Franklin shook his head and dodged the minister's distressed gaze. He felt guilty. He'd failed Susan and, with that, the community. If only he'd paid proper attention to Georgie Harvey first up.
'We prayed for her safe return this morning. She and Roly were part of our congregation since the day they moved to Hepburn, long before I came. Since Roly's…passing, Susan's seldom missed a service. Even throughout that most trying period, when I'll admit my faith wavered, she remained steadfast.'
He stopped. His stare magnetised Franklin until their eyes met. 'There's nothing that any one of my flock wouldn't do for Susan. Bring her home safe, John.'
I can't make that promise.
'I'll try. Of course, we're all doing our best.'
It sounded trite, even to him.
'But is our best as ordinary people good enough?' the minister commented, more cynically than Franklin expected - or thought appropriate.
'I couldn't say,' Franklin replied, although the question had been rhetorical.
Georgie heard fast-approaching footsteps. No chance to retreat now.
A woman opened the main door and peered through the security screen.
'Hello?'
'Hi there,' Georgie said with false brightness. 'Are you Helena Watkowska?'
'Yes,' the woman replied. She tilted her head sideways.
'Uh, can I come in? I'd like a chat.'
'You're not the media or here to sell me a thing I do not need?'
Georgie raised her hands. 'No. It's a personal matter.'
Helena wavered.
'Please.'
The woman must have sensed sincerity. She admitted Georgie, although with an uncertain smile.
Inside the hallway, they shook hands, with Helena returning a firm grip. She was large, more solid and sturdy than fat and topped Georgie by three or so inches. Apart from a white apron, she wore a leopard-print blouse and black crepe pants with black low-heeled shoes. A thin gold chain with plain crucifix circled her neck. Wavy brown hair with wisps of grey hugged a strongly featured face devoid of makeup.
Georgie thought handsome described Helena and judged her non-threatening despite a powerful physique. With a mental slap she reserved judgment. Old-school dress style and cross hanging on her neck didn't mean much. She needed to be wary of Helena Watkowska.
'I was putting a cake in the oven. Would you mind?'
Georgie followed Helena into the kitchen. Oddly not out of place among the blond wood, stone and stainless steel sat an old pine rocking chair in one corner, to which Helena signalled her.
'What would you wish to drink? I can offer tea, coffee, lemonade, fruit juice…or something stronger, perhaps?' Though she spoke excellent English, it was thick with a European accent and formality foreign to most Australians.
Careful. This ain't no Pam Stewart. Georgie accepted lemonade.
She watched Helena scrape the cake mixture into a tin, which stirred childhood memories. She and her sister, Erin, used to fight over who licked the beaters or the mixing bowl, especially if they were baking a chocolate cake or lemon meringue pie. That was long ago, when time stretched to infinity, before the days and years went on fast-forward.
Time, fast-forward; the current-day race against the clock. Georgie glanced sharply at Helena, who pulled up a stool beside her.
Drops of rain struck the large kitchen window.
'It is not the most beautiful day for a drive, is it?' The woman templed her fingers. 'I am sure you have not driven all this way to share lemonade with me.'
'No,' Georgie admitted. 'Look. I don't know how to put this.' She hesitated.
Her host lifted her palms. The gesture implied Just say it.
'I'm trying to locate Susan Pentecoste for her girlfriends Ruby and Pam and wondered if she's been in contact with you recently.'
'Locate Susan?' Helena echoed.
Not: Who is Susan Pentecoste! 'So you do know who I'm talking about?'
'Yes.'
'Has she been in touch?'
'Susan has telephoned on a number of occasions and also came to see me. Twice, as a matter of fact. She found me through a friend of a friend. It is remarkable how the country grapevine works, yes?'
Georgie said excitedly, 'Go on.'
'Well, on the first visit she came with her niece, Margaret.' Helena halted, then queried, 'You know Margaret?'
Only in death, didn't seem appropriate. Georgie shook her head.
