A bad night’s sleep: burning embers in my hair, and then Vern appeared, screaming. He exploded into a wall of flames and I woke up, panting.
At six I got up, threw on my dressing gown and headed into the kitchen, in need of a glass of water and some Panadol. There was a three-storey ferret cage in the corner of the room. When did that arrive? The whole apparatus looked suspiciously settled in. I stood there, looking at the ferrets, my headache getting worse. They eyeballed me back from the cheery multi-coloured hammocks in their cage, not looking all that cheery themselves. Maybe they’d had a bad night too.
I downed the Panadol and put the kettle on before remembering the tea situation. Lack of tea situation. I made myself a mug of hot water. Stepped outside onto the verandah to drink it, into ferret-free territory.
The leaves on the old pepper tree, the drying grass and the rose bushes Piero planted years ago were all slowly turning to gold in the morning sun. I sipped my water and reviewed the situation. No progress on Joanne’s whereabouts, no leads on who killed Vivian Bentley and/or Rex Patterson, Dean facing career meltdown, bugger all customers. And a house full of ferrets.
A touch demoralised, I got on with opening the shop. While I scrubbed down the pristine grill, I pondered: what the hell did Brad mean by ‘needs must’? His sudden, inexplicable interest in ferret welfare, even going as far as clipping their claws? As for Dean: my shoulders sagged. I’d have to brace myself and call him.
No lunchtime customers: Nola’s directive had been far too bloody effective. At three, I was considering closing when my doorbell rang. A woman in a red T-shirt and black jeans. It took me a moment to place her: Mel. The not-so-observant private eye, who failed to notice people’s coffee machines before she opened her big mouth.
‘About to close. Do you something cold, though.’ Not my friendliest tone.
‘Right.’ She glanced around. ‘Hey, can that thing do a coffee?’ She pointed at my ancient Sputnik.
Well done, Mel. Finally. ‘Yeah. I can do you a takeaway.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Milk, sugar, extra shithouse?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Just recalling something you said last time you were in here.’
‘Err, no, I’ll just have a latte, thanks. No sugar.’
She moved closer to my counter, put her arms up on the glass surface. A surface I’d just wiped clear of people’s greasy arm marks.
‘Heard you…caught up with Andy Devlin,’ she said.
‘Uh huh.’ I turned away to my Sputnik. I got on with her coffee; frothed her milk. There was no need to look at her: I could feel her smirk with the back of my head.
‘So what do you think?’ she said. ‘He’s got something to do with Joanne’s disappearance?’
I shrugged. Turned around and handed over her coffee. Her face didn’t look particularly sneering. Good at poker, maybe.
She took a sip of her coffee. ‘Wow.’ Another sip. ‘That is a surprise.’
Yeah, amazing.
‘Ah. You don’t like compliments. Shame, because that’s the best coffee I’ve tasted in a very long time.’ She took another sip and shut her eyes a moment. Opened them again. ‘Your food this great as well?’
Why did I get the feeling she was trying to win me over? And succeeding. Call me shallow, but I was warming to Mel. A mild thaw, anyway.
A thought. That deposit she left with me: I hadn’t returned it yet. And I’d used some of it to get rid of Troy Forrester. Bugger.
‘Look, I need to give you back your client’s money. I’ll…pay you in a couple of instalments, if that’s OK.’
‘Hey, I’m not looking for a refund. Results are what I’m after. So tell me about your progress, partner.’
‘Partner?’ What planet was she on?
‘Yeah, I finally decided to tell Nic you’re helping out. It’s OK, I’m not too proud to admit when I’m out of my depth.’ She took another sip from her cardboard cup.
‘Nic?’
‘Peluso, of course.’
‘Why “of course”?’
‘I already told you, didn’t I?’ She swigged down another mouthful.
I dredged my memory. I was pretty sure Mel had told me nothing about her mysterious client.
Wait…
‘How long have you been a private detective, exactly?’
She took the lid off her cup and peered inside.
‘Mel?’
‘It is so bloody good to have a decent coffee.’ No doubt about it, she was avoiding the question.
‘This is your first job, isn’t it?’
‘I’m a fast learner. And we’re a partnership, aren’t we? I’ve got the licence; you’ve got the street smarts.’ She smiled. ‘So did you get anything useful from Devlin? Anything on the development?’
‘You mean Gol Gol?’
