by C. A. Larmer
Once she was dried and changed, Roxy pulled up Heather’s file and began to re-read the interview transcript, searching for clues. Unfortunately, not one suspicious name came to light and certainly none that correlated with the initials ‘AIL’ from the Hotmail address. She clicked the file closed and then fetched the folder that Maria Constantinople had given her. It was more promising.
Amongst the snippets on Heather’s nightclub antics were two stories about a past lover called Rocco. He was a little-known art model, the image of a Greek Adonis and had been Heather’s lover for just on a year. Their split was supposedly acrimonious and Roxy made a note of his name. Perhaps he was still bearing a grudge? Another lover was mentioned, a rock star called Zuban Z. (what was it with these names?) but he had gone on to marry a soap actress. Roxy doubted he’d be bothered with the artist now. But she noted his name, too.
Finally, of course, there was the disgruntled maid Loghlen had mentioned. According to him, she had threatened to write a ‘tell all’ about the artist and then simply disappeared into thin air along with her book. Roxy wondered if Loghlen could recall her name and decided to pay him a visit. Besides, she could do with some fresh air and something greasy to take care of her hangover.
Lockies was bursting with patrons when Roxy pulled up and, seeing how busy Loghlen was, opted for a back table and some lunch first. She would try to speak to him when things settled down. But it was a good hour before the Friday lunch crowd dispersed and Lockie found a few minutes to dedicate to his friend.
‘Sorry ’bout that,’ he said, pulling up a chair beside her. ‘The salami focaccia okay was it?’
‘It hit the spot, actually. Crazy today, huh?’
‘Friday’s always a bi’ mad. You get the umbrella back to wacko Jacko okay?’
‘Heather Jackson? Yeah, and here’s your black one back.’ She retrieved an umbrella from her bag and handed it to him. ‘Now, I’ve got some more questions to ask you.’
‘Ever the journo. Wha’ is it?’
‘Remember you were telling me about the maid who threatened to write a book about Heather?’
‘Aye, that’s right, the one who disappeared. Wha’ about her?’
‘Can you recall her name or any more details about her?’
He stroked his chunky orange sideburns slowly, deep in thought. A sudden swarm of new patrons entered the cafe and he looked around anxiously.
‘You’d better get back to it, Lockie, but if you do recall the name, please give me a buzz. You’ve got my number, right?’
‘Sure do. No probs. I’ll talk to you later.’ He dashed off to see to his customers and Roxy paid up and returned home.
At her mailbox she stopped, tapped it and then opened it up to reveal a variety of bills and some junk mail. There was also a letter from a childhood friend who was now living overseas. They hadn’t seen each other in years but were faithful correspondents. And that’s when it hit her. She bolted up the stairs, let herself into her apartment and headed straight for the Jackson folder, which was still spread out on her desk. Flipping through each page, she quickly scanned the interviews and studied Heather’s biographies in detail. She wondered why she had not noticed it before. Heather Jackson had no past. At least not one anyone had written about. And that was odd. Even Heather’s very first interview, with the Art Gazette, offered not a shred of information about her family, her birthplace, her life before her infamy. And it seemed no journalist since had managed to find out. Or perhaps, like Roxy, they hadn’t thought to ask, assuming foolishly, that it was all old news by now.
Roxy turned to her computer and clicked on the icon for the World Wide Web. Once the Google search engine appeared on her screen, she typed in the words ‘Heather&Jackson&artist’ and then clicked, ‘Find’. Her screen went blank and then a few seconds later alerted her that there were multiple entries for that name. She scrolled down the list to the one that read ‘Official Home page’ and opened it. It started with a reproduction of one of Heather’s latest works, an abstract portrait of a well-known Australian actor, followed by a list of exhibition dates and five further categories to explore. Roxy clicked the ‘Bio’ box. A good second later, Heather’s face appeared in multicolor and clearly airbrushed on screen. She was smiling but the usual coldness in her eyes was not lost in the translation.
