As she alighted, her dog, Murphy, a grand and elderly golden lab, was there to greet her, his tail wagging as gleefully as a puppy’s.
‘Hey there, old boy.’ Emily couldn’t pat him or greet him properly until she’d attended to the boat, but he waited patiently, his dark eyes devotedly watching her every movement as she unscrewed the row-locks and lifted the long, slim oars free. Then she dragged the boat a little higher onto the grass above the sandy bank, set the oars down and knelt to give her dog a proper welcoming scruff behind the ears. ‘I know you always worry until I come back, you dear old thing.’
Lately, the dog’s devotion had felt like the only stable and reliable element in Emily’s life. With Murphy once again content, she stood, shouldered the oars, and carried them up to the house.
The Lake House, a rather stunning example of 1950s modernism, had been built by Emily’s parents, Izzie and Geoffrey Galbraith. They had hired an architect from Sydney and, all these years later, the house built from stone and timber and glass still looked modern and exciting, but also welcoming and safe.
Emily had always loved this place, set back amid an open forest of pine trees and gums on an extremely private peninsula overlooking the water. Even as a child, Emily had been conscious of its comfort and beauty, and the magic of its lakeside setting.
During her primary school days she’d been everyone’s favourite friend and, no doubt, much of that had been due to the wonderful parties and sleepovers her mother had organised at this house.
So much fun they’d had, with barbecues and campfires down by the lake, cooking sausages or toasting marshmallows on sticks. And later, camping on the living room floor with pillows and sleeping bags scattered over the white shag-pile carpet.
Emily could remember so well, lying there with her girlfriends, looking up at the timbered cathedral ceilings, giggling and whispering in the glow from the enormous stone fireplace. Then, waking at first light as dawn streamed through the huge picture windows, the girls would find her mother already in the kitchen, making massive pots of porridge with generous sprinklings of brown sugar, followed by mountains of bacon and eggs and hot buttered toast.
Even after Emily had gone away to boarding school, there’d been parties at home during the school holidays, so that she’d never really lost touch with her old friends. In those days, the Lake House had frequently been filled with excited voices and laughter.
So very different from the silence and loneliness now.
Emily shivered and a wave of dark despair threatened. Don’t be weak, she warned herself.
If only she could be more like her mother.
Such a strong, energetic character, Izzie Galbraith had always been. Widowed before Emily was born, Izzie had continued to run the Burralea Bugle, the newspaper she’d started with her husband, into her old age. Emily, on the other hand, had devoted most of her life to supporting her husband, Alex, at Red Hill, their cattle property in western Queensland.
Her mother’s fall and broken hip had brought them both back to dutifully care for her. Eventually, Izzie had moved into a nursing home, but while her mother’s body was growing increasingly frail, her wits were as sharp as ever. Consequently, Emily felt a huge responsibility to keep her parents’ small country newspaper afloat.
Especially now, with her life in a mess – with Alex deserting her and their son Robbie gone – the paper’s success was even more important. Emily needed something in her life to go right.
She stowed the oars carefully in racks at the end of the garage, then removed her wet rowing shoes and set them to dry on the step by the back door.
Hanging her peaked cap on a peg in the back porch, she pulled off the elastic that tied back her silver-streaked dark hair and shook the tresses free. She dried her feet on a rag mat and padded barefoot into the sun-filled kitchen.
Here, she filled the kettle and set it to boil, spooned coffee into a glass plunger jug and checked her phone for messages. There was something from Moira Briggs about a Burralea Progress Association meeting, and she was excited to see another message from Chloe Brown, the Sydney journalist she was hoping to employ. But after almost a fortnight, there was still nothing from Alex.
Unsurprised, but nevertheless disappointed, Emily sank onto a kitchen stool. She was more or less resigned to Alex’s silence, and yet she scanned through the list of messages, just to make doubly sure she hadn’t missed anything.
But no, not a word, which could only mean one thing. Her husband really did mean to punish her.
