Ill-Gotten Gains (9 page)

Are you the same Nell Forrest that entertained the troops at Puckapunyal in 1967? You look a little younger in your photo, but I thought it worth a try. My name is Stanley Elton and you may remember we danced twice after the show. I’ve thought about you ever since.

The largest function room on the second floor had been allocated to the community meeting and although I’d arrived very early, there were already people settling within. These were probably the kind who, as children, had sat up the front of the class and infuriated their fellow students by always having at least one question as the bell rang. I continued up the stairs to the third floor and then walked down an echoing passage to the Historical Society room. Deb was right: it was still sealed with crime tape and there was also a printed notice that instructed anybody with business within to contact Will Akermann at reception.

I returned downstairs, passing Elsa Poxleitner and her husband on their way up. There were more people on the ground floor now, but these were the social types for which any community event was a chance to catch up with friends. They milled around the displays, chatting about what was on offer and every so often raising a hand and hollering across the hall.
Merl! Why, fancy seeing you here! Carol! Over here, love! Bert! How the hell are ya?

I headed for the display boards, which were the other reason I had arrived early. I was on the trail of the mystery photo that would make everything clear. I liked clues such as that. The boards remained in Stonehenge formation so I tracked along until I stood in front of
Petar Majic (1829–1867).
Sam had been correct; information was pretty scarce. There was a printout that reproduced a passage from
Abracadabra
verbatim, along with the standard portrait of Petar and Mate. Otherwise the board contained just a photo of Sheridan House and another of the crypt, plaque intact, plus a series of nondescript pictures from the goldfields.

I moved to
James Sheridan I (1835–1908)
, whose portrait depicted an elderly man with craggy features. He looked like Leonardo da Vinci, but flatter. There were several pictures of his wife Mary as a girl, the largest showing her with limp ribbons and ruffled pinafore posed beside a piano stool. She looked stultifyingly boring.

‘Penny for them?’ asked Leisl Akermann with a smile.

‘Just looking. History is fascinating, isn’t it?’

‘You’re preaching to the converted there! So, what do you think of all our hard work?’

‘It’s amazing. I just wish I could tell Sam.’ I stared at the boards, flicking my gaze from one photo to the next. ‘You know, and ask him questions. Get him to explain it all.’

‘Poor Sam. It’s dreadful. But, Nell, I never knew you were so interested in local history.’ Leisl was looking at me curiously. ‘Did that plaque get you started? Did Sam ever find out anything about it?’

‘Just some bits and pieces,’ I said vaguely.

‘Grim-looking lot, aren’t they?’ asked Kat Caldwell. She was stirring a cup of tea and used the spoon to point at James I. ‘That one looks like a right bastard.’

‘Careful,’ Leisl laughed. ‘You’re talking about my great-great-great grandfather there!’

‘Sorry, mate!’ Kat tapped her finger against the photo as way of apology. James did not look impressed. She turned to me. ‘Hey, Nell, thanks for giving Grace June Rae ideas. She’s been ringing every second day trying to palm off a dog.’

‘Sorry. I thought it must have been yours. They sounded the same.’

‘Did you take one of the
Abracadabra
books?’ asked Yen, materialising by my side with an accusatory frown. ‘From the shop?’

‘No.’

‘There’s one missing, and you were last seen with one in your possession.’

‘Then yes. But it was for research.’

‘Either pay for it or put it back. What research?’

‘For your window display, if you must know. You can thank me later.’

Yen raised an eyebrow. ‘How much research do you need to throw a brown sheet over some boxes and spray-paint a few rocks?’

‘You still need ambience,’ I replied loftily. Leisl and Kat had now moved away and I could see Petra by the stairs, along with Ruby. They waved but didn’t come over. Traitors.

‘Where’s Quinn?’ asked Yen.

‘At home. She had schoolwork.’

Yen nodded approvingly, and then pointed to a large portrait of Mary May Sheridan in later life, surrounded by a gaggle of descendants. ‘Now she was a tough old cookie.’

‘Did you know her?’

‘Of course; she only died in 1983. You were a teenager. Don’t you remember her?’

I examined the photo, searching for a memory, then shook my head.

‘There you go. The egocentricity of youth. She was a real fixture, on most of the boards and committees around town. Had a great sense of humour. I liked her.’

