Killer Twist (Ghostwriter Mystery 1) Read online

Chapter 12: The Grandson

  While combing her newly washed hair through, Roxy’s doorbell buzzed. ‘Who is it?’ she said into the intercom.

  ‘Fabian Musgrave,’ came a lazy drawl and the writer blinked back her surprise. It was Beattie’s grandson.

  ‘I’ll just be a second!’ With the lawyer’s subtle threat clear on her mind, Roxy’s nerves began to jangle and, trying to remain calm, she slowly made her way to street level. This time the fuzzy glass entrance door revealed a slim figure leaning to one side. She swung it open to find that Fabian Musgrave was not so much slim as painfully skinny with a greasy mop of blond hair and the same high cheekbones as his grandmother. In his early 20s, he wore black skinny jeans with a ripped white T-shirt and a dark jacket over it. The jacket looked a little old, ratty even and he appeared more like a down-and-out rock star than the heir to a vast fortune. His face was unshaven and his biker boots were old and scuffed. Only his voice gave him away, it was well-spoken in the same Private-school-boy way as his father’s. He thrust one hand out to shake hers.

  ‘You’re not what I was expecting,’ he said, giving her the once-over, then added, ‘Can I come in for a minute.’ It wasn’t a question and he was already halfway through the door.

  ‘Sure, help yourself,’ Roxy replied. ‘I’m on the fourth floor. You up for the walk?’

  ‘I think I can manage it.’

  Once inside Roxy’s apartment, Fabian immediately took a seat, choosing the largest sofa chair and almost falling into it. Her nerves relaxed considerably. This guy didn’t look strong enough to swat a fly.

  ‘Can I get you something? A coffee, tea? Orange juice perhaps?’

  ‘Got Scotch? On the rocks, thanks.’

  Roxy glanced at the clock, it was not quite 4:00 p.m. She found an old bottle of whisky in the back of a kitchen cupboard, made him a drink and sat down, facing him across her lounge room. He lit a cigarette and dragged on it between sips and she noted that he didn’t bother asking her permission. She got up, opened a window and fetched him a saucer for his ash.

  ‘Dad’s secretary said you were looking for me,’ he said eventually.

  ‘Yes I was, but I didn’t mean for you to come all the way over—’

  ‘Well I’m here now. What’s up?’

  ‘Nothing really. I just wanted to pass on my regrets.’

  ‘Oh.’ He sounded disappointed.

  ‘Yes, your grandmother was a great woman and, as you probably know I was writing her biography.’

  ‘Yes I did know.’ His sudden smile looked strained. He drained his whisky in one gulp. ‘Speaking of which, what did old Bet’ have to say?’

  ‘She said you were charming, always popping in, paying your respects.’

  ‘I mean about life in general.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  He got to his feet and walked towards the window where he took long drags on his cigarette, staring out at nothing in particular. ‘I mean, how was the story going? Did she say anything profound, something I can take away with me now that she’s ... you know?’

  Roxy was not clear what Fabian was driving at but had a feeling it had something to do with the daughter. She wondered if he knew. ‘Not really,’ she said instead. ‘We didn’t get very far, you understand, before she was ... well, before she died.’

  ‘Nothing too exciting then?’

  ‘Nothing you wouldn’t already know.’ Roxy eyed him from her sofa. What was his game? ‘Perhaps if you’re so interested in her story,’ she said casually, ‘you could give her lawyer a call, he has the original tapes of the interview.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’ He returned to the sofa and ran one hand through his scraggly hair with what seemed like exasperation. ‘Why did you have to give them to him? He’s not even family, man.’

  ‘Your dad okay’ed the move. Surely he’ll let you have a copy?’

  Fabian sat upright. ‘Look, here’s the thing. She probably told you I was against the book?’

  Roxy remained quiet, waiting for him to continue.

  ‘It’s just that, well, it’s about all of us, you see. It’s all very well for old Beattie to bare her soul in her autumn years, but it’s the rest of us that pay. That is, if she did have anything, you know, interesting to reveal?’ He was probing again and she just shrugged back. ‘So I just want to know if there’s anything she said that might, um, shall we say, affect the rest of us?’

  Roxy leant back in her chair as casually as she could. ‘Fabian, apart from how extravagant the wedding reception was, your Grandmother never revealed anything very interesting at all during our taped interviews.’ Strictly speaking that was not a lie, but the young man did not look convinced. ‘Honestly, it was just standard stuff about her childhood. Why? What could she possibly be hiding?’

