Sleight Malice Read online

  No encumbrances, caveats or notices.

  No activity in the last 125 days.

  The name meant nothing to her; it didn’t even sound vaguely familiar. And what were the odds that the Spring Street address, current when the purchase had been registered nine years previously, would still be valid?

  A search of the online White Pages revealed no listing for any M McKeown in Spring Street, or indeed the city. But a lot could happen in nine years. She could have married, moved interstate or even country, leaving a friend or someone else to look after the Howqua property. Then again, perhaps she had a silent number.

  Googling the full name resulted in no hits, but replacing it with "Maureen McKeown" gave her 1,090 listings. Ireland. United Kingdom. America. France. Canada. Sweden. She narrowed the search to Australia: 35 and no guarantee any of them were the Maureen McKeown she was looking for.

  She scrolled through them: real estate agent, teacher, secretary, resident’s association committee member, footballer’s mother, gardener, relationship counselor; occupations as diverse as the locations. Supping her now cold coffee, she stared at the screen. Most had email addresses included, but what could she say? Excuse me, but do you own a holiday cottage in Howqua?

  Starting with the Melbourne real estate agent, she ploughed her way through the list. One by one, she opened each link, looked for an email address and sent a brief note explaining she was trying to locate the owner of the property, though not detailing why. The sites that required she register her details before allowing access she left to last.

  She pressed Send on the final one – a South Australian travel agent registered on the OldFriends network – and signed out. With a start, she realized she was sitting in near darkness, the room’s only illumination coming from the computer monitor. She checked the time.

  7:48 PM

  “Shit!” She bounced to her feet, scattering paper and bills in her panic to find the phone.

  CHAPTER 20

  Fergus watched the hotel’s wide timber and steel double doors, his heart skipping a beat each time they swung open. Then the fanciful clock above the bar would draw his gaze, its exposed multi-colored cogs a visual reminder of every passing minute.

  Door.

  Clock.

  Door.

  Clock.

  A young busty blonde woman sitting alone at the bar kept glancing his way. He avoided eye contact. He didn’t need the complication. However, he did need another beer. Taking a convoluted course through the tables to the opposite end of the bar, he managed to avoid passing too close to her.

  Where was Desley? Dumped on his first date? Worse, before the first date. Not a good start. He reasoned he could phone her, but he didn’t want to come across as desperate or worse, possessive like her ex.

  The shaven-headed barman passed him his drink and took his money. Pocketing the change, Fergus headed back to the table, his imaginary blinkers firmly in place.

  He picked up the menu, more as a prop than anything else. He already knew it by heart. He could feel the blonde woman’s eyes boring into him, daring him to look up. Until then, he’d never realized how fascinating a glass of beer could be. Another day, another time and perhaps he might’ve played along, but the woman he wanted to flirt with wasn’t some blonde stranger.

  Sighing, he wondered if he was just fooling himself. He couldn’t deny he had felt the chemistry from the moment he met Desley. But had she? With all the dramas that had been unfolding in her life, it was hard to tell. All her energies were going into trying to find out what happened to her friend. He hoped he could inspire that same loyalty.

  Having her ex-husband hanging around didn’t help either. If the ego-driven pretty boy was Desley’s type, then what hope was there for him? But, he reminded himself, he is her ex for a reason.

  Just as the blonde woman slid down from her barstool and sashayed his way, tall drink in hand, his mobile rang. In his haste to answer it, he almost dropped it.

  “Desley, hi.”

  “Oh Fergus, I am so sorry. I completely lost track of time. I was trying to get caught up with some work and… and… Anyway, you know how it is. Give me half an hour to freshen up…” She paused for breath. “That’s if your invite still stands, of course.”

  “No rush.” Liar. “See you when you get here.”

