Good News, Bad News

by Maggie Groff

  ‘Why didn’t you marry?’ I asked.

  ‘He was already married and a Catholic and would never divorce his wife, but that wasn’t a problem. A casual situation suited both of us and we’ve been meeting once a week for the past thirty years.’

  Although a trifle amused by her revelation, I couldn’t help feeling shocked that, in order to camouflage her affair, Nemony had allowed Hermione to think she was unwell all these years. Deceiving her sister in such a way was unconscionable behaviour that, quite frankly, didn’t gel with the perception I’d formed of her character.

  On top of that it didn’t make sense. Nemony could have hidden her affair in other ways, and no one could maintain an appearance of depression for such a long time, particularly to another family member. There was, I decided, much more to this depression business than I was being told.

  I know, I know. I was in no position to take the moral high ground as I, too, was having an affair and hadn’t told my own sister—although I doubted I could maintain the deception for thirty years, and I certainly wouldn’t allow Harper to think I was suffering if I wasn’t.

  Registering my obvious consternation, Nemony must have felt the need for further explanation. ‘The secrecy of an affair adds to the excitement,’ she said. ‘It’s forbidden fruit.’

  I smiled benignly at her. For me the secrecy and deception of an affair were troubling and I couldn’t be further from excited about it if I tried. Mentally I counted to twenty, worried Nemony Longfellow’s supposed finely tuned intuition would pick up my thoughts and misread them as disapproval of her own situation.

  My disapproval, without doubt, was reserved wholly for myself.

  Chapter 22

  After I’d shown Nemony out I raced back upstairs to my study window and looked down at the street. Just as I’d thought, she was standing on the kerb outside Fandango’s lighting a cigarette. She took two quick drags and then thrust her head in the air and walked off.

  On the other side of the street I noticed a familiar figure looking in a shop window. It was the man in the corduroy jacket. This was a little too coincidental for my liking and I watched to see if he followed Nemony, but he thrust his hands in his pockets and ambled off in the other direction.

  Intrigued, I sped downstairs and out onto the footpath and walked in the direction he had taken, but there was no sign of him. I checked in a couple of shops but, like a phantom, he had disappeared.

  Returning home, I found Chairman Meow sitting in my office chair. I left him there while I made a notation of the corduroy man sighting on the whiteboard, and then scooted him onto the floor and looked up the number for Dansy, Barker and Howe, the Sydney solicitors who had handled good old Uncle Willard’s estate. This could probably have waited until Monday, but if I kept busy I didn’t have to think about Toby coming home tomorrow. I placed the call, hoping they were still in the office.

  A woman with a New Zealand accent answered the phone.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ I said brightly. ‘I’m a journalist researching a story about the Longfellow family. Miss Nemony Longfellow has given me the name Overton Siliphant and advised me he used to work for your firm and was an acquaintance of her uncle Willard Longfellow. I’m trying to get in touch with Mr Siliphant. Can you assist me?’

  I had no idea if Willard and Overton had been friends, but their names sounded like they ought to have been.

  ‘Could you spell the name please?’ the woman asked.

  After spelling Siliphant’s name I was put on hold and listened to Vivaldi’s Four Seasons until the woman picked up again.

  ‘Mr Siliphant retired from the firm over twenty-five years ago. The last we knew of him he had moved into a retirement village on the northern beaches. Unfortunately no one can recall the name of the facility. Apparently a man called here and asked about Mr Siliphant a couple of weeks back, and we couldn’t help him either.’

  What?

  ‘Do you know who it was that called?’ I tried not to sound concerned. ‘Was it another journalist?’

  ‘Hold on.’ I heard receding footsteps, then muffled conversation, then approaching footsteps. She picked up again. ‘Yes, he did say he was a journalist but the person who took the call doesn’t remember his name.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I’m sure I’ll track him down.’ And I meant Overton Siliphant and the mystery male journalist.

  As the boating accident that Dandy McCormack had covered had happened only eight days ago, and as Hermione had only seen the newspaper photograph since then, I didn’t think the other journo was McCormack, or anyone chasing the same story as me. Nevertheless, I made a new box on the whiteboard with the heading Mystery Journalist.

