Tell Me Why

by Sandi Wallace

  'Oh, that would have been Roger and Mick,' Pam cut in. 'Susan lets them have free rein of the place. Housework's not their forte.'

  'What about this Jack bloke. Know who he is?'

  Pam shook her head and wrote something in elegant script. 'Here's the phone number for her sister. They were close until Ann moved to Sydney. She has four children and now that her children have their own children, the girls don't see each other very often. Ralph and Norma are years older than Susan, who's the youngest of the four. They never married and live together in Maryborough. I wouldn't bother contacting them, they're pretty much hermits.

  'On Roly's side, there's only Irwin, his brother. But he's loopy.' At Georgie's surprised laugh, Pam said, 'I'm a lot older than you, so I can get away with saying it! He is loopy, with advanced Alzheimer's, poor thing. And his wife, Thelma, died giving birth to Margaret's sister, which left poor Margaret and Irwin alone.'

  More dead ends than leads, it seemed. But one lead might be all she needed.

  'I don't have a phone number for Mick and Roger. They're easiest to catch at Abergeldie… Or the TAB.' Pam added the betting agency with a grin.

  Before she left Rose Cottage, Georgie tried Susan and Margaret's telephone numbers. She then contacted Ann Campbell in Sydney. Pam listened, rapt. Georgie spun the story so as not to unduly concern Susan's sister and drew a dead end.

  Why was she unsurprised?

  'Ah, you're friends then?' Franklin pictured the mums, Tayla and Lauren.

  Renee smiled and interpreted, 'What you mean is: "Ah, so you've received a letter too?"'

  Her mood was infectious; Franklin chuckled and mocked a bow. 'I promised discretion.'

  'Well, you've done fine.' She touched his forearm, which was a bit familiar but he didn't mind.

  Franklin let Renee settle into the interview room, fixed two fresh espressos and grabbed the poison-pen dossier.

  He skimmed her letter. She sipped the brew and adjusted Alex's position.

  'When did you receive it?'

  He arranged all three poison-pen letters on the desk.

  'Ten days after Alex was born,' Renee replied. She handed an envelope to Franklin. 'I kept the envelope and all. See, it's postmarked 1 February.'

  Franklin plucked the envelope by a corner and positioned it fourth in line.

  Large margins isolated the text on both Renee's A4 page and the ordinary DL-sized envelope. It struck him again that it could symbolise that the words and their writer were surrounded by an impenetrable sea.

  The content also matched.

  He squinted to compare the calligraphic script. Although mere weeks separated Renee's letter from the other two, he noticed a minor deterioration in the penmanship: a wavy baseline and irregular capitals. He bagged the evidence, wishing he knew an expert who could interpret the handwriting, and gulped his tepid coffee in one mouthful.

  'Ideas on the sender?'

  Renee lifted her palms. 'I wish.'

  Franklin drew eye contact. 'You mentioned Carl's reaction to you coming here. And cut yourself off.' He gently pressed, 'What's the story?'

  'Carl makes his living - and I'm not complaining; we live very well - out of controversy. He's a lobbyist and gallivants all over the place. Unfortunately, it's the type of job that makes enemies and so he tries to keep his two lives separate. Home and work - two different worlds.'

  Franklin chewed over the word 'enemies' as Renee continued.

  'We used to live in Melbourne but twelve weeks into my pregnancy with Alex, I was mugged. In the car park of Chadstone shopping centre, would you believe?'

  One of Carl's enemies?

  'Now, that seemed unrelated to Carl's work but he still thought I should have a bodyguard and live in a fortress but I put my foot down. I've no intention of living a half-life, always fixated on what might happen. I'm the glass is half-full type, if you hadn't gathered…'

  She faltered. Franklin nodded and inched nearer.

  'OK, let me back up a little. Alex was fine. But I wasn't going to take chances with my bub after the mugging, so I decided we'd move to the country. Daylesford would be an ideal place to bring up kids, plus there'd be a network for my poetry. To keep the peace with Carl, I agreed to his security precautions at the house. I take my own little "protective measures" while he's travelling but I never dreamed Daylesford would be anything other than safe. Well, I was shocked when the letter arrived.'

