A Curious Woman, page 8
“So I’ve got no way of knowing if what you’ve just told me is true.”
“You think I slaughtered a man for being irritating?” Margaret asked. “For wearing an offensive moustache?”
“He threatened your livelihood.” Bess was not smiling.
“Incursium Estate threatens my livelihood,” Margaret corrected her. “The removal of Mr Powell won’t change that.”
“Leon had a controlling interest in the project, and it’s his gallery the tourists would have been coming to Incursium to see. Without him…” Bess broke off, biting her lip.
Rather appealing lips they were, too, Margaret realised. The colour of pink daisies.
But Bess was frowning again as she said, “You really expect me to believe that Leon just happened to text you to come over right before somebody else went there and killed him? That’s a pretty huge coincidence.”
“No coincidence at all,” Margaret said. “I’d wager the killer was there at the time. Either they knew Mr Powell was summoning me—or they were the one who sent the message. Did Mr Powell have a lock on his phone, do you know?”
“He had one of those screens that recognises your thumbprint.” Bess paused and the colour drained from her face. “God, you’re not suggesting…”
Margaret looked away tactfully.
“Jesus, that’s disgusting.”
“The whole town knew that Mr Powell and I had a…difference of opinion,” Margaret said. “To anyone who wanted him gone, I would have been the perfect patsy.” She grimaced at the last word. She didn’t enjoy describing herself as anyone else’s puppet.
“So you’re saying someone else hated Leon too?” Bess folded her arms. She did not look convinced.
“He was rich, powerful, and obnoxious,” Margaret said. “I’d say it’s just possible.”
“Maybe. But no one else in this town…” Bess trailed off.
“I see where you’re heading.” Margaret paused. Was it going to be necessary to talk about this? Was it worth raking up the past to win over Bess Campbell? Bess, who had nothing much in the way of power or prestige, but who had been close to Mr Powell and who might, just possibly, decide to help Margaret?
Margaret made a decision. “You’re referring to my reputation as Port Bannir’s very own Lizzie Borden?”
“Well.” Bess had the decency to blush. “People around here like to talk.”
“As you’ve seen today.” Margaret arched an eyebrow. “But if you’ve heard the rumours concerning my father’s passing, I’m sorry to tell you there was nothing mysterious or interesting about it. Malcolm Gale had late-stage melanoma after a lifetime of working outdoors. He refused to go to the local doctor. I drove him to Melbourne to see the specialist.” Margaret paused. “Not that there was much they could do for him by then. He didn’t tell his neighbours or former workmates, and he wouldn’t let me tell them either. He didn’t want people feeling sorry for him. He was a hard man who intended to stay that way. I nursed him at home, and then he died.” She shrugged. “End of story.”
Bess had listened with a frown on her face. “If that’s what happened, why didn’t you tell people the truth afterwards?”
“Well, there’s some blue-sky thinking.” Margaret rolled her eyes. “No wonder your gallery has a reputation for being cutting edge. As it happens, Ms Campbell, I did tell people the truth afterwards. But many of them chose not to believe me.”
Bess was silent, apparently pondering what she had just heard. At last, she said, “And what about that kid who died? Jacob?”
Margaret’s face hardened. So they’d been filling Bess’s head with that business too. She felt an unexpected sting. Couldn’t there be one person in Port Bannir who didn’t know that wretched story? Was that so much to ask?
“That young man’s death happened thirty years ago,” Margaret made herself reply. “It was a tragedy. And a mystery to me.”
“Like Leon’s death is a mystery to you as well?” Bess’s eyebrows lifted. She sounded far from convinced, but at least she had remained calm. Respectful, even.
“Indeed,” Margaret said. “And on the topic of Mr Powell’s passing, I trust you can account for your own movements on the night in question?”
“You…what?” Bess stared.
Margaret glanced down at her nails. “Well, with all this media publicity, people are bound to pay you more attention than previously. And as Mr Powell’s second-in-command, some might assume you stood to benefit from his…absence.”
