Sex on Tuesdays (20 page)

“Writes for some tacky newspaper. Forget what it's called. Young guy, but up himself, if you ask me. Never stops to speak to the riffraff.” She dropped her cigarette in the dirt and ground it out with the toe of one slipper.

“Live in this street, do you?”

“Nah. I'm staying with my sister and her boyfriend for a few weeks. Just until they put my rat-faced hubby behind bars. Bastard. When I heard the cop cars with their sirens screaming I thought I'd come and have a sticky beak.”

“Know what happened?”

She shrugged one bony shoulder. “Someone said the guy's been bashed up. Someone else said he's been shot. Dunno. But the way the cops have been running around like blue-assed flies, I reckon it must be bad.”

“Poor bloke,” I said, and pulled Horace away from the fence post. I didn't want him contaminating a crime scene by lifting his leg.

After watching the activity for another five minutes, I moved away from the crowd and tapped in Simon's number on my mobile.

“Simon,” I whispered when he answered. “I'm at Jack's place.”

“What the hell are you doing there?” he yelled. “Didn't I tell you to stay home?”

“The police are here,” I said, ignoring Simon's rant. “And an ambulance. In fact, Jack's being carried out of the house on a stretcher right now.”

I pushed through the crowd to catch a sight of Jack before they lifted him into the back of the ambulance and drove away. He looked so young lying on the stretcher. But as I drew closer, I could see blood soaking his carefully arranged hairstyle and that his Greek god nose was smashed beyond repair. And then I gagged—covered my mouth with one hand as I swallowed the sickly bile that rushed into my mouth. One side of Jack's head had been blown away. One side of his head just wasn't there anymore.

As they passed by, I watched one of the paramedics lean over, place a finger to Jack's neck and then lift the sheet up over his poor wrecked face. Jack wasn't going anywhere. This was a crime scene.

Hand shaking, I lifted the phone to my ear. “Simon, we're running out of suspects,” I told him.

“What do you mean?”

“Jack isn't the murderer.”

“Don't be so sure about that. Jack Rivers is—”

“Dead. Someone beat the crap out of him and then decided to blow the side of his head away.”

“Get out of there, Dani!” Simon barked and I had to hold the phone away from my ear to stop from being deafened.

“But—”

“Go home. Lock the doors and don't answer to anyone but me. Understand?”

“Yes, but—”

“Go home! Now!”

21

Friday, 3:30 p.m.

I snapped my phone shut, hooked it onto the waistband of my trackpants and studied the bystanders gathered in front of the crime-scene tape. In television crime shows you usually spot the murderer hanging around afterwards, getting a buzz from knowing he was responsible for the thrill caused by violent death.

There was no familiar face in this crowd. If Jack's murderer was busy getting his rocks off here, he was a total stranger to me.

Sighing, I reached down and gently stroked my dog's head. More to feel the warmth and comfort of his presence than for any other reason. It didn't work. There was a deep-down coldness inside me that refused to be warmed, refused to be comforted.

If Jack wasn't our killer. who had mixed the ingredients to make a loaf of bread for me and then sniggered while adding a liberal dose of aphrodisiac to the recipe?

I noticed two uniforms muscle their way into the crowd, asking questions. I had no answers—well, none that didn't involve me—so I tacked on the end of a family of Mum, Dad, Grandma and 2.5 kids and followed them along the street, away from the remains of the once drop-dead gorgeous
Gape
journalist who'd so recently flirted with me at Erica's. That lush mouth, so yummy, so full, so mesmerizing—the mouth that had kissed me—was lush no more. The hand that had played tiptoe chasey across the soft skin on my inner thigh was forever still.

At the corner, I veered off and hurried back to my parked car, all thoughts of searching Jack's bathroom for evidence now completely irrelevant.

While driving home, I kept seeing Jack's ruined face. Hearing Simon's frantic, “Get out of there, Dani,” tasting sour bile each time it rose in my throat.

Who had killed Jack?

Could it have been the mystery person Jack was yelling at as Simon and I climbed out of his window that morning? Okay, after our near-miss in Jack's study we'd hit the ground running and didn't hang around, but I could have sworn there was only one car in the driveway. And that was Jack's. So, whoever it was with Jack this morning, could have driven to the house with him, beat him up, shot half his face away and then left on foot.

I gripped the steering wheel harder. Bit into my bottom lip. How could I dodge a killer if I didn't know who the heck was doing the killing?

When I pulled up at a red light on the corner of Main North Road and Midway Road, a down-and-out guy in a stained, ankle-length overcoat started to cross the road. Halfway over, he stopped, dug into an inside pocket and took out what looked like a gun. My brain, mushier than oatmeal, switched off. And then the man placed one end of the gun in his mouth, touched the other end with a lit match and continued walking. With a sick feeling of relief, I realized he'd merely lit his pipe.

