by Maggie Groff
Chapter 11
At 4 pm Harper decided to go home. I packed fruit and vegetables from Daisy’s farm into a hessian bag for her, hiding the broad beans at the bottom. Hopefully it would make her laugh when she found them later.
We walked along Jonson Street to where I’d left her car in the station car park, and I breathed easier when it came into view. My car was also where I’d left it, thank goodness.
Harper hugged and thanked me and promised to call later. As she climbed into the driver’s seat I noticed she was still wearing my Calvin Klein jeans and white T-shirt, but I didn’t care. Half of my wardrobe was at her house, and half of hers was at my apartment.
On the way home I bought a box of chocolate truffles and called into Rainbow’s to pay the account. The salon was packed and the hypnotic rhythm of Ravel’s Bolero fought for air space with patchouli incense. Rainbow, dark-skinned and dainty with a waterfall of blue-black hair, was blow-drying a customer. Spotting me, she switched off the dryer and came over to the counter and we exchanged greetings.
As I’d expected, I hadn’t been charged for a pedicure, and I pointed out the omission to Rainbow.
‘Call it my contribution to the war effort,’ she insisted, and I wondered how much Harper had told her.
I handed over the chocolates. ‘You did brilliantly. Harper looked wonderful.’
‘I knew you’d do this,’ she said, looking longingly at the chocolates.
‘And I knew you’d undercut the bill,’ I told her.
Walking back to my apartment I mused on how fortunate I was to live in a community where residents knew their neighbours and local shopkeepers, and people looked out for each other. It was an uncommon scenario these days and I cherished it.
At home there was a phone message from Hermione Longfellow instructing me to meet Nemony in the garden at the hotel in Brunswick Heads tomorrow at 10 am. There was no consideration that I might be otherwise engaged and I dismissed her dictatorial manner as a characteristic I was going to have to put up with.
Unfortunately, I could think of only one reason why Nemony had agreed to meet me, and that was to reiterate her opinion that the man in the photograph was not her husband. I would, therefore, be looking for an indication that she was lying; otherwise there was no point wasting time pursuing other avenues.
Feeling the need for exercise, I pulled on sneakers and headed down the stairs, out the front door and through town in the direction of the ocean. Walking briskly, I passed shops full of trinkets and crystals, an art gallery, a reflexology clinic and a woman called Madame Ziska who was performing tarot readings on the footpath. There was a queue waiting to see her.
Heading south along Lawson Street I was walking parallel to the beach when a familiar figure strode across the road ahead of me.
‘Hey, Daisy,’ I called out.
She looked up, waved and headed towards me. We cheek-kissed and walked on together.
‘Did you find out what’s upsetting Harper?’ she asked.
‘It’s personal stuff.’
I so wanted to tell Daisy, but I knew I mustn’t. Maybe I’d drop a few clues and she could guess.
‘Her husband’s a doctor, isn’t he?’ Daisy remarked.
I nodded, raised my eyebrows and smiled all at the same time. Personally I thought they were terrific clues.
It took some time but she eventually said, ‘It’ll be a nurse then.’
I chuckled. ‘That’s the general consensus, though I believe there could be other explanations why Harper’s husband was seen with a young woman.’
‘Dave had an affair once,’ she said.
Shocked, I nearly fell over. Short, stocky, in need of a hip replacement Dave!
‘Good God, Daisy, I can’t believe it.’
‘He’s very charismatic you know,’ she said defensively.
‘I . . . I didn’t mean I don’t believe it that way. I meant I didn’t think he was that sort of man.’
Oh help! Beam me up, someone . . .
‘She was the creative writing tutor at his adult education class,’ Daisy went on. ‘The one with the prominent teeth.’
‘Miss Jabberwocky?’ I said, unable to hide my astonishment. ‘You’ve got to be kidding.’ Jabberwocky had earned her nickname from her propensity to talk gibberish. I didn’t know her real name.
Daisy grinned. ‘That’s why I wasn’t too worried. Anyway, I had enough on my plate with breast cancer and Ben messing around in that Adelaide cult. Dave and I were under a lot of strain. That’s probably why it happened.’
