Disguising Demons

by Brigid George

  The theme of colour and diversity continued inside. Handwritten notes, in a variety of writing styles and sealed with some sort of clear finish covered the interior walls in a haphazard fashion. Some messages were single words; others were short phrases. Large overhead fans provided a natural coolness rather than the iciness of air conditioning.

  As soon as we entered, we were greeted by a smiling young man whose facial features indicated he had Down syndrome.

  “Hello. My name is Nathan.” An expression of eager helpfulness brightened his face. “I will take you to your table.” Starting toward the back of the cafe, he grinned over his shoulder at us. “You’re Dusty.” He looked up at me. “You’re Sean.”

  The mystery of how he knew who we were was soon solved when Nathan led us to a table in a corner at the back of the cafe. Jake was already there and must have told Nathan our names.

  A mouth watering antipasto platter had already been placed in the middle of the table. My stomach, now fully recovered from the excess Guinness I had devoured the evening before, quivered with excitement. Jake rose to greet me with a handshake. Nathan made a discreet departure. The look that passed between Jake and Dusty told me all I needed to know.

  “Rocky’s busy in the kitchen. He’ll come out and join us shortly,” Jake told us.

  “Rocco,” said Dusty, referring to the sign above the door. “Is that how he came to be called Rocky?”

  “Yup. His full name is Angelo Rocco Tibaldi.”

  Dusty smiled. “I like Angelo.” I could see her earlier superficial prejudice against the man because of his nickname had evaporated. “Is he Italian?”

  “Rocky’s as Aussie as Vegemite sandwiches but his family is Italian. His grandparents migrated to Australia just after the war.” Jake lowered his voice. “Unfortunately, Rocky’s parents were killed in a traffic accident.” Jake shook his head. “Bloody maniac drunk at the wheel. The other driver, I mean. Rocky would have been around eighteen or nineteen at the time.”

  “How awful.” Dusty’s sympathy for Rocky was immediate and sincere.

  “Tragic. Even now, Rocky’s not comfortable talking about his parents.”

  When we were seated, Jake said, “I also had a word with Carmen, a well-known local. She knows everything there is to know about Port Douglas.”

  Dusty raised her eyebrows. “Another old school friend?”

  Jake laughed. “She’s almost ninety years old.” I wondered if Carmen might be one of the residents in the retirement home where Ram had volunteered. “As a matter of fact, I invited her to join us for lunch.”

  A little unusual. Although I suppose there’s no reason why a retirement home resident couldn’t go out to lunch. The hospice probably has a community van or some sort of taxi service for them.

  My thoughts were interrupted by the arrival at our table of a man in his thirties with short dark hair, a fine physique evident under his firm fitting T-shirt and casual black jeans.

  “Rocky!” Jake half rose to shake the cafe owner’s hand.

  “Hey, buddy,” said his friend, returning the handshake warmly.

  I saw immediately why Rocky was well-liked in the community. His round brown eyes gleamed with sincerity and his smile radiated goodwill. He had an easy way about him; one of those people who would feel comfortable anywhere. The sort of person others gravitated to. I sensed he took this for granted, assuming it was normal for everyone to possess this sort of social poise. An earring in one ear, a double tiger’s eye bracelet and an elaborate tattoo on his right wrist might have been a reminder his cordiality was backed up by an individual spirit and physical strength.

  “I know you by reputation,” he said to Dusty. “A cold case warrior. You do good work. So many murderers get away scot free.”

  “Until I come along.” Dusty was never one for false modesty.

  Rocky’s reaction was an indulgent smile.

  “If I can give you any help at all while you’re in Port, just ask.” He reached for one of his business cards from a pile loosely arranged in a small dish on the counter and handed it to Dusty.

  “Thank you.” Dusty placed the card in her bag.

  “You’re staying at Four Mile Resort?”

  “How did you know?”

  Rocky grinned. “It’s where the rich and famous usually stay.”

  Dusty ignored his good-natured teasing. “I gather the opening of the Resort in 1988 was cause for great excitement in Port Douglas.”

  Rocky shrugged. “Wouldn’t know. I wasn’t here then.” Dusty gave him a sharp look. Rocky quickly explained. “What I mean is, I was here – but I was only a kid.”

