Fatal Liaison (7 page)

Brenda carefully set the two glasses on the glass-topped table
before turning around to check Lawson was still with her. Satisfied that she
hadn’t lost him, she clambered up on to the bench next to Megan.

Lawson either didn’t see or didn’t take the hint when Brenda patted
the seat beside her. Instead he chose to remain standing with his back to the
room. His eyes were downcast and he seemed so distant that Megan wondered why
he’d even bothered turning up. Clearly his tryst with Mata Hari hadn’t panned
out as planned. Even Brenda’s fawning had failed to boost his spirits.

Megan lifted her glass in a quasi-toast before downing a mouthful of
champagne cocktail, the bubbles teasing her tongue. If the start of the evening
was any indication, she didn’t hold out much hope for the rest of the night.
She banged her glass down on the tabletop more heavily than intended, startling
Lawson and sparking a chuckle from Brenda. Lawson gave his head a sharp shake
and straightened his back, peering around as if suddenly realizing where he
was.

Smiling sheepishly, he set his glass of beer on a cardboard coaster
and pulled up a stool. Whatever had been troubling him seemed to have all of a
sudden been forgotten, the transformation quite extraordinary. It was if
someone had flicked the “on” switch. His face lifted, becoming open and
attentive. His eyes framed by those long seductive eyelashes were intense and
alert.

“Megan, isn’t it? We haven’t been formally introduced.” He extended
a hand across the table. “Lawson Green.”

She reached for his hand. “Megan Brighton.” His touch was cool, his
grip firm.

With the formalities out of the way, Brenda proceeded to liven up
the occasion by recounting in dramatic style her disastrous day at work. Her
hands did most of the talking. Brenda told a good story, even if it did tend to
verge on the outlandish.

Towards the end of the tale, Megan looked up and saw Mr Ginger
Moustache homing in on their hostess. She watched in amusement as Pauline tried
to brush him off. Megan didn’t need to hear what was being said, the body
language was more than enough. It was like watching a pantomime. Pauline’s mask
slipped and she looked ready to swat the single-minded sleaze at any moment.
Maybe the night wasn’t going to be a write-off, after all. The entertainment
was certainly proving interesting.

Eventually, Pauline managed to escape from Mr Ginger Moustache’s
clutches to continue working her way around the room, meeting and greeting.
Halfway through her rounds, Pauline happened to look across the room, catching
Megan’s gaze. Her eyes then drifted to Lawson, her hollow smile hardening.
Within seconds she was by Lawson’s side, her heavily bejeweled fingers laying
claim to his arm.

“Darling Lawson, I’m so sorry you had to go through all that nasty
business with the police. I told them that girl’s disappearance had nothing to
do with you.”

Megan’s ears pricked up, as undoubtedly did everyone else’s within
hearing radius.

Running late, Greg
walked with lengthening strides down the footpath towards the Little Collins
Street bar. As he paused to catch his breath, the door flew open, spilling an
inebriated party of four out onto the street. The two women and two men were in
high spirits as they cavorted up the footpath and disappeared into the night.

Once inside the bar, he paused, allowing his eyes to adjust to the
low light. The burble of multiple conversations interlaced with music enveloped
him. To his right he saw what looked to be the registration table. The chair
behind the table was empty, but laid out on the tabletop in a neat line beside
a clipboard and pen were five nametags, one of which he assumed belonged to
him. At least he wasn’t the last to arrive.

He stepped over to the table and studied the names, becoming puzzled
when he couldn’t see his. Then he remembered. For tonight he was Justin, not
Greg. Picking up his alias’s name badge, he clipped it to his lapel and turned
to survey the room.

A short pixie-like woman headed his way, her intent obvious by the
hungry look on her face. He scowled. Bewilderment flashed across the woman’s face.
Veering from her original course, she took a wide detour around him and made
her way to the bar.

