‘Of course not.’
‘Diana was jealous of anyone and anything that diverted Richard’s attention away from her. She resented George because he and Richard were mates. She couldn’t stand me, but then again, it was mutual.’
Angie frowned. How could you not like Moira? Wise, loyal, salt-of-the-earth.
‘Another cuppa, Moira?’ she asked.
‘Why not? It’s not as though I have to rush home to anyone.’
When Angie went outside to empty the old tea leaves onto the garden, she discovered two large containers of water next to the back door. Richard must have left them during the painting class. The ladies had probably been making so much noise in the barn with their chatter that nobody had heard his ute pulling up. A missed opportunity to see him.
As Angie brewed the tea, she said, ‘Moira, I’m worried about Richard. Lisa told me he’s not going to the pub any more. Do you think Diana’s trying to isolate him from his friends?’
‘It’s the kind of thing she might do. There was always something odd about her.’
‘It’s the Madame Tussaud’s face. Inscrutable.’
‘No, it’s more than that,’ said Moira. ‘Her husband, the man she ran away with in the heat of passion, died six months ago, and she doesn’t seem upset at all.’
‘She certainly moved on pretty quickly. At six months I was still a wreck. Then again, Blake always says you can’t impose a timetable on grief.’
‘I agree. But six months is a very short time to work through everything. Particularly after a sudden death. You and I both know that. My instincts tell me there’s something suspicious about this.’
‘You mean that she killed him? Some kind of poison which made it look like a heart attack? That only happens in the movies. Look, there’s likely to be an obituary or a tribute on the solicitor’s website. Let’s take a look and clear this up before you get carried away.’
Angie went to her laptop and keyed ‘Goodmann Solicitors Flynns Bay’ into the search engine. Immediately a snazzy website appeared. Beneath the masthead was the tagline, ‘Welcome to Goodmann & Partners Solicitors. You can rely on us’. There were photos of two men – one handsome, smiling and sixtyish, the other earnest-looking and in his forties. His name was Martin Delamont, according to the caption below the picture.
‘That’s Geoff,’ said Moira, pointing to the older of the two.
Mr Geoff Goodmann BA LLB had a biography that stretched forever. No mention of his death.
‘That’s strange,’ said Angie. ‘He’s still up there. Maybe they haven’t got around to changing it yet. Come to think of it, I still have my mobile phone number listed in Phil’s name.’ She put on her glasses and took a look at the picture of Geoff Goodmann. ‘He was handsome, wasn’t he?’
‘Too right he was. You should have seen him twenty years ago. No wonder Diana fell for him.’
‘I don’t suppose she would have chosen someone ugly,’ replied Angie, pondering whether to take a third piece of date and walnut slice.
‘Why don’t we give the law office a call?’ said Moira.
‘I don’t think that’s such a good idea, Moira. And anyway, you can’t very well ask about the cause of death.’
Moira produced a pen from her bag and jotted down the phone number from the ‘Contact Us’ page. ‘Now, before we make the call, we need a pretext.’
‘But we’re not calling them.’
Ignoring Angie’s objections, Moira continued, ‘How about a will? Have you had a new one drawn up since Phil’s death?’
‘I’ve been meaning to do it, but . . .’
‘Well, here’s your chance.’
‘I’m not going to have a will drawn up by someone in Flynns Bay. I have a solicitor in Sydney, or I could use Jim Holbrook right here in town.’
‘We just need an excuse, Angie. You don’t necessarily have to go through with it.’
‘If you’re so keen to pursue this, why don’t you ring them yourself?’
‘Okay,’ said Moira, picking up the phone. ‘I’ll block the caller ID and put the phone on speaker.’
‘Don’t use your real name,’ warned Angie.
‘I don’t intend to.’
Moira dialled the number and a young woman’s voice answered, ‘Goodmann and Partners. Good afternoon. Kim speaking.’
‘Good afternoon, Kim. I’ve been meaning to call about having a will drawn up. And then I heard the sad news that Mr Goodmann had passed away earlier this year.’
