Page 105 of A Murder is Going Down

Patrick stands and I do too, snatching back the yellow t-shirt from his shoulder before he can stop me.

‘Maybe he bought a new one because the old one was getting ratty? It’s not a proper mystery, Heidi. Come on, shall we do a quick check upstairs to make sure we haven’t forgotten any boxes?’ Patrick’s tone is dismissive. But he has a funny expression on his face.

‘Tell me what you’re thinking,’ he says when I don’t move. ‘Say thisisFelix’s favourite shirt, the same one he was wearing when he died and that the paramedics cut off him. If that’s possible, what does it mean?’

I should shut up. I should definitely shut up. But if I could do that, I wouldn’t be in this situation at all.

‘Felix must already have been dead before the party,’ I say. ‘It’s the only thing that makes sense and explains the t-shirts. He was dead before the party and someone else pretended to be him to give the killer an alibi. None of the people here that night ever met Felix.’

‘Then who did they meet?’

‘I have no idea,’ I lie. ‘I haven’t figured that bit out yet.’

It must have been Patrick. Aunty Sam saw him here. It’s the logical conclusion, but that doesn’t mean I want to believe it.

‘I think it’s probably why none of Elena’s work friends were at the funeral,’ I say, ‘and why Elena took down that photo of Felix during the party we made her have.’ This hasonly now occurred to me, but it makes sense. For the first time in my life, I think I understand why movie villains don’t kill the hero right away but waste valuable time talking themselves up. It’s cathartic to be able to talk it all through with someone, even if that someone is a … might be a …

‘What does that have to do with the t-shirt?’ Patrick asks.

‘There must have been two Wilco t-shirts,’ I say. ‘One that the person pretending to be Felix was wearing and one that the real Felix was wearing when he died. That means, his death wasn’t just murder – it was planned. If Elena’s friends were going to find Felix’s body, then his clothes had to be immediately recognisable. Otherwise, someone might have looked too closely at Felix’s face when they found him and realised, even with the injuries from his fall, that it wasn’t the same man they’d spent the evening with.’

I’m so flushed with my triumph that it takes me a moment to realise what I’ve done: I’ve solved the murder in front of the man who Aunty Sam has told me must have been behind it.

‘But it’s only a theory,’ I say weakly, looking ostentatiously at my wrist (I’m not wearing a watch). ‘The op shop guys must be here soon?’

‘That would make the t-shirt evidence,’ Patrick says, looking at the Wilco t-shirt in my hands.

I take a step backwards, bumping into the pile of boxes.

‘Heidi,’ Patrick says, ‘will you give it to me?’

I think about it.

Instead, I run. My one advantage is that I’ve caught Patrick by surprise. He’s still standing there while I’m going out the front door.

‘Heidi!’ Patrick shouts after me. ‘Stop!’

My first thought is to run for my bike, but the idea of trying to lose Patrick on my three-speed bike is too ridiculous to consider. My second thought is that I should have locked myself in the bathroom to call … I don’t know, the cops? Aunty Sam?

Turns out I’m not that smart in a crisis, because I do what might be the stupidest of all available options: I run around the side of the house and up the cliff path. Bushes tug at my t-shirt as I pass, following the track around the side of the house to the same place where Felix must have been pushed to his death.

As soon as I’m out of sight of the house, I veer off the path and into the thick scrub, dropping to my hands and knees, so I’m fully concealed by the shrubbery attempting to deliver death by a thousand cuts to my exposed arms and face. My brain, which should be thinking about a path out of this, decides to fixate on the more pressing question of Felix’s last night alive.

Patrick and Elena must have been in it together.

‘Heidi!’ Patrick calls from somewhere nearby.

Felix must have been killed before the party started and dressed in the same Wilco t-shirt that Patrick wore that night when he was pretending to be Felix. That way nobody would look too closely at his face and realise the dead guy wasn’t the same guy they’d just shared a pizza with.

‘Come back! I’m not going to hurt you!’

Was it Patrick or Elena who pushed him? Did the fall do its work or did they have to hold down his head in the water to be sure? And how did Elena, with her disability, and Patrick, with the approximate upper body strength of a praying mantis, pull it off?

‘Where are you?’ Patrick’s voice sounds closer. Anyone with any experience in tracking would find me in thirty seconds. But Patrick doesn’t seem like the outdoor type. (Then again, I didn’t think he was a murdering type, so maybe he spends his weekends orienteering and is trailing me like a bloodhound right now.)

‘Bloody hell!’ I hear him shout. ‘These ridiculous plants! This thorn is the size of my finger!’ Okay, maybe he really isn’t the outdoor type.

Then I hear something I don’t expect: a car engine. It’s coming not from the road but closer to the house. If it’s Aunty Sam come to rescue me, I swear I’ll forgive her a decade of lax quasi parenting.