This morning I woke up to 3.8 degrees! The other day, the weather forecasters warned us we would suffer the coldest September in years. This morning’s freeze brought that home to me. It’s now eight o’clock and the temperature is 12 degrees but still feels like 3 degrees to me. 

Continue reading to find out about the man who escaped the Min Min lights.

Who is the dead man on the moon? Clue: He was a shoemaker who died in Australia.
​Find out more in this issue of Team Dusty Gazette.
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For those of you who missed out, below is an excerpt from the Team Dusty Gazette which was sent to my subscribers in January 2024. To be the first to get the news subscribe here – you’ll also receive a free book of stories including Shanty Shooting which won the Scarlet Stiletto prize in 2023 (Mystery with History).

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Here in Melbourne the city is buzzing with tourists and fun, in part due to the Australian Open Tennis. The weather, however, is not playing ball. Melbourne is well known for its erratic weather and this year is no different. We have had serene temperate days befitting our ‘temperate oceanic climate’, high humidity days, cool days, drizzle days and thunderstorm days and all in a random mix. January is usually a relatively dry month in Melbourne but this year we have had the wettest start to a year since 1996. I accept some responsibility for this because I have been asking for rain for weeks. You see, I used a little of the prize money won by my story Shanty Shooting in the 2023 Scarlet Stiletto Short Story Awards to buy an umbrella in a beautiful rich yellow from Blunt Umbrellas who make top of the range umbrellas that are designed to last a lifetime. I call it my ‘Rolls Royce’ umbrella. I was so pleased with it I wanted to show it off, so I needed rain! 

When not out doing my Mary Poppins impersonation, I’ve been working on Dusty Kent #8 - almost every day. It’s a blissful experience hiding away in my ‘hayshed’* with nothing else on my mind except writing. I get so lost in ‘the zone’ I sometimes have to remind myself to eat. I have finished ‘Act I’ (apart from the fine tuning) and have just started ‘Act II’. My progress was slowed down by the unexpected appearance of a new character. I had to pause to create a profile for him and think about his role in the story. He seems to be a bit of a grumpy old man! 
*As a kid growing up in the Australian bush I often escaped into our hayshed at the bottom of the paddock. I nestled into the hay bales out of sight where my brothers could not find me to read books. It was sanctuary where I could live in stories. That’s why I use ‘hayshed’ as a metaphor for the place where I write.

                                                                                Did you know?
One of Australia’s quirkiest animals is named after a creature from Greek mythology known as the ‘Mother of Monsters’ who was half-woman and half-snake - because the animal was perceived to have qualities of both mammal and reptile. Just like a reptile, it lays eggs. Just like a mammal it feeds its young on milk – even though it doesn’t have any nipples. The milk oozes out of the skin in the pouch and the baby animal licks it up. That’s not all that’s quirky about this monotreme with porcupine-like spines. The echidna also has a toothless jaw, a bird-like beak, a quoll-like pouch and their babies are called puggles.

And now for the quirkiest thing about the echidna; their unconventional sex life. The breeding season starts with an echidna train – a long line of around ten male echidnas waddling after one female echidna. The ‘train’ winds its way through the bush for long distances until the female is ready to mate. Then she flops down on her stomach and waits for the males to dig a circular trench known as a ‘mating rut’ around her. The largest male wins the lady. When he has pushed all his rivals out of the way, he lies down next to her, places his tail under hers and they mate. 

But that’s not the quirkiest thing of all about echidnas. Red alert! I’m about to ‘talk dirty’. The male echidna has a four-headed penis! It is used only for mating and never carries urine. When mating, two of the heads retract while the other two grow bigger. Both male and female echidnas are promiscuous. Male echidnas alternate which penis heads they use when mating with different partners to improve their chances of becoming a dad! (The mind boggles at what scientists must go through to find this stuff out.)     Ref: www.environment.sa.gov.au

                         The next Gazette is due out in March 2024. Don’t miss out. Subscribe now!
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Matilda is a powerful bisexual name of German origin. In Australia it is used as a girl’s name while in Germany and the Netherlands it is primarily a boy’s name. During the Middle Ages the name was popular among European royalty. There was the Empress Matilda of England (1102 – 1167), the first woman to be named as heir to the English throne, and many other royal Matildas.

