Sleight Malice (17 page)

Picking up the
wine list, he ran his finger down the selection of reds, hoping to jog his
memory. He knew she liked Shiraz, but which one had she been drinking the last
time he was there with her and Brandon? Either the Charles Sturt Shiraz or the
Capel Vale CV Shiraz: he felt certain it began with a C.

By the time
Desley flew through the doors and came to an abrupt stop, Fergus had ordered
the Capel Vale, along with two wine glasses.

He wiped his
palms on a paper napkin and stood. Desley saw him and raised a hand, her smile
as vibrant as the pink slashes in her black hair. He met her halfway, greeting
her with a chaste kiss on the cheek, trying hard not to think what it would be
like to taste those luscious red lips, trace the sensuous curves of her neck
down to the enticing swell of her breasts.

Trailing half a
step behind, he guided her across the room. They arrived at the table, and he
watched her eyes take in the bottle of Shiraz and two wine glasses. The corners
of her mouth lifted, her eyes crinkling.

“I’m
impressed,” she said with a light, tinkly laugh.

He released his
breath and, laughing with her, motioned for her to have a seat. She nodded,
first shedding her long, black leather coat to reveal hip-hugging jeans and a
drapey, crimson top. He inhaled, losing himself for a moment in her exotic,
body-warmed scent, a richer and moodier perfume than the one she normally wore.
Oblivious to the effect she had on him, she bundled up her coat, brushing past
him on her way to the other side of the table.

He sat down
opposite her. “So, Brandon got away okay then,” he said, more for the want of
something to say.

“No problems.
In fact, unless his flight was delayed, he’s probably already home.”

Fergus poured
the wine, taking great care not to spill any. “Nice guy, your brother.”

Desley beamed.
“I think so.”

Small talk and
perusing the menu occupied them for the next few minutes.

“You were after
information about Selena Papa,” Fergus said, after the waiter left with their
order.

Desley pushed
her wine glass aside and hunched forward, her face tantalizingly close. “What
did you find out?”

“First, you owe
me an explanation. If you remember, that was the deal.”

She sat back,
taking her wine glass with her. “Yes, well…” She looked at him.

He waited,
saying nothing.

“I went to see
Selena today at her parent’s place,” she said. “And please don’t tell me I
shouldn’t have. What would you have done in my place?”

He’d guessed as
much. “So what did you find out?”

“Not a lot. She
told me some personal stuff about her and Trent, and her and Ryan, but I
promised to keep that to myself. I hadn’t been there long when her mother came
home. That’s when I left and your mates arrived and took her away.”

“And you always
keep your promises?”

She frowned.
“Don’t you?”

“It depends.”

“Of course,”
she said, “if she had confessed to murder, I don’t think I could in all
conscience keep quiet. But she didn’t, so there’s nothing to worry about.”

He noted her
empty glass and refilled it. “She didn’t what – murder someone or confess?”

“Neither.”

“Promise?”

She laughed and
raised her glass in a toast. “Promise.”

“Kim couldn’t
or wouldn’t say much, except to tell me Selena was helping them with their
enquiries, which as we both know could mean something or nothing.”

“Probably
nothing.”

“Wow, you’ve
changed your tune about the woman.”

“Female
prerogative. And in case you don’t know, it’s a man’s right to drink beer if he
wants to.” She nodded at the almost untouched glass of Shiraz in front of him.

“That obvious,
uh?” To him her favorite tipple tasted like vinegary swill and nothing like the
label’s flowery description.

She chuckled.
“Go on; go and get yourself a beer. There’s something I want to ask you when
you get back.”

“Ask away.”

She shook her
head. “Priorities, Fergus. I’m not going anywhere.”

He didn’t need
much convincing. The sooner he washed the sour taste of the wine out of his
mouth the better.

With a spring
to his step that hadn’t been there before, he headed to the bar. Talking about
the investigation, something familiar to both of them, had helped break through
the initial awkwardness. They had the whole night ahead to get to know each
other better.

Lost in his
reverie, he didn’t see the blonde woman tottering in Desley’s direction
straight away. In his rush to intercept her, he sent a chair flying. He didn’t
stop to pick it up. He had no idea what the blonde was playing at, but whatever
it was he didn’t want any part of it.

He cut in front
of her. “What do you think you’re doing?” he hissed.

“Sweetie,” she
said, her smile as lopsided as her gait, “I just came over to say hello to your
darrrling wi—”

“Fuck off,
lady.” Subtle hadn’t worked.

She listed to
one side, putting out a hand to stop herself keeling right over. “Now that’s
not very nice, is it?”

“It’s not
supposed to be.”

“Fergus?”

“Yes, Fergus,”
said the woman, picking up on Desley’s cue, “why don’t you introduce us?”

“I don’t know
this woman. I’ve never even laid eyes on her until tonight. Don’t listen to
her.”

“She obviously
knows you.”

The blonde
woman smiled at Desley. “And how old are the twins now?”

Bewilderment
then disbelief flashed across Desley’s face. “Excuse me?”

“Oh dear.” The
woman’s lip curled. “Fergus sweetie, you mean this isn’t your doting wife, the
mother of your twins?”

Desley thumped her pillow. Damn
Fergus! Damn men! How could she trust any of them? They were all liars and
cheats. And she had really thought Fergus was different.

She groaned and
threw back the bedclothes, lying uncovered in the dark until the cold forced
her to get up. Fergus with a wife and kids; twins no less. She couldn’t get her
head around it. She felt let down, she felt disillusioned, but most of all she
felt stupid. She hadn’t hung around to hear the inevitable “It’s not what you
think.” Trent had fed her that line more than enough over the years.

