by Ritter Ames
“Coleman?” Jasmine asked, her voice raised. “What do you think this is?”
“Well, he’s the investigating officer,” I tried to explain, but Jasmine cut me off again.
“Yes, he was. When my husband died ten years ago.” Jasmine was clearly furious. “You’re a maniac, Thelma. Stay away from me.”
I pointed at her. “Now listen here, Jasmine, something strange is going on...”
“Don’t point, you project a part of yourself when you point,” she snapped. “You need medical help, Thelma. I recommend the Callan Park Lunatic Asylum in Sydney. As a matter of fact, I think I’ll call the doctor right now to suggest you should be committed.” Jasmine took a step back inside her doorway as she spoke.
I thought it was strange she was having such a strong reaction without so much as letting me finish a sentence. “Jasmine, please. Wolff saw him too, he can...”
“Wolff? Wolff!” she spat. “Oh, don’t worry about him. I’ll take very good care of him after you’re locked away in a padded cell. Now get off my property!” The door slammed in my face.
I was dumbfounded. I understood the subject of her dead husband wasn’t something to bring up in casual conversation, but her reaction had been rather extreme, and she’d gone out of her way to be rude.
If her husband truly had died ten years ago, then what happened this morning? Who was the man who died in my garden, and why did the man calling himself Detective Coleman identify the body as Jasmine’s long-dead husband? This was all too strange. I was beginning to think it wasn’t a prank, after all.
WILLY WAGTAIL
I HURRIED IN the direction of home. The sky was still bright and sunny. Instead of being pleased about the fact, I was uneasy. Something was wrong—very wrong. A willy wagtail flittered in front of me, fluttering its black and white wings. I knew in Aboriginal lore, the little native Australian birds were sometimes said to be bringers of bad news.
As I hurried up my garden path, I saw my daisies were back. If this was a prank, it was an elaborate one. Who would dig out all my daisies and then put them back? I remembered what Jasmine said about Callan Park Mental Hospital, the infamous Sydney institution. Was this all an attempt to have me declared insane and committed? But who would do such a thing? I had more questions than answers.
I had almost reached my house when I noticed the lilac trees looked far more mature than they had earlier in the day. I stood stock still and tried to remember all the details of that morning. It hadn’t been just the daisies—the whole garden had looked different. I hoped I wasn’t in fact losing my mind.
There was no sign of Wolff, so I called the school. To my relief, Wolff was feeling better again. He was taken aback when I explained about Detective Coleman and the ten-year-old murder, but he said there must be a logical explanation, and we’d discuss it when he got home. At least that put my mind at rest somewhat. Wolff had spoken to the detective, too—I wasn’t losing my mind.
I was sure Jasmine was behind it all, but I had no idea where to turn next. I sat on the couch and fidgeted, and then it occurred to me the previous owners of the home might know something. After all, they had lived there for around twenty years. What was their name?
I hurried to Wolff’s desk, a huge wooden affair with a green leather insert top. I rifled through the drawers until I found what I was looking for—the contract of sale. There it was, a Mr. Eric Stanbury. I just had to remember where they currently lived. I met them once, briefly, after we were married and they were passing through town. Several frustrating minutes later, I remembered they had moved to Griffith, a large town some five hundred miles away.
I headed for the phone to speak to the operator. “Hello, I’d like to make a long distance call, please, to a Mr. Eric Stanbury in Griffith. No, I’m sorry I don’t know the number or the street.”
The operator’s voice told me she was putting me through, and a woman’s voice answered the phone. “Hello, Mrs. Jean Stanbury speaking.”
I introduced myself, and assured her that I loved the house. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but I was told today there was a murder here in the front garden.”
Mrs. Stanbury apologized profusely. “I’m so sorry we didn’t tell your husband.”
It took a while to sink in. “What do you mean? Do you mean ten years ago?”
“Yes,” she said, and then the phone crackled.
“I’m sorry, could you repeat that, please? There’s noise on the line.”
