
Comedy Shorts

Four short stories...

ROBIN STOREY

This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person alive or dead is purely coincidental.

Copyright Robin Storey (C) 2015

www.storey-lines.com

The right of Robin Storey to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright Act (Australia) 1968.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the copyright owner, except in the case of quotations used for reviews or articles about the book.

Cover design by Judy Bullard

www.customebookcovers.com

eBook formatting by Maureen Cutajar

www.gopublished.com

# Contents

Sleuthing for Beginners

A Peaceful Death

A Girl's Best Friend

The Muse

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# SLEUTHING FOR BEGINNERS

I knew there was something fishy about Beryl Markwell's death right from the start. I felt it in my bones, with all the instincts finely honed from years of burying myself in crime novels.

As usual, my flatmate Mia accused me of living in an 'alternate reality.' She's studying psychology.

'You have way too much time on your hands - being unemployed is doing your head in.'

'I'm not unemployed, I'm just in between jobs. Like you're in between men.'

Mia gave me a look that said it all - that I was in between men too, and my in between period was a lot longer than hers. But I didn't care as much as she did. Or I pretended not to.

'So the woman down the road, who wasn't exactly young, dies suddenly. What's so fishy about that?'

'She wasn't old either, she looked to be in her fifties and was super fit - always out power walking or doing Tai chi classes in the park. She made me feel like the original couch potato.'

'Angie, healthy people die all the time. How do you know she didn't have some illness that no-one knew about, like one of those heart viruses?'

I shook my head. 'I have a feeling it's something more. Anyway, Rick said the police are investigating.'

Rick from the corner store had broken the news to me that morning when I called in for milk. 'Ian from next door found her, on the bedroom floor in her nightie. Dead as a doornail.'

'The police always investigate when someone's found dead,' Mia said. 'It's just routine.'

'We'll see,' I said.

*

I tossed and turned all night thinking about Beryl. Suicide wasn't a likely option. On the few occasions I'd spoken to her, she was cheerful and friendly, and almost bursting out of her skin with health and vitality. She certainly didn't have the demeanour of someone about to do herself in. Something was not right about her death.

I'd wanted to be a private detective since I was eight and discovered Enid Blyton's Secret Seven. I fancied myself as a cross between independent Kinsey Millhone and sassy Stephanie Plum, with a large dollop of Miss Marple's astuteness and enough of the sex appeal of Charlie's Angels to get me out of trouble. Or into trouble. When I was downsized from my admin job six months ago, I'd asked my job agency if they would help fund me to get my private detective's licence. My case manager looked at me as if I'd asked her to cough up for pole dancing lessons.

Now a chance to prove myself had fallen into my lap.

'I'm going to find out how Beryl really died,' I said at breakfast.

Mia rolled her eyes at me as she nibbled her toast. 'For God's sake, you're not still on about that! What superhuman powers of deduction are you going to call on? Or maybe the answer will just manifest itself in a psychic vision.'

'Despite your cynicism, I'll tell you. I'm going to start with the obvious and question the neighbours, to see if they saw anything suspicious.'

'And how are you going to do that without them telling you to mind your own business and slamming the door in your face?'

'That I'm not going to tell you. You'll have to wait and see.'

After Mia had left for Uni, I dragged my beaded evening bag out from the depths of my wardrobe, locked the apartment and crossed the road.

Beryl had lived across the road and up two houses. Her home, with its warm ochre tones and Mediterranean villa ambience, stood out in a street of unpretentious brick boxes. I didn't know her neighbours, but took a punt that Ian lived on the farthest side and was the man I'd seen occasionally watering his front garden.

I knocked on the front door. The same portly, middle-aged man answered it.

'Hi, I'm Angela, I live across the road.'

I held up the evening bag. 'I found this on the footpath. Does this belong to anyone here?'

He peered at the bag. 'Merle's out shopping, but I'm pretty sure it's not hers. Anyway, we haven't been out at night for ages.'

'Okay, thanks. Sorry to bother you,' I rushed on, 'you must be still in shock after discovering poor Beryl.'

He drew in his breath sharply.

'You can say that again' He held out his hand. 'Sorry, I'm forgetting my manners. I'm Ian.'

We shook hands. 'I talked to her a few times,' I said. 'She seemed like a nice person.'

'She was a real lady, in the old-fashioned sense of the word.'

'And she seemed so fit and healthy.'

He shrugged. 'You never know when your time's going to be up. I must admit when I saw her lying on the bedroom floor my first thought was that she'd been attacked and robbed, but the house was spotless, as usual. Then I noticed a pile of vomit on the floor beside her, so I thought maybe she'd had a stroke.'

'Do you know what the cause of death was?'

He shook his head. 'I haven't heard. The police came and had a look around the house and asked me a few questions, and that was it. I suppose there'll be an autopsy.'

'Why did you go over there? Did you suspect something was wrong?'

'I'm the secretary of our local bowls club and I wanted her help to write the newsletter. She's ..she was wonderful with words, spent hours on the computer writing long emails to people all over the world she'd met on her travels.'

He'd relaxed now into storytelling mode. 'When she didn't answer the door, I just assumed she was out. But then I noticed the morning newspaper still rolled up on the lawn, which was odd - she always told me if she was going away so I could keep an eye on the place. I tried the back door and it was unlocked, so I went in.'

'So she definitely wasn't attacked?'

He looked at me warily. 'You're not a reporter, are you?'

'No way. I just don't like the thought there could be violent types prowling around the neighbourhood.'

'I was there when they took the body away. There were no marks or bruises or anything like that.' He lowered his voice. 'But I didn't want to look too closely because she was in her nightie.'

Of course,' I said reassuringly. 'It's very sad. I'm sure her children will be devastated.'

'She's only got one son, Neil. He's got some high-powered job in science research in the States. I suppose he'll be on his way over. Beryl was really proud of him, she talked about him a lot. She was even excited about a friend of his that she'd never met visiting her.'

'Really? When did the friend visit?'

'Hmm, when was that?' He scratched his head. 'Actually it was the day before she died, because she told me on Monday that he was coming the next afternoon. Apparently this friend's mother is ready to go into a nursing home and because Beryl used to be the director of an aged care home, he wanted her advice on the best place to book her in.'

'Did she mention his name?'

'It started with M - was it Mike? Mitch? No, it was Max.'

He studied me again. 'You're asking a lot of questions for someone who's not a reporter.'

I put on my most charming smile and fluttered my eyelashes. 'I'm a woman, I have a naturally inquiring mind.'

I desperately wanted to ask Ian more about Max, but it would only further arouse his suspicions.

'Thanks for your time. I must be off.' I held up my purse. 'On a mission to find the owner.'

I continued up the street, visiting Beryl's closest neighbours with my 'found' evening bag as a prop to start conversation. If they were as nosy as neighbours in crime novels, someone would have noticed something about Beryl's visitor, or at least come up with a useful tidbit that would later prove to be the key in solving the crime.

But nosy neighbours were in short supply. Two weren't home, one woman had just moved in and hadn't met her and two others knew her to say hullo to, but could offer nothing else. My last port of call was a dejected-looking cottage at the end of the street. A scrawny, hard-faced woman opened the front door, a cigarette drooping from her lips. I did my spiel. Her eyes darted to the evening bag and lit up.

'Thanks, love, I wondered where it had got to!'

She grabbed it out of my hand. 'I got a cab home from the services club and must have dropped it when I got out.'

She unclipped the bag, looked inside and pulled out a note. 'And here's my twenty bucks! Another flutter on the pokies tonight. Thanks heaps.'

She closed the door and left me standing there, open-mouthed.

*

Mia laughed so hard she slid off her chair and rolled on to the floor. I watched her, stony-faced.

'That bag cost me eighty dollars. I feel like going to the club and snatching it back from her.'

Mia sat up, wiping away the tears. 'And don't forget the twenty bucks you left in it. That's one hundred all up. Does this come out of the expense account?'

'Very funny. Anyway, I learnt something useful from the neighbour who found her. About this friend of her son's, Max. He sounds suspicious to me. Why would you go to the trouble of visiting someone you've never met when you can get all that information about nursing homes on the internet? And why not just ring her?'

'Some people prefer to talk face to face. So what are you saying? That he had something to do with her death?'

'Maybe.'

I wondered how I could find out if the autopsy had been done. In crime novels the

private eyes always have a contact in the police force, or an ex-policeman, they can wheedle information from. The only policeman I'd had contact with recently had given me a speeding ticket when I was running late for a job interview. Even if I could remember his name, he was hardly likely to succumb to my powers of persuasion.

Over a glass of chateau de cardboard, (private detectives usually have a bottle of whisky in their desk drawer, but my budget didn't stretch to that), I made some notes on my progress so far.

Victim: female in her fifties.

Cause: unknown.

Result of autopsy: unknown.

Time of death: unknown, but presumably sometime between when Max left on Tuesday afternoon or evening and when Ian found her on Wednesday morning, assuming Max was the last person to see her alive.

Motive: unknown.

Next step of investigation: unknown.

Not the sort of report to inspire confidence in my sleuthing abilities. If I hadn't been so sure I was right about Beryl's death, I would have thrown in my private eye L plates there and then. I was hampered by the fact that this was real life - fictional sleuths have a happy knack of knowing all sorts of useful people, from hookers and shady low-lifes to government clerks willing to risk their jobs by imparting confidential information.

My social network was disappointingly small and unremarkable. My work friends had drifted away, perhaps fearing that unemployment was catching, and apart from Mia there was only Rick at the convenience store and Pauline, my employment case manager. And the guy at the local servo, whose name I didn't know.

I woke up next morning under a black cloud, due only in part to the cheap wine. What would Stephanie Plum do to cheer herself up? Donuts. I downed two cups of coffee to kick-start myself, grabbed my purse and left Mia hunched over an assignment on personality disorders. A walk in the spring sunshine would pre-burn some calories in readiness for the onslaught.

Ian was weeding his front garden. He looked up and waved as I crossed the road.

'Beautiful day, isn't it? Did you find the owner of the bag?'

'Yes.' I gritted my teeth. 'It was the woman at the end of the street.'

'Lucky for her you found it. Beryl's funeral's on Monday. Did you see the notice in the paper?'

'No. Does that mean they've done the autopsy?'

'I believe so. I spoke to Neil this morning, he flew in yesterday. Apparently it was a heart attack. So there you go. You can be as fit as a Mallee bull and it'll still get you.'

'I guess so.'

Heart attack. I knew that supposedly healthy people died of heart attacks, but I wasn't about to give up just because medical opinion was against me. A good sleuth never takes anything on face value.

I looked over at Beryl's house and saw a late model sedan parked in the driveway. A tall man with receding fair hair came out of the front door, got into the car, and nodded in our direction before backing out and speeding off.

'Poor fellow, he seems pretty cut up,' Ian said. 'Soon as he arrived he had to rush around finalising the funeral arrangements. I think he's still jetlagged.'

'I guess Max would be upset as well, to find out he was probably the last person to see her alive. Did you happen to catch a glimpse of him?'

Ian shook his head. 'There was a car parked outside her house, an old Ford. I suppose that was his, but I didn't see him arrive or leave.'

Asking if he'd noticed the number plate was pushing it. Anyway, I didn't know anyone in the transport department I could bribe for the owner's details. I really needed to get out more.

I ambled to the local shopping centre, bought a bag of hot cinnamon donuts and sat on an outdoor bench, basking in the warmth of the sun. After two donuts, I was feeling queasy and threw half the third in the bin. Jesus, I couldn't even succeed at an eating binge!

The Cancer Help pre-loved clothes store was opposite. It had become my main fashion outlet since I'd lost my job, the only drawback being that I had to plunder piles of terry towelling track suits and size 8 midriff tops to find my booty. I wiped my hands on my jeans and went inside.

