Mr and Mrs Levack were finally here! Hobart, Tasmania. The apple isle of Australia.
‘Aren’t the gardens just a picture?’ exclaimed Mrs Levack, admiring the multi-hued roses. ‘You don’t get that back in Bondi.’
‘Well, not in our flat,’ demurred her husband Eddy.
‘I’m so excited,’ Mrs Levack went on, ‘and we haven’t even arrived at the guesthouse yet.’ She tapped the cab driver on the shoulder, full of youthful enthusiasm despite her sixty-something years. ‘Do you know that Hobart has some of the best food and restaurants in the world? Who would believe it of a little place at the bottom of the world. Next stop Antarctica!’ she chortled.
‘Is that a fact?’ commented the cabbie dryly. He drove further up the hill, through more gardens full of roses. ‘You folks with the Japanese cosmetics group?’ he asked. ‘I brought a mob of them up here a couple of days ago.’
‘No,’ said Mrs Levack, impressed with how international it all was. ‘We’re from Sydney.’
They’d scrimped and saved for this trip to Tasmania, putting aside a bit each week from the pension and Mrs Levack’s part-time job as a cleaner at the Opera House. It was a two-week holiday—a week doing what Eddy wanted to do and a week for Mavis. Eddy’s week involved a tour to the rugged north-east of the island where he hoped to spot the rare Tasmanian tiger. He’d read everything he could on Tasmanian wildlife so that he’d be prepared. But first there was Mrs Levack’s week. She wanted to stay in Hobart and be waited on hand and foot. Eat in the restaurants, get dressed up and visit the casino.
‘This is it, Mavis,’ announced Eddy proudly, as if he’d built the blessed thing himself. ‘Spackman’s Guesthouse. Looks lovely, doesn’t it?’
The cabbie opened the boot and heaved out their luggage. Eddy was in such a holiday mood that he tipped the cabbie a whole ten cents.
They walked down the path of Spackman’s Guesthouse, crunching gravel underfoot. It must have been a stately home at one stage—stained glass windows, double storey, brick and plaster, pitched roof with quaint little attic windows. Mrs Levack was relieved to see a TV aerial on top of it all. She didn’t want to miss Murder, She Wrote.
They plonked their bags down at the front door. Eddy put his hand around the lion’s head knocker and gave it a good bang. But no-one came to the door. Then Mrs Levack reached up and gave it a go. They waited, looking around at the roses.
‘Where is everyone?’ wondered Mrs Levack. She was standing on the threshold of her holiday and anxious to have it begin. A little rest, a refreshing shower, a walk around the shops, dinner, then off to the casino.
‘Anybody home?’ she called loudly. Inside the house the phone started ringing. It remained unanswered.
More out of frustration than anything else, Mrs Levack pushed at the door. It opened. ‘Well, fancy it being unlocked all this time,’ she said. ‘Doesn’t that give it a friendly smalltown feeling?’
They came into a welcoming foyer where a big vase of lilies rested on a stand.
‘Hello,’ said Mrs Levack. ‘We were wondering—’
Eddy gave her a nudge. There was a huge mirror facing them. ‘Mavis,’ he said out of the corner of his mouth, ‘you’re talking to your own reflection.’
Mrs Levack gave an embarrassed little laugh. ‘Silly me.’ Then louder, ‘Anybody there?’ she repeated. She made her way into the lounge room where a mid-afternoon talk show played on the television. She hardly gave Oprah Winfrey a second glance as she walked through to the dining room. The tables were neatly set with crisp white tablecloths, blue and white plates, cutlery, glasses and a tiny vase of flowers on each one.
The TV was on, the tables were set but there was no-one here. It was just like that ship where they found the table set for dinner but not a soul on board. ‘Was that the Lusitania or the Hesperus?’ Mrs Levack asked her husband, who went to the library every Wednesday and read a lot.
‘The Marie-Celeste.’
‘Bit like Alice in Wonderland, isn’t it? Curiouser and curiouser,’ commented Mrs Levack.
Mr Levack rolled his eyes. He could see what was brewing. ‘Sit down for a minute, will you? Mr Spackman’s probably just popped down to the shop for some eggs or something.’
