Dastardly Deeds (12 page)

‘Money’s money,’ I said primly.

‘Nice sunglasses though.’ She took off hers and examined them. ‘Worth more than what we paid. So they were still a bargain.’

‘Did everyone buy some?’ asked Petra.

‘Um, I think so. Except Donald. He wears prescription glasses.’

Petra flashed me a brief glance. ‘What about Scott?’

‘What’s with the fascination around sunglasses?’ Deb looked from Petra to me. ‘Is there something going on?’

‘Not at all,’ I replied smoothly. ‘Petra just has a little crush on Scott, that’s all.’

Deb stared at my sister. ‘
Do
you?’

‘It seems so. Who’d have thought?’

‘Well, not me.’ Deb laughed. ‘You do remember that he’s hopeless at relationships?’

‘That’s right. Well, bugger. Okay, I’ll move on then.’

Deb picked up her cocktail. It was a vibrant raspberry colour with an orange umbrella. ‘My theory is that he never really got over Anna. Our uni friend who died. They went out for ages, broke up just after graduation. Her doing.’

‘Ah.’

‘He took it pretty hard. I think he hoped they’d get back together at some stage, and then she died. Hit by a car. He wrapped himself around the bottle after that. Wasn’t until he met his first wife that he started to get everything together again. That marriage lasted about ten years. The next one wasn’t nearly as long.’

‘Sounds like a real catch,’ said Petra. ‘I’m definitely over my little crush now.’

‘Nice guy though,’ Deb went on hurriedly, as if not wanting to put Petra off altogether. ‘Give you the shirt off his own back.’

‘I’ve got my own shirts, thanks.’

‘
There
you are!’ called Phoebe from the steps. ‘Hang on, I’ll grab a drink.’

‘Shit,’ muttered Deb. She flushed guiltily. ‘Not that I don’t love Phoebs – I do. It’s just, well, sometimes I need a bit of space. Although I suppose that’s what you two were saying the other night when I turned up at your room.’

‘Not at all,’ I replied loyally. ‘It was fun.’

Petra was watching Phoebe as she lined up at the bar. ‘What’s her story?’

‘Believe it or not, she works as a clerk of courts.’ Deb followed her gaze. ‘Everyone’s always surprised because she comes across as quite alternative. She got voted most likely to join a cult at uni.’

I laughed. ‘Most likely to join a cult? What did you get?’

‘Most likely to break the glass ceiling.’ She grinned. ‘Which was based solely on a women’s lib badge I wore once. Anna gave it to me.’

Phoebe appeared by the divan, beaming. She was wearing loose cheesecloth pants with a thigh-length shirt and cotton vest. Her hair was in its customary long plait, draped over one shoulder. She looked more likely to organise a sit-in at the courts than work in one. Petra moved over to make room for her.

‘Enjoying yourself?’ asked Deb brightly.

‘Oh, yes. Had a go at bingo this morning. Haven’t played that since I was a child. And nothing’s changed.’ She smiled. ‘I still didn’t win.’

‘Oh, I
love
bingo!’ I said. Petra flashed me a disdainful, are-we-even-related glance.

‘How’s the writing going?’ asked Deb of me. ‘Any improvement?’

‘Yes.’ I felt anew the rush of contentment. ‘Finished off a column this morning. About how amazing Rome was.’ Barely had the words left my mouth than I realised they were a trifle insensitive. I would have grabbed them back if I could. Both Deb and Phoebe were looking at me. I rushed on, ‘Not that I wrote about
that
, about your … about anything, actually. Nothing at all.’

‘Well, that should make for an interesting column,’ said Petra.

‘It’s okay, Nell,’ said Deb softly. ‘You’re allowed to have enjoyed yourself. We had a great time too, before April died.’

Phoebe was nodding. ‘I’ll always remember Rome fondly, despite what happened. It was the last place we were all together.’

‘Then do you mind if I ask …’ Petra paused as she looked from one to the other. ‘If you were having such a good time, there really was no warning? No signs?’

Deb was already shaking her head. ‘None at all.’

