Mad Men, Bad Girls

by Maggie Groff

  As I walked, I rang Sandy at the Beach Hotel and told her to prepare a mojito for Dave and that I would settle up with her later.

  The volunteer ladies at the Vinnies opportunity shop in Byron Bay are the eyes and ears of the town. Today Beryl and Doreen, both late seventies and slightly overweight, were in charge. They also volunteer for Meals on Wheels, the Hospital Auxiliary, and Telecross, a branch of the Red Cross that makes daily calls to ­people who live alone. On Tuesdays, they sing in a choir and entertain residents at an aged-care facility. Meanwhile their husbands play golf, fish and prepare their own lunch.

  Beryl and Doreen were drinking tea and examining an old brooch at the counter when I walked in. The shop was hot and stuffy with only a large standard fan in the corner moving warm air around. It made a loud whirring noise, drowning out Frank Sinatra on the radio. Two other women were browsing the racks. I didn’t know either of them. Tourists, I imagined.

  ‘Hello, Scout, we haven’t seen you in a while,’ Beryl said, her plump powdered face breaking into a glorious smile. Smears of scarlet lipstick had made it to her front teeth.

  ‘Hi, Beryl, hi, Doreen, good to see you both,’ I greeted.

  Moving with the stiff and careful gait of the arthritic, they waddled round from behind the counter and, one after the other, kissed me on the cheek. It was apparent that both ladies had recently emerged from the hairdressers, where their short grey hair had been tightly curled to perfection.

  ‘Keeping well?’ Doreen asked, patting my cheek.

  ‘Yes thanks.’ I purposely didn’t ask how they were. Experience has taught me that such questions to elderly ladies results in a complete rundown of every ailment from which they, or a near relative, suffer. Both ladies looked fine. That was enough for me.

  ‘Do you just want to look, or do you want help with something?’ Beryl said.

  ‘Help, please.’

  ‘Where’s your sister? You two usually op-shop together,’ Doreen said.

  I admit to feeling a smidgen of guilt that Harper wasn’t with me. However, as I wasn’t purchasing clothing for myself, which would be against our op-shopping rules, today’s visit didn’t count.

  ‘Harper’s at work,’ I told them, ‘but I’m here on an errand for her. I need four old bras for a school play.’

  ‘Holy moley!’ Beryl exclaimed. ‘What sort of plays are they doing in schools now?’

  ‘Oh, nothing like that, they’re for stage props, to hang on a washing line on the stage,’ I lied. This was no time to tell the truth, which was that I intended to use the bras for an experiment I was planning.

  Doreen and Beryl appeared satisfied with my explanation and, spurred into action by a sense of purpose, they were on the case. Ten minutes later I left the shop with a large bag of ‘washing’ for stage props, which included two men’s shirts, one skirt, three T-shirts, four bras and a plastic bag full of wooden pegs. All for twenty dollars.

  If I reached Doreen and Beryl’s age, I mused, I would never perm my hair and I would examine my teeth for lipstick smears before leaving the house. I also made a pact with myself that I would dress in an outrageous bohemian manner, more Zandra Rhodes and Vivienne Westwood than Target and Katies.

  On the way home I purchased a box of reddish-brown hair colour. All my life I’d had blonde hair and for the most part it had been very long, worn to the right side in a single plait. It was a look that easily identified me and so, as part of my personal risk management for another plan formulating in my head, this trademark style had to go.

  When I arrived home Chairman Meow greeted me at the top of the stairs and followed me out to the back verandah. He meowed loudly, rubbing his neck against my leg, and I picked him up and told him all about my visit to the cop shop.

  I was hoping that my tiredness was a potent after-effect of the copious adrenaline I’d secreted at the police station. To be sure, I tested my blood sugar level to reassure myself it wasn’t the beginning of a hypoglycaemic attack—the creeping drowsiness that signals my blood sugar level is too low. As a general rule it only falls too low if I give myself too much insulin, don’t eat enough food, miss a meal or do too much exercise.

