Southern Sunset: Book One of 44 South Page 6

  “Fuck!” Matt swore loudly. “Look what you made me do!” He pushed up from his seat, his eyes unfocused but a determined set to his lips as he stared off towards the tragic sight of his spirituous lifeline slowly dwindling.

  He took a step towards it, obviously intending to salvage as much of the whisky as he could, and promptly fell flat on his face in the dirt.

  He just lay there, as if getting back up was too hard. Impossible even.

  I stared at my brother, my once upright, caring, loyal, fun-loving brother, and felt my chest ache. Felt my eyes sting with unshed tears.

  Damn it. Damn it all to fucking hell.

  “I met the new sergeant,” I said into the silence.

  He rolled onto his back and stared at the cobweb covered ceiling.

  “Does she even own a winter jacket?” I asked.

  “It’s on order,” Matt mumbled.

  “Fucking loan her yours if you’re not using it” I growled.

  “She’s a big girl, she’ll be fine.”

  “She’s a townie. She doesn’t understand how cold it can get out here. What if she gets a call out up the back of Lake Ohau? Or gets stuck on Mount Cook Road?”

  He rolled his head to the side and watched me. “Why do you care?”

  I stared at him. “Why don’t you?” I said softly.

  “You know why.”

  “I know it’s been six months and you’re still drowning your fucking sorrows at the bottom of a whisky bottle.”

  “Fuck you!”

  “Fuck you, too!”

  I sat back in the chair and stared off into the corner of the shed. An old fishing rod sat broken and neglected. A chipped table tennis bat on the floor beside it. A pair of gumboots sprouting something vaguely green out of the top of one of them finished the forlorn tableau.

  “This place needs a clean up,” I said quietly.

  “I’ll get right on it.”

  “Matt,” I said on a sigh.

  “It’s not your problem.”

  “Fuck you, it is. You’re my brother.”

  “I’m no one,” I thought I heard him say.

  That’s it. That is so fucking it.

  I stood up, reached down, grasped the corner of his shirt and hauled him to his unstable feet.

  “You’re getting a wash down.”

  “Fuck off!” he spluttered as I dragged him out of the shed and around to the side.

  I had to hold him upright. If I’d let go, he would have tumbled to the ground. And I wanted him to face this. Not cower. Matt Drake never cowered.

  Damn that fucking bitch.

  I turned the hose on in rough movements, jerking Matt around as I swore under my breath. In the next instant he was cussing and shouting and trying to throw a punch. And utterly soaking wet.

  I held the water on him for a good few minutes, until I was sure he was awake enough to stand on his own two feet.

  “You’re welcome!” I shouted, as I tossed the hose to the ground.

  “Fuck you!” he shouted back and just breathed.

  We glared at each other. The sounds of the station slowly crept back into the space between us. He sighed.

  “Have they said anything?” he asked, his voice damn near broken.

  “No,” I replied. “But they nodded their heads when I asked them a question.”

  “The fuck they did,” he said on a small smile.

  “That new sergeant.”

  “What about her?”

  I rubbed the back of my neck and stared out across the pastures that led to the main homestead.

  “Somehow she reached them. I don’t know how. All she did was talk as though they had every right not to. She understood.”

  “Huh,” he said.

  “Have you actually had much to do with her?” I asked, genuinely interested to know how Maggie’s first few weeks in Twizel had been.

  Matt grimaced. “Not much. Been kinda distracted.”

  “No shit,” I agreed.

  He sighed again. It was weighted.

  “What am I gonna do, Lukey?”

  I closed my eyes briefly and prayed to God he could get through this.

  “You start by just being there,” I said. “You know? Come to the wedding. Watch our kid brother get hitched. Share a drink with him. Dance with the twins.”

  A stuttered breath left him and then he was crying. Silently. Stoically. I crossed the distance between us and held my brother in my arms as he broke down.

  Staring out across grass the colour of gold, a little bit of me broke apart with him.

  Sometimes life was fucking hard.

