The Pukeko

The crash of the waves on a nearby shore drowned out the hiss of an escaping soul.

Fingers of gauzy spray slid over the Coromandel sand dunes, cloaking the wispy grasses and descending into the marshy crannies between the beach and the highway. But the miasma could not obscure the salty smell of the nearby sands or the aroma of sulfur, of decomposition—of death.

* * *

Barry Phillips, capitalist returning home from weeks of business in Europe and the States, pulled his red BMW X5 into the long gravel driveway. It was just after midnight. He was exhausted. He slowed to admire his country estate, the New Zealand contemporary architecture of his farmhouse and the sizable grounds around it, including a large garden in the back that curled around the house to face the highway. A low picket fence separated it from the marshy fen between the house and the road. On the flat, grasses grew high in the long hours of daytime sun, but not high enough to hide the blooming flowers or house’s darkened windows.

He curled his eyebrows and let out a humph.

There between the blades in the middle of his field for all to see was a piece of trash. Like a billboard, it glowed in the SUV’s headlights, and Phillips could not take his tired eyes off of it.

Bloody hell, Pravat. I have a mind to call you on my bloody cell and fire your ass right now. He floored the accelerator and crunched up the driveway. Grabbing his bag from the backseat, he let himself into the house.

* * *

How ya doing, Coop? asked Jagger, the barkeeper at Patterson’s.

Cooper sauntered up to the counter and gestured for a pint. Hey, Jag, where are all the regulars? This place is starting to look like a wine tasting room.

Yeah. Quite a few hoity-toities lately. Maybe I should think about installing frilly curtains and upholstered stools. Jagger leaned over the counter. Take those two…

Cooper turned his back to the counter and rested his elbows on the edge. You mean the guys at Lizzie’s table?

They’ve hung out here for the last few days. They’re archeologists.

Cooper tilted his head. Really? This country is less than two hundred years old. What the hell are they looking for?

Remember that we’ve had nearly a thousand years of human dwellers. I imagine they’re looking for Maori antiquities. Yeah, they’re Pakeha, but I don’t see any Maori out there digging up their own stuff. Jagger slurped from his own pint, hidden under the lip of the counter. Look at those nails.

They’re buffed. Cooper looked down at his own fingers, the nails cracked and torn from toil on the ranch. I thought archeologists would have dirt under them.

No. People who actually work have messed-up nails. Archeologists hire others’ hands to do their work. These are thinking archeologists.

Cooper turned back to the counter and finished his beer. Wonder what they’re doing out here. Anyone living in these parts with any kind of intelligence would have already moved his ass back to civilization.

* * *

Under the pounding sun, Pravat, Phillip’s Indonesian gardener, cautiously stepped into the grass off the driveway. His boots sank, water gathering around his ankles. Shit! Eyeing the group of pukeko, purple heads bobbing over the grass like fishing floats, Pravat sneered. I can hear you birds snickering, you ugly clodhoppers. I would rather lose my balance than eat mud like you do. He stopped and looked around. Where did Phillips say it was? Am I heading in the right direction? He swatted at a fly that buzzed in his ear. Oh yeah, the toatoa tree. Not that far, but I had better not sink any farther, or he is going to have to come help me out. Pravat laughed. Fuck! Knowing him, he would leave me out here and let the damn swamp hens bury me in one of their watery graves.

Just below the toatoa tree, he saw the article Phillips had described. It did not look like an empty plastic bag at all. The dirt and silt having settled to the floor of a muddy puddle, the white object could be seen just under the water’s surface. Pravat stepped forward and bent down, his movement mixing up the concoction until it resembled hot chocolate. Grabbing the young tree for balance, his other hand blindly splashed into the pool—a quick yank and…

Shit! It is attached, Pravat said, his foot sliding into the morass as he tugged at it. Is it a root? He sat in the jungle of water plants but, using the cord, pulled himself upright.

He wrenched it again. A bigger object quickly surfaced—a huge bubble that nodded at him. Shocked, he nearly dropped what he still clung to. Letting the lead slacken, he watched the buoy slowly rotate and break the surface. Pravat looked down at the root in his hand and released it. Turning tail, he recklessly scrambled through the knee-high grass toward the driveway.

Mr. Phillips! Mr. Phillips! he gurgled breathlessly, still trying to lift his feet in the mud. Speeding up as he hit the gravel, he rounded the corner of the house. Muddy water splashing out of the tops of his boots, he opened the back door and sloshed over the entry tile.

What’s the matter? asked Phillips, emerging from the kitchen. Hell, You’re tracking mud all over the floor, Pravat. I have a mind to—

Mr. Phillips, it is a body. The white piece of garbage is a body.

"What? What the shit are you talking about?

