Then I saw something that made me start. Bent over a bunch of camera cases, face averted from the stage, was someone I knew.
Harvey? It couldn’t be!
I’d run some home ‘social skills’ classes when I was getting started in my paralanguage business; they kept me in petrol money while Hoshi taught me how to use my gift. I didn’t have many students but Harvey was one of them. Last time I’d seen him, Enid Bell, one of the other class members, had been riding his butt cheeks hard into the lino floor of my flat as if she was trying to win the Perth Cup.
I squinted at the figure by the camera cases. Maybe I was wrong. The lights were dim and his Coke-bottle glasses were missing . . . No. Harvey was . . . Come to think of it, Harvey had never told me what he did other than to say he worked for the government. I’d always assumed it was IT. Before I could decide whether to call out and wave, Juanita was back at the microphone again, telling the media it was time to wind up and that they should all take home a complimentary gift bag which would be given to them at the door. ‘Strictly one per person.’
Slim stood up and I hurried to his side to escort him from the stage to the cordoned-off area near the bar, where Brendan was waiting with another Paradise Punch.
Our trajectory took us past Harvey and as we got closer I waited for him to make eye contact. When he didn’t, I called softly, ‘Harvey?’
He stiffened but didn’t look up. Now I was close, I was sure it was him—dressed differently, hair bleached—but he didn’t seem at all keen on renewing my acquaintance.
‘Harvey, it’s Tara.’
He dropped his head lower and I was forced to keep moving. Once I had Slim ensconced safely on a bar stool with an umbrella and a strawberry on his glass, I had another look around for my former student.
Most of the reporters had either left or were milling near the freebie box by the door. Harvey had vanished and I didn’t know whether to be hurt or amused by his failure to acknowledge me; I’d certainly failed to impart any social skills.
‘Tara?’ said Stuart in my ear. He pulled me aside a little from Slim and the others. ‘That went well, I think. Other than the jerk from community radio.’
I grinned. ‘Bon sorted him.’
‘He’s terrifying,’ said Stuart. ‘I’m scared of him.’
‘Me too,’ I said.
‘Where did you meet him?’
‘On the plane.’
‘True? Well, lucky for me I guess.’
‘Hope so.’
‘Listen, how did you go with Andreas? Is it him?’
I took a breath. ‘Look, we need to talk about some things, but not here.’
‘Well, I’m taking Slim to dinner at Cha Cha Cha. He’s hankering for a steak. You want to come?’
‘Er, I’ve got a few things to do. Can we take a raincheck?’
Stuart looked relieved that I’d declined. ‘Sure. Sure. Stretching the budget anyway. The place is not cheap. I’ll be in the office at eight tomorrow morning. It’s walking distance from Inigo’s place. Come by and we’ll go over it all.’
‘Sounds good.’
‘The gig’s in two days. It has to go ahead.’
‘I got you. It will.’
‘Ta-ra!’ carolled Slim. He was giggling at something Brendan had said and was looking pretty relaxed now. I wish I could say the same for Bon. He looked so watchful that I felt guilty I wasn’t acting the same.
‘Yeah, Slim?’
‘You coming to eat meat with us, girlfriend?’
I shook my head. ‘No can do. Have to work.’
He pouted and tugged dejectedly on the lapel of his coat. ‘What you doing for dinner, homey?’ he asked Brendan suddenly. ‘You gonna come eat with us?’
I thought that Stuart might have a heart attack. The bartender, on the other hand, looked like he might faint.
‘Love to,’ he managed to gasp out. ‘B-but I’m working for another half hour.’
‘Your boss’d be happy for you to come with me.’ Slim turned to Paolo. ‘Ain’t that right, big man?’
Paolo hesitated and I saw his aura undulate like a snake around his huge frame for a second or two. Then he nodded. ‘You can go early, Brendan. I’ll lock up.’
Slim’s good humour returned almost instantly. ‘Let’s shake it then. A brother is hung-ry.’
The last of the reporters had gone, so Bon Ames and Paolo escorted us out.
We said goodbye out on the mall. Paolo re-entered his club and locked the door on us. Slim, Juanita, Stuart, Brendan and Bon disappeared off down the mall to the limo that was waiting for them in the taxi bay.
