by Rebecca Lim
‘What?’ I grin through a mouthful of chocolate and peanuts, sure they’re all over my teeth. ‘Barely adequate?
Hopelessly grating?’
He rolls his eyes, thinking I’m fishing for compliments.
‘Pretty incredible, actually. But you’d know that. Lauren would hate me for saying it, because she’s always been known as the primo singing prodigy around these parts, but you’re way better than she is. Better than anyone I’ve ever heard before. Hard to believe a voice like that can come out of a body like …’ He looks down at the paper quickly and smoothes it out again. ‘But what 209
would I know?’
‘You and me both,’ I say, making light of the weird alchemy that is Carmen Zappacosta at the present juncture. I throw candy wrapper number three on the floor and bring his attention back to the story on Jennifer Appleton. ‘This says she returned to her hometown to perform at her cousin’s wedding and disappeared sometime after returning to her parents’ place from the reception.’
‘It’s the first time she’s been back at all since she left school,’ Ryan frowns. ‘She was just doing this as a favour. Says here she’s in line for a scholarship at one of the big city opera houses when she graduates at the end of next year. Earmarked for greatness.’
I feel that twinge of discomfort again. Carmen? I know now it’s something she must want for herself, and I feel that momentary guilt again. That I’m in there batting for Lauren, for Ryan, and not for her.
Or maybe you’re just batting for yourself, says that evil voice inside me.
I shift uncomfortably in my seat. There’s probably a bit of truth in that. I grimace as the weird stitch pounds away in my side.
‘Physical description?’ I ask through my teeth.
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‘Brunette,’ he replies distractedly, reading ahead.
We stare at the small, grainy shot of Jennifer Appleton: a smiling, round-faced young woman with glasses and long, wavy hair.
‘Says here she’s tall,’ I comment.
Ryan frowns. ‘Lauren’s short, only a little bigger than you are. Plus this girl’s older. They’re total physical opposites. Maybe we’re all jumping to conclusions about there being some kind of connection …’
It’s my turn to frown as I race ahead through the article. ‘Not if you read the crime scene description. It tallies with what I’ve …’ Ryan looks at me sharply. ‘…
heard from, uh, various sources,’ I finish lamely.
He shakes his head disgustedly, then scans the paragraph I’ve just read. ‘No signs of forced entry, blood everywhere, a syringe taken away for toxicology tests. Jennifer’s father drove her home then returned to the reception. Hours later, mother and father come back to find her gone. The physical evidence seems to stop at the front gate. Same as for Lauren. The perp was well prepared; very likely wore gloves and shoe covers to explain the lack of DNA at the scene. It’s like she vanished into thin air after the psycho got her outside. No tyre prints, no witnesses. Someone with 211
local knowledge likely to be involved …’
He stares ahead through the fly-struck windshield while I read on, well into candy bar number four. The second last paragraph makes me grip his shoulder hard.
‘What?’ he says in surprise.
I point wordlessly and he reads aloud:
The spokesman for the Appleton family, Laurence Barry, is the director of music at Little Falls Academy and minister of the Little Falls Anglican Church. Reverend Barry was the celebrant at Julia Castle’s wedding, and a former teacher of the missing woman. He has appealed to anyone with information to come forward.
Ryan shakes his head. ‘I don’t get you.’
‘He was there today,’ I explain. ‘At the rehearsal.
He’s been at every rehearsal. Mr Barry’s the old guy, from the karaoke bar?’
Ryan’s face clears as understanding dawns.
‘He might have met Lauren the same way,’ I add.
‘In fact, I’m sure of it. The Little Falls, Port Marie and Paradise music students apparently get together for cosy 212
shindigs all the time. Lauren was frequently the headline act. All this time I’ve been focused on Gerard Masson, but maybe Laurence Barry’s the missing link. Not many people would have known Jennifer was back. And there’s a church.’
Ryan starts the engine, throws the car into reverse.
‘Let’s go for that drive,’ he says grimly.
‘So that’s it?’ I say.
