Killer Twist (Ghostwriter Mystery 1) Page 6

Chapter 6: Surprising News

  Roxy awoke late on Saturday morning and, well aware that she should be getting stuck into the Heather Jackson transcript, opted to go grocery shopping instead. ‘You can’t work on an empty stomach, after all,’ she told herself, slipping on brown hipster cords, a floral blouse and denim jacket, and made her way down to her car.

  It was close to 2:00 p.m. by the time the young woman finished her shop and, the car now laden with food, wine and a bundle of tulips, she was about to head home when she remembered. The bloody brollie. She took a few minutes to search the car. Damn it, Roxy thought, I must have left it at home. She spotted the black one Lockie had given her on the back seat, shrugged and then turned the car towards the posh Eastern Sydney suburb of Vaucluse. This one would have to do.

  Heather Jackson’s house was easy enough to find. Loghlen had described it for Roxy the day before and his description was spot on. He was obviously a bigger fan than she realized. When she spotted the ‘white monolithic structure with a giant gold fence and a slight view of a mermaid waterfall inside’, she slowed her car down and swung it into the driveway and up to the front gate where an intercom and camera were wedged into a wall. She buzzed twice but it was some time before a small voice answered, ‘’Allo?’

  ‘Hi, this is Roxy Parker, here. I have something for Heather Jackson.’

  ‘All delivewies awound the side.’

  ‘Ahh, no, this is personal, it’s just an umbrella, she left hers behind the other day.’

  There was a long pause and Roxy wondered whether she’d been given the brush off before the gate finally clicked open and swung inwards. She drove through and up the winding driveway to the house, which was grander in size than it appeared from the road. It was not exactly beautiful but it did have a striking presence, and the meticulous gardens surrounding it were breathtaking. There were several impressively sized fig trees on either side of the house and what looked like an orchard to the left. Roxy parked in front of the main door and jumped out, clutching the black umbrella. Before she had a chance to ring the doorbell, a short Chinese woman had swung it open and was reaching for the umbrella.

  ‘T’ankyou velly much,’ she said quickly but Roxy did not relinquish her hold.

  ‘Actually I need to speak to Heather. Is she around?’

  ‘She no here.’

  ‘Okay, then I need to write her a message.’

  The maid looked uncertain but nodded her head anyway and led Roxy inside the house to the white marbled foyer. It was set around a large courtyard overflowing with ferns and orchids. Two long, carpeted corridors swept off, one to the west wing of the house, the other to the right, and Roxy noticed that there was a row of doors along each one, all heavy timber and all closed shut.

  ‘Here,’ the maid said, thumping a note pad and pen down onto a white marble side table.

  ‘Thank you,’ Roxy said and began to write: ‘Heard you were looking for your umbrella. Here’s a new one courtesy of Lockies. If there’s anything else, don’t hesitate to give me a call.’

  She jotted her home number below and signed off. As she handed the paper to the maid, she thought she detected a door opening to her left. She glanced across and saw a flash of silver before it swung quickly shut again. The Asian woman also noticed the door and glanced from it to the writer’s face, her expression growing increasingly more anxious. She grabbed Roxy’s arm and pulled her back out the front door.

  ‘You go now,’ she urged. ‘Goodbye.’

  An hour later, while unloading the vegetables into the fridge, Roxy’s phone rang. As she had suspected, it was Heather Jackson.

  ‘Lovely to hear from you,’ Roxy said, trying to sound casual, a lemon still planted in one hand. ‘You got the umbrella okay?’

  ‘Yes I did,’ the voice was stiff. ‘But it won’t do, it’s not the one I left behind, you see. Mine was gold, not black.’

  ‘Oh, we could get you a new gold one if you prefer.’

  ‘It’s not mine, Miss Parker. I’d really like mine back. Sentimental reasons, you understand. If you could take another look for me.’

  ‘Oh, sure, no sweat,’ she said, thinking, but it’s only an umbrella.

  ‘Good. And if you could call me when you find it. I’d rather you didn’t just turn up to my house unannounced.’

  ‘Oh, of course. What’s your number?’

  The woman hesitated before saying, ‘You have my manager’s number, call him and he’ll organize a pick up.’

  It seemed like a lot of trouble for an old umbrella. Roxy tossed the lemon aside and marched through the lounge room into her bedroom, flicking the TV on as she went. The early news bulletin would be on soon and she was keen to see if there had been any developments in the case of the mutilated corpse. She located Heather’s umbrella, tossed into one corner, and opened it up to survey it in full. The gold was fake plastic, and the handle simple cane. Nothing worth fussing over. And then she saw it. Scratched in very fine print along one side of the cane was the name: L. Johnson.

