Was this a primary school running carnival, or the Olympic trials?
Lisa stood at the entrance to the sportsground, a little overwhelmed. She had fond memories of her own school athletics carnivals. Hazy, but fond. Tramping down to the local oval where a few chalked lines had been painted over the grass. Mums and dads with picnic rugs and deckchairs set up on the hill. The sports teacher interrupting every so often with a squealing loud hailer that never seemed to work properly. Spending 50c on a bag of mixed lollies at the little concrete kiosk.
It was nothing like this. This appeared to be some kind of sports stadium. Was this really the right place for the St John’s carnival? Lisa pulled out her phone and double-checked the notification from the school. Yes, this was it. Perhaps there was a little patch of grass behind it?
Lisa joined the stream of parents filing into the ground. At the turnstile, she stopped and took a breath. There was a grandstand! And it was a proper athletics track, with that bright red, all-weather surface—the kind you saw at the Olympics. In the centre of the ground, she spotted a team of adults, adorned in high-vis vests, apparently setting up a range of events for the children. High-jump, long-jump, discus, and … oh, surely not javelin? They wouldn’t let the little ones near a spear, would they? There’d be no telling what Ava would do with it!
Was this one of the twenty-first century skills that Principal Valentic had warned them about at the orientation session? While Ava had been off learning where the toilets were and how to say the school prayer, the principal had sat the parents down for ‘a chat’.
‘School of today is not the school you remember,’ she boomed. ‘Do not bother asking your child where they sit or who they sit with in class because they will not have their own desk or chair. We want agile brains and agile bodies. Constantly on the move.’ She’d actually banged the lectern, to reinforce the point. ‘Your generation had the three “Rs”—reading, writing and arithmetic.’ She gave them a sympathetic smile that read ‘you poor fools’. ‘Here at St John’s, we teach the four “Cs”.’ She counted each one off with a finger: critical thinking, creativity, communication and collaboration.
Lisa had come away perplexed. Was the school aiming to produce literate children, or the next Bill Gates? The three ‘Rs’ had seemingly been good enough for her. Since when had school become so professional? And why?
Did the children really need an Olympic-standard sports-ground for their carnival? Surely none of them would be threatening the ten-second mark for 100 metres? And it obviously wasn’t a space issue, for the parents were gathered into one small section, like a tiny bait-ball. Albeit, a very colourful one. Looking at them from afar was like peering into a packet of M&M’s—all primary-coloured in blues, reds, greens and golds.
Lisa stopped, and mentally face-palmed. Of course. They were dressed in the colours of their child’s sports team. She checked her own outfit. White T-shirt. Blue jeans. White joggers. At least she’d remembered to dress Ellie and Ava in red T-shirts.
After the bridal shop and a speedy churros with Jamie, Lisa had raced home to take them to school and introduce Ellie to her new teacher, Mrs Booth—friendly but a little flustered as she coordinated the children into lines for the short bus ride to the ground.
They’d be here by now, judging by the lines of children starting to stream into the ground. Lisa squinted, trying to pick up either Ava or Ellie in the crowd. But it was almost impossible under those oversized sunhats the children were made to wear. She would catch up with them later, after she’d found Heather. How exactly did she plan to help her find Missy Jones, Lisa had pondered, alone in the car on the drive to the carnival. But she knew better than to question. Heather Bingley-Peters wasn’t a woman to be pushed, but as her behaviour at the party had suggested, she was certainly a woman of action.
Lisa scoured the crowd. Someone was waving at her. Someone wearing the brightest, neon-yellow shirt that she’d ever seen. Was it Heather? Lisa scurried closer. Yes, it was. The shirt was knotted at the waist and she’d matched it with denim shorts and a chic straw visor such that the overall effect was of having just stepped off the beach in Biarritz, rather than having been thrown into a blender with Big Bird.
Lisa couldn’t help herself. ‘You look lovely!’
Heather angled her face to allow Lisa to get in under the visor to kiss her cheek. ‘Where’s your coloured T-shirt?’ she said accusingly.
‘I didn’t know it was a thing, for parents to dress up.’ Yet another one of those unwritten school rules for parents, like the one about not tooting anyone to hurry up in the car line. The kids were lucky. At least their rules were spelt out clearly.