  He considered that for a few seconds and then stamped out his cigarette and lit another. ‘As I say it’s my life, too, I’d just like to know what’s out there.’

  ‘Well, so far, nothing. Your grandmother’s death put a stop to the book, remember?’ She scanned his face for signs of remorse but it was more like relief that flooded his eyes. He stood up, the cigarette hanging in a kind of James Dean way from his mouth and she wondered how long he’d practiced that.

  He shook her hand again, then with a puff of smoke he was out the door and had disappeared back down the stairwell without so much as a thank you. Roxy locked the door behind him just as her smartphone beeped loudly. She had a text message. She dashed into the sunroom and scooped it up, tapping at the numbers until her heart skipped a beat. It was another threatening message:

  ‘Warning!!! We won’t give you another chance. Drop the story or you die.’

  She stared at the screen and shook her head furiously. Roxy had honestly believed the threats would stop now that Beatrice was dead. Had she been on the wrong track all along? And if so, what story were they referring to? In any case, one thing was perfectly clear. There was no way Fabian Musgrave could have sent it.

  ‘Of course Fabian could have sent the message,’ Max chided as he handed Roxy her glass of Merlot and pulled his own beer, something tall and foreign, up close.

  ‘How?’ she asked incredulously.

  Once again, the good friends were wedged at their usual spot at the far end of the bar in Pico’s.

  ‘He could have typed the message into his mobile phone before he got there and then just clicked send the second you closed the door on him. It did come after he left, right?’

  She thought about this for a moment. ‘Yes, but only just.’

  ‘Or he could have got someone to send it for him while he was conveniently hanging at your house. Gets him right off the hook.’

  ‘So he gave himself an alibi.’

  ‘Yep. That is, if he did send it. You still don’t know that.’

  Roxy gulped her wine and shook her head. ‘But what’s the point? Beatrice is already dead. Why threaten me now?’

  ‘Dunno, maybe he’s just stupid.’

  ‘Or maybe he—or any of them, his dad, the lawyer—is worried I still might write the piece. It could be a warning to let sleeping dogs lie.’ She considered that for a moment. All three men knew she was still keen to get the story told.

  ‘Yeah that’s possible. So you’re determined to believe Beatrice Musgrave was murdered?’

  ‘I just know she was. Her lawyer practically threatened me to butt out today and I have a feeling Beatrice was somehow connected to the Jane Doe found in Rushcutters Bay last week. It could be the same woman who was threatening her at Featherby’s office. How many Chanel-dressed bag ladies can there be? Argh, it’s all so exasperating! In any case, if I could just work out the identity of the people who’ve been emailing and texting me, I might get a few answers.’

  ‘People?’

  ‘Yes, well the third message used the term “we”.’

  ‘You should check the return number.’

  ‘I did. Zip.’

  ‘Jesus, it’s quite a tangled web you�
�ve woven yourself into here, Parker!’

  ‘Tell me about it. You hungry? Let’s eat.’

  Roxy signaled the waiter for a bar menu and, while she scanned it quickly, Max reordered drinks.

  ‘I’m gonna go the Nachos,’ she told the waiter.

  ‘And a steak sandwich for me,’ he said. ‘So, Rox, when are you going to tell me about your hot date?’

  ‘Nothing to tell. How’s your new woman?’

  ‘Oh no you don’t!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You always do this.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You change the subject. For a woman who spends her life trying to get straight answers out of people, you sure do avoid giving them yourself.’

  Roxy played with her drink for a minute and then rolled her eyes resignedly. ‘There was no hot date, Max. It was just that lawyer guy my mother wanted me to meet.’ His jaw dropped and she quickly added, ‘It’s not what you think. I thought he could help me with the Musgrave case, he works for Beattie’s lawyer.’

  ‘Oh that’s real decent of you.’ He ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head at her.

  ‘Well I’m being honest.’

  ‘You’re being manipulative. And you accuse me of being heartless.’

  ‘Look, it was a harmless dinner.’

  ‘Yeah, under false pretenses. The poor guy gets all excited, thinks he’s got a chance, and actually he’s just being used for journalistic purposes.’

  ‘He’s a lawyer, Max, hardly a lamb to slaughter.’

