Fatal Liaison (8 page)

Brenda took the card from Megan. “Certainly not Gregory B Jenkins.”
She screwed up her eyes and then reopened them. “Justin. Justin Harris. Or at
least that’s what he called himself.”

“Okay, so assuming he didn’t go to all the trouble to have business
cards printed under a false name, then Justin has to be an alias.”

Brenda laughed. “How very deductive of you. So what does that mean?”

“Be serious, Brenda. Justin or Greg or whoever he is seemed really
anxious. And then there was Pauline’s little contretemps when she thought he
was a cop.” Megan stared unseeing into the distance, rubbing at an invisible
spot on her chin.

“Lawson!”

He started, almost toppling the untouched beer in front of him.

“Lawson, what was Pauline referring to earlier when she said she’d
told the police that the girl’s disappearance had nothing to do with you?”

Lawson opened his mouth as if to speak, but nothing came out.

“Is the girl Pauline referred to the same one in that photo? Do you
know her? Her brother – that’s making the assumption he’s telling the truth
about that – is really worried about her.”

With a despondent shake of the head and still avoiding her gaze,
Lawson managed a few incoherent words before Pauline flew to his rescue.

“Can’t you see he’s devastated enough without you two harassing
him?” Pauline’s voice had lost all pretence at civility, her posh accent giving
way to brassy overtones. “That woman latched on to young Lawson here, and then
without a word of by your leave, discarded him and took off. To where we don’t
know. Lawson’s better off without her, anyway.” She squeezed Lawson’s shoulder.
“So does that answer your questions, ladies?” She bared her teeth in some
semblance of a grin. “Right, that’s sorted then. Enjoy your evening.”

Lawson lifted his head and with more verve than Megan had seen from
him all evening, dislodged Pauline’s hand from his shoulder. Pivoting on his
stool, he then confronted her. “I would really appreciate it if you would keep
your nose out of my business. You are not my mother and I can fight my own battles,
thank you very much.” The words came out hard and clipped.

With a sharp intake of breath, Pauline’s expression crumpled, the
self-righteous grin wiped from her face. Under the room’s low light and her
heavy makeup, her face burned red. Embarrassment or rage? Both, Megan decided.

Before she knew it, Lawson had deserted the three women and was
jostling his way to the bar’s front door. Pauline remained rooted to the spot,
her eyes pursuing him as he headed for the exit. Lawson tugged at the door,
which swung inwards, and he slipped out.

For what seemed like minutes, but were undoubtedly only seconds or
fractions of a second, no one moved or spoke. Eventually Pauline dragged her
gaze from the door and turned to Megan and Brenda.

Pauline’s eyebrows drew together, her slightly protruding bottom lip
trembling. Emotion Megan hadn’t until then equated with the hard-nosed,
impeccably groomed woman in front of her. Pauline dropped her face into her
hands, masking any further display of weakness.

Megan glanced sideways at Brenda, who returned the look, her mouth
contorting in a silent grimace. The sudden turn of events had clearly
discomfited not only herself, but also her friend. At any other time, Megan’s
first instinct would have been to console the upset woman, but she was far too
wary of Pauline to let instincts take over. The woman intimidated her.

Brenda jumped to her feet, poised to bolt. “Pauline… uhhh… can I get
you a drink?”

A muffled sound something between a sob and a hiccup escaped from
behind Pauline’s hands.

Brenda made a break for it, leaving Megan to contend with the
uncharacteristically emotional woman. “Be right back. One stiff drink coming
up.”

Megan swallowed, her saliva bitter. What was happening couldn’t be
real. It had all become too melodramatic for real life. Somewhere along the
line, she’d been transported into the middle of a TV soap opera set. Okay, so
what would the script call for now?

Thankful for the barrier the table provided, Megan stretched out her
hand and lightly tapped the table in front of where Lawson had been sitting.
“Pauline?” Her voice was soft, scarcely above a whisper. “Pauline? Why don’t
you have a seat? Brenda will be back soon.”

There was some sniffling before Pauline peered at her through
splayed fingers. “Beg yours?”

