Chapter 14
Someone is banging on my door. My first conscious thought is that someone else has died.
This is not a crazy idea—GG is not going to be the last victim of this family getaway gone wrong—but when I finally get out of bed and make it to the (now-unlocked) door, I can tell from Dylan’s face that nobody has died.
Or, if this is Dylan’s someone has died face, then he’s probably the murderer, because he’s excited.
“How long have you been out here?” I act like I’m rubbing at the sleep in my eyes, but really I’m trying to avoid breathing in his direction.
“Downstairs.” He’s a little out of breath and still in his pj’s.
“Is everyone okay?” I ask anyway, because, I don’t know, maybe Dylan is a murderer?
“It’s Sasha.”
My brain must be enjoying a power nap after a night crunching the numbers, because it takes me a moment to even remember who Sasha is. “The neighbor?”
“Yeah.”
“He did it?”
“What?”
“Sasha killed GG?”
“No, you idiot: He’s here and he has news.” Dylan is hustling me down the stairs a little faster than I’d like. It would be a real bummer to slip and break my neck before I even get to find out what the news is.
“Slow down.”
“Hurry up.”
We make it to the table, alive, to find Sasha standing with Aunty Bec while Dad pours coffee into a row of waiting mugs. Sasha looks a little startled by the arrival of two semi-breathless teenagers, but recovers quickly.
“Hi. It’s Ruth, right? And David?”
“That’s right.” I smile, sitting down.
“It’s Dylan,” Aunty Bec says.
“Sasha’s got news,” Dad says to me. “But maybe you know that already.”
“What’s happened?”
“It’s the police.”
“Have they arrested someone?” I do a quick head count. No Aunty Vinka and no Shippy. If I had to pick one as a murderer, it wouldn’t be the hippie who puts out bowls of water for the birds in her garden every summer.
“Nobody’s been arrested and this isn’t official,” Sasha says quickly. “I’ve got a friend on the force who told me that some of the jewelry taken from Gertie’s room has turned up in Perth at a pawnshop.”
There’s a moment where I wonder what GG’s jewelry is doing in a sex shop before my brain wakes up for good. (Also, why did nobody tell me GG’s jewelry was stolen? It’s the curse of the amateur detective to be kept in the dark, but it’s more fun in books, not so much in real life.)
“What does that mean?” Aunty Bec asks.
“It means the Perth cops are investigating too.”
“That’s good news, right?”
“It’s a lead,” Dad says, sounding like an extra from a police procedural.
“At least we know the cops are doing something,” Aunty Bec says.
“I thought I’d come and tell you myself,” Sasha says. “Have the local police been in touch with any updates?”
“Not really,” Dad says. “All they’ve said is that the investigation is ongoing and they don’t think we’re in any danger here in the house. But I’ve got to call Detective Peterson today anyway to see if Ruth and I can head back to Perth.”
The grown-ups chat a bit about the Case So Far and a little bit about What This All Means, and everyone seems more relaxed than they have since we all learned that a typewriter can be a deadly weapon.
It takes me a few minutes of listening to this before I understand why: If the person who killed GG and stole her jewelry is off flogging it for cash in Perth, it can’t have been any of us, since we’ve all been stuck in this house.
There’s a huge yawn from the doorway, and Rob wanders in from the living room, wearing boxers and a T-shirt, a sartorial misstep he looks like he regrets when he sees us gathered there. He gives a startled gasp, then makes absolutely no effort to retreat in search of, I don’t know, some pants.
“Oh man,” he says, staring at Sasha like he’s never seen a Farmer Wants a Wife contestant in the flesh.
The horror appears to be mutual: Sasha is staring at Rob like he’s never seen a middle-aged man’s upper thigh before (and maybe he hasn’t?).
Rob pulls at the bottom of his T-shirt like it might turn into a pair of pants, given sufficient encouragement.
“What’s this?” Rob asks. Then, possibly realizing how this sounds, he goes on: “Sorry, I didn’t realize we had company.” He releases his T-shirt and extends a hand. “Name’s Rob.”
Sasha looks at Rob’s hand like he’s still hoping pants are an option. Only when it’s clear that’s not going to happen does he grip the offered hand.
“Sasha.”
“Sasha’s from the farm next door,” Dad says. “He’s brought some news about Gertie.”
