A Royal Murder Read online

  Wakefield Press

  A Royal Murder

  A journalist for more than thirty years, Sandra Winter-Dewhirst spent ten years as the state director of the Australian Broadcasting Corporation in South Australia, overseeing television, radio, and online production. Educated at Adelaide University and the University of South Australia, graduating with degrees in the arts and journalism, she has sat on a range of arts boards and media advisory councils. Sandra has a passion for food and wine and, when time permits, tries to hit a golf ball.

  Her first novel in the Rebecca Keith series is The Popeye Murder.

  For more information visit

  myadelaidehome.blogspot.com.au.

  16 Rose Street

  Mile End

  South Australia 5031

  wakefieldpress.com.au

  First published 2018

  This edition published 2018

  Copyright © Sandra Winter-Dewhirst, 2018

  All rights reserved. This book is copyright. Apart from

  any fair dealing for the purposes of private study, research,

  criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act,

  no part may be reproduced without written permission.

  Enquiries should be addressed to the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Most names, characters, places, brands, media, and

  incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Where real people’s

  names and establishments are referenced, it is within a fictional setting. The

  author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various

  products and establishments referenced in this work of fiction have been

  used without permission. The author has neither sought nor been offered

  money or any inducements to include reference to products, businesses and

  establishments in the book. The publication/use of any trademarks is not

  authorised, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Cover designed by Dean Lahn, Lahn Stafford Design

  Edited by Margot Lloyd, Wakefield Press

  ISBN 978 1 74305 548 9

  For my my daughter, Hannah

  Author’s Note

  A Royal Murder is set against the backdrop of Adelaide and South Australia, with its strong food and wine culture.

  Some of the characters are an amalgam of people I have known, read about, seen on television, or heard on the radio over a lifetime, but mainly they are just made up. Some characters I would love to know if they were real people—others, probably not.

  While I name actual restaurants, wineries, newspapers, and other products, I have not sought nor accepted any money, goods, or other incentives to include reference to them in my book. It is purely my editorial choice as to which Adelaide establishments are referenced in the book. Many of the establishments are entirely fictional.

  Some years ago, Adelaide was dubbed the murder capital of the world in a poorly researched British television documentary. In some quarters the label has stuck. However, in 2013, a university study ranked Adelaide as the safest city in Australia with the lowest rate of crime per capita. When you consider Australia has one of the lowest crime rates in the world, Adelaide could more accurately be described as the safest city in the world. But for a writer of crime fiction, murder capital of the world has a certain ring to it.

  I hope you find this story a fun read. It is set in a city that is just a little bit different.

  The Open

  Rebecca

  The early morning light bathed the tall grass that lined the eighteenth hole. Rebecca stopped the car on the entrance road, just before it crossed the fairway. She wound down the window. A slight sea breeze caressed her face, and the pungent blend of salt and seaweed wafted into the car. The day was already warm. The temperature was forecast to reach thirty-eight degrees Celsius by mid-afternoon. It was going to be a hot day for golf. Rebecca smiled to herself at the quirkiness of the prestigious Royal Adelaide Golf Club having an access road that crossed a fairway, as well as a passenger-train line that dissected the first and second holes and ran behind the thirteenth. There were no fences, boom gates, or barriers within the course to separate the train track from the golfers. She glanced over to her right, beyond the clubhouse, to the mound that supported the Adelaide-to-Grange railway line.

  ‘Only in Adelaide,’ she said quietly to herself. ‘It’s a wonder no one has been killed.’

  As Rebecca drove the winding road to the car park, she saw festive bunting lining the verandah of the low-slung bungalow clubhouse. A group of golfers putted on the practice green immediately in front. Others were sitting on wicker chairs scattered along the deep verandah, and more were milling about in an adjacent marquee. While Rebecca was excited about the day ahead, she also felt a tinge of anxiety but couldn’t put her finger on why. She drove on.