I am not getting it out. Pravat’s black irises flashed. You will have to do it yourself. I did not deposit that thing in the front yard.

* * *

Detective Inspector Graham Hewson from the Coromandel branch of the Waikato Police Department wiped his brow. Unimpeded by clouds, the late summer sun pummeled the golden blades of grass as well as his face. Bloody daylight savings time means we’ll be stuck in this heat for hours more.

A wider patch of white skin would be revealed as soon as one of his crew donned boots and waded across the puddle. Smacking, a detective’s gummies adhered to the wet mud.

The gardener was correct, sir, said young Detective Constable Terry Nolan. "Pakeha woman, maybe thirty to thirty-five. Married—wearing a ring. Oh—wearing lots of rings. Hand me the bucket, Winks. I have to clear off some of this muck.

She’s Pakeha? Winks asked. You’re sure she’s not Maori?

Yeah, she’s white. Getting the pictures, Thorne?

Of course, Terry, DC Helen Thorne said. Move your head a little to the right.

Got it? Nolan asked, losing his balance and catching himself with his hand. Longish blonde hair, though pretty dirty right now. Fully clothed. Where’s the damn examiner?

Can you determine a possible cause of death? Hewson asked.

No blood that I can see, but I haven’t examined the whole body—haven’t seen the front of it yet either, Nolan said, turning her over. Uh-oh.

What is it, Nolan?

Looks like asphyxiation—bluish around the lips.

Anything else?

Bloody hell, sir. The smell’s getting to me, and I can barely see the body in this muck. Please excuse the language, Helen, but I’m sure you’ve heard worse. There are some tattoos here on the neck so I can’t tell if that’s what makes me think she’s been strangled. I wonder if the tattoos mean something. Maybe Winks knows.

The gravel popped as a van drove slowly up the driveway. Medical examiner Dr. Deepak Sajeev slowly emerged through the passenger-side door.

Ignoring him, Hewson continued. So, Nolan, you think she was buried?

Yes, but not long ago. Thin layer of mud slathered over her back, I’d say ten to fifteen centimeters or so. Not too effective. It lasted less than a week, I believe.

Maybe the killer was in a hurry?

I don’t know why. Perhaps the landowner heard something. The gardener probably lives elsewhere. Can’t be seen from the highway—at least can’t be seen at night.

A torch might have been noticed, and the killer would need one to dig a trench, Helen said. How about a daytime dump, Graham? I would think he, the digger, might be hidden more during the day.

"I didn’t say the killer was a he."

You’re right, Helen said. But do you think a woman could bury the body?

I’m not sure you’d consider this being buried. At the same time, I don’t see drag-tracks either. Nolan swatted at a sand fly, flinging mud into his eye. He looked up blinking.

Helen laughed. Terry, that’s very attractive. Do you need a towel? What do you think, Graham?

Hewson rocked back on his heels. I’m not sure I want to get involved in the question about the sex of the murderer. Sounds like something my wife would ask just to set a trap.

I mean whether it was a night or daytime burial.

I don’t think the killer would chance a daytime one. I believe people are here during the day. I don’t know if Phillips’s office is in the front or back of the house.

But you think the help is here all the time?

The DI scanned the beautiful garden. Yep. Looks like a fulltime occupation to me, but I haven’t interviewed anyone yet. That’s next—as soon as you guys finish up so the examiner can get a look.

I’m done, I guess. Hey Winks, you want to take a peek?

Detective Constable John Winks sidled up to the puddle. Yeah. I can see her from here.

Come closer, Winks. What? No stomach for it?

Winks checked the bottoms of his shoes. These are new shoes, guys, he said. I’m bloody not going in if that’s what you mean.

Cooper would be in up to his knees by now, Nolan said. He liked getting down and dirty if it meant he could find a clue.

Well I’m not Gideon Cooper. I heard he’s a bloody wife-stealer and overall troublemaker. Compare me to him, and you’ll feel the sting when my bloody knuckles make contact.

Come on, Winks, Hewson said. You can help me interview Phillips and company.

How come? Phillips and that gardener guy aren’t Maori so I don’t see why you need me.

You should give yourself more credit. Don’t you Maoris possess an innate sense of danger before it even happens?

Well, yes, but what’s your point?

I need help scrutinizing their answers, their body language and ticks, that sort of thing. You’re good at that, aren’t you?

Uh, I didn’t think you noticed, sir.

Why don’t you talk to Maeva Turia, the housekeeper?

Eh. So much for all my bloody gifts, sir. She’s Maori.

* * *

Didn’t anyone notice the object in the front yard before Phillips’ return? Hewson asked the gardener.

It was not there before, the gardener said. I am sure I would have seen it. I think the pukeko found it first.

