level of malevolence.
I hurried out of there and headed straight for the River Royal Hotel. It was just a bit further up on Swan Street. Inquiries revealed that Scotty often called in at night, so I decided to spend the afternoon researching.
I stepped out onto Swan Street then remembered I'd left my sunglasses inside. It was the spinning around action that saved me, for at that precise moment, a car sped past so close to me that my folder was knocked out of my hand. Had I proceeded out the door with my sunglasses, I would've been hit. I was badly shaken but unharmed, although my shoulder felt wrenched. Talk about a close call. I was too distressed to notice the car in any detail, but thought it was deep blue.
I retrieved my Ray-Bans and bought a cheap bottle of Moscato, then drove back to the motel. After half a glass of Moscato my nerves settled somewhat. I hit the net again and tried to find everything I could on Baxter Morgan. The connection at the motel was horribly slow. Frustrated, I refreshed the page every few minutes.
Finally, I found something useful. Baxter Morgan had bought an allotment of land from Edward Close in 1834 for one hundred pounds. Next, I scrolled through the online archives of the newspaper with the lengthy name, The Maitland Mercury and Hunter River General Advertiser . My efforts were fairly half-hearted as it was founded in 1843, two years after Baxter Morgan was said to be executed, so I didn't expect to find anything.
I had fallen asleep at the laptop when my iPhone's sms tone woke me. One word, " Govi ." What on earth did that mean? The screen read, "Blocked Sender." I didn't think Blocked Senders could send texts, only make calls. I'd have to ask someone. Any child should know; they're always up with the latest technology. It was probably a wrong number. The only Blocked Sender calls I get are from the bank when I'm two days late paying the mortgage.
Back to the passage on the first page.
Lost, in the district of Morpeth, about three weeks since, one bay mare, about fifteen hands high, black points, branded BM on the near shoulder.
Any person giving information where the same may be found, to Mr. Joe Crawley, "Morgan Estate," shall be rewarded for their trouble.
Maitland, January 5, 1843 .
Morgan Estate, and the brand, "BM" surely stood for Baxter Morgan. Two years after Baxter's execution, a Mr. Joe Crawley was in residence at the Morgan home. I hoped it wasn't an alcohol-fueled stretch on my part to make the connection that Mr. Crawley may have been the one who had falsely accused Baxter Morgan and taken over his property. At last I felt I was getting close to solving Baxter Morgan's murder.
A quick google of Morgan Estate took me at once to a listing on a local realtor's website. I couldn't believe my luck. The place was for sale, at a tidy one point four million bucks.
I was yearning for a long, hot bath, but the cheap motel only had a shower and at that, one more befitting a prison. I had bought some Wood Smoke and Jasmine Shower Gel that morning - no idea why, but the bottle was pretty - so slathered it all over me, and let the hot water run for some time on my sore shoulder.
I hopped out, dried myself with the small, scratchy, thin, motel-issue towel, and then poured on a bit too much Wood Smoke and Jasmine Body Lotion. I stood side on to look in the mirror and sucked in my stomach.
As I lay in bed between the bleach-scented sheets, I formulated a plan. Tomorrow I would be a hard core journalist. No more Ms. Nice Guy.
I had just drifted off to sleep when my iPhone rang.
"Misty, how far are you from the Newcastle airport?"
"Huh? Is that you, Melissa?" I mumbled.
"Of course. Did I wake you?"
"No, no." I tried to put on my most realistic awake voice. "What did you say?"
"How far are you from the Newcastle airport? You're still in Morpeth, right?"
"Um, Maitland, actually. Um, dunno, about half an hour or so, I suppose. Why?"
"Skinny is sending me to Melbourne the day
I hurried out of there and headed straight for the River Royal Hotel. It was just a bit further up on Swan Street. Inquiries revealed that Scotty often called in at night, so I decided to spend the afternoon researching.
I stepped out onto Swan Street then remembered I'd left my sunglasses inside. It was the spinning around action that saved me, for at that precise moment, a car sped past so close to me that my folder was knocked out of my hand. Had I proceeded out the door with my sunglasses, I would've been hit. I was badly shaken but unharmed, although my shoulder felt wrenched. Talk about a close call. I was too distressed to notice the car in any detail, but thought it was deep blue.
I retrieved my Ray-Bans and bought a cheap bottle of Moscato, then drove back to the motel. After half a glass of Moscato my nerves settled somewhat. I hit the net again and tried to find everything I could on Baxter Morgan. The connection at the motel was horribly slow. Frustrated, I refreshed the page every few minutes.
Finally, I found something useful. Baxter Morgan had bought an allotment of land from Edward Close in 1834 for one hundred pounds. Next, I scrolled through the online archives of the newspaper with the lengthy name, The Maitland Mercury and Hunter River General Advertiser . My efforts were fairly half-hearted as it was founded in 1843, two years after Baxter Morgan was said to be executed, so I didn't expect to find anything.
I had fallen asleep at the laptop when my iPhone's sms tone woke me. One word, " Govi ." What on earth did that mean? The screen read, "Blocked Sender." I didn't think Blocked Senders could send texts, only make calls. I'd have to ask someone. Any child should know; they're always up with the latest technology. It was probably a wrong number. The only Blocked Sender calls I get are from the bank when I'm two days late paying the mortgage.
Back to the passage on the first page.
Lost, in the district of Morpeth, about three weeks since, one bay mare, about fifteen hands high, black points, branded BM on the near shoulder.
Any person giving information where the same may be found, to Mr. Joe Crawley, "Morgan Estate," shall be rewarded for their trouble.
Maitland, January 5, 1843 .
Morgan Estate, and the brand, "BM" surely stood for Baxter Morgan. Two years after Baxter's execution, a Mr. Joe Crawley was in residence at the Morgan home. I hoped it wasn't an alcohol-fueled stretch on my part to make the connection that Mr. Crawley may have been the one who had falsely accused Baxter Morgan and taken over his property. At last I felt I was getting close to solving Baxter Morgan's murder.
A quick google of Morgan Estate took me at once to a listing on a local realtor's website. I couldn't believe my luck. The place was for sale, at a tidy one point four million bucks.
I was yearning for a long, hot bath, but the cheap motel only had a shower and at that, one more befitting a prison. I had bought some Wood Smoke and Jasmine Shower Gel that morning - no idea why, but the bottle was pretty - so slathered it all over me, and let the hot water run for some time on my sore shoulder.
I hopped out, dried myself with the small, scratchy, thin, motel-issue towel, and then poured on a bit too much Wood Smoke and Jasmine Body Lotion. I stood side on to look in the mirror and sucked in my stomach.
As I lay in bed between the bleach-scented sheets, I formulated a plan. Tomorrow I would be a hard core journalist. No more Ms. Nice Guy.
I had just drifted off to sleep when my iPhone rang.
"Misty, how far are you from the Newcastle airport?"
"Huh? Is that you, Melissa?" I mumbled.
"Of course. Did I wake you?"
"No, no." I tried to put on my most realistic awake voice. "What did you say?"
"How far are you from the Newcastle airport? You're still in Morpeth, right?"
"Um, Maitland, actually. Um, dunno, about half an hour or so, I suppose. Why?"
"Skinny is sending me to Melbourne the day
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