Lessons in Murder (19 page)

Sybil opened the door before Carol could knock. “I thought for a moment you weren’t going to come in,” she said. Why can’t I play hard to get? she thought. Before Carol could reply she continued hastily, “Let me get you a pair of shorts and a top. We can go for a walk, or a swim, if you like.”

Carol’s voice was cool. “No. Reporters might be a problem.”

“Carol, is something wrong?”

“It’s just that I’m tired, and. . .”

Sybil met the direct green eyes, thinking, this is when she says goodbye Sybil—been nice to know you. “And what?”

“And the last thing I need in my life at the moment is you as a complication. Sybil, do you understand?”

Ignore it, thought Sybil, and the words will go away. “You’re the only person who calls me Sybil, everyone else calls me Syb.”

Carol gave her a faint smile. “That must be a thrill for you,” she observed, opening her briefcase. She handed Sybil an envelope and a letter, both in a protective plastic sheath. “Ever seen anything like these before?”

“Yes, somewhere.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know—in one of those leather writing cases—do you know the sort I mean?”

“Yes. What color was it?”

“It was red leather, I think. I’m sorry, I can’t remember where I saw it.”

“Who did it belong to? A woman?”

“Possibly. I just have a sort of mental picture of the red leather, square white envelopes and sheets of heavy writing paper.”

“It’s not unusual stationery,” said Carol.

“No, but you asked me if I’d seen anything like it, and I have. I can’t remember where, though.”

“Read it,” said Carol.

It was the last letter Mrs. Farrell had received. Carol watched Sybil’s eyes traversing the lines, stopping and rereading. With an expression of distaste she handed it back. “Who wrote it?”

“We don’t know. Do you recognize the printing?”

“No, but of course it’s disguised, isn’t it?”

Carol nodded. “Yes. Probably done left-handed.” She glanced at Sybil’s fingers. “Or, in your case, right-handed.”

“You don’t think I wrote it? Carol, you can’t!”

“I don’t think you wrote it. It’s almost certain the murderer’s responsible. That’s just one of a series Mrs. Farrell has been receiving for months. All the others were on the subject of Bill Pagett and his sexual activities.” She put the letter and envelope back into her briefcase. “You were mentioned several times,” she added.

“Why me?”

“That’s the important question, isn’t it?”

What in the hell do I say to that? thought Sybil. Aloud she said, “Can’t we get out of here? Drive somewhere and then walk?”

“Okay, lend me something to change into. We’d better use my car—your numberplate is far too well known, now.”

As they walked to the gate in the back fence leading to the Singleton’s house, Carol said, “Where’s Terry?”

“I’m seeing him tomorrow. He’s got a meeting tonight, and I told him I was going to bed early.” She looked sideways at Carol. She hadn’t meant it that way, but it sounded like an invitation. She was alive with irritated energy. “Can I drive?” she asked as they reached the car.

Carol handed her the keys and settled into the passenger seat, saying, “Where are we going?”

“West Head. Is that okay?”

“Why not?”

The traffic was reasonably heavy until they took the turning at McCarr’s Creek into Ku-ring-gai National Park. She stopped to pay the ranger at the entrance, then settled down to the smooth uninterrupted drive along the bushland peninsula. The road dipped and curved through the grey-green vegetation, slabs of rock glistened with seeping water, birds soared in the updrafts and the shadows of clouds chased themselves over gum trees and native bushes. Every now and then they caught a glimpse of a vivid blue sliver of water. Sybil finally broke the silence. “Why did you get divorced?”

Carol let her breath out in a long sigh. “I don’t particularly want to talk about it.”

“Oh great!” said Sybil. “Your whole career is making people answer questions, but you get a bit shy when you’re in the hot seat.”

“All right, Sybil.”

“Carol, I’m only asking because it’s important for me to know.”

Carol made no further comment, but told the story with unemotional economy as though she wanted to get the task over and done with. She had met Justin Hart while studying at Sydney University, and, attracted by his formidable mind and legal talent, had married him. In due course she produced a son, David. Because they both had demanding and time-consuming careers, they lived, in the main, separate lives. Perhaps they would have continued reasonably happily, had Carol not fallen in love with a woman. “I knew at some level that I was attracted to women, but it wasn’t a problem until I met Christine. I loved her so much I was willing to put everything on the line for her, and in the end, that’s what I lost—everything.”

