by Jennie Jones
Three
Luke took young Billy Baxter—old Hugh’s grandson—into the side street between the newsagents and the Brown Café, so he could tick him off in privacy. ‘Billy, if I catch you stealing your feet won’t touch the ground. Do you understand?’
‘Stealing what?’ Billy asked, his innocent-looking seventeen-year-old face set in a mask of incredulity.
‘You nearly nicked that girl’s purse just now.’
‘Did not. She dropped it. I was just giving it back to her.’
‘Only once you saw me.’
Billy coloured slightly and lost the incredulous expression but his face still looked baby-sweet, a physical characteristic he used frequently to get into the good books of many or out of any problematic situation he found himself in. Mostly of his own making. Trouble was, Billy wasn’t good at being a bad guy. He may have been born with a below-average intelligence, but he was getting smarter about using the attributes he had been given.
‘I was just helping her,’ he said sulkily, like a five-year-old who’d been caught shoving a playmate off a swing so he could get a turn. It was hardly believable that this kid was going to be considered an adult when he turned eighteen in a few days.
The Baxters were an odd lot. Although the father was a decent sort, so the stupidity gene must have missed his generation. But with a grandfather who could no longer work due to his addiction to the bottle and two older brothers who were lazy, good-for-nothing users who argued with each other and anybody else who wanted to join in, there was little on offer for Billy except the spiralling track to a prison record.
‘Why aren’t you at work?’ Luke asked.
Billy shrugged. ‘I don’t like working for Mum and Dad.’
‘Billy, listen to me. You’re being a rebel.’ The kid looked half pleased that Luke had given him this distinction. ‘Problem is, you’re not that good at it.’
‘Aw. Come on!’
‘The key to the rest of your life, Billy, is not to let this youthful period stain your record.’
‘I haven’t got a record.’
‘Keep up this nonsense and I guarantee you’ll soon have one. Now go on back to the farm and work off your boredom that way.’
‘Don’t like the farm. I want to do something big with my life. Something awesome.’
‘Which you won’t be able to do unless you get a job!’
‘Stop pushing me around. Everybody’s always pushing me around.’
‘I’m not pushing, Billy, I’m advising.’ One of the problems was that there was next to nothing for young people to do out here and many left as soon as they were able, heading to Kalgirri or to Perth. Those who remained did so in order to work on the family farms or stations, often because of the financial pressure their parents were under.
‘I want you to join the youth centre,’ Luke said.
‘Boring!’ Billy sneered.
‘Try it,’ Luke said, holding on to his patience. ‘You might like it. The alternative is that I get the visiting Juvenile Justice Team to have a word with you and let you know how awesome it might be if you’re ever on their list.’
‘But I haven’t done anything wrong.’
‘Make sure it stays that way. Feet. Won’t touch the ground. Remember?’
Luke stepped back. ‘Now go on your way. And no speeding.’ Billy had his probationary licence and a beat-up vehicle but he sometimes thought he was training for the Grand Prix on the seventy-kilometre run from town to the Baxter farm.
Billy sloped off to the high street, dragging his feet.
Luke let out a frustrated sigh and walked into the Brown Café.
He took his seat at his usual window table.
‘What’s up, handsome?’ Isabelle Jaxine Brown—Jax—said as she put salt and pepper shakers and cutlery onto the red-and-white checked tablecloth.
Luke pulled off his cap, slapped it down and ran a hand over his head. ‘Nothing.’
‘The new lady still giving you the negative?’ Jax ran her hands down the sides of her thin pink blouse and onto her denim jeans. Her figure had ‘hot’ plastered all over its curves but he had never had a sexual spark with her. And he liked that his friend had a hard-arsed attitude when needed, a mothering instinct as full and rich as her dark brown hair, and a temper that had a two-inch fuse. Unless she was teasing him about Rachel, then he wasn’t so amused.
‘I haven’t tried hard yet,’ he reasoned. And he wasn’t sure if he was going to try any more at all.
