She took a shaky breath and tried to calm herself. She slid open one of the drawers to find stationery, pens, a calculator. A second revealed more of the same. Richie began to whimper, and she felt a needle of panic work through her. She shushed him, sitting down in the large leather chair cradling his head in her hand. He settled and she breathed more deeply. She wasn’t sure what had brought her here. Actually, she was. It was instinct. It was the same thing that had told her that Mike was having an affair. Only she’d ignored it that time. And it wasn’t just about this strange hotel, this valley. Will standing outside the office with the haunted look in his eye. It was about Macie. What she saw was two different women. Like mirror sisters. Twins. The woman in her silk gowns with her lavish spreads and doting adoration of the children, and the woman she sensed here. They didn’t seem like the same person. She was an illusion. A spectre in a house full of spectres. Macie had never acknowledged that shameful night when Nathalie had poured out her heart. It didn’t sit right. There was some kind of mask. Some dishonesty, a feeling in which Nathalie had been well schooled. A feeling she’d always pushed down, avoided, until now.
Richie was asleep, his little body warm, his breath perfectly rhythmic against her chest. She ran her fingers over an ornate silver box on the desk. The lid was adorned with yet another woman, this one writhing in either pain or pleasure, she wasn’t sure. She drew it to her. Inside she found photos. Old, jumbled. Pictures of a boy who might have been Caleb, mixed with older yellowing pictures of the little boy on the walls. An intense unease crept through her. She unfolded a piece of sketch paper. The image made her gasp. Will, with his tousled hair and piercing eyes. Had Macie sketched him? It was a beautiful drawing that captured something of Will’s essence, his intelligence, his vulnerability. Why do you have this picture of Will? All the blood drained from her head and she thought she might faint. She slipped the piece of paper into her bra and stood on uncertain feet. She knew she couldn’t linger here but what else might she find? She looked behind her at the door. Still closed.
There was very little in the room except the desk, a small bookcase and a leather reading chair by the window. A filing cabinet in the corner. She opened the top drawer of the cabinet to find financial records, receipts, papers. The second drawer contained more of the same. To get to the bottom drawer she had to kneel, slowly so as not to wake Richie. She slid the drawer out to find nothing but empty folders. She stood carefully and surveyed the room again. What did it mean? This picture of Will inside the box with these other boys? She walked over to the bookcase. The classics, some self-help. A few modern novels. One of the spines caught her eye, Grief, A Journey to Healing. The book was sticking out further than the rest, as though it hadn’t been put back properly. She slid it out.
It opened easily, revealing folded newspaper articles tucked in its centre. Nathalie felt tears prick her eyes as she took in the headlines, yellowing, torn and stained with age. All variations of the same. A little boy. A tragic accident. A young Sydney mother, gone into another room to find a towel. She had only been gone a few minutes. Her little boy, Jacob, three, had slipped under the water in the bath. It was a tragic mistake. A terrible accident. Mother, Macetta Williams, age 22.
Nathalie heard an awful noise but realised it was coming from her own mouth. Richie stirred and began to cry. Nathalie’s vision was blurred with tears. She was breathless as she hastily stuffed the book back into the bookcase. It fell and the articles fanned to the floor. Jacob’s face, smiling up at her like a ghost. Macetta must be Macie. It made sense. This explained her desire to skirt over, to stay on the surface of things. Because she herself had a secret she couldn’t face. But what mother wouldn’t hold that secret close to her, closet it, hide it? Try to press it down. The guilt. It would eat you up.
Richie’s cries echoed off the walls and she scrambled to pick up the newspaper clippings, but her vision was still blurry. She started at a noise and swung around. Was someone at the door? She shoved the articles back in the book and slammed it into the bookcase. She ran for the door, heart pumping. Her little boy wailed louder. She glanced back into the room to see a newspaper article still on the floor, like a dried petal dropped from a dead flower. She hesitated, about to run back in, but she heard footsteps and the sound of voices approaching. She ran down the dark hall, aware only of the beating of her blood and her little boy’s terrible cries. When she got to her room, she realised she no longer had the office key in her pocket.
