Bitter Nothings (9 page)

“Still the same charmer, then.”

“You know what I mean,” he said, his voice hypnotic.

For one stupid, fleeting moment, she ached to be back in his arms.

But then he winked at her, breaking the spell. “Good to know someone else has taken my place on your least favorite people list.”

Her turn to frown.

“Well, you opened the door to me.”

“And now I’m closing it.”

“Wait.” He planted his foot in the doorway. “Your friend, Sophie, what’s her phone number?”

Dervla’s jaw dropped. “You can’t be serious.”

“Why not? Unless you’re jealous.”

Much to her dismay, she looked away.

He laughed. “You are.”

“Of course not. What do you take me for? A fool? No, I’m only looking out for a friend – a real friend.”

“Hey,” he said, spreading his arms, “I’m your friend, too.”

“Actions speak louder than words, Nathan.”

“Whatever. Are you going to give me her number or not?”

“Not.” She tried to shut the door, but his foot blocked it.

He shoved a business card through the opening. “Can you at least give her this and ask her to call me. If she’s interested.”

She took the card, knowing it was the only way he would remove his foot from the doorway.

“Thanks, babe,” he said, as she pushed against the door.

After she was sure he’d gone, she picked up the phone and headed to the back of the house, as far away from the front door as she could get. She dialed as she walked, Nathan’s business card pinned between two fingertips as if it were infectious. While she waited for the call to connect, she dropped the card into the kitchen’s pedal bin. She’d made no promises.

CHAPTER 12

Dervla’s heart thudded against her ribs, as desperate as the rest of her to flee. Wringing the large white handkerchief Emmet had pressed into her hands, she paused in the doorway, giving her eyes time to adjust to the gloom. After the heat and bright sunlight of outside, the funeral home’s chapel’s cool, sweet-scented air and subdued lighting were almost welcome.

Men and women, all dressed in dark colors, all with pinched faces, milled about her as if she didn’t exist. Perhaps she didn’t. Perhaps they didn’t.

A rotund middle-aged man jogged her elbow, muttering an apology as he squashed past.

She sucked in a long breath. Two years earlier, she’d been in an almost identical place. A week to the day after her mother had slashed her wrists and bled to death in a bathtub full of water. A week to the day after what would’ve been Warren and Cathleen Johns’ thirtieth wedding anniversary. That’s if her father hadn’t five years before deserted her mother for his pregnant young mistress. The same mistress whose body now lay mere meters from where Dervla stood.

Head bowed, she took a step and then another, each more difficult than the last. Halfway down the diamond-patterned carpet she stopped, and holding her breath, looked up.

Grief exploded in her chest, crushing her lungs, the pain more intense than she could ever have imagined. Nothing could’ve prepared her for the sight of the three white coffins, the middle one flanked with two child-sized ones.

She jammed a fist into her mouth. Atop the small coffin on the left, amid a mass of pink and white roses, calla lilies and orchids, sat Kayla’s favorite stuffed toy, an oversized teddy bear with a red satin heart stitched to its chest. Alongside it, on a glass stand, were the birthday girl’s fairy wings and tiara, its tiny gems glinting in the soft light.

On the other one, stood Monty, the pea-green dinosaur Oliver never went to sleep without. Parked next to it was Dervla’s little half-brother’s treasured yellow Tonka dump truck. Her last Christmas gift to him.

Toys and memories, all that was left of two young lives. No more birthdays. No more Christmases. No more anything. She bit down hard on her knuckles, tasting blood but feeling no pain.

Invisible hands propelled her forward, guiding her to the row of seats second from the front. Before she knew it, she was sitting down, her older brother on her right, her younger on her left.

Emmet touched her knee. “You okay?” he whispered.

She nodded, unable to trust herself to speak. She sought out her brothers’ hands and held tight. Sandwiched shoulder to shoulder between them, she couldn’t be sure who was supporting whom. But they were together and that was all that mattered.

The front pew was empty except for Lucinda’s parents. Or rather, Dervla assumed it was them. The man and woman hunched at the far end looked a lot older than the couple she’d met at the wedding. She felt a pang of guilt. These were Kayla and Oliver’s grandparents, yet she barely knew them. Nor did she recognize the majority of the people gathered to farewell her father’s wife and their two children. And she only had herself to blame.

