Nefarious Doings

For Nell Forrest, life in the little town of Majic is not going
smoothly. One of her five daughters has just swapped university for
fruit-picking, another is about to hit puberty, while a third keeps
leaving aggrieved messages on the answering machine. On top of all this,
her mother is infuriating and it's only been a matter of months since
Nell lost her husband of twenty-five years. It's no surprise, then, that
she is even struggling to write her weekly column.

But
the floodgates of inspiration are about to swing open, almost knocking
her out in the process. Murder and mayhem, arson and adultery, dungeons,
death threats and disappearances are just around the corner. Despite
Nell's abysmal aptitude for investigative work, she manages to shine the
light on the local Richard III Society and that's when things really
start to heat up. Throw in some suspicious widows, nosy neighbours, a
canine witness, plus a detective who is getting a little closer than he
should, and it's clear that nefarious doings are well and truly afoot. 

Welcome to the sleepy town of Majic, where neighbourhood watch is a killer …

For Nell Forrest, life in the little town of Majic is not going smoothly. One of her five daughters has just swapped university for fruit-picking, another is about to hit puberty, while a third keeps leaving aggrieved messages on the answering machine. On top of all this, her mother is infuriating and it’s only been a matter of months since Nell lost her husband of twenty-five years. It’s no surprise, then, that she is even struggling to write her weekly column. 

But the floodgates of inspiration are about to swing open, almost knocking her out in the process. Murder and mayhem, arson and adultery, dungeons, death threats and disappearances are just around the corner. Despite Nell’s abysmal aptitude for investigative work, she manages to shine the light on the local Richard III Society and that’s when things really start to heat up. Throw in some suspicious widows, nosy neighbours, a canine witness, plus a detective who is getting a little closer than he should, and it’s clear that nefarious doings are well and truly afoot.  

Nefarious Doings
is the first book in Ilsa Evans’ new
Nell 
Forrest Mystery
 series. The second is
Ill-Gotten Gains
.

I am emailing to thank you for your wonderful
Middle-aged Spread
column – especially the last one about how the meaning of the term ‘wee hours’ changes over time. Boy, can I relate! But my husband and I have missed your occasional ‘Notes on Marriage’. Very funny. Please bring them back!

The fire was just a crimson fingerprint on the horizon, with a glow that leaked across the pre-dawn gloom. At this distance it had a warmth reminiscent of campfires, or the cast-iron depths of pot-belly stoves. Even the scent seemed rather benign, just lacing the breeze with a hint of burnt toast. Sourdough preferably, a crusty piece that poked against the toaster elements, calling for ridged curls of butter, and maybe honey, or farm-fresh raspberry jam.

The kettle began to shriek, cutting across my reverie. I let it go for a while, simply because I could, and then closed the living-room window before padding barefoot into the kitchen to make coffee. Elixir of the gods. As an afterthought I pulled out the toaster and dropped in two pieces of fat white bread. I glanced back towards the window while I waited, trying to calculate how far away the fire was. Nine or ten kilometres perhaps, maybe a little more.

With breakfast in hand, I propped myself on the armrest of the couch. It was a little awkward, but the view was an excellent source of inspiration. A canopy of gums curving down towards the town of Majic; manna gums, scribbly gums and the towering blue gums among which I would sometimes spot a lone koala feeding lazily. And I needed inspiration, soon, to build a column around. Something, anything, otherwise all I had was the joys of solitude and I was pretty sure I’d written about that already, at least once. The stupid thing was that this was one of the easy-column weeks, not like the monthly segments which included a carefully selected smorgasbord of reader responses.
Those
required a significant investment of time; this piddly five hundred words should have been accomplished in my spare time. Especially with all that joyous solitude.

I took a sip of coffee and willed my mind to go blank; something that always seemed effortless when I was in the supermarket, or standing at the ATM, or trying to come up with a perfect retort to put offspring in their place, but impossible when required. Instead, thoughts churned like butter: must ring Lucy about her exam, must defrag computer, must check Quinn’s uniform, must put a bra on, must decorate the Christmas tree, must find out what defrag means, must write bloody column.

The distant glow was fading now, consumed by the gluttonous orange-yellow of the rising sun. I wondered if the fire was in bushland – hopefully under control – or somebody’s house. And this latter thought was followed by the oily realisation that somewhere, perhaps, right this very moment a family was being devastated. Clustered on the nature strip, faces streaked with ash and worry. Or counting heads, coming up short and being torn asunder, from the inside out.

I felt my eyes glisten, stupidly, even as they slid across to our most recent family portrait. All dressed in white against a crisp burgundy background, everyone laughing. My gaze lingered on Darcy, his hand resting on my shoulder.
There
was something I could write about: the heaviness of absence, like saddlebags. I could tell how yesterday, while trying to decorate the Christmas tree, I’d been sucker-punched by an image of him testing the tangled lights last year. Or maybe I could simply discuss how illusionary it was, that absence was a presence in itself; so much so that I might as well set it a place at the dinner table.

