ONCE UPON A LIE (A Fitzjohn Mystery) Page 14

  ‘Did he say when this dinner engagement was?’

  ‘I seem to remember it was the night she got back from a business trip to Canberra. Just a couple of days before she died.’ Betts glanced over at Fitzjohn.

  ‘Did he say why Claudia declined his invitation?’

  ‘No.’ Rafe Simms paused. ‘Anyway, after Claudia’s death, Charlotte returned to Adelaide to complete her studies. We had planned to be married that following summer, but after she returned from Adelaide in November of that year, she did a complete turn-around. She bought the bookshop in Double Bay with money her mother left her. I travelled down to Sydney as often as I could, but eventually she told me she’d changed her mind. She no longer wished to get married.’

  ‘So, according to Rafe Simms,’ said Fitzjohn as they drove back along the road leading from Peppertree Grove Wines, ‘Claudia declined the victim’s invitation to his dinner party on the day she returned from Canberra. The Thursday before she died.’ Fitzjohn paused. ‘I seem to remember Phillipa Braithwaite told us that Claudia had cancelled their dinner engagement on that same Thursday evening? In favour of what, I wonder?’

  ‘Maybe she was tired after driving back from Canberra that day, sir. After all, it’s over 300 kilometers.’

  ‘Possibly. Or, if she had picked those mushrooms while she was there, she might have decided to stay at home and eat,’ added Fitzjohn. Fitzjohn thought for a moment. ‘Take me through, again. what you know about these death cap mushrooms, Betts. Didn’t you say that they can take up to sixteen hours to take effect?’

  ‘Yes, sir. And as Claudia Rossi was hospitalized early on the Saturday morning, there are two possibilities. Either she was poisoned on Thursday evening after returning from Canberra, or up to lunchtime on the Friday.’

  Lightning flashed in the night sky as Fitzjohn climbed out of the taxi and in to the warm, humid atmosphere. Turning toward his cottage, he collected the mail from the letterbox beside the gate, and made his way along the path to the front door. Once inside, the aroma of food filled the air and he smiled to himself, remembering the almost forgotten warm feeling of coming home to someone. He found Sophie in the kitchen glued to the television.

  ‘All’s well with the tree branch, I take it,’ he said, placing his briefcase on the kitchen table.

  ‘It was the last time I looked, Uncle Alistair, but the weather bureau says we’re going to get a storm tonight.’

  ‘I know, and it looks like it’s arrived.’ Fitzjohn peered out of the rain splattered kitchen window. ‘What smells so delicious?’

  ‘It’s my favourite dish,’ said Sophie. ‘Mainly because it’s the only one I know how to cook with any kind of success. Chicken in Paprika with Lime.’

  ‘Sounds complicated.’ Fitzjohn removed his suit coat and rested it over the back of a kitchen chair. ‘I want to talk to you about your arrest before we sit down to dinner, Sophie, and about your mother.’

  Sophie scrambled to her feet. ‘You’re not going to tell Mum are you, Uncle Alistair? Please don’t. My life won’t be worth living if you do. You know what she’s like. She’ll make me transfer to Melbourne University and live at home. I’d wither and die. My youth sapped away.’

  ‘No need to be melodramatic,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘If you think about it, returning to Melbourne might be your best option. After all, being arrested doesn’t seem to me to be a very good way of conducting your independent life. Does it?’

  ‘No, it doesn’t. It’s been the worst day of my life, but I believe I have learnt from the whole horrible experience. Doesn’t that count for anything?’

  Fitzjohn looked at his only niece, and goddaughter, her large brown eyes imploring him in to collusion against her mother. But could he blame her? After all, Meg’s devotion to duty as both Sophie’s mother and his sister was nothing short of stifling. ‘I’ll have to think about it,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, thank you, Uncle Alistair, you’re wonderful. Now, dinner won’t be for about half an hour so I’ll pour you a whisky, shall I?’

  ‘You don’t have to go overboard, Sophie. As I said, I have to think about it. But a shot of whisky wouldn’t go astray.’ Fitzjohn took his newspaper out of his briefcase and made his way in to the conservatory where he settled himself in to his leather chair.

  ‘Oh, no,’ screamed Sophie.

  ‘What is it?’ Fitzjohn jumped up from his chair and returned to the kitchen.

  ‘Look! I’m on the ABC news. If mum sees this my life will be well and truly over.’ Sophie slumped down on to a kitchen chair.

