Killer Twist (A Ghostwriter Mystery)

by C. A. Larmer

  Heather considered this for a second and then reached into her bag for a scrap of paper and a pen. She pulled out the blue piece she referred to earlier, and, turning it over, scribbled down the name Jamie Owen, adding a number below it. ‘My manager,’ she explained, dropping the paper to the table. ‘He can help you with anything you need.’

  With a swish of her thick locks, she turned away and strode swiftly across the room, past the gobsmacked patron who had finally worked out who she was, and out the door. Within seconds she was speeding off up the road, leaving Roxy alone with her tape recorder and a bemused look upon her face. Loghlen watched his idol drive away and rushed back to Roxy.

  ‘So how’d it go? Get what you need?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Roxy said, feeling both relieved and rueful at the same time. She couldn’t recall ever having done a more difficult interview and was not sure she had got anything out of the acclaimed artist. But she was sure of one thing: that was clearly what the artist had intended.

  ‘What’s with the umbrella?’ Max asked as Roxy strolled into the bar. ‘Rain packed up shop hours ago.’

  ‘Yes, I know, it’s Heather Jackson’s. She left it behind after our interview, and now I have to take my own advice and get it back to her without running into her.’

  ‘Huh?’

  Max was confused and Roxy was too tired to explain it all now. She wedged the umbrella into her handbag and dropped it to the floor, then took a seat, pulling her long scarf off and tucking her brown boots beneath the barstool.

  ‘Get us a drink will you, Max, I’m dying here.’

  He motioned for the barmaid and ordered a glass of Merlot and a beer for himself. He didn’t push her to explain, that’s not what these weekly get-togethers were about. Instead, he dragged a bowl of peanuts towards them and, throwing a handful into his mouth, chewed loudly while asking, ‘So how was the meeting with your mum?’

  ‘Disastrous.’

  ‘Same old same old then?’

  ‘’Fraid so.’

  ‘So, who’s she got you hooked up with this time?’

  ‘Oh some lawyer dude who’s no doubt short, fat and extremely dull.’

  ‘Ahhh, but he’d make a faithful husband.’

  ‘Which is more than I can say for most men.’

  Max smiled. ‘So young and yet so cynical.’

  ‘Not that young,’ she corrected.

  ‘Which is exactly why she’s setting you up with drongos instead of dishes. Less chance of them running off with the secretary.’

  Roxy gulped at her glass. ‘God, do people even do that anymore? It’s so cliché. Anyway, don’t make excuses for her.’

  ‘Just making an observation, Parker, nothing to get in a twist about. You really don’t like your mum very much do you?’

  ‘Oh it’s not that. I just don’t respect her. That’s much worse. How’s your dad going?’

  ‘Grumpy old bastard as usual. I swear, we should be able to put them down when they get to a certain age.’

  Roxy laughed and felt her shoulders relax a little. Max and Roxy met weekly at Pico’s, a small, candle-lit wine bar, where they left work worries at the door and sorted each other’s private lives out instead. They called it their ‘sanity date’ and often let it carry on into the early hours of the morning, drinking and laughing and forgetting their woes. Or at least making fun of them, which was almost as good. She ran her eyes over her good friend. He had a beaten up leather jacket on tonight, and baggy black jeans. No skinny jeans for this guy. It was too much like hard work. He ran a hand through his tousled hair, only managing to tousle it further and she thought she detected the slight scent of aftershave. Surely not, she thought? It wasn’t really Max’s style.

  ‘So did you get the jacket back okay?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He sounded glum.

  ‘She didn’t spot you cowering behind the light box?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So what’s the problem?’

  ‘Oh, nothing.’ He drained his beer and ordered another. He was drinking fast, even for a Thursday night.

  ‘What? Spill!’

  ‘She wasn’t all that bad,’ he said.

  ‘What happened?’ Why this change of tune?

  ‘Well, I called her up again.’

  ‘After all that?’

  ‘Hey, it’s fine for you. You like being single. I hate it.’

  ‘Oh give me a break.’

  Max sucked the froth from the top of his bottle. His mood had turned a little sour. ‘Tell me, Rox, why exactly do you like being single?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘You never need anyone, do you?’

  Roxy sensed bitterness in his tone and wondered if he was drunk. ‘That’s the second time I’ve heard that in as many days. That’s absolute crap, you know that.’

  ‘No, actually, I don’t.’

  ‘Well, for starters, I need you or I’d go slowly insane.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  Roxy gulped her drink and felt her shoulders tense up again. But she softened her tone as she asked, ‘What is it? If you like this girl, then just see her. It’s not a big—’

  ‘Look, I know that.’ He was trying to control his anger. Unsuccessfully.

  ‘Good. So how’s work? Snapped any big fish?’

  ‘No work, remember.’

  ‘Well what do you want to talk about? You’re in such a filthy mood.’

  Max swallowed hard. ‘So I’m gonna see her again.’

  ‘Good! Do it!’ What did he want from her?

  ‘I will!’

  Roxy rolled her eyes and looked away. Above the bar a small TV screen was heralding the ABC’s 7pm news. The lead story was dubbed ‘Horror Find Still Unsolved’ and, upon her instruction, the bartender turned it up.

  ‘The one-handed corpse discovered at Rushcutters Bay on Monday has still not been identified and Bay police are asking for assistance from the public,’ a harried voice declared. ‘According to forensics, the victim, whose right hand had been chopped off, was drowned late Sunday night or early Monday morning and they are appealing to any witnesses who may have seen anything suspicious in the area at that time. Please contact your local police station or the police hotline on—’

  ‘Horrible stuff,’ Max said, shuddering a little, and Roxy turned back to him, her eyes now twinkling again.

