Good News, Bad News

by Maggie Groff

  ‘What is an aesthetics artiste anyway?’ she said over her shoulder.

  ‘A fancy name for a beautician.’

  ‘If I come out looking like a French burlesque dancer, there’ll be trouble,’ she warned.

  The idea made me smile. It wouldn’t be such a disaster if she did, although I’d never hear the end of it. It would, I thought, be quite rewarding to knock Andrew’s socks off.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I reassured her.

  I closed the gate and listened as she stomped down the back steps. Suddenly there was an almighty scream.

  ‘Where’s my bloody car?’ Harper bellowed.

  Rushing to the back gate, I opened it and yelled out to her that I’d moved it last night.

  ‘Well thanks for nothing,’ she shouted back, and swung her handbag viciously at the fence before marching off down the back lane.

  Poor Rainbow.

  After a quick shower I dressed in a black knee-length pencil skirt, a white tailored shirt with elbow-length sleeves, and dainty black shoes with a low heel. Then I brushed my hair to one side and fashioned a plait that fell forward of my left shoulder and ended just below my waist. Lately, I’d been alternating between right and left, and I still wasn’t sure which I preferred.

  I’ve been styling my hair in a side plait for years, and Rainbow has been clicking her scissors in my direction for the same amount of time. I had, however, recently allowed her to dye it back to its natural blonde after a brief period earlier in the year as a dark-haired girl. As Rafe says, it’s better when my collar and cuffs match.

  To complete the image I tied a black velvet bow at the end of the plait and applied russet-coloured lipstick. Miss Efficiency looked smart but understated.

  And fabulously professional.

  Chapter 8

  I had decided not to take notes during my meeting with Hermione Longfellow in case I missed any meaningful body language cues. Today, I would rely on memory and make notations later. I wouldn’t be taping the interview either, as I envisaged she would be too guarded if her words were recorded.

  Miss Longfellow arrived on the dot of eleven wearing a trailing black dress, black socks and black sandals. The felt hat, it appeared, was a staple. If she’d been in her twenties the outfit would have passed for trendy. Almost.

  Over one arm she carried a flat basket filled with broad bean pods, and as she moved the scent of lavender wafted in her wake.

  I showed her into the living room and we sat opposite each other, me on the lumpy leather sofa and Miss Longfellow primly upright on the Windsor chair, the partner to Chairman Meow’s seat in the study. The beans were on the floor and a tray of tea, which I’d prepared anticipating she’d be on time, rested between us on the blue steamer trunk. Chairman Meow sat dutifully next to me, his gooseberry-green eyes fixed on our guest.

  ‘An excellent cup of tea, Miss Davis,’ she said. ‘Russian Caravan is one of the better China teas.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Looking round at the three of us, I felt like I’d dropped in on the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party.

  She made no attempt to hide her scrutiny of my living room, examining the high ceilings and wooden floors, and then the room’s contents. Over the years my home has filled with an eclectic array of restored furniture, exotic fabrics, oriental rugs, large modern paintings, books and numerous palm trees in brass pots. I call the style Byron-Bohemian but it’s really more Gardener’s World meets Turkish Bazaar.

  Ignoring Chairman Meow, Miss Longfellow finally settled her gaze on me and nodded slowly, which I assumed was an indication that my abode had met with her approval.

  ‘Have you advised the police you believe O’Leary is alive?’ I asked.

  She sipped her tea. ‘No,’ she said dismissively.

  ‘May I ask why not?’

  ‘I have been told,’ she said, ‘that you are good at your job. If so, you will be considering why I would wish to perpetuate my sister’s agony and force her to suffer the indignity of learning that her one true love was a fraudster who abandoned her.’

  Intrigued that she had ignored my question but had answered the one I’d been about to ask, I said, ‘It has crossed my mind.’

  I didn’t believe that she had psychic powers, but just in case I thought how charming and attractive she was, and how intelligent.

  ‘You must understand,’ she explained, ‘that Nemony is devoted to O’Leary’s memory. My sister has never been able to reconcile her loss and has suffered a thirty-year lovesick depression. She has been under the care of a psychiatrist for the past thirty years.’

