As they followed the patchy grass towards the boundary fence line, Roxy snorted. “She doesn’t get involved? Yeah, right! You can tell Deidre hates the whole idea, and why wouldn’t she? If she thinks Moody Views is noisy now, just wait until they start running music festivals every month.”
“Yes, but what’s that got to do with Sunny Forrest?” When Roxy didn’t answer, Gilda stopped and turned back to her. “You’re thinking of Jed now, aren’t you? You’re thinking the Holloway couple have a pretty good motive to stop the man in his tracks.”
Roxy shrugged and kept walking.
Gilda caught up to her. “You do know we’re looking into Sunny’s death, not Jed’s, right? I did make that bit crystal clear?”
“Yes, yes, but it doesn’t mean we can’t make a few enquiries. I mean, they could be related. Did you get a look at that shed we passed? Plenty of electrical gear in there... The old farmer must be pretty handy in that department. They’re not like city folk. Don’t call the local electrician when things stuff up.”
Gilda thought about this. “Okay, just say you’re right and the old couple did somehow rig Jed’s amp, to try to put an end to the festivals; you do realise that Annika is still alive and kicking. She may still go ahead with it. You don’t know whose idea the festivals were in the first place. In any case, how does it connect with Sunny’s death? How would killing Sunny be of any benefit to Ma and Pa Kettle back there?”
Roxy shrugged again. She couldn’t answer that. She knew she was grasping at straws, but she could definitely sense some tension in Deidre Holloway. She didn’t say much, but what she did say spoke of envy and regret. Deidre clearly missed her old neighbours, and why wouldn’t she? Judging from the family portraits, she came from good old-fashioned farming stock. The “pop star” blow-ins must have been quite a culture shock.
Did Deidre and her husband somehow instigate both deaths in an effort to scare away the nouveau riche neighbours? Roxy gave her brain a shake. It was a preposterous idea, she decided. She was no longer grasping at straws, but rather, she had her head stuck in the entire haystack.
“Sorry, Rox, but if Sunny’s death turns out to be murder, I just can’t see that old couple doing it. Makes no sense. Oh look, there’s the gate.”
Gilda strode forward and cranked it open then Roxy followed her through, securing the gate firmly behind her just as a hand-painted sign on the fence instructed her to. From the fence line, the forest had been allowed to flourish and it was hard to see beyond the trees, although they could hear the sound of bubbling water not far off. It didn’t take long to reach the creek, which clearly ran close to the boundary line, just on the Moodys’ side at the edge of the rainforest.
No sooner had they spotted the creek than a makeshift memorial site came into view. The women stopped and surveyed the surroundings silently for a few minutes, taking in the small wooden cross that had been wedged into the side of the bank and the faded clusters of plastic flowers that were wrapped around it, a few fresh wildflowers strewn nearby. It looked a little tacky and it surprised Roxy. It didn’t seem like Sam’s style, but then what would she know? Losing a sibling could probably turn even the toughest cookie into a crumbling mess.
The creek, now more a benign trickle than a raging river, looked as harmless as a puddle. Neither woman could imagine anyone drowning in it, let alone a local girl familiar with the lay of the land.
“Must have had a lot of rain that day to turn it so deadly,” Gilda said.
Roxy nodded. “They do get more than their share of rain during the wet season apparently—hence the name rainforest. When did she die exactly?”
“Last January.”
“That’s the wet season, right?”
Gilda cocked her head to one side. “What am I? A weather girl? Wouldn’t have a clue.”
They looked around. Apart from the cross, there were no other signs of life, although on the other side of the creek, they could make out two separate paths leading in the direction of the Moody property. One was well worn and disappeared into the forest. That had to be the shortcut Annika was referring to. The other path was more overgrown and appeared to lead along the creek for a bit before also plunging into the forest. They squinted their eyes and could just make out what looked like a hut in the darkening shadows of a cluster of lillypillies. If they’d come any later, they would not have noticed it.
“Shall we take a closer look?” Gilda said, carefully stepping on dry rocks across the creek, making sure her boots did not get drenched.
Roxy followed a little less cautiously—her boots were old and waterproof and she was longing for an excuse to replace them. The two women proceeded to pluck their way past overhanging branches and through spindly cobwebs that had formed across the path.
“God, I hate nature,” Gilda groaned just before an enormous grasshopper dropped down on her arm. She brushed it away with a shriek.
Roxy laughed. “You don’t flinch at biker gangs, but you squeal at a bug?”
Gilda turned back to sneer at her. “Not all of us have turned into Steve Irwin overnight. I can’t believe you’re so chilled.”
Roxy chewed on her lower lip. She couldn’t believe it either. It was so unlike her to be relaxed around Mother Nature. She’d always assumed she was a rusted on city chick. This assignment had left her questioning everything she knew about herself. Was it possible to change this late in life?
