Odds on Murder

Chapter 1

My name is Danny Byrne.

A very ordinary name for a very ordinary bloke.

A few months ago I was living a very mundane life, working in the most boring job you can imagine, stacking shelves in Woolworths.

Then one day – by pure chance I thought at the time – I met the most beautiful woman I had ever set eyes upon.

And I was as poor as a church-mouse, bone ugly and devastatingly boring.

Still am. Bone ugly, that is. But not poor, and not boring any more.

But I was way out of her league. And I knew it.

I will never forget the first time I saw her. She was wearing a simple white dress with matching shoes. The dress just clung to her contoured body like a wet swimsuit and highlighted every delectable curve. Her body formed a gently flowing silhouette from the top of her head to the ends of her long lissom legs as she glided through the room, moving past me like a graceful swan. Everywhere she went men and women of all ages stared at her in undisguised envy and admiration. I felt privileged, even guilty just being in the same room as her.

What made her even sexier and more desirable was that she seemed to be blissfully unaware of the stares. She just stood with her swan-like neck perfectly straight and looked directly ahead of her as though no one was even there. She seemed to be totally oblivious to the storm she was creating all around her.

I could sense that everyone in the room as well as me longed for just a glance, a smile, a nod of her head, an acknowledgement of any kind that would indicate she knew we all existed.

And then she noticed me.

Her dark fathomless eyes fell on mine from across the room, and then to my shock and exhilaration, she glided across the floor in my direction.

I looked around me. There must have been some super-cool, super-lucky dude standing behind me who’d caught her attention.

But I was wrong; there was no one there but me.

She was now standing a metre from my quivering body, an enigmatic smile gracing her perfectly proportioned lips. I could feel my ugly face turning beetroot red with embarrassment.

‘Hello Danny. Would you like to dance?’

I almost shit myself.

I stood there dumbly for a few seconds suffering an acute case of lockjaw. She knew my name, and she wanted to dance with me!

Sensing my discomfort, she took my arms in hers and glided me onto the dance-floor – the princess and the pauper.

I remember it oh so clearly, and my heart still pumps like a toad every time I recall those exquisite moments.

Paul Kelly and his band were performing some of his legendary songs. She led and I tried to follow. I can’t dance to save myself even at the best of times, but on that night, with my heart pumping out of my chest and my hands wet with perspiration, I stumbled around the dance floor like a tin-legged soldier.

Seemingly oblivious to my awkwardness, she manoeuvred me expertly around the room to the easy rhythm of ‘To Her Door’.

I found my tongue.

‘H-how did you know my n-name?’ I stuttered like a hormone-charged schoolboy.

‘I’ve known you for some time Danny,’ she replied, a playful smile on her beautiful lips. ‘I’d heard you were a fan of Paul Kelly, so I came along hoping you would be here. I was so glad I came.’

I was in a daze. Was I dreaming all this? Was it really happening? Why would the most beautiful, most desirable woman I had ever seen, seek me of all people out in a crowd and want to dance with me? It was almost too much for me to bear. My sphincter muscle was being severely challenged.

The song ended and Paul Kelly and his band took a break. I braced myself for my newfound Cinderella’s inevitable disappearance into the night.

‘Come and have a drink with me, Danny,’ she said, taking me by the hand and leading me to a distant corner table at the far end of the bar.

I followed her like a timid, slobbering bloodhound.

‘The drinks are on me,’ she smiled as she ordered a pot of Cascade Light and a glass of chardonnay from the drinks waiter.

‘H-how did you know I drink Cascade Light?’

‘I know a lot of things about you, Danny.’ She sipped her chardonnay without getting any moisture on her delectable lips.

‘I-I don’t understand. Why me?’

‘Let’s just enjoy the moment, shall we? Let’s just say I like you and I want to be with you.’

She continued to make small talk about Paul Kelly and his band and other bands she liked. I listened and didn’t say much; my tongue felt like sandpaper and my mind was undergoing a minor seizure.

What game was she playing? No rich, beautiful women had ever afforded me more than a passing grimace… until now. I knew I was about as popular with beautiful women as a piranha in a bidet.

To my intense delight but continued embarrassment, Mandy insisted on staying with me for the remainder of the evening. She danced only with me and had eyes for no one else. I was the recipient of piercing stares of unconcealed envy and outright jealousy. Some of the good-looking dudes in the room (there was plenty of them) showed blatant hostility towards me, making it patently clear to me that I had no right to be seen with this untouchable example of feminine perfection. And I had to agree with them.