‘Apart from …’ Phoebe ran her fingers through her fringe. It looked like white fairy floss. ‘She did say how hard it had been lately. Remember how you’d been worried about her the day before, Deb? How you’d wanted to check on her?’

‘Well, yes. But I never thought … I just thought she was sad.’

We all lapsed into silence for a while. I reached out to squeeze Deb’s shoulder and she smiled at me gratefully. Then I realised that Petra was trying to get my attention. She waggled her eyebrows and then looked down at her hand. It was positioned by her glass, two fingers stretched out in a V sign. Her burgundy nail polish glittered in the filtered sunshine. I frowned, puzzled. V for victory? For vendetta? For peace? Petra cast me an exasperated look.

‘What’s the plan for the rest of the day?’ asked Phoebe. She looked at us expectantly.

‘Thought I might spend some time with Lew,’ said Deb.

‘Really? Again?’

‘Well, he is my husband.’

‘Not on this trip,’ said Phoebe lightly, almost playfully. ‘Isn’t that what you said? He’s just another passenger, with his own group of friends.’

‘Do you have a partner, Phoebe?’ I asked, giving up on my sister’s inexplicable message. It took me back to our childhood, where her efforts at charades always ended in tantrums and tears. From her.

‘Not at the moment.’

‘Children?’

‘No, never went down that path. But no regrets. Everything happens for a reason.’ She finished her wine. ‘Anyone else for drinks?’

‘Nell and I’ll get them,’ said Petra, almost clambering over the top of Phoebe in her haste. She gave me a telling look. ‘Come on, quick sticks.’

‘You sound like our mother,’ I grumbled, getting to my feet.

As soon as we were out of range, Petra grabbed me by the arm. ‘
Two
deaths! Not one, two!’

‘Is that what you were trying to tell me with your peace sign?’

‘How was that a peace sign? My palm was downwards. It was just two fingers!’

‘Good job you’re not in the secret service. You’d be hopeless.’ I shook off her hand as we reached the bar. I looked at her expectantly. ‘What are they having?’

She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Just get a chardonnay for Phoebe and one of those red cocktail things for Deb.’ She pointed to the menu. ‘I’ll have a chardonnay too.’

I gave the orders and passed over our swipe cards before turning to my sister. ‘You can’t possibly think that April’s death is connected with Kim Satchwell’s?’

‘
Two
deaths!’

‘Yes, you’ve said that.’

‘C’mon, it’s just too much of a coincidence. Two deaths in a matter of days. Why didn’t we make the connection before?’

‘Because there
is
none. Kim was murdered. April committed suicide.’

‘How do we know for sure? Maybe she was pushed. A second death changes everything. Maybe the same person was behind both. I told you it was that Scott.’

The bartender placed three glasses of wine on the counter and went off to make the cocktail. I waited until he was out of range. ‘Hang on, it’s a long shot trying to make a connection between Kim and one of us, and now you want to throw April into the mix? What’s the connection between her and Kim? They didn’t even know each other.’

‘They didn’t need to,’ said Petra darkly. ‘All that mattered was that the murderer knew
them
. Think it through. Your theory, based on sound evidence, is that one of our group killed Kim. Well, apart from Ashley and Nick, you had the identical players in place when April died in Rome. Why couldn’t the same person have killed both?’

I looked away, trying to think of objections. I didn’t want the idea to have any merit at all; it complicated things too much. But she was right.

The view from the back deck was just as spectacular but, after seven days on this glorious ship, I was becoming desensitised to the superlatives. They were like the alcohol, a steady flow whose delights were ever so slightly blunted by constancy. Inebriation still occurred but resistance was building. It was a little sad, but things could hardly have remained like the first day, with conversations perpetually punctured by expressions of wonder.
Cruise-ship passengers literally explode with excitement.
Greenpeace bemoans resultant oil slick.

The couple at the table beside me were engaged in a fierce, hissed argument, and had been for ten minutes. Apparently, while enjoying post-dinner cocktails with friends, he had paid an indecorous amount of attention to Marcia Lenham’s tits. His defence was that they weren’t that great anyway, which I felt was probably the wrong approach. His wife appeared to agree.

