The Bookshop Detectives: Dead Girl Gone, page 26
Janet is looking at the floor; Georgia is fair bursting with excitement, having heard it all already. Garth looks grave, and I suspect I look as sick as I feel. He puts a steadying hand on my shoulder.
‘It wasn’t me who died that night,’ says Tracey. ‘As I looked in, I saw Franklin shove Oddbean. He stumbled but didn’t fall. He yelled “what the fuck” or something, and made towards Franklin, but Franklin had picked up a piece of the lighting equipment, a heavy bar from the way he was holding it. He swung it and it hit Oddbean on the side of his head, his temple. Oddbean just crumpled. I can still see it all these years later. He just collapsed in on himself and hit the floor with a thud. He was so still. I was sure he was dead. There was nothing left in him.’
We wait.
‘Franklin just kept saying “oh god, oh no”. He knelt beside Oddbean and shook him. Nothing. Then he started scrabbling around, I don’t know what he was looking for, but it was noisy, so I took the opportunity to creep back down the stairs. Then I ran.’
‘Where to?’ I ask.
‘Quite literally away with the circus. One of the fairground boys I’d been flirting with stowed me away. You couldn’t make it up, could you?’ she says.
I glance around at the faces: Janet teary, Georgia smiling but pensive, Deirdre deadpan, and Garth frowning.
Something’s off. Tracey’s a fabulous storyteller, but her acting isn’t quite so polished. She’s been genuinely reliving trauma in the recounting of Oddbean’s death, but this business with the boy feels different. Outside in the big top I hear them sound checking and asking the crowd to take their seats. I park the thought for later.
‘When I managed to get in contact with Mum, she helped me to come up with my new identity and Isabella was born. I use the name, and Pru and I write the books together.’
‘So why come home now?’ asks Garth.
‘I never wanted to see my father again. He’s dead now. Mum, Pru and I can be ourselves and be happy together at home. It’s time to let the sunshine fall on this mess.’
Garth: 5 minutes until Isabella Garrante book launch
I clasp Eloise’s hand in mine. Her face is pale, her pupils dark and dilated. We’re both struggling to make sense of what’s just happened. The sound of excited crowds gathering on the other side of the green room’s canvas is a startling reminder that the launch of Dead Girl Gone is about to get under way. And I have a feeling that the night has yet to reveal all of its surprises.
Eloise smiles at me, momentarily calming my nerves. I smile back. Whatever happens now, this is going to be one hell of an evening.
Since Tracey’s revelations, conversation has been muted. Georgia sips from her glass, her hand tremoring the champagne within. It must have been a difficult decision for them to publish, weighing up the cost of possible legal battles against the potential huge profits from the novel. Tracey is still and quiet, lost in her thoughts. I can’t even begin to imagine how she’s feeling. She’s lived a lie for the last twenty years; now not only is her secret identity as half of a bestselling author about to be revealed but also the fact that the local girl who everyone believed was murdered is well and truly alive. And then there’s Prudence, the loyal best friend who suffered poisoned looks and whispered accusations, keeping her friend’s secret even when it meant that her family were forced to move to the UK. And then, later, keeping her identity as the other half of Isabella Garrante in the dark rather than revelling in the glory for the same reason.
I glance at my phone: 5.27. ‘Three minutes to go. I’ll just check everything.’
Tracey doesn’t respond. Deirdre, no, Prudence smiles enigmatically while Georgia takes another trembling sip.
Eloise looks at me, and there’s a question in her eyes asking me if I’m all right. Surprisingly, I am. My nerves are gone, the pre-launch worries drowned out by adrenaline. I give her hand another squeeze, and stand.
I walk through the door flap into the ‘clown alley’. A man in jeans and a casual jacket is standing just outside the green room. He has cropped hair and a rugged face with hard blue eyes that have seen too much of this world’s woes. I’ve met his type before. Despite his relaxed stance I can tell that he is capable of immediate and extreme violence.
‘I’m just going to check that we’re ready,’ I say.
He nods to me but doesn’t speak.