‘I wish I had no idea,’ Heather grumbled. ‘In my next life, I hope to return as a slightly hopeless but very likeable person, a bit like you, but less … denim, perhaps. You have no idea how hard it is to make yellow’—she spat out the word in disgust—‘look good. I really should see about getting Savannah transferred to the blue team. So much easier,’ she sighed and adjusted the knot.
‘Heather,’ Lisa began hesitantly. ‘Thank you for offering to help me find Ellie’s mum. I’ve had a couple of ideas overnight and—’
Heather held up a hand. ‘It’s not just me. I have recruits.’ She tapped the two women next to her, deep in animated conversation, which stopped immediately. ‘You remember Louise and Jayne from the café.’
Lisa nodded with relief. Thank god it wasn’t that Kimberly woman, the lawyer. She was frightening. Hopefully their paths wouldn’t cross again.
‘Thank you for doing this,’ said Lisa gratefully. ‘I’m sure you appreciate the delicacy of the situation.’
‘Louise here is a beautician who specialises in genitalia-waxing so there is quite literally nothing she hasn’t seen.’
‘It’s amazing what people will tell you when you have hot wax in one hand and their penis in the other.’ Louise’s lips were the most brilliant shade of cherry red (to match her T-shirt) and she broadened them into a smile.
‘And she is the soul of discretion,’ said Heather knowingly. ‘Believe you me. I wouldn’t trust my lady-privates to anyone else.’ She turned her focus to the other woman, wearing a blue T-shirt. ‘And Jayne here works in IT. She’s told me at least twenty times what she does but I still have no idea.’
‘For the twenty-first time,’ Jayne smiled indulgently, ‘I develop test systems to automate medical software and I help software engineers to integrate test protocols and script development.’ She smiled and offered her hand for Lisa to shake. ‘In shorthand, I’m a computer nerd.’
‘Exactly!’ Heather said triumphantly. ‘She’s the IT guru of St John’s. Valentic adores her.’
‘She’s trying to get funding for a full-time ICT. But until then, I’m kind of it.’ Jayne shrugged her blue shoulders.
‘Which is good news for us because today—’ Heather paused as if waiting for a drum-roll ‘—she’s operating some new whizzbang computer thingy to collect all the times and results for the children.’ Again, she waited, as if expecting applause.
Lisa frowned. ‘I don’t quite follow.’
Heather glanced in irritation at Louise and Jayne as if to say See! See what I’m working with here? ‘So, she’ll have the laptop which has a record of names and addresses for every child in the school!’
‘And the teachers, because there’s a race for them too,’ added Jayne. ‘So, I can at least confirm if anyone from that Daceyville address has ever attended the school, either as an employee or student.’
Lisa’s jaw dropped. ‘That’s amazing … but are you sure it’s … legal?’
Heather gave her a look. ‘Do you want to find this woman or don’t you?’ The three women turned to her—yellow, red and blue—it was like being grilled by the Wiggles and Lisa had the most terrible urge to giggle inappropriately, which is something she sometimes did when nervous.
Instead, she cleared her throat. ‘I don’t want anyone to get into trouble.’
‘It’s fine,’ Jayne waved her hand dismissively. ‘I know how to cover my tracks.’ And with that, she was off. ‘I’ll let you know how I go,’ she called over her shoulder, jogging down the steps towards a marquee around which most of the high-vis vests had congregated.
‘Thank you, Heather,’ said Lisa fervently. ‘For arranging that.’
‘But wait! There’s more!’ She waggled a finger. ‘I’ve managed to obtain a physical description of this Missy Jones.’
This time, Lisa actually did clap her hands together. ‘How did you? I mean, we’ve obviously asked Ellie but all she says is that her mum is very pretty and reminds her of a sparrow.’
‘Well,’ Heather began. ‘Last night, I remembered that my brother-in-law has a relative who’s a …’ She leant in and whispered. ‘He’s a postman … A postman of all things, in that neck of the woods.’ She leant out. ‘He’s a relative by marriage. We don’t spend much time with that side of Henry’s family, but I figured this was an emergency,’ she said darkly. ‘He remembers Ellie and Missy because Ellie used to wait by the letterbox. She was desperate to get some mail, and never did. Not a scrap.’ Heather whipped out a piece of paper. ‘According to him, Missy is about 172 centimetres tall, slim build, Caucasian appearance, with long brown hair and either hazel or brown eyes, he can’t quite remember.’
