Page 33 of The Dysfunctional Family's Guide to Murder
“No spare.” Shippy looks at Dad. “What’s the deal with that?”
“Andy, you don’t have a spare?” Aunty Vinka says, distracted.
“My missing spare tire is not the villain here,” Dad says. “Roadside assistance exists, people.”
“What did you do?” Aunty Bec’s voice sounds a little gentler, and maybe she’s not going to straight-up murder Shippy in front of us, which is a shame, if only because it really wouldhelp clarify the question of whether anyone in the house is capable of it.
“By the time we figured all this out, the coffee shop had closed—it’s run by one of the local guys, and we told him the surf was great, so he shut up to hit the beach. Total own goal.”
“Our bad,” Rob agrees cheerfully.
“I figured we’d hitch a ride into town to see if we could find a garage or something. I tried to call, but, you know.”
“No reception,” half the room choruses.
“Exactly. After about twenty minutes of guys just cruising past me in their SUVs, this one guy stops and offers to help. Turns out the bloke is a mechanic—can you believe it? He insists on taking us back to the garage and sorting us a spare tire. Then, of course, Yusef—that’s the guy, great bloke—suggests we go for a beer, and we can’t exactly say no after he’s helped us out. We might have had a few too many because Yusef got a bit messy and I wasn’t sure he should drive, so we had a meal to sober up and a few coffees and then he drove us back to the car and we were on our way.”
Shippy shrugs.
“You do realize we almost called the cops?” Dad says.
“What for?”
“Foryou.”
“Andy, I never knew you cared.”
“You disappeared the day after Gertie wasmurdered,Shippy. That’s the sort of thing that the police usually like to know.”
“Did you saymurdered?” Rob asks, looking startled, but he’s top of nobody’s priority list right now, so I’m not sure anyone else hears him.
“You thoughtI—” Shippy doesn’t finish the question.
“Nobody thought that, honey,” Aunty Bec says quickly, and do you think she knows she’s lying?
“You can’t seriously—”
“Sorry, who’s been murdered?” Rob asks again, sounding genuinely alarmed but not yet loud enough to break through the others’ bickering.
“We did kind of think you’d done a runner, mate,” Dad says, and it’s possible he believes he’s helping. “But it was a working theory. We weren’t quite ready to knot the noose.”
“Bloody hell,” Shippy says.
Aunty Vinka stands up. “Sorry to interrupt this…whatever it is, but I’m going to head to the hospital. There’s a chance Nick could be released tonight, and if not, I said I’d take him a change of clothes.” (I’ll tell you right now: Nick’s not coming home tonight.)
“I should probably think about doing something about dinner,” Aunty Bec says with the intonation of someone who’s just announced an impending pap smear. She doesn’t move.
“Let us handle dinner tonight,” Shippy says, pausing for a round of applause that never arrives. “Rob, you were talking about that laksa you learned to make in Vietnam—you must be a decent cook?” It feels a little optimistic to imagine GG might have the ingredients for a laksa kicking around, but I’ll let Shippy handle that one. “How about it? We can whip up something, I’m sure?”
“Uh, sure.” Rob stands up. “And maybe you can fill me in on what’s been going on here? Sounds like you’ve had a big week.”
Shippy shakes his head. “You’ve got no idea, mate. There was a break-in and Bec’s stepmom—the woman who owns this house, actually—got killed. You know what? I could really go for a carbonara.”
I get a glimpse of Rob’s face as Shippy leads him into the kitchen, and he looks like he’s the one who got bashed on the head by a typewriter, although whether it’s shock at the fact that he’s agreed to stay in a house where a murder just took place or shock at Shippy’s indifference, it’s hard to say.
“Where is he going to sleep, do you think?” Dad asks Aunty Bec, nodding at Rob. “Your bed? Cozy, but you could make it work.”
“We can make up the couch.”
