Georgie flicked over the pages of the album.
She imagined Susan clipping each piece. She pictured wrinkled hands, perhaps with the odd liver spot and slight tremble, as they aligned the entries under the album's plastic sleeves and smoothed out air bubbles.
Did she talk to her dead husband as she documented another fragment of their life?
Was it a therapeutic or torturous pastime?
Georgie found where she'd left off and continued. Unlike the earlier pages, the cuttings in this section hadn't yellowed. Their sources ranged from the Advocate - the local newspaper - to the Melbourne dailies.
Georgie noted that the first article dated back six days short of five years. Handwritten in the margin was 'Herald Sun. Monday 19th March'.
MAN MISSING AFTER FARM FIRE
Respected farmer and local personality Roland Pentecoste, aged 58, is missing after a suspicious fire engulfed his property on the outskirts of Hepburn last night.
His wife, Susan Pentecoste, aged 54, was airlifted to Alfred Hospital in Melbourne, suffering serious burns and smoke inhalation.
She remains comatose and in a critical condition.
Police and emergency services were called to the scene in central Victoria at around one o'clock this morning.
Crews struggled to control the blaze, believed to have started in the hay shed, with their efforts hampered by strong winds and perilously dry conditions.
Police have been unable to locate Mr Pentecoste; however, when arson squad detectives and chemists arrive at the scene later today, they will significantly extend the search.
A Country Fire Authority spokesperson stated that the incident is being treated as suspicious and a crime scene has been declared.
The inferno destroyed several outbuildings, along with vehicles and machinery.
The property's residence, its crops and livestock, all escaped major damage despite intense wind shifts.
Five CFA trucks, twenty-eight fire fighters and other volunteers from the townships of Daylesford and Hepburn Springs attended the scene, many of them friends and associates of Mr and Mrs Pentecoste, who are long-standing members of the small rural community.
'Bloody hell!' Georgie was gobsmacked. She reread the article, as she recollected snippets of Ruby's voice; and grew increasingly horrified.
'Not even after the fire,' she'd said. Then, 'She's lived there alone since she lost Roly.' Her friend's dramatic breath, before saying, 'You know, it really was such a -'
And when Georgie took the Daylesford turnoff, Ruby had tried to tell her something about Roly too but she'd missed the significance each time, with each interruption, and now she couldn't ask her friend about it.
But the successive headlines were a story in themselves:
WIFE REMAINS IN COMA
Man's body not recovered
MISSING HUSBAND NOT ARSONIST
Exclusive with wife: 'Roly did not try to kill me'
ROLAND PENTECOSTE STILL MISSING
Police have no leads
COMMUNITY DIVIDED OVER ABERGELDIE INCIDENT
TOWN MEMORIAL: ANNIVERSARY OF ROLAND PENTECOSTE'S DISAPPEARANCE
REWARD FOR MISSING BODY MYSTERY
WHERE IS ROLAND PENTECOSTE?
Three years on
This one had Matty's byline!
LET ME BURY MY HUSBAND
Wife pleads for information
Georgie's fatigue had vanished. But tension coiled her muscles. She jolted when her mobile rang. She jumped to numb feet, and reached for her handbag. Her hands shook when she saw an unfamiliar number and feared the worst for Ruby.
Wrong number.
Georgie blew out a breath and flicked the mobile to silent but vibrating, sorely tempted to take the landline off its hook. But she couldn't in case Michael called. She picked up the album.
Much later, she pushed it aside and gazed into the middle distance. The lines above her nose deepened.
Letters from Jack alluded to danger associated with 'what happened to Roly' and a potential lovelorn stalker situation.
And a series of articles featured AWOL Roly and his wife's near death.
How did these explain Susan's movements?
The apprehension that had washed over Georgie at the Farmers Arms two days ago struck again. And with it came a stab of guilt which made her gasp. She'd initially dodged Ruby's call to find Susan and then treated her as an annoyance.