Lisa looked about in despair. ‘But that could describe about 80 per cent of the women at this carnival.’
‘No! Wait!’ Heather’s eyes shone and she crinkled the paper between her fingers. ‘She has a nose piercing, a ring.’
Louise whistled. ‘Well, if she’s still got it in she’s going to be super-easy to spot in this lot.’ She gestured around at the other parents. ‘I’m tipping most of them have never even smoked a joint.’ She shared a conspiratorial grin with Heather. ‘So square.’
But marijuana is a gateway drug! Not to mention the schizophrenia link.
Instead, Lisa winked. ‘Like we haven’t all smoked a few weeds before.’
Louise and Heather looked at her strangely.
Oh god, did I say it wrong?
‘So, I guess the plan is that we spread out and see if we can find this pierced weirdo?’ She kept her tone light and jokey.
Heather nodded. ‘I’ll take the field; Louise, you take grandstand north.’ She pointed to the emptier end. ‘And Lisa, you take south.’ The busy end. Lisa’s face fell and Heather’s softened in response. ‘Look, it won’t be a definitive search, but it’s a start. I mean, if you dumped your kid on complete strangers, you’d probably stick around for a day or two to make sure everything was working out, wouldn’t you? If she’s got Ellie under surveillance, there’s a good chance we’ll find her here.’ She patted Lisa’s hand. ‘And if we don’t, I’ve got a plan B up my sleeve. Heather Bingley-Peters always has a plan B.’
Lisa didn’t doubt it. There was probably a plan C, D, E and all the way to Z.
‘What’s the back-up plan?’
Heather patted her shoulder. ‘Never mind that now. Let’s just complete the reconnaissance, and see what Jayne comes back with. Then we’ll reassess all options.’ Heather stood, and Lisa imagined for a moment that she was going to ask them to put their hands together and shout some kind of sporting psych-up chant.
Three-two-one break!
Instead, she threw air-kisses to both Lisa and Louise, and dissolved into the crowd, like a neon-yellow Berocca capsule.
Louise set off for her section of the stand and Lisa walked slowly up the stairs. Where to begin? There were faces everywhere and more brown hair than her eyes could compute. She headed towards the smell of coffee. No harm in getting one. The kiosk was in her designated area and it would give her a chance to scope out some of the parents while in the queue.
She took a place in the line. Just backs of heads. This was pointless. She needed to see noses. The piercing was their undeniable smoking gun.
Lisa groaned quietly and the woman in front turned.
‘I know what you mean.’ She gave a sympathetic smile. ‘Some days, I just want an intravenous caffeine drip. Children! So exhausting!’
‘I didn’t even drink coffee until I had children.’ Lisa leant in. Brown hair? Check. Slim build? Check. One hundred and seventy-two centimetres? Definitely possibly. Nose piercing? Seemingly not, though she did have a few faint freckles on her nose. Were they freckles? Maybe a piercing hole, disguised as a freckle?
The woman touched her nose. ‘Do I have something on my face? My nose?’ She looked at Lisa enquiringly. ‘It’s probably a bit of vegemite from this morning. I was in a bit of a hurry and ate the kids’ leftovers. You know how it is.’ She wiped furiously and Lisa took a step back.
‘No. No. You’re fine. I was just … um … admiring your freckles.’
‘My what?’
‘Your … um … freckles.’
She gave a brittle laugh. ‘Two treatments, they said. Two treatments and we’ll get rid of them for you. Zap. Just like that. Magic laser. Well, they should try it! Hurts like a mother—’ The line moved forward and the woman’s attention turned back to the kiosk.
Silently, Lisa edged away. Who was she kidding? She wasn’t cut out to play Miss Marple; the experience at the stationery store should have told her that. Lisa Wheeldon wasn’t covert, she was overt. Wore her heart on her sleeve, the sleeve that today should have been swathed in red to support the girls. The girls! Where were they? She didn’t want to miss their races. She’d promised to film them. There had to be another way of finding Missy Jones. Heather had mentioned a plan B. Lisa would find her, and ask what it was. Anything had to be better than skulking around and looking up people’s noses!
