Ill-Gotten Gains

by Evans, Ilsa

  I nodded slowly. ‘Okay, fair enough. Have you spoken to Lew?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I took a sip of coffee, waiting once more. My nervousness had all but dissipated because this was not a man who was about to kill anyone. Although I would have said exactly the same about Will up to the moment he incriminated himself, so perhaps I wasn’t a very good judge. I pushed that aside and concentrated on James Sheridan. If anything he looked a little paler. ‘Can I take your coat? Would you like to sit down?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  I hung his coat over a bar stool and led the way into the family room, waving him to the armchair. He did not so much sit as fold into it, his tea swilling. I sat opposite, on the couch. ‘He told you everything then.’

  ‘I can’t believe it.’

  ‘It is pretty amazing. Right under our noses the whole time.’

  He nodded, staring into his mug. ‘I knew there was something there, because Sam rang me that night. But he didn’t tell me. Just dropped hints about a photo. Me finding out for myself.’

  ‘Same here.’

  ‘I just pushed it aside afterwards.’ He shrugged, paused once more. ‘I always knew my grandmother was the product of an earlier relationship, although we thought it was a marriage. She used to talk about how she’d just about brought her brother up, being so much older and her stepmother being delicate.’

  ‘Did she ever talk about her time before? Before she came to Majic?’

  ‘Not that I remember.’ He looked up and frowned. ‘Although I do recall staying with her once as a teenager, after a fierce argument with my mother, and she said, “Be grateful for what you have. The absence of a mother is far more painful than anything you think you’re going through now.” She was right, too.’

  ‘What was she like?’

  ‘Oh, marvellous.’ His smile returned. ‘A bit of a martinet at times and she definitely wore the pants where my grandfather was concerned, but she was terrific with us grandchildren. She used to give us a shilling each and then play poker, win it all back.’

  ‘Was she happy?’

  He gave this question some thought. ‘Yes, definitely. I think she married for convenience, to carry on the line, but they were good together. And she loved this place. My father always said that she was never quite the same after his younger brother died in the war, but that was before my time. She lost her brother in the first war, and then a son in the second.’

  ‘To carry on the line, you said. The irony being …’

  ‘Yes.’ His face stilled. He stared out the window, then sighed. ‘That’s what I’m having trouble with this morning. The funny thing is we’ve always been inordinately proud of my grandmother for saving the lineage. But she wasn’t at all.’

  ‘Actually she was, just not the one you thought. A more worthy lineage, if anything. It doesn’t change your immediate family anyway, or who you are.’

  ‘But that’s exactly what it does. You don’t understand. My entire life has been framed by being a Sheridan. When I was a kid, my father would take me to the cemetery, show me the graves, tell me how my great-great-grandfather created this town. He used the tortoise and the hare analogy. Petar Majic was the hare, flamboyant but impractical, while we were the tortoises. Slow and steady and constructive. The backbone of Majic.’

  ‘You still are.’

  ‘That’s where I was, you know. At the cemetery. I barely slept last night, after the police told me, knowing what he did. This man who was always held up to me as a hero, but who was actually a bastard. And a criminal.’ He pulled his tie out, curled the end around one finger. ‘So I went there this morning, sat by the graves. Don’t know what I was thinking.’ He looked up and laughed, without humour. ‘It’s not like the dead can talk.’

  ‘I’m not sure about that. Maybe the plaque breaking was communication.’

  ‘Yeah, communication from Petar Majic about how my family did him wrong.’

  I leant forward. ‘But, Mr … I mean James, Petar Majic is your family.’

  ‘So then I thought I’d ring Lew,’ he continued, as if I hadn’t spoken. ‘I knew by then he was involved in your research. I think I wanted him to say it was all a mistake. Instead he told me that …’

  After a few moments, when he hadn’t finished the sentence, I did it for him. ‘You weren’t a Sheridan at all.’

  He flinched. ‘Yes.’

  ‘But that could be a good thing, given what the founder of that family did.’

