Ill-Gotten Gains (3 page)

‘Plenty of room for both.’ Ned beamed, even his chins stretching into a smile. ‘It’s the history that draws me in. The people. What did you want to see Sam for? Maybe I can help?’

‘No,’ said Quinn rudely. She hugged her box to her chest.

‘What my daughter
means
,’ I added, ‘is thank you for your offer but we’ve lined up our visit now. It’s just for a school project.’

‘Well in that case I’ll leave you to it.’ Ned jabbed at the elevator button again and this time was rewarded by the grinding sound of gears somewhere in the bowels of the building. ‘Sam’s there. Just barge right in. And say hi to Darcy next time you speak. Tell him we all miss him around here.’

Quinn nudged my foot again, this time a little harder. I took a deep breath and smiled a polite farewell at Ned.
Breaking news. Twenty-stone man falls from third-floor balcony. Police suspect gravity.

The Majic Historical Society occupied one of the prized rooms towards the front of Sheridan House, with curved walls and mullioned windows. It was run entirely by volunteers, but such was their dedication that there was more likely to be somebody in residence than not. Today was a full house, with five people having what appeared to be a meeting. I recognised Sam Emerson and Willy Akermann, who was the manager of Sheridan House, along with his wife Leisl and the mayor, James Sheridan. The latter was a dapper man who reminded me of Fred Astaire, and his bountiful smile adorned so many posters that even kindergarteners knew who he was. They looked up as I came to a halt in the doorway.

‘Ah, sorry. I’ll come back later.’ I tried to reverse but unfortunately Quinn was so close that I stepped on a good part of her foot. She yelped.

‘No, no,’ said James Sheridan, his smile settling. ‘We were due for a break anyway.’

Sam rose. ‘Just doing some planning. So what brings you here, Nell?’

Quinn poked me in the back with her burden and I stepped forward, releasing her foot. ‘If you’re sure? Quinn just has a couple of questions – for a school assignment.’

‘You’re the writer,’ commented the one person I didn’t know, a middle-aged blonde whose dove-grey roots matched her suit. ‘I’m Deb Taylor.’ She smiled and then coughed, as if wanting to foreshadow her next words. ‘I think you know my sister, Tessa Sheridan?’

I stared at her, taken aback. ‘No, not really. Under the circumstances.’

There was an uncomfortable silence. Quinn squeezed past to look Deb Taylor up and down slowly, with teenage expertise, before turning away. Her victim flushed.

Leisl Akermann cleared her throat. ‘I might make a pot of coffee. At the risk of sounding sexist, Deb, want to give me a hand?’

‘Nothing sexist about it,’ replied Deb Taylor, rising. ‘I’ve tasted the coffee from both these guys. So it’s just respect for the miracle bean, and a desire for survival.’

Laughter greeted her comment, which splintered the unease. The two women left, Leisl giving me a wry smile as I moved aside.

‘Hello, Nell,’ said Will Akermann. Frilly Willy, we used to call him in school, after his mother once dressed him as Little Lord Fauntleroy for a dress-up party, complete with broderie anglaise collar. The name stuck, mostly because it seemed to suit his fussy manner – an attribute that came into its own when he took over Sheridan House about twenty years ago. It ran like clockwork.

‘Hi, Will. I bet things are a little hectic at the moment?’

‘Like you wouldn’t believe.’

‘So, young Quinn,’ said Sam Emerson, ‘what’s this project all about then?’

Quinn shuffled her feet and then took a half-step closer to me.

‘She has to find an unusual fact about Petar Majic,’ I said. ‘So we went to the cemetery yesterday to take photos and, well …’ I glanced at Quinn. She looked about five years old. I turned back. ‘The plaque was loose. You know, the one with his name and dates and all that. It fell off while we were there. Hit the ground and broke in half. Anyway, beneath was another inscription. It says
Petar Majic, tragically taken 1 April 1867. Beloved.
’

They stared at me. Sam Emerson opened his mouth and closed it again, frowned.

Will steepled his hands beneath his chin. ‘Um, Nell. Are you sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure,’ I snapped. I took the box from Quinn and removed the two plaque halves, laying them on the table before sliding them together. ‘We thought it best to take this with us, so that it couldn’t get damaged.’

