by Morgana Best
I started the engine, my spirits dropping. Who was I trying to fool? It was like searching for the proverbial needle in a haystack.
By the time I got home, I was exhausted. All the driving backward and forward to Tamworth had taken its toll on me, as had all the worry over Alum. I looked in the refrigerator for something to eat, but I could only see vegetables. I needed a sugar fix, and fast.
I decided to go to the restaurant at one of the local pubs for dinner. The food was excellent there, and I wouldn’t be able to eat out for too long much longer, given all the cancellations. I would have to start watching the money very closely, but for now, I needed a decent meal.
My only concern was that Constance would be there, because if she was, she would give me a hard time. I gingerly drove up to the closest pub, and parked around behind it. There was no sign of Constance’s bright red car. I went in the side entrance and took a seat at the back of the room. So far, so good.
I was staring at the menu, so I jumped when someone called my name. I looked up to see Iris standing over me. “Hi, Iris,” I said. “Where’s your husband?”
She sat down in the seat opposite me. “He’s gone away for the week, so I thought I’d come here for food. He always cooks.”
“Yes, I’ve come here in search of a decent meal, too,” I said.
“Can I join you?” Iris asked.
“Sure.”
“Is everything all right, Prudence? You look tired.” Iris leaned forward and peered into my face.
“No, not really,” I said. “My agent tells me that most of my shows have been canceled. In fact, the only one that’s booked for sure is the one in Armidale that’s coming up soon.”
Iris looked horrified. “You poor thing! You certainly don’t need to be poor and destitute at your age.”
“Well, I don’t think I’ll be destitute, Iris,” I said, making no attempt to hide my irritation. “And what’s age got to do with it?”
“I’m sorry,” she said insincerely. “I know you don’t like me going on about our ages.”
I nodded. “That’s right; I don’t like any mention of it.”
Iris shrugged. “Okay. I know you don’t like me talking about it, Prudence, but you’re not getting any younger, you know. You do need a man, and what was wrong with that lovely man who came into the coffee shop the other day?”
I snorted rudely. “Do you want me to make you a list?”
Iris narrowed her eyes. “Beggars can’t be choosers. If you had a man, you wouldn’t have money worries.”
“But you have money worries, and you have a husband,” I pointed out.
“No, it’s not the same thing,” Iris said. She was clearly making an effort to be patient. “He makes a lot of money. It’s just that we’ve been spending more lately. We’re not in your situation. If you can’t make a living as a medium, then what on earth can you make money doing? You won’t be able to pay your mortgage, and where will you end up? Out on the streets? You can hardly go and live with your son in Dubai.”
“Iris, I wish you would say something to make me feel better, instead of making me feel upset. Can’t you say anything positive? My father used to say that if you don’t have something nice to say, then don’t say it at all.” I made an effort to make my tone even, even though I was upset.
Iris appeared to take my words well. “Yes, you’re right, Prudence,” she said. “I wish I could give you some good advice. I’ll try to think of some ideas for you to make money.”
“Thanks, that would be great,” I said, glad that she had changed her tune. “My agent thinks it’s only a temporary problem, but I’m beginning to think it’s worse than that. It’s just that I can’t think what else I can do. Ever since my divorce, I’ve been making my living as a medium.”
“You wouldn’t have a big mortgage, would you, on your little house?” Iris asked me.
“No, it’s not a big mortgage, but it is a mortgage, and I’m still a long way from paying it off. And even if I owned my house outright, I still have to eat, and the cats have to eat.”
“I always sell my old clothes on eBay, and I’ve even sold some of the furniture that way too,” Iris said. “I know some people do make a living on eBay, but I don’t know if you could.”
“I don’t know if I could, either,” I admitted. “And I have no idea what sort of things I could sell. Actually, it did occur to me to go thrift diving, and sell those items on eBay. I could store them in the spare room. I wonder if I should start thrift diving now, and build up some stock in readiness.”
“That’s a good idea,” Iris said. “I’ll keep an eye out for you when I go to thrift stores, too.”
I thanked her. “Well, we had better order now so we can get in first,” I said, nodding to the people who had just arrived in the beer garden.
Just then, Alum appeared beside the table. I jumped.
“What’s wrong?” Iris shot me a look of concern.
“I just saw a shimmering light over there.” I nodded to where Alum was standing. “I thought it might be a migraine coming on.”
“You poor thing,” Iris said sympathetically. “You can’t be too careful at our age.”
I resisted the urge to hit her and instead looked at Alum. “Any news?”
Iris, of course, thought I was talking to her. “Yes,” she said. “My husband’s away for the week, and as he does all the cooking every night, I haven’t been getting enough to eat. You know how careful I have to be with all my allergies, and as well I have celiac disease, and as well I have irritable bowel syndrome. I thought I might be coming down with scarlet fever as well. Plus the kids are giving me a hard time, as usual.”
I stood up. I had not heard a thing Alum had said. “I think I need to go to the bathroom,” I said, wiggling my eyebrows at him to try to get him to follow me in.
“I can’t go in there!” he said with alarm.
“You must!” I said firmly.