  There was a loud knock on my front door and, shadowed by Chairman Meow, I went down to investigate. Lyric from the florists was standing on my doorstep. He held out a large bunch of Australian native flowers.

  ‘For you, Scout,’ he said, grinning.

  I thanked him, closed the door and bounded upstairs, Chairman Meow in my wake. I tore open the card.

  Counting the days, Rx

  The flowers were spectacular: rich red banksias and waratahs, golden bottlebrush and dusky-green gum leaves. I momentarily basked in the warm and fuzzy glow of the much-cherished before guilt about Toby crept into the picture. Quickly, so as not to descend into emotional turmoil, I sent Rafe a text to say thank you, arranged the flowers in a glass vase and put them on my desk where I could see them while I worked.

  I spent some time searching the internet for references to Overton Siliphant but there was nothing, not even a helpful reference to a Mr Siliphant of Shady Pastures Retirement Home or some other ghastly named establishment. At least, I thought positively, I hadn’t found an obituary.

  To put my mind at rest, I called Hermione and asked if she or Nemony had contacted another journalist a couple of weeks ago. Big mistake. Offended by my suggestion, Hermione sternly informed me that they hadn’t done any such thing.

  ‘I was expecting you to inform me you had made progress,’ she said arrogantly, as though I were a staff member required to report in. ‘I’m very busy and don’t have time for talking on the telephone. I’m secretary of the North Coast Lavender Growers’ Cooperative and I have a newsletter to prepare.’

  ‘I’m not in your employ, Miss Longfellow,’ I reminded her, endeavouring to keep a defensive tone from my voice. ‘You are not my client, you are not paying me and I am not required to keep you abreast of my progress.’

  ‘That’s as may be,’ she responded tartly, ‘but you wouldn’t have a story if it wasn’t for me.’

  Her attitude surprised me and, rather than enter into debate, I asked quickly, ‘Do you know where Overton Siliphant lived in Sydney or which retirement village he moved to?’

  ‘Oh, for goodness sake,’ she huffed. ‘He lived near our childhood home in Mosman. I have no idea where he moved to. If there’s nothing else, I have to go.’ And then she put down the phone. No goodbye. Nothing.

  ‘You old gargoyle!’ I exclaimed. I was beginning to understand why Nemony hadn’t shared her true feelings with her eldest sister.

  Dismissing Hermione’s bad vibes, I searched for a list of aged-care facilities on Sydney’s northern beaches. If Siliphant had lived in Mosman, chances were that he hadn’t moved far from there.

  I started by calling homes close to the harbour and then worked my way north. My approach was upfront, declaring I was a journalist researching a Mr Willard Longfellow, and that I was looking for an acquaintance of his, a Mr Overton Siliphant, to help me fill in the blanks.

  I hit paydirt at a place called Chamomile Court on Sydney’s northern beaches. A cheery-sounding nurse informed me that Mr Siliphant was in his nineties, had all his faculties but was as deaf as a post and disliked wearing his hearing aid. I waited while she went to ask Mr Siliphant if he remembered Willard Longfellow, and if he would talk to me.

  ‘Yes, Mr Longfellow was an old friend of Mr Siliphant’s,’ she said eventu
ally. ‘He remembers him well and he’s happy to talk to you, but there’s no way you could have a serious discussion with him on the phone. You’ll have to visit in person.’

  I thanked her for her time, took note of the directions and the best time to visit, and then hung up.

  Sitting back in the chair I clasped my hands behind my head and closed my eyes. If I wanted to ask Siliphant if there was any way O’Leary could have known about Nemony’s inheritance before he married her, I was going to have to go down to Sydney and ask him face to face. Even if talking to him was futile, it wouldn’t be a wasted trip. I could also go to Bosuns Marine and have Geoff Shaw show me around, get a feel for yachts and a bit of an understanding about them, and I could also see my parents, my daughters and Rafe.