  The food arrived then and they ate in stony silence for several minutes. Max ordered himself another drink.

  ‘You’re drinking a lot lately, you know.’

  ‘When did you become my keeper?’

  ‘Just mentioning it.’

  They fell silent again and then Max pushed his plate towards her. ‘Want some chips?’ It was his way of calling a truce and she scooped a few up, trying for a smile. But she was feeling a little forlorn. These weekly drinks were fast losing their sense of fun. They seemed to be arguing all the time, constantly picking at each other, just like she imagined married couples did. She tried changing the subject, she was good at that.

  ‘Did you bring the funeral photos?’

  ‘Some of them. I downloaded the rest. They’re on my camera in my bag. I’ll get it in a minute.’

  ‘Thanks, Max, I appreciate it.’ But there was something in his sad brown eyes that suggested he did not believe her.

  The next morning, Roxy awoke with a vicious hangover. She’d downed one too many Merlots the evening before in an attempt to keep up with her drinking buddy and because she hoped it would lighten the mood. She had also resisted, with considerable effort, the temptation to ask for his camera straight away, to scan the pix he took at Beattie’s funeral. The very subject seemed to send his mood southward and so she had decided to wait for another time, when he didn’t have alcohol fuelling his emotions. But, despite her efforts, the evening had remained strained and she wondered, for the first time in a year, whether they ought to catch up the following week. It depressed her enormously but she charged into a steaming shower and tried not to think about it. It was her way.

  As the water pumped down upon her, Roxy turned her attention to last night’s text message. She could not be sure who had sent it (again, the return number came up as unlisted) but, even worse, she still could not be sure which story they were referring to. That was the most exasperating part, they could be referring to some other story, not the Musgrave one. The only other option was the Heather Jackson interview. It didn’t seem likely but Roxy had to maintain an open mind. Perhaps someone had it in for the yuppie artist? A rival painter envious of her publicity, perhaps? It seemed like a stretch but she had better look into it, just in case.

  Once she was dried and changed, Roxy pulled up Heather’s file and began to re-read the interview transcript, searching for clues. Unfortunately, not one suspicious name came to light and certainly none that correlated with the initials ‘AIL’ from the Hotmail address. She clicked the file closed and then fetched the folder that Maria Constantinople had given her. It was more promising.

  Amongst the snippets on Heather’s nightclub antics were two stories about a past lover called Rocco. He was a little-known art model, the image of a Greek Adonis and had been Heather’s lover for just on a year. Their split was supposedly acrimonious and Roxy made a note of his name. Perhaps he was still bearing a grudge? Another lover was mentioned, a rock star called Zuban Z. (what was it with these names?) but he had gone on to marry a soap actress. Roxy doubted he’d be bothered with the artist now. But she noted his name, too.

  Finally, of course, there was the disgruntled maid Loghlen had mentioned. According to him, she had threatened to write a ‘tell all’ about the artist and then simply disappeared into thin air along with her book. Roxy wondered if Loghlen could recall her name and decided to pay him a visit. Besides, she could do with some fresh air and something greasy to take care of her hangover.

  Lockies was bursting with patrons when Roxy pulled up and, seeing how busy Loghlen was, opted for a back table and some lunch first. She would try to speak to him when things settled down. But it was a good hour before the Friday lunch crowd dispersed and Lockie found a few minutes to dedicate to his friend.

  ‘Sorry ’bout that,’ he said, pulling up a chair beside her. ‘The salami focaccia okay was it?’

  ‘It hit the spot, actually. Crazy today, huh?’

  ‘Friday’s always a bi’ mad. You get the umbrella back to wacko Jacko okay?’

  ‘Heather Jackson? Yeah, and here’s your black one back.’ She retrieved an umbrella from her bag and handed it to him. ‘Now, I’ve got some more questions to ask you.’

  ‘Ever the journo. Wha’ is it?’

  ‘Remember you were telling me about the maid who threatened to write a book about Heather?’

  ‘Aye, that’s right, the one who disappeared. Wha’ about her?’

  ‘Can you recall her name or any more details about her?’

  He stroked his chunky orange sideburns slowly, deep in thought. A sudden swarm of new patrons entered the cafe and he looked around anxiously.

  ‘You’d better get back to it, Lockie, but if you do recall the name, please give me a buzz. You’ve got my number, right?’