‘Lisa Wheeldon! Just the person I need.’ It was Principal Valentic, dressed in her usual uniform of high-vis vest and leopard-print blouse. Though, Lisa noted, she had made some concession to the day and ditched the fishnets in favour of tailored jeans and wedge sneakers.
‘How can I help?’ Lisa stammered. ‘I was actually on my way to do something …’
‘Not too busy to help the school out of a minor crisis, I suppose?’ The principal folded her arms.
Lisa bowed her head. ‘Of course not.’
‘Good. Our timer for lane six has failed to show up and I need someone to take her place. Immediately!’ Before Lisa could answer, the principal was shoving a vest and a stopwatch into her hands and guiding her down the stairs to the field. ‘Now, it’s very straightforward. You press start when you see smoke from the starter’s gun. Don’t wait for the sound, go with the smoke. Then you press stop when the child’s chest crosses the finish line. Not their head. The chest. At the end of the race, you will give your time to the official timekeeper for recording.’ She glanced over to the marquee and Lisa followed her gaze to the desk where Jayne was tapping away at a laptop. At that moment, she looked up from her computer and caught Lisa’s eye.
Nothing, she mouthed. Lisa’s heart sank. Strike one.
‘Right, now the next race is about to begin. Get ready, Mrs Wheeldon.’
Lisa squinted down the track to where a line of children was crouched, ready to jump. A puff of smoke wafted into the air. Lisa’s finger pressed start as the gun fired. The boy in her lane reminded her of a baby giraffe—gangly arms and legs flying in all directions. Year five, at a guess. At the end, he doubled over near Lisa.
‘How did I go?’ he panted.
‘You did brilliantly, sweetie. Fifteen point two-two seconds.’
The boy scrunched up his face. ‘Point two off a PB. Did I get a place?’
‘I don’t know, darling. I just record the time. I didn’t see who won.’ Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a teacher by the side of the track holding a stack of blue, red and green ribbons. ‘Look, here comes the teacher. She’ll know.’
‘First—lane two,’ announced the ribbon-lady. ‘Second—lane four. And third—lane seven.’
The little boy’s shoulders slumped. ‘I didn’t get anything.’
‘You did your best and that’s what counts.’
He shot her a look of disdain and Lisa stiffened.
You’re too young to be jaded and disappointed! That’s what the teen years are for.
But there was no time for comforting. The starter had raised his arm again. Bang went the gun and click went Lisa’s trigger finger.
Got it right on the gun, she thought with satisfaction and looked down at the stopwatch screen. No! Wait! What was happening? The numbers weren’t moving. She clicked, and clicked again. She hadn’t reset. Frantically, she pressed and pressed. The race was nearly over now, and it was a close one too. This time the child in her lane was no giraffe, she was a gazelle, running with a herd of other gazelles by the looks. Smooth and graceful, Lisa’s gazelle pushed out her chest to cross the line, and promptly fell to the ground with a last-gasp lunge at the finish.
‘Are you all right?’ Lisa touched her shoulder and the little girl wheezed and nodded.
‘Timers,’ barked the ribbon-lady. ‘No clear visual on that race. Too close to call. We’ll have to go off the stopwatches.’
Lisa’s stomach plummeted. Five point three-four seconds said her stopwatch. That obviously wasn’t right. She cringed as the teacher approached.
‘Lane six?’ She looked at Lisa expectantly.
‘Umm … I … ah … had a technical problem,’ she said quietly. ‘The stopwatch didn’t fire.’
The teacher glared, steely. ‘Did anyone get a visual on the result? I repeat, did anyone get a visual on the result?’
Lisa felt seven pairs of eyes drilling into her as the other timers looked up from their stopwatches. No one spoke.
‘All right,’ said the teacher. ‘I believe it was between lane four and lane six. Hands up, who believes it was lane six?’ Three hands went up, including Lisa’s who really had no idea who’d won but felt terrible at the idea of having failed the child. ‘Lane four it is.’ She held out the blue ribbon.
‘Wait! Wait!’ A blonde woman was running towards the finish line, holding up her phone. Oh blast. It was Kimberly from the café. ‘Wait! What are you doing? It wasn’t lane four, it was six. My Madison clearly crossed the line first. Look! The timer must have got it wrong. Where is she?’
