by C. A. Larmer
Roxy wrestled her arm from her friend’s grip. ‘Don’t patronize me, Max, that’s what my mum’s for.’
‘I’m not—’
‘I’m so close now, Max,’ she said, her tone gentler. ‘I know I can solve this thing. But I have to stay around at least another day. There are two people I need to see.’
Max sighed and reached into his carry bag. ‘I come bearing gifts,’ he said, producing a bottle of her favorite plonk. As he unscrewed the bottle, she fetched two water glasses and then they moved out to the verandah to enjoy their drinks. They stayed well back from the edge, far enough to be out of sight of inquisitive cops but close enough to soak up the view. From there, you could see the town, now just a few glistening lights left in the cold country sky. They sat drinking their wine side-by-side staring down at the street below without talking for several minutes. Roxy knew Max should be hiding but she didn’t have the energy to drag him back inside.
‘Why did you come?’ she said eventually.
‘To see if you’re okay. There was something a little crazy about that old country guy at the funeral.’
‘Frank. His name was Frank O’Brien.’
‘Yeah, well, I kept thinking, what if he’s the murderer? What if I never see you again?’
‘So you came to rescue me?’ Her voice was like a thin, taut wire, ready to snap at any moment.
‘Of course not!’ he snapped instead, angrier at himself than her. He should have known better than to try to help Roxy Parker. If there was one thing she would never admit to it was needing to be rescued. ‘I’m your mate, Rox, I’m allowed to worry about you. Besides, I wanted to apologize. For what I said.’ She remained silent beside him and he turned to watch her silhouette against the night sky. ‘I’m a bloody idiot, I know that now. I...I shouldn’t have said what I said. It wasn’t fair on you.’ He paused, but again she remained still. ‘So I’m hoping I haven’t botched our friendship completely...but I want to stay friends. I don’t want to scare you off.’
Roxy was overwhelmed by a sudden, groggy sense of exhaustion and despair. Every limb felt weighed down and she could barely keep her eyes focused on the lights beyond. It had been a frantic two days. A frantic fortnight, in fact. She didn’t have any energy left over for this man standing so forlornly beside her, waiting for her soothing words of comfort. But she wasn’t up to another argument either, so she just pulled him close and hugged him to her chest. ‘It’s all going to be okay,’ she told him softly, not believing it for a moment.
Chief Butler was in a very bad mood. After returning from town the night before, he had not enjoyed his dried out pie and his wife’s probing questions, and had spent a restless night wondering about Sally’s intruder. She had stayed over in his spare bedroom, despite her insistence to the contrary, and was sitting looking bored in his office now, nibbling on a muffin. She had managed to change her clothes, though, and was wearing blue jeans and a black jumper, her ginger hair scooped back behind oversized, dark sunglasses, and now looked a lot more like the young woman she was than the matronly shopkeeper of before.
Beside her, Roxy sat stony-faced and quiet. She too was wearing blue jeans, this time teamed with her red cardigan again. She had wanted to wash it first, to scrub the memory of dead Frank off its delicate sleeves, but she hadn’t the time and her wardrobe was fast wearing thin.
‘That’s all either of you can tell me,’ he was saying. ‘Tall and skinny. That’s all you saw.’
Roxy nodded cautiously. She had already deduced that the person Sally saw cowering behind her door at 6pm was not her friend Max, but the burglar, and most likely Frank’s murderer. By the time Max got to Sally’s house, a good hour later, the intruder had cleared out, leaving a mess behind. In any case, Sally had described the first intruder as tall and skinny and Roxy saw no reason to mention Max at all. It would only confuse matters and probably land them both in deeper waters than they could handle. Chief Butler had been happy enough to accept her presence at one crime scene, but now Max? It was too coincidental. Bustling him back on the plane that morning was a welcome relief. In more ways than one.
‘No hair color?’ Butler continued. ‘No nationality? No sex?’
‘Oh it was definitely a man,’ Sally said and then looked across at Roxy for confirmation.
‘But we can’t be sure,’ Roxy said. ‘It was too dark.’
The police chief grunted. ‘Okay, Sally you can go. I want to speak to Miss Parker here for a few minutes more.’
