Chasing Can Be Murder (22 page)

Hey, Sam Spade, eat your heart out.

Kinsey Millhone, take a back seat.

Nancy Drew…

Oh! Uh!

George’s face had turned fire-engine red.An ugly vein protruded from his neck. A tick pulsed near his left eye. I figured he was debating whether to pick me up and toss me at the bar-room mirror or simply stomp my head into the ground with his Cuban heeled cowboy boots.

“Well, it’s been nice chatting with you, George,” I said, edging away from the imminent explosion. “I’ll um…see myself out.”

On the way to the exit, I hooked arms with Ben. “Time to go, Hustler Man.”

Noticing the Dale boys shoving a wad of twenties into their wallets, I smiled, and continued to drag Ben toward the exit.

“You could be right,” Ben agreed, as we steamrolled through the swing doors and out onto the footpath.

Once our feet hit the bitumen we high-tailed it down the street, not slowing until we came to a skidding halt beside Ben’s Kombi van.

“Funny game that eight-ball,” observed Ben, almost ripping the door off its hinges in his hurry to slip in behind the wheel. “Seems like it’s against the rules to pot a colored ball while you’re on the large stripy ones.”

“Lost George’s money, eh?”

He nodded and gave me one of his bone-melting grins. “And you? Got up George’s nose, did you?”

“Could say that.” I piled in beside him, slammed the car door and peered back at the empty street. “Reckon we’d better get this crate on the road.”

Ben turned the key in the ignition and slammed the van into gear just as the pub door exploded open. “Not that George worries me, of course,” he assured me flooring the accelerator and peering into his rear-vision mirror. “It’s just that we have things to do. More places to search.”

“Of course,” I agreed and leant forward in my seat to share the view in the rear-vision mirror of George hurling beer cans and four-letter expletives at our departing vehicle. “Think he’s trying to tell us something?” I made a grab for the dashboard as Ben almost lifted the car off the road to swing onto a side street, straightened up, then gunned the car forward again. “I don’t trust him. He was uneasy when I questioned him about Erin. Wouldn’t say what was tucked under his arm when he left Tanya’s house either.”

“The guy’s a shark.”

“A shark who knows where I hide my front door key.”

Ben’s head snapped around so quickly it’s a wonder he didn’t give himself whiplash. “Bloody hell, Kat,” he growled. “Why’d you let
that
creep know where you hide your spare key?”

“Because George Summers installed the Tchaikovsky CD system that runs from inside my house to the dog-shed.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“He’s also the guy Dan sent to pick up Erin.” I paused to let the enormity of my suspicions sink in. “And now Erin’s missing.”

“And you think, maybe—”

“Well, let’s just say, he knew my front door key was inside the gnome’s mouth during the day.”

The corners of Ben’s lips twitched. “Hey, mate, so did the entire Two Wells football team.”

“Ben, I’m serious, here.”

“Okay. Okay. But why would a nobody salesman like George sneak into your bedroom at three in the morning and kill a two-bit greyhound trainer like Matthew Turner? Where’s the connection?”

When I didn’t answer, Ben went on in the same vein. “Unless you think Matt owed George a couple of hundred dollars for installing some techno gadget and decided to take his payment out in blood?”

“Hey, it happens.” Miffed that every time I came up with a new suspect they either had an alibi or no motive, I shot a scowl in Ben’s direction. He didn’t bother catching it.

Instead, his eyes lit up as though he’d had a light bulb moment. “If you’re looking for someone Matt
could
have been in debt to,” he drawled, “how about Big Mick Harrison, the bookie? We never did get around to checking his explanation of needing petrol when Art found him on his property. What say we go visit our bookie friend now? I can engage him in man-talk in the front room while you use the bathroom and take a peek behind any closed doors on the way. See what you can find.”

21

Good ideas don’t grow on trees like apricots. I accept that. However, what Ben forgot to mention was what I was supposed to look for while behind closed doors. Size ten boots with half my garden attached to them?

First things first, though. Question one would be had Mick seen Erin? Question two, like Little Red Riding Hood, did Mick really visit his granny on Thursday?

