Disguising Demons

by Brigid George

  Dusty admired the poster for a moment longer. “She’s gorgeous. A bit old for Rocky though. I don’t know what he was afraid of. Some men just can’t handle that sort of thing, especially men brought up in country areas, I think. Somehow or other they see gender change as a threat to their masculinity.”

  I thought I detected a hint of triumph in the laugh that followed, as if Dusty was relishing the idea of this male weakness. It might have just been my fancy but I felt obliged to mount some sort of defence.

  “Rocky seems comfortable in his own skin. I can’t see him feeling threatened.”

  Dusty gave me one of those piercing looks of hers – a look that seems to probe right inside to uncover hidden disquiet.

  “I could say the same about you, Sean. You seem confident with your masculinity and comfortable with yourself. You don’t mind being a bit of a computer geek and you don’t see the need to play muscle games to prove you’re a man.” She paused. “But would you be at ease meeting a transgender woman?”

  I had to lower my eyes. I’d never had a problem with other men who were gay. A man who has turned into a woman is different. I couldn’t put my finger on just why it bothered me though. I suppose a psychiatrist would tell me I felt threatened in some way.

  Dusty reassured me. “No need to be embarrassed. Transgender is probably outside your comfort zone. After all, we don’t get to meet many people like that so we don’t have the opportunity to become accustomed to them. Actually, I think you would cope well enough if you met Arabella.”

  I appreciated her vote of confidence, but I wasn’t sure I’d pass that particular test.

  When I suggested it was time to go, Dusty didn’t seem to hear me. She was staring at the poster of Arabella as though she’d spotted some tiny detail in the picture that fascinated her.

  “Do me a favour, Sean,” she said. “On the other side of the road, diagonally opposite, is a silver Toyota.” I realised she had been staring at what she could see reflected in the glass of the poster case, not a detail in the picture. “Can you just take a stroll past the car and check the registration number?”

  She was thinking of the mysterious stalker of course.

  “Okay.” Humouring her was probably the best option.

  “I have a feeling it’ll be the same rego number we made a note of the other day,” she said as I turned to go.

  She was right. Dusty’s lips set in a determined line when I told her.

  “That does it! This time I’m going to corner her.”

  I followed her as she marched across the road. We positioned ourselves a short distance from the car behind a thick clump of bushes where a couple of large rocks served as seats.

  “Look!” I pointed down at the footpath where the name Ellen had been chalked in elegant white script. “I saw that on the footpath one night just after we arrived here.”

  “How odd,” said Dusty. “It’s beautifully done. Someone declaring his love. Maybe it’s unrequited love and he’s too shy to make his feelings known.” A far-away look came into her eyes. Her voice took on a theatrical tone. “So he writes her name on the footpath, hoping she will see it and understand who it is.”

  “And then what?”

  “And then true love will bloom.” Dusty laughed. “Maybe I’m getting a bit carried away.” She grabbed my arm. “It’s her,” she hissed.

  “Ellen?”

  “Don’t be daft. Look! It’s the driver of the car.”

  The woman who was casually crossing the road carrying a take away coffee container had short dark hair and large gold hoops in her ears. She looked to me to be a perfectly ordinary and innocent woman going about her usual business.

  “Are you sure? You haven’t really had a good look at her before.”

  “I’m sure. I recognise the hair style. Besides, she’s wearing the same earrings.”

  Dusty waited until the woman had zapped her car to unlock it. Then she darted out like a cat springing on prey. Dusty was beside the woman before she had a chance to open the car door. I remained on the footpath within hearing distance.

  A startled expression crossed the woman’s face when she saw Dusty but she recovered her poise almost immediately.

  “Want to tell me why you’ve been following me around?”

  Innocent indignation crossed the other woman’s face. She looked askance at Dusty.

  “I beg your pardon.” Her voice had the confident tone of authority.

  I stepped back, intuitively distancing myself from what was looking like evolving into an embarrassing mistake on Dusty’s part.