It was partly her fault that her big-hearted neighbour lay in ICU.
Franklin pulled a photocopied page from his jeans pocket. He stared, laughed quietly.
Amazing what a ceasefire with the kid does for my attitude.
Maybe he didn't have all life's answers worked out yet but he knew this case was under his skin. And while one part of him dutifully hoped it wouldn't spiral from sick notes into violence, the other wished it wouldn't fizzle out.
He processed what he knew so far.
'Solomon' was the author of poison-pen letters targeted at two young mothers. Was Solomon the writer's real name or pseudonym? Surely, it had to be the second.
The women became friends after the birth of their children, on the same day, at the same hospital, four weeks ago. Was Ballarat Base Hospital the link?
Apart from the timing and location of the births, the Daylesford women were both unmarried, which formed another common denominator. Yet, Tayla lived with her parents; Lauren with her long-term de facto.
Franklin reread Tayla's letter for the umpteenth time.
Your illegitimate child has been Born outside the sanctity of marriage and against the Values of our society. Only virtuous women deserve children. The Bible says the LORD hates the ways of evil people. You and your bastard walk the Road of Death unless you beg His forgiveness and atone for your sins.
Solomon
The words were an island on the A4 sheet, large margins its sea. The irregular capitals screamed judgmentally. Everything about the letter seemed deliberate - from the precise word spacing and calligraphic script, to the single underline below the signature - and totally wacko.
What did Solomon imply about walking the road of death?
Interlude
She had numerous acquaintances and a select group of good friends. They were those who stood by her no matter what, who even after a long interval picked up right where they'd left off, and who corresponded for years before meeting again only to nearly fall over backwards because their friend had changed. They'd grown old, lost their hair or developed a pot belly - or in her case, become more weather-beaten on top of the scars. Nonetheless, they were the same people under the skin and on paper; just the outer wrapping altered.
All that aside, she was pleased to have made a new friend. They'd met a few days ago but instantly connected, perhaps because they were very different, yet also alike in many ways. She longed to see her again and felt infused with a vigour that had been lacking in a while, along with less pain in her chest. Now, when she held her hands on a horizontal plane, they barely trembled.
She dropped her hands and looked into the horizon. Her lips puckered.
There was an era when she wouldn't have questioned her impression of a person. She would have trusted her instincts and believed the goodness in the smiling eyes and kind words.
But she was a different woman these days.
PART TWO
'Look for the truth; it wants to be found.'
Blaise Pascal
CHAPTER 4
Monday 15 March
Georgie lay with her hands behind her head. A smile unfurled, then dropped. She chewed her bottom lip.
Fear for Ruby, curiosity about Roly, connection with Susan; these had merged into a primal need for comfort and the most basic comfort of sex. Indeed, amazing sex. Did that make her amoral? Did it matter?
Her hands slid under the doona and over her body, reviving the night before.
The front door banged. She met him in the hallway. An aura of cold air clung to his clothes and hair, along w
ith tinges of beer and aftershave. He wound his footy scarf around her nape, drew her close. They melted into each other and kissed, their tongues probing. He pushed her against the wall, pinned her arms wide. Intense hazel eyes stripped her naked. Her hot nipples stood erect. Their breaths were ragged. Impatient fingers tore off clothing that dropped to the floor. His sweater, her black turtleneck, his blue jeans entangled with her moleskins. His sleeveless grey t-shirt pulled against his chest and hard biceps. As his fingers traced her belly, his cold bracelet shocked her skin. Her breasts swelled inside the lacy black bra. She almost came when his lips trapped a nipple; he nipped and teased. He lifted her by the arse so she straddled his hips. As her legs circled his back, he thrust inside. Like a first liaison, the sex was hard and fast and virtually wordless, though far from quiet. They moved instinctively. It was animal, orgasmic, perfect.
She moaned.
'Was it as good for you as it was for me?' AJ asked, in his Bogart-Casablanca voice from the doorway.
