Meg checked the grocery order one more time. She’d been surprised not to receive a last-minute call from Mrs. Turner regarding forgotten items. Truth be told, she’d expected them to need a fair bit more up at the house to see them through the festive season, particularly with Mr. Turner’s sister adding to their numbers. Then again, perhaps that was the cause. Mrs. Turner had a lot to think about, what with the new baby and a houseguest to entertain.
There was a bit of space left in the top of the Turners’ box, and Meg added a few extra treats—she’d done the same for all of her best customers: some homemade strawberry jam, a jar of her fish paste, and a loaf of her much-lovedRoggenbrot. Finally, with the box full to overbrimming, Meg called for Kurt. She experienced a fleck of impatience as she waited, provoked in part by the lingering effects of the pace at which she’d worked all day.
When Kurt didn’t appear, she called again. It was unlike him to skip out when the day’s work was yet to be finished.
“Turns out he was checking that the Misses Edwards’ lawn wasshipshape for Christmas,” she was to tell police in the coming week, when they inquired after his whereabouts. “They’re such fine and dainty ladies, the pair of them. They hark back to a different time and they like everything just so.”
“So when you called for him to take the Turner delivery, he was unavailable because he was out at the old mill?” asked Sergeant Duke.
“Yes, sir.”
“Asking the Misses Edwards whether they needed the lawn done before Christmas?”
“I don’t think he spoke with them. They do very well, but they’re nearing ninety. They take a long rest in the afternoon. No, he just went and had a look for himself. Did what needed doing.”
While Sergeant Duke was making a note, Mrs. Summers hesitated, and seemed to judge that clarification was required. “He’d been taking care of the lawn out at the old mill since he was knee-high to a grasshopper. He knew what to look for.”
“Can you tell me how long he was gone?”
“I wasn’t paying attention—I had that much on my plate. Not long, though, I’m sure of it.”
With Kurt unavailable, Mrs. Summers called instead for her younger son. She did so with some trepidation. He’d helped her at the counter all morning, but he was fourteen, and somewhat moody with it, and had been in his bedroom for the past hour cycling through his rock’n’roll records. When he appeared at the back of the shop, though, Mrs. Summers was pleasantly surprised.
“He could see how harried I was,” she explained to Sergeant Duke. “He’s a good boy, my Marcus. Mood or not, he never could stand to see me troubled, bless him. I loaded the box into the canvas bag we use for bicycle deliveries and told him to get the order up there nice and quickly, so the cold items didn’t perish—it was so hot that day—and he certainly was fast: he was back before I took my cake out of the oven.”
Indeed, sitting beside his father in the police station the following week, the day after his brother, Kurt, Marcus was to confirm, after a certain amount of probing, that his plan had been to get in and out of the Turner place as speedily as he could.
“You and John Turner weren’t getting along?”
Marcus didn’t answer at once, but he looked so dejected it took all of Sergeant Duke’s mettle to hold the line. Interviewing kids, especially a boy who’d lost a good mate that he’d been bluing with, was one of the worst parts of his job.
“Just give me a nod or a no, mate,” he said, thinking of his own son, Pete Jr., whose stubborn little face could crumple in an instant when pressed too hard.
Marcus managed a nod. Hehadbeen out of sorts with his good friend, John. He’d agreed to make the delivery to help his mum, but in truth, Marcus Summers admitted, glancing up briefly at Sergeant Duke, he had hoped not to seeanyof the Turners if he could help it.
***
10
Unfortunately for Marcus, as so often happens when one is dead set on avoiding an encounter, the first person he’d seen as he rounded the final curve of the driveway and arrived at the house was John. His erstwhile friend was up in the top field, still some distance away in the long grass, a brown box-shaped object slung over his shoulder on a strap, and a long, straight stick in his hand that he was swinging first this way and then that like a sword. The grazing cows, their black backs silver in the sun, ignored him. He looked hot, and decidedly bothered. Marcus hurried around to the back of the house and made his way along the verandah.
Some distance ahead of him, Evie Turner was riding a red tricyclethat had been antique long before she was born and was, anyway, far too small for her. She was pedaling slowly away from Marcus, her long plait snaking down her back, the wheels of the tricycle making a rusty squeak with every turn. Evie had been riding lazy laps around the verandah for at least thirty minutes. As the youngest (until baby Thea’s recent arrival), she was often called upon to wait while the others got themselves organized.
As Evie disappeared around the far corner, Marcus passed beneath the walnut tree and reached the back door that opened directly into the kitchen. He hoped to leave the groceries on the bench and then escape, as he had done many times before, but alas, both Mrs. Turner and the visiting aunt from Sydney were standing right there in the center of the room. Mrs. Turner was in the midst of lunch preparations, and the pine table was covered with buttered bread laid out in rows, as well as a rainbow cake, thickly iced, that had already been cut into slices. Four thermoses stood waiting to be filled, beside a very large stainless-steel teapot, the sort his dad kept for camping.
“What good timing,” said Mrs. Turner when she saw him. Although she was preparing lunch, her dress was of the type he had seen in the glamour magazines in his mother’s shop. “I was just deciding what to put in these sandwiches.”
Surprise at having found the kitchen occupied made Marcus slow to respond. Being faced with Mrs. Turner made him awkward. Finally, he found his voice, hating himself for stammering as he said, “M-mum says she put in a few extra things. F-for Christmas.”
“How kind, and after sending a gift for the baby already. There really is no end to her generosity. Of course, I have a little something for her, too. I’ve been meaning to drop it down all week, but I’ve hardly stopped. There’s always so much to do at this time of year, don’t you find? I’m sure your mother’s just the same, busy with the shop and everything else she does. I suppose she has a big Christmas planned for your family?”
Mrs. Turner-Bridges, sitting in a cane chair in the coolest, dimmest corner of the kitchen, had been watching this exchange with no small amount of surprise. It was not like Isabel to be so garrulous. Her face had taken on an almost tortured expression when she commented on the other woman’s kindness. Nora listened for a time, wondering what her sister-in-law could possibly be skittish about, before she realized. Isabel didn’t have a gift for Mrs. Summers. She had been caught out and was now stalling. “Dearest,” Nora interjected gently, “you’re busy here. Shall I go and fetch the present for Mrs. Summers?”
Isabel was confused at first, but quickly caught on. “Yes, thank you,” she said, with perfect faith that Nora would be able to find something suitable. To Marcus: “You don’t mind waiting, do you?”
Whether he minded or not was beside the point. He had been asked to wait by a customer of his mother’s, an older person in his community, and thus a lifetime of parental instruction made it impossible for him to do otherwise. Marcus glanced back toward the open door before giving a quick, agonized nod.
“And, Nora, will you ask Matilda to come and see me?” Isabel called after her sister-in-law. She smiled at Marcus, apologetic at having raised her voice, and started unloading groceries from the box. “I’d best get these cold items away,” she continued. “It’s so hot today. So very hot. Fish paste—my favorite... However did your mother know?”
