The Crone's Stone Page 13

expensive schools. I’d been expelled on many occasions for defending myself a little too vigorously. And he’d trained me in the urban gymnastics of parkour. It was hilarious leading Fortescue on a race across the streets of Sydney, as he attempted to track us by GPS and follow in his Mini.

  “Winsome!”

  We’d disembarked from the lift and faced the open penthouse door. The sound of jazz, played on the judge’s grand piano, filled the lobby. Bea had been asking me something and I’d failed to reply. I silently chastised myself for thinking about Smithy, forgetting we were no longer friends.

  “Sorry, Aunt Bea?”

  She forgave my distraction with a wave of her hand as we entered. Hugo tramped off, muttering things like “Nightmare for security” and “Recon.”

  “Winnie.” She peered intently at me. “Promise me something?”

  Her sincerity was unsettling. “Anything.”

  “Stay in the group tonight?”

  My stomach growled. What if the group moved away from the buffet? There could be cake, and it may be my last chance for a while to eat something other than bran, prunes and soy curd. There was a reason it rhymed with ‘turd’.

  “Sure.” It was going to be a very, very long night.

  “Please keep this on you.” She dropped my orphaned mobile (I never used the dumb thing – who would I call?) into my tiny sparkly bag with an expression that forfeited debate. “Ring me at the slightest provocation.”

  “Aunt Bea, I’ve been to a trillion of these things and the only real threat is terminal boredom. What’s really going on?”

  “I must go. I’ve missed the start of the tour.” She adjusted her perfectly aligned dress and assumed a friendly mask. “I don’t expect you to follow me around. I know you are not a fan of Nash’s pieces.”

  Some of the judge’s paintings originated from the early serial killer period. The photos of detached body parts on silver platters were particularly unsettling. I clenched my jaw against another of Bea’s non-answers.

  “Just remember, stay close to the crowd near the dance floor where I can find you.”

  With that exasperating caveat, Bea hurried away to join the well-heeled throng oohing and aahing their way around the exhibition. As I dallied in the foyer I could see about thirty adults, champagne glasses in hand, trickling into the recesses of the spacious suite for the art gallery at the end of a glass-walled corridor to my left. A sizeable patio was visible through the adjacent glass wall in front of me.

  To my right stretched an expanse of white marble floor with a pale wooden inset for dancing. The square remained free of dancers, none drunk enough yet to brave it. Tucked in the far corner, an ancient fellow in black tie and tails enthusiastically churned out pieces on the grand piano, despite the fact no one was listening.

  Next to me, a sweeping staircase curved to the top level where Smithy’s bedroom was located. But I refused to think about that. Muted lighting, water features and refined taste added to the feel of a contemporary five-star hotel.

  Several sulky teens meandered from the bar area extending out of sight in an L-shape from the dance floor. The food was located around that bend. I needed a place to avoid trouble and started to cross the lobby. The generosity of a few hassle-free seconds should have put me on guard.

  “Back five minutes, Lose-some, and can’t wait to stick your snout in the trough?”

  Wicked ice-princess, Tiffany, peeled chameleon-esque from behind a column she’d propped against. She was all tall, blonde and synthetically stunning. As beauty was the modern currency, she and her minions, twins Prudence and Priscilla, ruled the world. Her banker father and Judge Smith were long-standing friends. There was no accounting for taste and I’d been forced to tolerate her on several occasions growing up. I attempted to sidestep her, having promised Bea ‘forbearance instead of fists’.

  Tiffany swanned around to reposition herself between me and the food. She wore a tight little black number showing ample cleavage “You do realise everything you eat goes straight to your thighs. You must pack it away overseas.”

  Restraining myself was harder than I’d predicted. I didn’t want to waste a minute away from the judge’s famously generous buffet, given my imminent weaning from the cream, icing and custard of my nightly raids at the Academy. And I was really far too frazzled to take her crap tonight.

  “Your dermatologist would insist you stop talking immediately, Tiffany. It gives you wrinkles.”

  “Neigh-on, Winless. I’d give you his card, but he’s not a miracle-worker.” Consistent with her typical approach, she took a threatening step closer.

  “So I see.” Time to outmanoeuvre her. I pretended to trip, grabbed the delicate strap of her bag and jerked. It made a satisfying snap, spilling its innards across expensive Italian marble. “Oh, I’m so sorry. Here, let me help.” I bent down and took the opportunity to rummage amongst her make-up and keys.