Pulling on
track pants and a sweatshirt over her pajamas, she wondered how she could have
got it so wrong. If nothing else, she had thought she could rely on him. On his
return from the bar, she had intended to tell him about her search for the
Howqua property’s owner, as well as enlist his help. Fortunately – or
unfortunately – the inebriated blonde woman, who Fergus swore he had never even
met before, put paid to that. Desley could still hear the woman’s drunken
cackle.

Downstairs, she
booted up her computer before heading to the kitchen to do the same with the
espresso machine. She couldn’t sleep anyway.

Coffee in hand,
she returned to the pokey third bedroom she had converted to her office.
Ignoring the answering machine’s flashing green message light, she sat down at
her computer and opened her Inbox. Twenty-three new emails. She scrolled
through them, on the lookout for something other than spam and newsletters. She
came across only one: a reply from a prospective client clarifying their
website requirements.

She leaned back
in her chair, stretching her interlaced fingers high above her head. It had
been a bit much to hope that any of the Maureen McKeowns she had emailed that
afternoon would have replied so soon. Dropping her hands to rest on the top of
her head, she gazed at the screen as if doing so would make the answers
materialize. What was her next step?

Ping!

She sat
forward, sitting back again as soon as she saw the new email was from Fergus.
He was persistent; she’d give him that. Phone messages, text messages and now this.
How could he possibly explain away a wife and children?

Curiosity got
the better of her. She clicked on the email. She read it through to the end and
then went back and reread it. His story of the blonde stranger coming on to him
while he was sitting alone, his sustained avoidance of her, the make-believe
phone conversation with the non-existent wife: it almost sounded too laughable
not to be true. But what did the woman gain by causing trouble for Fergus? Who
was she?

Desley hit
Reply and typed:
Are you still there?
For all she knew he had emailed
her just before going to bed. After all, it was past midnight.

Ping! New
mail has arrived. Would you like to read it now?
She smiled and clicked Yes.

Except it
wasn’t a reply from Fergus, but an email from someone called Joni Kinman with
the spammer-style address of [email protected]. She hit the delete
button in the same instant she recognized her own name. Spammers didn’t
personalize their emails.

Rescuing the
email from the wastebasket, she opened and read it, her eyes widening with
every word:
If you don’t want to end up like your friend Laura, you’ll stop
poking your nose into things that are none of your business. Be warned, Desley
James. You’re playing with fire.

Her stomach
tightened. She swallowed, tasting bile. Genuine threat or sick joke, she had to
find out who had sent it. Using the IP address, she looked up on Geektools
where the email had originated. Slovenia? She shook her head. Whoever had sent
the message knew enough to cover their electronic tracks.

Alarming as it
was, the threat also meant she had done something to rattle the sender. A
breakthrough of sorts. Could her search for the Howqua cottage’s owner have
sparked it? Or her visit to Selena? Or perhaps it went further back to her
meeting with Helen Escott, the wife of Ryan’s disgruntled ex business partner.

The phone rang.
She held her breath, waiting for the answering machine to kick in.

“Desley, it’s
Fergus. Please pick up if you’re there.”

She snatched up
the receiver with one hand, using the other to grapple with the squealing
answering machine. “I’m here.”

“Are you okay?
You sound stressed.” He gave a half-laugh. “I mean besides the fact you thought
I was married with two children.”

“It’s not
that.” Right then she didn’t care if he had two wives, sixteen children and a
herd of goats.

“What then? Has
something happened?”

She hesitated,
debating how much or how little she should share with him. As much as she hated
to admit it, the menacing email had spooked her. Whether her life was in real
danger or not, she had to talk to someone about it. Taking a deep breath, she
said, “Hang on a minute, I’m just going to forward you an email. But before I
do, you have to promise me you won’t breathe a word about it to anyone, and
that includes Kim. I don’t care what deal you have going with her.”

“Promise.”

She paused,
knowing once she pressed Send there was no turning back.

“Desley?”

“On its way.”

She heard him
tapping a keyboard, then a couple of mouse-clicks. “Hold on a sec… Jesus, Desley,
what have you got yourself into? Who’s this Joni Kinman? How do you know her?”

“I don’t; I
think it’s a pseudonym. I traced the email back to an ISP in Slovenia.”

“Slovenia?”

“I don’t think
that’s for real either. It probably routed through that ISP, but I doubt it
originated there.”

“But why would
whoever it is target you? Or rather, what aren’t you telling me?”

“I was getting
to that. I did a property title search and found out that a Maureen Carmel
McKeown owns the holiday cottage in Howqua. The registered address was Spring
Street, but I couldn’t find any record of anyone by that name at that address.
Can you get access to unlisted numbers?”

“Where are you
going with this?” Fergus asked, not answering her question. “How do you think
this McKeown woman is involved?”

“I wish I knew.
I Googled her name and came up with umpteen hits. I emailed all the Australian
ones I could find addresses for. So far, I haven’t had any replies, unless you
count this one, of course.”

“Why didn’t you
tell me about all this sooner?”

“Let’s see:
blonde bimbo, wife, twins…” She bit her tongue. “What do you think I was going
to talk to you about when you came back from the bar?”

“Point taken.
But listen to me, Desley; you have to take this to the police—”

“But—”

“No ifs or
buts. It’s not a game. Or as the email so succinctly puts, you’re playing with
fire. Your life could be in danger. It could already be too late for Laura.”

“Don’t you
think I know that?”

“Then you’ll
talk to Kim?”