by Sarah Bailey
I flip back the gauzy cloth covering the cakes and take them into the lounge room.
‘These look amazing!’ I say, trying to will the time along.
‘Oh, well. We’ll see. I like trying new recipes but I have been a little unlucky lately. Hopefully these are better than the jam tarts I took to mothers’ group last week!’
She bites into her cake and a few crumbs drop onto Olive. The baby scrunches up her tiny face in protest but Carol doesn’t notice.
‘Do you still see the others much?’ I ask.
‘Oh, sometimes.’ Carol’s voice is breezy-light for my benefit. ‘You know how it is, everyone is so busy with the kids but it’s always nice to catch up when we can.’
‘How’s Casey?’
‘She’s good, I think.’ Carol nods as if considering this. ‘Yes, she seems good.’
Casey’s husband suffered a stroke when their baby, Zoe, turned one. Billy now requires high-dependency care. The only place suitable near Smithson is an aged-care home about thirty minutes away. Casey visits him every day.
‘I mean, I think she cries every night—I know I would—but she seems to be getting better. Making it work. Zoe’s a joy.’
I wonder whether I would cry every night if Scott had a stroke. I can’t imagine it.
Carol shakes her head. ‘Anyway, did you know that Sasha is having another baby?’
‘That’s great.’
‘Yep, that makes everyone but you and Casey having two.’
I nod, thinking about the blood in the shower last Saturday morning. I clutch at my stomach involuntarily and then quickly drop my hand. Carol is too busy stroking the soft hair on Olive’s head in a slow half-circle to notice. A faint red rash peeks out from behind her tiny ear: the eczema. A thread pulls deep in my memory. I think I can remember my mum stroking my head like that and I shift on my chair and try to focus on eating the cake. My bones itch from all the sitting still.
‘You and Scott still only want the one?’ Carol says it indifferently but I know she wants the answer to be no. Everyone wants the answer to be no. One child never makes sense, apparently. Over the past year I’ve had a front-row seat to the instinctive desire people seem to have to right this wrong. Ben needs a sibling. I will regret only having one child in years to come. Scott deserves a football team. A daughter to dote on. I will enjoy motherhood more with two. It’s easier the second time around. I’m selfish.
‘Yes,’ I say firmly. ‘I think Ben is the perfect amount for me. For us.’
‘Well, it’s just lucky you both agree,’ Carol trills, looking lovingly at Olive.
‘Yep,’ I say, kicking a toy back towards Ben.
I shift my weight the way I always do when the conversation gets intimate. I don’t like having to justify my choices. I don’t like talking about Scott either. I never tell people much about our relationship. Especially not anyone from the mothers’ group, seeing as they barely know him anyway. It’s far too complicated to explain and is a conversation far better suited to have over wine than cake.
Carol pushes a finger into Olive’s mouth, disconnecting her from her breast with a loud pop. Olive blinks and seems somewhat put out. Carol holds her up to burp her, stopping when she gets the required sound. ‘Right, here you go, sweetheart. Some tummy time.’
Olive stares up at me like a helpless beetle. Her useless arms and legs flail at her sides. Ben and Jack look over and giggle at her. She smiles a big gummy smile back at them. I sigh, feeling like the whole world is conspiring against me.
‘I mean, one child must be sooo nice sometimes!’ Carol smiles at me and then pushes herself back against the couch, closing her eyes briefly. ‘The cake was good, wasn’t it?’
I nod.
‘Yes, I thought so too. Good, well, that’s another keeper. It will be perfect for Seth’s work picnic thing.’ She’s lost momentarily in a bubble of domestic to-do lists. ‘So …’ Abruptly, she leans forward, her eyes large. ‘How is the case going? I saw you on the news this week.’ She casts a guilty look at the children, as if they might be exposed to the darkness of my job if she talks about it.
‘It’s early days really. We’ve covered a lot of ground but there’s still a lot to do.’
‘Do you think you’ll find the guy?’ Carol is gripping the side of the couch now, wanting details. She has the same look that new officers get when they want bad things to happen so they can really feel like cops.
