by Morgana Best
I was a little on edge, so I made another coffee. The unpacked boxes that had arrived the previous day were piled high, and I figured it would take me a while to adjust to my new life in a small beachside town with a population of around two thousand. The week before, I had been living in a tiny apartment in a trendy, inner-city Melbourne suburb.
I sighed. So much had happened in that time. I had caught Thomas, who also happened to be my boss, with Alexis, a real estate agent he had promoted over me. Thomas had promptly sent me to run his real estate office in Southport, on the Gold Coast in Queensland. The very same day, I discovered I had inherited the house in which I now was, on the condition that I live with a room mate for one year.
I had bought the shoes as soon as I discovered all this. I don’t think anyone could blame me.
The room mate turned out to be Persnickle, a wombat who, as my familiar, enabled me to see and communicate with ghosts.
The house was in a small town on the ocean and was in a northern—and I mean northern—suburb of the Gold Coast. I sipped my coffee and counted myself lucky that I had a whole month off before I had to start work in Southport. If only my uncle had left me enough money to start my own business.
The house was a bit of mess, what with all the boxes stacked in every available corner, but it was mine. I had never owned a house before, and I had always loved the photos of the old Queenslander houses I had seen online. I just wasn’t so sure about the poisonous cane toads and the giant pythons that were said to live in this part of Queensland.
I looked at Persnickle again. Oleander had left me a huge printout of do’s and don’ts for the care of wombats. On the top, in capitals, it said that wombats sleep most of the day. That suited me fine. Although I wasn’t a people person, far preferring the company of animals, I was pleased that I had made a ready friend in Oleander. She and her close friend, Athanasius, lived at the nearby retirement home.
No sooner had I turned on the fan and the air-conditioning and leant back to rest my eyes, than my mobile phone woke me. I looked at the screen.
“Oleander! I was just thinking about you.” I hesitated, and then looked at the time. It was nine already? I must have been tired.
“Goldie,” she said urgently, “there’s been a death at the retirement home.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “It must be hard for you, but given that everyone there is around the age of one hundred, I assume it happens from time to time. Still, I’m sure it doesn’t make it any easier.” I had no idea of the right words to say on such an occasion.
“You don’t understand,” she began, but I interrupted her.
“I said the wrong thing, didn’t I?”
“You don’t understand,” she said again. “It was murder. And they think I did it.”
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About Morgana Best
Best selling Aussie author, Morgana Best, grew up leaving Tim Tams for the fairies at the bottom of her garden. Now she lives with a half-blind Chocolate Labrador who happily walks into doors, a rescue Dingo who steals zucchinis from the veggie patch, and a cat with no time for nonsense. A former college professor, Morgana enjoys big bowls of pasta, not working out, and visiting the local lighthouse, where she tries to spot the white humpback whale.
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www.morganabest.com