  At the station I’d experienced sweating, shaking and a fast heartbeat, all, I’m sure, quite normal physical reactions to being questioned. However, they’re also early symptoms of low blood sugar and the risk is, in long-term diabetics like myself, that these early symptoms may be masked. Without realising, I can skip right to drowsiness, confusion and, if untreated, fits and unconsciousness. My blood sugar level was a bit low so I drank a glass of milk and, five minutes later, I felt better.

  It was time to follow up the missed call from earlier, and I sat at my desk with pen and notebook ready and rang the number. I was hoping it’d be another response to my newspaper ad, so I had a copy of it on the desk in front of me, just in case.

  Chapter 18

  While waiting for the call to be picked up I switched on the desk fan and tapped my pen impatiently on the mouse pad. A female voice answered, sickly sweet and slightly breathless. More little girl lost than sexy.

  ‘Hello, welcome to my wonderful day,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you,’ I replied. ‘I missed your call.’

  ‘Well, thank you for calling me back.’

  Already I had her pegged as a fruit loop, though it could be a new telemarketing gimmick—one doomed to fail. Whatever, I wasn’t about to reveal my name. I waited for her to continue and, when nothing happened, I wondered if she’d temporarily whizzed off into another vortex.

  ‘And?’ I said as encouragement.

  ‘Oh yes.’ She gave a little-girl giggle and I wanted to climb down the phone and shake her and scream that it was idiots like her who gave women a bad name.

  ‘Are you the person asking in the paper about the Luminous Renaissance of Illustrious Light?’ she asked.

  I was on full alert.

  ‘Can you tell me what page the ad was on?’ I said. ‘Do you have the ad in front of you?’ I was sitting up straight but trying to sound calm and casual.

  ‘No, the paper’s in the house. Why, do I need it?’ She sounded surprised. Her voice had dropped a modicum of sweetness. No more breathlessness either.

  ‘Just asking,’ I said politely.

  She didn’t need the ad, but the fact she hadn’t got it was all the proof I needed that she was part of the organisation. No one could possibly recall the tortuous construction of the name ‘The Luminous Renaissance of Illustrious Light’ unless they knew it well, or had the newspaper ad in front of them.

  ‘What do you want to know, and why?’ she asked. All business now, with a hint of suspicion.

  ‘I came across the . . . er . . . organisation when I was chilling out in Saratoga a couple of years ago and I really clicked with them. I was talking to a friend in Saratoga and she told me that they had moved over here to the Gold Coast. I’ve recently divorced and moved up here and bought a house, and I was hoping to meet some new people.’ I was trying to sound like an airhead. A lonely airhead with money.

  ‘What’s your name?’ she asked. I noticed that she hadn’t questioned where Saratoga was.

  Quickly, I looked at my desk for inspiration, and then I looked at the fan and out of the window.

  ‘Fantasia Jonson,’ I told her. ‘What’s yours?’

  ‘Fantasia is a lovely name,’ she said, ignoring my question. ‘Is it your birth name or your sun name?’

  I had no idea what a sun name was.

  ‘It’s my birth name. What’s your name?’

  ‘Cinnamon,’ she said. ‘Cinnamon Toast.’

  Of course it was.

  ‘Well, I sure would love to come and meet with you, Cinnamon.’ For some extraordinary reason I’d adopted American phraseology. It was as if my mouth suddenly had a life of its own.

  Sensing that she had covered the phone, I strained to hear the voices in the background. It sounded as though she was consulting with someone else. Another woman, I t
hought.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, coming back on the phone. Her voice had returned to full sweetness with the former breathless delivery. I was possibly a live one. A potential recruit. With money.

  ‘I would love to meet you in town, Fantasia,’ she informed me.

  We agreed on the following Wednesday at two o’clock, under the Surfers Paradise sign at the beach end of Cavill Mall.

  ‘I’m really looking forward to this,’ I said and, heaven help me, I found myself using a soft sweet voice. It was a virus!

  As soon as I’d disconnected I looked at Toby’s photo on my desk and mimicked putting my finger down my throat and vomiting. I could practically hear Toby telling me that was not the sort of behaviour he expected from a woman called Fantasia Jonson.

  Sometimes you have to wonder about the possibility of extrasensory perception. Not two seconds later, the phone rang and it was Toby.

