The Bookshop Detectives: Dead Girl Gone, page 24
‘Waste of time then?’
‘Maybe. You and Eloise still need to keep your beaks out of it.’ He rests a hand on the counter and leans a bit closer. ‘Right?’
‘Sure. Scouts’ honour.’
‘I was never in the Scouts.’
‘Neither,’ I say, and wink.
Tama shakes his head. ‘I’m beginning to doubt my judgement in involving you two.’
‘Involving them in what?’ asks Amelia, bustling through the Tardis door.
‘My true crime book club.’ Tama taps a finger to his nose and strolls out.
‘You have a true crime book club?’
‘He was joking. It’s more like the swapping of war stories. You know, pull up a sandbag . . . Hang on—’
Unknown: Madame Zuiseller’s caravan. 10am. Much to discuss.
‘Something’s come up. Amelia, are you good with it being just you and Stevie for an hour or so? He’s in the stock room.’
‘Of course.’ She folds her arms and cocks her head in mock annoyance. ‘Go do mysterious things.’
I head straight down to the Village Green where the big top stands. The ticket office is all shut up at this hour of the morning, as are the stalls. In fact, there are no signs of life at all. A rope clatters against a flagpole in the wind; a gust flutters a lone popcorn carton across the well-trodden grass. A passing cloud throws everything into deep shadows. My fists clench. All I need now is the appearance of a couple of creepy clowns and it’s going to be brown trouser time.
I’ve half a mind to retreat to the shop and cower in the stock room with Stevie. Instead, I head for the white picket fence and blooming flowers outside Madame Zuiseller’s caravan.
Her door swings open, and the lady herself steps out. She wears a red tasselled skirt, white blouse and sequin-splattered waistcoat. Her long dark hair spills onto her shoulders. She beckons to me with a jewellery-heavy hand.
A surreal sense of providence envelops me.
‘Welcome,’ Madame Zuiseller says. ‘We’ve been expecting you.’ She holds open the caravan door and gestures me inside.
I’m still processing her words, particularly the we part, when I’m confronted by two men with the thuggish look of the Mitchells from EastEnders. Their thickset frames fill well-worn black leather jackets, and their dark cropped hair shows hints of grey. One has a profusion of gold hoops in his left ear and the other a similar collection in his right.
‘Have a seat,’ says Left Ear, his voice gruff but not threatening.
I slide into the same spot I took during my tarot reading.
Madame Zuiseller closes the door, leaving me with the Garrante brothers, because that is surely who they are.
‘I’m Zac Garrante,’ says Left Ear.
‘I’m Javier,’ says Right. ‘You have some things you want to ask us?’
I take a moment to compose myself. ‘In a few days’ time,’ I say, ‘my wife and I are launching the new book of an incredibly famous author. You may have heard of her — Isabella Garrante?’
Not a muscle in the brothers’ faces moves. I’d hate to play poker against these guys.
‘That’s already sorted with Ms Garrante,’ says Zac. ‘Wednesday evening, five until seven thirty, the big top’s yours.’
Javier leans forward, fixing me with a gaze that would make a cobra wilt. ‘It was something else you wanted to ask us,’ he says.
Is he daring or prompting me to ask? I really can’t tell. I suppose it doesn’t matter; I was always going to ask this question, no matter the circumstance. Now, with the added pressure from the Black Dogs, I have to know.
I deliberately meet Javier’s gaze. ‘You purchased the circus from the previous owners at the same time as a guy known as Oddbean and a large quantity of cash went missing in Havelock North. How are those things connected?’
Eloise: 3 days until Isabella Garrante book launch
‘Mrs White?’
‘I don’t go by that name anymore.’
Victoria whatever-her-name-is is wearing a lemon linen trouser suit. It’s an absolute beauty, as is she, the wide-legged pants and beautifully cut jacket setting off her cropped black hair, surely dyed.
‘Sorry, I should have thought.’
‘It’s perfectly fine. Come on in, Eloise.’ She smiles, and I warm to her immediately. I’m easily taken in, though, so make a mental note to stay on my guard.
