Murder In Myrtle Bay E-Book

Isobel Blackthorn

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

When feature writer Ruth Finlay and her elderly neighbor Doris Cleaver visit an antique and collectibles market in the small town of Myrtle Bay, they get a lot more than they bargained for.

After Ruth's old tennis coach is found dead, they discover that there's no lack of people who harbor a grudge against the victim, and a tangled web of family ties and lies begins to unravel. But can Ruth and Doris find the killer in time to avert a second murder?

A quirky feel-good mystery laced with intrigue, Murder In Myrtle Bay is the first book in Isobel Blackthorn's 'Ruth Finlay Mysteries' series. Set in small town Australia, it is a sure pick for any fan of classic whodunits and cozy mysteries!

Leseprobe

MURDER IN MYRTLE BAY

RUTH FINLAY MYSTERIES BOOK 1

ISOBEL BLACKTHORN

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Also By Isobel Blackthorn

Copyright (C) 2022 Isobel Blackthorn

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Edited by Graham (Fading Street Services)

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

This book is dedicated to the real Ruth Finley, in loving memory

1

‘The Tupperware’s upstairs,’ she said, pointing over at the long and low factory building. ‘Right at the back.’

Doris was anxious to get going. She had it in her head someone else would beat her to the lid she was after. A lid for her plastic orange bowl. She’d phoned ahead to make sure the stallholder had one. The dear old thing always had to find a valid, to her, rationale behind everything she did. I humoured her. What good neighbour wouldn’t? But I was already regretting asking her along.

‘Just one more photo of the pergola.’ I tried to sound firm.

The gardens were a core feature of the Goodfellow factory. We were standing at the western end, close to the main entrance to the market. The pergola comprised wooden beams painted bright red, sitting atop white Doric-style columns. Beneath, two rows of brightly coloured benches flanked a garden path.

Doris went and leaned against one of the columns ‘Do you want me to pose?’ She put on her cheeky face.

No, I don’t want you to pose. It wasn’t worth saying. She stood aside anyway.

Click, click, click.

It was a sunny day and I wanted to take advantage of the clear skies. Behind us to the east, the rooftop sculpture – a huge sheep looking out across Myrtle Bay – looked more iconic than ever against all that blue. Then there was the ornamental garden itself. It was late spring, and the flower beds were a riot of colour. The lawns were immaculate, the displays as neat as a pin, and there were water features, rockeries, and sculptures to enjoy. And topiary. I had to admit I was a sucker for a pretty garden. When Southern Lifestyle invited me to write a six-page feature on the factory, I pounced at the chance to write a piece in my own backyard. No need to research and no need to travel. Bonus.

The factory used to make woollen trousers and suits, and it had quite a history, one I had begun to delve into, but I was there that day to focus on the present as a couple of decades after the factory closed part of it was transformed into an antique and collectibles market. A tourism drawcard. And if I was to do the place justice, I needed some great photos.

I took a bunch more and then a wayward cloud slipped in front of the sun, taking with it much of the warmth I had been enjoying. Seeing that Doris’s patience had worn wafer thin, I slipped my camera into my bag. She looked impassive enough. But she was clenching and unclenching her fists. It was a thing she did when she was feeling pent up. I approached her and nudged her elbow.

‘Come on, then.’

‘It’s most likely gone by now,’ she said sourly.

I couldn’t help letting out a short laugh. ‘But who would have bought it?’

‘Any of those people, just for starters.’ She waved her hand at a throng of tourists exiting the factory. ‘Not to mention anyone leaving via the back.’

‘I bet none of them are into Tupperware. This lot don’t look the type.’

‘How can you tell?’

‘Trust me. I know.’

‘You can’t tell.’

I could tell. Almost no one in my generation had even heard of Tupperware. I gave her another nudge.

‘Coffee and cake, after. My treat.’

That cheered her up.

‘At The Tarts?’

‘Where else.’

I let her take the lead. She was lean for her age, petite and spritely, with long and thick silver hair tied up in a ponytail, the wisps around her face held back with a tie-dyed headband. She’d dressed for the occasion in baggy Aladdin pants and a thick black hoodie, the look rounded off with a pair of pale-turquoise runners. There was always a touch of theatre about Doris Cleaver.

As we entered through glass panel doors, I noticed the sudden drop in temperature and began to covet her outfit. I had to stop and rearrange my scarf – I never went anywhere without one – tightening the fabric up around my neck before doing up all the buttons on my thin cotton jacket. I’d forgotten how cold the market could get even on a warm day and Doris had been in such a rush, I’d forgotten to don a cardigan.