I’m assailed by noise as I enter the big top, my appearance creating a wave of excitement. Followed by disappointment. The bleachers are full, as are the additional chairs we have placed in rows on the circus ring itself. These we have reserved for our regulars: the Admiral, Meryl, Bernard, Tama and Chloe, and a host of other Sherlock Tomes stalwarts. Somehow, and much to my annoyance, Franklin White has managed to get a seat amongst them. He has a smile cemented onto his face, one that I expect must be killing him. Or perhaps it’s the smile of a shark and he’s biding his time before he drags us and our beautiful bookshop below the waters.
To one side of the chairs is the press gallery, thronged with journalists, photographers, and even a TV crew. I raise a hand to Dave Wimply, a journalist who has ruffled more than a few feathers over the years. We’ve done several events with him, and although I wouldn’t class him as a friend I do like him. He smiles mischievously. I have no idea what he’s going to make of the next few minutes, but I can guarantee that his report is not going to pull any punches.
Kitty, Amelia and Phyllis stand at velvet-covered tables, Eftpos machines at the ready. There are currently no books on display, the opening of the boxes strictly embargoed until Isabella . . . the Isabellas have given their speech. Overseers from the publishers stand guard near the stacked boxes, ensuring compliance. Loitering near them, perhaps aware that he is a little too ripe to join the seated crowd, is Dafydd.
I move to the podium where the Isabellas are about to speak and check that they have water and that the microphone is switched on. Over by the mixing panel the sound guy gives me the thumbs-up.
Casting one final glance over the gathered crowd I head back past the close protection operator and into the green room. ‘We’re good to go.’
Eloise looks to Tracey and Prudence. ‘Are you ready?’
‘I don’t think I’ll ever be ready,’ says Tracey.
‘We’re ready.’ Prudence straightens her leather choker. ‘I’ve waited twenty-three years for this.
‘It’ll be great. They’re your fans. They’re going to be so excited to meet you in person, both of you,’ Eloise reassures them. ‘I’ll introduce you, then it’s all yours.’
I wait with Tracey, Prudence, Janet and Georgia as Eloise’s voice booms out.
‘Welcome, bookshop whānau and friends, to the literary event of the year, possibly the book launch of the century, possibly ever. You are in for the shock of your lives, so I hope you’ve been to the bar.’
There is an appropriate amount of polite tittering and some uncertain shuffling.
‘I’m going to keep this short as I know it’s not me you’re here to see. So please put your hands together for the two incredible women who make up the whole of . . . Isabella Garrante!’
Wild applause erupts, and my mind buzzes. I seem to disassociate from my body, watching events through someone else’s eyes, the world around me slowing and warping as I chaperone Tracey and Prudence to the microphone and stand back to join Eloise.
Tracey flattens her notes on the podium, Prudence a shadow at her shoulder. They wait for the applause to die down. Tracey takes a final glance at the papers, then looks up.
‘Thank you for your warm welcome. You know us through our writing as Isabella Garrante, but many of you will know us by different names, our real names, Tracey Jervis and Prudence Ballion.’
A collective gasp escapes as the audience leans forward as one to get a better look. Cameras flash up in the press gallery, and hundreds of smartphones are pulled from pockets and bags, their beeps drowned out by the hubbub. Franklin, his body rigid, stares open mouthed, saliva strands stringing his teeth.
Tracey waits patiently for the noise to subside before continuing. ‘We are not here to explain what happened all those years ago.’ Prudence holds up a copy of their book. ‘For that you will have to read our latest novel. Although Dead Girl Gone is indeed sold as a work of fiction, it is the truest story we have ever written.’
Over by the sales stand there is a minor commotion. Dafydd has ripped cardboard from one of the boxes and swiped a marker pen from the table. Shooed away by the publisher’s minders, he lopes to a spot alongside the front row of chairs and sits down.
I’m about to head over when Franklin White stands up. ‘You let everyone believe that you were dead, that I was a murderer! I had no chance in the elections, my business suffered, my marriage ended, you ruined me.’
