Tell Me Why

by Sandi Wallace

  Georgie shrugged. Everyone has their demons. Hell, she didn't expect a nomination for sainthood in this lifetime.

  'We felt bad when Mrs P asked us to take over the farm. It's a bit like double-dippin'. We had nothin' to buy in with so we lease it. She don't want much rent, just a cut of whatever we pull in. And we've never told her about the twenty-G.'

  Roger hunched, ashamed.

  'OK, that's all out in the open.' Georgie brushed her hands together. 'Done and dusted for now. But…you owe me. What happened to Roly and what Susan's up to - I think they're connected.'

  She scrutinised their faces.

  'Are you still holding back something that might shed light on all this?'

  'Nup. But if we did know somethink, we'd tell ya.'

  From Mick, this was a breakthrough.

  'And the hit and run? Is there a link, do you reckon?'

  Unfortunately, Georgie struck out.

  'Can't see how,' replied Roger.

  'Can't see how,' echoed his son.

  The motel manager matched negativity with obesity. He wore filthy clothes that didn't flatter his bulk and grunted with the effort of rising from his chair. When he had to refill the paper in the fax machine, he moaned. Then he blatantly read her message as it slowly printed and held it for ransom.

  'Four bucks a page.'

  A rip-off but she needed that information.

  They exchanged cash for the crumpled sheets that'd absorbed his skin oils. He slapped the key to unit ten on the counter.

  'You have to get your breakfast menu back here by six-thirty tonight.'

  A whole sixteen minutes and crap choices. She'd skip brekkie or go into town.

  The thought of food tempted her to the Farmers, to down a hearty steak and few beers. Instead, she kicked off her sandals and sprawled on the bed. Its shiny purple eiderdown, complete with stains and holes, rivalled its burnt orange counterpart in unit six. She smoothed out the wrinkles and rued the oil patches but managed to read Matty's fax.

  It was an extract from the Herald Sun.

  POLICE WARN DRUGS, FATIGUE AND SPEED ARE TAKING TOLL

  It has been a horror start to the weekend on Victoria's roads.

  In two separate incidents, two lives were lost and three teenagers remain in critical condition.

  A dangerous joy ride in Frankston resulted in a fatal collision involving a freeway overpass last night.

  The unlicensed driver, aged 16, was not wearing a seat belt at the time of the accident and died instantly.

  His three young female companions, aged between 14 and 16, sustained grave injuries and are in critical condition at Alfred Hospital.

  Police are also investigating the death of 28-year-old pedestrian, Mr Joseph Bigagli of Creswick, who was struck by a vehicle in Daylesford at 9.40pm yesterday.

  According to Mr Roland Pentecoste of Hepburn, who was a witness to Mr Bigagli's accident, the victim lost consciousness when emergency service personnel arrived.

  Mr Bigagli died before reaching hospital.

  Anyone with information in relation to the Daylesford incident should contact police immediately.

  The road toll now stands at 71, 11 more than the same time last year.

  A police spokesperson has expressed alarm at this increasing trend and urged Victorians to reduce their speed, not drive if under the influence of drugs or alcohol or when fatigued, and warned against using mobile telephones while operating vehicles.

  It is probable that one or more of these factors contributed to yesterday's tragic fatalities.

  'Very interesting.'

  The Herald Sun published more information about a fatality in Daylesford on the morning following the incident than the local rag managed by Monday.

  That seemed significant. It all did. She just didn't know how it fit together yet.

  With more questions than answers plaguing her mind, Georgie quit the motel.

  Much later, she awoke. Disorientated. Confused as to what roused her. It took a moment to recall where she was.

  Back at the crummy motel.

  Georgie sat upright on the double bed. She strained to listen and see. Her eyes grew accustomed to the dim light penetrating the flimsy curtains and the clock radio which glowed 11.59pm.

  A bad dream? What if it wasn't?

  Goosebumps pricked her skin.

  Although situated on one of the main drags into town, the motel had minimal passing traffic at night and the units were set back. It was doubtful that road noise had stirred her.

