Blake’s room looked like it was occupied by a teenage boy. Smelled like it too. Clothes were exploding like intestines from a bag on the luggage rack, there was a wet towel lying on the bed and sweaty walking gear strewn across the floor. The small desk was cluttered with paraphernalia—pens, notepads, a knock-off Gucci watch, a thick manila folder bursting with articles and a shiny black camera with a zoom lens loose beside it.
“Looks to me like he left in a hurry,” said Perry.
“Also looks like he was expecting to return,” said Alicia. “That camera gear doesn’t come cheap, and these—” She pointed to a dusty walking shoe poking out from under the bed. “They cost a bit. Why wouldn’t he take them with him?”
“Because, like I said, he was in a hurry. Who cares about Nikon and Nike when you’re locked away in prison? In any case, honey, I think you’re missing the gold in the room. As you journos say, I think you’ve buried the lead.”
Perry waved a hand at the folder on the desk, and she stepped across to open it.
It was like opening the aforementioned teenager’s history project. There were old newspaper articles stuffed inside, mostly about Lyle’s Lodge and the Great Fire of 1970, as well as black-and-white prints of the resort from different angles, and a variety of fading happy snaps, clearly dating from that era. Some were group shots of revellers all dressed to the nines, others were of smaller groups outdoors, dogs, horses and/or rifles by their side.
Alicia scooped up an envelope with the words Family Tree scribbled on the front. She half pulled the first page out and was surprised to find it was not for the Lyles as she was expecting but for a family called Murphy, with the names Eamon Joseph Murphy and Mary Louise O’Connor typed at the top.
A sudden tap-tap made her drop the envelope and lock eyes with Perry, who placed a finger to his lips to quieten her. He stepped across to the door and opened it a crack to find Claire and Missy staring in at him, expectantly. He waved them in, and together they continued to sift through the rest of the folder’s contents.
After ten minutes or so, Claire said, “Why would Blake have all this information?”
“Could be a journalist, doing a story?” said Alicia. It looked like one of her old research folders, before Google put an end to hard copies.
“Or a private eye, snooping on behalf of someone?” said Missy.
“Or,” said Perry, not liking either of those theories, “he could be related to a man called Donal Murphy and it’s a lot more personal than that. Listen to this. It’s dated January 28, 1970.”
He began reading aloud an article in his hands.
“Bushfire Tragedy—Man Still Missing.”
Perry gave them a knowing look and kept reading.
“LYLETON—Firefighters are still searching for the body of a young man who went missing during the bushfire that came close to razing Lyle’s Hunting Lodge over the Australia Day long weekend. Identified as Donal Eamon Murphy, aged twenty-one, the Commonwealth Games sport-shooting champion was last seen heading towards Joiner’s Ridge on the turnoff to Cooper’s Crossing. Lodge manager and Lyleton’s newly elected mayor, Jack Lyle, said Murphy had insisted on fighting the fire, despite his protestations, and the search party would continue until his body was recovered. ‘Mr Murphy is a true hero and his sacrifice will not be forgotten,’ said Mr Lyle…”
Perry didn’t bother to read on, just slapped a hand at the page and said, “And yet do you see anything about this poor fellow anywhere in the lodge? Not one mention in the library, no photos, no memorial, nothing. And here’s the spooky bit…” He paused again, this time for effect. “Blake, himself, was bitching about it all at dinner the first night, like he was offended they hadn’t made more of a fuss of the poor sod who died in the fire.”
“That’s right! He did,” said Missy. “And Mrs Flannery overheard and—”
“She dismissed it!” Perry interrupted. “Said it was hardly something to celebrate. Called it bad publicity! Well, if you are related to the guy who’s given his life to save your lodge, that’s gotta cut deep! Maybe he only meant to come here to fill in the family tree but her remark left him fuming, so he followed her down to the cellar and smashed her over the head—in a crime of passion. Maybe Vale said something similar?”
“Except Ronnie thinks Vale was poisoned,” said Alicia. “And that takes planning. Nothing spontaneous about that. He would have had to bring the syringe and the poison with him, or find it somewhere…?”
