Chapter 24
Things go to hell soon after we get home.
You didn’t miss anything in the car. If you’re imagining for a moment that I’m fade-to-blacking over a heart-to-heart with Dad and Dylan in which we pool our suspicions and really bond over how messed up it is to speculate on whether your family members could be killers, you don’t know my dad.
He refuses to answer any questions about what he and Aunty Vinka were talking about.
Dad’s official line is that I should be asking Aunty Vinka these questions, and then, when he finally gets pissed off with us, he says, “Gertie didn’t die of an overdose, kids,” in this really patronizing way, like the time I was ten and asked why he didn’t have an iPad when he was young.
Maybe he doesn’t even realize that his choice of words has confirmed my suspicion.
When we get home, Dad makes a big show of calling everyone into the living room for a family meeting, and I’m pleasantly surprised when I (briefly) think it’s about the whole Vinka/drugs/tea thing.
Instead he wants to discuss what they’re all going to tell the police.
Comparing notes ahead of a police interview is, I’m fairly sure, exactly what the police do not want possible witnesses to/suspects in a murder/attempted murder to do, but this is one conversation Dad can’t exclude me from, so I sit down and wait for the revelations to start.
“I think we should tell the detective about Bec,” Dad says, in a voice that suggests he’s primed for someone to object. Bec and Shippy are sitting right next to him—grumpy but present—so this is kind of a ballsy thing to say.
But it’s not Bec or Shippy who reacts. It’s Dylan.
“You can’t do that.”
“Dylan,” Bec says. “It’s okay.”
“You can’t tell the police what Mum did,” Dylan says. “It’s got nothing to do with Gertie or Rob, but the cops aren’t going to know that, and it makes her look so dodgy.”
“Dylan, this isn’t your choice,” Dad says. “We’ll tell the police the facts, but it’s up to them how to deal with them. I’m raising this now so Bec can be the one to tell them the truth, instead of getting herself into more trouble.”
“That’s so kind of you, Andy,” Bec says with such perfect sarcasm that it’s hard to believe she and Dad really aren’t related.
“I’m sure your mum has nothing to worry about,” Dad says to Dylan, ignoring Bec.
“You’re trusting the police to do the right thing? Sorry, aren’t you a journalist?” Dylan says.
“Once the police have the facts, we can leave it in their hands.” Dad’s got his professionally sympathetic voice on but has unwisely added a dash of I’m the grown-up, which is never going to work with Dylan.
Sure enough…
“If you tell them about Mum, I’ll tell them about your sister.”
Who knew Dylan had it in him, right? There’s a pause, while maybe we all try to remember just how many sisters Dad has these days (only one, in case you’ve lost track), and then everyone looks at Aunty Vinka. She gets it right away.
“What do you mean?” Dad asks, although he must get it too.
“I’ll tell them about Vinka giving Gertie a drugged cup of tea on the night she was killed.” Dylan has enough self-respect left to look embarrassed. “Sorry,” he says in the general direction of Aunty Vinka but without meeting her eyes.
“Dylan, I don’t know what you thi—”
“Once the police have the facts, we can leave it in their hands.” Dylan’s eyes flick to me and I reward him with a smirk. It’s a good line and he knows it.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Aunty Vinka says.
“We heard you on the phone with Andy when we were in the car,” Dylan says. “Shippy saw you taking a cup of tea up to Gertie’s room. I guess that’s where the missing meds went.”
Not that anyone cares, but I reached the same conclusion.
There’s a moment of what could be a dramatic silence, and it’s unfortunate, if you like dramatic tension, that someone’s stomach rumbles right at that particular moment. Everyone pretends they didn’t hear it.
“Vinka.” Dad sounds resigned. “Do you want to just tell us all the truth?”
“It’s not what you think. I took Gertie a cup of tea that night and I…I put her medication in the tea, but I wasn’t…drugging her or anything like that,” Aunty Vinka says quickly. “The Aztecs actually used to mix their medicine in a tealike drink, you know.”
“Vinx.”
“I thought it would help her sleep, that’s all. I was trying to help. Dad used to do it. My bedroom’s closest to hers, you guys didn’t hear her at night—she was in pain. I didn’t mean to double her dose. She didn’t even notice the taste.” She adds this last bit like it might make everything cool.
“Why didn’t you just tell us?” Dad asks.
“I gave drugs to a woman who died.”
“I don’t know why I have to keep saying this, but: Gertie didn’t die from a bloody drug overdose.”
“I panicked.”
“You knew,” Shippy says to Dad. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
Dad looks betrayed, probably because Shippy has actually asked a reasonable question.
“I wasn’t sure what I saw,” Dad says, which is some kind of BS. “But we all know Vinx would never hurt anyone. She doesn’t even eat honey because of the bees.” He looks sideways at her. “It is the bees, right?”
“It’s the bees.”
“I’m sure the police will believe you once they have all the facts,” Dylan says, trying to pull us all back to where this started.
“Dylan, you can’t be serious. Just because your mum is dabbling in fraud doesn’t mean you have to leap into blackmail,” Dad snips.
“If the stuff about my mum is relevant, why not the stuff about Vinka?”
“It’s a fair question,” Bec says. “Maybe the medication made Gertie so drowsy she couldn’t call out for help or fight off her attacker.” She’s not looking at Aunty Vinka, so she doesn’t see her face collapse at this.