‘Any further,’ added James Sheridan softly.

‘Correct. And Quinn has photos of the inscription. Show them, Quinn.’

Quinn stepped forward with her phone, held it up to Sam and then lowered it for the two men still seated. They leant forward.

‘Well, well, well.’ Sam took Quinn’s hand and guided it back towards him. ‘Beloved. Why would it say beloved?’

I nodded. ‘Exactly what
we
were wondering. Wasn’t he a bachelor? That’s what it says in
Abracadabra
.’ I gestured towards Quinn, who held up the book with her free hand.

Will’s fingers were still steepled. ‘More to the point, why cover the inscription up?’

‘Perhaps the beloved refers to something else,’ said James Sheridan. His smile had vanished. ‘Like general admiration from those left behind.’

‘Then why wouldn’t it say that instead?’ I watched him with some interest. It was clear that his mind was working rapidly, probably three steps ahead of the other two. ‘Like Much Admired, or Respected, or Sorely Missed. But Beloved?’

Sam finally managed to extract the phone from Quinn’s hand. ‘This is amazing! Absolutely amazing! We have so
little
from Petar’s life. Plenty from the Sheridan era –’ he paused to nod towards James, as if he were personally responsible for this largesse ‘– but just the bare basics from the Majic one.’

‘So you think he was married then?’ asked Quinn, speaking for the first time.

‘Oh, I don’t know about
that
,’ said James Sheridan quickly. ‘There’s no evidence to support it. And if so, what happened to his wife after his death?’

‘Have we actually ever done a search for a marriage certificate?’ Sam was staring at Will, who seemed to be a fellow member of the Historical Society as well as centre manager. ‘I mean it’s always been
accepted
he was single. But did we ever really check?’

‘I’m quite sure somebody would have.’

Sam sat down at one of the desks and began typing on the computer. ‘Give me a sec and I’ll do it now.’ He turned to face me for a moment. ‘Marriage records from 1853 onwards are all online nowadays. I can track a marriage down in five minutes.’

I nodded, suitably impressed. Will and the mayor were gazing at the photo on the mobile that Sam had left lying on the table, comparing it to the plaque. I glanced around the room. It was quite large, with desks on either side of the door and the table nestled in the curve of the window. The walls were either covered with bookshelves or with noticeboards, some glass-covered. There were also some portable display boards, huge, about six of them, arranged in a half-octagon that loomed over the table. They were covered with sepia photographs and certificates and newspaper printouts. Each board also bore a title, printed on parchment in gothic font.
James Sheridan I (1835–1908)
;
James Sheridan II (1867–1916)
;
James Sheridan III (1898–1916) & Mary May Sheridan (1897–1990)
;
Sheridans: post-Sheridan House.

‘It all seems rather egocentric, doesn’t it?’ asked James Sheridan, watching me.

‘They’re actually for a display about Sheridan House itself,’ said Will. ‘The rest are already downstairs. But this series is ordered around the Sheridan in residence, up until the house was gifted in 1917. That’s why our James isn’t featured –’ he nodded towards the mayor ‘– nor his father.’

‘Except in
Sheridans: Post-Sheridan House
,’ I commented.

‘We’re expecting people to be a little interested in the family,’ said Sam, his eyes still on the computer monitor. ‘After following their history through the other boards. It’s all a little
Downton Abbey
.’

James Sheridan laughed. ‘Except that we’re far more prosaic, I’m afraid.’

‘So you’re like James Sheridan the Fifth?’ asked Quinn. ‘And what’s with Mary May?’

‘Yes, to the first. And Mary May was my grandmother. Her brother, the James Sheridan of that generation, was killed in the First World War. His father died a few months later; he never recovered from the news. So Mary May inherited the lot. Fortunately she was a tough cookie; the first thing she did was make her fiancé change his surname to Sheridan. Then they named their son James to keep the tradition going.’

‘Phew,’ I said. ‘Thank god.’

He smiled, but it wasn’t quite the bountiful one of habit. ‘Yes.’

