Back home, I got on the phone to Claire. ‘I know it’s short notice, but any chance you could mind the shop for a couple of hours?’ I said.
‘Sure. But I’ll need to leave at seven. I’m preparing for Slow Pig.’
‘Slow…?’
‘The cooking demo tomorrow. I’m sure I told you about it. You should come. Sausage- and salami-making class. Only from happy pigs, of course. From small farms, where they’re looked after.’
I wondered for a moment who had the job of assessing pig happiness and whether they kept assessing while the pigs were being slaughtered. ‘You know, I just don’t think I’ll get the chance…’
‘I don’t mean to tell you how to run your business, Cass, but it’s important to take the time necessary to hone your craft. Woodsmen and axes and all that.’
It’s generally a good idea to keep yourself nice around someone who’s doing you a favour. And, while Claire may not be entirely on top of the ‘fast’ aspect of fast food, I have found it worth considering what she has to say. Her sweet potato wedges and sour cream–lime dip really took off in my shop last year. Anyway, I didn’t have time to argue. I thanked her and hung up.
I picked up Vern and we hit the road. Boofa situated himself in the back seat, his freckled tongue hanging out.
First up, we headed to Sheep Dip. Checked out Rupton’s old place, busily crumbling to the ground. No sign of any squatters, of the rat-distributing variety or otherwise. No sign of anyone, in fact. Just a faded box of matches lying on the red soil. I put them in my pocket. The Book Bonanza was deserted—and there was no sign of Joanne’s phone-slash-answering machine. I took that to mean Paula was onto it: excellent.
Then we got on with a full-scale search for Joanne Smith. I drove us down a thousand back roads and gravel tracks—well, I’ll admit I didn’t keep an exact count. We tramped through every abandoned farmhouse, shed, dog kennel, tree house, boarded-up roadhouse and tumbled-down Masonic Lodge between Rusty Bore and Red Cliffs. No sign of Joanne. Or the spider-web-tattooed man, thankfully. Although there was a healthy population of real spiders in actual webs.
By six, I’d had enough. Even Vern had had enough. Boofa whined, suggesting he was ready for a break as well. I opened my water bottle and poured some warm water into my palm for him to slurp.
I pulled in at a servo on the edge of Red Cliffs, filled up the car, then walked, a little wearily, inside to pay. I stood by the counter waiting while the guy in the servo scratched his head, his stomach, his arm—presumably some kind of warm-up routine he needed to complete before punching the numbers into the till.
‘Hey.’ A deep voice behind me.
I turned.
A man with a shaved head. Rumpled black suit. Very thick neck, featuring a spider-web tattoo. ‘Where you fucken been, Joanne? Been looking all over for you.’
‘Look, there’s been…a bit of a mix-up. I’m not Joanne.’ I tried to look as if I wasn’t cowering.
‘What the…?’ He glanced over my shoulder at the bloke behind the counter. ‘Ah.’ He gave me a small nod and folded his arms. Stood there like he was waiting at a bus stop.
‘Excuse me a moment.’ I turned back to the counter and held out my money to the guy at the till while I tried giving him the universal call-the-cops signal. Widened my eyes, mouthed cops, made small head-jerks towards the hit man.
The guy behind the counter just looked at me and scratched the side of his face.
The hit man moved in beside me, a little too close for comfort. A waft of stale sweat. A heavy hand on my arm. ‘Let’s go,’ he said.
I looked down at his hand, thinking fast. Meaty hand, neatly trimmed fingernails, no cuts, cracks or chapping. No scars either, which was surprising, given his line of work.
‘I’m…with a friend. He’s waiting outside,’ I said.
Where the hell was Vern when you needed him? Didn’t he see this bloke come in? Although, to be fair, Vern didn’t know what the fella looked like.
‘And he’s actually got his guard dog with him. Quite a vicious dog, especially with strangers.’ He could be counted on to give the man a vigorous licking, anyway. Before Troy shot him. I tried not to whimper.
Troy looked over at the door. I took that moment to give the guy behind the counter the full-on call-them-bloody-NOW signal—lots of frantic nodding and mouthing on my part—but his eye to brain signal was definitely out of order.
‘I can handle a dog,’ said Troy and walked me towards the doorway.
With his free hand, he grabbed the door and yanked it open. He walk-dragged me outside.
The door slammed shut behind us. ‘So what’s with this servo fella?’ he said.
‘Pardon?’
‘I dunno what fucken time-wasting game you’re playing, but I’m charging by the hour here. I thought you said your problem was Andy Devlin. What’s with this bloke?’ He nodded his head at the servo. ‘He giving you trouble too?’
I speed-weighed up my options. ‘Um, did I happen to mention Vivian Bentley?’
‘Jesus, you got quite a list. Who’s at the top?’
Did that mean he hadn’t started on the killing yet? Hadn’t killed Vivian? Sweat spots on my forehead. I didn’t want the servo guy assassinated, even if he was devoid of anything resembling a brain. I didn’t want anyone assassinated.
‘There’s ah…actually been a change of plan, Troy. We’ve all managed to patch things up, so I’ve…changed my mind. Seems I won’t be requiring your services after all.’
He stared at me with those tiny eyes, not looking as convinced of Joanne’s change of mind as a cornered Joanne-impersonator might be hoping for.
‘I’m sorry to have messed you around. Course, you have every right to be annoyed.’ Although not so annoyed he’d shoot me, I hoped. I rootled around in my handbag; found my purse. ‘Consider this a kill fee. To end the contract, that is.’ I held out a thousand dollars, courtesy of Mel.
‘Right.’ He gave me a dazzling white straight-teethed grin.
‘Anyway, I have to go. You know how it is—book customers: they wait for no one.’ I scurried to my car.