by C. A. Larmer
‘Yes I think it was thick forest. And no mention of major amounts of cash found on her?’
Gilda glanced up at her suspiciously. ‘Not that I can see. What’s all this about, Roxy?’
Roxy shifted in her seat. ‘Right now, I’m working on a bit of a hunch and to be honest I’d rather not say. Not until I sort a few things out.’ Gilda did not look impressed so she quickly added, ‘But you’ll be the first person I call if there’s anything to report. I promise.’
The detective placed the last bit of chocolate in her mouth before curling the wrapper into a ball and flinging it neatly into the paper basket by the door. ‘I’m gonna let this one go, Roxy,’ she said, wiping her mouth with one hand. ‘But I’ve got my eye on you, and I like you, so do me right and I won’t do you no wrong. Got it?’ Roxy nodded her head vigorously and made a quick exit.
Chapter 25: Cyril Comes Through
It was Sunday morning and Roxy needed to stop prancing about as Hercule Poirot long enough to get her own life back in order. As mundane as it was, there was laundry to do, floors to be vacuumed and a wine rack that desperately needed re-stocking, if only for her sanity.
There was also the small matter of her mother. After a strained conversation the night before, they had agreed to meet up at a café on Lorraine’s side of town for lunch, and while Roxy grumbled about it, she realized it was for the best. There was only so much of her Mother’s biting commentary about her ‘grotty inner-city lifestyle’ that she could stomach.
After her chores were done and when the time was right, she slipped into her most demure dress, thick tights, 1920s-style pumps and a black beret, and drove her VW across the Sydney Harbor Bridge to the gleaming café in Lane Cove.
Lorraine gave her the once-over and a slight smile passed across her lips. Roxy took that as a compliment and dropped a quick peck on her mother’s cheek, then sat down in the chair across from her. She glanced around. The café was bursting with well-dressed types, mostly soccer mums and restless kids stuffed into stiffly ironed white clothes that just begged to be ruined. She watched a small boy tackling a large piece of chocolate cake and gave him about two seconds before mummy dear started fretting.
‘So you’re not going to tell me where you’ve been?’ Lorraine was saying and Roxy shook her head.
‘Nothing worth mentioning. Got a menu?’
‘I’ve already ordered for you.’
‘Huh? Want to burp me afterwards as well?’
Lorraine snorted. ‘You always get the same thing, darling, let’s face it.’
‘I do not!’
‘A latte, two sugars, and a vegie focaccia. Sound about right?’
Actually, it sounded great but Roxy was not about to tell her mother that. ‘Not at all what I would have ordered today,’ she spat back.
‘Then I apologize. What did you want?’
‘I want a giant piece of chocolate cake.’ She knew only too well that she was behaving like the little boy to her left but it was her mother’s fault she decided. If Lorraine was going to treat her like a child, she might as well enjoy the fringe benefits. Her mother’s eyebrows shot up but she called the waitress over and reordered.
‘And I’ll have an espresso not a latte, thank you,’ Roxy added. Then she sighed.Why did her mother bring out the worst in her?
‘So how are things?’ Lorraine asked.
They settled into idle chatter after that and it suited Roxy just fine. While she was eager to get back home and get her thoughts in order, she knew she had to give a little of herself and her time to her mother, too. Their relationship was a lot like a bad marriage. If they didn’t keep putting in the work, making the effort, they would eventually drift apart. There were just too many differences between them now. Yet Beattie’s death, and her sad relationship with her own son—the way he barely tolerated her!—gave Roxy pause for thought. She knew she didn’t want to become that person, the intolerant child. So she ignored her mother’s politically incorrect comments and kept the conversation light and breezy. And by the end of the hour, they both departed in better moods than they had started, and she smiled as she got back to her apartment in one piece. Perhaps they were both finally growing up?
