Where the River Runs

by Fleur McDonald

  ‘Unfortunately, no. I toyed with the idea the hessian bags might be from the same company, but I couldn’t prove this without the label.’

  ‘Right. What about year of death?’

  There was a movement as if Dr Fletcher was changing the phone to his other ear. ‘I really want to check it against the other skeletal remains, but I’m thinking maybe seventy or eighty years ago.’

  Dave blew out his breath and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his face. There really didn’t seem to be any point in pursuing this. ‘It’s too long ago.’

  ‘Well, it is for any hope of arrest, but there’s always the family to think about. Surely someone somewhere has been missing a family member? And there is the baby.’ A silence came down the phone, although Dave thought he could hear Dr Fletcher clicking a pen in the background. ‘Look, Dave, I know it seems like a long shot, so if you’re not going to keep going with the case, you’ll need to let me know. I’ll release the body to be buried. I’m not going to tie up my resources.’

  ‘No, no,’ Dave answered quickly. There was something to this one, he just knew it. ‘We’ll keep going with it.’

  After Dave had hung up the phone, he paced around the office, thinking. A seventy-year-old grave really didn’t warrant much time spent on it at all, but that changed with the baby. The fact they were buried together, in the same grave, intrigued him. Were they father and child? Were they even related? If they weren’t, how had they come to be in the ground together?

  He rubbed his chin as he thought.

  ‘You wearing out the carpet?’ Jack’s voice broke his concentration.

  ‘Thinking,’ he answered.

  ‘Careful. You might overdo it.’

  ‘Dr Fletcher just called from the morgue.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ Jack pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘Anything interesting?’

  ‘Very.’ He quickly brought Jack up to date on the developments.

  ‘How the hell are we supposed to investigate deaths that are so old?’

  ‘Look, we’re not supposed to spend any time on something this old. There’s no chance of an arrest because the perp will more than likely have passed away. But as Fletcher pointed out to me today, there’s always the family to think about and the body of a baby …’ He blew out a heavy sigh. ‘Well, to me that changes things.’

  ‘Why?’ Jack asked.

  ‘If they were murdered … Well, what sort of person kills a child? Someone who should be held accountable.’

  Jack nodded his understanding and Dave continued, ‘Surely, if we’re able to identify the remains, we can trace their family and let them know what happened to their loved ones. I’m fascinated by this, so I’ll work it just so long as it doesn’t interfere with anything around here. You good with that?’

  ‘If that’s what you want to do, go for it. Not like there’s anyone from HQ to check on you out here!’

  Dave chuckled. ‘I’ll google a few things. See what Trove has on it. You never know, we might get lucky and find a newspaper story about a missing man and baby. Problem solved.’

  ‘That’s like expecting every body to be found with identification papers. Dream on, boss.’

  Chapter 12

  The morning of the pageant dawned clear, and it was hot before the sun had even risen.

  Chelsea had been up early, making chocolate mint slice and rum balls for Christmas Day, and now, with Aria and Tom on their secret mission—still one she knew nothing about—she was alone in the house and her fingers were itchy.

  She wanted to sit down at the piano and play. To escape the world of pressures and secrets. Every time she thought about playing, her heart ached. It was what she longed to do, but she wouldn’t let herself. That life was behind her now. She had to put her mind to finding a career that would support her and Aria, and there wasn’t time for frivolities. The piano was just that. It couldn’t earn her a living anymore.

  One of the reasons she’d come back to Shandona had been to see her father, to talk to him and find out about her mother’s death. To understand what had happened and to grieve. But there were other reasons too, not least the need to work out what she was going to do now that conductors would no longer work with her.

  When the paper had been delivered on the mail run yesterday, she’d taken it to bed with her and combed the employment pages. She’d also joined a Facebook page for people seeking work in Adelaide and found a professional resumé-writing service. Even with that, she knew it wouldn’t be easy to find work. Since she was thirteen all she had done was play the piano.

  She’d thought of teaching the instrument, but how could she do that? She had no idea how to teach! Hadn’t done any training. And teaching kids who weren’t talented? Ugh. No, thank you. The thought of clashing notes and children lacking hand-eye coordination sent shivers down her spine.