  “Me too,” said Jake. He stretched up to high five with Rocky. “You going to join us, mate?”

  Rocky shook his head. “I’ll join you later, if that’s all right.” He flashed Dusty a smile that gave him a boyish look; a smile more disarming, I was sure, than mine. Jake’s eyes rested on Dusty for a split second as if he was assessing the impact of Rocky’s charm. I knew her well enough to know she had warmed to Rocky, yet I fancied she was not captivated. A part of her was holding back; the suspicious investigator in her doubts everyone on first meeting.

  “Have you been to interview Jake’s prime suspect yet?” Although the table next to us was empty, Rocky kept his voice low. Dusty arched her eyebrows and glanced at Jake.

  “No secrets in a place like this, Dus. The whole town knows we focused our investigation on Moose Mulligan. Some of them hated us for it.”

  “Because he’s a local? They don’t believe one of their own could be a murderer?”

  “You got it in one, Dus.”

  “Even though he has a criminal record and is known to be a drug dealer?” I said.

  Jake nodded. “Most people around here wouldn’t see selling marijuana as serious drug dealing. Besides, the Mulligans have been a respected local family for generations. Local people sympathise with Moose because of what happened to his family. They make allowances for him.”

  Rocky, who stood facing the front of the cafe with a hand resting on the back of one of the vacant chairs at our table, uttered an exclamation of pleasure.

  “Here comes my favourite neighbour.”

  Chapter 13

  Rocky stopped Nathan’s advance toward the front of the restaurant with a light shake of his head and hurried to greet the new arrival. Nathan’s happy smile remained on his face as he watched Rocky gallantly ushering in… Well, ushering in an explosion of colour. That’s the best way I can describe my first vision of Rocky’s neighbour. This was evidently the well-known local Jake had mentioned earlier and clearly not a retirement home resident as I had supposed.

  “Did you say she was nearly ninety?” Dusty hissed at Jake.

  “Shh! She’s not aware I know her real age.”

  This exotic woman looked like a well preserved sixty-five-year-old. The curves of her body, accentuated in a clinging red dress, would have been the envy of any young woman. A colourful turban style headdress sporting an elaborate display of feathers, beads and ribbons extended her height by six to eight inches.

  Like a queen attended by a royal escort, she draped a hand over Rocky’s arm, pausing just inside the door as though an appreciative audience waited. This was a woman who commanded attention with a presence that went beyond her outlandish clothes. She carried herself with model-like poise and at first glance I had thought her to be taller than she actually was. As she walked slowly toward us, hips swaying, I realised the turban and her platform shoes had given the illusion of height. In fact, she was probably even shorter than Dusty, possibly only around five foot.

  Multiple bracelets jingled as she held out her arms in welcome to Jake. He quickly rose from his seat and accepted one of the outstretched hands, bringing it up to his lips and brushing it with a soft kiss. I shared Dusty’s surprise, indicated by her raised eyebrows. The gesture seemed out of character for this down-to-earth Queensland cop.

  “Daa…rling.” Our ‘royal’ gue
st drawled the word out in her husky voice. “How wonderful to see you.” I guessed her accent to be South American but could easily be wrong. I don’t have a good ear for foreign accents.

  Jake turned toward us. “This is Carmen Miranda.”

  I was momentarily taken aback. Was that her real name or was she actually pretending to be Carmen Miranda? I could see a resemblance to the 1940s singer known as the ‘Brazilian Bombshell’ famous for wearing fruit hats. When I was a kid I often snuggled up next to my mother while my sisters slept, to watch old movies. In one of those movies, which we viewed many times, I saw Carmen Miranda. In my memory she is glittering in red but that must have been my imagination because it would surely have been a black and white movie. This lady was glittering in red, but who was she?

  When I rose from my chair to greet her, the difference in our heights was immediately evident. Carmen stepped back, tilted her head and looked up at me.

  “Darling, you are a tree. A tree most handsome.”