Carol and Justin had agreed there was nothing left in their marriage, so they should divorce. Carol hoped to keep custody of David, or at least share him, but she found she couldn’t fight the wealth, influence, and arguments of her husband—wasn’t it best for a child to have a normal background? When he was older would David be happy to find he had a deviate for a mother? Was Carol intending to live with Christine? How would David explain the situation to his friends?

“Now, I would have fought him, openly. Then . . . I was younger, Christine had begged me not to make a scandal—in short, I was persuaded to give David up. And, of course, I’ve regretted it.”

They had reached the spectacular lookout at the end of West Head. Sybil parked the car and twisted around to look at Carol’s face. “Christine?”

“She’s fine. I see her photo sometimes in the social pages, and she always sends me a Christmas card.”

“So it was all for nothing?”

Carol opened the car door. “Nothing?” she said, smiling sardonically. “I learned a great deal about love, life and constancy. Come on, if you want to have a walk, let’s walk.”

It had been an extraordinarily tense afternoon, with both of them avoiding the subject of their relationship. They had walked, gazed at the beautiful view over Lion Island and Broken Bay, watched the yachts tacking against the breeze and, in unspoken agreement, talked about safe things—music, films, books. Now that they were back inside Sybil’s house, the physical longing that had dogged Sybil all weekend suddenly became too much to bear.

“Carol. . .”

“I don’t want to do this.”

Sybil pushed her gently back against the wall, put a hand on either side of her head, and began to kiss her—slowly, deeply, feeling her excitement rise as Carol began to respond.

Carol turned her head away. “Remember, you think this is unnatural.”

Sybil, slipping her hands under Carol’s shirt to circle her back, said, “I’ve changed my mind.” Her tongue found the hollow of Carol’s throat. I wish there were some way I could say I love you without sounding like an adolescent fool, she thought. Aloud she said, “Come to bed.”

“Sybil, this is stupid and dangerous.”

Sybil slid her fingers up under Carol’s bra and caressed a nipple. “Don’t you want this?” she said against Carol’s mouth.

“Yes, I want it now . . . it’s afterwards.”

Carol caught her breath as Sybil began to unzip her denim shorts. She put her hands over Sybil’s. “Afterwards, it isn’t worth it,” she said.

Sybil pulled her hands away and began to push the shorts down. Carol groaned as Sybil’s fingers slid between her legs.

“It’s not fair,” she gasped, “you’ve found my weak point.”

Sybil knelt, and began to melt her with the soft, insistent pressure of her tongue.

“Oh, darling,” Carol said as her orgasm began.

• • •

Sybil was content. Carol was curled around her, the moonlight made patterns of light and dark on the bed, her body floated in the delicious relaxation that followed passion. She turned in Carol’s arms to face her. “What are you thinking about?” she said.

The planes of Carol’s face were sculptured by moonlight but her eyes were shadowed. “I don’t think you want to know.”

“Tell me.”

Carol released her, turning on her back and gazing up at the ceiling. “I was thinking how I keep on saying we must never do this again, and then I do.”

“We
do, Carol. It isn’t just your decision.”

“Sybil, it isn’t going to work.”

“It will if we want it to.”

“You haven’t thought of the difficulties.”

“Carol, of course I have. I’m not a fool. I know there’ll be problems, but so what? It will be worth it.”

Carol turned, leaning on one elbow to look down at her. “You can’t live at this intensity of emotion for very long.”

“I don’t expect to. There’ll be more than this friendship, companionship—someone always there.” Carol sat up, resting her chin on her knees. Her silver was calmly reasonable.

“Sybil, my job means I see people in crisis situations. I know what happens. You met me when you were vulnerable. Now you’ve had your first lesbian relationship. You might go on to have others, you might return to the conventional straight world—”

Sybil interrupted. “I won’t go back, not now.”

“Whatever you do, you have to remember that all this, you and I, happened because your safe world was destroyed and you were frightened and insecure.”

Sybil sat up in turn. “You took advantage of me, did you?”

“In a way, I did.”

“How unethical!” said Sybil mockingly.

Carol swung her legs off the bed. “I’m going,” she said.

