Daphne considered her role as a celebrant to be similar to any professional caregiver. Doctors, counsellors, lawyers, clergy. In some circumstances in a life, a person might say or do something they wanted kept private. Times when emotions ran high. It was a mental balancing act to know when to share what she’d seen and heard. Apart from her chat with Ilona, there’d been others present. Others who would be questioned as well. Nothing to keep a secret.

  “Sonia was very upset. Angry. Mostly at her mother which is quite normal under the circumstances.”

  Adam nodded. “Normal for Sonia. She isn’t afraid to speak her mind.”

  At least her behaviour was unremarkable. No need to get into her comments about being pleased Edwina was dead.

  “In that case, then nothing felt out of place. When I returned this afternoon, on Fred’s request, I met a number of other people. Apparently, the pallbearers were having a little meet up first.”

  “Who was present?” Adam wrote in his notepad.

  “Fred. Tracy. Desmond Rogers. Zeke. Sorry, I don’t know his surname. Poor Petra West. And Amanda Sinclair.”

  Did I just recall all those names? Go me!

  Adam glanced up. “Amanda was there?”

  “She arrived last.”

  “But she wasn’t a pallbearer.” He made a note. “Any observations about that part of the day?”

  Let me think.

  Petra getting stuck into the food early. Tracy not wanting Amanda to have a glass of champagne. The tray dropping after a minor accident. Cross words spoken. Zeke cutting himself.

  But is any of it relevant?

  “I got the impression Amanda wasn’t welcome there by some people. But I’m a stranger to town and funerals are times of great stress for those involved.”

  “You are a discreet person, Mrs Jones,” Adam said.

  “Please call me Daphne. I just had a thought about Petra. She told me—at the funeral home—that I should try the rhubarb and apricot jam on a scone and that she just had. I do hope that isn’t why she fell ill. Food poisoning. Or something worse.”

  “Something worse? Such as?” Adam put away his notepad to give Daphne his full attention.

  Back in Little Bridges, after the events at the wedding she’d officiated, Daphne had tried to tell her suspicions to the police officer who’d been first on the scene. It had been less than successful, leaving Daphne feeling she was not being taken seriously, or worse—that her observations were of no value. This was different, because the body in question was deceased before Daphne and John arrived in town. But what if this otherwise pleasant officer also considered she should mind her own business?

  Her throat tightened up.

  As if he could read her mind, John gently took her water bottle from her hand and undid the lid before giving it back with a soft, “Have a drink.”

  Grateful for the minute to think and her husband’s sensitive response, Daphne sipped.

  “It might be a while before we get an update on Petra West, so I’ll ask Fred to put aside the—rhubarb jam?” Adam asked.

  “Rhubarb and apricot jam,” Daphne corrected. “I’m sure I’m only speculating but what if something’s wrong with it?”

  “Not much for rhubarb but I imagine other people are,” Adam said. “Best to be safe.”

  His quiet agreement boosted her spirits a little.

  “What will happen now, Adam? Who is looking for the deceased?” Daphne asked. “Is there anything we can do to help?”

  Adam’s phone rang. “Might be able to tell you in a min. Be right back.” He wandered off, answering as he walked.

  Fred, Zeke, and another of Fred’s employees worked in unison to roll the casket onto its base. The other police officer was speaking with Sonia, who had her back turned to the scene. There was nobody else around.

  “Daphne, John. Thanks for waiting.” Adam slid his phone into a pocket as he re-joined them. “That was the funeral home. I’ve asked them to locate and quarantine the jam in question. There’s been a search of the premises and unfortunately, no sign of the deceased. There are no unaccounted-for caskets and no other clients.” He ran a hand through his non-existent hair. “I’m heading over there now, and Fred can come with me. Bodies don’t just disappear.”

  John spoke. “Are we good to go back to our caravan?”

  “Yes. I’ll grab your contact details in case I need to follow up with any other questions but for now, please try to enjoy our little town. The agricultural show begins this afternoon which is always fun.”

