Chasing Can Be Murder Page 11

  13

  Ever wondered what a mouse feels like after being mauled by a cat? Can’t say I have either. That is, until standing at my front door watching the Chrysler’s rear end disappear through the open gateway. However when the car turned left onto the bitumen road leading back to the police station, I put on my Sunday best smile and waved a casual goodbye to the two law-enforcing occupants.

  And then collapsed in a sniveling heap.

  No mobile phone meant no contacts to investigate, which meant we were no further advanced re finding out whodunit than immediately after itwas done.At the rate our plans were unraveling we’d be up to Plan Z by breakfast tomorrow morning.

  Resisting the urge to scream, I huffed in a deep cleansing breath and blew it out while counting to ten in my head. Focus. Concentrate on the now. It was Jake’s night off and there was a heap of work to get through.

  I dragged my grubby sneakers through the dirt on the way to the rear galloping runs. The rain from the previous day had leeched into the parched ground already. A strong gust of wind whipped at my T-shirt, flattened bushes and stirred up a suffocating haze of yellow dust. It hung in the air, clogged my nose and throat and made me cough. Clearly unhappy with the sudden dust storm, Matt’s three dogs huddled against the wind, noses pressed to the wire mesh gate, body language imploring me to hurry up and rescue them.

  As I elbowed the kennel-house door open and led Matt’s dogs inside, the noise was like peak hour traffic in the middle of the city. Waste of time putting on The Nutcracker Suite. The only sweetthese twenty noisy canines were interested in was the sprinkle of glucose on top of their meat and three veg.

  A sudden shiver zipped up my spine.

  I was alone.

  A bad guy could stroll in, shoot me dead, grab a carrot from the vegetable rack to chew on and saunter casually out again.

  To keep my imagination from taking me places I did not wish to visit, I grated cheese, carrots and trombone into a mixing bowl ready to spread across the dogs’ teas and thought about the footprint forensics had discovered beside my front door. Inspector Adams said it matched the footprint in my bedroom. But who did the footprint belong to? Seventy-five percent of the men I knew wore size ten shoes. However, every face that appeared in my mind, I dismissed. None of my friends were capable of murder. I sighed and added a spoonful of multivitamins to each of the twenty-three dog teas lined up on the table. I guess when PC Chalmers searched my house she had grand visions of unearthing a pair of ripple-soled shoes, size ten, still covered in tell-tale dried mud, hidden under a blood-stained nightdress at the back of my wardrobe. Honestly, that woman was so keen to slip a pair of handcuffs on my wrists, I suspected her of being into covert S&M.

  Unable to control the tremor in my hands I carefully cut a celery stick into thin slices, scraped the pieces into the bowl with the grated cheese, carrot and trombone, and picked up a large wooden spoon.

  It always came back to the same scary fact…Matt’s killer was no stranger to me.

  Thoughts whirled and clashed inside my head. Should I have told the Inspector about the phone call on the night of Matt’s murder? And mentioned the break-in and trashing of Matt’s house? I rubbed my aching temples with finger and thumb. This was what was known as a catch-22 situation. It was the responsibility of the police to catch bad guys and protect their victims—yet Matt’s forever-vacant eyes and Barney’s white battered face were the reality. Protection from Inspector Adams and the grim-faced Chalmers didn’t rate too highly against reality.The only good thing to come out of today was the fact that my name had plummeted on the suspect list.

  After feeding and settling the dogs for the night, I hurried through the gathering darkness to the house. Normally I enjoyed living alone. Tonight, every bush had a potential murderer crouching behind it. Every movement was a psychopath with a bloody knife ready to leap out and relieve me of vital body parts.

  The front door, heavy stained oak with panels, had never looked so solid and safe. Fumbling in my haste, I turned the key in the lock, darted inside and slammed the door behind me. If the police didn’t find the killer soon I’d end up frothing at the mouth and laced into one of those heavy-duty white strait jackets doctors use to control the mentally unhinged.

  I triple-locked the door, then, satisfied no one could get in, bent to pat my welcoming committee of two. Not only were they barking and yapping but their stamping paws and please-feed-me eyes declared I was a bad mother and they were both weak from hunger.

