Derailed (50 page)

What did Scarlett Murdoch wear?

She wore a black-and-white pin-stripe Armani suit, the skirt sitting on her knee. Her blouse was silk, white. Her blood-red pointed Gucci pumps matched her barrel-shaped Mark Jacob patent red purse.
(Notice the detailed description? I’m a fashion icon, so for all of my fashion-conscious followers, I’m expected to look the part at all times.)

How did Scarlett look? She looked pale, but resplendent. A modern-day Jackie Kennedy, but younger and more beautiful
. (Sadly, I have to skip bronzer during the court case, but I assure you, I do not look like I’m from the cast of
Twilight
.)

Who accompanied Scarlett to court? She was accompanied by her loyal and devoted family, who never left her side. 

What was Scarlett’s reaction when Bradley’s name was mentioned? Her bottom lip trembled; she shook her head from side to side, a sorrowful expression on her gorgeous face. But even when she cried, she looked beautiful. 

What did she do when Norman’s name was brought up? Several times she cried silent tears. When it became unbearable, she broke down and sobbed her heart out. Bawled actually. Unabashedly. There was not a dry eye in the courtroom. 

See that drama bit – chicks dig it, trust me. My mother used to constantly talk about that fateful day Kennedy was assassinated.  What does she remember most about that day? Jackie’s outfit. “She wore a lovely pink Chanel suit that day. A cardigan-style jacket. Pink buttons, navy pockets, and big, navy lapels. Very nice. And her hat – a pillbox. Matched her outfit. Just beautiful. Oh, and her gloves, they were white. Kid. Her shoes were navy pumps. Low heeled. Block. She looked gorgeous, I tell you.”

What was the president wearing?

“Eh…a suit, I think…” See what I mean?

Most authors rely on media clippings, tedious facts and tiresome court transcripts. But me, I’m not your average author (or your average
female
). I think of everything in advance because…? That’s right, I’m brilliant. Oh, but you already know that, right? That’s because you’re brilliant too.

Chapter Thirty-Five

SCARLETT

Something weird is going on in Mabel’s yard. Over a cocktail or two, I eye the flurry of activity on her property. First, a team of men remove the top layer of Mabel’s front garden. Then they replace it with bags and bags of fresh new soil. There goes my pool acid gift to Mabel. To my dismay, they plant roses all over again. Beautiful, half-bloom rose shrubs similar to the ones I painstakingly destroyed. Dumfounded, I stare at the men undoing all my hard work.

It’s a whole day’s job, so I have to wonder, how the hell does Mabel come up with money for such a massive project? I am fully aware that she and her bogan daughters don’t have that kind of dough. They don’t seem to have money for a fresh coat of paint for their house; where the hell do they get the money to
renovate
her garden? It’s a luxury, for Pete’s sake. Even more confusing is the sight of Ritchie’s Jeep parked outside Mabel’s home. Why would he be visiting Mabel?

Confused, I grab a pair of binoculars that I keep solely to spy on the bitch and look around. Imagine my surprise when I see Ritchie
sitting
in Mabel’s living room, laughing with her!

What. The. Fuck? I didn’t realize that Ritchie even knew Mabel. Could Ritchie be paying for the garden renovations? If so, why?

As I sip on a cocktail, it dawns on me that Mabel has been helping Ritchie spy on me. That is probably how Ritchie found out about Norman and his late-night visits. That bitch! It is because of her meddling ways that I was arrested. That ugly, old bitch, how dare she fuck with me? I will teach her. Just you wait and see. You don’t fuck with me and get away with it. Just you wait and see.    

RITCHIE

Every day Norman’s widow drags three children – two under the age of five, as well as a baby in a pram, into the courtroom, where she sits in the back row with them. She doesn’t make eye contact with anyone around and keeps to herself. Parking is a problem around the courts, so she probably, like most people, uses public transport. The walk is at least ten minutes from the station to the courthouse, twenty minutes with her three children and that huge bag on her arm. I feel bad when I see her struggling, and I wonder if I should offer her a lift. But I hesitate, mainly because I don’t know how I will be received by her.

“We should give her a lift,” Rival says as we drive past Mungee.

“Thought about it,” I say. “Think she’ll accept it?”

