Mad Men, Bad Girls

by Maggie Groff

  ‘Your name was Gai, wasn’t it? Gai Worboys?’ I could hardly contain my excitement at finally knowing exactly who she was.

  Marcia nodded. ‘Can you blame me for changing it? I was sick of the jokes and innuendo.’

  ‘Marcia’s a pretty name. I like it. It’s strong.’

  ‘It’s my middle name,’ she said. ‘I dropped Worboys and reverted to my maiden name after Hal died.’

  We continued on in silence until a little girl ran past us pulling a kite.

  ‘Have you read The Kite Runner?’ Marcia suddenly asked me.

  I told her that yes, I had, and had thought it wonderful. Then we discussed A Thousand Splendid Suns and learned that neither of us had been able to finish the book. This led to talk on Afghanistan and I told her about Toby. We were communicating at another level, getting to know one another. It was pleasant and I thought what a shame it was that we hadn’t really connected when our girls were young.

  We sat down at a picnic table. It was time to ask the big question.

  ‘Marcia,’ I began, ‘how do you know that Bacchus Rising and the Luminous Renaissance of Illustrious Light are one and the same?’

  Marcia smiled furtively. ‘That was easy,’ she said. ‘I sent away to a Surfers Paradise post-office box for one of those ridiculous Bacchus Rising Serenity Cards. I was hoping it would lead me to a Gold Coast address for the commune. You know, the cards for sale on the website, the ones sprayed by Bacchus or whatever he does to them.’

  I laughed. ‘I think you’ll find they’re transfused with his supreme profluence.’

  ‘Whatever,’ Marcia said. ‘The card—it’s just like a credit card—was marked Bacchus Rising, but the receipt had The Luminous Renaissance of Illustrious Light printed on it. Whoever was doing the administration hadn’t bothered to print a new receipt book. The envelope was postmarked Surfers Paradise. It has to be the same organisation with a different name, doesn’t it?’

  My pulse sped up a notch and I nodded confidently. The names were too extraordinary for it to be coincidental. There was now a tangible connection between the cult in America and the Gold Coast.

  However, this still didn’t prove that Bacchus Rising was operating as a cult. It was entirely possible that an American cult member had come to Australia and established Bacchus Rising as a mail-order company purely to make money from selling trinkets. The police had said they were in a commune, but this didn’t make them a cult. Plenty of people near Byron Bay live on communes or multiple occupancies with gimmicky names, and they aren’t cults.

  In short, I still needed to identify the traits peculiar to cults to connect the actual people and activities in America to specific people and activities here in Australia. I couldn’t believe that I still hadn’t worked that one out. Tomorrow, back in Byron, I would go through everything from the beginning and hopefully a connection would become apparent.

  ‘That’s quite a brilliant piece of detecting,’ I told Marcia.

  ‘Thank you.’ She looked pleased.

  ‘So, there’s no address on the receipt?’

  ‘No, I’ll show it to you when we go back.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ve looked up the Luminous Renaissance of Illustrious Light on the net?’ I said nervously. ‘It’s not good news, is it?’

  Marcia suddenly looked tired and drawn. The roller-coaster was giving her a rough ride. She remained quiet for some time and I didn’t interrupt her thoughts—I couldn’t begin to imagine how she felt.

  After a while she looked at me and said, ‘I thought, when I first saw the Bacchus Rising website, that it was just a clever sales pitch. And that Tildy was working for a company that used cosmic claptrap to sell pine-cone pendants and odds and sods.’

  I told her that I, too, had wondered if the website was merely a marketing tool, but I didn’t tell her that I hadn’t noticed the pendants for sale on the website were pine cones, or the significance of pine cones. A spark fired in my head, a memory of something, but it extinguished before I could grab the thought.

  ‘I was probably in denial,’ Marcia said. ‘Everything changed, though, when I received the card and receipt and looked up the Luminous Renaissance of Illustrious Light on the net. That’s when I realised that Tildy had joined a cult and, owing to her mental instability, was in very real danger.’

  Chapter 11

  Back at Marcia’s apartment I photographed both sides of the Bacchus Rising Serenity Card, and the receipt. While I was changing the camera setting back to auto, I took a candid shot of Marcia, hoping that she was in the frame as I’ve a history of taking limbs and feet.