‘Are you alright?’ she said with concern as she came to a sudden halt ahead of me and turned back.

‘I’ll be fine.’

Although, already, my hands were feeling cold.

Was it this quirk in my nature that predisposed me to appreciate the quirks of others? Maybe, it was. I did know it wasn’t easy being susceptible to the cold. Not on the southern coast of Victoria where the winds cut through you and the winter dragged on for twice as long as anyone cared for. Mum had always said I belonged in the tropics.

We carried on down a wide, carpeted corridor to the front desk. The desk – large, old, and wooden – was positioned at the front of a small mezzanine area between the two levels of the building. Behind the desk the mezzanine was lined rear and sides with cabinets filled with drawers and open shelves, all of the furnishings no more than waist height, allowing whoever was working to survey much of the lower level. On the left of the desk, stairs led up to the top floor. Straight ahead, a ramp led down to the floor below.

The factory was built in the 1940s after World War Two and was something of a hodgepodge. There were various buildings housing cutting areas, sewing floors and a canteen. A plain façade had been tacked on to the front of the main structure. The market was housed in the original building in what had been the offices above, and areas for machinists below. Behind what had become the market’s front desk, a central court allowed those on the upper level to survey the activity beneath. In all, it was the perfect location for a collectibles market. The place was cavernous, and the industrial feel set off the dense jumble of items on display in stall after stall after stall.

A quirk of design meant the slope of the ramp began before the desk, meaning anyone standing in front waiting to be served felt a touch lopsided.

Joe was on duty as he said he would be. All the stallholders did their stint, but Joe had more of an overseer role being a leaseholder as well. He was into guitars and vintage toys and all things 1950s. Seeing us approach he beamed a smile. He had a big round face that suited his physique and his personality, and I’d always liked him.

‘You picked a beaut day for it,’ he said.

He passed me a large manila envelope, and I riffled through the contents and found it crammed with photocopies of press cuttings along with photos, old letters, and journal extracts. Background for my feature piece.

‘Let me know if you need anything else.’

‘Pretty sure I’ll be right, thanks.’

I rearranged the contents of my bag to make room for the envelope. Doris was about to walk off up the stairs when Bob came lumbering up the ramp. He passed behind us and went and stood beside Joe behind the desk. A balding man in his sixties, Bob was a close associate of Joe, the sort of man always ready to lend a hand when there was a need.

He placed both hands down on the desk, fingers spread wide, leaned forward, and said, ‘Hullo, Doris.’

‘Bob.’

She gave him a cursory glance before turning to me.

‘Are we going?’

I didn’t speak. I felt instantly embarrassed. She could be too taciturn when she wanted. Bob was a member of the walking track committee of which Doris was founder and president. They didn’t always see eye to eye. And Doris wasn’t one to hide her irritation. Plus, she was as eager as ever to get her lid. As far as I was concerned, none of that excused her abrupt manner.

Doris directed her gaze at the desk and waited. Bob pulled back with apparent anticipation. Joe rolled a pen from side to side on the desk. No one seemed to know what to say next and an awkward silence descended. I broke it by suggesting to Doris that we go and have a browse downstairs.

She didn’t move.

‘Might as well,’ I said. ‘There’s no one in here.’

‘There are a few,’ said Joe.

‘I’ll just go and grab it,’ Doris said.

I touched her shoulder as she was about to head off up to the Tupperware.

‘Er, no. Better we stick together.’

‘I could meet you at the car. Better still, over by the other entrance since the car is parked around the side.’

‘Doris.’

‘You won’t be leaving that way, today,’ Joe said. ‘The back exit is closed. We’re short-staffed and we’ve been having issues with the door. In fact, Brad should be down there fixing the lock as we speak.’

‘You could meet each other right here,’ Bob said, delighting in Doris’s mounting agitation. He looked at me and winked. ‘We’ll look after her for you.’

‘I’m not a child,’ Doris said sourly.

Joe looked a little bemused and Bob seemed on the verge of laughter.

‘If you head off, Doris, there’s every chance I’ll never find you,’ I said.

Joe grinned. ‘We could always send out a search party.’

At that, Bob didn’t hold back his laughter.

‘No, no. Ruth’s right,’ Doris demurred. ‘She has trouble finding me sometimes. Must be something wrong with her eyesight. I keep telling her to get it checked.’

Doris had shifted the blame, but I didn’t react. More than anything, I felt relieved, remembering that day in Dumfries when I spent a full two hours searching for her.