“I must what?” Iris said, looking at me strangely.
“Eat much better,” I said. “I’m going to the bathroom.” I slowly walked away from the table, looking over my shoulder to make sure Alum was following me. To my relief, he was.
I walked down the long, dark passageway to the ladies’ bathroom which was at the end of the corridor. Luckily, no one was in there.
I opened the door to one of the cubicles and waved Alum inside.
He held up his hands in protest.
“Alum, get in there now, fast,” I said. “Who knows when someone else will be along, and we mightn’t have much time to talk.”
Alum appeared to be quite reluctant, but he did go into the cubicle. I followed him in and shut the door. “What’s happening?” I asked him.
“Prudence, they told me that I’m improving rapidly. I still haven’t been able to speak with them, or write, but it probably won’t be long before I can. However, I have heard something.”
“What?” I said rather too loudly. I felt quite strange being squashed with Alum in a bathroom cubicle, even though he was insubstantial and I would be able to pass right through him.
“I heard that Constable Summers is from Oxley Grove Police Station, in Tamworth.”
“Oxley Grove,” I repeated.
Alum nodded. “Yes, and Constable Decker was from there, too. That makes me think that whoever replaced Constable Decker—and I don’t know who it is—is also likely to be from Oxley Grove Station.”
“But that’s fantastic news!” I said. “I wonder if I could follow one of them out to the safe house.”
Alum reached out his hand to my shoulder, but it passed straight through. He took a step closer to me. “No, Prudence. I don’t want anything to happen to you. Don’t forget, I was nearly killed, and you could be in danger if Decker’s murderer finds you snooping around. Prudence, I couldn’t forgive myself if anything happened to you. In fact…”
And with that, he vanished.
Chapter 11
Once again, I was heading b
ack down to Tamworth. I know a one hour commute is nothing to city people, but I was a country girl, and it was a long way for me. I was going to go to Oxley Grove Police Station, to see if I could catch Constable Summers leaving. If he left, then I was going to follow and see if he would lead me to the safe house. I had spent several hours the previous night memorizing every detail of his face—still, most police officers look the same from a distance when in uniform. It was yet another long shot, but this was the way my life was going at the moment.
I had no idea where Oxley Grove Police Station was, and I wasn’t able to select it on my GPS.
I had left early, before breakfast, so decided to stop at a café and get some sandwiches and two large lattes. I planned to pour one of the lattes into my thermos.
If there’s one thing that stake outs had taught me, it was to take a lot of food.
I thought I caught a glimpse of a white car following me. I had thought I had seen that car following me before, but had put it down to my imagination. After all, white cars are everywhere, so I thought I was mistaken. It wasn’t as if I thought I saw a bright green Audi or a silver BMW following me. This one looked like any common white car, and although I’m not psychic as such, I do have a good measure of women’s intuition.
When I reached the double lanes just before the Moonbi mountain descent, I slowed down and looked in my rear view mirror, only to see that the white car also appeared to slow down. No one in this district ever really kept to the speed limit, and I was well under. It was suspicious by itself that the car didn’t speed up and try to pass me, as most cars did before going down the mountain. It was easy to burn out one’s brakes going down one of the mountains in the area, and as a result, no one wanted to get stuck behind a slow moving car, given that it was next to impossible to pass.
I stopped for gas at Moonbi, and kept my eye on the white car when I pulled off the road. It went past at a greater speed, and I made a mental note to watch for it parked on the side of the road when I continued on to Tamworth.
I went to the restroom at the gas station—stake outs had taught me to take every possible opportunity to use any available restroom—and I resisted the urge to buy coffee.
I got in my car and drove away and, sure enough, I was sure I saw the white car parked down a side lane at Kootingal. I was past it before I noticed it, and if it hadn’t been for the truck that was far too close behind me, I would have considered going back to investigate. As it was, I decided to push on to Tamworth and keep an eye out for the offending vehicle. After all, it could be quite innocent. White cars are a dime a dozen.
I turned on the air conditioning. It was always hotter once down the mountain. I drove along to Tamworth, dreading the dreary, boring day I expected to have. Still, the thought of food cheered me up immeasurably. I wanted to get good food, which is why I had resisted the pre-packed sandwiches at the gas station.
Barbara had told me that there was a very good coffee shop with excellent coffee and wonderful sandwiches, as well as delicious cakes, at a certain location in Tamworth. She didn’t know the address, but had given me directions, poor directions as it turned out. I had googled the place before I’d left home, but it must’ve had a recent name change. Either that, or the owners had no idea how to promote their café on the Internet.
I drove around and around the crowded Tamworth streets for ages. Finally, I spotted the coffee shop, but there was no parking outside. At least I knew where it was, and so I planned to park at the next available parking place.
After three more circuits of the block, I decided to park much further away. I wasn’t getting my usual exercise with all the stake outs I’d been doing, so I thought a long walk wouldn’t do me any harm, even though the heat was intense at this time of day.
I walked the long walk to the coffee shop, fervently hoping that Barbara had not led me astray. I’d hate to go to all this trouble only to get mediocre coffee. Nevertheless, I was fairly confident. Barbara and I did have one thing in common, and that was a liking for really good coffee.