  ‘May I have this?’ I asked, picking up the glossy photo of Tildy and the boys from the coffee table.

  ‘Sure,’ Marcia said.

  Lurking in my subconscious was the concern that Marcia considered me some sort of private detective. I didn’t want the responsibility of her hanging her hopes on my investigation, or thinking that because we were vaguely connected by our children’s long-ago friendship I was somehow obligated to assist in finding Tildy. It was important for me to keep the situation professional and focused.

  Taking a deep breath, and speaking gently, I reminded Marcia that I was gathering information to inform a story I might write and she probably shouldn’t rely on me for Tildy’s safe return to her family.

  Marcia’s eyes filled with tears and I felt like a heel. Scout Davis, Destroyer of Hope.

  ‘Even if you make contact with Tildy, she may not want to come home with you,’ I cautioned. ‘As the police said, it’s her right.’

  ‘I know.’ Marcia wiped her eyes and sniffed.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ I said, trying to sound upbeat, ‘I’ll look at the information and make a decision on whether to proceed with the story, then I’ll call you. In the meantime it might be an idea if you watch the post-office boxes in Surfers Paradise to see who collects the mail from the box number you sent money to.’

  Marcia looked at me in astonishment. ‘I never thought of that. I’ll start first thing tomorrow.’ She looked genuinely relieved to have something useful to do.

  ‘Have you got a digital camera?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Try to take a picture of the person collecting the post. It might take a while, but I’m betting someone clears the box every day.’

  I stopped short of telling Marcia to follow them home. It wasn’t my place.

  ‘Scout,’ Marcia said, ‘I’m sorry, I haven’t asked you a thing about your two girls. How are they and what are they doing?’

  Oh dear, I’d hoped to avoid this. There’s a time and place for gloating over your children’s achievements, and this most definitely wasn’t one of them.

  ‘Marcia,’ I said, giving her a wry smile, ‘you’re so lucky to have grandchildren. Neither of my girls has any prospect of marriage.’

  I have no idea where I plucked that one from, but if it ever got back to Tasha and Niska, I’d be toast.

  It was getting late and I needed to attend to health matters. Before leaving Marcia’s apartment, I’d used the guest bathroom to test my blood sugar level, which was fortunately still sitting within the control zone. However, I needed to have my insulin and something nourishing to eat, and I didn’t want to risk waiting until I arrived at Harper’s house.

  At Burleigh Heads I bought a half-kebab with falafel, lettuce and chilli sauce and a bottle of water. Back in the car, I discreetly gave myself an insulin shot, then opened the windows and enjoyed the ocean breeze while I ate, taking care not to drip sauce on Miles’s upholstery. I saved all that for my white linen top.

  Harper and her husband, Andrew, live in a starter castle at Robina, a well-heeled suburb about a twenty-minute drive inland from Burleigh Heads. Traffic was heavy due to roadworks and cars were moving forward about ten metres at a time. Ho hum. Thank goodness I’d eaten.

  I made a mental memo to call the insurance company when I got to Harper’s, and to call Rafe to see if my car had turned up. It would also b
e sensible to ask Rafe if he’d heard of Bacchus Rising. What a pity I hadn’t asked Marcia the name of the police officer who’d spoken to Tildy. Rafe might know him and then I might get some inside info. If Rafe weren’t so damn handsome, I’d ask him to pop around to talk in person.

  Trapped in traffic was as good a time as any to have a good think. The sensible thing, before doing any more shilly-shallying about, was to decide if I had enough information to make it worthwhile continuing an investigation. I procrastinated on this for two more short shunts forward, almost bumping into the hatchback in front. Finally, I decided that once I was certain Bacchus Rising was operating in Australia as a cult, I would have enough leads to form the basis of a marketable story. Although Marcia already believed they were a cult, I had to be absolutely sure about that for the piece I wrote to carry any weight.

  I reprimanded myself for being such a snot with Marcia. Fancy telling her that she shouldn’t rely on me to help her find Tildy. Who was I kidding? I knew I’d help. The truth was that this had become personal the moment I learned Tildy was a childhood friend of Tasha’s. If the worst-case scenario happened and Tildy didn’t want to go home to Melbourne with Marcia, then so be it. At least I could face my daughter and tell her that I’d tried.

