Lessons in Murder (18 page)

Edwina looked up, surprised, as Carol opened the front gate. “Doing some gardening,” she said, brushing ineffectually at the dirt clinging to the knees of her floral overalls.

“I wonder if you’d mind discussing a few things with me.”

Edwina was delighted with her words. “Discussing!” she said cheerfully. “What happened to interrogations? Where are the bright lights and rubber hoses?”

Carol smiled moderately. “Could we talk?” she said.

Edwina led the way through to the veranda at the back of the house. Carol, looking with admiration at the view of water and yachts, said, “I believe your mother lives with you.”

Edwina gave a snort of laughter. “She’s an invalid. In the front room. Do you want to see her to make sure I’m not making her up? After all, this could be
Psycho,
and I could be a Norman Bates.”

Carol had a vision of Anthony Perkins, thin and gangling, standing beside Edwina’s rather fuller form. “May I say hello to her?”

Carol wanted to see for herself how alert Mrs. Carter was. Bourke had noted that Edwina had used her mother as an alibi the night Tony Quade had died, adding in pencil on his report, ‘might be a bit ga-ga, and confused about the day and time.’

She found a charming little woman sitting up in bed, vague but polite, who confused Carol with an old friend’s daughter and began a rambling story that Edwina finally cut off with, “Time for your sleep, Mum.”

Carol didn’t comment on Mrs. Carter as they returned to the beautiful view. Instead she said, “You helped Mrs. Quade with baseball a week or so ago, didn’t you?”

Edwina shrugged. “I’m the bunny who’s expected to fill in when anyone’s away on a sport afternoon. Why? What’s it got to do with anything?”

“Did you return all the bats to the sports store?”

Edwina laughed. “You kidding? The PE Department are so slack they don’t know what equipment they’ve got, let alone what they should have. Anyway, Syb took the stuff back. Why don’t you ask her?”

Carol ignored that, saying, “You’ve been on television a couple of times.”

Edwina gestured for her to sit down. “Are we going to be discussing my budding television career?”

“Not exactly. What I am interested in is the information being supplied to Pierre Brand.”

Edwina pouted. “You’ll have to ask Lynne about that. It’s nothing to do with me.”

“But it is. Mr. Brand wasn’t very cooperative, but he did eventually admit that you have been supplying him with inside information. For example, he mentioned that you have given him information about anonymous letters received by Mrs. Farrell.”

Edwina was unrepentant. “So? It’s a free country. I can say what I like.”

“How did you know about the letters to Mrs. Farrell?”

Edwina was scornful. “You can’t be a very good detective if you don’t know that already. Florrie told me.”

“We’ve already spoken to Mrs. Dunstane. I wondered if you’d tell the truth.”

Edwina beamed at her. “I always tell the truth if I think a lie will be found out.”

“How did Pierre Brand know Mrs. Quade had gone home early yesterday afternoon?”

“I rang him and told him.”

“Do you get paid for these little tips?” asked Carol.

“Of course. You don’t think I’d do it for love?”

“How about hate?”

Edwina’s face was flushed and there was a line of perspiration along her upper lip. “Hate Syb? Why should I hate her?”

“Do you know several people have received anonymous telephone calls like the one you had?”

“Yes, of course I do. Lynne went on and on about hers and how she felt and how Bruce had to keep the kids because she thought they were in danger.” She set her mouth. “Stupid bitch,” she added. She looked over at Carol. “And, Inspector, Alan and Syb had calls. Have I missed anyone? Don’t tell me Phyllis Farrell! I can just see her face.”

“Did you tell anyone that you had received a call?”

Edwina’s face became mottled. She heaved herself to her feet. “I told you, Inspector, because it’s your job to know. But why the hell do you think I’d go round telling anyone else someone called me a bag of lard and threatened to push me off a cliff?”

Carol nodded. “Okay. Thanks for your help.”

Sunday was gray and heavy. Carol groaned as Bourke dumped a bulging folder in front of her. “Why can’t it be like the movies?” she complained. “They never get all this paperwork.”

Bourke’s enthusiasm was not infectious. Carol hadn’t slept well and her head was aching, but she was determined to plow through the work with Bourke to get it out of the way. She thought of Sybil and wondered what she was doing.

“Sybil Quade,” said Bourke. “Did I startle you, Carol?”

“I was just thinking. What about her?”