  Desley hung up, but he kept talking. “Okay, darling. Give the twins a kiss for me. Love you, too.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the blonde making her way back to her spot at the bar. Fergus smiled. He was no longer some dejected bloke stood-up by his date, but a loving husband and father waiting for his wife who happened to be running a few minutes late. One day…

  Picking up the wine list, he ran his finger down the selection of reds, hoping to jog his memory. He knew she liked Shiraz, but which one had she been drinking the last time he was there with her and Brandon? Either the Charles Sturt Shiraz or the Capel Vale CV Shiraz: he felt certain it began with a C.

  By the time Desley flew through the doors and came to an abrupt stop, Fergus had ordered the Capel Vale, along with two wine glasses.

  He wiped his palms on a paper napkin and stood. Desley saw him and raised a hand, her smile as vibrant as the pink slashes in her black hair. He met her halfway, greeting her with a chaste kiss on the cheek, trying hard not to think what it would be like to taste those luscious red lips, trace the sensuous curves of her neck down to the enticing swell of her breasts.

  Trailing half a step behind, he guided her across the room. They arrived at the table, and he watched her eyes take in the bottle of Shiraz and two wine glasses. The corners of her mouth lifted, her eyes crinkling.

  “I’m impressed,” she said with a light, tinkly laugh.

  He released his breath and, laughing with her, motioned for her to have a seat. She nodded, first shedding her long, black leather coat to reveal hip-hugging jeans and a drapey, crimson top. He inhaled, losing himself for a moment in her exotic, body-warmed scent, a richer and moodier perfume than the one she normally wore. Oblivious to the effect she had on him, she bundled up her coat, brushing past him on her way to the other side of the table.

  He sat down opposite her. “So, Brandon got away okay then,” he said, more for the want of something to say.

  “No problems. In fact, unless his flight was delayed, he’s probably already home.”

  Fergus poured the wine, taking great care not to spill any. “Nice guy, your brother.”

  Desley beamed. “I think so.”

  Small talk and perusing the menu occupied them for the next few minutes.

  “You were after information about Selena Papa,” Fergus said, after the waiter left with their order.

  Desley pushed her wine glass aside and hunched forward, her face tantalizingly close. “What did you find out?”

  “First, you owe me an explanation. If you remember, that was the deal.”

  She sat back, taking her wine glass with her. “Yes, well…” She looked at him.

  He waited, saying nothing.

  “I went to see Selena today at her parent’s place,” she said. “And please don’t tell me I shouldn’t have. What would you have done in my place?”

  He’d guessed as much. “So what did you find out?”

  “Not a lot. She told me some personal stuff about her and Trent, and her and Ryan, but I promised to keep that to myself. I hadn’t been there long when her mother came home. That’s when I left and your mates arrived and took her away.”

  “And you always keep your promises?”

  She frowned. “Don’t you?”

  “It depends.”

  “Of course,” she said, “if she had confessed to murder, I don’t think I could in all conscience keep quiet. But she didn’t, so there’s nothing to worry about.”

  He noted her empty glass and refilled it. “She didn’t what – murder someone or confess?”

  “Neither.”

  “Promise?”

  She laughed an
d raised her glass in a toast. “Promise.”

  “Kim couldn’t or wouldn’t say much, except to tell me Selena was helping them with their enquiries, which as we both know could mean something or nothing.”

  “Probably nothing.”

  “Wow, you’ve changed your tune about the woman.”

  “Female prerogative. And in case you don’t know, it’s a man’s right to drink beer if he wants to.” She nodded at the almost untouched glass of Shiraz in front of him.

  “That obvious, uh?” To him her favorite tipple tasted like vinegary swill and nothing like the label’s flowery description.

  She chuckled. “Go on; go and get yourself a beer. There’s something I want to ask you when you get back.”

  “Ask away.”

  She shook her head. “Priorities, Fergus. I’m not going anywhere.”

  He didn’t need much convincing. The sooner he washed the sour taste of the wine out of his mouth the better.