'Hullo, love!' Terri said.

Curvaceous with bright red hair, she always wore an in-store outfit with often startling results. Today it was a psychedelic blouse with a purple striped skirt. She was wrapping a fur-trimmed coat for a middle-aged woman.

I flicked through the rack of skirts, looking for something corporate to wear to my next job interview. Sleuths could get away with jeans - the shabbier, the better.

'It's a gorgeous coat,' the customer said. 'Who'd give away something like this to an op shop?'

'Some people have more clothes than they know what to do with, love,' Terri said.

After the customer left, she leant over the counter and said in a low voice,' I didn't like to tell her that the woman who donated that coat is dead anyway. Some people are a bit funny about things like that.'

'Who donated it?'

'A local lady, Beryl Markwell. Every time she had a clean-out she'd come in with mountains of clothes - Lisa Ho, Carla Zampatti, all good quality stuff. I asked her why she didn't sell them on consignment and she said she'd rather donate them and she didn't need the money anyway. And now she's dead, poor thing.'

'She was obviously well-off, then.'

'I reckon. She told me her husband was a property developer before he died so he must have left her a few bucks. And she was always jet-setting off somewhere, to visit her son or go on one of those merry widow cruises.'

She nodded to the rack of skirts. 'Anything there grab you?'

I pulled out a grey tailored skirt, size 18. 'Only this one. I'll have to eat a few more donuts.'

*

I could have hugged Terri for being my first and so far only useful contact. She'd given me valuable information. Beryl had money and the obvious person to benefit was her son. An excellent motive for wanting her dead. But how did you kill someone and make it look like a heart attack? Doubly tricky if you're in another country at the time.

Although Neil could have lied about arriving from the USA yesterday - he could have flown in a few days ago, lain low, killed his mother, then re-surfaced, pretending to have just arrived. And then there was Max. Where did he fit in?

When I got home, I Googled Neil Markwell to see what I could find out about him. There were a couple of pages of Neil Markwells - a few in the USA, some on Facebook, but none that seemed to fit with what I knew of him.

'What are you doing?'

Mia had come into my bedroom and was looking over my shoulder.

'Trying to dig up some dirt on Neil Markwell.'

'Why?'

'Because I think he's a suspect in his mother's death.'

'But the autopsy results said it was a heart attack.'

'So what? Autopsy results have been known to be wrong.'

'Since when did you become a medical expert? You didn't even pass your first aid certificate!' Mia let out a deep sigh. 'Angie, I think you've lost it. You're living in one of your crime novels, and a bad one at that. You have no proof it was anything other than a natural death, and even in the unlikely event it wasn't, who's to say Neil had anything to do with it? Having a rich mother is not a sufficient motive to bump her off.'

I gave a reciprocating sigh. 'Look, if I were living in a crime novel, I would have uncovered a complicated trail that led back to someone from Beryl's secret past as a CIA agent murdering her. In real life the chief suspect is usually a family member, which is why I'm interested in Neil. It's boring and trite, but true.'

I nodded at my laptop. 'I've been researching poisons on the internet. Apparently there are some whose symptoms mimic a heart attack and if there's no suspicion of foul play then the coroner has no reason to test for them.'

'I give up,' Mia said. 'I'm going back to my assignment. At least I can use you as a case study for delusional personality.'

'Thanks for your support, faithful sidekick.'

'You want a faithful sidekick, get a dog.'

To take my mind off coming to another dead end, I dashed off a catch-up email to my mother, leaving out all the bits of my life she wouldn't approve of. It was a short email.

As I pressed the 'send' button I remembered what Ian had said about Beryl's love of letter writing by email. Somewhere in one of her emails was a clue to her death. My hunch was so strong it sent a shiver up my spine. How was I going to get a look at them? Simple. Break into her house and her computer.

*

My mind raced as I lay in bed trying to sleep and by morning I'd come up with a plan. I'd break into Beryl's house on Monday while Neil was at the funeral. Ian and his wife were attending as well, so there was no risk of their spotting my activities. I'd find her computer, trawl through her emails, save any that were incriminating to my flash drive and be gone before Neil returned.

Of course there were holes in my plan big enough to drive a bulldozer through. How was I going to break into a house in broad daylight without being spotted by the other neighbours? What if it had security alarms? And what if Beryl's computer was password protected or Neil had packed it away and I couldn't find it?

None of the answers to those questions had magically presented themselves to me by Monday morning. The funeral service was at ten o'clock at White Dove Funerals, a twenty minute drive away. I planned to go over to Beryl's house as soon as Neil and Ian had left.

'Are you okay?' Mia said. 'You seem a bit jumpy.'

'I'm fine.'

'What's on the agenda for today? A bit of surveillance? Some interrogation? A break-in or two?'

I hoped my guilt didn't show on my face. 'Nothing so exciting.' I tapped my head. 'Just exercising the little grey cells.'

I watched her as she walked down the road to catch the bus to Uni. It would have been handy to have her as a look-out, but I knew what her response would be. Only sleuths in books had side-kicks. In real life you were on your own.

I set up watch at the front window. At ten past nine Neil backed out of his garage and sped off. Fifteen minutes later Ian drove past, Merle at his side. I left my apartment and crossed the road. Under the guise of watching for traffic I looked quickly around me. The street was deserted. My heart hammered as I approached Beryl's house. In my jeans pocket was my housebreaking kit - a screwdriver, a credit card and a couple of bobby pins. How I was going to use them I had no idea.

I paused and drew in a deep breath. Sooner or later every private eye had to do a break-in, it was like an initiation ceremony. Being furtive would only draw attention to me. I wrenched open the front gate as if I owned the place and strode down the cobbled path to the back of the house. There was no sign of a security alarm. The back door was locked, so I walked around the house looking for an open window. All the windows had security screens, except a smallish one at the back of the house, which had a standard flyscreen.

I lifted the screen out of its tracks. The window wasn't quite closed and I slid it open. I calculated I'd just be able to squeeze through it.

I fetched a chair from the back patio, rested it against the wall and stood on it. Holding my breath, I manoeuvred myself sideways through the window. In front of me was a small ensuite. I placed my left foot on the toilet seat but as I hauled the rest of me in, my foot slipped and I landed in an untidy heap draped over the toilet, my foot immersed in toilet water. Letting out a string of expletives worthy of even the most hard-boiled of sleuths, I hauled myself up and emptied the water out of my shoe.

As I squelched through the main bedroom, I averted my eyes, not wanting to look at the scene of Beryl's death. But I couldn't help shivering. I walked down the hallway, checking each room for a computer. The interior was modern and minimalist, with expansive white walls, lots of glass and elegantly planed furniture.

I found the study at the front of the house, with a computer on a small desk that looked out on to the street. The curtains were drawn back, flooding the room in morning sun. I drew them across, sat at the desk and turned on the computer. I held my breath as it booted up. The desktop appeared on the screen. Thank God, no password.

I clicked on the email icon and Beryl's inbox appeared. I scrawled through the emails. There were dozens of them - she'd received more emails in the week before her death than I'd received in the last six months. Most of them seemed to be from friends. I stopped at an email dated the twenty-fifth of October, ten days ago, from Neill Markwell. Neill with two lls. No wonder I couldn't find him on the internet.

'Hi Mum

Sorry I haven't written earlier, I'm under lots of pressure at work. Not only have we been knocked back for funding for our research into anti-venom vaccines, but due to government cutbacks our whole lab will be closed down. Some of us are thinking of starting up our own privately funded facility.

'One of my friends from Uni, Max Browning - I don't think you met him - lives near you and wants to come and talk to you about nursing homes. His mother will be ready to go into one soon and he wants to know which one would be the best. I hope you don't mind, I've given him your number and he should ring soon.'

I checked Beryl's sent emails for her reply, which came the next day. 'Your friend Max just rang me and he's coming over next Tuesday at three o'clock. I'm looking forward to meeting him. Don't work too hard, darling.'

I scrolled up to her latest email, sent to Jan O'Hara the previous Tuesday, the day Max had visited.

'Dear Jan

I'm so sorry for not replying sooner, but I've been very busy - no excuse, I know! I will make this short as I'm not feeling well. I had a friend of Neill's over this afternoon to get some advice about a nursing home for his mother. He seemed a nice enough chap, if not terribly bright, not at all like Neill's other friends. And a bit strange too - I'd baked a banana loaf for afternoon tea, but he brought some biscuits his mother had made and was quite insistent I have one, so I did. And now I have a massive case of indigestion! Seriously though, it might be the pork chops I had for dinner, although they tasted all right. Anyway I'm going to have an early night. I'll write a longer email soon, I promise. Love to Alan.'

A chill crept over me as I re-read the email. It was all falling into place. The silence in the house was suddenly eerie. I saved Beryl's email and the email from Neill onto my flash drive and had just turned the computer off when a loud noise made me jump. It was the roar of a car engine. The brakes screeched as it pulled up outside the house. Car doors slammed.

My shivers instantly turned to perspiration. I raced to the ensuite, clambered onto the toilet and squeezed out of the window. In my haste I missed the chair and landed on the ground, one leg twisted and pinned under me. By the time the figure in blue appeared around the corner I didn't care. I was almost passing out with pain.

*

'I wish you'd told me what you were doing,' Mia said.

She sat beside my hospital bed, hoeing into the chocolates she'd brought me.

'You would have tried to talk me out of it.'

'Of course I would! Jesus, look at you! You've broken your leg in two places, you'll be out of work for even longer and you've been charged with break and enter!'

'But you're forgetting I solved the case when the cops didn't even know there was a case to solve!'

'Anyway, under the circumstances, they might downgrade my charge to trespass,' I added, with more conviction than I felt. I'd been hard pressed to come up with a reasonable explanation for the presence of a screwdriver, credit card and hairpins in my pocket.

I lay back on my pillow and replayed in my mind for the umpteenth time the events of the past few days. The neighbour on the other side of Beryl's house had called the police because she'd heard suspicious noises. After the police arrived, they called the ambulance, but before it arrived I gave them my flash drive, told them to read the emails and between waves of pain, recounted my theory. That Neill and Max had plotted to kill Beryl for her money. They'd set up a visit from Max on the nursing home pretext and Max had poisoned Beryl with one of his biscuits, using a poison that imitated the symptoms of a heart attack. It was unfortunate for him that Beryl didn't die straight away - perhaps her fitness was a factor - and had time to write the email to her friend. Without that email there would have been little to go on.

Another autopsy found that deadly nightshade had been crushed up and baked in the biscuit Max had given Beryl. The police had tracked down Max, a petty criminal already known to them, and he'd confessed all. He wasn't Neill's friend - Neill had hired him, arranged for him to obtain the poison and given him the recipe for deadly nightshade biscuits. It transpired that Neill had needed the money to start up his own research lab and wasn't prepared to wait until his fit and healthy mother died of natural causes. He was arrested at the solicitor's office discussing her will.

I felt sorry for Beryl. She would never have dreamed that the son she doted on would orchestrate her death. But it didn't diminish my satisfaction at discovering it. Perhaps I could do this private detective stuff after all.

'You may have noticed,' I said to Mia, 'that not once have I said, "I told you so."'

'Okay, you were right about Beryl's death,' Mia said, chomping into my last chocolate. 'But that was a fluke, Angie. A chance in a million. It couldn't happen again.'

I gave an enigmatic smile. 'We'll see.'

THE END

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# A PEACEFUL DEATH

George watched as the coffin containing Harold Tanner's body was lowered into the earth. He wondered not for the first time why his father had chosen to be buried and not cremated. Did he want to leave something of himself behind that his family could grieve for? There were only a couple of cousins and George left now. Maybe he just didn't fancy the idea of being reduced to a box of ashes on a mantelpiece.

