Bay of Fires (19 page)

The fish were dead by then. Tanks eerily silent with three tonnes of drowned prime barra. When she worked it out later, the pumps must have broken down around midnight, closing time at the Pineapple Hotel.

Juice splashed over her hand and onto the floor. She was not aware her hands were shaking. It wasn’t just her hand but her entire body, engulfed in wretched sadness. When would this end?

Dusk and the ocean brimmed with sharks. So everyone said. There was also a consensus that between nine p.m. and dawn, the hours of darkness, it was unsafe to be outside. The fear was stupid. Both women had disappeared in the afternoon, so if there was going to be another murder or disappearance, chances were it would be another daytime tragedy. Sarah had scattered the burley mix she had made from bread crumbs and diced mullet heads. Judging by the lack of interest in her burley or her bait, the fish were absent. That meant there were probably no sharks in the water tonight. Sarah leaned over and dipped her hand in the lukewarm seawater.

Bored with catching nothing, Sarah left the rocks and followed a trail worn by wombats and quolls. She hoped to spot a quoll, a small native catlike creature with delicate white spots. Quolls were shy, though. There was more chance of seeing a wombat.

Spiderwebs spanning the path stuck to her face and hair as she pushed through. The track ran along the top of the rocks before winding down to the beach. She hadn’t thought about the murderer while she was fishing on the rocks; now every wind moan in the dunes made her snap her head around to reassure herself there was no one there.

From the beach nothing delineated the spot. There was a garland of flowers in the clearing near the road, but you couldn’t see that from the beach. The spot where Anja Traugott had washed in was marked by an eroded sand wall, a broken driftwood arc, and creepy shadows from the dune grass. Sarah stabbed her fishing rod into the ground and walked toward the dunes. She was sinking in the soft dry sand when she heard the noise, a faint metallic scratch, like a knife being pulled. Frozen, she listened hard. There it was again. Fuck. She had to get out of there. She spun around, sprinting to retrieve her rod. Running perfectly on the hard sand, she knew no one would catch her. It wasn’t until the adrenaline rush eased that she realized the sound was her sinker, taut and scratching against her rod.

The table was set with mismatched plates. The salad tongs had handles in the shape of fish. A baking dish of lasagna sat on a breadboard Sarah had made for grade eight woodwork. For a moment Sarah had the unsettling feeling of déjà vu; she could have been stepping into the shack fifteen years ago.

“We were worried.” Her mother was accusatory. “Dad’s driven down the road looking for you.”

“I didn’t see him.” Sarah tried to conceal her irritation. She was thirty-five, not fifteen. “That smells delicious.”

“Clean yourself before you sit down. Mum, she stinks,” Erica said.

Sarah dropped the bucket with a clatter. There was water in the sink and Sarah soaped her hands in it, rubbing hard to get the scales off.

“Please. That’s the washing-up water,” Erica said.

“It’s fish, Erica. It’s organic.”

She sat down and rubbed her bare feet on the dog, asleep under the table. Opposite, her mother and sister continued eating. The backs of their heads made twin reflections in the salt-smeared window behind them. It reminded Sarah of the doll heads Erica and she had practiced hair and makeup on when they were young. Erica had cut the hair off hers and then cried. Sarah had handed her own doll over and been complimented on her generosity. In truth, she had hated the doll, hated its bright blue eyes, too-long lashes, and pearly lips.

She filled her plate and only half-listened as her mother and sister talked. Wind collected pace, rattling the loose chimney pipe. About time it picked up; she hadn’t caught anything for days. She was planning where to fish tomorrow when the door opened. Sarah heard her father’s voice.

“I didn’t find Sarah but I found someone else foolish enough to be wandering around in the dark.”

Sarah swiveled around. Simone Shelley, wearing a white sundress and a leopard-print scarf around her head, stood uncertainly in the doorway. She clutched the shoulders of her son.

“Oh, no. I’m so embarrassed. You’re having dinner.” The American accent made her seem confident, almost sexy, like a character in a television show.

Simone had knocked on Pamela’s door, and on Jane’s, but no one had a spare bed. She was too frightened to stay in her shack. There had been a noise downstairs and she refused to let Sam go and look.

“Everyone knows we’re alone.”

