by C. A. Larmer
‘Beatrice?! Hilarious! The guy was delusional. As if that snotty Mosman matron would desert her luxurious mansion for a grotty old farm house out the back of nowhere!’ She laughed at this. ‘Did you see the way he was doing it up? Like he thought a lick of paint would change her mind?’
‘How do you know it didn’t?’
‘Why else do you think Mum sent me to that Godforsaken dump for six months? To befriend that old fart and see what was going on. Nah, I’ve got the letters to prove it. Beattie felt sorry for the guy, hell she fucked his life over after all. He never got over her dumping his ass for some preppy Sydney guy. She felt bad, she kept in touch, but that’s as far as it went.’
‘So you were also the one that went through his house after the murder?’
‘Ah, can we be careful with the language, please? I didn’t murder him, I euthanized him. Honestly, you have to believe me, he’s much better off dead. You know?’ Again, that imploring look. ‘Mum tells me he’s with Beatrice now, so it’s a win-win.’ She took another long drag on her cigarette. ‘But yes, I took the letters, a few incriminating photos. That’s all.’
‘But why bother with the letters? Why kill Frank? Beattie never did write the autobiography so your secret was safe. You killed her before she had a chance to.’
‘Ahh, there you go again. Careful with the language, lady!’
Roxy wanted to reach over and thump the young woman but she needed to hear the truth so she feigned a smile. ‘Sorry, you euthanized them both. How very thoughtful of you. But tell me, why not just leave Frank be? He couldn’t hurt you now, surely.’
‘Duh! He had to go. The nutcase couldn’t let it be. Decided it was her last wish. Was gonna finish her memoirs for her. Well, can’t you see he had to be stop—’
‘That’s enough!’ It was Heather Jackson, standing rigid at the entrance to the room, a long velvet dressing gown on, her manicured fingers clinging tightly to a small handgun. Roxy felt her heart stop. She glanced quickly around her, but there was no easy exit. Heather waved the gun at her daughter, an angry glare flickering in her eyes. When she spoke again, her voice was eerily calm.
‘That’ll be all thank you, Sally-Anne, I’ll take it from here.’
‘Pity,’ she replied, springing to her feet. ‘I was beginning to enjoy myself.’
As she sashayed out, Heather asked, ‘Is the room secure?’
‘Yep, still locked. She didn’t go in.’
Heather nodded and waited for her daughter to disappear down the hallway before asking matter-of-factly, ‘Why are you in my house?’
Roxy took a deep breath. ‘I know all about you, I know what you’ve done.’ She was trying to sound confident but came off wobbly and uncertain instead.
‘Really? You break into my house in the middle of the night to tell me that?’ Before she could answer Heather was waving the gun again. ‘Put your hands on your head and start marching.’
Heather steered Roxy back down the corridor and into the main house, past a now brightly-lit entrance area, down the wider corridor and through the double doors to the office in which she had met with Jamie the day before.
‘Sit,’ she commanded as she grabbed a telephone and pressed speed dial. Roxy sat on the edge of the maroon sofa, her heart beating wildly. ‘Get your butt over here,’ Heather said into the phone, and then glancing towards Roxy, added, ‘We’ve got an intruder that I might just end up shooting. Accidentally of course.’ She hung up and then sat down in the chair behind the desk, placing the gun in front of her. Roxy could feel sweat trickling down her brow and underneath her shirt. She didn’t doubt for a minute that the older woman was serious.
‘Everything Sally-Anne just told you was a lie.’ Heather said. ‘The poor child is delusional. A little mentally challenged, shall we say?’
‘Just like your sister, Lillian?’
Heather’s mouth twitched and she began to straighten down her hair where it was frizzing up in places.
‘My sister Lillian is both mentally and physically challenged, Miss Parker.’
‘But she can sure paint a great portrait, can’t she?’
She stopped playing with her hair. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
Roxy tried to calm her heart beat down. If she could just keep the woman talking, she might have a chance.
‘Heather, I know that it’s your sister Lilly who’s the artist. You’ve been passing her portraits off as your own ever since that first one, that award-winning self-portrait, remember?’ She waved a hand in the direction of the portrait of Lilly, staring down at them now, mute yet oddly accusatory. ‘What did you do? Promise to send it in for her and then switch her name to your new, fake one, so you could take the credit?’
