by Jennie Jones
‘Sorry to hear it.’
‘She’s driving Freda Frith around these days. Be careful with Mrs Frith.’
Everyone grinned.
‘What?’ He remembered Freda Frith. Liked a tot of the amber liquid, which she said made her feel younger of heart and spirit—and spirited, she was. Spent a fair amount of time asking for strip searches the last time he was here, but always with a smile on her face and a twinkle in her eye, as though she knew exactly what she was doing: having them all on and loving every second. She’d made Jack think that getting to retirement age might be fun.
‘She thinks she’s lost her licence,’ Luke said. ‘She hasn’t—quite—but I’ve advised her not to drive. She’s been getting a bit confused on occasions.’
‘Got it.’
‘You might get it,’ Jimmy said drily. ‘Word around the station is she knows you’re taking over Luke’s role and said she always liked the look of a man with—quote—strong arms and a big—’
‘Let’s not go there, Jimmy,’ Luke said, hand in the air.
‘Let’s not,’ Jack agreed, and put his mug down. ‘I’m off to do a reconnaissance of the town and get myself acquainted with people.’
‘And then you’ll be back at your desk going through your paperwork,’ Luke said with a sarcastic smile.
‘Lock up on your way out of my station,’ Jack suggested with a sardonic smile of his own, and left the front office, letting the door bang closed after him.
He inhaled the fresh, but humid and warm Sunday morning air as he made a decision on where to start.
The arrest wagon was gone from the verge, someone was out at Breakers across the road pulling the awnings over the top floor windows and people with businesses were unlocking and preparing to open. Probably best if he crossed the street and began with the pub, then he’d make his way down High Street and back up the other side, maybe popping into the café to say hi to Rosie. Nice young woman, although a bit of a shocker.
He pulled a frown as he thought of Frances. The kid was young and not fully grown into her body yet but she was a ringer for Jax. Except maybe around the mouth.
Luke hadn’t given him any further intel on the situation, but late last night when Rachel came to pick up Luke, he’d asked her quietly about Frances and how it all came about.
‘Not my story or my place to tell,’ Rachel had said, although she’d said it kindly and with an apologetic look in her eye. If she and Luke hadn’t been so defensive and close-mouthed about Jax he might not be so worried about her and why Frances had turned up, out of the blue.
He paused when two of the Agatha Girls got out of a car and rushed towards him, lilac and lavender scarves flapping, one of them looking like she was about to mow him down.
Mrs Freda Frith.
Jack took an automatic step back.
Mary McCovey put a restraining hand on Mrs Frith’s arm, and nearly tripped on the pavement when Mrs Frith shook it off and rushed towards Jack with long strides, her mauve-coloured jeans held up on her thin waist by a lime-green belt and her dangling earring hoops almost larger than her face.
She hadn’t been dressed this way a few months back. Back then, she’d looked like Mary and Amelia Arnold—respectable, smart, intelligent pensioner widows in neatly ironed blouses, flouncy or pleated skirts, and sensible shoes. Mrs Frith was currently wearing chunky, high-heeled sandals in a shade of eye-catching purple.
She barrelled into him, throwing her arms around his neck. ‘Grab me while you can,’ she pronounced with a laugh.
Jack stumbled back a couple of steps, blowing at her thin purple scarf which was stuck to the lower half of his face. ‘Nice to see you, Mrs Frith.’
‘Freda!’ Mary said, trotting up with an apprehensive expression. ‘Let him go!’
Jack struggled to remove her arms without hurting her. If the guys in the station were looking out the window he’d never live this down.
He managed to untangle her and held her away from him, his hands on her shoulders, which were so bony he wondered where all her strength came from.
‘Mrs Frith, have you been drinking?’
‘She’s had a few nips,’ Mary advised.
‘One an hour,’ Mrs Frith said. ‘Her and Amelia are weening me off it. Sorry bunch of killjoy old fuddy duddies.’ She sniffed her disparagement at Mary, then threw her long scarf over her shoulder. ‘Want to breathalyse me?’ she asked Jack, with a saucy gleam in her eye. ‘I’ll blow onto anything you offer.’
Jack tempered his slightly baffled amusement. He’d met all sorts over the years, but maybe none had made him want to smile as much as the Agatha Girls.
