Good News, Bad News

by Maggie Groff

  It was late when I finally arrived back at my apartment in Byron Bay, weary and pleased to be home.

  The delivery of Jalapeno Lad to his adoptive parents had gone well, although I had fretted the whole flight that Peppy had been loaded onto the wrong plane and was on his way to Tokyo. This wasn’t an idle worry. I own suitcases that have travelled further than I have. Consequently, during the flight, I hadn’t even given a passing thought to the task of deciding what, if anything, to tell Nemony Longfellow.

  I had expected nothing less than a driveway lined with Scottish pipers to welcome Peppy to Yab Noryb, but Dave and Daisy had greeted us at their front door with serene looks and soft voices. Dave had then calmly led Peppy into the large farmhouse kitchen where a log fire was crackling in the hearth.

  Daisy had knelt down and gently patted Peppy, and cooed sweet nothings to him as she’d removed his lead and muzzle. He had then licked her hand and she’d looked up at me, smiling through tear-filled eyes.

  His name, Daisy had informed me, was an abbreviation of ‘pepper’, as in ‘jalapeno pepper’. I hadn’t made the connection. Some investigator, huh?

  It didn’t take long for Peppy to feel at home. By the time I’d eaten the chilli con carne Daisy had heated through for me, Peppy was curled up on the sofa in front of the fire, his head resting on Dave’s lap.

  Since Daisy had told me of Dave’s indiscretion with the creative writing tutor, I’d been seeing him in a new light. Actually, I was beginning to wish she hadn’t told me. When I looked at Dave, I couldn’t help picturing him and Jabberwocky in a passionate embrace, though I have to admit it wasn’t an easy image to conjure up. Dave’s slippers were a killer.

  Daisy had pressed me to stay the night, but I’d declined. Tempting as it had been to remain in the cosy embrace of the Fanshaw home, I had wanted them to have time alone to enjoy Peppy. I had things to do, I’d told them, first thing in the morning.

  The return to my apartment was bittersweet. Miles heard me climbing the steps to my back verandah and popped his head out of his kitchen door to say a welcoming hello. On top of that, when I opened the verandah gate, Chairman Meow jumped into my arms, rubbed his neck against my face and then licked me and purred like a generator.

  Feeling wanted and much loved, I went to the study and emailed everyone who needed to know that I was safely home. Then I turned off the computer in case I started checking messages. I’d done enough for one day.

  It wasn’t until I walked into the kitchen that my spirits fell. On the table were Toby’s front door key and a brief impersonal note advising me that he had taken his things.

  Toby had been a good friend as well as a lover, and the lone key was so final and I was so tired and Harper was so sad and Peppy was so lucky to have such a lovely new home that my emotions went haywire and I burst into tears.

  Naturally, I blamed diabetes.

  Chapter 37

  The phone woke me early Thursday morning. It was Harper.

  ‘Yo,’ I said.

  ‘Yo, yourself!’

  ‘And?’ I said sleepily, knowing Mum would have called her to discuss Rafe.

  ‘It’s all good,’ she assured me. ‘Mum and Dad thought he was wonderful.’

  ‘How’s the morning sickness?’ I asked, sitting up.

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Okay then, is Andrew home?’

  ‘No, and no comment. How’s my Max?’

  Briefly I outlined the evening at our parents’ and the conversation I’d had with Max.

  When I’d finished, Harper asked, ‘Do you want to hit the Gold Coast op shops on Saturday and then have lunch and see a movie?’ Obviously she didn’t want further discussion on her home situation.

  ‘Sure,’ I said.

  ‘Pick me up at ten,’ she ordered, and then hung up.

  Despite my underlying concern for her, I couldn’t help smiling. Hitting the op shops was always a highlight. Harper and I spend a couple of days each year cruising the better op shops on the coast. We allow an annual budget of two hundred dollars each and buy mostly second-hand designer clothes. It’s fun and this time we would have an added sense of purpose—snazzy maternity wear. I was already looking forward to it.

  Outside, it was another sun-blessed winter’s day in paradise. Nature beckoned and I shifted into high gear with my morning routine, fed Chairman Meow, pulled on sneakers and headed out the door.