  ‘I get that, in theory.’ He paused, trying to find the right words. ‘But in practice I feel responsible. The fraud, the manipulation. The profiting from deception. What we, he, did to those people. That poor bloody girl. Her whole family.’

  ‘Your family,’ I stressed. It suddenly occurred to me that I was being supportive towards the Sheridans. Or, actually, the Majics. ‘Yes, it’s confusing.’

  ‘And we’re about to have this huge celebration, starting this evening. But it’s all a sham.’

  ‘No, it’s not,’ I said insistently. ‘Majic was still founded one hundred and fifty years ago, and it’s still a thriving community. That’s what we’re commemorating. Not the dreadful behaviour of one single man after the event; a man who has no living descendants.’

  ‘What about the statue? Petar and James side by side?’

  ‘Hmm, yes, that’s a little … unfortunate.’

  He fell silent, staring out the window again, curling his tie. Now, every time he let it go, it kinked up at the end as if pointing at me. When he finally looked back, the softness of uncertainty had firmed, just a little. ‘That has to be changed. At least.’

  ‘Will you have time?’

  ‘I’ll make time. It can’t be unveiled the way it is. The hypocrisy is ridiculous.’

  I regarded him thoughtfully. I would never have attributed him with such high principles. Or perhaps he was already, even subconsciously, realigning his commitment.

  ‘And you have to write about it.’ He was now staring at me intently. ‘Yes! That’s what we need to do. Lew tells me you’d already discussed doing an article. That way we have some control over the truth. We can’t have Majic turned into a laughingstock. We can turn this around instead, use it in our favour.’ He drummed his fingers on the armrest. ‘It’s actually a fascinating story, when you think about it. Human interest. This could put Majic on the map. More tourism.’

  ‘I suppose so. But …’

  ‘I’ll give you an exclusive interview. Today. I’ll fit it in somehow. We’ll have lunch.’

  I nodded slowly, my chin sinking into the softness of the collar. My editor was going to be thrilled. Maybe I could get the photographer to take a shot of James sitting at the cemetery, in front of the crypt.

  He jumped up. ‘I need to get to work. So much to do.’

  ‘Yes.’ I rose more sedately and went over to get his coat. Instead of taking it, though, he grabbed my hand and pressed it firmly.

  ‘I can’t thank you enough. Not even sure why I came here except I had you on my mind, what with Will. You know. And I was just up the road. But I’m so glad I did!’

  ‘Glad to be of service,’ I said. His hand was a little sweaty.

  He let go, still beaming, and took his coat. ‘Okay then! Onwards and upwards.’

  I showed him out and then rested against the door. Gusto had padded out to join me and now cocked his head. I smiled at him, bemused. ‘Well, well, well. That was a little unexpected.’

  The article was already beginning to form in my head. It would have a catchy headline, like MACHINATIONS IN MAJIC. AFTER ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY YEARS, JUSTICE PREVAILS. I would start with the plaque and then peel back the layers, like an onion. All the ingredients were there: romance, mystery, duplicity, pathos, murder. The irony of the altered genealogy would provide the happy ending, of sorts. I already knew that this article was going to write itself. Which was exactly how I liked it.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I thought midlife was supposed to
be a time of rest. I wouldn’t even mind the invisibility thing if it meant I’d also get a break. Maybe some long-service leave from life. Instead I have elderly parents needing help, adult kids needing help, a partner needing help, and a teenager who curls into corners writing dark poetry. Give me invisibility any day. Or help.

  The plump man sitting at the table to our left had managed to squeeze himself into a Majic Happens T-shirt, which rather proved its point. He was sitting with friends who had just popped the cork on a bottle of champagne. Laughter ensued as the liquid frothed into flutes. Our table was more subdued. All my daughters were here except Ruby, who was manning Renaissance with Sharon, but Quinn was patently sulking while Matthew Carstairs sat between his new girlfriend and his old, looking uncomfortable, and Yen had barely said a word. The only person relatively upbeat was Petra, who was regaling everyone with the Discovery and managing to sound like she had been an integral part of the entire process.