“Did you see her lose her temper with Brand on his program? I told you she was passionate. And why has she been so reluctant to tell us the truth? I mean, everything we know has been dragged out of her, bit by bit. Do you think she’s protecting someone?”

In her imagination Carol could see the turn of her head and her quick smile. “Who?” she said.

“How about Terry Clarke? I can’t believe they’re not sleeping together. I mean, who could resist Terry? He has a kind of neanderthal charm, don’t you think?”

“Are you trying to be funny?” said Carol.

Bourke grinned. “Not if it doesn’t please you, Carol, and it obviously doesn’t. About Sybil, though—could she be scared of Terry? Intimidated into keeping quiet? He is pretty formidable.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Okay, then, let’s look at Pete McIvor. After all, she was willing to give him two thousand dollars with no likelihood of getting it back. So how about Pete and Sybil as lovers? I’m sure she could get him to do anything she liked.”

“You mean murder someone for her?”

“Well, it’s a popular motive, and, like I said, even I might kill for her.” He smiled at Carol’s expression. “I see Pete doesn’t meet with your favor, either. Well, there’s always Alan Witcombe.”

“You see Sybil Quade having an affair with Alan Witcombe?”

“I admit it does require an imaginative leap, but you know as well as I do it’s not impossible. All that concentration on sex and sin isn’t much good without a healthy outlet—and you don’t get much healthier than our Syb. Remember, Alan told me he thinks Sybil’s absolutely wonderful.”

“I find your flippancy this morning quite wearing,” said Carol, opening the folder. “How are your inquiries about nail polish going?”

“Oh, fair go!” said Bourke. “It’s uphill work. You won’t be surprised to learn that nail polish color isn’t a vivid memory in most people’s minds.”

“Does Edwina Carter wear nail polish?”

Bourke sighed. “Frequently. And so does every second female on the staff at least some of the time.”

“Sybil Quade? I haven’t seen her wearing it.”

“Maybe she’s given it up, since the murder.”

“All right, Mark, keep at it.”

“Okay,” said Bourke, “but you know if it’s a woman, she almost certainly changed the color of her nails right after the murder.”

“Yes,” said Carol, “that’s what we’re looking for.”

When Sir Richard rang, Bourke had gone and Carol was staring moodily at a glass of whiskey. “Yes, Sir Richard, Mark Bourke and I have just finished reviewing the evidence to date.”

Sir Richard had seen Pierre Brand’s program on Friday night. He was interested in Sybil Quade’s angry threat to push Brand down the steps. Had Carol spoken to her? As Brand had pointed out, she was a passionate woman.

As Carol assured Sir Richard she had interviewed Mrs. Quade on several occasions, she thought of Sybil’s naked skin, the smooth line of her back, the way her body arched as she climaxed. “Mrs. Quade may have been responding to the pressure exerted by the media—she’s a very private person,” she said.

“Has she admitted she had an affair with my son?”

“No.”

Sir Richard was impatient. “Well, get it out of her. Bill gave me to understand they were lovers.”

“At the same time as he was going with Hilary Cosgrove?”

“Well, Inspector, that gives a perfect motive. Sybil Quade is in love with Bill, but he throws her over for someone younger and more attractive.”

Carol couldn’t resist. “Have you met Mrs. Quade?” she said.

“Not in the flesh. No.”

“If you had, you wouldn’t imagine she’d be passed over for someone else.”

“Oh?” said Sir Richard. “But isn’t that exactly what happened? Her husband dumped her, didn’t he?”

Mrs. Farrell’s hand hesitated over the phone, then she lifted it, checked a number and dialed. “Inspector Ashton? Sorry to worry you at home on a Sunday, but there’s one little detail about the day Mr. Pagett died that’s been bothering me. I know it may sound rather ridiculous, but it’s about clashing colors.”

Chapter Twelve

For Sybil, Monday mornings at school after a perfect summer weekend always had a certain depression about them, and this one was par for the course. The two days spent in the peaceful calm of Barbara’s friendship receded like a dream as she walked in to hear Terry exclaiming, “Jesus! It’s the bloody swimming carnival tomorrow! If there’s one thing I hate, it’s wet, screaming kids.”

“You don’t seem very keen on dry, screaming kids, either,” observed Edwina, who, extraordinarily, was knitting.