“That’s—” Bess gaped. “That’s insane! I would never hurt anyone. And I haven’t inherited Leon’s job, have I?”
“Of course not,” Margaret purred. “Not yet. I’m just talking about how the situation might be viewed from the outside by stupid people—which is to say, most of them. And I couldn’t help seeing you squabbling with Mr Powell at that town hall meeting an hour or so before he died.”
“That was nothing!” Bess shook her head. “You think I’d kill a man over a planning dispute?”
“No.” Margaret looked her up and down. “No, I don’t think you would. It would be nice if you could extend the same courtesy to me. In the meantime…” Margaret reached into her breast pocket and drew out a business card. “Should you require legal representation in relation to this assault accusation or—” Margaret coughed politely “—anything else, I can recommend this firm. Mention my name; I once sent them quite a bit of business in relation to a case of artefact fraud.” She paused, then pulled out a fountain pen and wrote the number of her spare phone on the back of the card in her neat, even hand. She held it out.
Bess hesitated, then took it. Her eyes lingered not on the law firm’s details, but on the handwritten number.
“Should you need me.” Margaret weighed up the risks and benefits, then reached over to touch Bess’s wrist. Her fingertips lingered against Bess’s warm skin. “After today, I am in your debt.”
Bess bit her lip, looking between Margaret and the number. She said nothing more until Constable Jacs came to let them out.
Margaret stepped out into the reception area. She dusted down her black jacket, as if to remove any residue of the police station, and tugged it until it hung straight. Then she heard a muffled sob.
A woman sprang up from the row of chairs and rushed towards her. “Margaret…” The woman was small, with a shrunken, colourless look. Her greying brown hair was held back with an Alice band; her fingers had swollen around her engagement and wedding rings so she couldn’t pull them off. She was forty-six and looked sixty.
“Oh, Margaret!” She flung her arms around the released prisoner. She barely came up to Margaret’s shoulder. “I saw you on TV! Everyone saw you, Margaret!”
With reluctance, Margaret patted her and felt her trembling. “It’s quite all right, Deirdre. Don’t get upset.”
“They were saying…saying he was murdered.” Deirdre fluttered in Margaret’s arms.
“Don’t worry about it. It was a mistake, that’s all.” Up close, Deirdre smelled of talcum powder. Like an old lady, Margaret thought, or a very young child. But her fingers were unexpectedly strong as she gripped Margaret’s arms, digging into the elegant blazer and the flesh underneath.
“Margaret…” Deirdre beckoned her down to hiss in her ear. “Do you need me to say something to the police? To say you were with me?” Her fingers tightened. “We had dinner together,” she recited in a whisper. “Then we went to bed.”
“No, Deirdre.” Margaret shut her eyes, blocking out the urgent expression on the other woman’s face. “No, there’s no need for that. You don’t tell them anything.” As if poor Deirdre could have covered for her. Even if Margaret hadn’t been caught on tape at Mr Powell’s gallery, Deirdre couldn’t get a story straight to save her life.
She would have tried, though. Deidre would have lied, desperately, badly, on Margaret’s behalf without hesitation. Without asking Margaret whether the accusations were true. The thought sparked a flicker of emotion in the cool hollow of Margaret Gale’s chest.
Margaret forced a smile. “Everything’s fine now. See, I’m not being dragged off to prison, am I? It was just a mistake. Shall I take you home?”
“Paul drove me.” Deirdre released Margaret reluctantly, stepped back and blew her nose. “He said I was being silly.” She gave a tearful laugh. “I’m always being silly, aren’t I, Margaret? I can’t seem to stop.”
Margaret’s jaw tightened. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s get your things.” As she ushered Deirdre back towards the waiting area, Margaret felt Bess Campbell’s eyes on her.
Bess stood behind her in the doorway, watching them both with surprise.
Margaret turned to meet her gaze. “My sister,” she explained, before leading the quaking Deirdre away.
“Tess. You took your time.” Steven Powell straightened up from his spreadsheets to scowl at her.