  ‘So that’s what all this is about,’ she said aloud, swiveling the umbrella in her hands. ‘I wonder who that might be?’

  Roxy was so engrossed by the question that she almost missed the lead news story booming out from the next room. She rushed out. The body of an elderly woman had been found washed up on the shores of Balmoral Beach very early that morning. Police had not yet released the name of the victim, the perky reporter exclaimed, or the official cause of death. But stay tuned, she gushed, as more details unfolded.

  Balmoral Beach. Roxy stared hard at the television, the gold umbrella still open in her hand, the blood now drained from her face.

  That’s near Beatrice Musgrave’s place.

  A loud screeching sound startled Roxy from her sleep and at first she ignored it, imagining she was still lost in her dreams. But the screeching persisted. She peeled open her eyes and slowly struggled to her feet, stifling a yawn as she stumbled to the front door and the intercom that was mercilessly loud for that hour of the morning. This had better be good, she thought angrily, pressing the speak button and groaning, ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s the police Miss Parker, we need to speak to you. Can we come in?’

  Roxy blinked back her surprise and glanced at the clock. It was not yet 8:00 a.m. on Saturday morning. ‘Ah, yeah, sure.’ She buzzed them through then loped back to her room to put something on. Within seconds they were banging on the door and, after checking their ID through the key chain, she let them in.

  ‘I’m Detective Spicer,’ the older of the two men announced after they had made their way to the centre of her lounge room and stood standing in the official ‘at ease’ position, legs apart, hands behind their backs. ‘And this is Detective Valence. We’d like to ask you a few questions regarding Beatrice Musgrave.’

  ‘Of course,’ Roxy replied, and felt tears well up in her eyes again. She had quickly dismissed yesterday’s news story, determined that the body on the rocks was some other elderly lady, someone other than Beatrice Musgrave. Until Oliver had called with the bad news.

  ‘Looks like you’re out of a job,’ he’d said and Roxy’s heart had plummeted.

  ‘Oh God, no!’

  ‘Fraid so. My friend at the Herald just called. Old Mrs Musgrave did the high dive late Friday night or early Saturday morning, they’re still working all that out. But it’s definitely her, the son has identified the body.’

  Roxy was expecting a visit from the police but their haste surprised her. She shrugged back her tears and said, ‘Please, take a seat.’

  Spicer strutted straight to the dining table and, selecting a chair, pulled it back into the lounge room directly in front of where Roxy now sat on the sofa. Meanwhile Valence, a small man with slicked back hair and the beginnings of a moustache, began to wander the room, peering at her photos and sneaking peeks into the other rooms. It unsettled her but she bit her tongue and raised her eyebrows expectantly at Spicer.

  ‘You’ve heard that M
rs Musgrave is now deceased?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, I heard late last night, my agent rang me.’

  ‘What was your relationship with the deceased?’

  ‘I’m a writer. I was helping her write her autobiography.’ But then you must know that, she thought, why else are you here?

  ‘How long had you known the deceased?’

  ‘I had known Beattie for just on a month. She contacted my agent, looking for a ghost wri—’

  ‘Your agent’s name?’

  ‘Oliver Horowitz.’

  ‘Got a number handy?’

  Roxy rattled several numbers off, giving them Oliver’s home and work details. It was Sunday morning but chances are he’d be skulking about in his office downtown doing whatever he did when he wasn’t out guzzling beer or at home trying to sleep. Valence meanwhile had disappeared into the kitchen.

  ‘Looking for something?’ Roxy called after him, annoyed, and the officer poked his head around the door, shrugged and then slouched back into the living room and dropped into a chair. ‘Do you have any idea what happened?’

  ‘We’re still piecing it together, Miss,’ Spicer said, ‘But it looks like suicide. Pretty cut and dried I believe.’

  Nice choice of words, Roxy thought and then snorted. ‘You’re kidding, right?’

  ‘When do you think you last saw her?’ Spicer continued, ignoring her comment.

  ‘I know I last saw her on Wednesday afternoon. We had our usual 3:00 p.m. appointment. It lasted about 20 minutes and then Beattie said she was tired and abruptly ended the interview.’

  ‘How did she seem?’

  ‘Well, as I said, tired.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yes, she was wary, she was holding something back.’

  ‘Oh?’