  Chapter 11

  What Did Southern Farmers Find Sexy, Anyway?

  Maggie

  “What do you mean, you can’t establish a definitive cause of death?” I asked Doc Harding.

  He pulled his glasses off his head and rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes. The movement one of frustration and infinite patience all at once.

  “I told you, Sergeant, Twizel is not Auckland City.”

  I ignored the repeated slur and stared him in the eyes.

  “A physical examination should have turned something up, at least.”

  “Certainly,” he said, reaching for his typed report. “Haematoma to the occipital bone. Not enough to indicate he was knocked out, mind you. But it would indicate he fell hard on his head, perhaps when he collapsed.” Peering back down at his report he added, “Scratch marks above the left lateral fourth intercostal space. In other words, directly above his heart. Cyanosis to the lips and distal extremities. In other words…”

  “Possible cardiac arrest and hypoxia.”

  “Yes,” he said, surprised, I think, that I was able to understand his medical terminology. “And the cause of that can’t be determined until an autopsy is completed in Timaru.”

  “The body’s been collected?” I queried.

  “Our local funeral parlour has accepted the responsibility of delivering Mr Whiting to the morgue at Base Hospital. They picked his body up half an hour ago.”

  “How long is it likely to take before we hear back?”

  “On the autopsy?” He scratched his head. “Two to three days.”

  I sighed heavily.

  “This isn’t…”

  “Yes, Doctor. I know. This is Twizel. Not the big smoke.”

  He harrumphed and thrust the report out towards me. I took it silently, willing myself to calm. I forced a smile as I slipped it into my front pocket.

  “Thank you, Doc,” I said and made to turn away.

  “You know, Sergeant,” he called after me. “We’re not as incompetent as you think.”

  I turned to look at him and said, “I don’t think anyone here is incompetent, Doctor. I think you’re a small town, who has made up its own rules, and some of those rules are lax.”

  “You call a spade a spade, don’t you?” He huffed out a laugh. “Maybe there’s hope for you yet.”

  I resisted rolling my eyes and pushed through his surgery door, donning my shades and staring up at the low hanging sun in the sky. It was after one. The street was deserted, as if everything had closed down for an afternoon siesta.

  I glanced down the road towards the tavern, wondering if I could press for more details there. I shook my head. The barman hadn’t exactly been forthcoming and without actually knowing who else had been in the tavern last night, there were no leads to follow up there.

  My eyes landed on the souvenir shop. Alicia Parsons was outside with a long handled broom, cleaning the lens on one of her security cameras. The sound of a motorbike caught my ear, and I turned to watch the local minister rolling up the main street on the back of a Harley Davidson bike. The chrome shone in the afternoon light, glinting an orange and copper colour. His helmet was one of those half helmets you see the Hells Angels or Mongrel Mob wear.

  I watched as he rode past, offering up a casual salut when he spotted me, and then turned into the carpark at the local Anglican church. The bike
’s motor cut off a few seconds later, birds startled out of a nearby tree shot up into the air above the church’s white spire, creating a picturesque contrast to the motorbike riding reverend’s arrival.

  Only in Twizel.

  I headed towards the Police Station on Tasman Road, hoping to catch Mac or Annmarie. So far, this was just a suspicious death on a local farm’s land. Nothing indicated murder. But the lack of a vehicle nearby warranted investigation. If Whiting did have a heart attack and subsequently expired from lack of oxygen to vital organs, then how the hell did he get to Red Tussock?

  Granted, the highway was right there. But the pasture he was found in was out of the way. Section three, Luke had called it. I wasn’t sure how many sections Red Tussock Station had and if this was significant for some other reason.

  As soon as I entered the station, Sheila shot up from her seat.

  “There you are!”

  “Here I am,” I agreed.

  “Matt’s been looking for you.”

  “Senior Sergeant Drake?” I queried. Since when had he bothered to search me out? He must have heard about the dead body.

  “Really, Maggie. When are you going to call him by his first name?”

