There was not a tree anywhere near the house, but a pretty garden had been created just below the front steps of the veranda, and bright pink and lilac hydrangeas helped pep things up a little, as did the lacey curtains that were now billowing from the open windows.
“Wouldn’t want any privacy,” Gilda said as she manoeuvred the car to a stop at the side of the house between a rusty red tractor and a large cement tank.
“Wouldn’t want any shade either,” Roxy added, staring across to the Moody property, which looked like a lush oasis by comparison.
Deidre Holloway was already standing on her veranda when they approached, wiping her hands on her faded apron, her eyes squinting out through round silver spectacles as though trying to work out if she knew them.
Gilda stepped forward, one hand waving. “Hello, Mrs. Holloway?” The woman nodded, her eyes widening a little. “I’m Detective Gilda Maltin, and this is my associate Roxy Parker.”
The older woman’s eyes settled on Roxy. “Yes, I remember you. You’re a friend of the Moodys.” Close enough, Roxy thought, nodding her head. “Good oh, in ye come then.”
Deidre turned and disappeared into the old house while the two friends swapped looks of surprise before following her. They found her in the first room, a dusty living area cluttered with so much furniture, they could barely squeeze in.
“Take a seat, girls. I’ll fetch us some tea.”
Before they had a chance to reply, she was off again, out the door and disappearing up the creaky hallway. They did as instructed and sat down in two patchy arm chairs that had been placed directly in front of a small television set in the centre of the room. There were dozens of framed family photos, wedged on side tables, along the mantelpiece and even on the coffee table. Some showed naked babies basking on a lawn, others were clearly official school photos and revealed children of all ages and dental stages, smiling, smirking and looking beyond embarrassed. A particular shot caught Roxy’s eyes—the face of a beautiful young woman with long, golden locks and freckly tanned skin. Her eyes were glowing green and she had a stunning smile. She seemed to epitomise healthy country living, and she reminded Roxy of Sunny, although a little more country, a little less rock ‘n’ roll. Behind her and just out of focus, was a young man wearing a large cowboy hat and wraparound sunglasses. He wasn’t smiling.
“She never even asked us what we wanted,” Gilda whispered.
“Probably just happy to get visitors out here in the sticks,” Roxy whispered back.
“Ah, here we are then,” said Deidre reentering the room. She had a tin tray with a china teapot, three matching cups, a jug of milk and a sugar pot and she placed it on the coffee table, toppling a photo frame over as she did so. “I’ll just fetch the tea cake.”
“Really, you mustn’t go to any bother,” Gilda said, picking the frame up, but Deidre looked appalled.
“Can’t have our tea without cake, love.” Then she disappeared again.
A few minutes later, the tea was poured and the apple teacake dished out. Gilda said, “We really appreciate your time, Mrs. Holloway.”
“Deirdre, please. Call me Deirdre.”
“Of course, Deidre.” Gilda smiled warmly. “You’ve got a lovely house here.”
The older woman looked around at her cluttered furnishings and numerous photographs, then said, “Well, we’re not millionaire pop stars, but we do our best.”
Roxy sensed a little bitterness in her tone but her expression remained light and friendly.
Gilda said, “I’ll try not to take up much of your time. We were actually hoping to speak with your husband. John, is it?” Deidre nodded. “I actually wanted to talk to him about Sunny Forrest’s death, in January last year.”
Deidre’s cup rattled. “Oh, dear. I thought you were here about Mr. Moody.”
“A separate detective will be speaking to you about that.”
“You were at the Moody’s place that night?” Roxy said, knowing she should be butting out but unable to help herself. Deidre looked at her and her eyes narrowed.
“Yes, dear, as were you, I believe.”
Roxy nodded. “Were you there when Jed—”
“Goodness me, no!” Deidre said, cutting her off, a spindly hand reaching up to her neck. “Thank goodness we had left by then. Oh dear, that would have been most upsetting, most upsetting indeed.” She glanced at Gilda. “Not our style of music, of course. But well, they keep inviting us and one can’t be rude. They are the neighbours, after all. Even if they are a little noisy.”
