Читать книгу Imperfect Stranger - Elizabeth Oldfield - Страница 8

DANIELLE revolved the postcard stand. Which card should she send to James? As there were only two scenes, an aerial view of the wooded coastline and a close-up of a drunken-looking platypus, the choice was not large. She plumped for the platypus. James might not be too enamoured, but the aerial view was already being sent to her parents, her brother and his family, and a girlfriend.

It was two days later and, after a breakfast of orange juice, fresh fruit and bread rolls with local honey, Danielle had crossed the lobby and gone into what the Fan Palms brochure described as their ‘gift boutique’ to buy cards. Her eyes skimmed over small pyramids of baked beans, bottles of cough linctus, a solitary can of sunflower oil. In reality, the gift boutique was a not too well stocked general store and the majority of the trade which it attracted came from locals, who ambled in through an outside door, rather than the hotel residents.

As her gaze swung to a middle-aged couple who were talking earnestly to the woman behind the counter, Danielle gave a wry smile. What were they finding fault with now? There were only a dozen guests so personal traits had soon become evident, and the Swiss pair were complainers. They did not care for dining communally at a refectory table in the restaurant—which was, in fact, an alcove off the lobby—nor for the plain cooking, and they strongly objected to having to make their own coffee—instant coffee!—at the end of each meal. Danielle gave a mental shrug. None of this bothered her. She had been worried that ‘basic’ might translate as dirty or broken or stale, but the bed-linen was clean, bungalows and main building were adequately, if simply, furnished, and the food, though unimaginative, was fresh.

When the Swiss couple made an outraged remark about the lack of a swimming-pool and stalked out, she went to pay for her cards.

‘Good morning,’ she said, smiling at the dark-skinned, crinkly-haired assistant.

‘G’day,’ the woman replied, and perched her ample posterior on a stool. ‘Doing anything nice today?’

Whether it was the girl who cleaned the cabins, or the young waiter, or the elderly gentleman owner who acted as receptionist, bartender and part-time trimmer of hibiscus bushes, the staff at the Lodge always had time to chat, and no one chatted more than Wanitta. A plump, part-Aboriginal woman in her mid-forties, she seemed to know everything about everyone in the locality and, as customers were spasmodic and an audience hard to come by, was delighted to gossip to Danielle. Yesterday, after being regaled with stories of the antics of her five children, it had only taken one query about people living in the remoter stretches of the rainforest for Wanitta to proceed to give chapter and verse. No mention was made of marijuana but, as Danielle did not want to appear too noticeably interested too soon, she had let the subject lie. An enquiry could be made later.

The woman had not mentioned the mysterious Flynn either, and again she had not enquired; though her theory about him had been discarded. Danielle had recognised that the chance of her happening upon a drug dealer on her very first day in the forest did not so much rate as slim, but would be an amazing fluke. And life didn’t work that way. Journalistic breaks didn’t occur that easily. The idea had been wishful thinking. All right, the tall Australian was secretive, but his secrecy could be explained by a hundred and one perfectly innocent reasons. A lot of time had been spent speculating on those reasons, too much time, and so this morning she intended to ask Wanitta about him. She would doubtless be told something humdrum, like he was an insurance salesman avoiding the clutches of some predatory female, which would enable her to dismiss the man from her mind. Forever.

‘I thought I’d go for a drive,’ Danielle replied, as she passed over the money for her postcards. She pulled a face. ‘Though I’m wary of the Land Rover.’

‘It’s crook?’

‘Off and on.’

‘The nearest motor mechanic’d be Bruce out at the garage on the coast road,’ Wanitta told her, handing back the change, ‘but the poor bloke’s in hospital with an ulcer, so if you did break down getting things fixed’d be tricky.’

‘Then let’s hope I don’t,’ Danielle said, and drew in a breath. ‘Do you know a man-?’

‘Talking about the garage,’ Wanitta rattled on, ‘if you take the track inland just beyond it and drive up towards the hills, you eventually come to that New Agers’ commune which I was telling you about.’

‘Run by a bearded man?’ she asked, recalling the previous day’s spiel and the notes she had made on her return to her bungalow.

