Authors: Vicki Tyley
She frowned.
“And that was Sean’s doing?” She glanced in the direction of the stairs. Where
was that waiter?
Ash shrugged.
“It depends on whose story you believe. The official line was Dad needed
someone on the ground in the UK whom he could trust.”
“And London’s
obviously not your scene?”
“The lifestyle
is completely different. I really am just a glorified beach bum at heart. Give
me sun, sand and surf any day of the week.”
It didn’t
surprise her. She imagined Ash’s laid-back attitude probably frustrated his
business-driven father at times. Had Sean played on that? “How long are you
back for?”
“If I can
convince my father I’m more use to him here, for good, I hope.”
“And if you
can’t?”
He shrugged
again. “I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. Ahh, about time,” he said,
moving his legs aside to allow the waiter to set down his load. “We were about
to send out a search party.”
His face
deadpan, the young waiter presented the silver-on-white labeled bottle of wine
to Ash and waited for his approval.
“That’s the
one,” Ash said, dipping his hand into the bowl of wasabi peas on the table.
Jemma couldn’t
help but smile to herself when, after he had poured the wine, the waiter
surreptitiously nudged the bowl of wasabi peas out of Ash’s reach, replacing it
with an empty entrée plate. Not for long though.
A
chubby-cheeked girl materialized from behind the waiter and deposited a huge
white platter, laid out with all manner of gourmet tidbits, on the table in
front of them. Mouth agape, Jemma took in the stuffed button mushroom caps,
smoked salmon topped rounds, fried goujons of some sort, mini meatballs on
skewers, olives, sun-dried tomatoes, vegetable crudités, dips, tapenades,
lavash, and Chinese spoons of various concoctions. If she managed to sample just
one of each, she would be doing well. The joke was back on her.
Ash chuckled
and raised his glass. “Cheers.”
She clinked
glasses with him and sat back. “Go for it,” she said as Ash hovered over the
table looking from her to the food and back again. “Don’t wait for me.”
He gave her the
broadest grin, one that lit up his whole face, and tucked into the food. He
reminded her of an eager puppy, easy to please. And easy to like. She watched
him, sipping her wine and thinking about the Bartlett dynasty.
Wiping his
fingers and mouth on a napkin, he angled his body to face her, his right knee
bumping her bag. She pulled it closer to her.
“So,” he said,
tossing the scrunched napkin on the table, “where were we?”
“Talking about
your family.”
“If you can
call it that.” He reached for his wineglass.
“How do you get
on with your stepmother?”
“Danielle?” He
laughed. “Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the fairest of them all? Let’s just
say we have an understanding. I keep out of her way and she keeps out of mine.”
“Fen told me
Danielle accused Tanya of having an affair with Marcus.”
“Yeah, I heard
about that. I wouldn’t put any weight behind it. Danielle thinks
every
woman is out to get her claws into Dad.”
“Does she have
any reason to worry?” Jemma speared a goujon with a toothpick and popped it
into her mouth. Fish.
“I don’t think
so. She’s just your basic insecure gold-digger. The longer she stays married to
my father, the more she stands to gain.”
Jemma swallowed
and helped herself to another. “To do with the pre-nup, I’m guessing.”
“You guess
right.” He flipped his hand toward the food. “C’mon, eat up. You don’t think I
can do justice to this on my own, do you?”
Half an hour
later, the hors d’oeuvres’ platter whilst not finished was certainly depleted.
The wine bottle, on the other hand, was empty. Noise or no noise, she could
have easily curled up on the couch and gone to sleep. She rested her cheek
against the back of the couch and looked at Ash. His eyelids at half-mast, he
had slipped down into a semi-recumbent position. He gave her a lazy smile. She
blushed and averted her face, thankful for the low light.
“So what’s with
the obsession with my family?” he asked.
She tensed. “I
wouldn’t call it an obsession. I’m trying to see Tanya’s life from a different
perspective. Because whether I want to admit it or not, Tanya was more part of
your family than she was her own. Over half her life was spent here in
Melbourne working for your father, befriending you. You, her other friends, you
all knew a Tanya I didn’t. I wasn’t privy to her innermost thoughts.”
Ash sat
upright, pushing his buttocks back into the seat. “And you think I was? Huh, I
wish. Your sister was very selective with who she shared her thoughts.”
“I thought you
were best mates.”
“Yeah, me, too.
But don’t forget I was just as much persona non grata as you were for those
last few months. You should be talking to Fen, not me.”
“I have. How
well do you know Fen?”
He rocked his
hand from side to side. “How well does anyone know anyone else? I thought I
knew your sister. Look where that got me. So what did Fen have to say for
herself?”
“Not much. She
seems a bit fragile at the moment, so I didn’t want to push.”
“Fragile? Fen?
We’re talking about the same woman, aren’t we? About so high.” He put out his
hand at what would’ve been his waist height if he had been standing.
“I don’t think
she’s as strong as you think she is. What I did pick up on, though, was that
she’s petrified of Kerry Mullins, Sean’s ex-wife. Maybe you can shed some light
on what that’s all about.”
“Hell hath no
fury like a woman scorned,” Ash said in a baritone.
“I get that,
but there has to be more to it, surely. Fen sort of intimated that Kerry was
capable of…” Jemma paused. “Well, capable of murder—”
He clapped a
hand over his mouth. “She did what? I need a drink.” He signaled a waiter.
“You didn’t let
me finish. She was under the influence when she said it, and she did retract
it.”
“And that makes
it all right? I can’t remember the last time I got pissed and started throwing
around wild accusations of murder. Can you?”