  By the time Nemony Longfellow arrived for our morning tea I’d walked up to the Byron Bay lighthouse and back and knew exactly how much I was going to tell her.

  Nothing!

  At least, not until I had fitted together all the pieces of the puzzle. Then I would ask her if there were non-criminal issues she did not want exposed. No way was Nemony going to be my victim as well as Mick’s.

  My reasoning was based on the ideals of good old-fashioned journalism, which I like to think are more about speaking up for the weak and exposing the guilty than they are about profit margins at any cost. I did not intend the cost of my story to be Nemony Longfellow’s embarrassment, or a portrayal of her as a naive and vulnerable woman duped by a cunning Irishman.

  The victim of my story was to be Mick himself, and I intended the story to encompass his crimes. Nemony, I’d decided, was to be the heroine of the story, though just how I was going to manage this I hadn’t worked out yet, which was why I wouldn’t tell her anything until I had assembled the complete picture.

  After a two-hour walk it had made perfect sense to me.

  Nemony and I were sitting at my kitchen table and Chairman Meow was guarding the fridge. He had on his fake malachite collar, which enhanced his gooseberry-green eyes. Nemony, dressed in her usual black, had casually knotted a silk scarf of autumn leaves around her neck, which enhanced her hazel eyes. I was still wearing the jeans and T-shirt I’d worn on my walk, which had enhanced the veins on my forehead.

  As I’d feared, Nemony had brought pumpkin and lavender muffins. Fair’s fair in the experimental culinary stakes and I’d made a pot of Punkah Chi.

  Nemony took a sip and smiled. ‘Quite nice,’ she said, and offered me a muffin. We were being very regal and ignoring the strong smell of frying onions wafting up from Miles’s kitchen.

  Although I was anxious to examine Mick’s birth certificate, it’s always best to observe social niceties before knuckling down to business.

  ‘How unusual to mix an earthy vegetable with a delicate scented flower,’ I said, taking a modest bite of muffin.

  Nemony watched with interest as I chewed and attempted to look thoughtful. Bravely I swallowed and added nodding to my repertoire while I mentally counted to ten.

  So far so good. No projectile vomiting.

  ‘It’s an unusual taste, but not unpalatable,’ I said, ‘and the texture is light. I like it.’ Ever cautious, I prayed her intuitive radar didn’t detect the lie.

  ‘I’m so pleased,’ she said. ‘Hermione told me they tasted like soap!’

  ‘Really!’ I exclaimed, mimicking her surprised tone.

  ‘Hermione never says anything nice if there’s a chance to be horrid. Her self-righteous vitriol is insufferable. She’s a nightmare to live with.’

  Startled by her frankness, I asked, ‘Is that why Hermione believes you’re depressed? Because you respond negatively to her unpleasant manner?’

  She nodded. ‘You’re very perceptive.’

  ‘Not really,’ I told her. ‘It didn’t seem possible that you’d maintained an illusion of depression for such a long time. The simple answer is that you look and are unhappy at home. And it is unhappiness and not depression, isn’t it?’

  ‘Unhappiness, annoyance, anger, frustration, but not depression, no.’

  I felt sad for her and wondered how she related to her other sister, Amelia. One can’t choose one’s family, but one can distance oneself and move away. I was baffled that she hadn’t.

  ‘Have you tried talking to Hermione about it?’ I asked.

  Nemony picked up
a muffin and studied it, as if giving herself time to reflect. ‘I’ve tried many times,’ she said at length, ‘to explain to Hermione that her behaviour is difficult to live with, but it only makes things worse. She won’t hear what she doesn’t want to hear and has steadfastly refused to believe that my depression, as she calls it, is because of our relationship. Every so often guilt that she thinks I’m ill gets the better of me and I broach the subject again, but it always ends in a harrowing argument. Hermione has chosen to maintain that I am still depressed over Mick, and there is nothing I can do to change that. It’s an abhorrent situation, but I live with it.’

  ‘Why do you stay?’ I asked, genuinely intrigued.