I sipped my wine judiciously, mainly because I had consumed several during the afternoon and if I didn’t slow down, I would soon turn into a blithering mess. Ashley was running late. At the next table, Marcia Lenham’s admirer changed his defence suddenly, pointing out that he was not a tall man, and therefore it wasn’t his fault if his vision lined up with her tits. Which, he hastened to add, weren’t that great anyway. His wife suggested in that case it would have been preferable for him not to stand directly in front of her, with his nose buried in her cleavage. Or to have lifted his gaze every so often, and actually make eye contact.

I had given a great deal of thought to Petra’s theory about there having been two murders instead of just one. It had merit, on the face of it, but I was having trouble making a connection between the two tragedies. I had accepted the evidence that one of our extended group played a part in Kim Satchwell’s demise, but now we were talking about a person who knew
both
women, and hated them enough to murder them. Not just a serial killer, but one who was cold-blooded enough to board a cruise with blood on their hands and a smile on their face, all the while planning their next murder.

Ashley appeared by the glass doors, scanning the tables. He mouthed the word ‘sorry’ and then held up two fingers before detouring to the bar. This time I was fairly sure the gesture referred to minutes and not murders. Although, when he made his way across to me, he was carrying two glasses of wine, so perhaps it had been that.

‘Here you go.’ He set a glass down beside the almost full one I already had.

‘Are you trying to get me drunk?’

‘Not drunk.’ He grinned. ‘Just a little … relaxed.’

I smiled but then changed tack. ‘So why were you late?’

‘Sorry about that.’ He leant back, stretching out his legs beneath the table. His foot nestled against mine. ‘We had a conference call with James back in Australia and it went a bit longer than expected.’ He beamed. ‘All the paperwork’s through now. Nothing standing in our way.’

‘You’re really going to do it then,’ I pulled my foot away. ‘Build a golf course.’

‘Yep. So bloody excited! It’s a new chapter. Nick’s already working on the layout. Did you know he helped design the one he’s been working at past Brisbane?’ He paused expectantly and then frowned. ‘What’s up?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Oh, good. He’s a top golfer too. Played pro for a couple of years back in the nineties. He’s going to run our pro shop. Are you sure nothing’s up?’

‘Positive.’

‘Is it because of your mother? I heard she’s going back tomorrow.’

‘No.’

Ashley examined my expression. His frown returned. ‘Ah. You’re upset because I didn’t tell you before Lew made his announcement last night. In my defence, can I say I didn’t want him to do that until everything was absolutely sure, and then I would have told you first. And also, not to be pedantic, but
you
were the one who broke up with me. Isn’t this just supposed to be a fling?’

‘That’s right. And it’s a bit hard to move on from a fling when the flingee is hitting a hole-in-one right up the road!’

‘I wish,’ he said fervently, before continuing with a rush. ‘Although yes, you’re probably right. I should have told you. But it’s not like you’ll be running into me. I live in Bendigo, and you don’t play golf.’

There wasn’t much I could say to that. I sipped my wine, letting the moment stretch. At the adjoining table, the Marcia Lenham controversy had heated up, with the errant husband reverting to the classic shift-the-blame technique. This involved him pointing the finger at Marcia Lenham and her deliberate provocation, as well as the structural design of the push-up bra.

‘Sorry,’ said Ashley.

‘Thank you.’

‘Although you should give it a try. Golf, that is.’

‘I think not.’

‘I could teach you.’

I took another sip of wine and then examined the menu. The wife at the next table announced loudly that tomorrow, in Athens, she was going to buy a push-up bra herself, and then she was going to parade her own tits around. See how he liked that. This was probably his cue to insist she didn’t need one, and that she was beautiful the way she was, etc. Instead, unfortunately, his eyes lit up. She glared at him and then dragged her chair around to face the balustrade.

‘You’d have to think Greek push-up bras would be superior,’ said Ashley in a low voice. ‘They’re pretty good at architecture.’

