Williams - Live and Let Fry

Australias answer to New Jerseys Janet Evanovich. NZ Listener

Vern slung his crocodile-skin bag up onto my counter. Twelve of the bastards in there. Counted em myself.

I tried but failed to a vert my gaze from the bag. It smelled: not a good smell. And really not the kind of smell you welcome in a quality food establishment.

For Cass Tuplin, proprietor of the Rusty Bore Takeaway (and definitely not an unlicensed private investigator), its weird enough that her neighbour Vern has somehow acquired a lady friend. But then he asks Cass to look into the case of the dead rats someone dumped on Joannes doorstep.

Shes barely started when Joanne goes missing, leaving hints of an unsavoury past. Then a private investigator from Melbourne turns up asking questions about Joannes involvement in a fatal house fireand before you can say unauthorised investigation Cass is back on the case.

Praise for Sue Williams Rusty Bore mysteries

A wonderful tongue-in-cheek style and a crazy plot that keeps you turning the pages. Otago Daily Times

Fun and often charming crime fiction, thanks to its winning super-sleuth heroine. Saturday Paper

For Ross

CONTENTS

Until Vern arrived with his crocodile bag crisis, it was shaping up to be a normal January Friday in the Rusty Bore Takeaway. Three lunchtime regulars. A lost couple looking for directions back to the highway and a last-minute banana Paddle Pop. Then a long stretch of hot-afternoon quiet, interrupted only by Showbags rooster, Errol, ambling past my shop door. Moving slo-mo in the heat.

I settled into some quality time with my counter. One of the pluses of auto-wiping is the way it doesnt interfere with a persons thinkingthe brain can finally grind through lifes crucial questions: how to find peace in the Middle East, who the hell to vote for in the next election, how to craft the perfect sausage roll. I dabbed at the flawless glass of the bain-marie, and my mind drifted into a Leo-related fantasy. Leo had been away working overseas the last ten months and was due back Monday. Ill admit I was looking forward to seeing him.

My shop bell rang. I wrestled Leos flawless naked body from my thoughts and looked up. Only Vern. His general store and my takeaway constitute the CBD of Rusty Bore, along with a row of three galvanised steel silos.

Vern was wearing his usual kit: a white singlet and blue shorts a size too small. He scurried over to my counter clutching a green crocodile-skin bag.

Cass. Got a predicament. He shot a look over his shoulder, as though the predicament was tailing him.

Uh huh, I said, non-committal. I really wasnt up to another briefing on Verns ingrown hairs. Hes a recent convert to cycling, which is a good thing mostlybut theres been a less than positive impact on his follicles in certain regions.

Yep. In urgent need of your investigative services.

Not into his regions, I fervently hoped.

He plonked the bag on the floor and leaned his elbowhis only elbow, given Vern lost an arm way back, before he arrived in Rusty Boreup on my counter. But you gotta promise to keep the matter confidential.

Let me just stop you there, Vern. What you require is some kind of ointment, probably, so like I already said, you need to go see the chemist. I continued wiping down the glass. High time I started setting boundaries.

Chemist? Jesus, focus, Cass. Verns red-broken-veined face had an unusually anxious look about it. I got reason to believe a crimes been committed.

My hand froze on my cloth. Youd better phone Dean. Senior Constable Dean Tuplin. My eldest. Recently transferred to Mildura andwell, Deans headed for better times any day; bound to be. I hope.

That arrogant bastard? No way. Vern paused. No offence intended.

I tried not to take any. Its true Dean could consider some adjustments to his interpersonal style.

Well, what about Paula? Sergeant Paula Vandenberg in Muddy Soak. Paulas terrific: efficient, organised; actually listens to people. Shes the best thing that ever happened to Victoria Police. Apart from Dean, of course.

Nah, this is a private matter. Needs a specialistas in you.

Hung up my badge, Vern. Well, Id shoved Edna Rawlins handwritten Certificate of Appreciation up the back of my undies drawer, along with all the thank-you notes. Im not actually a private detective, not officially. As Dean is fond of pointing outno licence, et cetera.

Thing is, Deans outlook, unswerving though it may be, has a major flawin the form of Rusty Bores 147 inhabitants, who have convinced themselves Im some crime-solving mastermind. Indefatigable! The Mallees answer to James Bond! according to the Hustle Post. Always reliable for its hyperbole, the Post. Still, you have to appreciate the loyalty.

Cass. Im serious. Vern paused. I mean, this is fora friend.

Sorry, youll have to find someone else.

Verns shoulders slumped.

I didnt feel good saying that, obviously, but Ive found lifes a lot easier if I dont enrage Dean. Tell them youre not a bloody detective, Mum. Simple as that. And far better than getting yourself locked up. No need for Dean to mention whod be turning the key.

I ploughed on with the cloth, trying to ignore Verns sad blue eyes, which had just turned a whole lot sadder. I dont like disappointing people, especially when theyre people I sort-of care about even if theyre deeply annoying.

After a few moments, I paused with my wiping and glanced up: Vern hadnt gone anywhere. A desolate expression on his face. Kind of like the expression hed had whenwell, its something I prefer not to dwell on, but its true to say Vern and I have a complicated history. Theres really no need to go into details, but it was pre-Leo. Way, way before Leo, at a time when I was feeling vulnerable. One tiny misjudged moment in a persons past. Her deeply distant past.

A past Verns made clear hed be more than willing to revisit, unfortunately. After all, Cass, Leos buggered off overseas and never coming back. No point waiting round for the bastard, everyone except you can see that.

I put down my cloth. Listen, Ive gotta go batter a pile of potato cakes. You talk to Paulashell be able to help, Im sure of it. And shell understand discretion if youI mean, if your friend needs that.

Verns eyes narrowed. This predicament isnt bloody well mine, if thats what youre insinuating. Im asking on behalf of someone.

Who? I couldnt help asking.

He shuffled his feet. Joanne.

Dont think Ive had the pleasure I know everyone in Rusty Bore. Zero Joannes.

Joanne Smith. You know, in Sheep Dip. Moved there recently. Runs the secondhand bookshop.

A bookshop? In Sheep Dip? This was pretty elaborate, even for Vern. Last time I drove out there, Sheep Dip consisted of an old church, a defunct roadhouse and two disused silos.

Lovely woman. And bloody smart. Yeah, weve become quite close, me and Jo. Verns face took on an unusual pinkish glow.

Right. I stared at him.

Ah. You didnt know. He paused. Shoulda broke it to you more gently. Probly come as a bit of a shock. He cleared his throat. Well, youre gunna have to face up to it, Cass. Some of us have moved on.

A short gaspy pause before I could actually speak. Wellthatsgreat youve met someone, Vern. I worked hard to moderate the joy in my voice, aiming to bring it down to a level approximating normal. Maybe the bookshop was fiction, but it certainly sounded like Joanne was real. Anyway, these potato cakes arent going to batter themselves

But Vern didnt take the hint. He slung his crocodile-skin bag up onto my counter. Twelve of the bastards in there. Counted em myself.