I sense my colleagues’ angst as she tugs the remains of a tissue from her pocket and lifts her head, revealing red-rimmed panda eyes.
“Here,” I’m digging into the pocket of my overalls for a pocket pack of Kleenex. “Take these.”
Gudgeon’s mumbling something trite about condolences and routine investigation. It’s a relief when his mobile goes and he drifts away to take the call.
“Close to your grandma, were you, Sophie?” I ask gently, steering her towards a distant bench. The chief’s gruff voice dips and sways in the distance. Darwin’s taking himself off on a tangent, inspecting jacarandas for parrot damage.
“Took me to France last holidays,” the girl confirms, sniffing. “Visited the chateau where my dad trained. Gran said she’d pay for me to do the same.”
The memory triggers a fresh bout of sobs. Sophie extracts a new tissue.
“How was your Gran yesterday, at the brunch?” I ask when she’s ready.
Bloodshot brown eyes narrow defensively. “What’s people been saying?”
“I understand you’re protective of your Gran’s reputation, Sophie. But her... indiscretion made the papers.”
“Did it? Oh God!” The girl’s shock seems genuine. “Haven’t had a chance to look. I mean, it’s been chaos here, what with... everything that’s happened. My dad said I should try to keep busy. I’ve been helping clean up.”
“Some party?” The hire truck’s trundled off and a small army’s on patrol, spearing rubbish with pointy sticks.
“Hundred and fifty acceptances, give or take,” she hiccups. Then stares into the middle distance. “That’s two thousand bits of finger food. Couple of hundred tempura prawns, three hundred rock oysters, a hundred and fifty spicy samosas, hundred and fifty Thai spring rolls... took a dozen melons for the seasonal fruit skewers with chocolate sauce alone.”
“Sounds more like a feast than a brunch,” I marvel, doing some quick mental.
“Gran always over-catered. Hated guests going hungry. Said it left people with a bad taste.”
“You know a lot about catering.”
“Should too, studying food science,” comes the tart reply. “Holidays I help organize events here, when Gran’ll let me.”
“Did you think it was risky, having so much seafood? And serving it outdoors? Given the heat?” I’m hearing myself ask this and making a mental note not to watch so many reality cooking shows on my days off.
My naivete provokes a smile, albeit watery.
“Ice, and plenty of it, that was Gran’s secret. We produce buckets of the stuff in the cold room. Even then, we still need to buy in...”
Sophie’s starting to dry up nicely. I’m getting ready to ease the topic of her gran’s social gaffe back into the fray when Gudgeon cuts in. He’s pocketing his mobile.
“Autopsy’s found no sign of serious damage,” he grumbles, planting one oversized foot firmly in it. “Just a chipped central incisor. No intercranial bleeding.”
Darwin jogs up, catching the tail end. “Alcoholic poisoning?”
“It’s possible. Results on the bloods are still pending.”
Before I can deliver a slap over the proverbials, Sophie utters a strangled cry.
“My lips are buzzing,” she manages.
Just.
Then her eyes start rolling and she clutches her chest. “Oh my God. I’m having a heart attack!”
I snaffle the discarded donut bag from a startled Gudgeon’s pocket and smooth it flat. Then I prise Sophie’s hands free to clutch the bag and steer it up over her nose and mouth.
“Panic attack. You were hyperventilating,” I tell her, once the crisis has passed. “Carbon dioxide levels in your blood plummeted, then your blood vessels tightened up, not unlike...”
I’m searching under the bonnet for a suitable analogy but something about the arched brows framing double-glazing tells me Sophie has little interest in the mechanics.
Probably not significant anyway.
Given that our huddle’s now under siege from a madman sprinting full pelt across the turf.
“Get away from her!”
This guy’s no lightweight. I can feel the earth move. He pushes us aside and kneels beside Sophie.
“Leeuwin Billing?” Gudgeon recites his scanty prelims and stumbles through the introductions while I weigh up the winemaker.
Built like a rugby defender.
Bald as a billiard hall.
And contrite as a rather bouncy terrier that’s been caught nicking the cat’s dinner.
“I really must apologise,” he says, ushering us towards the homestead. His daughter’s headed back to work. “We wanted Soph to take it easy but she insisted on supervising the cleanup.”
The stately old building is a monument to the region’s natural beauty and the family’s success. Solid walls crafted from local honeyed stone. The sheoak shingles remind me of chocolate buttons lined up to top a gingerbread house.
Except, on closer inspection, someone’s been picking.
“Parrot damage,” Billing snarls. Admittedly, we’re gawping. “Vermin birds. Cane toads on wings.”
Shredded shingles, chewed gutters, and a frayed length of cable give some idea of the power wrought by several hundred bills.
Lengths of chicken wire, medieval spikes, and three cutout cats silhouetted against the sky stand as evidence that the Estate’s fighting back.
“We’ve tried shooters, decoy crops, kites, miles and miles of tinsel. Next week we’re meeting with a fellow who uses a trained peregrine falcon to scare parrots away.” Billing grimaces. “Do forgive me. This tiresome subject may be our obsession, but it’s not why you’re here. Please, come in.”
He shows us into a capacious room.
“This was Mother’s office. Mine’s the monk’s cell, adjacent to the winery.”
The heat’s coloured Gudgeon’s palette puce by now. He starts shrugging off his jacket.
“Apologies for the heat.” If Billing had a forelock, he’d tug it, I’m thinking. “Air-con’s on the blink. Blasted parrots chewed through the cable.”
Disarray doesn’t even start to sum up the ambiance. There’s a sweeping jarrah desk, shaped like a kidney. The blotter’s littered with papers, as though several bins have been tipped. On the wall behind the desk, a painting’s been lifted. Revealing a firebox set into honey-gold stone.
Darwin’s eyeing the chaos. “Looking for something?”
“Obvious, isn’t it?” the wine buff responds. “The combination to the company safe!”
“Getting back to yesterday’s tragic events,” I cough. “Was your mother in the habit of bending her elbow?”
“Absolutely not.” Billing’s manner remains polite, but the mercury suddenly slumps. “Mother had hepatitis, years ago. She didn’t touch alcohol.”
“A tricky situation for a wine producer, surely?” I say carefully. “And wasn’t she often photographed raising her flute?”
“All show, DC Swift.” The son’s upending furniture now, starting with a swivel chair. “Mother believed in pushing the company product. But she supplied her own bottles. Non-al. Carbonated, of course. Poor love was a martyr to razzamatazz.”
“Yet you acknowledge her behaviour yesterday was somewhat out of character?” Someone has to ask.
The boys seem heat-affected.
“Somewhat?” Billing rights the swivel chair. His conviviality rating’s dipped to glacial. “Dancing on a table with a long-stemmed red rose clenched between her veneers. Yes, I think I can safely say Mother’s performance was way beyond her usual impeccable standard.”
“How do you explain that? If she hadn’t imbibed?”
“Obviously, someone slipped a Mickey Finn into her bubbly.”