Flip dropped the fish tongs into the salad bowl. “You’ve got your phone if you need it. Go home and make a cup of tea. You’ll be all right.”

“That’s what I told her,” Sam said.

Sarah tried to read his expression, but he wasn’t looking at her. He obviously didn’t want to be here. Fair enough. She had not wanted to be at the Shelleys’ place on New Year’s Eve either. She had only gone because it would have looked strange if she didn’t. She was paranoid Simone knew something about whatever had happened on Christmas Day down at the wharf.

There had been one awkward situation on New Year’s Eve. Sarah had gone to Simone’s kitchen to fetch Pamela’s wine cooler bag. Simone and Flip had paused at their task of arranging cheeses and crackers on a platter, and were discussing something serious. For a horrible moment Sarah thought they were talking about her.

“She likes being single—it suits her fine,” Flip was saying crossly.

Sarah had grabbed Pamela’s cooler bag off the bench and walked straight back to the garden. The conversation fragment she had overheard unnerved her. She felt ill for a few minutes until she realized that, based on their body language and the fact that they had not reacted when she entered the kitchen, they were most likely talking about Jane Taylor. She did not want to know what her mother was saying about Jane.

In any case, Simone had invited everyone to her party, and now she had insisted on dragging Sam up here to the Averys’ shack. These were good signs. It meant Simone wasn’t worrying about anything. Still, Sarah thought, she would feel better if they left now.

Her mother, too. Flip turned the tap on and began washing dishes. If it had have been anyone else, her mother would have welcomed them in. Years ago, Simone had alienated many of her female neighbors. She had asked them to babysit her son while she scuba-dived with their husbands, she had worn string bikinis when everyone else wore one-pieces, and she had spoken about traveling to places they had not heard of. Flip and Pamela were happy to attend Simone’s New Year’s Eve party, to include her in large activities such as the Abalone Bake, or even to sit with her occasionally on the beach. Their tolerance for Simone ended there.

Simone was not the kind of woman Sarah usually felt sorry for. Tonight she did, for the simple reason that Simone did not understand why she was being turned away.

“Mom. They don’t want us here,” Sam muttered. “Let’s go home and turn in.” He was looking at Sarah.

Erica stood up, smiling her too-perfect smile. “Have a drink with us before you go home. Everything’s less scary after a drink.”

Simone and Sam sat down on the window couch underneath the colorful toy parrot swinging upside down on his perch. Simone’s gaze moved from the gas fridge with the stickers peeling off it to the piles of curling magazines and newspapers on the coffee table and the dusty children’s books on the bookshelf. One of those books Simone had given to Sarah and Erica when they were little girls. It was about a scary toymaker called Weezy who created dolls that came to life. One of Weezy’s dolls was evil, and the book had been one of Sarah’s favorites. For ages Erica had been too frightened to listen to Flip read that book.

“Such a long time since I’ve been here.” Simone smiled. “Cozy.”

“What scared you tonight, Simone?” Flip said. “It’s not as if we just found out about the murder.”

“Sam was talking to some fishermen down at the wharf and very cleverly told them how worried I was, being all alone in the shack. I just couldn’t stay there.” Simone twisted her buttery hair into a bun behind her head, held it for a moment, then let it fall around her face. “We went to the guesthouse first. Jane was very rude.”

“What did she say?” Sarah imagined Jane, her twitchy face devoid of sympathy, taking pleasure in telling the glamorous American to walk.

“She was full up. She said, and I quote, ‘Go bother the Averys. John won’t mind chasing the mice out of the old bunkroom for you.’”

“I cleaned it out when we got here. I borrowed her Land Cruiser to take the mattress with the mouse nest in it to the tip,” John said.

“I feel like crying. It’s terrible to be knocking on people’s doors.”

“Don’t be silly.” Flip dropped a heavy pot into the sink. “Simone, I would offer you a bed but as John said, all our spare mattresses were ruined.”

“The Dolphin Motel is never fully booked. Give them a call,” Sarah said. “It wouldn’t be more than fifty bucks a night.”

“That’s an hour’s drive from here.” Simone shook her head. “Longer, at this time of night, with all the wildlife on the road.”