We’re parked a block away from the Appletons’
residence. There’s still crime-scene tape forming a loose cordon outside the small timber home. One police car, its lights flashing silently, stands outside, and its burly occupants redirect local traffic and sightseers even as we watch.
The scene is repeated outside the wedding and reception venue — a historic homestead on the Little Falls–Port Marie Road.
‘Not a lot we can do here during daylight,’ Ryan muses. ‘But there’s something we know that they don’t.
My money’s on the church, anyway. Right dream, wrong place of worship.’
He turns the car back in the direction of town, and we park half a block away from the front boundary of 213
the Little Falls Anglican Church, which is deserted.
The sign out front reads: He wants you for His own.
The words cause instant goose flesh on Carmen’s skin. They echo the very words Uri threw at me before he did his nifty vanishing trick.
‘Cheerful,’ I say, struggling to keep my voice controlled. ‘Could be appropriate, in the circumstances.
Think Mr Barry’s doing a little advertising?’
Ryan, already getting out of the car, grimaces at my lame attempt at humour. ‘See anything that looks like the preacher’s residence?’
I shake my head, take a steadying breath. ‘But it could be around the back.’
We split up going through the small car park out front; Ryan heading right towards the church, me heading left towards the church hall.
About five minutes later, Ryan gives a piercing whistle.
Like the manse at the Paradise First Presbyterian Church, Laurence Barry’s place is a modest, brick, one-storey building. But it’s actually located inside the church grounds, and this time there’s some kind of external entry point at the rear of the house that’s covered over by a double-padlocked trapdoor made of rusting steel.
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Ryan hurries back to the car for his rucksack as I take a closer look.
Confident Laurence Barry’s still back at the rehearsal where I left him, I crouch down and bang on the trapdoor with the heel of my hand. ‘Hello?’ I call out. ‘Lauren?’
Though I strain to hear anything, anything at all, there’s nothing but the wind stirring tree branches, a bird taking wing at the disturbance.
‘Jennifer?’
Still no sound. But there could be plenty of reasons for that, all bad. I sit back on my haunches.
Ryan falls to his knees on the ground beside me, hands me the torch, and claws through his pack for a boltcutter. ‘This is the place, I know it,’ he says, breathing unevenly. ‘Everything fits.’
Privately, I have to agree; there’s something about the way the complex is set up, where the car park is, the church. The physical layout seems to corroborate eerily with Ryan’s impressionistic dream.
He snaps one padlock swiftly, then the second, stuffs the boltcutter back into his bag. He swings the trapdoor open and I hand him back the torch, wondering what we are about to find. There are concrete stairs leading down into the darkness. We look at each other with wide eyes.
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This could be it.
I want to hold his hand so badly, I have to jam both of mine under my armpits.
Ryan shrugs his rucksack back on and puts a foot on the first step.
But then we hear the rumble of a car pulling up the narrow driveway that loops past the church, continuing onwards to the private
residence we are in the process of breaking into. We freeze for an instant, before scrambling clumsily to close the trapdoor together without a sound.
It’s close. In his panic, Ryan almost loses his grip on the door, and Carmen’s got as much lifting power as a ten year old. I almost crush her fingers as the edge of the door drops shut with an audible clang. I rearrange the broken padlocks hastily so that from a distance they look untampered with.
We crouch in the long grass by the cellar door, and I hear a familiar snatch of Mahler whistled close by. The front screen door of the little house opens just metres away. Someone drops keys, grunts heavily before fishing them up and trying the door again. In the cool breeze, Ryan and I are perspiring heavily. The front door finally closes. Bolts are drawn home.
‘ Now,’ Ryan hisses, and we run low and quietly 216
down the side of the house, back around the far side of the church hall, in the direction of Ryan’s car, hoping we haven’t been seen.
‘Tonight,’ Ryan vows as he restarts his car engine, his hands shaking a little. ‘We’ll get them out tonight.’
Ryan drops me back at Paradise High on the promise that we’ll meet up again at his place after tonight’s choir rehearsal.
I grin. ‘Just listen out for the dogs.’
