5.

‘Organising your twin’s funeral is a perverse way of confronting your own mortality. On a Sunday, no less.’

Oliver sat with Penny at the kitchen table; he gave a feeble nod and squeezed her hand. He was onto his third cup of coffee.

‘I just want the fucking thing to be over.’

He had no idea whom to invite, or where it should be held. His brother’s driver’s licence listed an address in Chippendale, but after some enquiries that morning he discovered Theo hadn’t lived there for months. There was no cash in Theo’s wallet and bugger-all possessions on him, other than clothes and a couple of books. Oliver was waiting to hear whether he’d even left a will. He thought it was more likely his brother had died intestate.

Oliver was the next of kin. That was obvious. There was no other immediate family left, other than Chase. He was worried about the funeral. Not only because he didn’t want to see distant relatives – including Harold, the gallerist who’d launched his mother’s art career, whom he’d actively avoided for many years – but also because he knew Penny would want to come, and he couldn’t risk her finding out about his father.

When they’d started dating, he’d flirted with the idea of telling Penny everything. But he’d avoided it at the beginning, and then after months together, it was too late to tell her the truth. The longer he avoided it, the more awkward it became. It was easier to say both his parents had died of cancer. And now he’d lied to the police, hoping that if he fibbed offhandedly enough, they wouldn’t press things further; wouldn’t discover facts Oliver would rather remain buried. He was surprised by how easily the lie had slipped off his tongue, how little guilt he’d felt sharing it with the police. It was a shield of armour, wasn’t it? Would Penny want to be with him if she knew his father was rotting away behind bars for taking—

‘Don’t worry about it yet. You’ll have to wait until you hear from the coroner.’ Penny stood up and took their empty cups to the sink. ‘I’ve taken the day off work. We can just watch movies and do nothing.’

‘It’s okay,’ Oliver said. ‘I don’t think I’ll be able to sit still. Too much going on in my head.’

I’ve already grieved for Theo, he realised. He’s been gone for fifteen years.

‘You’re doing better than me,’ Penny said, sitting back down. ‘When Skye died, I didn’t get out of bed for days.’

‘How old were you?’

Penny had lived with Craig in Orange during high school. One night, at the vineyard, watching the sunset, she had told Oliver that she’d lost her childhood best friend to brain cancer.

‘Seventeen. Fuck, it sucked. My first loss, right before my birthday. Before exams.’

A shitty time, Oliver thought. A familiar time.

A tear dwelled at the bottom rim of Penny’s eye. ‘Even though we kind of knew it was coming, it still stung. Everything happened faster than we thought, and …’

Oliver squeezed her hand. Penny added, ‘Sorry, that’s not fair. You don’t need to hear about this now.’

‘No,’ Oliver said. ‘Opening up is healthy. I’m sorry I’m not as good at this. I’m trying.’

Penny’s hand pressed against his cheek, a gesture of strength. Remember this, Oliver thought. You’re letting her in.

Later, as he walked outside, a police car pulled up beside the kerb. It was Everson and Sergeant Mulaney. Everson exited the driver’s side, but Mulaney stayed seated in the car.

‘Thought you might be here,’ Everson said by way of greeting.

‘Any news?’ Oliver asked, shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand.

Everson was wearing the same black leather jacket and a pair of Wayfarers on her nose. ‘Waiting on some information to come through from the autopsy so we can get a firmer idea of the time of death.’

Oliver nodded. ‘I’m trying to organise the funeral. Hard when you don’t know who his friends were or where he lived.’

Everson snickered. ‘There might be a few shady characters in attendance. Has anyone been in touch?’

‘Who do you mean?’ Oliver asked.

‘Anyone. Theo’s employer. No phone calls, no visits?’

Oliver shook his head. ‘No visits. Are you sure he was involved with drugs? He has no money. Was driving a beaten-up kombi.’

Everson took a card from her pocket and passed it to Oliver. ‘Ring me if anyone calls or shows up. The people Theo was involved with are … well, dangerous.’

