'Yeah? I planned to drop by today. You saved me the trouble.'
Cocky bitch. 'You could face charges for your little efforts at Abergeldie the other day, Ms Harvey.'
'What?'
'Break and enter. Unlawful entry. Theft -'
'You've got to be kidding -' She looked shifty saying it.
'C'mon, guys,' Slam murmured. 'Calm down, will you?'
'So, what have you done about Susan?' Harvey demanded. 'Found her yet?'
'There's no reason whatsoever to be concerned for Susan Pentecoste.' The moment he said it, Franklin felt a tad hypocritical. Only yesterday he'd told Lunny things weren't kosher at Abergeldie. Incensed though, he couldn't backtrack.
'Thought as much. Done nothing. Right?' She dropped her voice but not the exasperated tone and proceeded to update her so-called investigation.
Franklin shook his head. He caught a glimpse of Slam watching them both with a grin. He'd no doubt be on the blower to Harty as soon as this was over.
'So,' Harvey challenged, 'am I the only one that realises Susan's behaviour is connected to her husband's murder?'
'What?' He repeated Georgie's earlier exclamation.
She spouted her far-fetched theories, then asked from left field, 'How can I get in touch with Bill Noonan?'
'Why, so you can harass him too?' Franklin exploded. 'What's my old boss got to do with your crack-pot ideas?'
'Crack-pot ideas, my-'
'Calm down, you two.' Slam tried to pull Franklin away. 'Everyone's watching you make dickheads of yourselves.'
Franklin scanned the area and saw he wasn't exaggerating. Blood rushed to his face. He swallowed his retort and signalled a truce. 'Agree to disagree?' he suggested.
She fixed him with those sphinx-like eyes. Without severing scrutiny, she tapped a cigarette from its packet, lifted it to her lips and cupped one hand as she flicked her lighter. Her pupils reflected the flame. She drew back, the tip of her tongue pointed between her teeth. Puckered lips blew a stream of smoke in his direction.
She'd no doubt intended to be insolent. Yet for some strange reason, Franklin found the gesture immeasurably sexy.
And that made Georgie-bloody-Harvey even more infuriating.
Even if she hadn't recognised Douglas Macdougall from the Advocate's photograph of the four middle-aged Rotarians, Georgie would have been tipped off by his prominent Scottish brogue. She accosted him in the banking chamber as he conferred with Banker Two. Cornered, he agreed to an interview.
Though a reluctant host, he was a gracious one. Of course, that could simply be the country way. And would account for the thicker waistlines on country folk than their city opposites sported. In any event, Macdougall plied his visitor with coffee and jam tarts before they got serious.
Lewis Davis may have warned his pal about Georgie but that didn't mean Macdougall was prepared for her questions.
'Can you describe the last time you saw Roly?'
The banker's nose turned pulse red. Oh fuck. He started to bawl. Men weren't supposed to bawl; Georgie would have coped better with anger. She averted her gaze.
'He's dead. It's not fair. The bastards. They murdered him.' His accent grew stronger and harder to decipher.
Georgie passed a box of tissues from his desk and wriggled her toes as a distraction while the Scotsman recovered.
Eventually he took a hiccupping breath and lifted his head.
'Who murdered him?' She scanned his reactions. 'Schlicht and his gang?'
Macdougall's face blanched, then flushed. He exploded into another bout of sobs. 'I don't know,' he replied.
He seemed sincere; there were no evasive or guilty 'tells' that Georgie could distinguish, so she steered him back to the day before Roly disappeared.
'If I'd known. Ach, we had a grand night. Lewis, Billy, Roly-boy and me. We had our meeting; the Rotary meeting. And later on, we went to the pub and downed a few ales. It were about nine o'clock when we got there. We spent the next hour or so together and Roly left about, och, ten or a wee bit earlier.'
'You're certain of the times?'
He squirmed and confessed, 'As best I can be sure. We have our usual habits and I cannot recall it being different, so I think it's a fair estimate.'
'Douglas, do you know what Roly did after he left the pub?'
'Aye. He had to park on the lower end of Raglan because the street were packed when we got there for the meeting. On his way back, he came across a man who'd been run over.'