  “You’ve been following me around in this car for the past few days. I want to know why.” Dusty leant on the driver side door, glaring at the woman.

  “Please step aside. I’d like to get into my car.” This was said with cool disdain, implying Dusty was nothing more than an inconvenient pest. I considered retreating behind the bushes.

  However, Dusty was sure of her ground and not easily intimidated. “I will. As soon as you answer my question. Why have you been following me around?”

  “I have not been following you.” It was an emphatic response delivered through clenched teeth. Dusty was not fooled. She had that tell-tale gleam in her eye. The woman was lying.

  I breathed a sigh of relief and abandoned the idea of hiding in the bushes. A passing car slowed down. The driver turned his head to observe the two women. Since they were not really in danger of being hit in the wide street, he was probably being curious rather than careful. I stepped forward and waved him on.

  Dusty locked eyes with the other woman until she eventually capitulated.

  “Okay. I’ll come clean.” The woman gestured toward the footpath and they both joined me.

  “You’re Dusty Kent. You’re a celebrity.” Dusty’s scornful look indicated she expected a better explanation. “My name’s Louisa Penrose.”

  Dusty folded her arms across her chest. “And?”

  “I’m a journo too.” She handed Dusty her business card. “I was trying to pluck up courage to ask you for an interview.”

  “If you don’t have the courage to approach people, you shouldn’t be a journalist.”

  “I don’t usually have a problem. But you’re famous and you don’t do many interviews. You’ve been quoted as saying you prefer your books to speak for you.”

  “Correct.”

  “I don’t blame you. Your books and your investigative work into cold cases are second to none.”

  She’d struck the right chord with sincerity in her tone. I saw Dusty’s body relax. She wasn’t immune to flattery. However, that didn’t mean she was going to let Louisa Penrose off the hook.

  “None of this explains why your details are under restricted access.” The look in Louisa’s large brown eyes reflected surprise combined with alarm.

  Dusty waved an introductory hand toward me. “Meet my maze master, Sean O’Kelly.” I reached out and shook hands with the self-proclaimed journalist. “He’s an IT professional; an expert in his field. He wanders around cyber space dredging up information I might not otherwise be able to access.” Now I fancied the alarm in Louisa’s eyes had deepened. Dusty added a tongue-in-cheek disclaimer. “Nothing illegal, of course.” I did my best to keep a straight face. “I asked him to dig up information about you.” Louisa Penrose’s body stiffened. “When he tried to research your car using your registration number, he drew a blank.”

  The look of relief that briefly shadowed Louisa’s face when she heard the last sentence made me wonder whether she’d been afraid I might have discovered something else.

  “Oh.” Louisa now looked relaxed. “It’s not my car. I borrowed it from a friend. I don’t know why the details aren’t available.” She walked around to the driver’s side door of the car. “Please accept my apologies for causing you worry. I never meant you any harm.” Her hand paused momentarily with the door half open. She looked across the top of the vehicle at Dusty. “About that interview?” This was followed
by a smile; quite a sweet smile that erased the authoritarian persona and seemed to take years off her.

  Dusty didn’t answer but obtained the name of the motel where Louisa was staying.

  “Louisa Penrose is hiding something,” she said as we strolled back to where we’d parked the car. “She just handed me a pack of lies. Does she think I’m stupid or something?” Dusty rolled her eyes in disgust. “See what you can find out about her, Mr Maze Master.”

  Chapter 26

  Louisa Penrose’s website was informative because of its lack of information. Although it showcased samples of articles apparently written by her, mostly relating to crime, it was very basic. Her contact page listed the same details as those on the business card she’d given to Dusty. Same mobile number and email address but no physical address. I couldn’t read anything into that. Lots of people keep the contact details on their websites to a minimum. Yet I heard warning bells.

  By this time, Dusty had gone to Cairns to spend a couple of days with Jake. She planned to break the news to him about Ram’s true identity. Apart from that, I doubted they would be spending a lot of time discussing the case.