There was a long pause.
‘Hello, Kim, are you there?’
‘Yes, I’m just surprised. Because Mr Goodmann isn’t dead. In fact, he’s perfectly fine. I only made him a cup of coffee a few minutes ago.’
Oops. Moira’s mouth was agape. Meanwhile, Angie could feel a hot blush creeping up her face. Guilt by association. What a gaffe.
‘Oh dear. I’m so embarrassed,’ said Moira. ‘I’ve obviously got it very wrong. I’m delighted Mr Goodmann is still with us.’
‘There are a lot of rumours doing the rounds of Flynns Bay, but that’s the most bizarre story I’ve ever heard, Ms . . .?’
Angie watched as Moira seemed to dry up. Just make up a name, thought Angie, but still there was silence.
Finally Angie whispered, ‘Simmons.’
‘It’s Simmons,’ said Moira.
‘Well, Ms Simmons, all I can think of is that someone confused the news about his divorce with . . . something much worse.’
Angie and Moira exchanged looks. ‘Did you say divorce?’
‘I shouldn’t really discuss personal matters.’ For a moment Kim sounded flustered. Then she resumed her receptionist’s tone, ‘Would you like to make an appointment to see Mr Goodmann about your will?’
‘Yes, I would. But I don’t seem to have my diary with me. I’ll have to call you back when I find it.’
‘Not a problem. We’ll look forward to hearing from you. Goodbye, Ms Simmons.’
‘Goodbye.’
For a few seconds neither Angie nor Moira spoke.
‘Why do you suppose Diana told such a blatant lie?’ asked Moira.
‘Who knows? Perhaps she wanted sympathy. Playing the lonely widow.’
‘Or more likely she thought that two divorces might be indicative of a dysfunctional personality.’
‘Maybe she’s just a compulsive liar,’ said Angie. ‘Then again, I didn’t know you could be so devious, Moira.’
‘I surprised myself.’
‘Do you think she told Richard the same story?’ Angie asked.
‘She couldn’t very well tell you one thing and Richard the other, could she?’
‘In that case, I should tell Richard she’s divorced.’
‘I wouldn’t do that, Angie. If Diana finds out you’ve been delving into her past . . . Anyway, he’s sure to find out soon enough.’
‘Well, at least we don’t need to worry about her being involved in foul play.’
‘All the same, I’m certain she has an agenda,’ said Moira. ‘Maybe she’s after Richard’s money. I doubt Diana would be interested in him if he were poor and homeless.’
‘It might depend on how well she did in the divorce settlement. She was married to a solicitor. Perhaps he was smart enough to protect his money. And now she’s no longer living in the style to which she was accustomed.’
‘If he did,’ said Moira, ‘she would have found it hard to maintain her lifestyle after the divorce. I bet all that cosmetic surgery must have cost a bomb. That might be why she decided to find out what happened to her first husband.’
‘And when she interrogated me,’ said Angie, ‘I actually gave her all the answers.’
‘She might have already worked it out from the magazine, Angie. Maybe she just needed confirmation.’
‘At least she doesn’t
know about the other properties he owns.’
‘Unless Mr Gullible has told her. In which case, she’ll never let go of him. I hope she doesn’t find out about you and Richard.’
‘I’ve told you before, Moira. Nothing actually happened between us. Except for two kisses. And the love letter he gave me. But Richard didn’t even write it. It was from Charles to Amy.’
‘What exactly would you call all those morning têtes-à-têtes in the café? Everyone in the painting class knew about the two of you. And even now with Diana back on the scene, he’s still hanging around, dropping off water . . .’ Moira indicated the water container that Angie had moved into the kitchen.
‘It’s not what it seems, Moira. He’s probably just feeling guilty.’
‘Richard has never been a fickle man. Once he makes a commitment, he sticks to it. I don’t think his feelings have changed. It’s just that he’s been distracted. Waylaid. Pardon the pun.’
