Kavanagh Illusion of Death (A Belinda Lawrence Mystery)

1. Auflage 2018
ISBN: 978-1-925846-44-7
Verlag: Vivid Publishing
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 280 Seiten

Power. Envy. Greed. Lies. All surround amateur sleuths Belinda Lawrence and Hazel Whitby in this maze of personalities. An invitation to a private screening at a film group involves them in more than the cinematic arts. Murder and the search for a long-lost film, involve them in more hair-raising adventures as they begin to investigate each member of the group, all of whom could be potential murderers. Belinda's skills are tested as she faces the greatest danger in her sleuthing life.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Kavanagh, Brian

Leseproben

Chapter Two Belinda Lawrence stood on the corner of Flinders & Swanston streets, outside St Paul’s Cathedral while waiting for the green light. Her thoughtful eyes followed the throng discharging from the rail station, sometimes veiled by the hulking, clangourous trams rattling across the intersection. Her mood was one of nostalgia blended with melancholy. The lights turned green, and along with the bustling crowd, Belinda made her way across to Federation Square. Her nostalgia stemmed from a return to her hometown of Melbourne and the gossamer memories it invoked. Melancholy from her recent breakup with her lover Mark Sallinger which, while undeniably justified, left an unexpected emptiness in her life along with a dispiriting ache lurking in the shadows. The crossing complete, the Square lay before her, crowded now in the late summer sun with lunchtime diners, noisy college groups draped around the ochre-coloured sandstone blocks, fiddling with smartphones and taking selfies. Some tone-deaf street musicians added to the maelstrom of Melbourne at play. Belinda turned from this and made her way along Flinders Street to the Australian Centre for the Moving Image. A large white acronym ACMI indicated she had arrived at her destination. The cinema programme had listed some films Belinda wanted to see, and she had agreed to meet up with Hazel Whitby who had gone on a shopping spree. A mixture of various film soundtracks emanating from a large display area drew Belinda into ‘Screen Worlds The Story of Film, Television & Digital Culture’, where historic fragments of a past culture’s moving image were on display: early cinema cameras, projectors, television sets, all marshalled together now for exploration by a generation bewitched by smartphones, social media, downloads, and the frangibility of digital 21st century enlightenment. A display of coloured glass slides took her attention. They appeared to be religious images depicting the life of Christ. She began to read the accompanying text. “Belinda?” The sharp enquiry made her turn to seek out the speaker. “Belinda Lawrence? Is that you? Approaching her with tentative gait and querulous expression was a small rotund figure draped in a voluminous pashmina shawl conspicuously emblazoned with lurid butterflies. The colourful accessories, glitzy hair ornaments, fingers heavy with rings, armbands and bracelets, which taken together, indicated an aficionado of fin de siècle 20th-century fashion. And crowning her head, hair the colour of straw, tipped with a purple tint, was held in the fashion of a distraught haystack, completing what the woman no doubt believed expressed her individuality and charisma. A faint memory stirred in the back of Belinda’s brain. “Belinda! It’s me. Bridie Kelly.” A wide smile creased the woman’s face as she clutched at Belinda’s arm. Images of gymslips and the faint clink of hockey sticks flooded Belinda’s memory; Bridie Kelly, class swat, amateur thespian (her Lady Macbeth inspired excessive deployment of hand lotion among Year Ten scholars) and all-around eccentric. “Oh, Bridie! You haven’t changed a bit,” said Belinda, as she tried to extricate her arm from Bridie’s grasp. “I haven’t seen you since you went off to Uni,” chattered Bridie enthusiastically, “let me look at you.” She stepped back to evaluate her old school chum. What she saw was an apparition of what she had once aspired to but had failed, so miserably, to accomplish: Belinda had retained her slim build and figure, dressed now in a cream linen trouser suit. Her complexion clear, with one or two small wrinkles that come naturally as one approaches thirty: bright blue eyes, honey coloured hair: all in all, an attractive woman at her peak. “I heard you inherited a mansion in South Kensington,” babbled Bridie, “after your aunt, who was a murderer and…” Belinda was startled. “Nothing of the kind! My great aunt was murdered, and I inherited her cottage, not