  ‘As will mine,’ said Fitzjohn as if to himself. ‘And what’s more, I’ve got a feeling that in a minute or two that phone’s going to ring.’ As Fitzjohn said the words the wall phone rang.

  ‘You’d better answer it, my girl,’ he said, turning back toward the conservatory.

  ‘Couldn’t you, Uncle Alistair? You’re so much better at dealing with mum than I am. And obviously, she wants to speak to you. After all, she wouldn’t expect me to be here.’

  ‘No. She thinks you’re in gaol.’ Fitzjohn groaned and picked up the receiver.

  ‘Hello? Meg dear... Yes, she was… Meg, if you will just listen to me for a… No, Sophie isn’t in gaol. I bailed her out this afternoon. She’s just… Calm yourself down, Meg. Getting upset isn’t going to change the fact that your daughter was arrested. Yes, it is unfortunate, but it happened, so we just have to live with...’ A creaking noise followed by a crash and breaking glass stopped Fitzjohn in mid-stream. With the phone still to his ear, he peered through the kitchen window. ‘My god. The greenhouse. Here, speak to your mother,’ he yelled, tossing the phone to Sophie before running from the room. Outside, buffeted by the howling wind as it whipped through what remained of the flowerbeds bordering the garden path, Fitzjohn lifted his gaze to the jagged, grotesque remains of the greenhouse, the tree branch now resting inside. Transfixed, as the rain dripped from his chin, Fitzjohn’s shoulders slumped inside his sodden suite, ‘I’m sorry, Edith,’ he said.

  CHAPTER 20

  A sense of urgency filled Fitzjohn as he walked in to the Incident Room the following morning where members of his investigative team anticipated the start of the case management meeting. Amid the din, he made his way to his desk and sat down before catching Betts’s eye. ‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said, methodically removing papers from his briefcase. ‘I’ll just be a couple of minutes and we can get started.

  ‘Was it the tree branch that kept you, sir?’ asked Betts.

  ‘Yes. It came down in last night’s storm. It’s now lying inside what was once the greenhouse.’

  ‘And the orchids?’

  ‘Well, the hail didn’t help, but we saved what we could. And I must give credit to Sophie. She’s been a tower of strength over the past twelve hours. I couldn’t have done it without her.’

  ‘Don’t forget that your neighbour is liable to replace the greenhouse, sir.’

  ‘I haven’t, Betts, but as the rest of the tree fell on to Rhonda Butler’s house, I think she has enough to worry about.’ Fitzjohn paused. ‘The woman’s a pain in the neck, but I couldn’t help but feel sorry for her last night. Her home is decimated. She’s lucky to be alive.’ Fitzjohn ran his hand over his wispy hair. ‘Sophie didn’t fair too well either. Not only did she cut her hand on some broken glass, but her mother’s ordered her back to Melbourne.’

  ‘I take it she saw Sophie being arrested on the news last night,’ said Betts.

  ‘You saw it too, did you?’

  ‘You couldn’t miss it, sir. Sophie was on every channel.’

  Fitzjohn groaned. ‘I’ll never hear the end of it from her mother, but I’ll see what I can do to get Meg to reverse her decision. After Sophie’s valiant efforts to save my orchids, I owe her something. And freedom from her mother’s clutches seems to be her highest priority right now.’

  Fitzjohn swiveled his chair around to look at the whiteboard. ‘Now, enough of my domestic problems. Is there anything I should know be
fore we start this meeting?’

  ‘There is, sir. The man impersonating Pierce Whitehead? His real name is Andrew Braithwaite.’

  ‘Braithwaite? Dare I ask if he’s related to Phillipa Braithwaite?’

  ‘Her half-brother, sir. Evidently, he has a history of passing himself off in various fields of expertise including architect, airline pilot and civil engineer, to name just a few.’ Betts looked back down at his notes. ‘Apparently, he built a very impressive bridge in some small African country in 2006.’

  ‘And now he fancies himself as a winemaker,’ said Fitzjohn, ‘and a good one, according to Rafe Simms.’ Fitzjohn chuckled. ‘Has he been brought in?’

  ‘About an hour ago, sir. He’s also changed his alibi. He now says he spent last Friday night at Phillipa Braithwaite’s house. Says he arrived at around 6pm and didn’t leave until eight the next morning.’

  ‘Really? I’ll be interested to know what changed his mind, and whether Ms Braithwaite agrees with him. We’ll speak to her first, Betts,’ he added. ‘But for now, let’s get this meeting underway.’

