Nefarious Doings (12 page)

Leon was gone when I returned, so I settled down to wait for his return. At the next table the middle-aged woman was holding out a forkful of food towards her husband. He ducked his head forward and then raised his eyebrows, nodding with approval. I looked away. The restaurant had started to fill but the acoustics were excellent, and the lighting such that it still felt intimate even though it wasn’t. I thought about Leon’s mother, about her life, and the injustice of fate.

Leon wove his way through the tables and smiled as he sat. ‘Must be the fountain.’

‘Yeah, the fountain.’ I took a sip of wine, still thinking. ‘Your story, it still doesn’t explain about Majic. Unless … she came from here?’

‘No, but
he
did. And I’m afraid you’re going to have to wait for the next instalment.’ He was watching the waiter approach with our mains. My salmon fillets looked delicious, pink-fleshed and crispy-skinned, on a bed of fluffy saffron rice and asparagus. On the other hand, Leon’s Cornish pie with yoghurt looked like baby vomit. He began eating immediately.

I gave him a few minutes. ‘Time’s up. Start with the sequel. You found him?’

‘Okay, okay,’ he laughed, wiping his mouth with his serviette. ‘Well, in answer to your question, no I didn’t find him. Mainly because I didn’t even have a name. Still don’t. I now have my original birth certificate, but the father bit is blank.’

‘Oh. So …’

‘So this is where my mother’s sister came in. See, she was with my mother when she first met him, at a footy match. She knew the date, because it was a friend’s birthday, and remembered that he was wearing a black and yellow footy jumper because Wendy, that’s my mother, was calling him Tiger.’ Leon took a mouthful of pie and then a sip of wine. ‘Which meant I had to turn detective. I tracked down a footy fixture from that year and discovered the black and yellow-clad team playing against Bendigo was … drum roll, please –’ he used his fork to deliver a tinny crescendo against his plate ‘– the little town of Majic.’

‘They still wear black and yellow,’ I said, having spent many a weekend watching my girls, around primary age, running around the football field like uncoordinated wasps.

‘But unfortunately that’s about it. There’s no record with names of the boys who played for Majic thirty years ago. I have the best and fairest for that year, and that’s it.’

‘You’ve ruled him out then?’

‘Yep, quite quickly. He’s Aboriginal.’

I looked at Leon’s fair skin and nodded. ‘I suppose that would have been too easy.’

‘Yes. But all this was happening when I was at a bit of a crossroads, career-wise, so I decided to treat it as a sign. Got some investors on board and opened the gallery. Haven’t looked back.’

‘And your father?’

‘Look, I’ve resigned myself to never knowing. Of course I still wonder, especially when I see a man around his age, and sometimes I do a little fishing. Like asking “Did you play footy as a kid?”, things like that. But let’s face it, the chances are he left town years ago.’ Leon drained his glass, then pushed it away. ‘And that’s enough for me. I’m driving.’

I smiled distractedly as I began a mental roll-call of all the mid-forties men I knew, trying to remember the ones who had grown up in Majic. That would make them around my age, give or take. I ate my salmon slowly.

‘So you see why I need you to keep this under your hat.’

I looked at Leon, frowned. ‘Yes, if that’s what you want. But have you considered the benefits of going public? There’re enough people who’ve lived their whole lives here to give you some answers. Vic Beardsley, for starters – he was the junior footy coach for years. A fourteen-year-old who had that sort of confidence with girls might well stand out.’

‘No,’ said Leon firmly. ‘Absolutely not. See, I’ve given it a lot of thought, and I know you’re right. But there’s a price to pay. Suddenly I go from level-headed businessman to somewhat desperate emotional cripple. I’d rather remain fatherless.’ He pushed some yoghurt dressing against his pie. ‘Besides, in my imagination he’s a cultured sort of fellow, listens to classical music, reads his way through the Miles Franklin shortlist, wanders around the local art galleries. In reality he’s probably some footy-playing, beer-drinking bogan whose idea of a good time is singing Jimmy Barnes at karaoke.’

‘Actually, given your history, he’s probably a mechanic.’

Leon laughed, throwing his head back and then bringing it down again to gaze at me. ‘While I can’t believe I just told you everything, I’m also rather pleased. I feel great. Lighter.’

‘I’m glad. Really.’ I wiped my mouth and then laid my serviette across my plate. ‘Leon, that was delicious. Thank you so much for insisting I come out.’

‘No, thank
you
.’

