Free Bay of Fires by Poppy Gee

called.
    He didn’t notice the leather handbag on the table until after he spoke.
    “I might as well show my face.” Jane leaned the broom against the wall. She wore an ironed black blouse tucked into her tight jeans and a slick of coral lipstick on her lips.
    “I don’t usually bother with these things,” she told him as they walked down the hill, her fluttering fingers tracing her bag’s worn leather. “Not my cup of tea.”
    They paused at the edge of the park. On the beach beyond, children were playing cricket. Hall breathed in the tepid sea air. It was laced with the salty garlic aroma of barbecuing seafood. Laughter and conversation drifted up. He quickly counted around thirty people, lounging in deck chairs, cross-legged on picnic rugs, or standing sloshing ice in plastic cups. Their curiosity was shameless. He could imagine what they were thinking as they stared at the woman in her cowboy boots and lipstick and the freshly showered journalist beside her. Hall tried to look friendly.
    Jane dug her elbow into his waist. “Watch out, you’ll be the news yourself tomorrow. You and me both.”
      
    Hall had a good memory for names. He recognized most of the people from the emu parade and the door knock he had done immediately after it. There was John Avery and his wife, Felicity, or Flip as she had insisted. Simone (she pronounced it Sim-mon) was a blond American woman, who was in fact the mother of the young man. She was very friendly and had given him a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice when he knocked on the door of her holiday house. The shop owner was Don Gunn and the attractive woman with him was his wife, Pamela. She had invited Hall to the Abalone Bake when he was in the shop earlier that day.
    Pamela waved. Carrying two plates she marched over, shaking her hair out from behind her ears.
    “Flip is collecting the money.” Pamela’s gold bracelets jingled. “It’s seven dollars a plate. I already paid for yours, Hall.”
    On the plastic plate she handed Hall was a pile of what looked like hot moist shreds of curly leather and a slice of lemon.
    “I won’t have any, thanks, Pamela.” Jane rummaged in her handbag.
    “You’re funny, Jane,” Pamela said. “Coming to our Abalone Bake and not eating.”
    “I didn’t say I wasn’t eating. I’ll have a sausage. Just not that. It’s disgusting.” Jane strode down the slope, an unlit cigarette between her fingers.
    “She’s had a hard life,” Pamela told Hall. “I’m always a little bit careful what I say when I speak to Jane. She upsets easily.”
    Through introductions and small talk, Pamela’s hand remained firmly on Hall’s arm and her cushiony breast kept bumping against him. She did most of the talking while he nodded, chewing and chewing a strip of abalone. It was gristlier than the toughest calamari he had ever eaten.
    “Wash it down, mate.” John pushed a glass of red wine into Hall’s hand and smiled with porcelain veneers that were too white for his softening face. “Did you learn anything today?”
    Hall was aware people were waiting for his response. He shrugged in a noncommittal way and sipped the wine.
    “I wonder if the murderer is here now?” said the young guy who had pointed out the boats to Hall at the emu parade.
    “That’s not funny, Sam,” Pamela said. “Don’t even joke about it.”
    “Defensive, Pamela,” Sam said. “What are you hiding?”
    “Don’t be ridiculous.” Pamela bristled.
    For a moment Pamela reminded Hall of Laura’s good friend Sue, an antiques and oddities dealer who wore pearls and often took offense at harmless banter. Hall had tried to avoid Sue whenever Laura dragged him along to social events that required partners.
    “Forget the murder for a minute. We think you should do a story on Erica,” Flip said.
    Hall looked from Flip to Pamela. They wore similar pastel-colored shirts with the collars turned up and gold fob chains. Even their hair was cut in similar