I got the message bank at P.S. Antonia. Next I tried Geoff Oppenlander, anti-casino crusader and partner of Vivian Bentley. I’d also heard he was running for the Senate. Unlikely he’d get in, surely, since the essential criteria for senators these days are (a) you’ve done jail time and (b) you’ve been on Dancing with the Stars.
I struggled for a moment with what to say to Oppenlander—the man had lost his partner, a murder for which Vern had been arrested—so I decided on a tiny lie. Generally easiest. He agreed to meet me at Hudaks at five.
I hung up. Spread out the photos on the kitchen table and spent a moment pondering the paddle steamer problem, and then realised the obvious. Talk to Ernie, walking map-slash-historian of the Mallee. Good chance he’d know the full details of the boat’s route and timetable.
Brad walked into the kitchen, his shoulders slumped.
I looked up. Still dark circles underneath his eyes. The middle of the afternoon and he’d only just got up?
‘How’s things, son? How’s Madison?’
He shrugged. Filled the kettle and switched it on. ‘What are all these?’ He pointed at the photos on the table.
‘The rest of Joanne’s snaps.’
‘Look, before you ask, I’ve phoned six op shops about that Iceland cap and got nothing. They were all very vague, and extremely old. Older than you, even.’
Thanks.
‘Here,’ I rummaged through the photos, took out one with the bloke in the white cap. Somewhat distant and very blurry, but better than nothing.
I handed the photo to Brad. ‘Might be better if you actually go in and show these old timers the pic. Might trigger someone’s memory.’ I grabbed the rest of the photos and left before he had time to argue.
When I arrived at the home, Ernie was ready and obviously waiting for something. Up and about, hair neatly brushed, dressed in a carefully ironed khaki shirt and matching trousers. Maybe he was about to conduct a commando raid on a ninetieth birthday party.
‘Managed to free up the diary,’ Ernie brushed down his khakis. ‘And a trip will do you good, Cass. Might even find yourself a fella. Never flaming well give up, I say.’
‘Err, we’re not going anywhere, are we? I just popped in for a chat. Good to catch up with you. Plus I need to ask you about something.’
‘Always after bloody something.’ Ernie gave me a yellow-moustached glare.
‘You ever been on a paddle steamer? On the Murray?’
He eyed me with suspicion.
‘What’s that look for? Just making conversation.’
‘I’d advise you against it, Cassandra Ariadne.’
‘Against what?’
‘Taking up with any fellas on paddle steamers. I’m dead against em.’
Oh, for God’s sake. I showed him the photo with the paddle steamer. ‘Joanne Smith took this, I think. Any idea of the route or timetable of the P.S. Antonia?’
Ernie peered at the photo. ‘Why do you want to know?’
‘Trying to work out where the photo was taken.’
‘On the Murray, obviously.’
‘I know that much. But where on the Murray?’
‘Well, if you’d said that in the first place.’ He shuffled over to the window and held it up in the light. ‘Yep. I can tell you exactly where this was taken.’
Excellent. ‘Where?’
‘Gunpowder Bend. See, there’s the bend in the river. And the old dead tree stump. And this here, this is the tree where we had the swing. An old truck tyre.’ He pointed a wavery finger at the photo. ‘Ingrid came with us once. Wore those yellow bathers of hers. Left a lot to the imagination, those bathers. Not like these days. Incredible what’s on the flaming iPad, Cass.’ Ernie’s gaze drifted off out the window.
I glanced at my watch. Shit. Already after three. I’d told Oppenlander I’d meet him in Hudaks at five. Time to get Ernie’s imagination focused on the task at hand. ‘Gunpowder Bend? Where is that, exactly?’
‘That’s not its official name, of course.’ He scratched his ear.
‘Which is…?’
‘Eh?’
‘This bend. What’s it called? Where is it?’
‘Too hard to explain. I’ll just take you there.’
‘No, no, here, draw me a map.’ I grabbed a piece of paper towel from beside his bed. Pulled out a pen from my handbag.
‘You don’t want me to come with you, do you?’
‘It’s just…well, it’s over forty degrees out there. You’re a bit old for the heat, my friend.’ Perhaps I could have phrased it better. But really, there was no nice way to put it.
‘Unbelievable. What a thing to say to a fella at my time of life.’ He sniffed.
I put a hand on his arm, trying to think of something comforting to say. You’re not old? Hardly truthful. The man was almost ninety. Using a walking frame, and only one heart attack away from certain death. Although we’re all closer to it than we’d rather be.