  After swapping cards, Adam returned to the grave. He spoke to Fred, whose shoulders visibly dropped. The other police officer was finished with Sonia, who’d moved into some shade and sat on the grass. Her eyes had rarely left the casket anytime Daphne looked her way.

  “Should I go and see if she needs to talk, John?”

  “What if we go home? Give you a chance to freshen up and take a breather. A cup of tea.”

  Tea did sound nice. Being somewhere away from the shock of the last hour sounded even nicer. This funeral wasn’t over. They’d find Edwina. And reschedule. And as long as it didn’t interfere with the wedding she was heading to, she’d be ready to help Edwina go to her final resting place.

  As long as they can find her.

  SIX

  SIDE TRIP

  “Tea is ready,” John called as he carried the pot to the table in Bluebell. Two cups and saucers were already in place as well as some lemon tarts he’d found in the fridge. Daphne had barely eaten today and with all the upset at the funeral, a little treat wouldn’t go astray.

  “Lemon tarts! Good idea.” Daphne slid behind the table. She’d changed into what she often called her ‘cosy’ clothes—three quarter length loose pants and a pretty blouse. She looked much more comfortable like this than in her suit on a hot day, as smart and professional as it was.

  John joined her at the table and poured the tea. “What an afternoon!”

  “Indeed. And I have a feeling this will keep us here longer than expected, so apologies in advance.”

  “There is nothing to apologise for, Daph. What are the odds of something like this happening?”

  “About the same as the events in Little Bridges. We went there for the sole purpose of me officiating a wedding and ended up staying far longer thanks to the treacherous behaviour of people who had murder on their minds.” Daphne picked up one of the tarts. “You should see all the food laid out at the funeral home for the wake. No tarts, though.”

  “When you were talking to Leading Senior Constable Smith, I got the feeling you were being careful what you said about the pre-funeral meeting.” John poured some tea. “I imagine in a small town where everybody knows everyone, there are old rivalries as well as friendships, and losing a valued member of the community might bring out some ill feelings. And I didn’t mean to make that pun.”

  Daphne nodded. “Well, somebody did lose Edwina, quite literally.”

  For a few minutes they sipped their tea and each enjoyed a lemon tart. Cars filled with families periodically drove past Bluebell along the dirt track, perhaps to visit the show which was beginning today.

  “That hit the spot,” Daphne said. “What you said earlier is true. As much as I want to help, I’m rather worried about saying too much. It isn’t as though there’s been a murder or anything, just a missing body. And an ill woman, of course. But apart from wondering if poor Petra was affected by something in the jam, I really don’t know if anything else that happened has anything to do with Edwina’s disappearance.”

  “I’m sure you would say if you had suspicions.”

  “I would. It was just a bit odd when Amanda Sinclair arrived.” Daphne’s brow furrowed. “She seemed hesitant about coming into the room but muttered something in response to Tracy’s toast. And it wasn’t very complimentary to Edwina. Tracy was quite scathing to Amanda when the champagne glasses ended up on the floor.”

  John opened his mouth to ask what happened just as her phone beeped. He closed it again as she read the message.

  “It’s from Fred. Says police have a lead on Edwina and can we stay for a possible rescheduling of the funeral for tomorrow, pending the outcome.”

  “That’s positive. Say yes, of course. We were going to be here tonight so if this is resolved then you’ll still get to fulfil your appointment.” He reached over the table and took one of Daphne’s hands. “I know how important it is to you. Finishing your job.”

  “I hate to think of someone not being properly laid to rest, not to mention what her friends and family are going through with all of this.”

  And because you are driven to make those around you happy.

  “Another cup of tea? Then, how about a visit to this show in Shady Bend?”

  When they’d returned to Bluebell earlier, Daphne had glanced at their bed with a small sigh. She was tired. They’d been travelling for a few weeks, and she wasn’t quite accustomed to the nomadic life they followed. Although there was much to enjoy about visiting a new place once or twice a week, there were moments she longed for more stability again. A bit less unpredictability.