Reluctantly Mrs Levack sat down on the lounge beside her husband, who was leafing through a handsome volume entitled In the Wild—Tasmanian Flora and Fauna. She stared at the television screen but found it very hard to concentrate on the show. There was definitely something amiss. You wouldn’t leave your guesthouse completely unattended, would you? What if someone wanted something? She felt a little uneasy. She and Eddy were a long way from home. Tasmania was rather isolated, even if they did get Oprah on TV. It was impossible for Mrs Levack to sit still and relax. ‘I’m just going to get a drink of water,’ she said.
‘Don’t be too long, we don’t want you disappearing as well,’ joked her husband.
Mrs Levack had a good look around the lounge and dining room, then went to the kitchen. There was plenty of food in the fridge—including eggs, so obviously that eliminated the possibility of Mr Spackman being down at the shops. There was a big toaster on the bench and a dishwasher full of clean crockery waiting to be put away. But not a sign of life. As if whoever lived here had suddenly up and left. Or been forced to leave.
Off the kitchen Mrs Levack found the office. The computer was on, bits of paper all over the place. A rather untidy desk, thought Mrs Levack. ‘What’s taking so long?’ Mrs Levack heard Eddy call out.
‘Just coming, dear.’
But Mrs Levack wasn’t just coming. There was definitely something strange about all this. The office might yield up some clues. In the mess of the desk she espied a foolscap-size book. ‘Reservations’ it said on the blue cover.
She was up to August when the phone rang. Mrs Levack jumped and promptly lost her place in the book. Her hand went out to answer the phone but she stopped herself just in time. She let it ring on, her heart pounding. Surely Mr Spackman would come and answer it if he was within hearing distance. It rang on but no-one came. Perhaps she should answer it—she certainly wanted to. Perhaps it was Mr Spackman himself ringing home to explain the situation. She picked the phone up with the sleeve of her cardigan pulled down like a mitten, so as not to leave any fingerprints should it come to that. ‘Hello? Hello?’ Damn, they’d hung up.
Then she saw it, as she was putting the phone down. The note. She stopped dead in her tracks, staring at it. She read it and reread it several times. There was no mistaking it. ‘Eddy, can you come in here a minute?’ she called in a falsely bright voice. ‘And bring your reading glasses with you.’
I can’t take any more. Bob. Eddy took off his glasses. He looked at the computer screen, looked around the office. ‘There’s probably a perfectly logical explanation for this,’ he said finally.
‘There is,’ said Mrs Levack with absolute certainty. ‘He committed suicide and that’s the note. Signed Bob. What’s Mr Spackman’s first name?’ she challenged her husband.
‘Bob.’
‘Exactly.’ Mrs Levack was positively beaming.
‘I suppose we’d better call the police, then,’ sighed Eddy, reaching for the phone.
‘Don’t touch that phone,’ said Mrs Levack. ‘Fingerprints,’ she explained in case her tone had been too hasty. She was awfully sorry about Mr Spackman, but what a perfect bonus to the holiday. A real case for a sleuth. And Mavis Levack was first on the scene. She didn’t want the police poking around till she’d had a good poke around herself.
Besides, Mrs Levack’s brain was ticking like a time bomb. Now that the idea of suicide had been absorbed, her mind was rushing on to bigger and better things. Anything was possible. Perhaps it was supposed to look like suicide. Perhaps it was the big one—perhaps Mr Spackman had been murdered. After all, where was the body?
All Mrs Levack wanted was a little time to look for clues, for skeletons in the closet or elsewhere. Let’s face it, what Mrs Levack really wanted was to solve the case, wrap it up in a pretty bow and present it to the police as a fait accompli. She could see her name in the headlines, the interviews on TV. Maybe there’d be a miniseries! Wouldn’t that give them something to talk about down at the bowling club!
‘Let’s wait a little while before we call the police, shall we?’ she cajoled her husband. ‘Just to make sure. Wouldn’t want to make fools of ourselves, would we?’
‘No, we wouldn’t. It’ll probably all become clear in the end. Meanwhile, it’d be nice to get to our room and settle in.’
‘My thoughts exactly,’ agreed Mrs Levack. She pulled her sleeve down over her hand and opened the reservations book to October to find out which room they were in. All the rooms except one were taken up with a Japanese cosmetics tour, probably the same one the cab driver had mentioned. ‘Here we are,’ announced Mrs Levack. ‘Room eight.’
What with one thing and the other, Mrs Levack already had quite a solid picture of the downstairs section of the house. There were no bedrooms, so they must all be upstairs.