  ‘Sure do. No probs. I’ll talk to you later.’ He dashed off to see to his customers and Roxy paid up and returned home.

  At her mailbox she stopped, tapped it and then opened it up to reveal a variety of bills and some junk mail. There was also a letter from a childhood friend who was now living overseas. They hadn’t seen each other in years but were faithful correspondents. And that’s when it hit her. She bolted up the stairs, let herself into her apartment and headed straight for the Jackson folder, which was still spread out on her desk. Flipping through each page, she quickly scanned the interviews and studied Heather’s biographies in detail. She wondered why she had not noticed it before. Heather Jackson had no past. At least not one anyone had written about. And that was odd. Even Heather’s very first interview, with the Art Gazette, offered not a shred of information about her family, her birthplace, her life before her infamy. And it seemed no journalist since had managed to find out. Or perhaps, like Roxy, they hadn’t thought to ask, assuming foolishly, that it was all old news by now.

  Roxy turned to her computer and clicked on the icon for the World Wide Web. Once the Google search engine appeared on her screen, she typed in the words ‘Heather&Jackson&artist’ and then clicked, ‘Find’. Her screen went blank and then a few seconds later alerted her that there were multiple entries for that name. She scrolled down the list to the one that read ‘Official Home page’ and opened it. It started with a reproduction of one of Heather’s latest works, an abstract portrait of a well-known Australian actor, followed by a list of exhibition dates and five further categories to explore. Roxy clicked the ‘Bio’ box. A good second later, Heather’s face appeare
d in multicolor and clearly airbrushed on screen. She was smiling but the usual coldness in her eyes was not lost in the translation.

  Roxy scrolled down the page to the copy below and scanned through it. All Heather’s basic statistics were listed, from her height to her weight (yeah sure you’re just a size 8, Roxy sniggered) to the color of her eyes. It also included details of her numerous awards and the various international cities in which she had exhibited. But there was not a thing about her real self, outside of the art world. And certainly nothing pre-Art Gazette. She clicked on the ‘back’ button twice, returning to the list of search options. She scrolled down them again, this time clicking on a home page called ‘Heather’s Horror: the unofficial fan club site’. It boasted the ‘world’s ugliest pictures of the world’s most abstract artist’ and was followed by a stream of unflattering shots of Heather getting out of cars or sneering at paparazzi. It also included less than glamorous reviews of her work and her persona, but, again, it was all post-Gazette. Heather’s two most disgruntled ex-boyfriends were mentioned in the copy numerous times, as well as several more, but nothing about a maid, a tell-all book or anything of the kind. And not one word about her childhood.

  Roxy was about to log off when she noticed another site dubbed, ‘Heather’s Home: Her Secret Haven’. It was a reproduction of a trashy magazine article that had run some years back about the artist’s ‘brand-new McMansion’. ‘Riddled with hidden tunnels, mysterious doorways and secret rooms!’ screamed the main headline, and the copy proceeded to quote ‘inside sources’ and ‘close friends of the reclusive artist’ who, in their anonymity, divulged all sorts of juicy details about her sprawling abode. Apart from the rumored hidden rooms, the sources said that Heather ran her home like a fortress. Much of the property was out of bounds, even to her staff, and one wing, the story claimed, had never been seen by anyone but Heather. Roxy clicked off. Scandal rags like that one gave her profession a bad name and she was not about to give them any more attention than they deserved.

  There was one person who would surely have information on Heather Jackson’s past, Roxy decided: her manager, Jamie Owen. She would call him up and demand a comprehensive biography. She glanced around her desk for the blue slip of paper on which Heather had scribbled her manager’s details and, locating it, was about to call the number when she noticed the handwriting on the back again: ‘Miss Roxanne Parker’.

  This time a bell began clanging loudly in her head.

  She raced to her old steel filing cabinet and searched for a folder labeled ‘Invoices’. Flipping through them, she located one for Beatrice Musgrave and pulled it out along with a copy of a check Beattie had made out to her in lieu of their first two sessions together. She compared it to the blue slip of paper and a shiver ran down her back.

  The writing was identical.

  Roxy began rustling through her files for more examples of Beattie’s handwriting. In every instance, the older woman had written the name ‘Miss Roxanne Parker’, just as her name appeared on Heather’s blue slip of paper, and in exactly the same scribe. Roxy had assumed Maria Constantinople had written it down, now she knew better. Had Beatrice and Heather known each other? She put a call through to Glossy magazine.

