Chasing Can Be Murder Page 9

  I shook my head.

  Ma had left for a trip to Hawaii twelve months earlier with her latest catch, Dwayne, a weedy little man with a huge voice and an even bigger bank account. After Hawaii, they’d decided to keep going. Probably partying somewhere in Europe as we spoke. Anyway, even if available, my mother wouldn’t come within ball chucking distance of, in her words, dirty smelly greyhounds. Her horrified shriek, “Greyhound trainer!” expressed with the same revulsion as if I’d said, “Prostitute!” when I told her what I intended doing with the money Dad left me in his will, still rang in my ears. As for Dwayne, her pint-sized lover, he’d be less protection than Tater. Blow on the guy and he’d drift off into space—never to be seen or heard of again.

  Jake wasn’t done yet. “Any brothers or sisters you can call on?”

  That question earned another negative head shake.

  Elizabeth, my only sibling, had run away from home at sixteen. Couldn’t stand Mum’s constant nagging. Before Dad’s death, he had always been the one to smooth things over between Mum and Liz, but after he died, my sixteen-year-old sister refused to stick around. It was as though Mum took all her frustrations out on Liz, continually pecking away like a bird at a worm. So the day after Dad’s funeral, the worm turned. Liz packed her bags, entrusted me with her favorite ruby necklace as a keepsake and caught a northbound bus out of our lives.

  Now, at twenty-one, Liz lived in a hippy commune somewhere in outback Queensland. Well that’s where her last postcard came from—almost six months ago. Liz shifted around so much I had to rely on her infrequent correspondence to keep up with her whereabouts. However, the letters I’d posted off since then had been returned with not known at this address scrawled across the front, so God knows where she lived now.

  Jake squeezed the water out of his mop and leaned on the handle, evidently still endeavoring to come up with a suitable candidate. “What about cousins? Grandparents? Uncles?”

  At each suggestion I shook my head. They were either dead, living in another state, or ostracized by Ma.

  “No worries, man,” Jake declared, his pigeon-sized chest visibly swelling. “Just leave it to me. I’ll sort it.”

  I bit my lip to stop from laughing out loud. “No offence, Jake, but you’re skinnier than I am. One half-hearted punch and you’d be out for the count.”

  “I don’t meanme, man. You know I’m not into physical stuff. I’m a peacefulprotester.” He paused then nodded thoughtfully. “No…I have someone else in mind.”

  My grin quickly faded. “Who?”

  “As I said, leave it to me.”

  Somehow that didn’t make me breathe any easier.

  With six greyhounds straining on the ends of their leads, I made my way toward the 200 meter galloping runs at the rear of the property. Or should I say, flew to the back runs like a kite attached to six strings, my feet barely touching the ground. Once there, I let each bouncing, barking, let-me-at-’em canine into a separate sandy run and left them to gallop up and down in a competitive effort to outdo each other, thereby maintaining racing fitness.

  Leads dangling around my neck, I hurried across to the emptying yards. The greyhounds in these much smaller yards were now due for their twenty-minute walk to nowhere on the treadmill inside the kennel-house.

  There were dogs to bathe, dogs to treat with different electrical appliances, dogs to check for injuries, dogs whose toenails needed clipping, dogs to visit the vet, dogs that needed a special cuddle…

  It was almost three o’clock in the afternoon before I found time to ring Ben and Tanya and arrange to meet them at Matt’s house. There were three of Matt’s dogs to pick up so I hooked the dog trailer to the station wagon and opened the car door. Before I could slither in behind the wheel, Tater, determined to accompany me, launched his peanut-sized body in the air, skidded across the leather and braced himself, ears cocked, on the passenger seat ready to go.

  Our first scheme—tempt Peter Manning with the offer of undetectable drugs—had ended badly. We’d pissed off Peter and I’d spent the night in hospital. Hopefully, our next initiative—search for clues in Matt’s house—would end on a more productive note. Like a signed confession from the murderer tucked inside one of Matt’s racing form guides.

  Okay, I’m the first to admit, the role of amateur sleuth was a lot trickier in real life than it appeared in books. However, if I didn’t want the police to roll up, red and blue lights flashing, handcuffs at the ready, I needed to soak up the entire condensed version of How to Catch the Bad Guys 101 in the time it takes for Ben to eat a family-sized pizza.

