Mad Men, Bad Girls

by Maggie Groff

  ‘Well,’ I said to Chairman Meow, ‘it looks like our Heavenly Brother Excalibur is a regular Fagin. And a dirty old Fagin at that!’

  What to do next? There was no value that I could see in contacting the American journalist who penned the articles online and, quite frankly, I trusted Harold’s judgment that they had been merely titillation for readers.

  It wasn’t too late Sunday evening in Saratoga, New York, to give Toby’s doctor cousin, Dan, a quick call. He picked up on the third ring.

  ‘Yo!’ Dan said brightly.

  ‘Hello, Dan, it’s Scout calling from Australia, how are you?’

  ‘Hey, good, good. How about you guys?’

  ‘Both fine. Toby is working in Afghanistan, but okay. He comes home in two months.’

  ‘Couldn’t he get a nice gardening column?’

  I laughed. ‘I wish.’

  ‘So, what can I do for you, Scout?’

  Briefly, I outlined the cult scenario and my investigations to date.

  ‘Yeah, sure I’ve heard of them, but they’re long gone. I had a patient, a woman, who was with them for a while. She did exit counselling at a place called Wellspring. I can ask her if she’ll talk to you. She might know where the others are. Then again, she might not want to talk to you either.’

  ‘Do you know anything about Heavenly Brother Excalibur running off with the money?’

  ‘Members handed assets over to him in exchange for spiritual enlightenment. The rumour was that he purchased property, supposedly for the benefit of members, but put it in his own name and took the lot. Apparently there was nothing anyone could do about it. They were conned, but that’s what cults do, isn’t it? Con people out of their minds and money.’

  ‘Sadly, yes,’ I said.

  Dan promised to call me if and when he had more information, and I thanked him for his help and promised to communicate more often. As you do.

  It was getting on for noon and I was doing well. Amazingly, it was now almost three hours since I’d thought of Rafe. In the last scenario we’d been locked in an embrace and rolling in gentle surf at the water’s edge, just like Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr in From Here To Eternity, except I had on sexier swimwear than Ms Kerr.

  Keeping busy was the key to warding off further daydreams, so I called the police station to ask when I could have my car back. Honestly, it never crossed my mind that Rafe might answer, and it absolutely was not me who uttered a groan when he didn’t. A female officer informed me that my car would be returned later in the week, and they’d call and let me know when.

  I contacted Bruce and asked if it was okay to keep the Lexus a while longer.

  ‘Sure thing, Scout. You enjoy,’ Bruce said. He would probably know when I could have my car back before I did.

  After testing my blood sugar level, I made an elaborate salad for lunch and tidied and updated the mind map on the whiteboard while I ate.

  I added a new box for Bacchus Rising, wrote received next to the anonymous letter notation and scrawled untrue across the box stating kids attend local schools. In the box I already had for Heavenly Brother Excalibur I added, looks like Jesus—possible Ozzie accent—ran off with money—in Oz—visa?—running shoplifting ring. I drew a new box for dresses have pockets for stealing and wrote useless in the NY papers box. Then I made a new box for Harold Steinman and noted, granddaughter Casey Steinman/Harmony Bliss—20 yrs—possibly in Oz—possibly has baby.

  It hit me like a thunderbolt.

  ‘Oh, no! I forgot about the baby,’ I shouted aloud. If the child that Harold saw Casey holding was her own baby, then technically I was looking for an infant as well.

  Impatiently, I checked my inbox. Nothing from Harold yet.

  Give him time, Scout, give him time.

  I packaged the T-shirts for Tasha and Niska and, still wearing my smart black skirt and polka-dot shirt, I wandered down to the post office and sent my parcels on their way. My change of hair colour was obviously an effective disguise as I passed two locals and neither recognised me.

  After picking up a cooked chicken, a watermelon and salad stuff at Woolies, I called in at the community centre and booked for the Bollywood dance workshop. On my way home I ran into Rafe, who was walking along Jonson Street. For a second I toyed with the idea of bashing an innocent bystander so I’d be arrested.