Greg patted his jacket pocket, reminding himself why he was there.
He shouldn’t have alienated the woman like that. He needed all the help he
could get. Maybe she would recognize Sam from the photo in his pocket. Maybe
she’d be the one with the crucial piece of information needed to track down his
sister. Maybe. He sighed. There were too many maybes.

He had to remember these people had all signed up with Dinner for
Twelve searching for that elusive meaningful relationship. He was the one
operating under false pretences. Summoning all the courage he could muster, he
crossed to the bar to make amends. And maybe uncover his first lead.

With his mouth arranged in what he hoped was an apologetic smile, he
sidled up to the woman. She shot him a dismissive glance, paid for her
strawberry adorned drink, turned and marched off. All without a word. No doubt
he deserved it, but it still felt like a slap in the face.

Sweat beaded on his forehead, the air in the bar stifling. It didn’t
help matters that he hadn’t had time to change out of his business suit and
tie. Compared to everyone else there, he was way overdressed. A barman took his
order and while Greg waited, he used the time to remove his tie, rolling it
into a neat ball before shoving it into his pocket.

A tall glass of vodka and tonic arrived as he was in the throes of
unbuttoning the neck on his shirt.

“Thank you.” He paid for his drink and when the barman returned with
his change took the opportunity to ask, “Do they hold these type of functions
here often?”

The barman shrugged. “Don’t really know, mate. It’s the first one
I’ve worked at.” A small group of people at the other end of the bar demanded
the barman’s attention. He excused himself, leaving Greg alone with his drink.

Strike two.

He picked up his drink, skolling half the glass in one swig. The
ice-cold vodka and tonic gushed down his throat, hitting his empty stomach with
a jolt. Without giving his stomach a chance to recover, he emptied the glass
and signaled for another.

With his drink replenished, he turned to face the room. Where should
he start? How should he start? Perhaps he should’ve left it to the police to do
their job. They knew what they were doing – he didn’t. Yet in two whole days,
they were no closer to finding Sam. He couldn’t just sit back and do nothing.

A chestnut-haired woman at a nearby table glanced up, her sleek bob
skimming her naked shoulders. She caught his gaze and smiled. One of her table
companions, a high-foreheaded guy in square-rimmed glasses, shot Greg a look of
annoyance. Taking it as his invitation, he took his drink and headed over to
their table.

“Excuse me interrupting like this,” he said, withdrawing the photo
of Sam from his jacket pocket, “but I’m hoping you can help me.”

The woman sat up, her neck lengthening.

“Do any of you remember this woman?” Greg asked, proffering the
photo. “Her name’s Sam. She’s my sister.”

A hand grabbed it. “Looks vaguely familiar,” said a pinch-faced man
with thinning dark hair, “but can’t say where from. Sorry.”

Another hand, another platitude.

And so it went around the table until it reached the chestnut-haired
woman. “Sweet-looking girl. Why are you looking for her? Is she missing?”

“Yes. Do you know her?”

The woman shook her head. “Sorry. I hope you find her soon. Nick?”
She held out the photo to the guy with the glasses.

He took it, gripping it by the corner, and studied it. “Sam, you
say?”

Greg nodded.

“Know the face – not the sort of face a guy would forget in a hurry
– though not the name. I remember her from another function, but that was
awhile back. Have you checked with the agency owner?”

“Not yet.”

“Good luck, mate,” Nick handed the photo back to Greg. “Hope she
turns up soon.”

Greg was still contemplating his next move when a leggy,
tousle-haired blonde sailed past him. Two steps later, she reversed.

She squinted at his chest. “Justin, is it? You look lost.”

“I am a bit.” Wasn’t that the truth?

“You’re more than welcome to join our little party. Hang on a sec
while I top-up the supplies.” She nodded at the trio of empty glasses clamped
in her hands.

Helping her to carry the drinks, he followed her back to her table
at the rear of the room. On the table’s far side sat an attractive round-faced
brunette, who at that moment was throwing barely veiled questioning glances at
her friend. Opposite her, perched on a barstool, was a pale faced,
high-cheek-boned man of around his own age.