His answering smile is quizzical. ‘When this is all over, I’ll have a few questions for you,’ he says, tipping me a wave as he drives off.
When this is all over, I think a little self-pityingly, you’ll be lucky if Carmen remembers who you are.
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Chapter 21
I insinuate myself into last period’s chemistry class, squeezing in beside Tiffany just to give her a rise. I know she’s going to ask, and, for once in her life, Carmen Zappacosta is not going to spill her guts just for a little measly attention. Not on my watch, anyway.
Tiffany manages to look both hurt and scandalised as I calmly open my borrowed textbook. ‘Where have you been?’ she snaps. ‘Everybody saw you. Colluding with a virtual murderer. Your disappearance didn’t exactly go unnoticed, you know. Mr Masson’s pretty pissed, he was looking for you everywhere. And Miss Fellows is about to have you suspended — indefinitely.’
When I don’t reply, leaning forward as if the discussion on migrating electrolytes has to be the most 218
fascinating thing I’ve ever encountered, Tiffany snipes,
‘You’ll be interested to know that your little vanishing act this morning is already yesterday’s news anyway. A killer’s on the loose. If I were you, I wouldn’t jump into bed with just anyone.’
‘Who says we did anything in a bed?’ I reply casually.
It’s enough to shut her up for the rest of the class, though I can feel her practically vibrating with rage beside me.
At four o’clock, Tiffany and I still aren’t talking, but we’re sitting next to each other in the rehearsal hall as if we’re joined at the hip. In frosty silence, we watch the kids bussed in from Little Falls and Port Marie unenthusiastically straggle into the rehearsal space for the second serve of the day, the last of the week.
Paul Stenborg flirts easily with Miss Fellows and the old battleaxe almost smiles, though her gaze turns flinty when it meets mine, signalling bad things in Carmen’s future. Miss Dustin stands by wordlessly, looking a little flushed as Paul says something to her before his eyes flick briefly to me and Tiffany, then away.
As Mr Masson picks up his baton and tries feebly to call us to order — his eyes locating my seated figure with almost comical relief — I catch Laurence Barry staring 219
at me steadily from across the room.
I stare back, so long and unblinkingly that the man finally breaks eye contact. I wonder for one uneasy moment whether he saw Ryan and me running away from his house earlier today. But he doesn’t look at me again, and I grow calmer as the session gets underway, although part of me is edgy with the knowledge that I will need to confirm the old man’s involvement at rehearsal’s end. Via the usual methods.
For the next two hours, I dutifully play Carmen to the hilt, and she’s never sounded better. Even Miss Fellows ceases frowning across the hall, because Carmen cannot be faulted. People are leaning forward to get a look at Carmen, some people up the back are even half-standing, because Carmen’s voice has inspired some kind of general resurgence. Whole phrases of the piece are really starting to come together. It’s a win-win for everybody except Tiffany — who’s furious.
Carmen’s incredible voice cuts through Tiffany’s best efforts to drown us out. There is no contest and suddenly I understand why Tiffany always tries to keep Carmen close, even though she probably hates the girl like poison.
‘You think you’re so good,’ she snipes under cover 220
of the increasingly frantic orchestra.
I shrug.
Beyond that, I’m deaf to anything Tiffany or the others have to say. I’m thinking about Ryan, and wondering what he’s doing, and yelling at myself for even thinking that when I should be focused on Lauren, on Jennifer, and how to get them out.
We finish at six-fifteen, and I look around for Laurence Barry. I’m shocked to discover he’s no longer in the room, and when I ask around, I find that no one’s seen him in the last half-hour. He’s already left. Does he have some idea that Ryan and I are onto him?
I dodge Miss Fellows — who’s actively searching me out like a heat-seeking missile — by hiding in the girls’ toilets until I’m sure she’s gone, along with just about everyone else. I know that when she finally tracks Carmen down next week, it won’t be pretty. Maybe the Lord will be kind; maybe I’ll be gone by then. I mean, Carmen’s going to have to learn to take care of herself sooner or later.
