Annika Moody was no longer holding court on her spacious veranda when Gilda and Roxy returned to the house but Houghton was there. He informed them that farmer John Holloway and his wife, Deidre, had departed hours earlier.
“Probably milking cows or something,” he said, dismissively, as he flicked through various pages on a silver laptop he’d set up on the cluttered table. Roxy caught sight of a webpage for the Sydney Entertainment Centre before he whooshed it away.
“You’re aiming high,” she said, nodding her head towards the screen and he chuckled, almost nervously.
Gilda ignored this and said, “I doubt anyone would be milking cows this late in the day. I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure milking is a morning enterprise.” She glanced across the lawn. “Which is the quickest way to his place?”
“How would I know?”
“Who’re you looking for?” Alistair Avery had just stepped out onto the veranda and was looking a lot more relaxed than he had two days earlier. His white cotton shirt was opened to reveal a small beer belly, and he was nursing what looked like a glass of iced tea, although it could have been a large whisky for all Roxy knew.
She introduced him to Gilda, adding, “Gilda’s a detective from Sydney, she’s looking into Sunny Forrest’s death.”
Both men appeared to recoil at those words, and Houghton said, “You never told me you were a copper.”
Gilda smiled. “Yep, guilty as charged.”
“But why Sunny?” asked Al. “Isn’t Jed the priority here?”
“Absolutely he is. Another more senior detective, Inspector Brent Wiles, has been assigned that case. I’m just here to look over Sunny Forrest’s death and make sure that was all in order.”
“She drowned in the creek, didn’t she?”
“That’s what I’m here to find out. You’re Alistair Avery?” He nodded warily. “Were you around at that time?”
“Me?” Al looked stunned. He began doing up his shirt buttons. “Yeah, but it had nothing to do with me. I mean I barely knew the chick.”
“But you did know her?”
“Yeah, blonde bimbo, had a hard-on for Jed.”
“That ‘blonde bimbo’ was somebody’s sister,” Roxy snapped, and he glanced at her then back to Gilda.
“Oh, I see what this is about. Sam’s tantrums have finally worked. Forced you to reopen the case, has he?”
Gilda stepped towards him. “Is there any reason why we shouldn’t, Mr. Avery?”
He shook his head quickly and reached for a cigarette packet that was sitting on a wicker table. “I don’t give a shit about that,” he said, plucking out a cigarette. “Like I said, I barely knew her, nothing to do with me.”
“Good, then you won’t mind telling me how to get to farmer John’s place. The neighbour.”
“I can tell you how to get there.”
They all swung around to find Annika standing at the French doors. She looked like she’d just crawled out of bed, her bun now tufted up to one side, her kaftan heavily wrinkled.
She stepped out and towards Alistair who was just handing her his lit cigarette. She took it without so much as a thank you and dragged on it for a few seconds, before throwing herself on the lounge beside Houghton.
“Give us a foot rub, darling. Feet are killing me.”
He promptly obliged, pushing his laptop aside and focusing on her right foot. Roxy noticed a tattoo on her ankle with two letters that looked like JM in cursive script.
“So, you’re a detective?” she said, and before Roxy could do the introductions, added, “My husband has just died, and all the police are worried about is a case that’s what, two years old? Three?” She dragged on the cigarette again.
“It was less than eighteen months ago, actually, and the police are very interested in your husband’s death, Mrs. Moody. But unfortunately, that’s not my case. I’m Detective Gilda Maltin. Chief Detective Brent Wiles is running your husband’s investigation and will no doubt be calling in on you this afternoon when he arrives. I’m just trying to get directions to the Holloways’ property.”
Annika exhaled a long plume of smoke and looked for a moment like she wasn’t going to oblige. Finally she said, “Go back to the main road, turn right, next driveway on your right. It’s about a kilometre along from us. Or you could take the shortcut across our property, everyone else does. You go past Jed’s studio, through the trees and across to the creek. Just follow the sound of bubbling water. I hear it’s quite blissful out there. Quite romantic.”
There was an edge in her tone, something accusatory, too, and Roxy noticed Houghton and Alistair share a glance.
“Thanks, but I think we’ll take the main road,” Gilda said.
Annika’s eyes narrowed. “You obviously think Sunny’s death is linked to my husband’s?”
“I think nothing, Mrs. Moody, until I get all the facts. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
Gilda nodded at Roxy and they were about to make their exit when Annika pointed her cigarette in Roxy’s direction. “I’m sorry if I’m a little dim these days, darling—you can blame Jed for that—but what’s all this got to do with our ghostwriter?”
Roxy felt a blush rise in her cheeks and stumbled for an answer. “Well, I...”
“Roxy is assisting with my enquiries,” Gilda interjected. “That’s all I can say at this point in time. I trust you understand?”
