[Currently, I have three of my paintings displayed at the Blackwood Rotary Art show which is on for the next couple of weeks. If you are in Adelaide, check it out. A number of us Marion Art Group artists have our work in there. Hence, one of these paintings, my painting, the feature painting of Mt. Zonder which has nothing to do with the ongoing saga of my Friday serial, “The Culvert”.
I post this work-in-progress for your entertainment and also, feedback, if you are so inclined to give some feedback.
Cheers, Lee-Anne]
Collaboration
Thursday, May 19
10am
Police HQ
El
El stood beside the multimedia touch screen and created a Venn Diagram. She felt awkward, like an imposter—she shouldn’t be here. But here she was. She glanced at the patent label down the bottom of the screen, in teeny weeny script, “All rights reserved, Sven von Erikson” and again, was not sure they should be using this programme.
Dan assured her it would be fine and that he’d been using the so-called collaborative/crowd-sourcing material for months. ‘If it helps catch the culprits, what harm can it do?’
El pointed at the middle of the intersecting circle where the name of Sven von Erikson was written in bold Arial script. ‘But he’s a suspect, Dan. Who says he won’t fiddle with the programming and make sure he disappears?’
‘I’m sure he won’t do that,’ Dan replied. ‘After all, he wouldn’t have given me the programme to test, if he didn’t want crimes solved too.’
‘Keep your enemies closer,’ El muttered.
‘He’s a friend,’ Dan said. ‘Besides, if it’s a success the department will be rolling it out Australia wide.’
‘I prefer the old-fashioned whiteboard and Blue Tak,’ Dee plopped her comment in, ‘all this technology is begging for stuff to go wrong. I hate technology.’
‘Why don’t you go down to the basement and dig out an old whiteboard and Blue Tak then,’ Dan said.
‘Rather not, all that dust gives me hay fever.’ Dee shook her head. ‘Anyway, I’ve got my investigation mapped out on a wall at home.’
The three studied the diagram with the intersection of suspects who out-numbered the witnesses on either side. Dan tapped the name of Lille’s and Sven’s father, Jan von Erikson. ‘Where’s he?’
‘If he’s still alive, he’d be ninety-two,’ Dee said. ‘But I do remember from my research that he walked out on the family back in 1977.’
‘Right, Dee,’ Dan said, ‘I want you to find out where Mr. von E went and what he’s been doing all this time. No one ever reported him missing?’
‘Appears not, seems they just accepted he walked out and wanted nothing more to do with the family,’ Dee said.
‘Now, El, let’s not assume, but confirm if he’s dead or alive, and when and where he might’ve died or where he’s living now. I want you to go where the von Erikson’s lived at the time, I have the address here,’ Dan handed El a slip of paper, ‘and ask around. You never know, there maybe someone who remembers something.’
‘What about the Edwardes’s?’ Dee asked.
‘They’re a no go at the moment; Lillie has put in a complaint of harassment. So, we have to tread carefully until we have more solid evidence,’ Dan said. ‘I’ll be continuing to gather information concerning Percy Edwards and his murder.’
Dee raised her hand. ‘What about the trafficking of the baby Lillie had back in 1981?’
‘That will need to be put to one side until after we sort out the murders,’ Dan said. ‘Now, we have our work cut out for us, so let’s get onto it.’
Oh, dear! I must’ve been deep in the rabbit-hole of painting yesterday. See what I painted in one sunny mid-winter’s afternoon, yesterday. Anyway, being what was intended to be Family History Friday for Tru-Kling Creations, went down a rabbit-hole and ended up somewhere else.
Check out the re-blog of the story of my great-great grandfather from Silesia.
Again, a detective sat opposite Francis. This one was female and wore a smug expression. Introduced herself as Detective Dee Berry. She announced that she had further questions that must be answered into the cold case inquiry of the hit-and-run of Milo Katz.
Francis Renard watched as this woman who he vaguely remembered from his youth purse her lips as if her mouth were full of berries. He noted that his wife, Eloise had made herself scarce. Gone for a walk on the beach. A fine morning for it, so she said after hearing Dee Berry was coming to visit.
“You’ll be fine,” El promised, before departing, leaving him to be fed to the “shark”. “Text me if she becomes too much of a problem. Besides, Zoe’s in the next room.”
So, this lady detective opened her strawberry-coloured lips and said sweetly, ‘I have some news for you, Mr. Renard.’
‘Really?’ he shifted his wiry body in the occasional lounge chair making it squeak. ‘I really think I told your partner, Dan Hooper everything I can remember from back then.’
‘Can you remind me who you spent the night with, and where on the night in question?’
‘Er…um…well, it’s a long time ago,’ Renard paused, and decided to change the subject. ‘You look familiar, do I know you from a past life?’
Her expression soured. ‘We used to go out, around that time, Francis.’
‘Did we? I-I don’t…’
‘Obviously not,’ Dee said, glaring at him. ‘Just to clear the air, you stood me up at my own end of school party. Then later, you said that you were there, but you weren’t. I have it in my diary and you’re in none of the photos. And…’ Dee raised her hand for emphasis, ‘this is the best part, we have witnesses, and subsequent evidence that place you and your Kombi at Sellicks Beach on that night when Milo Katz was run over. Would you like to comment, Mr. Renard?’
‘Er…er…’ Renard fiddled with his phone trying to surreptitiously send an S.O.S. to El. ‘Wh-what evidence?’
