The Price of Fame. Rowena Cory Daniels

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СКАЧАТЬ career?' his wife asked.

      'I'm not convinced of that, Mrs Miles-Davidson,' I replied while I watched Arthur, who was staring fixedly at his tea cup. Coward. 'Thanks anyway.'

      I wasn't going to push. If I was lucky he'd think about it and come back to me. If not, I'd given it my best shot. I'd do it without him, somehow - but the thought made me sick with frustration.

      I stood, smoothing down my thigh-length skirt. To give him credit, Arthur's eyes did not track to my thighs, they went to my face as he came to his feet with old world courtesy. I nodded to his wife. 'Mrs Miles-Davidson.'

      She said goodbye, relieved enough for the smile to reach her eyes now that I was going.

      We walked to the door, me with my satchel, Arthur with his coffee mug in one hand, and forgotten, half-eaten biscuit in the other. I felt a tug of fellowship that was totally irrational and was sorry we'd lost our initial rapport.

      We stood at the door, him still distracted, me wondering what was going on.

      'Nice place,' I told him, gesturing down the drive. The sun had broken through the clouds and shafts of horizontal, afternoon light set the fallen leaves on fire. I felt an almost visceral surge of pleasure. Growing up on Nan's pension I'd been starved for beautiful things.

      'Did you come by taxi?' Arthur asked.

      'My car's parked on the street. Didn't realise the driveway was so long,' I said. He didn't need to know I drove a creaky old Corolla. I could have bought a new car but I was hoarding every cent to finance my dream.

      Arthur seemed in no hurry to see me off. He sipped his coffee and stared down the drive.

      'There's a strange synchronicity about your arrival and your project, Antonia,' he said softly. This was the Arthur who wrote the band's philosophical lyrics, giving voice to the preoccupations of a generation. His expression cleared and he smiled at me. 'Almost opportune.'

      'Opportune, why?'

      'A number of things have fallen into place,' he said, which didn't really answer my question. Then he met my eyes decisively. 'I'm going to ask someone if they'll talk to you.'

      Excitement skittered up my spine as I tried to sound professional. 'I appreciate that. I'd really love to see Pia-'

      He made a negative sound.

      I looked to him, surprised. 'Then who, and why?'

      'Can't say who. Don't know if they'll come through. They go right back. As for why - because I owe it to Veevie's restless ghost.' Arthur gave me that lopsided smile which could have been either cynical or ingenuous. 'And perhaps, because a politician needs all the publicity he can get. Take your pick.'

      As I looked into his face I realised both these reasons could have been true. And they probably were. 'Then what was with the, don't want to rake over the past for profit speech inside?'

      He dunked his biscuit and ate it with relish. 'I had to sound you out, test your motivation.'

      'And I passed the test?'

      He grinned. 'I think we both passed.'

      Now that was obscure.

      After brushing biscuit crumbs onto his trouser leg, he offered me his hand. 'I'll call.'

      I was being dismissed but at least I had hope. 'Great. I'll be waiting.'

      By the time I'd driven back down the mountain to St Kilda and parked my car, I was no closer to understanding Arthur Davidson, ex-bad-boy/philosopher/rock-balladeer turned independent politician. And I hadn't recorded anything. Perhaps I could get him to repeat that 'we were little shits' quote for the podcast.

      Feeling light-hearted, I shut the rear door of the garage and stepped into the tiny backyard of One-Eight-One. The sky had clouded over bringing an early end to twilight, cloaking the neat little yard in shadows. But I knew what it contained.

      The house and yard were very different from when the Tough Romantics lived here. Then, One-Eight-One had been a run-down terrace house with an overgrown square of dirt yard. Now, the neatly-paved yard was dominated by a beautiful Japanese maple, reflected in a small pond. Very peaceful, very zen.

      A shadow moved in the darker shadows.

      I froze, straining to see. My search produced only the dancing squiggles of light-starved eyes. I must have been mistaken; there was nothing there. I'm not usually so jumpy but, since moving into One-Eight-One two nights ago, I'd felt as if I was being watched. It was hard not to think about the band and how Genevieve had died here. I'd even had trouble sleeping and, when I did, my dreams woke me in a cold sweat. I was determined that the panic attacks that had nearly crippled me when my marriage crashed and burned would not resurface again.

      The intruder moved. I froze. Not my imagination then.

      The dark figure was a head taller than me with broad shoulders. It had to be a guy, not many women were built like that. I could smell that the calf-length leather jacket he wore was new. Would a mugger be wearing a brand new leather jacket? Maybe he'd stolen it from his last victim.

      My heart rate went up a notch. Could I jump the pond and make it to the back door before he tackled me?

      I didn't fancy my chances.

      'Scared the shit outta ya, didn't I?' a familiar voice teased, his eyes and teeth flashing in the darkness of his face.

      'M- Monty? You bastard!'

      'Black bastard! Get it right, Antsy.'

      'Antonia. Get it right, Monty!' More mind games. Since we'd met while studying he'd never called me anything but Antsy and it hadn't been long before the rest of the gang took to calling me that. I had him to thank for it.

      He grinned unabashed. I brushed past, going around the pond. The motion-sensitive lights flicked on, triggered by the timer. Monty followed, as I unlocked the sliding glass door and stepped inside the kitchen/breakfast area. Apart from the garden spotlights, there was only the glow of the digits on the computerised oven.

      'You're a shit, you know, Monty,' I said, flicking on the lights and adjusting the central heating. The lights were set into the ceiling, positioned over the workspaces. Even with the lights on, the place felt dim. It was all chrome and tinted glass - not my idea of a kitchen.

      Floor-to-ceiling sliding doors made the little kitchen and breakfast nook part of the backyard. Clever retractable shade cloths allowed the winter sun in and kept the summer sun out. The place had been architect designed. It was a far cry from when Genevieve was attacked in this very room. It had been a kitchen then, too. Fatally wounded, she'd staggered out through the long grass and climbed into the front seat of O'Toole's taxi which was parked in the lane.

      Why run back to the taxi if O'Toole was the killer? There was no point in locking the doors against him. The police claimed she wasn't thinking clearly. But this was just one more thing that didn't add up.

      When he'd radioed dispatch to call the police, O'Toole had claimed he'd found her there and that she'd been too far gone to tell him who her killer was. She died in his arms. Poor kid.

      The exterior spots flicked out, leaving only inky СКАЧАТЬ