By Monday morning, Roxy was ready to get back to the case at hand. The problem was, being a freelance writer, you never can tell when work will suddenly strike, and first thing that day she logged online to find a barrage of emails in her inbox. They were mostly from enthusiastic editors keen to snap up many of her story ideas. Fortunately, most of the deadlines were some way off, so Roxy answered them accordingly and scheduled the work in for the following few weeks. She was going to be busy and at least her bank manager would be happy. Itching to get back to Beattie’s death, she forced herself to do a little preliminary work on her freelance features first. If she didn’t set up some interviews and do a few hours of research now, she would be behind the eight ball pretty soon.
Finally, with that done, she switched from work mode back to sleuth, and opened the file on Heather Jackson again. She scanned slowly through it and when she reached the end, Roxy quickly jotted down the details of her recent meeting with Heather’s manager, Jamie Owen, including his insistence that Heather Jackson (aka Marian Johnson) had absolutely no motive for murdering Beatrice Musgrave. Roxy grabbed a pencil from a small, silver cup to the side of the computer and began chomping on the end as her brain went into overdrive. She hated to admit it, but Jamie was right. Surely the artist could only profit from the revelation that Beattie was her real mum. Not only was it a step up in the world for the classic snob—the Musgraves were Sydney ‘bluebloods’ after all—but, even if she wasn’t interested in the publicity, surely the financial rewards wouldn’t hurt? Judging by Heather’s decadent lifestyle, Roxy had to accept that the financial incentives of the revelation would be a major reason for keeping old Beattie alive, at least long enough for her identity to be confirmed.
Roxy placed the chewed up pencil to one side and began typing again, this time recording her recent meeting with Gilda and the information she had provided about Margarita’s death which, she was sure, had to involve foul play. This was equally baffling. If Margarita had been killed to secure her silence, was Heather behind it or was it the work of her over-zealous manager? And did either of them have it in them? Her immediate response was an unequivocal yes! But then there was the matter of the missing publisher’s advance. Perhaps a third party, a greedy agent or boyfriend, was behind the whole thing?
Roxy pushed her seat back from the screen with exasperation. What a can of worms this had turned out to be! She stared out at the view for some time. She could feel something niggling at the back of her head. There was something she had missed, something really obvious. But she couldn’t for the life of her work out what. It was time for a little mental retreat. Roxy jumped up, ditched her jeans for a tracksuit and joggers and then headed out onto the street for a power walk.
It was late afternoon and the park down at nearby Rushcutters Bay stretched like a large green blanket, empty and waiting for the 5pm knock-off. Then, it would be crawling with weary suits cutting through on their way home from work, joggers anxious to enjoy the last rays of sun and couples catching up on a little quality time with their kids and/or assorted pets. For now, it was eerily quiet and, checking her watch, Roxy began to circle around it, picking up speed as her body heated up. At one point, her path lead her past a small side street and she spotted two drivers politely exchanging numbers after what appeared to be a clash of bumper bars. Roxy’s brain began to whir but she shook her head and kept walking. Now was not the time to think. Now was the time to rest her mind and work her body instead.
An hour later, as she tossed her sweaty tracksuit into the washing basket and prepared to step into the shower, her brain finally broke through. Car accidents! There were an awful lot of car accidents in Heather Jackson’s life. Not her, of course, but people closely associated with her. Heather’s parents were both killed in a car accident
, Heather’s midwife was maimed in one. Heather’s worst nightmare, Margarita Moralis, conveniently turned up dead in one. Roxy lathered her body in soap and then washed it off quickly, dried, dressed back into her jeans and a fresh, long-sleeved T-shirt, swirled a striped scarf around her neck and returned to her computer. That’s when the doorbell rang.
‘Still talking to me?’ Max said with a shy smile as Roxy let him in.
‘Of course I am, how are you?’ Roxy planted a fat kiss on his cheek before leading the way upstairs. She was keen to concentrate on the case tonight but was also eager to smooth things over with her good friend before their relationship was beyond repair.
‘Have you had dinner yet?’ he asked and, when she shook her head he produced a bag full of steaming Chinese food. ‘Ta-da!’
‘You’re a hero,’ Roxy said with a laugh. ‘I couldn’t even think about cooking tonight. Merlot?’
‘Actually, have you got a softdrink?’
She cocked her head to one side, surprised. ‘Sure.’
