Killer Twist (A Ghostwriter Mystery)

by C. A. Larmer

  Anabell shook her head slowly. ‘No I don’t think so, sir. I sent most of her celebrity request letters out and the name certainly doesn’t ring a bell.’

  William turned back to Roxy. ‘There’s your answer. Looks like the Musgrave family are out.’

  ‘Never mind,’ Roxy chirped. ‘I thank you for your time.’

  ‘Not at all. But next time, Miss Parker?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Please pick up the phone and make an appointment, first? That’s the way we like to do things around here.’

  She promised that she would and, throwing a wide, victorious smile in the direction of the scowling pit bull, charged out of the office. She wasn’t any closer to working out the Beattie-Heather connection but she had just spotted the large, hairy guy who had shoved her into a bus on Elizabeth Street not so long ago. He was standing next to Fabian Musgrave in the portrait on William’s desk.

  He was clearly part of the Musgrave clan.

  Like Roxy, Max also lived alone but his place was enormous by comparison. It was an old warehouse he had converted into his home and studio, with one large room boasting giant windows from floor to ceiling that drenched the room in sunlight almost the entire day. There were skylights, too, and all manner of lighting and camera equipment spread strategically around the room. Several brightly colored tarpaulins hung from one wall and various props, including an old steel fan and a Chinese umbrella, were scattered throughout the room. Max had converted one wall into a workable kitchen and what was once a small office loft high in the far corner was now his bedroom. The place was usually jumping with models, make-up artists and various hangers-on, so Roxy was surprised to find it empty when she arrived. She was panting from her speed-walk and took a few gulps before calling out Max’s name.

  ‘Hang on a minute!’ came a groggy voice from within the loft and, a few seconds later, a disheveled Max poked his head out at the top of the stairs. ‘Rox!’ he cried and then jumped the stairs two at a time to give her a hug. ‘How’d you get in? Don’t tell me I left the door opened again?’

  ‘Fraid so. Is this a bad time, or—’

  ‘No, no, just catching up on some shut-eye. I cancelled all this morning’s bookings. Need a quiet one.’

  ‘Too many heavy nights?’

  ‘Something like that. To what do I owe this visit? Ah, don’t tell me!’ He lifted one hand to her lips to quieten her. ‘The so-called “Beatrice Musgrave murder”, right?’

  ‘Yes, but that’s not the main reason I dropped by. I wanted to say hi and apologize for Thursday night.’

  ‘No, I should apologize, I’m a dick when I’ve had one too many beers. Come in, I’ll make some coffee.’

  She sat down in a sofa and looked about the room. Three brightly painted papier mache mermaids were leaning against each other on one side and she was going to comment on them when he called out, ‘Say hi to my new girlfriends, Mary, Mertle and Merrilee.’

  ‘Very beautiful.’

  ‘And completely unthreatened by you.’

  Roxy’s thick eyebrows knotted together, confused and, when he had returned with two mugs of coffee in hand, she asked, ‘What’s going on?’

  He handed her a cup and then slumped into a chair beside her. ‘She dumped me.’

  ‘Sandy?’

  ‘Sandra. Yep, that one.’ He tried scraping his fingers through his matted hair and then gave up. He offered her a lopsided grin instead.

  ‘When? Why? What happened? You sounded so happy.’

  ‘I kinda was. But, well, she was all upset that I saw you the other night instead of her.’

  ‘You’re joking, right?’ Roxy reached for her coffee and blew at the top before taking a sip. She suddenly felt very tired and realized that she had a throbbing headache, she’d just been too preoccupied to notice it. ‘You don’t have some Paracetamol do you?’

  He grabbed some pills from the table and flung them towards her. ‘Be my guest. I’ve practically OD’ed this morning.’

  She swallowed two and then shook her head at him, trying to understand. ‘You did explain we’re just friends?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That we’ve been getting together every Thursday night since forever, that she needn’t be threatened?’

  ‘Yeeess...well, kinda.’

  ‘Kinda?’

  He jumped up and began pulling at a white canvas on the wall. ‘I gotta prepare this for the arvo, the gang’ll be in soon enough.’