  As far as she knew, only hers, the manager's residence and one other unit were occupied. She pulled back the curtain. Unit one, non-smoking section: in darkness. Ditto the fat manager's house and the rooms between. The car park contained her Spider and a Volvo outside the first unit. If the manager had a carport or garage, it must be attached to the other side of his place.

  Georgie dropped the curtain.

  It's nothing. Go back to bed.

  She snuggled under the bedcovers and squeezed her eyes, willing sleep.

  Fuck. There was something out there. Or someone.

  Footsteps?

  She lay rigid as her pulse thudded in her ears.

  She told herself to calm down. Blamed a stray dog for the crunch of gravel and forced life into her frozen limbs. She tiptoed to the front door but each step sounded too loud.

  Georgie slipped the security chain in place. The snick of the chain resounded through the unit. Her breaths turned shallow and fast and audible.

  She checked the button on the front door. Locked.

  She couldn't remember if the bathroom window was shut. It was even darker in there, so she crept with hands outstretched. She misjudged the layout, bashed her shin against the toilet and stifled a curse. She eased down the lid, stood on it, reached for the window. As she wound it in, she heard a new noise.

  Her hand stuck to the window winder.

  Georgie snapped her mouth closed and cranked faster until the window shut firm, then snuck to the bedroom. She pushed the sole armchair against the door. It was a slow, terrifying manoeuvre. The heavy chair grazed the industrial carpet. The scrapes were a shrill beacon that announced her location to the intruder.

  Georgie reached for her phone.

  The front awning rattled.

  She fumbled the mobile and it fell to the floor. 'Shit,' she whispered, as she dropped to her knees to grope for it.

  More footsteps in the gravel. A pause. Then a metallic scrape. A key - or pick - inserted the throat of the door lock, wiggled and withdrew.

  Her fingers struck and then wrapped around the mobile.

  Another key twisted in the lock.

  She remembered with horror. Matty rang after she'd returned from the pub. The phone beeped and disconnected. She'd stupidly let her battery go flat and come to Daylesford without the charger.

  She dropped the useless handset.

  Georgie heard a muffled cuss and the jangle of keys.

  She cursed choosing a motel so cheap that the unit didn't have a landline. Not that it made much difference. The part-time cop shop on Camp Street would be as empty as the room next door. When help arrived from Ballarat or Castlemaine or wherever, she would be dead or have dealt with it alone.

  Well, I opt for the latter, thanks.

  Despite her brave internal dialogue, with each of the intruder's moves, Georgie grew more scared. She grabbed the home brand fly spray and Bible. Motel room trusties; practical weapons.

  She heard a rough male voice. Her nerves screamed. She held her breath again until her lips numbed.

  Breathe. Be quiet.

  Another man replied. She strained. Did she recognise the speakers? Impossible to tell.

  They seemed to be arguing outside her window but quietly, so not to rouse the occupant: her. She couldn't decipher what they said.

  The men's voices became fainter. There was a cuss and scuffle in the gravel.

  And shortly after… the distant sound of an engine.

 
; Then, quietness. Blissful fucking silence. Except for the pounding in Georgie's veins. She sank onto the floor and hugged knees to her chest. Her entire body jittered.

  You will only get one warning.

  Was she on borrowed time?

  Eventually, her eyes fluttered. She jolted upright, sucked in a breath and listened. Her smokes lay on the bedside table. A short distance away but two attempts to work her jelly legs failed. She gave up.

  Soon, her chin dropped. She vowed to stay awake. Then caught herself coming out of the next doze.

  PART THREE

  'Life and death are in constant conflict;

  one cannot occur without the other.

  To experience life we must also taste death.'

  Keith Wilson

  Cause of Death

  Interlude

  This wasn't a time for regrets. Regrets served little purpose in any event.

  But one thing kept rolling inside her mind, not dissimilar to choux pastry thumping the sides of a mixing bowl.

  If only she hadn't involved her niece.

  With her sharp sparrow features and sometimes intolerant attitude, many didn't see the woman beyond her niece's outer crust. They didn't know the kind, generous person so like a sister to her.

  That bond swelled and tugged when pressures of past weeks threatened to burst. At her niece's home, she'd been nurtured, humoured, cajoled, bullied and loved.

