SEVENTEEN
Seventeen
‘How does a one-metre-tall stuffed rooster go missing?’ Bel asked Mrs Simpson.
‘It was a few weeks ago. I came in and found his case empty. He’d vanished into thin air.’
‘Did you report it to the police?’
‘Yes, but they didn’t really have much to work with. I don’t think it was very high on their list of priorities, to be honest.’
‘But he’s our town mascot.’
‘Yes, I know,’ Mrs Simpson sighed. ‘Unfortunately, no one really seems to care.’
‘I care,’ Bel said firmly. And who the hell would steal an old moth-eaten taxidermied bird?
‘Yes, well, apparently it was someone’s idea of a joke. Whoever took him left a note. They obviously thought they were being terribly funny. I didn’t even bother mentioning it to the police. I could see they thought the whole thing was a complete waste of their time.’
‘A note?’ Bel repeated slowly.
‘A ransom note, dear,’ Mrs Simpson said. ‘It’s in the office.’ She bustled away before Bel could stop her, coming back a few moments later with a sheet of paper in a clear plastic sleeve. ‘I put it in this to preserve any DNA, in case the police ever came back and decided to take it seriously.’
Clearly, Mrs Simpson watched a lot of crime TV.
‘We have your rooster. Don’t call the cops or the bird gets it,’ Bel read the hastily scrawled, almost unintelligible writing, and bit back a mirthful snort. Okay, so it did seem that Elvis’s disappearance was some kind of practical joke. Still, he had heritage value, especially since there was now a monument erected in the middle of the main street for him. ‘You probably should hand this into the police,’ Bel said, giving back the note.
‘There’s no point, it will only confirm what they already think: that it’s just a silly prank. They assured me Elvis would most likely turn up again soon. Probably a bunch of bored kids with nothing better to do.’ Mrs Simpson sighed. ‘I’m sure they’re right. He’ll eventually be returned. Anyway, have a good look around and call out if you need any help,’ she said, already moving off.
Bel took a photo of the empty case, feeling oddly disappointed. She’d been looking forward to doing the follow-up post about her little town. Now she had literally nothing to show for it.
Sorry folks, Elvis has left the building … The king of roosters has been caught up in fowl play.
Earlier today I dropped into the Wessex Museum to visit the original Elvis, the cock who was the inspiration for the Big Rooster I posted about the other day. Elvis belonged to a local farmer and won the Guinness Book of World Records title of biggest rooster, bringing much fanfare and notoriety to our town as shown here in the local gazette.
Sadly, I have just heard the disturbing news that Elvis has in fact been kidnapped. That’s right. Vanished without a trace, only a short and rather simple ransom note left in his place. I, for one, am outraged and demand a proper investigation! Come on #Police_NSW … we want #justiceforElvis. #bringbacktheking #WhereIsElvis
Bel added a photo of the empty case and one of an old newspaper clipping that was on the wall behind the display, then hit send. Okay, so she may also be guilty of making fun of the whole thing, but she felt like she owed it to Elvis to at least mention it. Clearly no one else had, which seemed strange. Though, she conceded, no stranger than the fact someone had actually broken in to a museum and stolen a dead rooster in the first place.
As she arrived back at Emma’s house, she noticed the four-wheel drive parked at the front.
Why is Dean here?
She walked around the back to find him dropping large timber posts onto the ground next to recently dug holes. He was wearing jeans and a blue work shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his mid-forearms.
‘Hi,’ she said as she approached him, and he glanced up to see her. ‘I didn’t know you were coming over to do this today.’
‘I had an unexpected breakdown that meant I had a few hours to kill while I wait for parts to arrive. I figured I’d get a start on the chook pen.’
‘You don’t waste any time,’ she said, observing how much he’d done already.
‘It won’t do itself,’ he said with a shrug.
‘Can I give you a hand?’ It was the least she could do when he was giving up his own time to make the kids’ surprise for their parents a reality.
‘Sure. Can you hold this upright for me?’ He positioned one of the posts for the pen in the ground and waited for her to take hold of it. He picked up a long, heavy-looking tubular metal tool and lifted it effortlessly. ‘So, what happened between you and the bloke from the wedding?’ Dean asked as he drove the post into the ground.
Bel used the loud banging to cover her surprise at his question. ‘It didn’t work out.’
‘I gathered that much. But what happened?’ he said, taking a break to lean his arm on the top of the post and look at her.
She found herself straightening her shoulders a little under his scrutiny, feeling a tad defensive at his blunt curiosity. ‘He didn’t turn out to be who I thought he was.’
‘That’s a shame,’ he said, moving to the next post.
‘Doesn’t matter. I don’t regret it. If it hadn’t happened, none of what I have now would have eventuated.’
