Heart of the Outback

by Lynne Wilding

  “We’d want a kitchen for food preparation and we’ll need staff accommodation too because CJ’s conferences will be spaced over several days,” Les put in. “As well, the facility should be close enough for guests to access the pool and the tennis court.”

  Francey had already thought of those things but smiled her agreement at him anyway. Looking at CJ she said, “First of all you need to decide where this centre is to be located on the property. Do you have an aerial photograph of Murrundi station?”

  “Should be one around somewhere,” CJ frowned as he tried to remember where. “Les, go ask Lisa, she’ll know where it is.”

  As Les trotted off to find the photograph, CJ fingered the sets of rolled up plans on the table. “This is what the other architects have come up with. Do you want a peek at their designs?”

  Francey shook her head. “I’m already working on a design in my head — I don’t want it corrupted by someone else’s work.” Her expression was disapproving as she added, “Besides, that’s not ethical.”

  CJ shrugged and then decided that he liked her confidence and her frankness. It was also refreshing to find someone with ethics. In that respect she reminded him a little of his son. Richard had been exceedingly honest, a straight upfront kind of man. “You know I expect you to stay until you come up with a complete design?”

  “Les mentioned that yesterday. I don’t think my boss is going to be too pleased. He expects me back in the office in five days time.”

  “Don’t worry about Nicholson, I’ll clear it with him,” CJ assured her. He had no doubt that once Nicholson had a whiff of the financial carrot he planned to dangle in front of his nose, he’d be only too pleased to let Francey stay on for as long as was necessary.

  “Found it,” Les said triumphantly as he returned with a rolled up photo. “It’s a couple of years old and we’ve added two more buildings to the place since then, but it gives a fairly accurate picture of positioning and space.” He unfolded the laminated photograph and used a couple of ornaments from the sideboard to hold the curling corners down.

  Francey studied the map. How different things looked from the air, she thought. The homestead, the pool and the tennis court stood out quite well, then there was the scattering of other buildings further back from the homestead. She glanced at CJ. “Have you any preferences as to where you want the centre?”

  CJ stared at the photo. Twenty-six years ago there had just been land and shrubs and spinifex. He had carved everything with his hands, money and energy, with the belief that one day his would be the finest station in far north Queensland. Now he had achieved all that he’d dreamed. A sudden sadness stabbed at his heart. He had thought, foolishly perhaps, that with all his wealth he could control everything he cared about. Fate had proven him wrong and had brought with it a painful reality. Now he had only Natalie to leave his empire to. A bitter taste rose in his throat and he swallowed hard to rid himself of the unpleasant flavour.

  Regathering his thoughts CJ said, “As Les said, it shouldn’t be too far from the homestead. How about on the knoll at the left of the main house?”

  “Yes, that’s where I would suggest,” Les concurred.

  “Or …” Francey’s tone was thoughtful, “the other side of the row of pines?” She tore a sheet of paper off her pad and began to sketch. “You could extend the drive around the back of the tennis courts and behind the conifers and the conference centre could face the pool. If you pulled out two or three conifers you’d have a connecting path from the centre to the pool. That would integrate the conference centre with the homestead quite well, yet still afford the main house reasonable privacy.”

  “Yes,” Les said slowly, “that makes sense. On the knoll, people would have further to walk to get to the pool, the stables and the tennis court. What do you think, CJ?”

  “I’m not real good at visualising things” CJ admitted — a strange statement for a man who’d carved a business empire from the ground up. “The idea makes sense.” He silently wondered why the two other architects hadn’t seen that potential. Both had positioned the proposed conference centre on the knoll without even bothering to discuss it with him.

  “Okay. Now what type of accommodation? For how many people?”

  “We thought between eight and ten,” Les told her, “and in the staffing section allow for up to six. They can have twin or bunk style accommodation equivalent to a three star motel.”

  Francey could barely suppress her excitement. Her mind was already feverishly working on floor layouts, style and line. Perhaps a courtyard garden of some sort, maybe a large spa. Her fingers itched to get a pencil and ruler into her hand.