  On arriving at Matt’s semi-detached, red brick, housing-trust home, I dragged the heavy galvanized iron side gate open and let Tater trot through in front of me. Tail arched over his back, ears on red alert, the little dog strutted along as though rescuing orphan greyhounds and hunting for clues were all in a day’s work. Frenetic bouncing, barking, and tail-wagging from the three kennels along the fence line greeted us. Although a friend of Matt’s had promised to feed the dogs, they were bored, lonely and craving attention.

  I called Tater to my side and strolled toward the back door, to all casual appearances as though I had nothing on my mind except watering Matt’s flowers, collecting his post, being a good friend. That is, until I found myself surrounded by a satiated swarm of buzzing blowflies. What the heck? I stopped. And that’s when I noticed the source of their unflagging interest. Shoved hard against the back door of Matt’s house was a large, green, graffiti-covered wheelie bin. It was emanating a stench so gross, so vile, it made raw sewerage smell like desert.

  One hand completely covering my nose I approached the wheelie bin with caution. Did I really want to know the cause of that horrible stink? What if there was a severed head inside the bin? Mutilated fingers? Or even an entire body bent double, limbs broken? Heart careering like a motorboat at full throttle, I lifted the lid with the end of the garden rake and flipped it wide open.

  Eeeuw!

  Rotting kidneys, liver, chicken legs and some furry thing I couldn’t recognize with a family of fat, wriggly, white worms picnicking on the entrails, greeted me. Tater indicated he wouldn’t mind checking the contents of the bin more closely if I’d just be good enough to give him a bit of a hoist. I told him, no way, and with fingers still clutching my nose leaned across the bin and tested the knob on the back door.

  Locked.

  Cautiously, I slid my eyes over my shoulder. One never knew when a nosy neighbor might peer over the fence. If they noticed Tater and me investigating they might decide to be a model citizen and ring 000. No neighbors in sight, nosy or otherwise, so I made my way around the side of the house and checked the catches on the windows. Tater, after another sniff of the wheelie bin, wandered off to water a couple of sickly looking rose bushes growing beside the fence. Probably thought the acidity might revitalize them.

  No window catches undone. The blinds on the windows were all drawn. And the only open window led into the laundry. However, being no bigger than a cereal box, the window was way too small for me to squeeze through.

  What now?

  In the past, whenever Matt entered dogs at a country race-meeting, like Port Pirie, Barmera or Port Augusta, he’d arrange for me to feed those dogs left behind. Could the spare key to his front door still be under the doormat? Hey, it was worth a try.

  I whistled Tater, who’d gone on to test his acidity theory on the carnations, the geraniums, a rusty watering can without a spout and a three-legged deck chair and marched around to the front of the house. The heavy rope doormat was in its usual place beside a potted Winter’s Joy. Scenting success, I bent forward and hefted the mat away from the front door. Half an inch of dirt...but no key.

  Plan B already formulating in my mind, I peered at the keyhole to ascertain what size wire I’d require to pick the lock—and did a double take.

  Matt’s front door had been jimmied.

  Stomach twisted in a knot, I touched the door with the palm of my
hand, watched it swing open and stood staring at the empty landing. Beside me, Tater growled. The tiny hairs along his back stood up. As though challenging an invisible foe, he cocked his head to one side, blinked his little black button eyes and swaggered in through the open doorway.

  “Tater! Don’t go in there!” I yelled to the tip of his tail as it disappeared into the nearest room.

  Damn dog. Now I had to go in after him. If the intruder was inside he’d swat Tater like an annoying insect. I flattened my back against the wall and edged forward, eyes and ears alert for the slightest sound or movement. What I needed was one of those cute little designer guns. Which led me to thinking, where does a female P. I. hide her gun? Too bulky and unflattering for the waistband of a skirt. Also too dangerous if the thing went off. The mind boggled at what it could hit. And stashing the gun in a handbag wouldn’t work for me. By the time I rummaged through bars of chocolate, hairbrushes, the latest John Francombe novel, a packet of condoms (one never knew when Ben might discover I was a girl), bits and pieces of make-up…

  Well, hell, I’d be dead and I wouldn’t need the gun then, would I?