‘But what about Petar Majic?’ asked Quinn.

‘He’s downstairs,’ said Will, ‘That is, his
board
is downstairs. Not him.’

‘Unfortunately,’ said Sam fervently, swivelling his chair around. ‘Now, bad news I’m afraid. No marriage.’

I was surprised at how disappointed I felt. If only because I suspected a clandestine marriage would have perturbed James Sheridan the Fifth, and I had never quite taken to him. He was a little too slick, too political. It would have been amusing to watch him negotiate a question mark over the legitimacy of his inheritance. Very amusing indeed.

Quinn’s mobile began vibrating and she dived forward to reclaim it. The door opened and Edward Given came in, followed by Leisl and Deb Taylor, the former bearing a plastic tray with a coffee plunger and six mugs. Sachets of sugar were piled in the centre. Leisl looked surprised to see me, and then apologetic. ‘Oh, sorry, Nell – I didn’t realise you’d still be here. I’ll grab another mug.’

‘That’s okay, I’m just about to –’

‘
Still
here, Nell?’ said Ned, sliding into Sam’s vacated seat at the table and unwrapping a sandwich. Lettuce curled along the side of the bread. ‘That must be
some
project.’

‘It is,’ said Sam fervently. He stood up, patting his pants pockets and looking around. ‘I’m going out there. Not that I don’t believe you, Nell, just that I want to see the inscription for myself. Will?’

‘I
wish
I could. But I can’t. No time.’

‘I’ll come along,’ said the mayor unexpectedly. ‘I find all of this fascinating.’

‘What?’ asked Ned, his sandwich forgotten. ‘What’s fascinating?’

‘Nell has made an
amazing
discovery out at the cemetery.’

‘Actually, it was me,’ said Quinn modestly, glancing up from her mobile. ‘Mum was just sitting on the bench.’

‘In that case I shall ensure you get all the credit,’ replied Sam. ‘James? Ready?’

Leisl put the tray down on the table. ‘
What
amazing discovery? What’s going on?’

‘Vandalism?’ Deb Taylor had picked up one half of the plaque between two fingers.

‘Look, we might leave you to it.’ I took a step towards the doorway. ‘I’ll drop in tomorrow with our questions, Sam, after you’ve had a look yourself.’

‘That’s from Petar Majic’s grave,’ said Ned, pointing at the broken plaque. He rewrapped his sandwich and then pushed his chair out in order to stand. ‘I don’t know what’s going on but I’m coming too. This sounds exciting.’

‘It may well be.’ Sam patted his pockets again. ‘Where are my keys? Leisl, do you know where the camera kit is?’

Leisl folded her arms across her chest. ‘I’ll tell you if you tell me. And I know it’s not just vandalism. I haven’t seen you this excited since they found Richard the Third’s remains.’

I caught Quinn’s eye and gestured towards the door. We made our exit quietly, although any noise would have been drowned out by the conversation now taking place. Quinn continued to text as we walked, no doubt catching up on the fifteen minutes she had been incommunicado. I stopped at the bathroom, leaving Quinn outside, and then folded myself forward as I sat down, staring at the tiled floor. I wondered if Deb Taylor would mention to her sister that she had run into me today, and whether Tessa would feel even a frisson of guilt. Or perhaps she would simply take it in her stride.
Oh, really, dahling? How awkward.
Then she would sashay over to their designer kitchen to pour margaritas, which she would take to the balcony of the tenth-floor Gold Coast apartment. Sinking down into a chaise longue to enjoy the sun dipping into a diamond-sprinkled coastline. With my husband.

I saw your picture on your blog and I think you look real hot for a middle-aged broad. Plus your head looks like it’s covered in pubic hair. I like that.

We covered Anna Funder that afternoon, a recent winner of the Miles Franklin Award and the writer of brick-sized tomes. The choice received a mixed reception with about half the book club members adoring, and a matching number abhorring. There did not seem to be any in between. A truce was eventually called and we moved on to general criticism of some prize committees for prioritising prose over plot. This being a particular dislike of mine, I was kept happily occupied until the group broke up just before closing time. We chose local history or memoir for the following week, individual choice, in honour of the commemorations. Which was when I remembered Petar Majic.