‘It might have,’ he said, grunting with effort as he lifted and dropped the post into its hole.
‘I doubt it. I think I had to be out of my comfort zone and forced to find a solution to my predicament, or it wouldn’t have happened. I was too comfortable here.’
‘Are you going to move back into your gran’s place?’ he asked.
‘I’m not sure. I don’t particularly want to tell Bert he has to find somewhere else.’
‘It’s your place. You can do whatever you want.’
‘I feel bad. Emma told me when he moved in that Bob Baxter had kicked him out of his rental to sell it and Bert had nowhere else to live.’
‘I thought you were supposed to be a businesswoman?’
‘Businesswomen can have compassion and ethics, you know,’ she countered.
‘Good to hear,’ he said. ‘But that doesn’t solve your problem. If you stay, you’ll want your house back.’
‘I haven’t made up my mind yet. It’s not a pressing issue.’
‘Craig’s recovery is going to take a long time. Emma’s probably going to need someone around to help out with the kids for a while.’
‘I’ll stay here as long as she needs me,’ she said calmly. ‘I’m in no hurry to leave. I can work from anywhere.’ She grasped the post and watched as Dean applied himself to driving it deeper and backfilling soil around the base.
‘You know, since you’ve been back, I haven’t seen you reading. You used to always have your nose stuck in a book.’ His observation surprised her. No one in town except Emma and Bel’s grandparents had ever commented about her reading before. She thought no one had ever really noticed. She’d always felt like she was rather unmemorable … and yet, clearly, he’d seen her.
‘I don’t have time to read anymore,’ she said. It had been a long time since she’d read anything. Since her business had taken off, she’d been too busy to do much of anything else. She had tried to pick up one of her Jax Lexington books, but they’d lost their magic somehow and she’d felt too sad to try again. Jax was forever going to be linked to Tate. That may have been the saddest part of the whole relationship, the fact that it had crushed something that had once been such an important part of her world.
‘That’s a shame. You should make time for the things you like doing.’
Dean’s words caught her off guard. When was the last time someone had encouraged her to have interests? Tate certainly hadn’t—unless they were also his interests. ‘Says the man who seems to be working around the clock.’
‘It’s harvest time, that doesn’t count,’ he said, lifting his eyes from the post and sending her a small off-centre grin that provoked a warm sensation in the pit of her stomach.
Bel cleared her throat quickly. ‘So, what do you like doing? What’s your thing?’
Dean moved to the next hole and lifted another post from the grass, taking his time to answer. ‘It’s been a while, but I like fishing. Dad had an old fishing boat we used to take out to the dam once in a while. I’ve been meaning to do it ever since I came back, but I haven’t found the time. He let the place go over the last few years, so it’s taken a lot to get it back up and running.’
Bel grabbed the timber and held it steady in the centre of the hole. ‘You must be making progress if you’ve got something to harvest. So that’s good,’ she remarked.
‘Yeah, it’s getting there. But what I hope to do is head down the regen path.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Regenerative farming. It’s been around for a while, but for a long time it was viewed as something the greenie, hobby-farmer types did. But it’s backed up with a fair bit of scientific evidence that’s making a lot of farmers, particularly the big corporate holdings, take note.’
‘What is it, though?’
‘It’s all about soil health. Giving paddocks a rest by planting them with things that can grow and decay back into the ground and add in important nutrients between crops. They’re called ‘cover crops’ and they also help retain water in the topsoil and make it more resistant to run-off and erosion. Basically, you end up with more fertile land that’s a lot more drought- and flood-tolerant.’
‘Sounds promising.’
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘It’s a long-term thing, something that takes time to implement. But I’m keen to give it a go.’
She was distracted by the movement of his arms. Despite the fact he was wearing a shirt, she could imagine the limbs underneath, biceps bulging, muscles contracting and extending as the metal sheath lifted and pounded down hard, driving each post deeper into the—
‘Bel?’
‘Sorry? What?’
‘You can let go of the post now.’
‘Oh. Right.’
‘You okay? Maybe it’s too hot for you. I’m nearly done anyway, why don’t you go inside and get a drink? I’ll be in after I pack all this up.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yeah. All good.’
Bel didn’t bother trying to argue. She was glad of an excuse to escape and get a grip on whatever the hell that was. Maybe he was right—she probably had heatstroke or something. A nice cold drink would do the trick to unscatter her brain.
This was so inappropriate, she chided herself as she set things out in the kitchen. What kind of shallow best friend was she? She was supposed to be taking care of Emma’s children during a really stressful time, not having stupid X-rated thoughts about a guy who shouldn’t even be on her radar when it came to sex …
As soon as she thought the word, images of sweat rolling across a muscular torso flashed before her eyes. ‘Stop it!’
