It took me a moment to realise Mel had left her money behind. I grabbed it and sprinted to the door but my sticky lock chose that moment to play up. When I finally managed to wrench it open, yelling, ‘Mel, you forgot something,’ there was no sign of her.
I headed back into the shop. Counted the money—Jesus, three thousand dollars. Her client was clearly not from anywhere around here.
I drummed my fingers on the counter.
OK, I’d sleep on it, phone her tomorrow. Although. Well, working with someone like Mel might mean I could find Joanne a little faster. That is, assuming Mel’s client was on the right side of the law.
I stashed most of the cash in my freezer, for safekeeping. At the last moment, I put a thousand in my purse—it seemed best to spread the risk.
*
Back in front of my computer, I did a search on house fires Rex Patterson. Bingo—an article in the Age:
Fatal house fire in Mildura
Police have released the name of the man who died in a house fire on Friday night in Mildura, in northern Victoria. He has been formally identified as Rex Walter Patterson, aged 86 years. Investigators are treating the fire as suspicious. They believe accelerant was used to start the blaze.
A red Toyota Yaris was observed in the area on the evening of the fire. Police have asked for the driver to come forward.
The car parked outside the Book Bonanza was a red Yaris. My arms felt cold.
Rex Patterson had a blog: rexbirding. blogspot. I scrolled through his posts. More than I would ever need to know about chestnut quail thrushes and mallee emu wrens. No mention of any Joannes.
I primed myself with a couple of Panadol before setting off to see Vern. Walked briskly along Best Street—our only street, Vern calls it, conveniently ignoring the presence of Second Avenue.
Fifty steps later I was outside his shop, rusty corrugated iron flapping above walls flaking yellow paint. Vern stocks the full range, from Neapolitan ice cream to tractor parts. His grey-muzzled kelpie cross, Boofa, trotted out, looked up at me with dark liquid eyes, sniffed my crotch, then ducked over to inspect the phone booth.
Vern likes to boast about the fact Rusty Bore still has a phone booth. Calls it his strategic advantage. And the petrol bowser; mobile library stop; post office licence. Vern doesn’t need to play Monopoly, he’s got Rusty Bore. Well, most of Rusty Bore. There are some important exceptions.
I marched up the three wooden steps into his shop.
Unusual sight: Vern wasn’t buzzing about the place, spraying around the Mr Sheen, tidying up his shelves, or jotting down anything in his notebook. He was slumped on his stool, staring out the window. His radio was at full bore—blaring out the news in the sedate tones of the ABC. Vern’s overhead fan fluttered the frayed Australian flag he keeps beside the till.
I gave him the latest. ‘And there was a red Yaris outside Patterson’s house, before it burned down.’
‘Lotta those cars around, Cass. They’re everywhere.’ A strangled tone. ‘Plus Jo doesn’t look anything like an arsonist.’
I wondered what he thought they looked like. People carrying cans of petrol on their heads?
‘What are you not telling me? Is Joanne involved in something? Drugs?’
Vern’s face was grey but he mustered an indignant tone. ‘Drugs? No way.’
He started doing that thing he does when he’s worried, taking a tiny fold in the front of his shirt between his thumb and forefinger, then gathering more folds next to it. Making a little shirt concertina, smoothing it down, then starting on a new one.
‘How can you be sure?’
‘Just am.’
Great. ‘Has she ever mentioned Rex Patterson?’
‘Hmm. Nah. Name does sound familiar though…’ Vern reached down and rootled around on a shelf below his till. Pulled out a spiral-bound notebook with a tattered blue cover. He opened it, licked his thumb and started flicking through the pages.
For anyone who doesn’t know Vern, he’s a person who’s highly attentive to every particular. He records it all in his notebook—the rego of any car that drives through Rusty Bore, the details of every conversation he’s been part of (or overheard), the mating habits of all blue tongue lizards on his front step. He’s famous for that notebook. At least, famous in the context of Rusty Bore.
‘Yep.’ He stabbed a page with his finger. ‘Two weeks ago I was at Jo’s place and her phone rang. She was in the loo. So I pick up the phone like anyone would and say hello. But the person on the other end talks right over me.’
I shifted my feet.
‘A woman. She shouts, “We have to talk about Patterson, Jo. Right now.” I didn’t like her tone. “You can stop the yelling,” I tell her, “Jo won’t be coming to the phone until you calm down.” Bloody woman went and hung up on me.’