  Why was life so complicated? Maybe I needed one of those life coaches that have sprung up all over Byron Bay. I gave this idea a full ten seconds’ consideration before saying aloud, ‘Nah!’

  It was after eight o’clock and dark when I pulled into Harper’s driveway, activating the sensor light that showcased the manicured front entry.

  The house is one of those sprawling architect-designed modern jobs that take up the whole land space. Often referred to as McMansions, the street is full of them, each one slightly different but somehow all the same—exceptional quality for the discerning buyer and all that jazz. Okay, so I may be a little jealous.

  The light was on in the dining room and I was pleased to see they’d started supper without me. I love peeking into houses at night when the lights are on as everything looks welcoming and safe, like Christmas.

  Turning off the car engine, I switched on the overhead light and called Byron Police Station and asked for Senior Sergeant Kelly. Unfortunately, each time I say Rafe’s name my hackles rise anew over his reference to me as Toby’s floozy. It’s probably a subconscious self-protection response to his outrageous good looks.

  Rafe sounded tense.

  ‘Ms Davis, you’re lucky I’m still at work. I was about to ring you. We’ve found your car.’

  Ms Davis! Where did that come from? Was someone with Rafe? Why was he being so formal? From his tone, I didn’t think I was going to like this at all.

  ‘Is the car okay?’ I asked, forcing my voice to sound strong and unfloozy-like.

  ‘The good news is the car’s fine and all your things are in it, even the binoculars,’ Rafe said.

  I sighed with relief and waited for Rafe to make some smart comment about there being no wool in the car, but thankfully he didn’t.

  ‘I’m guessing I’m not going to like the bad news,’ I said. ‘Please don’t tell me that it’s knocked down an old lady.’

  ‘No, nothing like that, Ms Davis, but detectives from the Drug Unit will want to interview you. You’ll need to report to the station as soon as possible.’

  ‘What?’ I screeched. My immediate thought was the obvious—that I’d left syringes and needles in the car—but then Rafe would have known what they were for. Instinctively, I knew this was serious and that Rafe was distancing himself from me for a reason.

  ‘The Highway Patrol found your car in the Tyagarah Nature Reserve,’ Rafe told me. ‘We’ll need your permission to fingerprint it.’

  Tyagarah Nature Reserve is a strip of heathland that hugs the coast north of Byron Bay. In other words, my car hadn’t been taken far.

  ‘And?’ I said, feeling nauseous.

  ‘And the detectives will discuss the matter with you,’ Rafe said, his manner dismissive.

  ‘Well, whatever it is that’s in my car, it’s bloody well not mine!’ I shouted, and then I burst into tears.

  Just like a floozy.

  Chapter 12

  I was still sitting in Miles’s car outside Harper’s house, wiping my eyes and blaming tiredness and diabetes for my pathetic display of emotional girliness, when Harper’s husband knocked on the car window.

  Andrew Blaine-Richardson, like his name, is big and strong. He was barefoot and wearing blue and black surf shorts and a yellow Polo shirt. Brown-eyed with a mess of dark curly hair, a square chin and a voice so deep it had earned him the nickname ‘Four-Balls’ at school, he has been happily married to my sister for twenty-five years. The marriage works because Andrew and Harper are both in love with the same man. Andrew can’t help thinking he’s wonderful—he’s an orthopaedic surgeon and the God thing goes with the territory. Otherwise, he’s a real honey.

  I switched on the ignition, buzzed down the window and a rush of warm air blew into the car, accompanied by the deafening sound of a million cicadas tuning up for evensong. The family dog, a large black labradoodle called Angus, was standing at the front doorstep. He gave a solitary bark to let me know he was there, watching.

  ‘Oh, it’s you, Scout,’ Andrew said. ‘I didn’t recognise the car.’

  Not wanting to relate the whole story twice I motioned towards my mobile phone and said, ‘I’ve got to make a call, then I’ll be right in. Sorry I’m a bit late.’

  Andrew nodded and gave me a brief wave. ‘See you inside, the airconditioning’s on.’