That day had been hot, and she had wandered into a similar market hoping for relief. She plonked herself down in an antique chair in one of the stalls to have a rest. Only, the chair she was sitting on had a high back and it was tucked in behind a wide display, and I couldn’t see her from the aisle. After a frantic search, I almost phoned the police. We ended up missing the coach back to Myrtle Bay and had to check into a bed and breakfast.

‘Let’s get going,’ I said. I thought my body would turn into a block of ice if we stood around any longer.

I was about to steer Doris down the ramp when Brendan Taylor came striding up in something of a hurry. He breezed past us on his way out, all buff in work shorts and a high-vis shirt. I glanced back and watched him leave the building. Brendan, a local and one of the area’s prized plumbers, and not so much as a tilt of the head to acknowledge my presence.

Brendan had been three years above me in school, only he’d attended Myrtle Bay High and I had gone to Siena College. Public and private, the great divide, but our paths had crossed every day on the way to and from our respective schools and his mum had worked for a while as my dad’s receptionist. Dad used to be a dentist. Which was why I felt a little bit offended that Brendan hadn’t said hello on his way by. He must have seen me. Although he did appear to be preoccupied.

It was time for a major distraction, from the snub, from the friction and above all from the cold.

‘I promise you that lid will still be there,’ I whispered to Doris as we headed down to the stalls on the lower floor. ‘In the meantime, let’s have some fun.’

I hadn’t been to this market in years. Looking around, I saw that the space, thanks to the open design of the factory, the white walls and good lighting, provided a perfect backdrop for photos. I ferreted about in my bag and took out my camera and we wandered from stall to stall, down first one aisle, then another, marvelling at what was a colourful jamboree of wares.

Doris soon got into the spirit of things. She delighted in poking around the displays of vintage bric-a-brac, pointing at a trinket or ornament with, ‘I had one of those’, pulling old and rare books from shelves at random exclaiming, ‘I can hardly believe it’, and poring over the cover of an Enid Blyton hardback she’d read as a child. She donned the jewellery, new and antique, and handled the glass and ceramics and fine china. We both had fun among the retro fashion. We strolled by the LP records, vintage toys, clocks, and music boxes, eyeing off this and that. Neither of us were that interested in the paintings, pottery, and giftware, and we marched right on by the militaria. Still, there was something to suit every taste. The market was a treasure trove, and a place to get thoroughly lost in.

We were heading towards the rear of the factory when Doris stepped backwards and bumped into Kathy Williams who let out a sharp cry. Kathy had been trying to squeeze past and Doris had managed to tread on her foot. Kathy did not look pleased. She was a brisk woman who wore her long sandy hair parted in the middle and never put on any makeup. Her face had that rugged if hale look of someone who had spent her whole life outdoors. Her family had the farm next to my grandparents’ place out at Bowerdale.

‘Hey, Kathy,’ I said. ‘Good to see you.’

‘You too.’ She offered no smile.

‘I didn’t mean…’ Doris said.

‘All good. I should have chosen the other way in.’

‘Bit crowded, this one,’ Doris said, looking around.

‘Sure is. But your stock won’t sell if it isn’t on display so…’

‘I wouldn’t have thought coloured glass was your thing,’ Doris said, eying the bowl in Kathy’s hand.

‘It’s for a friend. She’s got a thing about pink.’

‘Fair enough.’

We left her to it and continued on down the aisle.

Kathy was the second acquaintance who had given me the cold shoulder that day. Why the coolness? Her foot couldn’t have hurt that much and besides, it wasn’t me who had trodden on it. Deep down, I suspected I’d become a tall poppy around town. Got too big for my boots. A journalist. Definitely not to be trusted. But I didn’t think that attitude at all fair and it stung a bit.

We were nearing the back entrance. I was feeling chilled to the bone and Doris’s enthusiasm had started to wane.

‘Do we have to look at every single stall?’ she moaned.

‘Come on, then, Mrs D, let’s get you to the Tupperware.’

We headed back to the ramp, past the desk and on upstairs. I raced ahead to get the blood circulating, hopefully all the way to my fingertips.

‘Which way?’ I said, once we had both reached the central court.

‘It’s right up the back.’

She led the way.

It was much lighter and brighter up here and the layout was markedly different. In the central court, glass cabinets were lined up shoulder-to-shoulder along the length of some of the walls. Beyond, a wide aisle cluttered with wares led to various office spaces given over to large displays. It was a confusing layout, haphazard feeling at first, and fun. Although the wares were not as photographically inviting as those down on the ground floor and I slipped my camera into my bag.

At last, after much dodging and weaving, we arrived at a small stall filled with coloured plastic. There were containers of all shapes and sizes, many with lids, arranged by colour on shelves lining the stall and on a central display.

