Ill-Gotten Gains (21 page)

‘That’s beside the point,’ said Darcy stiffly. ‘Two entirely different things.’

‘Okay.’

‘But seeing you’ve mentioned it, have you thought more about selling?’

‘Actually, I have. I’ve decided you’re right, it’s time for us to move on.’

He was staring at me with surprise. ‘Really? Oh my god. I thought you … wow. Okay.’

‘In fact, I’ve already made inquiries about another property.’

‘Good god. This is unexpected.’ He paused for a moment, as if deciding whether he should push his luck. ‘In that case, would you consider us – me – buying you out?’

I stilled, and turned to face him as anger rose rapidly. Darcy and Tessa cooking in my kitchen, relaxing in the lounge room, sleeping in my bedroom. Raising a new family. I opened my mouth, the answer fully formed, and then slowly closed it again as insight flared. This was something that Darcy wanted, not Tessa. No doubt he thought it would dramatically increase the odds of the girls visiting, and feeling at home when they did. A win–win for them all. But there was no reason for
her
to want this. It would never seem like her home, not truly, not when it was thick with memories of me. I played with the concept, turning it to examine all angles, and smiled. ‘Why not? As long as you pay market value, that is.’

‘Really?’ He shook his head. ‘You’re amazing. I never thought that you’d actually … God, you’re amazing.’

‘So I’m told.’ I smiled slowly, suggestively, and then turned away.

His own smile faded. ‘Are you trying to tell me something? Are you seeing someone?’

‘If I was, you’d be the last to know.’ I propped myself against the fence and looked towards the tarpaulin-covered car park. I wondered if Tessa could see us. ‘It’s none of your business.’

‘I suppose not.’ He fell silent for a while. ‘Is that Quinn over there? Who’s she with?’

I followed his gaze to where Quinn stood with a group of friends, but particularly close to a tall, lanky boy whose long limbs suggested growth was a work in progress.

‘That’s Griffin Russo. AKA Griffo. I think they’re keen on each other.’

‘Oh,
great
,’ said Darcy. ‘That’s just great.’

‘Glad you’re pleased. Now I’d better go. The horse and rider should be here soon.’

‘Okay. Great to see you. And we’ll speak soon, about the house.’

‘Can’t wait.’ I examined him as I turned away. He did look good, which didn’t seem quite fair. I threaded my way through the tables until I reached ours and then sank into my seat, reaching for my glass of wine. It was still cold, which was an advantage of winter.

‘Where’d you get to?’ asked Petra.

I ignored her, turning to Scarlet instead. ‘Where’s Matthew gone?’

‘Got called in.’ She shrugged. ‘Apparently they’re short-staffed.’

‘Mum, guess what?’ Red leant towards me. ‘The rider and horse ran into a car.’

‘No injuries,’ commented Yen, rolling her eyes. ‘But they had to get another one.’

As if on cue, a loudspeaker crackled to life and a voice that I recognised as James Sheridan’s boomed through it. ‘And now, ladies and gentlemen, the moment we’ve all been waiting for … the arrival of Petar Majic!’

People rose from their tables for a better look, a few clambering onto chairs, while cameramen shouldered their equipment and jostled into position. Scarlet leapt up, followed by her sisters, and they hurried out. I took another sip of wine.

‘Did you want to go see?’ asked Petra.

‘Not particularly.’

‘Then did you want a top-up?’

‘Yes.’

Petra emptied the bottle into my glass and then sat back. ‘Did I go too far?’

‘Yes,’ I said again. I frowned at her. ‘You know, sometimes you cross the line. Like the other night when you virtually told the girls about Tessa being pregnant. I told you that in confidence. You have to realise that no matter what, I still have to co-parent with the man. Besides, you’re wrong. I have absolutely moved on. I’m even selling him the house.’

‘You
are
?’

A cheer rose from those watching the proceedings, accompanied by enthusiastic applause. I guessed the replacement horse and rider had now arrived. The whole sunset angle seemed to have gone by the wayside, given it had been dark for at least half an hour, but doubtless the real Petar Majic hadn’t run into any cars on the way. No, his real danger had lain a few years into the future.