‘But what does he see in her, Moira, other than the obvious? They don’t seem to have anything in common.’
‘It’s complicated. I’m sure he loved her once. Maybe he thought he could get that back. But he’s got blinkers on. He can’t see how conniving and manipulative she is. For a smart man, he can be so stupid.’
‘If that’s true, he needs to be protected from someone like her.’
‘You be very careful, Angie Wallace.’
‘Don’t worry. I’m not going to confront her.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. And by the way, where did the name Simmons come from?’
‘It’s my maiden name. It was the first thing that came into my head.’
‘Well, thanks for that. My mind went blank after Kim told me he wasn’t dead. And your maiden name was a good choice. If you’re going to lie, it’s best to stick close to the truth. That’s Diana’s problem. She veers too far from the facts. Now, what about that will? We could make an appointment for later this week. I could do with a nice drive down to the coast. We could even fit in lunch by the bay and some window-shopping in those fancy boutiques.’
‘When you say “we”, Moira, who exactly do you mean? You can’t very well go into Geoff Goodmann’s office. He knows you!’
‘But he doesn’t know you, Angie. And I’d be just outside in the car, offering moral support.’
Angie laughed. ‘Forget it. It’s a crazy idea. We’re not a duo of private detectives. And I have no intention of interrogating this solicitor about Diana.’
‘Of course not. But he might let something slip while you’re chatting about the will. After all, you’re the kind of person people confide in.’
Angie shook her head in frustration. ‘If, and I repeat, if I go to see him about a will, I’m not saying a word about Diana. Not a single word.’
‘That’s fine. Now let’s phone Kim and make that appointment for Angela Simmons. By the way, would it be a legal will if you used your maiden name?’
‘Actually, it would.’ She pulled her driver’s licence from her wallet and showed Moira. ‘I’ve only called myself Wallace since Phil died. All the legal stuff is in the name of Simmons. I was one of those women’s libbers who kept her own name. Quite revolutionary back in the 80s.’
They phoned Kim at Goodmann & Partners to make an appointment for the second half of the following week, once the council meeting was out of the way. It wasn’t exactly a ruse. Angie really did need to have a new will drawn up. And although her Sydney solicitor or even Jim Holbrook could have handled it perfectly well, she couldn’t resist the temptation to meet Diana’s so-called dead husband.
9 THE MEETING
There were so many onlookers at the council meeting that staff had to close the doors to the public gallery, while the remaining residents were forced to gather outside in the hallway. Because it was humble Millbrooke, there were no closed circuit television sets for a spillover crowd to watch. In fact, everyone tried to remember the last time there had been a crowd at all. It was probably during the fluoridation debate of several years earlier.
For the first twenty minutes the councillors engaged in a discussion about the water crisis. The general manager reported that the problem at the filtration plant had been rectified and testing indicated the water supply was now safe. Nevertheless, the council was recommending that citizens continue to boil their water for the next seventy-two hours. Ratepayers had been informed via email or text message. Pity about the older residents without computers or mobile phones, thought Angie.
The controversial DA wasn’t mentioned until the end of the meeting under general business, by which time the crowd in the hallway had dissipated. Having arrived half an hour before the starting time, FOTE committee members were seated in the front row, dressed in their white T-shirts. As Angie looked towards the back of the room, she noticed a tall man, dressed the same way. It was Richard. No sign of Diana. He saw Angie and smiled. In return she gave him a little wave.
‘We have had considerable feedback from ratepayers about DA5718 for alterations to the Millbrooke Café,’ said the mayor. ‘Because the matter has engendered so much interest, council has decided to allow general discussion from the floor. However, I warn any speakers that they are limited to three minutes only.’
‘Why do we have a limit when you councillors don’t?’ called Bert from the front row.
‘I would advise hecklers that council staff will have you removed if you continue to disrupt the meeting.’