  When he deigned to frequent the station more than just a half hour per day.

  I smiled. It was undoubtedly the fake one. I needed to practice those.

  “Is he here?” I enquired.

  “Hell, no. The wedding,” she explained when she saw me raise my brows. “Young Finn’s big day. All of the Drakes, except Zach of course, will be up at the homestead supporting their little brother.”

  “Finn’s the lawyer?” I asked.

  “Yes, big Auckland hotshot. A bit like you.”

  “I wasn’t a hotshot.”

  “Get away with you, Maggie. All Aucklanders are hotshots, aren’t they?”

  I offered a laugh. “If you say so.”

  “Here,” she said, chuckling, and handed me a piece of paper.

  It was standard police issue notebook paper, torn out of someone’s notebook, at a guess. On it was scrawled, Thank you. And simply signed, Matt.

  I stared at it for a long moment and wondered what the hell Senior Sergeant Matt Drake was on now.

  “What does it say?” Sheila asked, acting as if she hadn’t opened the note and sneaked a peek inside it.

  “It’s a thank you.”

  “What did you do to garner a thank you from Matt?”

  “Does he not normally thank his staff?”

  A strange look crossed her features. Sad and angry. An unusual mix.

  “Not by note,” she said, and turned away, hiding her emotions.

  Matt Drake was an enigma. Clearly well respected by his staff, family and friends. Not exactly what I would have expected. But then, this was Twizel, and I was beginning to see it was quite different from any other place in NZ.

  “Are Mac and Annmarie back yet?” I asked.

  “They had to head to Pukaki. Domestic disturbance.”

  I ran a hand through my fringe and sighed. I was at a dead end. Not that I thought Mac would have anything more for me. But without a cause of death, I had nothing. Just a Red Tussock vehicle helping out a drunk as he stumbled into the gutter outside of Smokey’s Tavern.

  I needed to see that ute. But barging back onto Red Tussock land so close to the impending nuptials was drastic even for me. My gut told me something was off here. The evidence suggested a puzzle, but little more.

  But I’d also be lying to myself if I said I didn’t want to see Luke Drake again. Innocent he may be of this potential crime, but I’d hazard a guess the man was not an innocent at all. It was underhanded to even consider it, but with a Senior Sergeant practically AWOL and every other person in town covering his tracks, Luke Drake’s interest in me was fortuitous. An interest I could use.

  I’d declined him picking me up for the wedding reception.

  But I hadn’t said I wouldn’t attend.

  Maybe I could scout for the ute then. Maybe I could figure out the Drakes once and for all.

  Both Matt Drake and his incredibly interesting brother.

  I snorted and walked back out of the station, waving a farewell to Sheila, and heading towards my vehicle, and ultimately my house.

  It was time to dress to impress.

  What did southern farmers find sexy, anyway? Only one way to find out, I guessed.

  Chapter 12

  Didn’t Breathe For Long Seconds

  Luke

  She was wearing a dress. And not just any dress. A fuck-me dress with little fuck-me boots and, if I wasn’t mistaken, a thigh holster for her service weapon.

  I don’t think I had ever seen anything as sexy. I was practically drooling into my whisky glass.

  Justin whistled low from beside me.

  “Is that the new cop? Fuck me,” he murmured, taking a deep swallow of his own drink. “Matt works with her? Like every day? Lucky bugger.”

  “Stop ogling her like a piece of mutton,” I growled.

  “Hey!” he protested. “If I’m ogling her like anything, it’d be a fine glass of sauvignon blanc, not a fucking ageing sheep.”

  “Long drink of fresh water,” Sam said from my other side. “Anyone going to introduce me?”

  “No,” I snapped, placing my whisky back down on the table before me and pushing to stand.

  “How about just pointing her in the right direction, I’ll handle the introductions,” Sam added. “Hey, baby,” he said in a low, supposedly sexy voice, “care to take a seat? On my lap?”

  “And I guess you’ll want talk about the first thing that pops up?” Justin suggested, snorting into his glass.