As they ate and drank, Roxy and Max caught up on each other’s lives just like old times, but Roxy knew it was only a matter of time before the whole messy ordeal would be dredged up again.
When Max didn’t mention it she put her chopsticks down and said, ‘Are we okay now? Do you think?’
He brushed one large, tanned hand through his unruly hair and looked up at her through soft brown eyes. When he finally smiled it was breathtaking. ‘I’m a hardy bugger. I’ll be fine.’ He cleared his throat and said, ‘You’ll never believe who called and wants to give it another go.’
‘Not the elusive Sandra?’
‘The very one.’ She smiled as warmly as she could muster and told him that was wonderful. ‘I think so. And I’m really going to give her a chance this time, now that you and I aren’t...’ He let that dangle and downed a few good gulps of his softdrink. ‘Anyway, enough of all that crap. How’s the Beatrice Musgrave story going?’
Roxy cocked her head again. ‘You really want to know?’
‘Really.’
‘Well, it’s livening up, that’s for sure.’ Roxy proceeded to fill him in on everything he had missed since they’d separated in Macksland. She told him about the Heather Jackson connection, too, as well as her newfound friendship with the police detective Gilda Maltin.
‘She sounds pretty cool. For a cop.’
‘Yeah, I like her. And not just because she’s a good contact. She’s kinda got her shit together, you know?’
‘Well, no, but I’m getting there, Parker. So, tell me, what do you think about Beattie’s murder? From what you’ve learned, who do you think did the dirty deed?’
Roxy shrugged, tossing her black hair away from her face and relaxed back into the lounge, her long legs tucked up underneath her. ‘I’m veering towards three possible candidates.’
‘Oh?’
‘The first is the grandson and/or his overly zealous brother-in-law, Angelo, with or without Sophia. I don’t think any of them are as innocent as they make out. But if they did do it, I think it was more of a spontaneous thing—sort of like a threat that went wrong.’
‘Like your little push on Elizabeth Street?’
‘Yes, but obviously more deadly. My guess is, they went over there to beg Beattie to drop the book and, somehow, things turned ugly. Angelo may have struck her too hard and then had to throw her over the balcony to hide the evidence.’
‘And the next candidate?’
‘Either Heather’s manager Jamie Owen or Beattie’s old lawyer friend Ronald Featherby. Both men are tall and skinny.’
‘So? Tall, skinny blokes are evil, suddenly? If that’s the case I’m in deep shit.’
‘Very funny. No, if you’ll recall, Sally Owens said she saw a tall, skinny guy hiding inside her house the night it was trashed and after Frank O’Brien was killed. Maybe it was one of these two men and they were most likely protecting the interests of a well-paying client.’
‘So you think whoever killed Beatrice also killed Frank?’
‘Absolutely. And probably the midwife before that.’
Max picked up the plates and took them into the kitchen. When he returned he said, ‘But what about this Margarita Moralis then? Is she related to the whole thing or not?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe her book was more than a tell-all, maybe she had also discovered Heather’s real identity and was going to spill that in the book. If you think about it, that could have scared almost anyone—even Beattie herself. Remember, Margarita’s book was due for release 15 years ago. Beattie mightn’t have been ready to air her dirty laundry back then. Her high-powered husband was still alive, after all. Then again, Margarita’s book might have nothing to do with any of it. Not one little bit.’
‘Arrgghh!’ Max groaned, dropping into the sofa chair opposite her. ‘So who’s your third suspect then? Is there a butler lurking about somewhere?’
‘Actually, Heather Jackson’s my third suspect. I can’t understand why she’s being so secretive about her past. She’s an artist, not a moral crusader, surely no-one really cares that she was adopted or who her real mother was? But there’s one other thing about Heather that points towards her.’
‘Mmmm?’
‘Car accidents.’
‘Huh?’
‘A lot of the people from Heather’s past have been wiped away in car accidents. It just seems an odd coincidence.’
Max squirmed in his seat. ‘You’ve lost me. What are you getting at?’