Her voice continued. “Yes, it was all a mystery. The detective said a young woman called him to the scene and told him she lived there, but when he went back later, he found my husband and I were the ones who lived there. We thought the whole thing very peculiar.”
There was a lengthy pause, and then she spoke again. “They never did find out who did it, you know. His wife seemed the likely suspect, given she was to inherit her husband’s fortune, but she was in Sydney at the time, staying with friends.”
“Did they ever find out the identity of the woman who found the body?” I asked her.
“No,” she said. “Detective Coleman said she was probably a neighbor who wanted to remain anonymous. He said she’d likely given a false name, too, given it was so unusual. Come to think of it, I think it was the same name as yours, Spelled. Could she have been a relative?”
“I don’t know,” I said. I thanked Mrs. Stanbury and hung up. Just as well the elderly police officer at the station earlier hadn’t remembered the name of the witness, or he might have detained me.
This was all getting stranger and stranger. Still, it was clear the energy around my home was not quite right, given that a murder had occurred on the property, so I decided to smudge all the rooms with eucalyptus leaves. The aborigines used eucalyptus in their smoking ceremonies for spiritual cleansing, and I had gotten into the habit. I selected some dried eucalyptus leaves from a jar and placed them in my cauldron, as I liked to call my small iron pot. I set some charcoal under it, and then set it alight. Soon the sweet, fresh smell of eucalyptus permeated my house. I walked through each room, distributing the smoke.
THE HOWL OF THE DINGO
I COULDN’T WAIT for Wolff to get home that night. My nerves were on edge and I just couldn’t settle. Even making dinner seemed like a chore, and it was worse given that tonight I was making a special effort. I prepared a roast, and for dessert, a bread and butter pudding—Wolff’s favorite.
All the while, I heard the howling of a dingo. Nama always said if a dingo howls in daytime, it means the dingo has seen a spirit. It was obvious something was going on, but what?
I took a bath to try to relax, but I leaped out almost as soon as I had gotten in. I put on a nice dress, makeup, and Wolff’s favorite perfume, Je Reviens, brushed my hair, and then fidgeted around in the kitchen, waiting for Wolff’s return.
Finally, I heard his car, and I opened the front door in anticipation. As he made to move through the front door, I flung my arms around his neck and sobbed into his chest. Wolff stroked my hair. I continued to sob, upset, but at the same time angry with myself for letting go of my emotions. Finally, Wolff held me at arm’s length. “Thelma, whatever’s wrong?”
Without waiting for me to answer, he led me to the couch, but kept his strong arm around me.
I told him what Mrs. Stanbury said. He thought for a moment, tapping his chin. “I think Jasmine Walters is playing a cruel joke on you.”
“But then Mrs. Stanbury would have to be in on it with her.”
Wolff nodded. “That’s entirely possible. Mrs. Stanbury was a longterm resident of Bayberry Creek, so the two would have known each other well.”
“If only I’d been able to see Mrs. Stanbury’s face when I was speaking to her,” I said, “then I’d know if she was telling the truth. I wonder if one day they will have phones to let you see the person’s face when you’re speaking to them.”
Wolff burst out laughing. “Oh, Thelma, you say the funniest things. That could never happen.”
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At this point, the aroma of the roast wafted from the kitchen. I stood up and brushed myself down. “Dinner’s ready now, so we can talk about it over dinner.” I went to the kitchen, grateful I had his support.
We didn’t speak of matters until the food was on the table, and then I looked at Wolff. “Why do you think Jasmine would go so far as to play such an elaborate prank?”
He shook his head. “I can’t think of any other logical explanation for what happened. You say she’s always disliked you?”
I nodded.
“It’s bad enough if Jasmine involved Mrs. Stanbury, but she must have had two men involved with her, one to play the victim and one to play the detective.”
I finished chewing my piece of carrot before answering. “That makes sense, although I could’ve sworn the lilac trees were younger. Perhaps it was just the stress. But who?”
“Does she have any brothers?”