  Roxy repeated what Beattie had said regarding her grandson’s objections to the book as well as her comment that it was ‘all such a can of worms.’ As she spoke, she noticed that neither man took any notes.

  ‘You been ghostwritin’ for long?’ Valence suddenly asked, his accent surprisingly broad.

  ‘A couple of years. Look, that’s not all.’ Roxy leant forward in her chair, excitement edging into her voice. ‘There is one other important thing I should tell you.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Well, I spoke to Beatrice two days later, on the Friday—’

  ‘The day she died?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose that’s right. She couldn’t talk, said she had someone there—which you might want to check, her maid will tell you—’

  ‘Her maid wasn’t working that day,’ Valence said.

  Roxy glanced across at him, surprised. ‘That’s odd, I thought she was full-time. Anyway, the point is, she seemed very flustered and said a few things which I believe are quite vital.’

  Roxy repeated her final conversation with the elderly socialite including her revelation about a ‘surprising visitor’ and her almost matter-of-fact admission that she had a daughter. Again, neither officer bat an eyelid. ‘Anyway,’ she continued, unperturbed, ‘she also confirmed that she wanted me back the following Monday to resume the interviews.’ Again, neither man reacted, so she helped them along. ‘That doesn’t sound like a woman who’s about to kill herself, does it?’

  As if on some silent directive both officers stood up and stepped towards the door. Spicer turned and said, ‘Thank you for your assistance, Miss Parker.’

  Roxy raced after them. ‘But surely you still don’t think it was suicide?’

  ‘If we need anything else,’ Spicer replied dryly, ‘we’ll be in touch.’

  And with that they were gone. ‘Bloody useless,’ she spat, slamming the door behind them. It seemed to her that the policemen had no interest whatsoever in what she had to say. It was as though they had simply dropped by to check her out, tick her off their list, and get on with their day.

  ‘You certainly had more to contribute than I did,’ Oliver was saying over the phone from his apartment an hour later.

  ‘So they came to see you, too?’

  ‘Just been ’round. But I don’t know why they bothered. Walked in, looked around, asked my occupation and walked out again. Hardly an investigation.’

  ‘Must be your trusting face,’ she replied. ‘What do you think they’re up to?’

  ‘I know what they’re up to. Haven’t you read the papers yet?’

  ‘Haven’t had a chance, why?’

  ‘Go get ’em, it’ll explain everything.’ And with that he hung up.

  Roxy slipped on her Converse sneakers and, grabbing some loose change, dashed down to the local newsagency that was just opening its doors for the Sunday trade.

  ‘Hey Roxy!’ the owner called out as she dashed in. ‘You’re up early.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ she said, grabbing the three main newspapers and handing him her change. ‘Have a good one.’

  Back in her apartment, Roxy buttered some toast and, with a cup of strong coffee in front of her and a pair of scissors in hand, began to scan the headlines. The articles on Beattie’s death were all disappointingly brief, each containing just a few quick paragraphs which paid more attention to her late, roving husband than the woman herself. And, much to her surprise, the police had already confirmed that there were ‘no suspicious circumstances’ They clearly believed it was suicide.

  ‘So that’s why they were so flippant,’ she thought enraged. ‘They’ve already closed the case. They were just here to cross a few Ts.’

  Roxy jumped up and began pacing the room, anger swelling up inside her. Surely there needed to be a proper investigation before they could confirm anything, she thought, chewing frantically at her lower lip. She, for one, could not accept it. The Beatrice Musgrave she knew would never commit suicide, and certainly not in such an ignominious way. An overdose of sleeping pills, perhaps. It was clean and dignified. But leaping to her death off the balcony? It was too public, too messy. After all, this was the woman who was so into keeping up appearances she wore pearls around the house! Roxy sat down, trying to get her head together. If Beattie didn’t kill herself, then it was murder. Either that or a tragic accident. But you couldn’t really expect a 70-something to be dangling dangerously over a balcony for no good reason.

  ‘Nup,’ thought Roxy, ‘She was definitely pushed. Had to be. But by whom? And why?’

  She considered that final phone call with Beattie, tears welling up again as she realized that she might have been one of the last people to speak to the poor woman before she died. Apart from the killer, of course.

  Now what exactly did she say to me? Roxy jumped back up, grabbed her laptop and quickly set up a new file. She needed to get some facts down, and fast, before they soon fictionalized, as facts often did over time.

  She recalled her last few conversations with Beattie, tapping the entire thing down, and then underlining the pivotal lines:

  I’ve had the most surprising visitor ... you wouldn’t believe ... My old ...’