Sally shot an apologetic glance across at the other woman and then, slipping her shades firmly over her eyes, exited the office. Chief Butler turned to Roxy and she prepared herself for an angry outburst. But his tone was soft and conspiratorial when he said, ‘We’re very worried about Sally. We’ve checked out her digs and have reason to believe that the person who went through her stuff last night was the same person who killed Frankie O’Brien.’
Roxy nodded. It was just as she suspected.
‘Now, we’ve arranged for her to go and visit a relative in Sydney for a while until we sort this mess out. In the meantime, I’ve passed the hospital’s forged adoption files regarding Beatrice Musgrave on to the police in Mosman.’
Roxy couldn’t help raising her eyebrows and Butler smirked back. ‘Yes, yes, you were right. The guys in Sydney have suspected foul play from the start, but it’s all being kept under tight wraps. The official word is, she killed herself. Period. That’s off the record and I don’t want a word of this going anywhere.’
‘I knew it!’ Roxy said. ‘I knew I wasn’t crazy. But why all the secrecy?’
‘Something about not wanting to alert the murderer to their suspicions. I guess complacency can make you slip up. But it’s all top secret and I don’t want to hear one word about your blasted journalistic ethics and the public’s right to blah, blah, blah.’
‘It won’t go past this room, I promise you,’ she said. ‘Who do they suspect?’
‘I gather one of the family members, they said something about a big family secret about to be aired, but of course you know all about that.’
Roxy smiled back without saying a word. Deep down she felt vindicated. This was not a wild goose chase after all. And finally someone agreed with her.
‘In any case,’ he continued, ‘the Mosman detective in charge of the case, Detective Superintendent Maltin, wants to see you the second you return to Sydney. I think you’ve got a hell of a lot of explaining to do young lady.’
And I’ll have a hell of a lot more by the time I get back there, she thought to herself smugly as she exited the office. Before heading to the police station that morning, Roxy had looked up the names of the two midwives she had taken from the hospital files, believing in her heart that one of them could provide the missing link, the identity of Beatrice Musgrave’s illegitimate daughter. The first name, Agnetha Frickensburg was nowhere to be found but Zoe Callahan was still residing in Macksland and was more than happy to see her. As Roxy made her way back to town, she felt closer than ever to finally solving this baffling mystery.
Chapter 22: Interviewing Ghosts
Zoe Callahan was a short, pudgy woman with thinning gray hair and an enormous, warm smile that lit her wrinkled face up like a well-worn Christmas tree when she opened her door. She would have been well into her 80s, her spirit clearly not diminished with age.
‘I was hoping you’d arrive soon!’ she exclaimed as she ushered Roxy through the doorway and into her fern-filled living room. Even her wallpaper was decorated in ferns, fading green fronds that gave a cluttered, jungle-like effect. ‘I’ve just put a pot of tea on and the scones are still warm.’
Roxy took a seat by the window and looked around at the lively room, pot plants and picture frames battling for space between bright pillows and ornaments and dozens and dozens of Thank You cards, most adorned with pictures of stunned babies and storks.
‘I’ve kept every one,’ the midwife boasted as she placed the tea things on a spare bench to one side
. ‘They’re from my mums and dads. I like to think of them as satisfied customers.’
‘You delivered their children?’
‘Every single one successfully. Well, if truth be told, there was Margie Dawson’s twins, but they were doomed long before I got involved. And young Ginny. Well, she never called me ’til too late, see? Can’t be helped. But other than them, my strike rate is perfect,’ and she knocked loudly on the table below her.
‘You still practice?’
‘Ahhh, not really, dear, just look in on a few from time to time is all. Offer my ten pence worth. Now, how do you have your tea?’
When they had their fill and swapped more than enough small talk for Roxy’s liking, she steered the conversation to Beattie Musgrave, formerly Beatrice Alexander. The older woman’s smile slumped a little.
‘Yes, well, it seems I’ve lead you on a bit of a wild goose chase. I knew her name rang a bell but now that I’ve had some time to look through my files, I realize that Agnetha worked with her, not me.’