  “Okay, okay, calm down,” I told them, toeing off my sneakers and flipping them in the direction of the hall closet. “I haven’t eaten either. So, let’s go see what’s on the menu.” I padded along the passageway and into the kitchen. Lucky and Tater followed, their hard nails clicking and clacking and sliding on the polished linoleum floor.

  With a flourish, I opened the fridge door and poked my head inside. A bit like Mother Hubbard’s cupboard. What with the debacles of the last few days, I’d forgotten to go food shopping.

  I looked down at my dogs. “How about sharing a slightly stale cheese sandwich?”

  I swear Tater shook his head while Lucky wrinkled her nose in disgust.

  “No? Well, what would you say to a nice bowl of tuna? I could always scrape the green mould off.”

  Tater dived out from under Lucky’s stomach, yapping his disapproval in staccato yips. I grinned down at him as I reached for the roll of commercial dog food I always kept in the side door of the fridge.

  “Okay guys, just teasing. There’s savory chicken loaf for you and Chicken Tandoori Lean Cuisine for me.”

  It was a race to see who ate first. With the two aerobic gymnasts underfoot, I transferred the Lean Cuisine from the freezer to the microwave, set the timer for eight minutes, grabbed a Father Bear and a Baby Bear sized dog bowl from the wall cupboard and filled them both with chunks of savory loaf. Naturally Lucky, being an utter pig, hoovered her supper down in three noisy sucks. Then, before I could warn her of the consequences, she trotted over to Tater and offered to help clean his feed bowl as well.

  Big mistake.

  By the time I finished playing nursemaid to Lucky with cotton balls and Betadine, the microwave dinged and the aroma of Chicken Tandoori filled the room. My stomach growled, reminding me I hadn’t eaten since grabbing a slice of toast before leaving Tanya’s early that morning.

  With Tater and the Drama Queen still grumbling at each other as they followed behind, I carried my meal on a tray from the kitchen into the lounge room. Perhaps an entertaining dose of Dancing with the Stars might kick aside the bone-chilling thought of how vulnerable I was. Locked doors hadn’t kept the killer out before. Why should I expect them to tonight? My heart played chopsticks against my ribs as I placed the tray on the coffee table, perched on the edge of the chair and using the remote, flicked on the television.

  Holy crap! What was that? The first forkful of chicken stuck in my throat. I bolted upright and cocked an ear towards the window. Sounded like something or someone scratching on the glass. A possum? The murderer? My imagination? I turned the volume on the television up to a head-thumping 25. At that level it would be impossible to hear any scratching noises…real or imagined.

  Hey, what you can’t hear isn’t there.

  Right?

  Five minutes later my heartbeat had returned to normal. Costa Tzu was tangoing with his partner on the television screen. The Chicken Tandoori was fast disappearing from my plate. I’d settled back in the chair to enjoy Costa’s slinky moves.

  And the doorbell rang.

  “On guard!” I yelled at the two dogs, surprised when my voice emerged as a throaty croak instead of a shrill command. Lucky stretched languidly, blinked, put on her plaintive who-me? face and promptly went back to sleep. Tater was beside me in a flash. His eyes were granite-hard. His ears flicked backwards and forwards as though waiting for permission to tear the door-ringer apart and spit out the bones.

  It’s okay, I told myself, muting the s
ound on the television. Don’t panic. Ignore the bell. There’s no law that says I have to open the door just because my doorbell rings.

  I glanced at the silent television screen. The next contestants, dressed in elegant ballroom attire, were breathing into each other’s faces, arms dragging their bodies closer, waiting for the music to start. I wished I was there.

  When the doorbell rang a second time, my heart, already strained to the max, did a death-defying belly-flop with a one-point landing. I peered around the room for a weapon. A vintage bottle of wine Mum sent me from Hawaii on my last birthday? No…might need that if I made it through the night. The Gawler Gold Cup won by Lucky last year? No…too cumbersome to heft over my shoulder.

  Finally I decided on a shiny new can of U-Beaut super-hold hair spray. Nothing like a well-aimed squirt of hair spray in the eyes to stop a killer in mid-kill.

  “Who’s there?” Shaking, I stood, canister at the ready, to one side of the front door.

  “Good evening,” said a beautifully articulated voice from the other side of the door. “My name is Scuzz.”