‘I figured.’

‘Not the wine-and-cheese crowd.’

Oliver turned his back and moved towards his old Jaguar, his way of winding up the conversation. ‘You’d be surprised, Detective. Australians are an eclectic bunch of bogans.’

‘I remembered where I know you from,’ Everson said, out of the blue.

Oliver looked back at her. ‘I wasn’t sure you did know me.’

Everson stepped towards him. ‘Well, your wine. It was part of a heist a couple of years ago. Not sure you’d remember it on the news. I recall that a case of your wine is worth a pretty penny.’

Oliver nodded. He had heard about the heist, but didn’t pay much attention to the media.

‘Before you go. Did you leave Penny’s on Friday evening? Anytime that night?’

‘No,’ Oliver said. ‘I’ve told you that already.’

Everson pushed the sunglasses back to the bridge of her nose. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Just checking.’

‘Any answers on how he died?’

‘Toxicology report will take a little while. We found something interesting in the glass of whisky on the bedside table.’

Oliver turned back around. ‘There was a glass?’ He guessed he’d only noticed the broken bottle. It was then he could see Everson weighing up whether or not to tell him.

‘Filled with what farmers call “ten-eighty”. Have you heard of it?’

‘No.’

‘Sodium fluoroacetate. A lethal type of dosage. Not the usual bait farmers can buy to kill foxes. Tasteless, odourless. Explains the vomiting and the blood.’

‘He brought the whisky with him. I drank some as well.’

‘No sickness?’

Oliver shook his head. ‘So, whoever poisoned him did it after I’d left?’

Everson paused. ‘If someone poisoned him,’ she said, climbing back into the car. ‘I’ll be in touch when we know more. You’ll have to wait until the coroner releases the body before you can begin planning the funeral.’ She raised an eyebrow and started to wind up the window. ‘One thing you have to remember about the funeral,’ Everson said, looking into Oliver’s eyes. ‘You can’t have a wake in a town like Mudgee without a party pie.’

***

For the first time since Theo’s death, Oliver sat down in front of the Bösendorfer. After rushing a couple of scales and a few chords, he started to play Brahms. Julia had conveyed the emotion better than he ever could. His grandmother was better again. Oliver hoped, with Ida’s lessons, he’d reach a high enough level of competency to be able to convey the same kind of resonance. His fingers weren’t as nimble, but he felt life just as intensely. He knew that much. And just like that, by absorbing the melody, he was back in his childhood home. Cramped next to his mother on the piano stool. He was eight, almost nine.

‘Can you two come out and socialise with the rest of us, please?’ His father had spoken softly to him from the door. Stressed ‘please’ as though it was a plea.

Chase was eating a toasted sandwich in the living room. Theo sat on the rug, laying out a deck of cards.

‘Why do you play the piano all the time?’ Chase asked Oliver, mouth filled with bread.

Oliver walked in and lay down beside Theo. His mother sat next to them on the ground; she watched for his reaction.

‘I want to be a concert pianist one day.’

‘Ha,’ Chase said. ‘That’s fucking hard. And weird.’

‘Chase,’ his father snapped. He lit a cigarette and sat himself down on a lounge chair. ‘Curb the language around the boys.’

‘They already say it at school.’

Oliver struggled to remember his older brother’s features. He remembered his mother, at the time, commenting that Chase had their father’s eyes. His hair was short, shaved evenly across the skull. He would have been seventeen.

‘Becoming a concert pianist is hard work,’ his father said. He leaned back and took a drag of the cigarette. ‘When I was your age, I wanted to be a professional golfer. I told my father that I wanted to be just like Jack Nicklaus—’

‘Miles, don’t,’ his mother interjected.

‘—and he said to me, “How are you going to do that?” And I told him that I’d practise every day, for hours, until I was good enough.’

‘That’s stupid, but, ’cause you’re shit at golf.’

His father flipped Chase his middle finger. ‘Language. I’m not shit at golf, but I’m not great at golf, either. I’ll cut the story short. Basically, my dad told me that you can’t polish a turd too much. You’ve got to have the talent first to be able to practise your way to fame.’