‘Still wonder why she took the Laurensen place.’ Jax went to the counter and picked up a mug and the coffee pot. ‘Maybe I’ll ask her. If she ever comes into the café.’ She returned to his table and poured black coffee. ‘Do you reckon she’s too frightened to come in here?’
Luke took the coffee mug and sipped. ‘I figure she’s finding her feet and taking it slow.’ Rachel was never rude or standoffish with people. She got on well enough with most to nod hello or stop and have a chat. But she hadn’t bothered with either the café or Breakers—the hubs of entertainment in Mt Maria. And what the hell had been going through her head in the street just now?
‘So what are you hoping for?’ Jax asked.
‘What do you think?’
‘I know. But this one’s different, and I find it fascinating to see you in this state.’
‘What state?’
‘The love state.’
‘Give me a break, Jax. What would you know about a love state? When did you last have a date?’
‘We’re not talking about me,’ she said, leaning on the table so that he had to look at her. ‘Four weeks and two days you’ve been hankering after Rachel Meade.’
And he might have just lost what he hadn’t yet got. ‘Do you think I’m too assertive?’ he asked. He’d gone in a bit hard on Rachel earlier, but she’d worried the hell out of him.
Jax smiled. ‘Only most of the time—but that’s the cop in you. And if it’s any comfort,’ she said, ‘I can’t believe she hasn’t fallen into your strong arms yet, either.’
‘Yeah, yeah, okay.’ Jax was right. He was used to being a cop and behaving in a certain way. Not that he could help that, his job demanded it.
‘Sorry about the bad mood,’ he said.
‘Don’t worry about it, friend.’ She patted his hand. ‘I’ll turn to you when I have my next bad mood.’
‘I’ll be there.’ He smiled his thanks for her understanding.
Jax went off to the kitchen and Luke rested his arms on the table, looking out the window, his mind filled with images of Rachel. He had a sensation of holding her. Every millimetre of her packed against him, warm and tight.
But she’d had such a serious, faraway expression in her eyes when she’d gone quiet this morning. Her features had tightened, bit by bit, with whatever thoughts she’d been battling.
Or was it because he was a cop and perhaps the loveliest woman he’d ever seen didn’t want to be with a cop? Too much cop and not enough ordinary man on the street? But what could he do about it besides resigning from the force?
He swiped a hand over his face. Was he really considering resigning the force because of a woman who hadn’t even said yes to a date yet?
They’d shared a couple of special moments since last night, he was sure of it. All those gentle smiles she’d given him, and this morning she’d smiled even more. He liked the blushing when he teased her—and it was great to be close enough to feel confident enough to tease her a little. He liked everything about her—except not knowing the things he needed to know. All that concern on her face as she’d thought through whatever her dilemmas had been and hadn’t heard him calling her name—was it because of him and his attention, or that of the other men in town constantly giving her the eye? Aside from the mutual attraction he felt might now be happening, was he going too hard? Or had she been pushed too hard in the past?
Suddenly he had no appetite for the bacon and eggs Jax was cooking. He had way too many questions running through his hea
d, and he wanted answers to each of them.
* * *
‘Oh, your hair looks lovely like that,’ Mary McCovey said with a smile and warm eyes.
‘Thanks, Mary.’ Rachel smiled in return.
‘You should wear it down more often.’ Mary hoisted herself up onto her stool at the reception counter, settling in for the morning.
Five feet tall, Mary was cosily built, like the best auntie in the world should be, although Mary was perhaps not as discreet as she could be. She gossiped gently, and was Rachel’s main source of information on the town and its people.
Rachel wasn’t sure why she’d kept her hair down today. Keeping it clipped at the back of her head had been part of her cover, the reserved woman approach, but that was no longer working. She switched on her computer and tapped in her password then ran her fingers through the ends of her shoulder-length bob. Peter had made her scrape her waist-length hair back in a tight ponytail for work, but insisted she keep it loose when at the house. He would grab chunks of it and pull her head back. But that only happened when she forgot to be careful. Or when she asked too many questions about where he got all the money from.
‘Was that Luke I saw you with?’ Mary asked. ‘I bet he missed you these last few days. Did you miss him?’ Mary was almost as keen as Luke to get Rachel and him together.
