by Maggie Groff
‘Oh,’ Harper said, shaking his hand. Then she teased her hair.
Rafe handed the pack and phone to me. ‘Yours, I believe. They were found near the tent in the woods. Your pack must have fallen off when you were searching for Tommy.’
‘Thank you. Would you like some lunch?’ Of course, what I really wanted to say was, Would you like to ravish me here on the verandah table?
‘Can’t stop, but thanks for the offer,’ Rafe said. Then he gave me a perfunctory kiss on the cheek, which set my heart racing, nodded goodbye to Harper and left.
‘He’s drop-dead gorgeous,’ Harper chirped when he was out of earshot.
‘If you like those sort of looks,’ I replied casually. ‘Is one of us going to make tea?’
After we’d had tea and Harper had taken out the rubbish and performed other tasks that I found difficult, she headed home. I checked the time. Marcia had said she would pop in this afternoon. Honestly, the place was like Flinders Street station.
I fetched my knitting from the blue steamer trunk and set about tackling an item for the next GKI mission, which had been devised by Old Blood and Guts. Ever the doctor, she had been to visit me twice, once in hospital and once at home. Old Blood and Guts might have been a tad more important than she’d let on to the rest of the GKI, as after her hospital visit the level of fawning over yours truly upped considerably. The diagnosis and treatment had met with her approval and, as it was her turn to create the next GKI caper, she’d brought along bright pink and pale blue balls of wool—knitting, she said, was an excellent therapy and although it might be uncomfortable to knit with broken ribs, it wouldn’t do any harm and it would alleviate boredom. The mission, she’d explained, was to make daggy covers for toilet rolls that would be placed in decorative displays in the ladies and gents toilets at luxury Brisbane hotels, pink for the girls and blue for the boys. The idea rated high on the tacky factor and cheered me up no end.
Of course, I’d immediately phoned Sam and told him that if he wanted to learn to knit, he could come to Byron Bay and look after his aunt for a couple of days. It turned out that my nephew, for all his construction capabilities, had no vocation for homespun pursuits. Proficiency with needles and wool, I assured him, would come with practice and time—at least I hoped it would.
Rafe had almost rumbled one of our knitting lessons on the verandah but, just in time, Sam had hidden the evidence in the washing machine. I was still unsure if Rafe suspected or actually knew of my involvement with GKI activities—after all, it wasn’t something I could ask. After the windscreen wiper mission it had taken a while for news to circulate, but eventually photographs and a couple of amusing articles appeared in the local papers. Rafe had told me that a person of interest was helping police with their enquiries. All I can say is that, if he suspected me, I liked the form his enquiries were taking.
At three o’clock, Marcia arrived with an armful of flowers. She had just been to visit Tildy, who was in a mental health facility on the Gold Coast. Tildy’s husband, Mark, had organised respite care for his mother and had flown up to the Gold Coast. Mark, Tommy and Christopher were staying with Marcia until Tildy was well enough to be moved home to Melbourne. Mark had set up shop on Marcia’s dining room table, and was working remotely with his Melbourne office.
‘How is Tildy?’ I enquired.
Marcia exhaled loudly. ‘It’s going to be a long road to recovery, but with appropriate care her prognosis is good. The physical damage from the beatings is healing but her emotional scars will take longer. There’s been a little progress. Today she was talking about her sons. Baby steps.’
‘I’d give you a hug if it didn’t hurt so much,’ I said.
Marcia smiled warmly at me. She looked tired and had visibly lost weight in the past couple of weeks.
‘I’ll put the flowers in water and then give you an update,’ Marcia said. ‘Mark and I saw the team looking after Tildy this morning.’
Once we were settled, Marcia told me the mental health team had said that the cult’s indoctrination was not the real concern. The medical consensus was that Tildy, in the grip of postnatal depression, had been overwhelmed by the enormity of motherhood and run away. The cult had simply offered an opportunity for her to escape her responsibilities and live in an environment where the rules of life were decided for her. They doubted Tildy had believed the doctrine.
