Murderer's Thumb by Beth Montgomery Page A

experience that the more a solution eluded him, the more obsessed he became, until something in his subconscious snapped and the answer would appear. All the while Matt’s little key held his gaze, taunting him, fooling him. He just hadn’t reached that magic moment yet. Frustrated, he picked it up and went down to the Thackerays’ house.
    The red farm dog barked when he approached but wagged its tail and ambled about in a canine welcome dance. Adam patted it, let it sniff his hand as he walked to the house. The flyscreen door was closed, but the main one wasn’t. He peered inside. Blue and grey overalls hung in a row opposite the door. He was about to call out when a figure appeared in the gloom: a tall, thin, middle-aged woman.
    â€˜Hello, you looking for Matt?’ she said. Her voice was dreamy, vague.
    Adam jumped back from the doorway with a start. ‘Uh, yeah…is he in?’
    The woman held the flyscreen door open with bony fingers. She studied Adam’s face impassively. Her nose was long and sharp. Adam was reminded of a large flightless bird.
    â€˜I’ll go and see, shall I?’ she said.
    She slipped back into the house and left Adam on the doorstep, the door ajar. He didn’t know whether to go inside or stay out. He hadn’t been invited in exactly, but then she hadn’t made a point of shutting the door in his face either. Curiosity won over; he stepped inside.
    He was in a small entrance room which housed a chest freezer, an assortment of brooms, a built-in cupboard, and a mop and bucket. There were pairs of gumboots on the floor, underneath the boiler suits. The door to the left led deeper into the house. The one on the right led to the laundry.
    Adam turned and noticed something hanging behind the back door. It was a wooden board of keys, dozens of them. He couldn’t believe it. The keys hung on little nails, four rows of five. Twenty hooks for twenty keys—not eighty-eight. But if each hook held multiple keys, he mused, then he might find what he was looking for. Fat chance! Something was written beneath the bottom row, in fine black letters on the wood. Adam was positive it was the same neat loopy writing that was on the note attached to the desk. It read:
    You’re not in the right key.
    A joke, a musical reference or another clue? It had to be. The image of the piano back in his lounge room flashed into Adam’s brain. Pianos had lots of keys—maybe eighty-eight.
    The sound of footsteps padding down the hallway made him draw away from the keys. Matt came into view, his eyes hopeful, mouth slack.
    â€˜I’ve brought your key back,’ Adam said.
    â€˜Was it any use?’
    â€˜No.’
    Matt shrugged and struggled to get his words out. ‘Maybe you should pick the lock,’ he finally said. He put the key around his neck and sighed.
    â€˜I might,’ Adam said.
    â€˜I reckon our cows will do well at the end of the month,’ Matt stuttered. ‘I like herd testing.’
    Adam stood dumbfounded. What was he talking about? He tried to direct the conversation back to the key. ‘Why do you wear it around your neck?’
    He blushed and stared at the floor. ‘She told me to.’
    â€˜Who? Who gave it to you?’
    Matt smiled. ‘She was special, like a wild bird. They both were. But I think she’s dead now,’ he said wistfully.
    â€˜Do you mean Emma?’ Adam began.
    â€˜N…no.’
    A voice from the hallway interrupted. It was Mrs Thackeray. ‘I think it’s time your friend went home now, Matthew,’ she ordered.
    Matt worked his mouth furiously, ‘Y…You better go,’ he said, forcing the door open and pushing Adam out.
    Dusk was falling. Adam hurried home, puzzled at Matt’s behaviour. How could a grown man be controlled by his mother like that? And by his sister, for that matter? It was as if Matt was still a kid, not someone in his early twenties. And the