Roxy couldn’t disguise the disappointment in her voice. ‘I was afraid of that. You don’t know where I can find Agnetha do you?’
Zoe shook her head uncertainly. ‘She hasn’t been around for years. Last time I saw her was back in the ’90s...looking the worse for wear I might say. Alcohol, I believe.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes, she had a pretty bad accident, can’t recall now what happened, but never quite got over it. Last I heard, she’d moved down south.’
‘Could you be mistaken? Could any other midwives have worked with Beattie at the time?’
‘Oh no dear, we were the only two back then. Now, of course, every hippie calls herself a midwife. But back then it was just Aggie and me. ’Course there was a steady stream of young doctors, most of them just out of school and pretty wide eyed, not much use when it came to the crunch if truth be told. One of them even fainted on me if you can believe that!’ She hooted with laughter. ‘So Aggie and I did most of the hard work. And then, after Aggie shot off, it was just me for the next 10 years. Oh those were good years.’
‘Can you tell me anything about Beattie then? Did you know her at all?’
Zoe shook her head again. ‘No, it was Frankie we all knew. If my memory serves me correctly, Beatrice was a toffee-nosed young lassie who thought she was too good for the likes of us, and Frankie for that matter. I wondered why he was with her. Then, of course, when I heard about the baby, well, that explained everything.’
‘Why didn’t they get married, do you know?’
‘I suspect he wasn’t good enough for her. She cleared out just as soon as the baby was born. Broke his heart.’
‘And any idea what happened to the baby?’ It was a crucial question but Zoe was already shaking her head. Then she paused.
‘Oh dear, I wonder...oh, yes, you never know.’
‘What?’
‘Well, Aggie might have kept her own records, like I done.’
‘Yes, but if she’s disappeared....’
‘Yeah but her daughter still lives in the old house. Perhaps you can ask her?’
Roxy’s eyes lit up.
‘Not a great relationship I believe,’ Zoe was saying, ‘and, as far as gossip goes, lost touch with each other a long time ago. That’s why, if she’s still hoarding the old woman’s things, I bet she won’t mind you going through them.’
Not only did Agnetha Frickensburg’s daughter not mind the intrusion, she even helped Roxy sort through her mother’s boxes for the relevant files. They were piled on top of each other in one half of an unused garage and had clearly not been touched in years, thick dust, cockroach droppings and spider webs shrouding the lot, like time’s own seal.
‘I’ve been meaning to get rid of these forever,’ Lana said softly, shaking dust off several boxes and opening them carefully, as if terrified of what she might discover. Lana was in her mid to late 40s, overweight and mumsy looking with an apron over a floral dress and floury handprints across the lot, proof that she’d recently been baking. She worked part-time as a childcare teacher, she told Roxy, and had a brood of her own. Throughout her house were oversized photos of that brood, all crowding happily around their Mother Hen. ‘I guess I always secretly hoped she’d come back,’ Lana was saying and she stopped suddenly, tears springing to her eyes. Roxy could almost see the giant lump forming in her throat.
‘When did you last see your mum?’
‘About 16 years ago. Christmas. She was drunk...was drunk all the time back then.’ Lana laughed a dry chortle that belied her saddened heart. ‘I’d just had my third.’ She indicated one of the photos of beaming children, as though her whole life was measured in births.
‘And you haven’t heard from your mum since?’
‘Oh, a postcard on the odd birthday. That’s about it. We… we never really got on too well, you know? She had me quite late, and was always more interested in everyone else’s kids than her own. Or mine for that matter.’ She reached a hand up to still the tears that were now flowing from her eyes. ‘The worst thing is not knowing if she’s alive or dead. If only I knew she was okay.’
Roxy shot her a warm smile and looked away as Lana reached for a tissue and blew her nose. It seemed like bad luck had befallen everyone who ever came in contact with Beatrice Musgrave, from Frank O’Brien to her grandson Fabian, and now the woman who had brought Beattie’s elusive daughter into the world, the midwife. They continued searching through the boxes for almost an hour when Lana let out a modest squeal of delight.
‘I think I may have found it!’
