Death by the Book jsm-1 Read online

  ~8~

  Jack decided on his pale grey suit with the stovepipe pants. A dark plum shirt, black leather shoes and a splash of cologne. Lois moaned the whole time he was getting ready. He pushed her through the back door and put a bowl of food on the ground. She looked at him like he was joking.

  “Hey, what can I say? I’ll try not to be late.”

  The front gate was open. Jack walked through and along the driveway. Ten metres from the house, security lights came on and lit the front yard like a stadium. Next door a dog went berserk. Jack almost dropped the wine bottle in his hand. Obviously he did not possess the nerves required for burglary. Another career option off the list. He climbed the front steps, crossed the verandah, and knocked. A few moments later, the front door opened.

  “You must be Jack,” said a dark-haired woman with a hand on her hip. She was tall, and she was not wearing heels. “Hi, I’m Sabine.”

  Jack smiled. “Nice to meet you, Sabine.”

  She had an open, friendly face, its only blemish a pale scar about two centimetres long on the side of her chin. No doubt it was why she was wearing a little too much makeup for somebody dressed for exercise. Her hair was tied in a ponytail that had begun to come loose, and she wore a tight red tracksuit. She shook Jack’s hand. There was a rock on her ring finger about the size of an avocado pip.

  “Come in.”

  Jack followed her down the hall. Sabine was full-bodied, looked old enough to have had a teenager or two, but possessed the sass of a younger woman in her walk.

  “We were late getting back from the gym,” she said over her shoulder. “Poor Anna’s all last-minute rush, I’m afraid.”

  She turned left into another hallway and led Jack into the kitchen. It was a large, airy room with an island bench, stainless steel appliances, and varnished timber cupboards over two walls. There were cream granite benches; the floor was of oversized terracotta tiles. A large, watercolour still life hung on the far wall: a bowl of bruised fruit, some vegetables, and a dead bird. Through some glass doors to his left, Jack noticed a paved patio area outside, half-lit by a spotlight attached to a corner of the house.

  Sabine picked up a bottle. “She’s probably just fixing her hair. Glass of wine?”

  “Cheers.” Jack put his own bottle down.

  She poured a generous amount and passed it to him. Then she held up a small white bowl. “You have to try these olives. They’re fabulous. Do you like olives?”

  Jack nodded, picked one out.

  “I love them.” She popped a juicy kalamata into her mouth. Her lips were full and fleshy and slightly unbelievable. Her eyes were a rich brown and shone like billiard balls under lights. She rested a hip against the bench and looked Jack over. She chewed the olive and thought about what she saw. Jack sipped his wine and glanced around like he was interested in kitchen design.

  Sabine dropped the pip into an ashtray. “That’s a lovely suit,” she said. “Ermenegildo Zegna?”

  “Is that the little Italian guy in Leichhardt?”

  “Sorry?” she replied. Then she smiled, shook her head. “Oh, yes. Anna said you were a smart-arse.”

  “Nice to know she’s been talking about me.”

  “Not really. She won’t tell me anything.” Sabine picked up another olive. “Must be serious.”

  It was hot in the kitchen. Above the stove an extraction fan made a lot of noise but did very little else.

  “So, you work for Hammond then?”

  “Not really.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’m doing a small job for him.”

  “And you’re a book dealer or something?”

  “Purveyor of fine quality literature not necessarily in immaculate condition.”

  “Nice living?”

  “Will be. When my rich aunt dies.”

  Sabine laughed. “Why do it then?”

  “I get to meet interesting people.”

  “Like Hammond Kasprowicz? He’s not that interesting.”

  “Really?” Jack tried to read her face. Whatever was there was written in lemon juice.

  She drank her wine, leaving a faint red stain of lips on the rim. “You know you can’t believe a word he says, don’t you? Believe me, I know. I learned the hard way.” She brought the glass to her mouth again and paused. “I used to fuck him.”

  “I see.”

  “Well, it was a while ago now. He wasn’t quite so old then.” She laughed and drank more wine. “Neither was I.”