‘Gawd, these stairs are a killer,’ said Eddy when, loaded down with luggage, he finally got to the top of them. Perhaps Mr Spackman had been pushed down the stairs. When Mrs Levack got the chance she’d be on the lookout for clues—hairs, blood, the nap of the carpet going the wrong way, scratches in the paintwork. Already in her mind she could see poor Mr Spackman hanging onto the balustrade for dear life.
They got to their room. ‘Not too bad if you’re a dwarf, is it?’ commented Eddy. It was an attic room. It didn’t bother Mrs Levack but Eddy could only stand upright in the middle of the room. Still, there was a very nice view looking over the garden, down to the port. God, thought Mrs Levack, they hadn’t tossed the body into the harbour, had they?
Eddy took off his shoes. ‘Bed’s nice and comfy,’ he said, trying it out. ‘No lumps or anything.’
Under the bed, in the mattress. Had they hidden the body in one of the wardrobes? Mr Spackman could be anywhere. And no-one would discover the body till it started to smell.
‘C’mon, Mavis, have a lie down.’
‘No thank you, Eddy, I’m not tired at the moment.’
‘Neither am I,’ said Eddy suggestively. ‘C’mon, Mavis.’ He started stroking her arm.
What a time for Eddy to get frisky. It must be the change in the climate. He wasn’t normally frisky in the afternoon. He wasn’t normally frisky full-stop. Mrs Levack wouldn’t have minded, she was by far the friskier of the two, but experience had taught her what it would be like. A lot of huffing and puffing, a lot of grunting then, at the vital moment, Eddy would drift off to sleep and Mrs Levack would be left to her own devices. Besides, all Mrs Levack’s thoughts were focused on the one thing—the mysterious disappearance/murder of Mr Spackman.
‘Goodness me, Eddy. The holidays have barely begun. Why don’t you rest up for the casino tonight?’ But Eddy had already lost interest. His eyelids were getting heavy and Mrs Levack could detect the first flutters of a snore. ‘Nought out of ten for enthusiasm,’ muttered Mrs Levack under her breath as she tiptoed out of the room.
There were five rooms upstairs. Mrs Levack idly wondered why their room was number eight but she didn’t give it too much thought. It probably wasn’t relevant to the investigation and she decided to keep her mental faculties for the important task—the murder.
The first room she examined had twin beds with a suitcase neatly set against the bottom of each bed. There were some very neat dresses and slacks hanging in the wardrobe. On the dressing table there was a travel guide, in Japanese she assumed, and two neat red carry bags. Careful not to leave any fingerprints, Mrs Levack unzipped one to find cosmetics of every sort. She opened up lipsticks and eyeliners, discovered lash curlers and other items she couldn’t even begin to identify. The inside of the bag was full of handy little compartments to keep the cosmetics neat and tidy. She told herself she wasn’t being a busybody, any one of these could be the murder weapon. There were nail files, clippers, all sorts of things.
Mrs Levack moved on to the next room, then the next. Although the clothes hanging in the wardrobe were different, each of the rooms contained the same pair of make-up bags. By the third room Mrs Levack hadn’t found anything worth reporting. Besides, what possible reason would any of the Japanese cosmetics ladies have for killing Mr Spackman?
She was just trying out the face powder when she heard a gaggle of voices in a language she couldn’t understand. They were back! In her haste to get the make-up back into the bag she spilt the white powder all over the dressing table. Clouds of it, everywhere. In walked the two occupants of the room. The talking stopped as soon as they saw Mrs Levack. She didn’t know if they could speak English but it wasn’t necessary. ‘What are you doing here?’ was written all over their faces.
‘Just dusting,’ said Mrs Levack, hastily mopping up the powder. She pointed to the ceiling as if it were the source of the dust, then waved her hand in front of her face. ‘Very dusty,’ she grimaced.
The two ladies said something to each other, then came over to the dressing table. One of them pointed to the powder puff Mrs Levack was doing her best to conceal and said something. It was probably, ‘Why are you using my powder puff as a duster?’ but Mrs Levack chose not to understand. She shrugged her shoulders, smiled and proceeded to back out of the room.
She hadn’t got very far when another woman entered the room. ‘Good afternoon. Can I help you?’ This was a different kettle of fish altogether. This one could speak English and didn’t look like she could be put off with shrugs and smiles.
‘I’m just doing a spot of cleaning.’
‘Ah, you are the maid!’ She said something to the other two women. ‘Ah!’ they nodded to Mrs Levack in recognition.