“Sorry.” Bess cleared her throat. “I was just—”
“Getting arrested and bringing this place even deeper into disrepute?” Before she could answer, he continued, “When did you book my meeting with Georgina Harper? We need to progress this.”
“I—I’ll do that now.”
“I see.” He leaned back in his chair, his shirt buttons straining over his stomach. Bess could smell his stale breath from across the room. “I don’t suppose you got that new carpet sorted, at least?”
“I did get some quotes,” Bess fumbled. “And then I saw the TV news, and…”
“Well, get on with it, will you? I can’t use that room the way it looks now. God knows how my brother ran this place, but if you want to work for me, you’ll need to pull your socks up.” He turned back to his calculator, stuck a pinkie finger in his ear and twiddled it. “And I’ll be docking today from your annual leave.”
Bess stood in the doorway for a moment, staring, but Steven Powell did not look up again.
Bess had missed lunch and her head was thumping. The events at the Maritime Museum had caught up with her at last; her scrapes and bruises throbbed and her brain was trapped on a ghastly merry-go-round of memories. Arwyn screeching, the crowds gawking, blue lights whirling, footage of herself being shared and laughed at by countless strangers. The lawyer telling her she would probably be all right, but that the incident might come up on her record when she went for future jobs.
It wasn’t wise to sneak off work again, but she was too hungry to care. The gallery itself might be closed, but the café overlooking the beach was open every day. And there was a Persian fetta, pine nut, and edamame salad there with her name on it. Protein and salt were calling to her.
She stepped through the door and realised her mistake. The people at the tables fell silent, elbowing each other. One man whipped out his phone and snapped her picture. Hilda, wiping down the benches, froze at the sight of Bess, her washcloth dripping onto the floor.
Christos passed her, coffee in hand, and his mouth fell open. “Bess! What the fuck? I just saw this video—”
“Yeah, I know.” Bess ground her teeth. “Maybe it will get me a spot on Celebrity Big Brother.”
“What were you doing over there?” he demanded. “You can’t go near that woman, Bess; she’s a bloody psycho.”
“Well, she was certainly carrying on,” Bess said. “And whoever gave her that baseball bat didn’t help. But as you saw, I stopped her from doing too much damage, so—”
“Not the little blonde chick.” Christos shook his head. “I meant Miss Gale.” His voice dropped to a whisper.
Bess could sense the entire café craning to listen in.
“You heard she killed Leon, right? And they let her out to do it again! What the hell is that about?”
“Well…”
“You gotta stay away from her, Bessie.” He leaned in, his swarthy face crumpling in concern. “Seriously, Bess, you didn’t see what she did to Leon. I was the one who found him.” Christos lifted his coffee to his lips and took a shaky sip. “It was bad.”
The silence in the café was excruciating. Bess patted his arm, knowing she should be supportive, but wishing she could just get out of here. “I’m sorry, Christos.”
“Never mind sorry,” he said. “Just stay out of her way, mate. I don’t want to find you next.”
Bess left the café empty-handed. Her stomach gave a gurgle of protest. She thought about raiding the staff room fridge; hadn’t she left some Greek yoghurt and fresh blueberries in there? But she found Irene in the staff room, whispering with the new intern—a conversation that halted as soon as Bess walked in. Their horrified stares were enough to send her edging away again.
She ended up outside in a clump of bushland behind the sculpture garden, seated under a big ghost gum and lunching on a bag of chips from the vending machine. On the fence nearby, hidden from view of the main building, was a small graffiti caricature of Leon, drawn by a visiting artist. Leon had enjoyed adding little touches like that to the gallery, things most visitors would not even see.
Shutting her eyes, she tried to anchor herself in her surroundings: the sea breeze caressing her face, the whisper of the gum leaves, the taste of processed potato and more salt than she was supposed to eat in a month. But instead, her mind kept sliding back to Margaret—Margaret who could have been savagely attacked today; Margaret who claimed to have been falsely accused; Margaret who kept vintage handcuffs at the ready, who had called Bess by her first name just the once, and who was persuasive in making her arguments. Maybe too persuasive.