‘I don’t want to be famous,’ Oliver replied, but as he said it he knew it was a lie. He was good at the piano, and he liked the attention people paid him whenever he sat down in front of the keys. He didn’t have to talk, and he could say everything he ever wanted to without uttering a single word.

‘Although, the artiste of the house seems to be doing all right with her talent. Selling some paintings. You may as well give it a go. But some of us have to work a bit harder for our money,’ his father said.

‘If looks could kill,’ Chase said, ‘you’d be in shit, Dad.’

His father’s voice rang in his head: You’ve got to be a bit of a freak to play that concert stuff. Have that crazy talent. You don’t want to be a freak, mate.

When Oliver released his first wine, people had called him a freak. He’d waited a few years and released his blends when they were ready. Put new juice in old barrels. Amphora. Co-fermented grapes some didn’t think should pair together at all. Found in wine something that was utterly alien to his childhood and everyone he’d ever met. A new world, where no one knew anything about him, where no one knew anything about his family. It was a big risk – using his mother’s inheritance to buy the vineyard. He’d worked with other winemakers in Australia, and with Orson overseas, but in the early days Oliver had polarised vignerons with his ideas. Some thought he was destined for greatness, while others believed he was just an overrated wanker. There wasn’t much consensus in the middle.

To the old clique of Mudgee winemakers, the traditionalists of the earth, Oliver was a rogue, a renegade, a cowboy. Some respected him, but most were intimidated by what he could do with a bunch of grapes.

It’s true, Oliver thought, playing the final notes. You’re not good enough to be a concert pianist. But he’d found his calling with wine. And he would attempt to play the piano with love and feeling and clarity. Like his mother. After all, Julia hadn’t lost her parents and her twin brother before she’d turned forty.

***

A voice roused Oliver from his thoughts: ‘Why didn’t you call me?’

Harold Keller stood, arms folded, in the doorway to the wine shed, his thick black glasses perched on the point of his nose. ‘What the hell happened?’

Whenever Oliver stood near his mother’s old gallerist, he smelled turpentine. It wasn’t a hearty aroma like an open bottle pushed under his nose, but he caught a whiff in the distance; as though someone had inadvertently splashed some onto Harold’s shirt and the old art dealer had simply walked away and let it dry. Perhaps over time it had seeped in with the linseed oil, finding its way into the cracks and lines and gashes of his fingers. Or it had become some kind of sensory memory for Oliver.

Oliver stood from the piano stool and moved closer to Harold. He should probably hug him, he thought, but he kept his distance instead. ‘Don’t know. Someone beat him up. Probably poisoned him. Slit his throat. The cops think he was involved in drugs. Forgery.’

Harold scoffed; the noise sounded like a horse exhaling. ‘Theo couldn’t organise a rock fight in a quarry. Drugs my buttocks.’

‘I don’t think it’s a complete shock.’ Oliver walked over to the table with the wine and cracked a bottle open. He found two glasses, dusty, and rinsed them off before pouring.

Harold took the wine and nodded his head, then changed the subject: ‘How are you holding up?’

‘Fine.’

‘You make a sweet drop of wine, but you’re a shithouse liar.’ Harold pulled over a chair, and Oliver sat back down on the piano stool.

‘How’d you find out?’

Harold took a sip, before he licked the top of his teeth. ‘It’s been on the news, Oliver. Not sure if you get reception this far out, but it’s not exactly a secret.’

‘You didn’t have to drive over here.’

‘I drove to Rylstone for yum cha and thought it’d be rude not to call in.’

‘What, Terrigal dumpling joints too grungy for the bourgeoisie?’

Harold snorted, then looked down at his glass. ‘What am I drinking? It’s interesting.’

‘Barbera.’

Harold paused, considering his words. ‘Oliver, your mother would want—’

‘I know, Harold.’

‘I’m just here to help, is what I’m saying.’