'Well, Margaret and I did not get along. She is…bossy, a bit strong? She would not let Susan and I talk freely. We found it very frustrating. It is that way with some people, is it not?' Helena sighed. 'Susan on the other hand, she is a very nice lady. We get along very well.'
'Get.' Present tense. Good sign.
Georgie nodded encouragingly and stuffed a biscuit into her mouth. The buttery shortbread melted on her tongue.
'So, you see, Susan returned without Margaret. And we had a very good talk. We are already good friends. If I may say, she is quite like you, Georgie. A person with a nice…feeling around them.'
Georgie had heard plenty of adjectives describing her. A 'nice feeling' about her didn't top the list. Sassy, fiery and unpredictable closely followed moody on what AJ called 'the Harvey scale' and all preceded the more complimentary categories of sexy and smart.
Was the woman bullshitting her? Why?
She ignored the personal tangent. 'You were saying about Susan…?'
Helena's expression hardened. She demanded, 'Why do you ask all this?'
Georgie scrutinised her, still uncertain. 'Just trying to get in touch with Susan.'
'Oh?' Helena wasn't satisfied.
'Can you remember when she came to see you?'
'Yes, of course. The first time, when they came together…ah, Thursday week ago. We only had part of the day and a little the next morning, because of Margaret's business commitments and they were attending a dance on Friday evening.'
'And?'
'On the Saturday, my son Michael and his girlfriend were coming to dinner. I offered to change my plans or was more than happy for Susan to join us but she was unhappy to impose.
So, she returned late Sunday morning and stayed overnight. We enjoyed much of Monday together also. She promised to call me soon, to invite me to visit her home. I am looking forward to it…' Helena broke off.
Georgie watched emotion cloud her host's eyes.
Helena's next words were tremulous. 'She is missing?'
Georgie ducked the question, by asking her own. 'Did she mention her plans?'
'Not in detail. Margaret could tell you where Susan is.'
Georgie cleared her throat. 'That isn't possible.'
'Why not?'
Georgie puffed her cheeks. She stammered, 'Margaret, well, I found Margaret… The thing is, she's been murdered.'
'Pardon?' Helena's face drained.
'We - her neighbour and I, that is - found her two days ago. She was strangled, with…' Georgie shuddered, reliving the discovery.
'It happened around midnight on Wednesday.' She stared at her host. 'Are you OK? Helena?'
Georgie jumped off her stool, as the woman's eyes rolled and her lips tinged blue-purple. 'Helena!'
She grabbed her hand. Icy. She felt a feeble answering squeeze and lowered the woman to the floor. She pushed a cushion under Helena's legs, loosened her blouse, placed her own jacket over Helena's torso and talked in a monotone.
Those dreary OH&S materials Georgie had written had exposed her to basic first aid skills she'd never wanted to put into practice. Two near-faints in three days didn't bode well.
Franklin pondered the minister's words as he sat inside the Commodore.
He battled the opposing forces of worry for Susan Pentecoste and obligation to apprehend Solomon.
Both cases involved dangerous obsessions. One was a waiting game until they struck a lead. The other he could action without delay.
He turned the ignition and tried to visualise himself as Solomon. Where wo
uld she go?
Franklin dialled Christina van Hoeckel. No developments.
Next: Tayla Birkley. She too was fine, spending a quiet Sunday with her parents.
He figured Solomon already realised her mistake in targeting Lauren Morris and Renee Archer, both in long-term relationships with their babies' fathers.
That left Cathy Jones.
Colour seeped back into Helena's skin. After a few minutes, she sat up.
'If you would help me off the ground please, Georgie.' Helena said, her tone revealing she despised weakness in herself.
She brushed away Georgie's fuss, saying, 'So, then you are in truth here to ask why Susan came to see me? To see how that relates to poor Margaret. But I suspect that you have an inkling or you would not be here, yes?' She nodded at her own assumption. 'Likewise, I do not think you are very interested in all the little things that we talked about. The recipes we exchanged, gardening tips…'
Georgie opened her mouth.