  Panic had started to set in, although she was doing her best to stave it off by cooking and keeping busy. Walking early in the mornings had helped too, avoiding the evening time because that’s when Cal went for a run. She certainly didn’t have anything to say to him after his accusations.

  An invisible force pulled her into the sitting room and drew her to the piano. The smooth, dark wood of the Beale was cool to her touch and the keys begged to be played.

  The piano, made back in 1935, had been her Great-Grandfather Baxter’s. With gold etching and a tone to die for, even eighty-three years on, it was in immaculate condition. He’d played it until he’d died. It had been his playing that had drawn her to the piano and, even though his fingers weren’t as nimble as they’d been in his younger days, Great-Granda Baxter had still been able to make the instrument sing.

  Her finger touched the F sharp key and she felt the electricity run though her. She had to play. The urge was stronger than her willpower.

  Sitting down, she placed her fingers on the keys and left them there before pressing them down in a chord. The sound was a little off key—she assumed it hadn’t been played since she’d left. But that could be fixed.

  Quickly she swung into ‘River Flows In You’ by one of her favourite composers, Yiruma. It was sad and sweet and sounded just like a river flowing. Losing herself in the song, she shut her eyes and swayed as she played, the melodic tune easing her like a balm.

  People were surprised she loved Yiruma’s music, given she’d been classically trained, but to Chelsea it didn’t matter whether a piece was classical or not; if the melody moved her, she would play it. This diversity had given her concert playing depth. Besides, she liked composing music herself, so she had a respect for pianists who were able to make a living out of it. Sometimes she wished she’d done the same thing; then she would’ve been free to play what and how she wanted.

  Her fingers ran up and down the keyboard as if she’d never stopped playing. In reality she hadn’t touched a piano for three months. The music was like air to her; she finally felt the stirring inside, as if she were alive again. The part of her soul she’d shut down had been opened a crack and now her emotions were pouring out onto the keyboard.

  Once again, she was sending the music soaring to the ceiling and she had an audience of hundreds, as there’d been when she’d played at the Sydney Opera House. The applause she had received that night had carried her through the darkest times of her career—when she’d had to take jobs on cruise ships, not because she wanted to but because she had to.

  Chelsea didn’t want to think about the cruise ship, because then she’d have to think about Aria’s father, and how he’d broken her heart.

  As the song came to an end, Chelsea realised she had tears on her cheeks. She took her hands from the keyboard and laid them in her lap, just as she had when the police had come to tell them about Dale.

  The first cruise she’d done, her gigs had been in the whiskey bar on the fourth deck. She’d play for an hour, four times a day, to people who didn’t care about music; they were more interested in seeing how much they could drink, since most of them had boug
ht the drinks package. She’d played Beethoven and Bach mixed up with Yiruma and piano versions of popular artists like Taylor Swift and Bruno Mars. The tunes had dipped and soared with the gentle rocking of the ship. She’d ignored the people who didn’t care, playing only for herself and her own enjoyment. At least no one had told her she’d added too many embellishments to the pieces she played. At the end of the set, barely anyone even realised she’d left.

  Her second job had been with a different cruise liner and had been a much better experience. There had been people who appreciated fine music and clapped enthusiastically when the piece was over.

  The other two times had been much the same as the first and she’d had to keep reminding herself she had a child to look after and no choice but to perform for these unappreciative audiences. And each time she performed Aria was with Tori, waiting for her mum to come and get her. Normally taking a child onto a ship wouldn’t have been allowed, but that had been part of Chelsea’s negotiations—she wouldn’t perform unless she could have Aria and Tori with her.

  No! She pushed her body back from the piano and stood up with such force she tipped the stool over.

  This time the word came from her: ‘No!’ She couldn’t let herself get drawn back into the world of music. No one would take her on as a pianist anymore. Being headstrong and stubborn had put too many people offside. There wasn’t a conductor in Australia who would work with her again. She had to put the music behind her, shut up the part that made her whole and learn to live without it. Slamming down the piano lid, she vowed never to touch it again, no matter how overwhelming the urge to play was.