  “You did that on purpose! Clumsy sped.”

  “You give me far too much credit, Tiffany.”

  “Whatever! Stop pawing my stuff and get the hell away from me.”

  I raised open palms in surrender and left her cursing. I’d taken her phone hostage during the encounter and would ransom it later if she tried anything else. One had to get inventive when denied the use of force.

  After a speedy departure, I slanted straight by the permanent bar lining one wall. Crisply attired staff were struggling to rebuff the onslaught of adolescents demanding exotic cocktails while their parents were otherwise engaged. A snooker table usually occupied the space parallel, but now held two rowed tables laden with an assortment of goodies. Round tables and chairs were intimately arranged nearby.

  I headed for the squishy divan tucked at the very end of the buffet, somewhat shielded by towering carved ice flowers decorating the food tables. Hugo magically appeared and stuck to me like one of those grass burrs that wormed into your jumper and were difficult to pick off. Once I’d gathered a selection of delicacies onto a piece of the judge’s good porcelain and sat, he positioned himself directly at my rear.

  “Further,” I said firmly. He shuffled back a couple of steps. “Further. Remember, subtlety?”

  With a grunt of disapproval, Hugo moved until the wall stopped him, where he stood with legs apart and hands clasped in front, ready to sabotage any boy who had the nerve to ask for a life-threatening dance. I toyed with demanding he step out onto the patio. It was all too depressing; yet another evening where the odds of romance vanished to a speck on the horizon. Although, given my abysmal history in that department, this was probably a benefit.

  One boy’s kissing method had involved dislocating his jaw wide enough to drive a humvee through. I compared the encounter to face-planting a watermelon. Another had viewed my mere presence as a last minute tack-on for an acquaintance at the cinema as an access-all-areas pass. He could’ve had a career giving medical exams if he wasn’t so sleazy. I’d crippled his porn act by fracturing his hand (unless he was ambidextrous), and decided to embrace my inner puritan after that.

  Still, the lack of courage on the part of the opposite sex was fairly woeful. Not a single boy ventured into Hugo’s glare radius. I eased the disappointment by steadily mowing through three heaped servings of excellent canapés. They put out so much food no one ever ate! I was the only one who dared snub a celery-stick-and-Moet diet. As forecast, the party dragged. Tiffany and her friends circulated the judge’s apartment like a pack of dingos picking off campers.

  A chubbier girl ran crying for the exit, but I couldn’t see a way to step in without breaking my pacifist pledge to Aunt Bea. I got token payback by downloading Dennis Leary’s Asshole to Tiffany’s mobile and setting it as her only ringtone.

  “I’d steer clear of the blinis. Heard a rumour about dodgy salmon.” A melodious baritone sounded abruptly in my ear from a cloud of delicious aftershave, his breath tickling my neck from behind. “I see you have the good sense to spend time with the only company worth keeping tonight
.”

  “Huh?” Myself?

  Before I could crane for a glimpse, the voice’s owner came around and scrunched beside me on the inadequate seat. About my age, he was an absolute dish in a chic grey silk suit and black shirt. I blinked stupidly and wondered what miracle had occurred to gift me this magnificent vision. His hair settled in untouched disarray about his face in a style others paid a fortune for; a lovely sandy brown, tipped blond by the sun. I discerned the brilliance of gold-green eyes and smooth summer-tanned skin. My heart drummed and belly squirmed uncomfortably.

  “Move it, bud!” Hugo said, encroaching the dreamy boy’s personal space.

  “You might want to lose the distasteful handbag,” he leaned close to murmur. In one swift smooth motion he stood and swivelled. “Back off, Bargeass! This lady’s spoken for.”

  “Do you want me to shoot him, Winsome?” Hugo thundered.

  “Make that first shot count. You won’t get a second.”

  The familiar surly tone and the lack of fear twigged. “Smithy?”

  “Hey, Bear,” he winked down at me, his eyes sparkling. He turned back to Hugo. “You’re overcompensating, mate! You know what they say about guys with big guns.” He wiggled his little finger.

  “It’s alright, Hugo. I know him.” I waved my bodyguard away.

  “The safety’s off. Just say the word.” Threat radiated from Hugo in waves. Vegas commonly had this effect on