With a sinking feeling, Lisa tried to saunter discreetly to the side of the track. Meanwhile, Kimberly stood over the teacher, phone thrust into her face. Eyes roving about the track, her gaze finally settled on Lisa and she shot her a look of disgust. ‘Some people just shouldn’t be placed in positions of responsibility,’ she huffed.
Was she talking only about the timing? Or about Ellie as well? Lisa felt a chill settle in her stomach.
‘All right.’ The teacher finally looked up and passed the phone back to Kimberly. ‘Having reviewed the video I’m going to reverse my decision. First place to lane six. Second to lane four. Moving along, everyone.’
The rest of the carnival passed in a daze. So focused was Lisa on not stuffing up the timing again, she barely registered the house cheers, or Ellie coming first in her race, or Ava coming third.
‘A green ribbon!’ she crowed, holding it up. ‘My favourite colour. It’s like I won.’
Lisa’s congratulations were perfunctory—a quick hug, then Ava sent on her way. She had the next race to worry about!
Finally, it was over. The children swarmed back onto the buses while the teacher collected stopwatches from the timers and thanked them for a near-seamless day. Lisa headed slowly back to the grandstand, head thumping and bladder nearly bursting. She hadn’t even had a wee break. After the fiasco with Kimberly’s daughter, she hadn’t dared.
Back in the grandstand, she found Heather, Jayne and Louise where she’d left them. They were chatting easily, laughing, and eating off what appeared to be a cheese platter. Lisa sat down heavily as Heather placed a piece of brie on a cracker and offered it to her.
‘What happened to you?’ she said crossly. ‘You were supposed to be on reconnaissance, not timing. We had Jayne looking after that side of things, remember?’
‘I didn’t get a choice,’ said Lisa wearily. ‘I need a wee.’ She chomped slowly. ‘How did everyone go? Any success?’
Jayne shook her head. ‘Nothing at all for that address in the system.’
Heather and Louise exchanged glances.
‘I thought I saw someone. Her hair was in a cap, but I think she had the nose ring,’ said Heather slowly. ‘By the time I’d called Louise to back me up, she’d gone.’
Lisa felt energy from the food starting to enter her veins. ‘Did you follow her?’
‘I tried. But it was like she disappeared into thin air. Poof.’ Heather snapped her fingers.
‘Could you narrow down what she looks like? Draw a picture? Maybe I’d know her if I saw something more specific.’
Heather rolled her eyes. ‘Hon, even Savannah-Rose thinks my stick figures are terrible. It’d be a total waste of time.’
‘So, that’s it then?’ said Lisa. ‘I can’t just give up.’
‘No one’s suggesting you give up.’ Heather patted her arm. ‘I told you I had a plan B.’ She stopped. ‘You need to hire a private investigator.’
‘A private investigator,’ Lisa shook her head. ‘No, no, Scott would never agree to that and even if I could get him to agree, I wouldn’t even know where to begin to get a private investigator.’
Heather smiled. ‘Lisa, Lisa, Lisa, you know I wouldn’t suggest a plan unless I knew how to carry it out. I’ve got the perfect person to help you.’
‘You know a PI? How?’
‘Henry travels a lot for work.’ She used air-quotes around the word. ‘I just like to be sure that it’s strictly for business, and not funny-business.’
Louise and Jayne nodded approvingly.
‘But how much will it cost?’
‘No more than a few hundred dollars. A thousand at most.’
‘I don’t know, Heather. I don’t think Scott would like me spending—’
‘Gosh, if I let Henry dictate all my purchases my shoe cupboard would be practically empty,’ she laughed. ‘A woman’s got to have some say over the finances. Besides, can you really put a dollar value on reuniting a little girl with her mother?’
Three cocked faces turned to Lisa.
Scott would understand. He never begrudged any of her purchases. Then again, this was different. It felt dangerous, and a little bit seedy. It was a bit like the time she’d dressed up as Julia Roberts from Pretty Woman for a friend’s thirtieth. Nothing really inappropriate about it, such a gorgeously romantic movie after all, but as a friend pointed out, she was a prostitute and Lisa had spent the rest of the night feeling a bit wrong and uncomfortable.
But Heather had a point. She couldn’t just give up because that would be giving up on Ellie.
‘All right, let’s call him.’ She swallowed hard. Maybe this man would be her Richard Gere.