Many of the women in the room did a double take: what was he doing with her? I knew they were asking. I could sense their eyes upon me, searching for some elusive hidden quality in me that may not have been readily apparent.

They couldn’t find one because one didn’t exist.

I expressed my feelings of unworthiness to Mandy after our third dance together.

‘Don’t be silly, Danny,’ she laughed. ‘You’re a good-looking guy and I’m just proud to be seen with you.’

This comment thrilled me enormously and did my self-esteem a tonne of good. But I didn’t believe a word of it. How long would I be able to keep dancing with her before one of the dozens of handsome smooth-talkers in the room swept her off her feet?

But she didn’t respond to any of the suggestive glances or the smooth pick-up lines from all the other dudes in the room. She stayed with me until the band finished playing and the bar closed.

I felt nervous being left alone with her: I didn’t know what to say or do. Should I ask if I could take her home? Or should I just quit while I was ahead and sneak away like a beaten mongrel dog when she wasn’t looking?

She must have anticipated my quandary.

She took my hand in hers and said, ‘Danny, I want to be with you again… if you ask me. I like you very much.’

She pecked me on the cheek, placed a slip of paper in my sweaty, quivering hand and disappeared into the night like a heavenly apparition. I stood in one spot, savouring the thrill of that mind-boggling peck on the cheek and re-living every euphoric moment of that wondrous evening.

I glanced down at the slip of paper in my hand.

It read, ‘Call me soon please Danny. Love, Mandy.’

A phone number was scrawled at the bottom. I folded the paper carefully and placed it in my wallet.

I wandered home in a euphoric daze. The lingering aroma of her perfume still filled my head with a dizziness that seemed to engulf me, and images of her nymphean face and her sensuous body stayed with me throughout the night as I tossed and turned in my lumpy, lonely single bed in my tiny, dingy little one-bedroom flat.

Who was this mysterious woman that had suddenly entered my mundane world?

When I awoke the next morning, my thoughts turned immediately to her. All I wanted to do was to hear her silken voice once again, to gain a glance of that angelic face and that statuesque body.

Should I ring her?

No, it was too soon, I’d sound like the love-struck dork that I was. I told myself to wait for a few hours, or even a day.

I went to work on Monday, my head in the clouds. I could think of nothing but Mandy and I remembered very little about the shelves I filled that day. I rushed home from work and grabbed the phone, trembling at the thought of almost certain rejection.

‘Hello, Mandy speaking.’

‘M-Mandy, how are you? It’s Danny.’

‘Oh Hello Danny, it is so nice to hear from you. Thank you for a wonderful night last night.’

I was thrilled. ‘Mandy, I w-wonder if you would…would like to go out again s-some time,’ I stuttered, waiting for the excuse I was certain would come.

‘I’d love to, Danny! When and where would you like to go?’

I was stunned into silence; I hadn’t got that far in my planning. ‘Uh, where would you like to go?’

‘I’ll tell you what. There’s a cocktail party on Friday night at my home. Would you like to come?’

Without even needing to think, I blurted stupidly: ‘Would I? Does the Pope pray?’

‘Good. I’ll have a limo pick you up from outside your apartment at eight o’clock. I’ve got to go. See you Friday.’

She left me staring stupidly at the hand-piece, trying to make sense of what she had just said. I suddenly realized I didn’t know a single thing about her. I didn’t even know her surname.

I didn’t know where she worked, where she lived or even what she did for a living. I remembered telling her that I was a company merchandiser. It sounded much better than a frigging shelf stacker and she seemed impressed.

When I had asked her what she did for a living she had been very obtuse. Her answer had been, ‘Oh, a just a little public relations.’

I hadn’t pursued the matter, mainly because my tongue was stuck to the roof of my mouth.

I spent the next week in a daze, going through the motions of stacking shelf after boring shelf. Fortunately shelf stacking is a job that doesn’t require a great deal of intelligence or insight and I was able to complete my tasks without having to tear my mind away from those exquisite memories.

She had totally consumed my mind and my life. I had become a drooling, lovesick teenager at twenty-nine years of age. I was fully aware that I was heading inexorably for a terrible fall and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it.

I was falling helplessly, and it felt just like flying. Jeff Bridges said that falling feels like flying, for a little while at least – until you hit the ground.

Chapter 2

Friday came around, oh-h so slowly. I didn’t have a clue what to wear and I didn’t dare ring Mandy to ask. To do so would be tacit acknowledgement of how far out of her league I really was.