The name is composed of maht which means strength and hild which means battle, giving it the meaning of ‘strength in battle’. That makes Matilda appropriate and perfect for the Australian women’s national soccer team, don’t you think?

The team’s name was inspired by Banjo Paterson’s song Waltzing Matilda. The Matilda in the song refers to the swagman’s bed roll or swag – an indispensable possession that went everywhere with him.

The name Matilda was chosen for the team formerly known as the Female Socceroos by popular vote in 1995 in a naming competition organised by the Australian Women's Soccer Association through SBS (the Special Broadcasting Service). 

Prime Minister Anthony Albanese has suggested Australia should create a Public Holiday in honour of the Matildas if they win the 2023 FIFA World Cup. Some groups are against this idea fearing another public holiday will be too hard on businesses.

We can resolve that issue easily. In Australia Easter has four holidays. With such a rich cultural and religious diversity in this country surely it is no longer appropriate to have a strong national focus on a Christian tradition. Let’s remove Easter Monday from the public holiday list and replace it with Matilda Monday. Too easy!

Ref:letslearnslang.com

Check out our latest Youtube Podcast: In Melbourne Today with JB Rowley

A 5 minute chat with Melbourne writer JB Rowley talking about Queen Elizabeth's first visit to Melbourne, the Melbourne Writers' Festival, the Elephant and the Wheelbarrow, JB's hayshed and drinking pomegrappa! JB Rowley is the author of #1 Amazon best sellers 'Whisper My Secret' and 'Mother of Ten' who also writes murder mysteries under the pen name Brigid George.

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“Gracie Chamberlain claims she didn’t notice her boss’s dead body.”

Dusty looked at her companion with raised eyebrows. They were breakfasting on the top floor balcony of Villa Depaul, a luxury chateau in a five-hectare landscaped park. The Villa, with a façade inspired by French Provincial architecture, sat graciously amid manicured green lawns, ancient trees, and well-tended floral beds. A faint coffee aroma emanated from two cups on the Parisian style bistro table where the pair was sitting. The coffee was part of the breakfast delivered by one of the excellent cafés that lined the main street.

“That’s where it happened.” Dusty pointed toward the eastern side of the park. From where they sat, she and her research assistant had a clear view of Albert Park’s St Vincent Place precinct, a nineteenth century residential development known as millionaire’s row. In a leafy street amid a line of grand terraces facing the gardens stood the white double-storey Victorian terrace where Ralph Mason had been killed.

“Gracie’s office was on the ground floor. She worked there every day as usual while his cadaver lay in an upstairs bedroom. Can you imagine that?”

“Sounds macabre.” Had anyone been within earshot they would have detected the thirty-six-year-old’s Irish accent. “Ralph Mason was a chef, right?”

Shortly after Sean O’Kelly arrived in Australia five years earlier, Dusty signed him up after learning of his IT qualifications. The generous salary package with retainer, which allowed him to continue his travels around Australia when not working on a case, was tempting enough for him to accept immediately.

“Not just any chef.” Dusty scooped froth from her cappuccino with her finger and smeared it over the tip of a fresh strawberry. The fruit had accompanied her smashed avocado on toast. “He was one of Australia’s most popular celebrity chefs. Better known as Rafe.” She slipped the strawberry into her mouth.
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Her assistant, a hearty eater despite his lean frame, was in the process of devouring a Farmer’s Omelette which included fried rashers of bacon, roast halved tomatoes and cooked spinach served on slices of sourdough toast.

“Never heard of him. Myself and I are not fans of cooking shows.”
Ignoring Sean’s creative use of pronouns, Dusty pounced on his description of Rafe’s television programme.

“Cooking show? Wash your mouth out Sean O’Kelly. Our murder victim would not be pleased to hear you referring to La Cuisine Rafe that way. He insisted on calling it a culinary programme. If anyone had the temerity to refer to it as a cooking show, they would suffer his caustic tongue.”

