Back of Beyond.

"Bless your heart!" Sister Heloise smiled, as she cycled along the hot and dusty main street of Old Blithering. It was the middle of a long, parched drought in summer, way off there in the remote rustic town, 250 km away from the Big City. She pedaled past the row of old stores in Main Street, most with 'For Sale', or 'For Lease' signs.

Sister Heloise was on a mission. Her normally sedate old home town had been rocked by a scandal. Suddenly, no one was smiling back at any clergy. The whole little community had once been so religious, praying and singing hymns. But the general cancel culture had caused the churches of either side of the divide to be empty. Only a few aged geriatrics had lingered there, the choir of nuns from the retired teacher's convent had sung sweetly.

The opposition for holy worship had always been the Baptist Church. On this blessed Sunday, Sister Heloise could hear devoted hymns, all praying that they would not be the next victims of this unheard of tragedy. She was determined to find the perpetrator.

Up till recently, no one in the vast nation down under had ever heard of Old Blithering. Now media crews were offering any resident a fee for their suspicions, any gossip about allegations. Everyone was forming opinions, and getting information from online new headlines. The once thriving main street was empty of cars, which no one had ever locked. Anyone walking along as the temperature was already rising, turned from each other, lips closed, grim of face.

The once vacant police station was currently occupied by some criminal detectives from Big City. They had large policing boots. Everyone was baffled, puzzled, seeking answers to a mystery and family tragedy, somewhere there in the back of beyond.

Sister Heloise fancied herself as an armchair, amateur detective. She was going to assist the bumbling police, undercover, of course. She would seek clues, dismiss red herrings. Her role models would always be her reading of Sherlock Holmes and Miss Marple. Being a past teacher of faith and literacy, she knew she how to obtain evidence and analyse every situation.

She heard the usual exhaust of the ancient exhaust of the only station wagon of the fading Catholic Church. Yes, it was Monsignor John. Anyone could hear him driving along the Mass. The full might and pomp of the Holy Roman church in Oz had never updated the wheels of the clergy. Sister Heloise paused, waved and said, "God Bless!" Monsignor John smiled in his normal kind, but abstract way. He had his mind on higher things, lunch soon.

"Be still, fluttering heart." Sister Heloise devoutly herself. She had Monsignor John had grown old together, serving their Lord, working for God. Her secret love was still hidden, bit unrealistic, being a woman of God. She was human with feet of clay, wondering if her love for Monsignor John was a drug. "No big thing," she said silently. "Come on, woman, you've got work to do. Solve this mystery."

What was the mystery? Why was there such a congregation at the Baptist church this particular Sunday? Well, the pastor and his wife, and her sister, had received an invitation. That was quite okay, here in Old Blithering, the home baking was something to brag about. Every babe could cook, the cakes were a dream.

Unfortunately, those worthy leaders of the opposition religion were now pushing up daisies in the vintage lawn cemetery, south of town. The floral tributes had been lovely, so sentimental. The send-off had been a tearjerker. The wreaths were currently browning and withered in the hot baking sunshine.

Nothing lasted forever, including happy families. The deceased religious had been to afternoon tea at the farmhouse of their son's estranged wife. Three days later, they were in the morgue. The world was watching. The police from Big City had no evidence, no left overs, no samples, only suspicions.

Some guests at the fateful afternoon tea had no symptoms. Some had declined the party invitations, dodged the whole event. Rumors had been swirling in the small town, where no one was saying anything to anyone. People had stopped saying hello, just went home and locked their doors. Renee, the ex-wife and hostess not with mostest, had been one of Sister Heloise's past pupils. That had been in the good old days, the peak of convent education.

Renee was now on record about her menu. She had made beautiful scones, a dab of jam and cream, and had filled a sponge from the local bakery with more cream and topped with passion fruit icing. So Sister Heloise cycled on to the bakery. Did the fickle finger of fatal fate point at the Bakery owner and cook, Rosemary?

She reached the bakery, only to be confronted with a hostile vigilante group of local women. They stood in silence, protesting with posters and placards. "Save the sponge!" "Scarlet woman!" "Justice for scones!" "Faith will set you free!" They were, of course, hoping they would not be the next stiffs in the graveyard. There the old pioneers slumbered on. The surrounding arid paddocks were filled with dairy cattle, chewing, oblivious to the swirling tide of human emotions, feelings and thoughts which had taken over her town.