Georgie's spine tingled. 'Joey Bigagli?'
Macdougall considered the name and nodded. 'Aye.'
She urged him on.
He explained that Roly had stayed with the inert Bigagli until the ambulance arrived. Bill Noonan was the Daylesford police sergeant back then and a friend of the Pentecostes, plus a fellow Rotarian. Roly called him directly after reporting the accident and Bill rushed to the scene. Later, Roly went home to Susan and bed.
'Do you think this accident involving Bigagli sparked what occurred at Abergeldie the next night?'
Macdougall raised his palms, then dropped them on the desk.
Georgie tested an alternative motive. 'Can you think of anything controversial involving Roly - or even Susan - at that stage? Say, anyone they were feuding with?'
'No. He were well respected. Everyone liked them both.'
'Did you see him on the Sunday? The day he went missing.'
'No. We had a wee talk on the phone, chewing over this poor Joey Bigagli fellow. Mind, everyone were talking about it in town. We woulda caught up on Wednesday, like usual. We always met at my place on a Wednesday to play a few hands of cards and for a wee drop of single malt.' He smiled at the memory of a happier era. Then the corners of his mouth drooped. 'What's the relevance?'
'Not sure yet,' Georgie admitted. 'But things are beginning to click. There has to be a connection between this hit and run, what happened to Roly and whatever Susan is up to.'
Macdougall reacted by bursting into tears again.
Georgie mumbled that Susan was bound to be fine and left.
Fortunately for Macdougall the vertical blinds afforded privacy to his office.
On the down side, the man's breakdown prevented her questioning Lewis Davis's hostility. And why Douglas Macdougall had avoided her previous visit.
Heat whacked Georgie's face as she left the frigid bank; it had to be the hottest day in ages. Something else whacked her: she'd not asked Macdougall how to contact Bill Noonan. She'd made yet another bloody stupid mistake. Should she return to find out? Georgie winced and climbed inside the Spider, determined to find an easier way to locate the retired policeman.
No more man-tears today, please.
A loop past the Advocate confirmed McGuire remained AWOL, so she took a pit stop.
'Any news, dear?'
Georgie slipped through the cottage's entrance with a headshake. She fumbled inside her handbag, to dodge the changes in Pam Stewart.
Susan's friend was as immaculately dressed and coiffed as usual. She still moved with the elegance of a dancer. But she seemed smaller and fragile. She'd dropped weight or shrunk.
'Nothing your end, then?'
The older woman answered with a grimace.
As she loaded Georgie with food, Pam bombarded her with questions. Georgie began her update and soon lost her appetite. She pushed the club sandwich aside.
Throughout the account, Pam's expressions oscillated between wide-eyed disbelief, laughing delight and tearful despair. It exhausted Georgie to watch. Clearly her report had been information overload for the older woman.
Or that was how she justified her omission of the threat left on the Spider's windscreen.
'Bill Noonan? The ex-policeman? I wish I could help.' Pam tugged at her elegant blouse. Its sequinned waistband skewed to the other side. 'Really, Bill and I and his wife, Gabby, we've little more than a passing acquaintanceship. I can't recall whether they live here in Daylesford or nearby. I have never needed to phone them my
self. Bill and Roly, on the other hand, they were like this.' She held up crossed fore- and mid-fingers.
Soon, they digressed, as they generally did.
'You and Adam, dear. How are things at home?'
'Confusing. Good. Better, overall. I guess I haven't told him much regarding this Schlicht angle, yet.'
'Much?'
'Nothing,' Georgie confessed. 'He wasn't too happy about my run-in with Roger and Mick. He'd spit it at a whiff of organised crime and might try something stupid like telling me to leave it alone. And that could be the snapping point in our relationship.'
Pam patted her hand and clucked.
Why do we tell strangers things we scarcely admit to ourselves?
Georgie tore off a crust and chewed without tasting.
Screw that, Pam's not a stranger.
She rose. 'Things to do, people to see.'