‘Some pretty solid evidence,’ Dee rubbed her hands together. ‘On the night in question, witnesses reported that you spent the evening with a certain young lady. Do you remember? Or have you forgotten her too?’
‘Um…probably, there were a lot of them back then.’
Dee leaned back in her chair. Looking smug, she said, ‘It would seem there was fruit from your labours, Mr. Renard. Nine months later, a girl called Zoe Thomas was born. We believe this child is yours Mr. Renard.’
Renard looked up and beyond Dee. He smiled, ‘Oh, yes, I know all about Zoe.’
The blonde standing behind Detective Berry grinned. ‘Did I hear my name in vain?’
‘Huh?’ Dee turned; her eyes widened. ‘I’m conducting an investigation here, Miss. Who are you?’
‘Zoe Thomas, Ma’am,’ she held out her hand to Dee. ‘Barrister.’
Dee refused to take her hand. ‘I see, so you’re not just a wee bit curious about your mother?’
‘I am, but at this present time, I’m more concerned with the current investigation of my father.’
‘Why?’
‘It would seem from your tone and attitude, and from what I could hear, that your history with him makes it too close and personal for you to be involved.’ Zoe narrowed her eyes at Dee. ‘You may conclude your discussion and leave now.’
While the “cat”, namely Dee was away, Dan took the opportunity to delve into the intricacies of Mr. Percy Edwards and his presumed body that had been discovered in the Mt. Lofty National Park. He mused how the unfortunate Mr. Edwards could languish just inside the culvert, under the bridge, for so long without being discovered. After all, how could the tourist traffic, plus joggers who daily climbed Adelaide’s iconic mountain, miss the remains for so long?
Dan plotted the details and questions into the von Erikson Crime solving programme and then checked over the growing chart on screen.
An email pinged its arrival. Pathologist Penny Chambers had completed the preliminaries on the corpse.
Dan opened the file and studied the results.
As he suspected, someone, had recently moved the remains. Damage to the skull had been the consequence of repeated blunt force trauma. Penny proposed that the shape and width of the damage suggested a golf club was used, most probably a wedge which weighs around 340 grams.
Dan nodded. ‘Interesting.’
The report also indicated that the damage to the skull tended to be at the front, hitting the frontal lobe, the nose and upper jaw. Four teeth from the upper jaw were missing.
‘This was personal,’ Dan whispered. ‘Someone close did this to poor Mr. Edwards.’
His mobile vibrated on his desk. Dan picked it up. ‘Yes? Dee?’
He looked at his watch. 5pm. ‘Oh, is that the time,’ he murmured.
Dee rabbited on, bemoaning the piles of disembarked passengers and dearth of taxi drivers.
‘I’ll be there in twenty minutes,’ he said while closing down the computer, then gathering up his keys.
Detective Dee Berry smiled as she descended the airport escalators. A smattering of family members had gathered to welcome their loved ones from their international travels. A man waggled his head and paced back and forth beneath the flight arrivals sign while arguing with his wife. Another couple, the bearded male wearing loose-fitting shirt and baggy trousers strode ten-paces ahead of his wife covered head to toe in a black burqa.
Reminded her of a certain Mr. Percy Edwards back in the day—1970’s. Not the ethnicity and the baggage that goes with that, but just the need for certain men, no matter what race or background, who needed to be dominant over their women. She’d see him at church racing to the entrance while his wife and children trailed behind him. What really got up her nose about the man was his attitude to women, like he was God’s gift, and all women must submit to him—worship the ground and the latest Ford he drove in.
That man Percy gave her the creeps, especially one night after youth group. She came out of the hall early and there he was, lounging near his latest Ford.
As she passed him, he lunged at her. ‘Jump in my car!’ he demanded, grabbing her arm.
Dee tore her arm away from his grasp. Swore at him—words usually reserved for her arch enemy Lillie. Then she ran. Round the block and back into the safety of the hall.
Never told a soul. But the memory stayed with her.
Dee shivered at the chilling flash back and recomposed herself.
She moved on and out from the concourse.
How Adelaide had changed, Dee thought. She remembered her youth and travelling by boat from Davenport to Melbourne in 1980. At the time she had seen an overseas tourist taking photos of the heads as they entered Port Phillip Bay. Back then, she had thought seeing such a foreigner a novelty.
At drive through/drop off and pick up road, she waited in line to hail a taxi. It seemed all of Adelaide was doing the same. At this rate she’d be waiting an eternity. She was tempted to call Dan to ask him to pick her up in his patrol car.
After an hour of languishing in the unmovable line, she did just that. She called Dan.
‘I was wondering when you’d call,’ Dan said with a sigh. ‘I’ll be there in twenty minutes.’
Dee watched the security harass lingering drivers and hurry them along. She watched the same cars pass by as they completed the circuit while waiting for their passengers to disembark and arrive at the designated pick-up point. She watched the rare taxi pull up and prospective passengers pile in.
Then she decided to make it easier for Dan and begin walking east up this drop-off road towards a less populated area. Some other wise people were doing the same. She followed them. Sure, there was a yellow line forbidding such action, but if drivers were quick in the pick-up routine, the guards of the drop off/pick up process wouldn’t notice. Besides, there were certain benefits being picked up in a police patrol car.
As anticipated, twenty minutes passed by in the process of being a pedestrian, and Dan’s patrol car pulled up just before the roundabout. Dee opened the back passenger door and tossed in her case, then she leapt in after it.
