Lenny Marks Gets Away With Murder

Lenny Marks seldom found herself unprepared. Lessons for her grade five students were religiously compiled a fortnight in advance, her tax return would be ready to submit no later than the fifteenth of July every year and her home fire escape plan was reviewed and updated each summer. Lenny knew the location of both of Selby South Primary School’s defibrillators and exactly how to use them, she serviced her bicycle regularly to keep it in prime shape and carried a bottle opener on her set of keys despite never – as yet – needing it.

She found tremendous peace in this level of organisation, which was as close to happiness as Lenny Marks ever planned to be. Happiness, she knew, was unstable and quite unreliable. And Lenny was neither of those things. Instead she aimed for the contentment of a routine, which had served her quite well up to and into her thirty-seventh year.

And still, despite knowing exactly what her Monday morning should contain, Lenny now found herself under the unexpected and interrogating gaze of Mrs Finlay, office administration. The clock had barely ticked over 8 am and Lenny had only just turned her teapot the requisite three times – the way her grandmother had taught her, despite it not apparently making a jot of difference to the taste – when Mrs Finlay bustled in to disturb the good order of things.

‘So, is it a secret husband?’ Mrs Finlay asked, eyes alarmingly wide and voice predictably loud.

‘Is what?’ Lenny asked.

‘Well, it’s addressed to Helena Winters. And I didn’t know who that was. A mistake, I thought, and was going to send it back return to sender. But Lora said, “That’s no mistake, that’s Lenny Marks.”’

Lenny read the front of the envelope: ‘Helena Winters.’ A name from long ago and of a girl she thought she’d left well and truly behind.

She didn’t reply, which failed to slow Mrs Finlay. Lenny cast her eyes around, hoping the other occupants of the staffroom were not listening. It was fairly clear they were. Or at least Kirra Reid, grade four, was. Kirra dallied over the instant hot water tap a few moments too long. It was instant hot water after all, and there was no need to wait for it to boil; it wasn’t a lengthy task. Deidre Heffernan, grade two, on the other hand, was poring over the form guide – as per usual – and had not even registered there were other people in the same space as her.

‘And I thought to myself, I never knew Lenny was married. How interesting. Isn’t it?’

‘Isn’t what?’

‘That you’ve been married?’

‘I haven’t,’ Lenny replied, lowering her voice. Lenny deplored other people knowing her business and felt anxiety growing at the thought of being the subject of office scuttlebutt.

‘So why the different name then? I’ve racked my brain all week­end trying to figure it out.’

Lenny hesitated, hoping she had a quick-witted, reasonable answer that didn’t invite more questions. She didn’t and quick-witted had never been her thing. Perhaps she should’ve claimed a secret husband she didn’t have. Mrs Finlay, not one to be deterred, changed tack.

‘And it’s from the Parole Board, just when I thought I had you all figured out. I said to Lora, “She’s an enigma that one, isn’t she?”’

Lenny ran her fingers over the smoothness of the envelope. ‘Adult Parole Board Victoria’ was emblazoned proudly in the top right corner, as if this was a regular and not at all concerning place from which to receive mail. It was clear, even to Lenny, who often found social nuances hard to decipher, what Mrs Finlay was up to. She was meddling, hoping Lenny would spill all after a few pointed questions. But little did Mrs Finlay know, Lenny had nothing to dis­close. The letter was unexpected and she didn’t intend to indulge Mrs Finlay’s nosiness with speculation about what it may contain. And she was absolutely not going to open it, not in front of Mrs Finlay and possibly not at all. Lenny’s curiosity didn’t push her to explore the unknown; she was more than happy to retreat to what she knew and forget what she didn’t.

She was good at forgetting, most of the time. Thoughts of Fergus Sullivan, for example, were normally pushed to the furthest corners of her memory. Now his image was disturbingly front and centre. It made no sense whatsoever. It had been over twenty years since she’d seen her stepfather and surely she would be the least likely person to need to know anything about him. But what else could possibly be in that envelope?

Fergus Sullivan.

You did this.

When she did think of Fergus, which was as little as possible, her skin turned hot with the memory of the stifling garden shed, the last place she’d seen him. You did this. Three words, three syllables, a mere eighteen points on a Scrabble board. And yet, infuriatingly unforgettable. ‘I love true crime, you know, I listen to all the podcasts. When I’m out on my after-dinner walks, I pop the headphones on and off I go, thinking maybe I’ll solve this one.’

Mrs Finlay was particularly hard to tune out; her voice had a pitch and rasp that made it impossible to ignore. Lenny was usually able to distance and calm herself by rearranging words, and yet Mrs Finlay kept breaking through and interrupting her anagrams.

Mrs Finlay: rainfly, family, flimsy, snarly, mails, fail, liar

The letters would move around in a manner that was as involun­tary as sneezing. She’d done it ever since she could remember and it was the easiest way to calm her thoughts or shut them off.

‘My Frank says to me, “Jeannie, you’ll end up on one of those podcasts the way you block your ears up like that. Anyone could sneak up behind you.” And I just laugh, he’s such a fuddy-duddy, but wouldn’t that be ironic? Woman murdered listening to story about murder.’