She leads me through a rimu-floored hallway to a sitting room on the right. I envy it immediately: she has green velvet couches, two of them, and what looks like acres of shiny rimu flooring. The place is spotless. On the bookcase to my left I notice a goodly number of university press titles and a complete set of hardback Isabella Garrantes. Interesting: they’re not readily available in New Zealand.
‘Oh, you’ve got Tarquin!’ I say.
‘It’s hilarious, isn’t it? Lunar is my absolute favourite. She makes me crave sandwiches whenever she steps onto the page.’
‘Sandwiches, and a good fight.’
‘Yes! Somewhat cathartic, surely.’
‘I’ve been trying to get Gareth Ward to come and do a signing at the shop. I’d love to meet him in real life.’
‘Oh, well, do keep me informed. I’d be keen to come along. Now, sit down. Would you like a gin?’
Victoria is not what I was expecting at all.
Gin is poured, we chat about our shared love of green velvet (and gin), make small talk about the delights of our respective houses, then Victoria leans back into her armchair (green, velvet) and falls quiet.
‘Go on then,’ she says. ‘Bring back my trauma by asking all sorts of terrible things about Franklin.’ She waves away any chance of apology. ‘No, no, I’m joking. Ask away. We’ve been divorced a good fifteen years and it’s water under the bridge.’
‘Okay. The night that Tracey Jervis, and Oddbean for that matter, went missing. Where was Franklin?’
Everything I’ve expected from this woman has been wrong so far, and she continues her run of surprises.
‘He was out. I know, I know, I’m changing my tune, but it’s been years I’ve lived with this and I’m quite frankly sick of it, and quite frankly sick of Franklin. I just want everything I have to do with him gone, and this is the last thing.’
She swoops on her gin glass and takes a healthy swig, closes her eyes and lets out a deep sigh.
‘He didn’t hurt her. Tracey. He doesn’t have it in him to hurt a woman — he’s old-fashioned like that. He’s a con-man and a cheat and a bully, but he’s not a wife beater. He came home late that night in quite the tizzy, not able to string a sentence together. He said nothing about Tracey at all.’
‘But you knew about their . . . affair,’ I hazard, presenting it as fact rather than conjecture.
‘Yes. She wasn’t the first and she wasn’t the last. It was sickening. He kept them just the right side of legal but really, oh god, there’s something not quite right about him. It was a few years before I realised, and when I did, I swear a bit of my soul died. I found photos, too.’
‘Photos?’
Victoria takes another long gulp of her gin. ‘Yes. From the way the girls were posed, I’d say Oddbean was involved, trying to be arty. They were just about decent but, like Franklin, a bit off, if you know what I mean.’
‘I’m not sure . . .’
‘Scantily clad young women, girls really. Presented as art but, if we’re being honest, more like soft porn.’
‘Oh.’
‘Yup.’
‘Forgive me, and I know it’s such a cliché, but why did you stay so long? And cover for him?’
‘Money and power are absolutely corrupting. You’re well read, you must know that. It really is that simple. I needed the stability to get my Interiors business off the ground — Victoria Style in the Village. You know it, don’t you?’
I nod. Never heard of it in my life.
‘I don’t come from money, I’d worked bloody hard and still had to be financed by my moron of a charming, handsome husband. I wasn’t going to have it destroyed by dobbing him in for something I’m sure he didn’t do. Whatever happened to Tracey, Franklin didn’t do it.’
‘Do what?’
‘Oh, well, I dunno. Whatever was done to her. I mean, there’s been no sign for all these years. If she was alive, she would at least have contacted her poor mother, surely?’
Hearing it said so starkly just about breaks my heart. I make a massive effort to gather my thoughts.
‘That evening,’ I say, ‘Franklin came home in a tizzy. Tell me more.’ It’s a demand, but a polite one.
‘Well, it was late, gone midnight, but that wasn’t unusual. The door banged and I went into the hall and he was kicking his shoes off, his nice shiny brogues, but they weren’t shiny anymore.’ I can see Victoria looking at Franklin through her mind’s eye. ‘They were caked in cement.’