She refused a bed for the night. She preferred the anonymity of a motel where her irregular comings and goings wouldn't disturb anyone. Besides, she couldn't function without nicotine, the single vice they differed on to date.
'Blast Margaret,' Pam exclaimed as they walked towards Georgie's car. 'If only she'd pick up the phone. She must have seen your note.'
'You'd think so. And that one phone call could solve this whole thing.'
'I wish Susan had told me what she planned to do.'
'Or kept in touch while she's away.'
'We must keep trying them both, dear. Let's ring them at every chance. We'll strike it lucky sooner or later. Look at the progress you've made already.'
Hell, yeah, great progress. One step forward, two steps back. Damn shame it wasn't the other way round.
Franklin ducked out when Slam was busy. He'd logged a phone call to the camp where Earl Blue supposedly lodged but at around 11pm last night in Wisconsin time, he didn't expect progress on that for a while.
Something about Mrs Blue's eagerness to supply itinerary and relevant contact details for her son convinced him she was telling the truth, but he'd go through the motions to exhaust the line of inquiry.
Right now though, he visited Roz at the Farmers Arms.
'Beer, Franklin?'
'Nah, thanks. Still on duty.'
She leaned across the counter and brushed strands of her auburn bob behind her ear. 'What can I do you for, then?'
'Art Hammer.'
Her facial expression changed but he couldn't interpret it.
'Seen him lately? Some of the other local publicans haven't.'
'You don't know?' Roz pivoted her head to check the patrons. All were happy for now.
'Know what?' He didn't like where this conversation seemed headed.
'Poor Art died.'
'You're kidding?'
'Heart attack while he was giving them heaps at the Radio Springs.'
'Shit, poor bugger.'
Roz nodded. The man may have been a pest but she clearly had sympathy for him. 'They took him to hospital but he didn't make it.'
Franklin's mind jumped. 'He rode out as far as Lyonville on his pushbike?'
'Apparently so.' Roz straightened. She crossed her arms under her boobs. 'The man got about.'
'Shit,' Franklin repeated, still stunned. 'When did this happen?'
How did I miss it?
'About three or four weeks ago.'
A punter called for a drink. Roz turned to serve him.
Meanwhile, Franklin calculated back three or four weeks. It tallied with Kat's suspension at school. He'd obviously taken his ear off the ground while preoccupied on the home front.
If he'd kept his mind on the job better, he wouldn't have wasted all that effort trying to find a dead man.
And he may have nabbed the real Solomon by now.
Cow dung, sweet hay and sweaty armpits - despite standing a good three metres from Mick and Roger, the combined odours were heady. She had seen the men notice her car draw up the gravel driveway and likewise caught their glance as she entered the paddock via a large gate that squealed on its hinges. Yet, now they ignored her. It pissed Georgie off.
Mind you, she reckoned it was a cumulative bad mood, chiefly caused by her earlier clash with Senior Dickhead John Franklin and the man-tears encounter with Douglas Macdougall. Or had she turned anti-male? Nope. Matty had lightened her day and promised to fax his finds to the awful but cheap motel where she would again kip for the night, plus ring with more information that evening. So she wasn't about to spurn anyone based on what swung between their legs.
'Hey, Mick, Roger. Could we have another chat?'
At the sound of her voice, Trigger lifted his head and stared. Mick scowled and muttered. Roger removed his battered akubra and scratched his scalp. Neither of the men looked her way.
'Susan hasn't shown up, has she?' Georgie persisted.
'Nup,' was Roger's sparse reply. He fiddled with the windmill parts strewn over the ground.
OK, time for Plan B. Georgie retrieved a bag from the Spider's passenger seat and returned.
'Look, I've got nice cold cokes here. Why don't we call a truce and I shout you for info?'
Roger and Mick ogled the cans and traded glances before nodding. They sat on the open tailgate of the ute and sipped the soft drinks. Father and son appeared relaxed but Georgie positioned herself ready for a quick getaway and furthest from the vigilant blue heeler.
'What can you tell me about Roly?'
Too open-ended, her question dangled. She tried again.
'I gather he was a nice guy and everyone got on well with him - as they do with Susan?' Georgie cringed at her reference to Roly in past tense. She hoped for once to be wrong.