‘Thanks Dan,’ she said as she secured her seatbelt.
Dan breezed past the paused throngs of cars and people eager to make a quick get-away. Their hurried movements reminded Dee of bank robbers leaping into accomplices’ cars before the authorities caught up with them. One car, Dee noticed it was that couple, still arguing, and their grown up returned-from-overseas children struggling to fit all their baggage in the boot of the car. An irate security staff member gestured for them to move along. Dee looked back to see if the mother and father were arguing with security, but a hulking Toyota Hilux blocked the scene.
‘How was the Tassie trip?’ Dan asked.
‘Brilliant!’ Dee replied. ‘There’s some beautiful places there. I reckon I’ll pull up stumps and go and live there when I retire.’
‘Did you find what you were looking for?’ Dan asked. ‘I gather from the application and funding, that it wasn’t a holiday.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Dee rubbed her hands together and grinned, ‘the time was well spent and fruitful.’
‘Fruitful?’ Dan glanced back at her.
‘You remember Lillie? Lillie von Erikson? Now Edwards?’
‘Yes?’
Dee chuckled. ‘She had a baby down there in Tasmania, back in 1981.’
‘Did she now?’
‘You remember she was one of the witnesses back then. You know when Milo Katz was run over?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well. Fast-forward nine months, and bingo! A little girl was born.’ Dee licked her lips. ‘A girl called Zoe Thomas.’
‘And,’ Dan eyed Dee through the rear-vision mirror, ‘how’s this related to the case?’
‘You see, it proves that she was there. With Francis Renard. In his kombi van.’
‘But you said she was a witness.’
‘She will be, and so will Mr. Renard.’
‘I don’t see how you have figured this out, Dee.’
‘Do I have to spell it out, Dan?’
‘Go on.’
‘If they were there, they must’ve seen something. They would’ve been aware of Sven’s movements.’
‘Not if they were busy in the kombi, they wouldn’t have,’ Dan snorted, then laughed. ‘Anyway, I interviewed Mr. Renard, remember?’
‘We’ll see,’ Dee sighed, ‘Besides, I think that the adoption was all underhand and off the radar. There’s no official documentation. And I suspect there was money involved in the deal.’
‘Really? How do you come to that conclusion?’
‘I managed to track down the adoptive father of Zoe, and he confirmed that Lillie gave the child to him and his wife. They were childless and his wife was desperate for a baby.’
‘And the money?’
‘I remember Lillie returning from her Tassie work holiday flush with the stuff,’ Dee flicked a lock of hair from her face, ‘I saw her around town with a new car, new trendy clothes, and I heard her and her brother shared a flat in a swanky part of town, Burnside, as I recall.’
‘So, I got hold of some bank records from the day.’
‘Really, do they still exist after forty years?’
‘If you know where to find them and have the right contacts.’
‘Which, apparently, you do.’
‘September fifteenth, 1981, ten-thousand dollars was paid by cheque into her Commonwealth Bank account.’ Dee announced in triumph. Somehow, an online crime-fighting sleuth, probably on the spectrum, had come through for her. ‘From an ANZ bank account in Hobart.’
‘I see,’ Dan sniffed, ‘so, are you going to go after Lillie Edwards on a charge of baby trafficking, now?’
By five in the afternoon, Dee was driving down the windy road from Queenstown to Strahan. She heeded Mavis’ warning to take care on this narrow, steep road. She counted the number of cans strewn on the side along with the native wildlife carnage—mostly pademelons and wombats.
Local traffic frightened her. They swung around the bend, on her side, almost colliding head on before swerving to their side of the road.
Dee drove slower than the locals to avoid becoming another statistic. A conga line of cars fumed behind her. Every so often, a frustrated driver risked their lives and sped past her around a blind corner. Dee expected to witness disaster awaiting her on the other side, but this time, they’d been lucky.
Finally, as the sun set over a choppy Port Macquarie, Dee pulled in at the caravan park cabin she had booked that morning.
After a quick shower and change into a fresh pair of black slacks, white shirt, and black jacket, she headed for the hotel. There being a number of eating places that lined the main street, she chose the one that appeared most popular, a bar and bistro.
Before settling at a table to sit, Dee weaved her way through the Friday night crowds to the bar. She hoped the bar staff were not too busy to have a chat. She also hoped they had an inkling who Greg Thomas was and where she could find him.
Resting one elbow on the bar, while trying her best to look casual, Dee waited. The bar staff scurried from customer to filling up large glasses called “schooners” with beer and ignored her as if she were invisible.
‘I’d make a good private detective,’ Dee sighed and muttered. She wondered if word had got out around Strahan that she was in town, on the warpath, investigating. Perhaps Mr. Thomas had gone into hiding and the locals were all protecting their own and their secrets. Or was it just that she was at that age and invisible. Probably the latter, she thought.
As a more mature bar staffer, a balding man with grey sideburns whizzed past her, Detective Dee Berry straightened up and leaned over the counter.
‘Excuse me,’ she said.
‘Hold on,’ the man glanced back, ‘just a minute.’
Dee gritted her teeth, pulled out her ID card and held it up. ‘It’ll only take a minute of your time.’
The man looked like a rabbit, or in Tasmania’s road case, a pademelon, stunned by the headlights of an oncoming car, and hurried over to her. ‘How may I help you?’
‘I’m looking for Greg Thomas,’ she said, ‘do you know him?’
The man’s eyes widened. ‘Is he in trouble?’