  No, she hadn’t said old. What was it? Roxy stared hard at her tulips for a few moments. Ah, that’s right! ‘my long-lost—’

  That’s when Beattie had been interrupted.

  ‘I have to go, Roxanne, I’ve got someone here.’

  Roxy felt a slight chill. Had the murderer been there? In her house? At that exact moment? Was the murderer listening in and ready to stop the old woman before she gave anything away? Roxy shook the thought away and continued scribbling.

  ‘Now everything is perfect…now it seems she doesn’t mind.’

  ‘Who doesn’t mind?’

  ‘My daughter, dear.’

  The daughter. Roxy placed the word in thick bold type and sat back, trying to think. It seemed that the answers to her questions might lie with that elusive daughter. But who was she? Where had she come from? Was she friend or foe?

  ‘Arrrrgh,’ she groaned, placing the computer aside and glancing up at the clock. It was only just 10:00 a.m. She grabbed her jacket and
handbag and returned to the street.

  ‘Come on, Olie,’ Roxy pleaded, her legs scrunched in front of her, her arms wrapped around them. She was perched on a bright red sofa in his apartment, just one suburb down from her own, and growing quickly impatient. ‘You’ve done it before!’

  ‘Well I don’t want to do it again. What are you hiding?’

  ‘Nothing!’

  ‘Then why exactly do you need me to call my mate at Forensics?’

  ‘Because if anyone knows the goss about Beatrice Musgrave’s death she will.’

  ‘But why get involved? It’s out of your hands now.’

  ‘Beatrice was my client, Oliver, you know that. I was writing her life story for God’s sake. I’d just like to know how it ends up.’

  ‘She threw herself off her balcony. It seems pretty clear to me.’

  ‘It doesn’t make an ounce of sense,’ she retorted. ‘I spoke to Beatrice the day before she died and she sounded excited, anxious to meet with me again tomorrow. She confirmed the appointment herself.’

  ‘Sorry, Roxy, but it makes perfect sense to me. Think about it. She’s near the end of it, she’s had enough, she’s given you her life story. Now you can write it with the ending in place. Sounds pretty clever in fact.’

  Roxy dropped her feet down and began tapping them anxiously on the parquetry floor. Oliver’s apartment, bathed now in orange light, was art deco in design and a little shabby in a kind of charming, indolent way, with mismatched sofas and rugs and old movie posters taped to the walls. ‘But we hadn’t finished, Oliver,’ she said. ‘We’d only got a third of the way through.’

  He shrugged. ‘Maybe she took one look at the rest of her life and felt suicidal. From what I’ve read, she had a pretty miserable marriage.’

  ‘Or perhaps,’ Roxy said, ‘she was murdered.’

  Oliver shook his head. ‘Roxy you really do have a wild imagination. I think you should be in crime fiction not biographies.’

  ‘Oh be serious. There’s always that possibility.’

  ‘But who would murder a little old biddy?’

  ‘I don’t know, but she was digging into her past, after all. Perhaps someone wanted to shut her up.’

  Oliver suddenly squinted his eyes and then surprised Roxy by jumping up and closing the front door, which had been left ajar when she arrived. It led out to the main staircase of his apartment block and she didn’t know any of his neighboring tenants to be particularly nosy, so she wondered why he did it.

  ‘What could she possibly be about to tell you?’ he asked, his tone now anxious, and Roxy felt her defenses rise up.

  ‘Oh ... I don’t know. Maybe she wasn’t. I’m just guessing here, Oliver.’

  ‘Do you have any idea at all?’

  ‘No.’

  He scanned her eyes, as if trying to determine the truth and she stared coolly back. After years as an interviewer Roxy knew that a sudden change of tone was something to be wary of, even in her agent. She tried lightening up. ‘Oh you know me, Olie. I’m obsessed with death. I just figure your mate might know a little more than the press are letting on, that’s all. Aren’t you intrigued just a little bit?’

  ‘So that’s all this is, morbid curiosity?’

  ‘What else could it be?’

  He slowly nodded his head. ‘Alright I’ll give her a call. But that’s on the proviso that if you do come up with anything juicy and decide to write a piece, you sell the story through me. Deal?’

  ‘Ah, there he is, the eternal agent, rearing his ugly head. It’s a deal.’

  ‘Good, now get out of here, I got some work to do.’

  ‘Thanks, Olie.’

  As Roxy reached the door, Oliver called out, ‘Anything in particular you want me to ask about?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she replied. ‘Ask about palm prints on old Beattie’s back.’