George had thought about death a lot lately. It was hard to avoid it - in the last twelve months three other people he'd been close to had died. A nephew in his thirties of a brain tumour, and two friends, both in their fifties - one in a car accident, the other of a heart attack. And now his father. Old and frail, his death from a stroke was not the shock the others had been.

He felt a hand on his shoulder.

'You okay?' said Tom, his boss and head of Sales and Marketing. George nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

After the ceremony, as they were heading to their cars, George said, 'Do you ever think about your own death?'

'Hey, you're not going all morbid, are you?' Tom said. 'I know you've had a tough year with all these deaths, but you're the picture of health. You'll outlive us all!'

'But really, do you?'

Tom opened his car door and turned to face George. 'Sometimes, when I've been hitting the bourbon. But then I distract myself, put on a porno movie or something. Life's too short to spend it worrying about when it's going to end.'

He gave George a hearty slap on the back. 'See you at the homestead.'

*

After the wake George sank into his father's worn armchair. There hadn't been many guests - just the cousins, a few mates from the bowls club, Tom, and George's golfing mates Martin and Neil. The old farmhouse settled into a big, empty silence. It had never felt like home - he'd only lived there for the last six months to take care of his father. When probate was through, he'd sell the property and move back to town.

George's thoughts turned again to his own demise. His emotions alternated between curiosity as to how it would happen and fear of its inevitability. His father had slipped into unconsciousness before passing peacefully away. At least, he'd looked peaceful enough. That was the ideal way to die, to go to sleep and not wake up. On the other hand, it was a terrifying thought - you'd never know when you went to bed each night if tomorrow you wouldn't wake up. It was enough to make you never want to sleep again.

In bed George tossed and turned, finally drifting off in the early hours of the morning. Two hours later he sat bolt upright, clammy with sweat. He'd had a horrible dream that he'd died. Was he dead? He wiggled his toes. He felt alive, but maybe he'd already crossed over and was in heaven.

Hand shaking, he turned on the bedside lamp. The light pooled on the threadbare carpet and faded wallpaper. He wasn't in heaven. Thank-you God!

'Bad dream?'

George looked wildly around. In the half light a shape loomed in the doorway. It came towards him. It was a man, short and rotund, wearing a long white cloak. His face was round and rosy-cheeked - the effect was of a middle-aged cherub. He sat on the end of George's bed and arranged his cloak around his legs.

'Sorry if I frightened you. Though I think you were already frightened.'

'Who...who are you?'

'Angel of Death. Pleased to meet you.'

He held out his hand, then withdrew it when it was obvious George wasn't going to shake his hand. He sighed.

'I should be used to this. You think I'm some madman who's broken into your house on his way home from a fancy dress party, right?'

George found his voice. 'It's a more likely explanation than you being the Angel of Death.'

'What if I told you I took your father last week, your nephew Ben in January, your friend Alan in March and Larry in June?'

This man was a nutcase. A nutcase who'd done his research. Best to humour him - he could be hiding any manner of weapon under that cloak.

'All right, if you're an angel, where are your wings?'

The man sighed again. 'It's always the wings.'

He pressed his fingers on both shoulders. Two large white wings sprouted and slowly unfolded. George stared, open-mouthed. The Angel stood up and twirled around as if modelling the latest in wing design. Then he sat down, pressed his shoulders again and the wings retracted.

'Retractable wings. Best invention ever. They get rather heavy after a while. Does that satisfy you? I can do the harp bit too, if you like. Wagner's funeral march is my favourite.'

'No, I believe you,' George stammered.

Sort of. Perhaps this was just another nightmare. He closed his eyes and opened them again. The Angel was still sitting at the end of his bed. A terrifying thought struck George.

'Does this mean... have you come to...?'

The Angel shook his head. 'You can rest assured I'm not here to take you away. I've come to ask you a favour.'

'What sort of favour?'

'I need someone to launch a public relations campaign for me. I'm tired of people avoiding me and being afraid of me - do you know how debilitating that is to your self esteem? Especially when it's been going on for thousands of years. I'm no different to anyone else - I want to be loved, I want people to look forward to seeing me. Oh, I know there's the odd person who welcomes me, but it's usually because they're suffering or in pain. A rather negative reason to be wanted, don't you think? '

'I haven't ever thought about it. Why are you asking me?'

'Because I've been in your mind a lot lately. And because you know all about PR.'

'But I'm a salesman for Vitality Health Products. We're all about health and living, not dying.'

The Angel shrugged. 'Life, death, whatever you're selling the principle's the same.'

George tried to unscramble his thoughts. Was he really having this absurd conversation?

'Look, I appreciate you choosing me to help you. But I can't. It's just too...'he stopped himself from saying 'ridiculous' - 'difficult, I wouldn't know where to start. Anyway, I don't have time, I've got to clean out the house and go through Dad's things. I'm sure I don't have to tell you all the stuff that has to be done.'

The Angel cocked his head to one side. 'George, old boy, you're underselling yourself. Aren't you the top salesman in the company this year?'

'Yes, but - '

'There's your answer, you have all the skills required. And as for time, we know that if something's really important we make the time.'

'I'm sorry, but your PR campaign is nowhere near the top of my "to do" list.'

The Angel shook his head and tut-tutted. 'I don't want to pull rank, George, but if you choose not to help me, you may well find yourself coming to an untimely end.'

'Are you...are you blackmailing me?'

The Angel raised his hands in a gesture of helplessness. 'If that's what it takes! I tell you what. Let's use the carrot instead of the stick. If you help me, I'll guarantee that you'll die a peaceful death. I know how important it is to you.'

'When?'

He waggled his finger at George. 'Now that I won't reveal. But I will say that it won't be for a long time. I promise you'll live to a ripe old age.'

George took a deep breath. 'You don't leave me much choice, do you?'

The Angel beamed. 'Excellent. I knew you'd see reason.'

He held out his hand. Reluctantly George extended his hand and they shook on it.

'Just one more question,' George said. 'Why aren't you wearing black?'

'Too depressing. First impressions are so important, as you well know. When I come to collect someone, white is much more calming. We'll talk soon.'

Then he was gone.

*

'The purpose of this seminar,' Tom announced, 'is to create some new marketing strategies. As we're all aware, everyone's suffering due to the GFC, and our industry is no exception. You've all been working on some ideas and I'm keen to hear them. Who wants to start?'

The dozen salesmen seated around the conference table shifted in their chairs and stared down at their papers.

'George, would you like to get the ball rolling?'

George cleared his throat. 'You may think my approach unconventional, but please try to keep an open mind.'

'I'm all for thinking outside the box, you know that. Fire away.'

George inserted his flash drive into the notebook computer at the head of the conference table. His Powerpoint presentation began with one word in large black letters. DEATH.

'Death is a word that invokes fear and anxiety in most people. But death is nothing to be afraid of. It's a journey into serenity, an ending and a beginning. We can't escape it, so let's look forward to it, and welcome it with open arms.

'Here at Vitality Health Products we want to help you prepare for death. With our vast range of vitamins, sport and exercise equipment and aids for sound sleep, we have everything you need to help you plan for the final big sleep at the end of your busy, fulfilling life. We can help you make sure you approach death full of health and vitality, so you can attain true contentment and peace in the afterlife.

Death - it's here to stay. Let's embrace it.'

The silence was deafening. Andy burst into loud applause. 'Great stuff! I love it!'

'Very outside the box,' Dennis said. 'Or should that be coffin?'

The others grinned. All eyes were on Tom. He looked as if he were about to explode.

'I'm assuming this is a joke,' he said.

'No,' George said.

'Have you gone stark raving mad?'

'I don't think so.'

'I'll see you in my office after the meeting.'

*

Tom took a bottle of bourbon out of his stationery cupboard and poured out two stiff drinks. He handed one to George.

'Here, you need it. On second thoughts, I need it more.'

He downed his drink in one gulp, then leaned forward and looked George in the eye. 'You're serious about this idea?'

'Dead serious.'

'That's not funny, George. It's obvious your father's death has affected you much more than you realise. I want you to take a month's holiday and see a grief counsellor.'

'I don't need a holiday! Or a counsellor! I have my down times, but I think I'm coping pretty well.'

'That just proves how unhinged you really are. Don't argue about it or I'll make it two months.'

*

George was cleaning out his father's study when he turned to see the Angel of Death reclining in the office chair, hands folded on his belly. George jumped, his armful of books crashing to the floor.

'For God's sake, you nearly gave me a heart attack.'

The Angel grinned. 'It's not your time yet, old boy. Just dropped by to see how you're going with our little project.'

'Thanks to your little project I'm off work for a month and I have to see a grief counsellor.'

The Angel shrugged. 'The world is full of critics, but you musn't let a little negativity get in your way. What's your next idea?'

'I don't have one.'

'Rubbish. What do you do at Vitality Health Products when you have a new product to launch?'

'We advertise it of course. TV, print, radio, sometimes all three.'

'There's your answer then.'

'You want me to do a media campaign for death?'

'Unless you have any other brilliant ideas.'

George stared at him. 'Do you have any idea how much that would cost?'

'I'm not asking you to sell your soul. Just start with your local media and let it snowball from there. And don't forget to recommend me to your friends and colleagues. You can't discount the value of word of mouth.'

'Why don't you do it? ' George said. 'As you're such an expert.'

The Angel looked at him reproachfully. 'I'm an ethereal being, George, I'm not of your world. The only people who can see me are those who are about to depart this earth.'

'Except for you, of course,' he added, seeing the look on George's face. 'I made an exception for you because I need your help. Now if you don't mind, duty calls. There's been a pile up on the motorway.'

*

George decided to start with word of mouth.

'That was the best I've played in years,' Neil said over his beer at the clubhouse. 'Must be my new six irons. Tiger Woods, eat your heart out!'

'Talking of hearts,' George said,' have you ever thought about what it'll be like to die? One minute your heart's beating and the next it's stopped?'

Martin and Neil exchanged glances. 'Naturally you think about it when you're our age,' Martin said. 'But I don't dwell on it, it's too depressing. '

George leaned forward. 'But that's where you're wrong, it's not depressing at all. Death is something to look forward to, an end to traffic jams and debt and cranky bosses. Just one peaceful eternal holiday!'

'I still prefer the Gold Coast,' Neil said. He stood up. 'Another round?'

*

It was easier to talk about death with his counsellor.

'What I hear you saying is that you're looking forward to dying,' Vivian said, looking at him over her glasses. She had dyed henna hair and her dress flowed over her like a psychedelic waterfall.

'I am,' George said. 'I'm looking forward to the peaceful release from the worries of life. You shouldn't be afraid of death - it's just another stage of life. It's like being afraid of marriage or parenthood or old age. What's the point? You should dive in and make the most of the experience. Don't you agree?'

Vivian shifted in her chair. 'We're not here to talk about what I think. Tell me, have you thought about how your death is going to happen? Have you made any plans?'

'Nothing specific. All I know is that it won't be for a long time and it will be peaceful, which gives me lots of time to look forward to it. Anticipation is the purest form of pleasure, so they say.'

'How do you know for sure that your death will be peaceful? Or that it won't be for a long time?'

'I just do.' George looked around at the batik wall hangings and the collection of crystals on her desk. 'Do you believe in angels?'

Vivian's eyebrows shot up. 'What makes you ask that?'

George shrugged. She studied him. 'Do you believe in angels, George?'

'I never used to and I wish I still didn't.'

*

George began his media campaign by taking out a full page advertisement twice weekly in the local newspaper. Two messages ran on alternate days.

'You can run

You can hide

But you can't escape Death.

Embrace it instead.'

And

'Death

Be in it

Sooner or later you won't have a choice

So welcome it with open arms.'