‘Cement?’
‘Yes. I didn’t know it immediately, but he started sort of whisper screeching, as if he was trying to keep his voice down, but he was really quite desperate. “Get it off me, get it off me,” he kept saying, and he was scratching at his trousers, practically ripping them off. I rushed over and there were bits of cement splatter all over his clothes. They were ruined, I had to throw his whole ensemble away. I was determined to save the pants, they were Dries Van Noten, but Franklin got quite tetchy about it.’
‘What did you do with it all? Clothes, shoes . . . ?’
Victoria flushes. ‘Well, it sounds awfully spoilt but I burned them. It would have been over two thousand dollars’ worth of stuff. I was faffing about trying to pick and scrub concrete off, and Franklin just ended up yelling at me to get rid of it all. So I burned it, and dug the ashes and bits and bobs into the compost.’
I find that I’m speechless. Victoria composes herself and gathers our glasses. I assume I’m going to be dismissed, but she heads over to the sideboard and pours more gin.
‘And you really think, after that performance, he hadn’t done anything awful?’
‘Oh, I’m not saying that! Just that he wouldn’t have hurt Tracey. He cherished her. I saw the way he looked at her, and it made me sick to my bones. He’d clearly been up to no good, but I thought it was to do with the drugs.’
‘You knew about that?’ I ask, playing as if I know it for sure, too.
‘Yes. But I won’t admit it to anyone official. I’m not going to suffer any more for that man.’
We sit in silence for a while, sipping gin.
‘Tell me what happened that night,’ I press.
‘I really don’t know. And god knows where Oddbean got to, but he must have been spooked, like Franklin clearly was, and done a runner. He had enough underworld contacts that he could easily disappear. He was quite androgynous, you know. I’ve thought about this a lot. He could have changed his clothes and his identity and just disappeared.’
‘How did Franklin react to Oddbean’s disappearance? Was he upset?’
‘Lord no. He was furious. He took over the running of that dog of a café. It was losing money at quite the clip and I begged Franklin to sell it. But he kept it on, and maybe he was right. It does okay now, by all accounts.’
She seems to relax then.
‘I’ll tell you if there’s anything I think can help you,’ she says. ‘I just won’t put myself in danger for him.’
‘Understood.’
‘Come on.’ She stands. ‘Let’s sit in the garden. The freesias are just out and the scent is divine.’
Clutching gin number three and an assortment of posh cheeses rustled up from the fridge, we wander out onto the patio and position ourselves to catch the last of the spring sunshine.
I like Victoria, but I don’t trust her. She still has a great deal to lose if we find out she helped cover up a murder. I’ll say this for her, though: she pours a generous measure of spirits.
Garth: 2 days until Isabella Garrante book launch
I bring a tray with cafetiere, milk, mugs and chocolate Hobnobs into our incident room, and place it on the desk. ‘What’s your take on Franklin returning home covered in concrete?’ I pour the coffee, savouring the aroma. A small part of me hopes Franklin isn’t involved: Oddbeans’ roast is truly exceptional.
‘Not covered. It was more like splashes, from what Victoria said.’ Dry erase pen in hand, Eloise updates the incident board now crammed with writing, notes and photographs. Her glittery string is doing a good job of getting completely in the way. On the desk below the board lie open box files of witness statements, police reports and newspaper articles.
‘It still doesn’t sound good. Do you reckon he’s done a bit of a Fred West and put Tracey under the patio?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’ Eloise clicks the lid back on the whiteboard marker. ‘Victoria was adamant that Franklin had nothing to do with Tracey’s disappearance.’
‘It’s hardly likely to be something he’s going to fess up to. How often do we see the wife protesting her innocence and claiming she knew nothing about her monstrous husband’s nocturnal activities?’
‘It felt like she was being truthful, I didn’t get any red flags.’
‘Maybe.’ My partner in crime-solving is a good judge of character but it’s not like we haven’t had the wool pulled over our eyes by crims in the past.
‘She was far more forthcoming than I expected,’ Eloise continues. ‘She revealed much more than she’d told the police. She confirmed that Franklin was into shady dealings with Oddbean and they were definitely well involved with the Black Dogs.’