CHAPTER THREE
It was a perfect Tablelands summer’s morning, cool and clear with a trail of mist rising from the creek, but as soon as Finn Latimer turned into Burralea’s main street, he sensed something was wrong. A small crowd had gathered outside Ben’s Bakery and the usually affable locals looked distinctly unhappy.
As Finn drew nearer, an old pensioner shuffled away up the street and a grim-faced couple returned to their parked car. All these people were empty-handed, without a single pie or loaf of bread between them.
Curious, Finn ducked his dark head beneath the lavender bougainvillea that framed the bakery’s front awning, and saw immediately that the shop’s doors were still firmly closed.
Such an occurrence was unheard of at ten minutes past nine on a Monday morning. Ben’s shop was usually open by seven. Stepping closer, Finn peered through the plate glass window, searching for any sign of activity within. He knew for a fact that Ben actually started baking his much-loved loaves, buns and pies at some ridiculous hour like four or five in the morning. Today, the shelves within the shop were bare.
‘No sign of anyone,’ old Ernie Cruikshank proclaimed dolefully as he sidled up beside Finn. ‘I’ve already checked out the back. Kitchen’s closed, too. Waste of time hanging about.’
Ernie looked up at Finn, his faded blue eyes still canny beneath shaggy white brows. ‘Not even the courtesy of a sign in the window. Back in five minutes or A death in the family. Thought the government might’ve changed another public holiday without telling us, but I saw plenty of kids running around in the school yard.’
Finn nodded. ‘It’s definitely not a holiday.’
‘Looks like we’ll have to get our bread from the supermarket,’ grumbled another whiskery old chap, his tone conveying quite clearly that the supermarket’s offerings would be distinctly inferior to anything produced by their local bakery.
‘There’ll certainly be no bread here this morning,’ Finn agreed, although he realised, somewhat guiltily, that he didn’t sound quite as disappointed as the others.
He had, of course, already sensed a possible story for this week’s edition of the Burralea Bugle. As the newspaper’s editor – a grand title that camouflaged the fact that Finn was, in actuality, the tiny township’s one and only journalist – he was, as usual, scrounging for print-worthy stories.
With a nod and a wave, Finn continued up the street, but a few doors along he discovered that the hairdresser’s shop hadn’t opened yet either. Now his curiosity was well and truly piqued. Tammy, the hairdresser, was Ben the baker’s girlfriend.
Tammy and Ben weren’t just a hot item, they both ran highly successful businesses and were counted among Burralea’s most popular residents. For both their shops to be shut at this hour on a Monday morning, and without prior warning, something had to be amiss.
The police station, which could quite easily be mistaken for another of Burralea’s small cottages, was located just a little further along the street. At least the door to this place was open, but as Finn turned in through the gate, the town’s reasonably new sergeant emerged, buckling on his gun holster as he hurried down the steps.
Finn greeted him with a nod. ‘Morning, Cameron.’
‘Can’t talk now.’ Sergeant Cameron Locke shot Finn a glance that was both impatient and wary.
It was a look Finn recognised. As an experienced journalist, he’d known plenty of occasions when habitually friendly and chatty coppers clammed up fas
ter than a speeding ticket. Something was definitely on the go. Something serious. And right now, Sergeant Locke didn’t want a pesky journo sticking his nose in.
But Finn Latimer had spent all his working life asking questions that people didn’t want to answer. ‘Is this about Ben or Tammy?’
When there was no response, Finn watched the policeman hurry to his vehicle and take off, and was hit by twin reactions of exhilaration and dismay. Like any journalist, he loved the whiff of a good story. At the same time, he hated to think that Ben or Tammy might be in trouble.
It was an age-old editor’s dilemma. Most attention-grabbing headlines were a double-edged sword, selling news of gut-wrenching personal tragedy to the masses.
Before that thought had barely formed, Finn was slugged by his own dark memories. Raw, agonising memories of his final weeks as a foreign correspondent.
Thailand, oh, God.
Sarah and Louis.
No.
He couldn’t, mustn’t, think about any of that now.
Resolutely drawing a lungful of fresh morning air, Finn turned and headed back to his office, which was also in Burralea’s main street. Hands sunk in jeans pockets and his head down, he once again fought the horror and guilt, steering his thoughts away from the past.