“You can hear the studio from here?”
“Not so much the studio, my dear. More the parties they keep having, and the crowds that keep coming.” She placed her cup down and folded her hands in her lap. “But that’s neither here nor there. What is it you want to know about that poor girl? Sunny, was it?”
Gilda nodded. “Your husband found her body.”
“Yes, it was quite a shock. He came running in, white as a ghost, told me to call the ambulance, goodness knows why, the poor thing was long gone. Still, you’ve got to give it a go, haven’t you? You’ve got to have hope.”
“Yes, of course. Is your husband around? Can we talk to him?”
She looked scandalised again. “He’s working the land, my dear. Best not to disturb him.”
“When does he get back in?”
Deidre squinted across at the clock on the mantelpiece. “Usually comes in for his tea around five-ish, but, well, we spent some of the morning over at the Moody place, making sure Annika was all right. So he may want to make up for lost time. May not get back until six, I’d say, in time for his tea.”
Gilda glanced at her watch. It was 4:45 p.m. She stood up and handed across her business card. “If you could ask your husband to call me, on that mobile number, that would be very helpful.”
“Yes, dear.”
Gilda smiled. “Before we go, do you mind if we walk the track between your place and where Sunny’s body was found? I’m keen to understand the terrain. I know Annika is fine with it.”
Deidre hesitated. “Well ... it might be better if you wait until John comes back, I think.”
“Ah but you said he’d be ages.” Gilda tapped her watch. “We’re on a bit of a tight schedule. You don’t mind, do you?”
The older woman looked like she did mind, very much, but couldn’t quite bring herself to say it. She was “old school”, had been brought up to be polite, so simply smiled stiffly and led them out of the living room, down the narrow hallway to the small kitchen at the back. She creaked open the back door and waved them out.
“You follow the path to the east end of the fence line, just over there, beyond John’s shed. There’s a small gate, was put in years ago when the old neighbours were there.”
“The Moodys haven’t been here long?”
Her eyes clouded over. “No, the Thomas family used to live there, back when it was still a working dairy. They were good people, the Thomases. Quiet folk. Honest, too. You always knew where you stood with them.” She gave her head a little shake. “Anyway, go through the gate and you’ll find yourself at the back of the Moody property, the creek is a bit of a trek from there. And you’ll struggle in those lovely city shoes.” She was glancing down at Gilda’s boots.
These boots seemed to be having quite an effect on this country crowd, Gilda thought, and said, “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
Roxy had seen Gilda chase down criminals in much higher stilettos and didn’t doubt it for a moment.
“What was your husband doing, walking that way that night?” Gilda asked and Deidre flashed her a frown.
“Checking the fence line, of course. He was worried some of the cattle had got through.”
“Does that happen often?”
“Often enough.”
“Can I ask you something?” Roxy said, and Deidre turned with wary eyes upon her. “How do you feel about the idea of the Moody property becoming a music festival site?”
Deidre se
emed to fluster then, padding down her apron and stepping back into the kitchen. “Oh, you’d have to speak to my husband about that. I don’t get involved in that kind of thing.”
Then she swiftly shut the door on them both.
Chapter 23
As they followed the patchy grass towards the boundary fence line, Roxy snorted. “She doesn’t get involved? Yeah, right! You can tell Deidre hates the whole idea, and why wouldn’t she? If she thinks Moody Views is noisy now, just wait until they start running music festivals every month.”
“Yes, but what’s that got to do with Sunny Forrest?” When Roxy didn’t answer, Gilda stopped and turned back to her. “You’re thinking of Jed now, aren’t you? You’re thinking the Holloway couple have a pretty good motive to stop the man in his tracks.”
Roxy shrugged and kept walking.
Gilda caught up to her. “You do know we’re looking into Sunny’s death, not Jed’s, right? I did make that bit crystal clear?”
“Yes, yes, but it doesn’t mean we can’t make a few enquiries. I mean, they could be related. Did you get a look at that shed we passed? Plenty of electrical gear in there... The old farmer must be pretty handy in that department. They’re not like city folk. Don’t call the local electrician when things stuff up.”