But I wouldn’t write about any of that. I transferred my gaze to the still-naked tree and forced myself to also recall how much he’d grumbled about the damn lights. How I'd had to postpone my own tasks in order to become his assistant, a job that primarily called for the provision of intermittent praise, coffee, and a captive audience for his lecture on primary prevention. I’d thought then, as I often did, that next time it’d be easier just to do it myself. I closed my eyes, then swallowed the memory and turned away. Perhaps that’s what started the fire over there. Christmas lights, incorrectly stored, the owners paying the price for a laissez-faire attitude to the principles of primary prevention.

I shivered instinctively before transferring my mug so that I could reach down to rap my knuckles on the wooden coffee table. Coffee slopped across my toast, instantly transforming
Loretta Emerson's Gourmet Seeded Raspberry Jam (75% fruit!)
into something more at home in a pathology lab.

‘
Shit
.’ I put the plate down and used the front of my baggy T-shirt to dab at the bottom of the mug. The doorbell rang and I started, soaking my cleavage with hot coffee that instantly spread to bracket both breasts. ‘Shit, shit,
shit
.’

The doorbell rang again and I rose, holding my clammy T-shirt away from my skin. I could now see bare breasts streaked with shiny coffee rivulets, just above a rounded belly that jiggled cheerfully as I began walking towards the front door. I looked away, not just because the sight wasn’t particularly appealing, but with the way my luck was running I’d probably walk straight into a doorjamb and knock myself out.
Middle-aged woman found unconscious. Police suspect foul play.

The grandfather clock in the hall confirmed my suspicion that it was a little early for callers so I stood on tiptoe to peer through the brass peephole that was set about fifteen centimetres too high. On the porch was a girl, slim with a mess of brown bed-hair, her back to the door as she stared towards a puffy plume of smoke. The crimson glow had now all but vanished, drowned by daylight.

‘Quinn!’ I threw the door open for my youngest daughter. ‘What on earth?’

She turned, grinned. ‘Sorry, I forgot my key. You weren’t asleep, were you?’

‘No, but that’s not what I meant. You’re
supposed
to be up the road at Caitlin’s.’

‘Yeah, I woke early. Got bored.’ Quinn pushed past me and dropped her backpack beside the grandfather clock before heading towards the kitchen. She continued talking, her voice floating over her shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, I left a note. Did you see there’s a fire somewhere? What’s for breakfast?’

I shut the front door and followed. ‘You can make toast if you want. For me too.’

Quinn was already slipping bread into the toaster. Her eyes narrowed. ‘Are you, like, practising for a wet T-shirt contest?’

‘I spilt my coffee.’ I plucked my T-shirt forward again and fanned it, which accomplished very little.

Quinn worked briskly, putting together a hot chocolate to go with her toast, cleaning as she went. Sometimes I couldn’t quite believe she was mine, with her efficiency, her
suff
iciency, her equilibrium. This thirteen-year-old girl, the last of five, the afterthought, who seemed to have taken the best of each. The confidence and capability of the eldest two, Scarlet and Ruby, along with the diligence of Red and the mellow empathy of Lucy. And while she certainly wasn’t the
favourite
– because there
were
no favourites – even so her personality, her supportiveness, the ease of her upbringing made Quinn … special.

‘Where d’you reckon the fire is?’

I took a plate of buttery toast and preceded her into the living room. ‘I don’t know. Hopefully not near Majic. Apart from anything else, the newspapers will fall over each other coming up with smartarse headlines. Like
Flames Lick Majic
. No, skip that one, it sounds a little … off.’

‘Or how about –
Majic explodes!’

‘Hopefully not.’ I smiled, accustomed to our town’s name drawing more attention than the town itself. There was even a business on the main street whose stock in trade was the address, which they rented out to others. Apparently there was something very appealing about buying candles, or an online psychic reading, from a place called Majic. Ironically, the origin of the name was not mystical at all, but from a wealthy Ukrainian gentleman whose eccentricity had verged on madness. Legend had it that around the time of the gold rush, he rode out from Bendigo after a liquid lunch vowing that he would build his house at whichever spot he reached when the sun set. Construction took almost three years, with the enormity of the project resulting in the evolution of a town near the building site. When the man called Majic died only a few months after taking up residence, possibly due to his fondness for liquid lunches, the town called Majic continued regardless.

‘I reckon it’ll be over towards Axedale. Probably like an empty warehouse or something. Maybe squatters.’

‘Maybe.’ I nodded, eating toast slowly as I imagined the squatters huddling around a fire for warmth, only to fall asleep from exhaustion as the fire licked across the earthen floor.

‘I don’t think it’s going to catch on.’

‘What?’

Quinn nodded towards my original plate, where the toast had now disintegrated. ‘Coffee and toast combined. Efficient, but it looks feral. LOL.’

‘Very funny.’