Doris seemed to know exactly where to find the lid she was after. She waved it at me and grinned.

‘What luck.’

I offered no reply. Luck had nothing to do with it. No one was going to come into the market on a mission to buy that very lid. Some things were so improbable they were impossible.

‘Are we done?’

I thought we were. There was only the area on the far side of the Tupperware and then we could walk back down the other half of the upper level to complete the tour.

We started wandering around the antique furniture. I was admiring a large dresser thinking of where I would put it when Doris murmured, ‘Ruth.’

It was the low tone of her voice. It was the way she had said my name. It was the way she appeared frozen to the spot that made me turn straight away.

She was standing between a cabinet and a dining table. I went over and found her staring down at her feet. As I grew closer, I saw that she was staring at a body lying face down on a Persian rug. Blood oozed from the back of the head. It was a man. I took note of the jeans, the blue shirt. His face was pointing the other way. I went around him and knelt down by his side to see if he was breathing. He was. But his face was contorted with pain.

‘You’ll be alright,’ I said. ‘We’ll get help.’

He strained to speak. I leaned closer to him.

‘I didn’t do it,’ he whispered.

Didn’t do what? I wondered.

I sat back on my haunches and gave Doris a desperate look. ‘Go and get Joe.’

She rushed away.

I sat for a moment in disbelief. When I lowered my gaze back to the man’s face, he was barely conscious. Then he exhaled. It was his last breath.

The journalist in me kicked in. While Doris was gone, I glanced around to make sure I was alone. I was. Seizing the moment, I dipped my hand in my bag, pulled out my camera and took a few discreet shots of the corpse. It felt macabre but also somehow vital.

As I put the camera away my heart started pumping fast. I felt a rush of adrenaline course through me. It wasn’t the first time I’d witnessed a death. But the other time was different. It was in a hospital. And the person dying was Mum. Right now, I didn’t know whether to stay and guard the body or leave it and find Doris. After a few moments of indecision, I headed off.

I arrived back at the desk as Joe was finishing a call to the police. Bob hovered nearby and Doris stood in front of the counter. Thinking quickly, I took out my phone. Better to voice record than rely on notes. Less obvious, too. I wasn’t entirely sure what I was doing as none of this would appear in my feature piece, but instinct had taken hold and I was curious, at the very least. Especially as I knew who that body belonged to: David Fisk.

I tucked the phone in my jacket pocket with the microphone pointing at the desk.

‘It’s a terrible thing to have happened,’ I said, standing beside Doris. ‘Who would do such a thing?’

‘Doesn’t bear thinking about,’ Joe said.

‘I can’t help thinking that whoever did this was in here just now and unless they’re hiding somewhere in the building, they walked right past this desk on their way out.’

‘Could have been anyone,’ Bob said dismissively.

‘Not anyone,’ I corrected, in that moment finding him as annoying as Doris did.

‘Could have been Kathy Williams. Could have been Brad Taylor. They were here,’ she said.

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘Who else was in here, then?’ I said, directing my question at Joe.

‘You sure you want to get involved in this, Ruth?’ He sounded sceptical.

‘She might as well,’ Doris said, rallying.

‘The cops won’t be happy,’ said Bob.

‘They don’t have to know.’

‘We won’t say a word,’ said Joe.

I gave him a grateful smile. ‘Call it a bit of investigative journalism.’

‘You can call it what you like,’ Bob said, all haughty. ‘But it’s nobody’s business except the police if you want my opinion.’

‘We don’t,’ Doris snapped. ‘Anyway, what’s wrong with a bit of sleuthing?’

No one had an answer, and the mezzanine went quiet.

‘We just need to know who was in here from about the time we came in,’ I said, my impatience rising. The shock of seeing David Fisk as he’d died of his injury coupled with the cool factory air had chilled me to my core and I began to fear I would start shaking.

‘There weren’t many,’ said Joe, no doubt relieved to be moving the conversation forward a fraction.

He looked at Bob who shrugged. ‘You were the one at the desk. I was sorting out paperwork.’

A reflective look appeared in Joe’s face. ‘There was that Melbourne couple, Angie and Hu.’

‘Tourists?’

‘Told me they were staying at a bed and breakfast in Moss Street. Wanted Bob here to drop off a table.’

‘It’s no bother,’ Bob said under his breath.

‘That the Franks’ place?’ Doris said.

‘There’s no other holiday let in Moss Street that I know of.’

They were still at daggers. You’d think that sort of thing would have stayed in the playground, but those two had been at loggerheads since pre-school and there was no changing either of them now. I made a mental note to delete the voice recording once I’d harvested the nuggets.

