Ill-Gotten Gains

by Evans, Ilsa

  About Ill-Gotten Gains: A Nell Forrest Mystery

  There are secrets in the sleepy town of Majic, where the past trips over the present … and then looks the other way.

  The country town of Majic is about to celebrate a milestone. It’s been 150 years since the founding father, Petar Majic, rode into the bush after a liquid lunch, vowing to build a house at whatever spot he reached by sunset. However, what happened next isn’t quite what town legend would have you believe.

  A minor act of cemetery vandalism lands local columnist and amateur detective Nell Forrest right in the path of historical inevitability. An apparent murder-suicide leads to the unveiling of a century-old scandal and a trail left by a trio of long-dead women.

  Nell’s investigations are hampered both by the arrival of the handsome district detective and by her family – whose dramas almost eclipse that of the town itself. With directionless daughters, unplanned pregnancies, a spot or two of adultery and an ex-husband who wants her house, Nell barely has time for the case, let alone the energy to keep her wits about her at the same time.

  And Nell will need her wits about her as the mystery of Majic begins casting its shadow into the present day, putting Nell and her family in grave danger. In the end, Nell must decide whether it is a tale of epic fortitude, or treachery and ill-gotten gains, before the past catches up with her.

  Ill-Gotten Gains is the second book in Ilsa Evans’ new Nell Forrest Mystery series. Nefarious Doings is the first.

  This book is dedicated to Andrea (Angie) Storm, my BFF before the term was even invented, and to Nikki and Cassie, who could do a lot worse than take after their mother.

  There are secrets in the sleepy town of Majic, where the past trips over the present. And then looks the other way.

  Ilsa Evans

  Contents

  About Ill-Gotten Gains: A Nell Forrest Mystery

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About Ilsa Evans

  More Nell Forrest Mysteries

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  I am emailing to thank you for your wonderful column Middle-aged Spread – and for the new website, too. Don’t listen to any of those naysayers; I think all your stories are interesting and of course you’re not past it. Keep up the good work!

  The breeze shifted as we entered the cemetery, rustling dusty orange leaves from the oaks that shaded the graves. Those already fallen skittered to life, dancing along the uneven paths and eddying into corners. It was as if the dead were whispering a greeting, or maybe even a warning, in the only way they knew how. I paused by the hedged entry and then bent to stop our dog as he dashed past. He ducked, weaved, and continued towards a large marble headstone where he immediately cocked his leg and peed in a splashy arc over Freda Usachev, Beloved Wife and Mother, Sadly Missed.

  ‘Gusto!’ Quinn’s voice broke slightly. ‘No! Bad boy!’

  ‘Poor Freda.’

  ‘Oh, did you know her?’

  I regarded my fourteen-year-old daughter, and then gestured at the headstone. ‘She died in 1948.’

  ‘Is that a no?’

  Rather than answer, I began walking swiftly towards our destination. Gusto trotted at my side, tongue lolling, hesitating every so often to smell a tuft of grass or tumble of broken concrete. He was a Westie cross, with short legs and an inquiring expression that gave a somewhat mistaken impression of intelligence. Our route wound between the Catholic section, featuring glossy white marble, black onyx and poignant photographs trapped behind glass, and the Protestant, which started off fairly average and then just got worse. Cracked headstones, rusty railings, even a few graves where the cement slab had caved in so that it looked like the dead had not only risen, but had done so in a disturbingly energetic manner.

  The burial site we were aiming for was, however, in neither of those sections. Nor was a map necessary, or even a pause for orientation. The last resting place of Petar Majic sat in the very centre of the cemetery. The dead centre, as my father used to say. And the construction was so elaborate that it could even be seen from the road that snaked past on the way to the town of Majic itself, three kilometres away.

  The size of a single-car garage, with carved pillars set into each corner, the crypt was crowned by a fat dome etched with long faded gold. A plethora of cheerful cherubs with penises like witchetty grubs gambolled around the base of the dome. Two smaller columns flanked the arched doorway, each holding a drowsy stone lion, his mane tousled and one paw crossed neatly over the other. The entire edifice was enclosed within an intricate wrought-iron fence. It was as if a child with a taste for gothic melodrama had been given free rein.

  ‘This is all for one guy?’ asked Quinn, coming up behind me.

  ‘Yes. I believe he designed it himself.’

  Quinn walked around the edifice, followed by Gusto. She paused at the front and leant in to read the raised rectangular plaque on top of the archway. ‘Petar Majic. 1829–1867.’

  ‘Short and simple. Clearly he had nothing to do with that side of things.’

  ‘He wasn’t married then? Didn’t have kids?’

  ‘No, I think he was one of those perennial-bachelor types.’

  ‘I suppose he’d be, like, just all skeleton by now.’ Quinn paused. ‘And hair. Did you know your hair stays the same for ages after you’re dead?’

  ‘That’d be right.’ I put a hand up to my own hair, rather self-consciously. It was the bane of my existence, a bird’s nest of spiral curls that I had recently begun growing in an attempt to gain control. Perhaps at some point far into the future archaeologists would be perplexed by my remains. Hirsute skull uncovered at ancient burial site. Most probably mutant.