  Annabelle Kasprowicz walked into the kitchen. “Have you kept an eye on my risotto?” she said to Sabine, shaking her head.

  “We’ve already eaten it.”

  “That’d be right.” Annabelle turned to Jack, smiling. “Hello there.”

  “Ms Kasprowicz,” he replied, thickly, like his mouth was suddenly full of honey. Annabelle kissed the air near his cheek. A butterfly the size of the Times Comprehensive Atlas woke up in his stomach and started flapping its wings.

  “Are you well?” she asked.

  “Very, thank you.”

  “Good.” She reached up and adjusted her hair. It was still wet, done up in a loose chignon. Her skin was vaguely pink from a hot shower and glowed with the best moisturisers money could buy. Garnet drop earrings matched her lipstick.

  “Sorry I’m late,” she said, nodding towards the stove as she reattached a hair clip. “The whole day’s been one step ahead of me.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I had a hamburger on the way.”

  Annabelle turned to Sabine. “See what I mean?”

  “Saw it before he opened his mouth.” Sabine picked up the bottle of wine and held it out. “Top up?”

  Jack brought his glass over.

  “Is it me or is it hot in here?” asked Sabine.

  As she poured the wine, Jack noticed that Annabelle was barefoot, her toenails the same shade of red as her earrings and lipstick. They were nice toes. She wore an oyster satin crossover top and a pair of jeans. A gold necklace disappeared down her front. Every inch of her was doing what she wanted it to do. She probably never had to ask.

  “I didn’t bother to check if you were vegetarian,” she said, lifting the lid on a pot on the stove.

  “Vegan,” said Jack. “I only eat organic tofu that has been humanely slaughtered.”

  Sabine laughed heartily. She was definitely all carnivore.

  Annabelle stirred the pot and replaced the lid. She began to set a sleek-looking, brushed metal, glass-top table.

  “I thought we could eat in here. The dining room’s too big and cold.” She pointed to a chair. “Take a seat.”

  Jack took his jacket off and hung it on the chair. He sat down and tried to look cool. As Annabelle went back and forth, he noticed small roses embroidered on the back pockets of her jeans.

  Sabine sipped her wine. “Jack was just saying that he thinks your father’s interesting.”

  “That’s one way of describing him.”

  “I’ve always liked prick,” said Sabine. “And bastard. Oh, and I love son of a bitch.”

  “Let’s not get carried away in front of company now.”

  “Then I would have said motherfucker.”

  “You can take the girl out of the suburbs …” Annabelle shook her head.

  Sabine put a hand to her breast. “I haven’t offended you, have I, Jack?”

  He grinned. Sabine had the sadist about her, no doubt. Jack bet she took her time with everything. Especially getting even. “Of course not.”

  Annabelle laid cutlery. “Nobody forced you to marry him,” she said to Sabine, who was now looking at her reflection in the oven door, fixing her hair and readjusting her clothing. “I still don’t know why you did.”

  Sabine swung around. “Love, of course!”

  “Oh, of course. What else?”

  “You’re such a bitch.” Sabine picked up a handbag from the floor and blew out a weary breath. “All right then, honey. I’m off. Leave you to your romance.”

 
“Bye, baby.” Annabelle held Sabine’s hands and kissed her on the lips. “See you on Saturday.”

  “Ten o’clock, Mario’s, don’t make me wait.”

  Jack stood up. Sabine minced over and put her hand on his arm. She kissed him on both cheeks. “Lovely to meet you, Jack. I’m sure I’ll see you again.”

  She walked out of the kitchen. “Bye now,” she called back. “Enjoy breakfast!” The front door banged shut.

  Annabelle began to dish out the risotto. “It’s bone marrow and sage.” She smiled as she served him.

  Jack lost a little feeling in his knees, like somebody was blowing bubbles down there with a straw. “So that’s your ex-stepmother?”

  Annabelle returned the pot of risotto to the stove. “I’d hardly call her that. I didn’t even know her when she was married to my father. I was away at boarding school that year. By the time I got back, it was over.” She began to dress a salad in a large glass bowl with frosted bunches of grapes engraved over it.