The blonde, whose name he was yet to discover, set the drinks on the
table and spoke to her friend. “Where did Her Majesty disappear to?”

“Pauline? Not sure. Said there was something important she had to
attend to,” replied the brunette.

Brenda, whose name he’d finally managed to read, climbed onto the
barstool and motioned him to the vacant spot on the bench. “Megan doesn’t
bite.” She chuckled. “Not much, anyway.”

Megan, as Brenda had addressed her, proffered what looked to be a
half-smile of resignation. It was as if to say, “Here we go again.” He had
friends like Brenda, too. Interfering friends full of good intentions.

For now, he would play along.

Introducing himself as Justin, he slipped in next to Megan, catching
a hint of her light floral perfume. About ten minutes into the small talk and
an empty glass later, he pulled the photo of Sam from his pocket.

Holding the photo edge between his thumb and forefinger, he held it
face up over the middle of the table. “Would any of you know this woman? Maybe
you’ve seen her at one of these functions,” he said, taking a slightly
different tack than before.

Brenda snatched it from his fingers and holding it close to her
face, studied it intently. “Who is she? You a cop or something?” She handed it
back. “Sorry, don’t recall ever seeing her.”

Megan intervened. “But we’re only newcomers to this game. This is
only our second function. Lawson or some of the others might be able to help.
Actually Pauline would be the best bet. She’s the agency owner. Have you spoken
to her?”

He shook his head and passed it to Lawson. Lawson made no attempt to
take it from him. “Sorry, mate, can’t help you.”

“But you haven’t even looked at it.” Greg, or rather Justin, waggled
the photograph of Sam taken the previous Christmas. “At least look at it.” He
paused and lowered his voice. “Please.”

Lawson’s chest rose and fell in a soundless sigh. Releasing the grip
on his beer glass, he wiped his hands on his trousers and held out his right
hand to accept the photo. Before he’d had a chance to glance at it, a hand
darted across the table from seemingly nowhere, snatching the photo from his
upturned palm.

Greg’s eyes followed the photo as it disappeared from the table
centre and found himself locked in Pauline Meyer’s stare. She stood framed
between Brenda and Lawson, her eyes narrowed. “Mr Harris, may I ask what your
interest in this woman is?” She didn’t pause long enough for him to take a
breath, let alone respond. “Are you with the police? Because if you think you
can waltz in here and start interrogating my clients, think again. Be assured
that I will be lodging an official complaint with your superiors first thing
tomorrow. Please leave.”

With that, she tossed the photo into the centre of the table and
walked off. An awkward hush settled over the table. Greg scanned the faces of
the others. Megan with her widened eyes and parted lips appeared as stunned as
he felt. A half-smile played on Brenda’s lips, giving the impression she knew
more than she was letting on. And Lawson had returned to staring into his beer,
his long hair blocking his face.

Brenda looked across the table at Greg, that half-smile still
evident. “Well?”

“Pardon?”

“Well, is Pauline right? Are you a cop?”

He took a deep breath and exhaled. “No, I’m not a cop, I’m…” Greg
faltered, unsure of how much he should be divulging. He picked up his glass
before realizing it was empty. Conscious that his every move was being watched,
he sat the glass back down on the table. He’d only just met these people. He
knew nothing about them. How much or how little could he trust them? “Look, I
don’t have much time.” Pauline Meyer advanced as he fumbled with the clasp on
his business card holder. “I really need your help. Sam is my kid sister.”
Sliding from the bench, he stood and dealt out three business cards. “Please
call me.”

“So what do you
make of that?” asked Brenda with an excited yip.

Megan shook her head, picked up the business card and scrutinized
it. According to the card, Gregory B Jenkins was a certified financial planner,
working under the banner of Jenkins Financial Services. It listed an office
address in Carlton, together with an assortment of phone numbers and an email
address. But hadn’t the man who had given her the card said his name was Justin
something-or-other? “What did that guy say his name was again?”