‘That’s what I said.’

The conversation was halted by the sound of the doorbell ringing again. I frowned as I put down my toast but this time I didn’t bother checking the peephole as I have a robust theory about post-sunrise and nefarious doings, which holds that safety progresses along with the morning. I pulled the door open and then stared at the barefoot young woman standing on the doorstep, a wheeled duffel bag by her side. ‘Lucy!’

‘Hey, Mum.’ Lucy grinned and pushed forward to press herself against me briefly. ‘Sorry I’m early but my lift needed to be in Bendigo first thing. I brought you a present!’

I took the little gift bag from her without dropping my gaze. ‘Thanks, but
why
are –’

Lucy made fleeting eye contact before sliding her gaze to somewhere over my right shoulder. She had the same eyes as her father, a light blue-grey that appeared almost sightless when lost in thought. Now, however, they just looked furtive. ‘Yeah, well, something I need to tell you. Can we talk inside?’

‘I suppose –’

‘Great.’ Lucy flashed another grin before picking up the duffel bag and surging forward, striking my knee with a wheel as she passed. ‘Sorry, Mum. Hey ya, Quinn! Is that toast?’

By the time I reached the living room once more, my second-youngest daughter was ensconced in the armchair, one leg hooked over the armrest, eating a piece of my toast. Her blonde hair was caught up in a messy bun, displaying an underside of streaky lilac. She was wearing what looked like pyjamas, with the top indicating a devil-may-care attitude towards support which, I thought grimly, she would regret in about twenty years. The same with the splash of colour visible around her ankle region; red and green, with thorns.

‘Hey, Mum, do you want me to decorate the tree for you?’ She waved towards the corner. ‘And how do you like your present?’

Something was definitely up. I opened the gift bag and removed a lump of white tissue that unfurled to reveal a tiny toby jug, complete with gold-leaf rim. ‘Oh, Luce, it’s
lovely
.’

‘You can put it in the house.’ Lucy gestured to my doll’s house, sitting atop an antique tea trolley in the far corner. It was a Tudor-style residence of four cantilevered levels, with the uppermost set among the eaves. I had begun renovating it about seven months ago and the living room had been the latest room reveal, with fresh carpet, wallpaper and even three tiny ducks flying up one wall. And now a toby jug for the mantelpiece, between the two brass candlesticks. All that was needed was a little screen for the fire. Perhaps an embroidered one, with a walnut frame to match the skirting.

‘So how come you’re here?’ asked Quinn.

‘Yes.’ I turned away from the house and folded my arms. ‘You have that make-up exam tomorrow. First thing.’

‘Listen.’ Lucy straightened, the tattoo disappearing. ‘And just keep an open mind till I’ve finished, then I
know
you’ll understand.’

‘Want to bet?’

‘Five dollars,’ said Quinn, nursing her hot chocolate. ‘That she won’t. Actually, make it ten.’

‘Thanks.
Very
supportive.’

‘What can I say? I’m an entrepreneur. Nothing personal, Luce.’

‘Enough!’ I took a deep breath. ‘Now –’

‘My best friend has breast cancer!’ announced Lucy. She nodded at our shocked expressions and then continued, looking grim. ‘That’s right. Breast cancer. She’s got a mammogram on Thursday.’

‘Oh my god, that’s
awful
.’ I took a step forward, put a hand on Lucy’s shoulder, and then pulled it away. ‘Hang on, a mammogram’s preliminary – has she actually been diagnosed?’

‘Not quite, but it’s a given.’ Lucy held out her fingers to make a circle the size of a dinner plate. ‘Like you should see this lump.’

‘Really?’

She brought her fingers in, reducing the plate to a saucer. ‘No lie.’

‘What’s her name?’

‘Um, Melanie.’

‘I’ve never heard you mention a Melanie. And you’re
always
talking about your friends.’

‘Well, she’s more the friend of a friend. A
best
friend. But that’s not the point.’

‘Let me recap.’ I lowered myself onto the couch and crossed my legs. ‘The friend of a friend has found an anomaly that she will be getting checked out later next week. And
this
has had a negative impact on your ability to sit one single make-up exam tomorrow, without which you will fail your entire first year of university. Is that right?’

Lucy frowned. ‘Well, yeah, but you make it sound stupid.’

‘Good lord, how on earth did I do that?’

‘What does the lump look like?’ asked Quinn.

‘Well, it’s sort of – I’m not quite …’ Lucy glanced towards my chest as she spoke, as if hoping for inspiration. She frowned, and then leant closer. ‘Mum, is your T-shirt wet? D’you know, I think I can see your nipple.’

‘Oh, vomit,’ said Quinn, nevertheless staring in that direction.

I jumped up, tugging my T-shirt forward, which was rather unfortunate as it had, at some point, managed to adhere itself to my skin. I glared at Lucy, pain escalating my irritation.
Mother of five culls offspring. Jury of her peers refuses to convict.