  Rafe, having recognised me instantly, flashed a roguish smile. I’ve studied the mechanics of his smile and the process is fascinating. It starts as a quiver on one side, then slowly the action spreads to his whole mouth, his lips part and his eyes sparkle like sun on a waterfall. It’s the full knee-wobbling catastrophe.

  ‘Carry your bags, miss?’ Rafe said, falling in step beside me.

  I blushed like a schoolgirl. My legs felt weak and tingly.

  ‘No, I’m fine, thanks,’ I told him.

  ‘You look nice,’ he commented.

  ‘Oh, this old thing.’

  Good grief! Where did this nonsense come from?

  ‘It doesn’t look old to me. It looks like you’re going to a meeting.’

  ‘No, I’ve just been to Woolies,’ I said.

  Please, someone stop me from making a total arse of myself.

  ‘I’ll walk you home then,’ Rafe offered.

  ‘Thanks anyway, but I’ve got to go in here.’ I indicated the nearest store, which unfortunately was a takeaway kebab shop.

  Rafe raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Scared I’ll jump your bones?’ he said.

  Then he grinned mischievously, winked at me and walked off.

  Somehow, my marshmallow legs made it home.

  Chapter 28

  The moment I put the key in my front door I heard the home phone ringing and raced upstairs to answer. It was Harper.

  ‘Were you out scaring the horses?’ she said.

  ‘My hair’s not that bad. In fact, someone just remarked on how nice I look. And it was one helluva someone.’

  ‘Mrs Delgado?’ Harper chirped.

  ‘Very funny. Is there any news on the accusation against Robert Arnold?’

  ‘Yep. Crazy stuff. Brianna Berkelow’s father, who is a lawyer, has accused Robert of touching his daughter inappropriately during a hockey game. You remember the day I came down to Byron, well, Robert took my hockey class. It’s a ridiculous accusation.’

  ‘It’s a bit hard to play hockey and not accidentally connect with some part of another person,’ I mused.

  ‘Exactly!’

  ‘Were there any witnesses to say that he did it on purpose?’

  ‘Yep, Peony, Kylie and the battered sav.’

  ‘What does Robert say?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I told you, he’s been suspended pending investigation.’

  ‘Investigation by who?’ I asked.

  ‘Again, I’ve no idea, but you can be sure it’ll be in-house and not open to public scrutiny.’

  ‘And, let me guess,’ I said, ‘rumours have escalated to fact with everyone now convinced Robert was responsible for vandalising the undies?’

  ‘You got it. This is terrible. I . . . I feel rather responsible. If . . . if I hadn’t skived off, this would never have happened,’ she lamented.

  ‘Harper!’ I snapped.

  ‘What?’

  ‘This is not about you.’

  There was a long silence.

  ‘You’re right,’ Harper said eventually. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Are you all set for the swim class tomorrow?’ I asked.

  ‘Yep, I’ve got Julia from the front office to help. I explained why the culprit had to be one of the girls in the class, and Julia agrees that it couldn’t be Robert. Mostly, though, she doesn’t think Robert’s guilty because he’s her husband.’

  ‘You’re kidding!’

  ‘No, I’m not. It must be awful for her to come to school.’

  ‘How are you going to work it?’ I asked.

  ‘I’ll be last to leave the change room, except for the culprit who will be in the toilet�
��assuming that they do it again tomorrow, and I’m betting they will. I think they want to be caught. Julia will count to thirty after I’ve left and then enter the change room and take a photo of the criminal in action.’

  ‘No!’ I screeched, already envisaging the headline—MALE TEACHER SEXUALLY ASSAULTS STUDENT—WIFE CAUGHT TAKING PHOTOS OF GIRLS.

  ‘What now?’ Harper sounded exasperated.

  ‘Firstly, it’s my understanding that it’s illegal to take photographs in a change room,’ I said. ‘And secondly, you’ll have Julia suspended for perving on girls and being complicit in her husband’s activities. Just imagine if it’s Brianna doing all this.’

  ‘Oh, heck, I didn’t think of that,’ Harper said. ‘Have you got any other suggestions?’

  I thought for a while.

  ‘It would be good to have Julia with you, you were right on that score. It’ll provide a hundred percent certainty for her that her husband isn’t involved. Whatever she says, there has to be a seed of doubt now that there’s the inappropriate touching accusation as well,’ I reasoned.