Gilda thought about this. “Okay, just say you’re right and the old couple did somehow rig Jed’s amp, to try to put an end to the festivals; you do realise that Annika is still alive and kicking. She may still go ahead with it. You don’t know whose idea the festivals were in the first place. In any case, how does it connect with Sunny’s death? How would killing Sunny be of any benefit to Ma and Pa Kettle back there?”
Roxy shrugged again. She couldn’t answer that. She knew she was grasping at straws, but she could definitely sense some tension in Deidre Holloway. She didn’t say much, but what she did say spoke of envy and regret. Deidre clearly missed her old neighbours, and why wouldn’t she? Judging from the family portraits, she came from good old-fashioned farming stock. The “pop star” blow-ins must have been quite a culture shock.
Did Deidre and her husband somehow instigate both deaths in an effort to scare away the nouveau riche neighbours? Roxy gave her brain a shake. It was a preposterous idea, she decided. She was no longer grasping at straws, but rather, she had her head stuck in the entire haystack.
“Sorry, Rox, but if Sunny’s death turns out to be murder, I just can’t see that old couple doing it. Makes no sense. Oh look, there’s the gate.”
Gilda strode forward and cranked it open then Roxy followed her through, securing the gate firmly behind her just as a hand-painted sign on the fence instructed her to. From the fence line, the forest had been allowed to flourish and it was hard to see beyond the trees, although they could hear the sound of bubbling water not far off. It didn’t take long to reach the creek, which clearly ran close to the boundary line, just on the Moodys’ side at the edge of the rainforest.
No sooner had they spotted the creek than a makeshift memorial site came into view. The women stopped and surveyed the surroundings silently for a few minutes, taking in the small wooden cross that had been wedged into the side of the bank and the faded clusters of plastic flowers that were wrapped around it, a few fresh wildflowers strewn nearby. It looked a little tacky and it surprised Roxy. It didn’t seem like Sam’s style, but then what would she know? Losing a sibling could probably turn even the toughest cookie into a crumbling mess.
The creek, now more a benign trickle than a raging river, looked as harmless as a puddle. Neither woman could imagine anyone drowning in it, let alone a local girl familiar with the lay of the land.
“Must have had a lot of rain that day to turn it so deadly,” Gilda said.
Roxy nodded. “They do get more than their share of rain during the wet season apparently—hence the name rainforest. When did she die exactly?”
“Last January.”
“That’s the wet season, right?”
Gilda cocked her head to one side. “What am I? A weather girl? Wouldn’t have a clue.”
They looked around. Apart from the cross, there were no other signs of life, although on the other side of the creek, they could make out two separate paths leading in the direction of the Moody property. One was well worn and disappeared into the forest. That had to be the shortcut Annika was referring to. The other path was more overgrown and appeared to lead along the creek for a bit before also plunging into the forest. They squinted their eyes and could just make out what looked like a hut in the darkening shadows of a cluster of lillypillies. If they’d come any later, they would not have noticed it.
“Shall we take a closer look?” Gilda said, carefully stepping on dry rocks across the creek, making sure her boots did not get drenched.
Roxy followed a little less cautiously—her boots were old and waterproof and she was longing for an excuse to replace them. The two women proceeded to pluck their way past overhanging branches and through spindly cobwebs that had formed across the path.
“God, I hate nature,” Gilda groaned just before an enormous grasshopper dropped down on her arm. She brushed it away with a shriek.
Roxy laughed. “You don’t flinch at biker gangs, but you squeal at a bug?”
Gilda turned back to sneer at her. “Not all of us have turned into Steve Irwin overnight. I can’t believe you’re so chilled.”
Roxy chewed on her lower lip. She couldn’t believe it either. It was so unlike her to be relaxed around Mother Nature. She’d always assumed she was a rusted on city chick. This assignment had left her questioning everything she knew about herself. Was it possible to change this late in life?
“Finally!” Gilda said as they reached the hut, which turned out to be more of a hutch with three sides and a slanting tin roof.