‘I honestly don’t know. But here’s the thing: Heather hates publicity, right? Well, why? Surely it can only work to her advantage. My guess is she’s hiding from her past, she doesn’t want anyone to know she was a scrawny little loser who grew up in small-town Australia and got in scraps with the police. Think about it, why else would she recreate herself like she has? She’s changed her name, her face, her entire life. And the key people who could have been around to reveal her past are all dead: her midwife, her adoptive parents, her real parents. And probably the maid. And God knows where her poor sister is.’
He looked confused.
‘Lillian, the one in the wheelchair. I wonder where she ended up? There are far too many missing people and strange coincidences.’
‘So tell me about these car accidents. Were they all recorded as foul play?’
‘No, that’s the problem. But Heather’s adoptive dad used to run a car yard. Maybe she picked up a few tricks along the way, like how to make brakes muck-up at just the right moment?’
‘But it doesn’t make any sense,’ Max sighed. ‘I mean, I’m not particularly keen on my old school photos ever seeing the light of day, either. Jesus, you should have seen me when I was 14...it’s frightening! But do people kill to hide bad photos? What could possibly have happened in her past to make her so desperate?’
‘I don’t know!’ Roxy cried and then pushed herself up off the sofa. ‘Want a tea?’
‘Sure.’ Max followed her into the kitchen. ‘So if she is bumping them off, why?’
‘That I still don’t know. There has to be some secret in her past, worse than the truth about her parents. I just need to work out what. Herbal or the real-deal?’ She held up two tea boxes.
‘Huh? Oh, give me herbal, I’m strung-out enough as it is. This is all kinda spooky stuff, Parker. I hope you know what you’re getting into.’
‘Too late now, Maxy,’ she said with a faltering smile. ‘Too bloody late.’
‘So what happens now?’
‘Well, I guess the first thing is to find out if she was handy under the bonnet.’
They returned to the lounge room and Roxy put a blues CD on while they sipped their teas. They sat quietly for several minutes when Roxy suddenly jumped up.
‘I’ve got it! Her neighbor, the one I told you about, the one who gave me the family picture?’
‘Yes!?’
‘Well, why don’t I ring and ask him? He seemed to know a lot about her.’
Max gla
nced at his watch. ‘Because it’s almost 11 o’clock. Bit late for home calls isn’t it?’
Roxy dashed into the bedroom to retrieve the neighbor’s details from her Filofax. ‘I don’t think so, he sounded like an insomniac.’ She began to dial. ‘Cyril? Hello, it’s Roxy Parker from Sydney, I was there the other day looking for the Johnson fam—’
‘Yes, yes,’ he crackled at the other end. ‘I was wonderin’ whether you’d call.’
‘It’s not too late?’
‘Nah darl, sleep’s never been big on me agenda. You written yar story yet? Am I in it?’
‘Still writing it, Cyril, but I think you will make the copy, yes. I just wanted to ask you a couple more questions about Heather—I mean, Marian Johnson.’
‘Fire away, I ain’t goin’ nowhere.’
‘Did Marian ever get involved in her dad’s mechanics business?’
‘Now let me see...yeah, you know I think she did. Actually if I recall correctly, she had quite a way with cars. I always thought she’d settle down eventually and take it over. Guess I thought wrong. You found her yet?’
‘Um, no,’ Roxy lied. ‘Did you ever hear of her getting into trouble with cars?’
‘How do ya mean?’
‘Well, did she ever play with people’s engines or brakes—just to stuff them up a bit?’
‘Oh, not that I heard about. Although I wouldn’t a put it past her, that’s for sure. Apart from the car shop, the only thing she ever showed interest in was mischief.’
‘And her painting, of course.’
‘Painting?’
‘Yes, didn’t Marian do a bit of painting, you know, art work?’
There was a brief pause on the other end before Cyril croaked, ‘No love, you got it all wrong. There was a lotta paintin’ goin’ on but it was never by Marian.’
‘Oh?’
‘No, no, it was Lilly that done all the paintin’. You know, the one in the wheelchair? She was alright, too. I even bought one of hers from the local fete. A picture of Mother Theresa. Can’t imagine where it is now, out in the old shed I reckon.’