I grinned. ‘Are you ready to order? I’m having the ravioli.’

‘I’ll get it.’ He drained his glass and jumped up, weaving his way through the tables towards the bar. He was wearing jeans. I always thought he looked rather good in jeans, particularly from behind. I finished one glass of wine and then pulled the other across. I was feeling a pleasantly muted buzz. A little like white noise in the background.

Ashley returned with two fresh glasses of wine. I glanced dubiously at mine. ‘Okay, I think that might be enough. I’d like to remain upright.’

‘Really?’ He sighed. ‘And once again we’re on different pages.’

‘Not necessarily. I just think you’re a couple of chapters ahead.’

‘Can I help it if I’m a fast reader?’

‘No. But if you don’t slow down, you’ll be reading by yourself.’ I smiled, quite pleased with myself. ‘Now listen, I wanted to run Petra’s theory past you. You know that friend of Deb’s who committed suicide in Rome? Well, the theory is that her death and Kim Satchwell’s are related. That it wasn’t suicide at all, but they were both murdered by the same person. She says two deaths in a matter of days is too much of a coincidence otherwise.’

Ashley was already nodding. ‘Yes, that had occurred to me.’

‘It had?’ I looked at him with surprise. ‘So you think April was murdered?’

‘Hmm.’ He grimaced. ‘I’m not sure. I don’t much like coincidences but it does sounds like the Italian police did a pretty good job. They’ve ruled it a suicide.’

‘That’s what I thought.’ I paused. ‘Then again, they didn’t have the context we do: another death involving a woman around the same age.’

‘So you’ve got Petra on board, have you?’

‘She’s a good sounding-board,’ I said, a little primly.

Our meals arrived, along with a basket of crusty rolls. Just in time, given the white noise of my buzz had begun to increase in volume. We ate steadily, every now and again looking up to catch each other’s eye. I felt warm and content. Everything was delicious. The food, the wine, the view, the company. It was one of those rare and wonderful moments where there was nothing not to like.

Ashley put down his cutlery and regarded me thoughtfully. ‘Where’s your sister tonight?’

‘She’s keeping an eye on Quinn for me. They’ve gone to a show.’

‘I see. What time does it start?’

‘Eight o’clock. Why?’

‘Well …’ He twisted to glance at the clock over the bar. ‘It’s past eight now, which means your room is … empty. Just an observation.’

I pushed my plate away. ‘An accurate observation.’

‘Seems a waste.’

‘True.’

The silence lingered, broken only by the husband at the next table hissing angry apologies to his wife’s back. Ashley held my gaze, his eyes crinkling with a half-smile. ‘So … shall we?’

‘I think – yes.’

We both rose, folding our serviettes neatly on our plates, and strolled casually towards the glass folding doors. Then it was a long walk through the buffet area until we reached the foyer. I half expected to meet someone we knew, who would raise a knowing eyebrow as they stopped to chat, but the stairwell was nearly deserted.

‘I’ll grab us some wine,’ said Ashley. ‘I’ll meet you there.’

I nodded, pleased with the suggestion. It would make things less … immediate. We could relax on the balcony with a drink and let things unfold. I hurried to my cabin and, once inside, began cleaning frantically. Petra’s dirty gym clothes were thrust under her bed, the paperwork on the desk pushed into a haphazard pile, the bags of shopping from Istanbul thrust into the wardrobe. I even had time to dash into the bathroom and add some product to my hair to keep it under control. It tended to frizz when enthused.

The knock on the door was soft. Ashley had a bottle of champagne in one hand and two glasses in the other. He smiled as I stood aside and then went over to the bench to open the bottle. I opened the sliding door and a breeze billowed in, wrapping the sheer curtains straight around my legs. I hopped to one side, plucking them off.

‘Here we go,’ said Ashley, passing me a glass. ‘Cheers!’

I kicked the last piece of curtain from my ankle and lifted my glass. ‘Cheers! Shall we take these outside?’

‘Um … how long does the show go for?’

