Sex on Tuesdays (5 page)

Oooh, Jesus! I knew there was a reason I didn't want to hear any more. Yet, based on the innocent-seeming people who came through here, how far-fetched was it for the police to believe maybe I really
did
either kill
DF
's wife or I was an accomplice? What if, when I returned to the interview room, they charged me with murder? Threw me in a cell? What if “innocent until proven guilty” had been abolished at the last Senate meeting? My overworked heart, pounding away behind my chest cavity, started banging wildly on the door wanting to get out.

“And if you'd met this old dear in the street,” my guard went on, seemingly ignorant to my growing panic, “you'd have likely helped her carry her groceries across the road. So, as the saying goes, you can't judge a book by its cover.”

“You didn't let her escape did you?” Perhaps escape was the only way I could get out of here.

“No way. Wicked Wilma was handcuffed to me 24/7. Even when she took a dump I stood right beside her. Stunk like the evil shit she was, too.” She smiled and her eyes told me she knew exactly what I was thinking. “Hey, don't worry. Just keep sticking to the truth. I have built-in radar when it comes to evil and you're okay.”

I let out a sigh that felt like it came from deep down in my shiny red Target boots. “Thanks.”

Bathroom duties completed, my shadow led me back to the interview room, opened the door and nodded. “See you around.”

“Not if I can help it, you won't.” I grinned. “And hey, just for the record, I think you do a great job.”

“Good luck in there.”

My heart pounded as I shuffled across the floor, but the moment my rear end hit the unforgiving wooden seat on the offender's side of the interview-room table, I knew I was off the hook. No fire and brimstone. No vile accusations. Not even a thumbscrew or a pair of handcuffs in sight. Detective Turner sat slumped in his chair, thoroughly pissed off, his eyes burning a hole in the floor, his mouth screwed up like a constipated dog's behind.

“You're free to go, Ms. Summers,” said DC Tate sliding a DVD from the recorder and tucking it into a labeled container. “Your statement checked out.”

“Hallelujah!” I let out a loud sigh and jiggled my chair away from the table.

“That doesn't mean we're through with you,” put in Detective Turner with a grunt as I stood up. “You gave your readers irresponsible advice that incited a murder. So do not leave the state.”

With a mock salute, I reached for my bag. “Thanks, guys. Fun talking to you. Any time you're passing by the
Tribute,
feel free to drop in for a cup of coffee. I might be able to help sort out your sex life.”

Noting an agitated tick pumping away on the left side of Detective Turner's jaw, I consciously forced my feet to saunter slowly towards the door—when all they really wanted to do was run like hell.

5

Tuesday, 1:58 p.m.

The no frills clock, high on the police-station wall, informed me it was almost two o'clock when I closed the interview room door behind me. I'd been incarcerated in that room with my insensitive inquisitors for an hour and a half. Seemed like a month.

Free at last to let go of the knotted muscles holding my head high and my fake smile in place, nausea churned at my stomach and I began to shake.
Okay, take it easy
, I told myself.
Everything would be fine once I vacated the building.

The heels of my boots click-clacked in tune to the staccato rhythm of my heart beat as I hurried towards reception. With every step I took, Turner's last words plagued my mind, wouldn't let go. Was I really responsible for that woman's death? Had I given the killer a horrific idea for murder?
Shove something hot down the bitch's throat
. But how could I be to blame? They weren't my words!

So the only way to clear my name was to find out who sabotaged my column. If I could do that, I'd know the name of the murderer. But did I really want to know the name of the murderer? Especially if he knew that I knew. Oh my God, this was all too scary.

I pushed my fear to the back of my brain and into the basket marked, ‘Hard Stuff', and thought about my friend, Megan Starr.

By now, Megan, likely pissed off because I didn't show up for lunch, would have left the restaurant and gone shopping. When things didn't go Megan's way, shopping for designer label shoes was her stress relief. Jimmy Choos. Keds. Dolce & Gabbanas; take your pick. For her, trying on and buying shoes with a high price tag was like trying out and buying the most expensive drinks in the bar…without the resultant hangover.

With any luck, she'd ring the
Tribute
to find out what was keeping me. If so, I bet Alice, the receptionist-cum-tealady, cum-cleaner, was happy to paint a graphic picture for her. A picture of me cuffed and dragged protesting to a police car. An exaggerated picture embellished with screams, fist fights, and the presence of multiple large police-issue firearms.

Alice, known as the office witch, had high hopes of taking over the “Sex on…” columns when her stepsister, Daisy Mae, died. Some even suspect she slipped a bone into Daisy Mae's steak sandwich. When I was promoted to writing the column, Alice probably made a voodoo doll in my likeness and stuck pins into it every morning. Can't say I've ever felt anything, though. Okay, an odd twinge in my knees when I bent them to sit in my chair, but that was nothing to do with voodoo and all to do with playing hockey until I was forty.