  “Imbeciles,” I muttered and moved off towards Maggie.

  “Least we’re not gagging for it,” Justin muttered back.

  I spun around and reached over the space between us, fisting his shirt.

  “Care to say that again, arsehole?”

  His hand wrapped around my shirt in return and his face moved forward an inch, pressing his nose practically against mine. I could smell the whisky on his breath, mixed in with fresh mint from the toothpaste he’d used earlier.

  “Care to just get laid and save us all the drama?” he growled back.

  “Boys!” Mum exclaimed, rushing over. “You’re causing a scene.”

  “What scene?” both Justin and I immediately replied, wrapping arms around each others' shoulders and smiling widely at her. In unison we patted each others backs. Nothing to see here, move along.

  She narrowed her eyes at us and slowly turned away.

  “You’re not fooling her one little bit, you know,” a soft, amused voice said from beside us.

  I let go of Justin and turned towards Maggie.

  “Hey,” I idiotically said.

  “Hey,” she replied, smiling. It reached her eyes. I could have thumped my chest in Neanderthal pride at that.

  “Hey,” another voice said. “Gonna introduce us?”

  “No,” I growled, grabbing Maggie’s hand and leading her away.

  “Whoa there!” she exclaimed, still smiling. “I might have wanted to meet your friend.”

  “It’s just my nosy cousin. You can meet him any time. Right now, you’re mine and no one else’s.”

  I spun her onto the dance floor, and wrapped a proprietary arm around her back, hand resting just above the curve of her very fine arse.

  “You don’t hold back, do you, Drake?”

  “Luke,” I reminded her. “Say it.”

  She arched her brow and glared up at me.

  I leaned forward, brought my cheek against hers, and whispered into her ear, “You will say it, Maggie. And soon. Preferably while I bring you to climax.”

  My hand skated down over her rear and gripped her arse.

  I expected her to move it. To stiffen or push us apart. In the short amount of time I’d known her, Maggie Blackmore had never shied away from fighting back. Hell, I had to remind myself she wore her se
rvice weapon, concealed under that fucking dress, but within easy reach, no doubt.

  But she didn’t do anything. She let me manhandle her, and pressed her breasts against my chest as if she wanted more.

  I’m ashamed to say, I almost let her convince me. She felt so right in my arms, under my touch, pulled close against my thrumming body. But I am not a man to be taken for a ride. And Sergeant Blackmore was after something.

  I suppressed a chuckle and turned her slowly across the floor.

  “What do you want, Maggie?” I asked, nuzzling the skin below her ear.

  “This is nice,” she replied, a little breathlessly. Unable to see her eyes, I couldn’t confirm the response was fake. But I’d bet on it.

  “Oh, this is only the start, sweetheart,” I murmured. “We are on Red Tussock land and I know all the best places to find a little privacy.”

  She ignored the implied threat, albeit a threat laced in the promise of sexual satisfaction. And allowed me to pull her closer still, until her thighs pressed against mine and her breath coasted over my shirt collar and I couldn’t tell whose heartbeat belonged to who.

  “This is a spectacular venue,” she announced. “I didn’t realise you had facilities for functions as grand as this.”

  “You think we can’t celebrate like the city?” I managed to reply.

  “Not at all,” she rushed to say. “But this… well, it’s exquisite, really. Stunning.”

  I was inordinately pleased she found Red Tussock Vineyard worthy. It might not have been my project, but Justin had worked damn hard to make this a venue worth travelling to. He’d started to reap the rewards, too. Getting bookings from big named overseas visitors and rich city folk. Red Tussock was perfect for parties.

  “This is Justin’s baby,” I advised. “We’re very proud of what he’s achieved.”

  “And yet you’re not above roughing him up when he angers you?” she pressed.

  I let out a low laugh. “Brothers. Can’t live with ‘em…”

  “Can’t live without them,” she said softly.

  Too softly.

  “What’s his name?” I asked, holding her carefully, as if I could hold her carefully enough to protect her from the world.