  But that doubled her predicament not halved it. Contrary to popular opinion, a burden shared is not lessened in its load.

  There are always consequences.

  CHAPTER 8

  Friday 19 March

  The Barina's bonnet felt cool. Check points: late model buzz box, immaculate conservative navy blue duco, matching interior. Exactly the type of car Georgie expected Margaret Pentecoste to own but, simply because it was parked outside her house, didn't mean it was hers. Her car might be in the rear garage.

  Georgie wondered at the woman's silence to the note stuffed under the door on Tuesday. Maybe she was too tight to make a phone call. Or she'd tried Georgie's mobile since its battery went flat. Both were improbable. She searched for alternative explanations and tried to talk herself out of bad omens.

  A male voice made her jump. Loath to admit it, she'd been rattled by the motel disturbance. It had her flinching at shadows…and the postman's cheery hello on his early round of Ascot Street South. She smiled to the fluoro-vested man. He leaned over the scooter's handlebars with a small bundle of mail.

  After he'd whizzed away, she flicked through the letters. All addressed to Miss M Pentecoste, from banks and superannuation funds, nothing juicy. Georgie debated. Drop them in the box or hand them to Margaret when she answered the door? She decided on the former. If her bone knickers in the spare room at Abergeldie were any indication of character, Margaret would take offence at Georgie handling her mail.

  She banged the brass doorknocker several times.

  'Yoo-hoo!'

  The neighbour.

  'You back then?' the woman called. Her boobs bounced as she jogged into the yard. Before Georgie replied, she rushed on, 'Did you catch up with Margaret the other day?'

  'No -'

  'Oh, what a shame! I told her that a girl - you - came calling before lunch on Tuesday. But I didn't have your name. So silly of me.'

  They did belated introductions and Georgie asked, 'Do you know if she's home now, Megan?'

  'Well, that's her car there.'

  Megan Frawley pointed to the Barina and Georgie thought, bingo!

  'So I'd say so,' the neighbour continued. 'Although she quite often walks up the street instead of driving. She hardly ever works on Fridays, so I'd expect her to be in this early. She isn't answering?'

  Georgie barely said 'No' before Frawley elbowed past. She rapped on the door and hollered, 'Yoo-hoo! Margaret! Are you there?'

  Her ears ringing, Georgie commented, 'Is she deaf?'

  Too gullible to read her dry undertone, the woman replied seriously, 'No,' then said, 'Well, she could be at work, after all. The accounting firm, you know.'

  She waved towards Sturt Street, maintaining the fast flow of verbal diarrhoea. 'She goes in Monday, Tuesday and Thursday, although she does change the days occasionally and she's also on Council and that keeps her going left, right and centre. Of course, she could be gadding about with Aunty Susan.'

  Adrenaline coursed through Georgie. Aunty Susan?

  But Frawley continued without pause. 'But if they're out together, they'd have to be in Susan's car, I guess. Although Margaret much prefers to drive herself.' Frawley laughed. 'She moans about climbing into her aunty's truck.'

  Accountant. Buzz box owner. Sensible undie wearer. Yep, she'd bitch about travelling in a four-wheel drive.

  Frawley recaptured her attention. 'Mind, I haven't seen Susan since the night before last, when we had our usual pre-dinner sherry.'

  Georgie tried to dot-point the information suddenly coming thick and fast.

  'She wasn't there last night but she's been staying with Margaret for…oh, the past week or so. It's such a treat for Susan to stay so long. She normally stops a day or two and then, whoosh, off she goes, back home.' Frawley added, 'I guess she's gone back now.'

  Georgie shook her head. Without an operational mobile, she'd resorted to a payphone to check with AJ, the Pattersons and Pam Stewart for updates on Ruby and Susan. Ruby had improved overnight but there was zilch news on Susan.

  'Oh?' Frawley reeled. 'Well, perhaps she stayed with Margaret again after all. You know,' she said, leaning in. 'I thought I heard Susan's truck last night. Outside Margaret's here.' She gestured to the space behind the Barina. 'Quite late it was, too. It rumbled there for a while and I peeked out the window but it wasn't Susan's. It was a utility, not like hers one bit.'

