Her Best Friend. Sarah Mayberry

Amy reached across and slid his pen from his hand, an old trick of hers from high school. She angled his notepad toward herself and started jotting names in the other six seats along the table, indicating official roles where applicable. He glanced at her profile as she wrote. She might have swapped her usual bright, haphazard fashion for a suit and high heels, but she still poked the tip of her tongue between her lips when she was concentrating.

      He suppressed a smile.

      She glanced up at him and quirked an eyebrow. What?

      He shrugged. Nothing.

      She pushed his notepad toward him.

      “What happened to Hamilton Island?” she asked quietly, one eye on the councillors.

      “It’ll keep. I wanted to make sure you were over the line first.”

      A flurry of yays drew his attention to the front of the room as the councillors voted to accept the minutes as a true record of the last meeting.

      Quinn could feel someone watching him and he glanced to his left to find a man in his midfifties scowling at him. Ulrich, if Quinn didn’t miss his guess. The older man had the flushed complexion of a heavy drinker and his pale blond hair was brushed carefully to try to disguise the fact that it was thinning.

      Quinn held the man’s gaze for a few long seconds. Ulrich’s scowl deepened, then he looked away.

      It was enough to tell Quinn that the guy was a hothead. Which meant this meeting had the potential to get interesting. Quinn smiled slightly as he returned his attention to the front of the room. He’d never been afraid of a fight.

      Amy sat straighter as the chairman cleared his throat.

      “First up on the agenda is the sale of the Grand Picture Theatre to Ulrich Construction. All councillors have received copies of a proposal from Ulrich Construction to redevelop the property into an apartment building offering luxury accommodation for tourists visiting the area,” the chairman said.

      He shuffled the papers in front of him then glanced quickly around the room—avoiding looking directly at Amy, Quinn noted. Guilty little rat.

      Reg went on to read from the most flowery sections of Ulrich’s proposal, effectively selling the project on the other man’s behalf. Not hard to work out which side Hanover thought his bread was buttered on.

      Amy’s hands tightened on her pen until her knuckles were white. He leaned closer to her ear. “We’re not leaving until the Grand is safe. I promise.”

      He could smell her perfume, something sweet and light. One of her curls had escaped her bun to brush her cheek. She nodded her understanding but retained her death grip on the pen. He understood her fear. He doubted she’d be able to relax until after this meeting was over.

      “Council has reviewed the proposal and considers it to be of benefit to the greater community of Daylesford,” the chairman said. “However, in accordance with policy, we now invite any members of the public who may wish to comment to take the floor.”

      His words were still echoing around the chamber as Amy stood, her chair scraping across the floor.

      “I have a few questions for council,” she said. There was a nervous quaver in her voice, but her chin was high and her shoulders square. “I’d like to know what measures the council has in place to ensure that Ulrich Construction’s development will preserve the unique architectural features of the Grand Picture Theatre. Features which are detailed in the town’s own historical register.”

      “I’m not conversant with the exact wording of the register, Amy, but what you must understand is—”

      “I have copies,” Amy said, holding up a handful of photocopies.

      A woman with garnet-red hair popped up from her seat in the front of the public gallery. She winked at Quinn as she crossed the room and took the copies from Amy. It took him a moment to realize it was Denise Jenkins. She’d had mousy brown hair when he’d last seen her.

      “Thanks, ‘Nise,” Amy whispered.

      “Kick ass, sweetie,” Denise whispered back. Then she turned to distribute the copies to the council members.

      “I have a copy for you, too, Mr. Ulrich, in case you aren’t aware that both the interior and exterior of the theatre are listed for protection,” Amy said.

      She held a sheet out, but both Ulrich and his lawyer ignored her. Surprise, surprise. The last thing they wanted was to hear about the architectural features they planned to turn to rubble at the earliest opportunity.

      Amy shrugged, then launched into her argument. She was passionate and articulate, her small body vibrating with determination. Quinn alternated between making notes and watching her face. Despite the circumstances, despite the distance that had grown between them, it was good to see her. To look into her familiar brown eyes and hear her voice.

      Opening salvo fired, Amy sat. She glanced at him and he smiled. She offered him a nervous grimace in return.

      Ulrich’s lawyer stood next, launching into a soliloquy on the “extraordinary and prohibitively expensive” accommodations Ulrich had built into his plans to preserve the theatre’s historic facade, painting the other man as a community benefactor sacrificing personal wealth for the good of all.

      “What a load of bullshit,” Amy muttered under her breath.

      “Come on, the guy’s clearly a saint,” Quinn murmured. “One step away from being recognized by the Pope.”

      “Thank you, Mr. Collins,” Reg said when the lawyer was done. “I think we’ve all heard enough to make an informed decision. Ladies and gentlemen, I believe we’re ready to vote.”

      Quinn almost laughed at the clumsiness of the other man’s tactics. They’d barely opened discussion, yet the chairman was trying to ram the vote through. Quinn was suddenly very, very glad that he’d decided to ditch his vacation.

      An angry murmur went up from the gallery. Amy started to stand again, but he caught her arm.

      “My turn, I think,” he said quietly.

      He rose. “Before you start tallying votes, Chairman Hanover, I’d like to draw the council’s attention to a number of recent findings in the Victorian Supreme Court. It might be helpful for council to understand what penalties have been applied to cases where historically listed sites have been exploited by unscrupulous developers.”

      That brought Ulrich’s lawyer to his feet.

      “I object to the inference that my client is unscrupulous,” the younger man said.

      “Go right ahead. But you might want to remember that we’re not in a court of law so there’s no one to actually uphold your objection,” Quinn said. “But please, feel free if it increases your billable hours.”

      Ulrich’s lawyer turned a dull brick-red. Quinn refocused on the council members. Eight men and women, all of them looking decidedly uncomfortable. They were about to get more so.

      “I’d also like to remind councillors that when they were elected to office they took an oath which binds them to a code of conduct which requires them to uphold all the bylaws of the county, not simply those which are deemed convenient at the time.”

      Several of the councillors shifted in their seats. Quinn undid the button on his jacket and slid his hands into his trouser pockets. He had the floor, and he wasn’t giving it up until he had these bastards on the run.

      “Where was I? Right, the State of Victoria versus Simpkin-Gist Construction …”

      TWO HOURS LATER, Amy exited the council building and stopped on the front steps to suck in big lungfuls of cool night air. She was a little light-headed after the tension of the past few hours. Her armpits were damp with sweat, she’d chewed her thumbnail down to the quick, and she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry or jump with joy.

      She