Killer Twist (A Ghostwriter Mystery)

by C. A. Larmer

  Roxy blinked back her surprise and glanced at the clock. It was not yet 8am 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 Mrs 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 3pm 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 ove
r 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 10am. 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 unmatching sofas, mismatched 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 biddie?’

  ‘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.’

  Chapter 7: Searching for Suspects

  Monday morning dawned bright and cloudless, doing very little to cheer up workers as they made their way back to the grindstone. Roxy congratulated herself, as she often did on Mondays, for not having an office job. She was simply not the nine-to-five type, forgetting as she always did that she tended to do longer hours than that and worked most weekends. As she sat down at her desk and scanned her diary for the week, Roxy’s good humor quickly dissipated. She was scheduled to return to the Musgrave mansion for the next installment of Beattie’s life story that very morning and for the first time since she had begun, she longed desperately to do just that. She wished she could turn up at the grand old house and find the elegant hostess ready and waiting, eager to share cups of tea and her life story. She sighed heavily. If only Beatrice had not been so determined to tell that story, ‘get it all out once and for all’, she might still be alive today, spooning some Earl Grey tea leaves into her ivory china tea pot in anticipation of Roxy’s visit.

  Roxy realized, of course, that it was all conjecture. She understood that she could well be barking up the wrong tree, that the old lady could have done herself in, as others were so quick to assume. But she just didn’t believe it. Not for one second. She felt a sudden urge to finish transcribing their interviews together. There were four hours of tape left to write up and it seemed imperative that she do it, and do it soon.

  Overnight Roxy had contemplated finishing Beattie’s biography for her and had decided to approach the Musgrave family about this very subject. But right now she had a strong urge to see what else was on those tapes, in case there was something important that she’d missed. Perhaps Beattie had made a previous, albeit subtle, mention of another child or given some indication that she was contemplating her own brutal death. If the police aren’t interested, she thought striding into the kitchen, I am. She prepared a plunger of fresh New Guinea coffee and fetched the tapes.

  As they noisily rewound in her small recorder, Roxy set her laptop up on the dining room table so that she could drink in the view as she worked. She poured herself some coffee, added a few sugars and some milk, took a good long sip and then pressed the start button on her tape recorder. As the ferries chugged across the horizon and the sun beamed down on the ferns just beyond, Roxy ploughed slowly through, noting down anything that rose an eyebrow or tickled her instincts. />
  By mid-afternoon she had listened to the final tape, the last aborted interview in which it was made perfectly clear by Beatrice that there were, indeed, skeletons in her closet. Roxy pushed the laptop aside, stood up and stretched like a cat easing out the aches and pains of sitting in a concentrated state for too long. Then, needing both a distraction and an outing, she fetched her handbag and rummaged through for the blue scrap of paper Heather had given her with the name of her agent Jamie Owen written on it. When she located it, she picked up the phone and dialed the number scribbled below it. On the first ring a gruff voice answered, ‘Owen!’

  ‘Hi, is that Jamie?’

  ‘Yes, who’s this?’

  ‘My name’s Roxy Parker—’

  ‘This about the umbrella?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You got it?’

  ‘Yes, I had a good look and found—’

  ‘Good. I’ll send a courier for it. Give me your address.’

  ‘Actually I’m about to head out. I’m happy to drop it into Heather.’

  ‘Not necessary, thank you Miss Parker. Drop it into my office. 323 Park Street, seventh floor. Leave it with the receptionist.’

  ‘Oh, okay, no probs.’

  He hung up without another word.

  ‘As polite as your client, I see,’ Roxy remarked into the empty receiver. She flipped the paper over to jot down the address when she noticed the words ‘Miss Roxanne Parker’ scribbled on it. Again, it surprised her—how strange that Maria would refer to her in such a formal way. This was for an artist, after all, not the Lord Mayor. But there was something else now, too, something about the writing. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it. Roxy shrugged and began scribbling down Heather’s manager’s details, then fetched the gold umbrella, her boots and a jacket. The sooner she was rid of it the better.

  Within the hour Roxy had dropped the umbrella off and was back at her desk perusing her notes on Beatrice Musgrave. She felt oddly relieved, now that the umbrella was out of her hands, and fresher, too, for the break. These little outings—to fetch the paper, do a grocery shop, grab a bite at Lockies—were almost ritualistic for Roxy. They helped clear her head and get her out of the house, something she understood was important, even if her heart wasn’t in it. She recalled a week some time back when she hadn’t stirred at all. She was finishing several big articles, Max was away and the weather had not been conducive, but by the Friday she was crawling the walls and when the takeaway guy arrived with her dinner, she had practically thrown herself upon him, desperate for company and conversation. Perhaps she wasn’t the loner she pretended to be.