‘Na, not really. I’m trying to chase up his daughter, actually. You know, the lawyer?’
‘Oh, is she in trouble?’
‘I can’t say, it’s confidential.’ Dee smiled. ‘Do you know where I can find him?’
The man pointed across the street at crowds of people milling around a brown and green structure topped with sail cloth. ‘See the Visitor’s Centre, there, he’s next to that in the timber yard.’
‘Oh, right?’ Dee lifted her hand from the counter and prepared to leave. ‘Thank you. What time does he finish work?’
The man shrugged. ‘He’ll most probably still be there. He works late on his projects most nights.’
Dee waved and said again, ‘Thank you.’
She walked over the road. The visitor centre swarmed with the latest offload of tourists from the Gordon River cruise to an open-air theatre. The timber yard and shop appeared dark and empty.
‘Are you looking for someone?’ a voice called out of the dark.
Dee looked in the direction. The glitter of red ash splashed onto the pavement a few metres away. She could just discern the outline of a man in the shadows.
‘Huh? Who are you? Are you Mr. Thomas?’ she asked keeping her distance. You can never be too careful, she reasoned.
‘Nah,’ the man sucked on his cigarette making the tip glow red. ‘Why, do you want with him?’
‘I’m looking for his daughter, Zoe. Wondering if he could help me find her,’ Dee said, mindful not to reveal her identity as a police officer. ‘I’m an old friend of her mother’s.’
‘I see.’
Dee could just make out the man’s long hair, and beard that covered his face.
‘I was just wondering if you knew when Mr. Thomas would be in the workshop.’
The man coughed and with a gravelly voice replied, ‘Try tomorrow morning. He’s gone home for the night.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Good luck,’ he responded.
She left the old man on the wharf to his smoking and headed back to her cabin for the night.
Sometimes characters spring from real life, Sometimes real life is stranger than fiction. Sometimes real life is just real life. Check out my travel memoirs, And escape in time and space To Central Australia.
If you are in Adelaide, check out Marion Art Group’s exhibition at Bayside Village, Glenelg. On until Saturday, May 10. You can buy the paintings on the spot and take them home. Just in time for Mother’s day. My paintings are there too. Don’t miss out, have a look and enjoy the wonderful artwork.
When she left the old man at the service station, Dee made a mental note to turn left at the fork in the road where the purple house sat; just as the man said she needed to do to find the Thomas farm. She hoped the new owners would know where the Thomas family had moved.
After parking her car off the road, and in a ditch near the creek, Dee picked her way over the road and up the uneven path to the pastel pink painted house. Chooks ran amok in the front yard, scratching and pecking at the patchy lawn. A silver-haired blue heeler trotted around the yard after the chooks, sniffing and checking out where the hens had visited.
The door creaked open before Dee had time to knock, and a plump woman in her early 40’s looked at her and asked, ‘Are you lost?’
Dee replied, ‘No, actually, I’m an old friend of a lady who worked here with the Thomases back 40-years ago. Name of Lillie von Erikson? Did you know her? I’m trying to track down the daughter she had here back then…Adopted out…’
‘Ah, me mum…’ a knowing smile spread across the woman’s face, ‘always suspected that woz the case. So, now the truth comes out.’
She laughed, her tummy jiggling under her apron that covered with her latest cooking venture. Then she beckoned to Dee to come inside.
Offering a side of the table free of papers, the local lady said, ‘Cuppa? I have some delicious apple pie what’s just been cooked.’
Dee, who had a weakness for dessert and anything sweet, gladly accepted.
Over tea and heavenly pie with cream, straight from the cow cream, so the woman called Mavis boasted, Dee learnt the history of the little Huon hamlet, the days of the lives of each of the inhabitants, who was related to who, how many partners each had as well as offspring. Dee’s head spun with all these extraneous details but struggled to put in even one question related to her enquiry. Mavis rabbited on and on, barely pausing to take a breath.
The apple pie was good, though, and Dee accepted a second, then third piece in the quest to ask at least one question.
When Dee glanced out the window and saw the hill presiding over the river all black in the darkness of night, she decided to move the conversation along. She pointed at Mavis’s pie and melted cream. ‘Aren’t you going to have some?’
Mavis stopped mid-sentence about her son and ex going Mutton birding, and she stared at her plate. ‘Oh, yeah, forgot about that,’ she remarked and shovelled a spoonful into her mouth.
As she chewed, Dee said, ‘Can you tell me where the Thomases went?’
At the mention of the Thomas family and Mavis’s mouth was off again, full gallop. Dee could see that at this rate it’d be midnight before she had an opportunity to leave. She didn’t fancy navigating these tricky Huon valley roads in the darkness of night and hoped Mavis would offer her a spare room or couch to sleep…if she ever stopped talking.
Dee tolerated the whole Thomas history, from convict beginnings of their ancestors, a ship that never was that they built and sped them to the coast of Chile, another daring escape from most certain hanging, to finally straightening out their lives to buy this patch of land on God’s earth.
Dee was sure Mavis was making it up as she went along.
A few hours later after weaving through the Thomas family history over the last century, Mavis announced, ‘You see, that’s why Zoe never fitted in; she wozn’t one of us.’
Before Dee could utter, “How so?” Mavis raced on, ‘Me mum grew up with Janine, went to school wif her and they got married at the same time. But while me mum went on to have ten kids, Janine had none. That was until that girl, Lillie come to work wif them. Me cousin worked wif her on the apple farm. She reckoned something woz wrong wif that girl. You can tell if someone’s up the duff, ya know. It’s the way their tummy sits, no hiding it.’