‘You get her name?’
‘She didn’t say. Although…’ He scanned his notebook. ‘Yep. Had an accent. Kiwi, I reckon.’
A short silence while I fretted. Who was Joanne Smith, exactly? And a hitman, for God’s sake? Poor old Vern. It doesn’t always pay to adopt the rapid-fire approach to trusting people. I learned that the hard way.
‘Any idea where Jo could have gone?’
‘I wish.’ His shoulders sagged.
‘Look, you need to talk to the cops. Tell them everything you know. Joanne’s a missing person. And…’ I held back from saying a possible person of interest. No need to upset him any more than he already was.
‘Cops? No way.’
‘Yes way.’
‘Jo’s done nothin’ bad. You gotta believe me.’ Vern’s eyes went shiny; too shiny. ‘You’ll see, when we find her. And we have to find her, before the cops do, you can see that. A day of your time, Cass, that’s all I need, maybe two.’
No, no, no and NO.
I’ve always been a sucker for a man in tears.
I headed out Vern’s door, seriously displeased with myself. Caring about people is highly overrated, when you consider it. There was a thundering noise from above. A storm? I looked up. A helicopter, its blades whop-whop-whopping huge gusts of air. Vern’s hammock flew up and over itself. The plastic chair outside his shop tumbled down the steps. I ran and grabbed it, then scrambled to stand clear.
The chopper came in to land on the patch of yellow-puff grass by the old railway sidings. It was one of those small glassed-in jobs, the kind cashed-up tourists use to look at the red dirt from up high. I wondered why they’d decided to touch down in Rusty Bore.
The engine cut and a dapper-looking man stepped out, crouched low. White hair blowing all around his face, tanned skin, cream linen suit flapping against his legs; he looked like a middle-aged film star. I couldn’t recall anyone mentioning George Clooney was in the market for a silo.
He was carrying an esky in one hand. With the other hand, he smoothed down his hair, his suit, then strolled over towards me.
‘Jim Tovey,’ he held out his hand to shake mine. Unblemished tanned skin, neat fingernails. ‘Tovey Constructions.’ A gracious, bright-white smile. ‘So pleased to meet you. Join me in a champagne?’ He put down the esky, opened it and pulled out a glass and a bottle of Dom Pérignon. Filled the glass and handed it to me.
I took it, somewhat confused. A small crowd had gathered: Vern, Showbag, Edna Rawlins, Col McKenzie in the front row.
Tovey strolled around the group, shaking hands, pouring champers, oozing benevolence. I noticed Edna didn’t shake his hand—but then she’s always had a thing about contaminants.
Jim Tovey was followed by another man; taller, more casually dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. Tousled hair, blue eyes, a nice smile. Very nice smile. He wandered over my way.
‘Really sorry about the interruption.’ His voice was low.
I shrugged, took a sip from my glass. Quite lovely cold champagne. It slid down easily.
‘I wouldn’t say it’s a problem. You two are providing the afternoon’s entertainment,’ I said.
‘He’s like a kid at Christmas with his new chopper. Anyway, I’m Greg.’ He shook my hand. Warm, wide hands. He held mine a moment longer than necessary.
‘Cass.’
‘Tovey’ll probably tell you I’m his personal pilot, but I’ve actually got my own business, you know.’
‘That’s nice.’ Although somewhat unclear. ‘So what brings you both here?’
‘He decided it’d be good to get to know the locals. Before construction starts.’
Construction? Ah, yes, the pub. ‘Tovey looks less developer, more celebrity.’ I took another sip.
‘Ha. Would be if he could be. He certainly likes to spend time with them. He’s done a lot for the arts in Mildura, though. Jazz festival, Shakespeare in the Park, classical music, Opera by the River, you name it, he’s behind it.’
Tovey drifted by, refilled my glass, filled another and handed it to Greg, then moved on to grace the crowd.
‘Cheers.’ Greg and I chinked.
An hour and a little too much champers later Tovey and Greg choppered off and I wobbled my way home, less focused on Joanne Smith’s disappearance than I had been earlier. More focused, if I’m honest, on how pleasant it had been to chat with Greg.
He’d seemed to enjoy it too. Turned out Greg lives in Mildura—which, while it’s not quite the town next door, is only a couple of hours away—and he’d expressed no interest at all in shipping himself off overseas to, I don’t know, let’s say Bolivia, just to name a country totally at random.
And, err, it’s possible I gave him my phone number.