The response was immediate. Letters to the editor ranged from amused to vitriolic. George received a steady stream of letters, forwarded by the newspaper, accusing him of being a crackpot or a religious maniac. One writer even accused him of being 'a danger to society who's advocating another Jonestown mass suicide.'

On the Friday before he was due back at work, Tom phoned to say he was calling in after lunch. George swept the latest pile of angry letters off the table and filled the coffee percolator. The rap on the front door startled him, even though he was expecting it. He hadn't had many visitors lately - even Martin and Neil were avoiding him and pleading social engagements on golf days.

'Good to see you, Tom!' George said. 'Would you like a coffee?'

Tom shook his head. 'No thanks. I just dropped by to tell you that your counsellor doesn't think you're ready to come back to work and recommended that you have another month off.'

'What?' George was aghast. 'I don't need another month off - I'm going stir crazy as it is with all this time on my hands.'

'I'm not really going crazy,' he added quickly, 'it's just a figure of speech.'

Tom gave a perfunctory smile. 'Be that as it may, I'm going with her recommendation.'

George opened his mouth to protest. Tom held up his hand. 'It's no good objecting, just make good use of the time and get better.'

He hesitated. 'If there's anything I can do, just let me know.'

'Thanks,' George mumbled.

Tom turned to go. 'By the way, you wouldn't have anything to do with those newspaper ads for death, would you?'

'What ads?'

'In the daily paper. Embrace death. Death be in it. That sort of thing.'

'I haven't a clue what you're talking about,' George said. 'I don't read the papers, it's too depressing. Part of my grief therapy.'

'Good idea. I must be off. Keep in touch.'

The front door banged shut behind him. George's chest tightened and he clenched his fists.

'Death!' he shouted. 'Or Angel or whatever you call yourself. Where the hell are you?'

No response. Typical. Never came when you wanted him, always turned up when you didn't.

*

His next step was to write an advertisement for the local radio station. They were reluctant to air it at first, but acquiesced after he offered to double the fee.

'All good things must come to an end,' a treacle-toned announcer assured listeners, to a background of pan flutes. 'Death is the supreme happy ending and the ultimate retreat for rest and relaxation.' A disclaimer at the end warned that they weren't encouraging people to end their lives prematurely, but to anticipate with joy their meeting with Death.

George also approached the local TV station, and persuaded them to run a similar advertisement. There were conditions, though - it was only to be aired late at night so as not to upset children and it was to show a further disclaimer that the promoter of the advertisement had no affiliations with any funeral homes or religious groups. It featured Andy Williams crooning 'I Will Wait for You' in the background and animations of chubby angels in white gowns playing harps.

Listeners and viewers jammed the phone lines, complaining that the ads were pointless and offensive. Some, despite the disclaimers, accused them of promoting suicide, religious sects or doomsday prophecies. The TV and radio stations reaped the benefits, with their ratings going skywards as people tuned in to see what all the fuss was about.

Then George received a phone call from the producer of a national current affairs program. 'Would you be willing to come on the program and be interviewed about your death campaign? There are a lot of people out there who are very curious about you. It will give you the opportunity to prove you're not a crackpot.'

It was obvious from the producer's tone of voice that he had his own doubts about George's sanity. At first George refused. Once Tom saw the interview, his job at Vitality Health Products would be history. But when the producer offered him a large fee, double the amount he'd spent on the campaign so far, George relented. A ten minute spot on national TV was a coup - the Angel had to be happy with that. It had now boiled down to a choice between his job or a long life and peaceful death.

The interview was not as nerve-wracking as George had expected. If the young female interviewer thought he was a crackpot, she hid it well. With just the right blend of curiosity and empathy, she made it easy for George to expound on his 'feel good about death' stance.

Watching a replay on TV the next day, he thought he'd presented his case in a rational and persuasive manner. But many disagreed. Now that his identity was known, the steady stream of hate mail became an avalanche. Some of the accusations made his stomach churn and some letters even contained death threats. He couldn't even raise a smile at the irony of it. His ears rang with the echoes of abusive phone calls. Rocks were thrown on to his roof in the middle of the night. When he went into town people stared and yelled comments.

'Here comes old Diehard!'

'Hey mate, you look like death!'

On the morning a woman spat at him in the newsagent and he came home to find his front door dripping with egg, he decided he'd had enough. He was moving back to his apartment in the city. He packed a suitcase and as he hauled it out of the bedroom he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Staring back at him was a haggard, wild-eyed wreck.

This was what it had come to - the accusations of craziness had become a self-fulfilling prophecy. He took the suitcase out to the front porch, then went to the shed and dragged out his father's old hunting rifle. He brushed the cobwebs from it, picked up the case of bullets and took them into the house.

He placed the rifle and bullets on the kitchen table and went back inside to find something to wrap them in. This proved his insanity. He, George Tanner, who wouldn't even kill an insect if he could avoid it, was packing a rifle in his suitcase. But if some lunatic tracked him down and turned up on his doorstep he wanted to be able to defend himself.

There was a rug on the couch in the living room. As he picked it up he turned around and jumped. The Angel was lolling in his armchair, legs up on the footrest.

'For God's sake, I wish you'd knock, or give me some warning.'

'Sorry, it's in the job description. Demonstrated ability to turn up at unexpected times and places.'

'This campaign is getting way out of control.'

'On the contrary, it seems to be going very well. I'm impressed, particularly with the TV interview. You mentioned death twenty-five times in the space of ten minutes.'

'It may be going well from where you're sitting, but look at me! Bags under my eyes as big as that suitcase! I've had more hate mail than O.J. Simpson! I don't dare answer the phone for fear of being abused and everywhere I go people sneer at me. No-one wants to drink with me at the club and my golfing buddies have dropped me like a hot potato. And you know the worst thing of all?'

By now George was shouting. 'You probably don't care but I'm telling you anyway. The worst thing of all is that I've lost my job. And you know how it happened? Not with an invitation to the office and an "I have to let you go," from the boss, which would have been bad enough, but with a letter from the general manager, whom I've never even met. "Dear Mr Tanner, I regret to inform you that your employment with this company has been terminated." '

The Angel raised his eyebrows. 'Calm down, old boy. You've got to expect some backlash - people don't like having their fears challenged. You know the old motto. Nothing is worth achieving if you don't have to work at it.'

'Work! That's the best euphemism I've heard in a long time! I'm quitting, as from this very minute. My life is ruined, if you could call it a life. I may as well be dead.'

'Now George, I'm sure you don't mean that. '

'I mean every fucking word. Come on, kill me!'

George stretched his arms wide, face flushed, chest heaving. The Angel looked at him as if he were a naughty child having a tantrum.

'For goodness sake, cut the melodrama.'

'I'll give you melodrama.'

George marched into the kitchen, picked up the case of bullets and slid one out. He loaded it into the rifle and closed the chamber. The sharp click rang out in the still air. He strode back into the living room. His father had taught him how to use the rifle, although George had refused to accompany him on his hunting trips. He slipped off the safety catch, took aim and fired.

A whip crack rang through the air. George stared, motionless, at the sight in front of him. All that remained of the Angel was his cloak, a crumpled white heap on the armchair.

*

The sky was so blue it made your eyes ache. The earth sparkled under the sun, right down to the glossy leaves of the shrubs that bordered the path winding through the cemetery. It was the sort of day that made you glad to be alive - doubly so for George, as he'd spent the last twelve months in fear that his life would be snuffed out at any moment by an avenging Angel of Death. He knew he hadn't killed the Angel, much as he tried to convince himself otherwise. Admittedly, there was the evidence of the crumpled cloak, but no body. As an ethereal being, the Angel had never been alive in the first place. And people continued to die, so he was obviously still doing his job.

George did everything in his power not to tempt fate. He walked instead of driving to avoid car accidents, looked to the right and left several times before crossing the road and steered clear of busses, building sites and wildlife. Now that twelve months had passed and he was still alive, he was beginning to relax. Maybe, just maybe, the Angel would honour his promise after all.

George strolled down the path in the direction of his father's grave. It was early morning and he was the only visitor. He came here occasionally to drink in the silence and wonder how much of his father was still in the ground and where the rest of him had gone. And to think about life. He had to admit, when he could forget his fears that death was lurking round every corner, his life had taken a turn for the better.

He'd cancelled the media ads, his notoriety had faded away with the advent of the next scandal and his life resumed normality. He found a new circle of friends by taking up lawn bowls (no danger of being hit by a flying ball) and the most exciting part was that he'd scored a job at White Dove Funerals as client services manager. It was a role he excelled in, after gladly 'toning down the death stuff,' at the request of the owner.

He stood gazing at Harold Tanner's modest headstone. A dull ache squeezed his chest. Was it emotion? Or the fried eggs he'd had for breakfast? Something flashed in front of him. He looked up. A tall figure in a white cloak was coming towards him with easy, graceful strides.

'If it isn't my old friend George!'

The voice was familiar, but the body was not. A suggestion of muscle under the cloak, sandy hair, blue eyes, a hint of stubble.

'You look as if you've seen a ghost, old chap! I decided on a new body after you shot the old one. More in keeping with my new image. Brad Pitt with a touch of Robert Downey Jr. You like it?'

George nodded. He struggled for breath, unable to speak.

'I'm glad.' The Angel beamed and held out his hand. 'It's time, George.'

Georges gaped. The Angel nodded encouragingly.

'Wait.' George's voice came out as a rasp. 'I'm not ready to die. What about your promise?'

The Angel shook his head. 'How quickly you forget! You reneged on me, so that makes my promise null and void. But fortunately for you I'm a generous soul, so I'm allowing you to have one of your wishes. I can't give you the ripe old age but you can have the peaceful death.'

'What do you mean?'

The Angel made a sweeping gesture. 'Look around you! What could be more peaceful? A beautiful spring morning, just the two of us and a few hundred dead bodies!'

Fear crushed George's chest like blocks of cement. Sweat poured down his neck. He looked around. If he made a run for it he could escape over the back fence. If he could catch his breath. And if his legs would stop shaking.

'I wouldn't, old boy,' the Angel said, 'otherwise I'll have to call in some help. Slavering pit bull terriers, scorpions, that sort of thing. Not a good way to go.'

George forced his racing mind to slow down. He thought of all the advertisements he'd written for death, extolling its virtues - peace, contentment, the final relaxation, a respite from worry and stress. Had he believed them? He'd pretended to, but deep down, like everyone else, he hadn't believed that he'd die, hadn't wanted to believe it.

Now it was time to put his money where his mouth was.

'All right.' The pain lifted instantaneously from his chest. He could breathe again. He felt an exhilarating sense of lightness, as if he'd just cast off his fear like an old suit. He held out his hand to the Angel.

'I'll come peacefully.'

THE END

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# A GIRL'S BEST FRIEND

'Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,' the minister droned. So they really say that at funerals! I stared down at the coffin as it was lowered into the grave. I tried to imagine what Uncle Herman looked like in there - it had been 15 years since I'd last seen him, at my own father's funeral. Back then, he was large and raw-boned, with a nose that had been broken one too many times for repair and a well lived-in face. As he died of a heart attack, I guessed he was still large and hadn't given up his voracious appetite for smoking and drinking.

A face beside me peered down at the coffin. Tanned, hard-edged, bleached hair. 'Was there an open casket?' she rasped at the minister.

'I'm afraid not, madam.' The minister regarded her warily as if she were going to demand he open it there and then.

The woman shrugged. 'Just as well. He was an ugly bastard.'

'Just wanted to make sure he was really dead,' she tossed in an aside to me and stalked off. I exchanged raised eyebrows with Brigitte on my other side.

After the service, the smattering of mourners quickly dispersed. We refused an invitation from two of Herman's drinking buddies, ruddy-cheeked and barrel-bellied, to join them at 'the club' for a wake.

'Thanks for coming, Ali,' Brigitte said as we headed for the car park. 'I appreciate it.'