  The loneliness I experienced when Dusty left took me by surprise. I kept busy putting together the backgrounds and establishing the whereabouts of the girls who had accused Paul Walker of sexual assault. Abbie Kowalski. Kimberley Grey. Lena Patterson.

  I drew a blank with Lena but found a couple of social media sites for Abbie and Kimberley. Unfortunately, they yielded little information. Their profile photos had been removed and it looked like many of their posts had been deleted. It was almost as if the girls were deliberately trying to hide.

  I had some luck when I checked the social media sites for Kimberley’s sister, Savanna. There I found a photo of the sisters together when Kimberley was a teenager. Both girls had long hair pulled back in a ponytail. While Savannah, who looked like a timid little thing, had brown hair and wore glasses, Kimberley was a green-eyed blonde.

  Although I hadn’t yet been able to locate the women, I had managed to piece together some background material.

  Abbie Kowalski was the daughter of Polish migrants who had arrived in Australia in 1981. The following year they had a son and in 1984 Abbie was born. Abbie and her brother David grew up in Melbourne and had no other siblings.

  Lena Patterson was an only child who was born in Victoria and grew up in Melbourne.

  Kimberly Grey’s family had moved to Melbourne from Perth when Kimberley was a toddler. Her brother Lyell was a year younger and sister Savannah five years her junior.

  When Dusty returned, her shining eyes and buoyant spirits evidence enough of her feelings for Jake, I told her about Louisa’s website.

  “Show me.” She leant over my shoulder to peer at the computer screen. “Hm. Interesting.” Dusty pulled up a chair next to me. “Let me have a closer look.” I swivelled the laptop around to give her a better view.

  “I think your warning bells are right. Her bio is minimal. Nothing really concrete there that people could check out. She doesn’t seem to have had any articles published in major newspapers or on any of the usual news blogs.” Dusty thoughtfully perused the site again. “She’s not making any real effort to promote herself. A freelance journalist should be showcasing her best work, promoting her skills.”

  Dusty had articulated what I hadn’t been able to identify.

  “Right. I see what you mean. It was the same the other day when she met you. She should have promoted herself more to you in order to convince you to grant her an interview.”

  “Yep. It’s not as if she’s new to the game. According to this website she’s been a journo for six years. Which means she should have more credits to her name. Look at this! In the personal interests section, it says she’s a songwriter. I bet you anything that’s the closest she comes to being a writer. Journalist, my foot!” Dusty laughed at her use of the colloquialism. “My nan used to say that if she didn’t believe what someone had told her.”

  I nodded to indicate I was familiar with the expression. “Right. Why would she set up a false identity with a phony website and organise fake business cards?”

  “Exactly. There must be something behind this charade. I bet it’s connected to the case.” Dusty pushed the laptop back to me. “Who is Louisa Penrose? See if you can answer that question for me, Mr Maze Master.”

  Chapter 27

  Despite my best efforts, the question remained unanswered the next day when Dusty hired a guide with a four wheel drive to access the area where Moose Mulligan had had his plantation. Although it was abundant with plants, we could see no pot growing on his property.

  “Surely he could do something else with this land,” said Dusty. “Something productive.”

  “Probably given up. Decided the whole world is against him so doesn’t see any point in trying.”

  “Yep. You could be right.”

  We left the site of Mulligan’s now defunct marijuana empire to tour the National Park next to it. The Park was verdant with magnificent rainforest and carried a deceptive aura of peace and tranquillity. Dusty laughed at my discomfort when the guide warned us of various potential threats. Apparently, danger lurked at every corner. I was used to hearing warnings about snakes and spiders, always an unseen peril in the Australian wilderness, but a new and unexpected threat here in the rainforest was a vicious plant. Those deadly stinging plants were not necessarily hiding deep in the forest; some grew close to the pathways.

  “They look innocent and beautiful,” said the tour guide. “Don’t let that fool you. They use their beauty to lure you toward them, to make you touch them.”