  ‘Hey, Doll Face, how are you?’ The line was crackly and Toby’s strong, deep voice had an echo that made it sound as though he was calling from the bottom of a well.

  I grinned. ‘Watch who you’re calling Doll Face, Sonny Jim.’

  ‘I was nearly Sonny Jane an hour ago, Scout.’

  ‘Where are you?’ I asked, changing the subject. Hearing about narrow escapes by his testicles only served to up my anxiety level.

  ‘Can’t say, but south of marker D.’ I looked at the map of Afghanistan that Toby had covered in code markers before he’d left on this junket. Marker D was Kabul.

  The crackles on the line had become louder. ‘I miss you, Toby,’ I shouted. ‘Are you warm enough? Are you getting enough to eat?’ Oh, heck, I was sounding like his mother.

  It panics me when Toby calls from a war zone, and I behave a little as though I’m also under fire. Although I was still in my chair, I knew I’d be far more comfortable under the desk. Totally ridiculous, but there you are.

  I shouted, ‘I love you Toby,’ because it’s what you have to say on these calls, and I waited for him to reciprocate.

  ‘Can you send my parents a wedding anniversary card and flowers?’ Toby bellowed down the line.

  ‘Okay. When for?’

  He told me the date and then I remained silent, giving him time to tell me how much he loved me, how being apart from me was sheer agony, and how he thought about me every waking hour.

  ‘How’s that cat working out?’ Toby yelled. ‘Why did you give a Russian Blue cat a Chinese name?’

  That stopped me in my tracks. It had honestly never crossed my mind.

  ‘He’s bilingual,’ I bellowed. ‘I’m thinking of branching out.’

  Toby laughed, and then told me he was being called away. He shouted, ‘Bye’ and that was it.

  So much for love being a many-splendored thing . . .

  Toby’s lack of romantic words didn’t really bother me—much. He was probably standing in a group of Rambo lookalikes, I reasoned, and would have felt a compete dork shouting sweet nothings into the phone. However, I wasn’t so stupid that I hadn’t realised the reason for his call was to have me send greetings to his parents. It annoyed me, but not enough to make me forget about sending the greetings. Enough to make me buy a cheaper card, though.

  As always, the trick to avoid dwelling on such matters is to keep busy so, while I made a pot of tea, I mentally drew up a task list to fill in time until I went downstairs to help Miles in the restaurant.

  Before hitting the desk, I hung my well-washed sheets on the line on the back verandah and gave a cursory wave to backpackers on the roof of the hostel. They were probably overjoyed to have some local laundry to photograph—just like the back streets of Naples.

  When I carried the tea tray into the study I found Chairman Meow already waiting on his chair, ready to take a letter, do some filing or have a late afternoon nap. He usually picks one of the three.

  My first task was to call Brian’s PA at Anzasia Media and request a copy of the anonymous letter. Well, guess what? The PA was away with Brian on a work project and also wouldn’t be back until Monday. Apparently everyone else who might assist was either in a meeting, on a conference call or interstate. In other words, they were all down the pub having Friday drinks. Damn!

  I called Bruce Denton, who has a car hire firm in town, and arranged for him to bring around a Toyota Corolla at the close of business today. It was possibly just for the weekend, I told him, but I wasn’t sure. Bruce said he was sorry to hear that my car had been stolen and drugs found on the back seat. I sighed. There were no secrets in Byron Bay. It was amazing, really, that Beryl and Doreen hadn’t mentioned it. Bruce told me that he would call when he was outside, in the rear lane.

  Harper was next. She doesn’t usually leave school until after 6 pm on Fridays, so she should still be there. I wanted her to get hold of the security tapes at Tattings.

  Unfortunately, my call went to Harper’s voicemail. I left a message thanking her for looking after me, reminded her about the Sesame Street pillowcases and asked if she could she get the school security tapes from last Tuesday. And could she call me tomorrow.

  Returning to the job at hand, I downloaded the photos from the school onto my computer, along with those I’d taken of the Bacchus Rising Serenity Card, the receipt and Marcia. Then I scanned in the photo of Tildy and her two boys, Tommy and Christopher, and then printed everything out in colour. Using Blu Tack, I stuck the school photos onto the wall, and all the other pictures onto the whiteboard, which I still needed to tidy up.

