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any noise would have been drowned out by the conversation now taking place. Quinn continued to text as we walked, no doubt catching up on the fifteen minutes she had been incommunicado. I stopped at the bathroom, leaving Quinn outside, and then folded myself forward as I sat down, staring at the tiled floor. I wondered if Deb Taylor would mention to her sister that she had run into me today, and whether Tessa would feel even a frisson of guilt. Or perhaps she would simply take it in her stride. Oh, really, dahling? How awkward. Then she would sashay over to their designer kitchen to pour margaritas, which she would take to the balcony of the tenth-floor Gold Coast apartment. Sinking down into a chaise longue to enjoy the sun dipping into a diamond-sprinkled coastline. With my husband.

Chapter Three
    I saw your picture on your blog and I think you look real hot for a middle-aged broad. Plus your head looks like it’s covered in pubic hair. I like that.
     
    We covered Anna Funder that afternoon, a recent winner of the Miles Franklin Award and the writer of brick-sized tomes. The choice received a mixed reception with about half the book club members adoring, and a matching number abhorring. There did not seem to be any in between. A truce was eventually called and we moved on to general criticism of some prize committees for prioritising prose over plot. This being a particular dislike of mine, I was kept happily occupied until the group broke up just before closing time. We chose local history or memoir for the following week, individual choice, in honour of the commemorations. Which was when I remembered Petar Majic.
    ‘One more question, out of left field. Does anybody know anything about our illustrious founder having a partner? Petar Majic? Maybe a little bit behind the scenes?’
    ‘He was gay?’ asked Elsa Poxleitner, pausing as she stacked chairs against the wall.
    I frowned. ‘Who said he was gay?’
    ‘You said he had a partner. That’s like saying he’s gay.’
    ‘Really?’ asked Karen Rawlings, who worked at the community centre. ‘So when you asked me to partner you in tennis last week, you were letting me know you’re interested?’
    ‘Certainly not!’ Elsa took a step backwards, as if Karen might be overcome with desire. ‘I don’t do that sort of thing! I have a husband!’
    ‘But not a partner? Sounds like repressed sexuality. You need to spread your wings.’
    ‘Fighting. Visual. Images,’ said Lyn Russo, rather amusingly for her. She turned to me. ‘So I hear that your Quinn and my Griffin have become something of an item.’
    I smiled noncommittally. That must be the Griffo of the texts. I tried to remember what Griffin Russo looked like but could only recall a knobbly-kneed boy with a perpetually damp nose. I hoped that the latter at least had been rectified in the intervening years.
    ‘He was murdered, you know,’ said Betty Rawlings, Karen’s mother, who was sitting solidly in one of the only two chairs that remained unstacked. Beside her Grace June Rae nodded agreement.
    This got everybody’s attention, even Elsa Poxleitner, who was still protesting her heterosexuality. I frowned. ‘I thought he fell off his horse. Who would have killed him?’
    Betty glanced towards the door, as if the murderer might be listening. ‘Some other bloke. I suppose the one that came over with him, from wherever they came. Everyone knew. Two men go for a ride, only one comes back. You do the maths.’
    ‘I hate maths,’ said Lyn Russo. ‘Nasty stuff. Never use it.’
    I was still frowning. ‘But that doesn’t make it murder. It still could have been an accident. Besides, who told you this?’
    ‘My nan. She wasn’t the type to exaggerate.’ Betty paused to nod approvingly. She rose slowly to her feet. ‘Called a spade a spade, she did. She had it from her mother.’
    ‘Calling a spade a spade?’
    ‘No, the stuff about the murder.’
    ‘Can’t remember who I heard it from,’ mused