Helena held up a finger. 'Susan and I have much in common. We have both lived without our husbands at length and become accustomed to our own company. Oh, my son does his duty but he rarely has time for me these days, except for Saturday dinner.
'I am sure you know that my husband is…the infamous John Schlicht, yes? But before he became that man, we were childhood sweethearts back home, in Germany.'
That explained the accent.
'My parents wouldn't let us marry until I turned twenty-five, and a few years later, we migrated to Australia. Little Michael soon arrived and we were happy for those early years.'
Helena broke off. She gazed through the window.
The rain fell harder.
Georgie let the silence hang.
Franklin checked his notebook and plugged Cathy's landline number into his phone. There was a small pause, then it started to ring. Five rings became ten. After a few more, it turned to pips, as the call rang out.
Which meant nothing in itself. She and Tyson could be out for the day. Or they could have fled back to her sister's commune in Gordon. When they'd touched base yesterday, Cathy had been home in Daylesford and apparently cast off her stalker suspicions. Maybe her uncertainty returned.
Franklin dialled her mobile.
On the seventh ring, he could've sworn the call was answered, yet no one spoke. The line stayed open for a few seconds, then disconnected.
He redialled. It went straight to messagebank, so he left an urgent request for Cathy to call; drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.
He gunned the car and pulled the wheel, accelerating too hard for the wet conditions. The Commodore fishtailed but Franklin scarcely noticed.
Eventually, Helena spoke again. 'The hardest thing I have ever done was ask John to leave us.'
The hardest thing?
Helena missed Georgie's incredulous expression and continued, 'You see, I have never stopped loving him. He was a good husband and father with just us. But, I could not condone his business side. I could not have my baby grow up near his associates. They were bad men and the man John is while he is with them…he is a stranger to me.'
'So, you think of him as a Jekyll and Hyde?' Georgie couldn't control her sarcasm.
'It is hard for you young women of today to understand.'
'Well, yeah. I do find it hard to get my head around.'
He's a fucking murderer for openers.
'No offence to you, Helena, but I don't see any redeeming features in your husband.'
'That's because you do not know him and perhaps because you don't have the same expectations of marriage, children…caring for the family home. You have careers, choices. My generation - particularly those with conservative parents and from very traditional towns, which was my upbringing - we were raised to be good wives and mothers.
'John too was…' she clicked her fingers, searching for the right phrase, 'hard-working in providing for his family. It is unfortunate how he chose to do that - that's why I had to distance Michael and me from it all.'
This time Georgie hesitated, weighing the duty to speak her mind versus social conventions.
Then she exploded, 'Unfortunate is not a word I'd use either. Becoming a major player in Melbourne's underworld isn't comparable to settling for mowing lawns despite wanting to be a landscape gardener.'
'He's not a bad man -'
Helena's cheeks were red-spotted.
'We must have different dictionaries.'
Georgie felt flushed too.
They stared at each other. Georgie refused to apologise for being blunt.
The woman clasped her hands and held them to her lips. Praying? Or controlling her anger? Whichever, it was intense enough that her knuckles turned white.
'Excuse me.' She left the room.
Georgie stiffened. Helena was passionate and powerfully built for her age. She'd be no pushover, particularly if she came back armed.
The scent of baking cake rose from the oven.
Normally it would make Georgie's mouth water.
Now, it made her stomach acids churn.
She didn't know what to do. Should she stand with the island bar between them? Wood and granite, that thing wouldn't move in a hurry and could be a good safety barrier.
'I'm sorry.'
Helena spoke softly but in her tense state, Georgie jumped.
The older woman hovered in the doorway. Her eyes were puffy and she sounded tired or sad or both.
'I cannot expect you to understand but I will always love my husband.'
'OK. We'll agree to disagree then,' Georgie paused. She heard those words echo in the voice of John Franklin. When did he say them? Two or three days ago?
She pulled her mind to the present, as Helena dropped onto the other seat. 'So you're separated but not divorced and you still love him.'