The camera flashes were like exploding fireflies. A series of rather tinny fake gunshots rang out, accompanied by a few whoops. Clearly someone had watched too many spaghetti westerns. There was another cheer as the horse whinnied and then James Sheridan cleared his throat, the sound reverberating through the loudspeaker. ‘And now I’d like to take this opportunity, on behalf of the local council, to welcome you all to our wonderful town of Majic. Founded one hundred and fifty years ago, it has gone from strength to strength ever since. We have a range of entertainment in store for you this weekend, so please help yourself to a leaflet with all the events and maps and even some special vouchers. Have a taste of Majic for yourselves, especially the delicious local produce, and we’re sure you’ll come back to visit many times.’

There was a pause, and then an awkward smattering of applause as if people felt compelled to fill the gap.

‘But now to another matter altogether. Many of you will have heard about the tragedies that recently rocked our sleepy little town. The death of two of our most valued townspeople has hit us hard and we will always miss them. In their honour, and recognising that both were avid members of our local historical society, the council has decided to establish an annual prize for services to the history of Majic. Despite the short timeframe, we have an inaugural winner this year. To present the trophies, will you please welcome to the podium Mrs Loretta Emerson.’

Now the applause was genuine, accompanied by a few supportive cheers. I twisted around but could see nothing through the throng of bodies.

‘Good evening, Mr Mayor, councillors, ladies and gentlemen,’ came Loretta’s tremulous voice. It was accompanied by a dry rustling that I realised belonged to notes shaking in her hand. ‘Without further ado I would like to announce the first-ever winners of the perpetual Emerson-Given Memorial History Trophy. It is a combined effort. Petronella Forrest, Eleanor Forrest, Deborah Taylor and Bartholomew Taylor.’

The applause broke out again and heads began turning to spot the winners. I was not at all surprised by the announcement; in fact, I would have been more surprised had it
not
been us. I took a quick gulp of wine and followed my sister. People patted us on the shoulder as we passed, or grabbed a hand to shake.
Congratulations! I didn’t know you like history! Well done! What a surprise!

The podium was now a focal point of attention, with people crowding in from every direction and a mosh pit of media crouched at the front. No wonder poor Loretta had been shaking. To one side stood the horse, looking bored, and a rider dressed in old-fashioned breeches and a broad hat. I thought I recognised him as Griffin Russo’s older brother.

There was some confusion as Lew emerged from the crowd and stopped at the podium steps. He raised his eyebrows and James Sheridan looked aghast. He gestured frantically into the crowd and a few of our burlier young locals stepped forward. Lew waited until they worked out the logistics and then shook his head. ‘I’ll just stay here, thanks. No, I insist.’

Deb, waved on by her husband, mounted the steps. We followed, feeling awkward.

‘Huge apologies, Lew,’ James was saying into the microphone. ‘Unforgivable oversight.’

Loretta stepped forward with a massive silver bowl mounted on a glossy walnut stand. A single shiny plaque was pressed to the walnut with our names crowded in cursive script. Inside the bowl were four jars of her famous mucous-green dill pickles.

James continued as the bowl was thrust into my arms. It was quite heavy. ‘Of course the trophy will be kept in Sheridan House, on display, but we also have gift vouchers kindly donated by Majic Travel Agency for you each to enjoy.’ He waited while a young girl danced up the steps and passed us each an envelope. Evident confusion resulted from having one leftover until James, with obvious annoyance, waved her towards Lew.

‘Sorry, Grandpa,’ said the girl, seemingly unperturbed. She danced off.

‘And flowers!’ announced her grandfather grandly. Another two girls flitted from the crowd and deposited a generous spray of native blossoms with each of us. This time they stopped by Lew first. My flowers were laid across the bowl, obscuring almost the entirety of my face. One twig seemed determined to wedge itself in my left nostril. Cameras flashed.

‘Given there are four recipients,’ went on James, ‘I won’t ask for speeches, but …’ He trailed off as Lew lifted an arm. I could just see his hand through my flowers.

‘I do have something to say, just quickly.’ Lew spoke in a booming voice that did not require a microphone. ‘I want to make a point that I
know
James here, I’m even related to him by marriage, and I also know he doesn’t have a mean bone in his body. Perhaps a couple that he’s purchased off the internet, mind you, but no mean ones.’ He waited for the laughter to die down. ‘But clearly even he failed to consider my disability here. It happens
all
the time. Yet when we talk about rights for the disabled, people switch off. This is my life, people. So next time the disabled are mentioned, think of this incident with me down here and them up there.’ He waved a hand towards us. ‘And step the fuck up. Because I can’t.’