“Okay, but Vale worked at the lodge in 1970, remember? Sure, he was young, but he was here when it happened. So maybe Blake holds him responsible? Maybe there’s something in all his research that points the finger directly at a young bellboy.” He glanced down at the articles in their hands and shrugged. “Maybe Vale was a smoker and accidentally started the fire? I don’t know. But it could be the reason Blake came up here—to enact revenge on Vale—but then, after Mrs Flannery’s frankly insensitive comment, he bopped her over the head as well. I mean, you can’t deny her death seems very spontaneous.”
They all mulled over that for a moment, then Claire asked, “What age is Blake? He seems way too young to care so much about all of this. Was he even alive in 1970 when the fire happened? If so, he couldn’t have been more than a baby.”
“Exactly! Maybe this Donal fellow was Blake’s father. You’d care then!”
“Ohhh,” said Missy, loving Perry’s theory. “Maybe Morrow is Blake’s mother’s maiden name, or maybe he changed it! Morrow is not that different to Murphy.”
“Or he could be using a fake name entirely,” said Claire, her mind skipping in another direction.
Alicia was nodding quietly. This was starting to make a weird kind of sense. “Pity Blake has taken off and the only people who can tell us the truth are both dead.”
“There is Ronnie,” said Claire. “We could ask her about it. She was around at that time.”
“Oh she was here for five seconds and she barely remembers it,” scoffed Perry.
“I know someone who might remember,” said Alicia, glancing at her watch.
~
Standing in the kitchen, Lynette sorted out supplies for a potential evacuation and then began putting together a platter for lunch. But her mind was elsewhere. She didn’t know why she felt so defensive about Blake, but he hadn’t struck her as a killer. Sure, he was cocky and immature—she’d seen how he flirted with the older ladies, trying to make her jealous—but they’d really bonded after dinner and she had come to realise they had a lot in common.
And it wasn’t all skin deep.
“You and I, we don’t get our due respect, do we Lynette?” he’d said as he swirled his glass of red wine. “We’re too beautiful to be taken seriously.”
She’d snorted at that but noticed he was serious.
“I’m sick of being underestimated all the time,” he told her, “of being shoved to the side and treated like I can’t possibly have a brain because I look like this.”
He waved a hand at his chiselled jaw and she laughed then.
“Oh diddums!” she’d said, but she understood the sentiment.
Pretty people didn’t get a lot of sympathy, but it wasn’t all wolf whistles and roses. Lynette wasn’t a vain woman, not really. She was a pragmatist. She knew she had all the bells and whistles—the pretty face, the naturally blond hair, the ridiculously long legs—all the things that others deemed beautiful. But what they didn’t know, what she and Blake had bonded over, was the fact that sometimes beauty could get in the way—of promotion and true love and being taken seriously. People liked having you around but only as a decorative ornament.
It had taken Lynette years to move from the floor of Mario’s café into his bustling kitchen, mostly because Mario liked having her out front, working as a waitress, all sparkly and bright and inviting. She had only just convinced him to let her cook, but even then she was relegated to pantry chef duties—preparing cold dishes and salads, never anything fancy. Even the head chef seemed blinded by her bling.
Perhaps that’s why Ronnie hid her wealth and jewels, Lynette thought now. She just wanted to be treated equally. Well, Lynette’s looks were like jewels, and she wished she could discard them.
It didn’t help that she was living under her older sibling’s shadow. Because for all their love, for all their laughter, Lynette always felt like the lesser of the two Finlay sisters. Lyn might be prettier than Alicia, but it was a fringe benefit that did not pay dividends. Sure, guys ogled Lynette, but it was Alicia they wanted to marry. And she didn’t begrudge her sister that, honestly she didn’t. It was herself she begrudged, the person she had become.
She had taken the lazy route, traded on her looks, and now it was time for a reckoning.
Blake had said something similar last night: “They all think people like us have got it easy, but actually it’s so much harder. They don’t have to prove themselves, but we do, don’t we, babe? Over and over. Well, you know what, I’m tired of being stuck behind the eight ball. It’s my time to shoot some holes. And I’m about to shoot a big one!”
Lynette hadn’t been sure what Blake was referring to, and when she asked where he worked, he turned evasive.
“That’s not the point,” he told her. “I’m trying to make a grander statement. You need more than looks to make it in this world. You need a bit of dynamite and a bag full of detonators.”