If only I could go home, wash the clinging institution smell from my body, curl up under my doona and sleep for a week. But of course, that wasn't an option. Not yet. Not with this black cloud of suspicion hanging over my head. First, I had to catch a cab back to the office where I'd left my car, rearrange a time to meet Megan, write a disclaimer for tomorrow's column…and talk to Simon about what happened in the early hours of this morning.

I chewed on my bottom lip. Even thinking about what Simon witnessed while undressing me sent flashes of heat pulsating up my neck and into my cheeks. What could I say to him?
Did you by any chance take advantage of me while I was drunk?
As if. Simon always treated me like his younger sister. On the other hand, perhaps I'd taken advantage of him. I let out a frustrated breath and my shoulders drooped. How had I managed to paint myself into so many corners in the last few hours?

I didn't want to see Simon—in case I'd disgraced myself in his eyes—and yet every time I turned a corner, I looked for him. Hoped he'd be waiting for me.

More than anything else, I needed a friend right now.

When I pushed through the swinging doors leading into reception, I couldn't mask my smile. There was Simon. Dressed in a khaki jumper two sizes too big, faded corduroys, and a Crows AFL cap flattening his untidy hair, he leant against the charge desk exchanging pleasantries with the policeman on duty.

Simon never cared much for fashion, always dressing for comfort and to please himself. When he first shifted into our neighborhood I was twelve and he was a senior in high school; so, of course, had little to do with me. It was my older sister Penny he had his sights set on. No matter what he wore though, he turned every girl's head. The only head he didn't turn was Penny's. When my sister eventually married Joe, Simon lost interest in dating and put all his energies into his new job in the police force. He became a Detective Sergeant at a young age and worked hard for years, retired at 52 on the verge of promotion to Detective Chief Inspector. No one knows why he didn't take the promotion. He suddenly left the force to spend the rest of his life doing as little as possible. And what's more, he didn't want to talk about it.

When Simon spotted me, he excused himself and hurried over, his dark eyes serious.

“You okay, Dani?”

“I will be when we get the hell out of here.”

“Give you a hard time, did they?”

“You could say that.” I frowned at him. “Why are all cops so bloody minded?”

His arm went around my shoulders, pulling me closer. When he spoke, it was through gritted teeth. “Bloody Gung-ho Turner got to you, did he?”

I nodded. His brotherly sympathy lodged a lump in my throat.

“Listen, don't let that asshole upset you, darlin'. Turner's so bloody minded and focused on brownie points from the top brass, he'd jump up and down on his sainted mother's stomach if he thought she'd confess to a crime.”

I grinned up at the big lug. He was a good guy. Scruffy, yeah, but handy to have around in a crisis.

As we made our way toward the front entrance, I checked out the fly-speckled posters stuck on the walls along the way. A Policeman's Ball held six months ago with a prize for the best vampire costume. Warnings of dire retribution to anyone caught smuggling drugs or reptiles into or out of the country. Half a dozen Wanted posters. And in pride of place—attached to the wall between a basic black pay phone and a coffee machine sporting a cardboard
Out of Order
sign—was a picture of a bearded man with cruel thin lips and mean sunken-in eyes. Fitted my earlier description of a bad guy to a tee.

“Jeez…take a gander at
that
crook.” I stopped and pointed a finger at the poster. “Anyone can see he's rotten to the core. Probably wanted for multiple axe murders in every state of Australia.”

Simon glanced across at the poster, did a double-take, and then burst out laughing.

“What?”

He shook his head. “Rotten to the core, you say?”

“Hey, you only need to look at that ugly sneer and those black malevolent eyes to see how rotten the guy is. Ugh.” I shivered. “Fancy waking up in the middle of the night to find
him
standing beside your bed with an axe raised ready to strike.” I gave Simon a friendly push to get my point across. “You might have been a cop, Simon, but trust me, I know evil when I see it.”

“Oh, Dani, you're a breath of fresh air. Who needs pep pills when you're around? Why don't you read the small print under the photo, darlin'? That sinister crook with the evil eyes you're getting all shaky-legged about is none other than Brigadier General Tremaine.”

“Who?”

“Brigadier General Tremaine,” he repeated. “Head of National Security. It says here he's due to visit this station and give a series of anti-terrorism workshops next month.”

“Well…I guess that's why he looks so um…stern. No good having some namby-pamby feel-good guy to lecture on terrorism,” I said looking around for a crack to wriggle through before quickly changing the subject. “Now, I don't suppose you have a fifty cent coin in your pocket so I can ring for a cab?”

“My car's in the car park.” Simon opened the front door and stood aside for me to go through first. “Where do you want to be dropped?”

“Back at the
Tribute
, I guess.”

“Sure you don't want me to drive you straight home? You look like you could do with a couple of hours' sleep.”

“That bad, eh?”

“Don't worry. I've seen you look worse.”

Like when he put me to bed last night?

I narrowed my eyes at him. “Meaning?”