So I opted for the only wardrobe I possessed: a well-worn pair of long pants, a scuffed pair of black loafers, a white long-sleeved shirt with a tiny ink-stain in the pocket, a striped tie that someone had given me for Christmas and a dark sports coat from the Op Shop. It looked OK if you overlooked the small, barely noticeable bloodstain on the lapel.

As Mandy had promised, a white stretch limo pulled up outside my humble little apartment at precisely eight pm. But I wasn’t prepared for the size of it – it stretched almost the entire length of the apartment block, eliciting quite a few envious stares from my neighbours.

The stares turned to jaw-drops when they saw me stroll casually down my front steps to a waiting chauffer who had stepped out nimbly in readiness for my grand entry. He was holding the door open for me. I grinned at him and gave the royal wave to my drooling neighbours.

The chauffer’s body was massive and rippling with muscle beneath his black uniform. There was not an ounce of fat to be seen on him and his stomach was as lean and as hard as a slab of granite. His massive neck was as thick as a tree trunk, wedged into shoulders that were as broad as a carpenter’s workbench. He looked more like a bouncer or a hit man to me.

‘Good evening Mr Byrne,’ he said in a surprisingly cultured accent. ‘Please step in.’

I did as I was directed and the door was closed gently behind me. As the chauffer slid smoothly back into his driver’s seat I asked innocently, ‘Where are we going?’

‘You don’t know, sir?’

‘No, Mandy just said I was going to a cocktail party, that’s all.’

‘Mrs Agostino didn’t tell you whose party it was, sir?’

‘Mrs Agostino?’ I repeated stupidly. ‘You mean Mandy?

‘Yes sir, Mrs Agostino,’ he repeated, emphasizing the ‘Mrs’.

‘Is Mandy married?’ I asked incredulously, remembering clearly that she had worn no wedding ring on her finger.

‘Yes of course, sir,’ he replied, as a though I was the only person in the whole world who didn’t know.

‘What sort of cocktail party is this?’

‘It’s a celebration of Mr Agostino’s horse winning the Caulfield Cup, sir.’

My mind was racing. ‘You mean, ‘Miss Mandy?’ Suddenly I realized the significance of the name. ‘Does he own Miss Mandy, the Caulfield Cup winner? Is he going to be there?’ I asked feebly, trying to get my head around the significance of what I’d just been told.

‘The answer to both your questions is: Yes sir.’

I remembered clearly that Mandy had not been wearing any rings on her fingers, and that she had never once mentioned anything about a husband.

The limo pulled up in front of an address in Indooroopilly, one of the city’s more salubrious suburbs. Most of the neighbouring houses were large and expensive looking, sitting on small blocks of prime real estate.

But nothing could have prepared me for my first view of Mandy’s home. It was one of the largest, most ostentatious mansions I had ever seen. It was built entirely of white marble and stood three stories high, immersed in acres of imported and exotic trees, shrubs and gardens. The mansion itself was covered with ivy that hung down from every floor and from every one of the twenty or thirty windows lining the facade.

At the front of the house was a long, wide, gently curving staircase also built from marble, which wound elegantly in the style of Gone With the Wind up to a large front foyer the size of a small house that boasted two enormous closed cedar doors. The house and grounds were lit up brightly with dozens of spotlights and mood lights dotting the landscape. The overall picture was one of some magic, fictional fairytale castle.

I found myself fantasizing that a beautiful princess in the shape of my Mandy would come running daintily down the long marble steps in her flowing silk dress to wrap her arms around me and sweep me away into fairyland. A hopeless dreamer.

I was greeted at the front steps instead, by a pock-faced, muscle-bound butler of a similar build to the chauffer, dressed in a black tuxedo. He escorted me up the massive steps to the front door, which magically opened as we approached.

The two of us walked into a gargantuan foyer, the size of a small cathedral, lined with original paintings, many of them of racehorses, and dotted here and there by period furniture. I was instructed by the butler to wait where I stood on the highly polished cedar floor. I stood in awe and wonder at the unbelievable sight before me and wondered diffidently what was in store for me.

Suddenly, seemingly out of the blue, there she was, standing right before me in all her splendour, looking even more ethereal than I had remembered. This time she was dressed elegantly in a simple black dress that showed off her elegantly proportioned cleavage.