Mary, who was behind Mrs Frith, caught his eye. She sliced her hand across her throat in an obvious ‘cut the conversation’ manner.
Jack was happy to oblige and let Mrs Frith go, then stepped away. Give him a drug lord with a machine gun any day. ‘You’re both looking well, ladies.’ Mary was the same as she was last time he was here—short and pleasantly stout, dressed in a skirt and blouse, along with her scarf.
‘You too,’ Mrs Frith said, with a wink.
Jack couldn’t hold his smile any longer. She’d obviously had some sort of transition from the soft skirts and cardigans she used to wear, but even though she had to be in her early seventies, she looked great in her skinny jeans, her scarf and bangles. The Agatha Girls’ scarves were always some signature shade of purple or mauve. The cops at the station referred to it as their gang colours.
‘My, but don’t you look wonderful in your uniform,’ Mary said, with a burgeoning smile. ‘Thank you so much for coming to look after us all while Luke’s away. We’re going to feel safe knowing you’re with us.’
‘Thank you, Mary.’ Everyone in town called Mrs McCovey by her first name, and he felt he had the use of that familiarity too. The Agatha Girls were an odd bunch, but good-hearted and deserving of some respect. Even Freda, who appeared to be more on the brink of over-enthusiasm for life than she had been before. Or was it booze? Not that he could smell it on her.
‘So who’s driving?’ he asked, nodding at the burgundy-coloured sedan behind them.
‘She is,’ Freda pronounced. ‘I’m not supposed to drive anymore, but I sneak out now and again.’
‘She doesn’t,’ Mary told Jack with a slight shake of her head. ‘Both Amelia and I are with her at all times.’
‘Not when you’re asleep.’
‘I moved in with Freda when I came out of hospital,’ Mary informed Jack. ‘To keep an eye on her. Amelia moved in yesterday, at my insistence, after her shed was broken into and set on fire.’
Mrs Frith rolled her eyes at Jack. ‘I’ve got both of them on my back. It’s no fun. They’re in bed by 10 pm!’
‘So are you, Freda.’
‘That’s what you think. I’m the fun-loving one,’ Mrs Frith told Jack. ‘Mary’s the chauffeur—always four kilometres an hour under the speed limit—and Amelia’s the Miss Daisy type, with a broom handle stuck so far up her—’
‘I heard about the fire,’ Jack said quickly. ‘Must have been quite frightening for Mrs Arnold.’
‘Oh, Amelia’s not frightened of anything,’ Mary said, then paused a moment. ‘We’re working hard out at the museum,’ she said at last, possibly changing the subject. ‘Now that the safety renovations are finished.’
‘So you’re all sorted for the new opening out there?’ he asked, remembering the reports and notes about the town goings-on he’d read through last night. The museum was about twenty minutes out of town. It was housed in the original Mt Maria mine.
Mary tutted. ‘I don’t want to talk out of turn, and I would never mention names, but Mr Roper has been a troublesome old coot and is holding us back.’ She drew a breath. ‘His nephew is here and he’s hooked up with the Baxter boys, which Mr Roper isn’t happy about.’
‘Those older Baxter boys are going to cause you more trouble than I am,’ Mrs Frith said. ‘Keep your eye on them.’
‘What have
they done?’ Jack asked, drawing on those mental notes he’d taken, although nothing had been mentioned about the Baxters but Luke had said there was a file on his desk about Roper’s stolen goats.
‘I’m not blaming either the Roper boy or the Baxters,’ Mary said. ‘I haven’t even met the Roper boy.’
‘Theft and destructive artwork,’ Mrs Frith said. ‘Two of his goats stolen. Probably de-horned and curried by now.’
‘I doubt it was the Baxter boys, Freda,’ Mary said, ‘because they were working for Jax and wouldn’t have had time.’
‘It was definitely them,’ Mrs Frith responded. ‘They’re furious with Jax, and they’re annoyed with Amelia.’
‘Why?’ Jack asked.
‘Jax fired them, and Amelia tore a strip off them in town when she caught them pestering a young girl. Then her shed was destroyed. It’s obvious. I’d stake my life on it.’