Ah, the pukeko—a ubiquitous swamp hen that stalks the mud flats, its purple head often visible, bobbing through the tall grasses of North Island, Nolan said, chuckling. So a dumb bird with ungainly feet and ridiculous walk uncovered a body buried in the mud of your field.

Pravat shrugged. A dumb bird that has survived and multiplied when so many others have gone extinct. Yes that is the one. I often see a group of them rummaging through the field. They pop up their heads and study what I do like they are the spirits of dead relatives.

* * *

In the driveway, Hewson met Winks who had finished interviewing Maeva Turia, the Maori kitchen help. The sun was low in the sky. The others had left.

Can I offer you a ride, sir? asked Winks.

Yes, thank you. Nolan, you can take my car back to the station. I’ll finish up with Winks. He climbed into the truck. I’m buying if you want a pint before you head home. Makutu’s is on the way.

I’d be honored, sir. Winks revved the motor, the tires slipping on the driveway before the truck lurched forward. Did you catch them at anything? Do Phillips and his help offer alibis for each other?

Nothing so simple, I’m afraid. What about you? What did Mrs. Turia have to offer?

Winks stretched his back as he turned onto the highway. Well you mentioned my talents—my ability to notice tiny things that might mean something, didn’t you?

Hewson’s brows shot up. With Turia?

She seems to know something.

What did she say?

Uh, it’s not what she said when she responded to my questions. It’s just how she watched me. It wasn’t normal, if you know what I mean.

No, I don’t know what you mean. No one I interview ever looks at me like they’re comfortable. I might as well be a bloody vampire.

It was her eyes. She knows something and wants to tell me, but I’m there in my capacity as a bloody Pakeha police official, excuse the description.

So Maoris know what’s going on in the community but don’t like to snitch to the authorities. Do you switch back to Maori when you go home?

You think I become Pakeha when I put on the uniform? Winks asked, giving the detective a toothy smile. I guess I’m more talented than I thought. Oh, you mean do I hear things? No. They still don’t trust me enough to tell me.

Maybe you don’t need that pint, Winks. You sound like you’re relaxed enough already.

Winks let out a loud guffaw. Pretty much. But if we don’t stop and have a pint, I might not be able to tell you what the cook actually said. I mean, not in answer to my questions, but what she whispered under her breath—in Maori.

Inside the busy tavern, music from the jukebox wailed. Winks grabbed his pint and pulled the detective to a table in the far corner.

I think she knows the victim, he said. "I didn’t tell the housekeeper anything about her—didn’t say she had blond hair or even that she was a she. But in between questions, the woman started wiping down the kitchen counters and chattering in Maori, almost whispering so I could barely hear her. She kept calling out the name Hoanna. Yeah, we don’t even know who the victim is, but if it’s Hoanna, you can be sure as hell Mrs. Turia knows something about her."

Do Maoris often gossip about Pakehas, John? I mean, even if a Pakeha had nothing to do with the Maoris?

Winks’ white teeth sparkled when he smiled. Do I have you worried? The answer is no. If the people in the Maori neighborhood knew her, then for some reason or other she knew them.

TWO

His hand blocking the intense summer sun, Gideon Cooper stumbled out the door of his cottage. Fuckit to bloody hell! Turn out the goddamn lights, mate, he said, lurching toward the tub at the end of the front porch and plunging his head into the recycled rainwater.

Morning, Coop. Spending too much time at Patterson’s, eh? Richard Handley stood out of the splatter and waited to hand his friend a mug of steaming coffee.

What the hell do you want? Cooper asked. He grabbed the mug and took a slurp before retrieving a towel.

No way to talk to your landlord. Ready to work on those fences? Remember you said you’d lend a hand here in exchange for the bed. McRae could use help on the west gate fence.

Cooper remained silent and then returned to the cottage to grab a razor.

You’re lucky shearing is still months away, Handley said when he returned. You aren’t up to it. If you continue to hang out at Patterson’s, you’ll screw up and slit their bloody throats.

I’m best with the electric shears anyway. Can’t do any harm there.

So I have to hire a castrator?

Cooper smiled for the first time. Never my favorite job, mate. Even if my hands were steady they’d botch that one.

But you can handle the fence.

"If I can find the west gate in this bloody sun.

Handley hesitated. Look, Coop, I understand how hard it is that the Waikato Police fired your ass. We both know they’ll regret it and come crawling back on their knees the minute they get a case they can’t solve. It’s just that…

Grimacing, Cooper felt his throat constrict. He was unable to say a word and looked at the ground in silence.

Well, I’ve got work to do too. I’d say McRae’ll be up there in about an hour. You think you can handle that? Handley did not wait for an answer and turned toward the house at the top of the hill. Oh, I almost forgot, he said, spinning back. Diana’s got breakfast on up at the house and is asking if you’ll want some.