  ‘You need a hand?’ He was changing the subject for a reason and she wasn’t up to finding out why. Not today. Not with her thumping headache. She helped him roll the canvas up and they placed it along the back wall out of the way. Then, together, they hung a large turquoise colored sheet in its place and placed the mermaid props below it.

  ‘Very classy,’ she lied. ‘Vogue? Harper’s Bazaar? Tacky Monthly?’

  ‘Oh some arty street rag, they think it’s kitsch.’

  ‘Well, it’s certainly something.’

  His deep brown eyes caught hers and he held them for just a moment. ‘Thanks for your help, Parker. I’ll do the lights later. So, what did you want to ask me?’

  ‘Oh, never mind, it can keep.’

  She went to turn away but he grabbed one hand and pulled her a little closer, looking up through his unruly fringe. ‘I’m sorry I’ve been such a jerk lately. I’ve just got a few issues to sort out in my head and I’m taking it all out on you, the very last person who should have to deal with it.’

  ‘You liked Sandra a lot, didn’t you?’

  ‘Let’s just say, I needed her.’ He dragged Roxy back to the sofa and they fell into it together, Max still holding Roxy’s hands tightly in his. ‘So fire away, what do you need?’

  She took a deep breath. ‘I wanted to take a look at the funeral pix, especially the out-takes.’

  ‘Beatrice Musgrave’s?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sure thing.’ He didn’t ask why, simply jumped up and retrieved a laptop which he placed in front of her, clicking away at the screen until a file of images marked ‘Musgrave Funeral’ leapt to life before her eyes. As he disappeared upstairs, she began opening each jpeg, scanning them carefully. She was looking for two faces in particular: Heather Jackson and the Greek guy from the Musgrave family portrait. The artist was nowhere to be seen but the latter was featured in several shots, standing beside Fabian and a tall, skinny woman with fluorescent red hair. Bingo!

  ‘That’s the grandson, Fabian, and his wife, Sofie or something like that,’ Max told her when he returned. He’d straightened himself up a little, changed his shirt and looked like he’d even combed his hair.

  ‘Thought as much. And who’s the other guy? The dark, hairy one?’

  ‘Can’t recall his name but I would’ve written it down somewhere, hang on.’ He rummaged around and located a small notepad that he began flipping through. ‘Ah, here it is, um, Fabian, Sofia and...God my handwriting’s crap. I think it says Angelo Linguine?’

  Prickles of excitement ran through the writer. It looked like she had stumbled upon the likely identity of her blackmailer. AIL. Were they Angelo’s initials?

  ‘Who exactly is he, do you know?’

  ‘I think—and I can’t believe I didn’t jot it down, I’m getting sloppy in my old age—but I think it was Sofia’s brother or cousin or something. Definitely a relation of some sort, but on her side. He’s no blue blood.’

  That would make sense, Roxy thought. Fabian had been the most vocal critic of Beatrice’s biographer so it made perfect sense that someone closely connected to him, his brother-in-law for instance, had tried to help him put a stop to it by scaring the ghostwriter off. The pieces were beginning to click into place. Roxy felt anger swelling up inside again. That was her life he had been playing with that day on Elizabeth Street. If she had been pushed just a little harder, she might have been struck by a passing bus!

  ‘Do you know him from somewhere?’ Max asked, his voice laced with concern.


  ‘Yes I think so, but I need to double check it all first.’ If there was one thing she had learned from her years as a reporter, it was to get her facts straight before pointing the finger. ‘Can I copy some of these?’

  ‘Sure thing.’

  She went to work on the computer while Max wandered off to brew more coffee. ‘Thanks, Maxy,’ she called after him, ‘you’ve been an enormous help.’