Georgie grinned. 'Maybe. But I vote we practise more.'
'Raincheck, kid.'
Sometimes he went too far with the Bogart thing.
'Some of us have to work.'
She bridled, as he'd intended. 'Writing is working.'
'Sure, sure. I bet you play all day instead of writing.'
'No, I don't,' she lied. It was only a little white lie.
He dug through the wardrobe. 'So what's on the agenda today?'
I was hoping you wouldn't ask.
Six years ago they'd had a fling at the law firm - literally at the firm. They'd been on-again, off-again since and had cohabited here in Richmond for the past three years. AJ then to now had become more responsible and oppressed by his parents' expectations and the conservative men's club of law. He'd be up in arms over her first search at Abergeldie and her borrowing of Susan's effects; let alone a return trip. Even her promise to Michael wouldn't count. AJ'd say it's black and white: none of her business.
Ruby and Michael filled the terrible gap left by her dad and Grandma Harvey and she hated to think about their mortality. So if they were worried about Susan, it was her business.
Georgie frowned.
With her neighbour in intensive care, she couldn't ask the myriad pressing questions. What happened to Roly? Who was this secret admirer, Jack, and how did he fit in? Had Ruby recalled the names of friends or siblings? Could she elaborate on the disturbance that preceded Susan ringing off?
AJ tilted his head. 'What's wrong?'
'Just thinking about Ruby. And Michael.'
He nodded. Concern flooded his face as he stripped to shower. She liked what she saw.
'So what's on today?' he asked again.
Damn. Thought I'd sidetracked him.
She rolled over and mumbled, 'Oh, not much.' That wasn't a little white lie but a black one.
'Must be nice being a lady of leisure.'
Georgie exclaimed 'Huh' on rote. Yet, for all AJ's teasing, he sympathised with the pressures of sometimes unreasonable deadlines and the tedium of bread-and-butter work. He knew her writer's dreams and the challenges.
She flipped onto her back and stared at the ceiling. If all she'd amount to as a writer was scribe and editor of mind-numbing works, maybe they should try for another baby.
She squirmed, inside and out. The motherhood idea freaked Georgie and explained why the recent loss of their unplanned baby sparked confused reactions of relief and grief in her, whereas AJ grew more determined to get married and try again.
Qualms about the birth and not being blindly in love with her kid were small concerns compared with her real fears.
I drink, smoke, swear and speed too much. And like AJ says, I get one-track-minded about whatever I think's important at the time. What if I forgot all about my kid and didn't pick it up from day-care or something?
The picture was too vivid and Georgie felt a wrench of guilt.
See, I'm not cut out for it. Ask me again in five or ten years.
Did they have five or ten years?
If they ditched all talk of weddings and nappies, would the old 'George and AJ' reappear? Would they fall back in sync? Could they regain the closeness they used to enjoy but lately she shared with Bron, Livia and even Matty? Might AJ shed his conformity and appreciate that her defiance, unpredictability and dedication to her current project were exactly what he used to admire in her?
Too many unknowns. Georgie closed her eyes and resolved to pick up her game and make this the year she got noticed as a real writer.
'Already dreaming about your lazy day?' AJ chuckled. He snapped her legs with his towel.
She sighed in relief when he didn't press the point, forcing another lie. Instead, he donned suit and tie and joined other commuters in their rush to work, many afflicted by acute Mondayitis.
Under the shower, she reflected smugly. Despite its Big Dipper ride in emotion and income, freelancing ousted dread of the first day of the working week. Periodically, it was more akin to play than work. Not that she'd ever admit it to AJ.
Daylesford topped the day's agenda. But before that, Georgie made a call.
'Mrs Padley is in a serious but stable condition.' The ICU ward sister was helpful but professional, saying the requisite minimum. 'I'm sorry, ma'am, but visits are limited to immediate family at this stage. Perhaps in a few day. Yes, I believe her husband is with her. Of course, you're more than welcome to call again.'