‘I hope so. But it’s a tricky one.’
‘What do you think though? Random psycho? Jealous boyfriend?’ Carol grabs a cushion and hugs it. ‘I heard that she was seeing one of the teachers. Maybe a married one? It all makes sense in a way. I mean, she was so beautiful.’
Carol is now looking dreamily at the floor as if romanticising the beauty of dying in some torrid love triangle.
My bones start to shift inside my skin. I have to move. I stand up and look around for my bag. ‘I need to head off, I’m afraid. I have to drop Ben home and get a few things done.’
‘Oh, that’s a shame. Work things?’ She straightens the plump aqua cushion and then smooths the lime one. She must put extra stuffing in them.
‘Yeah, work things. I have to interview someone.’ I gesture to Ben. ‘C’mon, sweetheart, let’s go.’
‘Wow,’ says Carol. ‘Well, good luck. We’ll just be here watching boring old Disney movies.’
Chapter Thirty-four
Saturday, 19 December, 12.05 pm
‘I thought the memorial yesterday was wonderful. Just lovely.’ Felicity Shooter gives an approving nod as she tips first one, then another teaspoon of sugar into her coffee. ‘Didn’t you think, darling? Just lovely.’
Troy Shooter nods. The past week has aged him a decade. He can feel the shock deep in his bones. He watches his wife sip at her latte. Some froth lingers on her mouth. He notices a hair shining on her upper lip and how her lipstick has bled beyond the curve of her mouth. She looks a little like Jacqui did when she used to play dress-ups.
‘Yes, yes,’ Felicity clucks like a chicken. ‘Very nice.’
She had woken up in a good mood this morning. ‘Let’s go to that new hotel, the one with the balcony across the front. Paula tells me it is divine. It’s been a hard couple of days—I think we deserve a treat.’
Troy shrugged. It had been a long time since his point of view had been worth voicing.
They drove across town in silence with the air-con blasting, the cool wind on his cheeks like a slap in contrast with the tight heat that was trapped in his suit jacket.
‘Lovely, lovely,’ Felicity said, looking around the sunny balcony as they were led to their table. ‘Look at that view. Magnificent!’
Troy cast his eyes out across the rolling valley, admiring the way the sky met the green and blurred, just like a watercolour. All of a sudden he felt like he might cry, so he quickly sat down and cleared his throat, frantically trying to land on a more positive emotion.
Now, fighting mild panic, Troy looks around at all the other diners. Large, red-faced men are furiously cutting steaks and a table of women in the corner are laughing hysterically as they drink glasses of translucent wine. Troy feels out of place. Who are all these happy, noisy diners? Smithson has changed so much over the past few years that it’s harder and harder to spot a familiar face.
‘It was nice seeing all your work friends again at the service. They are all very nice people. We should have them over sometime. I bet no one else would think to do that. Millie certainly wouldn’t host a dinner, would she? She’s very introverted. Even that young one with the funny hair was nice. It’s a dreadful colour but she seemed a nice girl. Very smart. John Nicholson doesn’t seem to be coping very well, though, does he? It’s written all over his face. But the flowers were beautiful, just lovely. I love roses. I prefer pink rather than red, obviously, but someone told me that she loved red roses, they were her favourite, so I suppose it makes sense.’
Troy looks at his wife. She is breathless from h
er chatter and breathing deeply. The opal necklace he gave her for their wedding anniversary last year shines at her throat. He thinks about Rosalind’s throat. The papers said she was strangled. And hit with a rock. He tries to picture Rosalind properly, remember what she looked like when she was at her desk in the staffroom or walking past him in the corridor, but the only thing he can summon is the photo of her that was on the memorial handout. It didn’t even look like her really: too much make-up and an odd little smile. It was as if someone who didn’t know her had chosen the photo.
He keeps thinking about walking into Nicholson’s office, finding Rosalind there—the angry flash of her eyes and the pained look on Nicholson’s face. The room felt small and Troy stumbled on his words.
‘It’s okay, Troy. Come in. We’re done,’ Nicholson said heavily.