I stared at her with surprise. ‘Really?’

‘Yes. No need to look like a stunned mullet. I do like some people. Coming upstairs?’

‘In a minute.’

‘I’ll save you a seat.’

‘Excellent.’ I watched her stroll to the elevator and then turned back to the display. Mary May
did
look like she had a sense of humour, unlike the parade featured on the Sheridan House boards. I perused them quickly, conscious of the time, and paused at the sepia image of a woman with a bonneted baby on her lap. A small girl and boy stood on either side, with the girl’s hand on the head of a stocky black dog. But it was the mother’s eyes that drew my attention because they were like pewter marbles, beneath sweeping batwing brows. The caption read
Unknown Woman with her children, Majic circa 1870
. I stared at the photo for a few long moments, and then suddenly the penny dropped. I stepped rapidly over to
Petar Majic (1829–1867)
and back, my stomach tense, comparing the photo of Mate Dragovic with that of the unknown woman. Confirmation soared, like butterflies. They had the same eyes, the same brows. I had found Kata Dragovic and she wasn’t Mate’s wife after all. She was his sister.

*

The meeting commenced on time despite a flurry of latecomers who noisily located spare chairs, seeming to prefer those in the very centre of each row. I cursed having left my mobile at home (although it wouldn’t have done much good, as the battery was flat); I would have dearly liked to text Deb and Petra, tell them the news. I might even have been stirred to master the camera function in order to take some photos. I rather fancied using Kata as my screensaver for a few weeks.

‘So apart from welcoming you all here tonight,’ continued James Sheridan Number Five, who had been speaking for several minutes, ‘I would also like to stress the council’s appreciation regarding such a fantastic turnout on short notice. It’s the sort of thing that makes me so proud of our community.’

There was a smattering of applause, although it was not clear whether they were cheering the mayor or themselves. I tapped Ruby on the shoulder. ‘Where’s Luce?’

‘She’s not feeling well. Or so she said. Hey, Quinn wanted to stay with us for the weekend. She can come straight from school if that’s okay.’

‘Ssh,’ hissed Yen, poking me in the knee.

I frowned as I swiped her hand away and sent a death stare into my sister’s back. She twitched her shoulder blades and then rubbed her neck.

‘Now this meeting has a dual purpose. First, to acknowledge the horrendous recent events and send our sympathies to the Emerson family. As such, there is a bereavement card available for all who wish to sign.’ The mayor waved at a side table, beside which Will Akermann and Deb Taylor stood as if on guard. ‘I have been asked to let you know that the funeral will be held next Tuesday, in Bendigo. The family have requested donations to the Historical Society in lieu of flowers.’ He paused as a wave of comments rippled through the audience, and then cleared his throat and spoke quickly. ‘The family of Mr Given have decided to hold a closed funeral. Close friends are to contact the family for details.’

‘I’ll give them details all right,’ muttered the plump woman beside me, quite loudly.

‘Fool,’ said Yen without moving her head. ‘What happened to innocent until proven guilty?’

‘Hey, did she call me a fool?’ The woman bent forward. ‘Did you call me a fool?’

‘No, she said
full
,’ I explained. ‘As in, ah, another conversation.’

The mayor was still speaking: ‘… to give our constabulary an opportunity to update us on the ongoing investigation. Then, finally, I shall be asking Deb Taylor, our arts and entertainment officer, to take the microphone and give us a rundown on the events to take place next week.’

‘I thought he said this was a
dual
purpose meeting,’ I commented in a low voice to nobody in particular. ‘I counted at least four things; that’s a pretty casual interpretation of dual.’

‘What the hell did she mean by full?’ The woman was now addressing her male partner. ‘Did she mean I’d been drinking?’

‘Well, you have,’ he replied laconically. ‘Now for Christ’s sake, shut up.’

The mayor frowned in our direction, which was a little unfair, and then continued. ‘I would also like to inform you that there was a great deal of discussion regarding whether we should cancel the festivities in light of the recent tragedy.’ He paused while there was a rumble of disquiet from the audience. ‘However I can tell you that Mrs Emerson was insistent that we go ahead, not only because she felt cancellation would hurt the entire town, but because Sam would have wanted the show to go on. So without further ado, I would like to ask our representative from the police, Detective Sergeant Armistead, to come forward and take the microphone.’