Mavis took a quick sip of her now, stone-cold tea, gulped and continued, ‘Then the next thing, off Janine goes on a holiday and bingo, comes back wif a baby. By that time, the girl, Lillie, so me mum says is gone. She woz preggers with me at the time.’
‘Did you…?’ Dee began.
Mavis cut in. ‘I went to school with Zoe. All brains that girl, and you could tell she wozn’t one of us. She definitely had the makings of a mainlander. But Janine never budged. As far as she woz concerned, Zoe woz hers and nothing could persuade her to tell the ‘onest truth. But we all knew…I mean, the Thomases, bof of them dark haired, Irish, and here they have a blonde who looked like one of them German kids that Hitler used to go on about. What were they called, them kids?’
‘Aryan,’ Dee replied and then zipped in, ‘so where are the Thomases now?’
‘Ah, well, Janine, the mother, she’s passed, so I heard. Cancer got her, they said, but Mister Thomas, he lives in Strahan. They moved to the West Coast a few years back when Zoe woz still in high school. Told ya, she never fitted in. Heard she became some hotshot lawyer in Melbourne. If that doesn’t tell ya, once a mainlander, always one, I tell ya.’
After this comment, Mavis yawned.
‘Have you been…?’
‘No, never, why would I do that?’ Mavis said. She straightened up and puffed out her generous chest. ‘We have it all here on the apple isle, why would I go there, to the mainland?’
Dee prepared to stand. ‘I must…’
Mavis jumped up and pushed her down. ‘No, no, you can’t go out now. Here, you stay here tonight. I have a couple of spare rooms; me kids are all grown up, ya see. ‘sides, it’s dark out there and dangerous to drive at night. All the animals come out and I wouldn’t want ya having an accident. No, you must stay and have a good sleep, and, in the morning, I’ll draw a map for how you get to Strahan, okay.’
Dee thanked Mavis for her offer. She’d forgotten about the wildlife. She’d seen more animal carnage on the roadside from Hobart to Huonville than she’d seen in a lifetime of driving in the Adelaide hills and surrounds. She would prefer not the add to the native wildlife body-count.
Sometimes characters spring from real life, Sometimes real life is stranger than fiction. Sometimes real life is just real life. Check out my travel memoirs, And escape in time and space To Central Australia.
After the phone call to Fifi, Dee leaned back in her chair. ‘Gotcha, Mr. Renard. Gotcha!’ She couldn’t believe her good fortune in Fifi. Didn’t take that “Rannga” much to turn against her former friend.
However, youth group rumours were not enough to “hang” Lillie, she needed hard facts—evidence. She started with the local council office at Glen Huon. After all, most apple picking happened in the Huon Valley, Tasmania. So, a good place to commence digging dirt on her nemesis.
Thankful that she woke up the sleepy young man in the office before the council chambers closed, she trawled through the files he sent her. She was glad that such information about payrolls and workers in the area in 1981, had been digitised. Lillie von Erikson was listed as working for apple orchard owners, Greg and Janine Thomas. However, no mention of a baby or her being pregnant. Dee puzzled over the fact that Lillie, according to Fifi, seemed to have been in Tasmania long after the apple-picking season was over.
What was she doing there after apple picking? Dee wondered.
She moved onto Trove, an online digital archive, that has recorded historic newspaper articles and publications. Searched Lillie’s name in the local and state newspapers from the day.
Nothing.
She calculated when the baby would arrive if conceived in November. Then scrutinized state and also national papers for a birth in the personal pages. August—September 1981, in particular. Nothing. Still, all is not lost. Perhaps she didn’t put the birth in the paper if she adopted the child out.
But a quick check of newspaper dates available revealed that Trove only published papers up to 1950. What a disappointment!
A visit to the South Australian State Library was the next step in the search. There she trawled through the microfiche files for the Tasmanian newspapers, concentrating on births around August and September.
After an unsatisfactory August, she scanned the first week in September.
‘Ah! That looks more like it,’ Dee murmured.
She zoomed in on the notice of a daughter, Zoe, born to Lillie’s apple picking bosses, Greg and Janine Thomas. Detective Dee Berry smiled while resting her clasped hands on her belly. September 1, right in the timeframe too.
‘Interesting,’ she murmured. ‘Did the moll stay to help Mrs Thomas? Or did she give the baby to Mrs. Thomas?’
A check of the births, deaths, and marriages register, and confirmed. Mrs. Janine Thomas was over 40 when she had her first child, Zoe.
‘Not impossible, but suspicious,’ Dee muttered. ‘I think a little trip to Tasmania is what I must do.’ After saving the information onto a file labelled “Moll”, she put in an application for a visit to Tasmania courtesy of the government. After all, it was an enquiry into a murder investigation.
Who knows, Dee smirked, my enemy may be a suspect that needs to be eliminated; one way or another I’ll get her.
Dee gripped the leather-bound steering wheel of Toyota Corolla hire car as it rumbled up the unsealed road. Won’t tell the hire company about that little detour, she thought. From the Council records, the Thomas farm was hidden way out west, close to the “Great Western wilderness”. The further west she drove, the thinner and rougher the road became.
She passed a tiny town with houses painted in gaudy orange and pastel greens. A purple house stood sentinel at a fork in the road. Dee took the left track hoping to reach her destination soon. She’d given up on the Sat Nav. The designated voice, named Jilly was vague and hadn’t a clue where to go.