Everyone watched Erica light candles with the gas gun. It clicked and clicked, igniting a weeping column of wax wedged in an empty port bottle, stubby wicks in abalone shells, and candles welded to saucers with their own wax. In the kitchen Flip was scrubbing the sink with Jif and a wire brush. It was clear she had no intention of sitting down.

Simone sighed. “That poor woman. You know, Sam found her bikini top.”

“Shut up, Mom,” Sam said.

Simone took a sip of wine, smiling as everyone paid attention. Sam had found it caught in kelp at the gulch while he was cutting abalone off the rocks that afternoon.

“What end of the gulch?” Sarah asked.

“Southern. Near where you’re always fishing.”

“After the jetty?”

“That’s what I said.”

Sarah visualized the currents running from the rock pool and around the coast. Even with a strong westerly, it was unlikely an object would drift past the jetty. The natural movement of the currents was toward the long main beach, or even the little cove where Anja had sunbathed. It was almost impossible for something to drift from the rock pool, along the coast, around the headland, and then into the gulch. It was hard enough to steer a boat along that route.

“You’ve just solved part of the puzzle.”

“What?”

“The only way that piece of clothing could have landed there was if it was tossed off a boat. Maybe Anja was killed on a boat.”

“Hall said the same thing when Sammy gave him the bikini top,” Simone said.

“You gave it to Hall?”

“He was about to speak to the police, so he said he’d pass it on.”

Of course he was. Hall would say anything to score an exclusive story. Conversation became less stilted as they discussed the murder case. One thing Simone and Flip agreed on was the campers: they thought it was inappropriate that they discussed the murder in front of their children.

“How did you know it was Anja Traugott’s bikini top?” John said with a grin.

“I talked to her a couple of times.” Sam glanced at his mother. “There’s no one else around here to talk to.”

Simone smiled at Sam. “All the pretty girls like Sammy. Why wouldn’t they? I tell him, when you are fishing, you are allowed to throw a few back. Same goes for girls.”

John laughed with Simone. “Good advice,” he said.

At the other end of the table Sarah tried to keep a poker face while blood rushed to her cheeks. Common sense said Simone was not having a go at her. But Simone’s comment was strange and her accompanying giggle sly. If she knew what Sarah had done, of course she would be furious.

Sarah excused herself to get another beer. The outdoor Esky was full of melting ice and Steve’s Cascade Lights. She thought she had left some full strength in the fridge and went back inside to have another look. Everyone was laughing at a story Sam was telling about Hall cross-examining him. Rummaging through the plastic bags of veggies, soft cheeses, and half-eaten dips, she realized Erica had been right to insist the Shelleys stay for a drink. There was no point pissing anyone off. She tugged at an egg carton to see if there was any beer behind it, and a block of butter banged to the floor. She rammed it back in, not caring what it squashed. This fridge was overpacked. And there was no beer in it.

On the top of the fridge was her bottle of rum. It was what she had drunk on Christmas Day, and she hesitated before twisting off the lid. She swayed the open bottle neck under her nose, enjoying the smell, sweet like burnt sugar. One wouldn’t hurt.

She returned to the patio and took a bottle of Coke from the outdoor Esky. Clutching the Coke, cold water dripping from her hand, Sarah turned to see Sam standing in the doorway.

“You got a license for that hot dog stand?”

“What?”

He pointed at her groin. Her fly was undone, his finger wavering in front of it. She grabbed his outstretched finger and twisted it hard enough to make him yelp.

“Mommy, don’t hurt me.” Sam mocked her in a high-pitched voice.

She could smell dried sweat on his skin. Unwashed and unscented; the smell of teenage boys. Sarah released his finger. Compose yourself, she repeated silently.

Inside the shack’s lit cocoon, Simone and her family did not appear to be listening to their conversation. Sam’s arms braced either side of the doorway, blocking her entrance. He had the swagger of a man who was owed money and was about to collect it. She wanted to tell him to piss off. Instead she said, “How are you doing, Sam?”

“All right. If you’re going fishing tonight, I’ll come.”

“Not tonight I’m not.”

“Where do you figure there might be some action tomorrow?”

The question veiled a plea. He had asked the same question as she left the New Year’s Eve party to go fishing. She knew the hollow yearning, the desperate drive to avoid aloneness. His need was not unlike her own. Still, she couldn’t help him. It was hard enough right now to look after herself.