  ‘I read about it earlier this week. Why on earth would you chop a person’s hand off?’

  ‘Identification.’

  ‘Oh but there’s always the other hand, the face, the dental records...it’s quite bizarre.’

  ‘Murder is always bizarre,’ Max insisted, crunching on some ice.

  ‘Not at all,’ Roxy replied. ‘Sometimes it’s downright dull.’

  He stared at her like she had finally flipped, his thick eyebrows rising, his brown hair flopping down on top of them.

  ‘Oh, you know,’ she continued, ‘shoot-outs at a 7/11 or pub brawls. That’s all pretty ordinary stuff. But killing someone for their fingers, now that’s interesting!’

  ‘You have always had a macabre interest in death, haven’t you?’

  Roxy smiled and picked up her drink. ‘Not all deaths,’ she replied. ‘Just the involuntary ones.’

  He smiled at that, his large, all-consuming smile, and with it the mood of the evening lightened up. But as they ordered more drinks and a bowl of wedges on the side, Roxy couldn’t help a niggling sense of unease. Max wasn’t himself tonight, and for some reason—a reason she couldn’t even articulate to herself—she was too terrified to ask him why.

  Chapter 5: Playing Dumb

  ‘Hi Roxy,’ Loghlen sang as Roxy pulled up a chair by the coffee bar the next day. ‘What can I get ya?’

  ‘I think I’ll go for a strawberry frappe and one of your No. 7’s,’ she said. ‘Oh, and a newspaper on the side.’ He pushed his bushy orange eyebrows together, curiously, and she quickly added, ‘Just need to look something up.’

  ‘No problemo.’ He detoured to g
rab that day’s Herald, which he dropped in front of her, before placing the order.

  Roxy thanked him and then carefully studied the paper from cover to cover. She was hoping to read more about the mutilated body but there wasn’t so much as a mention. Lockie returned to the coffeemaker and began frothing the milk.

  ‘Checkin’ the Dow Jones?’ he asked as she scrutinized the pages.

  ‘I wish, Lockie, I wish.’ She tossed the paper aside. ‘So, how are you going?’

  ‘Good, good! Hey, the artist was back.’

  Roxy was surprised. ‘Heather Jackson?’

  ‘The veddy one!’

  ‘Don’t tell me she came back for one of your world-famous decaf skinny lattes?’

  ‘’Fraid not!’ He laughed. ‘She was lookin for somethin’ but i’ wasn’t my coffee that’s for sure. I asked her what, but she wouldn’t say.’

  ‘Bit odd.’

  ‘Aye. She obviously left somethin’ here but she wouldn’t tell me what. I reckon it was probably her umbrella. She did have a bit of a rummage in the old keg up the front.’ He placed the frothy brew in front of her just as a small bell rang, and he dashed out the back to fetch her sandwich. After taking a giant bite to quiet her stomach down, Roxy asked, ‘But why come all this way for a crummy umbrella?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he said, waving to another patron who had just entered. ‘P’raps she’s just cheap? What did you do with it, anyway?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The umbrella.’

  Roxy shrugged. ‘God, I can’t even remember. I think it’s at my house.’

  ‘Well you’d better ge’ it back to her. She looked frantic enough. And I can’t think wo’ else she woulda left. And here—’ he grabbed a shiny black umbrella from behind the counter. ‘If you can’t find it, give her this one. She seemed desperate for one and I can’t have her thinking we’re a pack of thieves. This one’s brand new, even cost me a bi’, but she’s welcome to it.’

  As he wandered off to tend some tables, Roxy sat nibbling her focaccia sandwich and wondering at Heather’s behavior. Why wouldn’t she simply tell Lockie what she was looking for? It seemed very odd, but then, Heather was proving to be stranger and stranger by the day.

  ‘Enough about her,’ she thought, reaching for her smartphone and scrolling through her contact list. It was several rings before it answered and Beatrice Musgrave’s voice was uncharacteristically high pitched.

  ‘It’s Roxy Parker, Beattie, are you okay?’

  ‘Oh! Miss Parker. Yes, dear, I’m fine. No, I’m wonderful. It’s been quite a day!’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve had the most surprising visitor...you wouldn’t believe.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes! My long-lost...oh, hang on a minute.’ The phone was suddenly muffled and Roxy strained to hear what was going on, but only the scratchy sound of palm against phone could be detected. After a good minute or so, Beatrice cleared her throat and spoke again.

  ‘Look I have to go, Roxanne, I’ve got someone here. I’ll tell you all about it the next time we meet. Are you fine to come in on Monday?’

  ‘Absolutely. Are you sure everything’s alright?’

  Beatrice laughed heartily. ‘Of course, yes! Now everything is perfect. Sorry about the other day, dear, I was a little worried, but now it seems she doesn’t mind.’

  ‘Who doesn’t mind?’

  ‘My daughter, dear. Oh, I really have to run. We’ll get it all out, once and for all, when we meet on Monday. 9.30am still okay?’

  ‘Fine, yes.’

  As Roxy hung up, a mixture of excitement and trepidation ran down her spine. Not only was there something strange in the older woman’s voice, as far as Roxy knew Beatrice Musgrave didn’t have a daughter.

  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 2pm 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?’