The Celibate Mouse (15 page)

Somewhere.

CHAPTER 21

The Luncheon

Susan

Thursday: late morning.

M
other’s phone call is the eleventh this morning. My neighbour in Brisbane rings to tell me all is well at the house, but old Mrs Phillips’ geriatric dog has been digging the hydrangea bushes up again. Two close friends and four colleagues, including my work partner Evan, phone to ask how I am. Eloise calls from the UK to let me know they need to stay for at least another three months, and David checks that we are still alive and fills us in on the attack on Senior Constable Glenwood. The constable guarding him is lucky to have survived. We are sworn to secrecy once more, a stricture which is aimed at Marli.

Mother has never missed an opportunity to take jabs at my work or to mention Harry, whom she adores. I resist the impulse to retort that he couldn’t care less about any of us, including her. ‘Susan, you know what I’ve always thought about your job and now these murders in Emsberg. I think you should go home, because it’s not good for Marli and Harry won’t like you putting her in danger!’ Like Harry would care?
He can get stuffed.
Off-hand I can’t remember the sentence for matricide, but if the jurors had ever met my mother, I’d get off, scot free.

‘Mum, Marli’s okay and I’m fine. The house is empty and up for sale, so we’ve nowhere to go.’

‘Everything’s not fine, Susan. And you’re coming down with a cold. I can hear it in your voice. It’s not surprising since you never wear good woollen underwear.’ A flash of memory reveals myself, at four years of age, being spectacularly sick into a pair of huge, pink ‘passion-killers’ which belong to my grandmother

‘Mum, I’m resting, not ill and the trouble here has nothing to do with me. I’m an ordinary citizen as far as that’s concerned.’
Oh yeah, right.

God help me if she discovers my ex-husband is leading the investigation. The only time I heard my mother swear was during one of her and David’s vicious clashes following the twin’s birth. The score was 100% in his favour and she’s never forgiven him for it.

‘I’ve a good mind to come and take over. Has Brittany rung you?’

‘No, mum. You know she’s not speaking to me.’

‘Hurrrrrrph’ No one can snort as triumphantly as mother. ‘Well, it’s not surprising, is it? After the way you treated Harry.’
Give me strength.

‘Yes, Mum. I
know
. It’s my
own
fault he left.’ Pain arcs through me. My two failures as a wife have bitten deeply into my self confidence.

‘What does Melanie say about it? I don’t know what’s wrong with that girl. She never returns my calls.’

Mother rambles on, running down my sister, the Reverend Melanie Burgess, whose religious calling she couldn’t understand but boasted about at every opportunity. My throat is too sore to argue and I am exhausted from lack of sleep.

When we went to bed last night, Marli moved in with me, as of course did Fat Albert, who stretched himself until he had both of us at the edge of the mattress. Her gentle breathing and occasional snores were comforting and even Albert’s purring was a blessing. Titch slept in Marli’s left armpit. It was a cosy, but crowded arrangement. I dozed intermittently throughout the night, waking at every call from a night bird. David settled on the lounge, taking his self-imposed guardianship to the point where he patrolled the house at the slightest sound, causing my heart to thud and perspiration to break out every time the floorboards creaked. His opening the door each time he prowled and asking, ‘Are you all right?’ didn’t help either.

At 4.15am, Albert tipped Marli out of bed to land with a thud which shook the floor. Her pup let out a high-pitched squeal. David bounded into the room and tripped over the old spaniel sleeping on the mat on my side of the bed. He put a hand out to save himself and squashed Albert who, justifiably annoyed, swiped his claws across the back of David’s knuckles. The younger dogs, alerted to the excitement, yelped in their enclosure outside.

My ex-husband’s reaction was predictably male and involved curses. By the time Marli picked herself up and we recovered from our fright, the house was in an uproar. We trooped out to the kitchen, calmed the dogs, put the kettle on and plastered David’s bleeding hand. Another spirited debate ensued over whether I should be examined by a doctor. I protested vigorously. ‘No one will talk to me if they know what I do.’

‘You weren’t going to involve yourself,’ my saner side reminded.
‘Oh shut up,’
my professional self snapped.

After much protestation and checking my throat, David backed down. He and Marli were making toast and drinking hot chocolate when his mobile phone rang with news of more trouble at the hospital–

‘Susan?
Are you listening to me?’
Mother’s shriek snapped my attention back to our conversation.

