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Grace June Rae. She stared at the ceiling for a moment and then pointed a finger at me. ‘And that dog you said was the Caldwell one wasn’t. Took my sign down and threw it out, now I have to make another.’
    I blinked. ‘Oh, sorry. It just sounded like –’
    ‘Doesn’t mean it is.’
    ‘Go on then, Mum,’ said Karen, putting her mother’s chair away. ‘Give us the gory details about this murder.’
    ‘I already told you. They went for ride and the Majic bloke got done. That’s it.’
    ‘Okay.’ Karen laughed. ‘God, you really made that come alive, didn’t you? Come on, I’ll give you a lift home.’
    As if this was a cue, everybody began exchanging farewells and filing through the doorway. I put out my hand to stop Betty Rawlings as she passed. ‘Do you know if this story had any evidence, any witnesses? I mean, why did people think it wasn’t an accident?’
    ‘I’m not altogether sure, love. All’s I know is that my grandmother used to say it was over a woman. I didn’t take much notice. If you’re interested, though, I can ring my cousin Bernie; she’s got a memory like a steel trap. She might remember more of what our nan was on about. I’ll let you know.’
    ‘Thanks.’ I watched her stocky figure make its way up the aisle, past Sharon who was putting away the A-frame board. I thought of Mate Dragovic, coming all the way from the Ukraine with Petar Majic, jumping ship, prospecting for gold, striking it rich. And then finally, maybe, murdering his best friend. A man betrayed, a mate who wasn’t, a woman who had disappeared. Beloved indeed.
    *
    Three hours later and I was still thinking about Mate Dragovic, but now I was sitting at my kitchen bench and dressed in tartan pyjamas. The story, with its intrigue and romance and potential betrayal, had captured my imagination. But I was also being a little pragmatic, as these elements meant it was shaping up as fodder for an excellent column and, moreover, one that I could use to spruik the upcoming celebrations, thus fulfilling my duties both as columnist and useful citizen.
    I had reclaimed Abracadabra from Quinn, who was watching anime cartoons on her computer, and now had it propped open at the photo of Petar and Mate, paying a little more attention to the latter on this occasion. It was difficult to tell with their square, bulky suits, but he looked a little slimmer than his friend, less muscular. His skin was also lighter, as was his hair, which made the dark eyebrows seem like brushstrokes across the photo. Beneath these brows, his eyes were pewter marbles, meeting mine with an intensity that made it hard to believe he had been dead for about a hundred and fifty years.
    I got up to make myself another coffee and then returned to the bar stool, swinging idly as I pictured the fatal scene. The two men arguing over Beloved and then leaping astride their horses to ride furiously through the bush, scrubby grasses whipping their legs, hooves thudding against the dusty earth. Finally they come to a halt, sliding off to continue the argument as if it had never paused. The horses stand behind them, eyes wide with exhaustion, flanks shiny with sweat. Accusations are flung as the two men circle slowly, their jealousy given impetus by the fear – stomach-clenching, heart-stopping – that Beloved may choose the other. Moments later they close in, and moments after that one lies dead.
    I met Mate’s eyes again and knew that this was not premeditated, that as soon as the deed was done he would have given anything to take it back. Even his own life. And in a way he had, banishing himself from all that was familiar. I got up to fetch the phone book from the dresser, flicking it open to check for Dragovics in the area. None. Did Beloved leave with him? Perhaps that was why she had also become a ghost, leaving only a word on a gravestone that was itself short-lived.
    The phone rang just as I shut the phone book. I let it ring for a while, hoping Quinn