  Heart banging like the lead drummer’s sticks at a rock concert, I inched along the wall until I came to the first doorway, poked my head around the corner. And my jaw dropped.

  Holy catfish…

  The room had been thoroughly and violently trashed. I inhaled deeply, held onto my breath and listened for sounds of an intruder. All I could hear was the click-click-click of Tater’s sharp toenails trotting back from the kitchen, a smile on his lips and a thick dollop of strawberry jam on the tip of his nose.

  I let my breath whoosh out through my nose and surveyed the mess. If the violator was still inside the house, my jammy-nosed watchdog would have flushed him out by now. DVDs had been hurled against the wall, sofa cushions slashed, dresser drawers upended, books and magazines ripped apart, ornaments smashed, bottles shattered. Even Matt’s dog-racing photos had been wrenched off the wall, frames splintered and glass cracked.

  Had mild-mannered Matt thrown a temper tantrum before attending the dog meeting the night he was killed? Perhaps he’d experienced a bad day’s punting. Or won and then lost his winnings through a hole in his pocket.

  On legs that shook like autumn leaves on a windy day, I stumbled from the lounge into the kitchen. It too was a shambles. Pots, pans, cutlery, broken crockery and bottles scattered everywhere. Sugar, mixed with crushed biscuits, honey and chocolate flavoring carpeted the floor. Chairs overturned. Tins of fruit, assorted jams, packets of soup, pasta and breakfast foods decorated the linoleum. Even Matt’s precious stack of form-guides filed and religiously notarized, had been ripped, screwed up, and deposited in the middle of a thick sludge of strawberry jam.

  I stumbled back into the lounge, blinked at the chaos again, and attempted to make sense of it all. Had the police been searching for evidence? But even as the thought crossed my mind, I dismissed it. No cop would make a mess like this and stay on the force long enough to claim his pension.

  I guess the reality was slow to hit, but when it did, I slumped against the wall, suddenly bone weary and in need of support. The same vicious madman who’d killed Matt, threatened me, and put Barney in hospital had been at work again.

  But what was he looking for?

  A sudden intake of breath behind me sent my heart jerking like a frog on a hot rock. I spun around, both fists clenched and ready for action, only to find Tanya in the doorway.

  “Son-of-a-bitch!” she gasped nudging aside the remains of a broken coffee table with her boot. “Who let the hippos loose in here?”

  “Doesn’t look like the work of kids, does it? Or a burglar. Too systematic.”

  Tanya bent to pick up a torn photo. It was a picture of a grinning Matt, his arm around one of his greyhounds. “D’ya reckon they found what they were looking for?”

  They again. The faceless they. The they who had me spooking at shadows.

  The violence of the vandalism impossible to get my head around, I shrugged a vague how-should-I-know?

  “It’s a wonder the neighbors didn’t ring the police.”

  “Probably didn’t want to get involved,” I said.

  I rescued a CD from the floor. Dancing Queen. Matt was such an old Abba fan. Sadly, I slotted the CD back into the empty rack. “If they were looking for something important—why kill Matt? You can’t get information from a dead man.”

  “Perhaps they found what they were after and then followed him to your place and killed him.”

  “Or perhaps Matt wouldn’t tell them where it was hidden so they killed him and came back here to search for it.” I gazed around the room, shook my head, bewildered. “All I know is whoever did this was either very thorough or very pissed off. And you know what? Both thoroughand pissed offscare the crap out of me. I feel like I’ve been caught in a giant washing machine, set on a permanent spin cycle and I don’t know how to get out.”

  Sensing my distress, Tater trotted across the room and rubbed his warm body against my ankles.

  Tanya gave me a hug. “Hey, you’re not on your own, girlfriend,” she assured me. “Not when you have Ben and me as sidekicks. We’ll kick butt, kick heads, kick balls—whatever it takes to keep you safe.” She gave me another hug then moved off toward the kitchen. “But first, if I dig up a kettle, can you unearth a jar of coffee and two cups? Dunno about you, but I’m gasping for a hit of caffeine. When Ben decides to get his ass over here we’ll get down and dirty and conduct our own search. Okay?”