Rosalind picked up a foot and brought it back down to the floor with force before firing another look at Nicholson and whirling out of the room. That moment felt like something that might be important, but Troy couldn’t for the life of him think what to do with it.
‘Probably a good thing that Christmas is coming. Gives everyone a chance to spend some time with their family and put this behind them.’ Felicity nods, clearly pleased with the neatness of the timing. ‘Yes. Hopefully this will be sorted very soon and everyone can move on.’ She looks at the menu, her eyes scanning the page. ‘I really need to get on top of Christmas lunch. I can’t believe it’s next week!’
Troy uncrosses and then recrosses his legs at the ankles. His left foot prickles with pins and needles. He’s been getting them a lot lately. In bed late at night when he is trying to sleep. That strange buzzing feeling that has him kicking out his legs and stretching his feet, trying to distract his own brain. Over here! Think about this! Or what about this! Football scores, words to a song, capital cities. The exact colour of Rosalind Ryan’s eyes.
‘Jacqui’s bringing a new boy for Christmas, did I tell you? Someone she met at uni. And of course you know that Sophie managed to convince Dave to get out of his family’s lunch so they’re both coming too. With the kids.’ Felicity clicks her tongue smugly as she waves the waitress over.
‘I’m not sure how much longer I’ll teach for.’ He didn’t mean to blurt it out like that, didn’t even quite realise that the thought was tickling around in his head, but as soon as the words are spoken, a sense of calm washes over him. He wants to fish. Go to the beach. Read the classics.
‘Troy! I mean, well. That’s just silly talk. You’re only fifty-six!’
‘That’s not young, Felicity. I’m tired. I’m tired of teaching. I think all this has made me realise just how tired.’
‘Of course this is all absolutely awful, but it’s a one-off. A terrible, horrible thing, but it’s got nothing to do with us.’
‘It’s changed everything.’
‘But why? You worked with her, I understand that. It’s obviously very hard, but …’ Felicity’s hands curl at the edges of the table, stretched white, her blood-red nails like talons. Her lips are pulled back, revealing her canine teeth. She is monstrous, terrifying, and then just as quickly her face is back to normal.
Troy blinks, wondering whether he’s losing his mind.
‘She was obviously mixed up in something. Something bad. Don’t let it ruin your life. Who knows what she was up to, a girl like that.’ Felicity slowly eases back in her chair and downs the last of her sparkling water. ‘Come on, Troy.’ The discussion is clearly over.
Troy forces himself to sit up straight. To focus. He shakes out his foot, which still buzzes as if someone is sawing at his bone. Felicity begins to work through the Christmas lunch plans. Dish by dish, ingredients are reeled off. Plans are made. There is a lot to do. Troy feels the buzzing move up his body all the way into his brain.
Chapter Thirty-five
Saturday, 19 December, 1.48 pm
I drop Ben back at home with Scott and then call Felix on my way to the shopping centre. He’s with the forensic finance guys, following up several RYAN employees and associates to see how deep the anger goes and whether any threats have been made against the company or George himself.
‘We haven’t turned up much,’ Felix tells me. ‘There’ve never been any serious threats made against the company. A bomb threat was made to George’s house years ago but it went nowhere; it was probably just kids.’
The sun skewers my eyes. I focus on the line on the road. ‘Okay, well, I guess I’ll speak to you later.’
‘Wait, wait,’ says Felix. ‘I’m warming up to my big discovery.’
‘What is it?’
‘You know how we were waiting on her bank accounts?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Well, aside from the standard stuff you’d expect, she has a term deposit account with a credit union and it has over one hundred thousand dollars in it.’
I think about my own measly savings account, which constantly hovers at around two thousand dollars. ‘Wow. What for?’
‘No idea. She puts about half her pay in every month, and has been doing that since she started working. It just stacks up, I guess. She’s never touched it. Not one withdrawal. She must have been saving up for something.’
‘Maybe,’ I say, thinking. ‘Or maybe she just doesn’t know what to do with it. I mean, she owns that place and her expenses must be pretty basic.’
‘Apart from the wine,’ Felix reminds me. ‘And the make-up.’