As if reading her thoughts, Lucinda’s mother glanced back at her, a sad smile on her drawn face. Dervla tried to summon a response in kind but her facial muscles refused to comply. The woman – she couldn’t even remember her name – turned back to her husband.

The lights dimmed and music began to play. Céline Dion’s haunting voice filled the air, floating skyward like the angels she sang about. Dervla choked back a sob. Gabe squeezed her hand, Emmet doing the same with her left hand. She daren’t look at either of them.

A stout woman, her silver hair in a polished bob, stepped up to the podium. “Death leaves a heartache no one can heal, love leaves a memory no one can steal…”

The rest of the service passed in a suffocating daze, the air in the high-vaulted chapel getting heavier with each eulogy.

Just as the celebrant was winding up everything, a dark figure emerged from the shadows of a pillar and hurried along the wall. A low murmur rose from the congregation.

Dervla leapt to her feet, her first instinct that it was her father. Hands dragged at her arms. She shook them off, mumbling apologies as she squeezed past knees.

The figure disappeared through the double-doors with Todd Gleeson in pursuit and two steps behind him, DSC Brooke Stewart. Until then, Dervla hadn’t realized the police were even attending the funeral.

She hurried up the aisle after them, blinking as she emerged into the daylight. Before she could draw breath, a bevy of reporters and cameramen converged.

“Over here! Ms Johns, do you know where your father is?”

“Has he contacted you?”

“Do you think your father is guilty?”

“Will you stand by him?”

The questions continued, but she’d stopped listening. Two Roman columns more suited to a coliseum than a funeral home flanked the entrance. She clambered unladylike up onto the concrete plinth of one, holding on for dear life as she scoped the gardens, car park and beyond. Both the mystery man and the two detectives had disappeared.

She glanced toward the ground, wondering how she was going to get down again, then back up, her gaze straying to the car park. Her heart skipped a beat. A bald-headed man lounged against a white station wagon, watching her. Was Nathan right? Was the so-called reporter stalking her?

CHAPTER 13

Funerals were supposed to provide closure. So why did it feel as if her chest had been sliced open? Even breathing hurt. With a groan, Dervla rolled over, forcing herself out of bed and into the shower. Sleep or no sleep, she had to keep going.

Twenty minutes later, she emerged from the bathroom, her body at least cleansed. Caffeine was needed to kick-start it. When she emptied the old coffee grounds into the kitchen’s pedal bin, she remembered Nathan’s business card and salvaged it. As much as she hated the idea of her ex and her girlfriend getting involved, she knew it wasn’t her decision to make. Life was too short for second-guessing. She wiped coffee from the card and set it on the bench to dry.

After two industrial-strength espressos, she felt halfway human and ready to face the outside world. Or at least a friend.

Sophie leased a serviced office on Victoria Street, a short tram ride away. Dervla spent more time waiting for the tram than on it, arriving at the mid-rise black and glass office building a few minutes before noon. She pushed through the main doors, the cool, faintly citrus-scented air inside welcome relief from the midday heat, and headed straight for the lifts.

Emerging on the second floor, she waved at the smiley-faced receptionist, gesturing down the corridor to her left to indicate she knew where she was going. The door to Sophie’s office stood ajar. Dervla knocked and poked her head through.

Sophie spun around in her chair, her phone to her ear, and motioned Dervla in.

Though not large, the office exuded success. From the Robert Jacks original abstract adorning one of the smoky-grey walls, to the bronze sculpture of two entwined hands atop the filing cabinet, to the black leather cantilevered chairs, to the suited PR consultant herself.

After Sophie finished her call, she rose from behind her desk. “How are you, hon?” she asked, as she joined Dervla on the other side and embraced her.

Dervla rocked her hand from side to side.

“Hey,” Sophie said, “what do you say to lunch at that new Greek place around the corner?”

“Can I take a raincheck?”

“You have to eat.”

“I had a late breakfast.”

Sophie shot her a yeah-right look. “At least let me make you a coffee,” she said, already crossing to the slimline beech bench just inside the door before Dervla could refuse.

Unlike Dervla’s coffee machine, the silver Saeco was fully automated. In less than a minute, it had produced two steaming espressos, the crema perfect on each.