‘Yep, don’t you go worrying yourself about me.’ He got his pyjamas out from underneath his pillow, laid them out neatly on his bedspread. ‘I’ll just get back into bed, like a proper old bloke. Might as well stay in there till I die. No point in getting up when no one can be bothered to spend time with you, anyway.’ Some rapid blinking.
I settled Ernie into the passenger seat and tucked his walking frame in behind it. Two hours of his snoring later, we were parked in Mildura, ready to hit Hudaks. Red and purple banners hung from poles everywhere: Mildura International Opera Extravaganza.
Geoff Oppenlander was dressed in a pale blue shirt and navy trousers. Sticky-up blond hair, broad forehead. He looked different from his newspaper photo. In the paper, he’d been edging towards pudgy. He was thinner in the flesh, his face had a sculpted look, as if he’d lost weight.
‘Thanks for meeting us,’ I said. ‘This is Ernie. My, err, uncle.’
Ernie shook Oppenlander’s hand.
I would have liked to be straight with Oppenlander, since he looked like a pretty straight-up bloke himself. But no matter how many ways I played it in my head, ‘I don’t think Vern killed your wife,’ didn’t sound like the right conversational opener. I decided to stick with the lie I’d spun him on the phone.
‘I’m hoping you might be able to help with something that’s worrying me. I’ve heard Nic Peluso’s got a new plan to build a casino.’
‘Can’t see him getting anywhere with that. Most of Mildura is against the idea of a casino.’ Oppenlander took a micro-sip of his coffee.
I leaned forward across the table. ‘Peluso was recently seen getting very cosy with Dailan Lambert, from the council.’
‘Who told you this?’ Shuttered-in eyes; hard to tell what Oppenlander was thinking.
‘Ah, a friend.’
‘What’s your friend’s interest, exactly?’
A moment of inspiration. ‘It’s Uncle Ernie. He’s had some very bad experiences with gambling.’ I gave Ernie a significant look.
Ernie nodded vigorously.
‘Auntie Glad. No longer with us, unfortunately. Poor old girl, she just couldn’t stay away from those pokie machines. After she…died, Uncle Ernie swore he’d fight…’
‘Breed crime, flaming casinos,’ Ernie’s voice was high and wavery. ‘No way I’m gunna let them build one in the Mallee. Over my dead body.’ He whacked the table with his old-bone fist.
Ernie can be an excellent actor, when you hit a moment where he’s motivated. And in possession of the requisite marbles.
I patted Ernie’s hand. ‘Now, don’t go upsetting yourself, Uncle.’
Oppenlander’s eyebrows furrowed. ‘Still, a meeting doesn’t prove corruption.’
‘My source told me they were lying there by the pool at Hotel Miramar. In recliners. Quite intimate, smoking cigars, like they were celebrating something.’
‘And your source has mentioned this to the police…?’
‘Err, yes. To no avail, unfortunately.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘My, ah, Uncle Ernie’s source is in a spot of police trouble himself. I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding. He’s a very reliable member of our…team.’
‘Team? Sounds like you have some kind of casino resistance group.’ Oppenlander smiled.
‘Yes. You have to wonder how much more money the state government wants to suck out of problem gamblers, don’t you?’ I’d heard that somewhere; seemed like it might suit Oppenlander.
‘Xenophon said that.’ He leaned back, looking a little more relaxed.
‘Right. So perhaps you could use your influence?’ I said.
‘Well, I certainly don’t want a casino in Mildura. OK, I’ll look into it.’
‘Excellent. Thank you.’ I stood up. ‘By the way, apparently Peluso’s looking for Joanne Smith. Any idea why?’
‘No.’ The shuttered-in expression had returned to his face.
I pulled out the photos from my handbag. My backup handbag, from the Hustle Op Shop, since that bastard in Ouyen nicked my favourite one.
‘I’m wondering if it has anything to do with these.’ I held out the photos.
Oppenlander flicked through them. Stopped at one. He looked closely at it.
‘Where did you get this?’ His voice sounded hollow.
I took the photo from him. It was the one with the woman’s hand, presumably Joanne’s, across the top of the photo. The glimpse of a braided silver ring.
‘From Mallee Environmental,’ I lied. ‘I believe Joanne took them?’
‘Joanne?’ He stared at me. ‘This is Vivian’s hand.’
‘Err.’ I bent down; peered at the photo. ‘You sure of that?’
‘Look, I don’t know what you’re doing with these, but that’s my wife’s hand, all right? And her ring. The question is, who are you and what the hell are you up to?’