Brigitte, Herman's sister-in-law, had tracked me down to notify me of his death. She and I were his only remaining family. I nearly wasn't going to come, but when I remembered that he'd lived in Fisherman's Bay, I changed my mind. I was tired and run-down and a week-end away from the dreary grind of Sydney in a picturesque coastal town was just the tonic I needed - even if the price was attending a funeral.

'That's okay,' I said. 'It's good to see you again. Who was that woman?'

'I have no idea.' Brigitte pursed her lips in vermillion disapproval. 'Herman really went downhill after Rosie died. He was mixing with some unsavoury types towards the end - he always did at the racetrack but these people were different. There were rumours...' she trailed off and shook her head. 'I don't want to speak ill of the dead.'

Damn, this was getting interesting. Why can't you speak ill of the dead? Isn't that the best time - when they're oblivious to it?

She put her hand on my arm. 'Let's have our own wake. I've discovered a nice little coffee shop on the beachfront.'

*

Cara's Coffee 'n Cake looked out over the sea, dazzling in the spring sunshine. The coffee was full-bodied, the carrot cake rich and spicy.

'This is exactly the sort of place I want to own myself,' I sighed. 'In a little seaside resort just like this. But I'll probably never have the money.'

A complicated divorce and property settlement had left me out of pocket, and the prospect of working long, erratic shifts as manager of an inner Sydney restaurant for the rest of my life loomed large.

Brigitte nodded, doing her best to feign sympathy. With her immaculate hair, high heels and Burberry coat, she looked every inch the Melbourne society woman she was.

'Speaking of money, I have some news for you. When I arrived here, the landlord gave me the keys to Herman's place. I was going through his papers - just to see if he'd left any instructions about his funeral, you understand - and I found a copy of a will dated two months ago. It appears you're the sole heir to his fortune.'

I gaped. She gave a rueful smile. 'Don't raise your hopes. I don't think there's much to inherit. More debts than money, I'd say.'

'I don't doubt that,' I said. 'I'm just shocked.'

'You'll have to confirm it with his solicitor. It's a local firm, Baker Lawyers. Here's their business card.'

After I'd waved her off in her hire car to the Sydney Airport to fly home, I took a punt on phoning the solicitor, even though it was a Saturday. Perhaps we could arrange an appointment before I drove back to Sydney on Monday morning.

'I'm in the office now catching up on some work,' Andrew Baker said. 'Come on over.'

Cheerfully informal in rumpled jeans and shirt, he made us both coffee, then leaned back in his chair and studied me.

'Herman did indeed leave all his worldly possessions to you.'

'But why? I've had no contact with him for the last 15 years. Not that we'd had a falling out, but we had nothing in common and we're not the sort of family that keeps in touch for the sake of it.'

'You're his only blood relation. He told me he liked you even though he hadn't seen you for years. His exact words were, "She's got a bit of spirit in her. I like that in a woman."'

'Really?' I couldn't imagine how Herman had come to that conclusion. When I'd last seen him I was married to a workaholic who was never home, had a hyperactive six year old son and was deep in grief for a father I'd been very close to. And feeling far from spirited.

'I think the drink was affecting his mind though,' Andrew said. 'He hinted that he had a huge fortune stashed away and one day he'd jet off to the Bahamas and I'd never see him again. But as far as I can see, all he's got is a few dollars in his regular bank account and some stocks and shares you'd sell for two thousand dollars, tops.'

Two thousand dollars. Quite a bit short of the amount needed to buy a coffee shop. Just my luck that the only long-lost uncle to leave me an inheritance was a compulsive gambler who couldn't hold money longer than a conversation.

'Unless,' Andrew added, 'he was salting it all away in a Swiss bank account. Good luck with finding that.'

Bells chimed in my head. 'Brigitte intimated that he was hanging around with some bad types. Do you think he could have been involved in criminal activities?'

'She doesn't miss much, does she?' Andrew grinned. 'This is a small town and there's always gossip. If even a quarter of it is true, he was certainly involved with some shady characters. But it's all just conjecture. Despite what he told me, he knew how to keep his mouth shut.'

A shiver shot up my spine. We'd never had anyone in the family on the wrong side of the law before. It was kind of exciting.

'Anyhow, probate has to go through, so it will be a few weeks before the money's available. The will also states that you can have any of his personal effects that you want. So you might want to check his place out while you're in town, before the landlord gets rid of his stuff.'

*

I went back to my motel, changed into jeans, shirt and sandshoes and arrived at Herman's house mid-afternoon. Perched at the end of a sleepy cul de sac, it was little more than a shack, besser block in a small, overgrown yard. I opened the front door with the keys Brigitte had given me. It was instantly apparent it was a single man's residence. Worn carpet, shabby couch strewn with clothes and a small TV on a stand. A wooden table and two mismatched wooden chairs filled the small dining area. One of the chairs was piled high with newspapers - it was obvious no-one ever sat there. The air was thick with the odour of stale fat.

I opened a couple of windows to let some air in. Even though Herman hadn't died here - he'd dropped dead walking home from dinner at the club - it was spooky. It was as if the house was holding its breath, waiting for him to burst in and bring it to life.

I was pretty sure there was nothing here that I'd want, but I wandered through the house. Two bedrooms, the bed in the main bedroom with the sheets thrown back as if he'd just got up, the second bedroom full of junk, grungy bathroom and toilet, poky laundry.

I opened the laundry door and stepped into the weed-choked back yard. A tiny aluminium garden shed huddled in the corner. I opened the door and peered in. An ancient hand mower, a box of tools and several plant pots, all dust-covered and draped with cobwebs. Couldn't see myself being in need of any of those.

I closed the door of the shed and had just re-entered the laundry when I heard the bang of another door, coming from the front of the house. Then footsteps inside.

'Hullo!' A man's voice called out.

'I'd laugh if he answered you back,' said another man's voice.

'Very funny. It's weird the front door being unlocked,' the first voice said.

'They're like that in these shithole places. Never lock anything. You could make a killing, if they had anything worth nicking.'

I'd been about to go out and confront them, but I stopped in my tracks. Whatever these guys were here for, it was obviously not to pay their respects to Herman.

'If only they knew the old bastard's got a mint here just for the nicking,' the first man said, 'wherever the fuck it is. I'll start here and you go down the other end of the house.'

My breath caught in my chest. Now was the time to step out and introduce myself, tell them that everything Herman owned was legally mine and demand they leave. After all, what could they do?

Ignore me? That would be humiliating. Hurt me? Kill me?

Heart thumping, I squeezed into the broom cupboard just as footsteps clumped past the laundry to the bedrooms. I opened the door and crept out into the yard again. I didn't want to risk running around the side of the house to my car, in case one of them looked out the window and saw me. Besides, I wanted to hang around to see if they found anything.

There was a marked scarcity of places to hide in the yard, but I raced over to a couple of bedraggled bushes across from the garden shed and crouched behind them. Presumably the men would come outside and search the shed. Unless they found what they were looking for in the house.

My heart pounded so hard I felt nauseous. Were they searching for the stash that Herman had hinted about to Andrew Baker? If it really existed, it was almost certainly ill-gotten gains, otherwise why would he hide it? And for these guys to know about it, they must be part of whatever illegal activities Herman had been involved in.

Cramp pains were shooting through my legs by the time the laundry door creaked open. The two of them bowled out and over to the garden shed. I peered at them through the leaves of the bushes. One was tall, with straggly hair and a droopy moustache and the other was shorter and stocky with a large bald head, which gave him a Humpty Dumpty-like appearance. The sort of guys you wouldn't look twice at in the street. I don't know what I was expecting - shifty eyes and evil sneers?

Droopy wrenched the shed door open. 'If it's not in here, I don't know where the fuck it is.'

They disappeared inside. After a few minutes of grunts, bangs and clangs, they emerged from the shed, brushing dust from their clothes. And empty-handed.

'Time for smoko,' Baldy said. He dug into his jeans pocket, dragged out a roll-your-own and cigarette lighter and lit it.

Droopy looked around. 'He's probably buried it somewhere. Next step is to dig up the yard.'

Baldy exhaled and choked at the same time. 'Are you crazy? That'll take weeks! How are we going to do that without someone noticing?'

'We'll have to be quick. We don't have to dig up the whole yard, just look for spots that have been freshly dug. Under that bush, for example. It's an easy landmark.'

Shit. I held my breath and tensed myself, ready to take flight should Droopy produce a shovel from somewhere and advance in my direction.

'Speaking of that bush, I just saw something move,' Baldy said. 'I think we've got company.'

Double shit. I darted out from behind the bush. It was pure desperation - like one of those nightmares where you're trying to escape from the baddies but you know, with that terrible sense of dread, that they're going to catch you.

I didn't get far. Droopy and Baldy leapt in front of me, grabbed an arm each and pinned them behind my back.

'Let me go! I'll scream!'

Droopy raised a clenched fist. 'I wouldn't if I were you, sweetheart. I'll knock all your pretty teeth down your throat as soon as you open your mouth.' His breath reeked of cigarette smoke and garlic.

'Who are you?' Baldy said. 'And what the fuck are you doing, skulking around here?'

'I might ask you the same question.' My haughty tone belied my quaking insides.

'Play nice,' Droopy said. 'We asked you first.'

'I'm Herman's niece, and I'm the sole beneficiary of his will. So all that stuff you're going through is mine.'

'Feel free,' Baldy said, with a sweeping gesture. 'Rusty tools, dirty dishes, dirty jocks, it's all yours.'

'And the money, of course,' I said.

Droopy dug his fingers into my arm and I let out a yell. 'What do you know about the money?'

'Loosen up a bit and I'll tell you.'

He relaxed his grip a fraction on my arm.

'I don't know anything,' I said.

Baldy yanked at my other arm. 'Listen, you smart-arse bitch...'

'It's the truth. I only found out today about Herman's will and I didn't know about any money until I heard you two talking about it.'

Droopy and Baldy exchanged glances over my head. 'See if you can find anything to tie her up with,' Droopy said.

'Oh no, you don't,' I said, struggling against his vice-like grip. Something hard jabbed me in the back.

'Keep that up, and this gun might go off, it's very touchy.'

I froze. A gun? This was sleepy Fisherman's Bay - people didn't have guns here. Someone should tell them that.

'What are you going to do with me?'

As soon as I uttered the words, a terrifying thought arose. Please God, not that, anything but that.

'Just shut the fuck up.' Droopy marched me over to the house, opened the laundry door and shoved me inside. The pile of dirty laundry that had been in the corner was now strewn all over the floor. Searching dirty laundry denoted true dedication to the cause.

Droopy kicked the clothes out of the way and closed and locked the door behind us. The gun was still in my back. Baldy poked his head in from the hall. 'Nothing here. Not so much as a ball of string.'

'You'd better find something,' Droopy growled. 'Otherwise you'll be here all night, as her bodyguard.'

It was a toss-up as to which was the most disagreeable prospect - being tied up or spending a whole night in the laundry with Baldy.

'I've just thought of something,' Baldy said. He disappeared. Obviously the thought of us spending the night together was as unappealing to him as it was to me. He re-appeared a short while later brandishing a roll of black duct tape. 'It's been in the boot of the car for a while, but it should be okay.'

Droopy ordered me to sit on the floor and aimed the pistol at my chest while Baldy taped my wrists together behind my back. The pistol certainly looked real, based on my zilch experience with firearms. Baldy then wrenched my shoes off and taped my ankles together. It was only after he fastened two large strips of tape across my mouth that Droopy lowered the pistol.

My first impulse was to scream and flail about, but of course, I couldn't. The tape on my mouth made me claustrophobic - I swallowed my panic and breathed deeply through my nose. Surely they wouldn't have tied my legs together if they were going to rape me.