  Fitzjohn and Betts entered The ArtSpace Gallery that afternoon to find Phillipa Braithwaite standing beside a low round table arranging flowers in a vase. She looked over when the door opened.

  ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen,’ she said, her hands still clinging to three blue irises.

  ‘Good afternoon, Ms Braithwaite,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘We’d like to ask you a few more questions, if we may.’

  Phillipa placed the remaining irises in to the vase and rubbed her hands on a cloth. ‘Yes, of course, although I doubt that I can add much to what I told you before, Chief Inspector.’ She gave a quick smile and led the way to a group of chairs at the side of the gallery. As she did so, the telephone rang. Phillipa gestured to her assistant. ‘Will you get that, Trudy. If it’s for me tell them I’ll ring them back. Sorry about that, Chief Inspector,’ she said as they sat down. ‘Have you more questions about Claudia?’

  ‘Not Claudia, Ms Braithwaite. This time we’d like to ask you about Pierce Whitehead.’

  ‘Oh?’ Phillipa sat back, crossing her legs. ‘Well, all I know about him is that he’s the man Claudia employed as her winemaker at Five Oaks.’

  ‘I see,’ said Fitzjohn. ‘Well, that surprises me, Ms Braithwaite, because it’s come to our attention that Andrew Braithwaite is, in fact, your half-brother.’ Phillipa stiffened. ‘He tells us he spent last Friday evening - the evening Michael Rossi died - at your home, and didn’t leave until eight the following morning. Is that correct?’

  ‘No, it isn’t.’

  ‘Are you sure about that, Ms Braithwaite? This is a murder investigation.’

  Phillipa Braithwaite bristled. ‘I’m well aware of that, Chief Inspector, and I’m quite sure Andrew was not at my home last Friday night. I’ve had little or nothing to do with my half-brother for a number of years.’

  ‘But surely you had a hand in securing his position as winemaker at Five Oaks Winery. After all, it would be too much of a coincidence to assume otherwise.’

  ‘Very well. I admit, I did introduce Andrew to Claudia when she was looking for a winemaker. And I’ve regretted the deception ever since.’ Phillipa paused. ‘Sometimes when family is involved, Chief Inspector, we do things we might otherwise not. My only solace is that I knew he had the ability to do the job. Any job, as it turns out,’ she added, her eyebrows rising.

  ‘So we understand,’ replied Fitzjohn. ‘We will need you to make an official statement refuting your brother’s alibi, Ms Braithwaite. And in view of the seriousness of the matter, it’ll have to be done immediately.’

  Phillipa looked at her watch. ‘And I’ll do that gladly, Chief Inspector, but I’m afraid it’ll have to be later today because I have clients due in less than ten minutes.’

  ‘Alas. This can’t wait, Ms Braithwaite, I suggest you have your assistant make other arrangements for your clients.’

  ‘So, who do you think is lying, Betts?’ said Fitzjohn, sitting back in his chair. ‘Andrew Braithwaite or his half-sister, Phillipa.’

  ‘I can’t see why Andrew Braithwaite would lie about being at Phillipa’s unless he was sure she’d back him up, sir.’

  ‘I agree and I’d say he’s going to be surprised to hear she didn’t. Let’s go and tell him, shall we?’

  Fitzjohn and Betts walked in to the interview room to find Andrew Braithwaite, alias Pierce Whitehead, sitting next to his solicitor. While Fitzjohn arranged his papers, Betts turned on the recording device and started the formalities, stating the place, time and date. Andrew Braithwaite hesitated before following the others in stating his name.

  ‘So, your name it isn’t Pierce Whitehead after all, but Andrew Braithwaite,’ said Fitzjohn.

  Displaying an air of amusement, Braithwaite sat back in his chair. ‘Occupational hazard, Chief Inspector. Being sprung, that is.’

  ‘Do you get sprung often?’

  ‘No. I’m usually well away before that happens. But this time was different. I really enjoyed being a winemaker. That’s why I stayed on after Claudia died.’

  Fitzjohn looked down at his papers. ‘Andrew James Braithwaite, half-brother to Phillipa Braithwaite.’

  ‘You have it in one, Chief Inspector. Phillipa was six when my mother married my father, James Braithwaite. I’m not sure Phillipa ever got over having to change her name - to Braithwaite, that is. And yet she’s kept it. I’ve always found that rather curious.’

  ‘I take it Phillipa had a hand in securing your position at Five Oaks Winery,’ continued Fitzjohn.

