The Jameson family home on the beach at Camp Cove was behind a high sandstone wall and decorative iron gates. Tall palm trees were silhouetted against the early sunset light and the afternoon breeze wafted the aroma of a barbeque that must have been close by. I realised that breakfast had been a very long time ago. We pushed through the reporters and photographers and hit the gate buzzer.
The gates slid open and the door to the house was opened by a tall, leggy brunette with a short helmet of impossibly shiny silky hair, luminous skin, white teeth, red lips, brown, almost black eyes and a loud voice with an accent I couldn’t quite place. She was wearing low-cut, cream silk pants and a tan silk top over definitely no bra and she was holding a champagne flute in very manicured hands. She introduced herself as Jacqueline Jameson, Jimbo’s widow. I hated her at first sight.
“Come in, come in, darlings. I’ve been waiting for you. We’re just finishing up here. Things have been a bit crazy today and I haven’t had time to scratch myself.” She took a sip and turned to walk away from me. “Just let me get changed. Won’t take a minute.” There was no stopping her. “Come through. It’s just us. No biggie.”
We followed, drawn to the magnificent view of the harbour through the full-length glass doors. Pool. Beach. I have often wondered why some people find it necessary to have a pool when they live on a beach.
The lounge area was marble and bleached wood and big white lounges, with a huge portrait of a nude Jacqueline dominating one wall. Outside, a middle-aged bald man was standing at a huge barbeque, waving at us with large tongs. I recognised him from newspaper articles: Peter Gates, aka The Saint. Press agent to the great and the good and the not-so-good for a minimum commission of only thirty per cent. A man with a make-up case and a hairbrush introduced himself as Floyd. Just Floyd. “Don’t look at me, detective. I’m sure I have an alibi, although I dreamed about cutting off that ratty pony tail.” He snipped imaginary scissors in the air and gave me a cheeky grin.
Jacqueline landed a smooch on his cheek, and turned to me. “Just make yourself at home, darls. I just have to put on something clean, and we can get out of here.” She swept upstairs, still holding her champagne flute.
A more-than-middle-aged brittle blonde walked in from the beach. I suppose you could describe her outfit as “colourful”: a purple and pink caftan with huge diamond hoop earrings and gold sandals. “Hello, I’m Sophie Duncan. Old family friend.” She patted Floyd on the bum and held out her glass to The Saint. “Refill, darling?”
“So you’ll be investigating Jimbo’s death, detective?” She took a rather large mouthful, and continued without waiting for me to answer.
“He deserved whatever he got and it’s a wonder that he lasted as long as he did and when you catch him, I’d like to buy his murderer a drink.” She looked straight at me. “I’ve known him since he was just starting out all those years ago, and I’ve had to watch him ruin so many lives and I’m so fucking glad he’s dead at last. Do I shock you?” She didn’t wait for my reply.
“My husband Barry was his mate even before he married Bethany, and we’re godparents to two of his children, but when he left Jac I just gave up on him. It’s just too hard to get involved with each new wife and then to have to ignore her just because he decided the sheets were greener in the next bed. And he gets, sorry, got, really mean if he found out that I’d kept in touch with any of his victims. When my daughter got married I thought we’d have to have two ceremonies and two receptions, one for Jimbo to attend and one for the exes, which in itself was a problem that put the Middle East conflict into perspective. But in the end he didn’t turn up so that potential warzone was averted, although I nearly lost my mind trying to work out the seating arrangements.” She laughed. “Then when Barry – he was my husband – died I made up my mind to keep my own friends and to hell with Jimbo Jameson.” She lifted her glass to the sky in a silent salute. “They’re probably getting pissed together, wherever they are. I just hope the beer’s cold.
“He left Jacs a couple of weeks before the baby was born. And he did the same to Lynnette. He was absent without leave for most of his marriage to Anna and I have no idea how she managed to conceive three times. What a prince!
“There was a time when I could have strangled him and I know I used to dream about poisoning him. My favourite fantasy was making him chicken satays on oleander stalk skewers. You know, I would have put the ‘rat’ in ratatouille just for him.” She sighed, and smacked her head. “Damn it. Missed my chance.” She laughed, and took another swallow from her glass.
“But can you please put me down as a suspect because I’d be so proud to be on the list. It’s going to be a long list, isn’t it? You know, I’m really pissed off that someone beat me to it. How many bullets did you say?”
I hoped that everyone would be as forthcoming as Sophie, but I didn’t think that she did anything other than dream.
“Thanks for your offer, Sophie. We’ll call you if we need you to come in to make a statement.”
I looked around for Constable Jack who had mooched off towards the beach, picking up a barbequed sausage sandwich on the way. Mr Apprentice Detective had a short attention span, or perhaps he was just hungry. He wasn’t the only one.