'You have a lovely night now,' Droopy said, 'and we'll be back at the crack of dawn with a couple of shovels.'

I glared at him and he grinned. 'If looks could kill, eh? If you're a good girl we might think about letting you go when we've finished.'

'Then again, we might not,' Baldy said. 'Depends if you can keep your mouth shut.'

'We have ways of making sure you keep your mouth shut,' Droopy said, 'apart from taping it up. Something to think about if you get bored.'

'Come on,' he said to Baldy. 'I'm tonguing for a beer.'

Baldy winked at me. 'We'll have a drink for you, sweetheart.'

They left. I heard the front door bang shut and shortly after, the roar of an engine and a car speeding away.

Silence settled around me. How had this happened? Yesterday, I was a mild-mannered, law-abiding restaurant manager; today I was sitting in a grotty laundry, tied up by a couple of criminals whom I'd murder without blinking if I got half a chance.

One thing was certain - I was not going to wait here all night trussed up like a pig on a spit in the hope they'd be generous enough to release me when they returned. Neither did I want to find out how they'd make me keep my mouth shut, but I'd worry about that later. I struggled against the tape on my hands for several minutes.

Slow down, you're wearing yourself. I breathed in deeply and flexed my arm muscles slowly against the tape, building up to maximum strength and holding for as long as I could. Then when I thought my arms were going to pop out of their sockets, I stopped, marshalled my strength and started again.

Through the laundry window the sky was grey as dusk crept in. There'd be few more depressing places to spend the night, sitting on a cold, hard floor, my only company a battered old Westinghouse and cracked laundry tub, and surrounded by dirty washing that had been there for God knows how long. I could make out pyjama pants and socks, but I didn't want to look too closely.

I began another round of pushing against the tape. Come on, Ali! Pretend you're in the gym and that hunky guy with smooth, olive skin and even smoother muscles is watching you in the mirror as you're doing your chest presses.

It was pitch black and I was beyond exhaustion when I felt the tape slacken a fraction. I pushed some more, felt the tape stretch and then slipped my right hand out. I'd done it! I slumped with relief, every muscle aching as if I'd just done ten rounds in the boxing ring. I ripped the tape off my mouth. Ouch! One hell of an exfoliation treatment. Then I wrenched the tape off my left hand, unwound it from around my ankles and hauled myself up from the floor.

I felt around the room for the light switch and turned on the light. My hands and feet were numb and I spent a few moments rubbing some life into them. I examined the lengths of masking tape, amazed at my own strength. Perhaps, having been in the boot of Baldy's car and subjected to the heat from the sun, it had lost some of its durability.

I looked at my watch. 9.05pm. Daybreak would be about 6am. I had nine hours to find Herman's stash before Droopy and Baldy came back. No way were they getting their dirty hands on it. I went down the hall to the main bedroom and turned on the light. I could scarcely see the carpet for all the clothes and belongings thrown on the floor.

'For God's sake!' I said out loud. I suppose I hadn't really expected Droopy and Baldy to tidy up after ransacking the place. I put everything away and went systematically through the house, doing the same in each room. As I did so, I checked all the drawers for false bottoms and the cupboards for hidden nooks, and studied the walls for any evidence of hidden panels. It wasn't very likely, given that it wasn't Herman's house, but I was leaving no stone unturned.

I suddenly realised I was ravenous - lunch seemed an eon ago. I looked in Herman's fridge - half a limp lettuce, a bottle of tomato sauce and a couple of shrivelled apples. I'd put up with the rumbling stomach. I went into the spare bedroom, navigated through the piles of junk to the filing cabinet against the back wall and opened all the drawers. The bottom two drawers were empty. In the top drawer were half a dozen file hangers stuffed with papers. This was the only drawer that Droopy and Baldy hadn't emptied - perhaps they'd taken a quick look and decided there was no money in it. It was possible, though, that Herman had hidden some notes in between some of the stapled pages.

I scooped the file hangers out of the cabinet and carried them into the living room, where I could rifle through their contents in relative comfort. I sat on the couch, pushing a pile of clothes out of the way, and worked my way methodically through the papers. Household accounts, receipts, warranties, tenancy agreement, bank statements and blood test results. Nothing out of the ordinary, and unfortunately no banknotes slipped in between the pages.

As I took the pile of bank statements out of the hanger, something fell out. Two boarding passes. One for a Virgin flight from Sydney to Perth on 6 August. Just over 2 months ago. And the other was for a flight from Perth to Sydney on 7 August. Why would he go all that way just to return the following day?

I flicked through the bank statements - monthly statements of his everyday account and his Visa card, going back a couple of years, the most recent on top. There were the normal transactions on his everyday account - modest amounts of cash withdrawals, presumably for living expenses, and regular debits to BWS bottle shop. There was a payment into his bank account from Centrelink every fortnight, which I presumed was a pension payment. There wasn't a lot left in his account at the end of each fortnight.

The Visa card statements were more interesting. His July statement contained the payment for the flight to Perth in August - $565 return. A lot of money for a pensioner to spend on a one day trip. His May Visa statement also showed the payment for a return flight to Perth, as did the one for March. Going through all the Visa statements, I discovered that over the last two years, he'd flown to Perth and back on an average of once every two months.

What was more intriguing was that the amount owing on his Visa card was always paid off in full by the next month's Visa statement, but there were no corresponding transactions in his everyday account. He either had another bank account or was paying cash. It had to be tied up somehow with his illegal business. Unless he had a girlfriend in Western Australia. Somehow I couldn't see it - from all accounts, horse racing and casinos had taken priority in his life over women since his wife had died. So what was so inviting over there? I'd never been to Western Australia, but it conjured up images of swans swimming on pretty lakes and boozy winery tours.

There had to be other clues somewhere. Come on Herman, wherever you are, help me! I leafed through all the papers again and found something I'd missed. On the back of an A4 computer-generated receipt for fertiliser from a plant nursery, a list was scrawled in pencil:

Commonwealth bank everyday account: whichbank67

Visa card: tomycredit1900

Telstra: phoneafriend 85

AGL electricity: lightupmylife404

Virgin Frequent Flyers: agirlsbestfriend99

Passwords to his accounts, and he'd obviously had fun creating them. The Virgin password didn't fit in though - it should have been something like 'flyinghigh' or 'theskysthelimit.' A girl's best friend is diamonds, so the saying goes, although not being much into jewellery, they did nothing for me. Virgin and diamonds - where was the connection? I pondered for a few moments until a thought occurred to me. The only flights he made were to Western Australia - isn't there a diamond mine there?

My iPhone was in the glove box of my car, along with my purse. Thank God I hadn't brought them in with me - my captors would undoubtedly have taken great delight in relieving me of them. I opened the front door and peered out. A dim light shone from a nearby street light, the only sound a slight breeze rustling the trees. I dashed down the street to where my car was parked, half expecting Droopy and Baldy to spring out at me from the darkness. I pulled my car keys out of my jeans pocket, unlocked the car, retrieved my phone and raced back to the house, recording a personal best for the 200 yard sprint.

Back in the living room, I Googled 'diamonds Western Australia' on my phone. It was there, first entry. The Argyle Diamond Mine, in the remote north of Western Australia, one of the world's largest suppliers of diamonds. I read everything I needed to know about the Argyle open pit and underground mines, and about their rough, uncut diamonds and the famous Argyle pink diamond.

I then Googled 'diamond smuggling in Australia', and read about how organised crime groups recruit employees of Argyle and other associated companies to steal diamonds for them to smuggle and sell overseas. Would Herman have really been into that? And if so, what part was he playing in the process? Perhaps he and Droopy and Baldy were all members of an international diamond smuggling syndicate, and Herman was holding out on them, or siphoning off some of the profits. It was all wild guessing on my part, but I had to keep looking. I had to believe this stash, whatever it was, was in the house somewhere and not buried in the yard, as Droopy and Baldy seemed to think. I'm no criminal but if I had illegal goods I wouldn't be burying them in the ground - too vulnerable to the vagaries of the weather, like flooding, and too much like hard work. Brains, not brawn, was my motto and I'm sure Herman would have thought the same.

I scanned the living room for places I hadn't searched. I noticed a large discoloured patch on the beige curtains over the sliding door that led from the dining area out to the back yard. Curtain rods! I'd heard of people hiding things in curtain rods - prawn heads, mainly, as an act of revenge by disgruntled lovers, but it would be an ideal place to hide money or jewels. I grabbed the least rickety wooden chair, dragged it over to the curtains and stood on it. I lifted the curtain rod out of its tracks, but it was a lot heavier than I'd anticipated. I overbalanced and came down hard on the tiled floor, the chair on top of me and smothered in musty curtain.

I lay there, winded, shards of pain stabbing my rear. I fought my way out from the curtain and hauled the chair off me. I felt something hard under my hand and looked down. Beside me on the floor was a pile of glittering stones. Most were brown, except for the small but exquisite pink stone that shone like a jewel in a desert, outshining even the two claret-red stones beside it. Even if I hadn't just done a crash course in diamonds on the internet I would have recognised them. I was looking at an Argyle pink diamond - rare and worth probably three times more than all the others together.

Where had they sprung from? They hadn't come from inside the curtain rod as the ends were still screwed on. I examined the chair. There was a rectangular hollow in one of the legs and a piece of wood the same size lay on the floor - a trapdoor which had flown off with the impact of the chair hitting the floor. The diamonds had been hidden in the hollow. Brilliant! Who would have thought of looking in the leg of a chair? Certainly not me - I had my clumsiness and Herman's shonky craftsmanship to thank for my good fortune.

I scarcely noticed my sore rear as I shoved the diamonds into my handbag, turned out the lights and locked up the house. I drove back to the motel, checked out and was on the road to Sydney by midnight. By the time Baldy and Droopy turned up at Herman's house, I'd be safe in my own bed.

*

I'm on the plane to the Bahamas - as Herman didn't make it, I'm going in his place. First stop is Hong Kong, teeming with jewellery dealers eager to buy diamonds, particularly the Argyle Pink, no questions asked. Then a long, luxurious holiday in a five star resort sipping cocktails with smiling, handsome waiters at my beck and call, before I find a quiet little seaside town with a vacancy for a coffee shop.

I'm not worried about Droopy and Baldy finding me - money can buy you a lot of things, including anonymity and a new life. I've changed my mind about diamonds - I'm very fond of them now. Could even call them my best friend.

And Herman was right. I do have a bit of spirit in me.

THE END

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# THE MUSE

Esther Palfreyman's heart plummeted as she pulled out the bulky envelope from her mail box. Her name and address was printed on it in her own large, rounded letters.

She opened it and slid out the synopsis and first three chapters of her manuscript Love Incorporated. Attached to it was a letter. Another rejection.

In the kitchen she uncorked the bottle of champagne she'd bought to celebrate her publishing contract. As it was apparent there wasn't going to be one, she might as well drink it now.

The next morning she arrived at work at the Taxation Office feeling very fragile.

'Are you all right, Esther?'

Joe McCormack at the desk beside her was looking at her with concern.

'I'm fine, just overdid it a bit last night.'

'Oh? What's happened?'

Esther hesitated. The more people she told about her novel writing, the more she would feel a failure if she never got published. The throb in her head increased its tempo. Oh, what the hell.

'I wrote a novel and it's been rejected. Six times.'

'You poor thing, how disappointing for you.'

Esther gave a stoic half-smile. Joe had been the manager of audits before his wife left him; then he had a breakdown and went on stress leave. When he returned to work he'd been given the less demanding job of data input operator. With his soulful eyes he reminded Esther of a lost puppy trying to find a home. Vulnerability in men made her feel uncomfortable; she'd always been attracted to strong, self-assured men who made her feel safe. Joe was attractive in a sensitive, romantic poet way, but she couldn't imagine ever feeling safe with him.