  Chapter 13: The Fourth Letter

  On Monday morning the sky outside Roxy’s window looked impossibly blue and birds chirped cheerfully from a distance, but it was an angry ghostwriter who reached for her laptop and began to get to work. The weekend had been relatively—blessedly—uneventful. She had put all thought of Beattie and Heather out of her mind and focused on Roxy, instead. She gave her home a scrub, caught up on her laundry and then spent the evenings concocting original story ideas for her magazine clients. The death of Beattie meant the death of several months work and, she realized with a start, she would have to hustle up some more or she’d be lucky to meet the mortgage. Roxy was a good saver, but she enjoyed the finer things in life, too: designer glasses, dinners out, decent wine. The only way the two could be reconciled was to work hard, and it was something she was happy to do. By late Sunday, the story ideas had been slotted into menus and emailed off to her respective editors. Now all she had to do was sit back and wait. It sometimes took days to get a reply, but she almost always hit the bullseye. Finding work was never a real problem for this talented writer.

  In the meantime, she would do a little research, starting with Heather Jackson. She put a call through to the agent Jamie Owen and left a phone message: could he email Heather’s detailed bio ASAP? ‘I particularly need to fill in the early years, especially her childhood,’ she said, leaving her email name.

  The Musgraves were next, and she opened the Google home page and typed in the words ‘Angelo Linguine&Fabian Musgrave&Sofia’. And presto! The first of thousands of entries sprang up before her and she tapped on one. It was a gossip page from a daily tabloid with a small snippet about the Beattie funeral.

  It read, ‘Accompanying the grieving grandson was his model wife Sofia and her brother, Angelo Linguine, an importer/exporter by trade.’

  She glanced at a few other pages, not finding too much more about the man, and was about to quit the internet when she spotted a familiar name. Tina Passion. She recognized that name, had been staring at a life-size cut out of the woman just days ago in her agent Oliver Horowitz’s office. Tina Passion was a romance writer and Oliver was her agent. What was she doing linked with Angelo?

  Roxy clicked on the entry and waited for it to render, then speedily scanned the information. According to the newspaper snippet, Fabian’s ‘dodgy’ brother-in-law was causing yet more embarrassment to the elite Musgrave name and now dating “trashy” model/writer Tina Passion. She glanced at the date. It was six months ago. Were they still together? And what if anything did Tina have to do with it?

  Roxy scrunched her lips to one side. Things were getting increasingly complicated. She tapped at the keyboard with one nail. Was this just another coincidence, or was her agent somehow connected? She recalled their meeting at his office, just minutes after she’d been pushed over in the city, and how Oliver had seemed overly protective, had even asked her to hand Beattie’s biography back. Why? Was there something he wasn’t telling her?

  She couldn’t believe it of her agent, but she didn’t know what to believe anymore. She stood up with a start. ‘Time to eliminate some suspects,’ she said aloud, ‘starting with the least likely.’ She decided to set Oliver a trap, and she needed Max’s help to do it.

  Several school groups were being shepherded through the west gate of the Botanical Gardens when Roxy arrived and she tagged on the end like a teacher rounding up the strays. She had no idea whether he would come but she was not taking any chances. The less she stood out the better.

  The school kids meandered along the main pathway, stopping every now and then to observe a particular plant species being pointed out by their droning teacher. Most paid no attention, preferring to tussle and poke at each other as they walked along. Roxy checked her watch. It was just on midday and they were nearing the duck pond now. Earlier she had enlisted Max to send a text message to her agent asking to meet at the main pond at 12 sharp. Max was to address it from ‘AIL’. Roxy figured that if Olie recognized the initials, he’d show up as instructed. If he didn’t, he’d most likely call Max’s number, a number he wouldn’t ordinarily recognize, to enquire further. At this stage, Olie had done no such thing.

  She scanned the area for a familiar face but no-one stood out. Several old men were feeding the ducks and various couples, mostly Japanese and European tourists, were leaning over the pond bridge, watching the ducks battle for the crumbs. The school kids had now dispersed in every direction and Roxy took a seat at the far right of the pond, in a leafy alcove that provided some coverage while she watched and waited.

  Ten minutes later, feeling somewhat relieved and ready to depart, Roxy stood up. That’s when she spotted the familiar face she had been dreading. It was her agent, Oliver Horowitz, wearing a trademark bowling shirt. He was circling the duck pond, clearly on the look out for someone. She watched as he consulted his watch and then walked up to the top of the bridge and waited. No-one approached him so Roxy stood up and walked towards the bridge. She was halfway along when he saw her and he waved casually at first before a look of confusion crossed his face.