The hallway is empty when I finally emerge from the toilets, and many of the fluorescents in the classrooms have been turned off. The assembly hall is one of the only remaining oases of light in the entire school 221
complex. I’m about to head back to the Daleys’ place when I notice Tiffany’s brassy head of hair through the doorway. She’s one of the last of the stragglers, loitering with intent — making a beeline for Paul Stenborg by the battered old upright piano near the podium.
The troublemaker in me decides to cut in on her dance, just for the fun of it. Hey, there’s got to be a first time for everything. Plus, I need some additional information and Paul might have some background I could use. Two birds with one stone, I think, as I stroll over. What could be more perfect?
‘Hi, Paul,’ I say cheerfully.
Tiffany’s head whips around in disbelief.
‘Hey, Tiff,’ I add. She’s probably been working her way up to this all week.
‘What do you want?’ she barks.
I grin. ‘Same thing you do.’
Paul raises his eyebrows. ‘Oh, I doubt it,’ he says.
‘She was just telling me how she’s having trouble with Figure 83 onwards and could she have some after-hours, one-on-one coaching. I just told her to follow your lead.
I don’t think she was very happy with my suggestion.’
I frown, flipping quickly in my head through the 222
score I’ve memorised note for note, word for word, until I reach Figure 83. It begins the last section of the piece that snowballs into the screaming finish — soloists, orchestra, offstage brass, duelling choirs all competing to see who can make the most noise. Paul’s right. Tiffany and I sing a lot of that section together on the same notes and I’ve never seen any sign of a struggle. There’s no way she wouldn’t already be note perfect in her quest to always go one higher, faster, better than her arch frenemy.
My expression clears. ‘We could run through it now, together?’ I suggest sweetly. ‘It would be no trouble, Tiff. I’ve got plenty of time.’
Tiffany’s mouth falls open for a moment at having her bluff publicly called. ‘Ooh!’ she huffs, shutting her score with a snap and walking away from Paul and me at the piano.
‘Do you want to take a raincheck?’ Paul calls out misc
hievously. ‘I’m always happy to help.’
‘So am I,’ I add mildly.
Tiffany gives us both the finger without looking back, and Paul and I burst out laughing. I can tell this is nothing new for him. Catfights and rampaging hormones must come with the territory. I mean, the man’s been 223
stalked, for Christ’s sake. I wonder how he stands it.
Amusement still lighting his pale eyes, Paul asks, ‘So what can I really do for you? We have some unfinished business, my girl. You’re a hard woman to pin down.
Doing a runner from this morning’s rehearsal really grabbed everyone’s attention. It also highlighted how you’re streets ahead of anyone else out there and the backbone of this sorry mess. Was that the plan?’
I shake my head, still grinning. ‘Though Tiffany would give you a different answer.’
‘I bet,’ he replies. ‘Is now a good time to grab that coffee?’
‘I just need you to answer a couple of quick questions,’ I say hastily. ‘We can make a separate date to talk about my career options next week, if you like.’
His expression turns into one of intrigued enquiry.
‘Shoot,’ he says, shuffling loose piano music into a neat pile with his long-fingered hands, his eyes never leaving mine.
‘I’m billeted with the Daleys,’ I say.
‘Oh, yes,’ he replies immediately, taking a seat on the piano stool with his back to the keys, his eyes still on mine. ‘What a sad, sad situation.’
‘Yes, yes, it is,’ I say. ‘I was just wondering whether 224
Lauren Daley ever met Laurence Barry before she disappeared?’
Paul stares at me for a moment, then frowns.
‘Laurence Barry? Why certainly. Before you came along and put us all definitively in the shade, Lauren was the star soprano at our joint school concerts. Laurence has been the Little Falls music director since 1969; practically forever to someone as young as you are. He gave her a lot of private coaching, I believe, for the combined concert we held the year she disappeared. Gerard Masson took her lunchtime coaching sessions, but had Laurence take her for the before- and after-school ones because the old man’s the opera fanatic. I remember it clearly — that was my first year in the job and Gerard was raving about her.
