The Hana Du Rose Mysteries Collection

ABOUT HANA-1-3

“Oh, Hana! Gwynne Jeffs from media studies offered to fix the centre’s computers for free. I’ve told him if we’ve got money left, he can have that photographic equipment he asked for last year.” Sheila came to the door, biting at her thumb nail as realisation dawned. “I know where it went!” She fanned her face with her hand. “I got the student from the International department onto the barista course last term at late notice. James. We paid up-front so there wasn’t an invoice. I bet that’s the extra hundred dollars. Sorry, I forgot to tell you.”

Hana smiled with relief, faith in her budgeting ability restored. As she sat back at her desk, Pete leaned towards her and whispered, “He fancies you.”

Hana’s eyes widened and the flush began again, her heart dancing a wild tattoo. “Who does?”

Pete bit into a cookie and waited until his mouth was full before answering, muffling the words. “Gwynne Jeffs. That’s why he’s offered to mend the computers; he wants to see more of your lovely legs under the table.”

“Don’t be disgusting!” Hana snapped, the withdrawal of adrenaline behaving like a hideous sapping of energy. “No, he doesn’t.”

Pete spat crumbs into the gap between their desks as he leaned sideways again. His face held a knowing look. “You thought I meant him, didn’t you? You thought I meant Logan Du Rose fancied you.”

Hana’s face glowed beet red and she turned back to her screen, hating the silly sports teacher with every fibre of her being. “No, I didn’t,” she replied through gritted teeth. “I’ve had and lost one husband. I don’t need another.”

“Liar,” he replied, shoving another cookie into his mouth whole. “I’ve known you fifteen years and I know when you’re lying.”

“Teach sport or something,” Hana bit, dealing with the aftermath of her disappointment. “Or better still, finish writing those reports from last year! Dobbs came here looking for you earlier.”

“Did he?” The other half of Pete’s cookie plunged to the carpet and his eyes bulged in terror.

“No,” Hana retorted. “I thought you could tell when I lied.”

Pete turned around in disgust, halted by Sheila’s shout from her office. “Pete, Dobbs wanted you earlier. He said he wants those reports you messed up last year and they need to be on his desk by this afternoon, otherwise you’re fired.”

Pete inhaled with shock and looked at Hana in accusation. His mouth opened and closed like a goldfish and Hana tried not to smirk. “I made it up,” she sniggered. “How bizarre.”

The spindly sports teacher picked up the wad of rumpled reports and tucked them under his arm, ignoring the few which tumbled back onto his desk. “Fine then!” he said, sticking his pudgy nose in the air. “I won’t tell you what Logan said about you.”

The smile disappeared from Hana’s lips and she turned back to her work, knowing she didn’t want to hear. It couldn’t be flattering; not coming from a man much younger than her. Pete stomped from the room in temper when she refused to retype his reports and disappeared for a few hours.

Lunchtime saw the return of James, the Korean exchange student and prospective McDonald’s employee. He greeted Hana with a beaming smile. “I guess that means you got the job?” she congratulated him.

“Yes, Miss, I will be doing buggers for my first week.” He seemed ecstatic with his success, so she didn’t have the heart to point out the obvious errors in his speech.

“Who told you that?” She enquired, her voice wavering. Her prayers for another Korean speaking employee failing before they reached heaven.

“Fat checkout girl,” he answered. “She has big baps. I happy there.”

“You mean she butters the bread rolls?” Hana’s voice wavered.

“No.” James shook his dark head and screwed up his face. He lifted his hands up in front of his chest and did an exaggerated squeezing movement. “She has big baps. I like.”

“Ok.” Hana swallowed and her mouth dried up.

“Oh! I have new English teacher,” James said, his face breaking into a wide grin. “He wonderful. He help me get scholarship.” The student pulled a sad face and patted Hana’s upper arm in kindness. “Mr Johal die. You should marry Mr...” He faltered over the name. “Marry English Mr.”

“It doesn’t work that way, James, but thanks for the advice. I’d need to fall in love and I’m too old and jaded for that to happen.” She’d said too much to a student and Hana’s colour pinked, highlighting her porcelain complexion.

“In my culture, parents choose partner. Ask your dad.”

Hana gulped and bit her lip. Robert McIntyre died long ago and Hana knew even if he lived, her choice of partner wouldn’t be up for discussion. He made his opinion of her clear twenty-six years before when he attacked Vikram Johal. She straightened her spine and smiled at the thoughtful young man. “I’m glad about the job, James. Make sure you write to your mother and tell her. It’ll take the pressure of the school fees off her shoulders a little. Well done.”

James smiled. “Thank you muchly for your help.” He pressed his palms together and touched his nose with his middle fingers, dropping from the waist in an elegant bow. “I love you, Missus Johal,” he said.

Hana smiled and watched him leave the student centre. “I’m glad someone does,” she whispered.

Chapter 5Mid-February arrived and the weather broke, bringing with it disappointment and the reminder that summer waned. Autumn threatened in a nonchalant, foreboding way. Crickets began their endless night calling, which added to the heaviness as something enjoyed, dwindled.