‘Sorry?’ Dean’s confused voice came from behind her.
Shit. ‘Pardon?’
‘Stop what?’
‘Oh. No, not you. I was … never mind. I made some drinks and an early lunch. I thought it might be cooler out on the verandah.’
‘I’ll clean up,’ he said, squeezing by her as she piled some sandwiches onto a plate. Bel raised her eyes and caught his gaze. They simply looked at each other for a moment before Bel swallowed nervously and eased back to allow him past.
This is getting ridiculous.
A few minutes later, Jack the dog scrambled up from where he’d been lying under the table and jumped up and down excitedly, alerting her to Dean’s return.
She couldn’t be imagining this weird attraction thing, could she? Oh God … what if I am? What if it’s all me? Knock it off already! You are a mature, intelligent woman of the world—
‘Jack. Off!’ Dean ordered.
A chuckle escaped Bel before she clamped her lips shut. So mature . ‘I made sandwiches,’ she announced, pushing the plate towards him. He thanked her and took one.
‘Did you know that Elvis was stolen from the museum?’ she asked as a way to break the silence that had fallen as they began to eat.
‘Elvis?’
‘The rooster. The real rooster.’
‘Really?’
‘I don’t get it. Why hasn’t there been a huge fuss made of it?’
‘Because it’s a dusty old stuffed rooster?’
‘It’s the centrepiece to the town’s tourism campaign,’ she corrected.
‘Then the town needs a better centrepiece.’
‘I bet Bob Baxter had something to do with it,’ she mused as she took a bite of her sandwich.
‘I’m pretty sure Bob has more important things to do with his time.’
‘Yeah, like hold a grudge against the progress committee who didn’t vote for his stupid Big Burger,’ Bel said.
‘He’s building his own burger, so I don’t think he’s holding a grudge.’
‘He’s what?’
‘Apparently, he’s hired an architect to renovate the truck stop into a huge burger. At least, that’s what I heard. I have no idea if it’s true.’
‘Such a team player,’ Bel said sardonically. ‘Two big things in the same town. Way to divide the community.’
‘Well, when you think about it, there’s probably not that many places that have more than the one big thing. Maybe it’ll be a better drawcard to have two?’
Bel gave a small shrug. ‘One certainly hasn’t seemed to work so far.’
Dean finished eating, thanked her for lunch and left to go back to work. As she listened to the sound of his engine fade into the distance, Bel found herself pondering the strange attraction that had been popping up whenever they were around each other lately. Why was it happening now, when it hadn’t before? What was suddenly so different?
Her phone pinged and she grabbed it. She opened her Instagram account and gave a small, surprised chuckle. Her post was attracting a bit of attention.
Well, good. Poor old Elvis. And bloody Bob! If he did have something to do with it, she hoped that raising a little awareness might make him squirm. After all, it would make him look a bit stupid—a big-name businessman stealing a rooster from the museum. Seriously. How petty.
Two days later, Bel selected a trolley and began tossing in items from her list. The kids were like a swarm of hungry locusts, devouring the contents of the pantry within a few days of a shop. Emma had sent her a list of things to help with the whole lunch box conundrum and suggested she bake a big batch of biscuits. Clearly the woman was under a great deal of stress if she was suggesting that Bel bake. However, after seeing how fast the kids had gone through the last pack of biscuits, she decided she might have to give cooking a go, if she didn’t want to go broke supplying bought ones.
‘Hi, Bel,’ the cashier said, greeting her cheerfully. Margret had been working here for as long as Bel could remember. ‘I loved the post about Elvis!’
‘Oh. Thanks,’ Bel said with a quick smile. She hadn’t even been aware Margret followed her on social media.
‘Gotta love a good mystery. And fancy little old Wessex trending like that!’
Bel was slightly distracted by the fact Margret sounded so comfortable using the word ‘trending’, so it took a moment for the whole sentence to register. She gathered her purchases with a confused frown. Once in the car, she located her phone and began scrolling.
‘Holy hell,’ she whispered. Twenty-one thousand views and six hundred and thirty-four shares? She’d tagged the state police, and their social media team had set the internet ablaze with their reply. They had shared her post, and a large photo of Elvis, pre-kidnapping, now filled her screen.
Have you seen Elvis? Approximately one metre tall, shaggy appearance, somewhat stuffy personality? If so, we want to hear about it. Believed to have gone missing from the Wessex Museum three weeks ago.
This was insane. She opened her messages and found two requests for comment, one from a local newspaper, the other from a radio station. She shook her head in disbelief before sending off quick replies to both and putting her phone away. First things first—she needed to get some biscuits baked.