CHAPTER 13
I hung around until they were out of sight, then I rang Lloyd Honey. Lloyd was my first-ever client. I’d kinda sorted his love life for him and he seemed to think he owed me some type of debt. He owned an IT business that handled enormous amounts of information: I wasn’t sure exactly how, or who for, but he’d never failed me yet when I needed to know something.
‘Hello, Ms Sharp,’ he answered.
‘Tara!’ We did this dance every time we spoke. He tried to be polite and formal and I countered with something a little more friendly. ‘How are you, Lloyd?’
‘Extremely well. We just got back from an overseas holiday.’
He really did sound good; vibrant, in fact. This, for Lloyd, was outstanding. He was a nice man but he was never . . . vibrant.
‘You sound great!’
‘I’ve got some good news.’
‘Oh?’
‘I’m going to be a father.’
Well knock me down and pick me right on up again! ‘Oh, Lloyd, how wonderful!’ And it was. I just hoped his sexually wayward wife was feeling the same. ‘We should have a celebratory drink when I’m back in town.’
‘Indeed. That would be nice. Now, what can I do for you?’
‘I need to trace an identity. I have a first name and a photo. Is that enough?’
‘Are they Australian?’
‘Um . . . yeah.’ Jeez, could he track people from all over the world?
‘I’ll see what I can do. Can you give me some context Ms . . . Tara?’
‘His name is Harvey and he’d be in his late twenties.
He attended one of my home-run courses on Improving Your Communication Skills. He only gave his first name on the enrolment form. I haven’t seen him in months and he’s turned up in a place I didn’t expect to see him. Not only that but he pretended not to know me.’
‘And you think it might be relevant to the job you’re working on?’
‘Probably not, but I thought it was worth checking. Curiosity at worst.’
‘Hmmm. Did he tell you what he did?’
‘He said he was a public servant. I have a photo from when he did the class. I’ll send it straight through to you.’
‘It might take a few days but I’ll let you know what I unearth.’
‘Thank you, Lloyd. I really appreciate your help. And I’m truly thrilled for you—about the baby.’
‘As am I. Goodbye, Ms—goodbye, Tara.’
‘Bye.’
I hung up and searched through my photos until I found the one I was looking for: a group shot with Wal, Harvey, Enid and me. It was a tad blurry but I’d kept it as a reminder of my first-ever paying gig in my new business. I attached it to an email and sent it to Lloyd, then I stood for a moment and contemplated the idea of dear Lloyd and his narcissistic and promiscuous wife becoming parents. I guess the baby had half a chance at least. Better than many.
A group of teens dressed up for clubbing bumped past me and jogged me into real time. The mall was rocking out now, people everywhere, in the outdoor cafés, music blaring from Ric’s. It gave me the same holiday feeling as Cottesloe Beach in summer, except here the air was full of sweet, musky city air not sea salt and pine cones; pavement and potted palms instead of sand and salt scrub.
I consulted my Google map. It was no more than four blocks to Inigo’s place, so I crossed at the Brunswick Stre
et lights and left the mall behind. Restaurants and a gelati stand replaced the clubs and by the time I’d reached the last block before Inigo’s house, the pedestrian traffic had all but dropped off. The bakery was well and truly closed for the day and the little trattoria next to it had no patrons sitting at its outdoor tables.
I stepped into a pool of darkness between a row of new offices and a grand old converted home which had a sign advertising performing arts space. An alley ran down between them as if keeping the old building safe from the new. Two steps into the shadow, a hand fell on my shoulder.
I reacted immediately, twisting, ducking and punching. A slight ooph told me I’d hit my mark, but a second set of hands grabbed me around the waist from the other direction and a hand went over my mouth.
I scrabbled in my bag, searching for a weapon, and latched onto something slippery. With all my strength, I began whacking the guy in front of me with the barbecue duck.
He put up his hands to ward off the unexpected assault but the guy behind shoved me forward. The three of us went down in a sandwich, with me flailing the duck every which way.