“Thanks.” Dervla set the coffee on the edge of the desk and sank into one of the leather chairs. “I didn’t see you at the funeral.”

“Sorry, hon. But with Martin on my case, I thought it best to stay away. The last thing you and your family would have needed is for him to turn up and start causing a scene. I was with you in spirit, though.”

Dervla nodded and sipped her coffee. Her empty stomach contracted, threatening to rebel. She set the cup down again. “Talking of exes…” She delved into her handbag and withdrew Nathan’s business card. “Nathan asked me to give you this. What you do with it is up to you.”

At the sight of the warped, coffee-stained card, the corner of Sophie’s mouth lifted. “Something tells me it wasn’t like this when he gave it to you.”

“It had a small accident.”

Sophie laughed. “And you rescued it?”

Dervla gave a half-hearted shrug. “That’s one way of putting it.”

“I thought you didn’t want me to have anything to do with him.”

She shrugged again. “You’re both consenting adults.”

“Blah, who needs men, anyway?” Sophie handed the card back. “As you said, they’re more trouble than they’re worth.” Her green eyes twinkled. “Besides, you know cast-offs aren’t really my style, no matter how hunky.”

“Does that—”

The desk phone rang.

Sophie made no move to answer it. “That’s what I pay my service for.”

A few seconds later, her mobile phone rang. She reached across the desk, frowning when she looked at the caller ID.

“You’re busy,” Dervla said, getting to her feet. “We can catch up later.”

“Sophie Lombardi,” she said into the phone, her voice saccharine-sweet. She covered the mouthpiece. “Sorry, hon. It’s been non-stop all day.”

Acknowledging her with a waggle of the fingers, Dervla left her friend to her business.

In a way, she was pleased. No more talk of Nathan Ward. While she waited for the lift to arrive, she tore his business card into confetti and sprinkled it over the top of a browning banana skin in the rubbish bin.

Somewhere a phone rang and kept ringing. It took her a moment to realize it was hers. She fumbled in her handbag, finding her mobile just as it stopped ringing. The lift doors parted. She stepped inside and checked her missed calls. Two – both from Gabe and within minutes of each other. No messages.

It rang again just as she stepped out onto the footpath. She quickly moved into the shade and out of the way of the other pedestrians.

“Where are you?” Gabe asked when she answered it.

“In the city.”

“What are you doing there?”

“I do have a life. What’s with the twenty questions? Where are you?”

“Outside your place.”

“What are you doing there?” she asked, turning the question back on him.

“Stop with the games, Dervla?”

“What games?”

He huffed. “Fine. You know where to find me when you’re ready to hear what I found out about your mystery man.” Click.

Damn. Dervla pressed the call-back button, only to be greeted by her brother’s voicemail. She left a rushed message asking him to please wait and took off for the tram stop on Victoria Parade.

By the time the tram deposited her at the end of her street and she walked the last half-block to home, she felt like she’d gone a couple of rounds in a sauna. Sweat dripped from every pore. Any moment now she would spontaneously combust. And after all that, there was no sign of Gabe or his black BMW. Now why didn’t that surprise her?

She called him again, this time getting through. “Didn’t you get my message?” She unlocked her front door.

“Didn’t you get mine?”

“No.” She either needed a new phone or her hearing tested. The air-conditioner hummed into life, the drop in temperature almost instant. “What did it say?”

“Only that I had an appointment I had to get to and that I’d give you a call later.”

“It’s later now. Spill. What about the man at the funeral? Who is he?”

“Harry Kilbourne. Business systems analyst from Brisbane. Forty. Divorced.”

One-handed, she opened the fridge, pulled out a bottle of water and poured a glass. “And who’s he when he’s at home?”

“Lucinda’s ex-husband.”

Dervla choked, spluttering water everywhere. “Are you sure?”

“The police confirmed it.”

“Did you know she’d been married before?”

“Hell, I don’t even know if Dad knew.”

CHAPTER 14

Dervla lowered her visor against the late afternoon sun. Men and women, some with luggage, traipsed through the hotel’s front doors in a steady procession. Would she even recognize Harry Kilbourne? She’d only got a brief look at him. And that was supposing he hadn’t already checked out.