She leaned in closer. ‘Well, yes, that as well. There are quite a few of Mallee Environmental’s projects Nic’s curious about.’
‘Why?’
She didn’t respond, just put the cup down on my counter.
‘Listen, Mel. This is a pretty strange kind of partnership, wouldn’t you say?’
‘How so?’
‘Well, don’t you think it’d be more helpful if you shared a couple of details? Like who this Peluso is? And why exactly he wants to find Joanne? Plus—what development?’
‘Yeah, OK, fair point.’ She tucked a couple of stray hairs behind her ear. ‘He’s a property developer. Casinos, mainly. And he’s a client of Mallee Environmental. Or was. Till they shafted him.’
‘Shafted him how?’
‘Fucked up the EES for the Mildura casino development. His baby.’
‘Joanne was involved?’
‘Kind of.’
‘Is he…planning to hurt Joanne?’
‘What?’ She stared at me. ‘Listen, Nic is a total sweetie—you’ll see when you meet him. And very trusting. That’s the problem: he trusted Vivian Bentley—who was as shifty as they come. I mean, once the cops unravel the full story at Mallee Environmental…’
‘So why’s he want to find Joanne?’
Mel picked up the cup, swallowed the last mouthful of coffee, then crushed the container. ‘The council rejected Nic’s proposal, thanks to Vivian Bentley. Well, he’s not giving up: he fully intends appealing to VCAT. Joanne was the competent one in that joint. The honest one. That’s why he needs her help.’ She flicked her coffee container across the shop, straight into my bin. Nice shot.
‘So, we’re partners?’ she said.
I paused. ‘I guess.’
‘And you’ll keep me updated? Anything. No matter how small or irrelevant.’
I nodded.
She smiled and left, the doorbell jangling.
At 10 pm I was brushing my teeth when my phone buzzed. I grabbed it: a Skype call. From Leo.
‘Where have you been, Cass? I’ve been trying to call you for days.’
‘I’ve been trying to contact you too,’ I said. ‘Look…’ I paused, weighing up Taylah’s advice regarding the benefits of the short sharp shock.
‘I’m sorry, Cass.’ His blue-green eyes looked like he meant it.
‘Yeah.’
‘I just miss you.’
‘Yeah, me too.’
‘I need to touch you, Cass.’ He paused. ‘Hey, why don’t we spend an evening together? Let’s find a drive-in.’ His mouth turned up. ‘Near Melbourne airport.’
‘What, you’ll just pop over from Bolivia?’
‘One flight home per year paid for—it’s in my contract.’
So his contract was for an entire year? Just face it, Cass. The bloke’s half a world away with no intention of ever coming back.
‘Drive-ins have all closed down, Leo. Listen, I gotta go.’
‘I’m serious.’ Was he pleading?
‘You’d travel thirty hours for an evening together?’
‘For a night with you, I’d travel anywhere.’ He settled back onto his pillows. Leo wasn’t wearing a shirt; a glimpse of those gladiator shoulders. And his chest: tanned, smooth, unshackled from the inconvenience of clothing.
There are probably people who could resist a rugged, husky-voiced bloke, semi-naked, offering a huge romantic gesture. Maybe.
Well, one evening wouldn’t hurt. We could do the serious talk after that.
‘There might still be a drive-in in Coburg,’ I said, my voice croaky.
‘Great, I’ll book a flight. How’s Tuesday next week?’
I nodded.
*
After I’d gone to bed, I remembered Greg. Shit, maybe I should cancel our cuppa-dinner-movie. Only a vague, not fully arranged, meeting. But perhaps not the greatest way to show loyalty to one’s long-distance so-called partner. Although.
Well, there was the fact that I was seriously tea-deprived thanks to Brad. And Greg might know something about Joanne, since he lived in Mildura—the place isn’t that huge. The fact that Greg was fun, friendly, pleasant to look at, possibly interested, actually here and not in Bolivia, well…
What you need to do, Cass Tuplin, I told myself in my sternest whisper, is call Leo and cancel that drive-in appointment. Or at least let him know you’re tempted.
That would be the sensible thing to do. The behaviour of a mature person, one with honour, decency, compassion. No point letting the bloke travel all the way from Bolivia just to be dumped. Even if it was after a breathless evening at the drive-in, an evening involving some full-strength close and personal.
The kind of evening some people might welcome, in fact.