‘Right. Alec—that’s the guy’s name—reckons they want to live in tune with nature and absorb its tranquillity—’ Wanitta rolled chocolate-brown eyes ‘—and they’ll have no trouble doing it way out there. The place was originally set up by a wealthy Texan evangelist as a religious retreat, but he found it too remote and Alec and his lot moved in.’ Her gossiping ceased as the bell rang on the outside door and a tall man in a black openthroated shirt and faded jeans strode in. ‘G’day,’ she said.

He nodded. ‘Hi.’

Danielle looked at the new customer in surprise. It was Flynn. Something jumped inside her. She had persuaded herself that two days ago she must have suffered a brainstorm and that, in reality, her lunch guest had been nowhere near as attractive as she had imagined, but he was just as male, just as virile, packed just as irritating a punch—despite his jaw being covered with even thicker black stubble. Danielle frowned. She could not think who it was, but he reminded her of someone.

Turning to her, Flynn gave a sardonic bow. ‘Why, if it isn’t Miss Tremayne. I can barely conceal my glee. Squashed, starved or drowned anyone recently?’

Danielle’s blood temperature started to rise. As Clive Bredhauer appeared to have written her off as a ‘pretty little thing’, so Flynn clearly regarded her as that most clichéd of beings, the ‘daffy lady driver’. How sexist! How patronising! How mistaken!

‘There’ve been no more casualties,’ she replied, and thrust him a mutinous look, ‘though, if pushed, I could be tempted into a little strangulation.’

‘And risk breaking a manicured nail on those lilywhite hands?’ He shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t try it.’

‘Maybe not,’ she agreed. ‘I doubt the management would welcome one of their guests committing murder on the premises.’

His brows soared. ‘You’re staying here, at the Fan Palms Lodge?’ Flynn enquired.

Danielle’s mouth thinned. She might have been surprised to see him, but he was obviously staggered to discover that she was a resident, astounded to find Miss Hoity-Toity slumming it!

‘I am,’ she replied, and looked past him through the shop window to where ten or so timber bungalows were spread out across the hillside. With lots of open latticework, a fan swishing overhead and a shower which spouted only tepid water, the bungalows were simple, but they were also breezy and charming. ‘The Lodge may be a little run-down, but it’s in an inoffensive and lackadaisical kind of a way, and I like it,’ Danielle declared pugnaciously.

If he had argued she would have done battle, but Flynn merely shrugged.

‘Have you taken many photographs?’ he enquired.

Photographs? What was he talking about? Danielle wondered. She was no snapshot addict.

‘None,’ she replied.

He frowned. ‘But I understood you needed them to accompany your articles.’

‘Oh…yes,’ she said, scolding herself for having forgotten her pretence and muffing his question. ‘But before I got busy with my camera it seemed sensible to learn something about the area, so—’ Danielle smiled at the shop assistant who was openly listening ‘—I’ve been talking to Wanitta.’

‘I’ve told her about all the folks who live around here,’ the woman explained garrulously.

Flynn folded muscled arms across his chest. ‘Isn’t it the flora and fauna which you’re interested in?’ he demanded.

Danielle gave a silent scream. Wanitta’s chattering tongue might have provided her with masses of background information, yet it had its disadvantages in that her lies would now need to be extended; and she did not feel comfortable lying. On the contrary, she always told the truth. It was the way her parents had brought her up and the way she operated.

‘Plus the people,’ Danielle declared, crossing mental fingers. ‘I thought that if I heard of anyone with a particularly interesting tale to tell, I could interview them and write something.’

Flynn’s grey gaze narrowed. ‘And have you heard of anyone interesting?’ he enquired.

‘Er—’ she plucked an answer out of the air ‘—the commune could be a possibility.’

He stood erect. ‘Commune? Which commune?’ he demanded, his voice taking on a sharper edge.

‘You’re renting the Mears’ house?’ Wanitta intruded. He nodded. ‘If you continue on down the same track for around another ten kilometres there’s a small commune of New Age types, or flower people, or—’ she waved a vague hand ‘—something. They keep a very low profile which is why hardly anyone’s aware of them.’

‘Do you know who lives at the commune?’ Flynn asked.

‘I haven’t seen them all myself, but I understand there’s a couple of middle-aged women, two youths, and Alec and his wife and their two kids. Maybe you’ve spotted a chunky bloke with a beard driving a large white van?’ He nodded again. ‘That’s Alec, he’s the leading light and does most of the shopping. What can I get for you?’ Wanitta asked, suddenly reminded.