‘One more question, out of left field. Does anybody know anything about our illustrious founder having a partner? Petar Majic? Maybe a little bit behind the scenes?’

‘He was gay?’ asked Elsa Poxleitner, pausing as she stacked chairs against the wall.

I frowned. ‘Who said he was gay?’

‘You said he had a partner. That’s like saying he’s gay.’

‘Really?’ asked Karen Rawlings, who worked at the community centre. ‘So when you asked me to partner you in tennis last week, you were letting me know you’re interested?’

‘Certainly not!’ Elsa took a step backwards, as if Karen might be overcome with desire. ‘I don’t do that sort of thing! I have a husband!’

‘But not a partner? Sounds like repressed sexuality. You need to spread your wings.’

‘Fighting. Visual. Images,’ said Lyn Russo, rather amusingly for her. She turned to me. ‘So I hear that your Quinn and my Griffin have become something of an item.’

I smiled noncommittally. That must be the Griffo of the texts. I tried to remember what Griffin Russo looked like but could only recall a knobbly-kneed boy with a perpetually damp nose. I hoped that the latter at least had been rectified in the intervening years.

‘He was murdered, you know,’ said Betty Rawlings, Karen’s mother, who was sitting solidly in one of the only two chairs that remained unstacked. Beside her Grace June Rae nodded agreement.

This got everybody’s attention, even Elsa Poxleitner, who was still protesting her heterosexuality. I frowned. ‘I thought he fell off his horse. Who would have killed him?’

Betty glanced towards the door, as if the murderer might be listening. ‘Some other bloke. I suppose the one that came over with him, from wherever they came. Everyone knew. Two men go for a ride, only one comes back. You do the maths.’

‘I
hate
maths,’ said Lyn Russo. ‘Nasty stuff. Never use it.’

I was still frowning. ‘But that doesn’t make it murder. It still could have been an accident. Besides, who told you this?’

‘My nan. She wasn’t the type to exaggerate.’ Betty paused to nod approvingly. She rose slowly to her feet. ‘Called a spade a spade, she did. She had it from
her
mother.’

‘Calling a spade a spade?’

‘No, the stuff about the murder.’

‘Can’t remember who I heard it from,’ mused Grace June Rae. She stared at the ceiling for a moment and then pointed a finger at me. ‘And that dog you said was the Caldwell one wasn’t. Took my sign down and threw it out, now I have to make another.’

I blinked. ‘Oh, sorry. It just sounded like –’

‘Doesn’t mean it is.’

‘Go on then, Mum,’ said Karen, putting her mother’s chair away. ‘Give us the gory details about this murder.’

‘I already told you. They went for ride and the Majic bloke got done. That’s it.’

‘Okay.’ Karen laughed. ‘God, you really made that come alive, didn’t you? Come on, I’ll give you a lift home.’

As if this was a cue, everybody began exchanging farewells and filing through the doorway. I put out my hand to stop Betty Rawlings as she passed. ‘Do you know if this story had any evidence, any witnesses? I mean, why did people think it
wasn’t
an accident?’

‘I’m not altogether sure, love. All’s I know is that my grandmother used to say it was over a woman. I didn’t take much notice. If you’re interested, though, I can ring my cousin Bernie; she’s got a memory like a steel trap. She might remember more of what our nan was on about. I’ll let you know.’

‘Thanks.’ I watched her stocky figure make its way up the aisle, past Sharon who was putting away the A-frame board. I thought of Mate Dragovic, coming all the way from the Ukraine with Petar Majic, jumping ship, prospecting for gold, striking it rich. And then finally, maybe, murdering his best friend. A man betrayed, a mate who wasn’t, a woman who had disappeared. Beloved indeed.

*

Three hours later and I was still thinking about Mate Dragovic, but now I was sitting at my kitchen bench and dressed in tartan pyjamas. The story, with its intrigue and romance and potential betrayal, had captured my imagination. But I was also being a little pragmatic, as these elements meant it was shaping up as fodder for an excellent column and, moreover, one that I could use to spruik the upcoming celebrations, thus fulfilling my duties both as columnist and useful citizen.