She ignored the
connotation. “I don’t think she was specifically accusing Kerry, just saying
she was capable of it. If I remember correctly, she actually said
everyone
is
capable of it. And I guess, given the right circumstances, we all are.”
“Speak for
yourself.” He pointed to the wine bottle. “Another of the same, thanks,” he
said to the waiter clearing the table.
“So if it came
down to it you would rather be killed than kill?”
That stopped
him in his tracks. “Now,” he said, drawing out the word, “that you put it like
that.” His hand came within caressing distance of her shoulder and then
withdrew. “Jemma, what we talked about the other night, you don’t believe that,
do you?”
“I need to know
the truth – whatever it is.”
“Why? What do
you hope to achieve?”
“Can we please
not go over this again?” Why could no one understand why it was so important to
her?
“Fine, but let
me just say one thing. For your own sake, you have to give up any foolhardy
notion you have that Tanya and Sean’s deaths were anything more than a tragic
chain of events.”
“Are you
threatening me?”
Ash’s eyes
flashed. “Of course not. I’m concerned about you, that’s all. I don’t for one
moment think your suspicions are founded, but if by the remotest chance, you are
onto something, who knows what sort of danger you would be putting yourself
in.”
She studied her
hands. Why was everyone so intent on warning her off? It wasn’t as if she
expected to track down and confront the killer herself. Her only objective was
to have both cases re-opened, the evidence re-examined and a definitive ruling
made that foul play was or wasn’t involved. And for that, Chris said, she
needed motive.
She pasted a
smile on her face and looked up. “It’s nice to know you care, but nothing’s going
to happen to me.”
Ash leaned
back, hands behind his head. “I hope not.”
The waiter’s
arrival helped lighten the situation, giving them something to look at besides
each other for a few moments. After the waiter left, Jemma plucked up the
courage to ask Ash if he had sent her the roses.
He scrutinized
her. “And if I had, would that be a good thing or a bad thing?”
“So it was you.
Why—”
He held up a
hand. “As much as I would like to take credit for them, I can’t. Tell me more.
Are you talking about the roses I saw on the table last week?”
Her shoulders
sagged. “Those and another lot today.”
“Popular girl.”
“Special
woman.”
“Sorry?”
“That’s what
the card said: ‘For a special woman.’”
“Most likely
then that loverboy sent them to remind you of how much he’s missing you?” He
grinned at her. “Have you checked with him?”
Her breath
caught in her throat. Was that a loaded question? Had Fen already let on to him
that she and Ross were no longer a couple?
The lift doors opened. People
jostled past her, in a hurry to get to where they were going. Jemma’s feet
remained rooted to the floor. More people piled into the lift, hemming her in.
She blinked, fighting her way to the front just as the doors started to close.
Out in the huge
limestone-tiled lobby, she looked around, trying to get her bearings. Her head
swam. If what she had just heard was to be believed, Tanya had not only been an
employee of Bartlett Developments, but also a major shareholder. The lawyer
estimated the value of her estate in excess of a million dollars. How had a
young woman on a personal assistant’s salary managed to amass such wealth?
Employee share options? Canny investing? What? She knew of only one person who
could answer that.
Moving out of
the thoroughfare, she rummaged in her bag for Marcus Bartlett’s business card.
She knew his offices were in St Kilda Road, but not exactly where. Moments
later, card in hand, she emerged onto the street and hailed the first taxi she
saw. She had neither the time nor the inclination to work out where the tram
stops were.
Seated in the
back of a taxi stuck in traffic, watching tram after tram trundle past on
dedicated rail in the centre of the road, she soon realized her folly. At least
her driver would deliver her to the right address. Not that she could be sure
Marcus would even be there. Nor had she wanted to forewarn him of her arrival
by phoning ahead. She sighed. If they ever got there.
The tower block
housing Bartlett Developments was more glass than anything else, a raised
monumental stone portico heralding the building’s entrance the main exception.
She scrambled out of the taxi, grateful to finally escape the confines of the
vehicle’s backseat. Shielding her eyes from the sun’s glare, she made her way
across the footpath and up a series of concrete steps. The metal handrail was
almost too hot to touch.
Sensors picked
up her approach, the glass front doors parting on cue. The chilled air on the
other side shocked her lungs. It was as if someone had accidentally set the
thermostat to freezing. She only hoped it wasn’t a harbinger of what was to
come.
Another couple
of steps in, she stopped, shivered, and gazed around. Two sweeping staircases
leading up to a mezzanine framed both the foyer and its centerpiece, a
stained-glass chandelier the size of a small planet. The rest was open space.
She made a beeline for the lifts as soon as she spotted them on the back wall.
The cold didn’t encourage loitering.
She took a lift
to the seventh floor. The doors closed behind her before she had a chance to
change her mind, leaving her stranded in a navy-blue carpeted reception area.
For a second, she wondered if she had the right place. Then she saw the sign on
the wall behind the deserted front desk.
“Hello, anyone
there?” she called.
A phone rang
somewhere in the depths of the offices. A high-pitched squeal followed, a door
slammed, and then nothing.
She waited.
When no one
came out, she decided to go searching for someone, anyone. Feeling like an
intruder, she crept down the corridor, her ears straining for the slightest
sound. She glanced through each open doorway she passed, not encountering a
soul along the way. Just when she started to think that perhaps everyone had
been sucked into a vacuum, she glimpsed a silver-haired man standing in a
large-windowed corner office. He had his back to her.
She rapped the
back of her knuckles against the open door. “Marcus?”
He whirled
around. “Jemma!” He continued tucking in his shirt and zipped up his pants.
“How nice to see you,” he said, his tone light, as if getting caught in
flagrante was an everyday occurrence.