The awkward moment had passed. The corners of Cooper’s mouth suddenly turned up, and his pale blue eyes twinkled. She still has a fancy for me, does she?

Yeah, bloody hell. She can’t keep her hands off you, Coop, Handley said. In fact, she keeps asking me to go steal you from McRae so you can rub her back.

Cooper dunked the soapy razor in the water. Actually, Diana knows these hands are best at that, mate. Let McRae use the clippers on the sheep. I’ll keep your wife happy till the work’s finished.

Handley had already started up the drive. She picks income every time, Coop, he yelled back. That’s why she’s mine and not yours.

But evidently not hair, Cooper said, examining his own graying strands in the mirror he had tacked to one of the overhang supports. At least I don’t have to hide a shiny burnt head under a hat, he said, even though Handley was out of earshot. He scrutinized the bags under his eyes. Hey, do ya think these bloody bastards’ll shrink if I stay away from Patterson’s? He pulled his t-shirt over his head and grabbed a clean shirt from a hook on the door. My da had them, and even his bloody gentleman da in the mother country had them. Nothing I can do to make this face pretty. But Diana still thinks I’m hot. That’ll do.

Walking into his humble abode, Cooper picked up a pair of underwear from the floor and, after determining there was nothing underneath, dropped them again. Then he strolled to the kitchen to make himself another cup of coffee. The coffee crystals stuck to the inside of the jar, and he could not find a clean spoon to jostle them. Suddenly cured of his need for another cup, he turned around to see a cat sitting on the table watching him.

Gawd, Poti, you gave me a scare. When you stayed away, I thought Handley had strung you up for bugging the sheep. Exhausted from scoring with all the lady kitties roaming the peninsula, I suppose. I see one of the boyfriends got to your ear again. Pretty soon, you’ll have nothing left. Cooper retrieved the bottle of milk from the fridge and poured some onto a plate. Bet those escapades made you hungry enough to drink the whole bottle, boy. I gotta go and work on scoring too. When I get back, you can curl up on my chest, and we both can take a snooze. Of course, I just might get lucky. Diana’s at the house waiting to serve me breakfast. You and I both know she has the hots for Gideon. If I do score, you can have the pillow for yourself. As I always say, ‘A bird in the hand is never as good as a hand in the bush.’

* * *

Diana greeted him with a pat on the table. Sit here, Gideon, across from Richard. I assume you’ll want the works. Rich tells me you’ll be setting posts near the west gate today. You’ll need something hearty to keep you going. Rich is just having yogurt because he’s watching his weight, but you’re skinny. There’s no padding on that skeleton.

Cooper sat down and let Diana coo over him. No need to marry her or someone like her. She appreciates me more from a distance. Hell, she’d never understand me—too much of a bugger for her liking—a bugger without money. Nothing could be worse to a woman like her. He breathed in his freedom, smelling a lot like bacon.

Handley ignored him by burying his face in the newspaper. The rancher was often quiet. Cooper knew the man liked him, if either of them could like anything other than booze and a good lay. And he knew Handley understood Diana, that she would not abandon him even for the pretty face that visited the ranch when times were bad. Would it bother Handley if his wife decided to screw around with his best friend? Probably not. Handley had the sons he wanted, had the house her father helped pay for. Cooper jumped when the phone suddenly rang out.

Handley put the receiver to his ear. Yes? He handed it across the table to Cooper.

Cooper here, he said, having no idea who could be calling him, unless it was McRae, ringing from the west gate to tell him to get his butt to work. Cooper would not put it past Handley to get someone else to push him out of the house. He could imagine Handley smiling there behind the section of newspaper. Oh. Oh, yes. Yes? Today? Well er…

The paper went down. Go ahead, mate. I don’t think the detective inspector of the Waikato police would call unless it was important.

How ‘bout after noon, say one o’clock… Now? I’m in the middle of my eggs here… Okay, in an hour or so then. Where? At the station or the hospital morgue in Thames? I’d rather see the crime scene first. I’ve already missed the most important part… Then better give me a couple of hours. Bye.

Diana stopped wiping dishes, probably hoping to pick up a tidbit of gossip.

Cooper smiled. Any more toast, princess? And I could use another cup of coffee.

Handley rolled his eyes. I suppose this will keep you busy for the next few weeks.

I don’t know, mate. Bloody business in Coromandel. Don’t see why the department would want me.

After giving you the boot, you mean? Hah! I told you they’d come crawling. It’s just that bloody attitude that got to them—that gets to anyone who has the balls to employ you.

Richard!

Sorry, dear. We’ll both try hard to clean up our bloody language a bit.

Bloody right, Cooper said, inhaling the steam from his coffee. "Nothing beats the smell of coffee to get the eyes open. I wonder if that goes for the knees too. If so, maybe it would