  At the sound of my voice Angus padded over to the car and sat down, dancing his front paws in anticipation of a big hello. He tossed his head and let out an excited woof, doggy speak for ‘Hurry up!’

  Extracting the insurance documents from my bag, I buzzed up the window and called the listed number to report my car stolen. Vijay, at his desk in Mumbai, took my details. Observing caution, I didn’t inform Vijay that the police had already found the car and advised me it was undamaged. Only a fool would trust the small print in insurance documents and I wasn’t going to take Rafe’s word for it that nothing was missing or the car hadn’t sustained damage. Before ringing off, I confirmed my policy covered car hire for a maximum of twenty-one days.

  Angus’s face suddenly appeared at the car window, his large paws against the door. While Angus alternated between barking and lapping sea salt off the window, I sent Marcia a text message to say that I would definitely help her find Tildy, story or no story, and would call her tomorrow. Immediately I felt better, which I took as an indication that I’d done the right thing.

  The heat in the car was becoming oppressive and I needed to get out. As I put the phone in my bag, it rang.

  ‘Hello?’ I answered.

  ‘Scout, it’s Rafe, sorry about before, but I couldn’t talk freely. It’s best if the officers from the Drug Unit don’t know we’re friends. I like to keep my personal life private.’

  Friends? Personal life?

  ‘Sorry I was such a mess,’ I said. Why was I apologising? Why was he apologising?

  Angus was whining and lapping at the window in a frenzy. Heaven only knows what Rafe thought was going on.

  ‘Look, Scout, I couldn’t get any sense out of you when you were crying,’ Rafe said. ‘I told the officers that you were out of town and couldn’t come in right now. It suited them, as they wanted to clock off and go for a drink. I told them you’d already agreed to come in tomorrow at two. They said they’d been to your apartment and when you didn’t answer they went into Fandango’s and talked to Miles. He told them that you were away for the night, too, and they know you have his car.’

  How did Rafe know that I was out of town? Had he seen me drive past?

  ‘Thank you, Rafe,’ I said. ‘Any chance of you telling me what’s in the car?’

  ‘No, you’ll have to discuss it with the officers tomorrow. I told them you’re a respected journalist and well-known me
mber of the community, and it’s unlikely that the car’s contents have anything to do with you, especially as you’d already reported the vehicle stolen.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I was incredibly relieved to hear that. ‘Oh, thank you, Rafe, thank you.’ Good God, I was sounding like he’d given me a kidney.

  ‘Don’t thank me, I didn’t do it for you. I didn’t want to hang around here with these two until you turned up tonight.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said.

  The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away . . .

  ‘I suppose that dreadful noise is the dishwasher where you’re staying,’ Rafe said.

  I laughed. ‘That’s my sister’s dog, Angus. He’s pleased to see me.’

  ‘I can imagine.’ Rafe’s voice suddenly sounded low and thick, his tone suggestive.

  Yikes! What did he mean by that? Was it a compliment? It was time to change the subject, and fast.

  ‘Rafe, have you ever heard of a cult called the Luminous Renaissance of Illustrious Light, or one called Bacchus Rising?’

  ‘No to both,’ Rafe was quick to say.

  Suddenly the car door opened and Harper stood beside me with one hand holding the door and the other on her hip. She was wearing a purple batik sarong and tapping her foot impatiently. Never one to miss an opportunity, Angus launched his huge curly-haired body into the car, landing between my chest and the steering wheel. He turned his head and gave my face a Pal-enhanced facial with his warm, wet tongue.

  ‘Angus, come out at once!’ Harper shouted, but he completely ignored her.

  ‘I’ve got to go, Rafe, bye,’ I called in the direction of the phone, which was now somewhere underneath Angus. Harper and I started to laugh like staccato hyenas. I pushed and Harper pulled and between us we manhandled Angus onto the driveway. He shook himself thoroughly and then, without a care in the world, pranced up the path to the front door. He stopped on the doorstep, turned and sat down, doorman to the Blaine-Richardson castle.

  I checked the phone to make sure Rafe wasn’t still on the line; he wasn’t, so I locked the car and followed my sister indoors. It hadn’t escaped my notice that my hackles had remained inactive during Rafe’s call. Surprised, and mildly pleased, I dismissed the notion that I might be forgiving him.