‘Yeah,’ I sigh. ‘Well, like we said, maybe they were her splurge things.’
‘Who knows. I think she was just really weird. But we’re going to dig further and see what else we can find. Maybe she was planning to leave?’
‘An escape fund,’ I wonder, trying to make sense of it.
‘Are you still going to speak to Maggie today?’ asks Felix.
‘Yep, I’m heading to the shopping centre now.’ We agreed that I will try to speak to Maggie outside of an arranged interview this time. I’m convinced she knows more than she is telling us and I want to catch her by surprise.
‘Great, I’ll be with these guys all day, I suspect, so I guess I’ll chat to you later.’ I think he’s already hung up when he says quietly, ‘Love you.’
‘Same,’ I say, my body stirring as I pull into the pre-Christmas chaos of the Ronson Shopping Centre car park.
‘Hi, Maggie.’
Maggie Archer blinks large mascara-coated eyes at me. Her smile is practised polite. ‘Oh yes. Hello.’ She is placing fresh packets of earrings onto little silver display hooks. Loud music pulses in my ears. Her nametag reads Emily.
‘Detective Woodstock,’ I say firmly.
Her face shows a flutter of frustration as she hangs the last few sets of jewellery. She pulls herself up tall. ‘What do you want to talk to me about?’ she says prissily.
Up close her hair is almost white. Two sections are pulled back from either side of her face and the rest spills down either side of her chest. She’s like a breath of summer. She looks just like Rosalind did in school, except that her eyes are a glass blue rather than velvet brown.
I dive straight in, ignoring her tone. ‘It’s nice of you guys to continue with the play. I’m sure Ms Ryan would have wanted that.’
She taps her foot lightly on the floor. Her eyes dart around the shop as if she is expecting someone to approach at any moment. Her toenails are painted neon pink and keep catching my attention out of the corner of my eye. I didn’t get my first pedicure until I was in my twenties, but these kids grew up on Sex and the City. I’m endlessly surprised at how early beauty routines start these days. An abuse victim I interviewed last month had some minor burns on her legs from waxing. She was nine.
Maggie keeps her eyes on the ground.
She’s working at a clothing store, which is in the middle of the shopping centre. Her sister works in the complex too. Half the kids from Smithson do, just like when I was at school. I did my fair share of burger flipping here and can still summon up the dank, greasy smell tha
t lingered on me for years, no matter how hard I scrubbed with Mango Tingle body wash.
A chattering pack of girls enters the store and Maggie looks at me pointedly.
‘Excuse me,’ she mutters and walks over to greet them.
I sweep my eyes across the clothes on offer. Piles of pale denim shorts with threads deliberately loose remind me of plants that have had their roots tickled just before being placed into the ground. Maggie sells one of the girls a belt and shows another one into the change rooms.
‘So, look …’ She struts back to me with new-found confidence. ‘I’m working. Can we talk another time?’
‘No, not really.’
Her stare wavers slightly, and she juts her tiny hip and gives me a slightly exasperated stare, as if our roles are reversed.
‘I’m working too, and finding out who killed your teacher is obviously a priority.’
‘O-kay. Well, what do you want to know?’
‘Let’s start with going over some of the basics again. No rehearsing this time. You were Juliet in the play, correct?’
‘Yeah, but it doesn’t strictly follow the original. There’s a fair bit of creative licence. I play the Juliet character but she’s called Jasmine.’
‘Did you audition?’
‘Of course. We all did.’
‘Rodney Mason auditioned?’
A cloud flashes over her face. ‘Yes. Like I said, we all did.’
‘So you must have been very happy to get the lead?’
‘Of course. But I worked very hard. Drama is my favourite subject. I’m hoping to get into NIDA next year. I have a small part in a play in Sydney in February and I was in a few commercials as a child.’ She shrugs. ‘It’s my thing.’
‘Congratulations.’
She scowls at me and gestures to a girl who is waiting at the till to purchase a skirt. ‘Hang on a tick.’
She slinks off and I watch her, all honey and light as she jokes with the customer, placing a free lipstick sample in the bag and commenting on her rings.