Claire McNab - Dead Certain

And, for Carol, Madeline held one other potent attraction-she was one of the few people Carol could relax with concerning her private life. She not only knew about Carol and Sybil, she also understood-being so firmly in the closet herself-the tightrope act of balancing professional and private lives. She shared with Carol the same conviction: “Announce publicly that you’re a lesbian, and to your face people will say how brave you are to stop living a lie and how much they admire you. Then you wave goodbye to your career.”

As she dialed Madeline Shipley’s private line, Carol realized that she was actively looking forward to hearing Madeline’s voice, her lazy, beguiling laugh.

Madeline answered at the third ring. “Carol? Why haven’t I seen you lately? How’s Sybil?”

It was a loaded question, though Madeline couldn’t know this. “Sybil’s fine.”

A slight pause, then Madeline said with an indefinable note in her voice, “That’s good.”

Carol could visualize Madeline’s quizzical expression. Wanting to short-circuit any further personal questions, she said, “What can I do for you?”

Madeline chuckled at Carol’s businesslike tone. “No time for idle chitchat, eh? Well, Carol, you know very well what you can do for me. You may know we’ve been preparing a TV special about Collis Raeburn and the Eureka Opera Company. Deadlines have become rather more urgent with his death, so I’m asking for absolutely every gruesome detail you can give me.”

“This is where you get the standard reply.”

“No it isn’t,” said Madeline with conviction. “I’ve got something to trade. Have dinner with me tonight after the show and I’ll tell you some very interesting things.”

Carol found herself smiling. I really want to see her . “How do I know it’ll be worth my while?”

“One little phrase should do it,” said Madeline. “How about ‘HIV-positive’?”

Edward Livingston’s personal assistant seemed accustomed to parrying irksome requests. “I’m sorry, Inspector, but Mr. Livingston cannot come to the phone at the moment, and I’m not sure when he’ll be available. I’d be pleased to pass on a message.”

Carol said formally, “I’m investigating the circumstances of Collis Raeburn’s death. Information given to me in confidence regarding Mr. Livingston leads me to believe he can materially assist this investigation. For that reason I need to see him as soon as possible.”

“I’m sorry, but-” The voice broke off, to be replaced by a rich baritone.

“Inspector Ashton? Someone’s been gossiping about me, have they?”

So he’d been unable to resist the bait. Carol made arrangements to meet the controversial opera manager mid-afternoon.

“Look, Inspector, let’s make it neutral territory. How about the cafe on the broadwalk in front of the Opera House? We can sit out in the sun and share our secrets with the seagulls.”

She was leaning back in her chair considering the questions she intended to ask when Mark Bourke brought Pat James into her office, an embarrassed pride in his manner. Carol was warmed to see the affection on his face as he smiled at his future wife.

In a little over a week, Carol would be watching these two exchange their vows for a life together. What irony-the ceremony that would link Pat and Mark was the point of conflict that had driven Sybil to leave. Carol couldn’t separate the ache of loss from the confused anger she felt.

“Ready?” Pat said to Carol.

Pat James emanated the buoyant good health that Carol always, for some reason, associated with involvement with team games such as basketball or hockey, and, in general, to being a “good sport.” She was tall, close to the same height as Bourke, but whereas his solid build made him a definite, heavy physical presence, Pat’s light frame seemed springy and resilient.

She grinned at Carol. “Let’s blow the joint and do coffee, eh? Oxford Street?”

Collecting her things, Carol said, “Mark, we’ll be at the usual place. Pick Pat up when you’re ready for lunch.”

“I’m ready now.”

“You’re not, you know. I want more details on Edward Livingston and his financial situation… and I’d like you to come with me this afternoon, since I’ve pinned him down for an interview.”

Oxford Street was its usual busy mix of nationalities, sexual orientations and colorfully eccentric personalities. This first section of the busy street had a certain seedy enthusiasm, a bohemian acceptance of differences; however, after it flowed past the sandstone law courts in Taylor Square, the money of fashionable Paddington began to dilute and refine its raw vitality.

The coffee shop was Italian-clean, cramped and dominated by a fiendishly hissing coffee machine. After ordering black coffee for herself and cappuccino for Pat, Carol said, “What are people saying about Collis Raeburn’s death?”

“The arts world’s abuzz. Last night we had a cocktail party at the Gallery to launch a new exhibition of Asian artifacts, and believe me, Collis Raeburn was the main topic of conversation. Mind, no one has any hard information, but that little detail has never stopped gossip before.”

Wincing as Pat stirred three heaped teaspoons of sugar into her coffee, Carol decided that the word that best described Pat James was good-humored.

She smiled readily, and, when really amused, guffawed. She had an irreverent, frank approach that seemed at odds with the artistic and cultural world in which she moved because of her position at the Art Gallery of New South Wales.

Pat took a sip of her coffee, made a face, then stirred it vigorously. “There’s very real grief at his death. He really had the most extraordinary voice…” A thought suddenly amused her. “Carol, like a bet? Ten dollars says someone at Raeburn’s funeral says, ‘We shall not see his like again.’ You on?”

“I never bet against sure things.”

Pat looked at her thoughtfully. “No doubt the Raeburn family are pulling strings. Kenneth Raeburn is a ruthless little bastard who likes to throw his weight around, although I have heard that his son was about to dump him.”

Astonished, Carol said, “Dump him how?”

“From the family company. Collis Raeburn employed his father and sister to run his career and handle the financial side of things, but Kenneth has a lot more arrogance than good sense, and Collis was talking of bringing in a professional manager. This could’ve been embarrassing for his father, since there’d be an audit. My guess is that Kenneth Raeburn’s business skills would have been found seriously wanting.”

“So Collis’s death would get him off the hook?”

Pat grinned sardonically. “Although Mark won’t tell me anything about the investigation, the word around the traps is that you’ve been put on the case because you have high credibility and if you say it was all a nasty accident, who will contradict you?”

Carol wanted to say, Do you really believe I’m for hire? That I’d compromise myself that way ? But to put it into words would be to imply she believed Pat might think it possible…

“It’s manifestly clear,” said Pat scornfully, “that a nice, clean accidental death would be the best result for the family, especially one that only involves prescription drugs.”

“Meaning?”

“Collis was supposed to be a very good client for drugs, principally cocaine. It seems a popular theory that he accidentally killed himself with a cocktail of illegal substances. Then there’s the clique that just knows he died from unrequited love.”

“For whom?”

“Carol, I do admire your grammar!” She took a sip of coffee, then grew more serious. “Supposedly, he’d been having an affair with Corinne Jawalski, but some people think it was a smokescreen for his real affair with Graeme Welton. And, to add a little spice to the pot, it’s rumored that early in his career he had quite a steamy romance with Alanna Brooks.”