She tried not to sound judgmental; wasn't sure she succeeded.
'Yes, that is correct. Yes, we keep in touch. Regularly. And yes, once he is released from jail, he will visit with us here. I will not see him in jail and I do not go to his home. That is our rule. He comes to us, Michael and me.'
'Why?'
Helena shrugged. 'He is a different man with just us. I told you that.' Her tone was sharp.
Unease washed over Georgie anew. 'Sorry, go on.'
'Susan wanted to know more about my John, too. She thinks he was responsible for Roland's…disappearance. I told her I do not read about or get involved in my husband's business affairs -'
'Business affairs,' Georgie mocked, then wished she'd held her tongue.
'Yes! His business affairs. That is how I think of it. I told Susan I will not question him on her behalf, as much as I'm fond of her. She was disappointed but gracious.'
'What did Susan gain from talking to you?'
Helena flinched, insulted.
'I didn't mean it that way,' Georgie apologised. 'What I meant was, did you help her directly? Did she become reconciled regarding Roly or did you…' she trailed off.
'I see what you mean but I am not convinced I helped her.'
'Oh?'
'We talked about John and the very little I know of his other life. When he is freed, I believe he will revert to his property in Castlemaine. He does much of his business in Melbourne but he prefers the country lifestyle for the solitude, the privacy. We both prefer the country.'
'Yet you live on the opposite side of Victoria.'
'Yes, I needed distance.'
'What else did you tell Susan?' Georgie prompted.
'She left me calm but I do not think she has given up on finding what happened to Roland. She needs to bury him, farewell him. And I quite understand.' Helena fingered the crucifix at her throat.
Georgie eyed the cross. Religion never helped her. She'd tried it after her dad's diagnosis; he'd still died. And it hadn't made his death any easier to sit in a damn church and pray.
She worried that Helena would start Bible-thumping. Instead, the woman remained silent.
Is this goi
ng to be yet another wasted day?
Georgie asked, 'Did Susan mention where she was going after she left here Monday?'
'She was returning to Margaret's.'
Helena's eyes stretched with horror. 'Perhaps…'
'Perhaps, what?' Georgie urged.
'Perhaps she intends to go to John's property.'
'In Castlemaine?'
'Near Castlemaine. You see, it was as though she was gathering all the little pieces I shared of John and filing them away. She showed interest in where he lived. I told her where it is; well, best I could, as I have never been there myself. I do know it's on Rampage Road. I didn't think anything of it at that point. But reflecting back, she was keen to hear more.'
'It wouldn't be too difficult to find,' Georgie mused. 'We both found you easily enough and this time she had the street name from the start.' Struck by a thought, she minced her jaw. Helena watched her. 'I really hope she hasn't gone to Schlicht's.'
'But he is in jail,' Helena protested.
'Yeah, but is the place empty? Did he live there alone?' Georgie blurted out.
Helena recoiled. 'I have no right to ask.'
'Well, I didn't specifically mean, "Did he live with another woman?" But now that you mention it...'
Georgie visualised the French woman with a vicious streak Bill Noonan described. She was curious whether Schlicht's lover was another taboo subject for his wife.
Her lips pursed, Helena stayed silent.
Eventually she said, 'I suspect he would have company. He is very much a man, with a man's needs.'
'I'm sorry to offend you. But if we're going to help Susan, we have to get inside her head.'
Helena nodded.
'We have work out what she's gotten herself involved in.'
Georgie's statement hung.
Helena fidgeted her worn gold wedding band.
Georgie paced the length of the kitchen.
When their eyes met, Helena's fear seared Georgie's sockets. For a woman who determinedly thought the best of her husband and tried to ignore his 'business associates and activities', Helena appeared mighty worried for her new pal.
For Georgie, the discovery of Margaret Pentecoste's body and attempted break-in at her motel unit were too fresh, Bill Noonan's information too scary, even John Franklin's warning that morning to consider who they dealt with too apt, for the idea of a lone middle-aged woman snooping around Schlicht's property to be agreeable.
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