“Nothing official.” Sasha repeats the party line, looking even less comfortable than before. “Sorry, are you…a member of the family too?”
Rob shakes his head. “Nah, I’m just a blow-in. What’s the big news?”
“Some of the jewelry stolen from the house during the break-in has turned up in Perth,” Dad summarizes helpfully. “Rob’s staying with us for…a bit,” he adds to Sasha.
Rob absorbs this information as much as someone still half asleep can. “So, Sasha, you’re on the farm next door, are you?”
“That’s right.”
“You must be doing well for yourself.”
“Sure. How do you fit in, Rob?”
“We really appreciate you keeping us in the loop,” Aunty Bec says before anyone has to try to answer that one, flashing Sasha a smile.
“I wasn’t sure if it was too early to drop in on city people,” Sasha says. “But I’ve got a busy day and I thought you’d like to know. I won’t hold you up.”
“Hey, mate, have you got a sec?” Rob asks, and Sasha gives him an alarmed look. Possibly he imagines this is a free-love arrangement (he really does seem concerned about the pants situation) and Rob’s about to proposition him for some kind of a sevensome, but all he says is: “Yeah?”
“That your truck out there?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay if I take a quick look? I’m in the market.”
Sasha doesn’t seem to find this request as weird as I do (in fairness it’s only about the tenth weirdest thing going on in this house), because he just shrugs and the two of them walk out together. Rob does not bother to put on pants.
“Well, that lets us off the hook,” Dad says when the door shuts. “Most of us, anyway.”
“What do you mean?”
“Only one of us was out of this house long enough to make the drive to Perth and back.” Dad takes a slurp of his coffee, almost certainly to be dramatic. “Where is Shippy, anyway?”
“Screw you, Andy,” Aunty Bec says, but that’s as far as things are allowed to escalate because Aunty Vinka’s car appears outside. We watch her stop to chat with Sasha and Rob in the driveway for a bit; then she and Rob come inside. Both of them look worried.
“Is there a phone charger around here?” Rob asks, looking at the phone in his hand.
“No reception,” I say automatically. “But, yeah, there’s one by the microwave. You can unplug my phone if you want.”
“Where’s Nick?” Dad asks Aunty Vinka. “Isn’t he supposed to be—”
“He’s still in the hospital.”
“More tests?”
“Not exactly.”
“Vinx?” Dad says.
“Nick’s…look, it turns out he’s got one of those hospital superbugs,” Aunty Vinka says, getting the words out so quickly they all run together.
“What?” Dad, rather unfortunately, starts to laugh. “Are you kidding?”
“I am not.”
“So he’s not coming home?”
“They’re keeping him in for a bit longer.” Aunty Vinka sits down at the kitchen table, so forcefully her earrings and bracelets jangle. “I can’t believe this. I’m never getting out of this town.”
“Coffee?” Dad asks, maybe feeling bad about laughing. (It’d be a first.) “Or, sorry, an herbal tea?”
“Go on,” Aunty Vinka says, “make it a coffee.”
“It must be serious.”
“He’s going to come out of that hospital worse than when he went in.”
“Is there anything we can do to help?”
“You could make it a strong one. What’s going on with the hot neighbor, anyway? He said something about porn, but I didn’t really take it in.”
“The cops have found some of Gertie’s jewelry up in Perth,” Dad says, chucking the old coffee grounds into the compost bin.
Aunty Vinka gets it right away. “Finally, some good news.”
“Speaking of Perth,” Dad goes on, “I wanted to stay until Nick was out of the hospital, but that feels like a losing battle, so Ruth and I should probably head back today—if the cops say it’s okay. The boss left some pretty choice voicemails on my phone.”
Dad is a journalist, but not the cool kind who expose political scandals or interview celebrities. He mostly covers local government, although it’s hard to tell because I fall into a light coma every time he tries to bring it up. It’s that exciting.
“That’s fine.”
“I’m going into Margaret River this morning to talk to Gertie’s lawyer.” He gestures to a pile of papers arranged haphazardly on the kitchen counter next to where Rob is still messing around with his phone. “If we get the all clear we’ll hit the road this afternoon.” Dad looks at me and I nod.
This is good news (mostly) and I’m (mostly) happy to hear it.
There’s only a small part of me (tiny) thinking about how my window for working out what really happened to GG is closing faster than my laptop browser window when Dad comes into my bedroom.