In no time at all they were handing Mrs Levack items of clothing. The English speaker hurried down the corridor and soon the whole fleet of cosmetics ladies was piling Mrs Levack high with dresses, slacks and undies. She could barely see over the top of it all.
‘Very good. You will do the washing, please.’
The maid indeed! The last thing Mrs Levack wanted to do on her holidays was washing and cleaning. She was about to drop the lot on the floor when it occurred to her that this would give her the perfect excuse to snoop around Mr Spackman’s private quarters. ‘Of course,’ agreed Mrs Levack.
‘Gentle cycle. Not too much soap.’
‘Go teach your grandmother to suck eggs,’ Mrs Levack murmured, smiling all the while.
The laundry wasn’t hard to find. It wasn’t actually a full-scale laundry, just a washing machine, dryer and sink in an alcove outside near the back door. Beyond it was the garage. Mrs Levack would investigate the garage later, once she’d got a load of washing underway.
She dumped the bundle of clothes in the sink. The sink was as dry as a bone and even a little dusty. Well at least that possibility was eliminated. No-one had recently rinsed any bloodstained weapons under this tap. The dust wouldn’t do the Japanese clothes any harm, they were going to get washed anyway. This machine was a bit different to the one they had at home, but Mrs Levack soon got it going. It was a top-loading model with a cycle for delicates. All she really had to do was set the indicator to the appropriate cycle and the machine would do the rest. She figured on a good twenty minutes before the noise of the machine stopped.
She picked up and examined each item carefully before dropping it into the machine. She really didn’t see the need for it, the clothes looked perfectly clean to Mrs Levack, except for the ones on the bottom that had collected the dust from the sink. With her eye for detail, Mrs Levack couldn’t help noticing how well-tailored the clothes were. ‘Made in Japan’ certainly had come a long way in the last few decades. Mrs Levack closed the lid of the machine and the wash cycle commenced.
Hardly was the lid down when the phone rang. It sounded inordinately loud in Mrs Levack’s ears and she gave a little start. She looked from the washing machine to the doorway leading into the house. It didn’t take her long to decide. She didn’t want anyone else coming down and answering the phone, did she? Besides, she was beginning to feel quite at home here, as if it were her right and duty to attend to the call.
‘Spackman’s Guesthouse,’ she said with authority.
‘Pardon?’ said a young voice on the other end.
‘It’s . . .’ Mrs Levack faltered as her eyes strayed to The Note. I can’t take any more. ‘It’s Bob Spackman’s place,’ she said this time. ‘Who’s this?’
‘It’s Maureen. Is Bob there?’
‘Ah no, not at the moment. Can I help you, Maureen?’
‘I was wondering whether to come around. Bob said he’d be busy and might need a hand.’
Mrs Levack thought fast. Maureen sounded harmless enough, but did she want her coming round? No, thought Mrs Levack. The fewer people involved in this the better. ‘It’s all right, dear,’ she said in a friendly manner. ‘We can manage.’
‘We? Who am I speaking to?’ said Maureen suspiciously. It was a bit late in the conversation for her to be asking that. Mrs Levack took a deep breath.
‘I’m Bob’s . . . aunt.’
‘Oh?’
In for a penny, in for a pound, thought Mrs Levack. ‘Yes. Aunt Mavis from Sydney.’
‘I didn’t know he had anyone on the mainland. I thought all his relatives came from Launceston.’
‘I’m the black sheep of the family,’ said Mrs Levack, feeling blacker and blacker by the minute. The lie was liberating, she felt giddy with power. Maybe this girl could tell her something. ‘Yes, there are all sorts of skeletons in Bob’s closets,’ she hinted, trying to draw the girl out.
‘Pardon?’
Mrs Levack couldn’t help herself. The words stared back at her from beside the phone, begging to be said out loud. ‘I can’t take any more,’ said Mrs Levack in a slow, measured voice. All very well to sound innocent and naive, but what if Maureen knew more than she was letting on? Was this phone call her way of revisiting the scene of the crime at a safe distance? To find out who knew what? Perhaps it was Maureen who’d written the note.
‘Sorry?’
‘Yes, I bet you are.’
‘Ah, I think I’d better go, I’ve some study to do. Bob can call if he needs me.’
The washing machine was up to the spin cycle now. Apart from that, the house was quiet. The cosmetics ladies, like Eddy, must be having an afternoon nap. The thought made Mrs Levack feel suddenly tired. She would dearly love to have had a nap herself. She wondered how all those private investigators in books got by without taking naps. But then, they usually weren’t as advanced in years as Mrs Levack. Not that age was any drawback. Mrs Levack felt as fit as a fiddle. She wasn’t going to go gentle into that dark night when her time came. They were going to have to drag her into it.