  ‘Mummy, you were playing!’ Aria was standing in the doorway, a look of wonder on her face. ‘I like it when you do.’

  ‘What are you talking about, Aria?’ Chelsea spoke over the top of her daughter. ‘I play all the time.’

  ‘No, you don’t.’

  ‘Don’t you?’ her father asked, looking at the piano. ‘I thought you played every day. You need to keep up the practice or the Conservatorium won’t have you back.’

  Chelsea looked at her father. ‘What?’

  Her dad jerked his gaze back to her. ‘Practise, Chelsea. It’s something you need to do every day.’

  They were the same words her mum used to say to her.

  ‘But, Dad, I’m not at the Conservatorium anymore.’ That weird flickering feeling of worry returned.

  ‘You’re not?’ A look of confusion passed over his face. ‘Oh no, of course you’re not! That’s right, I forgot,’ he blustered.

  Chelsea caught Aria gazing at the two of them. Perhaps she shouldn’t say anything in front of her daughter, but if she didn’t the moment would be lost. ‘Dad …’

  ‘Aria and I have something to show you,’ he interrupted, smiling tightly. The bewilderment that had been in his eyes just moments before was now replaced with clarity, as if he hadn’t said anything strange.

  ‘That sounds exciting,’ she said slowly. ‘I wonder what it could be?’

  Aria grabbed her hand and tugged at it. ‘Come on! I’ll show you, Mummy.’

  She followed her daughter and dad outside and there, parked on the verandah, was Chelsea’s old bike, complete with rusty trainer wheels. The handlebars had tinsel wound around them and there were shiny baubles hanging from each handle. The spokes had also been decorated with tinsel, and stretched over the basket on the back was a Father Christmas hat with a bell on the end.

  Laughter bubbled out of Chelsea, despite only moments ago being in tears. ‘That’s utterly fabulous! What are you going to do with it? The pageant?’

  ‘I’ve taught Aria to ride the bike and, yep, she’s going to take part in the pageant this evening,’ Tom said proudly.

  Aria was jumping up and down with excitement. ‘I’m going to be in the pageant! I’m going to be in the pageant!’

  ‘Just like I used to,’ Chelsea said. She turned to Aria. ‘Show me how you ride it, honey. I can’t wait to see.’

  ‘Watch me, Mummy.’ Aria mounted the bike and after a few little wobbles she rode down the pathway, the plumbago hitting her in the face as she went. An empty plastic water bottle zip-tied to the spokes made a clicking noise as she rode, and the decorations twinkled in the sunlight. The noise from the bottle would draw the judges’ attention and hopefully they’d be so impressed by the creativity of the backyard decorations they’d give Aria the prize for the best decorated bike. Chelsea recognised her father’s strategy from her own childhood.

  Aria turned around and rode back, the smile on her face so wide Chelsea couldn’t help but laugh.

  ‘That’s so exciting!’ she said when Aria got off the bike. ‘How did you get it organised, Dad?’

  ‘I read in the community paper Lily Jackson was organising for the kindy kids to get together and decorate their bikes or scooters and ride them in the pageant behind the primary school float. I thought I’d give her a ring and see if it was okay to include Aria, and she thought it was a great idea. Took me a while to find your bike, but it was at the back of the machinery shed. Cleaned it up and this is the way it turned out.’

  ‘Lily Jackson, she’s still around?’ Chelsea asked, remembering her childhood friend.

  ‘Yeah. Married now, but I don’t know who to. Not a farmer. She asked about you.’

  ‘Did she?’ Chelsea felt her breathing quicken.

  ‘I said I thought you’d catch up with her when you went into town. Now, the next thing we have to do is decorate the Christmas—’

  He broke off as Aria interrupted.

  ‘Mummy, Papa cut down a big, big pine tree.’ She spread her arms as wide as she could. ‘Bigger than this. It’s in the back of the ute.’

  ‘Then you’d better help him carry it in and I’ll get the decorations.’ Chelsea grabbed a bucket from the outside laundry and filled it with stones and sand. Thank goodness for Aria. It seemed the little girl was the only thing keeping the tension between herself and Tom from bubbling over.

