Murder with the Lot (24 page)

I blew my nose. ‘There's a whole heap that's unresolved.' I ticked the heap off my fingers. ‘Why Clarence came here in the first place. Why Mona was killed. Who ripped out the pages of your notebook.'

Vern tensed. Oops. I moved on swiftly. ‘Who burned my shop down. How Donald's bird smuggling fits in. What's in the gun cabinet.' I surged out of my chair before Vern had a chance to get started on his notebook. ‘Come on. The gun cabinet. Could even be money in there, Vern.'

His eyes narrowed, a money type of narrow.

The gun cabinet was a grey steel affair attached to the wall. I fiddled with the key, trying to open it. Finally, the door creaked open.

No wads of banknotes, no huge manuscript. No guns either, since Ernie had declared them all years ago under one of those early amnesties.

I reached into the back of the cabinet. There was a tiny something. I took it out and held it up. A computer memory stick.

‘That all?' Vern bustled in, started rootling through. In case I'd missed something, I suppose. I didn't like being checked up on like that, but in a way, it was a relief to have someone else to do this with. I'd had enough of being alone, waiting in the dark to be murdered.

Of course, Vern found nothing. Any person knows how to check a gun cabinet.

Vern brought in green tea in tiny cups. I took a sip. Bloody disgusting. ‘Very exotic,' I said.

‘Yeah, got into green tea in Sarawak,' said Vern. ‘I needed to get away from the authorities for a while. Terrific swamps in Sarawak. Nothing better than drinking green tea looking out over a decent bloody swamp. Nothing. Mostly buggered now, of course. Palm oil plantations.' He stared into the distance.

Maybe Sarawak was where he'd lost the arm. Maybe a motorbike mishap in a swamp. Possibly involving a young Malaysian beauty, a tragic story, that'd be why he never talked about it. Poor old Vern. I took another sip of green tea. If I turned off the normal-tea expectations, it wasn't too bad.

I'd never been inside Vern's house in the daylight. It was a whole lot cleaner than I'd expected, with an array of Chinese cabinets in deep red wood. Flinging one open, he revealed a computer with an enormous screen. Vern probably needed that big screen for the full impact of all his porn. I wondered if Vern knew about Piero's philandering.

‘Vern? You knew Piero pretty well, didn't you?'

Vern glanced at me. He switched on the computer and slipped in the memory stick, did some busy clicking.

‘He tell you stuff?' I said.

‘What type of stuff?'

‘Personal stuff.' I sipped my tea.

‘I'm not one to pry into people's personal lives, you know that.'

‘But you see things. You're observant.'

He hunched forward, peering at the computer screen.

‘Piero had another woman, Vern.'

‘Yep.'

‘And a whole other family.'

‘Yep.'

‘You don't seem real surprised.'

‘Like I said, people aren't always exactly what they seem.'

‘Where is she? This other woman.'

‘I wouldn't go there, Cass Tuplin. There's no happiness for you down that path. Seriously. I know how this story goes.'

I moved in my chair. ‘Well, maybe not happiness. But I've got a right to know.'

‘Doesn't mean you need to.'

‘Of course I bloody do. Jesus, Vern. My bastard bloody husband bloody had another woman. And I've been mourning the bastard every minute of every day for almost two years. Christ. If my house hadn't burnt down, I'd slice up his damn photo and fry it.'

‘Yep.'

‘And you all knew. How long?'

‘A while.'

‘And you said nothing?'

‘Didn't want to hurt you, Cass.'

‘Well, who the hell am I supposed to be angry with? A dead husband? The whole town? Myself?'

‘Reckon you could take your pick. I tend to go for myself, personally.'

A pause.

‘Did something like this happen to you? In those swamps?'

He shrugged. ‘Had a few things happen. Now, look at this,' he pointed at the computer screen. ‘There's an Excel file called Pocket Money. Clarence's book, you reckon? Strange bloody title. Strange sort of program to write it in as well.'

I peered at the screen. Lots of columns. Rows of numbers. It looked like something from my BAS return. ‘Some type of accounting record.'

He leaned closer. ‘Look at those names down the left hand side. Dodgy crowd. Logan Mathieson,' he stabbed a thick finger at the screen, ‘Shane Yend, Gabbo Ford. All got drug connections, that little lot.'

‘Why would this file be locked inside Ernie's cabinet? And the key left lying on the sand?' I said.