  ‘And you believe anger at having been duped to be a preferred emotion?’

  She looked surprised. ‘Of course! Anger will be immense but it will subside, allowing Nemony to . . . I believe the term is move on. At sixty she is relatively young. If I am able to demonstrate O’Leary was a miscreant then perhaps she will enjoy her remaining years.’

  ‘You haven’t answered my question,’ I reminded her.

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘Why haven’t you contacted the police?’

  Trying to daintily sip my tea I spilt some down my shirt. Hastily I put my hand to my throat to hide the stain.

  ‘I understand,’ she said curtly, ‘that if the man in the photograph is O’Leary and your story is published, then the authorities will be alerted. For myself, I would prefer the matter to be kept in-house. I am, however, aware this may not be an option.’

  I mused on her confusing response, which still didn’t answer my question. Although justice is occasionally served in ways other than the law courts, I didn’t think that would be the case here. If O’Leary was alive and had fraudulently claimed insurance, then the case would become a police matter. But not, I assured myself, before I’d had the scoop.

  ‘The purpose of my investigating,’ I explained, ‘is to write a story that I will sell to the media. Your sister’s private life may be exposed to unwelcome comment. And if I uncover crime I will hand my information over to the authorities.’

  Miss Longfellow nodded slowly. ‘It is a high price to pay, but my sisters and I are no strangers to such things. Gossip and innuendo about us has been prevalent for years. It will be nothing new.’

  ‘Nemony may be required to defend herself in court,’ I informed her.

  Miss Longfellow finished her tea and placed her cup and saucer on the blue steamer trunk.

  ‘I am aware of that probability,’ she answered in a tone that suggested she found my remark insulting.

  ‘It’s still not clear to me why you haven’t reported the matter to the authorities,’ I challenged.

  ‘You are pressing the point!’ The sudden fire in her eyes could have melted Antarctica.

  ‘I wish to know!’ I exclaimed, bravely holding her gaze. Chairman Meow, who hadn’t stopped looking at Miss Longfellow, stiffened and narrowed his eyes.

  ‘Miss Davis, it is quite simple,’ she said, obviously irritated. ‘I do not like the police. I do not like men who are able to abuse the power afforded them by a uniform. I do not like the military, or men of the cloth either.’

  Surprised at her response, I changed tack. ‘Do you wish to see O’Leary imprisoned?’

  ‘Not particularly,’ she said. ‘It is enough that Nemony will know the truth. Her doctor and I will help her to recover.’

  ‘You’ll have to speak to the police if they wish to interview you. So will Nemony,’ I warned.

  ‘We shall see,’ she said flatly.

  I looked at the time. There was still so much I needed to ask her, and I unleashed a barrage of questions.

  ‘With regard to Nemony’s $100,000 inheritance,’ I said, ‘was there any money left when she returned to your home? Did she and O’Leary buy any property? And are you certain the yacht wasn’t insured?’

  She folded her arms and frowned. ‘As I told you before, Nemony returned a penniless widow. O’Leary spent the bulk of her inheritance, about $80,000, on a yacht and frittered th
e rest away. I would have known if they had purchased property. And Nemony would have told me if the boat was insured. She was foolish with love, not money.’

  It appeared to me that she might have been foolish with both, but I didn’t say so.

  ‘Does Nemony know you have come to see me?’

  ‘Yes, and she knows why. I’m sure she wishes you to prove me wrong. Her anger is currently directed at me.’

  ‘I will need to talk to her,’ I advised. ‘Has she seen the photograph?’

  ‘Yes, and she is adamant that it is not O’Leary.’

  My spirits plummeted. This was the worst possible news.

  ‘But you say it is?’ I queried.

  ‘Love is blind.’ She leaned forward and fixed her eyes firmly on me. ‘If you had asked me how I knew the man in the photograph was O’Leary you wouldn’t look so crestfallen.’

  She was right, of course. In my quest to negotiate her complex manner I’d completely forgotten a pivotal question. I excused myself and went to collect the photograph from the study.