  Tom carried in the tree with help from Aria, and between the three of them they got it standing up straight.

  ‘Here, Aria,’ Tom said, handing her a length of tinsel. ‘Put it where you like.’

  Digging in her pocket, Chelsea pulled out her mobile phone and snapped a couple of photos, while Aria hung the tinsel over the branches and struggled to get the baubles to stay on the needles.

  Finally there was only the silver star to put on top. Tom was rolling it around in his hands as if uncertain what to do with it. When he handed it to Chelsea, his hands were shaking.

  ‘Your mum made this,’ he told her in a weak voice. ‘I didn’t think I ever wanted to see it again. Well,’ he grimaced, ‘I guess I did, but it brings back too many memories.’

  Chelsea put her hand on her father’s arm and looked him in the eye. ‘Like the time Dale and I tried to climb to the top of the windmill to hang it from up there. We thought Father Christmas needed guidance to bring his sleigh into land the way the jets needed lights. We were sure the setting sun would make it twinkle and he’d be able to see the house!’

  ‘God, Pip almost had a heart attack when she realised you’d scampered all the way to the top!’

  ‘Well, Dale told me to.’

  ‘And you always did everything your brother said!’

  Chelsea’s breath caught in her throat. He sounded like the father she remembered. ‘I did!’ She made herself indignant. ‘That’s why I always got into trouble—I did his dirty work for him.’

  ‘That’s not quite how I remember it,’ Tom said with a slight laugh. ‘Although pretty close. Right …’ He glanced around and Chelsea knew the conversation was finished. ‘We’d better get ready to …’ He stopped and looked at Aria. ‘I guess we’d better get that star to the top of the tree before anything else. Come here and climb up on my shoulders, you should be able to reach from there.’ He picked Aria up and settled her on his shoulders, then she leaned out to place the star on top of the tree.

 
‘I’ve done it,’ Aria said, and Tom lowered her down again and looked at Chelsea.

  ‘Remember …’ they both asked at the same time.

  ‘Group hug,’ Chelsea finished.

  ‘Group hug!’ Aria called, and was squashed in between the two adults. ‘Tori, Mum and I have group hugs too.’

  ‘Who’s Tori?’ Tom asked as he let go.

  ‘Mum’s friend.’

  ‘We always had a group hug once we’d finished decorating the tree,’ Chelsea told Aria. ‘My mum, your Nan, always used to say Christmas was about family and we should take every opportunity to celebrate our families. We had hugs with Tori when I got home from work, didn’t we?’

  ‘Yes,’ Aria said, then she paused. ‘I like Nan.’

  Tom’s lips were pressed tightly together, but somehow he managed to say, ‘I did too.’

  Chapter 13

  The main street had been decorated, and Chelsea and Aria could hear the cheery conversations through the car window and smell the cooking from the barbecues. Lights hung from the wooden beams of the shop verandahs and Christmas ornaments decorated the trees that ran down the middle of the main street. There were Santa, sleigh and reindeer decorations in people’s front yards, and a large Christmas tree had been erected next to the town hall.

  Aria leaned out the window, her hair flapping around her face as she watched all the excitement, while Chelsea looked for somewhere to park.

  ‘God! It’s not like it should be hard to find a park in Barker,’ she muttered to herself, turning down the street indicated by the detour sign.

  Finally she pulled in under a shady tree and turned off the engine. The loud music and chatter swirling around the main street made Chelsea feel excited. The annual pageant had been one of her favourite events. Even more so when she’d been involved in it.

  The floats were always bright and fun—the St John Cadets usually had one, as did the bowling club. Over the years there’d been a dance school one, with girls dressed as ballerinas. The footy club always hammed things up with the girls from the netball club, and a TV character like Fireman Sam or Bob the Builder usually made an appearance. The best was left for the last car of the parade. Father Christmas was driven around in a Model T Ford, waving royally to everyone who was watching. The children on the side of the road screamed with delight and lined up in front of the town hall, where the procession came to a stop, to put in their last-minute Christmas orders.