Following a discussion the night before, the committee had nominated Angie to deliver the main address. Although she had been reluctant, she understood that it was her cause more than anyone else’s. But unaware of the three-minute limit, she had prepared a ten-minute speech, complete with prompt notes. She decided the best course was to abandon the notes and speak from the heart.
‘Mister President, councillors, ladies and gentlemen, my name is Angie Wallace. I came to Millbrooke just over eighteen months ago. In that time, like so many other refugees from the city, I’ve fallen in love with the town. I cherish the people and the friendships I’ve made and I love the history. On a Saturday afternoon, when the morning traffic has disappeared, you can stand in Miller Street and imagine you’re back in the gold rush days. The building that evokes those feelings most for me is the Chen emporium, now a café. As you can see from the poster Bert and Moira are holding up, it hasn’t changed much since it was built in the 1870s. Even to the striped awning and verandah posts. For Mr Wright, that’s a problem because he has to run a twenty-first century business in a nineteenth century building. Friends of the Emporium appreciate his situation. We’re not his enemy.
‘However, there are greater issues at work here. Issues of history. Once an old building is altered significantly, its history is destroyed. Like vandalising a grave. The emporium was the dream of a young Chinese boy called Charles Chen, whose father drowned in a mine shaft not long after they arrived from Canton. Did the boy become bitter and dispirited? No, instead he learnt English and when he was twenty-one, he opened an emporium on Miller Street. A few years later, a young Scottish girl by the name of Amy Duncan came to his store. They fell in love. Some people frowned upon their relationship but others supported them. They were married in December of 1872, just before Christmas. At the end of February, Charles died of diphtheria. It was a tragedy. That man had so much potential. He would have been a great community leader. Perhaps even mayor.’
She glanced quickly at Bob Brannigan.
‘But that was the precarious nature of life in the nineteenth century. People died of illnesses for which we now have vaccinations.’
‘Mrs Wallace,’ interjected the mayor. ‘Your time is almost up.’
‘Let her speak,’ came a cry from the crowd. It was a mellow, authoritative voice worthy of a radio announcer.
‘I’ll be brief, Mister President. Amy lost Charles, but she was pregnant with their son. And t
ogether with Charles’s brother, she continued to run the emporium for decades. It was a Millbrooke landmark. She was a Millbrooke legend. Charles would have been too, had he lived. Perhaps, Mister President, you would give me leave to inform the audience of what happened to the son, Charles Junior. He served in the First World War and died at Bullecourt. His name appears on our War Memorial. Amy lost a husband and a son. Don’t let her lose the emporium as well. I beg you to leave it as it is. And I ask the council for a moratorium so that other options can be explored.’
Angie realised she was crying. Moira handed her a tissue.
‘I’m sorry to be emotional about people who lived a hundred and fifty years ago. It’s silly, isn’t it? Or perhaps it’s not. Wouldn’t you like the Millbrookers of the future to care for the things which were important to you? I think you would. Therefore, Mister President, I move that there be a moratorium on any decision-making regarding DA5718 for at least four weeks while council, FOTE and Mr Wright investigate other possibilities.’
‘A motion from the floor doesn’t carry any weight with the councillors, Mrs Wallace, but on this occasion, owing to the public interest in the issue, I will accept it. Do we have a seconder for the motion?’
‘You do.’ It was a voice from the back of the gallery. The radio voice.
Even though the room was warm, Angie shivered.
‘Name?’ demanded the mayor.
‘Richard Scott.’
‘Do you wish to speak to Mrs Wallace’s motion?’
‘Only to say that a moratorium of four weeks is not unreasonable. We should be wary of making decisions of this significance in haste. However, I suppose I should disclose a vested interest in this matter.’
He paused for effect while the crowd waited, whispering to each other.
‘The graveyard at Millerbrooke is the last resting place of Amy and Charles Chen. For that reason alone, I feel protective of them and their emporium. I urge council to allow time to make an intelligent and considered decision on this difficult issue.’
‘Thank you, Mr Scott. Do we have any speakers against the motion?’
A Place of Her Own Page 10