The Problem with Perfect Read online

“It’s good to have people around you.” Amelia’s tone was cautious.

  “There’s Mum, and Rose isn’t far if I need her. I wish I was at work, but I’m on ‘gardening leave’.” Marigold raised her hands to add air-quotes with a roll of her eyes to magnify the ridiculousness of the situation.

  “Gardening leave?”

  Marigold smiled at Amelia’s puzzled look. “A polite way of telling me I’m not welcome at the office but I’ll still be paid.”

  Amelia leaned back and made an mmmm sound. “I’m sorry to hear that, Marigold. I know you love your work.”

  “I do, but clearly I need to ‘grieve’ in the way that my family wants me to; however, I’m not certain what that is.”

  Amelia nodded, carefully, as if considering every word. Eventually, she reached over and grasped Marigold’s hand tightly.

  “Please listen to me,” she said, her voice low and her eyes staring at what felt like directly into Marigold’s soul. “You need to grieve in whatever way you feel you need to.”

  Marigold stared back at her sister-in-law’s eyes, for a moment considering telling Amelia and unburdening herself, but she had no answers. Her investigations over the past week at home hadn’t turned up much. The neighbours had been useless. The real estate agent had imparted little of value. Searches of Julian’s possessions had turned up no clues.

  Would it be easier to grieve if she had some answers? Would that help satisfy her father that she’d mourned and was ready to come back to work?

  Perhaps it would, but she needed help. But who could help her with this? She didn’t want to tell her family. She didn’t have any friends she wanted to tell. It was all just so embarrassing and ridiculous. Besides, how could they help unlock the mystery?

  If she were to tell anyone, it would have to be someone who could help her find the answer, a police officer, or investigative journalist, or… Finn.

  That’s exactly who she could ask. Finn Schröder was the business. He was a former Federal Police Officer who had opened a boutique security agency a couple of years earlier, and had been highly recommended to them by a friend of the family. She’d been concerned about a sudden spike in violent crimes against truck drivers at the time and wanted advice on how to further strengthen their practices to ensure the safety of their drivers and protection of assets.

  Very quickly Marigold had seen why Finn was so highly-regarded. He was detail-orientated, focused and persistent. His advice in relation to their security problem was excellent, and since then he’d been on a retainer to act as their lead security consultant.

  Finn was in his mid-thirties, tall, and had what she would call ‘interesting’ looks. Handsome perhaps, but not like a model. Just handsome in a manly way. A way that would probably garner him more luck with Active Wear Girl than she’d had. She’d probably think he was lovely when he came knocking on her door, giving her a smile. Marigold couldn’t remember if she’d ever seen Finn smile when she’d met with him at work, but she was sure he could turn it on for his own needs.

  Maybe Finn was precisely what she needed to help her find out what Julian had been up to, unlock her grief, convince her father she was fine, and get back to her job.

  Chapter Nine

  Finn

  “Mum?” Finn unlocked the door of his mum’s house. The house was silent, but he could see her handbag on the small table near the front door. She must be home.

  “Finn!” His mother emerged from the kitchen. She leaned up and kissed him on the cheek. “Come in. Are you hungry? Can I make you a sandwich?”

  “No, thanks. I’m not hungry.” He followed her through the hallway that led to the kitchen and a small dining area. Every time he visited, the house seemed smaller. His parents had never had much money when he was growing up, but had worked hard. His father had two jobs at times, and his mother too, despite having five children to care for as well. Both of them had a hard work ethic that resulted in ownership of a small but tidy house in a suburb that had been cheap when he was growing up but now was considered prime real estate. Most of the homes nearby had been knocked down to make way for mega-mansions or blocks of units. Their original little house stood untouched – looking 1950s and worn in the midst of a sea of ‘manor’ style homes with chandeliers in the windows and expensive cars out front, or completely dwarfed by large apartment complexes.