CHAPTER 39
Alexandra
She watched Macie patiently scoop ice cream into the kids’ bowls with a practised fairness as each serving was carefully scrutinised lest someone got more. This woman had been nothing but hospitable to them all. And now they were stuck here in this awful situation, just waiting for what felt like bad news to come. The hours and minutes stretched out, charged with unspoken dread, so that it seemed like days and days since they’d last seen Pen, since things had been normal. Emmie was off calling the police on the landline for an update and Nathalie was putting Richie down. Nathalie was quick to express her dislike of Macie and yet here she was refilling their children’s ice cream bowls and handing out more drawing paper.
It was true, Macie was a bit different. She always had been. That’s what had stood her apart from their peers at school. Children had a knack for singling out difference like trained sniffer dogs. Why was it human nature to bring down the weak or different? She watched Will squeezing topping onto his ice cream. He had recovered from a bout of tears earlier in the evening and was now his usual subdued self. He was always quiet, self-contained, observing. Pen had spoken about tantrums and meltdowns but what Alexandra saw was a kid who was on the outside looking in. If she was honest, there was something about his physical appearance that also marked him. His large eyes, his pale skin. There was a vulnerability about him, an owlishness that suggested wide-eyed innocence and wonder. And children quickly ascertained that this was a kid for whom their barbed comments would strike deep. Alexandra wondered if Will had been bullied at school. He struck her as a loner. Her boys had initially included Will, but that had cooled over the days spent here and it was clear that the friendship between Seraphine and Will was the strongest.
‘Well, we’re all out of chocolate and strawberry,’ said Macie, showing Alexandra the two empty ice cream containers. ‘Want some vanilla? I’ve got balsamic strawberries in the fridge that would go nicely.’
‘Thank you for looking after the kids so well. They’ve never been better fed, or more consistently. Dinnertime at our place isn’t always around a table and it’s certainly not at the same time each night.’
‘I think children do well with consistency. Well, I know they do. I’ve done all the reading, of course, with my own.’
Alexandra thought of what Nathalie had told her, about the office filled with pictures of the little boy. ‘Your son, how old is he now?’ she asked, watching Macie closely, knowing it was a touchy subject, treading carefully. What had she said to Pen on that first night? That her son was with his father in Sydney and she didn’t get to see him much.
Macie pressed her lips together and she gazed over the children at the table in front of them. ‘He doesn’t like vanilla ice cream very much either. He’s the same age as Thomas, Findlay, Seraphine and Will. Drew gets very possessive. Doesn’t like sharing him. We’re not on speaking terms.’
A lump formed in Alexandra’s throat. She’d assumed as much. She couldn’t handle it if Maxwell took her boys. ‘That’s your ex, I take it. It must be very hard.’
‘I’ve still got his room all set up in the Sydney house, of course.’
It was no wonder she had photos of her little boy all over her office. This wasn’t some weird thing, it was what any mother would do if she was separated from her child. Alexandra wondered what had happened to make custody an issue.
She was about to ask whether Macie needed to return to Sydney for any art commitments when Emmie came rushing into the dining
room. She took Alexandra by the elbow and led her away from the children’s table.
‘I’ve just gotten off the phone with the police.’ Emmie was whispering. ‘They have a lead. Someone saw the missing person signs and thought they’d seen Pen or someone who looked like her walking around the local township just outside the valley.’
‘When?’
‘Yesterday.’
‘Really? Haven’t they searched there?’
Emmie sighed. ‘Yes, I think so, but maybe we should check it out tomorrow. Hopefully it’s not just some bored local wanting to call Crime Stoppers.’
‘What else did they say?’
‘They’re looking at her phone to see if they can get in and track the last few people she called, but seeing as there’s no reception here, it’s unlikely there’ll be much to track. Anyway, they’re widening the search to talk to people in townships surrounding the valley. And I thought maybe we could go out and chat to shop owners, a few locals outside the valley, that kind of thing. Put up some more missing person posters.’