Dee was proud that she could still read maps and follow the directions of an old local manning the service station at Glen Huon. He said he’d remembered someone like Lillie 40-odd years back. Strangers were a rarity in a small town of fifty-odd people from where he had come. He said Lillie had walked into the church, and all twenty heads turned to size up the blonde from the mainland.
‘It wasn’t long before rumours were flying,’ the station owner said, ‘pregnant, just like the lady who lived in that purple house you’ll see when you get to the town up there. Rumour has it, she’s got a child from ten different men. Anyways, that’s a lifetime ago now. Back then, if someone sneezed across the valley there, everyone in town would know about it and the person who sneezed would have died from pneumonia. Not much better now.’
Dee must have given him a strange look, because the station owner added, ‘Oh, er, don’t believe the rumours. Them folk up there are all related, married cousins and what not, but they don’t have two heads.’
‘Didn’t think they had,’ Dee replied, ‘I just want to know how to get to the Thomas farm.’
‘Don’t know why you want to go there; the family left years ago.’
‘Do you know where they went?’
The man shrugged. ‘The missus died, so I heard. Daughter’s become some big shot lawyer in Melbourne. Something not right there, she never fitted, you know what I mean. She wasn’t one of us.’
‘Did she look like Lillie, the blonde?’ Dee showed the man a photo she had scanned to her phone of 17-year-old Lillie.
The man paused, squinted and then nodded. ‘Yeah, there were rumours. But we could never prove it. Janine, Mr. Thomas’s missus, always insisted the baby was hers.’
Sometimes characters spring from real life, Sometimes real life is stranger than fiction. Sometimes real life is just real life. Check out my travel memoirs, And escape in time and space To Central Australia.
Recent events on the world stage and closer to home have reminded me of this little gem I posted way back in 2016. Still relevant today—maybe even more so, as it was back then so many years ago when I was in high school. And it seems, while many of us have matured and have an open mind when it comes to opinions and how we view others, there are some who believe that if you tell a lie often enough, it must be true. The recipients who have no backbone who believe these lies are just as guilty. Need I go into detail with examples? Not here. But I may explore this issue in some of my future novels.
NOW YOU KNOW…
Year Ten at high school, and you could say I went to school each day with a big virtual sign on my back that read, “Kick Me”.
Don’t get me wrong, I had my close friends; friends who valued me for me and who saw through the prevailing attitudes of the crowd towards me. I assumed my lack of popularity was spawned from a rocky start in Year Seven—new kid when all friendship groups had been established in a ridiculously small school. And then there were those who had made it their mission in life to persecute me. I assumed they spread the rumours about me. Or maybe it was my buck teeth, and awkward way of relating to people…When you are told by your peers over and over again that you are ugly, unloved and no one wants you and you do regularly get picked last for the team, I guess you start to believe what people say. What kept me together, were my real friends, the ones outside of school, and my friends at school. I also belonged to a fantastic youth group that met every Friday night. A close-knit, loving family helped as well.
Most of all my faith in Jesus got me through those difficult early teenage years.
Anyway, at fifteen, my teeth had been almost straightened by orthodontics, and I’d perfected the enemy-avoiding strategy of spending lunchtimes in the library. I loved learning and my best friend, and I spurred each other on in academic excellence. My goal, a scholarship. I had heard rumours that some kids thought I was not so intelligent, a fool, in other words.
At my grandmother’s place, after Sunday lunch, I helped Grandma with the dishes. As I scraped away the chicken bones, I discovered the wishbone.
‘Can I make a wish?’ I asked Grandma.
‘Well, why not?’ she replied. Although a godly woman, some superstitions from our Wendish (eastern European) past had filtered down through the generations. So, wishing on wishbones was no big spiritual deal.
Grandma and I hooked our little fingers around each prong of the wishbone. We pulled. The bone snapped in two and I won the larger portion. I closed my eyes and made my wish, a scholarship. Dad had promised that if I studied hard and won a scholarship, he’d buy me a ten-pin bowling ball. So, in truth, my aspirations for academic achievement were less than pure.
What was it about socks? I wondered as I dutifully began to pull up my socks. For our summer uniform which we had to wear in first term, we wore blue cotton frocks down to our knees and long white socks.
Woe betide any poor soul who did not pull their socks up to their knees. The length of our uniform dresses was another issue that kept certain teachers occupied. And don’t get me started on hair. I tell you, if all the students had worn their uniforms correctly, I think the teachers would’ve quit out of boredom.
So, with my socks pulled up, I waited in line to troop into the chapel for morning assembly. A tap on my back. One of my friends smiled at me. I remember her simple bob of straight blonde hair; no fancy flicks or curls like many fashion-conscious girls in the 1970’s. Farrah Fawcet flicks were all the rage and drove the teachers to distraction.
‘Good luck,’ my friend said.
‘Why?’ I asked.
Miss Uniform-Obsessed-Teacher glared at us. She had those bulging blue eyes, mean pointy mouth that forced us to slouch into submission, and for me to check my socks again.
One of my foes snaked past and muttered at me, ‘Dumb idiot.’
I shook my head and concentrated on not getting glared at by the teacher. Really, I thought, he’s at the bottom of the class and he’s calling me dumb? What is it with that guy? In his defense, he did come out with a gem once in English class when the students were rioting and so reducing the first-year-out teacher to tears. He said to me, ‘It’s not what you know, it’s who you know.’ So true for my home town.