‘Who else was in here?’ I said.

Joe thought for a moment. ‘Only the girls from the bakery. Monica and Barb.’

‘From Betty’s Bakehouse,’ Doris said. It wasn’t a question.

‘You know them?’

‘They used to do a good custard tart.’

‘The business changed hands a couple of years back,’ Bob said. ‘Someone from Melbourne bought it.’

‘Monica and Barb left the market not long after you came in,’ Joe said. ‘And that would be it, from memory.’

Doris wasn’t satisfied. ‘We saw a gaggle exiting on our way in. What about them?’

‘They didn’t make it past the desk. Not what they’d expected, apparently.’

‘What are you going to do now?’ Bob said. ‘I mean, the police will follow up with everyone, including you two. I can’t see what good it will do if you go quizzing people.’

‘Got something to hide, Bobby?’ said Doris.

He bristled. Even I knew Bob hated being called Bobby.

‘Hardly,’ Joe said in his defence. ‘Bob’s been here with me at the front desk the whole time.’

There was nothing more to say. As the key witnesses, we had to hang around until the police arrived on the scene. I’d reached my threshold when it came to the cold and suggested we waited outside in the gardens. Doris was out the door first.

The sun was still beaming down, and I was able to thaw out on a park bench overlooking an area of sunken garden nearby. There were few people about.

‘Who on earth would want to kill David Fisk?’ I said softly, watching a bee navigate its way into a flower.

‘You recognised him too, then. He would have had plenty of enemies, I imagine.’

‘You think?’

Before she could answer, two uniformed officers came striding through the gardens. We followed them into the factory and hovered near the desk. Joe was about to direct them to the body when Doris cut in with, ‘Please, if you don’t mind. Can we leave you our names and addresses and we’ll call into the station in the morning to give our statements? Only, I don’t think my legs will support me for much longer.’

‘She found the body,’ I said.

The officers exchanged glances. One of them took out his notepad and took down our details.

‘Thank you for that,’ I said to Doris as we left.

‘Don’t mention it. Better coming from an old biddy like me. They would probably have kept you waiting until you turned into a block of ice.’

I laughed but there wasn’t much mirth in it.

We headed back to my car and went straight home. We’d both forgotten my invitation to have coffee and cake at The Tarts. Playing on my mind during the whole drive was the sickening fact that if I had caved in to Doris’s wish to visit the Tupperware stall first, in all likelihood David Fisk would still be alive.

2

Doris had her doubtful look on. ‘That’s an awful lot of suspects,’ she said.

A cantankerous wind rattled the window in agreement.

We were sitting in my living room the morning after the murder staring at the whiteboard I’d propped on the mantlepiece. On the whiteboard were the names I’d extracted from the voice recording – Brad the handyman, Angie and Hu from Melbourne, and Barb and Monica from Betty’s Bakehouse – along with the names of those we had seen: Joe Cousins and Bob Machin at the front desk, Brendan Taylor the plumber, and Kathy Williams who had literally bumped into Doris in one of the stalls.

We stared and stared, neither of us knowing where to start. I was aware that I should have been working, but I told myself the feature for Southern Lifestyle could wait. This was much more pressing and, if I dared to admit it even to myself, deliciously intriguing. It was also a way of soothing my conscience over my decision to put photos for my feature piece before Doris’s Tupperware lid.

‘Nine?’ I said, humouring her. ‘We should be able to rule some out right away. I mean, as if Bob or Joe had it in them to kill anyone.’

‘And in their own building when they were on shift. That would be pretty stupid.’

I got up and wiped Joe and Bob off the whiteboard.

‘Which leaves seven,’ I said, standing like a schoolteacher poised with her marker pen.

Doris furrowed her brow. ‘Eight. You need to put Bob back on the list.’

‘Bob? Are you sure?’

‘Positive. You don’t know him as well as I do, and I’ve always found him a bit dodgy.’

I put Bob back on the list with some reluctance. He’d always seemed to me an upstanding man. But there would be no arguing with Doris.

I’d invited her over after we’d arrived home from the police station the day before to help kick things along thinking the investigation would be a lot more interesting with a partner. And besides, Doris needed a distraction. Her daughter Emily was going through a rough patch in her marriage and as she lived in London, Doris felt helpless.

‘Tell you what,’ I said. ‘If we group the couple from Melbourne together, and Monica and Barb, we end up with six. That satisfy you?’

She stroked her chin. ‘Bit illusory, but much better.’

‘Doesn’t bring us any closer to knowing who did it.’

There was a long pause. Doris put her hands on her thighs readying to get up out of my armchair. Right then, I didn’t want her to leave. Not while I had a bunch of thoughts running through my head.