  The rumbling ute troubled Georgie, although she wasn't sure why.

  Frawley puffed her chest and flanked her belly with both hands. 'Bully for them if she stayed again! They must have patched things up.'

  Georgie lifted a brow. 'Oh?'

  'I think they had a tiff,' the neighbour confided. 'Night before last, they swung between a little touchy and too polite. I recall thinking, "They've either had a barney or they're bone tired from all their gadding about." They've been out more than they've been in this week!'

  This explained why it'd been impossible to reach Margaret. But her disregard of Georgie's note still grated.

  'You know,' Frawley repeated, 'the other day they went away for a night - on the spur of the moment, it seemed to me. I fed Topsy and turned the lights on and off for Margaret. We do that for each other.'

  Georgie perked up. 'You have a spare key?'

  Frawley nodded.

  'You should pop inside Margaret's, to check she's OK.'

  The neighbour screwed her nose.

  'Well, you think Margaret's home but she's not answering, right? So, what if she's fallen over, broken her leg and can't move? Wouldn't she want you to check in case of emergency?'

  Frawley's blue-green gaze lost some lustre. She was torn.

  'What would it hurt?' Georgie urged. 'A quick look to make sure she's OK. If she's not there, she needn't ever know. If she is, she'll appreciate your concern.'

  She couldn't pinpoint why it felt crucial to convince Megan Frawley.

  Still debating the right course of action, the woman returned to her house. A few minutes later, she shut her front door.

  Her movements plunged into slow-mo.

  Frawley hesitated at Margaret's gate. She examined the key in her right hand. Then walked up the short pathway and thrust the key into the lock.

  She extracted it and turned to Georgie, saying, 'I'm not sure.' She bit her lip.

  Georgie took her hand and guided it to the lock. She nodded encouragingly. Wanted to scream, 'Open it.' Instead whispered, 'It's the right thing to do. Go on.'

  The neighbour rolled her eyes. Up, down, sideways in both directions.

  Georgie did a mental fi
st pump when Frawley finally unlocked the door. But her excitement waned, as she stepped onto the polished baltic pine floorboards and called, 'Margaret.'

  No answer.

  The women quickly eliminated the front two rooms. They moved down the hallway and exchanged a glance. Frawley pegged her nose. Their footsteps faltered. Cold sweat dotted Georgie's lip. Dread settled like a brick in her gut.

  The next door on the right sat ajar.

  'I'm not going in there,' Frawley said. Yet, she shadowed Georgie as she pushed the door with her toe. It swung open.

  Frawley screamed. And Georgie recoiled.

  A beige shoe lay on its own near the doorway. And its pair sat a few feet away - still attached.

  'Margaret,' the other woman shrieked.

  At least it wasn't Susan Pentecoste.

  Georgie looked at the body. Then away. Shocked. She gulped bile. Fascinated and appalled, her eyes crept back to Margaret's waxy, slightly bluish skin. Vacant stare, milky glaze, like cataracts. She reached towards Margaret's neck to check for the carotid pulse that wouldn't be there.

  Frawley followed Georgie's fingertips which trembled on the verge of contact, arrested by jagged abrasions and deep bruising. The blood drained from her face. She reached horror-saturation point.

  Georgie led her to the bench on the verandah, loosened her blouse and rubbed her back. She waited until the crisis elapsed, swallowed back another rush of bile and re-entered the house to dial the police.

  Fucking idiot for letting the mobile run out of juice.

  The bloody operator wouldn't let her tell the story. They followed their stupid script while she tore at her hair.

  But then she decelerated. Poor Margaret was beyond urgency.

  As she spoke more slowly and clearly, she noticed a doormat inside the entrance. After eventually hanging up, she lifted the mat and sighed.

  On the honey floorboards sat one business card and note to Margaret. Well, that was a minor mystery explained. Margaret had never seen Georgie's message. Now irrelevant, she pocketed them.

  Georgie sat next to Frawley, who'd heaved her breakfast onto the lawn but now appeared more composed. Questions begged answers and the clock ticked until the cops flocked.