The morning started humid due to the rain; the evening not much better. The day proved too long already for Hana as she sought escape from work. She had struggled to catch up on paperwork after a frantic deluge of boys called into the office wanting help with subject changes before the deadline. Pressure increased with her workload for the guidance counselling staff, who required her to make appointments and take their phone calls while they led sessions for the boys.

With an empty house awaiting her, Hana put off the moment for leaving, aware of a yawning middle-aged loneliness seizing her. Her soul mate died, her chicks flew the nest and made nests of their own without her. Little else occupied her life apart from church, work and a passion for knitting strange things which never turned out like the picture on the pattern. Hana recognised a need for change and kept delaying the dreadful hour.

Evening settled on the school grounds, throwing long shadows out from the buildings and Hana’s striding figure, as she moved towards the chapel car park. That morning, with the radio station blaring out the Bee Gees and boys milling off buses, no hint of foreboding found a foothold. A storm brewed overhead, stripping out the daylight and creating a lonely, eerie atmosphere around Hana’s lone car. As she neared the passenger side, Hana sensed danger too late, already distracted by the sound of shifting feet grinding loose gravel near the front tyre.

Hana’s blood pounded in her ears and throat as a figure loomed up, seeming to rise out of the ground. The air choked with pervading evil. She smelled alcohol as a female voice swore at her, “Give it here, b***h!”

Hana’s handbag jerked away from her, taking her upper body with it as she clung on. Instinct made her turn her body sideways and let out a small cry, refusing to let go. In response, she received a violent push from the woman, who let out another curse. Clutching her bag tighter, Hana released the less important item in her arms and there followed the startling crash of breaking pottery. The office plant hit the concrete floor and smashed into myriad tinkling pieces, needing resurrecting rather than repotting. Her attacker started at the noise and hesitated, but she wasn’t alone. “Get it away from her!” the female hissed and renewed her tug-of-war action.

Hana heard heavy male breathing behind her and then the pressure on her handbag as he prised it from beneath her elbow. He jabbed her hard in the ribs with a sideways punch but still she clung on, revived by a fleeting picture of the contents of her bag. Her breath came in heaves of pain as he shoved her hard enough to dent the side wing of her passenger door, but her fingers clawed at the smooth leather. A lipstick popped from an open pocket and cracked underfoot and Hana gave a fortifying yank, fighting for her wallet, her keys, her driving licence and the picture of her daughter’s new baby. She gripped her bag with determination, slipping grasping fingers inside the zipper of the front pocket and resolving not to lose; whatever the cost.

As adrenaline helped Hana face the danger, her attackers assumed human shape. The large caucasian female possessed a hard, unkind face. Her male companion maintained a crazed look of purpose in his vivid blue eyes. The woman drew so near to Hana’s frightened face, she nauseated her with gin laden breath. Hard fingers closed around Hana’s throat, constricting and pinching whilst the male rived harder at the handbag. He grunted as he tugged at the leather strap, hearing the stitching tear beneath her shoulder.

“Let go or you’ll be sorry!” The woman’s stench made Hana hold her breath, negating the effect of the throttling. She heard the pottery crunch underfoot and clung to her bag with everything she possessed. As her head crashed back against the vehicle bodywork, she bit her lip and tasted blood. Hana gagged on the metallic tang and choked for breath.

“Hey, what the hell?” A sudden shout sounded in the guilty silence of the car park and the man’s grasp on the bag ended. A grunt followed and his body dropped to the ground. Oxygen flooded into Hana’s airway and she bent over gasping, still clutching her bag with a hysterical sense of achievement. Through her peripheral vision, she caught sight of the woman’s large shape waddling across the grass towards the road. She croaked out a warning but the ensuing chaos covered her feeble squeak.

When she looked at her feet, the male attacker lay prostrate on the floor, his right cheek pressed into the gravel. “It’s not over!” he growled and fear tightened her chest to painful proportions.

“Shut it!” A dark figure sat astride him, bending his thieving arm up his back. The sound of running and voices streamed from the lighted chapel as others arrived on the scene, milling around and joining the confusion. “Help me get him up. Don’t let go.”

Hana took a step backwards as several pairs of hands reached in to haul her attacker upright. She contacted the wide wing mirror for the second time that day and stifled a groan of pain. The urge to get into her vehicle and drive away felt overwhelming and a dreadful tremor began in her knees as the adrenaline withdrew. The media studies teacher pushed himself off the floor and Hana recognised Gwynne Jeffs’ friendly smile. But as the face of her attacker turned towards her, she saw a frightened teenager, eyes darting around with undisguised panic and the act of bravado gone.

Hana stared around, struggling to control the unfortunate tremble in her legs. She sank backwards against her car but taking the pressure off her legs just sent the shudder into her lower back. Her fingers strayed to her throat, which throbbed and felt sore to the touch. Her trembling fingers contacted stickiness. Hana fumbled in her handbag seeking a tissue and her fingers closed on the familiar glossy paper, out of which beamed her ecstatic daughter Isobel and her sleeping baby Elizabeth. With a force stronger than a body blow, it hit her. “They tried to steal my handbag.” Her voice sounded disjointed and strange.