Rival shrugs. “Try anyway. Three kids – must be hard on her.”

One grey, rainy day as I drop off Rival and Arena at the courthouse, I think about Mungee. How will she manage with the children in the rain? I circle the block a couple of times looking out for her. Finally, I spot her. Brown skin with honey-colored eyes, Mungee is painfully skinny. She wears baggy jeans, a polar fleece oversize top and well-worn sneakers. Her long, dark hair is greasy and in a ponytail. She wears no makeup and no jewelry. I pull up beside her and roll down my window. She appears startled to see me.

“Would you like a lift?” 

“Um…eh…”

“I have booster seats,” I say, nodding at her girls, who move behind their mother and clutch at her jeans.

She looks at me, looks up at the rain, looks at her two kids, and eventually gives a weary nod. In fact, her whole demeanor is one of weariness.

I get out of my Jeep and help her and her kids into the car. As I do, I feel a pang of gratefulness that she is accepting my help. Sure, Norman was guilty as hell, but I still think he just fell under Scarlett’s spell. Now his poor family has to suffer because of Scarlett. It’s downright unfair. 

We drive in silence to the court, where I stop my Jeep and help them out.

“Thank you,” she says in a shy voice.

“No problem,” I say, handing her the baby. “I’ll take you back this arvo so you don’t have to walk.”

She doesn’t answer.

“It might rain,” I say, desperately wanting her to accept my help. 

“Thank you,” she whispers and hurries inside the court with her brood.

That afternoon, she accepts the lift
home
, to my relief. Besides thanking me, and giving me directions to her house, she doesn’t talk to me. 

The next day, as I drive her home, she turns to me. “She’s going to walk free, right?”

It’s a while before I answer. “Looks like it. Unfortunately.”

“Mm.” she looks away. After a while, she looks at me. “You know she killed Norman, right?”

I look at her and nod slowly. “I have my suspicions that she did.”

She looks out the window for a few moments. Then she turns back to look at me. “I want to show you something. I saw Norman hide it a while before he was arrested.”

“Oh, yeah?”

She nods. 

“Well, then I’d like to see it.” Something tells me that whatever it is, it has to be huge, and my curiosity is aroused.

Mungee’s house is a huge, impressive-looking home in the upscale suburb of St Ives. But the interior of the house is a stark contrast to the exterior. It’s dark, gloomy, and smells of mold. The furniture is old-fashioned and looks like they once belonged to another family. The kitchen is pokey, with missing cupboard doors and overflowing trash bins. The place reeks of used diapers and soured milk. I’m confused – pharmacists earn good money, so why would Norman have his kids live like this?

“He gave her all his money,” Mungee says, as if she’s reading my mind. “We barely got anything.”

“That sucks,” I say, feeling a surge of anger that he has such little regard for his lovely family.

She nods. With a weary look on her face, she walks over to an old-fashioned television set, where she picks up a remote the size of a brick. I assume she’s going to turn on the television. She doesn’t. Instead, she places a paper towel on the table, then carefully opens up the remote control and shakes it over the paper towel.

My eyes grow large at what I see. “This looks…wow!” I’m out of my seat and bursting with excitement. “We’ve got to call the cops and show them this. Right away, or both of us will go to jail, Mungee.”

I expect her to argue, but she nods. “Will you stay with me until they take it away?”

“Of course,” I say, silently bracing myself for a heap of abuse from Detective Guild and Stern, the s.o.bs who gave me a hard time the last time I was in their midst.

Just then Rival calls. I don’t take the call, but I text her to take a cab home.

“Why didn’t you call the cops before?” I ask.

She shrugs. “I was scared.”

“’Kay.”

A silence follows.

“Tell…tell Rival I’m sorry,” she says, tears welling up in her eyes. “Her girls…I’m so sorry that Norman took their father away. I am so sorry.”

I nod. “I will tell them.”

“This was not how I imagined my life would be,” she says as tears slide down her face. “I came to this country thinking I was going to live a fairytale life. Look at me now.”

For a while I watch her silently cry, not knowing what to say.

When the baby cries, she wipes her eyes and walks out of the room. She returns with him in her arms. “You want a cup of tea?”