‘Let’s hope nothing comes down to life or death,’ Jack said, as he took in all this information. ‘So Jax employed the older Baxter boys and then fired them?’
‘Probably because she didn’t want them around her daughter,’ Mary said.
‘Oh, yes!’ Mrs Frith said. ‘She’s got a daughter! Did you know? We didn’t. Nobody did.’
‘Jax is so good with animals,’ Mary said. ‘I wonder if her daughter is? Have you met her? Is she just like Jax?’
‘Or maybe like her father,’ Mrs Frith said. ‘Amelia said—’ She caught Mary’s warning glare and stuffed her hands into the pockets of her skinny jeans. ‘I’m never allowed to say anything. It’s not fair,’ she told Jack.
‘She’s a little bemused now and again,’ Mary said apologetically.
‘I’m nothing of the sort. You’re just an old woman with high blood pressure and you’re jealous of my zeal for life and men.’
Mary looked so distraught at not being able to control her friend that Jack felt he ought to save the situation. ‘I have met Jax’s daughter,’ he said. ‘Seems like a nice young woman.’
Mary sighed. ‘I do hope it all works out for the both of them—whatever it is,’ she added, and threw him a wide-eyed innocent smile.
Jack gave her a regular-cop-on-the-beat smile.
This is where the Agatha Girls got canny. He reckoned if they were to interrogate some felon they’d get the truth out of him sooner than a station full of detectives. But he wasn’t going to take Mary up on anything personal about Jax, or Frances’s father.
After a pause, Mary spoke again, tilting her head enquiringly. ‘How is Hercule?’
Jack racked his brain, and even with a sometimes picture-perfect memory, couldn’t come up with any resident with that name.
‘The bull,’ Mrs Frith said.
‘Oh, Tonto! He seems better, and content, as far as we can tell. He’s being shifted to Jax’s place.’
‘That’ll be nice for him,’ Mrs Frith said. ‘Better than the—’
‘Better than the police station exercise area,’ Mary said quickly.
Jack checked Mrs Frith, wondering what she might have been about to say.
She was peering at him, as though deep in thought. ‘Jack and Jax,’ she said after a few seconds. ‘I keep seeing you both walking up the hill to fetch a pail of water.’
‘Freda!’
‘It’s all right, Mary,’ Jack said, his smile warming his face again. ‘It does sound funny. Maybe I should call her Isabelle.’ Might as well test it out while he had the chance, and get people around town used to it.
‘What a beautiful name,’ Mary said dreamily. ‘I do hope there’s going to be a romance. We’re devoid of romance since Rachel took up with Luke.’
‘Apart from the knob,’ Mrs Frith said.
‘That’s hardly romance, Freda,’ Mary advised. ‘He’s an excitement-seeker.’
‘He’s a knob.’ Freda turned to Jack. ‘I suggest you keep an eye on him, since he’s under your command.’
‘Which one of us is the knob, Mrs Frith?’
‘Sergeant Lee. The tall one with a fondness for his hair. Men didn’t use products in my day. A number 2 at the barber’s once a month was all it took to make a man look like a man. Plus, he’s rude.’
‘When was he rude to you?’
‘Whenever he gets the chance,’ Mrs Frith said. ‘But if he thinks I want to blow on anything he’s got, he can think again.’
‘Freda, please!’
‘What happened?’ Jack said, a slight concern that Louie-boy was being a bit of a bully overshadowing the image Mrs Frith had put in his head.
‘We’re searching for possible Girl Guide camp areas,’ Mrs Frith said, ‘and on our way to the museum the other day, we were followed by two suspicious-looking men. When we reported it to Sergeant Lee, he said we were making up stories and told us to be on our way.’
‘I’ll look into it, Mrs Frith.’
‘So will Amelia. She said she wants to have a word with the Roper nephew. If she does, I’m going with her. Which means you are too, Mary, because you have to drive us due to Amelia’s stiff wrist.’
Jack was getting more intelligence here, on the street, than he’d got from his stack of files in the station last night, but one word struck a chord: involved. ‘I suggest you let the police handle it, ladies.’ He said it with a kindly suggestion in his tone and maybe a hint of blatant warning. ‘What’s Amelia—I mean Mrs Arnold—done to her wrist?’