‘What the fu—’ yelped the guy behind me. ‘Get hold of her!’ He had an American accent. Not a been-in-this-country-for-ten-years kind either. His was fresh-off-the-plane-my-luggage-got-lost-in-transit.
At the back of my mind, I was already wondering what an American (West Coast-sounding, from my vast knowledge of Los Angeles-based crime shows) visitor was doing assaulting me on the street.
‘Bitch has a weapon,’ said the guy underneath me. He was Australian. Queenslander for sure. They talked broader than the rest of the country.
‘Say what?’ said the other.
‘A fucking weapon. She’s hitting me with a fucking weapon.’ The guy underneath me wrapped his legs around both of us as he spoke, so I couldn’t wriggle away.
The one on top—the American’s—breath was sour on the side of my face and his spit wet my cheek. Oily hair draped over my face. ‘Listen up. Pack your bags and go home. And take that fucking bikie bastard with you.’
I opened my mouth to shout for help but he punched me in the jaw. My head exploded with pain, and with the agony came a wild surge of righteous fury.
Arsehole!
I bucked and writhed and began to fight in deadly earnest, clawing and slapping, and shoving duck where duck shouldn’t be shoved. Somehow, I managed to get enough space to knee the underneath guy in the groin.
He made a gargling noise. ‘Gaaaagh. You—fucking—crazy—bitch.’
‘Eyes up!’ hissed the American guy, and with that his weight lifted off me. The underneath guy rolled sideways, slamming me hard onto the pavement so that I ate concrete.
With that they were gone, running down into the strip of darkness between buildings.
‘Hey, are you alright?’ The voice came from across the road.
I rolled onto my butt and sat up. Two girls, dressed for clubbing, stood under a streetlight, staring across at me.
‘Fine.’ I wasn’t actually. Mad and shaken didn’t even begin to describe it.
‘You want us to call the cops? We saw those guys knock you down. Did they rob you?’
I swallowed to make some spit so I could talk more. ‘No, it’s fine. They didn’t get anything and I live in the next block.’
‘You sure? You look like you’re bleeding. I can call someone.’ The girl held up her phone.
They weren’t coming across the road to help me up and I didn’t blame them. I was still clutching a skinned duck.
Blood was trickling from my mouth and my palms stung like crazy from pavement burn, but I made the effort to get to my feet. With a reassuring wave, I limped towards Inigo’s house. The next time I looked back, they were walking in the other direction, talking excitedly.
Though Inigo’s was only in the next block, by the time I crossed the road and had her garden fence in sight, reaction set in. I was still mad as hell, but my body was starting to shiver and jerk.
I saw Inigo standing on the veranda, silhouetted by her front light. She looked taut and alert.
‘Inigo?’
She ran down the front path to the gate and hugged me. ‘Thank the heavens you’re alright.’
I stood unsteadily in her embrace.
She drew back. ‘They hurt you. Look at your face.
Come inside and I’ll get antiseptic.’
I followed meekly and let her push me into a kitchen chair. She prised the duck from my fingers and laid it gently, almost reverently, on the sink. Then she found a basin and poured in hot water and some foul-smelling black liquid.
‘Clean the worst of it here before you have a shower.’
As I soaked my hands in the liquid, she boiled the kettle and made me some tea with honey. I was relieved to see the plain old chamomile tea bag dangling out of it—no sign of white fungus.
‘H-how did you know?’ I asked. ‘You couldn’t see from here.’
‘The disturbance you’ve caused across my psychic sphere is great. I sense peaks of danger. One has just passed.’
‘What do you mean by disturbance?’
She flicked a dark batwing of hair from her eyes with her bony fingers and gave me a sardonic look. ‘Have I not explained this to you already?’
‘Kinda . . .’ Why was I even going there with her? She was nuttier than one of my mother’s drunken Christmas fruitcakes. ‘You told me you smelled things. Orange blossoms and salt and rubber and petrol.’
‘I’m a clairescent.’
I sipped the tea and felt the welcome rush of sweetness soaking up my shock. ‘I don’t know what that means.’
With a dramatic sigh, she perched on the seat opposite me. It was only a little kitchen table—three rickety chairs around its odd triangular shape.
‘My clairvoyant skills are attuned to scent,’ she explained.