“I could smell your cigarettes,” Aunty Vinka says suddenly, ignoring the tear starting its kamikaze mission down one cheek. “When I took the tea up to her, the room smelled like cigarettes. That was you, I suppose, Bec, when you had your talk with her that night?”
“I already told you I was there,” Bec says coolly. “Unlike your own nocturnal pursuits, Vinka, it’s not a secret.”
“And did you smoke one of Shippy’s disgusting cigarettes?”
Bec’s face answers the question and Shippy smacks his thigh.
“You took one of my cigs?”
“It was a stressful conversation.”
“You quit ten years ago.”
“It was one cigarette! Anyway, sorry to affect your nasal passages or disturb your chakra with my nicotine, Vinka.”
“It’s not that,” Aunty Vinka says, and now both her cheeks are damp, but she’s otherwise holding it together pretty well. I’m not sure where to look. “You opened Gertie’s window—to let the smoke out, I assume.”
“So what?”
“When I went in there with the tea, I asked Gertie if I should close the window, in case there was rain, but she asked me to leave it open a crack, to get rid of the smell.”
“And you give me a hard time?” Shippy says, still on the cigarettes thing.
Bec ignores him. “Gertie didn’t die of secondhand smoke, Vinka.”
“Exactly.” Aunty Vinka smiles grimly, the effect of which is only slightly blunted by the tears dropping over her top lip. “She died because someone came in through the window.”
Bec frowns. She must understand what Aunty Vinka’s trying to say, but she looks more irritated than guilty.
“Because it was left open and unlocked,” Aunty Vinka says, for the slow ones in the class, “someone could get into the bedroom.”
Dad interrupts. “That doesn’t make sense. The window was smashed. Why would anyone smash a window if it was already open?”
Nobody has an answer to that, although I can think of one.
Aunty Vinka is properly crying now, and Dad pats her on the back distractedly.
“Chin up, Vinka. Unless you secretly offed Gertie, neither you nor Bec is any more to blame for her death than I am for the bloody typewriter.”
“Typewriter?” Bec asks.
“Gertie asked me to take that typewriter downstairs,” Dad says. “I got distracted and forgot, but if I’d done it…who knows.”
“It’s like she knew,” Aunty Vinka says, and unfortunately for those of us who would rather scrub toilets with a toothbrush than watch grown-ups cry (just me? It’s not like I’m going to use the toothbrush again, calm down), this makes her cry harder.
“So,” Shippy says. “Between Andy with the typewriter, Vinka with the drugs, and Bec with the window—sorry, babe—it feels like you all had a hand in finishing the old girl off.”
“Shippy,” Dad says, “do f—” He remembers my presence. “Forget it.”
“Does anyone want tea?” Aunty Vinka asks.
Do you want to know what I’m thinking during this whole weird showdown?
Quite a lot, is the short version. Do I believe Aunty Vinka fatally drugged GG?
Obviously not. But do I believe the cops might benefit from that information?
I wouldn’t say this to Aunty Vinka’s face, but: absolutely.
If reading, watching, and listening to (I love a good true-crime podcast) mystery stories has taught me anything, it’s that you never know for sure what details are relevant.
A throwaway detail on page 5 turns up in the final showdown and you wonder how you missed the importance of the car-seat covers being brown and not red.
Laugh, if you want, but did you pick up the relevance of the clues on, say, pages 43 and 155?
I wonder. (No, don’t look now: That’d be cheating.) I’m also thinking I need to start carrying pen and paper like an old-school detective: At least three times through this whole drawn-out conversation I reach for my phone to make notes, before remembering it’s still missing.
The mood in the room is restless and Bec stands up.
“Wait,” Dad says; then, to the rest of us: “This is not the family getaway any of us had imagined—the von Trapps had a better time en route to Switzerland—but the good news is, it’s nearly over.
I realize I’ve said variations on this once or twice before, but we can probably all head back to Perth tomorrow—Nick’s health allowing—if we just pull together and agree what we’re going to tell the police.
Let’s get our stories straight, give them the important facts, and leave them to it. ”
“You’ve changed your tune, Poirot,” Bec says, but she sits back down.
“So, what, we don’t have to tell them everything?” Aunty Vinka sniffs.
“I guess we can decide that together,” Dad says.
“Guys?” Shippy says.
“Is that…legal?”
“Uh, guys?” Shippy says again.
“Vinx, why don’t you put on some tea—some proper tea with caffeine in it, please.”
“Guys!” Shippy finally gets our attention and we all look at him, then shift our gazes to what he’s seen through the living-room window that overlooks the garden: a white sedan coming up the driveway.
“Is that the police?”
“They’re early.”
“Are we sure it’s them?”
“Who else could it be?”
“I don’t know—we seem to have randoms rocking up every two minutes.”
“Shut up, everyone,” Dad says, raising one hand to wave at Detective Peterson, visible as she climbs out of the car.
His party smile is in place, the one he and Mum used to put on when they’d just had a fight but still needed to be around other people.
I haven’t seen that smile since they separated, and I can’t say I’ve missed it.
When he speaks, it’s in his party voice too, the one that means there’s no point in arguing and the whole thing will just be done sooner if you roll over and submit.
“The cops are here. That means we’ve got about ten seconds to figure out what we’re going to tell them. ”