Roxy scrolled down the page to the copy below and scanned through it. All Heather’s basic statistics were listed, from her height to her weight (yeah sure you’re just a size 8, Roxy sniggered) to the color of her eyes. It also included details of her numerous awards and the various international cities in which she had exhibited. But there was not a thing about her real self, outside of the art world. And certainly nothing pre-Art Gazette. She clicked on the ‘back’ button twice, returning to the list of search options. She scrolled down them again, this time clicking on a home page called ‘Heather’s Horror: the unofficial fan club site’. It boasted the ‘world’s ugliest pictures of the world’s most abstract artist’ and was followed by a stream of unflattering shots of Heather getting out of cars or sneering at paparazzi. It also included less than glamorous reviews of her work and her persona, but, again, it was all post-Gazette. Heather’s two most disgruntled ex-boyfriends were mentioned in the copy numerous times, as well as several more, but nothing about a maid, a tell-all book or anything of the kind. And not one word about her childhood.
Roxy was about to log off when she noticed another site dubbed, ‘Heather’s Home: Her Secret Haven’. It was a reproduction of a trashy magazine article that had run some years back about the artist’s ‘brand-new McMansion’. ‘Riddled with hidden tunnels, mysterious doorways and secret rooms!’ screamed the main headline, and the copy proceeded to quote ‘inside sources’ and ‘close friends of the reclusive artist’ who, in their anonymity, divulged all sorts of juicy details about her sprawling abode. Apart from the rumored hidden rooms, the sources said that Heather ran her home like a fortress. Much of the property was out of bounds, even to her staff, and one wing, the story claimed, had never been seen by anyone but Heather. Roxy clicked off. Scandal rags like that one gave her profession a bad name and she was not about to give them any more attention than they deserved.
There was one person who would surely have information on Heather Jackson’s past, Roxy decided: her manager, Jamie Owen. She would call him up and demand a comprehensive biography. She glanced around her desk for the blue slip of paper on which Heather had scribbled her manager’s details and, locating it, was about to call the number when she noticed the handwriting on the back again: ‘Miss Roxanne Parker’.
This time a bell began clanging loudly in her head.
She raced to her old steel filing cabinet and searched for a folder labeled ‘Invoices’. Flipping through them, she located one for Beatrice Musgrave and pulled it out along with a copy of a check Beattie had made out to her in lieu of their first two sessions together. She compared it to the blue slip of paper and a shiver ran down her back.
The writing was identical.
Roxy began rustling through her files for more examples of Beattie’s handwriting. In every instance, the older woman had written the name ‘Miss Roxanne Parker’, just as her name appeared on Heather’s blue slip of paper, and in exactly the same scribe. Roxy had assumed Maria Constantinople had written it down, now she knew better. Had Beatrice and Heather known each other? She put a call through to Glossy magazine.
‘Lookin’ for more work?’ Maria asked, cutting to the chase.
‘No, Maria, I’m ringing about Heather Jackson.’
‘I got the copy—’
‘Good. Now tell me how you got the interview in the first place.’
There was a slight pause. ‘What’s the problem, Rox?’
‘It’s a simple question, Maria. How did you get the interview with Heather Jackson? And I want the real version this time.’
There was another pause, this time longer, and eventually Maria replied, ‘Hang on a sec’, I’ll clos
e the door.’ A minute later she was back. ‘What have you heard?’
‘Maria!’
‘Okay, okay, don’t fuckin’ spit chips. She rang out of the blue last week offering us the exclusive. Said she needed it done ASAP.’
‘Why? What was the hurry?’
‘No idea, love, but I wasn’t looking a gift horse in the mouth. We’ve been trying to get her for a decade. She suddenly wants a bit of publicity who am I to question her?’
You’re an editor who should have been more inquisitive, she wanted to say. Instead she asked, ‘So what happened next?’
‘I said I’d get a reporter over there within the hour.’
‘Is that when you called me?’
Her tone was suddenly defensive. ‘Er, well, no, to be frank, I was gonna get Jack to do it.’