  Rebecca was grateful her boss had allowed her to take a few days off from her job to be a volunteer at the Women’s Australian Open Golf tournament. As the food and wine editor at the Advertiser, she had endured a harrowing few months being personally entangled in a series of bizarre murders in Adelaide while, at the same time, covering the murders for the paper. As the paper’s food and wine specialist, Rebecca had been in unfamiliar territory writing about murder. But given she was on the spot when the ‘Popeye Murder’ was discovered, as it was subsequently dubbed, the paper’s editor insisted she cover the story. It had been challenging. She needed this break. And given Rebecca’s passion for golf, being a volunteer at the Women’s Open was a perfect escape.

  Rebecca had previously attended a volunteer briefing session where she was told her marshalling duties would be restricted to the second tee over the four days of the tournament. She parked and joined a throng of about a hundred women and a few men in branded blue shirts standing about in one of the marquees, awaiting the pep talk from the manager of volunteers. Rebecca was unfazed by the fact that the shirt she had been given was a size too small as well as being a men’s cut. Despite the shirt’s shortcomings, she thought it managed to enhance her best assets.

  At thirty-seven, Rebecca was still an attractive woman, with just a few laugh lines beginning to show around her vivid blue eyes. She reapplied her fire-engine-red lipstick without the use of a mirror, grabbed a sponsor’s cap, and picked up her ‘Quiet, please’ baton from a trestle table. She decided she could skip the pep talk and make her way to the second tee.

  It was seven o’clock and the general public had only just been allowed into the grounds. Rebecca knew it would be a few minutes before a gallery joined her at the tee. She’d brought a canvas stool, which she placed discreetly behind the sponsor’s billboard and adjacent to the championship tee block. Sitting, she looked down the fairway and heard the train before she saw it. The yellow-nosed Adelaide-to-Grange train rattled past within a hundred metres. Rebecca shook her head, bemused that golfers and spectators had to be on the lookout for trains that would cross various sections of the course every fifteen to thirty minutes.

  Rebecca’s duties would not only include keeping the crowd quiet and still when the players drove off the tee, but also ensuring no one lingered on the train tracks.

  Even though the sun was low over the hills, it was getting warmer by the minute. It wasn’t long before a hat-wearing contingent of spectators joined Rebecca near the tee block. She could see an even bigger crowd beginning to fill the area surrounding the first tee. It won’t be long now, she thought, getting excited about the opportunity to watch some of the best golfers in the world. The biggest crowds would arrive later in the morning to follow world number one, Mee Po.

  Rebecca used her ‘Quiet, please’ baton once or twice
but, not being too keen on rules or officious bureaucracy, and seeing that the spectators were well behaved, it wasn’t long before she gave up on the baton and joined the crowd enjoying the spectacle.

  Pixie Browning executed a couple of textbook practice swings and then stepped up to the ball. She coiled her body clockwise then anti-clockwise, straightening her wrists as she swept the ball off the tee. The ball sailed about 240 metres down the right-hand side of the fairway, landing in a good position. The crowd applauded.

  Pixie was from Springfield, Illinois, and was currently ranked eleventh in the world. She cut an impressive figure, standing at 1.8 metres tall. Her slim body was poured into fuchsia-pink shorts with a white belt and a white top. Her long chestnut-brown hair was pulled tightly into a ponytail.

  While she watched Pixie pick up her tee off the ground and tuck it into her hair behind the brim of her pink visor, Rebecca was aware that one spectator was still applauding vigorously. He didn’t appear to know when to stop. He was wearing a bad toupee, the hair on the crown of his head a darker brown and duller than the hair at the sides. Even though it was a warm day, the man was sweating more than most. He made Rebecca feel uneasy.

  She noticed Pixie looking over at the wildly applauding man and frowning.

  While still applauding, the man started to make his way toward Pixie. Rebecca reacted quickly, placing herself between them.

  ‘I’m sorry, you can’t interact with the players during the tournament,’ she said. ‘Please step back.’

  ‘But I’m her biggest fan, aren’t I, Pixie?’ said the man, leaning to one side of Rebecca so as to keep Pixie in view.

  ‘I’ve told you, Bruce, don’t talk to me when I’m playing,’ Pixie said in a cold voice, turning her back on him.