The café was housed in an old brick building, and when I went inside, the first thing I noticed was that they had packet after packet of T2 tea. I was delighted. These teas were not available locally, and I had to order them online. There is nothing quite like T2 tea.
The music, however, was quite loud, and was from the sixties. There were people looking in the gift section, but I headed straight for the place where the delightful and compelling scent of coffee was taking me.
I ordered two large lattes, an avocado and spinach wrap, and some sort of a slice that appeared to be covered with chocolate, and full of sugar. Just the thing one needed on a stake out, I figured. As a nod to being healthy, I also bought a bottle of water. I had filled bottles of water at home, but had left them on the car roof. Who knows where they were now? That’s one of the drawbacks of doing things first thing in the morning before coffee.
I put the bottle of water and the wrap in my purse, and stuck my keys into my jeans pocket. I was halfway back to my car when I was tempted to have a drink of the water. I couldn’t believe the heat.
I heard footsteps running behind me and instinctively moved over to the right side of the pavement to let whoever it was pass. Next thing I knew, someone had barreled into me, spilling some of my coffee. I whirled around, to see a man wearing a ski mask grabbing for my purse.
Firstly, my instinct was to save my coffee. I was holding a takeout cup of coffee in each hand and he was dragging my purse from my shoulder. Secondly, I realized that I had spilled some of one coffee anyway, so I threw the remains in the man’s face. He screamed and pushed me hard, and I fell into the gutter.
He disappeared down the street at a fast pace. People rushed to help me. I was sitting in the gutter. The first thing I thought was that I had saved one coffee, and my second thought was that there was a burning hot pain stabbing right through my left ankle.
A young man leaned over me. “Did he steal anything?”
I looked up to see an elderly lady picking my belongings off the road. I felt in my jeans pocket. My keys were still there. “No, I don’t think so,” I said. “My wallet is there, and my keys were in my pocket. I think throwing my coffee in his face scared him away.” After I spoke, I took a long gulp of my remaining coffee.
“Are you hurt?” the young man said, looking at my ankle which was already swelling.
“Yes,” I said. “My ankle really hurts. I think I’ve twisted it.”
“It could be broken,” another person said. “I already called the police.”
Police. I beamed. It would be wonderful if the police wanted me to make a statement at the Oxley Grove Police Station. I hoped like crazy that it was the nearest police station.
I gingerly stood up. I could weight bear, which made me think my ankle wasn’t broken—not that I really knew anything about these things—but it hurt like crazy.
“Do you think it’s broken?” the young man asked me.
I shook my head. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. I twisted it, so it’s probably sprained or just swollen or something. I don’t know,” I said again, fighting the urge to burst into tears. The shock of the incident was starting to affect me. I took another sip of coffee.
There was a bus stop seat behind me, and the young man helped me to it. The passers by collected all of my belongings into my purse and handed my purse to me. I thanked them and they all left. The young man and the elderly lady stayed, as they had seen the whole incident and figured the police would want them to answer questions.
The police arrived soon after: two officers, a man and a woman. “Are you hurt? Do you need an ambulance?” the woman officer asked me.
I shook my head. “No, I’m just shaken,” I lied. I dearly wanted to be taken to the Oxley Grove Police Station so I could look for Constable Summers.
“Was anything stolen?” the officer asked me.
I looked in my purse again, just to double check. “No,” I said, “just
my coffee.” The officers exchanged glances. “I threw my coffee in his face,” I said. “That’s what made him run off.”
“Are you sure it was a man?” the male officer asked me.
“Yes, no. Um, I’m not sure, sorry.”
“It was definitely a man,” the young man said, and the elderly lady nodded her agreement.
The male officer scratched his chin. “That’s the first incident we’ve had around here lately,” he said.
“In years!” the female officer said. “Did you get a good look at him?”
I shook my head. “No, he was wearing a ski mask.”
The officers asked all three of us to give a description of height and clothes, but it was all a blur, as my ankle was now throbbing so painfully that I felt I might burst into tears.
“Do you feel up to coming down to the station to make a statement?” the female officer asked me.
I jumped to my feet, or rather, foot. “Yes!” I said, altogether too eagerly, and ignoring the sharp pain in my ankle.
I didn’t think I’d be able to walk to my car, and a thought occurred to me. “I’m not from around these parts, and my foot is sore,” I said. “Could you take me to the police station and then give me a ride back to my car?”
The officers seem to think that was a normal request and readily agreed, much to my relief. The pain in my ankle was growing steadily worse, and I was worried that it was broken, after all. A broken ankle would put an end to all my stake outs. What rotten luck.
Then it occurred to me—what if it had nothing to do with luck? What if it wasn’t a random mugging after all? What if the mugger had targeted me specifically? But what would he hope to gain? I had no idea.
I had to protest a couple more times that I didn’t need to see a doctor. Presently, we pulled up outside an imposing brick and glass building. There to my delight, out the front of the building, were the words Oxley Grove Police Station on a big blue and white sign at the top of a huge blue pole.