‘Maybe we should leave it to the police,’ I said.

She pinned me with her gaze and said, ‘You mean that bumbling detective, Ian Berry. He doesn’t know a thing about Myrtle Bay. He’s from Queensland.’

I ignored her remark. Berry seemed perfectly fine to me.

‘During my interview,’ I said, ‘he kept saying it was a warren in that market with hundreds of hiding places. No one can argue with that. But from what I could glean, he’s pretty much fixated on someone who sneaked in and out of the factory unseen.’

‘Person X.’

‘And if he’s right, then we have no hope of finding out who they are. We really would be better off leaving it to the police.’

Doris was having none of it. ‘I bet he thinks the murder was drug related. A mugging gone wrong. All he can think about when it comes to crime in these parts is drugs.’

‘They’ll bring in the homicide squad.’

‘They’ll have no local knowledge either.’

My remarks had had the desired effect and Doris sat back in her seat. She deposited her elbows on the armrests and steepled her fingers. She was going all Miss Marple on me.

‘This sudden interest of yours doesn’t have something to do with the victim, by any chance?’

She could be a bit too shrewd sometimes. An asset, but unnerving when she hit the mark. I pulled my scarf up to my face, keen to hide my reddening cheeks. As a teenager, I’d had a huge crush on David Fisk. And I couldn’t duck away from Doris’s scrutinising stare.

‘David Fisk taught me how to play tennis,’ I said. ‘I really liked him.’

‘Schoolgirls,’ she said with a wry smile.

I recalled what he’d said to me as he lay dying on the floor. I didn’t do it. Didn’t do what? He was the victim, not the killer. I supposed I would never find out what he meant. I didn’t want to overload Doris right then, but I had to mention it if we were to be partners, so I told her.

‘Put it on the whiteboard,’ she said, making emphatic finger stabs in the air.

‘I’d rather not clutter it with incidentals.’

‘That’s not incidental. Whatever he said he didn’t do the murderer thought he had done, which is the motive, right there.’

‘You think?’ I said, playing dumb as I wrote the phrase down beside our list and stepped to one side, still the schoolteacher fronting her class of one.

‘It’s obvious,’ my rather strident student said. ‘And now I, for one, very much want to find out what David Fisk didn’t do.’ She gestured at the whiteboard again. ‘The other point is who out of that lot has it in them to commit murder? Because I really don’t think a so-called Person X is who we are looking for.’

‘My money’s on Kathy,’ I said, picking a suspect at random.

‘Oh, come on. Why does it always have to be a woman? Every crime show I watch these days has a woman murderer. It’s a bit farfetched when you think of how many women really commit such a crime compared to men. Political correctness has gone nuts if you ask my opinion. What a ludicrous way to achieve equality.’

I suppressed a laugh. ‘Alright. What is your opinion, then?’

A reflective look appeared in her face. I waited.

‘Brad is the most obvious.’

Like minds, and all that. I hadn’t really thought it was Kathy. Besides, I was keeping an open mind.

‘He had access and the means,’ I said.

‘In his toolbox.’

‘Although we don’t know what sort of weapon we’re looking at.’

‘I’ll ask Sergeant Willis at the station. He owes me a favour.’

Doris was already proving to be the perfect sidekick. No surprises there as she knew just about everyone around here and their history. Between us, our knowledge of the area was encyclopaedic. Even so, no one can know everything.

I looked over at Doris. ‘But what did Brad have against David Fisk?’

‘I feel like a pie for lunch,’ she said in reply. ‘What say you?’

We arrived at Betty’s Bakehouse a little after midday. Situated in Larkman Street at the west end of town, the bakery produced prize-winning pies and had served Myrtle Bay for generations. The door slid open on our approach, and we entered the cavernous interior decked out with rustic furniture. I breathed in the warm air, enjoying the homely smell of freshly baked bread and pies. Doris made straight for the counter where a young woman I didn’t recognise was serving. We waited in the queue and when it was our turn we ordered separately, she a coffee and a plain meat pie, and me a flat white and a chicken and avocado panini.

There was no sign of Monica, but Barb appeared behind the counter and stood at the till. I would have liked to quiz her then and there, but the queue forming behind us was growing. Frustrated, we went over to a quiet corner away from the entrance and I sat with my back to the wall to avoid the draught from the forever opening door. The weather had gone back to winter.

Our order arrived quickly, brought to our table by the young woman who’d served us, and we tucked in. Although there was no need to rush. We had to wait until things quieted down after the lunchtime rush and Barb was cleaning tables to make our inquiries.