  Bruce addressed Rebecca. ‘I follow the tour. I’ve been to every tournament Pixie’s played at for the past three years.’

  Rebecca wondered how this sweaty, overweight, badly groomed man with a mangy toupee could afford to travel the world to watch golf tournaments. ‘I’m sure Ms Browning appreciates your support, but please step back and don’t interrupt the ladies while they are teeing off.’ Rebecca felt uneasy for Pixie. She instinctively knew Bruce was trouble.

  Sue Barker was up next. At thirty-six, Sue was one of the oldest women on tour. Being an old Adelaide girl, she had a parochial crowd following and cheering her on. While Sue was now thirty-fourth in the world, she had been as high as number six. She had gone to school with one of Rebecca’s good friends, Penny Tavanagh, and the two had been introduced. Sue was close to retiring from the circuit and wanted to get into golf media, so Rebecca had agreed to go with her to an event that night to introduce her to some of her media buddies. As Sue stepped up to the tee, Rebecca could see that she was in business mode.

  Sue’s backswing was shorter than Pixie’s, giving her less distance but more accuracy. Her ball stopped about twenty metres short of Pixie’s but was bang in the centre of the fairway. The crowd applauded warmly.

  Hideko Kita was next to walk up to the tee block. Despite Hideko’s diminutive frame, she was a long hitter. Hideko pulled the club back and turned her shoulders fully until the club looked like it was protruding from her left ear. Her hips turned to start the downward swing path, her weight shifted to her left leg, and the club head whipped through to smash the ball. Hideko’s ball landed about ten metres ahead of Pixie’s but on the left-hand side of the fairway.

  Before the women were less than a couple of metres off the tee block, something caught Rebecca’s eye. Momentarily, she thought it was a club on the ground.

  ‘Stop!’ Rebecca yelled.

  Pixie, Sue, Hideko, and their caddies came to an abrupt halt. A metre-long brown snake slithered across their path, heading toward the bushes to the eastern side of the fairway.

  Pixie screamed and ran back to the tee block. Hideko was frozen to the spot, as was her caddie. Sue and her caddie, however, casually walked on while the crowd quickly dispersed, giving the bushes a wide berth.

  ‘It’s okay,’ said Rebecca to the players and caddies who had remained behind. ‘It’s gone now. It’ll be more frightened than you are. But I’ll call the clubhouse. There’s a snake catcher on site throughout the tournament.’ As she dialled she added, ‘There’re dozens of eastern browns on the course at this time of the year. In summer they’re very active, and we knew there would be sightings.’

  ‘Dozens!’ screeched Pixie. ‘But aren’t they poisonous?’

  ‘Deadly, actually,’ said Rebecca. ‘Come on. You all need to get going before you get penalised for slow play. The snake isn’t going to follow you.’

  ‘Slow play? You’ve got to be joking!’ scoffed Pixie.

  Sue Barker and her caddie stopped and looked back expectantly.

  While Rebecca spoke to an official about getting the snake catcher, she saw Pixie’s caddie take her aside. Whatever the caddie was saying to Pixie, it didn’t appear to calm her down. Rebecca couldn’t hear what the caddie was saying, but she could hear Pixie’s shrill reply. ‘This is crap. My life shouldn’t be in danger playing golf. The organisers should have captured these damn snakes before the tournament.’

  Rebecca stifled a laugh and thought, This is Australia, lady. Snakes are part of the deal.

  But it appeared the snake had unsettled Pixie. Rebecca thought that Pixie’s anger was ramping up rather than dissipating. Pixie turned back to her.

  ‘I demand to talk to that asshole of a course director. Get him on the phone and tell him to get here now!’

  ‘I know you’ve had a fright, Ms Browning, but I think you just need to play on,’ said Rebecca in a calm, assertive tone.

  ‘Don’t you dare tell me what to do,’ said Pixie. ‘Who do you think you are? You’re just a volunteer. Get the course director!’

  Rebecca thought Pixie might have a point; she must remember not to overstep her authority, but it wouldn’t be easy.