I had reclaimed
Abracadabra
from Quinn, who was watching anime cartoons on her computer, and now had it propped open at the photo of Petar and Mate, paying a little more attention to the latter on this occasion. It was difficult to tell with their square, bulky suits, but he looked a little slimmer than his friend, less muscular. His skin was also lighter, as was his hair, which made the dark eyebrows seem like brushstrokes across the photo. Beneath these brows, his eyes were pewter marbles, meeting mine with an intensity that made it hard to believe he had been dead for about a hundred and fifty years.

I got up to make myself another coffee and then returned to the bar stool, swinging idly as I pictured the fatal scene. The two men arguing over Beloved and then leaping astride their horses to ride furiously through the bush, scrubby grasses whipping their legs, hooves thudding against the dusty earth. Finally they come to a halt, sliding off to continue the argument as if it had never paused. The horses stand behind them, eyes wide with exhaustion, flanks shiny with sweat. Accusations are flung as the two men circle slowly, their jealousy given impetus by the fear – stomach-clenching, heart-stopping – that Beloved may choose the other. Moments later they close in, and moments after that one lies dead.

I met Mate’s eyes again and knew that this was not premeditated, that as soon as the deed was done he would have given anything to take it back. Even his own life. And in a way he had, banishing himself from all that was familiar. I got up to fetch the phone book from the dresser, flicking it open to check for Dragovics in the area. None. Did Beloved leave with him? Perhaps that was why she had also become a ghost, leaving only a word on a gravestone that was itself short-lived.

The phone rang just as I shut the phone book. I let it ring for a while, hoping Quinn would pick up the extension, but then finally plucked the handset from its cradle. It might be one of the girls. ‘Hello?’

‘Nell. How are you?’

I stilled, gripped the phone a little tighter. ‘Darcy.’

‘Guilty as charged.’ He paused, as if realising the inappropriateness of this last comment, and then went on with a rush. ‘I, um, need to talk to you. Is now a good time?’

‘As good as any.’

‘Well, what it is … look, I hope you don’t take this the wrong way. I mean, I think I’ve been pretty good about everything, and I know you’ve had the girls staying off and on, and of course Quinn’s there for another few years. I wouldn’t even be going down this path now if it weren’t for … circumstances. Beyond my control, you see.’

‘Darcy, what on earth are you talking about?’

‘The house. It’s about the house.’

My breath stilled in line with my body. ‘What about the house?’

‘I, um, think it’s time we talked about how we’re going to work this.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Move forward, you know.’

‘Are you talking about selling the house?’

‘Of course not. Well, not necessarily. After we get it valued, you could always buy me out. If that’s what you prefer.’

I gazed at my curled fingers, the knuckles ivory. ‘That would mean a hefty mortgage.’

‘You’d get a bigger share than me, naturally. Because of Quinn. So even with a mortgage, you’d have sizable equity.’

‘Oh, terrific.
Love
a bit of sizable equity. Quantity over quality I always say.’

There was silence for a moment and then Darcy sighed. I could see him as clearly as if he was sitting on the bar stool beside me, closing his eyes against my intransigence, taking a deep breath of patience. I even knew exactly what he would say next. Something like ‘Nell, there’s no need for sarcasm.’

‘Nell, there’s no need for sarcasm.’

Bingo. I transferred the phone to my other hand and flexed my fingers, almost welcoming the dull throb that surged down to the tips.

‘Did you really think that I could afford to just go on? With all
my
equity tied up there?’

‘No, of course not.’ But even as I answered, I knew that wasn’t the truth. ‘I suppose I thought that you’d have the decency to leave things as they are until your youngest daughter was through school. Given it was
you
,’ I swallowed the brittle bitterness of this last word, ‘it was
you
who shot through.
You
who swapped your family for a chunk of mutton dressed as lamb.
You
who left the fucking house in the first place.’

‘Mum?’

I looked up to see Quinn standing in the doorway, staring at me.

She took a step forward. ‘Is everything okay?’