“Yes, I would like a cup of tea,” I say, even though I only drink coffee. After what Mungee showed me, I’m in really high spirits. I hold out my arms for the baby. She places him in them and moves to make tea. Norman junior is a quiet little thing, so unlike Buster Gareth, who by now would have been ripping apart this kitchen.

As Mungee washes mugs to make us tea, and as we wait for the detectives to arrive, I find myself telling her about Arena and WIN, and even about Rival.

“I had no idea Rival was treated so badly,” she says as she places a mug of tea in front of me. 

I nod. “Important thing is; she survived. If you have WIN on your side, it really helps.”

“Really? They actually
help
women in need?”

“They sure do,” I say. 

We are interrupted by a screech of tires. Detective Stern and Guild blaze into the house, followed by two cops, expectant looks on their faces. When we show them the evidence, they exchange excited looks. “Sweet!” Stern says as he bags the evidence and hands it to a cop, who races off with it.

Stern turns to look at me.
Here it comes.
I brace myself for heaps of abuse from these ingrates.

“You did the right thing this time, MacMillan,” Detective Stern says in a somewhat grudging voice. “You didn’t act stupid like the last time.”

Passive aggressive fuck. With a shrug, I say, “Yeah, I’d do anything to solve Bradley Murdoch’s murder.” 

“
Help
solve the murder,” he corrects.

“Yes, Officer.”

“Detective!” he barks.

“Yes,
dick
tective!” I mumble.

Stern glares at me, while Mungee giggles behind her hand.

After firing a few questions at Mungee, then flinging a couple of unnecessary glares my way, Stern and his hombres hurry off.

Leaving my card with Mungee, I rush off to give Rival the good news. The
great
news.  

SCARLETT

I’m pissed off to hear that all charges against Ritchie have been dropped. According to my daddy, intent to obstruct justice couldn’t be proven. The fact that I said that Ritchie did not coerce or blackmail me did not help, hence that son of a bitch is a free man. It’s downright infuriating. I had expected him to lose his license to run his security company. Then he’d probably have to seek other employment. Maybe run a morgue or spend his days building coffins or something.

Anyway, I have other things to worry about. Right now, I’m bored with the trial, bored with dressing up and putting on a show when I am not getting paid for it. It’s time all this went away so I can run for prime minister. I have been giving it a lot of thought and I do believe I can be prime minister. There’s no need to worry about the scars on my reputation. These days, all that only adds to the enigma of a person. I am thinking of starting a Wrongfully Arrested website. Wrongfullyaccusedaustralia.com will be my go-to place when someone fires questions at me about Bradley’s death, because trust me, they will
. Being accused of my husband’s murder, wrongfully at that, was such a harrowing experience. I hated to think anyone innocent would suffer unfairly like I did, hence the genesis of the group. We welcome anyone in need of our services. We also welcome donations, because every cent counts toward helping innocent people.
After I become prime minister, I will of course resign from the group and move on.

I get an early-morning text from my daddy telling me they need to see me urgently. I dress quickly, go to his offices and meet my defense team.

“An adjournment? Why would they seek an adjournment?” I snap at my daddy, irritated that he demanded to see me at this ungodly hour. That bottle of Shiraz last night has resulted in my wine flu, so I’m having grave difficulty functioning at 8 a.m. (It’s not a hangover; it’s wine flu.) “I need to close this chapter and move on, Daddy. This case is just dragging and –”

“Scarlett…” My daddy removes his glasses, pinches the bridge of his nose, blinks rapidly, then slowly puts his glasses back on. His henchmen, all five of them, sit like statues, worried looks in their eyes. 

Their collective somberness adds to my irritability, but piques my curiosity at the same time. “Daddy?”

“Scarlett…Scarlett, they found shell casings in Norman Goldstein’s house.
Spent
shell casings.”

I walk over to the bar fridge and remove a bottle of water from it. After taking a swig, I say, “And?”

My daddy stares at me.

“How does that affect us?” I snap.

“Scarlett, Norman
hid
three shell casings in a television remote set. Three spent from a .38, get it? His wife found them, and together with that Ritchie, handed them over to the police last night.” My father refers to Ritchie by his real name, not gorilla. He further speaks in an unusual voice – deliberate, controlled, and almost…
frightened
– it’s really confusing to my muddled brain.