  “You didn’t meet her?”

  “Oh, yes, a few times, but I didn’t take any notice. She was one of many women my father paraded after my mother died. I got to know her later. After my father nearly killed her in a car accident.”

  Jack remembered the scar on Sabine’s chin. “Nice they’re still friends,” he said.

  Annabelle sucked oil from her little finger. “Sabine’s main aim in life is to piss my father off as much as is humanly possible.”

  “He doesn’t mind you being friends?”

  “No, he minds. That’s why Sabine and I get on so well. We have a dislike of my father in common.”

  She brought the salad over to the table and sat down. She picked up her glass of wine. “Right then. Cheers.”

  “Cheers.”

  “I’m starving.”

  Jack sipped his wine and then tried the risotto. There was a wholesomeness to the food, a warmth to the atmosphere in the kitchen. He had not expected it.

  He stole glimpses of Annabelle as they ate. He could smell the warm soap freshness of her shower. “That’s the second relative of yours I’ve met today,” he said.

  “Really? Who was the first?”

  “Celia Mitten.”

  The name floated between them for a moment, like the steam from the risotto. Annabelle looked down into her plate and teased the rice with her fork. “What did Celia Mitten want?” She tried to sound casual, but it did not come out that way.

  “She wanted me to stop selling the Edward Kass books to your father.”

  “What?”

  Jack picked up his glass. He regretted that he had brought it up. The wholesome atmosphere went up the extractor fan and blew out into the night. “She thinks your father’s burning Edward Kass’s books.”

  Annabelle put her fork down and wiped her mouth with a napkin. Jack had been expecting a more shocked expression. But then, what did he know? He supposed you could burn whatever the hell you wanted to burn when you were rich.

  “Do you believe her?” Annabelle’s voice was low, cautious.

  “Should I?”

  She paused. When she spoke again, her voice was clear and sharp and hot. “Celia Mitten is a vindictive, hostile, evil bitch. I wouldn’t believe what she said if it passed a lie-detector test.” She sounded pretty adamant.

  “Why would she spin something like that then?”

  Annabelle stood up. The cutlery on the table rattled. “Have you got a cigarette?” she asked, impatiently. “The risotto needs to cool down, it’s too hot.”

  “Sure.” Jack reached into his jacket hanging on the chair and took out his pack and a lighter.

  Annabelle opened the glass doors onto the patio. Jack lit their cigarettes and they stood there and smoked. The air was cold as stainless steel.

  Jack drew on his cigarette. He looked up into the night: the earlier clouds had cleared. It was a beautiful winter sky, fresh as a tarmac after rain.

  “So what did she say exactly?”

  “She said that Kasprowicz had sent her father a box full of ashes. His burnt books. The note implied there would be more to come. Maybe all of them.”

  “She’s lying. You don’t know her. It’s all about money.”

  “What money?”

  “The fucking money they didn’t get! The inheritance!” A frown dug into her forehead. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. When she opened them again, they were lustreless, resigned. “It all went to my father. Celia’s never let it go. Never will.” She dropped her cigarette and stepped on it.

  “But why would she accuse —”

  “I don’t know! Why would I know?”

  She chewed her bottom lip. Jack wished he could apply for the job. For some reason there was now only thirty centimetres between them. And closing? Maybe it was the alignment of the stars. He flicked his cigarette away behind him.

  Annabelle looked up into his eyes. Tension slipped from her face. Her features softened. “You’ve got no idea what I’ve been through with this family,” she said, her voice sounding sorry for her, if nobody else was. “No idea at all.”

  “Maybe you should tell me about it.”

  “Maybe I should.”

  “I’m a good listener.”

  “So why don’t you shut up.”

  Two seconds later, Annabelle Kasprowicz had her arms around him. Jack watched her lips travel towards him in slow motion through time and space, slightly open, promising death by softness. He held her to him and obliged with an opposite and equal reaction. They kissed. Jack stopped thinking. All was well in the world.