‘Has Tommy told you how he managed to get to Bacchus Rising?’ I asked. To date Tommy had been reticent to divulge this information, probably worried it might make further problems for his mother.
Marcia nodded. ‘Tildy had phoned him and asked him to come to her, telling him how to take trains from Melbourne to Nerang. He used his piggybank savings and money from the kitchen. Tildy had picked him up at Nerang station when she’d collected some shopping, and had sneaked him into Bacchus Rising. Poor Tommy. He’d thought he was bringing his mother home. I can’t imagine his anguish when he’d realised she intended to stay, and for him to live in a tent in the rainforest.’
I was impressed. There was no doubting that Tommy Wilding was a hero. He’d helped save his mother and, as a noble reminder, would carry a crescent scar on his forearm for life. I could see him in ten years’ time sitting in a student bar, sleeves rolled up and regaling a fascinated girl with the story of its provenance. He probably wouldn’t mention his red pyjamas.
‘What’s happening with Casey Steinman?’ Marcia asked.
‘She’s still in Australia, staying with Dave and Daisy. Casey’s decided to press charges against Serene Cloud, as she wants him to spend a long time in prison. She says it’s all part of her healing process.’
‘Have they found her son?’
‘Uh-huh, and he’s with Casey’s relatives in Saratoga Springs. Her grandfather Harold is arriving in Australia soon to take Casey home. The two of them will return to Australia at a later date for Serene Cloud’s court case.’
I told Marcia that Dave and Daisy’s son Ben had had several meaningful discussions with Casey and he was confident she would completely recover. ‘Ben told me the dark stain on the American beauty was lifting,’ I said.
‘That’s poetic. Has he fallen in love with her?’
‘Yeah, there’s a lot of that going around.’
Marcia laughed and we clinked teacups. It was good to see her laugh.
‘And how is the handsome Rafe?’ Marcia asked.
‘Arresting.’
‘I’ll say.’
We chatted on for a while until Marcia left to beat the afternoon traffic. After she’d gone, Chairman Meow hopped onto my lap and I tried to snooze but my mind was too busy. There was a lot to think about.
Solly and Laura had visited yesterday and filled me in on the latest news of Serene Cloud. I had been amused to see that they had both abandoned their goth regalia. In fact, they looked quite feminine. I wasn’t game to ask if they were really an item, or if that had all been part of the masquerade.
They’d told me that no one had any idea how Serene Cloud had sustained his head injury, and that he had spent time in Intensive Care under police guard until he’d recovered enough to be taken into custody. The charges against him were legion, both in Australia and in America, and he would be incarcerated for a very long time.
In all, there had been seventeen illegal immigrants at Bacchus Rising, including the two American women. As for Serene Cloud’s other disciples, a few had remained to continue offending the populace with bizarre doctrines. Sales income from the Bacchus Rising website would continue to fund their existence, although Fair Trading would investigate the web business to ensure that it was above board. The Bacchus Rising property, Solly had assured me, would eventually be sold during the asset recovery process.
I’d laughed until my ribs hurt when Solly told me that Cinnamon Toast had had a healthy son whom she’d named Bruschetta. Apparently self-preservation and a motor-mouth disposition had had her singing like a canary to the detectives over Serene Cloud’s activities.
So much for the compassionate and inspiring master!
Finally, they told me that Gold Coast police had picked up Tracey for questioning over the box of items she had been selling from reception at the apartment complex, items that had come from the stolen stash at Bacchus Rising.
Before they’d left, Solly and Laura had asked me not to discuss or write about their part in the whole affair, and I had promised to honour their wishes. Actually, the secrecy suited me. I didn’t know when I might need their help in the future. And it was comforting to know that people like Solly and Laura were on the case, and at least one more maniac was off the streets.
There wasn’t a lot more.
Rafe had retrieved my car and returned the Lexus to Bruce. Two men from Brunswick Heads had been arrested for pinching my car and cultivating a prohibited substance in a national park.
I hadn’t contacted Toby. There was no sense in him sitting in Afghanistan worrying about me. And I hadn’t yet worked out the policies and procedures for loving two men at the same time. Toby wouldn’t be home for a while, so I had time to follow my mantra of ‘Watch, see and decide’.