  ‘And?’ Harper said impatiently.

  ‘And Julia and you should both go back in, but you have to take another female teacher with you to act as a witness. And no cameras, okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘I’ll call Miles’s daughter. It’s time we knew why Brianna left Heathlands House Academy.’

  ‘And I’d better call Julia. I don’t want her waking up at two in the morning realising what I was walking her into.’ Harper sighed loudly. ‘Thank goodness I ran it past you.’

  ‘Call me after the class,’ I said.

  ‘How’s the cult story?’ Harper asked, and I brought her up to date on my doings.

  ‘Make sure you keep me posted if you go undercover on this one,’ Harper ordered, ever the schoolteacher. ‘I’m not at all happy about all this.’

  ‘It’s my job!’

  ‘And being your big sister is my job,’ Harper said. ‘Keep me posted, you hear.’

  I emailed Toby and filled him in on family matters, the cult, the undies crime and my car, but didn’t mention that I’d seen Rafe. It was stupid really, as why wouldn’t I tell Toby I’d had coffee with his friend, although I knew perfectly well the reason why. Then again, perhaps I was reading too much into Rafe’s flirtatious remarks.

  Somewhat guiltily, I blew a kiss at Toby’s photo and thought about whether it was possible to love two men at the same time. Technically, and it’s important to be technical here rather than emotional, I was in love with one and in lust with the other. The question was, would I do anything about the latter? Would I even have the chance? Not knowing was quite exciting—technically speaking.

  It was a hot afternoon—at least, I’m assuming the weather was responsible for my sudden rise in body temperature. To catch a cross-breeze I opened windows at the front and back of my apartment, and then I checked my phone messages to see if Marcia had called, or if there were any more responses to my newspaper ads.

  There was one message, and it was from Rafe—‘Love the hair.’

  Unconsciously I teased my locks. Then, struck by a sense of guilt, I deleted the message.

  I made a pot of Darjeeling tea and hopped on the Bacchus Rising website and clicked my way to the online shop, but it was difficult to concentrate as Chairman Meow was weaving around my legs and meowing loudly.

  ‘What’s up?’ I said. ‘Do you want some tea, fella?’

  Assuming that was his problem, I poured milky tea into a bowl, heaped sugar in the middle and placed the bowl on the floor by my desk. Chairman Meow sniffed the bowl and contents, and then lapped the tea like a demon. Hmmm, I was having tea with a cat.

  Marcia was right. On close scrutiny the silver pendants were pine cones. The blurb advised that each pine cone had been showered by the energy of seven chakras and transfused with the supreme profluence of Bacchus. Probably silver-plate, each pendant cost eighty-five dollars and was about the size of an acorn.

  Suddenly I was gripped by a strong sense of déjà vu, and not from schoolgirl memories. I’d seen something similar, and recently. I printed out a picture of a pine-cone pendant and stuck it on the wall next to the whiteboard.

  It would come to me.

  Chapter 29

  Harold’s email arrived at the same time as a knock at my front door. Somewhat reluctantly, I abandoned the computer and skipped downstairs to see who it was.

  Marcia was standing on the footpath dressed in yellow shorts, a green T-shirt and a straw hat, around which was tied a bright yellow and green scarf. Her face, forearms and clothes were covered in paint splodges and she was holding a large art canvas, a beach bag, a plastic bag and a bottle of red wine. She was grinning.

  ‘I had to celebrate with someone,’ she said, holding up the wine. ‘I sold a painting for two thousand dollars!’

  It was good to see her happy and I said so, gave her a hug and helped carry her things upstairs.

  ‘I stopped at Tweed Heads on the way down,’ Marcia said, handing me the plastic bag, ‘and bought you a hippie skirt for Wednesday.’

  The skirt was full length and fashioned from a patchwork of intricately patterned tan and grey cotton squares. It was a classic sixties design and perfect for Fantasia Jonson to wear to a meeting with Cinnamon Toast.

  ‘It’s exactly right,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘My pleasure.’ Marcia bent down and made a fuss of Chairman Meow, who reciprocated with loud purring and neck rubs against her legs.