She thought about that statement now and decided to keep it to herself. Alicia and Perry would take it literally—proof the man was dangerous. But she knew it was just a metaphor, albeit a mixed one, because she understood it completely. Like Blake, she had ambitions that had nothing to do with beauty. It was time to step out of her sister’s shadow and prove she was equally as smart.
And so she stepped out of the kitchen and made a beeline for the lobby.
~
It was just on lunchtime as they walked Repentance Way, and Alicia glanced at her watch, feeling grumpy.
“If we’d waited a bit longer, I could have called Jackson. He won’t be in town yet.”
“You can always come back,” said Perry. “I think this is more important, frankly. Lynette’s right about one thing—there’s nothing Jackson can do for us right now. Right now we have to do for ourselves, and Blake could still be out there, plotting to take us down.”
“But we didn’t do anything to him!” said Missy, sounding petulant.
“We are living, breathing witnesses, don’t forget. Besides, he’s obviously unhinged. You don’t smack a woman over the head with a bottle of Grange for no reason!”
“Exactly,” said Alicia. “If he’d opted for cheaper plonk, then we’d know he was sane.”
Perry flashed her a smirk. “Very funny, Ms Finlay. Let’s get to this old guy and find out if he has some answers. I want to know what happened back then, who exactly we’re dealing with. And it won’t hurt to check my mobile messages while we’re at it.” Then his smirk turned to a frown. “Why didn’t you tell me about this bloke, girls? Why keep him a secret?”
“Sorry,” Alicia said.
The truth was, like Perry, she didn’t believe Simon’s theory that the killer had taken off. And not because she had any real suspicions about the others—she didn’t. But her mind wasn’t about to hand her a free pass. And she wasn’t about to hand over the whereabouts of another potential victim either. If she had inadvertently brought a madman to the mountain, Alicia didn’t want Snowy to get caught in the cross fire. The less everyone knew about him the better.
It was that final thought that had Alicia holding her hand up when they closed in on his cabin. “I think I should talk to him alone. Give him his space.”
“Fine by me,” said Perry, staring across at the man on the escarpment and then down at his smartphone. “I’ve got two bars. I’m going to—”
He didn’t finish that sentence as it began singing out to him, notifying him of his messages, and he started tapping away frantically just as Missy’s phone began vibrating. She squealed with delight, pulling it out and cooing at all her missed calls—like a drug addict who’d finally found a hit.
“Oh my poor mother,” Perry said. “She is beside herself. I’ll have to give her a quick buzz.”
“Mine too!” said Missy. “And my sister Henny, and my boss! They must have heard about the fire.”
Trudging on to the cabin, Alicia wondered whether the others had really come to interrogate Snowy or if their primary motivation had more to do with the mobile coverage.
Claire watched Alicia go then sighed at her phone, not surprised by its silence. Wasn’t this the very reason she was changing her life so dramatically? And lying to the book club while she was at it? She tapped speed dial and waited for her assistant to pick up. Might as well see how her little vintage clothing store was faring.
~
Lynette scoured the guest book and frowned. Perhaps she wasn’t as smart as she thought she was. If there had been another guest lurking, she assumed they would have signed in. Hadn’t Vale suggested it was compulsory? Yet after locating the book beneath the reception desk, she had quickly scanned the names above theirs and came up wanting. Judging from the dates and addresses, there had been no guests at all last week, and the week before that accommodated a Japanese tour group from Kyoto.
Hmmm… She tapped the book glumly.
Lynette then turned her attention to the computer. Maybe there was a clue to be found amongst the files or emails or something? But the moment she began investigating, she realised it would not be much use either. The internal hard drive was password protected, and after a few lame guesses, she gave up.
Tapping her nails on the table now, she squinted at the screen. From what she could tell, the only thing accessible was Google Chrome, but without internet connection, it was completely useless.
Or was it?
Lynette grabbed the mouse and moved it to the top of the screen and clicked on Show Full History, then smiled to herself as a page of past Google searches sprang up before her eyes. She glanced around the lobby quickly, then scanned the search history. None of the websites could be opened, but they still gave her a pretty good idea what Vale had been looking at before he died.
Except how could she be sure these were even Vale’s searches? Judging from the time code, they had all been accessed the first night the book club had arrived. Any one of them could have hopped on the computer when Vale was elsewhere.
Had someone from book club searched with Google? Did he even know about it?