  Immediately, her shoulders slumped and her face fell.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, alarmed by her reaction.

  She took a deep breath. ‘No, look, it’s okay,’ she said. ‘I should have told you before. I stay because I need to. I have to. My sister, Amelia, is . . . disabled. She had an accident thirty years ago, shortly after I’d moved home when Mick had disappeared. A tractor rolled on her. She has severe brain damage; can’t talk, can’t walk and is fed through a tube. Poor darling needs round-the-clock care. Hermione and I look after her.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said, realising this explained why no one had seen Amelia in years. The Anemone Sisters wouldn’t be the first family, or the last, to circle the wagons and guard their privacy when faced with illness or disability, although I couldn’t fathom why Nemony had previously told me that Amelia was away on business, rather than the truth. Why lie? After all, there is no shame in disability. It was an odd one, that was for sure, but at least I now understood the need and sense of duty that occasioned Nemony to live in an intolerable situation with Hermione, a sister she couldn’t abide.

  I understood it, but I didn’t condone it, mainly because I felt for Amelia, unable to escape from her two carers who were constantly at war. It would be hell, and an unnecessary hell.

  ‘Don’t you have any government assistance? Any respite care?’ I asked.

  Nemony shook her head. ‘We don’t need charity. We manage, thank you.’ Her somewhat strident delivery indicated she had found my questions slightly offensive.

  ‘It’s not charity, Nemony!’ I said a little too sharply and quickly softened my tone when I added, ‘The services are funded by the government.’

  ‘With respect,’ she said, ‘the services I looked into were run by a church. Our parents would turn in their graves if they knew we had accepted charity from a church.’

  Exercising diplomacy, I explained that many churches had established not-for-profit community care organisations and used government funds to provide professional support services that had nothing to do with religion.

  ‘The church just manages the money, employs the staff and takes a percentage to keep things running,’ I said. ‘It’s business, not charity.’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ Nemony said despondently.

  ‘What don’t I understand?’

  She leaned forward and I saw that her eyes were welling up. ‘You see,’ she said softly, ‘the accident was our fault. Hermione’s and mine.’ She wiped away falling tears with her hand. ‘It was raining heavily,’ she went on, ‘and Hermione and I were having a vicious argument over . . . over something. Amelia became distraught and stormed out and took off on the tractor. It slipped in the mud and tipped. She was pinned underneath.’

  I fetched the box of tissues and passed it to Nemony. It was guilt, I acknowledged sadly, that had been the reason for her lying to me that Amelia was away.

  ‘I’m sure you will be entitled to government help,’ I said kindly. ‘It will give you and Hermione a break. And be good for Amelia, too.’

  Nemony looked up at me through her tears. ‘I’ll try anything to make Amelia’s life more bearable,’ she said earnestly. ‘Thank you, Scout. I’ll look into it again.’

  I glanced at the kitchen clock. Time was marching on and I needed to refocus on the reason for our meeting.

  ‘I’m making headway on the investigation,’ I told her, ‘and would like to wait until I have confirmed a few more issues before explaining things to you. I’d prefer to present you with facts rather than suppositions.’

  She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I’ve waited thirty years,’ she said in a resigned tone. ‘I can wait a little longer.’

  ‘Have you brought the birth certificate?’ I asked, relieved that she hadn’t pressed me.

  ‘Yes, it’s in my bag. I’ll get it.’

  Her bag was by the kitchen door and she got up to fetch it. The second her back was turned I dropped the remains of my muffin into the milk jug that was on the table, and wouldn’t you know, the bastard floated.

  Oh help!

  ‘I’ll just put the milk back in the fridge,’ I said, quickly covering the jug with my hand until it was safely ensconced at the rear of the refrigerator.

  We both sat back down at the table and Nemony handed me the birth certificate.

  ‘Can I hang on to this and look at it later?’ I asked. Although I was eager to examine it, I didn’t want her to pick up on any reaction I might display.

  ‘No worries,’ she said, and then looking at the time added, ‘I’d better be going.’