Bess groaned in frustration and knocked her head gently against the tree trunk. Whatever was going on, she should not let herself get dragged into it. Maybe Margaret had nothing to do with Leon’s death. Well, Bess should leave that to the system to sort out.
Except that her faith in the system was not strong. And she didn’t like the idea of leaving Margaret at its mercy.
“Leave it alone,” Bess muttered to herself. But even as she said it, she was taking out her phone. She got online and typed in a name.
Predictably, Arwyn had also achieved overnight stardom, with some sources portraying her as a grieving widow and some as a whiny attention seeker who’d probably been after Leon’s money. Bess found Arwyn’s Facebook page and perused the posts. They were full of extravagant eulogies for Leon, making him sound like a superhero who did a lot of charity work. She paused on one post.
I will never forget the first time we met. It was at Leon’s restaurant in Sydney, the legendary Posutomodan. No one has created cuisine like that before or since. I will always remember his first words to me: ‘I recommend the red algae and sea vegetable platter with a turmeric shot…’
Bess scrolled down. Past messages of love, loss, rage, revenge…and some photos.
Some rather surprising photos.
Hiding in the house did not suit Margaret’s temperament, but right now she had little choice. She’d arrived home to find a small mob of reporters waiting by her front gate.
Dad had always taught her that any sign of fear was fatal: “Act like prey, and that’s how they’ll treat you.” So she’d kept going up the drive, her eyes fixed on the horizon, as if she couldn’t hear the shouts on the other side of the glass and see their hands leaving sweaty prints on her car.
“Margaret, any response to the shocking allegations?”
“Margaret, did you do it?”
“Margaret, do you have anything to say?”
What she wanted to say was “Who said you could call me by my first name, you repellent little insects?” Her foot pushed down on the accelerator and the car shot forward, scattering cameramen in her wake. She was “Ms Gale” to everyone in this fleabitten town. Over the past decade since Dad had forced her back here, she’d made sure of that.
All those years spent winning people’s grudging respect—had it all been for nothing?
She’d locked herself in, pulled the blinds, and busied herself getting the house in order. Vacuuming the floors, scrubbing the shower, disinfecting the sinks. Now she was removing and dusting every book in her collection. Histories of admiralty and exploration, biographies of Sir Francis Drake, Matthew Flinders, and Marcus Agrippa. Accounts of the slaughter of seals, whales, and mutton birds that had once taken place on the windswept beaches of Port Bannir… She was dusting a volume on the extraordinary career of the pirate queen Ching Shih and her Red Flag Fleet, when the phone rang.
“Margaret?” The voice on the other end was sharp with excitement. “Hey, it’s Bess.”
“Ms Campbell.” Margaret put the book back in its correct place and straightened up. She strove for a correct and formal tone; her earlier lapse—“Bess, I didn’t do it…”—seemed embarrassingly gauche now. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Arwyn Ross.” Bess’s words tumbled out. “I’ve just discovered she’s not Leon’s fiancée.”
“Slow down, Ms Campbell.” Margaret stepped closer to the kitchen window and lifted the blind.
“Margaret, I don’t think Arwyn was ever Leon’s girlfriend. I’ve been going through her Facebook page, and there are all these pictures of the two of them together.”
Margaret frowned. “Explain more clearly, please.”
“Those pictures never had Arwyn in them!” Bess’s tone was elated. “Margaret, I know those pictures because I took lots of them. There’s one shot where Leon is standing under a pine tree in our gallery’s grounds. He’s wearing a green suit. It looks like he’s got his arm around Arwyn, but I remember taking that shot. He was really hugging a six-foot garden gnome we’d just imported from Germany. And in the next picture, he’s kissing Arwyn’s cheek—but that picture was originally printed in our annual report. Leon was actually kissing a mummified crocodile on loan from the Egyptian Museum.”
“Was he?” Margaret pinched the bridge of her nose. Was this the man who had nearly ruined her?