She found herself in front of the washing machine just as it shuddered to a halt on the final rinse cycle. She lifted the lid, took the clothes out and transferred them to the dryer. She pressed a button and the steady warm hum began. Out she went to the garage. The window was covered over. Perhaps Mr Spackman had been using it as a darkroom. Or perhaps . . . She went around and tried the door but it was locked. Very peculiar. Anyone could walk into the house but the garage was locked.
She was down on her hands and knees trying to look through the gap between the door and floor when she heard, ‘For Gawd’s sake, Mavis, what are you doing?’
Mrs Levack froze in her tracks. It was Eddy. ‘I think I dropped an earring.’
‘But you don’t wear earrings.’
A pause. ‘That’s right, I don’t. Silly me. Give me a hand up, will you, Eddy?’
Eddy gave her a hand up. ‘I think he must be back, the dryer’s on. Did you see him?’
‘Well actually, no. I put it on.’
‘But we haven’t even unpacked our bags yet.’
‘Ah . . . as a matter of fact, I offered to do the Japanese ladies’ washing. Show them what Australian hospitality’s like,’ Mrs Levack said gaily.
‘You’re acting a bit strangely, Mavis. You haven’t got jet lag, have you?’
‘The flight from Sydney to Hobart is less than two hours. I’d hardly have jet lag, Eddy.’
‘Anyway, come up and have a lie down, I’m concerned about you. Or better yet,’ he said as if he’d just had a bright idea, ‘what about a spa? That’ll freshen you up. There’s one in the bathroom.’
It did sound like a nice idea and Mrs Levack had just about done all the investigating she could do at the moment. A couple of gin and tonics, Eddy’s belly rising above the water-line like a desert island. A spa would be just the thing. ‘OK, Eddy.’
‘Doesn’t get any easier, does it?’ commented Eddy when they reached the top of the stairs. At that very moment a phone started to ring. It wasn’t the downstairs phone, it was coming from the room at the end of the corridor, the one room Mrs Levack hadn’t yet examined. She heard ‘Hello?’ then the door shut abruptly.
Very suspicious. Mrs Levack crept along the corridor to the room and put her ear to the door. Eddy was following, giving her looks of disapproval, but Mavis just waved him away with her hand.
‘It is unfortunate but we must proceed as planned. It would not be good if they die.’ It was the voice of the English-speaking cosmetics lady. ‘No-one. Just the cleaner.’ Pause. ‘Yes. Very well.’ End of conversation.
Mrs Levack couldn’t believe her ears. Must proceed as planned . . . not good if they die. She hadn’t imagined all this, something dastardly was going on. It wasn’t murder, it was kidnap. They had kidnapped Mr Spackman, and another person by the sound of it. And this Japanese woman was in it up to her eyeballs. Mrs Levack stole along the corridor and back to the room.
‘It does sound odd, but you might be jumping to conclusions,’ whispered Eddy when she gave him a word for word description of the conversation. ‘Perhaps, you know, people make mistakes when they don’t have a firm grasp of the language.’
‘From what I heard her grasp was very good,’ said Mrs Levack grimly. ‘To think that I did that kidnapper’s washing!’
‘That’s a bit strong, Mavis. Give her the benefit of the doubt.’
‘Where’s Mr Spackman then? Why isn’t he here looking after his guests? Because he’s been kidnapped. And that woman is tied up with it somehow.’
‘If they have kidnapped him, why haven’t we heard? Why haven’t they rung up and asked for a ransom?’ Eddy didn’t really want to play this game but it seemed the only way to jolt Mavis out of it.
‘The phone was ringing when we arrived. Then it rang again later but they hung up before I could answer it. Besides, the kidnappers wouldn’t necessarily ring here. He’s got relatives in Launceston!’ Mrs Levack announced with a sudden burst of inspiration. ‘Maybe they’re ringing them. Spackman’s not all that common a name, I’ll check them in the phone book.’
‘Hold your horses, Mavis. You don’t want to alert any more people than necessary. If they suspect someone’s onto them, then they really will kill him.’ Against his will Eddy could feel himself getting sucked in. ‘Look, the best thing for the moment is to act normally. We’re on holidays, we’ve got to look like we’re relaxing and enjoying ourselves. Now let’s get on with the spa.’