She handed Roxy a folder marked with the relevant date and the writer took it excitedly. Inside, the midwife had penned the names of 11 clients for that year including a ‘Beatrice Alexander’ listed as ‘birth mother’. There was no birth father named but there were details of the adoptive parents. Roxy could have leapt for joy. She copied down the words, ‘Johnson, Limrock Lane’.
‘You are an absolute champion, Lana! Now, tell me, where can I find Limrock Lane?’
The large block of land mocked Roxy with its emptiness. Not even the foundations of the old Johnson house remained, just a bleak patch of grass struggling to grow, with an old camphor laurel on one side and a ramshackle fence on the other. Roxy stood on the pavement and sighed. Nothing had been easy in this search and it was obviously not about to start now.
‘Ya lookin’ for sometin?’ came a scratchy voice behind her and Roxy swiveled around to find an elderly man standing there, staring expectantly towards her. He looked straight out of the 1950s in a bowling shirt, cream trousers and a small cane hat. Olie would be green with envy.
‘Yes. I was looking for the Johnson house,’ she said.
‘It’s gone.’
‘I can see that. Any idea where they moved to?’
‘Yep. Six feet under.’
‘I’m sorry?’
The old man let out a weary sigh. ‘They died love, bad car accident ’bout 20 years back. What ya want with ’em anyway?’
‘Just looking them up for an old friend. My name’s Roxy Parker.’
‘Urrr,’ he grunted and then produced a skinny hand for her to shake. ‘I’m Cyril from next door. Wanna cuppa?’
Coffee was the last thing Roxy needed, her brain so wired by yet another near miss, but she nodded her head anyway and followed him into the house next door. It was as old-fashioned as its owner, with barely a mod-con in sight. Roxy sat down in a brown vinyl sofa while the old man made their coffee, filtering freshly ground beans through a vintage steel Atomic coffee maker. It smelled divine and her spirits picked up. Perhaps someone in Macksland could make a decent cuppa.
‘They were real quiet types, you know,’ he was saying, calling out from above the hissing on the stove. ‘Kept to themselves a lot. Angus was a mechanic, owned a car yard down off Main. She did quite a bit for the local charities, you know. We used to get along well, Joyce and me. She had trouble sleepin’, too, so we’d sit out the back and yak for a w
hile. I kinda liked them in their own way. ’Cept for that horrible daughter of course.’
Roxy’s stomach fluttered a little but it was a casual voice that said, ‘Oh?’
‘Yeah, Marian. A right little brat. Always gettin’ into trouble, shopliftin’ and stealin’ cars.’
Marian Johnson, Roxy thought excitedly, I finally have a name. As the old man handed her a cup of the strong, delicious brew, she said, ‘Perhaps Marian had some issues to deal with,’ and, noticing the look of confusion on his face, quickly added, ‘You know, being adopted and all.’
‘Oh, yeah, I see.’ He sat down across from her and studied his coffee. ‘Not an excuse if you aks me.’
She took a long, joyous sip. ‘That is wonderful, thank you! Tell me, you don’t happen to know where Marian is now, do you?’
‘Wouldn’t wanna know. My guess is jail. Why?’ He shifted in his chair and eyed her strangely. ‘What ya really up to? What ya want with them? You’re not really lookin’ them up for an old family friend are ya?’
Roxy hesitated before saying, ‘I’m a journalist.’ The man smiled smugly at himself. He thought as much. He clucked his false teeth noisily and indicated for her to continue. ‘I’m doing a piece on a wealthy Sydney woman called Beatrice Musgrave who recently died. I believe she may have been the birth mother of Marian Johnson.’
He cackled to himself. ‘Manic Marian Johnson come from good stock you say? Now that’s one for the books!’
‘Well, I’m not 100 percent sure. You don’t happen to have a photo of Marian do you?’
The man rubbed one leathery hand slowly over his chin thoughtfully for a few seconds and then, placing his cup on the kidney-shaped coffee table in front of him, struggled to his feet and wandered over to a side cabinet in which at least 10 photo albums were stored. ‘You know, I probably do,’ he said, grabbing five and handing two of them to Roxy. ‘’Ave a look through them and see if you can’t spot ’em.’