  When I returned she was rummaging in a dress pocket. Chairman Meow was watching her closely in case she stole a teacup. Eventually she extracted a folded piece of newspaper, smoothed it out and placed it on the steamer trunk next to the tea tray.

  Waving my copy, I indicated that I had already seen it.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, taking my copy and examining it. ‘Did you print this from a computer?’

  ‘Yes. Don’t you use a computer?’

  ‘No, I use a typewriter. I prefer instant printing.’

  I searched her face for a clue that she’d made a joke, but she was deadly serious.

  ‘So, which one is he?’ I said, sitting down again.

  Miss Longfellow placed a bony forefinger on the face of the older man who I’d thought vaguely handsome. I studied him again, but still didn’t see any glaring oddities. The only difference between him and the other men, other than age, was that he was wearing a grey beanie with a white feather on the front and they were wearing black caps.

  ‘He looks like an ordinary man wearing a beanie with a feather in it,’ I said.

  ‘It’s not a beanie and it’s not a feather,’ she said with some irritation. ‘Mick O’Leary had, or should I say has, poliosis. It is a condition that causes an anomaly of hair pigmentation. He has a section of hair in the front that is pure white. Thirty years ago the rest of his hair was black. It is now dark grey, but the white hair is still there, in the same place.’

  Examining the photograph again I realised she could be right.

  ‘I know that man is O’Leary,’ she insisted. ‘I have no doubt.’

  Feeling more confident that I might still have a case, I asked about the boating accident that had supposedly taken his life, but she was unable to furnish any more details than she had already given me. She did recall, however, that the accident had occurred in November 1983, which meant I could initiate an internet search.

  I had a strong feeling that O’Leary’s disappearance was worth some effort. If he had faked his death, then there could be a lot more tentacles to this story than had at first appeared. I looked at Chairman Meow for inspiration, but he was still staring rudely at Miss Longfellow.

  Using all my big words, I said to Miss Longfellow, ‘I will undertake preliminary investigations, and if I find substance to your hypothesis, I’ll proceed from there.’

  She listened attentively while I explained that I required both her and Nemony to sign waiver forms. It’s best to be up-front about these things, and I didn’t want to undertake work and then have either of them renege on a verbal agreement, or have their lawyer compromise my ability to sell the story to the media. Although unlikely, it was possible, and in order to protect my livelihood I cover all bases.

  This wasn’t my only consideration. If there was a serious criminal element to this case, and I suspected that there might be, then it was a whole different ball game. Once criminal charges have been laid, there are laws governing the release of certain information by the media.

  The regulations are based on the premise that everyone deserves a fair trial and inappropriate reporting of a case interferes with due process and could prejudice a future jury—although from the cavalier coverage of major cases in recent years, you’d never know there were rules. For a long time I’ve thought those in charge of enforcing the regulations needed to tighten the reins.

  As I didn’t wish to be the first journalist they clamped down on, I would play this one carefully, keep my cards close to my chest and ensure it was my scoop that precipitated any charges. I could already see the headline: FEMALE JOURNALIST CHARGED WITH CONTEMPT OF COURT. And I knew the bastards would include my age.

  I passed the relevant forms to Miss Longfellow and she glanced briefly at them before signing her name. Her signature was large and loopy, the kind one associates with artistic people, which surprised me. But then I was to learn she was full of surprises.

  I asked for her contact details and she provided me with a home phone number. Neither she nor her sisters used mobile phones, she informed me, and she refused to divulge her address. It was, she said, unnecessary for me to know her residential details.

  Our meeting over, we stood.

  ‘Thank you for agreeing to assist in this matter,’ Miss Longfellow said. She picked up the basket of beans and thrust it towards me. ‘My compliments, Miss Davis.’

  ‘Oh, broad beans,’ I gushed. ‘My absolute favourite.’

  Chapter 9

  I scolded Chairman Meow for the rude way he had stared at our guest and banished him to the back verandah. He was, I told him, to have a good think about his behaviour. Then I made a watercress and mayonnaise sandwich, poured a glass of milk and sat at the kitchen table to eat and think about Miss Longfellow.