Once inside the hallowed halls of the chapel, we went through the ritual of the school assembly. The principal delivered the talk. There’s a lecture I recall he made, don’t know if it was that particular one—how we were a bunch of jellyfish and we must get some backbone. When he said backbone I thought of the wishbone, and then that guy who said I was dumb and his cohorts. I thought of how people believe unquestioningly what others tell them, even if it’s not true. They go along with the prevailing attitude, even if it’s wrong and harmful to others. In some ways, like at school, I was a victim of these jellyfish, and in other ways, I was a jellyfish too. I had an attitude, an aversion against those who bullied me. Did I have backbone enough to get to know them as people rather than continuing to avoid them as enemies? The principal began to hand out the awards. Ah, yes, that’s what my friend meant. Today was the day of the awards. I watched as various students marched up the front and collected their scholarships. That won’t be me, I thought.
‘And for Year Ten,’ the principal said, ‘the scholarship for high achievement…’
I looked up. What? Me?
I walked to the front, shook the principal’s hand, collected the award, then head down and with a tug of my pig tail, I walked back to my seat.
Afterwards, my friend patted me on the shoulder. ‘Congratulations! Well done! Just like you to win an award and then pull at your pig tails.’
I nodded. The whole deal of winning a scholarship seemed unreal. ‘I’ll be able to get my own bowling ball, now.’
That guy slid past me. ‘Ooh, what a surprise—we all thought you were dumb.’
Sometimes we carry our hurt from the persecution from others like a big heavy bag on our backs and the truth is it influences the way we see the world. I realised being a victim had become my narrative, and I didn’t want it to be so. As a jellyfish, I had no backbone to stand against this view of myself and how others viewed me. I feared speaking out and going against the crowd in the cause of truth, justice, mercy and compassion. I kept my opinions to myself. Then just recently, when again the baggage of victimhood crept up on me, I read the following passage from the book of Matthew in the Bible. The words encouraged and gave me the backbone to stand out and for the sake of Jesus Christ make a positive difference in the world.
“Blessed are you when people insult you, persecute you and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me (Jesus). Rejoice and be glad, because great is your reward in heaven, for the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you.”—Matthew 5:11-12
Monday May 3, 2022 2pm Church Hall at Seaside, Art studio session
Fifi
Feeling jangled from a stressful morning, Fifi unpacked her paints and laid them out on the table. She gave El a crooked smile. ‘So, what’s new with you?’
‘Hmm, nothing much.’ El eased into her plastic moulded seat and rested her box of paints on her knee.
Zoe’s staying with us for a while. She landed a job in Adelaide, you know. Reckons she’s on track for passing the bar and becoming a judge.’
‘Ooh, ladida!’ Fifi sniffed and then snorted. ‘What d’ya reckon ol’ Lillie’ll change her tune if she had an up-and-coming judge as a daughter.’
‘Didn’t know she had a tune.’
‘Oh, yes, she’s been dead against DNA and all that stuff since it’s become a thing.’
‘Pretty sure we know why that is, don’t we.’
‘Yeah,’ Fifi sighed and then started to paint. ‘Not like me; everyone back then when I had my Jacob, said I’d trapped Sven into marrying me. Some even went as far as to say that I wouldn’t ever get married otherwise.’
‘Yeah, I remember this one girl, Dee—Dee? I think. She said with my looks and red hair it’s a wonder anyone would marry me.’
El chuckled.
Fifi stopped painting and glared at El. ‘And, what’s that about? That laugh? Are you implying…?’
‘No!’ El locked eyes with Fifi. ‘Not at all. I think you mean, Dee Berry. I know her, she’s a police officer, actually, a detective now. As far as I know, she’s never been married, nor had any kids. I was laughing because she is the one who desperate and dateless. What’s more, pretty sure she’s got her heart set on my former partner in fighting crime, Dan.’
‘Not Detective Dan Hooper?’
‘Oh, yes, that Dan.’
‘Gawd, it’s a small world.’ Fifi placed her hand over her mouth and whispered, ‘I went to youth group with Dan. He was older, of course. All us girls swooned over him, but he went off and married some posh Swiss bird.’
‘Unfortunately, that didn’t end well.’ El lifted her paint set to the table. ‘Poor Dan just couldn’t compete with the obscene amount of money some of that set have. Last I heard his ex had taken a shine to Ivan T Rumf’s charms.’
‘Who?’
‘Just one of the richest and most powerful men in the world.’ El shrugged. ‘I mean, how can a Detective Inspector who is all about justice and not much money to show for it compete against such corruption? I ask you?’
‘Well rid of that one if she’s only interested in money.’
‘True.’
For a time, El and Fifi concentrated on their works. Fifi used a fine brush to define her bouquet of roses, while El made bold strokes blocking in a famous face for portraiture. Fifi raised her eyebrows at the choice of El’s subject. She didn’t make any comment about El’s muse, just mentally noting that El had nailed the fake tan, though.
After this pause in conversation, Fifi said, ‘Anyway, I heard that you had an interesting conversation with my sister-in-law the other night.’
‘How?’
‘My brother, Jimmy,’ Fifi’s voice dropped, ‘the police have been in touch about the body found near Mt. Lofty. We met with them this morning. Big news. It’s our dad. Gawd! Would you believe it? After all these years.’
El took in a quick breath. ‘Oh, that’s good. Isn’t it?’
