The school band marched in a crooked line, followed by a dozen members of the CWA, dressed in Sunday best, each holding a platter of scones. Wearing sunhats decorated with flowers and white gloves from a bygone era, the ladies could have stepped right out of the 1950s. The crowd cheered.

One by one, the women moved up the steps into the rotunda, where Mayor Richard Tippet stood beaming at the end of a long trestle table. Each woman set down her plate of scones and stepped back, so that they all formed a row behind the table. Wozza and I stopped at the edge of the crowd and watched as Joyce Tippet, last in line, walked stiffly up the steps, gripping the rail with the hand not holding scones and using it for support. She had added large dark sunglasses to her ensemble.

She put her plate of scones on the table and stepped back with the other women as her husband began to speak. He raised his arms wide, like a preacher.

‘Welcome!’ he yelled.

The crowd clapped enthusiastically.

Tippet beamed as his gaze swept his constituents. ‘This fair has come at just the right time for Deception Bay,’ he said into the crackly microphone. ‘We have had some nasty business going on, but thanks to the fine work of Senior Sergeant Bill Wheeler and Senior Constable Warren Harvey, the culprits have been brought to justice.’

More applause.

‘Whoops, he forgot you,’ said Wozza, nudging me.

‘Not necessarily,’ I said dryly. ‘He might be waiting till the end to mention me in a grand finale.’

Tippet continued. ‘And now we can return to normal, where a man can go to the pub and get a beer without having a finger pointed at him.’ He beamed around at his audience—some blokes hooted. ‘And the ladies can stop dwelling crankily on old wounds.’

With my injured dog by my side, I could feel the anger rising in my gut. Dwelling crankily? What the hell? Words swelled up in my throat, ready to burst out.

Tippet beamed at a throng of men in singlets, shorts and thongs who raised their stubbies in a toast to the mayor. ‘So now this is all behind us, let’s get back to what makes Deception Bay great.’

This was met with cheers from the crowd.

Unnoticed by her husband at the microphone, Joyce Tippet took a step forward from the shadows of the rotunda so she was almost touching the table laden with scones. Slowly, she peeled off her large sunhat, dropped it onto the ground, and shook out her hair. Then she untied the knot of her scarf at her throat.

‘And what makes Deception Bay great is this …’ Richard Tippet swept an arm over the trestle table in front of him. ‘The ladies doing their bit to keep our tables filled with delicious baked goods.’