Checking she was still alone, Lynette scrolled down the list, mentally noting what she saw. Somebody was obviously missing the outside world as several news sights had been opened, including the Daily Telegraph, News.com.au, and the Lyleton Tribune. There were other random searches for sites like Ancestory.com, Shady Nook Palliative & Aged Care Home, and something called Living Large Enterprises.
Hang on a minute.
Lynette stared at the listing for Shady Nook again, then across to the time it was searched—very early that morning, at 1:07 a.m.
As far as Lynette knew, there were only two people still awake and lurking about at that particular hour. She clicked the page shut and tapped the table again.
~
Snowy was perched on a bespoke wooden bench seat, staring out at the view, mesmerised, like he was watching an episode of Survivor. When Alicia walked up, he glanced at her quickly and back, like he didn’t want to miss a minute, then patted the space beside him, inviting her to join him.
She did so, then turned her own eyes outwards, to watch the show.
And it really was entertaining. Birds swooped in all directions—rainbow lorikeets, king parrots, bowerbirds—while towering teak and cedar branches wrestled furiously with each other in some spots and sat deadly still in others, like they were in completely different settings. Ancient tree ferns dipped down into the rocky gorges as though searching for a drink, and even more ancient waterfalls stood dry, the first time anyone could remember. And all around that ominous smoke still billowed, with just a flicker of red if you dared to look closely. And if that didn’t freak you out, the steady sprinkling of ash just might.
Yet for some reason Alicia felt safe sitting there beside old Snowy.
“This is the best view on the mountain,” she said softly. “I wonder why the Lyles didn’t build their lodge here.”
“Why let bloody tourists hog the prime real estate?”
She smiled. Good answer. Alicia cleared her throat. “Do you mind if I ask you something else, Snowy? Something about the other fire, the one in 1970?”
He looked across at her sharply then. “What of it?”
“Were you around when it happened?”
“Course I was.”
“And it came very close to here, yes?”
He nodded mutely.
“I heard that a man was killed in the fire. A guy called—”
“Donal Murphy,” he said, cutting in. “Young lad, green as the valley. Giant bloody fool, that one. Not even a local. Didn’t stop him from charging towards the fire, with barely a second glance. What kind of idiot does that?”
Snowy wasn’t looking at Alicia now, wasn’t expecting an answer, and it was clear to her that he’d asked that question many times over the past fifty years and always came up wanting. Perhaps they all did. Perhaps they all carried some guilt for the ring-in who had died trying to save the rest of them. Perhaps they didn’t advertise the man’s heroics because it left the rest of them feeling too humbled.
Yet Snowy’s tone had a tinge of anger in it too, and she wasn’t sure if he was angry at Donal for his naivety or the fire for its ferocity or for the way life had turned out.
“Did Donal have any family, do you know? A wife and baby he left behind?”
Snowy snorted at that. “Nah, love. Too much of a lad about town for that.”
“Bit of a charmer was he? Troublemaker, too?”
He shrugged. “He was an arrogant little blighter. Came up here, tried his luck and got burnt in the process.”
Now Alicia wasn’t sure if he was talking about the fire or something else entirely, but the description could easily be applied to Blake Morrow, and it made her shiver.
A whooshing sound caught Alicia by surprise, and she peeled her eyes downwards and could just make out something yellow and bulky hovering amidst the smoke.
“Water bomber,” Snowy said. “It’s back for another crack.” Then he stood up, his bones creaking. “I’ve just been down to Cooper’s Crossing. Fire’s progressing but slowly. Found the maps for the fire trails yet?”
She shook her head.
“That’s a pity.” He turned, then turned back. “There’s an old paper road on the western ridge, behind the kitchen. Most people don’t know about it. It’s longer and steeper, and you’ll need a machete to cut your way clear. But it just might work. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m buggered.”
He turned towards the hut, and Alicia was left with more questions than answers. Yet he did look exhausted, weary to his core, so she just called after him:
“How do we find this paper road you speak of?”
Snowy stopped at the hut door. “Look for the Lyle family story, love; there’s a map in there. Fancy white book. Probably find it under fiction.” Then he had a little chuckle at that.
“What about you? Will you come with us?”
Snowy’s smile faded. “Nah, love. History is rushing towards me, and it’s time for some atonement.”