Further along Main North Road, a black Subaru 4WD came cruising up alongside me. Oh, my God. It was
Him
. The killer was going to run me off the road and splatter me against a tree—this time making certain the paramedics scraped what was left of me off the windscreen with a spatula.

Bug-eyed, I planted my foot on the accelerator, rocketed forward into the next lane, and cut the Subaru off.

He'd have to catch me first.

Still shaking, I glanced in my rearview mirror. A grey-haired grandmother, gold earrings hanging from both ears, poked her newly permed head through the window of the Subaru and was shaking her fist at me.

I yelled “
Sorry”
and let her pass.

By the time I'd reached the outskirts of Gawler, my nerves were playing pass-the-parcel with a live bomb. I even flinched when turning into Maple, two streets from home, a neighboring kid, astride his red and silver tricycle, pointed a plastic water pistol at my car and yelled, “
bang bang you dead!
”

With claws for fingers, I clutched the steering wheel in a death grip. And it wasn't until I turned into Bower Street that I let out a sigh and relaxed. For there, behind the colorful row of rose bushes bordering my front lawn, stood my house. At that moment it had never looked so beautiful—so safe, so welcoming.

After parking my car on the opposite side of the road, I unlatched each claw and then undid my seat belt.

“Well, mate, we made it,” I said to Horace and reached over to open the car door for him.

Eager to hide inside the house, I slid out onto the footpath, hurried across the road and then followed my dog up the pebbled path leading to my front door.

Before we'd gone half a dozen steps along the path, I stopped—ears on stalks. Was that someone talking? I put a restraining hand on Horace's collar and listened harder. Nah, I thought, letting my breath whoosh out in relief. Only a magpie sitting on the fence, warbling. Probably messaging the neighborhood birds—warning them to steer clear of 34 Bower Street, as the treacherous householder was a bird killer.

Oh boy, did I need a drink. And I wasn't talking about water. Or coffee. Luckily Simon and I hadn't emptied the carton of wine while watching cartoons the night before. As soon as I was inside that door, I'd lock it behind me and refuse to come out until the police had done their job.

And getting drunk while waiting for that to happen was the best idea I'd had all day.

My mind focused on the wine in the fridge; it wasn't until I was three meters away that I noticed the front door was open.

Shit!

I snatched a quick breath. Almost choking as my spit caught in my throat and my heart thwacked double time against my ribs.

The killer had beaten me home.

All thought, other than staying alive, drained immediately from my brain. I grabbed Horace by the collar and dragged him into the bushes, where we both crashed to the ground.

“Stay!” I whispered in Horace's ear and scrambled to sit up, at the same time yanking my phone from my waistband.

As I dialed Simon's number, I peered through the leaves and frowned. The killer had turned the television on in my lounge room. Bloody hell! This guy was making himself at home. Watching my television and likely drinking my wine—while waiting to murder me. How rude was that? I hope he hadn't noticed the choc-chip cheesecake from the Cheesecake Shop when he opened the fridge. Cuz if he ate that—I'd
really
get mad. It was the last one they had in the shop.

“Simon,” I whispered into the phone when he answered. “I'm in a spot of trouble here.”

“Dani?”

“Yeah. It's me. Sorry to disturb you at work again, but I think the killer's inside my house.”

“Fuck!”

“My front door's open and I know I locked it before I left to go to Jack's.”

“Holy crap!”

“Horace and I are hiding in the bushes in my front garden, and if I try to get back to my car, whoever's inside the house might see us.”

“Jesus!”

“Simon, can you
please
stop with the blasphemy and either come up with a halfway decent suggestion or drive over here and rescue me?”

“Jesus, Dani. How do you get yourself into these situations?”

“I don't!” I said, all wounded and indignant. “Hey, I'm the innocent party here. The victim. The poor sod who's next on the murderer's hit list. The situation, as you call it, came to me.”

“But you were not supposed to leave the house in the first place. Remember?”

I sniffed. Okay, he had me there.

“Now listen, Dani.” Simon spoke very slowly and I could hear the hidden fear layered in his voice. “Stay put. Do not move. Especially, do not try to get inside the house. Hear me? I'll be with you in five minutes.”

“Try to be quicker than that, Simon.” I sniffed again. “I
really
need to use the loo.”

After disconnecting, I chewed one fingernail down to the quick. I hoped Simon had the foresight to bring a weapon with him when he came to rescue me. All I had was a nail file in the pocket of my trackpants. Not much use in distance warfare and I had no intention of getting close and personal with whoever had taken over my house.

Of course there was always Horace. I studied the dog curled up beside me, half asleep. His first port of call after any form of exercise was usually the sofa, his beanbag, or the middle of my bed. Would he have time to chew on a killer's leg before dropping off to sleep?

His muffled snore failed to instill confidence.