‘I’ve got Gabe.’

Harold rolled his eyes and positioned his legs towards Oliver. ‘I know, but family’s family. It’s not like we’re both spoiled for choice.’

Miles’s voice, again, was in his ear: Don’t let him think you’ve got no choice. You’re not bound by blood. You know I never liked you and Theo calling him Uncle Harold. Hated it, in fact. Loathed it. Resented him. Abhorred the suave fucker.

Harold’s career had blossomed in Sydney before he set up shop on the Central Coast. He was well-travelled, his voice carrying both the Paddington pomp and the Tamworth twang. After spending his first eighteen years in the bush, Harold discovered he preferred paints and easels to clippers and a herd of sheep. Growing up, Oliver remembered dinners where Harold had talked of his nascent years as an artist and auctioneer, retreating from his father’s agricultural expectations. ‘Art and commerce, oil and vinegar, it takes someone smart to emulsify them properly,’ he’d declared.

After establishing a revered gallery in Bateau Bay, Harold was approached by Julia Crespo, a pianist who had pivoted to painting abstract vineyards and the ocean. That bloke’d sell a painting to a blind man, Miles had said. More than once. While he’d never trusted Harold, and told Julia to be careful in her financial dealings with him, he didn’t complain when Julia’s career skyrocketed and the money flowed in faster than any of them could have imagined.

‘Oli? Did you hear me?’

He opened his eyes. ‘Sorry. He arrived on Thursday afternoon, and he was dead by Saturday morning.’

‘Had you seen him before then?’

Oliver shook his head. ‘The last time I saw Theo was when I drove him to the airport, as he was leaving Australia. I tried getting in touch, but I guess he wasn’t overly enthusiastic about finding me, either.’

‘He came to my place last week.’

Oliver stood up suddenly. ‘What?’

‘He said he was coming here to see you. Didn’t offer much else. I hadn’t seen him for as long as you. Thought it was peculiar, him showing up out of the blue.’

Did he mention anything about Chase? Oliver wanted to ask, but instead said, ‘Did he talk about drugs?’

Harold stood and signalled towards the door, and the two men walked outside. The sun was radiant, more than usual for autumn. It was nice, Oliver thought, distractedly, after picking grapes through vintage, to stand outside without worrying about your skin blistering.

‘I just can’t see it,’ Harold said. ‘Selling drugs doesn’t really seem Theo’s forte. Smoking them, yes. Dealing them? Not so much.’

‘What?’ Oliver sounded as dazed as he felt.

Harold lowered his eyebrows and clasped Oliver’s shoulder, stared hard into his eyes. ‘Doesn’t matter. Bury him here. In Mudgee. Scatter his ashes through the vines. He’d love that.’

Oliver looked across the driveway to the navy kombi van, gripped by a sudden sense of determination. ‘If the detective doesn’t find out who did this, I will.’

‘I’m angry too. But don’t—’

Without thinking, Oliver hurled the wineglass across the gravel. It hit the wine shed and shattered on impact. ‘Someone came onto this property, slit Theo’s throat and left him for dead, Harold.’

‘Hey, hey,’ Harold grunted, pulling Oliver into his chest. He smelled of cologne, sweat, wine, and something indiscernible and exclusive to men over sixty. ‘They’ll get the bastard.’

Oliver froze for a moment, took a couple of deep breaths and stepped away. ‘Sorry, I’m still just processing it all.’

‘Oliver, I’m livid too.’

‘What happened to your hands?’ Oliver frowned, noticing them for the first time.

Harold looked down before bringing them up to his eyes. ‘Oh, nothing. Fixing some boards and staining the back deck. No one tells you your body becomes an apple when you’re old.’

‘What?’

‘Your body bruises like one, I mean.’

A cloud shifted swiftly over the sun. The two men stood in silence.

‘I’ll be back in a couple of days,’ Harold said, running a hand through his beard. ‘I’ve got to drop off a few things in Orange now. Do you want to do dinner on Tuesday?’

