessing . . . but a handful just the same.’ Jenny paused and looked me over. She wore glasses with thin gold frames that matched her watch, and behind them her eyes looked enormous. I felt like a bacteria under an electron microscope.
‘Okay. Five minutes. I’ll get Gordon in to watch the kids.’
‘Thanks sooo much,’ I gushed, more out of relief than gratitude.
She called him in then took me down a beige-carpeted hall. The churchy theme was subtle, but it was there. In between the family photos lining the walls hung framed prints with bible verses, and photographs of waterfalls taken with a really long exposure, so the water looked all fuzzy. Devotional sayings were etched onto the posters in fancy calligraphy.
I caught glimpses into bedrooms on the way down the hall. All were neat with well-made beds. The older kid had a Superman duvet, the younger one a crib shaped like a car.