‘He walked me to work, that’s all.’
‘He’s serious,’ Mary said. ‘I can tell.’
Rachel doubted he was—not any more.
‘We’ll be busy later this morning,’ Mary said as her plump fingers worked over her keyboard.
‘Really?’ They dealt with vehicle licensing and various permits as well as shire business. Mt Maria catered to more than just its residents: the mine site managers used the town for meetings and tourists stopped off on their way north to Broome or east to Alice Springs, taking a day’s break from the lengthy drive ahead of them. But so far, Rachel hadn’t been rushed of her feet in reception.
‘Last day to pay the shire rates,’ Mary said. ‘People gather for a chat in the queue.’
The front rooms of the large brick house known as the town hall had been converted into a reception area. At the back and upstairs, the few councillors and the local services officers performed their duties for Mt Maria’s shire CEO. Nobody cared for Donald Wiseman but he was her boss and Rachel gave him the respect he demanded. She didn’t have another job to go to should he decide to fire her—and for some reason, he didn’t like her.
The side door in reception, the one that led to the meeting rooms and the CEO and councillor offices upstairs, suddenly flew open as though a hurricane had forced it. Mrs Amelia Arnold, chairwoman of the Tidy Town committee, stepped through, then stopped and pinned Rachel with a stare so cold it almost froze the hair on her scalp. Mrs Arnold was ardent about goings on. Not only for Tidy Town but also for how care of the town’s beauty and history should be handled. Mostly, her opinions were decent ones but the way she offered them was like the bite from a sour green apple.
‘Everything all right, Amelia?’ Mary asked. ‘Did Mr Wiseman not like your ideas?’
‘He’ll like them well enough,’ Mrs Arnold told Mary while keeping her narrowed eyes on Rachel. ‘Once I persuade him to.’ Her lips were so thinly compressed they were about to turn purple. Which would have matched the lilac cotton twinset she wore over a deep mauve skirt.
Rachel snuck a look at Mary, who was staring at her friend with a decidedly troubled look on her face—part trepidation, part watchful. Mary often wore pale purple colours too. Today she’d offset her lilacs with creams. Their other friend, Mrs Freda Frith, also wore lavender or lilac. They ran the Lavender Blue Dramatic Society. Maybe they liked wearing society colours or something. Rachel had heard them referred to as the Agatha Girls a few times, but didn’t know why.
‘I’ll be wanting a word with you later, Mary,’ Mrs Arnold said. ‘My place, 5.07 pm. Bring Freda.’
‘Oh, dear,’ Mary said. ‘That bad?’
‘Have you done an inventory today?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Please do so. I have things to discuss—and I’m not talking sugar sachets and petty cash. I’m talking big money. Hundreds of dollars. Possibly a couple of thousand.’
Mary gasped, her hand flying to her chest. ‘Where would he get that from?’
Mrs Arnold gave Mary a remonstrative glare. ‘Tonight—5.07pm.’ Then she gave Rachel one more look of suspicion and turned for the door and exited the building.
Rachel took a breath to ease the tightness in her chest. If Mrs Arnold hadn’t just met with the shire CEO she’d be smothering a laugh at her behaviour. But since they must have been talking about Rachel Meade, the new woman—why else would Mrs Arnold have such a stony look on her face as she stared Rachel down?—she couldn’t find the energy to smile at all. Why didn’t Donald Wiseman like her? She’d done nothing to the man except be polite and respectful. But after years of being watchful and careful, she picked up on the slightest hint of disrespect or bad humour that flew her way. And Donald Wiseman disliked something about her.
‘Are you all right, Mary?’ she asked after Mary had pushed out a dozen little sighs.
Mary swivelled on her stool. ‘There’s a thief among us,’ she said in a stage-whisper. ‘I’ve been sworn to secrecy and it’s a huge responsibility. Some nights I can’t sleep.’
‘Is there something I can do to help?’