  It was a few moments before I registered how much I wanted to see Rafe.

  I missed him.

  A lot.

  At 6 pm I switched on the TV for the local news. Our GKI mission was the lead item and I hit the record button on the remote. ‘Vandals strike banks on Gold Coast’ was the dramatic lead-in, but when the newsreader came to expand on the report, her eyes were smiling.

  The program cut to another female reporter standing outside the bank that sported our yellow and black curtains, which were still in place but pulled back to allow access to the ATM. Some wag had hung a painting of Ned Kelly adjacent to the ATM. I laughed—it’s always pleasing when our artistic efforts are received in the spirit with which they were intended.

  A female bank manager was interviewed. She said that although it was disappointing a graffiti gang had targeted their business, there was no damage to their ATM or to the other bank’s machine. ‘Once we realised that,’ she said gaily, ‘the staff were highly amused and took photographs.’

  The next interview was with a police officer. He said that they had a good idea who the crafty folk were that had defaced the banks’ property, and they would be having a yarn with them. There had been an increase in this sort of activity, and they would not be giving the police the slip again and the culprits would be hunted down and stitched up. He kept a perfectly straight face, which was impressive. However, when the camera cut back to the newsroom the anchor was grinning from ear to ear.

  My phone rang. It was Sam. ‘Are you watching?’ he asked excitedly.

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Why was the cop talking funny?’

  ‘He was using knitting terms,’ I explained. ‘It was quite clever if you like that sort of humour.’

  ‘Oh, so we won’t be hunted down?’

  ‘Not a chance. They have better things to do. The painting was a nice touch, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yeah, wish I’d thought of it.’

  ‘I know, but it’s great that our idea inspired someone else to contribute. That’s part of the joy of it, to make others respond creatively.’

  ‘Jack thought the whole thing was brilliant. He’d die if he knew it was us.’

  And you’ll die if you tell him, I thought, but didn’t say.

  ‘How’s Harper?’ I asked.

  ‘Crying has now been replaced with vomiting.’

  ‘Is she home?’

  ‘Nope, shopping. I’ll get her to call you.’

  After we’d said goodbye I sent a text to all GKI members advising them we’d had great news coverage and to check the morning papers.

  That done, I wandered around the apartment and then went and looked at myself in the bathroom mirror. It was a toss-up which needed the most attention, my home or me. Usually when Toby was due home I filled the fridge with food and beer and launched into a frenzy of cleaning and personal beautification. This time I couldn’t be bothered, even though there was a possibility that Toby’s new best friends, Barney and the beautiful Sonya, might pop in.

  Cross with myself that I’d left it to the last minute to work out what I was going to do about Toby and Rafe, I lay on my bed and took mental stock of the situation.

  Firstly, I knew that if I wanted to stay sane and retain some semblance of self-respect, there was no way I could continue a relationship with both of them. Secondly, it was painfully obvious that I was going to have to tell Toby about Rafe before someone else in town beat me to it. And thirdly, and this was the real dilemma, I wasn’t at all sure which one of them I wanted to be with.

  Right now I wanted to be in Rafe’s arms; but on seeing Toby again, would I realise what a fool I’d been, and that I loved him beyond all others, and I had been a total idiot to risk everything? And would he forgive me?

  Jeepers, this was turning into Days of Our Lives.

  Chapter 23

  Having decided that I would confess all to Toby at the first opportune moment, I called a moratorium on my romantic woes and got ready for bed.

  My bedtime reading was all twenty pages of the coroner’s report on Mick O’Leary’s death. Chairman Meow had settled himself on the bed next to me. His head was resting on my leg, and he was purring gently.

  The report detailed the pre-inquest conference with Nemony, the evidence of wreckage from the yacht, the rescue services’ response to the mayday call and O’Leary’s good seamanship. While it was interesting reading, I wasn’t finding anything that lit a fuse until the statement that Lavender was a lawfully registered vessel leapt off the page. I hadn’t known yachts had to be registered and this was definitely worth following up.