  With a spring to his step that hadn’t been there before, he headed to the bar. Talking about the investigation, something familiar to both of them, had helped break through the initial awkwardness. They had the whole night ahead to get to know each other better.

  Lost in his reverie, he didn’t see the blonde woman tottering in Desley’s direction straight away. In his rush to intercept her, he sent a chair flying. He didn’t stop to pick it up. He had no idea what the blonde was playing at, but whatever it was he didn’t want any part of it.

  He cut in front of her. “What do you think you’re doing?” he hissed.

  “Sweetie,” she said, her smile as lopsided as her gait, “I just came over to say hello to your darrrling wi—”

  “Fuck off, lady.” Subtle hadn’t worked.

  She listed to one side, putting out a hand to stop herself keeling right over. “Now that’s not very nice, is it?”

  “It’s not supposed to be.”

  “Fergus?”

  “Yes, Fergus,” said the woman, picking up on Desley’s cue, “why don’t you introduce us?”

  “I don’t know this woman. I’ve never even laid eyes on her until tonight. Don’t listen to her.”

  “She obviously knows you.”

  The blonde woman smiled at Desley. “And how old are the twins now?”

  Bewilderment then disbelief flashed across Desley’s face. “Excuse me?”

  “Oh dear.” The woman’s lip curled. “Fergus sweetie, you mean this isn’t your doting wife, the mother of your twins?”

  CHAPTER 21

  Desley thumped her pillow. Damn Fergus! Damn men! How could she trust any of them? They were all liars and cheats. And she had really thought Fergus was different.

  She groaned and threw back the bedclothes, lying uncovered in the dark until the cold forced her to get up. Fergus with a wife and kids; twins no less. She couldn’t get her head around it. She felt let down, she felt disillusioned, but most of all she felt stupid. She hadn’t hung around to hear the inevitable “It’s not what you think.” Trent had fed her that line more than enough over the years.

  Pulling on track pants and a sweatshirt over her pajamas, she wondered how she could have got it so wrong. If nothing else, she had thought she could rely on him. On his return from the bar, she had intended to tell him about her search for the Howqua property’s owner, as well as enlist his help. Fortunately – or unfortunately – the inebriated blonde woman, who Fergus swore he had never even met before, put paid to that. Desley could still hear the woman’s drunken cackle.

  Downstairs, she booted up her computer before heading to the kitchen to do the same with the espresso machine. She couldn’t sleep anyway.

  Coffee in hand, she returned to the pokey third bedroom she had converted to her office. Ignoring the answering machine’s flashing green message light, she sat down at her computer and opened her Inbox. Twenty-three new emails. She scrolled through them, on the lookout for something other than spam and newsletters. She came across only one: a reply from a prospective client clarifying their website requirements.

  She leaned back in her chair, stretching her interlaced fingers high above her head. It had been a bit much to hope that any of the Maureen McKeowns she had emailed that afternoon would have replied so soon. Dropping her hands to rest on the top of her head, she gazed at the screen as if doing so would make the answers materialize. What was her next step?

  Ping!

  She sat forward, sitting back again as soon as she saw the new email was from Fergus. He was persistent; she’d give him that. Phone messages, text messages and now this. How could he possibly explain away a wife and children?

  Curiosity got the better of her. She clicked on the email. She read it through to the end and then went back and reread it. His story of the blonde stranger coming on to him while he was sitting alone, his sustained avoidance of her, the make-believe phone conversation with the non-existent wife: it almost sounded too laughable not to be true. But what did the woman gain by causing trouble for Fergus? Who was she?

  Desley hit Reply and typed: Are you still there? For all she knew he had emailed her just before going to bed. After all, it was past midnight.

  Ping! New mail has arrived. Would you like to read it now? She smiled and clicked Yes.

  Except it wasn’t a reply from Fergus, but an email from someone called Joni Kinman with the spammer-style address of [email protected]. She hit the delete button in the same instant she recognized her own name. Spammers didn’t personalize their emails.