‘That ties in with what I got from the circus. The Garrante brothers admitted that they came into a substantial sum of cash at the time of Tracey’s disappearance, allowing them to buy the circus.’
‘What did they say about the book launch? Do they know who Isabella Garrante is?’
‘They were super-keen on the launch. Anything we need from them we just have to ask, and they’ll help with security and corral the masses. They wouldn’t be drawn on any possible connection to IFG.’
‘Do you think she’s family? Their sister? Their mother?’
I shrug. ‘Impossible to say.’
‘Maybe they’re Isabella Garrante.’ Eloise writes ‘Isabella Garrante’ on the whiteboard and draws a question mark next to it. ‘Who’s to say Isabella is a woman, or even one person. I mean Robert Galbraith is J.K. Rowling and Carmen Mola turned out to be three men.’
‘The Garrante brothers didn’t strike me as literary types,’ I say hesitantly.
‘Until Dafydd painted that picture for us you wouldn’t have pegged him as a talented artist. We all have secrets.’
Dafydd is an enigma indeed, and I have a feeling that he is wrapped up in all of this in ways we still don’t understand. ‘I suppose, although I’m putting my money on Isabella being Prudence.’
‘Because?’
‘It has to be someone with an intimate knowledge of the case. We know from Beige Dave that she was into writing stories, and she appears to have vanished off the face of the planet. No socials, nothing.’
‘You don’t have socials.’ Eloise dunks a Hobnob in her coffee.
‘Yes, but that’s because . . .’
‘You’re weird.’ Eloise taps the marker against the whiteboard in a mildly irritating way that I would be chastised for should I have done it. ‘Do you think the Garrante brothers nicked the money from Oddbean?’
‘Not as such. They claimed they received it as a payment for’ — I flash some air quotes — ‘services rendered.’
‘And naturally you pushed them on what those services were?’
‘Again, they refused to venture down that line of enquiry.’
‘Sounds like a load of bull.’ Eloise folds her arms, which thankfully ends the pen’s percussion.
‘That’s what I thought until Madame Zuiseller whispered in my ear as I was leaving.’
‘Did she now?’
‘She said that when you run away with the circus, rent and board don’t come cheap.’
‘Tracey?’
‘Or Oddbean.’ I take the pen from Eloise and draw a dollar sign next to Oddbean’s name. ‘He nicks the money and then needs to disappear, so he hides out in the circus. That’s why no one could find him. Who knows, maybe he’s still travelling with them, pretending to be a clown or something?’
‘I suppose that fits.’ Eloise sounds less than convinced. ‘Is that what you’re going to tell the Black Dogs happened?’
‘Not yet. I thought I’d wait until after the launch and I’ve had a chance to read the rest of the story before I jump to any conclusions.’
Eloise snorts in a most unladylike way, not that anyone’s ever accused her of being ladylike. ‘You think the story is going to be true? It’s called fiction for a reason.’
‘It might not matter whether it’s true or not. Stories have power. We know that as well as anyone. That’s why I’m going to have to go and see Franklin White. After the book launches, he stands to be tried by the media all over again.’
‘You don’t have to warn him. The man’s a lecherous toad. He should have been tried in court. He deserves everything that’s coming.’
‘Probably. Only I’m not doing it for him, I’m doing it to try and save our bookshop.’
Franklin’s office — or the one he’s agreed to meet me at — is situated at the rear of Oddbeans. I presume this is the one he uses only for the café business and that he has far more salubrious ones at his property development company, because the room and its furniture are dilapidated and musty-smelling, even over the aroma of roasting coffee.
When the door opens and Franklin strides in, I stand, expecting a handshake. He ignores me, continuing behind the cluttered desk where he drops onto a chair which looks only marginally more functional than mine. ‘Make this quick,’ he says, fiddling with the gold cufflinks on his pale-blue shirt.
‘We are hosting a book launch for the writer Isabella Garrante on Wednesday.’
‘Never heard of her,’ says Franklin. ‘I shan’t be going.’