  He watched as his mother filled the kettle with water and fussed around with some cups and teabags. He’d refused the sandwich, but he knew she’d not stand for a refusal of a cup of tea even though he hadn’t asked for one. She looked older than her years, as he noticed her sensible cardigan around her even though it was quite warm today. She was perhaps the same age as Odette Doyle, yet looked much older. But she was kind. She looked like a Nana, as her grandchildren called her.

  She set a cup in front of him and sat down next to him. “How are you coping?” She put a hand over his, concern filling her eyes. “It’s been in the paper, but I can’t…” She took a deep breath.

  “Neither can I.” He had never been able to tell his mum much about his work, and that wasn’t a bad thing. But the siege had been national news, and thanks to the media she knew much more about it than he would have liked.

  “That day was awful.” Tears welled in her eyes. “I can’t believe they want you to have to re-live it. For that poor man’s wife and children to have to re-live it.”

  During the siege, his thoughts had momentarily crossed to his mother and sisters, and, of course, Zara. As he’d shouted at some journalist to keep behind the police cordon, as a throng of cameras and reporters were all trying to get a glimpse of the unfolding drama, he’d wondered if anyone he cared about was watching this. Worrying about him. He’d pushed it out of his mind at the time. You couldn’t think like that. You just had to act on what was happening in front of you.

  Had Simon thought of his family at any point? Were they his final thoughts? Finn hoped so. He hoped that Simon knew how lucky he’d been to have Tamsyn and their kids, even if he’d never see them again.

  Finn put his hand on his mum’s hand. “I know, but I have to. It’s one day, and then it will be over.” He gave her a nod that was more reassuring than what he felt. But it was for her benefit. She had worried about him enough during his years on the force – she didn’t need to worry now. As unpleasant as the inquest was, there was nothing she could do. Nothing anyone could do. His dilemma was his own.

  “I’m so pleased you are out of the police force; I sleep much better now. We all do. Your sisters worried about you all the time. Not that I wasn’t proud.”

  He glanced over at the wall to see a photo of his late father, several of his sisters and their children, and one of him in his Federal Police uniform. “It’s safer for me in the private sector. And better-paying too.” He pulled out the envelope of cash he’d brought with him.

  “Oh, Finn,” his mother shook her head, “no, it’s not fair – you’ll have your own family one day to look after, you can’t be taking care of me. I’m fine.”

  He was certain he wouldn’t ever have a family to look after, but there was no point going into that with his mum. “The bills are expensive – electricity, water, the rates have skyrocketed thanks to the property value. I want to help you. I know it’s hard for the girls – they have their own kids, but I’m on my own.”

  His life was inexpensive thanks to a small apartment and few vices. The biggest luxury he afforded himself was his car, given he spent so much time in it for work. It had to be right: modern but not brand new, expensive but not out of reach of the everyday person, and discreet without looking as if you were trying to hide something.

  “Dad would want me to help out.”

  His mother smiled. “He taught you well.”

  The work ethic, yes, he’d inherited it. Partly because of genes, but also by watching his father, working so many hours to provide for his family. In average, poorly-paid jobs, but never complaining. He would have happily swept floors if that wa
s what it meant to provide for his daughters and son. His work ethic was not unlike that of Peter’s.

  Peter reminded Finn of his own father at times, but yet Finn’s father died a poor man, Peter had been born a wealthy one. How different could their lives have been if they had been the other way round?

  Finn’s thoughts were interrupted by his phone ringing. He glanced at the screen. Marigold? He looked up at his mother. “Sorry, Mum, I need to get this.” He stood up and moved into the living room. “Finn Schröder.”

  “Finn? It’s Marigold Doyle.” Her voice sounded faint, and was interrupted by crackling sounds. It was a lousy line and not helped by background noise that sounded oddly enough like animals. Chickens? Peter had mentioned she’d gone to visit Frederick in Bowral. Perhaps he had chickens at his property.

  “Ms Doyle. How are you?” he asked, unsure if that was an appropriate thing to ask. Her husband had just died. She probably wasn’t well, but it didn’t matter as she hadn’t appeared to have heard him through the crackling line.