'Anyhow, keep plugging away. All famous writers get rejected - look at JK Rowling!'

Esther gritted her teeth. If she heard one more mention of JK Rowling she'd scream.

After dinner that evening she sat at her computer and opened up her second manuscript The Power of Love, of which she'd written six chapters. Her despair lifted and she felt a surge of resolve. After all, she'd only been writing for a couple of years, since she'd enrolled in her creative writing course and experienced that 'aha moment,' when she knew with a deep certainty that writing was what she was born to do. It was in her genes - her grandfather had been a compulsive scribbler of poems and short stories, although he'd never had any published. And she'd chosen to write romance because her own life was so lacking in it that even vicarious romance seemed better than none at all.

She began to type, absorbed in her hero and heroine's first romantic encounter on a deserted beach. After a few minutes she became aware of another presence in the room. Her skin crawled. She turned around. There was no-one there.

'That's nauseating in the extreme, I think I'm going to throw up.'

Esther screamed and sprang out of her chair. Behind her on top of the bookcase was a creature. That was her first impression, but on closer inspection she could see it was a man, in perfect proportion but the size of a doll. He wore a white shirt, bow tie and dinner jacket with a kilt and slave sandals. He was perched on The Complete Oxford Dictionary, swinging his tiny, hairy calves and regarding her with cool nonchalance. He had dark hair and eyes and a neat pencil moustache and even through her shock Esther registered that he was rather handsome - like a miniature Johnny Depp.

'Sorry if I frightened you. My name's Albert - I'm your muse.'

He held out his hand.

'If you don't want to shake hands, that's fine, but please close your mouth. You look quite ridiculous.'

Esther snapped her mouth shut.

'I presume you know what a muse is?'

'Yes.' Esther's voice came out as a strangled croak. She cleared her throat. 'I...I didn't know I had one.'

'Now you do. Of course muses, arising from Greek mythology, are traditionally female, but I'm striking a blow for equality. We male muses are still a minority, so you should be grateful I've chosen you.'

'Thank-you,' said Esther. Perhaps if she humoured him he would go away.

'What does a muse actually do?'

'To quote the job description, "inspire and stimulate creative thought." Which, in some cases, presents quite a challenge.'

He bounded from the bookcase on to her desk and gestured to her chair.

'Sit down and I'll show you.'

Esther sat down. He picked up a pen and used it as a pointer on her computer screen.

'This scene where Lucy and Tye have their first kiss. "He pressed his mouth on to hers, its force engulfing the two of them until the world around them receded and she felt herself falling into a chasm of sensual bliss." '

He made a retching sound. 'That's what I was referring to when I arrived. It's stomach-churning! What is this man doing? Sucking her up like a vacuum cleaner? Not sexy at all, unless you have a cleaning fixation. It's obviously a while since you've had a man in your life.'

Esther blushed. 'That's none of your business.'

'Don't get your knickers in a knot, that's Lucy's prerogative,' he said, grinning. 'Don't you think it's much more sensuous to start off with a few light kisses on the neck to make her shiver, a nibble on her ear, then a gentle stroking of her hair from her forehead and a soft kiss on the lips on his way to the other ear?'

Esther said nothing. She didn't want to admit that this rude, self-important Lilliputian in need of a wardrobe makeover might know more about writing love scenes than she did.

He sprang over to her keyboard and before she could stop him, he'd deleted the entire page.

'Now just a minute...'

He put his hand up. 'Write it again. I'll help you and you'll see how easy it is.'

Esther placed her hands on the keyboard and looked at Albert. This man is crazy and I'm even crazier for doing this. He winked and gave her the thumbs up.

Just as she was wondering how and when inspiration was going to strike, the words began to form in her mind. They built up momentum to full speed, her fingers flying over the keys as she transcribed them. In a few minutes she'd filled the page. She sat back and read it through. It was far better than anything she'd written before. Sweet and tentative, building up slowly to the first kiss, tempered with realism and a touch of humour.

'I had no idea I could write like that,' she said. 'It was strange, like being taken over by an invisible spirit. Was that me writing or you?'

'Much as I'd like to take the credit for it, it was you,' Albert replied. 'It's my presence that inspires you to make the best of the talents you already have.'

He took a gold fob watch out of his jacket pocket. 'It's time I was gone.'

'Do you have other writers to visit?' Esther felt like a jealous lover.

He stood up, smoothing the kilt down over his legs. 'Good grief no, one's enough. I've got a meeting. A few of us male muses have set up a support group to get us through the initial hurdles. This is new to me, too, you know.'

He leapt off the desk on to the floor. 'Just one thing before I go. Muses have to be fed to keep up their strength.'

'Oh...of course. What do you like?'

Albert counted the list off on his fingers as he recited it.

'Crackers - water only, cheese - camembert or brie, hot salami, smoked oysters and caviar. For sweets, chocolate brownies, no nuts and custard tarts. To drink, vat 9 Hunters shiraz. It's cheaper if you buy a dozen bottles.'

'And there's one more thing, but I'm damned if I can remember what it is. Never mind, it'll come to me. Hooroo.'

And he was gone, swallowed by the air.

*

The next afternoon after work as Esther filled her shopping basket at the supermarket, she reflected that feeding her muse was an expensive exercise. That's if he existed at all.

That morning she'd examined every inch of the study, but could find no traces of his presence. She could have fallen asleep at her desk and dreamt the whole scene. Maybe she was losing her sanity and had hallucinated him. Except that it had been so real. And the love scene she'd written - that was real, too.

After dinner Esther sat at her desk and waited for Albert. But he didn't appear. The next night she waited again, then the night after. By the fourth night she decided she'd imagined the whole thing and sublimated her frustration by scoffing all the custard tarts and chocolate brownies she'd bought for him. Bloated and despondent, she turned on her computer and tried to immerse herself in her novel.

After a few minutes the hair on the back of her neck prickled. She whirled around. Albert was perched on top of a painting on the wall, legs crossed, grinning at her.

'Albert! Where have you been?'

'Oh, here and there,' he said airily.

'Well, you certainly haven't been here. I've been waiting for you for the last three nights.'

He dived from the picture and landed on her printer. He wore purple velvet flares, jelly sandals and a leopard print singlet top, revealing bony shoulders and pale arms. Esther stifled a smile.

'That was the thing I forgot to tell you last time. Don't wait for me to arrive. The more you try to invoke me, the more likely I'll be to stay away.'

'Why?'

He shrugged. 'That's the nature of muses. And one other thing - don't try to find out where I'm from, or anything about me, for that matter. That will guarantee I won't come back.'

'Why do you have to be so mysterious?'

'It's the creative process - it's supposed to be a mystery. Once you start to analyse it, it disappears. Now, do you have my supper ready?'

A routine was soon established. Every night after Esther had settled at her desk and begun to type Albert appeared, each time dressed in a different, outlandish outfit. He lolled about on her desk feasting on the food that she cut up into tiny pieces and drinking shiraz out of a medicine glass. She didn't mind the crumbs and the dribbles of wine he left on her desk because while he was there, words and ideas jostled and fell over themselves in her mind. Her fingers were flat out keeping up.

After a few glasses of shiraz Albert fell asleep, emitting puppy-like snores. Then the words came to a standstill and Esther poked him in the ribs to wake him up. He yawned and grumbled that he wasn't cut out for night work and it was just his luck to have a writer who worked nights.

After a while Esther plucked up the courage to ask him about his style of dress.

'What do you mean, unusual fashion sense?' He hitched his sarong up to his waist and puffed out his chest under its silk shirt and embroidered waistcoat.

'It's just that you wear things that wouldn't normally go together. Like that sarong, which is casual beach gear, with a shirt and waistcoat which are formal wear.'

She faltered as he glowered at her.

'I mean, it's very original, it's very adventurous of you to try new ideas.'

'It's all right for female muses,' he said, brushing brownie crumbs from his shirt, 'they've got centuries of tradition behind them. They just float about in those white gowns looking all ethereal, but there's no dress code for male muses. We just make it up as we go along.'

'Anyway,' he added, 'what about you? You're not exactly the epitome of haute couture.'

He looked her up and down, at her baggy pullover, faded tracksuit pants and slippers.

'There's no dress code for writers either,' Esther said. 'We just wear whatever's comfortable.'

'Exactly. And what I'm wearing is exceedingly comfortable.'

He stretched out on the desk, tucking the sarong between his legs, and held out his glass. 'More wine, please.'

Esther finished The Power of Love, honed and polished it until it sparkled and sent it off to several publishers. Then, buoyed by her accomplishment, she began her next novel.

After two months, she received her first reply. Rejection again. But the day after, she received a call at work on her mobile phone. It was Sarah Lindgren, the romance editor of Pascoe Publishing.

'I adored your manuscript,' she burbled. 'So fresh and original. I'd like to offer you a contract and talk to you about future novels.'

Esther stared open-mouthed at her phone.

'What's the matter?' Joe asked.

'I just got offered a publishing contract,' she stuttered, 'and she wants to talk about future novels I haven't even written yet!'

Joe leapt up and threw his arms around her neck. 'That's wonderful news! You deserve it!'

Esther was so excited she didn't care that Joe was using her good news as an excuse to give her a hearty and prolonged hug.

*

Pascoe Publishing offered Esther not only a contract and an advance on The Power of Love, but also a contract for two more novels to be completed in the next twelve months. In her happiness she even succumbed to Joe's insistence on taking her out for a celebratory lunch. When she arrived at the restaurant he'd already ordered a bottle of champagne. Esther proposed a toast.

'To Hector Palfreyman!'

'My grandfather,' she explained in answer to Joe's quizzical expression. 'He used to lock himself in his office for hours writing. If we were visiting we had to tiptoe around so as not to disturb him. He sent his stories to publishers but never had any luck, and he gave up in the end. Took to the bottle and died of cirrhosis of the liver. I like to think of him, wherever he is, being able to share my success.'

Joe raised his glass. 'To Hector and his granddaughter - the J K Rowling of Romance!'

'I think that's a little over the top.' But Esther blushed with pleasure - it did have a nice ring to it.

She continued her next novel, but the hard slog of writing as well as holding down a job took its toll. Sometimes she nodded off at her desk at work and Joe had to gently shake her awake. Eventually, after The Power of Love was published and became a best seller, Esther resigned from her job to write full-time.

Life was much more enjoyable now she was able to write during the day and relax in the evenings. Albert was also happier now that he was free at nights to attend his male muse support groups. Sometimes Esther caught herself staring at him - a glance, a gesture, his grin, touched a familiar chord in the back of her mind, but she couldn't think why.

Esther's next two novels, Dark Stranger and Heart of Glass were also best sellers and Pascoe Publishing contracted her to write more novels at the rate of two a year. She moved out of her rented unit and bought an A-framed cottage overlooking the sea, with an attic perfect for writing. She had her hair re-styled and coloured and updated her wardrobe, as befitted a successful romance author. On Albert's advice she created the pseudonym of Eve Palmer.

'For a start no-one will be able to pronounce Esther Palfreyman,' he said, 'and she sounds like someone who writes treatises on the mating habits of obscure insects that no-one gives two hoots about.'

She went on book-signing tours, spoke at writers' festivals and even made appearances on television chat shows. She no longer had to resort to vicarious romance as her own life was full of romantic opportunities. Men materialized from everywhere and she was never short of a date. She and Joe still met occasionally for lunch and he gradually shed his sadness and hang-dog appearance. He asked her out to dinner countless times but she always refused. She enjoyed his company, but to her mind they could never be more than friends. Esther preferred to keep her nights for more exciting encounters with strong, self-assured men.

It was at lunch with Joe that Albert made his first public appearance. He unravelled himself from her table napkin in ballet tights, a fur-lined jacket and platform thongs. She gasped.