“Getting ready for winter?” said Sybil, looking at the red wool. She bent over as Edwina gave a confidential nod.

“Diet,” said Edwina softly. “Got to do something with my hands, or I eat.”

“Good luck.”

“I’ll need it.”

“What are you two whispering about?” said Lynne.

“You,” said Edwina. “That should make you happy.”

Lynne’s vitriolic retort was prevented by Alan’s entry with the schedule of duties for the next day’s swimming carnival. “Now look,” he said to the murmurs of protest, “it’s only once a year and it’s for the good of the school. I know it can be inconvenient, but we just all pull our weight and it will be a great success.”

“You have clichés for breakfast?” inquired Edwina.

Alan ignored that. “And it’s very fair. The Physical Education Department drew lots to determine which teachers had to travel to the Warringah Swimming Center on a bus.”

“I’ll bet not one of the PE staff got bus duty,” said Pete, reading the list. He grunted. “Well, Lynne, you and I are awfully lucky. We get a whole bus of kids each.”

“Let me see that!” Lynne looked furious. “I particularly told them I didn’t want bus duty. I have to get the catering for lunches done. If you want to eat, one of you had better do my duty for me.”

“I’ll do it,” said Sybil.

Alan shook his head. “No you won’t,” he said. “I’ve arranged with Mrs. Farrell for you to take the day off. She agrees you’ve been under a tremendous amount of strain in the past couple of weeks, and it’s a perfect opportunity to let you have an extra break.”

“Wonderful!” said Lynne. “
I’m
feeling the strain, too. Do I get some time off?”

“Oh, don’t be so selfish, Lynne,” said Pete in an unexpected attack. She glared at him as he continued, “Syb’s had a much worse time than any of us, so leave her alone. And you can stop bitching about bus duty. I’ll find someone to do it for you.”

Terry drew Sybil aside. “I’ve got a Shooting Association meeting tonight. I can’t get to your place till late, probably after eleven.”

“Terry, I’m tired after the weekend. Let’s leave it until tomorrow.”

“Okay,” he said reluctantly. He took her by the elbows, “And Syb, I want to talk about moving in with you.”

Sybil looked at his opaque dark eyes. I could beat you over the head with a club, she thought, and I’d still never get through to you. “I’m willing to talk about it, if you insist, but it’s impossible.”

“Why? There isn’t anyone else.”

“There is.”

She felt wryly amused at his astonishment.

As soon as she had a break, Sybil rang Carol, using the phone in Alan’s office so she wouldn’t be overheard. Although Carol sounded reserved, she said quite readily, “Yes, I’ll come and see you. What time?”

“If I leave straight after the last lesson, I’ll be home by four at the latest. Could you meet me then?”

Carol’s voice was faintly amused. “You’re keen,” she said.

“Yes.” Sybil let the silence stretch for a moment, then said, “Could you park in the Singleton’s place, behind me, and come in the back way? They’re away for a week, so you can park in their carport. The reporters were waiting in the street for me when I left this morning, and I’m sure you don’t want to see them any more than I do.” Suddenly she felt prickly and dissatisfied. “Carol, are you sure you want to come?”

“I’ll see you about four,” said Carol.

• • •

Bourke rubbed his sweaty hands with a handkerchief and glared at the ancient fan, whose whirling blades created an extraordinary humming clatter as they stirred the heavy hot air. “Why don’t they air-condition suburban police stations?” When Carol raised an eyebrow at his irritation, he sighed and said, “This is driving me mad. You know, it’s bloody impossible to keep track of every kid who ran a message for a teacher the day Pagett died. And it’s such a long shot, Carol.”

“You said any pupil leaving the school grounds has to have a permission slip from a teacher.”

Bourke nodded. “Yes, and senior students on the gates collect them at recess and lunchtime. I’ve got two officers interviewing the seniors, but the kid could have been sent out during class time.”

“Then the important thing would be whose class the student came from, wouldn’t it?”

Bourke made a face at Carol. “So what if we find out? It’s not enough to prove anything for sure.”

“Another brick in the wall,” said Carol, “and every brick counts.”

Sybil was home before four. She felt restless and unsettled—she ached to see Carol, but dreaded what she might say. She stood just inside the glass doors waiting for her, and when Carol drew up her skin prickled with excitement and fear. She watched Carol unhurriedly climb out of her car, stand as if deciding what to do, then turn towards the house.