  “I’m sorry, what did you say? The reception here is terrible. Sienna! Stop that!” This was followed by some garbled noise.

  Unsure of whether the indecipherable comment was directed at him or Sienna (Frederick’s step-daughter, from memory?) he put one hand up to cover his other ear in the faint hope of hearing her more clearly. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

  She gave a frustrated sigh. “My niece and nephew. They’re taunting the chickens.”

  The laughter of the children echoed in the background and he heard Marigold shout out at a child, telling whoever it was to shut the gate. “Oh no! The chickens are escaping!” she told him.

  Finn grinned. Uptown Girl dressed in her high heels and black designer outfits, standing in the middle of a chicken coop with a couple of kids in the country, was perhaps the last place he would have expected her to be.

  “Look.” Her voice came back to the phone, a little breathless, as though she was chasing the wayward children, or the newly-freed chickens, or perhaps both. “Can you meet me at my house on Friday? Does ten o’clock suit you? I need to speak to you about something but I don’t want to go into it on the phone.”

  He hesitated. What on earth could she want with him?

  “Finn?” she called out, the laughter from the children increasing. “Can you meet me on Friday?”

  “That’ll be fine.”

  “I’ll text you my address,” she said, and was gone, along with the chuckling of the children and clucking of chickens.

  He didn’t need her address, but she didn’t know that. He hung up the phone and smiled. Just when he thought the Doyles couldn’t get any more curious.

  Chapter Ten

  Marigold

  Marigold couldn’t sleep. Not that Frederick and Amelia’s guest room wasn’t comfortable. Amelia was certainly a generous hostess with her beautifully-appointed rooms with crisp linens and embroidered quilts, along with the elegant artwork adorning the walls, but there was no sleep to be had.

  She’d called Finn and asked him to meet her at her house later that week. She’d not told him much. This needed to be discussed in person. It was going to be embarrassing to have to lay this all out for him, but she trusted he could help her. He’d have the right contacts, the proper channels and the right methods for finding clues that she couldn’t.

  Rolling over, she still couldn’t get comfortable. She let out a sigh, sat up and climbed out of bed. She pulled her dressing gown around her and padded down the hall where she could hear the television on and see a faint light coming from the living room. The clock on the wall read 3 am, and she found Frederick, wide awake, sitting on the sofa with Erin wrapped in a blanket in one arm.

  “No sleep either?” he asked.

  She sat next to him. “Nope.”

  “We’re not good at sleeping, are we? A family trait, maybe?”

  She wasn’t a good sleeper at the best of times, and knew Frederick wasn’t either. Maybe it was genetic. Poor Erin was cursed.

  “What are you watching?” She pointed at the television where someone was undertaking a cooking demonstration.

  “Infomercials.”

  What a strange choice. “Don’t you have cable or Netflix?”

  “I like them.” Frederick gave a shrug. He looked down at Erin who was still looking at him as though she was bewildered by him. Smart child. “Erin likes them too. I tried watching cricket or a movie or the News, but she’d cry. I even tried a soap opera and she wailed. She’s happy during these.”

  Marigold shot her brother an incredulous look. “Can babies this young discern what’s on television enough to have preferences?”

  “I don’t know – maybe she likes the voices. Whatever it takes. That’s my motto these days: whatever it takes.”

  Marigold brought her legs underneath her and curled up into the corner of their sofa.

  “Mum wants you to move back to Mulberry for a bit.” Frederick turned to face the commercial again.

  “Dad asked me the same, but I don’t want to be there. Seriously, it’s the last place I want to be. You know what things can be like between Mum and me at the best of times. We grate each other.”

  “I told her to back off.”

  “Thanks. I need time. Well, that’s a lie. I really need to be at work, but they won’t let me be there. At least if I’m at home they can leave me to my own devices.”

  “You want to be at work?” He shot her a look, before looking down at his daughter. “Erin, why am I asking that? Of course, your aunt wants to be at work. She’s a workaholic.”