  Quinn had begun taking photographs with her mobile phone. She took a step forward to capture the plaque and then moved back to take in the whole effect. There was a stone bench by the pathway so I made myself comfortable, making sure I sat on the overhang of my jacket to create a buffer between the bluestone and my nether regions. It was a cool, breezy day, with gathering possum-grey clouds threatening a more volatile change to come. August was my least favourite month, not just because it started with two vowels, which seemed a little gratuitous, but because the seemingly relentless wind played havoc with my hair and turned my cheeks a broken-capillary red.

  It was therefore a time when I avoided the great outdoors. A quick dash to and from the car was about the extent of my exposure. And as fond as I am of cemeteries, in a touristy above-ground sort of way, the only reason I ventured out this afternoon was that half an hour ago Quinn suddenly remembered some homework upon which her entire future, apparently, was dependent. Despite having had all the school holidays to complete it, plus the tools of the World Wide Web in central-heated warmth, this homework necessitated a last-minute trip to the burial site of the man who, one hundred and fifty years ago, along with his friend James Sheridan, became the forefather of our little town. Legend had it that the first of the
se gentlemen rode out from Bendigo vowing to build a house at whichever point was reached when the sun set. Given the fact he was as drunk as a skunk at the time, it was something of a miracle he didn’t topple off his horse as he mounted, which would have seen Majic being founded on the footpath outside the pub.

  Quinn’s project was clearly designed to segue into the anniversary of the sunset ride, an upcoming event that had the whole town in something of a festive tizz. A range of celebrations were planned, advertised on posters tacked to every available surface, and it seemed most local businesses had found a way to cash in. We had Petar pastries and Sheridan shashlicks and, according to the pub, a not-to-be-missed offer on the chicken parmigiana that had allegedly been their meal of choice. We even had T-shirts that read One hundred and fifty years of Majic!, but as these had proved unexpectedly popular with the older residents, the slogan had become open to interpretation. As the pièce de résistance, funds had been found for a statue of Petar and James that was to be unveiled in two weeks, amid speeches and fireworks and no doubt the obligatory sausage sizzle.

  ‘Mum?’

  I looked up, a little surprised to see that my daughter was now standing astride one of the stone lions, inside the fence, peering at the plaque above the archway. ‘Ah, what are you doing?’

  ‘There’s a gap here. I think this thing was added later!’

  ‘Fascinating. Now get down.’

  ‘No, Mum, don’t you see?’ She ran her finger along the seam between the plaque and the larger concrete structure. ‘It could be hiding something – like someone else’s name!’

  ‘Yes, because crypt theft was rife back in the 1800s.’

  Gusto barked, dancing along the fence in frustration. I opened my mouth then closed it again as Quinn scrambled down. But instead of scaling the fence, she squatted and began turning over the stones scattered around the tomb’s perimeter.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  She held up two triumphantly, as if these were answer enough, and then used one of the lion’s paws to heft herself back up. Wedging the thinner stone in the seam, she drew back the second purposefully.

  ‘Quinn!’ I rose to my feet just as she swung, making contact with a loud thwack. ‘Stop!’

  She paused in the middle of the second swing. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it’s vandalism!’ I hurried over as she lowered her arm. The thin stone stayed where it was, now wedged behind the plaque. ‘Get that out and get down.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said obediently. Then she whipped the larger stone back and used it as a hammer once more, this time sending the thin one flying over the fence. With a dry, raspy sound, the plaque separated from its base and slid down the structure at an angle, tumbling forward when it reached the top of the archway and falling to the stone lion, where it broke in two. We watched its descent in unison, blinked, and then immediately raised our eyes to the recently vacated space. A rectangle of darker, unweathered cement framed a cluster of recessed letters. I took a step closer even as Quinn read it out.

  ‘Petar Majic, tragically taken 1 April 1867. Beloved.’

  ‘I am so angry with you right now.’

  ‘You said get it out. So I did. And look.’ She waved at the inscription. ‘I was right. There was something hidden.’

  ‘Congratulations, I can see the headlines now. Teenager discovers that long-dead man was beloved. Society rocked to the core. You’re going to pay to get that fixed.’ I glared at her and then walked back to the bench. Clearly having decided she now had nothing to lose, Quinn took a few photos of the inscription before jumping off to collect the two plaque halves. Gusto leapt skywards in excitement as she clambered over the fence, her hands full.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘You should be.’

  She came over to join me. ‘I’ll get it fixed.’

  ‘Yes, you will.’

  An older couple walked past, both carrying flowers. They were bickering in low voices, without pause, even as they nodded in my direction. I was struck by a sudden urge to jump up and tell them to stop, to appreciate what they had, to take the time to smell the roses. Not necessarily here, and not necessarily in a literal sense. Gusto followed them for a few steps and turned to run back, tail wagging. I dragged my eyes from their stiff backs. Quinn had now fitted the two halves of plaque together and was holding them steady, as one. We sat in silence.