  ‘Fancy meeting you here,’ Roxy said, leaning against the post beside him.

  ‘Roxy, baby, what’s going on?’

  ‘I should be asking you that.’

  ‘Did you get a message, too?’

  ‘I sent that message, Oliver. Or, rather, Max sent it for me.’

  His small, brown eyes zigzagged across her face, confused.

  ‘Let’s go and get a coffee,’ she suggested, leading the way down the bridge. ‘We’ve got a lot to sort out.’

  In the heart of the botanical gardens, shrouded in lush forest and set beside a pond bursting with brilliant green water lilies and mud-brown ducks, sits a magnificent octagonal wooden structure. One section is home to a stunning five-star restaurant and the other, a sprawling outdoor cafe. They chose the cafe and ordered. Oliver was sweating a little through his shirt and sweat was gathered on his brow.

  ‘How do you know Angelo?’ Roxy asked presently.

  ‘Angelo?’

  Roxy cocked an eyebrow at him. ‘Don’t even try to deny it, Oliver, I’m losing patience.’ He looked genuinely confused so she said simply, ‘AIL.’

  ‘Yes, AIL. I got a message from some AIL character who asks me to meet here at noon.’

  ‘And you don’t know who AIL is?’

  ‘Well, since you’re here, I’m guessing it’s you.’ The perplexed look on his face seemed sincere.

  ‘No, Oliver, it’s not me. So, let me get this straight, you get a message from someone you don’t know and you turn up anyway.’

  ‘Well…’ he hesitated. ‘It wasn’t exactly the first message I got.’

  ‘Really,’ she said flatly, not surprised. He hesitated again, taking a long sip of his latte before saying, ‘I got it the day you showed up at my office with the gold glasses on. It was a threat saying I had to get you off the Musgrave biography or we’d both pay for it.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me this?’

  ‘I didn’t want to scare you.’

  ‘Scare me?! Oliver, that was a legitimate warning. I was nearly shoved into a bus. I could have been killed.’

  ‘Hey you were the one acting all nonchalant that day. And remember, I did try to get you to give the bio to Klaus. But to be honest, I really thought it was just some silly prank.’

  ‘Did you get any more messages?’

  ‘No...until the one that came in today. It freaked me out. I thought I’d better find out who sent it.’

  Roxy stirred her coffee around. ‘Which brings us
to Angelo Linguine.’

  Oliver sat back. ‘That’s who you think it stands for? Linguine… Linguine… How do I know that name?’

  ‘Tina Passion’s other half. Or, at least, he was.

  He sat back with a thud. ‘That’s right. Slimy bastard, real eye for the ladies. Penchant for gold bling and leather vests. I had to wonder what Tina was doing with him.’

  ‘Yes, because she’s all style and grace,’ Roxy replied deadpan and he just ignored her.

  ‘Anyway, luckily, they split up months ago. You really think that’s who’s sending the threats? What the fuck for?’ His anger was finally overtaking his surprise as the realization that a real, human being had been threatening his favorite ghostwriter.

  Roxy quickly filled her agent in on the details thus far, explaining the connection between Angelo, Sofia and Fabian. ‘Surely in the light of that you can understand why I sense foul play with Beatrice Musgrave’s death?’

  ‘Now I do, yes. How many messages did you get?’

  ‘A few.’

  ‘And you’re certain Angelo’s behind it?’

  ‘I’m sure of it.’

  ‘So what happens now?’

  Roxy considered this for a moment. ‘I’ve got someone else I need to talk to.’

  ‘Hey, be careful, Roxy. From what I recall of Angelo, he’s no gentleman. An oversized oaf in fact. He could be very dangerous.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I have a totally different oaf in mind.’

  The bill suddenly appeared and Oliver leapt on it. ‘Here, let me get this. It looks like I owe you one.’

  ‘It’s gonna take more than a coffee, mate,’ she replied with a wink.

  Chapter 14: Commiserations

  Oliver’s words played havoc with Roxy’s stomach all the way home. His story sounded credible enough but she knew there was only one way to sort it out once and for all. She had to confront Fabian Musgrave. If only she knew where he lived.