  Before Nemony left I jotted down a number for her to ring to enquire about help for Amelia. She promised to ring, although I didn’t fancy her chances of getting the idea past Hermione. And I wasn’t looking forward to the phone call from Hermione when she discovered this had been my suggestion.

  I saw Nemony out by the front door and then raced back upstairs. I couldn’t wait to take a close look at Mick’s birth certificate and see if my suspicions had been right.

  Chapter 38

  When Mick was born, birth certificates issued in Northern Ireland had been completed by hand, as indeed had most others across the globe. It would have been impossible to detect any minor alteration on a photocopy, which was why I had asked to see the original.

  In excited anticipation, I sat down at the kitchen table and, using a magnifying glass, examined the handwriting on the sixty-year-old document.

  And there it was, so well done as to be practically unnoticeable, unless of course you were looking for it. Mick, or maybe Leila, had carefully added O’ in matching black ink in front of the name Leary.

  There had been ample space and the letters weren’t crowded, but the original writing was faded and marginally lighter in colour. It would require forensic testing to prove the forgery beyond doubt, but my eyes were good enough proof for me. With the stroke of a pen Michael Leary the child had become Michael O’Leary the man. It was the simplest form of forgery, particularly for an Irish person, and had, I was sure, been used many times by many crooks.

  In order to marry in New South Wales, you have to show proof of age. If you were born in Australia, you provide your full birth certificate, and if you were born overseas, either your foreign birth certificate or your passport. As the name on Nemony’s marriage certificate was Michael O’Leary, I now had confirmation that Mick had used this forged foreign birth certificate in order to marry Nemony. He hadn’t used his passport, as that, I knew from Gerry Dunfey, was in his real name, Michael Leary.

  I also knew from the paperwork given to me by Bill Shaw that Mick had used this forged birth certificate as identification to complete the yacht registration applications. No doubt he had also used it to open the joint bank account with Nemony.

  While there has always been a lot of official documentation required to replace a passport, it was, and still is, easy to replace a birth certificate. All Mick had to do was apply to the General Register Office in Belfast for an officially certified copy of his original birth certificate to replace the one he had altered.

  I imagine he left the forged one behind to throw the hounds off his trail. Norman Smith’s detective chief inspector had thought the lack of insurance was an indicator there had been no foul play. The left-behind birth certificate wou
ld also have supported this theory. However, Mick had obviously never considered it would be scrutinised by Miss Nosey Parker Davis.

  Whether Mick had ever genuinely lost or reported his passport missing was now irrelevant and had almost certainly been a smokescreen to avoid Nemony seeing it.

  As I was washing up the morning tea dishes, I formulated a mental list of Mick’s crimes. His tally to date was impressive. So far I had him on bigamy (if he hadn’t divorced Leila before marrying Nemony, and I seriously doubted that he had), forgery (falsifying his birth certificate, which is a legal document), fraud and theft (obtaining monies from Nemony by deception), and making a false representation of death that initiated a police investigation. It wasn’t illegal to run away and disappear, but it was if you pretended to be dead and took someone else’s money or property with you.

  I still didn’t know if Mick, via Leila, had claimed any life insurance money, but I doubted it as the death certificate, which would have been needed to make a claim, had been in the name of O’Leary.

  Another matter that remained unknown was whether Mick had, in 1983, taken out another yacht insurance in his real name and made a claim for the destroyed yacht (if it really was destroyed) on that policy.

  Anything was possible. Michael Leary was a con man and a heartless villain and I was certain that he would do anything to protect his and Leila’s freedom. It was time, as they say, to start observing caution.

  Chairman Meow followed me to the study and sat on his Windsor chair and watched me while I updated the whiteboard from the notes I’d made in Sydney. He had been giving me odd looks since I’d arrived home last night, and I wasn’t sure if it was because I had been away, or if he could smell Peppy’s scent on me. Sometimes it’s difficult to analyse cats.

  Updating the whiteboard took over an hour, a Swiss cheese sandwich and another pot of tea, this time Orange Pekoe. When I’d finished all of the above I sat in my swivel chair and, conscious of not adopting my usual habit of heading off into fantasyland by staring out of the window, spun around to face the whiteboard.