Megan gestured to the vacant stool opposite her, while at the same
time casting her eyes over the room, searching for Brenda. Some friend. She’d
kill her for leaving her in this predicament. It caught her off guard when she
spotted Brenda at the bar talking animatedly to Mr Ginger Moustache.

“Sorry, Pauline. What did you say?” Her attention remained focused
on the bar.

“Never mind. It wasn’t important.” The hard edge was back in
Pauline’s voice.

Surprisingly, Megan actually felt quite comforted by that. She
looked around only to find that Pauline had decamped. She shook her head and,
without another thought for Pauline, returned to trying to make out what was
happening over at the bar.

Brenda knew what Megan thought of the lecherous ginger-mustached
man. Not much. What was going on? It didn’t appear Brenda was giving him a
dressing down or a brush-off. From the serious expressions on their faces and
the slowing of Brenda’s hands, the conversation tone had obviously sobered. And
whilst their heads edged in closer to each other, their feet remained fixed in
one spot. So, what was going on?

Almost beside herself with curiosity, Megan was in two minds about
what to do. Her aversion, however, for Mr Ginger Moustache kept her backside
firmly planted on the bench-seat. She was still watching the pair when Brenda
turned and pointed in her direction. Megan shrank back. She’d have ducked under
the table if she could’ve got away with it. Mr Ginger Moustache glanced towards
the rear of the room where she sat, but even if he did see her, he never
acknowledged it. Turning back to Brenda, he nodded and drew what appeared to be
some type of wallet from his hip pocket.

She became more intrigued when he extracted something from the
wallet and handed it to Brenda. What she’d have given to eavesdrop.

As the barman approached the counter where the pair stood, they
stopped talking, turning to converse with the barman. With only their backs in
view Megan had even less of an idea of what was happening.

So preoccupied with the events at the bar, she failed to notice the
spiky-haired man standing a couple of paces away. It wasn’t until he coughed
that she became aware of him.

“Yes?” she snapped, eyeing the intruder with undisguised hostility.

He stepped backwards, stumbling over his words. “…uh… sorry… uh… to
bother you…” He turned to walk away.

She couldn’t blame him. Even she was taken aback by her own
belligerence. “No, wait.”

He hesitated.

“Sorry, I really didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”

With a slight skew of his body, he peered over his shoulder. She met
his gaze with an apologetic half-smile.

He hesitated, then turned to face her, standing with his legs apart,
as he waited for her to continue.

Something about the way he looked at her with those intense,
deep-set eyes flustered her. Her hand drifted to her throat as a swell of heat
rose from her chest. “Sorry—” Why was she apologizing? But she couldn’t help
herself. “Sorry,” she repeated. “How can I help you?” Now she sounded like a
helpline operator.

He smiled, his eyes creasing in amusement. “I saw you sitting here
alone and thought you might like some company.” He extended his hand. “Joe
Renmark.”

It took her a second or two to remember the supposed reason she was
sitting in this bar. The same reason why he and everyone else in the room was
there. His hand swamped hers, his grip warm and firm. In the middle of
introducing herself to Joe, she happened to glance to his right and spied
Brenda, laden with drinks, carefully wending her way through the maze of tables
and people. And to Megan’s dismay, Mr Ginger Moustache was right on her heels.

Joe’s amused expression turned to one of bewilderment as Megan
wrenched him into the seat next to her. It’d been totally instinctive on her
part, a protective measure. If the seat beside her was occupied, then there was
no possibility of Mr Ginger Moustache stationing himself too close.

Brenda, her face rigid with concentration, squeezed past the last
obstacle in her path. Only after offloading her clutch of two glasses of red
wine and a tall tumbler of dark liquid did she raise her eyes. The beginnings
of a smirk tweaked the corners of her mouth as she claimed the barstool
directly opposite Megan.

Leaving Joe to fend for himself and ignoring Brenda’s unmistakable
glee, Megan selected one of the glasses of red wine and lifted it to her lips,
inhaling the slightly astringent aroma. Joe rose to his feet and formally
introduced himself to Brenda and her newfound best friend, reinforcing Megan’s
impression of him as a gentleman.

