Chapter 18
“So,” Dylan says once the kettle is boiling loudly enough to muffle our conversation at least a little bit, if we squash together beside the fridge. “What the hell?”
“I know.”
“Are we agreed it can’t be a coincidence that someone tried to kill Rob?”
Give Dylan all the points for enthusiasm: He’s jumped right in, without either of us having to pretend we’re more concerned about Rob than intrigued by the mystery around him.
I am not a psychopath (I mean, probably: Those internet tests did seem somewhat legit), but it’s hard to get that worked up about a guy I just met, whose only connection to me was a fledgling friendship with Shippy.
“Coincidences do happen, but, yeah, it’s weird.” In the heat of my desire for someone to confide in, I’ve neglected to consider how to work my way from Rob’s accident might have been related to GG’s death to Say, do you think your mum had anything to do with it?
“Shippy says Rob definitely didn’t seem to know GG,” I say, instead of what’s in my head.
Only as I say this does it occur to me that Shippy might have his own reasons to pretend Rob didn’t know GG.
Dylan sets out two cups beside the boiling kettle. “Sure, but the thing about Shippy is: He’s an idiot.”
My laugh comes out like a honk. All this nervous energy has got to go somewhere.
“Did you know Shippy’s name is Matthew?”
“Yeah, of course. What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Matthew. M.” I wait for Dylan to get there, then lose patience and just drag him all the way up to my point. “The letter on the missing box: ‘for M.’ ”
Dylan doesn’t look as impressed with this as I’d hoped. “If the box was for Shippy, why wouldn’t Gertie just give it to him, though? We were here together all weekend.”
“I guess,” I say, grumpy.
“Don’t you think it’s a bit suspicious that Rob was asking about everyone in the photos?”
“Not really.”
“It’s a weird thing to do.”
“It’s polite chitchat.”
Dylan is going through the cupboards looking for tea bags. “I thought maybe he asked about the photos because he recognized Gertie or thought that he did.”
“Okay…,” I say, not hating this.
“Maybe when he saw that photo, he realized he knew something about her death.”
“Something that almost got him killed.”
“You’ve gone full Benoit Blanc, and I’m into it.”
“Shut up.” But I’m pleased. I love those movies.
“You know what I think we should do?”
“Murder Shippy in his sleep and blame it on the killer?”
“Go into town and try to talk to some people who knew Gertie. You know, sniff around.”
“You’re not a beagle, Dylan.”
“I was thinking more like one of those pigs that can sniff out truffles.”
“They always look so pleased with themselves.”
“The pigs?”
“Yeah.”
Dylan laughs. “Okay. What do you think?”
“About the pigs?”
“About going into town.”
“Maybe. We’d have to come up with a story for our parents, though.”
Dylan finally locates the tea bags and makes the tea. I can tell it’s too weak without tasting it, because he didn’t leave the bag in long enough, but I don’t say so.
“There’s something else,” I say, keeping my voice low now that we no longer have the cover of water molecules boiling themselves into a frenzy.
“What?”
“I need to do something, and I think I need you to help me.”
“Anything for you, Watson.”
“I—wait just a minute. If anyone’s Holmes, it’s me.”
“What about: You’re Enola and I’m Sherlock.”
“Hard no.”
“Enola’s cool.”
“We’re getting off track. I need a favor.”
“What is it, Sherlock?” Dylan takes a gulp of his tea. “Did that feel better? Or did it feel wrong, and you realized in your heart you’re more of an Enola?”
“Dylan.”
“You’re smiling.”
“I am not,” I lie. “This is serious.”
“It sounds it.”
“Can you get the grown-ups out of the house tonight? Just for like twenty minutes.”
Dylan gets serious. “Tonight?”
“Only for twenty minutes.”
“Why?”
“I have something I need to, uh, follow up.”
“What is it?”
“I can’t tell you. But I need to search the house.” Technically, I only need to search one room, but I can’t tell him that I suspect his mum and Shippy stole something from GG, which is now concealed in their bedroom.
“Didn’t you just call this a partnership, and now you’re doing the thing all detectives do in books where they leave the sidekick in the dark until the last ten pages?”
“I’m not hiding anything big,” I lie some more. “I just can’t tell you right now. But I will.”
“Is this about the missing box? Do you know where it is?”
What’s one more lie between (half) cousins, really? “Maybe.”
“So where—”
Aunty Vinka comes into the kitchen and stops when she sees the pair of us talking with what she clearly deems to be a suspicious amount of intensity. I lift my tea in her direction. “We just boiled the kettle if you want a cup.”
“What are you two doing in here?”