in South Kensington, but in Bath.” Bridie chose to be agnostic towards this claim. A poor substitute for the grapevine scandal she had spread over many luncheon tables. “Not what I heard. Still, if you say so. But you did get involved selling antiques?” “Yes. With Hazel. Hazel Whitby. You might meet her. We arranged to see a film here.” However, Bridie would not be distracted from her inquisition. “And aren’t you engaged to a knight or a baron, or something? Anyway, someone with a title. We always said you’d make good. Will you be married here or in London?” A shadow passed over Belinda’s face as she finally broke free from Bridie’s control. “Well, sadly the engagement is off.” Bridie pulled a face indicating disappointment but masking her desire to hear all the intricate details behind that explosive news. She was about to express fabricated sympathy when her attention was taken by an event she witnessed over Belinda’s shoulder. Her eyes grew narrow, and her lips tightened into a disapproving line. Belinda, startled by the woman’s expression, turned to see the cause. A thin young man, dressed in black jeans, T-shirt and coat, stepped from the escalator and hurried toward the downstairs exhibition centre. He brushed long black hair from his face, a face now distorted in anger. She heard Bridie utter the critical words. “The Turk!”   ***   Jake G. Schwantz rushed across the foyer and careered down the steps. His long-fingered hand once more pushed languid hair from his eyes as he brushed violently past visitors on their way to the current film exhibition. His rage now took the form of expletives spilling from his bloodless lips, as in his mind he performed excruciating torture on his obstructionists. They were all a bunch of ‘has-been’ oldies! More like ‘never been’. How did he ever think they would understand what he was proposing? Couldn’t they see how they could all benefit from his scheme? Was he wasting his time with them? But of course, they held the upper hand. He hated to admit it, but without them, or at least some of them, he couldn’t put his plan into action. Who in the group was the most pliable? More open to suggestion? He gave a thin smile. Of course, Joe O’Brien!   ***   Joe O’Brien put down a treasured if battered copy of WHEN THE LION ROARS, containing the sacred writings from Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer’s publicity department circa 1943. He took a sip of tea. Girl Crazy, with Mickey and Judy. Also, little June Allyson made her first screen appearance. Joe chuckled. He’d been in love with June Allyson. Not really of course; he loved Muriel, his wife of how many years? Pity Muriel didn’t share his nostalgia. She was in the kitchen making a sponge cake to take to the meeting of the group later that night. Joe looked thoughtful as the magazine slid from his lap. The group. They’d been meeting together now for, how long? His memory was getting poor. You read so much about Alzheimer’s. Did he have it? He must talk to his doctor. If he remembered. Now, what had he been thinking about? – Ah yes, the group. Old Max hadn’t been at the last meeting. That was odd. He rarely missed out. Odd too, that young fellow, Jake, the one they called The Turk had got involved with them. Strange boy. He recalled someone telling him something about a plan the boy had. Now, who said that? Lance? No, of course. It was Harry Winters.   ***   Harry Winters stepped from the shower and briskly dried his body. He carried out this ritual as usual before the full-length mirror which afforded the sight of his seventy-year-old body. Also, as usual, he smiled in admiring approval at his reflection. He still had it. Those years of sporting activity had paid off. His smiled increased. It afforded him the luxury of more pleasant physical activity nowadays which some men half his age would find punishing. Punishing! The word amused him. He ran a critical eye over his stomach. Not a six- pack, but still firm, no beer gut there. He flexed his biceps. Punish. Scourge. He’d like to scourge that young turk, Jake. Sticking his nose into others business. Still, what he was proposing had some merit. It also gave food for thought. Why did one need Jake? Why did one need the others in the group? If old Max alone had the answer, a one-on-one deal could be arranged. He pulled on his clothes. Old Max hadn’t answered the phone recently; he gave an amused grunt. Well, maybe he was having some difficulties. Fully dressed now, another glance in the mirror confirmed he still had it. A dab of cologne here and there. That new little bar would be open. He might get lucky again. A thought crossed his mind. Why had he thought of her? Of...