‘Maybe a swaggie had it.'

‘A swaggie with a memory stick wrapped in his swag? Which he put for some unknown reason into Ernie's cabinet? Then dropped the key near Mona's body?' I put down my cup. ‘You reckon?'

Vern turned red.

‘More likely Clarence nicked this file from Grantley and locked it in the cabinet.'

‘Maybe Grantley's got some kind of racket,' said Vern, slowly. ‘But Muddy Soak's been crime free since…'

‘Yes, yes.' If I heard that one more time.

‘It's an impressive record, Cass. That Sarge Monaghan's had a few awards.'

I wasn't interested in discussing Monaghan's awards. ‘Reckon we need another visit to Grantley's place.'

He nodded; a rare event, someone agreeing with me.

‘We'll take Ernie. He'll enjoy it.' Ernie would be essential, I was sure of it. Anyway, no more of the friendless routine. I'd take anyone I could get.

‘Plus,' Vern's voice was low, ‘Ernie's not bad behind a gun.'

I explained to Taylah that Ernie had to go to Muddy Soak for a while. ‘A funeral,' I said into the phone. I used my Sunday-best doleful tone. ‘Old friend of his.'

Taylah gasped. ‘His friend wasn't murdered, was he?'

‘No, no, nothing like that.'

‘It's just terrible, that poor woman in the wool bag. I can't believe we're losing Dean, as well. We could all be murdered in our beds.'

‘Don't worry, Taylah. They won't let Dean go, I'm sure of it.'

‘You wanna collect your tickets? Moisy dropped them in,' she said. ‘For the Muddy Soak Christmas Fringe Festival. Starts tomorrow.'

‘Ah. Yep.'

‘It's so exciting! All those
artistes
in Muddy Soak! I just hope none of them get murdered.'

‘Now, now, no one will be murdered, Taylah.'

Wet sounds while Taylah worked her chewing gum. ‘So who is it? This friend of Ernie's?'

‘Awfully tragic,' I stalled. ‘And sudden.'

‘Uh huh?' A pause.

‘Fella he knew from the war.' I had a moment of inspiration. ‘No one local. Stanley Robbins. Lived down south. Nice bloke. Always wore a tie. Fell out the back of an Armaguard van, doing up his tie, would you believe. Hit his head and died.'

‘Armaguard van?'

‘Haven't got time to go into it all right now, Taylah. I've got flowers to organise. I'll be in to collect Ernie tomorrow morning. Don't be surprised if he doesn't seem to remember Stanley. You know what Ernie's like.'

I spent the night on Vern's couch, ignoring his offers to share his bed. After breakfast—muesli, starfruit and yet more green tea—we set off to pick up Ernie from the home.

Ernie was waiting in his room, dressed in a carefully ironed khaki shirt and matching shorts. He looked like one of those aged birdwatchers Brad is fond of bringing into my shop. The type that launches into earnest debates about sixth extinctions and carbon miles. Launched. Back when I had a shop.

‘Managed to free up the diary,' Ernie brushed down his khaki. ‘And a trip will do you good, Cassandra Ariadne. Might even find yourself someone. Don't know what you've been doing all these flamin' years. High time you found a fella, one that doesn't need too much improving and comes without a lot of debt.'

Ernie gathered up the tools he'd laid out on his bed: a hammer, some pliers, a crowbar, wire cutters, a hip flask, skeleton keys, a stethoscope. He crammed them all into a bag and hung it on his walker. I don't know how he got that stuff past Taylah.

We walked slowly down the corridor, and I reminded Ernie of Piero, since he seemed to have forgotten my marriage. I was starting to wonder if I'd be better off forgetting it myself.

He stopped a moment. ‘Piero Tuplin? You want to marry him? Well, if you want my opinion, I'm dead against it. He'll be a faithless bastard. Stay right away from him, Cassandra Ariadne.' He stamped ahead.

He struggled into Vern's van, took off his hat, then stared out the windscreen, clicking his false teeth.

I felt a faint swell of pride as I looked around at our little group. We'd become our own version of the Fantastic Four, minus Brad unfortunately. Minus the superpowers bit too, of course. Vern took off at top speed, resting his arm stump on the window ledge.

As anyone will tell you, there's a lot an able, or reasonably able, group can achieve without any bloody superpowers.