‘Sure,’ Oliver said. ‘I’ll be here on Tuesday.’

They walked past the kombi to Harold’s BMW. It looked incongruous in the middle of the gravel driveway, as though someone from the city had taken a wrong turn and abandoned the vehicle as they searched for help.

‘We’ll go to the police. Find out what’s going on.’

‘Yep.’

‘Before I go,’ Harold said, sliding his glasses onto his bald head and placing a pair of sunglasses over his eyes. ‘Don’t forget about the fox.’

‘What?’

‘The fox that taunted the farmer. The one that kept sneaking in and stealing the chickens. A new chook every night. Of course, the farmer caught on and hid out, ready to ambush—’

‘Harold, I don’t need a fable.’

‘So,’ Harold continued, ‘when the fox got close, the farmer threaded some dry grass into its tail. And as the animal came back through the gate, chicken in his mouth, the farmer set the tail alight. The fox dropped the chicken, but then the bloody bastard bolted straight into the farmer’s huge crop of wheat. And, well …’

Oliver turned towards the house. ‘Lucky I don’t have any chickens.’

‘Grieve, mate. Be sensible. I’ll see you Tuesday.’

Oliver waved as Harold wheeled the car around, the crackly chomp of tyres on gravel, and thought about Harold’s hands; thought about how they looked like they’d been scratched and bruised from a fight.

Oliver peered into the spare-room window and couldn’t help but wonder whether it had happened a few metres from where he found himself standing.

***

Later that afternoon, Gabe came down to the wine shed, his greyhound, Luna, on a lead. His gait was a little tired, and Oliver thought he was starting to look his sixty years.

‘How would you feel about a companion tonight? I’m heading into the city.’

‘Of course,’ Oliver said, remembering. ‘Your horse is running today.’

‘Yeah,’ Gabe said with a hopeful grin. ‘Thoroughbred or donkey. We’ll find out in a few hours.’

‘No worries. Let Luna inside the house. She’ll just sleep on the couch until I come in.’

Gabe waited a moment; didn’t move. ‘You sure? I can stay here. We can watch the race at the pub.’

‘I’m fine. Penny will drop over after work.’

‘All right,’ Gabe said. ‘Call me if you need anything.’

Gabe had owned horses for years and, from what Oliver could remember, joked about most of them becoming dog food. One mare had sold for a decent price after her racing career, but Oliver assumed the hobby was more of a break from the winery than anything else. Gabe and Murray were both a part of the same syndicates. They were involved locally but spent a lot of time travelling to Sydney meetings together. Oliver could think of nothing worse: betting on horses and hanging out with Murray at the same time.

Gabe was raised in Bathurst. His father worked as a butcher and a greyhound trainer, so the racing industry was part of his blood. Gabe had managed the marketing for some top boutique wineries in Australia and Europe, before trying his hand at his own winery in Beechworth. He had a bad run of flaky winemakers and two average vintages in a row, which forced him to close up, losing everything as a result. He admired Oliver’s audacity, and after tasting his wine from the first vintage, offered to work for a low wage if he could live – rent free – in the neighbouring cottage on the vineyard. A year ago, as an act of good faith, and to ensure Gabe wouldn’t be tempted to go anywhere else, Oliver had gifted him a twenty per cent stake in the winery.

Oliver watched them walk towards the house. The greyhound was no trouble: quiet, slept most of the day, was excitable when it was time to eat. He suspected he spoiled her more than Gabe did. Slipped some extra meat in the bowl. Let her up on the bed. Oliver had always maintained he was too busy, too commitment-phobic, for a dog, even though he enjoyed the company when it came.

After trying to taste the wine in the barrel and finding that his palate wouldn’t cooperate, he joined Luna inside the cottage and lay down on the lounge. For half an hour, he kept thinking about putting a record on the turntable, only his eyes kept slipping closed. Finally, he fell into an exhausted sleep.

He drifted back into the police station in Mudgee. Instead of sitting with Everson, he was talking to Detective Hanson – the floral, citrusy notes of her perfume in the air.