  “I need it,” she insisted. He made it sound as if her commitment was something terrible – a flaw – but it wasn’t. Why did people treat it as such a bad thing? It was good to be dedicated to things and want to see them succeed. Ambition wasn’t some sort of dirty word. Julian had understood it. She shifted her weight as another weight of unhappiness and pain was added to the collection in her stomach.

  Frederick looked back up at her and gave her a nod. “I know.”

  Marigold was certain he didn’t know, but appreciated that he tried to get it for her sake. They were coded somewhat differently on the work front.

  They silently watched the infomercial for a moment. The host was enthusing over a loaf of raisin bread they’d just pulled out of a bread machine.

  “Ok. Serious question.” Frederick turned back to her and raised his eyebrows. “If you were going to get one of these breadmakers, would you seriously really bake bread every day? I reckon most people would do it like three times and then never use it again.”

  “Probably.”

  “And yet,” he sighed and rolled his eyes up to meet hers, “I want one. Where’s my wallet?”

  Marigold let out a laugh, and snuggled into the sofa in the hope the infomercial might calm her like it did Erin.

  ***

  She hadn’t spent that much time with Frederick and Amelia as a couple. They hadn’t been married that long. She and Julian had come up for the wedding and seen them since, but not for long; mainly when they had visited Mulberry. She watched as Amelia and Frederick fluttered around the next day as they were about to have lunch on the veranda. Baby Erin was in a sling attached to Amelia like a little joey in a kangaroo’s pouch.

  “Wine?” Frederick appeared with a bottle of something in one hand and a platter of cheese in the other.

  “Thanks.” She held up her glass. Yes, booze. She could do booze. Maybe it would help take the edge off. The lack of sleep, combined with her current state of mind, was making her feel a little jittery. She’d jumped earlier at a black and white photograph in the hallway that she thought had moved.

  He poured out a glass and waved the bottle towards his wife.

  “I just fed so I can have a little glass,” Amelia said, one hand resting on Erin’s little head and the other showing a small gap between her thumb and forefinger to indicate how much wine.

  He poured out something that looked
much more than that.

  “This is delicious.” Amelia took a sip and set it down. “I knew I married you for a reason.” She snuck a coy glance at Frederick.

  “Yep, free booze for life.” He glanced back at her and they held each other’s gaze for a moment.

  Marigold watched them. It was as if there was a string between them; an emotional connection so real that it was almost physical even when they weren’t touching.

  Had Julian ever looked at her like that? Perhaps not, but they’d been different. Every marriage was different. Theirs was one of the heart. Perhaps hers had been one of the brain. Julian had been so clever and her so ambitious. He had worked on an intellectual level.

  Marigold wondered exactly what Amelia’s marriage to Toby had been like. Her first husband had been a professional rugby player who’d had an affair that had briefly been national gossip. The embarrassment it caused Amelia had been so awful that she had moved to Victoria from Sydney for a few months to stay with her Aunt Jill, whose home is next to Frederick’s winery. Frederick had fallen so deeply in love with her that he’d moved interstate to be with her at her much-loved childhood home.

  The sound of some sort of argument between Sienna and Charlie echoed through the veranda, disrupting Marigold’s thoughts.

  Frederick shook his head and set down his glass. “Those two are going to wake Erin.” He sounded like a grumpy old man who was about to yell at some kids to get off his lawn.

  Amelia went to stand up, but Frederick made it to his feet first.

  “I’ll sort it out,” he promised. He walked towards the door, hollering, “What on earth is going on here?”

  Marigold leaned forward as Frederick’s voice slowly became muffled as he moved further into the house, trying to sort out a territorial dispute between his step-children. “Amelia, can I ask you about Toby?”

  “What about him?” Amelia looked behind her briefly.

  Marigold wondered if she was checking that Frederick wasn’t there. She’d never really picked her brother as the jealous type, but she knew he didn’t have much time for Toby.