I watched the world roll past while Vern drove. Salt haze trailed silver above a dry lake. A distant row of power lines, milky through the glaze. I wound down my window, ran my fingers through the curtain of hot air. I wasn't happy, not exactly, not with Brad missing and my house and shop burnt down and the humiliation thanks to Piero, but somehow, I felt free. On the loose.

Pocket money
. Presumably Grantley wasn't paying money to those people. They'd be paying him. His pocket money.

‘We'll need to interrogate Grantley,' I said. ‘And maybe visit the people on the list.'

‘We can't put you in danger, Cass,' said Ernie, leaning forward in his seat. ‘You haven't even met a fella yet. No, I vote we bring Dean into the operation.'

Vern nodded.

So much for democracy. Terribly inefficient, democracy. No one ever mentions that. ‘Here's the plan,' I said. ‘Vern, your job is to distract Grantley while Ernie and I search his premises. You've always been good at extracting information without people knowing what you're up to.'

‘Dunno how I'll distract him, though.'

‘He's a reformed gambler. Tell him there's a terrific gambling loophole you've just found. A not-quite-right pokie you've found at the Muddy Soak RSL. It spills out all its money when you press a certain button.'

‘Nah. No one would share that kind of knowledge. He'll be suspicious. And the RSL would fix that machine pronto, can't let a profit margin leak away.'

‘Well, OK, how about you're an old mate of his brother, Kev. You don't know he's dead. Kev's got something of yours and you want it back. A book, a footy jumper, a DVD of something dodgy. You'll have to act all amazed and sad when he tells you Kev's dead. But you've always been a good actor.'

Vern grunted. I took that as assent, and dialled Dean's number.

‘Yes Mum. I am, in fact, looking for Brad. Right now. I'm at Ernie's shack.'

‘And the helicopters?'

‘I don't need my mother to help me organise a missing persons search. Look, there's a lot of footprints around Brad's car. I'm taking photos, measurements, all that. Or would be if you'd get off the phone.'

‘Terrific, son.' I hung up.

I filled in Vern and Ernie.

‘Good old Dean,' said Vern. ‘Vital development, footprints.' I stared out the window a tick, at the puffs of dry fairy grass on the fractured soil.

‘As long as Brad turns up OK,' I said.

‘Course he will,' said Ernie. ‘And everyone knows how critical footprints are in your average criminal investigation. How many crooks don't leave a flamin' footprint? They can't help it, they all have feet.'

Grantley's mother, Mrs Pittering, must have been around ninety. She was bone-thin, her white hair worn in a wispy ponytail. She was in an emerald green silk outfit, her mouth a gash of red lipstick. ‘Grantley isn't here. He has…an appointment at the RSL.' Her blue-veined hand was tensed on the door, ready to swing it closed.

Vern spoke. ‘After Kev, actually. Friend of his. Vern Casey. Passing through the Soak with my colleague here, Dr Tuplin. She's an expert on historic homes, here to tour Hocking Hall. This is her uncle, Ernie. Anyway, thought I'd look up Kev while we're here.' Vern smiled a tooth-filled smile.

‘Kevin passed away.' She moved to close the door.

Vern organised an ashen face. ‘I didn't know. Been away.' He even managed some tears.

‘There, there,' she patted his arm. ‘Perhaps you'll come in?'

We trooped inside. I was worried about this Dr Tuplin role, about Vern's too-inventive faculties. It wouldn't have hurt to have warned me. Just a few short words to assist a fellow-conspirator.

Mrs Pittering led us down the hallway, into a lounge room. Not the kind of lounge I was expecting, not what I'd call a normal old-lady lounge. No brown velvet armchairs or hypnotic ticking clock. The lime green carpet was covered with broken glass. One wall had been sprayed with graffiti. Tall red letters, spelling words some old ladies would profess they didn't know. Arranged across the room were three rows of plastic chairs, each containing a dead hand. The wall beside me was lined with decapitated heads on sticks, twisted faces full of pain.

We stood there in gob-smacked silence.

Mrs Pittering didn't seem to notice, just silk-rustled out to make some tea.

We found three chairs without dead hands and carefully sat.

‘Milk and sugar?' Mrs Pittering put her head around the door. She saw us staring at the heads on sticks. ‘Oh, don't worry, they're not real.'

I nodded.

‘It's for the festival. We're envisioning and manifesting an immersion play.'

‘I see,' I said, not seeing.