She wore sparkling diamond earrings, and a large diamond necklace, two items that had not been on display the other night. She was also wearing a solitary gold wedding ring on her finger. I stood in awe before her, my mouth agape, unable to utter a single syllable. Not unusual for me.

She touched me lightly on the shoulder and eagerly took my hand in hers. Her sensuous lips opened with a quiet breath, and she kissed me lightly on the cheek. It felt like a flower bursting on my cheek.

‘I’m so glad you were able to come, Danny. Let me introduce you to some of the guests.’

I found my voice. It’d been hiding somewhere deep down in the back of my throat. ‘Wait Mandy, there are some questions I need to ask first. You didn’t mention you were married!’

‘No I didn’t, because I didn’t want to scare you off. But don’t worry, it’s only a marriage of convenience.’

‘But… your husband? This party is in honour of him, isn’t it? Why did you invite me?’

‘I thought you might like to come. Don’t worry about Mario. He’ll be okay. Just remember that I have to act a role whilst I’m with him, but we can be together alone afterwards. I’ll join you in the limo to go home.’

My head was swimming. How was I going to cope with meeting the husband?

She dragged me out of my confused reverie by leading me through a hallway lined with massive original portraits to a closed door. She opened it to the scene of a large number of expensively dressed men and women, sipping cocktails and engaging in small talk. A five-piece band was softly playing a swing version of ‘San Francisco Bay Blues’ on a small stage in the corner.

‘Mario, I’d like you to meet a friend of mine, Danny Byrnes,’ Mandy said warmly.

Standing before me was a very large, well-build, good-looking Italian-looking guy, his dark, carefully groomed hair brushed meticulously back over his ears. His grey, cunning eyes reminded me of light trapped inside a pool of murky water. They gazed at me through hooded lids and locked themselves onto mine, refusing to break the contact.

I could almost see the cogs of his brain working overtime, trying to ascertain the reason for the sudden appearance of this ugly, poorly dressed stranger in his hallowed residence. He was dressed immaculately in a dark, pinstriped suit. He eyed the ink stain on my shirt-pocket with some distain, then shook my hand strongly and warmly.

‘Nice to meet you Danny.’ He smiled with his lips only. His eyes remained cold and hooded. ‘Any friend of Mandy’s is a friend of mine.’

‘I’m told you’re celebrating your horse’s win at the Caulfield Cup,’ I said, trying desperately to make some form of intelligent conversation.

He broke his gaze from mine and turned it toward his wife, gazing languidly at her, an indecipherable, half-amused expression on his face. ‘Oh yes, Miss Mandy’s been very good to us. This is now the third Group One race she’s won this year. The Melbourne Cup is our next hurdle.’

‘Obviously you named Miss Mandy after your wife,’ I suggested, feeling foolish the moment I said it. ‘N-not that she looks like a horse or anything!’ I turned beetroot once again with embarrassment. Shut the fuck up! I demanded of myself.

He smiled warmly at Mandy, like any devoted husband would do. He was obviously not put out by my embarrassing ramblings.

‘You’re quite right. It’s the name that’s given us all the luck. Mandy tends to spread luck wherever she goes.’

He touched Mandy affectionately on the hand. I didn’t know if I was imagining it or not, but I thought I could sense her stiffen at his touch.

‘You’ll have to excuse me dear. I have some important people I have to meet.’ He smiled at me. ‘Nice to meet you Danny.’

He disappeared into the crowd.

‘I feel so out of place here,’ I whispered nervously in Mandy’s ear. ‘You and your husband seem so…happy.’

‘Yes, appearances can be deceptive can’t they?’ she murmured as she squeezed my hand.

‘Come and meet some more of the guests.’

She let go of my hand and guided me by surreptitiously placing her hand on my waist.

The next hour was whirlwind of faces and names, many of them very familiar, either as racing identities, media personalities, socialites or just plain rich. I was extremely flattered that Mandy stayed with me for most of the time I was meeting these people and to my great joy, she seemed to treat me as a very special guest.

She finally excused herself to go and meet some other guests and left me sharing savouries and cocktails with a couple of horse-trainers. I didn’t know a great deal about horse-racing, but I was brought up in the country and I had the odd Saturday bet at the TAB, so I managed to make some semblance of conversation with the two trainers, one of whom happened to be the trainer of Miss Mandy.

These two guys were very different in looks and demeanour to Mario or his butler or chauffer. They were both tall and wiry, their faces darkly lined and deeply tanned, obviously from the many hours they spent out in the open caring for their thoroughbreds. They talked about caring for horses and preparing them for races that included the Caulfield and Melbourne Cups: two race meetings I’d at least heard about.