‘I suspected as much.’
‘Now hang on a minute, Jack’s a bloody expert when it comes to the art world. He knows his shit, Roxy, which you don’t. Even you admitted that.’
‘I’m not arguing there. So why didn’t you send Jack?’
‘Because she didn’t fuckin’ want Jack. She asked for you!’
Roxy caught her breath. ‘And why on earth would she do that? I didn’t even know the woman.’
‘Search me! I was flabbergasted, myself. No offense, darl’ but you’re hardly Lois Lane.’
‘So she didn’t tell you where she got my name from?’
‘Nuh-uh. Just said, “I want that Roxy Parker woman.” I guess she saw you listed as one of my contributors, or maybe she liked something else you’d written for me?’
‘Did she call me, “Roxy” or—’
‘Oh, no, you’re right. She said “Miss Parker” if I recall rightly. I had to think for a minute who she was talking about. Then she said, “Miss Roxanne Parker”—I remember because I haven’t heard your full name used in yonks. Made you sound very sophisticated. I might start calling you that, myself!’ And she let out a teasing chuckle then, trying to lighten up the conversation. Roxy was not buying it.
‘Right, now tell me about L. Johnson.’
There was a brief pause on the other end before Maria hurriedly said, ‘Look, Roxy, hang on a minute.’ She dropped the phone and it was some minutes before she returned.
‘Morons, I work with a pack of morons,’ she wailed. ‘Now, where were we?’
‘You were going to tell me about an L. Johnson.’
‘No I wasn’t. Never heard of him. Look, Roxy, what is this all about?’
Roxy sighed. ‘If I knew, Maria, I’d hardly be telling you.’
‘Geez, thanks. Okay, well I really gotta go, you know how it is.’
‘Sure, Maria. Just one other thing. Has Heather insisted on signing off on my story?’
‘What do you reckon?
‘Have you sent it to her? Has she seen it yet?’
‘No it’s still with the subs, why? Want to lighten your tone? Pretend you actually like the woman?’
‘Not going to happen, Maria. What you see is what she gave me, I didn’t have to elaborate a bit. She’s a dark horse that one. But listen, could you do me a favor? I think you owe me one.’
‘Shoot.’
‘Can you hold off sending it to her until I call you back? I need to get some more info out of her agent first, and he may not be so obliging if he knows the story is already out of my hands.’
There was another one of those pauses. ‘What are you playing at, Roxy? What the fuck is going on?’
‘Probably nothing but just hold off, please, until I give the okay?’
‘Fine, fine. Look, I really gotta go, the cover’s just come in and it looks like a friggin’ dog’s dinner!’
‘I’ll leave you to it then. Thanks.’ She hung up, more confused than ever.
As far as Roxy recalled, only two people ever used her full name. Her mother, who knew squat about the artist and whose handwriting was as far removed from the writing on the blue paper as her own, and old Mrs Musgrave. And her writing was a perfect match. Beattie must have recommended Heather. But why?
Roxy sat back and gave it some thought. She had to confess, it was not such an unlikely scenario, and it could well have been perfectly innocent. Heather may have been looking for a reliable writer to give her some publicity; it had been five years, after all, since her last interview. And, if Beattie and Heather happened to know each other—for whatever reason—the former could easily have suggested Roxy. The mystery was, how did they know each other? And what, if anything, did Heather have to do with Beattie’s murder? Roxy needed to have another conversation with Beattie’s son, but this time she needed to be a lot more discreet.
In the flesh, William Musgrave’s personal assistant, Anabell, looked just as she sounded, like a giant brick wall, with thick, Rugby-style shoulders squeezed into a well-made but matronly suit, and brown hair that had been cropped into a neat, boyish style. No fuss, no fun, no breaking through. She would have been in her forties and, judging from her sudden frown when Roxy introduced herself, was still smarting from Wednesday’s impromptu visit.