  Be adventurous, Daph!

  She managed to sweet-talk herself into a better frame of mind and now, as John found a parking spot among rows of cars in a paddock, she found herself looking forward to the rest of the day. The agricultural show was held on a large sports ground surrounded by bushland. According to the sign as they’d driven in, the show had only opened an hour ago and would end at midnight on Saturday. The air was filled with music and laughter, along with some excited squeals from people on carnival rides, as she and John headed to the main entrance.

  “Quite a few people already here.” John had changed into shorts and a shirt and wore the floppy white hat he favoured wearing when fishing. “Can’t remember the last time we went to a show.”

  We haven’t. Not together, anyway.

  “I think you took a couple of our foster family over to the one in Green Bay,” she said. Her heart was beating a bit too fast and she slid her arm through John’s. “What shall we do first?”

  “What if we see what’s on in the main arena and then plan it all out? Looks like it’s straight ahead.” John paid for their tickets and accepted a small booklet which he slipped into his top pocket.

  Arm in arm, they followed the road past old buildings on one side and the entry to the carnival on the other. Country agricultural shows in Australia were an old tradition from the times of farmers and growers competing for more than pride of what they produced, but to find new markets and showcase their animals and goods to buyers. Over time, entertainment in the form of travelling side shows—carnivals—became a common addition, which was anticipated by young and old alike.

  “I do love seeing the horses,” Daphne said as the main ground opened up ahead. On perfectly manicured grass, which wouldn’t stay that way for long, three rings were marked with temporary roping. In one, judging was underway of a breed of cattle. Led by white-coated handlers, the group of red cattle stood calmly as a trio of judges made notes. Another ring was empty, but the third was set up for show jumping and riders, without their mounts, walked the course.

  They stopped in the shade of a grandstand and John took out the booklet.

  “Let’s see what’s what.” He opened it up to a map and then squinted around the ground. “All the buildings around the perimeter are in use. There’s a cat show, oh, but that doesn’t begin until tomorrow. Livestock apart, there are woodchopping competitions a bit further along from here. They run pretty much every day with the grand final on Saturday. There’s an art show.”

  “Like the sound of that.”

  “Agree. There’s the craft pavilion which has items for sale. And the food hall. Local produce. Baking competitions. Preserves and the like.”

  What had Tracy said earlier? Preliminary judging started today.

  “I think we should check it all out, love. Not like we have to be anywhere.”

  They doubled back for a few metres then turned left onto a wide and busy hard dirt path. Families, couples, and groups of teens bustled along in both directions, occasionally stepping aside to allow a horse and rider to cross, or make way for an official vehicle to slowly nose through.

  The sting was leaving the air as the sun dropped behind the tall trees, making the late afternoon pleasant. Behind them the music and screams were less intrusive as they put the grandstand between themselves and the carnival. Daphne rotated her shoulders. The carnival wasn’t going to hurt her, and this was a good opportunity to send whatever old memories had emerged right back where they belonged. Hidden.

  “Art show first?”

  “Perfect.”

  After stepping through the open double doors of a stone building, Daphne and John stopped for a moment for their eyes to adjust to the darker interior. There was a hush in here reminiscent of a library. Of the few people wandering, most wore official’s vests. The room was split into art in its different mediums, and a section at the far end which immediately took John’s attention. Photography.

  “Hope you don’t mind if we wander down there first?” John was already on his way.

  “I’ll catch up.”

  John’s interest in photography was a growing passion as he recorded their journey in images. More and more he was experimenting with different techniques using apps on his phone. It was all above her understanding, not because she wasn’t smart enough to follow what he did, but because it wasn’t fascinating to her as it was to him.

  Much as she tried to show her interest, he would enjoy the exhibition more on his own.

