Leonard nodded and thanked the woman and then sat in his Toyota, half-listening to the rain on the metal roof while he thought. After a while, he used his cell phone to make a call, asking a few questions, listening intently to the replies. Then he made a shorter, second call to Perth. He checked his watch, sighed, and waited for the end of the hospital’s day shift.
The woman paused in the rear entry to open her umbrella before walking quickly into the parking lot.
“Mrs. Elder?”
She looked around. “Yes?”
“Constable Smith again. I have a few more questions.”
“But—”
“May I buy you a coffee? Captain Murphy’s is just around the corner.”
The woman stared at him, eyes wide.
“It would be better than going to the police station to talk.”
The eyes blinked and she nodded.
They sat at a quiet table away from the bar. Leonard ordered a stubby, Mrs. Elder a coffee. He smiled at the nervous woman. “You do know Daisy Williams, don’t you?”
Holding the cup in both hands, she said nothing. The black liquid quivered.
“You go out to her home when you know she won’t be there, because you’ve left money for her to get drunk. Every other weekend — the weekends you have off.”
She did not move. Leonard was reminded of a wallaby caught in the headlights of an approaching car. “You divorced John Elder three years ago in Perth, is that right?”
She nodded.
“Your maiden name is Wignall. Roberta Wignall Elder.”
Finally, “Yes.”
“You began working at the hospital six months ago. Is that when you came to Broome?”
“Yes.”
“What is it you’re looking for at Wignall Station?”
Her shoulders rose and fell on a deep breath and she sipped at the coffee. “Papers. They show that the station was bought and paid for by Rupert Wignall in 1951. He was my great-uncle.”
“But he was a squatter.”
A twist of irritation crossed her face. “That’s a lie! There are papers. The bill of sale is hidden at the station house.”
“Any change of title would have been filed.”
A shake of her head. “He never filed. He was going to. He just never got around to it, and then it was too late.” She set the cup down loudly on its saucer. “He paid money for that land!”
Most squatters didn’t — they simply took. And any money paid, Leonard guessed, would have been far less than the value of the land, even that long ago. “Has anyone else in the Wignall clan looked for the bill of sale?”
Her voice lost its defiance. “No.”
“Why now? Why you?”
“Because the station’s worth money I can damn well use! Money that belongs to me!”
“How much?”
Another deep breath. “A lot. Broome’s growing. A lot of people want land to build hotels and resorts on, and they’ll pay for it. Pay a fortune for that land.”
Leonard remembered the beach and the palm grove surrounding Daisy’s home. Mrs. Elder was right: It would be a beautiful site for a resort. But it was not hers. Leonard explained that even if there were a lost bill of sale, it had not been legally filed, and such a claim would at best only complicate any sale of the property. As he spoke, he saw the woman’s shoulders sink as if losing strength.
“I at least deserve something.” He scarcely heard her whisper. “My uncle settled it, he built it. It was stolen from him.”
“But it was taken from the Aboriginal owners. And you’ve found nothing to say otherwise. You have no claim at all to that property.”
She stared into her cup again. “You sound like the bloody judge, the bastard that gave half my life savings to my ex.”
“It was returned to the people your uncle took it from.”
“He bought it!”
“But you have no proof of that.” He studied her face. So this is what it came down to: sell the stolen land, take the money, and run. Bring in more hotels, more tourists, more restaurants that brought service jobs for the Aboriginals but would not welcome them at a table. “You can be penalized for trespass and for damage to the property. And enticing Daisy Williams to get drunk is a violation of the Aboriginal Protection Act.” He hoped there was such an act. It sounded good, anyway. “Do you know that you could face prison?” He again waited until, still staring into her coffee, she nodded. “Stop bringing money so Daisy Williams can get drunk. Stop damaging her house and frightening the woman. I will tell her about you, and if anything ever happens again, I will know who to look for. Is that clear?”
“I didn’t mean to frighten anyone.”
“It will stop right now!”
“Yes.”
She did not drink any more coffee. Leonard called for the bill and escorted her to her car. After one more warning, he watched her drive away into the gloomy Wet. Then he headed for the police station.
S. S. Dougald looked up as Leonard entered. “What’s this I hear you’re asking questions around town? What the bloody hell are you up to, Constable?”
“Looking into an Aboriginal matter, Senior Sergeant. It didn’t turn out to be anything worth writing up.”
“From now on, you bloody well inform me of all matters — Aboriginal or not — that take your official time. And you write it up. We are required to keep records of any and all complaints as well as our activities. In my shire you will comply with proper procedures!”
“Yessir. Were my reports satisfactory, Senior Sergeant?”
The grayhaired man grunted. “At least you can do that much.” He pulled a slip of paper from one of the slots of his inbox. “Argyle Police have asked for you. Something at the Warmun Aboriginal Community. Don’t know why the hell they want somebody who doesn’t know proper procedures.”
ALC Smith stifled his smile. “I’ll be on my way then, sir,” he said, and saluted smartly.
In the station parking lot, Leonard checked the back of the Toyota for his emergency gear: swag, cooking pot, tarp, water bags, tools, and tinned dog. The Senior Sergeant could have the proper procedures. Leonard knew his mission from long-ago times: shadow crimes called for shadow procedures.
Author’s Note: The author thanks Terry Thornett for his research.
Breathing a Fine Stone Mist
by Robert Gray
When she arrives at work, the letter is still on her desk. Emma has never received personal mail from the main office in Boston before. That the envelope bears no postage is worrisome. Somebody came all the way to Vermont and stopped by her little office but didn’t have the courage to stay and face her.
She taps the envelope against the desktop, then tears off one end. She pulls out a single sheet of paper and unfolds it — a form letter, with her name Emma Parker scrawled in after “Dear.”
The letter is brief. “Due to unforeseen economic challenges,” it begins, then cites “a marked downturn in both the national economy and Vermont tourist traffic during these uncertain times,” along with “other key factors” as the basis for the recent “extremely difficult and painful” decision by the board of directors to “cease all operations, both ongoing and proposed,” for the MillWorks Project as of a date that is less than a month away. The board “deeply regrets any inconvenience this decision will cause among its valued associates, and sincerely wishes all of you the very best of luck in the future. The board will always be deeply grateful for your loyalty, your fine work, and for your understanding of the current, extremely unfortunate situation.”