  She held toward me the hand Jake had brushed with his lips, fingers gracefully drooping toward the floor. I obliged by awkwardly aiming my lips at the extended hand but falling short of the mark. How is a tree supposed to kiss the hand of a dowager? Although Dusty wasn’t in my line of sight at that moment, I was sure she was suppressing a chuckle.

  “This young lady most radiant is Miss Dusty Kent. Yes?”

  Dusty, who was wearing a knee length, crisp white shirt and turquoise sandals, stayed seated but smiled warmly in greeting. Jake quickly moved to pull out a chair for Carmen as Rocky slipped away in the direction of the kitchen.

  “You are famous, Miss Kent.”

  Dusty laughed. “As famous as Carmen Miranda. Please call me Dusty.”

  “Certainly we must call each other by the first names, isn’t it?”

  On closer inspection, I saw that artfully applied makeup accounted to some extent for Carmen’s appearance belying her age. However there was a vitality about her that assisted the impression of youthfulness. The effervescent octogenarian charmed and entertained us all during lunch. The antipasto was followed by several excellent Italian dishes including the fettuccine carbonara I ordered.

  When Dusty asked Carmen about her name, the irrepressible local celebrity seemed to be under the misapprehension she really was Carmen Miranda. There was no sense that she was playing a part. Maybe she had inhabited the role of Carmen Miranda for so long that, for her, the persona had morphed into reality. She cheerfully informed us she’d faked her death in 1955 to escape the publicity and came to Australia to live a quiet life and had been living in ‘Port’ ever since.

  “They have not tracked me down; the photographers, the autograph hounds.” Her broad smile revealed perfect teeth, possibly whitened with cosmetic assistance. “Here, in this place most beautiful, I am left in peace.”

  I didn’t like to point out to her that if she really were Carmen Miranda she would be 107, which I’d established by discreetly holding my phone under the table and doing a quick internet search for Carmen Miranda’s birth date. It occurred to me that Rocky’s neighbour was just as savvy as her namesake. By being outlandish she had ensured that she would always command attention and, even in old age, never be overlooked.

  Jake interacted with Carmen respectfully, as though he had accepted her for who she said she was in the same way that Rocky seemed to have done.

  Dusty turned to Carmen. “You live close by?”

  “It is my house next door.”

  I was glad I hadn’t voiced my earlier speculation Carmen might be a resident of a retirement home.

  “Once this was my house also.” She swept an arm in a wide arc to encompass the cafe. “My house, it was too big for me. So the builder he chop it in half.” Carmen’s bracelets jangled as she made a chopping motion with her hand. “He build the cafe; he make the apartment up the stairs.” She pointed toward the ceiling. “That is where Rocky lives. He is two times my neighbour, isn’t it?”

  Dusty smiled. “A neighbour with a business next door and a neighbour who lives next door.”

  Carmen bestowed an appreciative glance on Dusty. “You must come to my house any day, you and your handsome Irish tree.” She angled a flirtatious glance at me.

  When Nathan had cleared away our plates earlier, he hadn’t asked us if we wanted coffee. I understood why when Rocky returned, carrying a silver tray of cocktails. Each highball glass contained a pale lemon liquid and ice, and was decorated with small slices of tropical fruits on a long cocktail pick with a paper parasol perched on the rim.

  “This is a speciality of the house.” He placed the cocktails one after the other on the table. “In fact, it is the only cocktail we serve here.”

  Dusty, who had a penchant for espresso martinis, eyed the colourful concoction. “It looks delicious. What is it called?”

  Carmen’s eyes widened in surprise. “Darling, you do not know?”

  “This cocktail is called the Carmen Miranda.” Rocky rolled a hand in Carmen’s direction as if presenting her for the first time. “It was created in honour of my best landlady.”

  “He is a cheeky boy.” Carmen’s wide smile reflected her pleasure. “But it is true what he says. You are drinking the cocktail the world created for me.” Rocky sat at the remaining vacant chair at our table. Carmen raised her glass to Dusty. “I drink to the famous detective, she will help Jake… How do you say? Crack the case.”

  Carmen’s use of the vernacular expression brought a smile to the lips of all of us at the table. We followed her example and raised our glasses.

  “She’s already hot on the trail of the killer, Carmen,” said Rocky.