  She gazed around. Along one side were large easels holding canvases with oil paintings. A table was filled with smaller easels and lots of watercolours. And another table displayed miniatures at one end and an eclectic mix of entries at the other.

  The oil paintings ranged from quite stunning to less than ordinary, but Daphne believed art was in the eye of the beholder. It was just that some didn’t appeal to her. Perhaps she’d been spoilt over the years, for Rivers End—their home for many years—had two talented artists, Martin Blake and his grandfather, Thomas. Martin specialised in abstracts but was just as capable of producing wonderful portraits. Thomas was known for his emotion-charged seascapes: haunting work which was sought-after even decades after he’d completed it.

  Almost at the end of the row was a painting of a woman. It wasn’t particularly well executed—in Daphne’s opinion—but it was interesting. The woman was staring in a mirror. She was older. Perhaps in her sixties, hair piled on top of her head in a neat bun and her eyes serious. Even angry. Her reflection, though, smiled back at her, the eyes alive with love and happiness. Quite the contrast.

  “As conflicted as the woman herself.”

  Daphne hadn’t noticed anyone close by and turned to the man standing to her right. Desmond, leaning on a cane.

  “Hello. How is your ankle?”

  He grimaced. “Hurts. But just a bad twist thanks to Miss West.”

  Rather than point out that Petra was hardly in a condition to have deliberately harmed him when she collapsed, Daphne gestured to the painting.

  “Someone you know?”

  Desmond snorted. “Yes. My painting, not that it matters or will win anything. Should have entered it into the Archibald instead.”

  Australia’s premier art award might be a bit out of the league of this piece, but there was clearly more to this than Desmond’s throwaway comment. Something about the woman was familiar. The expression reminded her of someone she’d met. Someone much younger.

  “There’s a lot of love in this painting, Mr Rogers. And if you painted it, then you certainly portray some intense feelings for the subject.”

  Eyes back on Desmond, Daphne sensed a tension in the man. His mouth was in a straight line, lips hard together. And a muscle in his cheek twitched. As though he was considering her assessment, he stared at the painting.

  “You are seeing something that isn’t there, Mrs Jones. My neighbour she was, but I had no love for the woman.”

  “This is Edwina?”

  He nodded. “This is Edwina.”

  SEVEN

  ART, OR ARTFUL?

  Edwina Drinkwater—or, at least, her likeness according to Desmond—was an older version of Sonia, once Daphne took another look with the new information. The same eyes, at least the angry ones.

  “Have you been her neighbour for long?” she asked.

  “Too long. Decades.”

  “I am curious.” Daphne turned her back on the painting to address Desmond. “I’m being personal, but why paint her if you didn’t get on with her?”

  Desmond shrugged. “She was two-faced and it appealed to the artist in me to capture it in paint. Edwina hated it. Told me I shouldn’t have taken her image without permission and she’d sue me if I showed another soul.” He suddenly flashed a row of ragged teeth in a rather fearsome smile. “Thought she’d blow a fuse when I said I was entering it in this and every art show I could get to.”

  “What about Sonia? Does she agree with her mother?”

  “She doesn’t agree with anyone. But I think she quite likes this painting.” Desmond took his phone from a pocket. “Another message. Group chat never ends.”

  Daphne looked at the painting again as he tapped on his phone. There was a detail she’d not noticed before. The background was faded out a bit but looked like shelves and a counter. A shop? And perhaps those were jars on the shelves. In the reflection was a narrow bottle like one for sauce but it wasn’t replicated where it should have been.

  “Whoever thought they knew where she’d gone to was wrong,” Desmond announced.

  “Where Edwina is?”

  “Stupid idea to go off looking in the bush. Who’d drag a body out of a casket and leave it lying around under a tree?”

  “Is that what they thought?”

  “Police got an idea this was some kind of prank. Youngsters having a bit of fun, but why would they even bother? Not easy to pick up an embalmed body let alone carry it any distance.” He shuddered. “Edwina was probably rejected by the afterlife, rose from the dead, and is on her way home.”