I smiled and then allowed silence to settle, giving Leon a chance to finish his meal also. His story had been amazing and I knew, even though I would keep his secret, from now on I would also be assessing each eligible middle-aged man for potential parentage. Perhaps this was another mystery that I could solve. At this rate I would be able to go into business. Nell Forrest P.I.

I sipped my wine and watched the couple over his shoulder drink their coffee, also in silence. Except in their case they would be going home together, perhaps having another coffee on their decking, enjoying the gentle summer evening. My buoyant mood faded. And then they would go to bed, a goodnight kiss, an embrace, a deep unspoken contentment.

But as the jealousy flared, turning wine to vinegar, I reminded myself – as I had so many times over the past seven months – that life wasn’t so much about what one
didn’t
have, but about what one did. Besides, whatever I had or didn’t have or should have had but now didn’t, I was still better off than Berry.

Dear Nell, I really enjoy your column and really think your writing style is really similar to mine. I enclose my book
Romance on the Endeavour
and would really welcome your feedback.

The day of Dustin Craig’s funeral was also the first of a predicted five-day heatwave, so that it began with a beautifully cool morning and then gradually climbed to the mid-thirties in the early afternoon. Unfortunately this coincided with the funeral, scheduled to begin at two, and resulted in more than the usual number of red faces.

I sat with my mother and the Hurleys towards the back of the little chapel, wearing my LBD again, but this time sans jacket. It was too hot to worry about subtlety. Directly in front of me was a remarkable feathered concoction that blocked a great deal of my view, but by ducking a little to my right I could see Beth Craig and her daughters seated at the front. A trio of blonde heads, all focused on a screen by the lectern, just beside the coffin. Perhaps
Psycho
was on the program.

I hadn’t seen Leon since our ‘date’ on Wednesday night, and wasn’t sure that he would be attending today. In fact, I was a little surprised at the number who
were
attending, given Dustin Craig had been relatively new and rather unpopular. On the left side of the church I could see Edward Given, in a suit that fitted like black swaddling, in between the Tapscotts and the Emersons. Around them were scattered a number of the people who had dropped in to the shop on Monday to declare their dislike for the victim. The front seats, on that side, were occupied by a stocky, unpleasant-looking man together with a stocky, unpleasant-looking female and a trio of teenagers. Every so often the unpleasant man would stare across the aisle at Beth, which was perhaps why she was keeping her eyes studiously forward.

‘Did you know William the Conqueror died during a heatwave like this?’ commented my mother. ‘And then they had to get the body back to England, which took quite a while. No refrigeration either, in those days.’

‘Eew,’ said Rita, echoing my thoughts.

Yen nodded sagely. ‘Yes, but worse was to come. By the time he finally got there, he’d swollen so much they had to
force
him into the coffin –’ she paused to demonstrate with her hands ‘– and then, during the actual funeral, he exploded.’

We all, as one, turned to stare at her with varying expressions of horror.

‘True story.’

‘Well, thanks for sharing.’ I straightened, shaking my head. ‘Pity you weren’t asked to deliver the eulogy, you could have started with that to warm up the crowd.’

‘Humph, humph,’ said Uncle Jim, which was his version of an unobtrusive laugh.

I turned again, staring at my mother’s breast area. ‘I thought you might be wearing your pin. You know, the little fleur-de-lis one.’

‘Not for this wanker.’

Beth Craig chose that moment to swivel around, craning her head to search the crowd. I slid down slightly, well-protected by the huge hat which bobbed before me, feathers fluttering each time its owner nodded. Lyn Russo manoeuvred her way along our row and plonked into the seat beside me with obvious relief. She stretched her legs, the ends of which were elevated by serious stilettos.

‘I knew it was a mistake wearing these.’

Yen leant forward to give the offending footwear a glance. ‘I think the actual mistake came earlier, when you bought them.’

‘Oh no,’ said Lyn, not offended at all. ‘I didn’t have a choice. They were a
ridiculous
bargain.’

‘That explains it.’ Yen sat back, clearly finished with the niceties.

‘Did you know my youngest has a
fierce
crush on your youngest?’ asked Lyn, rotating first one foot and then the other. ‘He has it real bad, poor lamb.’

‘Ah … oh. Is that Griffith?’

‘Griff
in
. His brothers are giving him hell about it, the big meanies.’

I tried to recall what Griff
in
Russo looked like. ‘Should you be telling me this?’

‘Probably not,’ replied Lyn airily. She peered around the chapel. ‘Isn’t this all
amazing
?’

‘Depends on your definition of amazing, I expect. Listen, Lyn, can I ask you something? Only because, having been the person to find Berry, I feel sort of involved.’