Brian Dunfey had called to see how I was and asked what zany treatment the brown-ricers in Byron Bay had prescribed. I told him that a local therapist and I were having tantric sex, as it was good for my circulation. He laughed, which was a shame seeing as it was true.
Some things I would never know. What had happened to Dawn? Was it Tracey who had introduced Tildy to the cult? Did the mean girls pinch the underwear from the department store in the first place, or was it Mrs Berkelow? And why did the guys who had stolen my car run off and leave the dope in it? I could have made up the answers, but the truth was I didn’t know.
I pushed Chairman Meow off my lap and pulled my notebook and pen towards me.
I had a story to write.
Acknowledgements
My thanks to Team Groff (husband Jay and daughter Hannah Kay) for love and encouragement and for keeping the tea coming, to dear friend Gilli Cooper for inspiration and medical advice, to Georgie Parker for the fabulous quote, to my supremely sassy literary agent Selwa Anthony for . . . well, for everything really, and to all at Pan Macmillan Australia for believing in me, especially Alex Nahlous who nurtured this book to fruition and came up with the brilliant title.
Chapter 1
Byron Bay is one of Australia’s pretty bits, and I was taking a well-earned holiday at home to sample the delights on offer. It was also winter, which is my favourite time of year, and the warm sunny days and cooler nights were a welcome tonic after our long hot summer.
The last couple of months had been busy. I’d had a steady stream of journalism commissions, and a recent story I’d written about my investigations into the activities of a dangerous cult had been syndicated here and in the US. This had translated into a healthy bank account, so I no longer had to threaten old Mogg the bankster that if he continued to send me rude letters I’d be forced to take my overdraft elsewhere.
Another plus was that my ribs, which had been rearranged during an altercation with the leader of the aforementioned cult, were fully recovered. In fact, apart from a major hitch in the romance department, everything was hunky-dory.
At least, it was until Tuesday when I went to buy groceries.
I was in aisle five at the supermarket when I first sensed that I was being watched. The feeling’s impossible to describe, but if you’ve had it you’ll know it. According to the neuro-boffins it’s a primeval survival instinct, an evolutionary hangover from prehistoric times when we needed extra radar to protect ourselves when we were eyes-down at the waterhole. That sort of thing.
I shuddered and looked around.
Nothing. Then again, Woolies isn’t a known Neanderthal hangout.
Blaming my paranoia on the store security system, I flashed my death stare at the overhead camera and steered my trolley into the next aisle.
Relocation didn’t help. The feeling was stronger. Frowning, I looked up and down the aisle.
Still nothing.
I crouched down to select leaf tea from the bottom shelf and was standing up when a hand landed firmly on my back. I jumped with fright, dropped the tea and grabbed the shelf to steady myself.
‘Are you the journalist, Scout Davis?’ asked an accusing voice behind me.
I turned to face a tall, bone-thin, ascetic-looking woman with a pointy nose and a chin that could open a can. She was dressed in a long black skirt, a loose black smock and a floppy black felt hat. Wisps of iron-grey hair peeked out from under the brim. At first glance she looked like an elderly greyhound dressed in a Quaker’s outfit.
With some alarm I registered who she was and took a step backwards. Most Byron locals have heard of the Anemone Sisters, three ageing spinsters who live in the hills, wear black clothes and drink chickens’ blood. The usual small-town suspicions.
There had also been talk of nasty spells and divine retribution for minor wrongdoings, so I erred on the side of caution, nodded and said, ‘How do you do.’ Then I picked up the tea, replaced it on the shelf and selected a fresh packet, as you do.
‘I am Miss Hermione Longfellow,’ she announced with exaggerated self-importance, ‘and I will have a few minutes of your time!’ She plonked her shopping basket at her feet, placed her hands forcefully on her hips and huffed loudly.
Mildly amused by her theatrics, I wondered if she expected me to gasp and prostrate myself on the floor. Playing for time while I garnered a suitable response, I examined her shopping basket: three bags of plain flour and a packet of safety matches. No eye of newt.