  The photos of the school change room showed clothes strewn from one end of the room to the other, with hardly any clothes on the provided pegs. There was no doubt about it, for someone to successfully cut the same undies of the same four girls three times running, they would have to have been in the room and seen the girls take off their underwear and noted where the items were discarded.

  We were definitely looking for a female student in the same class, one who had managed to spend time in the change room during the lesson and make busy with her scissors.

  There was a minor problem with this theory in that Harper was adamant that none of the students had returned to the change rooms during any of the three lessons where clothes were damaged. However, I was pretty certain I knew how a student had done it. I just didn’t know which one, or why.

  The ‘why’ interested me most, as it invariably led to ‘who’. I leaned on my desk and stared out of the window, thinking about the possible reasons a female student would vandalise her fellow students’ underwear. Jealousy perhaps? Revenge?

  Outside, Jonson Street was buzzing like a beehive. Old Mrs Delgado, dressed like a Dulux colour chart, was on the other side of the road assisting recent coach arrivals. Tourists would be asking for directions to the backpacker resorts and Mrs Delgado would be directing them all out of town. Byron Bay is her laidback sun-lovers’ Mecca and she doesn’t like to share it with anyone else. Watching her amused me no end.

  Chapter 19

  The photo I’d taken of Marcia wasn’t brilliant, but it was good enough for identification purposes. I emailed the photos of Marcia and Tildy to my daughters, along with a précis of the case. Although I was certain that Marcia was who she said she was, from experience I’d learned to verify everything.

  I also mentioned to the girls that there was a Bollywood dance workshop at the community centre during Easter and, as they would be up in Byron, it would be fun if I booked us all in, including Harper. After the usual maternal platitudes of love, I signed the email, Yours truly, Chairman Meow, on behalf of Ms S Davis, Director.

  Then I called Marcia.

  ‘Hello, Scout, good to hear from you,’ Marcia greeted me brightly.

  ‘Hi, you sound happier.’ Hopefully, my agreeing to help had something to do with her improved spirits. ‘Any luck with the post-office boxes?’

  ‘Kind of,’ she told me. ‘They’re in a glass-fronted room near the post office and I’ve set up my easel near the door. It’s under cover and there’s a sort o
f elevated garden bed where I can put my gear. The box number allocated to Bacchus Rising isn’t in clear sight, but I can see everyone who goes in and out. I’ve taken photos of anyone who looks a bit odd.’

  ‘What do you mean, you’ve set up an easel?’

  ‘It’s a good cover. I’m not sure if you know, but that’s my job—I’m a commercial artist. It gives me a chance to view the boxes without looking suspicious.’

  ‘What are you painting?’ I asked, intrigued.

  ‘The vista between Surfers International and the Esplanade. It’s interesting, with plenty of angles and shadows, trees, cars and people. Anyway, I got chatting to a shopkeeper who was admiring my painting, and he told me that last Sunday women who might be in a cult were handing out leaflets advertising healing classes. He hadn’t any leaflets, but remembered that they had a picture on them of a man who resembled Jesus. He thinks they turn up every Sunday. I showed him Tildy’s photo, but he hadn’t seen her.’

  ‘We should go to Cavill Mall on Sunday,’ I said. ‘Did you ask what made him think they were a cult?’

  ‘Yes, he told me that all the women were dressed in the same old-fashioned long blue dresses and had the same high ponytails.’

  ‘Marcia,’ I said, ‘could you contact the case officer from the Missing Persons Unit and ask him what Tildy was wearing when he saw her?’

  ‘I’ve already done it,’ she said confidently. ‘He told me that Tildy was wearing a long dress made from a blue cotton fabric, and her hair was tied in a ponytail.’

  Marcia listened quietly while I told her what I’d gleaned from the US Consumer Affairs website, and the comments regarding the shapeless long blue dresses worn by the cult women. I didn’t mention that the article had said many of the women were pregnant. We’d cross that bridge if and when we came to it.

  Marcia groaned softly. ‘Tildy’s in real danger, isn’t she?’