‘I ruined you?’ Tracey meets Franklin’s gaze and her face hardens. Georgia signals to the Garrante brothers, who begin to head towards Franklin, but Tracey holds a hand up to stop them. ‘I, the seventeen-year-old girl, coerced into a relationship, ruined you?’
Franklin lifts his chin, the hint of a smirk on his face. ‘I don’t remember it that way.’
‘Do you remember pressuring me, a naïve schoolgirl, into sex? Or your attempts to encourage me to get Pru to join us?’
Prudence leans towards the mic, sombre as if she were at a child’s funeral. ‘I never did.’
‘No.’ Franklin’s voice quavers, making it sound more like regret than denial, then he straightens, forcing his shoulders back. ‘Because she’s making it all up. More fiction.’
‘Am I making it up that you tricked me into being photographed naked?’
‘That was—’ Franklin blusters, then pauses. A host of cameras from the press gallery click and flash. ‘That’s a lie. I don’t know anything about that.’
‘It might be true that you didn’t think I knew your true motives, and for a while I didn’t. I was suckered in, despite Pru’s warnings.’ For the first time Tracey’s voice trembles, and she clutches the podium for support. Prudence edges nearer and places a hand on hers. ‘One of the artists at the gallery told me, tried to warn me off. I had to disappear, I had to make it look like you had murdered me so that you couldn’t publish my pictures, so that you would be scared into destroying them. This is all on you and Oddbean.’
Franklin straightens and runs a hand over his coiffed hair. It appears that he is determined to brass neck this one out. ‘You truly are a master of fiction. I am the victim here.’ He holds up a finger and wags it at Tracey and Prudence. ‘You can make up whatever stories you like, but if you put your lies on sale here today, I will see you in court.’
I haven’t had a chance to discuss with Eloise what to do about Tracey’s revelations. Waiting would be the sensible thing to do, except that seeing Franklin standing there protesting his innocence makes me want to puke.
‘Sorry,’ I say to Eloise, and take one of the microphones we were going to use for audience questions. I address myself to Franklin. ‘And what about Oddbean?’
‘What about Oddbean?’ He glares at me, but I’m sure I detect a glimmer of fear in his eyes.
‘Did you or did you not murder him over a missing hundred grand of Black Dogs’ money, then bury his body in concrete?’
There are more gasps, and I feel the weight of hundreds of eyes organic and digital upon me.
Franklin freezes for the briefest of moments, then he’s back on the offensive. ‘You have no evidence, and you have no body, so in answer to your question, after my lawyers have dealt with this pair’s ludicrous fiction’ — he waves his arm in the direction of the podium — ‘we will take you and your stupid bookshop, and your stupid staff, and your stupid dog to the cleaners.’
Eloise: Isabella Garrante book launch
Garth is fronting up to Franklin when Dafydd presses a piece of cardboard into my hand. This is not how I envisaged the launch going, but what did I expect, really?
Dafydd has made another skilful sketch, and this one reveals a far more serious crime than the theft of flowers. Set outside Oddbean’s gallery, it shows Franklin White lifting a long, lean body into what looks like a large plywood mould that stands alongside a pile of gravel and a cement mixer.
I look up at Dafydd whose stricken face glimmers with tears. His blue eyes are blazing, pleading. I nod to him as an idea begins to form. Given the source of the drawing, this evidence is unlikely ever to stand up in court. But it does complete the final piece of the puzzle.
Garth’s not going to like my crazy idea one little bit. I’m going to have to do it straight away, too, or what little logical brain I have will take over.
Security is escorting Franklin out of the big top. He’s brazening it out, head held high, shaking off the coercive hand on his arm, the picture of a man wronged. Georgia stands beside Tracey and Prudence, and the launch is getting back on a more conventional track, Tracey telling the story of how she began writing and why she has come home, handing over to Prudence at appropriate moments. Tracey’s a sensational speaker, even without the sensational story, and Prudence is remarkable for one we’ve always viewed as taciturn. There’s laughter and not a dry eye in the house. I reckon the sales of this one book will match the rest of our year’s sales in total. Well done, lassies.
