As Carrie, Anna, and I walked toward the foreshore of Scotsman’s Bay, the shade from the enormous Moreton Bay Fig trees was a welcome relief. The late morning sun in the tropics was becoming uncomfortably warm for us southerners. Beneath the cool, dark green canopy of the second fig tree, I noticed a strategically placed information plaque. Grateful for a moment of rest, I stepped closer.
Nearby, a larger sign proudly detailed the many shipwrecks lying on the ocean floor around the island. Somebody had done their research, I thought. Why didn’t I know about all these shipwrecks when I was growing up here? Fascinating information indeed.
I turned back in awe and stood before the smaller plaque. A very old black-and-white landscape photograph was printed onto the metal. It depicted a woman standing on the beach in a long dark dress, wearing a broad hat. Judging by the image, it had been taken in the early 1900s.
Then, suddenly, a jolt ran through my body.
I studied the photograph more closely. Carrie and Anna had walked ahead toward the sand. The woman in the historic photo stood next to two oddly shaped granite rocks, slightly raised from the sand to her left. They appeared to be between fifty and one hundred centimeters across.
My eyes zoned in on them.
They were the same shape as the two evidence rocks excavated from the beach during the murder investigation forty years ago.
Was it possible that these were the very same rocks now sitting in the museum grounds?
I was stunned. Just an hour before, I had held on to two very similar rocks in my hands at the museum. It suddenly felt as though they were reaching out to me.
Could these very rocks, the ones in the photograph beside the woman, be lethal?
The photograph now seemed darker, gloomier—like it held its own secrets.
Then, a realisation struck me.
Perhaps these rocks were the actual murder weapon.
I recalled what Helen had told me on the phone when I first contacted the museum: They were found to have human tissue on them, and they needed to be examined.
While researching Mel’s murder, I had read through the Mainland Bulletin newspapers from the first week of 1984. One article described the evidence surrounding the case. I remembered that detectives had searched for days, trying to locate the murder weapon.
Police divers had scoured Skipper Creek, but nothing was found.
Yet, I couldn’t recall the newspapers ever mentioning these two rocks.
Why, then, were they excavated if they weren’t important to the case?
I looked up. Anna and Carrie were walking separately toward the calm waters of Scotsman’s Bay. The waves gently lapped at the sand.
I quickened my pace and said nothing as I caught up to them.
The beach was littered with small pieces of white coral. My mother’s name was Coral, and she always wore a pink Avon lipstick called Coral Sunset. The thought came so suddenly, out of nowhere.
It felt as though Mum was now present with me. Walking with me.
We meandered along the shore, pausing now and then as Carrie and Anna inspected shells and other small treasures in the sand.
The shapes of the coral began to stand out to me. I remembered how spiritual Mel had been growing up. She always slept with a cross above her bed for protection—not an ornamental one, but a simple, hand-drawn cross on the back of an old Christmas card, taped to the wall.
A thought struck me.
If I find a piece of coral shaped like a cross, could it be a sign? A message from Mel?
I smiled at the idea, reminded of the old days—us together on the beach as kids.
We were nearly at the end of the beach now. Large granite boulders lined the northern edge, and above them, island pines and thick scrub stood just as they had when we climbed through them years ago.
We stopped and looked at each other.
Anna hesitated. “Is this where it happened?” she asked.
I glanced briefly at Carrie. She turned away, wandering into the shallow creek that flowed into the sea.
“I think we’re very close to the murder scene, yes,” I said. I pointed toward the higher bank of the inlet. “From the photographs I’ve seen in my research, I think it’s somewhere around here.”
I gestured across the creek bank.
But the photographs I had obtained from the case looked different from the landscape before us.
Time—forty years of seasons, cyclones, and storms—had dramatically reshaped this place.