As a festive gift to my readers, here’s a fun short story, which I hope you’ll enjoy!

It just goes to show

by Sophie Masson

Picture, if you will, a posh jewellery store, Sydney, early 1960’s, two weeks before Christmas.  Soft carpet, gleaming display cases, saleswomen in crisp black and white, manager hovering discreetly. The store is crowded with customers, including me, then nineteen-year-old office worker Irene Harold, sent by my obnoxious boss, Mr Glyn Masters, to pick up a sumptuous gift for his wife.

All at once the door flies open, and Dorothy Evesham wafts in.

Years before, she had been a minor film darling, all big blue eyes, platinum hair, and baby voice. As her gossamer career faded and she got older, Dorothy diversified. She invented ‘psychic portraits’. Instead of telling you your fortune, she’d paint it for you. It was all the rage for a while. People queued for a sitting. The social pages of magazines featured her constantly. And then interest began to wane. There were critical comments in the press. Even the beginning of ridicule…

But this morning, Dorothy is all sweetness and glamorous light. ‘Dear Mr Manning,’ she says to the manager, ‘I need a necklace for a special occasion. What can you show me?’

As we all watch, Mr Manning hands her a necklace of jade and pearls.

‘Hmm,’ she murmurs. ‘Strong psychic energies: jade for earth, pearl for water…’

She catches my eye. Can she see I’m a sceptic? She shoots me a melancholy look, and hands the necklace back to Mr Manning.

‘What else do you have?’

Mr Manning reaches into another display case.

‘This, Miss Evesham, is the finest we have.’ It’s a magnificent diamond necklace. A platinum setting, white diamonds surrounding a pink diamond.

Mr Manning murmurs, ‘It’s known as the Kimberley Star, and….’

He breaks off as Dorothy gives a little gasp and crumples to the floor. At that moment, I catch a glimpse of someone peering in at the window. A man with his hat pulled down over his face. He comes in. There’s a bang, a flash. Not from a gun: a camera. The noise revives Dorothy. She gets up, shouting, ‘Can’t you journalists ever leave me alone!’

She picks up her handbag from the display case and swings at him. He wrenches at the door, runs into the street. Dorothy runs after him. And the necklace, which Mr Manning had dropped on top of the display case, is gone. Pandemonium!

There were non-stop newspaper headlines for days:

DARING THEFT IN CITY JEWELLER! NECKLACE FOUND IN STAR’S BAG! PROTESTS INNOCENCE! CLAIMS PLOT AGAINST HER!  MYSTERIOUS MAN SENDS LETTER TO POLICE! CONFESSES ALL! STAR FREED!

Then there was the radio interview.

‘Welcome to the Leonard Lane Hour. Today, we are speaking to Dorothy Evesham, once a shining star of our stage and lately famed as the inventor of psychic portraits. Dorothy, you have been through a terrible experience.’

‘Yes, Leonard, I have. ’

‘Is it known who framed you?’

‘No. It must be someone in great psychic torment. I hold no grudge. Good can come out of evil, Leonard. For example, Mr Manning’s offered to lend me the Kimberley Star to wear at the opening of my exhibition—which, I will remind you all, is tomorrow night.’

Picture the crowded art gallery, next day. A storm of camera flashes as Mr Manning and Dorothy walk in. Mr Manning opens a silver box, takes out the necklace, clasps it around her neck. The crowd cheers.

Dorothy beckons to the gallery owner, who brings out a wrapped painting.  In a dramatic voice, he says, ‘Miss Evesham brought in this painting to us weeks ago. ‘

He whips off the covering. And there’s a portrait of Dorothy, behind bars, a sparkling pink star above her. And words, painted on the canvas: Beware of the Kimberley Star.

Into the hush, Dorothy says, ‘I painted my own fate. But I did not understand what it meant– until it was too late.’ A pause. ‘Now, ladies and gentlemen, please enjoy the show. And ponder this—there are stranger things in heaven and earth than the sceptic can ever dream of.’

She catches my eye. Suddenly, she knows that I know. But so what? Her show’s a triumph, her reputation assured. All her pictures will be sold. People will be queuing again, for her portraits. She’ll be back in all the social magazines. She’ll even be given her own weekly segment, on Leonard Lane’s radio show…

But that’s in the future. Back to our own last act:

Phone in Mr Masters’ office rings the morning after Dorothy’s show. I pick it up.

‘Miss Irene Harold? It’s Dorothy Evesham. Mr Manning told me where you worked.’

‘Yes?’

‘Will you sit for me, for free? For I believe you are destined for an unusual life.’

I laugh. ‘Miss Evesham, as far as I’m concerned, you can rest easy. No need for a bribe. It was the perfect crime—beneficial to you and yet victimless.’

‘Then… you won’t tell?’

‘That you set the whole thing up? Why would I tell? Everyone’s happy. I just hope your friend in the hat’s lying low.’

‘He is. But–how did you know?’

‘It was all so smooth, scripted just like one of your films. The false accusation. The injured innocent. The sensational revelation. Perfect acting, too, I might add better than any of your films. It was truly the performance of your life.’

‘Why thank you,’ she murmurs.

‘But there was just one small problem,’ I go on. ‘The question of motive. Why would someone target you? I started to think around that. And so I came to my conclusion.’

‘Which was?’

‘That you had targeted yourself. It was the only thing that made sense.’

A small tinkling laugh. ‘So young, but so smart! Miss Harold, you’re wasted in that office. Come and work for me.’

‘Thank you,’ I hear myself saying, ‘but no. I have my own plans. But I’m grateful to you, Miss Evesham, for you’ve inspired me. ‘

‘Ah. I’m glad to hear it. What are you going to do?’

‘I’m going to take a risk and change my life. I’m walking out of this office today and setting up as a private investigator.’

She laughed. ‘Perfect! I will recommend you to all my friends and clients. But think on this, Miss Harold. Clearly our paths were meant to meet. It was more than just my fortune, looking at you from the walls of the gallery.’

So now you know why there’s that photograph of her on my desk. She was my first case. Had it not been for Dorothy Evesham, I’d have grown old in the service of the Mr Masters of this world. I’d never have had the successful career I’ve had, over these last forty years, a career that has brought me respect, admiration, gratitude of victims of crime—and sown fear in the hearts of crooks and cheats and con artists right across this nation. I’d made it on my own, shown a woman could not only be as good as, but better, than a man, in this jungle that is the PI world.

Only, lately I’ve thought, maybe there was something after all in that mumbo-jumbo of hers, and it was indeed my own fortune that had been looking back at me from the walls of that gallery. It just goes to show, doesn’t it?