‘Did Dave tell you?’ I asked.
She shook her head. ‘When you’ve been together as long as Dave and I, some things are best left unsaid. At the time telling me would have heaped emotional pain onto my already considerable physical pain. You see, Scout, the guilty confessor holds the power to hurt the wronged.’
As we walked on I wondered if Daisy knew Rafe, and about my relationship with him, which was why I was receiving this convoluted lecture. I also wondered if she knew that, some afternoons, Dave changed out of his smart lawyer clothes and into a safari suit, donned aviator glasses and then drank mojitos in the garden at the Beach Hotel while writing the great Australian novel. Daisy, who prided herself on sending him off to work looking like a slick city lawyer, would go berserk if she knew about the safari suit.
‘And often,’ Daisy went on, ‘confessing and, as a consequence, hurting the wronged, absolves the confessor. Dave would have suspected that I already knew and, by not telling me, it balanced out the power to hurt a little.’
‘Good grief,’ I said. ‘You mean he suffered more guilt because he didn’t confess. That’s mighty complex psychology.’
She nodded. ‘I must say I enjoyed watching him agonise over it all. Of course if he did it again I’d kill him and they’d never find the bits.’
I laughed, but Daisy had given me food for thought. Some years ago, Toby had admitted to me that he’d had a fling with a doctor at an aid station in Somalia. He’d sold the story well, decorating his confession with bombs and famine and fear. The highlight, I remembered, had been his statement that, when life was uncertain, people turned to each other in need.
Although I’d forgiven him, I now recalled being furious that he had gained such relief at having confessed, that he had also admitted to an affair with a journalist in Angola. It was as though the act of telling me had assuaged his guilt. Just thinking about it made me angry, particularly as he’d kept bleating about how friggin’ attractive the women were, as if that meant it wasn’t his fault.
Was I about to do the same to Toby and lessen my own guilt by confessing?
A group of brisk walkers in high-tech sneakers overtook us on the footpath, their arms pumping and hips moving with mechanical precision. They looked like they had coconuts stuck up their bottoms and were trying to hold them in. Unable to resist the temptation, we emulated them until one of the walkers turned around and gave us the finger.
When we’d stopped laughing, I brought Daisy up to date on the Longfellow case and asked her if she had heard the rumour about Hermione and the kid on the skateboard.
‘He knocked her over and she damned him to hell, and then he got hit by a car,’ I said.
Daisy glanced across at me and frowned.
‘I expect you’d say thank you, would you, if a kid on a skateboard knocked you over?’ she said sarcastically. ‘The rest is total rubbish. The kid was wild and it was only a matter of time before someone collected him on his bike. Hermione was furious that the police interviewed her. She was at a Lavender Growers’ Cooperative meeting in Lismore on the day of the accident, and she wrote a stern letter to the Police Commissioner telling him so and vowing that she would have nothing more to do with the police.’
Hmmm. Yet another reason why Hermione Longfellow hadn’t gone to the police about O’Leary.
‘Miles told me that no one has seen Amelia in years.’
‘Don’t read anything into that. As I tol
d you, I’ve never seen either of the other two sisters.’
Try as I might, I couldn’t banish from my mind an image of a skeletal old woman in a rocking chair. As Miles had said, there’s no smoke without fire, and the investigator in me wanted to follow this up.
Suddenly a bronzed Adonis emerged from one of the pathways leading down to the beach and ran across in front of us. It was the man I’d seen earlier from my study window; the one I’d christened Dante. He of the red wine thingy.
‘Oh my goodness, did you see that?’ Daisy said, turning round to watch him.
‘What?’
‘That gorgeous man.’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Daisy,’ I said. ‘Act your age.’
She poked her tongue out at me and I screwed up my nose in response.
It was getting dark when we turned around and walked back towards town. Daisy had left her car in Middleton Street and we parted at the intersection. I kissed her goodbye and headed home.
In the glow from a path light along Lawson Street I noticed a small yellow teddy bear that had been left on a picnic table. It was well loved, with one ear chewed and a missing arm—the usual carnage. Somewhere a child would be fretting and a mother frantic. I’d been there, done that.