  “Like the sirens in Homer’s Odyssey,” suggested Dusty.

  The guide, a rugged man in his fifties whose passion for the natural environment was more evident than any knowledge of Greek mythology, barely acknowledged the interruption.

  “The last thing you want to do is touch one of those innocent-looking plants. If it doesn’t kill you, the agony from a single touch will send you as mad as a cut snake. The pain can stay with you for months or years.”

  Thankfully, we exited the rainforest without injury of any kind.

  When we returned to Port Douglas, we were heading toward Rocky’s Cafe when Dusty seized my arm and whispered in my ear.

  “Look who’s going into the Post Office.”

  I looked up just in time to see Kellie Edwards, a take away coffee container in one hand, hurrying up the steps of the Australia Post building opposite.

  As we crossed the road, I pointed to a red car parked at the kerb with the familiar image of paw footprints on the rear window. “That’s Kellie’s car.”

  “Good. Let’s wait for her here.”

  We sat on the edge of a stone support shaded by the Post Office verandah.

  Dusty looked at me with a mischievous grin. “We’ll be a nice surprise for her.”

  Kellie returned to her car a few minutes later. When she saw us, her face didn’t exactly express pleasure.

  Dusty feigned delighted surprise. “Kellie! Fancy seeing you here. Actually, I’ve been meaning to contact you.”

  Kellie dropped her now empty coffee container into a kerbside bin and pressed the button on her remote key to release her car lock with a sharp click. She stood uncertainly on the footpath, undecided whether to go straight to her car or to advance toward us. Unable to make a choice, she remained where she was.

  “Haven’t got much time – have to get back to the clinic.” She was laying down an escape route in case the ensuing conversation with Dusty turned out to be uncomfortable. “I hope you’re going to tell me you know what really happened to my son.”

  A positive response to that might have brought her over to us but Dusty would not resort to any sort of trickery which could give Kellie false hope.

  “Not exactly.” Dusty stood up. “However, I promise you I will do my utmost to find out exactly how your son died.” She paused, fixing Kellie with a steady gaze.
“No matter what.”

  Throwing Dusty a sharp look, Kellie took a step in our direction. “What do you mean? No matter what.”

  “I mean even if I find that you took matters into your own hands.”

  “Took matters into my…” Kellie looked around furtively lest anyone be listening, moved closer to us and lowered her voice. “What are you suggesting?”

  “Lies make me suspicious. You lied to me, Kellie.”

  “I did no such thing.” Despite this denial, I noticed some hesitation in her voice. She averted her eyes. Dusty picked up on this immediately. I knew she’d planned on asking Kellie about glaring at Ram while he was talking to Beth in the street. Sensing Kellie was thinking of something else, Dusty waited. Silence might loosen the other woman’s tongue.

  After a few moments of biting her lower lip and staring down at her feet, Kellie spoke, her voice quavering.

  “I wanted to be in the place where he’d died. I wanted to feel…I dunno…feel his spirit, I suppose.”

  “So you lied about where you were on the anniversary of Josh’s death, the morning Ram died. You were at the Sanctuary. What time were you there?”

  Kellie heaved a sigh. “Around five-thirty or just after that.”

  “Why so early?”

  “I always go for my jog early in the morning.”

  “Is the Sanctuary on your normal jogging route?”

  Kellie shook her head, eyes downcast.

  “What did you do when you got to Sunyarta?”

  “Nothing.” Kellie fidgeted with the bundle of keys in her hand. “It didn’t feel right. I thought I’d go into the grounds, to sit in the gardens and see if I could feel Josh’s presence. But…I dunno…being there just made me feel unsettled. I had this strange feeling.”

  Interested, Dusty inclined her head. “Like a chill down your spine. That sort of feeling?”

  “Yes, like that. I wanted to feel peace but it was the opposite. I went back home.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this when I asked you where you were on the morning of the murder?”