‘Of course!’ Lyn turned to me with horrified delight. ‘I’d forgotten about that! You poor thing! Must have been shocking. I heard the dog was
sitting
in her blood, is that true?’

‘No. Nor was he sobbing or howling or finger-painting.’ I took a deep breath. ‘What I wanted to ask you was whether you’d seen Berry since Dustin Craig’s death, whether she’d said anything. Anything at all.’

‘I
did
see her on Tuesday,’ said Lyn, thinking. ‘She was out for a walk with little Harvey.’

‘Harvey!’ said Uncle Jim, from my other side. ‘
That’s
why I was thinking Jimmy Stewart!’

‘The rabbit,’ said Yen.

‘From the movie of the same name,’ added Rita quickly.

‘
Any
way …’ I continued to look at Lyn. ‘You saw Berry walking. Did you speak to her?’

‘I said hello, and then she said hello.’ Lyn closed her eyes briefly. ‘Of course had I known she only had hours to live, I would have said more.’

‘Perhaps a comment about the weather,’ said Yen.

‘Yes.
Anything
. Poor Berry.’

‘Ssh, it’s starting,’ hissed Rita, leaning forward to take in both Lyn and me, then finishing with a rather undeserved glare towards her husband. An older man was standing at the lectern, with white hair and matching goatee. He looked like a slimmer version of Colonel Sanders, from Kentucky Fried Chicken. Beside him the coffin sat solidly on a red velvet skirt; glossy blond wood with gleaming brass and a mound of water-lilies. Colonel Sanders cleared his throat and the screen behind him filled with an image of Dustin Craig. From the front came a strangled gasp. It was a lovely photo, which showed Dustin sitting on a deckchair with a baby daughter on his lap, her blonde hair a halo in the sunshine. He was grinning, an unaffected grin that sent long creases from the corners of his eyes. This was a family man, salt of the earth.

My mother snorted and several people turned to look in her direction, including the stocky man from the front row. Rita ducked her head, made a show of smoothing her dress over her knees. The colonel began talking, describing Dustin Craig in a manner that few present would have recognised. Devoted father, loving husband, loyal brother. Taken too soon.

I gazed surreptitiously around the chapel, almost immediately making eye contact with Leon. He wiggled his eyebrows several times before giving me a broad wink. I smiled, despite myself, and then slid my gaze away to meet that of Detective Sergeant Armistead, sitting directly behind. Suddenly my smile felt foolish, tasteless.

The colonel was now talking about the confusion we must have been experiencing, with regard to the manner in which Dustin had met his demise. How easy it was to feel anger, fear, revenge. Yet these were the very attributes that least summed up the man we were there to honour. I resisted the impulse to glance at Leon again. Instead, I wondered who had fed him this stuff, and whether they really believed it. I looked at the screen, at the duo drenched in sun and laughter, and felt inexplicably depressed. It was all such a waste. Everything.

‘I believe you ended up with little Harvey,’ whispered Lyn, inclining her head towards me but keeping her eyes on the dais. ‘So nice of you, Nell.’

‘We’re just dog-sitting. I’m still expecting the next of kin to take him on long term.’

‘Poor Berry.’

‘Shh,’ hissed Rita, putting a finger up to her mouth.

Colonel Sanders was now holding his hand out invitingly, and the stocky female rose and walked slowly, heavily up to the lectern, pulling a folded sheet of paper from her pocket. She nodded to the colonel and then cleared her throat. ‘Hello, yes, um, thank you all for coming. It’s so amazing, for us, to see such a turnout for Dustin. Tremendous.’ She gazed around the chapel, nodding. ‘Really um, tremendous. I’m reading this for my husband, Evan, Dustin’s brother.’ She cleared her throat again and then stared down at the paper. ‘Growing up, my brother was my hero. Everything I tried, he’d been there before me. Scouts, cricket, footy, tennis, little aths – it seemed like I wasn’t just competing against all the other blokes my age, but my big brother as well. And he never let me forget it either.’ She looked up, around, back down, and continued. ‘Um, he was even good at school, although he did get into more than his fair share of strife. Then he met Ally and it was love at first sight.’ She glanced up again, but this time straight towards Beth Craig. ‘It doesn’t seem that long ago I spoke at their wedding. I’ve never seen him that happy. He was a great father too, when little Molly came along, and again later with Jessica and Kristy. His three girls, he called them. They’re the big losers here, having lost the greatest dad ever. And me, having lost my brother, my hero. Loyal, he was, not like some. But we’re all losers as well, now that he’s gone – every single one of us.’

‘Speak for yourself,’ muttered my mother. ‘What a load of codswallop.’