This was an endless struggle, a battle he faced every day. It was why he, Finn Latimer, a highly respected foreign correspondent, lived here in this sleepy, backwoods country town in Far North Queensland.
Most folk around these parts knew next to nothing about his past, and those few friends who did know – like Emily Hargreaves, his employer and owner of the Burralea Bugle, or the young cattle breeder Seth Drummond, or Mitch Cavello, the previous copper who’d recently moved to Brisbane – had been considerate enough not to pry.
Now, Finn pushed his thoughts to the present circumstances, to Ben Shaw, the cheerful, joke-cracking former surfie who’d arrived from the Gold Coast almost two years ago and whose mouth-watering pies had become an instant hit with the locals. And Tammy Holden, the town’s much-loved hairdresser, with her multiple ear piercings, pink and aqua hair, and a huge fan base of customers from all over the Tablelands.
What could have happened? Finn felt sick as he considered the possibilities. Then he chastised himself. Worst-case scenarios were always counterproductive.
Setting the key in the lock, he opened the door to his office. Given the policeman’s sense of urgency, Finn knew he would have to be patient. Perhaps in an hour or so, he would give the coppers a call.
Till then, he had the weekend sporting results to collate. Not exactly headline news, but in a small-town rag, getting an under- 14s swimming result wrong was still catastrophic.
An hour had passed when Emily Hargreaves appeared in the doorway. A tall woman, somewhere in her sixties, she had thick dark hair that swung to her jawline and a dramatic silver streak that skimmed her right eyebrow. In slim jeans, a red linen shirt, silk scarf and dark lipstick, she looked elegant as ever, in good nick for her age.
Finn got on well with his employer. He liked and respected her, especially as she rarely intruded into his day and gave him free rein to run the paper as he saw fit. Emily understood that Finn’s move to the Burralea Bugle had been a huge step down from his previous high-profile career, a necessary retreat after the trauma he’d been through.
‘Morning, Emily,’ he said to her now as she came into the office and crossed to the seat by the window.
‘Good morning, Finn.’ After her initial smile of greeting, her expression became serious and Finn wondered if anything was wrong.
She picked up a couple of brochures that he’d left on the chair and used them to flick at something – dust, or crumbs, or a dead moth – before she sat. Housework wasn’t Finn’s forte. It had been a while since he’d dusted or swept the office.
Emily smiled, a tad nervously. ‘Do you have time for a chat?’
Finn glanced at the bottom of his computer screen where the time was displayed. He’d been about to give the police a call. He frowned. ‘What’s up?’ She still looked nervous. ‘Is there a problem?’
‘Yes, I think there is,’ Emily said carefully.
‘Not with the paper?’
‘Well, yes, I do think there’s a financial issue.’
Finn’s frown deepened. He sat a little straighter. ‘We’ve maintained circulation. I think the numbers were even a shade higher last month.’
‘That’s true. You’re doing a good job, Finn. A great job in covering the news. It’s not so much the circulation that worries me.’ Emily crossed her legs, crossed her arms as well. Her neatly groomed appearance looked a little out of place in the dingy office. Finn noticed a cobweb dangling on the window behind her, its delicate weaving backlit by golden morning sunshine.
She said, ‘It’s the advertising that’s worrying me.’
‘Ahhh.’ Finn grimaced. ‘I’ll admit I don’t pay much attention to the ads. That’s not really my field. I pretty much leave it all to Don and Karen.’ These were two casuals – a retired farmer and a young mum who worked a few hours a week while her kids were in school. ‘You want me to have a word with them? Keep a closer eye on things?’
He was a realist, after all, and he knew damn well that newspapers relied on advertising, especially small weekly newspapers in country towns. Country rags were an endangered species. Hundreds in regional Australia had already fallen by the wayside. Many more had been bought out by either Murdoch or Fairfax. It was a minor miracle that the Bugle had retained its independence for so long.