‘I can’t say a word,’ Mary said. ‘What would Mr Wiseman do to me if he discovered I’m watching his every move? He’d fire me, I’m sure of it. And I thoroughly enjoy my job here. Since dear Henry died, this is the most fun I’ve had. No,’ Mary said, shaking her head. ‘I will not say a bad word about Donald Wiseman in front of anyone. It’s too dangerous. And anyway, I’m not mentioning any names.’
‘Is it the petty cash?’ Rachel asked. ‘You said this week and last that there were a few dollars missing.’
‘Not only petty cash, Rachel—biscuits from the staff kitchen. Tea and coffee. Sugar sachets. Whoever it is—and I’m not saying it’s our CEO—is a thief of the worst sort. Do you know how much it costs us to keep staff in raspberry ripple wafers? It’s outrageous of him—whoever he is.’
Donald Wiseman had his pudgy hands in the petty cash tin and the kitchen cupboards? Rachel could hardly believe it. He drove a Porsche. He never went off the sealed roads in it, but he loved to cruise around town in his fancy car. If he had money issues why didn’t he just sell it?
Mary looked over her shoulder at the back room, a pull to her mouth as she peered through the open door. ‘If I were you,’ she said in another stage-whisper, ‘and I’m not naming names, but I’d make sure you know where your handbag is at any given time. Especially when Mr Wiseman is doing his rounds.’
‘I’ll do that,’ Rachel said, thinking about the cash she had with her: there was probably close to a thousand dollars secured in the lining of the bag at her feet. She never went anywhere without ready cash. Her running-away money.
‘I must get on,’ Mary said, turning to her keyboard. ‘Or else I’ll be behind and might not make the 5.07 pm deadline.’
‘Why such a specific time?’ Rachel asked, still fascinated by the information she was being given. She’d missed out on this kind of workplace intrigue over the years because she never stayed in one place long enough, and she wanted to take in as much of it now as possible.
‘Amelia knows I lock reception at 5.02 every afternoon,’ Mary said, ‘and that it will only take me three-point-five minutes to walk to her house. She allows the additional minute and a half in case I need to nip to the ladies’ or adjust the buckles on my sandals before I leave.’
Rachel bit into her smile. ‘If you ever need me to stay and lock up, I’m happy to.’
‘Thank you, dear. And I trust you, but I’d better not be lax.’
Rachel turned to her keyboard and began her work. Trust and friendship. She’d never expected to find either yet they’d been
handed to her in Mt Maria. From a few, if not the many.
‘Any news from the registry in Perth?’ Mary asked.
‘I think they’re re-issuing the lost certificate. But it might take a few days. Or a week or so.’ Another lie. How many was that? She’d never had to count before. ‘But thanks for keeping this a secret. I should be able to legally prove my change of name very soon now.’ The less Rachel said about the name change the better. She still didn’t know if she’d be granted the right to be Rachel because she’d only lived in Western Australia for three months. She might have to go back to Victoria to do it. The thought made her shudder.
‘You’re welcome,’ Mary said. ‘It’s all above board. The shire knows your real name and we’ll get it sorted with Human Resources once you’re legally Rachel. It’s awful that you’re having to change your name because your family are not nice people. If you want to talk about it, Luke would be the best ear.’
Back to Luke Weston again. ‘My problems are far behind me now, Mary. And I’d prefer to keep this between us.’ She hadn’t told the shire why she was changing her name, but she’d given Mary some half-cooked story about her family—not that she had one—being difficult people. ‘Thanks for the advice though.’
She got up from her stool and began sorting mail from the various bags. The newsagents next to the Brown Café operated a post office and she’d been relieved to find she could open a post office box. She had two now. One in Victoria and one here. It meant her mail had to move from one PO box to the next, but she preferred to keep up the routine of redirecting her mail and staying off the radar.
‘Or you could talk to Will,’ Mary said. ‘He’s a good listener too.’
Rachel fought irritation at Mary’s persistence. But it wasn’t Mary’s fault. It was Rachel’s—or Peter’s. And she guessed Will Bennett would be a good listener. He seemed the contented sort: happily married, happy in his job. But her mind wandered to the image of his partner: tall, powerful and used to people doing as he told them, with dark brown hair and an engaging gleam in his eye.