  “Scuzz?” What the hell sort of a name was that? And how come someone with a name like Scuzz spoke with two plums and a silver spoon in his mouth?

  “Jake asked me to stop by,” the voice with the rich resonant timbre continued.

  “Oh yeah?”

  “He indicated you were in need of a bodyguard.”

  “A bodyguard, eh?” Would that be before or after said body was chopped into little pieces and fed into the toilet cistern?

  “That is correct. Now, may I come inside, please?”

  When hell froze over.

  “Here’s the deal, Scuzz, or whatever your name is. How do I know you’re not here to burglarize my house? Or you could even be a hit man, paid big bucks to rub me out. So, before I let you in, I have some questions for you.” I rolled my shoulders which had tensed to the stage of rigidity. “What date is Jake’s birthday?”

  “I am sorry, but I cannot remember the date off-hand.”

  “One down—two to go. Three strikes and I ring the cops. How did Jake get the scar on his left buttock?”

  Of course I only knew the answer to this one because Jake and I were discussing our various scars one day while waiting for the vet to arrive. Sort of adding them up. As you do. Being a tomboy as a kid, I beat Jake, ten scars to six. But that didn’t mean I wanted to add to my scar-list by inviting a potential madman into my home.

  The door-ringer cranked up the volume of his voice. “Actually, I have not observed Jake with his pants down for quite a number of years, so I regret I have no information on that particular scar.However, I do remember how he came by the one behind his right ear. Many years ago, Jake and I were playing a game of swordfights in his backyard when my wooden sword, which had been sharpened to a point with my new pocket knife, slipped. At the time Jake was eight and I was eleven. Jake ended up with a cut that required stitches behind his right ear and I, with a very uncomfortable backside.”

  I slowly undid the three bolts on the inside of the door but left the chain in place. Hey, I might be a beginner at this sleuthing business but I wasn’t an airhead. This guy could still be the killer. How do I know he didn’t torture Jake until he elicited that last bit of information out of him?

  With Tater pressed flat against my legs, hair on end, growl deep in his throat, I peeped through the gap between the door and the jamb.

  And almost choked on my own spit.

  Whatever this creature called Scuzz was—he was too alien, too scary, too off-the-planet huge to be human.

  I tried to swallow. Slam the door. Ram home all the locks. Instead, I froze. The thingon the other side of the door, dressed in black leather and a faceless black helmet, reminded me of something from one of those ancient fairytales told to small children to stop them from being naughty.

  Closing my eyes, I solemnly promised God, Jesus, and whatever other deity might be listening, that I’d never, ever be naughty again.

  14

  “Good evening,” said the monster, shuffling its tractor sized feet. “Kat, isn’t it?”

  “Erg…” My tongue was stuck to the roof of my mouth.

  “Rather windy for this time of year, don’t you think?”

  Tongue still stuck…

  The creature straightened to its full height of around seven foot. After removing its helmet, which thankfully revealed a rugged male human face and not something from a Freddy Krueger movie, he nudged the tire of his massive chrome and black Harley Davidson with the toe of one boot. While the beat of my heart gradually slowed to a dull roar I studied my unexpected visitor by the pale glow of the porch light. He was awesome. Shoulders like an ox. Legs like two-hundred-year-old tree stumps. In fact, this guy was big enough to scrunch an unwanted bad-ass crook into a four by four square then promptly use him to wipe up a beer spill.

  I unglued my tongue and grabbed a large fortifying breath of air. Okay, time to establish who this guy really was.

  “How come you know Jake so well?” I asked in my gruffest PI voice. “I’ve been to his apartment heaps of times and I’ve never seen you around. Lots of other weird life forms but not yours. For all I know you could be planning to slit my throat.”

  The man-mountain shook his head, placed his helmet on the seat of his ultra powerful hog then extracted a mobile phone from his pocket. Opening it, he tapped in a number then handed the phone through the small gap in the doorway.

  “It’s Jake on the line. Ask him yourself.”

  Gingerly, as though handling a ticking bomb, I took the mobile, put it to my ear and listened.

  “Hey, man, if you’re after the coolest dude in SA—you’ve hit the jackpot. This is Jake, the man, here.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Listen up, you ham,” I whispered into the phone. “I have the Creature from the Black Lagoon standing outside my front door. Says yousent him. What’s the story?”

  “Kat?”