I toyed with the idea of leaving it there, but in the end Wonder Woman reigned supreme. I picked up the bear and detoured through town to the police station. With luck the mother would, in desperation, have rung the station while the father told her not to be so ridiculous, that no one in their right mind would take a crummy old teddy bear to a police station.
The queue for the tarot reader was dwindling and it was a pity I didn’t join it. Madame Ziska might have told me some helpful things about the unknown world of Mick O’Leary.
Yes, indeed, foresight is a wonderful thing.
Chapter 12
On the outside the police station at Byron Bay is an attractive cream-coloured wooden building nestled behind mature pine trees and a white picket fence. On the inside it’s the high-tech nerve centre of Northern Rivers crime fighting.
‘I’ve come to hand in a lost teddy bear,’ I said to Constable Sarah Walters, the tall, athletic-looking redhead behind the front desk.
Sarah held her finger to her lips to indicate I was to remain silent.
‘Hey Officer Dobbin,’ she called out. ‘You know that woman who rang you about a teddy bear her kid lost on the beach?’
‘Yeah, I should have charged her with wasting police time. What about it?’
‘Please call her back and inform her that someone has handed in a yellow teddy bear.’
There was silence during which Sarah and I enjoyed mischievous grins. Officer Dobbin strutted into the front office. Young, short and muscle-bound, with dark hair cut close to his head, he was the classic cocky upstart. He probably had a photo of Sylvester Stallone in his wallet.
‘Make sure the woman gives you a description,’ Sarah instructed. ‘She might be trying to steal someone else’s bear.’
Dobbin snatched up the bear, cast his eyes to heaven and left the room. Then Sarah came out and gave me a hug. Until recently she and I were the best doubles act at the local tennis club—well, B grade anyway. Last month Sarah had injured her wrist playing basketball and she was still on light duties. It would be a while before we were back on a tennis court.
‘How’s Rafe?’ she asked. As far as I knew, Sarah was the only one of Rafe’s colleagues who was aware of our relationship.
‘Good.’
‘We miss the big handsome lug.’
‘Me too,’ I admitted.
‘Toby will be home soon then?’ Sarah smacked her lips together and raised her eyebrows.
I nodded and made a nervous face.
‘Yeah, you’ve got a real problem there,’ she teased. ‘Two of the best-looking men I’ve ever seen and you have to decide on one of them.’
‘It’s not as much fun as you think,’ I told her.
‘Do you ever think about . . . you know . . . with both of them?’
I’ve known Sarah a long time, but I was still shocked by her suggestion. Honestly, the idea had never entered my head.
‘Of course,’ I said roguishly, ‘who wouldn’t?’
Officer Dobbin reappeared and stood, feet apart, thumbs hooked in his big, loaded, important leather belt. He cleared his throat. ‘It’s the lady’s bear all right,’ he informed us.
Stifling my amusement I glanced at Sarah.
‘Did you get a name?’
‘Mrs Deana Diamond.’
‘Strange name for a bear,’ Sarah remarked, and I had to look away.
‘That’s the woman’s name!’
‘Well, did you get the bear’s name?’
By now Sarah and I were laughing and the game was lost. Dobbin’s eyes narrowed. He clamped his mouth tightly shut and breathed in deeply.
‘Women!’ he huffed and marched off.
‘Doesn’t he just light up a room,’ Sarah muttered, shaking her head.
The phone rang and I left Sarah to answer it. It felt strange to be at the station without Rafe, and I sat on the outside steps for a while, just to feel close to him. I was missing him something awful.
To cheer myself up, on the way home I hired the movie Love Actually. The teenage girl behind the counter pointed out in a loud voice that I’d already hired it five times, so I may have to join another rental store. You know how people talk.
In the back lane I passed Mrs Delgado on her evening stroll and we nodded politely at each other. Mrs D is an eccentric old lady who wanders around Byron Bay in brightly coloured kaftans pulling a tartan trolley bag, which I suspect contains her worldly goods. Some time ago I’d seen Miles discreetly hand Mrs Delgado a takeaway container of food. I had come to learn that this was a daily ritual, though Miles and I never spoke of it. It said a lot, I thought, about the man.