  'Do you think there's a connection to Carl's work?'

  'No.' Her reply was firm. 'If it were just me that got a letter, maybe, but with the other two…no, there's a bigger picture here. Someone with a vendetta against unwed mums.'

  'The writer assumed you're an unmarried mother.'

  'And I guess that's my own fault. No ring, going by "Ms Archer", phone listing under my name - that's because I baulked at a silent number. And I guess I don't talk about Carl much. It's one of my "protective measures". If I don't say too much, I won't let it slip when he's travelling. He was away for Alex's birth.'

  'That's a real shame,' Franklin commiserated.

  'No, that's life in our house.' Renee chuckled. 'Seriously, I'm used to it. At least we never go past the honeymoon stage. Each time he comes home…'

  Franklin blushed. Too much information.

  'How do you know Tayla and Lauren?'

  'The maternity centre first. Then we met properly at mothers' group and hit it off straight away.'

  'Has there been contact from Solomon since the letter?'

  She paused but he got the impression she'd already thought it through.

  'I've had a few hang-ups on the phone. I pick up, the line's open but no one speaks. Could be Solomon, I guess.'

  'No follow-up letters?'

  She shook her head.

  'Have other mothers received letters?'

  'Don't know.' Renee grimaced. 'The three of us met for coffee this morning. Lauren doesn't want all this to get out and end up the hot topic of gossip. She only let Tayla quiz me because we're friends and we three don't fit the mould. I mean, the others are married and wear big rocks to advertise it. It's patent that this Solomon is targeting unmarried mums and got it totally wrong with me.'

  'Sure did,' Franklin agreed, then asked, 'Where did you have the birth?'

  'Same as the other two: Ballarat Base. Carl wanted me to go back to Melbourne and have Alex at Cabrini or at least St John's in Ballarat. But I'm no snob. I don't need a private hospital. I'd rather be in a ward, than stuck in my own little room with no one to talk to.'

  They chatted further, then Renee departed and Franklin returned to the stark interview room to ponder developments. He updated his daybook, concluding with:

  Solomon seems to have made a mistake in sending a letter to a married woman.

  Lack of research? Made assumption regarding Renee?

  Alternatives: letters are random and/or sent to all new mothers. Or Solomon does realise Renee is married but is judging her 'alternative' lifestyle.

  Common denominators: babies under three months old and born at Ballarat Base. Part of same mothers' group. All visit local maternal health centre and live/shop here.

  Check: if share medical clinic, general practitioner, obstetrician, etc.

  Hart entered to find his mate stroking his chin.

  'All good in here?'

  Franklin closed his book and gave a thumbs-up.

  'The Inspector wants us to drop Meeshan's firearm into Bacchus Marsh, then go across to Ballarat to pick up a brief and some internal mail. After that, he wants us to do a radar patrol on the Midland. He and Lunny have copped hoon complaints.'

  One of those hoons was the rider of a blue-over-white Kawasaki Ninja and definitely knew better. Franklin jumped to his feet.

  The front door buzzed. As Harty moved to answer it, he said, 'Leave in five or ten, OK?'

  'No probs.'

  Franklin reckoned that'd give him enough of a window to check his emails. It took ten minutes to log off his partner and get bac
k into the system, thanks to the antiquated server. He seldom gave out his email address and there were just three messages despite it being almost a week since he'd checked the inbox. The most recent had been sent by the registrar of Ballarat Base Hospital. He printed the message and exited the system.

  Harty returned. 'My turn to drive.' He jangled keys and grinned.

  'OK.' Franklin's reply left his mate open-mouthed but being the passenger allowed him to scan the maternity ward roster and admission details for the last quarter. No surprises that Tayla, Lauren and Renee were all listed.

  Another name sprang off the page. Cathy Jones who'd had a son named Tyson on 16 December. Not being a fan of coincidence, Franklin pictured the mother at the bakery yesterday. Her behaviour and the equivalent age of her son - it all corresponded.

  He made a note to visit Cathy Jones and added at the bottom of his 'to-do' list: Visit Abergeldie to check on Susan Pentecoste.