Sybil was suddenly furious. “Running away, are you Carol? You can’t stand to be responsible for your own, or anyone else’s emotions, can you? While I was rejecting the feelings we had for each other, that was fine, wasn’t it? You were safe. Now, when I want to accept our relationship, to love you—suddenly you’re rationalizing everything away.”

“I’m not going to argue with you.”

“Why not? Afraid I might win?”

Carol began to dress. “Sybil, let’s cool it for now? Okay?”

“No, it’s not okay.”

Carol sighed. “Suit yourself.”

“And don’t sigh at me!” Sybil wanted to hit her, anything to get something other than the glassy surface of her indifference. She seized her shoulders. “Carol, I’ve never felt like this before, not with anyone.”

“Don’t mistake sex for love.”

“God! You sound like a nineteen-sixties advice to the lovelorn column.” In her rage she shook her. “It’s a lot more than sex. Come on, Carol, say you love me. You do. You must.”

“What? And join the queue?” She twisted free of Sybil’s hands. “You’re so infinitely desirable, Sybil . . . Terry Clarke follows you around, Bill Pagett couldn’t keep his hands off you, your husband came back from overseas . . .” She shrugged. “Why not put this down to an interesting experience—your little excursion into lesbianism—a harmless little dabble in forbidden sex?”

“You’re deliberately picking a fight, Carol.”

“Why would I bother?”

“To make it easier to leave. To make sure the last memories are sour ones.”

“Sybil, if things had been different—”

“That’s rubbish, and you know it. Why don’t you be honest, Carol? Just say it’s been nice, but I took it all a bit seriously, and you’re sorry if I’m hurt, but that’s the way it is. Have I got the dialogue right?”

“Just about,” said Carol.

Sybil didn’t cry when she had gone, but sat cross-legged in the pool of moonlight on the bed, trying resolutely to construct a world for herself in which there was no Carol.

The clock radio woke Sybil at six-thirty. Half awake, she felt the looming grayness of sadness and disappointment, and then, as she opened her eyes, she unwillingly remembered the night before. She looked at the crumpled sheets and tried to imagine Carol’s naked body curled around her. “I’m not going to cry,” she said to Jeffrey, who was perched on the end of the bed to lobby for breakfast.

At seven-thirty she picked up the phone, and began to dial Carol’s number. Before she had finished, she replaced the receiver. She’d be out running, or be at the station, or not want to talk to Sybil anyway. What was there left to say? I love you, Carol? Someone else had said that to Carol before, and she didn’t want to hear it again.

The day stretched ahead of her, empty. She went around the house opening all the windows to the summer air. Cicadas shrilled, the air shimmered with early heat, a small flock of cockatoos shrieked and whirled in insolent acrobatics. Standing at the open glass doors, staring at the sea, she could almost believe she would rather be at the swimming carnival, coping with the excited screams of students echoing against the tiles and glass of the indoor pool. She could just turn up and offer to help. Then she thought of Terry. The heavy weight of his obsession would suffocate her. She didn’t want to see him today, or ever.

“Come on, Jeffrey, entertain me,” she said to his fat purring ginger face.

Chapter Thirteen

“
What’s the matter?” Bourke said.

“Mark, it’s her, I know it.” Carol paced the small office. “And she’s going to do something else. She’s getting such a charge out of this, she isn’t going to stop now.”

“We haven’t got enough, Carol.”

“I know that, but it all adds up. Lynne knew about Edwina’s threatening call, even though Edwina swears she told no one but us. Lynne was rostered to give out sports equipment, including baseball bats, on the two Wednesdays before Pagett’s murder. . .”

“So she had access to the bats, Carol—that doesn’t prove anything.”

Carol rubbed her forehead. “All right, but add to that the change of nail color. Lynne was late to school that Monday morning, and Mrs. Farrell watched her sign in. She says she’s sure Lynne was wearing pale pink polish on her nails. Yet by the time the staff meeting was called, it had changed to a dark red color—Mrs. Farrell noticed it when Lynne interrupted us both on the way to the meeting. I knew something was nagging me about that first interview we had with Lynne—it was the clash between the dark pink dress she was wearing and that purple red polish. Plus there’s the kid you found who ran a message for her to the local shops to get a bottle of nail polish . . . and she specifically said she wanted a
dark
color.”