Petra twisted around. ‘Well, well, well.’

I endeavoured to keep my face expressionless as Ashley and a fellow police officer with a face like a hatchet, both in uniform, walked up the side aisle and thanked the mayor before moving to the microphone. I had never seen him in uniform before. He looked good.
Breaking news: forty-seven-year-old woman discovers that man + uniform = sexy. Who knew?
The hatchet man stood to one side with his hands folded neatly in front of him as Ashley began speaking.

‘Good evening. My name is Detective Sergeant Ashley Armistead and this is my colleague, Detective Constable Eric Male. We would like to echo the mayor’s sympathy to the families involved and we’d also like to make a public appeal for anyone with information regarding the case to come forward. We’ll both be available after the meeting or, alternatively, we’ll be leaving a number of cards on the table if you’d like to contact us at a later time.’

Petra turned again. ‘Would you like me to grab you a card, Nell?’

‘Why?’ asked Yen instantly, looking from Petra to me. ‘Why would she do that? You’re not involved in something stupid again, are you?’

‘No,’ I said shortly. ‘Shush.’

Ashley was saying, ‘… a clear timeline of events. We know that Mr Emerson and Mr Given made several phone calls between six and eight-thirty pm, and after that time several calls made to Mr Emerson’s mobile phone went unanswered. We also know that Mr Given’s car arrived at his house at nine-forty pm.’

A man towards the front raised his hand. ‘So the bastard killed Sam, did he?’

‘That is by no means clear at this stage. There are several lines of inquiry open.’

‘He left a note, for god’s sake. How much clearer do you need it?’

Ashley regarded the man evenly. ‘Investigations are proceeding with regard to the note. While it is certainly evidence, there are other matters we need to consider. I can tell you that there were bruises found on Mr Given’s body that were inconsistent with … a simplistic explanation.’

‘Why were they even here so late?’ asked Sally Roddom, the president of the Wine and Cheese Society. ‘Shouldn’t the place have been closed?’

‘I believe they were doing some work towards the upcoming commemoration.’ Ashley glanced at the mayor for confirmation, who then looked towards Deb Taylor, who in turn looked at Will Akermann. A ripple of amusement passed through the audience.

Will stepped forward. ‘Several of the tenants have keys to the back door, Sally. As you know it opens onto the stairwell so that they don’t have access to the community centre itself. On behalf of the Historical Society, Sam often worked here out of hours.’

‘Really? So, let me get this straight: the Historical Society gets a key but the Wine and Cheese Society doesn’t? Is there a reason for this distinction?’

‘Count yourself bloody lucky,’ said the plump woman beside me, leaning forward to cast a challenging glance at Yen. I could have told her she was wasting her time.

‘Well there’s a key free now,’ commented a male voice dryly. His wife could immediately be heard hushing him and a muted altercation ensued.

‘Perhaps all that’s best taken up at another time,’ interjected Ashley. He scanned the crowd. ‘Were there any more questions?’

‘What’s the chance it’s a serial killer?’ asked Lyn Russo nervously. Her son Griffin, or Griffo as he seemed to be known to my youngest daughter, was sitting next to her picking at a scab on his arm. Appealing.

Elsa Poxleitner held up her hand. ‘Or some sort of robbery gone wrong? We
do
have a lot of precious goods here at the moment.’

‘I
like
your jam, love,’ said Sharon, beside her. ‘But I’m not sure I’d kill for it.’

‘Both possibilities are remote,’ replied Ashley. ‘The evidence suggests that the parties were known to each other. And that there was an objective involved, although not necessarily premeditated. This was not a random attack. Attacks.’

‘But
what
objective?’ queried Karen Rawlings. ‘What was the motivation?’

‘That’s what we are endeavouring to discover, hence our request for any information. No matter how minor.’ Ashley paused to scan the crowd, giving emphasis to his words. ‘And if there are no more questions, then I’ll hand the meeting back to the mayor. However can I reiterate that we will be available after the meeting for anything at all.’

‘
Any
thing?’ asked Sharon. There was another ripple of amusement and Ashley grinned ruefully as he passed the microphone back to the mayor. His companion, with a face set in folds that appeared to prohibit the process, was the only person not smiling. Petra turned to raise an eyebrow at me.