Mrs D is not the only charity case on Miles’s books, although strictly speaking I work for my supper. I help out in Fandango’s once or twice a month as a kitchen hand or waiter. In exchange, Miles provides me with stupendous meals a few times a week. We call it my Frequent Fryer plan.
As I expected, Miles was sitting on my back steps smoking a Gauloise. Chairman Meow was sitting next to him, sneezing. Quickly, but not quickly enough, I pushed the DVD down the back of my jeans.
‘In need of Huge Grunt, are we?’ Miles commented dryly.
I blushed and picked up Chairman Meow as a distraction.
‘G and T?’ Miles offered.
I shook my head. ‘Thanks, but no. I’ve calls to make.’
‘Pasta primavera or lobster tail in port wine for madam’s dinner?’
‘Lobster tail, please,’ I said.
‘Mario’s made a fig torte. I’ll send up a piece to go with the movie.’
Mario is Miles’s pastry chef, and hearing his name he popped his head out of the kitchen door.
‘Just you?’ he asked.
‘Of course,’ I said primly. Good grief, did the whole town know about my menfolk?
Miles winked at me and I grinned sheepishly, thanked him for dinner and sprinted up the steps. Miss Goody Two Shoes.
I fed Chairman Meow, did the diabetic thing and then jumped in the shower. Fifteen minutes later I was wearing my pink silk pyjamas and talking on the phone to my nephew Max.
I told him the twins would be in touch with him and that they didn’t know what had happened, just that he needed a cheer-up. I assured Max that I would take care of his mother.
‘Come up and stay here if you need to be closer to home,’ I offered.
‘Thanks. I’ll let you know,’ Max said.
There was a knock at the back gate. It was Mario with room service.
‘I’ve got to go,’ I told Max. ‘Call me if you need to talk, okay?’
After thanking Mario I pushed Love Actually into the DVD player and placed the lobster tail and torte on the blue steamer trunk in front of the sofa. Chairman Meow hopped onto the sofa and I
settled next to him. The sofa felt strange, more lumpy than usual. I jumped up, ever alert to the possibility a reptile had crawled into my apartment.
Using the kitchen broom, I cautiously lifted the leather cushion and then burst out laughing. Underneath was a pile of broad bean pods. There was a note attached to one of the pods. It read, I only need two—one for each of his nostrils. Love Harps xx.
No matter how hard I tried, Harper always trumped me. Years of practice, I suppose.
About halfway through the movie, and after I’d finished eating, my thoughts turned to Rafe again. I pictured him, as I often did, emerging from the ocean, water droplets running down his strong, tanned body, damp dark curls glistening in the sunlight as he shook water from his head, his eyes darkened to the rich blue of lapis lazuli and full of mischievous promise.
Abandoning the movie I went into my bedroom and shut the door. Chairman Meow meowed loudly to be let in but I ignored him, lay on my bed, picked up the phone and called Rafe.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you so late, Officer Kelly,’ I said. ‘This is Miss Davis from Penthouse editorial department. I’m referring to an incident you described in your recent letter to our magazine.’
‘Is your hair loose?’ Rafe asked, his voice as thick as warm honey.
‘Uh-huh.’
‘What are you wearing?’
‘A policeman’s cap,’ I whispered, ‘and one of your shirts.’
‘Is the shirt undone?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘What else are you wearing?’
‘Absolutely nothing . . .’
Chapter 13
On Thursday morning it took me fifteen minutes to drive to Brunswick Heads, a small coastal holiday village to the north of Byron Bay. I hadn’t visited Bruns for a couple of years and nothing much had changed. Same old beautiful river, same old wide streets, same old tall trees.
I pulled into the parking lot opposite the Hotel Brunswick where I was to meet Hermione Longfellow’s sister. It was sunny with a cool onshore breeze and I’d dressed for the meeting in a conservative grey skirt and a crisp white shirt. I cleaned my sunglasses, grabbed my grey cotton cardigan from the back seat and headed over the road and up the steps into the hotel’s leafy riverfront beer garden.