When she grew close, I beckoned her over. She was a tall and pretty, middle-aged woman a touch on the stout side, with thick black hair and an open, friendly face. I noted the dark rings under her eyes, the worried lines around her mouth and wondered if something tragic had happened in her private life. But I would never know. I wasn’t about to ask.

‘How can I help?’ she said, wearing her customary smile.

‘You heard about what happened at the factory,’ Doris said.

‘I was there with Monica.’ She glanced around to check on who was in earshot.

‘We were there, too.’

She hesitated. ‘I didn’t see you.’

‘Big place.’

‘Did you see Brad, at all?’ I said, cutting to the chase. ‘I heard he was there fixing the backdoor.’

She seemed relieved by the question.

‘We didn’t go anywhere near that part of the building,’ she said, launching into an explanation. ‘We were downstairs but only near the front. Monica wanted to buy her dad a record. Jimi Hendrix, I think it was. Or maybe Daddy Cool?’ She paused, her eyes filling with moisture. ‘I can hardly believe he was murdered right then as we were searching through all that vinyl.’

‘We had the same thought,’ I said quietly.

‘Where were you?’ she said, recovering her composure.

‘Downstairs. Upstairs. Pretty much everywhere.’

A couple came and sat down at a nearby table. Barb moved forward and lowered her voice.

‘You have to remember that none of us know exactly when the murder took place. Like I said to Monica, we might have already left the building by then. Poor Monica was really shaken up about it. And we couldn’t find the record anyway, so we weren’t there long. They’re arranged alphabetically, you know. The stallholder does a good job…’

‘Poor David,’ Doris said, cutting in.

‘You knew him?’ Barb said with sudden interest.

‘Everyone knew David.’

Barb returned to my first question as though her mind had gone full circle. ‘So, Brad was there too,’ she murmured, almost to herself.

Doris pinned her with her gaze.

‘Don’t hold back.’

Barb shifted her weight from one leg to the other. She took a deep breath and said, ‘It’s just that Brad and David weren’t exactly friends. Brad resented David’s success.’ She looked over at the counter, suddenly nervous. ‘I better go.’

I watched her walk away as Doris drained the last dregs of her coffee. Then I leaned forward, keeping my voice low.

‘Is that a strong enough motive to kill someone?’

‘It is if there was an argument and he lashed out in a fit of rage.’

Neither of us spoke while we contemplated that scene. An argument? A fit of rage? Someone would have heard something, surely?

‘We better go,’ I said. ‘This isn’t a conversation for a public space.’

I’d parked the car in the street outside. The moment we exited the café, the wind took hold of an end of my scarf and hurled it into Doris’s face.

‘Oops,’ I said, clawing the scarf back around my neck. She laughed.

‘What did you make of Barb?’ I said once we were on our way.

‘Not sure.’

‘She seemed a bit off.’

‘We all had a big shock yesterday. It affects people differently.’

I turned right at the next roundabout and headed towards the main road through town. The traffic lights were red.

‘I’m wondering why she would point the finger at Brad,’ I said, my mind still puzzling over Barb’s remark.

‘Is that what she was doing?’

‘Why else would she mention his issue with David?’

‘Maybe her mind was just wandering.’

‘I’m wondering if there’s anything to it.’

‘Seems a touch farfetched, don’t you think?’

‘I suppose. Brad’s a handyman, though, which is the bottom of the hierarchy when it comes to trades, but you can still earn a good living wage. And David is, was, a PE teacher. Not exactly a top job. No one is ever jealous of a PE teacher. They’d feel sorry for him, more like.’

‘Not just a PE teacher. He founded the Fit for Fitness centre. That’s quite an achievement.’

‘In a small country town. So what?’

She didn’t answer. The lights turned green, and I concentrated as we passed through the staggered intersection with its very wide median strip.

‘If what Barb is saying is true,’ I said once we were through to the other side, ‘then why the resentment? Was it something Brad thought David had done? I keep coming back to David’s last words: I didn’t do it.’

‘This is something we’ll have to find out.’

At the next roundabout, I pulled up behind a red Subaru. The driver wasn’t taking any chances, happy to wait for a stream of cars to pass by on their way into town.

‘What was David to Brad?’ I said, still puzzling over his motive. ‘They weren’t related.’

‘They were. By marriage. David’s wife Sarah Greatbatch was Brad’s wife’s cousin.’

‘That’s hardly a relative.’

‘It brought them together at family gatherings. And there are a lot of those, believe me. The Fisks are a large family, as are the Greatbatches. Brad’s wife Maureen is a Greatbatch.’

