Fatal Liaison (18 page)

Dropping the pair of socks she had in her hands into the basket, she
crept through the kitchen and living areas towards the hall. A break in the
knocking had Megan assuming the visitor had realized there was no one at home
and gone. Her assumption, however, soon proved wrong when whomever it was
started battering the door with an increased ferocity.

“Open up! I know you’re in there!”

She made no move to open the door. The last thing Megan needed was
another confrontation with Pauline. What’d possessed the woman to come back?
Whom was she referring to? Did she mean Megan or was she still deluded in thinking
Lawson was staying in Brenda’s house?

Gnawing at her bottom lip, Megan held back, hoping Pauline would
eventually give up and leave. After a few minutes of relentless pounding and
demented screeching, Megan could take it no longer.

Edging forward she shouted through the closed door. “I’m going to
call the police if you don’t leave right now.”

There was a brief lull.

“I mean it, Pauline! I’m going to call the police.”

“Call the police then. See if I care. I’m not leaving until you let
me talk to him.”

Megan’s hand circled her throat. “For the hundredth time, Lawson is
not here!” she yelled, her voice breaking as the strain wore on her vocal
chords.

“Tell me where he is then.”

“I told you I don’t know.” Megan was growing increasingly
exasperated with Pauline, but there was no way in hell she was going to open
the front door. “For God’s sake, what don’t you understand in that?”

Pauline wasn’t giving up that easily. “How do I know you’re not just
trying to fob me off?”

Chance would be a fine thing, thought Megan. Not knowing what to do
next, she sagged against the wall, sliding her back down until her knees met
her chin.

Had Pauline been drinking? What else could explain her erratic behavior?

Absorbed in her thoughts, it took Megan a moment to realize Pauline
had stopped bashing the door. She scrambled to her feet.

Regrettably, Brenda hadn’t got around to installing a peephole in
the door, relying on a flimsy security chain instead. Slipping the door chain
into place, Megan noted there were no signs of stress on either the chain or
the door. Brenda had to have known her abductor. She never opened her door to
strangers without it.

Treading warily, she backed away from the door and slipped into
Brenda’s bedroom. She gauged the distance she’d have to stand back from the
lace curtain so she wouldn’t be seen from the outside and then added some. The
dark-blue sedan she’d seen Pauline get into earlier was still parked across the
street, but there was no sign of the woman herself anywhere that she could see.

Taking a couple of steps sideways, she tried approaching the window
from a slightly different angle. Her hands flew to her mouth, smothering a yelp
of surprise as Pauline’s cupped face appeared at the window. Megan stumbled
backwards, tripping and landing on the bed. She caught her breath and then,
staying as low as possible, eased herself over to the other side and onto the
floor. She felt like a fugitive. Enough was enough.

Scurrying on all fours, she made a dash for the windowless hall. If
she remembered rightly, she’d dropped her shoulder bag on the floor between the
two bedrooms. It lay exactly where she’d left it against the skirting board.
Delving into her bag, her hand groped for her mobile phone, panicking when she
couldn’t immediately find it. She upended the bag, spilling the contents in a
heap on the carpeted floor, her fears allayed when she spotted it amongst the
jumble.

She snatched it up, punched triple-0 and was about to press the send
button when she had second thoughts. If there were any way of avoiding it, she
would rather not involve the police. If Pauline was trespassing, so was she.
Instead, she rang the only person she thought could help her: Greg Jenkins.

Pick up, pick up, pick up, she chanted in her head. Please pick up.

Just when she thought the call was about to be diverted to his
voicemail, he answered. Talking as quietly as possible and with her hand cupped
around the phone’s mouthpiece, she quickly explained her predicament.

“Don’t move. What’s the address?” Greg’s voice faded for a moment.
“I’ll be right there.”

After she’d given him directions and hung up, she sat on the floor
with her back against the wall and her legs out straight listening to the
silence, the stillness only marred by the thudding of her own heart. The quiet
was scarier than Pauline’s ranting. At least when she was being vocal, Megan
knew where she was.

Megan did exactly what Greg told her to do, staying put until a
knock at the door roused her. She rose to her feet and went to greet him.

“Thank—” Her mouth gaped.

Nick, the dark-haired guy she’d met briefly at the Dinner for Twelve
function, looked as startled to see her as she was him. “Sorry.” He took a step
back, the bottle of wine is his hand lowered to his side. “My mistake. I
thought this was Brenda’s place.”

“It is.”

“Is she around?”

“Was she expecting you?”

Nick glanced at his feet. “Not exactly. I just wanted to make sure
she was okay. We’d arranged to meet up for a drink, but she didn’t show and she
hasn’t been answering her phone.”

“How did you get this address?” Megan couldn’t imagine Brenda
handing out her home details to just any guy, especially when she had her
sights set on another man.

He frowned. “White Pages. Is that a problem?”

“I hope not. When did you last hear from Brenda?”

“Friday. Why?”

“Day or night?”

“Day. Look, what’s going on here? Has something happened that I
ought to know about? Where’s Brenda?” He made a move to push past her.

She blocked his way. “I don’t know. She’s missing, but you have no
right to be here.”

“Missing?” His eyebrows drew together. “Are you sure?”

“Of course, I bloody am. Unless you know something I don’t.”

His head moved in a slow shake, his eyes dulling as if his mind were
elsewhere. Silent, he turned and retreated down the steps.

“If you want to help Brenda,” Megan called, “contact the police,
give them a statement.” If he didn’t, she would.

He raised a hand in acknowledgement, before disappearing up the
street still carrying the bottle of wine.