  After another hour’s discussion on details, Francey thought she had enough notes to get on with the job. She rose from the table and began to gather her paperwork. “Well, gentlemen, I think you’ve given me enough to get started. You’ve both been very helpful.” She looked at her watch. “I’d like to get some preliminary work done before lunch so if you don’t mind —”

  “What do you work on first, the floor plan or the elevations?” Les asked interestedly.

  “The floor plan. Once that’s done I concentrate on how the building will look.”

  “Off you go then,” CJ said, with a wave of his hand. “I never try to stop anyone who wants to work. These days so few do.”

  “I’ll show you to your cubbyhole office,” Les said, grinning. And then he asked, “You don’t suffer from claustrophobia, do you?”

  “It’s not that small,” Francey retorted with a good-natured grin.

  CJ’s expression was contemplative as they left. The young architect appeared to know her stuff and Les, he grinned and shook his head, could hardly keep his eyes off her. His CEO deserved a good run with a woman for a change, after Nancy, but Francey Spinetti wasn’t going to be here long. Yes, he must talk to him, discreetly, of course.

  It was always nice to see how the other half lived, Steve Parrish thought as he pulled up around the back of Murrundi’s homestead in a space where half-a-dozen vehicles, including CJ’s Rolls and a top of the line Range Rover were housed under a long carport. A crowd of people were lunching on the verandah overlooking the swimming pool and the manicured gardens. He bet they hadn’t had a corned beef and pickle sandwich, a tub of yogurt and an apple, as he had. Their table fare would have been more elegant. He felt no sense of rancour at the lifestyle lived by the Ambrose family. That was one of his strengths — a lack of envy, even a lack of plain old ordinary respect for wealth. He knew too that his attitude irked CJ because the older man knew it gave him no power over him.

  The whole household, apart from Les Westcott, was there. CJ, Natalie, Lisa Dupre, that friend of Natalie’s, Trish something or other whom he’d met in the Isa the other day … and Francey. Even Shellie, who usually ate with Alison in the kitchen, happily sat at the table sucking on a white wine. He’d heard the gossip of her fondness for the grape but in the time he’d known her he’d never seen her under the weather.

  “Steve.” Shellie Kirkby was the first to see him. “Would you care for some lunch? I can fix you a plate from the kitchen.”

  Steve shook his head. “Thanks, I’ve already eaten. I wouldn’t say no to a coffee though.” He watched her jump up and go to the traymobile to fill his request.

  “You know everyone?” CJ asked as he shook the policeman’s hand. Though he went through the motions of being polite he was damned if he could take to the transplanted NSW cop. Something about him, a cynicism, a lack of due homage towards him had from the first time they’d met rubbed him the wrong way. He was used to having politicians and public servants in his pocket, so to speak, and that Steve Parrish hadn’t come to heel irritated the hell out of him. And yet he grudgingly respected him for it.

  “Yeah.” Steve nodded generally to everyone but despite himself, his gaze strayed and stayed on Francey a few seconds longer than was necessary.

  Natalie patted the empty chair next to her. “Here’s a seat,
Steve. Come join the party.”

  “How about a slice of mud cake, Steve? Alison made it fresh this morning,” Shellie tried to tempt him as she placed his coffee on the table in front of him.

  “Yes, why not?” Natalie encouraged, “Shellie’s a firm believer in the old adage that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.” Her grey eyes danced suggestively at him. “Personally, I’d heard it was from a different part of a man’s anatomy.”

  “No. Thanks all the same.” In spite of himself Steve chuckled as he spooned sugar into his cup.

  “Natalie!” CJ cautioned. He turned to Steve. “Excuse my stepdaughter, she’s had one glass too many which sometimes loosens her gutter-type tongue.”

  “Have not.” Natalie argued, pouting first at her stepfather then grinning wickedly at Steve.

  “How are the plans going for CJ’s Aussie style Taj Mahal,” Steve asked Francey.

  “Good, thank you.” God, was that soft, throaty tone really hers? Francey asked herself as she answered him.