Sure, there’s nothing to stop me from working on what I’ve started to think of as the Case back in Perth, but it’s not the same.
I know that once I have streaming and the internet and friends back in my life, even something as serious as the Case of the Murdered GG will slip away in favor of more solvable mysteries like Can I Pull Off Blunt Bangs?
(I’ll solve this one for you right now: no.)
Shippy comes into the kitchen just as Dad is pouring out fresh coffee.
“Thanks.”
“It’s not for you, mate.”
Rob, who is now settled at the kitchen table, looks up. “Ship-man, I thought you’d died,” he says, apparently not realizing this might be in bad taste. “Enjoy the sleep-in?” Shippy just grunts. “I’ve got to run into town for a bit later. You got any plans to check out the water?”
Shippy looks across at Aunty Bec, but only for a moment. “Sure.”
Aunty Bec gets those two lines between her eyes that Mum gets when I’m doing something she disapproves of. “You’re going surfing?”
“Maybe I could at least check out the swell?” Shippy says hopefully.
Aunty Bec looks like she’s trying to communicate something with her eyes, possibly Have you forgotten how well it worked out last time you went surfing? But all she says is: “Sure.”
Dylan disappears to the living room. A moment later the TV clicks on, and I make myself some toast and follow him.
“What are you looking for?”
“Death on the Nile,” he says, stopping his clicking when he sees Gal Gadot’s face on the screen.
“It’s pretty good, except for this stupid backstory—”
“No spoilers.” Dylan holds up a hand.
“The book is, like, fifty years old.”
“So’s your boyfriend, Sasha.”
I flop onto the other half of the couch, which creaks a bit more than is flattering. It doesn’t take me long to get pulled into the familiar story.
When it’s time for an ad (an ad! How did our parents ever live this way?), I decide to bring up the thing I’ve been thinking about all morning. I sit up on the couch and turn to face Dylan.
“What?”
“I’ve got a favor to ask.”
“You’re eloping with Sasha and you need a ring. Sorry, but I don’t really do jewelry.”
“Do you want to hear or not?”
“Not about your wedding night.”
“Gross.”
“You’re the one who has a crush on an old man.”
“I need your help to search GG’s room again.” That shuts him up (but not for long).
“When?” he says after a long beat.
“This morning. Dad’s going into Margaret River. Shippy’s going to the beach. The house will be quiet. If I’m going back to Perth later this afternoon, then I want to look for that box one more time.”
“You really think it’s important?”
“It’s the only lead we have, isn’t it?”
“Are teenagers supposed to have leads?” I don’t respond to this provocation, just give him the eyebrow treatment until he cracks. “And my role would be?”
“Lookout. You can make sure none of the grown-ups come upstairs, or warn me if they do.”
“What’s my warning, then—hoot like an owl or just scream?”
At the sound of footsteps we both roll back to face the TV.
“Whatcha watching?” Dad asks, hanging over the back of the couch.
“Death on the Nile. There’s an Agatha Christie marathon on ABC.”
“Is this the one where they’re all in on it?”
“That’s the one on a train. This is the one on a boat.”
He watches for a few seconds. “The old one’s better,” he says, and I just shake my head because, to my dad, the old one is always better. I think he genuinely believes that music and film peaked creatively in 1999.
I watch people murder and get murdered on-screen as my family departs around me.
Shippy and Rob go first in Aunty Vinka’s car, accompanied by Aunty Bec, who insists she wants some beach air but is probably more invested in making sure Shippy returns.
Aunty Vinka crams a floppy hat on her head and sets off for a walk.
And then finally Dad leaves for his meeting with GG’s lawyer in Margaret River—though only after checking with me (three times) that I don’t want to go.
“Keep the door locked,” he says. “Aunty Vinka said she won’t be long.”
Dylan and I are alone.
“They’ve all gone out. Surely I can come upstairs too,” he says.
“Lookout is a crucial role.”
“So you be lookout and I’ll take box duty.”
“Seriously, Aunty Vinka’s only gone for a walk; she could be back at any time. Dad could forget his phone and come back for it—he can’t navigate further than the driveway without that thing. I need you, Dylan.”
Dylan rolls his eyes, but the movie is just getting good, so I don’t think he’s that annoyed.
“Fine. Just make sure you tell me what you find.”
“Obviously,” I say. And, when I say it, I have no idea that I’m lying.