Ill-Gotten Gains (7 page)

Love the idea of your joke-of-the-week competition. Here’s mine: ‘Somebody’s been sleeping in
my
bed!’ cries Mother Bear. Her husband barely raises an eyebrow. ‘Who hasn’t?’ he mutters under his breath. The end.

Until this morning my sexual-partner-tally had been four, which was nine less than the average for an Australian woman across her lifetime, so I had a bit of catching up to do. Unless I moved to India, in which case I was already above average. Given I was not above average in much of anything, it was a tempting prospect. My first sexual experience had been a clumsy rabbit-like encounter with a boyfriend at eighteen; the relationship ending abruptly the following day when I discovered he was sharing details of the milestone with friends. Next was a guy I dated at university, which was a more rewarding experience that may well have continued indefinitely had it not been for the fact his surname was Buttafuoco. The sex would have had to have been trembly-leg superlative to have moved past that, and it wasn’t.

Following that was a friend-with-benefits experiment that lasted for almost two years, a mutually beneficial arrangement that simply petered out over time. It was at his wedding that I met Darcy. Twenty-six years of monogamy, on my side anyway, which I had thought would continue until one of us shuffled off this mortal coil. Instead, Darcy was gallivanting around the Gold Coast, impregnating my replacement, while I had just had my first one-night stand ever.
Middle-aged woman bucks trend by turning one-night stand into one-morning horizontal. And some vertical. But definitely no standing. Recommends same.

Petra had invited herself for lunch today so after I had tidied my den of iniquity, I took some time to dash into town and collect supplies. A new banner had been hung across the council chambers, this one a pictorial effort that featured the original James Sheridan on one side, with a rakishly tilted bowler hat, and the current mayor on the other. In between the words read
ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY YEARS OF SHERIDAN MAJIC
! I regarded the bowler hat thoughtfully, and then left my groceries in the car while I made a detour to Svetlana’s Haberdashery in the arcade.

Svetlana’s was something of an institution, having been in Majic almost from the beginning. The lady herself was a distant memory but the name lived on under a succession of new owners. Inside was a rabbit warren of sewing paraphernalia, clothing oddments and craft goods. It was also where I purchased most of my requirements for the doll’s houses. From these visits I knew that there was an assortment of hats and fascinators tucked into one corner. I regarded the merchandise with a critical eye. It was not just any hat I was after, but the one from my dream. Black crushed velvet, with a short brim and soft crown that was shot through with threads of burgundy.

Not surprisingly it wasn’t there, but I did find a relative. Made of soft felt rather than crushed velvet, and just plain black, but the mirror approved and so did I. Even the current Svetlana, after eulogising both Sam and Loretta Emerson for fifteen minutes, was enthusiastic. To celebrate, I also purchased a tiny walnut gramophone for the current doll’s house, complete with an octagonal base and curving brass horn. I left the shop feeling amazingly chipper, albeit with an undulating flicker of guilt. But I had to concentrate on the positives – I had become a hat person, owner of a gramophone and a partaker of casual sex all in the course of a few hours. The afternoon had a lot to live up to.

Before heading home, I walked up the arcade and gazed across at Sheridan House. Even from here I could see it was closed. A divvy van was parked by the entry and there was a bright yellow sign covering the opening hours. Nevertheless every few minutes somebody would skirt past the van and wander up to the front door to tug at it, before shading their eyes as they peered inside. From this vantage point I could see both car parks, the large one that flanked the footy oval and a smaller one tucked around the back. The latter held a single car and with a wrench I realised it was Sam’s.

I wandered across slowly. It was a late-model silver sedan, very standard, with a bumper sticker that read
Yesterday was history, today is a blessing, tomorrow is a mystery
. I doubted that he had found yesterday much of a blessing but he had certainly been right about the last one. Would we ever know what had driven Ned to commit such a dreadful deed? If indeed he had. I sighed as I peered into the back seat, hoping perhaps for an explanation. Preferably in large print as I was beginning to suspect I needed glasses.