  ‘Like, I really am sorry.’

  ‘You always are. But perhaps you should think first.’

  ‘Okay.’ She swung her legs. ‘It is a bit interesting, though. Why cover the beloved bit?’

  ‘And the tragically taken.’

  ‘Yeah, and that. So maybe he wasn’t a perinatal bachelor after all.’

  ‘Now that would be interesting. The word you want is perennial.’ I thought for a while. ‘Maybe she died too, just after.’

  ‘Of a broken heart.’

  ‘Or a normal illness. And they had no children so she was never given a plaque.’

  ‘Then who put up the new one? With just his dates?’

  I frowned as I considered a variety of explanations, none of which made sense. The breeze picked up again, whistling through the wrought iron. Leaves flurried against my feet.

  ‘I reckon he was married,’ Quinn declared. ‘Like, apart from anything else, why would you build something like that if it was just for you?’

  ‘Because he was an ostentatious sort of fellow? Just look at his house in town.’

  ‘Then wouldn’t he be more likely to have one of those concrete coffin things that you can see, so he could be, like, worshipped? Why get all closed away?’ Quinn gestured towards the crypt. ‘I think he planned to have a whole big family that’d all be buried here. Maybe they even are, and nobody knows.’

  ‘Well you’re not levering the door open to find out.’ I tugged my jacket forward so that I could do up the zip. It seemed to have shrunk since it was last worn. ‘Finished?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Then let’s go.’ I rose, brushed myself down, ruffled Gusto’s neck as he jumped against me. We passed an elderly man on our way out, kneeling by a grave and industriously plucking grass blades from around the stone slab, one by one. Gusto detoured off the path to give the man’s proffered buttocks a friendly sniff and then dashed back. By the time we got to the cemetery gates, the gathering clouds had all but gathered and were now swirling portentously overhead. Sure enough, the first droplets hit as we reached the car and by the time we were heading down the highway towards home had settled into a downpour that blew in gusts across the windscreen.

  ‘You realise that this –’ I nodded towards the weather just as a particularly squally burst of wind rocked the car ‘– is most probably Petar Majic, responding to your vandalism.’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’ Quinn rolled her eyes, but went quiet as she stared at the darkening sky. As the next gust swirled up, blustering against the windows, she jumped, and then wrapped her arms around the dog as she moved infinitesimally closer to me. I smiled to myself. The best piece of advice I had ever been given about parenting was that one had to cultivate patience. Because revenge was sweet.

  *

  There were three other cars in my driveway, none of which had been there when we left. A pair of hatchbacks, one musky yellow and the other intestinal pink, belonging to two more of my daughters, and a sleek silver Prius that heralded my sister. None of these people actually lived here, nor had a visit been anticipated. The rain increased in intensity as I found a spot to the side, in the mud, allowing them plenty of room to exit.

  ‘Why would you want a car that looks like Barbie vomit?’ asked Quinn. She opened the door before I could answer and a sheet of rain billowed in. Gusto scrambled across her lap and launched himself into mid-air, sailing a good metre from the car before landing nimbly. He took off immediately, rushing over to one of the marshmallow cars and relieving himself against the back wheel.

  ‘That dog has a bladder the size of a pea.’

  ‘
Worse than you,’ said Quinn. ‘No offence.’

  ‘None taken.’ I shrugged as I leant towards the rear-vision mirror to check my appearance, quickly realising my error. Sometimes ignorance was bliss. I took a deep breath and jumped out, hurrying towards the house. There was a jumble of shoes spread across my sister’s backseat that a casual observer may have assumed indicated shoe salesmanship, or something similar. In fact Petra was what she called an entrepreneur, and I called a renovator, buying old houses and then repairing, restoring, redecorating – and making an obscene profit when she sold. Her latest project had brought her back to Majic for the first time in many years and apart from a couple of side effects, such as impromptu drop-ins, I was quite enjoying the proximity.

  We bustled through the door, Gusto shaking himself vigorously and scattering tiny flecks of mud over the parquetry floor. Fortunately they matched. Quinn headed towards her bedroom with the dog at her heels, while I followed the sound of voices. My visitors were in the family room, having made themselves right at home. Ruby was sprawled across the couch with my new lap-rug, while Lucy was curled in the armchair with her laptop. Petra stood on the kitchen side of the island bench, levering the cork out of a bottle of wine. She looked up, smiling.

  ‘Oh good, you’re here. I was beginning to think tea would be late, and I’m starving.’

  Ruby pulled herself up. ‘What is for tea?’

  ‘Ah, you do all realise that you don’t live here? That part of the whole not living here thing is that you also don’t eat here?’

  ‘It’s Sunday!’ said Petra, getting another wineglass down from the cabinet.

  ‘And?’

  ‘And Sunday is family dinner night. It’s tradition.’

  I stared at her. ‘Since when?’

  ‘Since last Sunday, when I was also here for tea.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Lucy, stretching languidly. The laptop rocked on her knees.