I was keen to find out a bit more about Mario Agostino without sounding too nosy, so I directed the conversation around to him.

‘How many racehorses does Mario own?’ I asked Harry Begley, one of the trainers.

Harry was the older of the two trainers. He had a thin, florid, elongated face and a nervous smile and his head displayed long strands of hair combed carefully over a bald patch at the crown. I couldn’t help but notice that despite his middle age, his body had the girth and hardness of a young stallion.

‘Oh, he owns about sixty,’ replied Harry. ‘Only a handful of them as successful as Miss Mandy, but he does all right out of them, believe me.’

‘Does he make all of his money from horses?’ I asked innocently, gazing around at the opulence and wealth presenting itself ostentatiously before me.

Harry glared at me, his beady eyes looking me up and down with undisguised contempt. ‘What do you mean by that?’ he snarled.

I shrugged. ‘Oh I was just wondering. With all this obvious wealth, I wondered if it all came from racehorses.’

‘Oh, Mario has a wide range of other business interests,’ interjected the other trainer, Don Hanley, with a knowing grin at his partner. ‘But we don’t talk too much about that.’

I got the message very clearly; there was obviously an unwritten rule that you just didn’t discuss Mario’s business interests, and I made a mental note not to ask any more personal questions… that is, until I got Mandy alone later on.

I quite enjoyed the rest of the cocktail party, despite my feeling of abject inferiority that haunted me throughout the night. Mandy came to join me from time to time to check that I had people to talk to. She was the perfect host and she glided gracefully around the room, making small talk and ensuring that people felt welcome and comfortable.

And, just as it happened on the first night I was with her, all eyes followed her wherever she went, and she was the envy once again of every person in the room. Her husband was also the perfect host, moving smoothly amongst all the guests, charming the ladies and making jokes with the men.

They seemed to me to be the perfect couple – two beautiful, wealthy, happily married young people in the prime of their lives, celebrating one of the great horseracing victories in the Australian racing calendar, and mixing with celebrities from all walks of life and from all over the country.

By midnight the guests started making their departures. Mandy and Mario, the perfect hosts until every last guest had departed, spent their time shaking hands and politely kissing their friends goodnight.

I wondered how it would look to Mario when I continued to malinger until the last guest had gone.

Mario solved the dilemma for me by approaching me when there were just a couple of guests still to leave. He reached out and shook my hand warmly.

‘I’ll say good night, Danny. I have to be up at daylight to be at the track to watch Miss Mandy train. Nice meeting you.’

I shook his hand tentatively.

‘Nice meeting you too Mario. Thank you for a great cocktail party.’

‘Think nothing of it,’ Mario smiled benignly without a hint of suspicion or jealousy as far as I could ascertain. He disappeared like the grim reaper into the crowd.

Finally the last guests disappeared and Mandy came and took me by the hand.

‘Time to take you home, Danny,’ she smiled as she led me by the hand down the front steps of her mansion in plain view of anyone who might happen to be watching, to a waiting limo.

The chauffer got out when he saw us approaching and had the door open, waiting for us to enter when we reached the road.

‘Thank you Phillip,’ Mandy said with a smile as he helped us both into the limo.

He closed the door gently, then moved swiftly around to the driver’s side door and got in. Without another word, he guided the limo off slowly and silently.

Mandy leaned over and pulled the sound- and sight-proof partition across. She then took my face in both her hands and gave me a peck on the lips that quickly turned into a long, passionate embrace.

I saw stars.

Every part of my body was trembling with excitement and anticipation of what might follow.

When I finally came up for air, I breathed out a long drawn-out breath.

‘Wow! You are really something else Mandy.’

My heart was pounding like a jackhammer and my head was swimming with questions.

‘Does the limo driver know where to go?’

‘Oh yes, he has your address.’

I hadn’t remembered giving my address to Mandy, but I pushed it out of my mind; my focus at that moment was on other things.

‘Tell me, what’s the story with you and Mario?’ I asked, my head still swimming with erotic anticipation.

‘It’s just like I said, Danny. We have a marriage of convenience. There is no love between us.’

‘It certainly didn’t look that way tonight. You two looked like the perfect happily-married couple.’

‘I’m glad we were convincing,’ she replied tersely. ‘It is very important that we create that impression for the sake of Mario’s business interests. But he has his own