‘What? Sorry mum, I was distracted for a moment. Look, I’ve got to go; someone’s coming up the driveway.’

‘All right, then. But make sure you ring me back and let me know what’s happening. Perhaps Brittany should come and stay with us, you know she’s impressionable and since Marli’s with you and you’re not there to protect Brittany–’

Brit could take on a rabid Rottweiler and win with one hand tied behind her back. ‘Mum, I’ll ring you tomorrow. Sorry, bye.’

‘Marli, stall whoever it is. Tell them I’m getting dressed and won’t be long.’ It’s eleven o’clock, for God’s sake. Whoever it is will think I’m a lazy cow. I bolt for the bedroom, drag on clean jeans and a reasonably respectable shirt, and then examine myself in the mirror. If I pull the collar up, fold a scarf inside the neck of my shirt and keep my hair down, with any luck no one will notice the bruises. Panic shoots through my veins like a hoon through a backstreet after midnight. If David and Marli hadn’t come home when they did ... I force myself to calm down.
Will I ever get my mojo back?

‘Mum! Mrs Winslow and Carissa are here!’ shouts Marli. Oh, my God, what’s happened now? I smooth my hair down around my neck and twitch the scarf higher inside my collar, just in time to greet Daniella and Carissa at the front door.

Daniella is apologetic over not ringing before she came, but she would like me to do her a favour and: ‘How am I? You’re so pale, Susan! Marli, you look tired too. Late night?’

We usher them into the kitchen where it transpires that Daniella is taking me to lunch at Sir Arthur Robinson’s lair and Carissa wants Marli to help “re-do” her website. Carissa has a website? What am I thinking, of course she does and a Facebook page and she’s on Twitter, as are my daughters.
And I’ll bet Brit’s unfriended me by now.

Daniella’s voice penetrates the fog in which I am swirling. ‘Some of the family are dropping in, and I’m sure the girls will be fine here.’ She doesn’t realise how dangerous it is to leave them on their own.

‘How about if you two go to Ann’s place and work on your stuff there? I hear she’s an expert on websites,’ I add, slyly. Carissa’s friend, Ann, lives in town.

Carissa looks rebellious. Marli “twigs” what my problem is, but doesn’t want to co-operate. ‘Look, mum, we’ll be okay here. Its broad daylight and we’ve both got mobiles, okay? I’ll even lock the doors when you go.’

I try to find a good reason not to agree, but for once can’t think of anything without blowing my cover. Daniella is jiggling her car keys impatiently, so I let the dogs into the house and race around locking the outside doors, because I don’t trust my daughter to remember. ‘I’ll be ringing you,’ I announce, with a telling glance at Marli, who rolls her eyes with wounded patience.

‘We’ll see you later, mum.’ They head off to her bedroom, where she is about to discover that her pup has torn her best shoes to pieces, because she’s too lazy to put them where he can’t get them. Tough.

‘Thank you, Daniella. Can I contribute anything? A bottle of wine, perhaps?’ James has told me to make free with his collection.

Daniella lifts her nose like a hunting dog. ‘Have you a nice ‘red’?’ she enquires enthusiastically.

Before I can gather my wits, two bottles of River-sands Doctor Seidel Soft Red and I, are managed into the BMW and on our way. I’ve seen Lady Ferna in action, when she’d sailed into the local bakery like a modern-day Boadicea, sans chariot, so I am not looking forward to meeting her formally, much less being her guest.

Small villages nestle in the curves of a winding river; numerous dams reflect the sky, littering the landscape like blue puddles. The Robinson mansion, a huge two-storied Queenslander, perches on the side of an escarpment overlooking a wide, shallow valley. Daniella parks in a space beside several luxurious cars in the circular driveway.

Can I cope with this? Too late. I’m being herded up the stone steps to meet Lady Ferna, who is standing sentinel on the verandah. A group of people behind her fall silent as we arrive at the top. Daniella, having relieved me of the wine, kisses Lady Ferna’s cheek, introduces me and swans toward the assembled company, waving the bottles in the air. She puts them on a broad windowsill which is doing duty as the bar. Caterers are setting a long, white-clothed trestle at the far end of the verandah.

‘So good of you to come,’ announces my hostess, sweeping me with a penetrating glance, as she holds out a svelte paw for my garden-stained clasp. She has a grip like a boa constrictor. Within moments, I am seated in a comfortable chair beside Sir Arthur, wriggling my hand to make my circulation return. A huge cat, who looks at me as though I am a morsel it’s dragged into the house and then rejected, is sitting in his lap.