“Pardon me.” Sean looked suitably chastened although his blue eyes revealed his amusement.

Dusty grinned. “His programme was aimed at educating home cooks in the art of French cuisine by demonstrating the simple dishes, not the complicated ones.”

“Smart.”

“Yep. It was one of the reasons La Cuisine Rafe was so popular. The dishes were authentic but easy enough for the audience to reproduce in their own kitchens.” Dusty jerked her head toward the back of the Villa. “He harvested fresh herbs and vegetables for his show from the food garden at the rear of this place. Rafe’s mantra was ‘fresh for success’.”

Sean pointed up at a flock of rainbow lorikeets flying toward the back of the Villa.

“Looks like they’re after breakfast. I assume there are fruit trees in the food garden.”

“Shade and water might be their priority today.” Dusty checked the weather on her phone. “We’re expecting a top of 36 degrees.” She was appropriately dressed for the heat in a sleeveless olive-green shift, her wild auburn hair swept up into a topknot leaving several untamed tendrils wisping around her face.

“Right.” Sean used a serviette to dab at the moisture on his brow. “From what you tell me, Rafe Mason’s killer has been apprehended. The secretary who went to work every day as usual while her boss’s body lay a-mouldering in his bed upstairs has been convicted of his murder. Correct?”
“Correct.” A slow smile spread across Dusty’s face. “So why are we here?”

Sean acknowledged the accuracy of her mind reading with a tilt of his head.

“Because the person who invited us to this ritzy mansion to investigate Rafe’s murder is an executive of the AusBoss Network called Brian Chamberlain.” Dusty paused to sip her cappuccino.

“Husband of the secretary?”

“Father.”

Sean reached for a slice of toast as he considered this. “He doesn’t believe his daughter killed her boss?”

“Exactly!”

“Right. We’re here to prove Gracie Chamberlain is innocent of the murder of Rafe Mason?”

“No.” Dusty shook her head emphatically. “Brian Chamberlain wants me to prove his daughter is innocent, but I’ve made it clear to him I’m after the truth, whatever it may be. He’s accepted that.”

“Which means he has complete faith in his daughter. Otherwise, he wouldn’t let a renowned cold case investigator take charge.”

Sean was having a gentle dig at Dusty’s lack of modesty when it came to her extraordinary ability to solve cold cases. If Dusty was aware he’d been teasing her, she gave no sign.

“Exactly.” She placed another strawberry into her mouth.

“Right. The police must have had good reason to think she did it.” He pushed his empty plate away with a satisfied pat on his stomach. A faint tang of omelette lingered in the air.
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Dusty nodded. “They didn’t find her story credible. Gracie told them she had absolutely no idea her boss’s corpse was in his bedroom during the four days she went about her work as usual. The body must have already started decomposition by the time she arrived for work on Monday; he’d been dead for forty-eight hours by then. Yet Gracie reported for work each day, let herself in the front door, made her way along the hall past the two front rooms and through the kitchen to her workspace. On the way, she also passed the staircase leading upstairs.”

Sean O’Kelly wrinkled his nose. “She must have caught a whiff of the decomposing remains of her boss wafting down the stairs.”

“Apparently not. And she stayed in the house all day without realising something was not right. The police didn’t believe she could have spent four days on the property without detecting the unsweet fragrance of decomposition.”

“Didn’t she even notice her boss was missing?”

Dusty acknowledged the irony in his tone with a grin. “The police wondered about that too. But Rafe was on a break from filming. Gracie claimed she thought he’d met someone and decided to stay at their place for a few days; something he’d done before.”

“Right.” Sean pulled the pot of marmalade closer. He spread a spoonful of the sticky orange jam on a slice of toast. “He wasn’t a married man then.”

Dusty gave him a knowing look. “Definitely not married.”

“Right. What is the case against the secretary? Just the fact that she failed to notice her boss’s cadaver was upstairs while she was working downstairs?”
​
“Nope! Much more than that.”