‘It’s not easy, Oliver, but you’re being brave. If he’s guilty, he needs to be locked up. I know how hard that must be for you.’

He was in front of Everson now.

‘I’ve already testified against my father. I’m not telling you about Theo. He’s not like my dad.’

Everson smirked. ‘Maybe you’re both more like him than you think.’

‘Don’t,’ Oliver said, feeling his temper flare. He wanted to grab something, anything, to squeeze, to subdue his anger. But there was nothing.

Everson was gone.

Oliver could only hear the metronome ticking somewhere, too fast, and the sound of someone beating on the door. Then, a familiar smell.

He opened his eyes, felt Luna lick his mouth. He pushed her away, and when he sat up he realised it was almost dark and he was coated in sweat.

***

Penny called to tell him there were people everywhere. There was some kind of event in town and the bar was teeming with tourists. His girlfriend’s bar was one of the few places in town where Oliver felt comfortable. While Penny mostly featured local wineries, she’d also cherrypicked some excellent examples from around Australia and the rest of the world. She loved wine like no one else he knew: emailed winemakers in the Rhône, Bordeaux, Uruguay. Stayed up talking about biodynamics and how different clones of pinot were taking off well in particular places. She’d told Oliver she had been both proud and deflated to be the only Aboriginal sommelier in her class.

‘It’s good to be busy, but I hate having a late shift on a Sunday.’

‘Busy is good,’ Oliver said. ‘Keep opening those expensive bottles. You can always come out later.’

Penny sounded doubtful. ‘You sure?’

‘Of course. The greyhound and I are watching MasterChef. We’re learning how to poach hapuka.’

‘Well,’ Penny said, ‘sounds like you’re sorted.’

Oliver took a swig of beer. ‘Now go and sweet-talk someone into buying a bottle from that weird Four Dogs Missing winery.’

‘Ha,’ Penny said. ‘It would help if you were here to convince them.’

‘I’m a terrible salesman.’

Since Oliver had found Theo’s body, he’d tried to spend as little time in the house as possible. There was a loneliness now that he hadn’t felt before. He wasn’t a superstitious person. Didn’t believe in ghosts or spirits. Didn’t think there was any reason he should have to move – to leave his home. But he did believe in energy. The cycles of the moon.

He wasn’t sure what to do with the spare room now; he knew he could never really use it for anything again.

The phone rang. His landline, a nineties yellowy-cream model with a cord, which, despite the odds, still worked well. Barely anyone had the number; it was the phone Oliver had used before Penny finally pressured him into purchasing a mobile – a cheap flip phone, barely capable of basic tasks outside of calling and texting, but it had probably saved their relationship more than once.

‘Hello?’

No one spoke. Oliver said the word again. He wondered whether the delay was a telemarketer calling from overseas, trying to sell him something superfluous. Then he heard the faintest hum, someone breathing, the sound of a metronome. A familiar beat.

‘I’m hanging up now,’ Oliver said, before gently placing the receiver down. He strode to the wine shed, almost jogging, and when he pulled open the door and got to the piano, he found the metronome moving. He stopped it and listened, but the shed was quiet. Luna trotted around his feet, exploring the barrels, sniffing for mice.

‘Who’s here? Come out.’

But no one did.

A little after ten, halfway through his fifth beer, the phone rang again.

‘Who are you? Get off my property!’

‘Darling, calm down. It’s me,’ Clare said, her voice cutting through more clearly sans the barking of dogs.

‘Sorry,’ Oliver murmured. ‘Someone’s been pranking this number. Did you hear from Valerie?’

‘You, my friend, have sharp instincts,’ Clare replied gravely.

‘What do you mean?’

‘About Orson and his data. He probably didn’t answer your call because he’d been taken to hospital.’

‘Fuck,’ Oliver said. ‘Is he all right?’

There was a pause one rarely heard when speaking to Clare. ‘Sadly not,’ she said eventually, her voice strained. ‘Valerie said he passed away this morning.’