  The lady was an unpleasant oddball, but a perceptive unpleasant oddball, and I didn’t believe by any stretch of the imagination that she possessed psychic powers. After all, she hadn’t picked up on my loathing for broad beans. Or had she?

  On the strength of my discussions with her, I found myself concurring with Daisy’s opinion that Hermione Longfellow was telling the truth. Also, she knew her teas, which was a point in her favour.

  On the downside was her insufferable arrogance. It would be difficult to like her, but then I didn’t have to. Besides, I was relishing the distraction. It was good to have an intriguing topic to take my mind off Toby’s imminent return and Harper’s domestic turmoil.

  Lunch over, I went to the study and switched on my computer, and then checked activity in the street below. An interstate coach was unloading a cargo of young backpackers. Like moths to a flame they congregated here during winter months, attracted by the warm weather, spectacular scenery and the alternative, edgy romance of Byron Bay. Watching them made me smile.

  I looked up poliosis on the internet and discovered that Miss Longfellow’s explanation had been spot on. The disturbing name was simply an absence of pigmentation in head hair, eyebrows or lashes.

  On the whiteboard I wrote Poliosis, drew a box around it, and then inside the box I made a note to ask Nemony if her husband had any other congenital anomalies. Then I rubbed out the word congenital in case a visitor thought I was referring to his gentleman’s parts. You can’t be too careful.

  I drew other boxes into which I wrote the headings: Hermione, Nemony, Amelia, Yacht Insurance, Life Insurance, Inheritance, O’Leary, Marriage, Immigration, O’Leary Accident 1983, Yacht Purchase, Recent Boat Accident on Reef.

  Each heading would require investigation. On the whole, I doubted O’Leary had staged an elaborate yachting accident and faked drowning without exacting financial gain. Unless he’d had criminal intent, I couldn’t think of any logical reason for such pretence. If he had simply wished to leave Nemony, he could have just sailed off into the sunset. And if wreckage of the yacht hadn’t been found, that was what I would have assumed he had done.

  Hmmm. But what if O’Leary was alive and
hadn’t committed any crimes? What if he had been knocked out in the accident, washed ashore unconscious and had suffered amnesia for thirty years? It was possible and therefore had to be considered, and ruled out at the earliest opportunity. If there wasn’t any crime, I wasn’t interested. And, of course, if the man in the photograph wasn’t O’Leary, there was no story at all.

  I typed November 1983 yacht accident Sydney Harbour into Google and up popped a gazillion websites of important things that had happened that month. Flo Bjelke-Peterson, the then Premier of Queensland’s wife, had baked pumpkin scones and taken them to miners at the Southern Cross Colliery. I remembered it well.

  Redefining the search, I played around with combinations of relevant words, and after a bit of digging I found what I was looking for.

  A severe thunderstorm with violent winds had battered Sydney Harbour and surrounds at 1900 hours on the day in question, causing damage estimated in the hundreds of thousands. Ferry services, flights, traffic and power supplies had been disrupted. Hailstones of up to thirteen centimetres in diameter were reported, as well as wind gusts of up to one hundred and fifty-six kilometres per hour. The sea swell had been up to eleven metres.

  One report stated that the harbour was like a giant bubbling pan with boats bobbing around like corks in a bathtub. Many small boats had capsized, and many others reported damage. Only one yacht was known to have gone missing off the coast following a mayday call, but poor light and horrendous conditions offshore meant that rescue vessels had been unable to be activated. An All Ships Mayday Relay Call had been put out. The missing yachtsman was believed to be in his thirties.

  An air and sea search had been launched at first light the following day, with aircraft flying in a Missing Man formation. The missing yachtsman had been identified as Mick O’Leary of Sydney. His wife was said to be distraught.

  Under the heading TRAGEDY AT SEA I learned that the search had been called off after forty-eight hours, with no sign of the missing yacht or yachtsman. Parts of the stricken yacht, identified by the yachtsman’s wife, had been washed up at Watsons Bay. No body had been recovered.