While Ben drove, I snaffled my cell phone from my tote bag and rang Resthaven, the aged care facility where Mick’s grandmother was registered as a patient. Impersonating Big Mick’s wife, when the receptionist answered, I asked her if my husband had left his mobile phone there while visiting on Thursday morning. Told her he was lost without it. “Thursday?” she queried. “You mean,
Friday
, don’t you, Mrs. Harrison? I know it was Friday because Abe Potter celebrated his ninetieth birthday and your husband was kind enough to bring a chocolate mud cake for morning tea. Mr. Harrison is so thoughtful that way. A real sweetie. Always remembers patients’ birthdays. You tell him not to worry, dear, I’ll ask around and if his phone is here I’ll have someone drop it over to your house.’

I grinned at Ben. Seems like kind, thoughtful, much-loved Mr. Harrison wasn’t such a paragon of sainthood after all. Saints don’t lie. So what was he really doing on Art’s property on Thursday, the morning Pitachi Gambler was drugged? Knowing how handy Art could be with a rifle, I had a feeling Mick wouldn’t risk a hole in the head just to steal a few daisies from Art’s garden because he’d forgotten to buy his grandmother a bunch of flowers.

Five minutes later, we turned down Sunset Boulevard and Ben brought his van to a halt in front of Mick’s house. Or should I say mini-mansion. Stepping out onto the footpath, I looked down at my clothes and sighed. Not what you’d call, “appropriate” for visiting. What had started out as a silky plum-colored long-sleeved top and my best hipster jeans when I dressed for a sort-of date with Ben that morning, had now metamorphosed into jeans with mud plastered down one leg and across the butt from when I slipped and fell while looking for Erin near the river and a plum-colored top with two rips in the sleeve and a beer spill decorating one breast. As for my gorgeous high-heeled suede knee-high boots—suffice to say the river mud had a lot to answer for.

Ben and I trudged up the path towards Big Mick’s five-star front door, which would have probably cost more than all the doors and windows in my house plus my refrigerator and top-loading washing machine. The house itself was a rambling one-story white stucco set back off a tree-lined roadway. Like the other houses in the elite suburb of Burnside, it oozed wealth, space, and an expensive part-time gardener. However, unlike the others, this house looked lived in. A discarded tricycle, a swing, a couple of naked limbless Barbie dolls and several balls in a range of colors and sizes, including an out-of-shape soccer ball that would never stand up to a game of soccer, littered the front lawn.

Which meant Big Mick the bookie had a family. Funny how you don’t think of bookmakers being like normal folk. I’d only ever seen him on his stand, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, setting up his board, calling out prices or transferring wads of notes from eager punters’ hands to his ever-present leather bookie bag. Never thought of what he did once he folded his stand and packed it in the boot of his car.

In response to Ben’s knock, a pig-tailed girl of about seven, vigorously fighting off her younger brother, threw open the front door. They were still screaming and punching each other when Big Mick strode up behind them and scooted both in the air, one under each arm.

“Ben. Kat. How ya doin’?” he boomed over the top of their screams. “Don’t mind these two. Can’t remember how many times I’ve told them not to answer the door unless they know who’s knocking. May as well talk to the headlights on my car for all the listening they do.” He placed his two squirming offspring back on the ground, cuffed them lightly and told them to go help feed the triplets.

“Triplets?” I squeaked and I’m sure my eyes shot open wider than a football stadium.

“Yep. Twelve months old tomorrow.” He smiled the smile of a proud father. “
And
two-year-old twins. Plus the two beasties you’ve just had the pleasure of meeting.”

Seven kids in seven years? Wow! I gazed at Big Mick with new respect. Who’d have thought this man had the wherewithal to father so many children in such a short time. I gave him a furtive once over. Beer gut. Receding hairline. Thick wet lips. Must be something about the guy I was missing. He saw me ogling him and winked.
Damn
. Was that a suggestive come-on? I scowled down my nose at him. A derisive scowl picked up from my mother who has a whole range for different situations. He licked his already wet goopy lips. I gave him a not-if-you-were-the-last-man-left-on-this-earth sniff. He wiggled his eyebrows. I thought about giving him a vasectomy,
sans
anesthetic.

Ben’s choked chuckle broke up the pissing contest. He quickly turned it into a clearing of his throat but the trace of a grin danced at the corners of his lips. “Sorry to bother you, mate,” he said to Mick. “Should have rung first, I guess. Hope we didn’t interrupt anything important.”

“Nah, as long as you’re not collecting for the Trainers’ Benevolent Fund. Could have built a new bloody racetrack, the money you mob rip off me during the year. Reckon I should be the one taking a collection tin around.”