Dustin Craig’s sister-in-law was shaking the colonel’s hand, and moving away. She paused by the coffin to trail one hand across the blond wood, then rubbed her eyes so roughly that I flinched. As soon as she reached her seat, her husband reached out to embrace her, and she drew his head towards her breast. On the screen, the sunshine shot of father and child now curled away, replaced by a slide show of images; Dustin as a baby, toddler, poised by the cricket stumps, holding a football, standing stiffly to attention as a scout. Dustin as a young, mullet-haired bridegroom, with an equally youthful bride who clearly wasn’t Beth Craig, and then as a father. A series of blonde babies. Now music trickled forth, accompanying the slideshow. Celine Dion with ‘My Heart Will Go On’.

‘You have to be kidding,’ said my mother, in a low voice.

‘
Loved
that movie,’ put in Lyn chattily. ‘But when I go, I want Pink with “Get the Party Started”.’

‘“Amazing Grace”,’ said Rita. ‘Leonard Cohen.’

I leant to the side. On the dais the coffin was now moving backwards, slowly, into a doorway draped in matching red velvet. I thought the funeral parlour could have made a better choice, perhaps a colour less reminiscent of fire. Not just because of Dustin’s unfortunate demise, but in a general, non-crematorium sense. I could hear Beth sobbing, her sobs getting gradually louder as the coffin rolled from view and Ms Dion reached her climax. It was all so melodramatic that, unable to resist, I glanced over at Leon, expecting the raised eyebrows again, perhaps even a surreptitious grin. But instead he was staring at the film show, seemingly engrossed.

Before I could stop myself, I looked behind and found myself gazing at Detective Sergeant Armistead again. This time it was he who broke eye contact, but only because those seated at the front had now risen and begun filing past. My mother leapt to her feet and deftly joined them, followed a little more slowly by Uncle Jim, and then the rest of us.

Moving outside into the thick afternoon heat was like an assault. A television crew had set up a camera near the pathway and were filming industriously, with a bored blonde female standing to one side with a microphone. I put my sunglasses on and moved into the shade of a large pittosporum, which had the added benefit of being the only thing that my mother was allergic to. Lyn had tottered over to join her next-door neighbour, Kat Caldwell, and Caitlin’s mother Jill, so I took a few moments to scan the milling crowd, searching for suspicious activity and/or expressions of guilt. As I scanned, however, it occurred to me that many others were doing the same thing: Edward Given, Fred and Elsa Poxleitner, Roz Gupta, Sam Emerson, our gazes like sweeping searchlights crisscrossing each other. In fact we, the scanners, were the ones who looked suspicious.

Others were approaching Beth Craig to extend their sympathies. She stood, with the two little girls, by the chapel steps, looking truly beautiful in black. Bereavement suited her. Ashley Armistead and another police officer, also in a suit, stood nearby, stiff and silent. I looked away and watched Dustin Craig’s brother and his family exit the chapel and then come slowly down the steps. One of the teenagers was already texting on her mobile. The brother stopped when he saw Beth and an expression of fury crossed his face. He dived forward, past his wife, to the stair rail.

‘
You
killed him, you fucking slut!’

One hundred conversations ceased instantly as everybody swivelled to stare. The blonde reporter snapped to attention, waving at the cameraman to get closer. The two policemen were both suddenly flanking the brother and taking him by an arm each. But they couldn’t do anything about his mouth.

‘He was on to you, bitch, and you’ll get what’s coming! Just wait and see!’

My stomach twisted, and I knew.
His
was the voice on the answering machine. Mean, spiteful and filled with fury. There was no doubt. He jostled against the police, his face twisted with hatred, lunging forward.

‘And where’s your accomplice, hey? Where’s that murdering Forrest bitch?’

Everybody except the main players immediately turned to stare at me, standing on my own beneath the pittosporum. The camera spun with them. For a brief moment, I was the centre of attention. Then, as if all – including the camera –  rejected this option at the same time, they moved almost seamlessly to my mother. She held one hand out and examined her fingernails, then busied herself with the cuticles. Rita took a step away, while Uncle Jim took a step closer.

‘Slut! Bitch!’ yelled the brother, but without quite as much conviction. Then he slumped, as if drained, the two police now holding him up instead of back. His wife, who had been tugging at Ashley Armistead’s suit this entire time, now took over in the fury stakes. But her anger seemed to be directed at the police, and her teenagers, and consisted of so many words mashed together that she made little sense. Now in control, the police manoeuvred the entire family off the steps and around to the rear of the chapel, the woman’s strident voice fading.