  Dusty protested. “I wouldn’t say that. I have a lot more work to do before I narrow it down to one suspect.”

  Jake glanced at Rocky. “I told you she’d have her own ideas.”

  “I just need more choices, Jake. You know what I’m like. I can’t choose the first dress I see when I go into a boutique. I have to have a good look at everything in the shop first.”

  Jake grinned. “And then go back and choose the first dress you saw.”

  We all laughed, Dusty included.

  “We drink to the cracking of the case.” Carmen tilted her glass toward Dusty before downing her cocktail in one swig.

  “It’s non-alcoholic,” said Rocky, seeing the look on our faces. “Almost, anyway. Just a drop of rum with a mixture of tropical fruit juices, bitters and soda water.”

  With the drinking of the toast over, Dusty turned to business.

  “A question for the locals.” This was directed at Rocky and Carmen. “What can you tell me about Kellie Edwards, the local vet?”

  Chapter 14

  “Miss Kellie, she work very hard but her son… Ah, she should not have such a burden.” Carmen clicked her tongue in disapproval and glanced at Jake. “You know this sad story, darling?” Jake nodded. “Dah. Such a story.”

  “Josh was a drug addict,” explained Rocky. “Took an overdose while he was with the monks. Weird that. Two deaths at Sunyarta Sanctuary happening exactly a year apart.”

  “You mean the monk was murdered on the anniversary of Joshua Edwards’ death?”

  “Yeah,” said Rocky. “Strange coincidence, isn’t it?”

  Dusty raised an eyebrow at Jake. He shook his head. “I didn’t realise that.”

  Carmen pushed her chair back. “Now I must go to fetch Sylvia and Eric.” She rested a hand, sparkling with rings, on Dusty’s arm. “When you want information for your investigation, you must come to Carmen. I know everybody, everybody knows me. Isn’t it?”

  Placing the drinks tray on the counter, Rocky offered his arm to Carmen as she stood up. She blew us each a kiss and turned to Jake.

  “Do not leave without the visit to Carmen, my good friend.”

  “I wouldn’t dare.” Jake laughed.

  Rocky escorted Carmen to the door where she turned to offer us an aristocratic farewell wave.

  Dusty took the
opportunity to ask Jake the obvious question.

  “Does she really believe she’s Carmen Miranda?”

  “Yup. She’s never been anyone else. At least, not here in Port. She wasn’t born here. No-one really knows when she arrived, probably in the sixties. Port was a pretty quirky town back then with a lot of wacky people; wacky in a good way.”

  I was watching Rocky. He’d remained just outside the cafe door talking to a smartly dressed woman in her late twenties. His expression was serious, hers was earnest, her body language tense. At a guess, I’d say she was asking Rocky for something he wasn’t willing to agree to. I interrupted the conversation Dusty and Jake were engrossed in.

  “Is she your mysterious stalker; the woman you saw following us last night?” I indicated the girl with Rocky.

  Dusty looked up. “Nope. Not tall enough.”

  The girl shook her head at Rocky before storming off along the street. Rocky returned to our table, erasing his troubled look with a smile when he reached us.

  “Rocky,” said Dusty. “There’s something I want to ask you.”

  I thought I saw a guarded look flash into Rocky’s eyes. I wondered if he was bracing himself against a possible question about the young woman he’d been talking to. However, that was not what was on Dusty’s mind.

  “Who are Sylvia and Eric?”

  When Rocky looked blank, Dusty reminded him of what Carmen had said.

  “I have no idea.” He shook his head and shrugged his puzzlement. Almost immediately his eyes shone with understanding. “She’s looking after two small dogs for a friend. That must be their names.”

  “There she is!”

  Dusty, Jake and I had just emerged from Rocky’s after saying our goodbyes. Dusty was pointing at a cafe on the other side of the street. Several of its outdoor tables were occupied but I didn’t know who she was pointing at.

  “Who, Dus?” Jake looked mystified.

  “The stalker.” Dusty called over her shoulder as she stepped off the footpath to cross the road. She adroitly dodged the oncoming vehicles to reach the other side. Jake and I caught up and followed her into the cafe which was lined with shelves of books inside.