While her fingers were in the mood, Georgie tried Abergeldie. As before, the call rang out.
She sat on the back step with coffee mug and cigarette and contemplated the complexity of life. Around her, Molly played solo soccer, Phoebe groomed herself in readiness for a cat nap and a russet leaf fluttered down to soak in a puddle.
Clearly it was people who made life complicated: relationships, ambition, greed, even - or especially - sex. That was the crap that cluttered things.
She retrieved the Spider from next door and headed for Daylesford. Facts and images churned in Georgie's brain during the long drive.
Ruby's heart attack triggered by anxiety for her missing friend.
A community that turned on Roly after he vanished; with many of them believing him capable of assaulting his wife, of embezzlement, of a double-life as secret agent or bigamist.
Georgie's impression that he and Susan were kind-hearted souls.
Her growing angst for the missing woman.
Missing woman. When did I make that jump?
Franklin nicked himself shaving, swore and reached for a tissue to staunch the blood. He knocked Kat's lipstick into the vanity bowl, cursed again and used the tissue to swipe the wine-coloured goo.
Why can't she put her stuff away?
He drifted to the previous night and breakfast this morning. He and Kat had achieved a truce, yet he felt uneasy. Was this new makeup the spoils from a previous shoplifting dalliance? Wasn't she too young for warpaint anyway? She was pretty without it; didn't need to make herself look cheap. Although she would no doubt complain, 'Oh, Dad. I don't want to be pretty. I want to look hot.'
A drop of blood splotched the basin. Hand lifted to rinse the bowl, he paused. The lipstick residue on the white porcelain resembled the substance on Christina van Hoeckel's bonnet. He rubbed, sniffed and even tasted it.
'Well, well, well,' he said, then smiled at the image of himself in an English Bobby's hat and rocking on his heels.
So lipstick had found its way onto Christina's damaged vehicle. But why would she conceal graffiti? Why be uncooperative? It indicated a motive more personal and difficult to fathom than bored youths.
As Franklin left the house, there was a bounce in his stride and he stretched taller than his five-foot-eleven.
He had until four o'clock to revisit the van Hoeckels and progress the poison-pen case. He'd donned his spare uniform to disguise the informal nature of his inquiries. While he managed to keep it quiet from the detectives in the Criminal Investigation Unit located half an hour away
at Bacchus Marsh, or even Lunny, he could work the cases his way and get a taste for being the detective he'd aspired to be but circumstances stymied.
Pumped, he hummed the Rocky III theme song, Eye of the Tiger. The overnight rain had cleared and roads dried. So far it was fine but not a stinker. It called for a spin on the Ninja.
Not surprisingly, by the time Georgie reached Daylesford the area had lost any illusion of charm. It closed in. It grew darker than the so-called mean streets of Melbourne. She drove with the convertible top up, cocooned in the Spider.
Abergeldie also oozed menace. This was where Roly disappeared in the middle of the night. Where Susan suffered smoke inhalation, head injuries and second-degree burns to forty per cent of her body and had been left to perish. Where, after rousing from her five-day coma, she returned to face horrific accusations against her husband and live in limbo.
Georgie realised that Ruby literally meant Susan 'lost' her husband. She shivered and entered the kitchen following a cursory knock.
'Bloody hell.'
The previously pristine floorboards were mud-smeared. Tomato-sauce-and-egg-encrusted plates filled the sink, along with cutlery and a frying pan. The aroma of fried bacon lingered in the air.
Excitedly, she called, 'Susan? Are you home?'
Silence.
She retraced her movements of two days before. The loo had been recently used - an odour clung in the closet-sized room. Dirty water spots lined the basin. A racing form guide lay next to the telephone in the hallway. Nothing else differed.
'Fuck!' She jumped and looked down.
Oscar had brushed his tail against her legs.
'Oh, you gave me a fright,' Georgie said, picking him up. To a melody of purrs, she gave him food and fresh water.
Tell Me Why Page 7