  I had tuned out some time ago, instead busily rewriting different elements of the article just submitted, even though it was too late for alterations. This was fairly standard for me; I always had difficulty letting go of the larger pieces, especially when they resonated. My photographer had remained in town after our shoot and been gradually joined by a plethora of press. Most set up cameras on the outskirts but some, particularly those more concerned with the human-interest angle, were weaving their way through the crowd and thrusting microphones at random faces. They could clearly smell a story beyond public knowledge, but I was confident that we were in sole possession of the inside scoop.

  The reporters were not the only ones trawling for information. Among the townspeople, Will Akermann’s arrest remained the number-one topic of conversation. There was an array of versions, ranging from Will having been poised on an upper floor balcony and threatening suicide, to him having positioned himself fully armed in the tower, waiting for the town to wake up so that he could take pot-shots from above. I heard he had two machine guns and a grenade launcher, exclaimed a woman by the hotdog stand. Her companion nodded. Always had my doubts about him. Told the wife years ago. You mark my words, I said, that young fellow with the frilly collar is serial-killer material. Fortunately, in the midst of this flurry of rumour and supposition, the role that Deb and Petra and I had played in the events remained obscure.

  For all his rapid transformation from scion to pariah, and the unhappy irony that he was not here to enjoy it, Will had done a marvellous job with the arrangements. Sheridan House blazed with light, smouldering through the mullioned windows and glittering from the thousands of fairy lights draped from the gables. Floodlights also shone from poles that had been set up around the perimeter of the car park, holding sail-shaped tarpaulins in place. Beneath this temporary structure were the tables, each with a battery-operated candle centrepiece ready for when the evening became truly dark, in about an hour.

  We were flanked by Sheridan House on one side and the football oval on the other, crowded with fairground rides that were to remain there for the weekend. A Ferris wheel turned, carriages dipping politely, while nearby an octopus-shaped contraption whipped cages of screaming teenagers towards the ground and then away into the sky. Tinny music floated from loudspeakers, interspersed every so often with announcements about lost children and final tickets for the spinning jenny and admonitions about smoking on the oval.

  It was almost as noisy beneath the tarpaulins. Chatter rose and swelled into clouds of constant sound, buffeted by the music and punctuated by chairs scraping across concrete. Wicker picnic baskets were almost as popular as the curls of beef being sold from a spit that had been set up by an enterprising local farmer. It smelt divine. More food was available inside Sheridan House: Devonshire teas, cheese platters, hotdogs dripping with locally produced mustard. We had not yet eaten, although Petra and I were making serious inroads on the excellent bottle of white that she had brought. It was going down well.

  ‘D’you know what really pisses me off?’ asked Quinn, having clearly given up on silence.

  ‘I send you to school for a reason. Use proper English.’

  She raised an eyebrow, looking for a moment just like her father. ‘Actually, you’ve got no choice. It’s the law. So here’s what really annoys me. I was the one who started the discovery stuff. I found the plaque. Then you,’ she paused to let the emphasis settle, ‘you tell me I can’t use it for my project. So I have to do a stupid thing about his dog instead, which like five other people did as well.’

  ‘Well, it was –’

  ‘And then you go ahead and find out everything! So you get all the credit! When Mr Emerson said he’d make sure I’d get it! How is that fair?’

  ‘Well, he is dead, so maybe that’s his excuse. I also got a very sore neck.’ I tugged on my collar. ‘So perhaps you can look on that as my punishment.’

  She rolled her eyes and resumed her arms-crossed, sulky stance.

  ‘When are you going to get rid of that?’ asked Yen, making it sound as if the collar was a fashion accessory. ‘Are you going to be able to work on Monday?’

  ‘I’ve got a doctor’s appointment that morning so I’ll find out then. But it feels much better, thanks for asking. Oh, and I also have to meet a real estate guy at ten.’

  ‘Really? Well, we shall wait with bated breath to see if you can join us at some stage.’

  ‘So you’ve definitely decided to sell?’ asked Scarlet.

  ‘Not one hundred per cent.’ I sent Petra a brief frown to let her know I wasn’t ready to tell the girls about the shop idea yet. Not until I was sure it was feasible.