Ben’s eyebrows hitched as he took in the vestibule’s deep rich burgundy carpet and the bookie’s five hundred dollar pigskin loafers, at present sinking into the pile. “Yeah. Right. And pigs fly.”

Big Mick’s laugh was loud and self-mocking. While he was in a good mood I thought I’d get my first question in. “The reason we’re here is because we’re looking for Tanya Ashton’s daughter, Erin. She’s missing. Don’t suppose you’ve seen her today?”

He shook his head. “Can’t say I’d know Tanya’s daughter even if I had seen her. Too busy at the track to pay much attention to anyone not waving hundred dollar notes under my nose.”

“Eleven years old, fair hair pulled back in a ponytail. Snub nose. Normally looking bored and put upon.”

“Sorry.” He shook his head. “Anyway, don’t stand there blocking the sun. Come in. My kids will probably mug you but I reckon you’re both big enough to protect yourselves.”

“Look, we don’t want to intrude on your time—” I began, deciding maybe I didn’t want to know what lay behind Mick’s closed doors after all.

“No, no. You’re not intruding. Come in and say hello to my wife. She’s in the kitchen feeding the tribe.” Not bothering to hang around and see if we were following him, Mick set off down the carpeted passageway.

I pushed past the still-smirking Ben and hurried after Mick. I had questions and didn’t want to ask them in front of his family.

“Why did you lie to Art?” I said when I caught up to him. Okay, maybe I hadn’t perfected the art of interviewing just yet, but I figured there was no time for pleasantries. “Why did you tell Art you were going to see your grandmother on Thursday?”

Mick stopped. Swung around. His lips were still smiling but his eyes were telling a different story. “Not that it’s any of your business, Kat, but I didn’t lie to Art. That’s exactly where I was headed.”

“I know for a fact you visited your grandmother on Friday. Not Thursday.”

The smile disappeared completely. He leaned so close I could smell the spices in whatever he’d eaten for lunch. “You’ve been checking up on me?

I didn’t answer. Too busy backpedalling.

“I don’t take kindly to having my personal life investigated,” he warned, his voice soft and flat. He deliberately flexed his shoulders and cracked his neck. “For some reason that makes me twitchy.”

I took another step backwards and found myself hard up against the wall. Not where I wanted to be. I took a deep breath, stared back at him. If I let Mick intimidate me I’d never get any answers. Just as I pushed myself off the wall, opened my mouth to ask where he was the night Matt was murdered, Ben caught up to us.

“Everything okay here?”

Mick lifted one eyebrow. “Sure. But you need to keep your girlfriend on a leash, Ben. She’s likely to upset the wrong person going around firing accusations willy-nilly. Not everyone’s nice-natured like me.” His unsmiling eyes returned to me. “I was on my way to Resthaven when I ran out of petrol. Thought Art might have some but he ran me off with his pitchfork instead. He’s lucky I didn’t call the cops. And by the time I walked to the nearest petrol station and back it was too late to visit my grandmother. I called in to see her the next day instead.” Without waiting for me to comment on his flatly intoned dialogue, he set off down the hallway.

Ben’s fingers closed around my arm. He yanked me close enough to whisper in my ear. “Leave it, Kat. Leave Mick to me. Okay?”

I nodded. Shrugged. Suited me fine. A rollicking song Grandma McKinley used to sing to me when I was little ran through my head as I followed Big Mick down the passageway:
You can have him, I don’t want him, he’s too fat for me.…
’

The moment I stepped into the bright sunny kitchen my teeth started rattling. I blinked. Put two fingers in my ears.
Sheesh
. If this was life with multiple children, count me out. One toddler hung over the side of his high chair singing at the top of his voice while busy stuffing spaghetti up his nose. And beside him, in an identical highchair, his sister, mouth open wider than a garage door, screamed with the force of an approaching hurricane. Not that anyone paid her any mind.

Mick, back to his effusive self, loped across the room and slipped both arms around a slim woman who looked to be in her mid-thirties. Elegant, hair cut and layered to stay in place under all circumstance, she was dressed for an afternoon at the theatre instead of feed time at the zoo. Mick bent to kiss the top of the woman’s head. “And this stunning woman with the face of an angel,” he gushed, “is my ever-loving wife, Beth.”