Killer Twist (Ghostwriter Mystery 1) Page 8

Chapter 8: The Funeral

  Beatrice Musgrave’s funeral was held at the prestigious St Mary’s Cathedral in the city at 9:00 a.m. the Tuesday morning after her death, but Roxy was not invited. It was a strictly private affair. She begrudged her exclusion. Not only would she have valued the chance to pay her last respects but, if truth be told, she was also hoping to check out the family close up, to look for signs of guilt or remorse. At least Max would be there taking photographs for the Tele, she told herself, he could fill her in. In the meantime, she turned her attention elsewhere. She still had the Heather Jackson interview to transcribe and write up. It would be a welcome distraction.

  Just as she had done with Beattie’s interviews, Roxy rewound the Jackson tape and, setting up her laptop in the dining room, began to type the full interview into a file she marked ‘H files’. Many of Roxy’s colleagues hired typists to transcribe their interviews but Roxy liked to do it herself. While she detested the grind—a 20-minute interview could take well over an hour to transcribe—she felt it was essential that she listen back to her interviews personally. Not only did that ensure the job was done properly but she could also note down mood changes, lengthy pauses and even the odd giggle or sigh, all things that added the real flavor to any good story. After she had transcribed the full interview, Roxy spent the rest of the day constructing it into a feature that Maria Constantinople would approve of. By sunset the article was done and she padded into the kitchen to pour herself a glass of Merlot. She then swung open the fridge and pulled out some chicken breasts, zucchini, a clump of broccoli, bok choy and carrots, and, after rinsing them, began to chop them into smaller pieces on her wooden chopping bench. She dribbled a little olive oil and a tablespoon of red curry sauce into her wok, turned on the gas and added some coconut milk. As the mixture sautéed and the rich aroma filled her small kitchen, she switched off her mind and concentrated on her cooking.

  She hadn’t managed to step out today, but she found cooking was almost as therapeutic, allowing her to tune out and give her brain a break. If she was ever struggling for a line or an original start to a story, it often provided one, or at the very least, gave her the sustenance to continue on.

  When the sauce was thick and slowly simmering, she added some cut onion, garlic, lemon juice, fish sauce, bamboo shoots and the chicken, stirring the mixture around and then, reducing the heat, returned to her computer to read over her story. Roxy kept her own words as objective as possible, letting the artist’s actions and answers speak for themselves. And she couldn’t help but smile. On the surface, the piece was complimentary, meriting the woman’s talent and emphasizing her early declaration that she wanted to make a difference in the world, to paint truly important people. This was then followed by an intensive description of Heather’s ‘magnificent celebrity-centered’ works, her ‘opulent’ appearance—‘the latest in designer couture’—and the ‘magnificent, sprawling mansion’ in which, it seemed, she lived all alone. On a deeper level, it was clear Heather Jackson was as far removed from her original intention as she could get. Heather had provided her own noose. The reader could decide whether to hang her.

  As Roxy watched the automatic spell check whiz across her words, she wondered whether Maria would catch the irony, but was in no doubt that Heather Jackson would. And it made her pause for just a moment. For some reason it didn’t seem like such a bright idea to get on Heather Jackson’s bad side.

  Roxy shrugged and closed the file down. She needed to sleep on it, now, so that she could give it a fresh read in the morning. It was the perfect way to catch any sloppy sentences and spot anything that needed changing. She dialed the office number for Maria Constantinople and reached her voice mail instead.

  ‘Leave a message!’ the brassy editor bellowed. Roxy waited for the beep and then said, ‘Hey there, it’s your favorite freelancer. The Jackson interview will be with you by Wednesday pm. Call me after that.’

  She then dialed Max’s number and invited him for dinner. ‘I’m cooking your fave,’ she teased.

  ‘You just want the goss on the funeral.’

  ‘Funeral? What funeral?’

  ‘Very funny. I’ll be there in ten.’

  Max was wearing a sloppy pair of cords and a paint-splattered, long-sleeved T-shirt when he arrived and his hair looked like it hadn’t been washed for weeks.

  ‘Not getting much sleep these days are you?’ Roxy commented as she took the bottle of Verdelho from his hands and let him in.

  ‘What can I say? Sandra’s an animal.’ His face crinkled into his trademark smile and she rolled her eyes at him.

  ‘Spare me the details, please. You want me to open this or you want to join me in a Merlot?’

  ‘Merlot will do, thanks.’

  They moved to the kitchen and, as Roxy poured him a glass, Max had a pick at the curry. ‘Looks delish, Rox.’

  ‘Naturally.’ She threw in the rest of the vegies, stirred the wok a few times, then reached for a bag of jasmine rice. ‘Can you fetch the cooker from the cupboard below you there? I’ll put some rice on.’