  “You bet your boots it’s Kat. How come you didn’t tell me this Scuzz guy was coming? Almost lost my dinner when I eyeballed him a couple of minutes ago.”

  “Scuzz is my cuzz.”

  “Cuzz?” I frowned and then the puzzle fell into place. “Oh…you mean he’s your cousin?”

  “That’s what I said, dude. Scuzz’s cool. See, he’s driving to Cairns to meet up with Thunder, this half-sister he discovered on the net. He didn’t even know she existed before he logged onto his family tree. Anyway, Scuzz only dropped in to see if I wanted to blaze the trail with him. Not my scene, dude. But I hadn’t seen the big guy since we were kids, so he’s like, bunking down with us for a few days. When I brought up your little problem, he offered his services as a bodyguard. Cool, eh?”

  I took a couple of steps away from the front door, all the better to stop the leather-clad intruder from overhearing our conversation.

  “Cool? Jake, the guy’s a biker!” I whispered, my teeth grinding together the same way I’d like to be grinding Jake’s head against a rocky embankment. “Or are you so absorbed in planning your next protest march you hadn’t noticed?”

  “Hey, man, we’re marching against the destruction of trees. How’d you like it if your grandkids were born into a world without trees?”

  Okay, he had a point. Except for one thing. I would never have grandchildren. One had to have a reason for having sex without a condom first. Like being in love instead of lust—and the guy you’re in love with reciprocating. And then, of course, one had to go through the painful motions of giving birth to a baby. And that baby had to grow up, also having sex without a condom and give birth etc.

  Highly complex.

  And not relevant to this conversation.

  “Anyway, dude,” Jake continued, blocking my depressing thoughts re sex, condoms and the current state of my love life. “What you got against bikers?”

  “They eat people for breakfast.”

  “How many bikers you know, Kat?”

  “Umm…” I r
acked my brains, but all I could come up with was the eighty-two-year-old pensioner who lived in a run-down caravan at the Two Wells Caravan Park. He wore a black leather jacket summer and winter, and okay, he now rode a Gofer handicap-scooter, but I bet he’d owned a Harley somewhere in his murky past.

  “Kat?”

  “Okay. You’re right. I don’t know any bikers.”

  “And bottom line, youdo need protection.”

  I sighed. I’d been thinking more along the lines of half a dozen fierce Dobermans patrolling the perimeter, or even a couple of hungry dingoes for protection. Anything but a seven foot biker. I let out another sigh and clutched the phone more tightly. Perhaps if I humoured Jake and let his cousin stay for the night, seeing he’d gone to so much trouble to find someone to protect me, then politely ask the scary guy in black leather to leave in the morning. Tell him, thanks, but no thanks, and hire myself a security guard. Someone I didn’t have to crick my neck every time I looked up at him. “So...is this Scuzz a good guy?”

  “Good guy? Hey, man, Scuzz is my cuzz!”

  This conversation was getting old and the giant on the veranda was getting impatient. I touched the hang-up button and passed the phone back through the gap.

  “Satisfied?”

  Struggling to assimilate the educated voice with the yob in black leather, I lifted the chain and nodded. “Okay, you can come in. Just for tonight. But if you try anything remotely funny my two guard dogs will tear your arms off and bury them in the backyard. Okay?”

  Scowling at the big guy on my doorstep, I picked up the now traitorous Tater whose tail was wagging a welcome and shook my head at Lucky, still snoring on the rug. I didn’t know whether to be relieved about having a bodyguard or more apprehensive. After all, according to the emblem adorning his jacket, Scuzz was a Red Dragon.

  The floorboards shuddered and creaked as the man-mountain bobbed his head to get under the door frame and lumbered towards me. I took a hesitant step backwards, noted a knife strapped to his left boot, tent-sized black leather pants and a straining black T-shirt under his sleeveless jacket. I tipped my head back and peered upwards until finally locking into two sharp black eyes set in a craggy face that, if he was to lose the wispy ginger beard, wouldn’t look half bad. A red and black bandana, nose ring, matching eyebrow rings and a shaved head completed the biker image. Yet, instead of the expected odor of sour sweat, there was a hint of something masculine, even sexy, that teased my nostrils. A lingering trace of cologne or aftershave, along with the homely smell of engine oil.