  ‘Of course. What are families for if not to help each other.’ Braithwaite chuckled to himself.

  ‘Why did you do it, Mr Braithwaite? And why did you impersonate Pierce Whitehead, in particular?’

  ‘Why not. Pierce and I had studied together some years earlier. I’d heard about his death. It wasn’t difficult to persuade Claudia to employ me as her winemaker. After all, Pierce had impeccable credentials.’

  ‘It seems you have quite a history of impersonations, only this time, it’s got you mixed up in a murder investigation.’ Braithwaite met Fitzjohn’s intent gaze.

  ‘I didn’t kill Mike Rossi, Chief Inspector. As I told your Sergeant earlier, I was at Phillipa’s the night Mike died. If you don’t believe me, why don’t you ask Phillipa?’

  ‘We have, Mr Braithwaite. She denies you were there on Friday evening.’

  The first sign of panic came to Andrew Braithwaite’s face. ‘The bitch.’ Braithwaite ran his hand through his hair. ‘Look, I admit Mike and I didn’t get on, but I had nothing to do with his death. I swear it.’

  ‘Be that as it may,’ replied Fitzjohn, ‘we believe you had a strong motive to kill Michael Rossi. After all, he did dismiss you, and without notice. That must have put you in a precarious situation. Not to mention the fact that you're a wanted man. Something to do with passing yourself off as a commercial airline pilot, I believe. It seems you stayed a little too long in that occupation as well.’ Fitzjohn sat back with his hands clasped and tapped his thumbs together. ‘It doesn’t look good, Mr Braithwaite.’ Fitzjohn unclasped his hands. ‘You’ll be held in custody and questioned further, not only about your involvement in Michael Rossi’s death, but your escapade as a pilot. However, before that happens, I’d like to question you about Claudia Rossi.’

  ‘Claudia?’ Andrew Braithwaite’s brow furrowed.

  ‘Yes. Can you tell us the last time you saw Claudia Rossi?’

  ‘It was the week before she died.’ Braithwaite cleared his throat. ‘I’d come down to Sydney to organise Five Oaks Winery’s participation in the Sydney Boutique Wine Fair; I planned to showcase a selection of our wines. I called into Phillipa’s afterwards and Claudia happened to be there.’

  ‘And what day of the week was this?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘It was a Thursday evening. I remember because I’d made my trip to coincide with Phillipa’s return from Melbourne. She’d been there earlier in t
he week.’

  ‘Melbourne?’

  ‘Yes. She manages an art gallery there. She makes several trips a month.’

  ‘I see,’ said Fitzjohn, his interest piqued. ‘As a matter of interest, Mr Braithwaite, what was your reason for seeing Phillipa?’ Braithwaite fell silent. ‘Well?’ When he did not reply, Fitzjohn continued. ‘Let me remind you, Mr Braithwaite, you’re facing serious charges, and not answering our questions isn’t going to help you. And it doesn’t seem to me that your half-sister intends to either.’

  Andrew Braithwaite sighed. 'Mmm. I think you might be right. So much for brotherly love. Okay. I’ll tell you what I know, but it doesn’t have anything to do with Claudia.’

  ‘We’ll make that judgment,’ replied Fitzjohn.

  ‘The reason I went to see Phillipa is because she’d asked me to persuade a local artist to sell his work through me.’ Andrew Braithwaite looked down at his clasped hands. ‘I told him I was an art dealer. It wasn’t too difficult to get him to agree.’

  ‘Why didn’t Phillipa approach him herself?’ asked Fitzjohn.

  ‘She said she had, but without success. Anyway, I called around to Phillipa’s to give her the good news.’ Braithwaite gave a quick smile.

  ‘And you say that Phillipa had previously tried but failed to obtain any sort of agreement with this artist.’

  ‘Yes. For whatever reason. She didn’t offer an explanation.’

  ‘Do you remember the artist’s name?’

  ‘No. At the time, it wasn’t important to me.’

  ‘In that case, perhaps you can give it some thought while you're being held. Is there anything you'd like to clarify or add before we conclude this interview?’ Andrew Braithwaite shook his head. ‘Very well, interview terminated at 1640 hours.’

  Accompanied by Betts, Fitzjohn walked with a determined gait back to the Incident Room. ‘So, according to Andrew Braithwaite, Claudia Rossi was at Phillipa Braithwaite’s house on the Thursday evening before she died. And yet, Phillipa Braithwaite denies seeing Claudia at all during that week. One of them is lying, but which one?’