  As the rice bubbled away, the friends moved into the lounge room to enjoy their drinks and chat.

  ‘So it’s getting pretty serious between you and Sandy?’

  ‘Sandra, -dra! Yeah, well, as serious as I can get, and we both know that’s not saying much.’

  ‘Well give this one a go, okay? Don’t run off the second you think she’s hooked.’ Roxy didn’t know why she was encouraging him except that she wanted the best for her good friend and if Sandra made him happy, she was happy. He stared at her for a few moments, his smile now missing, and then just shrugged.

  ‘So you want to know about the Musgrave funeral.’

  ‘I never said that.’

  ‘This is me, here, Rox. I know you too well.’

  She shrugged, ‘Alright, alright, give me the goss. Did you bring the pix?’

  ‘Aw, shit, I knew I’d forgotten something. They’re on my computer back at the warehouse.’

  She tried to hide her disappointment, and wondered for a moment if it wasn’t deliberate. ‘No worries. So, what was it like? Anything interesting happen?’

  ‘Not really. But I can tell you one thing, there wasn’t a lot of crying going on.’

  ‘Not even her great mate, the lawyer, Ronald Featherby?’

  ‘Nope, he was pretty subdued. As for the son, William, he barely changed expression all day. Serious but subdued I think they call that. Now, the grandson—’

  ‘Fabian?’

  ‘Yeah, something like that, he looked a bit sad but I have to say his wife was practically beaming. She’s not losing any sleep over the old lady’s demise.’

  Roxy’s ears pricked up. ‘I didn’t realize Fabian was married. What’s she like, this daughter-in-law?’

  ‘Scrawny in that inner-Darlinghurst kinda way. Had some tight leather number on. Looked like she was going to a dance party not a funeral. I tell you, Rox, I’ve photographed a few funerals in my time but this one was depressing for all the wrong reasons.’

  Roxy jumped up and checked the rice, then threw two placemats on the table, some cutlery, a plate of sliced lime and the newly opened bottle of wine. She lit a candle and placed it in the middle and then returned to the kitchen to fetch the food. As Max helped himself to a hefty plateful, Roxy pondered his account of poor Beatrice’s funeral.

  ‘You’re telling me that not a single soul seemed sorry to see Beattie go?’

  ‘Well, there were a lot of old ladies I assumed she played Bridge with or something that were a little tearful. Oh and some old guy in a beat-up suit and an Akubra hat. Now he was miserable, that’s for sure. But, no, as far as funerals go it was pretty tearless. Cheerful almost. I guess she was getting on in age, maybe old people’s funerals aren’t such a tragedy?’

  ‘They should be if that old person supposedly killed herself!’

  Squeezing some lime over her plate, Roxy couldn’t help frowning. Perhaps she should have gate-crash
ed the funeral and given the old woman the tears she deserved.

  ‘And tell me, any woman there in her 50s who didn’t seem accounted for?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  She swallowed a good mouthful of curry before relating her final conversation with Mrs Musgrave in which she had let slip about a daughter. He scratched his messy hair, trying to remember.

  ‘I honestly couldn’t tell you. There were a lot of people there I didn’t recognize, most from charity groups I gather. Certainly there was no such person in the family section.’

  ‘Yes but I doubt she’d be sitting with them. My guess is, if they even knew about the daughter—which they may not have—they mightn’t be exactly accepting. She might even be the reason Beattie was killed.’

  ‘Killed? Roxy you don’t know that for sure.’

  ‘Yes but—’

  ‘But be careful. Murder’s a big call.’

  ‘I know, I know.’ She returned to her food and ate sullenly. Max was right. What did she have to base her assumptions on? An old lady’s last-minute declaration about a daughter who may, or may not, exist? The fact that she may, or may not, have been blackmailed by a strange old woman dressed like a socialite and smelling like a derelict? Or the abusive emails which, Roxy had to concede, might have absolutely nothing to do with Beatrice at all. And yet she hadn’t received one since Beattie had died, and this seemed to indicate that the two were indeed related.

  ‘You’re right,’ she told Max as she filled up his glass. ‘I’m assuming too much and not checking the facts. I need to check the facts.’

  ‘Look, drop by my place one day and check the pix out for yourself. Something might stand out. I’d email them to you but there’s hundreds. They’d crash your hard-drive. In the meantime, lighten up!’

  She did as suggested and by the time Max had departed she had determined to put the Musgrave case aside for a while, get on with her own life.

  And then Oliver Horowitz called.

  ‘I’m meeting my friend in Forensics for lunch tomorrow at the Fountain Cafe, 1 pm. Wanna drop by?’

  ‘Damn right I do,’ she replied without hesitation. ‘See you then.’