‘I’m on holiday,’ I explained eventually.
Undaunted, she waved her hand dismissively. ‘Yes, yes, Daisy Fanshaw told me. That doesn’t matter.’
I raised my eyebrows. What cheek! Besides, Daisy is a friend of mine and I couldn’t imagine any reason for her to be chatting to one of the Anemone Sisters about my holiday.
Mindful that it would be childish to enter into verbal fisticuffs with this incredibly rude woman, I decided it was best to move away. I pushed my trolley forwards and hoped she wouldn’t bother me again. No such luck. In an instant she stepped in front of the trolley and blocked my passage. Furious, I had a sudden urge to cry ‘Aaaaaarrrrgh!’ and run her over.
My imagination quickly constructed the courtroom scene. I was sitting in the dock wearing a white voile blouse and a red pillbox hat with netting . . . maybe white gloves . . .
‘You will listen to me now,’ Miss Longfellow was insisting. ‘This is most important!’ She stamped her foot, which beamed me back to planet Woolworths.
‘So is my holiday!’ I snapped.
Suddenly she smiled, and it was so alarming that I took another step back. Her teeth were long and randomly spaced like a churchyard of old tombstones. Truly, if I were a horse, I’d have been a teensy bit scared. Then again, if I were a horse I would have galloped away and saved myself a lot of grief.
‘Please,’ she pressed, and I sensed that she was no newcomer to the benefits of a change of tactics.
However, I wasn’t into point scoring and curiosity got the better of me. ‘How do you know Daisy?’ I asked.
Miss Longfellow folded her arms and looked pleased with herself.
‘We trade commodities,’ she said piously. ‘It is a business relationship. We are not friends.’
Well, no surprises there.
‘Look,’ I said firmly, ‘I can’t help you now as my holiday time is precious. I’ll be returning to work next week and you can contact me then.’
Delving into my shoulder bag I extracted a dog-eared business card that had been lurking in the bottom for some time. It looked brilliantly unprofessional and, with luck, would dissuade Miss Longfellow from further communication.
In case you think me churlish, I should explain that I’m often approached by members of the public who believe their personal story requires national exposure. People who have been wronged see journalists as a sort of de fac
to complaints bureau, and the media as a final chance at retribution. The scenario is usually packaged in the guise of wishing to save others, but the real motive is nearly always revenge.
She held my card between her fingertips as if I’d infused it with anthrax. Disapproval was written all over her face. ‘It says here that you are a freelance investigative journalist.’
‘That’s right,’ I said firmly. ‘The freelance part indicates that I only work on issues of interest to me. Right now, as I told you, I’m on holiday and I’m not interested.’
Ha! Chew on that, bossy boots.
She frowned. ‘Daisy assured me you would be interested.’
I stopped in my tracks. Maybe I was being churlish. If Daisy thought there was a story, then I should listen. Hey, this might be a Walkley Award. I’d allow her five minutes and then I could truthfully tell Daisy I had given the matter appropriate consideration.
‘Okay,’ I capitulated. ‘I’m listening.’ I pulled the trolley to one side, folded my arms and indicated with a nod for her to go ahead.
‘I have two younger sisters, Amelia and Nemony,’ she began. ‘I, as I have already told you, am Hermione Longfellow.’
The names Hermione, Amelia and Nemony explained the sobriquet ‘Anemone Sisters’. It seemed a good fit.
‘Thirty years ago,’ she said, ‘when my youngest sister Nemony was thirty, she married an Irishman called Mick O’Leary. He was a penniless drifter who called in to our property seeking employment. People do, you know, when you grow produce. We were harvesting lavender at the time. Amelia had broken her arm and we needed an extra pair of hands, so we took on O’Leary.’
Feigning interest, I stared at the space between her eyes and hoped she’d get to the point before my frozen yoghurt melted.
‘He was handsome in a rough and ready way,’ she went on, ‘although he was uncouth and ill mannered . . . common, our dear parents would have said.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Unbeknownst to Amelia and me, O’Leary was . . . seducing . . . Nemony.’