  Rescuing the email from the wastebasket, she opened and read it, her eyes widening with every word: If you don’t want to end up like your friend Laura, you’ll stop poking your nose into things that are none of your business. Be warned, Desley James. You’re playing with fire.

  Her stomach tightened. She swallowed, tasting bile. Genuine threat or sick joke, she had to find out who had sent it. Using the IP address, she looked up on Geektools where the email had originated. Slovenia? She shook her head. Whoever had sent the message knew enough to cover their electronic tracks.

  Alarming as it was, the threat also meant she had done something to rattle the sender. A breakthrough of sorts. Could her search for the Howqua cottage’s owner have sparked it? Or her visit to Selena? Or perhaps it went further back to her meeting with Helen Escott, the wife of Ryan’s disgruntled ex business partner.

  The phone rang. She held her breath, waiting for the answering machine to kick in.

  “Desley, it’s Fergus. Please pick up if you’re there.”

  She snatched up the receiver with one hand, using the other to grapple with the squealing answering machine. “I’m here.”

  “Are you okay? You sound stressed.” He gave a half-laugh. “I mean besides the fact you thought I was married with two children.”

  “It’s not that.” Right then she didn’t care if he had two wives, sixteen children and a herd of goats.

  “What then? Has something happened?”

  She hesitated, debating how much or how little she should share with him. As much as she hated to admit it, the menacing email had spooked her. Whether her life was in real danger or not, she had to talk to someone about it. Taking a deep breath, she said, “Hang on a minute, I’m just going to forward you an email. But before I do, you have to promise me you won’t breathe a word about it to anyone, and that includes Kim. I don’t care what deal you have going with her.”

  “Promise.”

  She paused, knowing once she pressed Send there was no turning back.

  “Desley?”

  “On its way.”

  She heard him tapping a keyboard, then a couple of mouse-clicks. “Hold on a sec… Jesus, Desley, what have you got yourself into? Who’s this Joni Kinman? How do you know her?”

  “I don’t; I think it’s a pseudonym. I traced the email back to an ISP in Slovenia.”

  “Slovenia?”

  “I don’t think that’s for real either. It probably routed through that ISP, but I doub
t it originated there.”

  “But why would whoever it is target you? Or rather, what aren’t you telling me?”

  “I was getting to that. I did a property title search and found out that a Maureen Carmel McKeown owns the holiday cottage in Howqua. The registered address was Spring Street, but I couldn’t find any record of anyone by that name at that address. Can you get access to unlisted numbers?”

  “Where are you going with this?” Fergus asked, not answering her question. “How do you think this McKeown woman is involved?”

  “I wish I knew. I Googled her name and came up with umpteen hits. I emailed all the Australian ones I could find addresses for. So far, I haven’t had any replies, unless you count this one, of course.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about all this sooner?”

  “Let’s see: blonde bimbo, wife, twins…” She bit her tongue. “What do you think I was going to talk to you about when you came back from the bar?”

  “Point taken. But listen to me, Desley; you have to take this to the police—”

  “But—”

  “No ifs or buts. It’s not a game. Or as the email so succinctly puts, you’re playing with fire. Your life could be in danger. It could already be too late for Laura.”

  “Don’t you think I know that?”

  “Then you’ll talk to Kim?”

  “Let me think about it.” What was there to think about? Someone had threatened her life and here she was worried about betraying confidences, not to mention being taken to task for interfering in a police investigation. “There’s more. I went to see Helen Escott on Saturday.”

  “Are you serious? You went to see Paul Escott’s estranged wife?”

  “I had to do something. I couldn’t just sit around waiting for the police to do their job. Anyway, she opened up to me more than she would’ve the police.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  Fergus listened without interruption as she related what Helen had told her about Laura’s visit and her offer to help out the Escotts financially.

  “Stranger and stranger,” Fergus said. “And you’re sure Laura never mentioned the Escotts?”