Emily’s smile was gentle. Sympathetic. ‘I’m not asking you to do anything, Finn. I don’t think you could work any harder than you already do. God knows how many hours you put in doing everything here on your own. Gathering the news, editing, layout.’
Finn shrugged. He never kept track of the hours he worked. Staying busy was the best way to fight his demons. ‘You know I don’t mind.’
‘But we don’t want you burning out.’ Emily drew a deep breath, almost as if she were gathering courage. ‘I’ve actually given this a lot of thought, and I believe what we need is another journalist.’
‘Seriously?’ Finn knew he sounded shocked. After a beat, he said more evenly, ‘How does that work? You’ve already said the news coverage is fine. With another journo, you’d be adding an extra wage to your costs.’
‘That’s true, but I’m thinking of someone who could back you up, and also write the kinds of stories that attract more advertising.’ She waved a hand as she expanded on this. ‘Stories about new local businesses, new products – lifestyle stories.’
‘Advertorials?’ Finn said bitterly, not even trying to hide his distaste.
‘Is that what you call them?’
Finn nodded, pulled a face. ‘I’m not sure you’ll find a decent news journalist who’d want to concentrate on that kind of writing.’
After a beat, Emily said, ‘Actually, I think I may have found someone.’
Finn had difficulty covering his reaction of surprise. ‘You mean you’ve already employed someone?’
‘Nothing’s been finalised. I wouldn’t go that far without speaking to you first. But I admit I have put out feelers. And I’ve interviewed a young woman who’s had plenty of experience working on women’s magazines.’
Women’s magazines? Emily had to be joking. Finn had thumbed through the odd women’s mag when he’d been hanging out in waiting rooms, and he couldn’t believe the rot they published. Ridiculous diets of cabbage soup, or consuming nothing but green juice. Bizarre beauty advice like cupping the lips with a shot glass to make them fuller, or using haemorrhoid cream to de-puff the eyes.
The last thing this paper needed in this strictly rural town was a bubble-headed female writing that kind of crap. The Bugle’s customers were farmers and their families, practical, hard-working, no-bullshit folk. If he printed diet and beauty nonsense, the paper would tank in a matter of weeks.
‘Don’t look like that,’ Emil
y said.
Finn continued to scowl. ‘Sorry,’ he said dryly, but it’s hard to smile when you come up with such a crazy suggestion.’
‘I thought you’d be more open-minded.’
This hit home. Finn prided himself on being free of prejudice. ‘So you expect me to be pleased when you’re sending me a Dolly reporter? Probably so lightweight, she’ll have to stay away from ceiling fans.’
‘Finn, be serious.’
‘I am serious. You want me to stand aside while the front page is taken over by recipes and fashion tips?’
His employer dismissed this with an impatient huff. ‘I’ll rise above that comment. I didn’t think you’d be so foolish about this.’
Finn drummed his fingers on the desk. Was he being foolish? Surely his reaction was justified. He’d brought a wealth of professional experience to this little country rag and he’d given it his all.
If he was honest, though, he couldn’t totally explain why the prospect of sharing the office with a city-girl magazine reporter annoyed him. Was it dented pride? Irritation at the extra work required to train her? Or was it fear that she might try to shake him out of the safe, hermit-like hole he’d dug for himself here?
Emily was frowning as she watched him. ‘Are you really angry with me?’ she asked. ‘Or is there something else bothering you?’
Finn grabbed the opportunity to change the subject. ‘Something else. I think there’s actually something very serious happening right now, under our very noses.’
‘Really?’
‘You didn’t notice that the bakery and the hairdresser shops are both still shut?’
‘Well, no. I suppose I’ve been too busy plucking up the courage to broach this with you.’ Even as Emily admitted this, the implication of Finn’s words must have sunk in. Her dark eyes widened. ‘Goodness. Do you think something’s happened to Tammy and Ben?’
‘It seems so. I put it on Cameron Locke this morning, but he wouldn’t speak to me. Just took off like a bat out of hell. I was about to call him when you came in. There’s a chance he’ll have some news by now and he might be prepared to talk.’
The Summer of Secrets Page 2