‘Nell? What are you doing?’

I jumped back and stared guiltily at Leisl Akermann. She was standing by the rear door of the community centre with Karen Rawlings. ‘Nothing. That is, I suppose I was hoping for a clue. About why it happened.’

‘It happened because Ned was jealous,’ said Leisl shortly. ‘He ran for president against Sam two years ago and never got over being sidelined. There’s no mystery about that.’

Karen shook her head. ‘I’m still in shock. Poor Sam. Hey, nice hat, Nell.’

‘Just goes to show you never know a person,’ added Leisl. ‘You
think
you do, but …’

‘I thought the place was closed?’ I gestured towards the centre.

‘It is. But Karen and I had to make statements. Plus I wanted to get access to our files but they wouldn’t let me.’ Leisl frowned. ‘This is going to set us back days, and we’ve only got a week and a half before the commemoration.’

‘That’s a little insensitive,’ commented Karen. ‘I mean, Sam
is
dead.’

Leisl looked contrite. ‘I didn’t mean it that way. It’s just there’s so
much
to do.’ She turned back to me. ‘I’m working on a database with all the inhabitants of Majic from way back when, so visitors next weekend will be able to trace ancestors by name.’

‘How interesting,’ I said politely. ‘I’m sure the police won’t be too long.’

‘They’d better not be. And before you accuse me of being insensitive again, Karen, can I just say that Sam himself would be devastated that he’s held everything up.’

‘Actually it’s Ned who’s responsible, not Sam.’

‘Potato, potahto. This commemoration is the most significant thing to happen to our town for a hundred and fifty years. So as much as I’m devastated about Sam, I also have to stay focused. Otherwise we’ll blow it. This is important – really important. It’s our chance to put ourselves on the map.’

*

After arriving home, I spent the remainder of the morning answering emails and sketching the bones of a new column, this one about the trials and tribulations of school reunions. I also made a call to the local real estate agency, fixing a valuation for the following day. Finally, and a little reluctantly, I googled yesterday’s events to find out what was being reported. It was surprisingly little, both deaths earning only a brief mention that failed even to make a connection between the two.

This scarcity of media interest only served to underline the surreal nature of the events. That is, I knew that Sam Emerson and Ned Given were both dead, but the enormity of it felt blurred, as if I was working with a photocopy. I suspected that the primary cause was that I was also working on overload. The uncertainty over my matched pair of university dropouts, Darcy’s impending fatherhood, having to refinance the family home – and now a dollop of clandestine sex on top. And beneath. It was like a casserole with too many ingredients. A murder or two thickened the mix, but barely altered the taste. I needed to deconstruct the components, and then lay them out and deal with each individually.

I swivelled myself on the chair while staring up at the ceiling, welcoming the giddy feeling that surged. After four and a half revolutions, I decided that I should start with the deaths. They were simply the least pervasive, for me anyway. Besides, spending an hour or so mulling over what happened to Sam and Ned was the least I could do for them, and I rather fancied the idea of strolling into the police station with some vital clue.
Local woman in attractive hat heralded as new Sherlock Holmes. Police impressed.

There were two scenarios – one that had Ned killing Sam and then himself, and the other that involved a third party doing away with both. The key for either was the motive. What I really needed was to talk to other members of the Historical Society and discover whether there had been any bad blood between the two men, or anyone else. Leisl’s theory about the presidency was a start, but didn’t seem enough. Then there was Sam’s Discovery, which Ashley Armistead might have dismissed but which could very well be pivotal. Or coincidental. Or both.

The Historical Society possessed a surprisingly elaborate web presence, with Sheridan House forming the backdrop to the home page. The hundred-and-fifty-year commemoration also featured largely but there was no handy membership list with contact details and individual alibis for Monday night. The committee, it seemed, was made up of Sam as president, Will as vice-president, Leisl as treasurer and Ned as secretary. The patron was James Sheridan V, ‘scion of our most notable family’.