  “Do you know what the Taj Mahal is, Sergeant?” Trish Pentano queried with a smile. “It’s a mausoleum some Indian shah built to house his dead wife, Mammataz Mahal.”

  CJ’s gaze moved to Francey. “You know I don’t want that sort of thing, don’t you? I’m not interested in a memorial edifice to me, just a functional conference centre.”

  “Of course,” Francey concurred with a confident smile. “I have a very good understanding of what you and Les want.” She stared straight back at Steve. “The plan’s half finished.” She could feel her cheeks, her whole body in fact, warming under the policeman’s constant gaze. But why she had this reaction to him confounded her. Perhaps it was the memory of their first embarrassing meeting or, it could be something else. Whatever, she chose not to put a name to it. “Speaking of which, I’d better get to work on it.” She stood and made her excuses. “A great lunch, Shellie, as usual. And now the drawing board calls.”

  “I’ll come with you,” said Trish who, on Natalie’s suggestion, was doing an interview for a Brisbane paper on Francey’s achievements as an architect. “I need to finalise a few points with you.” On meeting the architect she had liked the style of the woman and as Natalie didn’t appear to be jealous — as she sometimes did — she might as well make her time at Murrundi Downs pay a bill or two. Maybe, having built up some credibility, next time she’d get to CJ himself.

  Francey shrugged her acceptance. “Very well, so long as you don’t mind me working as we talk.”

  “Francey,” Natalie butted in, “remember, you have to make it a five star conference centre so you-know-who can impress his international business colleagues.”

  “You’ve a problem with that?” CJ queried gruffly.

  Natalie’s hands rose in a mock gesture of self-defence. “Not at all, it’s your money, CJ. Besides, I can see how we’ll put it to extra use when we have a big party at Murrundi. People can use it as overnight accommodation.”

  Trish cleared her throat discreetly, “I won’t be too long,” she promised. “You haven’t forgotten that my flight leaves at 2.15 p.m.,” she reminded her friend before she followed Francey to her office.

  Natalie smiled at Trish. Momentarily she had forgotten she was returning to Brisbane. She would miss her. Damn it, she missed her already. Well, not for long. In a couple of days she would try to con Les into flying her to Brisbane. She sighed silently, she had business to do there too. Last week she’d given Hugh O’Leary, the manager of her art gallery, a free hand with an up and coming exhibition but, really, she should check to see that he was doing a good job.

  “You’d better have another coffee then,” Shellie said with artificial sweetness as she refilled Natalie’s cup. She wished that Natalie was the one flying out. Trish Pentano and Francey were no trouble around the homestead. They kept their rooms neat and organised their own washing, but not her lazy stepniece. Brenda had spoilt her rotten and she’d not had to lift a finger to do anything so, at thirty, she remained as self-centred and self-absorbed as she’d always been. The entire household including Alison, whose exclusive domain was the kitchen, enjoyed the tranquillity when Natalie wasn’t around, and that was a fact.

  Steve watched Francey and Trish move to the doorway, openly admiring the way the architect’s body, encased in blue jeans and a figure hugging T-shirt, swayed with every step she took. He wondered if she had taken an early departure because of his arrival?

  “CJ, if you’ve a few minutes, I’d like to talk to you,” Steve said.

  “Sure.” CJ looked at Lisa. “Hold my calls for the next half-hour.”

  Steve followed CJ through the homestead’s living area, down the hallway and into his study. He deliberately didn’t look at the expensive paintings and objets d’art or allow himself to be impressed by the extraordinary display of wealth which dripped from every square metre of the place. What good was all the money in the world if it couldn’t save your son’s life?

  “Have a seat,” CJ half grunted. He took his usual position at his desk, and waited for Steve to speak.

  Steve gave an inward sigh, mentally deliberating on how to tell someone like CJ what the ballistics report had revealed. CJ wasn’t going to like it. “I want you to treat what I’m about to tell you as confidential. The details don’t go outside this room. Agreed?”