  Red turned to her sister and Matthew. ‘Hey, what are you two going to do when the baby comes? Like you’ll get leave, I suppose, so will you be moving in together? Where?’

  Matthew blushed rosily, as if it had been suggested they cohabitate on the footpath. In shades of what I thought might well be their future, Scarlet answered for them both. ‘We’re not sure yet. Depends on which of us gets a transfer.’

  ‘What about you, Luce? Do you even get maternity leave?’

  ‘Of course she does,’ replied Yen with a frown. ‘Why wouldn’t she?’

  Lucy nodded. ‘It’s all organised. Except I won’t need much time after, not like Scarlet.’

  An uneasy silence fell as everybody gazed out towards the crowd or busied themselves with possessions. I drained the rest of my glass and slid it across to Petra.

  ‘I don’t know why everyone’s acting so weird,’ commented Lucy. ‘I’m fine with my decision. You’re the ones who’re making it difficult.’

  I smiled ruefully. ‘I suppose we’re just trying to be sensitive.’

  ‘Well, don’t.’

  ‘You could always form a menagerie da trios with Tessa,’ said Quinn darkly.

  ‘A what?’

  ‘You know, one of those threesome things.’ Quinn frowned. ‘Why are you all looking at me? Haven’t you ever heard of it? It’s when three people, like, join up. God.’

  Petra bent towards the table, laughing. ‘You lot are better than TV.’

  ‘Way to put me off my food.’ Scarlet was grimacing. ‘Now I just feel sick.’

  ‘I’ve been feeling sick since yesterday,’ said Lucy. Beside her, Red was nodding slowly.

  I glanced over at a table to the side, where Darcy sat with Tessa and her parents, along with Deb, Lew and a few others I didn’t know. Tessa was wearing a voluminous and low-cut maternity smock, both aspects entirely unnecessary. I had already noticed, earlier, that the bodice contained darts that peaked stiffly about an inch from where her nipples should be, giving the impression she was either cold or on high alert. She looked ridiculous.

  ‘Well, I’m still starving,’ said Yen suddenly, pushing her chair back. ‘Time for food.’

  ‘Matt and I’ll stay here if the rest of you want to go,’ offered Scarlet.

  ‘Thanks, honey.’ I pulled on my hat and then extracted a twenty-dollar note from my purse, handing it to Quinn. She
mumbled something vaguely like gratitude and began typing rapidly into her mobile as she backed away. No doubt informing friends that she had been released from the clutches of family and now possessed money to boot.

  ‘Come on,’ said Petra, standing. We began weaving our way through the table settings and towards the community centre, stopping every so often to exchange greetings with people and add our shock to theirs regarding Will Akermann.

  ‘Have you seen Tessa’s nipples?’ I hissed at Petra as we made our escape from Rita Hurley, who entreated us to watch any medications we were on because she had it on good authority that it had been a bad batch that caused all the recent troubles. Beside her, Uncle Jim looked miserable enough to be in need of medication himself. Every so often he would cast a wistful glance towards Yen, who was on a parallel path to us.

  ‘No, can’t say I have. Nor do I really want to.’

  ‘They look ridiculous.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it.’ Petra stepped onto the kerb and we both paused to stare at the bulky, canvas-covered statue now positioned on the front lawn of Sheridan House. A plinth could be seen at the bottom, along with four limestone boots. Children were clambering up to peer beneath the canvas, giggling. Nearby was a temporary podium.

  ‘God, I hope those four feet don’t belong to Petar and James.’

  ‘I suppose it was a bit hard to fix on such short notice,’ Petra joined the line of people moving gradually towards the front door. ‘Hey, how did your interview at the police station go this afternoon?’

  I shrugged. ‘Just some questions about what Will said. Tying up loose ends, I suppose.’

  ‘Actually, I think they were after something specific. Like someone else being involved.’

  ‘Really?’ I took a few steps forward with her. ‘No, you’re reading too much into it.’

  She shook her head. ‘Think about it for a minute. Willy Akermann? Frilly Willy? What did he do, drape Ned Given over his shoulder and run down the stairs?’