Sir Arthur focuses his owl-like gaze on me. ‘You’re a relative of the Kirkbridge’s?’ and, ‘You work for the government, I believe?’ are swiftly dealt with. I wonder why I am here, because Daniella doesn’t appear to need any support, but it transpires that they wish to thank me for reviving Edna during her ill-fated visit to the loo on Saturday.

‘I am so glad you were there when Edna fell ill, Mrs Prescott,’ gushes Lady Ferna.

‘I was glad to do what I could,’

There is no merit in doing what one must, but they will not let it alone. Intrusive questions fly thick and fast, but I parry them with practised ease, itching to ring Marli. When they finally back off, I tune into the snatches of conversation flowing around me. One or two cause my eyebrows to hit my hairline.

‘Of course, Ferna has that dreadful Quincy to do the garden ... yes, I know Ferna does do a lot and Arthur takes the credit ...’

‘ ... I gave it to the cat, but he said he didn’t like it ...’
Huh?

‘... those cuttings you took ...’

‘Of course, it’s going to be a good show, Ferna’s arrangements always go to plan ...’ Edna’s funeral?

‘Libby’s behaviour is disgraceful, considering ... and she gets half of all Edna’s money ...’
What money?
My ears are quivering like a Fennec Fox. More luncheon guests arrive and the assembled company greets them enthusiastically. Each one emerges from Ferna’s voluminous bosom and races to the windowsill to fill a glass. I sneak into the loo and phone Marli, who snaps that she’s,
‘Still alive thank you, mother,’
and hangs up.

Surreptitiously I examine the clan, which ranges in age from twenties, early forties or thereabouts, to the eighties. The older members, apart from the hosts, are a couple of geriatric identical twins with a distinct resemblance to Arthur, sitting apart from the crowd, whose names are Connie and Grace. They are holding hands and whispering to each other, seemingly oblivious to the conversation. I am about to turn my attention to the younger members of the gathering when I realise their body language shrieks tension.
Interesting.

I focus on the men, saving Libby, Edna’s granddaughter and co-inheritor of her estate, for future reference.

Euon Jellicott, Lady Ferna pronounces his name, “yew -on” is fifty-ish and a solicitor. He is not wearing a wedding ring, so I assume is maritally unencumbered. An expensive-looking briefcase is on the floor by his seat. It’s open and bulging with official-looking papers. My fingers itch to fossick through them. He arises and trots down the steps to stand on the driveway, smoking something revolting. He is about 190cm, narrow-shouldered, but wiry with muscular legs. One could easily imagine him legging it up the mountain behind the farm.

The thirtyish, good-looking man sitting opposite is Jason Hardgreaves, the doctor who attended Edna the night she was murdered. His ear is wet from Libby’s whisperings. She sees me looking at him and slips her hand into his, making sure I see a flash from her diamond ring. I’m amused at being warned off; if I’d started breeding at thirteen, I’d be old enough to be his mum.

Lady Ferna is leaning over, clutching the arm of another family member, hissing into his face. A muscular, sporty little rooster in his late forties, he is not tall enough to be my assailant. He meets my gaze with a lustful gleam in his eye. Why? I am not sex-on-legs. Encouraged by my regard, he makes a beeline for me and introduces himself as Peter Robinson, the son of Arthur’s younger brother, John and his wife who are absent from the party. ‘Uncle Arthur and Ferna’s landscaping is famous. I’d be happy to show you around before lunch,’ he offers, sliding his arm around my back.

Before I can step away, Euon Jellicott jumps up and joins us. ‘You’re taking Susan around the garden?’

Is this a set-up? Before I can reply, I find myself being escorted down the steps to the lawn, a stalwart on either side.

‘Show her the rose garden!’ bellows Lady Ferna. Obediently, they wheel me to the left.

‘So, Susan, how long are you visiting our part of the world?’ Peter’s manner is sly and flirtatious; I’m not fooled for a moment. This is an exploratory expedition to find out who I am and why I am staying in this rural community. “A holiday” is not on their agenda.

‘I’m sure I’ve seen you somewhere before, Susan. Are you famous?’ asks Euon. Oh God, have they seen my picture in all the papers? It’s been awhile now; surely I will have been forgotten. They enquire my profession.