‘Sprained it when she put the chain around the bull’s neck so we could lead it to the police station, plus the whatsit’s quite tricky to fire.’
Whatsit? ‘Would Mrs Arnold currently have anything in her handbag I might think constitutes a weapon?’ Jack asked, thinking back to the time when she’d carried a carjack handle with her.
‘She’s got—’
Mary put a restraining hand on Mrs Frith’s arm. ‘She’s got a Ruby Red Avon lipstick and the most gorgeous powder compact from the fifties. It was a present from her mother.’
‘She uses the mirror to light fires,’ Freda informed him, looking smug and knowledgeable.
‘We couldn’t get the pot belly stove in the museum to work,’ Mary said, ‘and we’d been there all day—ten hours washing renovation dust off our artefacts. We were dehydrated and desperate for a cup of tea. So Amelia—’
‘Used to do all that Girl Guide stuff to get out of her house,’ Mrs Frith interrupted. ‘Her father wasn’t very nice.’
‘So Amelia took charge and built an outdoor fire,’ Mary continued. ‘It was all properly done. A brick pit. Not even a chance of sparks flying and starting a bushfire because it was raining.’
‘How did she start the fire if it was raining?’ Jack asked, genuinely interested.
‘Amelia’s a marvel,’ Mary said. ‘She can do anything with a powder compact and a hacksaw.’
Jack peered at her. ‘She’s carrying a hacksaw in her handbag?’
‘Cattle prod.’
‘Oh, Freda!’ Mary said with a wide smile. ‘What an imagination you have.’
Jack smiled too, but what instinctively came to his mind was: She’s armed.
What concerned him most was, what were the Agatha Girls up to and how much trouble were they going to give him?
Five
Jax stopped when she got to the fenced dog paddock late in the afternoon, and ignored the yipping of the hungry dogs. She put the buckets of feed down and made her way cautiously along the fence line to the paddock at the side of the house, towards the rear.
Her heart was beating faster than it should. The fence had been mowed down.
This was the second issue in almost as many minutes. She’d found the door to the aviary open as soon as she’d stepped off the verandah.
Amazingly, none of the mallee fowl she’d rescued from a scrub fire a few weeks ago had got out. They were mostly ground dwellers but Jax had two trees in the large, walk-in aviary. The fowl were huddled on a limb now, up in the canopy. About the size of a chicken, they used their powerful feet to build huge egg-inc
ubating mounds on the ground—not that any of these darlings would be nesting this year although she’d built up the sandy floor so they could attempt it, but had known it was a futile gesture. There were only five too, so one of them was without its mate.
There were feathers scattered on the base of the aviary. More than usual. These birds had been scared. They rarely flew, unless disturbed or frightened or roosting at night.
She’d padlocked the aviary door and put the key on her key ring, which was already full with house keys, café keys, shelter keys and car keys. If she ever needed a weapon, she had one with her bulging key ring.
And by the looks of things around the fenced paddock where she’d intended to house the bull, she might be needing a weapon. She’d have to find a reason to stop Frances taking a walk around the gardens and the paddocks on her own. Not that she’d shown any interest in either the animals or the scenery since they got back from the café that morning.
Problem was, she’d have to report this destruction to Jack. No—she’d call Donna over, and she’d do it when Donna was off duty. She might be wrong about the older Baxter boys being on her property and being responsible for this damage, as well the dug-up telephone wires she’d found yesterday, and she didn’t want to offend their parents. They were hardworking farmers; it wasn’t their fault their eldest sons were bad, nor was it their fault their youngest son had almost gone the same way as his brothers. It was a good job Solomon Jones had taken Billy on at his stables. Although everybody still kept a watch on Badass Billy, as the eighteen-year-old referred to himself.
That made her think about the bull again. They’d chosen to keep it at her place because of the strength of the fence: thick, solid planks of wood with sturdy posts, almost as tall as Jax.
Now, she’d have to get the fence fixed. She could erect a simple enclosure with star pickets and white wire, but she couldn’t do this one on her own. She doubted she’d even be able to pick up one of the posts.
She’d see if Mr Bernardo’s son, the local handyman, could spare the time to re-erect the wooden fence tomorrow. But who had done this? Idiot young men out joyriding? Or the Baxters?