“Finally!” Gilda said as they reached the hut, which turned out to be more of a hutch with three sides and a slanting tin roof.
There was a large thatched mat on the floor and several enormous cushions on top. A small wooden crate had been turned on its side and several candles stood, half burned next to an overflowing ceramic ashtray and a kerosene lamp. An empty bottle of red wine sat on the ground beside the crate and a silver goblet had been turned over next to it. Judging from the lack of spider webs covering the entranceway, the place had been recently used.
“Looks like a love nest,” Roxy said, and Gilda nodded.
“‘Blissful’ and ‘romantic’. Must be what Annika was referring to. Could be where Sunny and Jed met up, judging from the proximity to the creek.” She looked around. “I wonder how far away the Moody house is.”
Roxy stepped towards the ashtray and pointed at the cigarette butts. She could just make out the word “Marlborough” on the side of one that was only half smoked.
“Can you remember what brand Jed smoked?” Gilda asked, producing a plastic bag from her jacket pocket.
“Not off hand. But they all seem to smoke; must think musos are immune to lung cancer.” She watched Gilda dump the contents of the ashtray into the bag and seal it up again. “You really think you’re going to find some evidence this late in the game?”
Gilda stared at the bag. “These look recent to me, but it can’t hurt to try. Quick clearly didn’t bother.” She looked around a little longer and then out to the skyline, or what she could see of it through the thick trees. “Listen, it’s going to get very dark very fast, so we should make our way back. Farmer John might even be there now, thumping the table for his supper.”
Roxy laughed. “Don’t knock the old-fashioned way of life, Gilda. He farms the land and she keeps the home fires burning. It clearly works for them.”
“Does it? Really?” Gilda looked appalled by the thought. “Thank God I’m not an old-fashioned girl then.”
As they made their way back to the Holloway house, they found John Holloway standing by the property gate, clearly waiting for them, a grim look on his face. Holloway was dressed in a rugby jersey and moleskins. He had a large, balding head, and wore the heavily lined face of a man who had worked his whole life under a beating sun, a man who clearly thought sunscreen was for sissies. A large chunk of skin had been cut out of his nose and he had pale purple sunspots all over his face.
“Deidre shouldn’t’ve let you come this way,” he barked as they walked up to greet him. Then he cleared his throat and said a little more gently, “Gets a bit rough is all.”
“Oh, it’s nothing we can’t handle,” Gilda said cheerfully, hoping to disarm him.
After he secured the gate behind them, he shook their hands and said, “So you’re lookin’ into the young lady’s drowning then?”
“That’s correct. Is there any more light you can shed on that?”
He shook his head firmly and leaned against the fence. “No light to shed. Poor girl risked it and she paid the price.” He spoke in a monotone, his voice low and croaky.
“You firmly believe it was an accident?”
“’Course I do. Everybody does.”
“Her brother, Sam, doesn’t,” Roxy said defiantly, and he darted his watery grey eyes towards her.
He went to say something, stopped, swallowed hard as though trying to choke back tears, then tried again. “We lost a child once. Long time ago.”
“Oh, I’m so—”
He brushed her off, impatient with her sympathy. “It’s hard to let go. When it happens. It’s hard...” He choked again then coughed away the emotion. “I was the first to find that poor lass, Sunny. There was nothin’ suspicious there. She drowned in the creek and that’s all there is to it. The family’s just got to accept the verdict and move on.” His tone had turned a little snarly again and, again, he seemed to check himself and soften his voice before adding, “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d better get back. Deidre’s got lamb chops waitin’.”
He nodded once then turned and walked shakily back towards the house while Roxy stood watching him, chewing madly on her bottom lip.
“Come on then,” said Gilda, making her own way back. “Let’s get out of here.”
Roxy scowled. She felt bad for the old couple, really she did, but she also had a feeling they had more to share about Sunny and the day she was discovered. “They’re hiding something,” she said, catching up to Gilda. “At least I’m sure the old guy is. What a cranky bugger! Aren’t you going to question him further? Surely he can tell you more than that.”
Gilda shook her head. “You may well be right, Roxy, but not now, not tonight. If I know one thing about country folk, it’s never come between a hungry farmer and his dinner, especially when the missus is serving lamb chops.” She smiled. “Come on, there’s something else I want to look into.”
“Oh?”
Gilda stopped. “Remember that newspaper article we found in the files? The one with the picture of the creek bed.” Roxy nodded. “I don’t think that was an official crime scene photograph. At least the image wasn’t amongst the photos we found in the file.”
“You think someone else took it?”
“Looks to me like someone else was at the scene of the crime, and not long afterwards, either. They might have taken the photo from a distance then sold it on to the newspaper. But who would do such a thing?”
Roxy smiled again. “I know just the sleazebag for the job.”