“Making tea.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And talking about Rob.” I assume an expression that (I hope) suggests that the sudden near death of a man I knew significantly less well than our mailman has left me sad and confused, rather than suspicious and plotting.
“It was such a shock,” Dylan adds, possibly overegging it.
“We’re all still trying to process it,” Aunty Vinka says, her voice going as soft as one of the gauzy pink curtains she has everywhere in her house. (Between that and the amount of incense she goes through, her home is a total fire hazard.) “Tell me how you’re both feeling.”
“It seems surreal,” I say, and, for a change, I’m not even lying. “He was here this morning—without pants, which was weird but also not the point—and now he might die.”
Aunty Vinka has bought it, and I should feel more guilty than I do. (Maybe the tests were wrong and I am a psychopath. Although, would a psychopath spend this much time worrying about being a psychopath?)
“I have some great meditation exercises if you’re interested.”
“I was wondering,” Dylan says quickly, “do you think we could do something as a family to get out of the house tonight? Maybe go for a walk down to the dam or something?”
“The dam?” Aunty Vinka looks as surprised as she should. “What for?”
“I just want to clear my head,” Dylan says. “I thought maybe everyone could do with some fresh air?”
It’s not, frankly, the most believable excuse I’ve ever heard.
A fifteen-year-old boy suggesting a post-dinner walk with his extended family does not come off quite as naturally as Dylan seems to believe.
But Aunty Vinka loves to think the best of people, and it’s obvious that she wants to take him at face value and not ask some relevant questions like What? The? Hell?
“That’s a great idea, Dylan. What do you think, Ruth?”
“Sounds good.” (There’s no way I’m going on that walk, obviously.)
Surprisingly, everyone goes for it—even Shippy, who seems more baffled than flattered when Dylan makes it clear he wants him to come too.
They’re all changing into sensible walking shoes and searching for flashlights when I make my move, sidling up to Dad, who’s sitting on the bottom of the stairs with his feet resting on the base of the lamp to more easily lace up his sneakers.
That task is proving more difficult than you’d think because he’s got Band-Aids on two of his fingers.
“What happened?” I ask.
“Oh. Knife slipped when I was chopping up fruit,” he says vaguely, but his eyes are on the dusty floorboards. “We really need to get out the vacuum. I think dirt works differently in the country: This floor was spotless the day we were supposed to leave, you know.”
I ignore Dad’s looming treatise on country dirt and get right to it.
“Dad, do you mind if I skip the walk and stay home?”
“Why?”
“I’ve got cramps.” I touch my stomach suggestively, confident that Dad has not been keeping notes on my menstrual cycle.
“Exercise is good for period cramps,” he says, and, damn it, why can’t I have a dad who starts hyperventilating when he hears the word period like our PE teacher at school who lets me sit out cross-country twice a month because he’s never bothered to keep track.
“I just want to take some Panadol and have a hot bath.”
“Okay,” he says, and I try to smile wanly. (Period pains: getting young women out of social commitments since, well, forever, I assume.) “I’ll stay with you.” Ah, crap.
“No, you go. Honestly, I’d like to have the house to myself for a bit.”
I once read an article about how to spot a liar that said you should never trust anyone who uses the word honestly. Dad, perhaps, never read that one. Or maybe he’s just foolish enough to trust the word of his beloved only child because all he says is: “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“We won’t be long.”
“Take your time,” I say, trying not to sound like I’m begging.
Shoes laced, he stands. “You’re not up to anything, right?” he asks, which I guess I can’t really be mad about.
“What would I be up to?”
“If I knew that, I wouldn’t be asking.”
“Dad, I have period cramps. That’s it.”
“Okay. I believe you.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ll lock GG’s room just in case.” He clearly doesn’t know that I know there’s no lock on GG’s door.
“Knock yourself out.”
The bath is running and I’m lighting a candle I found in the cupboard (it’s the little details that make a good lie) when Dylan finds me in the bathroom.
“Job done.”
“A family walk? It’s a bit too wholesome to be believable, isn’t it?”
“Mum and I go for walks at home all the time,” he says defensively.
“Sorry. I’m just on edge.” I set the now-lit candle beside the bath and admire my handiwork.
“Are you seriously not going to tell me where you think the box is?”
“I’ll explain after.”
“Come on. I’m your co-conspirator. The Ken to your Barbie.”
“Have you even seen that movie?”
“Just tell me.”
“There’s no time.”
As if to underline my point, someone knocks on the door. “I’m in here!” Dylan and I chorus together. Then we catch each other’s eyes and crack up, releasing tension in our giddy, hiccupping laughter.
“Is it bad that I’m kind of enjoying this?” Dylan asks.
“Which part?”