Rather than answer, I just raised my eyebrows questioningly.

‘Okay, excellent idea! Let’s take these outside.’

He went to move around me, glass in hand, but the wind chose that moment to revitalise the curtain. This time it enfolded us both. I was tempted to break into a rendition of ‘Here Comes the Bride’, but felt the timing probably wasn’t the best.

Ashley took my glass and turned to place it on the bench while I tried to liberate us. We took a simultaneous step farther into the room, away from the door, and he quickly slid it closed. A section of curtain caught, puckered in the door like an oversized pocket handkerchief. We laughed and then the amusement slid into something more expectant. It trembled, almost tangibly. He took my face gently between his hands and leant forward to kiss me. I had forgotten what a good kisser he was. We stayed like that for a while, gently exploring, remembering, settling back into a rhythm, and then the momentum leapt into urgency.

Somehow we were on the bed, each fumbling at the buttons of the other’s shirt, punctuating our efforts with impatient kisses. My shirt was now open and his hands were beneath my bra, cupping my breasts. I gave up on his shirt and went straight for the fly of his jeans. I could feel the warmth of his flesh, the ever-so-slight puckering of his waist, the firm immediacy of our desire.

And that was when the door opened. We froze for one throbbing split second of disbelief, and then I frantically scurried upright. Ashley swore with pain, yanking his hands from my bra. He was holding his hands against his own chest when I pushed him off the bed. Much of the bedclothes went with him as he hit the floor with a thump. I was already trying to do up my buttons, with fingers that wouldn’t quite work.

Petra strode into the room and came to a sudden halt by the foot of the bed. Her eyes widened and then, almost instantly, she began backing up. ‘Bugger, I left my cardigan in the theatre. Quinn, can you go grab it?’

‘By
myself
?’ asked Quinn from around the corner, her voice high with disbelief. ‘But it’s dark in there!’

‘It’ll only take you a minute, and my feet are really sore. I’ll order our hot chocolates while you’re gone.’ She paused, as if Quinn was still unconvinced. ‘Come on.
Please
?’

It must have worked because a moment later I heard the door close. Petra returned to lean against the bench. She was smiling.

‘Hello,’ I said lamely. ‘I thought you were at the show?’

‘Clearly.’ Her eyes slid to the floor between the beds. ‘How’s it going, Ashley?’

‘Been better.’ He struggled to a sitting position.

I was acutely aware of the fact my left breast was squished beneath the band of my bra. The cup puckered emptily above. I hunched my back a little, hoping the errant breast would pop back unaided. It didn’t.

‘I hate to be critical at a time like this,’ said Petra conversationally, ‘and far be it from me to cast aspirations on your technique, but, um, that’s my bed.’

She was right, but I stayed where I was.

‘Also, you do realise there’s a do-not-disturb sign inside the wardrobe? You simply take it out and slip it on the doorknob.’ She made a hooking gesture with her hand. ‘The outside works best. I can give you lessons if you like.’

‘Thank you, but that won’t be necessary.’

Her smile widened. ‘I beg to differ.’

‘Very funny. Do you think you could give us a minute?’

‘I could, but where’s the fun in that?’

I regarded her evenly. ‘What will it take?’

‘A year’s free membership,’ she said immediately. ‘At the new Majic golf course. When I get back from England, of course.’

‘Done,’ said Ashley from the floor.

‘Before I leave though, in case you’re still interested in the investigation, I got Quinn to ask young Griffin while she was skyping him whether his father bought sunglasses in Istanbul.’

‘Really?’ I tried to muster up interest in something other than my left breast.

‘Yes. He didn’t. Lyn paid for them.’

‘Ah. Fascinating.’

‘A side tidbit is that he is
not
having a good time. His parents are both embarrassing and revolting. And his mother drank Bulgaria dry.’

This time I didn’t answer, letting my concentrated gaze do the talking for me. She stayed where she was for a moment, beaming from Ashley to me. Finally she left, the door closing firmly behind her. Ashley’s head popped up from beside the bed.

‘I think you broke my hand.’