by C. A. Larmer
Roxy nodded amiably and walked him to the door.
‘So, we’ll talk again. What’s your number?’
‘Actually Mason, let me take your number instead.’
‘Oh, one of those, hey?’ He didn’t sound perturbed and wedged one of his business cards into her hand before slopping a wet kiss on top. Roxy pulled her hand away firmly and tried for a smile. When he had finally driven off, proudly revving his BMW in the process, Roxy felt a sigh of relief followed quickly by a prickle of excitement. Okay, so the bag lady clearly wasn’t the secret daughter, that was clear. So who was she then? And why was she threatening Beatrice Musgrave? Did she also know about the daughter, or was Beattie hiding something else? And was she the one who killed her? Roxy slipped back into the house, fetched her keys and then slipped quietly out again. It was late and she wasn’t in the mood for her mother’s endless questions.
Chapter 8: The Funeral
Beatrice Musgrave’s funeral was held at the prestigious St Mary’s Cathedral in the city at 9am 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 sauteed 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 th
rew 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-crashed 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.’
Chapter 9: The Jane Doe Dons Designer
The Fountain Cafe was Oliver Horowitz’s favorite haunt. Nestled in the heart of Sydney’s seediest suburb, Kings Cross, and next to the iconic El Alamein Fountain, it offered a lively view of neon-lit Macleay Street with its sleazy strip joints and 24-hour bars, and the hoards of ogling guys and giggling tourists who wandered through all day and all night as though on some perverse pilgrimage. Roxy wasn’t particularly fond of the place which fringed her own suburb like cheap, unwashed lace, and usually walked the extra distance along the back streets to bypass it altogether. But today was unavoidable. Oliver Horowitz had a soft spot for the ’Cross. As an ex-newspaper man it once provided him with a good deal of his material, and he still enjoyed watching news in the making.
Roxy increased her speed as she maneuvered her way through, the crowds heavy despite the hour. She spotted the police station and then the spurting fountain, which served to split the area between Kings Cross and the once posh suburb of Potts Point. Of course it had gone the way of its neighbor soon enough, but several stately old brick buildings reminded anyone who cared to notice that it once had class, too many broken promises ago. Oliver was sitting on the seedier side of the fountain. Two plates of half-eaten sandwiches were in front of him but he appeared to be alone and Roxy frowned as she pulled up a plastic chair beside him.
‘Relax,’ he said, pushing his untouched water glass towards her. ‘Kay’s just powdering her nose. Be back in a minute. You been jogging?’
‘Speed walking, actually.’ She tried to regain her breath. ‘What has she said so far?’
‘Oh, well, she’s breaking up with her boyfriend, which is kinda exciting because—’
‘About the Musgrave case.’
‘Nothing.’
Roxy’s eyebrows furrowed.
‘I was waiting for you. Didn’t want to seem obvious.’
‘Oh I’m sure she won’t suspect a thing.’ Roxy took a good gulp of the water and then frowned again. ‘It’s not even cold, tastes like chlorine.’
‘I’ll tell you what is cold, the friggin’ service around here. Hopeless today. Where is that bloody waiter? You want something? Coffee? Oh, here you are, Kay.’ He made a feeble, fat man’s attempt to pull out her chair and the petite Asian woman sat down, glancing curiously across at Roxy and poking her cat’s-eye spectacles back into place.
‘Kay, this is my friend—’
‘Hello,’ Roxy interrupted. ‘I’m Roxy. I was just walking past and saw poor old Olie here sitting all alone.’
‘Oh,’ the woman stammered, ‘Really?’
‘Yep.’ It wasn’t such an unlikely coincidence. Roxy and Oliver frequently ran into each other. His art deco apartment was on the other side of the Cross, in the terrace-lined Victoria Street that overlooked the city.
‘You into walking?’
‘Um, no, not really.’
‘Roxy’s a mad walker,’ Oliver chirped, trying to do his bit.
‘Mmm,’ Roxy glanced at her watch. She didn’t have much time for small talk. She decided to plunge right in. ‘Oliver tells me you work in forensic science?’
The woman nodded yes.
‘I am intrigued by your sort of job. I was thinking about taking it up myself, except I just don’t think I’d be strong enough, you know?’ She patted her stomach. ‘Or smart enough. You guys must be just so cluey. Worked on any exciting cases lately?’ She tried not to wince as Oliver kicked her under the table.
The woman, who was probably more accustomed to looks of abhorrence when she mentioned her profession, blushed a little, flattered. She cleared her throat. ‘Oh there’s always something exciting going on,’ she said. ‘What do you do?’
Roxy hesitated, she didn’t want to scare her off.
‘Rox is one of my clients, she ghostwrites autobiographies,’ Oliver replied quickly. ‘People’s life stories, that sort of thing.’
‘Yes, in fact, I just lost a big job.’
‘Oh?’
‘I was going to write the biography of Beatrice Musgrave. But she recently died, so...’
Mrs Musgrave’s name did not bring any change in Kay’s features and, instead, she seemed more interested in the menu than the conversation.
‘Yes I read about that,’ Oliver was saying. ‘Suicide.’
‘Mmm. Very shocking, quite unexpected. You didn’t happen to work on that case did you, Kay?’ Roxy tried to keep the eagerness out of her voice but the other woman shrugged no and turned towards the waiter who had miraculously—inconveniently—turned up to take their orders.
‘I would like the iced chocolate please.’
‘A latté for me,’ Roxy added, feeling bitterly disappointed.
As though sensing this, Kay announced, ‘But I did work on the mutilated corpse that has been in all the papers. The Jane Doe.’
Roxy cheered up enormously. ‘The one-handed corpse!? Now that was fascinating.
And you got to perform the autopsy?’
‘Well, I assisted. But you know, she—the deceased, that is—did have both hands, it was just the fingers on the right hand that were missing.’
‘Had they been cut off? Or was it a deformity she already had?’
Kay looked at her surprised. ‘That’s a very good question because, actually, the answer is, both.’
‘Huh?’ Oliver was not keeping up. The smaller woman cleared her throat and edged her spectacles back on her nose.
‘It’s hard to explain, but Dr Omah, my boss, he said that it looked like the hand had already undergone surgery and, judging from the scar tissue, some of the fingers had probably already been removed.’
‘When? How?’
‘Oh many, many years ago, probably from an accident or something.’
Roxy’s lips pursed a little and nudged to one side. She wanted to get it straight.
‘So her fingers weren’t cut off by the murderer at all?’
‘Oh yes they were cut off, well, some of them were freshly cut off you see? The others had been removed earlier. We concluded that at least three fingers were not there to begin with.’
‘So let me get this straight. Three had been removed a long time ago, and then the last two were sliced off before she was killed?’
‘Got it in one,’ said Kay. ‘Very strange, hey?’
They all nodded their heads and then the waiter appeared with their drinks, lazily placing them down.
‘Have they identified the body?’ Roxy asked when he had gone.
‘Not as far as I know,’ Kay replied, scooping some cream from her drink. ‘And I doubt that they will.’
‘Oh?’
‘Well, she was clearly a derelict of some sort. Probably had no fixed address and relatives close by.’
‘How did you know she was a derelict? Her clothes?’
‘Oh no they were very flashy.’
‘Flashy?’ A thrill ran down Roxy’s spine.
‘Yes, good quality material, obviously quite new.’