‘You mean you’re a smelling psychic?’ It was impossible to keep the scepticism out of my voice.
‘You’re so naïve about your gift, Tara, that it hurts me here.’ Another dramatic gesture as she cupped her hands over her heart. ‘Clairvoyants read in different ways; some through touch, others through taste. Others simply know. They are the ones who create doubt. And, I’m sad to say, there are far too many charlatans around. True clair-cognisance is rare. My mother had the gift of clair-audience. It was impossible to lie to her. She heard everything in the way people spoke.’
I thought of Joanna and wondered if she, perhaps, had the same hidden talent. ‘So you smell the future?’
‘Goodness, no. You watch too much television. The things a clairvoyant sees might be meaningful to a person’s future or their past. But the reading itself comes from the present.’
I nodded, trying hard to open my mind to the possibility. I mean, hell, I saw auras around people! Who was to say Inigo couldn’t smell things? It seemed ridiculous but, under Inigo’s earnest scrutiny, I had to give her the benefit of the doubt, if only because it was rude not to.
‘What do those scents you talked about mean, though?’ I asked. ‘I don’t think that I’ve even smelled orange blossom before.’
‘The orange blossom is a sign of something or someone who is affecting your life. So is the rubber.’
I felt inside my handbag and got out my phone. Then I put the words orange blossom, salt, petrol and rubber into Google. All it came up with was some tyre sales and perfume sites. I tried again with the question ‘What smells like . . .’ and got the same answers.
I sipped some more tea and tried again. Wiki told me that orange blossoms were grown all over the world and that there was even an orange blossom festival right here in Australia.
I added salt to the search but it didn’t narrow it down at all. In frustration, I threw the phone down on the table and slumped in the chair. Inigo didn’t say a word but kept drinking her tea.
We sat in an uncomfortable silence until I had a thought. I picked up my phone again and rang Bok.
He sounded tired
but pleased to hear from me. ‘T? Where the hell are you? Smitts said something about Brisbane.’
Had I forgotten to tell my other best friend I was going out of town? My bad!
‘I’m on a job. It came up quickly and I’ve been flat out ever since I got here.’
‘Is that some kind of lame apology, Tara Sharp?’
‘I guess so.’ My jaw was starting to throb from the punch I took.
‘You realise you’ve left me here with a hysterical Smitts.’
‘It’s under control, Bok. I’ve got Mr Hara and Cass looking into it.’
‘Cass? You’ve got Cass lurking around Claremont in torn black stockings and purple lipstick? She’ll get arrested!’
‘She’ll be fine,’ I soothed. ‘Listen, I have a question for you. What’s the first thing that comes to mind when you think of orange blossoms, salt, petrol and rubber?’
‘I don’t know about petrol and rubber,’ he said. ‘But orange blossoms and salt mean California for me. Maybe that’s because I’ve been to the Orange Blossom Festival in Riverside.’
A little shiver ran through me. One of the thugs had been from the West Coast—I was sure of that.
‘Why?’ asked Bok.
‘Just the case I’m working on . . .’
‘Which you can’t tell me about,’ he finished.
‘Not much to tell at this stage.’
He sighed. ‘Well, get your arse home soon. One of your best friends needs you. Has Hoshi come up with anything?’
Bok knew Hoshi and Mrs Hara nearly as well as I did. In fact, he knew Mrs Hara better—she’d adopted him as her pet and regularly fed him delicious meals. I was lucky to be offered a glass of water.
‘Nothing confirmed,’ I hedged.
‘T?’
‘I can’t talk now,’ I said, glancing at Inigo. She hadn’t wavered in her stare.
‘Then call me when you can.’ Bok hung up still huffy with me.
I placed my phone gently on the kitchen table. ‘One of the men who threatened me earlier had an American accent. West Coast, I’m pretty sure. My friend says orange blossoms and salt remind him of California.’
‘The scents do not lie,’ Inigo said quietly.
It was such a ridiculous statement—‘The scents do not lie’—but I was too rattled to challenge her. I felt a deep strumming inside me that I was beginning to recognise as connections being made. Where they were leading, though, I had no idea. I had two potential suspects and an improbable link to California.
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