‘Quite right. We don’t want to arouse suspicion. I’ll take the clothes out of the dryer, then I’m all yours.’ Eddy looked at her from under his eyebrows, not quite convinced. ‘You just be careful, Mavis. Don’t go asking any leading questions.’
Up the stairs came Mrs Levack with the bundle of washing, warm and cosy from the dryer. She knocked on the door of the fourth room and went in without being asked. The woman quickly put something away in her red bag and Mrs Levack caught a brief glimpse of the interior. All those little compartments, nicely padded—Mrs Levack wouldn’t have minded a bag like that herself.
Mrs Levack plonked the clothes down on the bed. ‘I don’t know about Japan, but we’re all equal here, doesn’t matter whether you’re the cleaner or the boss. I’m Mrs Levack,’ she introduced herself, ‘but you can call me Mavis.’
The woman smiled with closed lips. The bow of her head was almost imperceptible. ‘Masako Rampo. But you can call me Mrs Rampo.’
So much for that, thought Mrs Levack. ‘Everything to your liking, Mrs Rambo?’ Mrs Rampo didn’t react to the mispronunciation. Mrs Levack, on the other hand, gloried in it.
‘It is all very nice. Thank you so much for enquiring. And now, I have many things to do. Thank you.’ She was giving Mrs Levack the hint to leave. But Mrs Levack wasn’t so keen to leave. She wanted to engage the woman in conversation, in the hope that she might let something drop.
‘That’s a very nice bag, Mrs Rambo.’ She reached for it but Mrs Rampo whisked it out of the way.
‘I didn’t mean to be presumptuous,’ apologised Mrs Levack. ‘I just wanted to see if it was real leather. I’m sure it is.’
‘Of course it is,’ snapped Mrs Rampo, on edge. The pesky old woman was beginning to get on her nerves. ‘Perhaps later one of the girls can give you a make-over. You have very nice skin, very white and smooth.’
If ever there was a way to a wrinkle-conscious woman’s heart, this was it.
‘Thank you, dear. That’s Nivea, day and night for the last fifty years. When would be a convenient time?’
‘Tomorrow, in the afternoon?’ Mrs Rampo suggested.
It was a pity it wasn’t tonight, before the visit to the casino, but Mrs Levack couldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. ‘That’ll be lovely, dear.’
What a nice woman. Perhaps Mrs Levack had jumped to the wrong conclusion about Mrs Rampo. Perhaps what she’d heard over the phone was about some hiccup in the travel arrangements. We must proceed according to plan. Yes, that would be it, discussing travel arrangements.
The Levacks had quite a nice time at the casino. Eddy won twenty dollars and they both drank a little more than they should. Pretending to relax and enjoy themselves worked so well that they actually did relax and enjoy themselves. Eddy was right. There probably was a perfectly rational explanation for all this that would become apparent to them in the fullness of time.
When she woke up in the morning the first thought that was able to find its way through the haze in Mrs Levack’s brain was why those blessed birds had to chirp so loudly. She rummaged around in her handbag looking for some Panadol. ‘Eddy,’ she nudged her husband. Eddy snored on. She got up, splashed water on her face, then tried again. Eddy was not to be woken for love or money. Perhaps Mr Spackman had some Panadol.
Mrs Levack put on her nice new dressing gown, bought specially for the holiday, and went downstairs. She wasn’t really prepared for the sight that met her eyes. All the Japanese cosmetics ladies were sitting down eating cornflakes and toast. There were glasses of orange juice on the tables, and cups of tea. All the ladies’ bags were lined up in the foyer as if they were about to leave. And, through the window, Mrs Levack saw Mrs Rampo coming out of the garage, the very same garage that had been locked the day before. By the time Mrs Rampo walked into the dining room the bonhomie and mellowness of the night before had vanished and back were the icy tentacles of suspicion.
‘Are you leaving?’ asked Mrs Levack, trying to at least get that sorted out.
‘Yes, we’re leaving. After breakfast.’
‘What about my make-over?’ whined Mrs Levack in the voice of a child who had been promised a treat and found it withdrawn for no apparent reason.
‘Make-over?’ repeated Mrs Rampo, hurriedly drinking a cup of tea.
‘You said one of the ladies would give me a make-over. This afternoon,’ she emphasised.
‘Sorry, no time for make-overs now,’ said Mrs Rampo curtly. ‘You can make the beds, we have vacated the rooms.’ She headed back out to the garage.