‘I guess there’s nothing else to do. I’m tempted to get Maxwell to come and pick up the boys. Work is okay about me staying for a few more days into next week, worst-case scenario, but we’ve got to be realistic. We can’t stay here forever,’ said Alexandra.
Emmie shook her head. ‘I know. But can you imagine telling Will he has to come home without his mum?’ She wiped under her eyes with the heel of her hand. ‘Sorry, I just can’t believe what that little boy is having to go through.’
‘Okay, let’s widen the search tomorrow. Maybe Nathalie or Mike can look after the kids and we’ll go out early. We can’t ask Macie again.’
Emmie indicated over to where Macie was drawing something on butcher’s paper on the ground, all the kids crowded around her. ‘Somehow I don’t think she’ll mind.’
CHAPTER 40
Emmie
Another restless night, another dawn laced with hope and dread. The thin blue line of daybreak ached light into her tired eyes and she pulled her body from the bed and dressed quickly. She couldn’t sleep, she couldn’t eat, she couldn’t stay still. Will and Seraphine were still curled tight like little snails. The hours before they could commence searching were torture, the seconds and minutes stretching slowly, like the arms of sunlight over the landscape.
The morning sun warmed her face and arms now but the knot in her gut refused to unfurl. The vibrant green paddocks seemed lurid, and the bright slash of blue above was like a mocking smile. They drove away from the hotel, past the volunteers and police who were assembling for another day of searching. The hope she’d felt last night after speaking to the police was gone, replaced by a heaviness that made it hard to perform the most menial of tasks. She wound down the window and the sickly sweet smell of crushed insects reached her. Mike put the radio on, but it skipped and buzzed until he switched it off.
‘So, I’m planning to door knock the shops and houses on the main street and put up some posters,’ said Mike, his hands resting casually on the steering wheel, the huge watch on his wrist glinting in the sun.
He had the air of someone reading a particularly intriguing crime novel that he was determined to solve first. She knew she should be grateful for his help, but Emmie couldn’t help feeling annoyed. This was Pen gone, not a stranger, not a puzzle to be enthusiastically solved.
Nathalie hadn’t protested at being left behind with the kids; it was clear she was loving having Richie back. Alexandra sat in the front seat, her eyes trained on the road, her mood also subdued.
At last the valley narrowed and they climbed up through dense bushland to emerge onto a sealed road and then a single-lane highway. The only sign of life were the flies that buzzed around roadkill. The sun bore down relentlessly on the asphalt and the hiss of cicadas filled the air. It smelled like rubber and oil tinged with something sweeter, like baking bread, or blood.
Walleratta was five minutes down the road and its main strip was tired. A fish and chip shop’s rusted signage competed with the Chinese restaurant’s faux exotic window display. There was a grocery store and a bakery, but several shopfronts lay empty. Two blocks from the shops they’d passed the police station where they’d first reported Pen missing. It was housed in a beautiful sandstone house, surrounded by an English-style garden. Emmie guessed nothing too dramatic happened around here. The police station was possibly the nicest establishment in the town.
They parked on the main strip and got out. They agreed to touch base on their phones. Alexandra checked hers. Mercifully they all had reception. ‘Looks like only the bakery and grocery store are open. I’ll see if I can get any local gossip out of the check-out chick. And surely the bottle shop will be open soon in a place like this.’
Emmie shot her a look. ‘Remember to be nice.’
Alexandra waved her away.
‘I’m going to check in at the library if it’s open. It should be just near the shops. Librarians always have their noses to the ground in the community,’ Emmie said. She checked her phone. It was 9.30 am. She studied the map on her screen and began to walk. The library was around the corner, next to the public school in a quiet country-town street. The houses were mainly fibro, some with a charming heritage bent, although their facades wore the same tired expression as the shopping strip. A dusty pall lay over the street. The heat was intense. The valley was verdant compared to this town, as though it had sucked all the moisture from the nearby areas. It might have been remote and mired in the past but at least it was beautiful.