For a moment, Flynn seemed distracted. ‘Do you have any demijohns of water? I usually carry one in the jeep and I’ve run out’

‘No worries, there’re supplies over in the store,’ she told him. ‘How many would you like?’

‘Two, please.’ As the woman disappeared, Flynn turned back to Danielle. ‘You seem to have a flair for getting people to talk to you,’ he remarked.

She did have a flair, which had helped her climb the journalistic ladder so rapidly, but she was not going to own up to it.

‘Wanitta doesn’t need any coaxing to talk,’ she dismissed.

‘But you’ve obviously learned a lot in a short time,’ he persisted. ‘You knew about the commune…’ Flynn stopped, shaking off whatever thoughts he had been thinking. ‘I find it amazing that a little out-of-the way place like the Fan Palms Lodge should have travel agent connections as far afield as England,’ he continued.

So that was why he had been so surprised to find her in residence? Danielle cast a glance out cross the forecourt to the store shed. It was fortunate he had not mentioned her supposed international origin in Wanitta’s presence, because the shop assistant may know she had flown up from Melbourne and could have said so. Eager to forestall any further questions and needing their conversation to take a new direction, Danielle swept a hand down from her shoulder to her thigh.

‘As you can see, today I’m dressed for the rainforest,’ she said brightly, but as his eyes started to travel over her candy pink T-shirt and pale blue denim shorts she found herself wishing she had kept quiet By drawing his attention to her appearance she had given him an open invitation to inspect her, and Flynn’s inspection was cool and deliberate and disturbing. It made her aware of how the pink cotton clung to the high rounded curves of her breasts and that the shorts, bought in a hurry and not tried on, were close-fitting and a touch too short. Danielle longed to tug down on the legs, but refused to give him the satisfaction. He might have amused himself by unsettling her two days ago, but she would not let him realise he had unsettled her again. For what seemed a lifetime Flynn stood motionless and intent, like a scientist examining a specimen, then he raised silver-grey eyes to hers.

‘A cross between a girl scout and Pet of the Month,’ he declared.

Danielle gritted her teeth. Her shorts might be skimpy, but they were not that skimpy. ‘I do not consider—’ she began, with hauteur.

Raising a hand, Flynn fended off her intervention. ‘You’re right and I’m wrong, scrub the girl scout bit. You on your hands and knees would make a delicious centrefold.’

‘What!’

‘With backside turned temptingly towards the camera, of course. Two demijohns are heavy,’ he went on, striding towards the door. ‘I’d better go and help. Have a nice day.’

Danielle answered his grin with a razor of a smile. ‘And you,’ she replied.

A couple of minutes later, she saw him putting the flagons of water into his jeep and handing over money. It must have been the exact amount, for as Wanitta came back into the shop Flynn swung into the driver’s seat, kissed his fingers to her in a devilish farewell, and drove away.

‘Who is that?’ Danielle enquired.

‘He’s only been in a couple of times so I couldn’t tell you his name,’ Wanitta said, and gave her a puzzled look, ‘but I thought you knew him.’

She shook her head. ‘We met briefly when I was on my way here and he said he was called Flynn, just Flynn, that’s all. You mentioned him renting a house,’ she carried on. ‘How long has he been there?’

‘A month, and he’s taken it for three. He’s like the New Age lot, keeps a low profile, though he travels into Port Douglas twice a week, every Tuesday and Thursday,’ the shop assistant informed her, ‘so I guess he’ll be heading there now.’

‘What does he go for?’ she asked.

‘Dunno. At first I thought he might be visiting a bar, but he doesn’t drink. Funny that, in this heat most blokes enjoy a snort or two of blue—of beer—but when I told him we’d had a delivery of tinnies he said he never touched alcohol.’

Danielle’s mind went back. The can she had flattened from Flynn’s lunch had been a soft drink.

‘He reminds me of someone,’ she said, frowning.

‘And me.’ Wanitta perched herself on her stool again. ‘Perhaps he’s an actor.’

Danielle gave a startled laugh. Although when thinking about Flynn she had come up with all manner of lifestyles, his being on the stage was not one of them.

‘He’s got the looks for it,’ the shop assistant declared. ‘He’s a heart-throb now and he must’ve been real pretty when he was young. He’s got the name for an actor too. Flynn, like Errol Flynn—that bloke was Australian, y’know. Course he’s long gone, but I can remember my mother sighing over him and…’ She broke off as the Swiss couple marched into the shop. ‘G’day again,’ she said.