After waiting for five minutes, I decided I couldn't wait any longer for Simon. All this heart-stopping action was having a detrimental effect on my bladder. Cursing my creaky knees, I crawled out from under the bush and scuttled on all fours over to the front window. Perhaps I could sneak a look in the window? That way, at least I'd know if there was more than one bad guy to steer clear of.

Damn. Before taking off to Jack's place, I'd pulled the blinds down. Not deterred, I pushed myself up and crouching over, tiptoed around the side of the house. Maybe the killer had unlocked my back door. If I could get inside, I could scout around and suss out the opposition.

And use the bathroom.

The back door opened at my touch, and I sidled inside. Sounded like
Mash
on the television. At least the killer had a sense of humor—and also an obsession with blood, guts and big guns.

I was only a few steps away from the bathroom when I heard footsteps approaching.

“Wh…who's there?” I squeaked, my breath stuck in my throat. Fair dinkum, if anyone yelled
ME
and jumped out from behind a door, I'd cash my chips on the spot.

And then my jaw dropped. I must be hallucinating. My mother was strolling down the passageway toward me, smiling.

“Oh, hello, Dani. I'm so glad you're home,” she said leaning in to kiss me on the cheek. “Henry and I have come to spend some quality time with you.”

“Huh?”

“I hope you don't mind,” she went on, evidently not noticing my glazed expression. “I found your spare key under the doormat, although I must say, that's not
really
a safe place to hide your front door key, sweetie. What with all the break-ins you hear of today. Anyway, I must admit Henry and I were glad to get inside and have a sit down while we waited for you.”

“Mum?” I gasped and, feeling a little woozy, put one hand against the wall for support. “What are you doing here? Does anyone at Sunny Days know you've gone?”

“Well,” Mum said, brushing a nonexistent piece of lint from her second-best outfit, a lacy mauve two-piece that went beautifully with the color of her hair. “You know how your sister Penny has been calling me a floozy?”

I nodded. Seemed a lot easier than speech.

“And I'm not, you know. A floozy, that is. It's not my fault if men fall in love with me.”

“You're definitely not a floozy Mum, and Penny shouldn't say things like that to you. But—”

“So…Henry and I are getting married at five-thirty today.”

“M-m-ma—”

“Only at the registry office,” my mother broke in. “And we have all the paperwork with us.” She gave me one of her full-on, mother-daughter, I-love-you smiles. And I knew right then, the next thing she'd say would be to ask me to leave the safety of my house and put my head in a killer's noose. “Henry and I would
really
love you to come with us and be our witness, Dani. In fact, we'd be proud of your support.”

“Oooh, God.”

Mum's smile faltered. “What is it, dear? You don't mind having Henry for a father do you?”

“It's not that, Mum. It's just that—”

“You don't think we're too old, do you?”

“Ooh, Mum, of course not. If you and Henry love each other you
should
get married. It's just that—”

“Oh, thank you darling. I knew you'd understand,” she said and wrapped her arms around me so tightly I could feel her heart beating under the mauve lace. “Come here, Henry,” she called out. “Give your soon-to-be new daughter a kiss. And don't go rubbing your prickly five o'clock shadow over her face. Dani's always had very sensitive skin.”

Henry—a goofy smile lighting up his wrinkled face—came shuffling over, his walker silent as he ploughed through the pile of the carpet. “Hello, my dear,” he said, planting a dry kiss on my cheek. “Did your mother tell you our grand news?”

“She certainly did. Congratulations, Henry.” I returned his kiss, breathing in the old-fashioned smell of peppermint, cough drops and velvet soap.

Over Henry's shoulder I could see my mother smiling at the image of two of her favorite people cuddling each other. “Shall we go in the kitchen and have a cup of tea?” she suggested.

“First,” I said thinking of what a cup of tea would do to my already bursting bladder. “I have to use the—”

Was that the sound of stealthy movement on the other side of the back door?

I froze.

Next thing there was a splintering crash and the back door blew open and three grim-reaper-type men stormed into the passageway, guns at the ready.

“Hands up!”

“Don't move!”

“Everyone on the floor!”

Mum screamed. Henry farted. And not knowing which order to obey first, I dropped to my knees then snapped my hands into the air.

“Don't shoot….” I croaked and promptly had a hot flush. Red face—sweaty armpits—the whole shebang.

Mum, recovering first, flapped her hands at the gunmen. “Go away!” she told them and her voice had that bossy, don't-mess-with-me edge that meant she was really pissed off. “You boys must be in the wrong house. No one here has any money or jewels, so march right back out of here. Can't you see you're upsetting my daughter and my fiancé?”

And then, just when I thought I'd have to throw myself in front of my mother to save her from a bullet, Simon burst through the door.

“Simon?”

“Dani, are you okay? Is the killer still in the house?”

I shook my head. Not sure what was going on. “It was only Mum and Henry,” I told him and blinked as he pulled me to my feet and wrapped his arms around me.