‘I’m sorry to drop by unannounced,’ Roxy said with a smile, her own hair clipped back off her face with blue butterfly pins which perfectly matched the blue Fifties-style dress she was wearing over long, black boots. ‘I was passing by and wondered if I could have a quick word with William?’
The assistant pursed her lips together and asked, ‘How did you get up here?’
‘Oh the security guard and I go way back.’
‘Mr Musgrave is very busy today.’
‘I do not doubt it for one moment. I just need to ask him a very quick question for a magazine article I’m writing—’
Just then William stepped out of a room marked ‘Conference’ and turned towards his office. He didn’t seem to notice Roxy but she grabbed the opportunity and called out, ‘Mr Musgrave! Hello again,’ and, in reply to his puzzled expression, added, ‘Roxy Parker. Remember I was writing your mother’s book?’
‘Of course, Miss Parker.’ He seemed friendly enough but Roxy thought she spotted a quick, irritated glance in Anabell’s direction. She would no doubt pay for this one later.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you again, William. But I have a completely unrelated matter to speak with you about.’
He hesitated and then waved one pale, skinny hand towards his office. ‘Certainly, come on in. I have about one minute to spare, I’m afraid that’s all.’
‘That’ll do it,’ Roxy replied, following him through. William’s office was more stylish than Roxy expected with a large black desk in the centre, two black leather chairs in front of it and a large oil painting hanging on the wall behind him. The west side featured several enormous, tinted windows looking down on the busy street below, and on the east was a bright orange sofa shaped like a giant jelly bean with a chrome, oval shaped table in front of it. It could have been straight out of Vogue Living.
‘Have a seat,’ he was saying. ‘What is this about?’
‘It’s actually regarding another story I’m writing for Glossy magazine.’
‘Oh?’
‘About Heather Jackson.’
‘Heather Jackson?’ He was confused at first and then a look of comprehension crossed his face. ‘Oh, the artist? The Australian woman?’
‘The very one. The thing is we’re doing a bit of a tribute to her and are getting a list together of the various celebrities and well-known Sydney names who may be fans of hers. I was wondering whether you were a collector or at least a fan of some sort?’ She was lying of course and hoped she sounded convincing.
‘I’m afraid not. Does that mean I’m out of the article?’
‘Looks like it. For some reason I picked you as an abstract art kinda guy.’
He seemed flattered by this and let out a loud chortle, his pointy nose crinkling up in an almost witch-like fashion. Roxy concluded that he probably didn’t have much time for laughter and figured it was a good thing. He didn’t suit it one bit.
/> ‘Do you mind me asking, then, if maybe your mother had been a fan?’
He paused for a few seconds before saying, ‘I really wouldn’t know.’
‘She didn’t collect any of Heather Jackson’s art works or ever work with her on any charities?’
‘Not that I know about. My parents, in fact, were both more in favor of the traditionals.’
‘Oh?’
He pointed to the painting hanging on the wall behind him. It was a dusty paddock, somewhere, Roxy guessed, in outback Australia.
‘A leftover from my father’s days. He and my mother shared a fascination for late 19th century Australian landscapes.’
‘Mind if I have a look?’ Roxy jumped up and moved around the desk to peruse it more closely. ‘It’s beautiful.’
‘Not really my thing but then I haven’t had the heart to take it down. They had another two at home, I’m surprised Beattie didn’t point them out. She was very proud of them.’
‘Now that you mention it, I do recall some beautiful art works at your mother’s house.’
‘But nothing too abstract, eh?’
‘No, not at all.’ As Roxy moved back towards her seat she spotted a large silver photo frame on William’s desk with what looked like a family portrait inside. ‘Is that the Musgrave family in its entirety?’ she asked.
‘The whole lot of us, I’m afraid, and one or two ring-ins.’ He sprang from his seat, blocking the picture from her view and leading her to the door. ‘I do need to get back to it now if you don’t mind.’ He led her out into the corridor where Anabell had remained standing beside her desk. She did not look happy. ‘Anna, can you recall, at all, whether my mother ever called the artist Heather Jackson to help out with her charity work?’