The Younger Wife(19)

Was it even hers?

Logically, it couldn’t have been. Even before Mum started showing signs of dementia, she and Dad had been old-school when it came to money. Back in the day, Dad gave Mum ‘housekeeping’ money; more recently, if Mum needed something, Dad just bought it for her, or Rachel or Tully did. Mum simply didn’t have access to this sort of money. Which meant it had to be stolen – but from where? And how?

It was true that Mum had done some strange things these past few years. On top of the shoplifting, she’d signed up with virtually every energy company that rang up to offer special rates. She’d taken the dog for a walk using an old scarf because she couldn’t find the leash (only to realise later that she didn’t have a dog; it belonged to the neighbour). She’d repeatedly tried to enter the house via the window rather than the door. But unlike the shoplifting or the dog-stealing or window-entering, stashing away this amount of money required some premeditation and planning. After all, even if she was to swipe an entire grocery store till (which Rachel couldn’t imagine), it still wouldn’t contain $97,000.

It made no sense.

‘Where, Mum?’ Rachel said out loud. ‘Where did you get all this money?’

She looked at it, laid out on the floor. The only thing she’d found inside the hot-water bottle besides the cash was a folded piece of paper, torn from a spiral notebook. On it were two names: Tully and Fiona Arthur.

Rachel had never heard the name Fiona Arthur, so she focused instead on Tully. Why had Mum written Tully’s name? Was the money meant for Tully? Admittedly, Mum was always worried about her oldest daughter. A mother is only as happy as her unhappiest child, she used to say. And while Tully wasn’t unhappy, exactly, she was never exactly happy either. True, she’d settled a bit since meeting Sonny and having the boys, but she was still . . . Tully. Maybe this money was supposed to help with that somehow.

Rachel jumped as her phone began to ring. It was Heather. She was intrigued, but not enough to answer. She had enough to deal with right now without adding her father’s fiancée to the equation. She stabbed at the screen to silence it, but unfortunately, in her haste, she accidentally accepted the call. Worse still, it was a WhatsApp call – with video. After a second, Heather’s face appeared on the screen.

‘Rachel?’

‘Heather!’ Rachel scrambled to grab the phone and then turned away to ensure the money wasn’t visible. ‘Hello. Sorry, I . . . um . . . dropped the phone.’

‘No, I’m sorry . . . I didn’t mean to do a video call. Your dad added me to the family WhatsApp and it’s not my strong suit.’

‘It’s fine,’ Rachel said. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘I won’t keep you. I just wanted to see if you and Tully might be free to have lunch. You know, just us girls?’

Rachel heard a knock at the door.

‘I thought it might be nice to get to know each other better.’

‘It would,’ Rachel said, getting to her feet. ‘But there’s actually someone at the door right now. Do you mind if I call you back?’

There was a short pause followed by a quick: ‘Sure. Of course.’ Then Heather hung up the phone, leaving Rachel to wrestle with her guilt.

There was another knock at the door. All right, all right. Rachel shoved the cash under the bed, and headed for the door. Before she could get there, there was a third knock. Seriously? Did people not know that she had just uncovered tens of thousands of dollars that her mother had potentially stolen and stashed in a hot-water bottle and she was trying to figure out what to do, while also trying to get off the phone from her soon-to-be stepmother, who was one year her junior? Rachel threw open the door, ready to tell whoever it was to take a hike. But it was Dad.

Of course it was.

When Mum got sick, he’d started coming around all the time. Three times a week he’d stop in, on his way to or from work, ostensibly to give her an update on Mum but more likely to have a conversation with someone who didn’t merely repeat the same question over and over again. Rachel enjoyed the visits, but she could never seem to instil in him the importance of calling ahead.

‘I run a business, Dad,’ she’d tell him, and he’d apologise then come in anyway. She knew that her cake business confused him, even if he made an effort to seem proud. Whenever he saw her he’d say, ‘So . . . er . . . how are things in the kitchen?’

‘What are you doing here?’ she asked him now.

‘Do I need a reason to visit my equal favourite daughter?’ He kissed her forehead on the way inside, as sure as a child that his company would be a welcome delight.

‘No,’ she said. ‘But you might want to try calling first.’

‘Why, I’m not interrupting anything, am I?’ He paused, glancing around, as if expecting to find a lover hiding somewhere. Rachel wondered what he would do if he had interrupted something. Keel over and have a coronary, possibly.

Dad had never commented on her lack of a partner – not when she was younger and not now – but she knew he must wonder. Who wouldn’t? At fourteen she was dating a new guy every week, to the point that Dad refused to answer the landline because he couldn’t bear to listen to another stammering adolescent boy asking for Rachel. Then, at sixteen, she hung up her dating boots. It must have surprised him. She was certain he’d made some kind of pact with himself never to ask. Back when Mum was lucid, she used to ask often. ‘Why don’t you have anyone? Surely you could have your pick of the men!’ But Dad never said a word. She’d always been grateful for it, but suddenly she wondered why.