I thought for a moment. “I believe she does have one brother. I saw her in town one day with a man, and Mrs. Anderson, the town gossip, told me he was Jasmine’s brother. I haven’t seen him around town since, so he must live in another town.”
Wolff set down his fork. “Well, there’s one person she could call on to play a prank. Who would be the other?”
“A boyfriend, perhaps?”
Wolff finished his potato before answering. “There you have it. She’s enlisted the help of her brother and her boyfriend.”
It sounded good to me, but I wasn’t entirely convinced. “Assuming she does have a boyfriend.”
“Exactly.” Wolff popped another piece of potato in his mouth. Finally, he said, “It’s a particularly malicious thing for her to do to you, though. I think I should go over there and give her a piece of my mind.”
I was pleased he was looking out for me. “No, don’t. It’s sweet of you, but I don’t want her to know it upset me. But what about Mrs. Stanbury saying the person who found the body also had the surname Spelled? That can’t be a coincidence!”
“It must be a coincidence,” Wolff said. “What other explanation could there be?”
“I suppose so.” I couldn’t shake the feeling there was more to it, but try as I might, I couldn’t come up with any alternatives. “I’m convinced Jasmine killed her husband. I just know.”
Wolff looked at me for a while. “I believe you. I’ve come to trust your instincts. Please be careful, Thelma.” He reached across the table for my hand. “I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you.”
“Nothing will happen to me,” I said with false bravado. Jasmine had killed her husband ten years earlier, and arranged an elaborate charade so I would think she killed him now, but for what reason?
WARRA WIRRIN
AS THE SUN rose the next morning, Wolff was spooning me. That was not unusual. What was unusual was the fact I had not slept a wink. This might have been due to the fact I had put star anise as well as mugwort under my pillow to give me psychic dreams. They hadn’t given me dreams at all as I hadn’t slept, and all I had been able to think about were the ways in which Jasmine might have plotted her nasty scheme.
“What are you going to do today?” Wolff asked me, as I pulled on my stockings, and then clipped them into my suspenders, breaking a nail in the process.
I wanted to ask Wolff if I could take the car, but I couldn’t think of a good excuse to do so. I had already taken the car for my weekly shopping day, and Wolff would realize I was up to something if I took it again. “You’d think they’d come up with something better,” I grumbled, gesturing to my stockings. “It would be easier if they made stockings that were in one piece instead of two, that you could pull on, like trousers.”
Wolff kissed me goodbye. He was clearly amused. “You sound like a mad inventor, with these whacky ideas.” He patted my bottom playfully.
After Wolff left for work, I went ahead with my plan. Sometime in the middle of the night, I decided to follow Jasmine. If, in fact, she had procured the services of friends or relatives to play the elaborate hoax on me, then surely they would still be in town. Perhaps that had been why she had taken so long to answer the door the previous day. There had only been one car parked at her house, and it was hers, but I suppose she had anticipated I would speak to her, and her brother or her friend had parked elsewhere.
Jasmine wasn’t one to stay at home all day, so I headed for the little milk bar close to her end of town. I decided to sit at a table in the window and wait until she walked past. She might not even come out today, I reminded myself, but I had no other plans.
If Jasmine drove her car into town, I would see her go past, and if she was on foot, I would see her then, too. However, if she was in someone else’s car, my efforts would be in vain. I got ready and turned off the radio. I generally liked to listen to the serial, Dad and Dave from Snake Gully, but today, I had more important things on my mind.
Three cups of tea and one lemon cake later, I did indeed see Jasmine sashaying along the sidewalk, and with her was a man. She had her hand on his arm, and was laughing, clearly hanging on every word he said. He wasn’t a middle-aged man, so he could not have been the one playing the role of the detective, but he did seem to be the same height and weight as the victim.
When they walked in front of the milk bar, window, I slipped out behind them, hoping they wouldn’t notice me. I kept back a distance, and then hurried to catch up when they turned into a building, the local theater. My mouth fell open when I saw the poster outside. It was for the musical, The White Horse Inn, and Jasmine’s name was numbered amongst the cast.