Smiling, Danielle backed away. ‘I’ll see you later.’

* * *

The Land Rover ticked over, coughed and cut out. Danielle muttered an imprecation beneath her breath and tried again. This time a steady thrum was established. As she swung off the Lodge’s gravelled forecourt and on to the road, her brow furrowed. It was now clear that the engine dying could not be blamed on her, but why did it die? Danielle sighed. She did not have a clue and, as there was no motor mechanic available to consult, all she could do was hope that the intermittent problem would somehow solve itself.

She did not have a clue about Flynn either, Danielle mused, as she drove along. Some people you could read like a book, but with him it was impossible even to make out the title. Might he be an actor? To her he did not seem the type—and if he was one of any standing, surely she would know?—yet a desire to avoid identification and thus keep away from the limelight would explain his evasions. Danielle nibbled at her lip. Rather than Flynn reminding her of someone, might she have seen a photograph of him? Suddenly that seemed more likely. But where and when? She had a knack of remembering names and faces, yet, although she tried hard to jog her memory, nothing came.

On reaching the coast road, Danielle turned north. Yesterday she had travelled south, initially heading back in the direction of the ferry before swinging off to explore a succession of dirt tracks. Some had ended at campsites, some at dwellings, while others had gone on for miles before looping back on to the road, but all had cut through dense forest which had seemed bereft of marijuana-growing potential. Today, she planned to drive some of the way up the track which led eventually to the commune. Danielle made a face. It would be another wasted effort, but if Clive Bredhauer should want to know how ‘poppet’ had spent her time, at least she would have something to report.

The track proved to be another of the hard-baked, grossly uncomfortable variety, and after ten minutes of being jounced around Danielle began to wonder if her journey was really necessary or whether she should do a three-point turn at the first opportunity and retreat. She was dithering when, ahead among the trees, she saw a pair of stone gate-posts at the start of a metalled drive. A letterbox was incorporated in one of the posts, with a nameplate fixed below, and, driving up, Danielle peered out at it.

‘Mears’, she read.

Her interest roused, she hesitated for a moment then swung in between the gate-posts. Flynn had gone to Port Douglas, so she would take a quick peek and see what kind of a property it was he had rented. Admittedly she could be accused of nosiness, but the man intrigued her and there was no harm in it. The drive travelled beneath a shadowy archway of trees then curved, bringing her out into a large cleared grassy area in the middle of which stood a house. Danielle blinked against the sunshine. All the other houses she had seen in the rainforest had been relatively humble, corrugated-iron-roofed bungalows and she had assumed that Flynn would be living in yet another, but ahead of her was a pristine white two-storey building, with black shutters framing the windows, shiny black glossed front door, and a separate garage block off to one side. The grass around the house was cut into neat lawns, interspersed with clusters of white frangipani and pink oleander. As Danielle motored on, she frowned. She had underestimated the mystery man.

Halting where the drive spread into a semi-circle in front of the house, she climbed down. The exterior of the Mears’ residence was ordered, affluent and impressive; what did it look like inside? Danielle crossed to a picture window on the right of the front door and raised a hand to her eyes.

‘Tasty,’ she muttered.

She was looking into a spacious L-shaped livingroom, with white walls and satiny wooden floors covered with rich kilim rugs. Three pistachio-coloured sofas formed a seating area around a smoked-glass coffeetable which carried a bowl of exquisitely carved jade flowers. She saw pale shaded Thai celadon lamps, the statue of a golden Chinese horse, and, standing guard at a door which stood half-open into what must be the hall, two enormous filigree brass tusks. Danielle drew back. If Flynn had rented such a chic and expensively furnished house for three months, he could not be short of money. Drug dealers have money, whispered a sneaky little voice inside her head.

At the end of the room was another picture window and, interested to see how the hidden bar of the L was furnished, she made her way around to the rear of the house. A veranda hung with bougainvillaea which exploded in fireworks of purple and pink stretched across the full width, and she stepped gratefully into its shade. Peering in again, Danielle saw a leather-topped desk, swivel chair and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves; the bar of the L was a stylish study area. She tilted her head. There were some typewritten papers on the desk; it would be interesting to know what they said. Walking to the next window which opened on to the dining-room, Danielle gave a wistful sigh. The limed oak table, long low sideboard and oyster velvet upholstered chairs were to die for.