  Under a subheading ‘Police Investigation’ the coroner had noted an Inspector Norman Smith of the New South Wales Police Department had reported to her that he had been satisfied no further enquiries could be made as to whether the missing person was alive or dead, and that the search had been thorough considering the prevailing conditions at the time.

  Had Smith, I wondered, been aware of O’Leary’s supposedly lost passport? Had he looked into the vessel registration? And had he, despite his report, had a gut feeling that something was amiss?

  I wanted to talk to Inspector Norman Smith, but he was most likely retired and wouldn’t be easy to find. I knew the NSW police wouldn’t give me Smith’s details, but Rafe might be able to track him down. Hopefully he lived in Sydney and I could talk to him when I was down there.

  I was just dropping off to sleep when Chairman Meow jumped off the bed. Then I heard my front door open and I sat bolt upright. There are so many people with keys to my apartment—Harper, my three eldest nephews, Toby, Miles, my daughters, my parents—that it could have been anybody. Even, I thought with some alarm, the corduroy man breaking in to find Nemony.

  Leaping out of bed, I grabbed the copy of Bleak House from my bedside cabinet, though heaven knows how I thought it would protect me from an intruder, and ran out of the bedroom and turned on the hall light.

  Harper was standing at the top of the stairs, cuddling Chairman Meow. Her overnight bag was on the floor, so I assumed she would be staying.

  ‘Sorry if I scared you,’ she said, giving me a peck on the cheek and then following me out to the kitchen. ‘I need to talk.’

  ‘Are Sam and Jack at home with Fergus?’

  She scowled, put the Chairman on the floor and sat down at the kitchen table. ‘Of course! What? You think I’d leave Fergus at home on his own?’

  Ignoring her pique I asked, ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘The morning sickness is awful. I’ve never had it before, so maybe this is a girl.’

  I smiled at her and then set about making tea.

  ‘You are going to have all the right tests, aren’t you?’ I said with concern. ‘I mean, you’re forty-six.’

  ‘Just so you know,’ Harper said sternly, ‘I don’t intend terminating this pregnancy unless there is something wrong with the baby. I’m healthy, I’ve already had four children, and I have enough money and support, with or without Andrew, to cope. And yes, I will be having every test known to woman.’

  I kissed the top of her head. This was a good sign and maybe I’d been worrying too much; although, with Harper, it is always best to pay attention to past expe
rience rather than current expectations. ‘Why did you come down so late?’

  ‘To ask if you know a private detective I could hire to follow Andrew. I need to know what the hell is going on.’

  Another good sign! I sat down opposite her, both pleased and relieved that she was working things through in a sensible manner. Maybe the baby was a girl!

  We both knew that Harper could have asked me this on the phone, and the real question had been would I follow Andrew and find out what was going on. Harper always worried that there was a risk, if she wasn’t facing me, that I wouldn’t grasp her true intention. Hence the visit.

  Pouring tea, I said primly, ‘Would madam be surprised if I told her that someone was already on the case?’ I waited for her to call me an interfering busybody, but she didn’t.

  ‘You’re kidding?’ she said pleasantly. ‘Have you found out anything yet?’

  ‘No, it’s not me, and I’m not kidding. We should know something in a few days.’

  ‘Who have you hired?’

  ‘An investigator I know.’ Harper would freak if she knew it was Daisy.

  ‘Well, let me know the costs,’ she said. ‘I’m good for it.’

  ‘There won’t be a fee.’

  ‘Another one of your quid pro quo deals?’

  I shrugged. ‘Something like that.’

  She smiled warmly at me, and then surprised me by switching topics and asking, ‘How are you going with the Longfellow case?’

  As I couldn’t remember how much I had already told her, my explanation went on for some time, although I left out the part about Nemony’s affair with the doc. We batted the possibilities back and forth for about ten minutes until we decided to call it a day.

  We were making up a bed for Harper in the twins’ room when she said, ‘Do you really think the yacht chandler would have taken a cheque for $80,000 and given O’Leary back about $40,000 in cash?’ She made a face to indicate she didn’t think that was a realistic notion.