Mitzi frowns and taps her front tooth with a pink-varnished nail extension. “I can’t think of many...” she starts, but adds “...who didn’t want Saxon eliminated, out of the picture, poof!” Pink extensions spread-eagle.
She names a neighbour prosecuted over spray damage to a patch of the estate’s vines, a couple of disgruntled former employees, a bitter ex-wife. Not to mention the dozen or so grape growers forced out of business by Swayne’s decision to terminate contracts in the face of the growing surplus of wine grapes across Australia.
I take notes as fast as my shorthand speed allows.
Then stop.
“And, of course, there was that dreadful business with your father,” she goes on, echoing my own disquiet. “You must be extremely bitter that he ended up in jail? Then such a tragic end...”
“I’m not quite bitter enough to have killed your husband,” I shoot back.
It comes out a little too loud.
My timing isn’t perfect, either. The WPC’s just coming in with the tea tray and you can bet she’ll be on her hooter to Gudgeon the moment my cup’s drained.
My hand’s shaking as I down the scalding liquid and I notice Mitzi and the Rottweiler exchanging glances.
Then I make my excuses and leave to feed Spanner a few choice facts. It’s the least I can do. She’s a reliable informant and has tossed me a steady run of front-page stories since making the leap from Traffic to Major Crime. The coroner’s van is pulling out onto the casuarina-lined drive leading from the homestead, past the winery complex and out to the main drag, as I emerge into the light. Just in time to zoom in for another pic.
Gudgeon’s V8 has gone, I note with some relief. An unusually pale Spanner and a chatty Jack Darwin are just making their way back to the Commodore.
Darwin’s prattling, something about “Vitis vinifera,” but dries up as Spanner starts the introductions.
Between gulps of air.
“Sorry. Bit queasy.” She shoots her partner a sideways glance and I’m not sure if it’s the crime scene or the conversation that’s turned her. “Jack Darwin, a.k.a. ‘Charlie’ for the obvious. Meet Stefi Flanders. Stef writes for the—”
“The Western Evening Times!” The DC steps forward and clasps my hand. His mitt’s big. And disarmingly warm. Mine tingles. Not unpleasantly, either. Spooky. “What a delight to meet the Stefany Flanders. I’ve been following your in-depth coverage of this crazy weather with avid interest.”
Jack squints skywards and I hear myself prattling like a tweenager. Freak snowfalls in the eastern ranges. Sydney enveloped in a maelstrom of red dust. Not to mention the Category Five tropical cyclone seething just off the North West Cape.
My interest in the weather has undergone a miraculous resurrection. In stark contrast to Spanner, who looks like she might throw up. I pause to consider whether to confide details of a feature I’m compiling on bushfire prediction methods, but the DCs aren’t listening.
“B737-800, Broome to Perth flight. Twin engines. Look, Spanner!” Darwin’s line of sight’s tracking an inbound Qantas flight. And here was me thinking he was squinting at stars.
“Turbofans. One of the most popular engines in commercial aviation.” The colour floods back into Spanner’s cheeks as she warms to her favourite topic. Motors. I swear that girl has engine oil coursing through her veins. “More than four thou CFM56-7B’s in operation. Swept fans. Advanced compressor parts. It’s one of the most modem and efficient—”
“Ahem.” I tap my watch face. It’s almost two. “I’m battling a deadline, okay?” I’m already scribbling names onto a spare sheet of paper. “According to Mitzi, the suspects include a disgruntled neighbour, who I know just happens to be one of a dozen grape growers upset because Swayne had tom up their contracts. Then there’s a couple of ex-employees and a former wife, all of whom wished the wine chief dead. Threats were made. Publicly. There are witnesses. Not to mention Mitzi herself.”
I pause to take in an awkward silence. That’s broken when Spanner clears her throat and speaks.
“And of course, there’s you, Stef.” Vineyard loam puffs to dust as killer heels kick in. “What with your dad and all. The Grudge’ll want us to eliminate you from our inquiries.”
Reluctantly, I admit to my whereabouts since six, when Swayne was last sighted upright. Got up, washed hair, got to work 7:30 A.M. Pity the hairy male who shares my bed can’t act as a character witness. Okay, so Alfie’s a tomcat. And neutered.
Spanner heads off towards the winery complex to check out the suspects so far. I hand Darwin my business card before hunkering down behind the steering wheel of the hatchback to head back to the office and file some copy.
“If there’s a breakthrough, anything at all, you’ll let me know, okay?”
He takes the card, but the smile’s somewhat distant. “Sure.”
Back at the Evening Times, I scramble together just enough of the facts so far and one of the pics to make a score of column centimetres on page three. “Mystery Death of Winery Chief” doesn’t quite carry the clout I’d hoped for, but it’s the best header the chief sub can manage, given the information so far.
Then Spanner rings in. “The neighbour could scarce contain his delight. Said he was working alone in his vines at the time of the alleged offence, but has no witnesses. His wife’s on holiday in Bali. Claims he heard a brief scream sometime after seven, but thought it was someone cranking up an air-blast mister.”
I endure a lengthy explanation of the workings of the air-blast system before Spanner resumes the rundown.
“The ex-employees weren’t exactly grief-stricken either. One was dismissed after some cash went missing. He claims Swayne was hiding the readies and decided to blame someone to claim the insurance. Second guy was given his marching orders after a punch-up with the boss. Claims he didn’t kill Swayne but, and I quote, ‘I’d like to shake the hand of the hero that did.’ ”
“The ex-wife?” I need to know. “Aren’t ‘love, lust, lucre, and loathing’ the four main reasons why people commit murder?”
“Remarried last year,” Spanner supplies. “Purring like a kitten. Says she was at home, in bed... and having seen the eye candy she’s now shackled with, I’m inclined to believe her. But I’ll follow it up.”
“What about Mitzi?”
“Working out with her personal trainer, who backs up her story.”
“Any witnesses?”
“Only the entire aerobics class at...” She names the district’s fanciest and most popular gym.
We terminate the call and arrange to touch bases after the press conference. I’m jumping into the elevator, heading for the car pool, and almost collide with Glenys from the newspaper library.
“Hey... we’ve got the chairman of your fan club... going through the archives,” she says between vigorous assaults on a mouthful of gum.
“Fabulous,” I reply as the doors shush shut. Just what I need. Another nutter. I’ve had my share since I started writing about the seedier side of life.
Gudgeon’s characteristically obtuse when he fronts the media conference, though he does at least confirm the victim’s name. There’s the usual appeal for witnesses who might have noticed anything unusual and the heartening news that police are following several promising lines of inquiry.
“Not so much a whodunit as a who didn’t do it,” Spanner confides after the cameras are switched off and Gudgeon scarpers. She’s hugging an armful of files. “The Grudge wants me to see if I can find a connection between the growers and any of the other people of interest.”