There was a large thatched mat on the floor and several enormous cushions on top. A small wooden crate had been turned on its side and several candles stood, half burned next to an overflowing ceramic ashtray and a kerosene lamp. An empty bottle of red wine sat on the ground beside the crate and a silver goblet had been turned over next to it. Judging from the lack of spider webs covering the entranceway, the place had been recently used.
“Looks like a love nest,” Roxy said, and Gilda nodded.
“‘Blissful’ and ‘romantic’. Must be what Annika was referring to. Could be where Sunny and Jed met up, judging from the proximity to the creek.” She looked around. “I wonder how far away the Moody house is.”
Roxy stepped towards the ashtray and pointed at the cigarette butts. She could just make out the word “Marlborough” on the side of one that was only half smoked.
“Can you remember what brand Jed smoked?” Gilda asked, producing a plastic bag from her jacket pocket.
“Not off hand. But they all seem to smoke; must think musos are immune to lung cancer.” She watched Gilda dump the contents of the ashtray into the bag and seal it up again. “You really think you’re going to find some evidence this late in the game?”
Gilda stared at the bag. “These look recent to me, but it can’t hurt to try. Quick clearly didn’t bother.” She looked around a little longer and then out to the skyline, or what she could see of it through the thick trees. “Listen, it’s going to get very dark very fast, so we should make our way back. Farmer John might even be there now, thumping the table for his supper.”
Roxy laughed. “Don’t knock the old-fashioned way of life, Gilda. He farms the land and she keeps the home fires burning. It clearly works for them.”
“Does it? Really?” Gilda looked appalled by the thought. “Thank God I’m not an old-fashioned girl then.”
As they made their way back to the Holloway house, they found John Holloway standing by the property gate, clearly waiting for them, a grim look on his face. Holloway was dressed in a rugby jersey and moleskins. He had a large, balding head, and wore the heavily lined face of a man who had worked his whole life under a beating sun, a man who clearly thought sunscreen was
for sissies. A large chunk of skin had been cut out of his nose and he had pale purple sunspots all over his face.
“Deidre shouldn’t’ve let you come this way,” he barked as they walked up to greet him. Then he cleared his throat and said a little more gently, “Gets a bit rough is all.”
“Oh, it’s nothing we can’t handle,” Gilda said cheerfully, hoping to disarm him.
After he secured the gate behind them, he shook their hands and said, “So you’re lookin’ into the young lady’s drowning then?”
“That’s correct. Is there any more light you can shed on that?”
He shook his head firmly and leaned against the fence. “No light to shed. Poor girl risked it and she paid the price.” He spoke in a monotone, his voice low and croaky.
“You firmly believe it was an accident?”
“’Course I do. Everybody does.”
“Her brother, Sam, doesn’t,” Roxy said defiantly, and he darted his watery grey eyes towards her.
He went to say something, stopped, swallowed hard as though trying to choke back tears, then tried again. “We lost a child once. Long time ago.”
“Oh, I’m so—”
He brushed her off, impatient with her sympathy. “It’s hard to let go. When it happens. It’s hard...” He choked again then coughed away the emotion. “I was the first to find that poor lass, Sunny. There was nothin’ suspicious there. She drowned in the creek and that’s all there is to it. The family’s just got to accept the verdict and move on.” His tone had turned a little snarly again and, again, he seemed to check himself and soften his voice before adding, “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d better get back. Deidre’s got lamb chops waitin’.”
He nodded once then turned and walked shakily back towards the house while Roxy stood watching him, chewing madly on her bottom lip.
“Come on then,” said Gilda, making her own way back. “Let’s get out of here.”
Roxy scowled. She felt bad for the old couple, really she did, but she also had a feeling they had more to share about Sunny and the day she was discovered. “They’re hiding something,” she said, catching up to Gilda. “At least I’m sure the old guy is. What a cranky bugger! Aren’t you going to question him further? Surely he can tell you more than that.”
Note Before Dying (Ghostwriter Mystery 6) Page 15