  ‘Lookin’ for more work?’ Maria asked, cutting to the chase.

  ‘No, Maria, I’m ringing about Heather Jackson.’

  ‘I got the copy—’

  ‘Good. Now tell me how you got the interview in the first place.’

  There was a slight pause. ‘What’s the problem, Rox?’

  ‘It’s a simple question, Maria. How did you get the interview with Heather Jackson? And I want the real version this time.’

  There was another pause, this time longer, and eventually Maria replied, ‘Hang on a sec’, I’ll close the door.’ A minute later she was back. ‘What have you heard?’

  ‘Maria!’

  ‘Okay, okay, don’t fuckin’ spit chips. She rang out of the blue last week offering us the exclusive. Said she needed it done ASAP.’

  ‘Why? What was the hurry?’

  ‘No idea, love, but I wasn’t looking a gift horse in the mouth. We’ve been trying to get her for a decade. She suddenly wants a bit of publicity who am I to question her?’

  You’re an editor who should have been more inquisitive, she wanted to say. Instead she asked, ‘So what happened next?’

  ‘I said I’d get a reporter over there within the hour.’

  ‘Is that when you called me?’

  Her tone was suddenly defensive. ‘Er, well, no, to be frank, I was gonna get Jack to do it.’

  ‘I suspected as much.’

  ‘Now hang on a minute, Jack’s a bloody expert when it comes to the art world. He knows his shit, Roxy, which you don’t. Even you admitted that.’

  ‘I’m not arguing there. So why didn’t you send Jack?’

  ‘Because she didn’t fuckin’ want Jack. She asked for you!’

  Roxy caught her breath. ‘And why on earth would she do that? I didn’t even know the woman.’

  ‘Search me! I was flabbergasted, myself. No offense, darl’ but you’re hardly Lois Lane.’

  ‘So she didn’t tell you where she got my name from?’

  ‘Nuh-uh. Just said, “I want that Roxy Parker woman.” I guess she saw you listed as one of my contributors, or maybe she liked something else you’d written for me?’

  ‘Did she call me, “Roxy” or—’

  ‘Oh, no, you’re right. She said “Miss Parker” if I recall rightly. I had to think for a minute who she was talking about. Then she said, “Miss Roxanne Parker”—I remember because I haven’t heard your full name used for yonks. Made you sound very sophisticated. I might start calling you that, myself!’ And she let out a teasing chuckle then, trying to lighten up the conversation. Roxy was not buying it.

  ‘Right, now tell me about L. Johnson.’

  There was a brief pause on the other end before Maria hurriedly said, ‘Look, Roxy, hang on a minute.’ She dropped the phone and it was some minutes before she returned.

  ‘Morons, I work with a pack of morons,’ she wailed. ‘Now, where were we?’

  ‘You were going to tell me about an L. Johnson.’

  ‘No I wasn’t. Never heard of him. Look, Roxy, what is this all about?’

  Roxy sighed. ‘If I knew, Maria, I’d hardly be telling you.’

  ‘Geez, thanks. Okay, well I really gotta go, you know how it is.’

  ‘Sure, Maria. Just one other thing. Has Heather insisted on signing off on my story?’

  ‘What do you reckon?

  ‘Have you sent it to her? Has she seen it yet?’

  ‘No it’s still with the subs, why? Want to lighten your tone? Pretend you actually like the woman?’

  ‘Not going to happen, Maria. What you see is what she gave me, I didn’t have to elaborate a bit. She’s a dark horse that one. But listen, could you do me a favor? I think you owe me one.’

  ‘Shoot.’

  ‘Can you hold off sending it to her until I call you back? I need to get some more info out of her agent first, and he may not be so obliging if he knows the story is already out of my hands.’

  There was another one of those pauses. ‘What are you playing at, Roxy? What the fuck is going on?’

  ‘Probably nothing but just hold off, please, until I give the okay?’

  ‘Fine, fine. Look, I really gotta go, the cover’s just come in and it looks like a friggin’ dog’s dinner!’

  ‘I’ll leave you to it then. Thanks.’ She hung up, more confused than ever.