  Franklin gazed out his side window and his eyes flicked as the car whizzed past telegraph poles. His mind wasn't on what he saw, though. He vowed to sort out the irrational writer from Melbourne and solve the poison-pen and van Hoeckel cases before Wells or the Ds in Bacchus Marsh caught wind.

  Georgie declined another drink, then asked, 'It's been eight days since Susan left Abergeldie. Do you really think she's fine?'

  She might have backed off if Pam's vivid eyes hadn't clouded to grey-blue. That launched the pop song What You Waiting For? into her psyche and she visualised an oversized clock.

  The clock's ticks increased in volume and speed during her return to Richmond.

  It diminished during her domesticated evening with AJ; pizza and red wine before the television. This was the sort of night that reminded her how good she and AJ could be together. Theirs hadn't become a relationship of convenience, had it? Maybe their problems stemmed from being too alike. Both headstrong, certain their way was the right way.

  She shut down her fluctuating feelings about AJ.

  And her mind soon oscillated back to Susan.

  What You Waiting For? haunted her again.

  The stupid song made her toss right through the night.

  Interlude

  Their life echoed their last night together, perfect in its ordinariness to the great part, topped by a special dinner in celebration of nothing but a happy union. Afterwards, they pushed away the velvet chairs and miner's couch, rolled back the heirloom floor rugs and danced until breathless in their drawing room, especially ardent when he placed

  That's My Desire under the needle.

  It wasn't a case of wearing rose-coloured glasses. Oh no, they'd fought - about things worth arguing over and those that weren't.

  And they'd experienced their share of misfortune. What farmers didn't taste fire, drought, flood or infestation over the years, along with pressure from banks? They'd overcome illness, dealt with the heartbreak of remaining childless and lost loved ones. But they'd done it together and that's what made the difference.

  He said they had the trifecta: lover, best friend and business partner. They had somebody to share everything, good and bad. Warts and all, a permanent fixture, rather like meat and three veg, the essence of a simple but good life.

  He'd lifted his glass that last evening and toasted, 'To us. To the woman who is still the most beautiful girl in the room.

  'To the best being yet to come.'

  CHAPTER 5

  Tuesday 16 March

  'And it's back to summer weather for Melbourne, with an expected top of thirty. The high will remain with us until at least the weekend but there's more rain on the outlook. The Bureau warns that this will be the wettest autumn on recent record and -'

  Georgie flipped a hand sideways, smacked the radio's snooze button and killed the overly-cheerful voice.

  She prised open one eye, then the other. First to admit she wasn't a morning person, Georgie gazed at the ceiling, procrastinating. Eventually she swung to sit up and her stomach heaved. She dropped back to the mattress. Her temples thumped waves of pain and her left eyelid twitched with the incessant beat of a heavy rap.

  The music in her head switched from rap to pop. Three lines of the song What You Waiting For? had replayed all night, along with the tick of the oversized clock. She craved more sleep, decent sleep, without those annoying lyrics. Instead, she pushed back the sheet and emerged.

  'Aargh!' AJ said with mock fright.

  She squinted at the bathroom mirror. Rat's nest hair, mascara-clogged lashes, smudged rings under bloodshot eyeballs, all prominent against pale skin. She resembled a morning-after-binge vision but had actually drunk very little.

  Georgie laughed. It'd be a worry if you never laughed at yourself.

  'I spoke to Michael, George.'

  She sucked in a breath and held it.

  'Ruby's doing well.'

  The air whooshed out. 'Yes!'

  'The doctor's going to check on her this afternoon. Hopefully, she'll be out of intensive care and up to visitors later today.'

  'That's so good.' Her legs turned to jelly with relief. 'I was psyching myself up to ring the hospital.'

  She tucked her forehead into AJ's mid-back and wrapped his bare torso with her arms. Her headache eased several notches. He reached behind and patted her butt, saying, 'You think too much'; his caress massaged away more tension.

  'Probably,' Georgie admitted. People to see, things to do. She pulled away, headed for the shower.