A second of silence was broken by a few claps, which rapidly multiplied. James grinned ruefully as he joined in, and then bent forward to lay a hand on Lew’s shoulder. The two men spoke for a moment before James returned to the microphone.

‘Thank you, Lew, quite right. And now, ladies and gentlemen, you’ll want to know what it is that these four intrepid souls did to deserve the award. Well …’ He paused for effect, ever the showman. ‘It is a tale of intrigue and passion, of murder and mayhem, of greed and betrayal. It will also be included in the latest instalment of
Abracadabra: The Makings of Majic
, nine dollars ninety-nine a copy and pre-orders accepted now.’ He held up a piece of paper briefly. ‘Tonight we just have time for the bare bones. First, I need to explain to our visitors that the town was founded by an intrepid gentleman named Petar Majic.’ He gestured towards the eldest Russo boy, who had just been passed a stubbie of beer by a friend. The boy froze, and then slipped the bottle behind his back. ‘As you can see, our Petar has a variety of props with which to fulfil his role.
Anyway
, as far as we always believed, Petar died childless – however, through dogged research, and aided by the two after which this award is named, Sam Emerson and Edward Given, our winners discovered this was not the case at all.’ He paused again, but this time a swell of undulating voices filled the silence. ‘Yes, folks, Petar Majic was in fact married and had a daughter, who herself had a daughter. In an odd twist of fate, this daughter was adopted into the Sheridan family and on the death of their only son, inherited the entire estate. All of which means that I stand before you as a living descendant of our founder, as do these young ladies –’ he held out an arm and the flower girls flitted back to the podium, followed more slowly by the voucher one, texting on her mobile ‘– and also many of those in the audience today. The fact is there
are
no Sheridans in Majic, not a one.’

The applause came hesitantly, matched by a rumble of disbelief. I could hear questions bouncing around the crowd, but could not see very much thanks to my bouquet. I turned stiffly and slid the flowers into Petra’s arms, on top of hers, and then bobbed down to pass the trophy to Lew. ‘Here you go, Bartholomew. Enjoy.’

‘Thankyou, Eleanor. How about I fill this with champagne and we four meet a little later to toast our success?’

‘Great idea,’ said Deb and Petra, almost as one.

A reporter pushed a microphone towards Lew. ‘So what he’s saying is that the adopted daughter killed the son? Is that right?’

Lew laughed. ‘Not unless she was fighting for the Germans.’

I stood, my knees creaking uncomfortably. Much of the crowd had formed pockets of fierce discussion and I guessed that many of the Sheridans had already been given some detail. On the outskirts I suddenly glimpsed Ashley Armistead, scanning the throng as if looking for someone. Nearby Amber July, in uniform, was doing the same. I frowned, and tracked my gaze across the crowd. Sure enough another uniformed policeman, the one I had seen earlier, stood on the far side with his walkie-talkie still in hand, while way over to the left was the hatchet-faced detective who had accompanied Ashley to the community meeting. They all seemed to be taking security very seriously. I nudged Petra but before I could talk, James was back at the microphone.

‘I will be giving a press conference in half an hour if any of our friends from the media would like more details. And now, last but by no means least, I’d like to unveil our commemorative statue. I give you our beloved Petar Majic, with his best friend and brother-in-law, Mate Dragovic!’

A few men positioned around the canvas-wrapped statue sprang into action and began tugging on a variety of ropes. The canvas peeled back, caught on a limestone shoulder, and then fell away to reveal a pair of eight-foot-tall, marble-grey men. They were both smiling through bushy beards, almost joyfully, with one holding a spade and the other a book. Clearly the latter had been designed to represent James Sheridan, but a transferral of identity had diplomatically taken place. I wondered if Mate had been a reader.

‘Clever,’ said Petra approvingly.

‘Congratulations,’ said Loretta. ‘I hope you enjoy the pickles.’

‘I always do.’ I smiled, and then let it slide into sympathy. ‘I’m so sorry about Sam.’

She sighed ‘Yes. Silly man. I always told him not to work so late.’

I exchanged glances with Petra as Loretta moved away. The wine I had consumed earlier began to make its presence felt. ‘Can you take my flowers over to the table with yours? I’m going to make a pit stop on the way.’