  As far as Roxy recalled, only two people ever used her full name. Her mother, who knew squat about the artist and whose handwriting was as far removed from the writing on the blue paper as her own, and old Mrs Musgrave. And her writing was a perfect match. Beattie must have recommended Heather. But why?

  Roxy sat back and gave it some thought. She had to confess, it was not such an unlikely scenario, and it could well have been per
fectly innocent. Heather may have been looking for a reliable writer to give her some publicity; it had been five years, after all, since her last interview. And, if Beattie and Heather happened to know each other—for whatever reason—the former could easily have suggested Roxy. The mystery was, how did they know each other? And what, if anything, did Heather have to do with Beattie’s murder? Roxy needed to have another conversation with Beattie’s son, but this time she needed to be a lot more discreet.

  In the flesh, William Musgrave’s personal assistant, Anabell, looked just as she sounded, like a giant brick wall, with thick, Rugby-style shoulders squeezed into a well-made but matronly suit, and brown hair that had been cropped into a neat, boyish style. No fuss, no fun, no breaking through. She would have been in her forties and, judging from her sudden frown when Roxy introduced herself, was still smarting from Wednesday’s impromptu visit.

  ‘I’m sorry to drop by unannounced,’ Roxy said with a smile, her own hair clipped back off her face with blue butterfly pins which perfectly matched the blue Fifties-style dress she was wearing over long, black boots. ‘I was passing by and wondered if I could have a quick word with William?’

  The assistant pursed her lips together and asked, ‘How did you get up here?’

  ‘Oh the security guard and I go way back.’

  ‘Mr Musgrave is very busy today.’

  ‘I do not doubt it for one moment. I just need to ask him a very quick question for a magazine article I’m writing—’

  Just then William stepped out of a room marked ‘Conference’ and turned towards his office. He didn’t seem to notice Roxy but she grabbed the opportunity and called out, ‘Mr Musgrave! Hello again,’ and, in reply to his puzzled expression, added, ‘Roxy Parker. Remember I was writing your mother’s book?’

  ‘Of course, Miss Parker.’ He seemed friendly enough but Roxy thought she spotted a quick, irritated glance in Anabell’s direction. She would no doubt pay for this one later.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you again, William. But I have a completely unrelated matter to speak with you about.’

  He hesitated and then waved one pale, skinny hand towards his office. ‘Certainly, come on in. I have about one minute to spare, I’m afraid that’s all.’

  ‘That’ll do it,’ Roxy replied, following him through. William’s office was more stylish than Roxy expected with a large black desk in the centre, two black leather chairs in front of it and a large oil painting hanging on the wall behind him. The west side featured several enormous, tinted windows looking down on the busy street below, and on the east was a bright orange sofa shaped like a giant jelly bean with a chrome, oval shaped table in front of it. It could have been straight out of Vogue Living.

  ‘Have a seat,’ he was saying. ‘What is this about?’

  ‘It’s actually regarding another story I’m writing for Glossy magazine.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘About Heather Jackson.’

  ‘Heather Jackson?’ He was confused at first and then a look of comprehension crossed his face. ‘Oh, the artist? The Australian woman?’

  ‘The very one. The thing is we’re doing a bit of a tribute to her and are getting a list together of the various celebrities and well-known Sydney names who may be fans of hers. I was wondering whether you were a collector or at least a fan of some sort?’ She was lying of course and hoped she sounded convincing.

  ‘I’m afraid not. Does that mean I’m out of the article?’

  ‘Looks like it. For some reason I picked you as an abstract art kinda guy.’

  He seemed flattered by this and let out a loud chortle, his pointy nose crinkling up in an almost witch-like fashion. Roxy concluded that he probably didn’t have much time for laughter and figured it was a good thing. He didn’t suit it one bit.

  ‘Do you mind me asking, then, if maybe your mother had been a fan?’

  He paused for a few seconds before saying, ‘I really wouldn’t know.’

  ‘She didn’t collect any of Heather Jackson’s art works or ever work with her on any charities?’

  ‘Not that I know about. My parents, in fact, were both more in favor of the traditionals.’

  ‘Oh?’

  He pointed to the painting hanging on the wall behind him. It was a dusty paddock, somewhere, Roxy guessed, in outback Australia.

  ‘A leftover from my father’s days. He and my mother shared a fascination for late 19th century Australian landscapes.’

  ‘Mind if I have a look?’ Roxy jumped up and moved around the desk to peruse it more closely. ‘It’s beautiful.’

