Imperfect Stranger

‘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.