Fifi covered her mouth, then wiped a stray tear from her cheek, then nodded. ‘Guess so. Still has to be confirmed with DNA ‘n stuff.’’
‘I’m sorry,’ El placed her arm around Fifi, ‘I guess it’s still a shock. And so final.’
‘Dan,’ her friend cleared her voice and straightened her back, ‘I mean Detective Inspector Hooper gave us the results of the autopsy. Broken neck—that doesn’t just happen. Plus, he had been moved after. He’s been lying in that disused mine, under that bridge all those years.’ She trembled and then sighed, ‘Poor Dad.’
‘Oh, that’s just awful,’ El said. ‘Do they have any leads?’
Fifi shrugged and swayed her head. She knew El was just being kind and empathetic, but she also knew that if she shared any further information, she’d fall into a heap and be a blubbering mess.
Once more steeling herself, Fifi said, ‘I hope they catch the low-life who did this. Maybe your virtual daughter, Zoe can give them a well-deserved kick up the pants and life in prison.’
‘I’m sure she’s more than capable if she ends up presiding over the case or somehow involved.’
‘Anyway, enough of that,’ Fifi forced a brave smile, ‘in answer to your question, Jimmy told me all about Lillie’s performance at the club the other night.’
‘Yeah, it was awkward,’ El replied. ‘I was glad to escape, thanks to Zoe coming to the rescue.’
‘Speaking of which—Jimmy mentioned how alike Lillie and Zoe are. More confirmation.’ Fifi had a vague recollection of the night of Milo’s demise at Sellicks Beach and Lillie coming out of Renard’s van in the morning. She had always wondered if there was more to her once best friend’s vanishing act to Tasmania than merely apple picking.
El cleared her throat and mumbled something Fifi didn’t quite catch, but it had something to do with Lillie’s response.
‘You know, do you think it’s wise to have Zoe living with you, so soon?’
‘No, why?’
‘Just…’ Fifi sighed. She couldn’t help herself giving advice, fixing things. ‘Seems to me she might be mooching.’
‘Mooching?’ El frowned at her. ‘Why?’
‘That’s what some people do. Just saying, be careful.’
‘Zoe’s not like that,’ El snapped. ‘I wish you wouldn’t be so judgemental. She’s a lovely lady, very intelligent and level-headed. Actually, I enjoy having her around.’
‘Sorry,’ Fifi said and looked down at her pink roses. ‘I’ve over-stepped the mark again, haven’t I?’
‘No need to be sorry, you have a lot going on.’ El leaned back and examined her work. The tanned face glared back at her from the canvas, his beady eyes narrowed. ‘Tell me about Jimmy, what’s he like as a brother?’
Fifi paused and prepared to give some pat answer that she hoped would satisfy her former detective friend’s curiosity.
Her mobile rang the tune of “Scotland the Brave”. She dove into her bag, fished the device out before it stopped and entered the merry-go-round of phone tag.
‘Hi Fifi, Dee Berry here from police investigations. I have some follow up questions, just a couple. Have you some time?’
‘Yes,’ Fifi said while standing up and moving out to the foyer. It was quieter there.
‘Do you remember when Lillie, your friend at the time, left Adelaide for Tasmania?’
‘Ummm,’ Fifi grimaced trying to force the memory cells to perform, ‘we went on a hike where we found…’ no, not sure if I should reveal that, ‘Lillie got lost and we found her near some cute little cottage. That was in January…sometime…it was so long…’
‘When did she go to Tasmania?’
‘Er, after January, I think…February?’
‘You’re not sure.’
‘It’s 40 years ago.’ Fifi gnawed at another nail. That Zoe, she doesn’t look forty. Crumbs! Jacob is 40. Where did that time go? Her mind wandered around the possibility of matching the two up. Then she realised they were most likely first cousins and dismissed the possibility.
‘How long did she stay there?’
‘I don’t know, six months, maybe? A lot was going on in my life. Jeepers! I got married and was having her brother’s baby. Lillie was not happy about that. She wanted nothing to do with me. With her, it was all about her career. I wasn’t good enough for her. Cripes! She didn’t even come back for my wedding. Her brother’s wedding.’
She didn’t mean to spill all her sordid details of her former life to this detective, but it just all slid out, like it wanted to be out. As if the detective, silent on the other end was some sort of therapist.
‘Interesting, don’t you think there was a reason she didn’t come back for such an important occasion,’ Dee said. ‘Is there any reason that you can think of that caused her to miss the wedding?’
‘Not sure, but I always wondered if she had been pregnant…’ Fifi hadn’t intended to share her speculation, but that just sort of slipped out too. ‘On that night when Milo, you know…in the morning I saw her come out of Renard’s van.’
‘I was really worried for her. Lillie was such an innocent back then,’ Fifi huffed. ‘But then after her working holiday in Tasmania, she came back without any baby in tow. So, I thought she must’ve been lucky…but…’ ‘Thank you, Ms. Edwards, you’ve been most helpful,’ Dee said, her voice sounding chipper. ‘I’ll let you get back to your…’
‘Painting.’
The phone clicked off. Fifi sat for a moment and reflected. Probably best I didn’t mention El’s news about Zoe. Not my place to tell. Let the cops figure out that one themselves. Why is it relevant? Gives Francis Renard an alibi, I suppose.
Sometimes characters spring from real life, Sometimes real life is stranger than fiction. Sometimes real life is just real life. Check out my travel memoirs, And escape in time and space To Central Australia.
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