  ‘Not really my thing but then I haven’t had the heart to take it down. They had another two at home, I’m surprised Beattie didn’t point them out. She was very proud of them.’

  ‘Now that you mention it, I do recall some beautiful art works at your mother’s house.’

  ‘But nothing too abstract, eh?’

  ‘No, not at all.’ As Roxy moved back towards her seat she spotted a large silver photo frame on William’s desk with what looked like a family portrait inside. ‘Is that the Musgrave family in its entirety?’ she asked.

  ‘The whole lot of us, I’m afraid, and one or two ring-ins.’ He sprang from his seat, blocking the picture from her view and leading her to the door. ‘I do need to get back to it now if you don’t mind.’ He led her out into the corridor where Anabell had remained standing beside her desk. She did not look happy. ‘Anna, can you recall, at all, whether my mother ever called the artist Heather Jackson to help out with her charity work?’

  Anabell shook her head slowly. ‘No I don’t think so, sir. I sent most of her celebrity request letters out and the name certainly doesn’t ring a bell.’

  William turned back to Roxy. ‘There’s your answer. Looks like the Musgrave family are out.’

  ‘Never mind,’ Roxy chirped. ‘I thank you for your time.’

  ‘Not at all. But next time, Miss Parker?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Please pick up the phone and make an appointment, first? That’s the way we like to do things around here.’

  She promised that she would and, throwing a wide, victorious smile in the direction of the scowling pit bull, charged out of the office. She wasn’t any closer to working out the Beattie-Heather connection but she had just spotted the large, hairy guy who had shoved her into a bus on Elizabeth Street not so long ago. He was standing next to Fabian Musgrave in the portrait on William’s desk.

  He was clearly part of the Musgrave clan.

  Like Roxy, Max also lived alone but his place was enormous by comparison. It was an old warehouse he had converted into his home and studio, with one large room boasting giant windows from floor to ceiling that drenched the room in sunlight almost the entire day. There were skylights, too, and all manner of lighting and camera equipment spread strategically around the room. Several brightly colored tarpaulins hung from one wall and various props, including an old steel fan and a Chinese umbrella, were scattered throughout the room. Max had converted one wall into a workable kitchen and what was once a small office loft high in the far corner was now his bedroom. The place was usually jumping with models, make-up artists and various hangers-on, so Roxy was surprised to find it empty when she arrived. She was panting from her speed-walk and took a few gulps before calling out Max’s name.

  ‘Hang on a minute!’ came a groggy voice from within the loft and, a few seconds later, a disheveled Max poked his head out at the top of the stairs. ‘Rox!’ he cried and then jumped the stairs two at a time to give her a hug. ‘How’d you get in? Don’t tell me I left the door opened again?’

  ‘Fraid so. Is this a bad time, or—’

  ‘No, no, just catching up on some shut-eye. I cancelled all this morning’s bookings. Need a quiet one.’

  ‘Too many heavy nights?’

  ‘Something like that. To what do I owe this visit? Ah, don’t tell me!’ He lifted one hand to her lips to quiet her. ‘The so-called “Beatrice Musgrave murder”,
right?’

  ‘Yes, but that’s not the main reason I dropped by. I wanted to say hi and apologize for Thursday night.’

  ‘No, I should apologize, I’m a dick when I’ve had one too many beers. Come in, I’ll make some coffee.’

  She sat down in a sofa and looked about the room. Three brightly painted papier maché mermaids were leaning against each other on one side and she was going to comment on them when he called out, ‘Say hi to my new girlfriends, Mary, Mertle and Merrilee.’

  ‘Very beautiful.’

  ‘And completely unthreatened by you.’

  Roxy’s thick eyebrows knotted together, confused and, when he had returned with two mugs of coffee in hand, she asked, ‘What’s going on?’

  He handed her a cup and then slumped into a chair beside her. ‘She dumped me.’

  ‘Sandy?’

  ‘Sandra. Yep, that one.’ He tried scraping his fingers through his matted hair and then gave up. He offered her a lopsided grin instead.

  ‘When? Why? What happened? You sounded so happy.’

  ‘I kinda was. But, well, she was all upset that I saw you the other night instead of her.’