Mrs Levack grabbed one of the ladies’ umbrellas and scurried out after Mrs Rampo. ‘Mrs Rampo?’ Before the woman had a chance to turn around, Mrs Levack had given her a good whack across the back of the knees, causing her to drop to the ground like a felled tree. Goodness me, Mrs Levack hadn’t expected such a good result. It was just like in the movies. ‘What have you done with Mr Spackman?’ demanded Mrs Levack, the umbrella poised for more action.
‘What? What are you talking about?’ She was trying to sound tough but Mrs Levack detected the smell of fear.
‘If you don’t tell me where he is, I’ll whack you again. And this time it won’t be on the legs.’ Mrs Levack was in her stride.
‘You’re mad. Very mad.’
‘What’s going on here?’ a male voice asked gruffly. Mrs Levack looked up to see a youngish man, round face with a small mouth. He was carrying Mrs Rampo’s red bag.
‘So you’re the accomplice, eh? What have you done with Mr Spackman? He’s tied up in the garage, is he?’ Mrs Levack had time to take only one step towards her goal before the man blocked her way.
‘I’m Mr Spackman. And you?’
‘What . . . what do you mean?’
‘I’m Mr Spackman.’
‘Mr Bob Spackman?’
‘That’s right.’
‘But . . . but . . . I thought . . . Where have you been? Why weren’t you here looking after your guests?’
‘I had a bit of business to do in the country. I got delayed.’
Mrs Levack could feel her whole life tumbling around her like a house of cards. ‘But the note,’ she said lamely.
‘What note?’
‘By the phone—I can’t take any more.’
‘Oh that. It was a note to Maureen. The guesthouse was full, I didn’t have any more vacancies.’
Oh why hadn’t she listened to Eddy, why oh why? She’d made a complete fool of herself, barging in like that, assaulting overseas visitors. They’d never be able to remain in the guesthouse now, the holiday was ruined. And it was all Mrs Levack’s doing.
Mrs Rampo tugged at Mr Spackman’s sleeve, the red bag now snugly over her shoulder. ‘Bob,’ she said urgently, ‘the plane.’
‘I’m really, really sorry, Mrs Rampo. I’m really, really sorry I hit you with the umbrella, I’ll never do it again. Please accept my apologies.’ Mrs Levack reached out to shake hands with her.
‘Don’t touch that bag!’ yelled Mr Spackman. Mrs Rampo looked very hard at him, her lips pursed tightly. The moment was interrupted by the appearance of the rest of the cosmetics ladies, who were calling to Mrs Rampo and pointing to their watches. ‘We have to go,’ implored Mrs Rampo urgently, taking steps back towards the house.
‘The van’s out front,’ said Mr Spackman. ‘I’ll be there in a minute. And now, little lady,’ he said, turning his attention back to Mrs Levack, ‘I believe you were on the way to the garage.’
Before Mrs Levack could do or say anything, he was frogmarching her to the garage. In vain she looked up at the window of the bedroom. The curtain lifted slightly in the breeze, she thought she detected the sound of Eddy’s snores. Then it was curtains for Mrs Levack.
Mrs Levack couldn’t see a thing. Oh God no, she’d gone blind. She went to put a hand up to her eyes and the other one came up with it. They were tied together. She remembered the sharp jab of a needle and that was all. The more conscious she became, the more her head hurt. She really needed that Panadol now. Into her ears came a scratching animal sound. Into her nose, a pungent smell of ammonia and straw. Her eyes grew accustomed to the dark enough for her to make out the perimeter of light coming from around the blind. She was in the garage and she wasn’t alone. There were rats, scratching, and she could hear a strange rasping kind of squeak. It was just like in that book—‘1498’.
She tried to shout out, ‘Help, Eddy, help!’ but all she could manage was ‘ha-e-ha!’ As if things weren’t bad enough already, Mrs Levack now realised that she had a gag over her mouth. She wanted to cry. She felt the tears pricking her eyes and her body started shuddering. Eddy, where are you? How can you sleep through all this?
But Eddy was not sleeping. He was, in fact, looking for Mavis. His sleep had been disturbed by a lot of noise outside, a van finally driving away. ‘So much for a quiet holiday,’ he said, turning to Mavis. But his wife wasn’t in the bed beside him. All her clothes were still there, her handbag; the only thing missing was the new dressing gown. He got dressed. The last thing he wanted was for his wife to be wandering the streets of Hobart in her dressing gown. ‘Mavis?’ he called. No answer.