Megan’s manners, on the other hand, left a lot to be desired. What
was wrong with her? After all, suave attractive men didn’t pop into her life
every day. She couldn’t even put her crankiness down to PMT. The last time
Brenda had ribbed her about being a lipstick-wearing Rottweiler was less than
two weeks ago.

Setting her wine glass on the table in front of her, Megan raised
her eyes and gazed straight ahead at Brenda. Unfortunately, the imaginary
blinkers she had fitted didn’t work, and she couldn’t help but catch Mr Ginger
Moustache’s crooked leer out of the corner of her eye. She shivered, the hairs
on the back of her neck rising. What had prompted Brenda to bring that man back
to the table? Especially when she knew how Megan felt about him.

Trapped behind the table, there was no quick exit. At least there
was safety in numbers. The inclination to swig the rest of her wine was strong,
but the memory of last weekend’s hangover remained fresh in her mind. Instead,
she took a deep breath and steeled herself, arranging her features into what
she hoped was a neutral expression.

The very least Brenda owed her was an explanation. And it’d better
be good. But until then, Megan would have to bide her time playing the game and
making small talk.

“Not a bad place,” Joe said, next to her. “Have you been here
before?”

Megan shook her head. “It’s quite new. I think it used be a sushi
bar.”

“You live in the city?”

“St Kilda, but I work not far from here. What about you?”

“North Carlton – home of the Blues. Do you follow the footy?” He swigged
his beer.

She pulled a face. “I’m not a big sports fan, sorry.”

The corner of Joe’s mouth lifted in a lopsided grin. “It’s not a
crime.”

She spent the next ten minutes trying to avoid getting into any form
of conversation with Mr Ginger Moustache. She needn’t have worried. He was more
intent on bragging to Brenda, waffling on about his awesome skills as a landscaper
and how much presale landscaping increased property values. Every now and
again, he’d move his head and try to bring Megan into the conversation by
asking her a question. Her curt one- and two-word replies soon defeated him.

Breathing a little easier, Megan slouched in her seat, using the
bench-seat’s padded back to support her spine. Closing her eyes for a second or
two just confirmed how exhausted she really was. If she didn’t get her second
wind soon she’d have to abandon Brenda yet again. That or fall asleep at the
table. She opened her eyes, blinking rapidly in an effort to ease the dry
gritty sensation.

Joe was speaking, but she only caught the tail end of what he was
saying. Something about bush fires. She nodded her head hoping it was the
appropriate action. He continued talking, the mellow tone of his voice
hypnotizing her. On one level, she was listening to him, but on another, her
thoughts were faraway pondering Lawson’s abrupt and moody departure, Pauline’s
clingy overprotectiveness of Lawson, Mata Hari’s absence, and Gregory’s missing
sister. As far as she could deduce the only common denominator was Lawson.

A pat on her hand broke her trance. “Earth calling Megan.”

Megan looked up, her eyes focusing on the source of the voice.
Brenda sat perched on her barstool opposite, grinning at her, her head tilted
to the side, waggling her hand in a royal wave.

“Another?” Brenda nodded at Megan’s empty wine glass. “The boys are
just on their way to the bar. Aren’t you?” she said, bestowing her most
charming smile on Joe and Ginger Moustache. Neither man had the temerity to
refuse her.

As soon as the two men were out of earshot, Megan seized the
opportunity to tackle Brenda about Ginger Moustache. “What possessed you to
hook up with…” She paused and flicked her head in the direction of the men’s
retreating backs. “…him?”

Brenda didn’t miss a beat. “Business,” she replied matter-of-factly.

“What do you mean, business?”

“Business. What I do.” Brenda unzipped her handbag, fished out a
business card and presented it to Megan with a flourish. “Real estate business.
Not only is Robert looking to add to his property portfolio, but do you know
how hard it is to find good landscapers, let alone specialist presale ones. So
be nice to him.”