Four

“It’s Good-Dog time,” I called out as I opened a packet of canine kibble.

Like bullets from a machine gun, the brown, yellow and green kibble rat-tat-tatted against the aluminum sides of the dog-dish.

Leroy’s mouth gaped. His wide brown eyes followed my every move. The loose skin around his jowls dripped with long stringy strands of drool. A slimy pool of saliva formed at my feet.

In fact, Leroy reminded me of Jack—just before he ate a chili-dog smothered in tomato-sauce and mustard. Or a family sized pizza with the lot. Or a heaped bowl of ice-cream covered in chocolate sauce, strawberry jam, broken bits of Flake, half a packet of nuts and topped with an extra-large scoop of thick clotted cream.

But that’s where the likeness ended. Jack was always on the move. I looked down at my bug-eyed bulldog. Moving certainly wasn’t Leroy’s favorite pastime. Evidently he’d used up his energy quota for the day doing strenuous activities like breathing and eating. He was currently using my sneakers as a mattress.

“Where the heck were you when God dished out energy?” I asked, shaking him off my foot and bending to set the bowl of Good-Dog under his nose. “Taking a nap under His heavenly chair?”

The dog, unaware of his short-comings, lifted his head as high as the bowl and began munching steadily; his rear end sprawled on the tiled floor.

“But I love you.” I screwed up my nose as his rasping tongue coated my cheek with a mixture of drool, dead-rat breath and crunched up kibble. Leroy couldn’t help being lovable instead of handsome. Snoozy instead of hypo. He’d been that way ever since he wandered into my life just over two years ago for a sleepover.

And he’d been ‘sleeping over’ ever since.

Leaving Leroy to his meal, I plucked a packet of caramel fudge Tim Tams out of the cupboard, grabbed a Coke from the fridge and tiptoed up the stairs to the study.

The room was empty. Great. While no-one was around I could make a start on my true crime story. I turned on the computer and opened a new document in Word, then typed:

“Rebecca Turnbull P.I.: The Case of the Disappearing Corpse.”

Thanks to the guy getting killed on poor Patsy’s doorstep I had the beginnings of a story. And with the help of my trusty P.I. assistants I intended to work my way through to a satisfying ending. Hey, I’d already found one very important clue.

A wet nudge on my leg broke my concentration and heralded Leroy’s look-at-me-I-actually-dragged-myself-up-the-stairs arrival in the study. Instead of his usual horizontal sprawl, he sat, his stumpy tail thumping on the carpet. His head tipped to one side.

Doggy love?

Nah.

Leroy’s way of begging for a Tim Tam.

“Okay, just one,” I agreed, plucking two biscuits from the packet. I popped one in the dog’s cave-like mouth and one in my own, then, after licking the chocolate off my fingers, I began to type.

“The sun beat down on her bare head as Rebecca Turnbull, Sydney’s fearless female Private Investigator, strode purposefully up the path towards the front door of her mansion. Fang, the mean Doberman with eyes the color of fire, trotted at her heels.

The day had been productive, as usual. They’d solved two cases that had baffled the police for months. Now they’d been hired to find the missing daughter of a visiting Sheik.

Turnbull stopped. Senses on full alert. There was a strange man sleeping on her front lawn and he sure as hell hadn’t been there when she’d left home that morning. Whipping out the snub-nosed revolver she always carried in her pocket, Turnbull hurried forward. Her mind took in every little detail, including the fact that the strange man on her lawn was not asleep—he was dead!

‘Fang!” she called. “You check around the back. I’ll take the house.’

Barging through the front door like an army tank, she—”

“It’s your turn to do the dishes, Chiana. I can’t. I’ve washed my hair and if I don’t put the straightener on it immediately, it’ll go fuzzy.”

Wouldn’t you know it—Turnbull had Fang—I had a self-absorbed step-sister with a hair obsession.

I gritted my teeth. “Get lost, bucket-head. Can’t you see I’m busy? Go straighten your hair in the kitchen sink while you’re doing the dishes. And make sure the water’s deep enough to cover your nose.”

“Marg said it’s your turn and she wants them done now.” Sarah came into the room and stood, arms folded, as immovable as the ancient rock, Ulura. “You shouldn’t even be in here. It’s my night to play on the computer, so get lost, lame-brain!”

“I’m not playing, Sarah—I’m writing a story.”

She shook her long hair, still princess-like, even when damp.

“Don’t know why you bother,” she taunted. “No-one wants to read the garbage you write.” She paused, gave me one of her wicked-witch-of-the-west looks. “Like…now, what was it again? Oh, yes, I remember.” She put on a goofy face and preened herself like a featherless peacock. “Before getting under the shower this morning I looked at my body in the bathroom mirror…”

Oh…my…God! Sarah had read my diary. I’d have to chop her into little bits, put her through the blender, and then kill her.

In my eagerness to begin the chopping process, I shot to my feet, screaming like a cat with its tail caught in the fridge door. The computer chair tipped backwards. The mouse ended up dangling by its cord. And the rest of the Tim Tams found their way into Leroy’s waiting jaws.

“And I’m sure my boobs have grown at least half a centimeter since I checked them last week.” Sarah choked hysterically over the memorized words, her body shaking with laughter so much she almost fell down the stairs.

At the kitchen door Sarah repeated the words on top volume. Smirking, she turned to me. “You are so lame, Chiana. Boobs wouldn’t be seen dead on your skinny chest.”

I’d more than kill her—I’d roll her in pigeon poop, stick a stamp on her head and mail her to the North Pole. With any luck the elves might use her to fertilize Santa’s roses.

“Mum!” I yelled, bursting into the kitchen where Mum was mixing up a batch of cakes. Ken, my besotted step-father, was nuzzling at her neck and dipping his finger in the mixing-bowl. Even after six months of marriage they still smooched like teenagers and made goo-goo eyes at each other. Sickening.

“You have to do something about Sarah,” I wailed. “She’s been in my room again and this time she’s read my diary. My diary. I don’t let anyone read my diary.”

“Chiana’s growing boobs. Chiana’s growing boobs.” It was Sarah, her sing-song voice like a chant from a skipping game.

Ken, in the act of licking his finger, looked down at Mum and raised his eyebrows. “Isn’t Chiana a bit young for boobs, Marg?”

“You’ve got a lot to learn, Ken,” Mum answered, rapping him across the knuckles with the wooden spoon as he reached for another finger full of thick yellow cake-mixture.

“Mum…do something!”

Putting down the spoon she ruffled a floury hand through my hair and I could see her lips twitching as she spoke. “Have your breasts really grown, Cha?”

My life as a member of this insensitive family was over. Terminated as of that moment. I’d join a circus. Spend the rest of my life dressed as a clown riding on the back of an elephant. Or perhaps I could fly through the air doing death-defying acts on the trapeze.

I could feel the mortifying heat creeping up my neck, spreading across my cheeks and threatening to make me look like a totally dumb jerk.

“I’m going to visit Patsy,” I mumbled.

They’d all be sorry when I solved this murder and was presented with a commendation from the Chief of Police.

Mum went back to stirring the cake-mixture and added more cinnamon. “Why don’t you take Sarah with you, Cha—introduce her to Patsy’s family?”

As if…

The front door, already a little weak, shuddered on its hinges as I slammed it for the second time in one day.