So Jasmine did have access to actors, after all. Yet why go to such lengths to play such a complex prank on me? Was it just for a bit of fun, or did she have something entirely more malicious in mind? She had always been after my husband, so did she truly want to have me committed to an insane asylum?
I could only assume the detective was another member of the cast. I walked back home, thinking I had the solution to the problem, at last. I just reached my gate, when a woman marched up to me. I recognized her as Mrs. Vervain, a particularly unpleasant woman who made it her business to meddle in the town’s affairs. The Koori people called her warra wirrin, bad spirit. I turned to greet her, but I didn’t get the chance.
“I’ll have you know I’m reporting your husband to the school board.”
I was taken aback. “Whatever for?”
“For being the husband of a witch!” Her voice rose to a high pitch, while her eyes narrowed into slits.
“Err, a what?” I stammered.
“Don’t play dumb with me, Mrs. Spelled. I have it on good authority you’re practicing witchcraft.” She almost spat the word.
“Jasmine Walters said that to you, didn’t she!” I was furious. Mrs. Vervain looked taken aback at my outburst. I pressed on. “Do you believe everything you hear without checking your facts first?”
Mrs. Vervain left in a huff, muttering to herself.
Instead of going inside, I turned on my heel and headed straight for Jasmine’s house. I wasn’t at all worried about Mrs. Vervain talking to the school board. She had made wild accusations about most people in the town. I was, however, annoyed Jasmine had contacted her.
Jasmine was getting out of her car when I arrived. “Oh, not you again,” she said. “How tedious.”
“I’ve just had a visit from Mrs. Vervain.”
Jasmine smirked. “And how is the old dear?”
“She accused me of being a witch.”
Jasmine pulled off one elbow-length glove in a single, fluid motion. “You are a witch.”
I shrugged. “So are you.”
“Your point?”
“I don’t use dark arts like you do.”
Jasmine took a step forward, her face contorted in anger. “Dark arts? Magic is simply energy—it’s neither good nor bad.”
“You use magic for bad, is what I mean,” I said, standing my ground.
“What makes you think such a thing?” She
looked like a cat ready to pounce.
“I only said that in response to what you said, Jasmine. I came here to ask you why you said such a thing to Mrs. Vervain? What’s your problem with me?” Before she could answer, I continued. “And why did you get your actor friends to help you set up such an elaborate hoax?”
Jasmine looked puzzled, genuinely puzzled. She stood stock still for a moment, and then burst into raucous laughter. “Thelma, you’re too much!” She waved over her shoulder as she headed for her front door.
YILPINJI MAGIC
I WAS RESTLESS. I swept the floor and did some dusting, yet my mind was unable to stay on housework. Two things stood out to me. Firstly, Jasmine looked awfully guilty when I said she practiced dark arts. Secondly, she had been genuinely puzzled and then amused when I mentioned using actors for the prank. That forced me to consider it probably wasn’t natural. Everything was just too strange, from the sudden change in weather to the ten-year-old murder case materializing in my garden. I decided natural investigative methods wouldn’t be much help either. Instead of asking around, my best option was to do a divination.
I went to the top drawer of my bureau and took out my Revised, New Art Tarot deck, which had been a gift from my mother. I peeled back the burgundy-colored silk and shuffled the cards. I focused on the problem and then turned over three cards: The High Priestess, the Moon, and the Five of Swords. The beautifully illustrated two Majors contrasted with the unillustrated Minor card, but that was furthest from my mind. I focused on whether magic was involved, and now I had my answer.
I had to seek Nama’s advice. Once more I hurried from my house and saw to my relief that the daisies were still there.
Nama was in her garden. Not a European garden, and some might not even realize it was a garden, covered as it was with every manner of herb and native plant. Nama herself was named after the tea tree, a deceptively scrubby looking shrub with amazing healing properties. I had been trying to learn the names and medicinal uses of the native plants, much to Nama’s amusement. I spotted the Stinking Passion Flower, an awful name for a spectacular white and purple flower used to relieve itching.