'Yeah, Mr P was a great bloke,' said Roger.
'A great bloke,' Mick echoed.
Those few words suggested that they (added to her, Pam and Macdougall) thought of Roly in past tense. Already more information than she'd gleaned from the farmers two days ago.
Unsure if they would remain cooperative, Georgie repeated the question causative of a fifty-cent sized bruise over her collarbone. 'What do you think happened to him?'
'Dunno.'
'Did he have dealings with John Schlicht?'
She thought Mick flinched but couldn't be definite.
'Can you think of a reason why this so-called Mr Big from Melbourne might have harmed Roly?'
'Nup.'
Frustrated, Georgie tried a wild card. 'Was Roly mixed up in something even a little bit dodgy?'
Roger pulled his mouth into a straight line and scraped the toe of his right boot into the dry ground. He dug a small hollow.
His son wiped a bead of sweat off his nose.
Georgie swore silently and persevered. 'Was he involved in a business deal at the time of the fire?'
The veneer of cooperation dropped. Roger bristled and Mick glared at his father, as if to say, 'I told you so.' Georgie brushed aside the question with a sweep of her hand, yet vowed to tack back later.
She gave them an easy one to calm the strained atmosphere. 'I know that Roly went to the Rotary dinner on Saturday night and on his way home he came across Joey Bigagli, who'd been in a car accident. Right?'
Roger's shoulders loosened. 'Yep.'
As he felt the tension leave his master, Trigger's chin dropped onto outstretched paws.
'OK, so what did Roly get up to on the Sunday? Anything out of the ordinary?'
'Nuh, don't think so. I think we all did the usual round here. Don't ya reckon, Mick?'
His son signalled agreement.
The dog sighed. Georgie's peripheral vision caught his eyelids drooping.
'So, you guys were working the farm back then?' She knew this but wanted the men to stay chilled.
'Yeah but then we was labourin' for the Ps. Mr P did all the work with us, but. These days we run the place, kinda.'
Georgie pressed on. 'You took over with a leasehold a few years after the fire. Had you planned this with Roly? I mean, did he plan to hand over the run of the place when he and Susan retir
ed?'
Mick nodded emphatically. Trigger groaned in his sleep.
Roger hesitated and said, 'Not exactly.'
'Dad!'
'Son, 'twas bound to come out. Thought it would've been before now.'
Cool it, girl. Georgie frowned to conceal her excitement. She sifted her previous questions and the farmers' reactions.
She hazarded, 'Were you working on a business deal with Roly?'
'Sort of.'
Mick drained his can and squeezed it into an aluminium wad.
Not a happy chappie.
'What was the deal?'
Roger scratched his scalp again, examined his fingernails and flicked gunk from under them. He faced Georgie. She was intrigued to literally see his forehead smooth. With relief?
'My old lady cleaned us out when she left and our little farm was all we had. 'Twas small but it had a little house - nothin' fancy but it did us. And the bank was gunna fore…forec…you know.'
'Foreclose?'
'That's it.'
Georgie guessed, 'So Roly helped you out with a loan or gift that would get the bank off your back?'
'Yup. He gave us twenty grand. That kept the bank sweet and we got to keep our place. We'd still help here, but. We'd never not want to work here.' He gazed at the emerald landscape fondly. 'We hadn't worked out how we'd repay Mr P. He said he didn't care. Then the fire happened and…'
Georgie tried to understand their motive. 'And you haven't mentioned the loan, or gift, or whatever you want to call it, because the police might've treated you as suspects in what happened to Roly? Or were you worried that Susan would ask you to repay it?'
After a long pause, Roger said, 'I dunno. We couldn't pay it back and didn't wanna talk about it, I s'pose. 'Twas embarrassin' havin' to take Mr P's money coz we got in trouble on the gee-gees.'
'You nearly lost your farm because of horse gambling?'
Maybe her voiced pitched, because Mick interjected, 'We don't take a bet much anymore.'
Yeah right, mate. Lying to me is going to make it true?
Mick's deep flush matched his father's, whether because of the fib or their secret.
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