  Last night, her brain had certainly been hyperactive. Images of Pam Stewart merged with worst-case-scenarios for both Susan Pentecoste and Ruby Padley. Added to the 3-D flying slideshow were newspaper headlines, disabled women sporting black eyes, an arrogant country cop and Pedantic Percy, the magistrate who'd almost snatched her licence. The imagery pulsated to what she now considered the most irritating pop song ever in the charts.

  The door banged behind AJ as he left. Georgie dialled two numbers, from memory now, but neither Susan nor Margaret Pentecoste answered. Then she forced herself to sit at the desk and go through the workday motions. Foremost were her computer inbox and phone messages.

  David Ruddoch had left several - each with a rising inflection. Texts demanded she phone in relation to the first aid script. His latest voicemail message gave a deadline of twelve o'clock today for her call. Despite the implied threat, she'd finish her message check before she rang him.

  The emailed feeler for an editing job failed to entice. Clients driven by the hip pocket often had unrealistic expectations and they preferred talks at arm's length until rates and terms were established. That could wait at least another day. She added a yellow post-it note to the row stuck on the wall.

  The next two phone messages were pleasure, not business. The first was Bron, who chased an update on all matters from AJ to Susan Pentecoste. The second, her mum, Livia, who just wanted a chat.

  Georgie obliged both, as she stroked the scarred edge of the blackwood desk salvaged from a hard rubbish collection. The desk was the first piece to grace her writer's office and she'd rubbed beeswax over the nicks and initials carved into its top, to capture its history rather than over-restore it. She swivelled in the black chair, a gift from AJ, its fresh-leather aroma more subtle now. Thick planks of oiled jarrah on stacks of red bricks formed a three-tiered bookcase and flanked the desk. Slimline laptop here, antique lamp there, somehow the old and the new fit perfectly.

  Next, a virtually maxed out credit card gained grace on various bills. Smug with the results, Georgie picked up the ringing telephone.

  'Georgina.'

  It was the unmistakable voice of AJ's mother. Her stomach dropped.

  Stupid, stupid idiot. Should have let the machine pick up.

  She mumbled and waited for the inevitable.

  Four, three, two…

  'I expected you to be at work,' Jane Gunnerson said.

  The woman never let her down.

  'I am. I. Work. From. Home.' Georgie's teeth were gritted.

  'Oh,
well, yes, I suppose you do. Although you ought to have resumed your legal career by now.'

  Yeah right. I was a glorified personal assistant, not a lawyer. Highlight of the job: doing your son on the head partner's mahogany desk.

  'Look at how well our Adam is doing, Georgina.'

  Georgie grunted. She tolerated 'Georgina' from few people and cringed if Livia said it, as it signified trouble. From Jane Gunnerson - too high and mighty to allow her son's girlfriend to call her anything less than Mrs Gunnerson (and thus Georgie called her nothing) - it was torturous.

  Besides, the statement didn't deserve a reply. They would replay twists on this conversation to hell and back. No wonder she shied from AJ's marriage proposal. She'd also be hitched to his pomp-arse parents.

  'Geoffrey would like Adam to join us for luncheon on Sunday. It is high time for the next step in his career. If he is to make Silk by the age his father did, he must sit for the Bar.'

  Georgie tuned out. AJ had to decide for himself. His buddies at Berkowitz Clark Oxford, along with his father's well-connected cronies, were guaranteed to throw him briefs, which would make his transition from solicitor to barrister smoother than most. The rise from Junior to Queen's Counsel - aka a Silk after the silk court gowns these barristers wore - would follow. If he told his folks to stick it because he'd rather build furniture, Georgie would be far more impressed.

  '…Adam could arrive at twelve, for twelve-thirty?'

  'Huh?' Georgie said.

  'For luncheon on Sunday. Oh, and you're welcome to join us. If you wish.'

  It would almost be worth accepting the reluctant tacked-on invitation to spite Jane Gunnerson. But Georgie said they'd check their diaries. While AJ's mother spluttered, she hung up with a flourish that rivalled her bewigged perhaps-one-day-father-in-law's best effort.

  Two minutes later, she answered her mobile to, 'Have you been terrorising my mother again, George?'

  Fortunately, AJ laughed as he said it.

  'Didn't take her long.'

  'Never does. Not keen on lunch?'