“Meaning I've seen you look worse.” He repeated and shrugged. “Jesus, Dani, I've seen you with a face the size of a hot air balloon when you had mumps at eighteen. I've seen you in a funk that lasted a full month after that low-life Jack Hornsby up and told you he wanted to be a woman two weeks after he asked you to marry him. I've seen you with a raging case of influenza and a temperature that skyrocketed to 109.”

“And what about when you brought me home from Erika's and undressed me and put me to bed last night?”

His lips twitched as he tried to suppress a grin. “Yeah, that too.”

“Simon,” I said and stopped him by grabbing hold of his arm. “I didn't…you know?”

His grin broke free of its confines. “Didn't what?”

“You know what I mean,” I insisted, hating the fact that I was embarrassed but determined to discover whether I had reason to be or not. “I didn't do anything er…untoward…while you were undressing me, did I?”

“Untoward?” His lips twitched again and his eyes danced. “You mean like when you kissed me and told me I was your bestest, oldest friend and you loved me more than blue M&Ms? Or when you fell on your face the moment I let you go to drag your skirt down over your ankles? Or when you offered to be the mother of my six nonexistent children? Or—”

“Simon!”

He flung one arm around my shoulders and chuckled. “No darlin'. You did nothing
untoward
. You were so sloshed I had to sling you over my shoulder and carry you from the car to your bedroom.”

I groaned.

“And you were a perfect lady the whole time I undressed you. Just lay there snoring while I wriggled you out of your clothes, dug a nightdress from your dresser, and then covered you over with a doona.” He paused, his eyes twinkling. “Yep, a perfect lady.”

Oh, God. If my face grew any hotter it would self-combust and burst into flames. How much longer before he refrained from being a “perfect gentleman” and brought certain rolls of stomach fat and wrinkly boobs into the conversation? “If there's no reason for you to go back to the
Tribute
,” I said pointedly changing the subject. “I could always catch a cab or demand a ride from Gung-ho Turner. I don't want to put you out.”

“Nah. I'd better show my face at work for an hour or two or our esteemed boss might have second thoughts about employing me. After all, it was only to stop Penny nagging him that he gave me the job in the first place.”

“You and me both.” I laughed as I squashed into the passenger seat of Simon's little red Echo. More like a toy than a car, he insisted it was the right vehicle for him. No need for space when he was normally the only occupant. “Joe might be a bully-boy editor,” I continued, “but he's merely a second-rate squib at home. It's Penny who wears the trousers there.”

“
And
the jack-boots
and
the facial hair,” Simon said pulling out of the police car park and onto the main road. “I've often thanked my lucky stars I didn't win the fair Penny's hand when I was young, in love, and thinking with my dick instead of my head.”

“Ahhh…too much information!” I said plugging my ears with my fingers. “What went on between you and my sister is ancient history. So let's keep it that way.”

“Just imagine,” he persisted, a slight catch to his voice. “If Joe hadn't proposed when he did, I could have ended up marrying
The Nag
.” He shook his head. “That woman's like a black hole waiting to swallow you up, boots and all.”

“Oh, come on, Penny's not
that
bad.” As much as I tried to steer clear of my crabby sister, especially on her bad days, it was my duty to stick up for her. “She's got good intentions.”

“So, do you recall much of what happened last night?”

What? My head swiveled in his direction in time to catch the blatant laughter in his eyes. How did the subject swing from Penny the Nag back to last night's fiasco? Where was the connection? Taking a moment to realign my senses, I licked my lips before answering. “Er…not much after falling off the table.”

“You don't remember passing out while eating a bowl of chocolate fudge ice cream and landing face first in the bowl?”

“Oh God…”

“Or grabbing Erika's shy brother Con and dancing the tango with him until you tripped over his feet and sprawled in a heap on the floor?”

“I don't want to know…”

But Simon was just warming up to his subject. “And chucking up on Erika's shy brother's shoes when he tried to help you up?”

“And all because of that creep, Jack Rivers.”

Simon shook his head at me. “I honestly can't work out why you let the guy get to you, Dani. We sent him on his way without a story or pictures, so why drink yourself into oblivion?”

Why?

Men…they knew nothing.

Because of my damaged ego—that's why.

“Well, you didn't try to stop me, did you?” I snapped, intent on shifting the blame onto a larger set of shoulders. “In fact, wasn't it you who ordered the bottle of champagne when you knew I'd been drinking cocktails for most of the night?”

“Darlin', you looked so cute dancing the can-can to ‘Yellow Submarine', I thought we'd celebrate your new talent. You added life to a tired and grating tune. It was the highlight of the evening.”

“Thank you. I think. And while we're on the subject of last night, I haven't thanked you for taking me home when I passed out. You're a good friend.”

“Hey, my pleasure, Dani,” he said turning to me with a smile that made me feel warm and needed and even wanting to give him a hug. “What are friends for?”