CHAPTER 1
Detective Max Grayson fished his stepmother out of a jasmine bush. I enjoyed the view of Max’s bottom in his very tight, very serious detective jeans—obviously not issued by the police force, because they were criminal—but I enjoyed the view.
My pet wombat and witch familiar, Persnickle, the fuzzy little beast, the marsupial who would give the hounds of hell a run for their money in the naughty department, had charged at Max’s stepmother the moment she stepped out of her Jaguar, knocking her out of her orthopaedic shoes. It’s not that Persnickle hated stepmothers, although he did love fairy-tale films, in which stepmothers got a bit of bad press, it’s that he hated the colour orange.
The origin of this dislike had thus far eluded the pet psychologist I had enlisted to help Persnickle process his hatred. Who hated the colour orange? Not many people. But then, Persnickle wasn’t a person.
“Keep that beast away from me!” Tabitha howled, as Max plucked a jasmine petal out of her bright orange hair.
“He was just saying hello,” I said desperately as Persnickle started to nibble on the woman’s ankle. “You didn’t tell me you had orange, um, I mean red, hair.”
Tabitha nudged Persnickle away with her foot and climbed onto the hood of her Jaguar. “I didn’t know one needed to announce one’s hair colour in order to gain entry into House Bloom,” she shrieked.
If she kept carrying on this way, she wouldn’t need to worry about Persnickle attacking her. She would have ripped all her hair out. “Get that rodent away from me!” she added in a booming howl.
“He’s just being friendly,” Oleander protested.
When Max had gently broken the news to me that his father, stepmother, and mother were coming to town, I had stress-purchased five pairs of Jimmy Choos shoes (none of them orange) and a Chanel handbag. I didn’t know how I was going to pay the bills now, but I did know I was going to look very cute.
Oleander and Athanasius had taken pity on me when I turned up to their retirement home in a new pair of shoes for the fifth time in a week.
“She’s got another new pair of Jimmy Choos,” Oleander had said to Athanasius after she had put in her dentures.
“Eihrnfa ejjehhe hjfa,” Athanasius had replied, because he hadn’t put his dentures in yet.
Oleander had turned to me and said, “Don’t worry, dear. We’ll do our best to help.”
And they had. That morning, Oleander and Athanasius broke out of the retirement home. Of course, they didn’t need to break out. The retirement home wasn’t a prison. But Oleander had told me she had been up to some mischief and needed some respite from it. She didn’t name the type of mischief, but she had that mischievous part in common with Persnickle. At least, she hadn’t charged at Max’s stepmother, sending her flying.
When I got Persnickle under control, Tabitha leant down from the Jaguar, her face as orange as her hair. “You must be Goldie.” Tabitha offered Oleander her hand.
Max’s ears turned pink. “No, Tabby. That’s Oleander. She’s a dear friend of Goldie’s and mine. This is Goldie.” He nodded to me. I was in the garden, gripping Persnickle’s leash for dear life.
Tabitha looked at me. “Surely, this is the maid?”
“I—no? It’s nice to meet you,” I lied, walking over to shake her hand. “Would you like to come inside?”
“Not until that little beast is locked in a cage.”
I sighed. “Athanasius, would you mind taking Persnickle inside for a treat?”
“Eihrnfa ejjehhe hjfa,” Athanasius replied, because he still hadn’t put in his dentures yet.
After Persnickle was inside, Tabitha climbed inelegantly off the car and pulled down her skirt. She had Dolly Parton hair—although it was orange—and a bosom that spilled out of her pencil dress. She was eighty-two, and her entire face was frozen from an apparent overdose of Botox. It’s a wonder she could speak.
“Your father has gone to the airport to collect that woman,” Tabitha told Max.
I frowned. “What woman?”
“My mother,” Max replied.
“Yes, apparently Delilah is too good to catch a taxi. Your father sent me ahead like I’m some common scout in a war movie.” Tabitha shrugged off her faux fur coat and tossed it over my head.
I didn’t know what was more confusing—the fact Tabitha was wearing a faux fur coat in the Australian summer, or the fact Tabitha thought of me as a coat rack. Sure, I had lost a little bit of weight recently, but not that much weight.
Oleander rescued me from it. “I’ll hang this up and see what Athanasius is doing.”
“I’ll join you,” Tabitha said. “Just go on ahead, would you, and make sure the giant rat is locked away safely.”
Max and I found ourselves standing alone in her garden. “She’s…” I began, but I didn’t know how to finish that sentence, not politely, at any rate.
“She’s a lot, yeah,” Max conceded. “She’s around twenty years older than my dad.”
“Wait! Your dad left your mum for a woman twenty years older than him?”
Max exhaled a lungful of air and wrapped an arm around my shoulders. “My father always was an unusual man. He attended every single one of my soccer games. Every single one.”
I frowned. “Is that bad?”
“No, but it’s not very dad-like, is it? He was always there for me, always happy to give emotional support.”
“Maybe, he’s not your real dad?” I said playfully.
“I’ve always had my suspicions.”
“Here’s my husband now.” Tabitha flew out of the house as another Jaguar pulled up to the curb. Just how many luxury cars did these people own? “And your mother, Maxwell. Goldie, I do hope you have hidden all the silver.”
“I don’t have any silver.”
“Ah, so Delilah has been here before.”
“What—no—she’s not stolen anything from me?”
“Not yet.”
Delilah was the exact opposite of Tabitha. She drifted out of the car and pulled me into a tight hug, only releasing me when Max cleared his throat.
“Maxy,” Delilah cried. “You’re too skinny.”
“I’ve actually packed on a little bit of weight,” Max said, his tone self-conscious.
Jack Grayson stepped from the Jaguar. “Nonsense. Grayson men have always been hunks. We were the original Hemsworths.”
Jack looked nothing like his son. He was short and stick-thin, with jet-black hair and tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses. He was more a first-movie Harry Potter than a Hemsworth brother. I tried to imagine Tabitha and Delilah fighting over such a tiny man, but the idea only made me chuckle.
“Goldie, we’ve heard so much about you. You finally let my boy kiss you, hey?” Jack chuckled as he clapped me on the back.
Delilah winked at me. “Honestly, Jacky-boy, don’t embarrass our son.”
“I didn’t!” Jack protested. “It’s not like I told Goldie that Max slept in our bed until he was seven. Or that he insisted on sleeping with the light on in the hall until he was fifteen, because he was terrified of Santa.”
Max’s ears turned red. “I don’t know why you were all so relaxed about a strange man sneaking into our house at night.”
“He was bringing presents,” Delilah said with a grin.
“You always warned me about accepting presents from strange men,” Max countered.
I interrupted the laughter to say, “Dinner is almost ready.”
I ushered everyone into the dining room. I hoped the dinner would go smoothly, and I was relieved to see Persnickle had fallen asleep in front of the television. If he woke up, I could put on a Starsky and Hutch episode for him, and that was guaranteed to keep him quiet. No, I thought Persnickle would be the least of my worries.
I hurried to the fridge and returned with two bottles of champagne. “Bubbly anyone?” I asked.
Before anyone could answer, there was an urgent knock on my front door. Through the frosted glass, I could see the outline of a tall figure.
I swung around, catching Max’s glance as I did so. Surely, his father didn’t have any more ex-wives? I hurried to the door and opened it. There, standing on the porch, was a uniformed cop.
“Detective Grayson, there’s been a death!”