He went down the corridor towards the stairs. The rooms that yesterday had been occupied by the Japanese ladies were vacated. ‘Mavis?’ He went downstairs. Not a soul in sight. It was the same as when they’d arrived, except now there was an even greater feeling of abandonment, as if everyone had just up and left. Breakfast things were still on the table. A few soggy cornflakes in the bottom of a bowl, half-finished cups of tea, cold toast popped up in the toaster waiting for someone to retrieve it. ‘Mavis?’
Even Eddy was finally beginning to feel uneasy. Mavis was forgetful from time to time but she wouldn’t go out without taking her handbag. There was definitely something strange going on at this guesthouse. Everyone just disappearing down a black hole. He walked outside. ‘Mavis?’ Nothing.
But she’d heard him. She tried to call out again but it was the same ‘ha-e-ha.’ She had to get his attention, bring him over in the direction of the garage. Though her hands and feet were tied, they weren’t tied down. Mr Spackman had been in a hurry to get to the airport, he wasn’t too fussed about trussing her up. He was counting on the injection keeping her quiet till he got back. Mrs Levack started moving as best she could in the direction of what appeared to be the window. If only she could get to the window, perhaps rattle the blind, Eddy might see the movement. If he was looking. ‘Mavis?’ It was louder now, he was coming this way!
Suddenly in front of her was the blind. Mrs Levack prayed hard. She brought her hands to one edge of it and gave it a darn good shake. It must have been an old one. The blessed thing came right off its rollers.
Eddy was just about to return to the house when something caught his eye. He looked towards the garage and gasped. There, framed in the window, was a woman with a wild look in her eye and a gag across her mouth. It was his wife! He raced over as fast as he could. ‘What are you doing in there?’ he mouthed stupidly. But Mavis, of course, couldn’t answer.
He went around and tried the garage door. Surprisingly, it was unlocked. He fumbled for the light switch. And found it. What a sight greeted his eyes! Small marsupials in cages all over the place. Bottles of chemicals, test tubes and other things. Eddy saw it all in a sweeping glance. His first thought was to help his wife, his dear wife, standing there like a ghost. He grabbed a knife and freed her hands and feet. Then he ripped the masking tape from her mouth.
‘God, Eddy,’ she said, holding her hand to her mouth, ‘that’s worse than getting my bikini line waxed.’ But she was pleased to see him. She had never been so pleased to see him. She hugged him and hugged him till he thought he was going to burst.
‘It was so awful, you can’t imagine, being trapped in here with all those rats. At least they’re in cages, but I didn’t know that before.’
‘Actually,’ said Eddy leaning forward to have a closer look, ‘they’re Hypsiprymnodon moschatus. More commonly known as musky rat-kangaroo. An endangered species. What are they doing here?’
‘Mr Spackman is keeping them as pets?’ suggested Mrs Levack.
‘It would be cruel to keep them in cages. Besides, it’s illegal.’
They stood there in stunned silence, waiting for the explanation Eddy said would eventually come. It arrived with a jolt. ‘Quick, Eddy, back in the house. We’ve got to phone the airport. We’ve got to stop them before it’s too late.’
• • •
‘I always suspected Bob was up to no good. Ever since he stopped working for the National Parks and Wildlife Service,’ said the security guard at the airport. Hobart was a small town and everyone knew everyone. It was a small airport too, which meant that the customs officers didn’t have to go far to get to the departure gate. They made it just in the nick of time. Mrs Rampo and her red bag were lined up ready to board the plane when they apprehended her.
It didn’t take the police long to get the story—illegal trade in musky rat-kangaroo embryos. Mrs Rampo was only the courier, she said. She dropped Mr Spackman in it as soon as she could.
‘Bioceuticals,’ said the police, ‘experiments with embryo tissue for cosmetic products.’
Those poor little creatures, it turned Mrs Levack off make-up for life. Though she was sure Nivea wouldn’t stoop to something so heinous.
As it turned out, Mavis and Eddy had to stay in Hobart to help the police with their investigations, so Eddy didn’t have a chance to go looking for Tasmanian tigers. But didn’t they have a story to tell when they got back home! There was even a small item in the newspaper about it, mentioning them by name. Mrs Levack was seriously thinking about getting new business cards printed up—Mavis Levack, P.I. Murder, kidnapping, international trafficking. No case too large or too small.