Page 29 of The Dysfunctional Family's Guide to Murder
“I guess you were tired.”
“No, why did you knock? Why are you here? Why are we whispering?”
“I came to say—well, never mind, and then I heard them.” Dylan points at the window and puts his finger first to his lips and then to his ear. I stop trying to talk and listen instead, pulling the edge of the curtain back enough so I can see the tops of two heads.
“So?” I whisper.
“They’re talking about Shippy,” Dylan whispers back, climbing onto my bed without asking, jamming his body up against the window on the opposite side from me, and sticking his head through the curtain.
Possibly I should give him a hard time about his tantrum. Or maybe I’m supposed to apologize for fairly transparently suggesting his girlfriend is cheating on him. As a compromise, pretending neither happened works for me. Repression gets such a bad rap when, in my experience, it can be super useful.
“Who’s out there?”
“Your dad and Aunty Vinka.”
What are they doing?I mouth more than say.
Instead of playing at mime, Dylan leans over and puts his mouth on my ear—I’m talking lips on lobe—so he can whisper directly into it. His breath raises hairs on the back of my neck. “Trying to fix the sprinklers.”
My dad is from the Call a Plumber school of pipe repair, and Aunty Vinka’s idea of home repair involves a smudge stick, so this is out of character. I push my face close to the open part of the window and see Dad regarding a couple of bits of pipe as though they’ve personally wronged him.
“Does this attach to this bit, do you think?” He taps one against the other. “Why is everything held together with electrical tape?” Then he answers his own question. “Dad.”
I lean across to Dylan but stop short of tasting lobe. Now that they’re talking about the sprinklers, I don’t think we’re going to pick up a clue unless it’s about my grandad’s shoddy approach to home repair.
“What did they say about Shippy?”
“They decided to call the cops,” Dylan whispers back. “Your dad wanted to call tonight, but Vinka said we should wait for tomorrow.”
“Who won?”
The rise and fall of Dylan’s shoulders says he doesn’t know.
In the moment of silence a sentence from below carries clearly—“What about the kids?”—and we both lean back toward the window.
“They do seem to be taking an unhealthy interest in this. It can’t be good for them.”
“Ruth’s like a dog with a bone with this stuff. She doesn’tlet things go. She’d make a great reporter, actually,” Dad says, which is one of the nicer things he’s ever said about me. Is it possible people say nice things about me when I’m not around all the time?
“Maybe you should take her back to Perth?”
“Now that Shippy’s gone missing with my car, I’m not sure how I’d manage that one. Silver lining: At least we know Nick couldn’t have done it. Shame. I’d quite like to see Nick charged with murder. I don’t trust anyone that handsome.”
“Five minutes ago you said if anyone in the house did it, it was Shippy,” says Aunty Vinka. I look at Dylan, checking for a reaction, but his face is as blank as a Hollywood star being asked about war in the Middle East.
“You agreed,” says Dad.
“He’s got such a…aura. I know you don’t…in these things, Andy.” Aunty Vinka’s voice goes in and out, like she’s moving around.
“Because they’re made up, Vinx.”
“But it’s true. I warned Bec but she didn’t want to hear it.”
“She and I are aligned on that. Oh, bloody hell, check it out: There’s a pen holding these two bits of pipe together.”
“What do we do with that?”
“Hear me out on this, but could we just…add more tape?”