Across the street, Pauline’s dark-blue sedan was gone, a late-model
silver BMW in its place. Megan breathed out as the driver’s door open and Greg
emerged.

She waited for him to reach her. Then, without giving him a chance
to greet her, she ushered him straight inside and locked the door behind him.

Standing there in the hall face to face with Greg, his expression
one of concern, she suddenly felt foolish. Foolish for calling him for what now
seemed a groundless reason. With Pauline gone, what evidence was there to say
Megan hadn’t exaggerated the entire situation? Besides, she should’ve been “big
enough and ugly enough” – as her grandmother used to say – to fight her own
battles.

Struck dumb, she collected her shoulder bag, its contents now
restored, and headed for the living room with Greg in tow.

She tossed her bag on the sofa, flopping down beside it in an
ungainly heap. Greg opted for one of the more formal low backed Bentwood
chairs, moving it from its position by the window to nearer the sofa. He sat
forward on the seat, his hands together and his elbows propped on his knees,
waiting for her to say something.

Taking a deep breath, she started. “I came over to water the
plants…”

One eyebrow arched.

“Okay, maybe not. But I had to do something. What if there was some
clue – something out of place – that the police overlooked? I know Brenda.” She
pressed a hand to her chest. “The police don’t.”

“Was there?”

Megan shook her head. “I was still looking when that crazy woman
showed up.” She described Pauline’s behavior, painting pictures with her hands.
“When her face appeared at the window, I have to admit it freaked me somewhat.
Even knowing she couldn’t see through the lace curtain didn’t help.” Megan kept
the part about crawling across the floor on her hands and knees to herself.

Greg sat upright, running his hands through his black curls, before
returning to his original pose. “I think the police should be told, or at least
let me pass the information on to Neville Crooke?”

“Yes, but how are you going to explain my presence here?”

“That’s easy. You came to water the plants – you always water the
plants when Brenda is away.” He tilted his head to one side. “Don’t you?” he
prompted, his raised eyebrows suggesting there was only one answer.

Her gaze dropped to the floor. There was one teeny bit of
information she had inadvertently omitted to tell him. “Uhhh…” She lifted her
eyes and screwed up her nose. “Plants or no plants I don’t think the police
would appreciate me entering a crime scene.”

“Surely the forensic people have finished here.”

From the expression on his face, Megan could see Greg couldn’t make
sense of what she was alluding to. Standing up, she reached into her front
right jeans pocket, a clump of blue-and-white tape unfurling as she withdrew
her hand and opened her palm.

Scooping up the crime scene tape from her hand he asked, “Where did
this come from?”

“It was strung across the entrance to the porch.”

He shook his head, rolling his eyes. “You thought if you took it
down you could always claim it had never been there in the first place?”

At the time, the theory had seemed sound. Now she felt like an
errant schoolgirl standing in front of the principal, waiting for the leather
strap’s sting. Thank goodness, corporal punishment had been abolished.

Greg chuckled, evidently amused by her pouting lips. “I doubt you
have anything to worry about, but if you’re concerned at all, come clean with
them. I’m sure they’re not going to lock you up for tearing down a bit of old
tape.” He laughed again.

She gave an indignant huff. “This is no laughing matter.”

Wiping the smile from his face, he said, “Of course not. I—” He
covered his mouth with his hand, cutting off the unsaid words.

Heat flooded her face. Shielding her embarrassment behind her hands,
she slumped back down onto the sofa. It wasn’t Greg’s fault she looked like a
clown. She had managed that quite nicely by herself. As hard as it was to see
the funny side, she did manage a small smile.

“What next, Ms Jailbird?”

She scowled at him, her mouth tight.

He held his hands up. “Joke, joke.”

She pulled her legs up onto the couch, wrapping her arms tightly
around her knees. She needed to lighten up. She knew that, but she didn’t see
it happening anytime soon. For God’s sake, there were more important matters to
worry about, namely her best friend’s disappearance.

Then she remembered: Brenda wasn’t the only woman missing. She
glanced across at Greg. He sat eyes downcast, engrossed in winding the
blue-and-white crime scene tape into a neat roll.

“Greg?”

His only response was a noncommittal grunt.

“Greg, I really am grateful you came. Please don’t feel you have to
stay.”

Without lifting his head, he looked up. “You want me to go?”

She chose her words carefully. “I don’t want to impose on your time
any more than I already have. I’m sure you must be a busy man.”

“You’re not,” he said with a weary shake of the head. “And to be
honest, with everything that has happened, I don’t think you should be trying
to tackle this on your own. Neither of us should be.”

Megan breathed out. “Any suggestions where we should start?”

A hint of a smile tweaked at the corners of Greg’s mouth. “Just to
allay your concerns, let’s find out if the police have finished here.”

She listened as Greg phoned Neville Crook, asked the investigator if
he knew or if he could find out if the police were finished with Brenda’s
property.

Greg swiveled the phone away from his mouth. “He’s phoning the
police now.”

Megan opened her mouth, aghast that she was about to be dobbed in.

“Sorry?” He was speaking into the phone again. “No, nothing like
that. Brenda De Luca’s friend Megan Brighton just needs access to water some
pot plants.” He grinned. “Not that sort of pot. Pot-ted,” he said emphasizing
the last syllable. “Any other news?”

Neville Crooke obviously had nothing to add and Greg hung up.

“You’re off the most-wanted list. Happy now?”

Late Saturday
afternoon, Greg lay sprawled on his back on the couch in his lounge.
Manipulating the large rubber band that’d been around his mail kept his hands
busy while his mind tried to piece together what he knew with the last few
weeks’ events.