‘Everything’s fine, really. Nothing to worry about.’ I mustered a smile as I slid off the stool. ‘But I’ll just take this conversation outside, okay? Back in a minute.’

‘Is that Dad on the phone?’

‘Back in a minute, okay?’ I gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze as I passed. Darcy had gone quiet and I hoped, for one vicious, self-indulgent moment, that he felt guilty. I shut the front door and walked down towards the car before lifting the phone again.

‘Was that Quinn? Is she all right? Is she still there?’

‘Yes. Yes. No.’

‘Don’t call Tessa names, she doesn’t deserve it. I expect better from you.’

‘Are you kidding me?’ Hot tears instantly burnt my eyes, blurring the line between anger and pain. ‘Are you
kidding
me?’

Silence stretched once more. ‘Can’t we at least be civil? Surely this isn’t the way you want to play it.’

‘I’m not the one who’s trying to sell up.’ I closed my eyes, willing the throbbing to ease.

‘I’m not trying to sell up. I’m trying to explore options. Trying to move forward.’

‘Yeah, you said that before.’

‘Look, there is an alternative.’ Darcy spoke slowly now, as if unsure whether to continue. ‘I suppose I could buy
you
out.’

I leant against the car. ‘And what? Live here with … her?’

‘Nell, don’t be like that. It might be the best thing, when you think of it.’

‘No.’ I spat the word. ‘Besides, I thought you were settled up there. Having a new start and all.’

‘We’re moving back. Closer to family.’

I stared past the car to the tangle of bushes that edged the road. ‘Closer to family. So what’s brought this on? Why the change?’

He was silent for a long time, his breathing punctuating the seconds as they slid past. ‘Tessa’s pregnant.’

‘Tessa’s pregnant,’ I repeated, but the words still didn’t make sense. And then they did.

‘I’m sorry, Nell. Really. It wasn’t planned. But you can see how she’d want to be close to her family at a time like this. And I miss the girls.’ He sighed to underline this last word, throw me a bone. ‘Although could you do me a favour? Could you not tell them yet? We’ll be there for the festival and I want to tell them then. Face to face. It’s only right. I’ll need to talk to you, too, about making things official. Um, you know, getting divorced.’

The words were like little missiles, each bruising as it made contact. I held the phone away, stared at it. Darcy’s voice was tinny now, but continual, a steady unending stream of explanation and rationalisation that I simply didn’t want to hear. I pressed end and the silence was blissful. Tessa was pregnant. At forty years of age. With her short skirts, snug tops and charitable cleavage exacerbated by a sway back, causing belly and boobs to sally forth like the prow of a ship. All of which my husband had felt compelled to christen in his own inimitable way.

I was now over it. That is, I would always be bitter because there was no doubt Darcy had done me a great wrong and it had hurt, massively, but I no longer felt trapped by what had been lost. No longer treading water, hoping he would realise his mistake and come back, begging for forgiveness. But just because I was no longer in that place, it didn’t mean I didn’t want
him
to be. My favourite fantasy featured Darcy, felled by the enormity of what he had tossed away, pleading with me for a second chance. Or a third, or fourth, or whatever it was. Like Sandy from
Grease
, but unfortunately without the skin-tight black number and the requisite body, I would raise one stiletto-shod foot and push him away.

This fantasy had been given impetus last Christmas, when news arrived that the fledgling relationship was on the rocks. Darcy even came for Christmas dinner, alone, and it had been so much like old times that I felt sure it was just a matter of time. I even nipped in the bud an unfolding relationship of my own with a detective from Bendigo, because the timing just didn’t seem right. Now it seemed that I wasn’t the only one whose timing was off. Tessa was pregnant. They were going to have a baby.

The phone rang again and I grabbed it up, sure that it was Darcy again, ringing to say that it had all been a mistake. ‘Hello?’

‘Nell, it’s Sam Emerson here. From the Historical Society.’ Sam’s voice came in rush, the words tripping over each other. ‘I’m there now, at Sheridan House, and boy do we have some news for you!’

‘You do?’

‘Absolutely! And I thought I should ring because, well, you and your daughter were the ones who set this in motion. Nell, this is huge. Huge!’