I manoeuvre my way over to the book sales table and grab a piece of paper. I scribble a couple of notes, one to Phyllis and one to Georgia, and head over to the podium where Tracey is in full flow. I hand the note to Georgia, who looks confused again, and grab Garth who is loitering out of the spotlight.
‘Come with me,’ I whisper.
He looks askance, and I tug his sleeve a little harder.
Back past the green room I keep going.
‘What’s going on?’ Garth’s trotting a bit now to keep up.
‘I know how we can get Franklin, at least I think I do. You’re just going to have to trust me and promise not to be too cross.’
‘What?’ A note of panic enters his voice.
We hurry through the car park, negotiating straw and mud, Garth trying to ask questions and me shutting him down. I unlock the Tomato and open the driver’s door.
‘Get in, buckle up and try to relax,’ I say.
Garth has gone silent. There’s a war going on in his mind, I can tell. He wants to trust me but doesn’t trust me at all. He would say he has reason to doubt any plan I’ve cooked up on the spot, and I don’t have time to remind him that the plans he baulks at are the ones he ends up agreeing are my best ones, albeit in retrospect.
I reverse out of the parking space, redistributing the mud and muck. The council’s not going to be too happy about the state of the Village Green when the circus has moved on, but I reckon there’ll be much bigger news for anyone to truly be bothered about a bit of churned-up grass.
We emerge on to Te Mata Road. I indicate left and pull out, then circle back into the Village, heart thumping. I’m driving slowly and carefully, and it’s so unusual as to put Garth on edge.
‘Where are we going?’ he says.
‘Shush.’
As Oddbeans comes into view, my stomach tightens. I really, really hope I’m right about this, or I will look foolish (which doesn’t bother me) and Garth will have a mega-sulk for quite some time (which will bother me). On the immediate upside, the car park only has a couple of cars in it and there are no loitering pedestrians.
The coffee-bean statue, surrounded by its white picket fence, is uplit prettily in the cool, clear evening. It’s well tended, not a spot of lichen or bird poo to be seen.
‘Why . . . ?’ says Garth, just as I gun the engine and shove my accelerator foot to the floor, aiming the Tomato squarely at the concrete statue that has stood right there for over twenty years. Our steed emits a sound that I choose to imagine as a war cry.
There’s actually no time to panic or to scream. We hurtle through time and space for only a few seconds before there’s a massive impact and, thank gods, the airbags deploy. There’s an explosive crunch of metal and the shattering of glass. I realise with a sickening jolt that I didn’t actually know there were two airbags, and make a mental note not to reveal this to Garth. When I look up, there’s a kaleidoscope where the windscreen was; it’s really rather lovely how the lights from the car park shine through.
A cold breeze enters the car, along with the smell of dust and petrol. Garth flaps around in the seat next to me, pushing his face out of the airbag.
‘What the actual fuck?’ he spits, rubbing his nose, which is bleeding just a teensy bit.
‘I hope I hit it hard enough,’ I reply, unbuckling my seatbelt and attempting to open the driver’s door which, for some reason, is sticking. I manage to shove it, and there’s a rather nasty metallic screech. I really do hope the bloody thing’s a write-off.
‘What? What?’ It’s not just the car making a nasty screech.
I clamber out and can see that Garth is managing to do so on his side. I take a few steps and waft away the smoke emanating from the car’s engine. It doesn’t seem to be in danger of catching fire.
I walk around to the other side of the statue and — oh my, I was right.
‘Look what I found,’ I say to Garth.
He staggers to my side.
‘Jesus Christ is that . . . is that an arm? Like, a human arm?’
‘I hope so.’
‘What?’ he screeches again.
‘Is that the only bloody word you know, man? Why do you think this has been here for twenty-three years, Franklin’s never sold the café, and he was covered in concrete after brandishing a lethal weapon at his literal partner in crime?’
‘You think that’s Oddbean?’ Garth’s voice is several octaves higher than usual.