The library was a blond brick structure with a ramp leading up to its entrance. Doubt wormed in her gut. She had no idea what she would ask. She just knew she was fascinated by the history of the valley. It felt like a compulsion, an itch that needed to be scratched. She needed to know more. About this Clara Black. And the other woman in the ’90s that the historian had mentioned. She figured the local librarian would be a fount of knowledge about the area and its people.
To her relief the library was open. It was cooler inside, but like the rest of the town relatively deserted for a weekday morning. A few older people sat at a computer station and a mother was in the children’s section with her toddler.
A woman with curly red hair and a friendly, sun-worn face stood at the front desk putting books into neat piles.
‘Excuse me, sorry, do you have a minute?’ Emmie asked, pulling the A4 missing person poster of Pen out of her handbag.
‘Hello,’ said the woman, pushing the books aside. ‘What can I do you for?’
Emmie unfolded the piece of paper and placed it on the counter. ‘I’m not sure whether you’ve heard. My friend is missing. She went missing in the valley two days ago and we’re just doing a bit of a door knock of the surrounding towns.’
The woman picked up the piece of paper and put on a pair of reading glasses hanging around her neck. ‘I had, yes. News travels fast in these parts, as you can imagine. Heard a Sydney woman was staying down at The Valley Hotel and went missing.’
‘That’s right,’ said Emmie, her heartbeat accelerating slightly. This woman seemed clued-in. Emmie watched her face as she inspected the photo of Pen.
‘It’s a shame about your friend. Penelope, is it?’
‘Yes, we were just here visiting with our kids for the week and she just wasn’t there one morning when we all woke up–’ she shook her head. ‘It’s just baffling. We’re really worried.’
‘Not somewhere I’d personally visit,’ the woman said, her glasses slipping down her nose.
‘Oh? The hotel?’ replied Emmie, her breathing suddenly shallow.
‘The valley. Gives me the spooks,’ she said. ‘Lots of local legends about that place. Aboriginal people are reluctant to discuss its past. Awful killings back in the day. The genocide of the custodians of these lands. It’s truly shameful what happened during the Bathurst Wars in these parts. So much innocent blood shed. And a few women missing in the valley in more recent history. Clara Black, famously,
during the mining town era. We have some books here.’
‘Yes, I know. I’ve heard the stories. And we did the tour of the mine ruins so I know a bit about the history of the place.’
‘Not much of a tour either. It’s all so overgrown. Snakes and the like about. No proper tracks. Locals wouldn’t be going there, I can tell you that. They do have a campsite by the river that sometimes gets busy during school holidays, but there are no amenities so it’s only for your hard-core campers. Gets lots of people going in on dirt bikes.’
‘We haven’t seen any campers. Or people on bikes.’
‘It’s not somewhere people usually go out of their way to visit,’ the woman said.
‘The hotel’s quite charming though. They get people staying.’
The woman raised her eyebrows. ‘To you city folk maybe. Everyone knows Macie Laurencin, of course. Spends most of her time in Sydney these days. Strange bird. Artistic type. Quite well known in the art scene in Sydney apparently.’
‘Strange how?’
‘Waltzes into town with her big car and her big hats and her orders for organic beef and wine, as though she’s running a health retreat in Sydney, not a run-down hotel.’
‘She’s not well liked then.’
‘Oh, she keeps to herself enough. Doesn’t deign to mingle with us ordinary town folk. Just because she has money. Her parents bought that hotel outright and spent millions, millions restoring it and for what? It’s beautiful enough, for sure, but there’s a reason that valley is a ghost town.’
Emmie felt a chill move through her. She willed herself to remain quiet, hoping the woman would go on, but she took a book from the top of her stack and stuck something into it with a thump.
The Valley of Lost Stories Page 26