'Go away,' she mouthed, keeping her eyes steadfastly above his waist. But Albert just winked and shovelled the crumbs from her bread roll into his mouth. Words crowded into her mind, clamouring to be put down on paper. But she had neither paper nor pen.

Joe was staring at her. 'Esther, are you all right?'

It was then that she realized that Albert was visible only to her and that Joe must be wondering why she was making faces at her plate.

'My muse has just appeared and I've got an idea for the next part of my novel.'

At least now he'll know I'm crazy and stop asking me out to dinner.

'I know exactly what you mean,' Joe said. 'I've been dabbling in some writing myself, on the advice of my therapist. When the idea strikes, you have to run with it.'

He took a pen out of his shirt pocket and handed it to her with a clean paper napkin. 'Be my guest.'

From that day on, Esther always carried a pen and notebook in her handbag. Albert now made regular appearances when she was out and had the knack of choosing the most embarrassing moments. He swooped on to the desk in front of her as she addressed a romance writers' workshop, causing her to stutter and lose her train of thought. He appeared in her trolley at the supermarket, sliding down a banana. Nearby shoppers darted curious looks at the woman who had apparently taken fright at a bag of fruit.

When she was on dates he perched on her shoulder and whispered in her ear, which she tried in vain to ignore. Other times he sat on her feet and tickled her toes, making her grimace hard with the effort of not squirming or giggling. As a result, she gave the impression of being not only an inattentive conversationalist, but also possessed of an unfortunate facial affliction. Each time Albert appeared, Esther was forced to excuse herself and find the nearest private place, usually the ladies toilet, to scribble down her inspirations. Her romantic assignations came to an unromantic end, as her suitors, out of frustration or pity, dropped her home early with no mention of further contact.

Eventually Esther decided not to go out at all - it was too nerve wracking worrying that Albert might show up and too embarrassing when he did. She refused any further public appearances for her books, as well as all social invitations, including lunches with Joe. Her life became a solitary routine, apart from Albert's presence, of writing, eating and sleeping.

Then, when it didn't seem possible, things got worse. Albert began to wake her during the night. She surfaced from a deep sleep to his tickling her ear, pulling her hair or jumping up and down on her feet. There was nothing for it but to drag herself out of bed and start writing.

'I thought you didn't like working nights,' Esther grumbled.

'It's a new workplace agreement negotiated by the Union of Militant Muses for higher productivity of writers,' Albert replied, adjusting his Bugs Bunny cravat. 'In return we get longer holidays and long service leave.'

'And when are your holidays?' Esther asked, a glimmer of hope forming.

'I've only just started, so I won't get any for at least two hundred years.'

'Oh, what a shame!'

After a bellyful of wine Albert fell asleep and she crept back to bed. When she tried to sleep in the next morning, he appeared again, bouncing on the bed and chirping, 'Rise and shine! There are love scenes to be written, sexual tension to be explored, inner conflicts to be resolved!'

With her days and nights a blur of broken sleep and feverish writing, Esther finished her fourth novel A Time for Love and sent it to her publisher. Her editor was jubilant. 'This is your best yet, it will break all your sales records!'

But Esther was far from jubilant. Isolation and sleep deprivation had taken their toll. Instead of plotting her next novel, she was scheming to get rid of Albert. Should she drug his shiraz, stab him with a penknife or bludgeon him to death with her glass paperweight? She even considered shooting him, though how she would acquire a gun, she had no idea. Perhaps, befitting his size, a toy pistol would do the trick.

In desperation she decided to confide in Joe, whom she hadn't seen for weeks. She phoned him and arranged to meet for lunch.

'I'm so glad you rang,' he said. 'I've been worried about you. I think you're taking the reclusive writer thing a bit too far.'

As Esther dragged a brush through her hair, a pale, haggard woman with raccoon-like rings under her eyes stared back at her from the mirror. She looked nothing like the airbrushed Eve Palmer who smiled confidently out from the back cover of her novels. When she arrived at the restaurant, Joe took one look at her and said, 'My God, Esther, what have you been doing?'

Tears pricked her eyes. She blinked them back. She recounted the story of Albert, from the time he first appeared to the present, including her homicidal fantasies.

'So I suppose you think I'm crazy,' she finished. 'And I don't mind if you do, because I'm damned sure I am.'

The tears spilled out. She was too tired to stop them. Joe took her hand in his. It was strong and comforting.

'I don't think you're crazy,' he said. 'Not at all.'

'I know he's responsible for my success, but he's taken over my life. I have to get rid of him. Even if it means I never write another novel again!'

A fresh wave of tears burst forth. Joe leaned forward and brushed them from her cheeks.

'Of course you'll write another novel, you'll write dozens. But in the meantime what are we going to do about Albert?'

They brainstormed ideas for disposing of Albert. Set a booby trap, tie him up or super-glue him to the desk when he was asleep and refuse to release him until he promised to leave. But despite his fondness for alcohol Albert's reflexes were sharp and Esther wasn't confident of her ability to pull off these stunts.

Then Joe said, 'Wait a minute, didn't he tell you that if you sit and wait for him, he won't come?'

'That's true. So you think I should spend the rest of my life waiting for him to turn up, so he doesn't?'

They burst out laughing and Esther felt better, even though they hadn't thought of a solution.

At three o'clock the next morning, she sat hunched over her computer as Albert reclined on her desk slurping smoked oysters and shiraz. In a flash she remembered his other cautionary instruction. 'Don't try and find out where I'm from or anything about me, it will guarantee I won't come back.'

For the first time in weeks she felt a surge of hope. She plied Albert with more wine and waited impatiently for him to fall asleep. As soon as he began to snore, she Googled 'muses' and 'Albert' but found nothing. She even looked up the Union of Militant Muses, but according to Google it didn't exist.

She glanced at Albert in the light of her desk lamp. He showed no signs of disappearing as he lay flat on his back, pink harem pants pooling around his legs, his belly heaving under his Hawaiian shirt in time with his snores. His head was tilted to one side, a woollen beret perched on top. The feeling of familiarity niggled her again. Then it struck her.

She sprang up, went to a cupboard in the corner of the attic and dragged out a large cardboard box. It contained memorabilia belonging to her mother, who'd died some years ago. Esther had rifled through the contents of the box, then put it away in storage and forgotten about it.

She dug into the box and retrieved a photo album and a leather bound journal. She blew the dust from them and opened up the photo album. The photos were sepia-toned with patches of discolouration from age.

She found the one she wanted. It was a studio photo of her grandfather on his twenty-first birthday, tall and proud in a dinner suit. His dark hair was slicked back, he was smiling and his eyes shone with a mischievous light. Very much like Albert's eyes when he grinned. Grandpa's face was broader than Albert's and he was of a more solid build, but there was a strong resemblance.

She opened the journal. The pages were yellowed and stiff, the musty odour making her sneeze. On the front page was scrawled The Collected Works of Hector Albert Palfreyman, Volume One. She hadn't read much of Grandpa's work because his hand-writing was difficult to decipher, but this time she persevered. As she laboured through the stories, her spine prickled. They were mostly swashbuckling adventures, but in each one there was a romantic sub-plot. Some of the phrases he used, sometimes whole sentences, were identical to those in her novels.

She heard a rustle and looked up. Albert sat up yawning. His beret had slipped down rakishly over one eye.

'What are you doing over there?' he snapped. 'Come here and get back to work. And I'll have some salami and cheese.'

As she typed, she watched Albert from the corner of her eye. She didn't know what to make of her findings - she didn't believe in ghosts, spirits or reincarnation. Hell, sometimes she didn't even believe in muses. Maybe it was all just a huge coincidence. And if she had indeed discovered his origins, why didn't he disappear in an instant, the same way he'd arrived?

She worked a ten hour day and fell into bed, exhausted. When she woke up the sun was streaming through her window. She'd had a whole night's uninterrupted sleep. She leapt out of bed, full of energy, made herself a cup of tea and switched on the computer. A message appeared in large, bold letters.

'I am hereby tendering my resignation as your muse. I'm sick of playing second fiddle and getting none of the glory. I'm going to strike out on my own and become a writer. Besides, if I stay with you much longer, I'll end up an obese, drunken lay-about.

Albert.

P.S. Here is the outfit I've decided is worthy of my newfound occupation.'

Esther scrolled down to a photo of Albert grinning out of the screen at her, dapper in a dinner suit.

She sat for a few moments taking it in. Her head was light - she wanted to sing, laugh and dance all at the same time. But underneath burbled an undercurrent of anxiety. Would her writing be rubbish now that she no longer had her muse? Would she be back to retrieving thick, self-addressed envelopes from the mail box and crunching out numbers in the Taxation Office? She tried to brush away her doubts by phoning Joe to tell him the news.

'You're a genius, Esther, how did you do it?'

'It's a long story, and rather spooky. I'm not sure I believe it myself.'

'In that case, how about you tell me over dinner tonight? There's a new Italian place in town I've been dying to try out. I'll bring some champagne and we'll celebrate.'

Esther thought for a few moments. She thought about all the handsome, eligible men she'd dated who treated her writing as a frivolous hobby. She thought of the admiration that shone in Joe's eyes, his soft, romantic poet eyes, when he looked at her, and how sure he was that she could be successful without Albert. He was right, she would prove him right. And she remembered the previous day at lunch, when he'd taken her hand in his. She'd felt tingly all over. And warm. And safe.

'Are you there, Esther?'

'Yes, I'm here.'

'What's your answer? Would you like to come out for dinner?'

'Yes, I'd like that very much.'

Esther put down the receiver. She fetched a cloth and cleaned the crumbs and spots of wine from her desk. Then she sat down, opened a new document on her computer and began to type.

THE END

HAVE YOU READ THE FIRST BOOK IN THE NOIR NIGHTS SERIES?

AN AFFAIR WITH DANGER (NOIR NIGHTS BOOK 1)

Falling in love could cost him his life.

Will's life as a bankruptcy lawyer is safe and predictable - even, at times, boring.

Until the night he is held up in an armed robbery in a convenience store.

Determined to put the culprit behind bars, Will goes to court to give evidence.

When he meets the perpetrator's girlfriend Frankie, he is instantly smitten. Feisty and outspoken, she is like no other woman he has ever met.

But Frankie has her own problems, least of which is her violent boyfriend Eddie, who remains a threat even while in prison.

As Will and Frankie grow closer, the danger intensifies, especially after Eddie is released. Until the traumatic moment when they are both forced to make a choice.

Can they escape Eddie? Or will he destroy their relationship forever?

An Affair With Danger the first book in Noir Nights, a series of stand-alone short novels in the crime/suspense genre.

Click here to buy.

For my other books, go to my website Storey-Lines.

Get my e-book of four short crime stories On The Edge by becoming a subscriber to Storey-Lines.

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Click here for your free copy now.

I would really appreciate it if you could take a few minutes to put an honest review of Comedy Shorts on the site you bought it from. Reviews help other readers to decide whether they will enjoy the book, as well as helping it to gain more visibility and consequently, more sales.

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AUTHOR BIO

Robin Storey is an indie author from the Sunshine Coast in Queensland, Australia - beautiful one day, perfect the next, where everyone shivers and rugs up if the temperature drops below 14 degrees Centigrade.

She writes crime/suspense novels and loves to spend her days dreaming up the perfect murder. Consequently, her partner avoids eating mushrooms and walking along cliff tops.

Robin is a certified book nerd (too many books, not enough time!) and is a useful team member on quiz nights for the literary questions - but not much else.

She enjoys hiking (she and her partner walked the 800 kilometre Camino Frances across northern Spain in 2016) and chilling out at the beach, which is five minutes drive from her home.

Check out Robin's blog on Storey-Lines, where she posts regular reviews of books she has enjoyed. 