  Tater’s wet cold nose prodded my ankle so I lifted him up for a cuddle, transferring strawberry jam and pickles from his face to my T-shirt in the process. One hug and he wriggled to get down again. I set him on the floor and sent a grin in Tanya’s direction. Okay, a weak grin—but at least it wasa grin. The image of my best friend, all petite 52 kilos, kicking some big gorilla’s family jewels with the shiny black toe of her Marc Jacob boot went a long way towards extinguishing the nervous tension playing hopscotch in my stomach.

  I stooped to set two overturned chairs right side up beside the table. “I wonder what they were after.”

  “Money probably.”

  “Maybe it was betting tickets.”

  She nodded. “Could be. What if Matt bet a pile of their money on a winning dog and now they’re hunting for the betting tickets so they can collect their loot? As I said, it’s usually about money.”

  “Or maybe the murderer was making sure Matt hadn’t left any incriminating evidence that pointed directly at him.”

  While Tanya filled and plugged in the kettle I sorted through jars on the floor until I came across one that resembled coffee.

  “Damn…it’s generic,” I grumbled, wiping sticky globs of honey and jam off the label with a damp cloth.

  “Typical.” Tanya took the jar from me and unscrewed the lid. “Men have absolutely noappreciation of fine beverages.” She peered inside the jar and her nose wrinkled. “And wouldn’t you know—the coffee’s stale. It’s all lumpy. How could Matt drink this garbage?”

  Luckily, I knew where Matt hid his booze. “Fancy a drop of brandy to make the coffee drinkable?”

  “Do nuns wear rosary beads?”

  Taking that as a yes, I went hunting for the perfect lump-dissolver. The bottles behind Matt’s bar at the far end of the lounge were smashed but there was a bottle of St. Agnes, with a few inches of liquor left in the bottom, in its usual hiding place at the bottom of the laundry basket in the bathroom.

  “Ta dah!” Grinning inanely, I plunked my booty in the centre of the kitchen table and straddled a kitchen chair. “Let’s rock and roll.”

  “Bloody hell!”

  I looked up to find Ben Taylor filling the doorway, eyebrows up around his hairline.

  “You chicks throwing a party?” he quipped. “Or have I interrupted a premenstrual temper tantrum? If so—I’m outta here.”

  Even scowling, Ben looked sexy. Although, to be honest, it was probably the
fact that the top three buttons of his shirt were undone and the tempting flashes of smooth tanned skin peeping out from under a fine sprinkling of dark hair made me clench my stomach and sit on my hands. He’d also changed out of his grubby work jeans. Now his legs were encased in pale moleskins, so soft, so creamy-colored and so formfitting, they should be illegal.

  “About time you showed up.” Tanya, evidently unaffected by this mythical vision of manhood, scrounged another unbroken cup from the clutter on the floor and waved Ben inside. “Well, don’t just stand there gawping like a fish on a line, Benjamin. Come in and join our Upside-down House party. I’m afraid all we have to offer is lumpy generic coffee—with or without a dash of brandy—but you’re welcome to partake.”

  “Nah. Knock yourselves out. I’ll have a poke around, see what I can find.” He strolled across the room, sugar crunching under his boots with every step.

  While Ben explored the kitchen and Tanya and I sipped coffee and offered advice, Tater, looking all-important and official, came trotting into the room. He dropped a rotten banana at Ben’s feet then sat and grinned up at him.

  “Well, thanks little mate.” Ben bent to scratch the dog behind the ears. Tater sniffed Ben’s boots then stretched up and licked the exposed skin between the top of his boot and the bottom of his moleskins. Which made me sooojealous. Perhaps I should go find Ben a rotten banana too. Being so much taller than Tater, I could lick a lot higher. As the thought of what I could lick slid from my brain to a lower part of my anatomy, I caught my breath.

  Ben flicked a puzzled frown in my direction.

  Oh God…was my tongue hanging out? Was drool running down my chin? Was I that obvious?

  “If Matt left a clue it sure as hell won’t be here now,” he said. “Whoever ransacked this joint gave it a thorough going over.”

  I let out a deep frustrated sigh and banged my coffee cup on the table. Ben Taylor wouldn’t pick up on obvious if it was frozen solid and shoved down his throat. “Maybe,” I grumbled. “But I still think we should do what we came here for.”