I sat back from a moment, and then googled the scion himself. To my surprise the collective owners of the name scored a Wikipedia page. James Sheridan I was credited with the establishment of Majic, with Petar only scoring a brief mention for his sunset ride. No Wikipedia page for him. Following this period was a succession of James Sheridans who all met their two basic requirements – becoming a notable citizen and producing a namesake to continue the line. The only hiccup had been James III, who had carelessly let himself get killed in World War I. Fortunately his sister Mary May had saved the day.

I was about to close the page when 1867 caught my eye. This was the year that Petar Majic died. It was also, according to Wikipedia, the year that Mary Frost, the wife of the original James, had passed away, shortly after giving birth to the latest instalment. I frowned, recalling the marriage certificate glimpsed yesterday in the Historical Society office, which detailed the union of James Sheridan with a Kata Dragovic – in 1867. I thought it curious at the time because Kata had the same surname as Petar’s friend Mate, but now it seemed even more peculiar. Could 1867 really have been such a busy year? And why did Kata not even score a mention on the Sheridan Wikipedia page?

I googled Kata’s name but, apart from a Kata Dragovic who had recently uploaded a YouTube video of her cat, there was nothing. I watched the cat video anyway, and then went into Scarlett’s room to find her large whiteboard. I cleaned it off and then brought it, and the handy
Abracadabra: The Makings of Majic
, back into my study. I started by dividing the whiteboard into three sections. At the top of the first section I wrote
PETAR MAJIC (1829–1867) + BELOVED?
and in the second
MATE DRAGOVIC (1829–1866) + KATA?
. The third I reserved for the Sheridan genealogy, which took some time. Finally, I stood back to examine my handiwork.

I hadn’t bothered to include the current couple of generations, mainly because they had become surprisingly plentiful. After a hundred-odd years of scraping by with barely a single heir, they appeared to have adopted the biblical motto ‘go forth and multiply’. Perhaps it was a competition. Besides, continuing the Sheridan family tree would mean including Tessa’s name beneath that of her father, Edward, and leaving space for her progeny to follow.

Gusto began barking moments before the doorbell rang. I glanced at the computer, surprised to find that it was almost one o’clock. Rather reluctantly, I left my research and headed to the front door, opening it to reveal my sister. She towered over me, largely because she was wearing a wicked pair of stiletto-heeled boots.

‘He left a note,’ she said excitedly as the dog ran out to sniff suspiciously at her boots.

‘Who?’ I gaped at her, and then at the outside of the door. Perhaps I was expecting a handwritten missive to be pinned to the centre panel. Something like
Dear Nell, this morning was
amazing
. Love, Ashley
. No,
from Ashley
. I looked back at Petra and flushed.

‘Ned, of course. Ned Given.’ She frowned at me. ‘What’s up? And what’s with the hat?’

‘I’ve decided to become a hat person.’ I shut the door and showed her into the family room while I let Gusto into the backyard. He had a disconcerting tendency to stare at people while they were eating. Petra waved a colourful brochure at me when I returned and then examined me critically. ‘Actually, it suits you. Makes you look a little bohemian. Edgy. But it looks ridiculous inside.’

‘True.’ I took off the hat and ran a hand through my hair.

Petra was still staring. ‘There’s something else … different. Something …’

‘What was that about a note?’

‘Oh, yes! Ned left a note! Apparently Mark Tapscott saw it, and he told his wife who told Elsa Poxleitner who told everyone. It said:
It’s beyond me. Sorry, Ned.
’

‘Beyond me?’ I repeated. ‘Why would he say it’s
beyond
him?’

‘I assume he was talking about what he did. To Sam.’ Petra flopped down into the armchair and watched me as I started preparing lunch. ‘You’ve done something.’