Sister Heloise entered the bakery, intent on asking Rosemary a few relevant questions. This could be the singing nun's greatest hour, if she found the culprit. They were all church people after all, well respected, all around seventy years old. But here, for once, Rosemary had no unfilled delicious sponges for sale. She too, had suddenly placed a "For Lease: sign in her window.

"I'm leaving!" She told Sister Heloise, "there are other places to be. The police have cleared me to shift to some beach town, far away from this hole. I suppose you want your usual, the whole wheat loaf for the convent lunch. What time are you going home?" Sister Heloise was stunned. This was no way to greet anyone's clientele. No wonder Rosemary went bankrupt.

She cycled home along a dusty road .That all been a red herring .Just because the victims had been pillars of their church, did not mean they were nice people. In her years as a holy educator, Sister Heloise concluded that church people could also be bigots, and hypocrites. She passed the pub, the ultimate last journey for the cattle industry. They were tomorrow's steak and chips, or parmigiana, depending on the mood of the publican's wife.

In nostalgia's page, so long ago, Sister Heloise had also viewed an old series about a detective. It was dramatic acting, but sleuthing was her hobby. Only part time, of course. The main character had always advised always advised viewers to 'follow the money'. In this page of history, that is exactly what she intended to do.

In a world where no one was perfect, Sister Heloise cycled off after her convent lunch to the local tip. She sneaked in on a police conference, gazing at the one and only CCTV footage in town. Were there any clues here about suspects?

The police had turned away, but Sister Heloise noticed a furtive figure, hidden under a hooded jacket, at this time of year. He looked strangely like Renee's separated husband, fat and ugly, a church person, a choir leader at the now overpopulated Baptist Church. "Where late the church choir sweetly sang!" Sister Heloise might have found her missing clue. She quietly searched the tip, very exhausting under the blazing summer sun. But in the dumpster, she located a round mixing bowl.

She decided to secretly take a sample of the scraping of hardened butter icing, clinging to the rim of the bowl. The son, Robert, stood to inherit a vast dairy property. Maybe he wanted to divide it up to form a very trendy boomer retirement village, luxury, worth a fortune. It would house all those urban tree changers, who had their superannuation, and wished to escape the rat race of the Big Smoke.

Renee had custody of the children of what was rumored to be a strange relationship with her farmer ex. Money talks all languages in a family circle. Sister Heloise could not say anything, she did not wish to be litigated for possible contempt of court. She decided to confront Robert in his stuffy devout farm. After all, old English teachers were totally scary females. Bless their hearts.

Detective Sister Heloise pedaled off, there went Monsignor John and his old exhaust again. He waved, she sighed, all as normal. She hoped she could solve this gripping mystery, somewhere back of beyond, the jaded old home small town, turned on itself.

Robert called her a fat old cow, nothing old teachers had not heard before. Sister Heloise persevered, asking some very real questions. Finally, Robert confessed. It had all been a plan, his devout religious parents had kept him on a pittance all his life, to toil as their dairy farm worker. Hard work, too. All those dairy cattle were waiting, just for him. His parents would have lived till a ripe old age. He had hastened their journey by adding some rat poison to Renee's bowl of passion fruit icing. Then he had left the building, never to do afternoon tea. "Never mind," he said, "God they loved has them for eternity!"

Sister Heloise told her culprit, "That is no excuse. You shall face the consequences of poisoning the passion fruit icing. You have been dealing with the devil! Sign this statement!" So Robert confessed .Sister Heloise had cleared her past student, Renee. The police investigation was over, the media had a field day on this family drama. The kids inherited the potential of the dairy farm, so Renee flogged off the property. Hobby farms were created, also trendy. Eventually the rains came again. The verdant rolling hills at back of beyond were now home to designer alpacas, and new age boomers crafting home spun angora beanies and shawls, available at the latest vegan cafe in the small town. God and time took care of everything. Renee took the kids and left her tattered town, she went to a beach suburb for a lifestyle, no passion fruit vine, that great Australian fruit. That had been the mystery solved, of Death by Afternoon Tea.

Sister Heloise kept on praying for global peace and harmony, working undercover for her Lord .She still cycles the old bush town of Old Blithering. God bless all our church people in the back of beyond.