  CJ frowned and leant forward on his desk. As his curiosity got the better of him, he nodded in agreement. “I didn’t think drama was your thing, what’s all the mystery for?”

  Steve grinned briefly. “It’s about Richard, his death.” He watched the older man stiffen and felt a pang of sympathy. People said “the man with the golden touch” was a tough bastard when it came to business but he didn’t doubt for a minute that CJ had cared deeply for his only child. “You recall that a couple of weeks ago I met Billy Wontow where the stampede took place. I know the coroner found in favour of accidental death and, really, I was just going over the details for the last time before I closed the file.”

  CJ looked away. His gaze focused unblinkingly on the last photograph taken of his son. “Do we have to go through this again, Steve? I’m not —”

  “Sir, I’m afraid we do. You see I’ve found possible evidence which leads me to conclude that there may have been foul play.” In the silence of the room, Steve listened to the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner — it seemed inordinately loud. He let CJ digest the first piece of information and from the stunned look on the man’s face, decided to give him what facts he had. “After Billy left I went up to the ridge for a look around. I had no expectations of finding anything worthwhile, but I did. I found a horseshoe print in a bit of dried up mud, three bullet casings and a spent bullet which had lodged in a tree.”

  “Yeah, we know three shots were fired. Billy told us that.” CJ’s frown deepened. “What are you getting at, Steve?”

  “Three random shots from someone moving about, presumably hunting, would have put the casings in three slightly different positions. I found them together, near the horseshoe print. I think it’s possible that the shots weren’t fired randomly.” He paused to check CJ’s expression: it was inscrutable. “Let me construct a possible scenario. A rider astride a horse, waiting in the dawn light. He sees the camp stirring and the cattle beginning to move about. Three shots are fired at specific intervals, they create the stampede — the outcome being Richard’s death. I think it’s possible those shots were deliberate. Someone wanted that stampede to happen and knew that if it did there was a good chance that Richard and Billy might be injured, perhaps fatally.”

  “Jesus!” CJ’s eyebrows lifted. “Who?”

  “Indeed. Who would want Billy or Richard dead? That’s the puzzle, isn’t it?”

  CJ tried to grasp Steve’s inference. Hell, it was more than an inference. He was talking murder. His son, murdered. A pain stabbed him in the middle of his chest and he grabbed at his shirt and rubbed until it eased. Christ Almighty! It had been hard enough to
cope with the fact that Richard had been killed accidentally — but that it could be murder … Oh, Jesus. The muscle in his jaw spasmed as he tried to keep his emotional reaction in check.

  “Those casings could have been on the ground for years,” CJ argued.

  “I checked that out with ballistics. They did a special test for corrosion and age since discharge. They couldn’t give me an actual date but they’re positive the casings had been there less than a year. Which fits in with the time frame.” He watched CJ nod, absorbing his words then he asked the question he knew he had to. “I have to ask, CJ, did Richard have any enemies? Someone who might have a grudge against him, a score to settle?”

  “You seriously believe it’s possible, don’t you?”

  “I do.” Thirteen years of policing had given Steve a gut feeling for such things and since the day he’d found the casings he’d started to quietly question people around town as to whether anyone had bad feelings towards Richard Ambrose. He’d found some inbred hostility towards CJ but none towards Richard. To date he hadn’t received one clue to back up his scenario of a murder being committed, but still it persisted inside his head.

  “If I’d been caught in that stampede, Les and Shellie could have given you half-a-dozen names of people who’d like to see me two metres under, but not Richard. As far as I know my son didn’t have an enemy in the world.”

  CJ’s statement gave Steve another line to follow. “Then perhaps whoever did it wanted to hurt you.”

  “They succeeded in that. But it doesn’t make sense.” CJ scratched the top of his thinning head of hair. “If someone wanted to use Richard as a bargaining chip, for leverage, why kill him? Why not just threaten to kill him if I didn’t accede to the person’s demands? And if their grudge was against me, I’m easy enough to get to. There’s a security system for the house because of the paintings and antiques but once I’m on the verandah or anywhere else on the property, anyone could take a pot shot at me.”