  Sometimes a minute can be a long time. You can even forget where you are in one good, long minute. Then a voice from the kitchen reminded Jack exactly where he was.

  “Hi Mum.”

  Annabelle pushed herself away from Jack as though he had caught fire.

  “Louisa, what are you doing home?” She stepped back into the kitchen. Her daughter stared at Jack. If there had been a cigarette in his mouth, her eyes would have lit it. His eyebrows might have gone up, too.

  “Nina got upset with her mother and took off.”

  “Who brought you over?”

  “I called Dad. He’s in the car. We’re going out for food.”

  Annabelle glanced at Jack. “Louisa was at a wedding rehearsal. She’s a bridesmaid for her cousin.”

  Jack nodded. He was imagining himself punching Durst through his car window. He walked back into the kitchen, closing the patio door behind him.

  “I remember you,” said Louisa. She tilted her head to the right, the stern look was replaced with a smirk. “You’re the gas man.”

  “The best in the business.”

  “He’s cute, Mum. Nice shoulders.”

  “Don’t be smart.”

  Louisa crossed her arms. “When are you going to introduce him to Dad?”

  “We’ve already met,” said Jack. He was glad he was no longer a nineteen-year-old, hormones surging, confused, loud, fragile. Girls like Louisa had always eaten poor bastards like that for breakfast.

  “Oh, good. Then you can say hello.” She smiled at Jack, then winked at her mother.

  “That’s enough, Louisa.”

  “I’ll just go get him.” She walked out of the kitchen and down the hall.

  “You might have to set another place,” said Jack, bristling.

  “This isn’t funny.” Annabelle walked over and picked up her glass from the dining table and drank: but wine was the wrong drink. It was not for going down quickly. She coughed. “She won’t bring him in.”

  “Maybe he’s hungry.”

  “She won’t bring him in.”

  The extraction fan whined. Jack strained his ears, listening for the front door, for footsteps down the hall. Annabelle was listening, too. A minute later, they both heard them.

  Here he comes. Jack dropped his right hand to his side and flexed his fingers. His heart beat hard in his chest. He had never thumped a middle-aged metrosexual before.

  ~9~<
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  Hammond Kasprowicz was far from marxist, but he strode into the kitchen like a politburo minister of the former Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. His face was flushed and sweaty: under the whiteness of his hair, his colour reminded Jack of a hot saveloy. He was dressed in a charcoal grey suit, white shirt, and a broad, pale yellow tie. There was a black leather briefcase in his hand. He dropped it onto the floor beside the island bench and immediately began tugging at the Windsor knot around his neck.

  “You should teach your daughter some manners.”

  He said it without looking at Annabelle at all. His voice was gruff, but tired. He removed his jacket, then checked the pockets before throwing it onto a stool.

  Annabelle walked over to the dinner table and sat down. Jack stood looking at Kasprowicz, wondering when the old man was going to acknowledge his presence.

  “I thought you were flying back tomorrow night,” said Annabelle.

  Kasprowicz grunted. “Obviously.” He opened a cupboard door and removed a bottle of Scotch. “Are you well, Mr Susko?”

  “Any better I’d burst. Yourself?”

  No reply. Kasprowicz hunched his broad, round back over the bottle and cracked the cap.

  “Sit down, Jack.” Annabelle motioned to his chair.

  “Yes.” Kasprowicz poured himself three fat fingers of Scotch. “Please, don’t let me disturb your dinner.” He held onto the edge of the granite bench-top, tilted his head back and threw half the Scotch down his throat.

  “You’re a smooth operator, Susko,” he said, his back still to them. “One minute you’re knee-deep in smelly old books, the next you’re in my kitchen, enjoying a meal with my daughter.” He brought the glass up to his mouth again. “I can only hope you’ve applied yourself as tenaciously to my little job.”

  Jack grinned. Kasprowicz was quick: he might be old, but his brain ticked over like it had been engineered in Stuttgart. “I’m giving it my full attention, Hammond. I didn’t know you were such a fan of your brother’s work.”