A Millionaire For Molly

Which wasn’t much, as Molly had thought when Sam had come home with yet another set of bruises. He laid himself open to pain, and if he took his frog to school there were kids there who’d delight in taking his pet from him. Who knew what would happen after that?

‘It’s too late to take him home now,’ Sam told her, his chin jutting forward in the Sam-against-the-world look she knew only too well.

It had been too late, so she’d brought Sam’s frog to work.

Molly’s job was very new. Her cousin had been reluctant to take her on in the first place, she’d had an appointment with Sophia at ten and was in no position to arrive late. So she’d arrived with Lionel’s cardboard box under her arm and this was the result.

‘Sam’ll never forgive me.’ Both girls were scrambling under the desk, oblivious to those above.

‘Excuse me?’ Sophia’s tones from above the desk declared she was clearly not amused. ‘Do I understand you’re looking for a frog?’

‘It’s Sam’s frog.’ Molly’s voice was almost a sob. She pushed her dark curls out of her face and started hauling the filing case from the wall. ‘Help us.’

‘I refuse to wait because of a frog. And as for helping…’

Angela reacted then. Molly was hauling furniture as if her life depended on it but Angela rose and put her hands on her hips. In the weeks Molly had worked for the agency she and Angela had become fast friends, and Angela would defend her friend to the death. ‘Do you know who Sam is?’ she demanded.

‘Of course I don’t, girl. Why should I?’

‘Do you remember that awful accident about six months back?’ Angela demanded. ‘A truck came off the overpass and there were people in the car below. The adults were killed outright but there was a little boy trapped for hours.’

The woman’s jaw dropped in horrified memory. ‘Was that Sam?’

‘Yes. And he’s Molly’s nephew.’

‘Oh, no.’

‘And now we’ve lost his frog.’

There was deathly silence. The three cleaners and Sophia all let the enormity of this sink in, and then cleaners, landlady, Molly and Angela—everybody started searching.

Unaware of the drama being played out in his outer office, Trevor Farr was growing more flustered by the minute.

At first he’d been delighted. He hadn’t been able to believe his luck. Hannah Copeland had telephoned this morning and her call had stunned him.

‘I’ve heard Jackson Baird is thinking of buying a property on the coast. There aren’t many people I’d consider selling Birraginbil to, but Jackson may be one of them. My father used to deal with your grandfather, I believe—so you may contact Mr Baird on my behalf and if he’s interested then I’ll sell. That is, if you want the commission?’

If he wanted the commission? Birraginbil… Such a sale would set him up for life, Trevor had thought, dazed, and he’d made a phone call to Jackson’s lawyer at once. He still hardly believed it, but now here was Jackson Baird in person, dressed for business in an Italian suit that screamed expensive, his eagle eyes cool and calculating, and waiting with polite patience for details.

The only trouble was, Trevor didn’t yet have details.

So he did the best he could with what he had and tried to buy time. ‘The property is on the coast, two hundred miles south of Sydney,’ he told Jackson and his lawyer. ‘It’s Friday today. I’m otherwise engaged at the weekend, but would it be convenient if we drove down together on Monday?’

‘I would have thought you’d at least have photographs.’ Jackson’s lawyer seemed deeply displeased. Like Trevor, Roger Francis had been caught on the hop, and the lawyer had reason to be unhappy. He’d had a property in the Blue Mountains lined up for Jackson’s inspection, one where he’d pocket the sizeable commission himself and a bit more on the side. Unfortunately his secretary had taken the call about the Copeland place when he was out and the girl had taken it on herself to ring Jackson. Stupid woman! Now the lawyer was in a foul temper and Trevor’s delaying tactics didn’t help.

‘Phone us when you have the details,’ the lawyer snapped. ‘If I’d known you had so little information we would never have come this far. You’re wasting Mr Baird’s valuable time.’

And then he paused. He stared down at the plush carpet in time to see a small green object. It jumped.

It was a small green tree frog—nature personified—and the lawyer knew exactly what to do with nature trying to edge its way into civilisation.

He lifted his foot.

‘Do you think he could have jumped into Trevor’s office when they opened the door?’ Molly was staring in despair at the frogless back of the filing cabinet. ‘Where else could he be?’

‘I suppose he might have,’ Angela said doubtfully, sitting back on her heels. ‘I mean…everyone was staring at Jackson.’

Of course. Idiots. ‘I’ll look.’ Molly rose.

‘Trevor will kill you if you interrupt, Molly. He has Jackson Baird in his office.’

‘I don’t care if he has the Queen of Sheba in there. I’m going to look.’ Molly put her nose against the glass pane in Trevor’s door. And what she saw made her move faster than she’d ever moved in her life.

And Jackson?

One minute he was sitting between an irate lawyer and a confused realtor, trying to get some sense out of the pair of them. The next there was a flash of green against the beige carpet, his lawyer’s polished brogue raised to strike—and a mop-headed, mini-skirted young woman launched herself through the door and down at the carpet in what he could only describe as a rugby tackle.

His lawyer’s foot fell, but there was no longer a frog underneath—instead there was a pair of hands, grasping and cradling and protecting one small green frog as Roger’s foot stamped down.

‘Ow!’

‘Molly!’

‘What the—?’

‘Did you get him?’

‘He stomped on him. He stomped on Sam’s frog. Oh, you brute!’ Sophia Cincotta, breathing fire, was first into the room after Molly, and she took one look at what was happening and raised her handbag. She swiped at Roger Francis. ‘Murderer!’

Angela came next, gazing down in horror. Molly was lying full-length on the carpet, clutching Lionel as if her life depended on it. ‘Molly—your hand. Your hand’s bleeding.’

‘He’s broken her fingers!’ Sophia’s handbag swiped again, and the lawyer retreated fast to the other side of Trevor’s desk.

‘Is Lionel okay?’ Angela demanded.

‘He’s squashed,’ Sophia retorted, bearing down on the hapless lawyer. ‘Of course he’s not okay. Didn’t you see this brute step on him?’

‘I thought those things were protected,’ one of the cleaners volunteered.

‘It’ll be a toad, stupid,’ someone else retorted. ‘You’re supposed to kill them.’

‘Not on my carpet.’ Trevor’s voice rose in bewilderment. ‘Is this a frog? A frog? Molly, is this your doing?’

‘Of course it’s my doing,’ Molly managed, peering between her bleeding fingers. ‘And it’s not a cane toad. Oh, heck, his leg looks… His leg looks broken.’

‘Your fingers look broken,’ Angela retorted, kneeling beside her and casting a murderous glance up at Roger Francis. ‘It’s him who’s the toad.’

‘Of all the unprofessional…’ Roger was practically spluttering as he backed away from the handbag-wielding Sophia. ‘Mr Baird, I suggest we look for a property elsewhere.’