  Rebecca dialled the number of the course director on her mobile. She thought momentarily about possibly starting further down the chain of command, but seeing how upset Pixie was and the potential for a major incident, as well as the fact that she always liked to go straight to the top, it didn’t seem wise.

  ‘Mr Hendy, Rebecca Keith here. I’m a marshal on the second tee. We have a problem. An eastern brown snake has slid across the fairway in front of the players. No one was bitten, and I’ve called the snake catcher. However, Pixie Browning is refusing to play on and wants you to come here now.’

  ‘Put her on the phone,’ said Hendy bluntly. Rebecca handed her mobile phone to Pixie.

  Pixie launched in. ‘This is bullshit. Leaving deadly snakes to slither around the course is crap.’

  Rebecca couldn’t hear what the course director said in response, but whatever it was didn’t appease Pixie.

  ‘That’s it. I’m not playing on. I refuse to be involved in a tournament where the organisers won’t do the goddamn basics!’

  Pixie threw Rebecca’s phone to the ground and yelled to her caddie, ‘Come on, Stacey. I’m not playing until they do something about these damn snakes.’

  Rebecca watched Pixie storm off with her caddie trailing. Some in the crowd decided to boo, at which point Pixie’s obsessed fan, Bruce, yelled out, ‘Shut up, you idiots. Pixie’s right. These snakes should have been cleared before the tournament!’

  ‘Well, that went well,’ said Rebecca under her breath as she picked up the phone. ‘Are you still there, Mr Hendy?’

  ‘Yes. Pixie Browning’s disqualified herself. Tell Sue Barker and Hideko Kita to play on,’ said Hendy.

  By this stage Sue Barker, Hideko Kita, and their caddies had re-joined Rebecca on the tee block.

  Rebecca hung up the phone and addressed the players and their caddies, ‘Okay, ladies, you need to play on minus Ms Browning.’

  Sue Barker looked over at Rebecca and gave her a cheeky grin before saying, ‘That’s golf. What a roller-coaster. This will probably get Pixie the publici
ty she craves.’ With that, Sue and her caddie strode off down the fairway to the applause of the few spectators still near the tee block. Hideko Kita and her caddie did a shuffling run to catch up.

  Penfolds

  That evening, just before seven o’clock, Rebecca pulled her old BMW into the parking bay of the Hilton Hotel on Victoria Square. After golf, she had only had an hour to get ready: enough time to shower, wash and style her long blond hair, and pour herself into a slinky black cocktail dress. Her red stilettos matched her clutch and her lipstick. Sue Barker was waiting for her out the front of the hotel.

  ‘What a day!’ she said as she hopped into the front passenger seat.

  ‘You can say that again,’ replied Rebecca. ‘My boss Reg asked me to file copy on Pixie Browning storming out of the open. When I said they signed me up as a volunteer marshal on the proviso that I wouldn’t be covering the open as media, he went nuts.’ Rebecca flicked the car’s blinker on. ‘What are the other lady golfers saying about it?’

  ‘Oh, they’re not surprised. Most think Pixie’s done it for publicity, especially Matilda Lambert. She’s apoplectic with rage. Matilda thinks Pixie should be disqualified for life. But then, she would. Matilda has a pathological hatred for Pixie. But, of course, you heard some of Matilda’s dark thoughts about Pixie when you played with her in the pro-am,’ said Sue.

  ‘Sure did. Matilda left me in no doubt about what she thought of Pixie Browning. She accused Pixie of using her sex appeal to sell herself. She was dark on Pixie posing nude for Sports Frenzy.’

  Rebecca drove through Victoria Square and headed east down Flinders Street toward the foothills and Penfolds Magill Estate.

  The media event was traditionally held on the night of the first day of play of the tournament. And while Rebecca wasn’t covering the event as a journalist, she didn’t let that stop her. She just didn’t tell Reg. The event committee invited the women golfers and the media. It was hoped that the journalists could get to know the players in a convivial atmosphere and therefore get better-informed press. Rebecca was looking forward to meeting a few more of the golfers. She had promised Sue Barker that she would introduce her to some media contacts who might be able to help her get into the media as a golf commentator after her retirement from the circuit later in the year.