‘Brad isn’t.’

‘He’s a Dovey.’

‘I’m confused.’

‘There aren’t that many Doveys and they don’t major in making something of themselves. You might say they’re a humble lot.’

‘In Brad’s case, clearly not if he killed David.’

The Subaru driver finally summoned the courage to pull into the roundabout and I followed.

‘We need to talk to Brad,’ Doris said as we approached our street. ‘See what he has to say.’

‘I need to visit Dad first,’ I said.

I sensed her disappointment. But I couldn’t drop everything and devote all my time to figuring out who killed David, and neither could she. Besides, after spending half the morning on the puzzle of the murder, I wasn’t even sure how committed I was. Bob Machin was right; the police were the ones to find the killer. They were the experts. Perhaps we should leave them to it.

One right turn and a hundred metres and I turned into my driveway.

The Peaceful Rest nursing home was tucked away down a leafy side street backing on to the river. Dad had one of the better rooms at the front of the building. The room was a touch larger than the others and enjoyed the river view as well as a clear line of sight to the carpark, providing Dad with a satisfying pastime, watching to see who came and went. Old ducks mostly, according to him. And he wasn’t talking about the river.

The air in the building generally felt sterile and stuffy. But not Dad’s room. He insisted on keeping a window open come rain or shine, even if only a crack. The wind would barrel in off the ocean and the staff would complain but he didn’t mind. His response was always the same. I’m the one paying for this, so I call the shots. Although there was no chance of changing the wall colour or the curtains or any of the fixtures and fittings. Dad had to resign himself to the bland cream walls and the institutional feel. He had done much to obscure all that, bringing with him as many family heirlooms as would fit in the space. He’d done well. He’d replaced their generic bedside table with the old oak cabinet that had sat on his side of the marital bed for as long as I could remember (he wasn’t allowed to replace the bed). A tall and wide glass cabinet filled with books and framed photos took up a large chunk of the opposite wall. Peaceful Rest had insisted he keep their solid, high-back armchair, but he had managed to squeeze in his two favourite armchairs for guests, arranged around the bow-legged coffee table that had always been in our lounge and reminded him of Mum as she was the one forever polishing it. Also in the room was the small dining table and two chairs that had been in our guestroom, and various accoutrements decorating the kitchenette. He’d even crammed in his old standard lamp which stood proudly in a corner beside the cabinet. Coming into the room from the featureless corridor, you would be forgiven for doing a double take.

Most of the residents wouldn’t care about their surroundings. But Dad did. He cared very much. He was only there because he was eighty-seven and frail and incapable of looking after himself. I would have had him at mine, but he wouldn’t hear of it. I had my own life to lead and that meant holding onto my freedom, he’d said. I didn’t want an old codger like him getting in the way and making demands. He refused to entertain the idea that I wouldn’t have minded at all.

I’d arrived with two slices of quiche Lorraine, a serve of creamy chicken curry with rice – last night’s dinner – and one of Doris’s Tupperware containers – blue this time – brimming with some bottled stewed apricots from last season’s crop, my back garden being blessed with a mature and highly productive tree. Dad loved stewed apricots. Reminded him of growing up on the farm. His mum had planted four apricot trees in the back garden, away from the wind and the frost. They were her pride and joy. Nothing made Dad feel more contented than a bowl of stewed apricots.

And it had to be said that Dad was finicky with his food. For him, nothing was the way his mum and my mum did it.

I found him sitting in the nursing home chair positioned by the window, so he could look out over the grounds. The sandwich that was his lunch was sitting on a tray on the coffee table with two bites taken out of one triangle. If it wasn’t for the provisions that I brought in every few days, I feared he would waste away. The staff had long since given up on trying to get him to eat their food. They knew I kept Dad’s kitchenette well-stocked and were happy to leave me to it.

Dad was dressed for the day in a thin jumper of dismal grey over ill-fitting trousers. Oh, Dad. There wasn’t enough of him to fill his clothes. And he was more unkempt than usual. His wispy hair was untidy, and the laces of his left shoe had come undone. I kneeled down and retied them.

He glanced at me, his face expressionless. When I stood, he waved a dismissive hand at the door and said, ‘Useless.’ He was referring to the long-suffering staff. I smiled. He still had his attitude, and he still had his teeth. His face was wrinkled but it was the same face it had always been with the same large mouth – a lot slacker than it was – and the same wide blue eyes, although the lids were a bit droopy. It was hard to think of him drilling into people’s teeth, but dentistry had been his life. I was his only child and his only remaining relative. His wife, my mother – Mum – passed away two years before.

Heart attack. Unanticipated and sudden.