Murder with the Lot by Sue Williams Page A

what’s going on,’ said Ernie.
    After I’d explained, he gave me an intent look. ‘Course, there was that time when you thought I was dead, so I can understand Dean’s point of view.’ He looked out the window for a moment, blinking.
    In the pause, I stared at the crocheted cover on his teapot that Mrs Watkins had made for him. She makes him little gifts, saying someone as brave as our Napoleon deserves his comforts at his time of life. It’s unclear how she formed the view that Ernie’s a dead French general.
    â€˜Found this key near her body,’ I said.
    â€˜I don’t hold it against you, not really,’ he said, still staring out the window.
    â€˜I’m sorry, Ernie, I didn’t mean it. Anyway, the key.’ I grabbed it from my handbag, using my hanky, held it out.
    He looked at it, turned back to the window. ‘And I’ve told you a thousand times to put a padlock on that flamin’ gate.’
    â€˜You ever heard of a Pittering or a son?’ I said.
    â€˜He one of the Pitterlines, the harness makers?’ said Ernie, finally looking at me.
    â€˜Pitter ing , Ernie. And I meant this century.’
    He glared. ‘Fella by the name of Albert. His son ran off to the Northern Territory with the Hustle grocer. Owed me sixty dollars, the bastard.’
    Before Ernie could slide full-tilt into a past-injustice rant, I said, ‘He have any relatives? Fellas keen on dresses? Anyone that killed themselves?’
    He grunted. ‘His cousin Andy was the undertaker. Depressing job, but he never killed himself. Not that I recall.’
    Maybe we were still talking about the Pitterlines or the 1950s, or both. ‘And more recently? Any Pitterings involved in drama groups?’ Would being in a drama group get you down?
    â€˜Drama group? Not the Pitterlines I knew.’
    â€˜Any connection with Muddy Soak?’
    â€˜The Soak? That bastard was the last criminal in Muddy Soak. The very last.’
    â€˜Who?’
    He glared at me. ‘You’re not listening, are you? Hugo Pitterline, who took off with my money. In 1988. No crime in Muddy Soak since then.’
    â€˜None at all?’
    â€˜Nup. Crime free for over twenty years. Probably should have a festival.’
    â€˜Not one single crime?’
    â€˜Nope.’
    â€˜How’s that possible?’
    He heaved himself to his feet. ‘Look, I don’t have time to sit here all day explaining local history to you. I’ve got things to do. Off you go now, run along.’

I headed home, fairly demoralised with the key-slash-briefcase situation. I parked the car, unstuck my thighs from the driver’s seat, squeezed out over the handbrake through the passenger side and walked into my kitchen. I made myself a cuppa. Sitting at the table, I sipped, staring at the briefcase. I opened it and rootled around the pockets one more time. Nothing. Closing it, I held it up. It felt too heavy to be empty. I shook it from side to side. Something moved around inside. I opened it again.
    There was a long slit in the inside fabric. I reached inside the slit. Books. The Art of Writing Memoir . Then, The Big Sleep . One more, Death of a Lake , by Arthur Upfield.
    I phoned Taylah. ‘I’ll take that ticket for the Christmas Fringe Festival.’
    â€˜And one for Mr Jefferson?’
    â€˜Yep. Thanks. You know,’ I tried to sound casual, ‘that drama fella who died, whatsisname…Pittering. Did he have a son? Or a father, maybe?’
    There were some moist breathing sounds while she adjusted her chewing gum. ‘Well, everyone has a father, don’t they? It’s just, like, biology. I mean maybe those sperm donor children, you could argue that they don’t, but in reality…’
    â€˜I meant as in Pittering and Son.’
    â€˜Oh. You mean the accounting firm in Muddy Soak.’
    Dean turned up as I put down the phone. He usually comes by on a Monday, for