She directed this at both Annika and at Houghton who had stopped massaging Annika’s foot and was now staring suspiciously at Roxy.
Annika waved her cigarette in the air dismissively, as though she really didn’t care one way or the other, so they took this as their cue and left.
“She’s a piece of work,” Gilda said as she steered the vehicle back down the Moodys’ driveway and towards the Holloways’. “Did you see the way the guys fawned over her? I’d be disgusted if I wasn’t so bloody envious. How does she do it?”
Roxy laughed. “I think having a famous husband, and now a fabulous inheritance, might have something to do with it. I should have been fawning, too, now I think about it. I need her approval to write this book. You probably shouldn’t have been quite so dismissive.”
“Oh, she’ll approve it,” Gilda said, slapping Roxy on one leg. “How else is she going to stay relevant now Rock Star Hubby is kaput? She probably needs that book more than any of you.”
Roxy hoped she was right. Now that Gilda was hanging around to look into Sunny’s death, she felt like staying, too. And the book was as good an excuse as any.
“Did you catch that strange comment, about the shortcut being ‘romantic’?” Gilda said and Roxy’s eyes widened.
“Yes, I did. Wonder what that was about.”
Gilda clicked her tongue. “I wonder, indeed!”
The Holloway driveway could not be in greater contrast to the Moodys’, and the cattle grid was about the only thing they had in common. Their front fence was rundown, the wooden fence posts looking dilapidated and so termite-riddled, it was a wonder they held the old rusty wiring in place. There was a rickety gate open, just before the cattle grille, but it looked as though it hadn’t been shut in decades and was leaning so far to the right, it was likely to never shut again. The driveway itself went for just a few hundred meters before it reached the main house, but it was all loose gravel and heavily grooved in places where the rain had wreaked havoc, causing Gilda to drive so slowly in parts, they would have made faster progress on foot.
Unlike the Moodys’ property, this one was considerably more barren, with far fewer trees, and dozens of cattle as far as the eye could see. Roxy also spotted several old sheds that looked like they too would topple over if you sneezed on them. There was nothing of the Yuppie-style “hobby farm” about the place. It was definitely a working property, although not a prosperous one judging by the dilapidation.
The main house, too, was aching for some TLC. Built far too close to the main road and painted white too many moons ago, the house looked unwashed and unloved, and the tinned roof was so rusty Roxy wondered how many leaks they suffered during the wet season.
There was not a tree anywhere near the house, but a pretty garden had been created just below the front steps of the veranda, and bright pink and lilac hydrangeas helped pep things up a little, as did the lacey curtains that were now billowing from the open windows.
“Wouldn’t want any privacy,” Gilda said as she manoeuvred the car to a stop at the side of the house between a rusty red tractor and a large cement tank.
“Wouldn’t want any shade either,” Roxy added, staring across to the Moody property, which looked like a lush oasis by comparison.
Deidre Holloway was already standing on her veranda when they approached, wiping her hands on her faded apron, her eyes squinting out through round silver spectacles as though trying to work out if she knew them.
Gilda stepped forward, one hand waving. “Hello, Mrs. Holloway?” The woman nodded, her eyes widening a little. “I’m Detective Gilda Maltin, and this is my associate Roxy Parker.”
The older woman’s eyes settled on Roxy. “Yes, I remember you. You’re a friend of the Moodys.” Close enough, Roxy thought, nodding her head. “Good oh, in ye come then.”
Deidre turned and disappeared into the old house while the two friends swapped looks of surprise before following her. They found her in the first room, a dusty living area cluttered with so much furniture, they could barely squeeze in.
“Take a seat, girls. I’ll fetch us some tea.”
Before they had a chance to reply, she was off again, out the door and disappearing up the creaky hallway. They did as instructed and sat down in two patchy arm chairs that had been placed directly in front of a small television set in the centre of the room. There were dozens of framed family photos, wedged on side tables, along the mantelpiece and even on the coffee table. Some showed naked babies basking on a lawn, others were clearly official school photos and revealed children of all ages and dental stages, smiling, smirking and looking beyond embarrassed. A particular shot caught Roxy’s eyes—the face of a beautiful young woman with long, golden locks and freckly tanned skin. Her eyes were glowing green and she had a stunning smile. She seemed to epitomise healthy country living, and she reminded Roxy of Sunny, although a little more country, a little less rock ‘n’ roll. Behind her and just out of focus, was a young man wearing a large cowboy hat and wraparound sunglasses. He wasn’t smiling.
“She never even asked us what we wanted,” Gilda whispered.
“Probably just happy to get visitors out here in the sticks,” Roxy whispered back.
“Ah, here we are then,” said Deidre reentering the room. She had a tin tray with a china teapot, three matching cups, a jug of milk and a sugar pot and she placed it on the coffee table, toppling a photo frame over as she did so. “I’ll just fetch the tea cake.”