  ‘Did anyone collect the post at Surfers?’ I asked.

  Marcia shook her head. ‘Lots of people go in to the boxes. I can’t see the Bacchus Rising box but if the person looks odd, I follow them in. So far no one odd-looking has gone near the box, but I took pictures of people just for the heck of it. It’s odd that the cult don’t seem to be collecting their mail, I mean, there have to be cheques going in, don’t there?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Tea?’ I offered.

  ‘Please.’

  As Marcia hadn’t yet accessed her emails and seen Harold Steinman’s letter, I brought it up on the computer screen in the study and left her reading while I made tea. I took the opportunity to check out Marcia’s canvas and was knocked sideways by her talent. The painting was a vibrant Art Deco–style image of the beachfront at Surfers Paradise, reminiscent of the 1930s travel posters. It was fantastic.

  ‘Is that painting similar to the one you sold?’ I asked, carrying the tea tray into the study.

  ‘Uh-huh, do you like it?’ Marcia looked glum, which was to be expected after reading Harold’s letter.

  ‘It’s wonderful, Marcia.’

  ‘The one I sold is going into the foyer of a new apartment block. I hope you don’t mind me bringing that one in—the paint’s not dry and I didn’t want to leave it in a hot car.’

  ‘Of course not,’ I said. ‘Are you staying for dinner? I have cooked chicken and salad that we can take down to Watego’s Beach later.’

  ‘Mm, I’d love to,’ Marcia said. She gestured towards Harold’s letter on the computer screen. ‘This is so sad.’

  I briefed Marcia on my conversations with Brian Dunfey, Harold Steinman and Toby’s cousin Dan, and explained why Harold hadn’t signed the letter.

  ‘Poor man,’ Marcia sighed. ‘Poor, poor man. And possibly a great-grandchild missing, too.’

  ‘Harold’s just sent photos,’ I said, and set them up as a slide show. Marcia and I drank tea and watched in anxious anticipation as the images flicked slowly past. Chairman Meow decided to join us and jumped onto Marcia’s lap and looked at the screen, a welcome diversion that brought a smile to both our faces.

  There were two photos of Heavenly Brother Excalibur. In the first he was sitting in a café while three young women in blue knelt at his feet and gazed at him in rapturous adoration. In the second photo he was standing outside a building, which I imagined was the courthouse Harold had referred to.

  I paused the
two photos and split them on the screen. Heavenly Brother Excalibur bore scant resemblance to the traditional image of Jesus Christ, but I could see how a conservative male of Harold’s age would perceive a likeness. It wouldn’t have been a bow that anyone would have drawn in Byron Bay, where many older men sport long white hair and wear alternative-style clothes.

  The man in the photographs was in his early sixties, of average height, with a fat and flabby build. He had a big square head, a short thick neck, shoulder-length wispy white hair and a trimmed white beard. Large gold-rimmed sunglasses and a white straw hat obscured most of his facial features. His hands were like bunches of ladyfinger bananas, and on each fat finger was a large showy ring.

  In both images he was wearing white slip-on shoes, long white cotton pants and a calf-length orange over-shirt with an Indian collar. He carried an old-fashioned satchel and around his neck he wore a long white scarf with the ends knotted, and several strings of beads and shell necklaces.

  ‘Not exactly the Gold Coast Ironman, then,’ Marcia said.

  I refrained from laughing, though humour was probably the only way Marcia could cope with the unbearable possibility that this man might be sleeping with her daughter. The thought made me shudder.

  ‘Gosh, I almost forgot.’ Marcia leapt to her feet, sending Chairman Meow flying from her lap. She rushed out to the kitchen and returned a few seconds later waving a blue flyer. She apologised to Chairman Meow who, displaying an unforgiving attitude, stuck his head in the air and pranced off.

  ‘Whoops,’ Marcia said as she watched him go. ‘This was in the shop where the postboxes are.’ She handed me the flyer.

  It bore a stylised image of a man called Serene Cloud, Mystic Master of Mars—the man who might be Heavenly Brother Excalibur. It wasn’t a definite match, but pretty close. If I squinted my eyes I could visualise why the shopkeeper had likened the image to Jesus.