The sand was clean and the tide was coming in. Two Flying Ants scudded past, the young sailors whooping with Friday afternoon enthusiasm. A few family groups were packing up their towels and heading home, ignoring the knot of photographers who were now staking out the beach.
A low wall marked the end of the lawn and the beginning of the sand, and I could see the seagulls fighting over an unlucky crab on the rocks.
I used to play on those rocks as a kid, back when I still believed in the tooth fairy and Santa Claus. My dad taught me to swim in the Watto Bay pool. Well, he just threw me in and yelled encouragement, but he did jump in when I didn’t come up for air and then he enrolled me in Prosser’s swimming school and before long I was in the swimming squad and then I was competing at State level. I was good, but not good enough when the competition hotted up and my boobs got in the way.
Everything was possible back then, so how did I end up to be thirty-five years old living by myself with a bird that doesn’t like me and a job that leaves me with no time for a life, let alone a love life?
Feeling thoroughly sorry for myself, I dragged my thoughts back to Jacqueline Jameson and found myself becoming irritated by her apparent lack of emotion. If my husband had just died I’m pretty sure that I’d be either sad or angry, but this widow was acting as if we were giving her a ride to the pharmacy to pick up a bandage for a sprained ankle. Fuck it. Her husband was dead and she was more interested in lunch and what to wear for the photographers.
I turned to Constable Jack and gave him a nudge. “Go get her, tiger. The morgue is waiting and I’m not getting any younger.”
“Leave it to me, Maddie.” Jack drew himself up to his impressive full height and walked over to the bald man. “Do you think you can hurry her up, please, Mr Gates? We have a lot to get done.” Jack’s a man of few words, but his official voice was impressive, and Gates waddled up the stairs obediently.
“Jacs darling. This nice policeman is in a bit of a hurry.”
Jacqueline appeared on the landing, fiddling with her earrings. “Just a couple more minutes. Do these go?”
“Chop chop, Jacs darling. Leave them off. You look gorgeous already. I’ll handle the press and when you get back we’ll have lots to talk about.” He walked her down the stairs and disappeared into the kitchen.
“I’ve got the office working on this, so you just go with this gorgeous man…oh, and you’ll need a roadie.” He handed her a big straw designer nappy bag. “It’s a long way to Glebe, and we don’t want you getting thirsty.”
I walked ahead to the car to open the back door for the bitch, who was definitely loitering with intent around Constable Jack. The camera lights were blinding even in the late afternoon sun and a bunch of microphones was thrust at her but she was unfazed. Her words came easily, in a series of ten-second sound bites for the radio and television audience. Jacqueline Jameson was a media pro.
“I would like to thank everyone for their kind thoughts at this terrible time. James and I shared a great love and this is so senseless and the only thing that keeps me going is our beautiful daughter. I hope you will all respect her need, our need, for privacy. Everyone loved him and I can’t imagine why anyone would want to do this…” A solitary tear sparkled in the flashlights… “And I…oh please, thank you for coming today but I really can’t go on. Please excuse me, but I have to go with these kind detectives to see my poor husband’s body.”
It was a masterful performance. Her hair was ever so casually tousled and her skin was carefully highlighted to accentuate high cheekbones. Floyd had juggled grief and glamour very well. Her left wrist sported a discreet Cartier Tank and two poster-painted macaroni bracelets. French-manicured fingers “nervously” twisted a diamond and platinum wedding band, and a navy shift and flat beige sandals worn with a simple diamond Tiffany heart on a chain completed the highly photogenic widow’s weeds. She turned and executed a small, perfectly choreographed stumble, reaching out to the helping hand of “Saint” Peter, who put his arm around her to help her into the squad car.
She dabbed gently at her eyes all the way to the street corner. Once out of sight of the telephoto lenses, she dived into a chill bag inside the nappy bag and produced a bottle and glass. I heard a pop of yet another bottle of champagne as it bit the dust. She started to talk and talk and she wouldn’t shut up.
We heard all about her jewellery, her jewellers, her jet, her helicopter, her cars, her clothes, her shopping safaris, her famous friends. Then there were tales of her adventures, her travels, her shoes, her handbags, and then she started again from the beginning as she topped up her glass. By the time we turned onto Broadway I was ready to let her have it with pepper spray. Christ, that woman could drink!
For once, I was glad to see the doors of the morgue, and left it up to Constable Jack to help her out of the car as the flashlights popped. I suppose it made a pretty photograph for the morning paper, but I knew the tragic but still photogenic widow needed help to walk because she was pissed, not broken-hearted.
I also knew that she was hanging on to Jack just because she had an excuse to get her hands on him.