“Really, you mustn’t go to any bother,” Gilda said, picking the frame up, but Deidre looked appalled.
“Can’t have our tea without cake, love.” Then she disappeared again.
A few minutes later, the tea was poured and the apple teacake dished out. Gilda said, “We really appreciate your time, Mrs. Holloway.”
“Deirdre, please. Call me Deirdre.”
“Of course, Deidre.” Gilda smiled warmly. “You’ve got a lovely house here.”
The older woman looked around at her cluttered furnishings and numerous photographs, then said, “Well, we’re not millionaire pop stars, but we do our best.”
Roxy sensed a little bitterness in her tone but her expression remained light and friendly.
Gilda said, “I’ll try not to take up much of your time. We were actually hoping to speak with your husband. John, is it?” Deidre nodded. “I actually wanted to talk to him about Sunny Forrest’s death, in January last year.”
Deidre’s cup rattled. “Oh, dear. I thought you were here about Mr. Moody.”
“A separate detective will be speaking to you about that.”
“You were at the Moody’s place that night?” Roxy said, knowing she should be butting out but unable to help herself. Deidre looked at her and her eyes narrowed.
“Yes, dear, as were you, I believe.”
Roxy nodded. “Were you there when Jed—”
“Goodness me, no!” Deidre said, cutting her off, a spindly hand reaching up to her neck. “Thank goodness we had left by then. Oh dear, that would have been most upsetting, most upsetting indeed.” She glanced at Gilda. “Not our style of music, of course. But well, they keep inviting us and one can’t be rude. They are the neighbours, after all. Even if they are a little noisy.”
“You can hear the studio from here?”
“Not so much the studio, my dear. More the parties they keep having, and the crowds that keep coming.” She placed her cup down and folded her hands in her lap. “But that’s neither here nor there. What is it you want to know about that poor girl? Sunny, was it?”
Gilda nodded. “Your husband found her body.”
“Yes, it was quite a shock. He came running in, white as a ghost, told me to call the ambulance, goodness knows why, the poor thing was long gone. Still, you’ve got to give it a go, haven’t you? You’ve got to have hope.”
“Yes, of course. Is your husband around? Can we talk to him?”
She looked scandalised again. “He’s working the land, my dear. Best not to disturb him.”
“When does he get back in?”
Deidre squinted across at the clock on the mantelpiece. “Usually comes in for his tea around five-ish, but, well, we spent some of the morning over at the Moody place, making sure Annika was all right. So he may want to make up for lost time. May not get back until six, I’d say, in time for his tea.”
Gilda glanced at her watch. It was 4:45 p.m. She stood up and handed across her business card. “If you could ask your husband to call me, on that mobile number, that would be very helpful.”
“Yes, dear.”
Gilda smiled. “Before we go, do you mind if we walk the track between your place and where Sunny’s body was found? I’m keen to understand the terrain. I know Annika is fine with it.”
Deidre hesitated. “Well ... it might be better if you wait until John comes back, I think.”
“Ah but you said he’d be ages.” Gilda tapped her watch. “We’re on a bit of a tight schedule. You don’t mind, do you?”
The older woman looked like she did mind, very much, but couldn’t quite bring herself to say it. She was “old school”, had been brought up to be polite, so simply smiled stiffly and led them out of the living room, down the narrow hallway to the small kitchen at the back. She creaked open the back door and waved them out.
“You follow the path to the east end of the fence line, just over there, beyond John’s shed. There’s a small gate, was put in years ago when the old neighbours were there.”
“The Moodys haven’t been here long?”
Her eyes clouded over. “No, the Thomas family used to live there, back when it was still a working dairy. They were good people, the Thomases. Quiet folk. Honest, too. You always knew where you stood with them.” She gave her head a little shake. “Anyway, go through the gate and you’ll find yourself at the back of the Moody property, the creek is a bit of a trek from there. And you’ll struggle in those lovely city shoes.” She was glancing down at Gilda’s boots.
These boots seemed to be having quite an effect on this country crowd, Gilda thought, and said, “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
Roxy had seen Gilda chase down criminals in much higher stilettos and didn’t doubt it for a moment.
“What was your husband doing, walking that way that night?” Gilda asked and Deidre flashed her a frown.
“Checking the fence line, of course. He was worried some of the cattle had got through.”
“Does that happen often?”
“Often enough.”
“Can I ask you something?” Roxy said, and Deidre turned with wary eyes upon her. “How do you feel about the idea of the Moody property becoming a music festival site?”
Deidre seemed to fluster then, padding down her apron and stepping back into the kitchen. “Oh, you’d have to speak to my husband about that. I don’t get involved in that kind of thing.”
Then she swiftly shut the door on them both.