  ‘You’re joking, right?’ Roxy reached for her coffee and blew at the top before taking a sip. She suddenly felt very tired and realized that she had a throbbing headache, she’d just been too preoccupied to notice it. ‘You don’t have some paracetamol do you?’

  He grabbed some pills from the table and flung them towards her. ‘Be my guest. I’ve practically OD’ed this morning.’

  She swallowed two and then shook her head at him, trying to understand. ‘You did explain we’re just friends?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That we’ve been getting together every Thursday night since forever, that she needn’t be threatened?’

  ‘Yeeess ... well, kinda.’

  ‘Kinda?’

  He jumped up and began pulling at a white canvas on the wall. ‘I gotta prepare this for the arvo, the gang’ll be in soon enough.’

  ‘You need a hand?’ He was changing the subject for a reason and she wasn’t up to finding out why. Not today. Not with her thumping headache. She helped him roll the canvas up and they placed it along the back wall out of the way. Then, together, they hung a large turquoise colored sheet in its place and placed the mermaid props below it.

  ‘Very classy,’ she lied. ‘Vogue? Harper’s Bazaar? Tacky Monthly?’

  ‘Oh some arty street rag, they think it’s kitsch.’

  ‘Well, it’s certainly something.’

  His deep brown eyes caught hers and he held them for just a moment. ‘Thanks for your help, Parker. I’ll do the lights later. So, what did you want to ask me?’

  ‘Oh, never mind, it can keep.’

  She went to turn away but he grabbed one hand and pulled her a little closer, looking up through his unruly fringe. ‘I’m sorry I’ve been such a jerk lately. I’ve just got a few issues to sort out in my head and I’m taking it all out on you, the very last person who should have to deal with it.’

  ‘You liked Sandra a lot, didn’t you?’

  ‘Let’s just say, I needed her.’ He dragged Roxy back to the sofa and they fell into it together, Max still holding Roxy’s hands tightly in his. ‘So fire away, what do you need?’

  She took a deep breath. ‘I wanted to take a look at the funeral pix, especially the out-takes.’

  ‘Beatrice Musgrave’s?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sure thing.’ He didn’t ask why, simply jumped up and retrieved a laptop which he placed in front of her, clicking away at the screen until a file of images marked ‘Musgrave Funeral’ leapt to life before her eyes. As he disappeared upstairs, she began opening each jpeg, scanning them carefully. She was looking for two faces in particular: Heather Jackson and the Greek guy from the Musgrave family portrait. The artist was nowhere to be seen but the latter was featured in several shots, standing beside Fabian and a tall, skinny woman with fluorescent red hair. Bingo!

  ‘That’s the grandson, Fabian, and his wife, Sofie or something like that,’ Max told her when he returned. He’d straightened himself up a little, changed his shirt and looked like he’d even combed his hair.

  ‘Thought as much. And who’s the other guy? The dark, hairy one?’

  ‘Can’t recall his name but I would’ve written it down somewhere, hang on.’ He rummaged around and located a small notepad that he began flipping through. ‘Ah, here it is, um, Fabian, Sofia and ... God my handwriting’s crap. I think it says Angelo Linguine?’

  Prickles of excitement ran through the writer. It looked like she had stumbled upon the likely identity of her blackmailer. AIL. Were they Angelo’s initials?

  ‘Who exactly is he, do you know?’

  ‘I think—and I can’t believe I didn’t jot it down, I’m getting sloppy in my old age—but I think it was Sofia’s brother or cousin or something. Definitely a relation of some sort, but on her side. He’s no blue blood.’

  That would make sense, Roxy thought. Fabian had been the most vocal critic of Beatrice’s biographer so it made perfect sense that someone closely connected to him, his brother-in-law for instance, had tried to help him put a stop to it by scaring the ghostwriter off. The pieces were beginning to click into place. Roxy felt anger swelling up inside again. That was her life he had been playing with that day on Elizabeth Street. If she had been pushed just a little harder, she might have been struck by a passing bus!

  ‘Do you know him from somewhere?’ Max asked, his voice laced with concern.

  ‘Yes I think so, but I need to double check it all first.’ If there was one thing she had learned from her years as a reporter, it was to get her facts straight before pointing the finger. ‘Can I copy some of these?’

  ‘Sure thing.’

  She went to work on the computer while Max wandered off to brew more coffee. ‘Thanks, Maxy,’ she called after him, ‘you’ve been an enormous help.’