Heather glanced quickly behind herself at the painting and then back at Roxy with what looked like genuine bemusement. For a split second Roxy had a sinking feeling she was on the wrong track, that she was accusing an innocent woman. This woman was good, she thought but plunged on regardless.
‘I know you killed six people to keep your insipid little secret, starting with your parents—’
‘My parents? You really are delusional. They were killed in a car accident. I was hundreds of miles away.’
‘And what about Margarita Moralis? The midwife Agnetha Frickensburg? Beatrice Musgrave? Frank O’Brien?’
Heather laughed then, a low, gurgling laugh but for the life of her Roxy couldn’t tell if it was nervous tension in her voice or disbelief. When she had gathered herself she replied coolly, ‘So, you think I killed all of these people...um...why was it again? To hide the fact that my spastic sister is a genius?’
‘Yes I do.’
‘Let me give you a few tips on publicity, Roxanne Parker. It might help you if you ever actually break the big time,’ she paused, raising her plucked eyebrows, ‘and we both know that’s never going to happen. If, as you say, Lillian was the great artist in the family, why would I hide that? Do you think the likes of Stevie Wonder would be half as popular if they were “normal”?’ She used her fingers in that annoying way people did when indicating quotation marks. ‘It’s the greatest publicity stunt in the world.’
‘Then why all the secrecy surrounding her? Why lock her away in a special wing that’s out of bounds? Why is the studio designed and set up for a disabled person?’
‘She’s not locked up. She’s free to leave, ask her yourself. And I didn’t say she didn’t paint, Miss Parker. She just isn’t any good at it.’
‘Then you won’t mind me also asking her to paint my portrait?’
Heather’s eyes narrowed slightly. ‘You haven’t a shred of evidence and if you think I’m going to let you wander off to start barking your accusations to the world, destroying me and everything I’ve worked for, all the hard years I put in, you’ve got another think coming.’ She picked up the gun and pulled back the lock. ‘Even if you were right—which you are not—let me tell you something, Miss Parker. Painting the blasted portraits is the easy bit. I’m the one who’s had to do all the publicity tours, waste endless hours of my life pretending to be interested in the tediously dull questions of reporters like you. Do you think that your slag boss at Glossy would even be vaguely interested in interviewing me if I dribbled constantly and couldn’t string a sentence together?’ Her voice was rising now, she was losing some of her cool, and she was flinging the gun around like a toy. ‘Ohhhh no. You people want pretty pictures in your pretty magazines. The more glamorous the better. Beattie didn’t see that, the fool. She comes tearing in here bursting with her good news, “I’m your mummy! Isn’t that fabulous, darlink!?”’
‘You weren’t happy to be reunited?’
‘Happy? The woman dumps me at birth, not so much as a glance in my direction they tell me, and then I’m supposed to open my arms wide and welcome her back. Give me a break.’
‘But surely the money—’
‘I’d be ruined! They’d do what you did. Poke around, ask questions, do exposés on my sh
itty upbringing. And then they’d learn that little Lilly was the artist, not me—’ She caught herself and shut her mouth with a thud. She straightened the gun up, aiming it straight for Roxy’s temple.
Roxy hugged her hands tightly around herself and, as she did so, felt a hard lump in her jacket pocket.
Oh shit! The car keys.
She was still carrying the car keys. She had forgotten to give them to Max. A ball of lead developed inside her stomach and she felt instantly sick. If her friend had got out for help, there was no way he could walk anywhere in time. They were in the middle of the ’burbs, no police station close by. All the surrounding houses were McMansions like this one. He’d be lucky if he got anyone to open their door to him in the dead of night, let alone answer the doorbell. She had to hope he’d brought his mobile, and that a patrol car was just happening past.
But what were the chances?
Roxy swallowed hard and decided to grovel. It was time for a change of tack. ‘Please don’t shoot me, Heather,’ she tried, ‘I don’t need to tell anyone. It can be our little secret.’
The older woman sniggered. ‘My God you’re all the same. You, Beatrice—’ she spat that word out as though it were poisonous—‘you think that I can somehow be bought with your pathetic pleads and promises. That woman broke her first and most important promise to me, she dumped me into the arms of a stranger and left me to fend for myself. At one hour old. One hour, Miss Parker, can you even imagine how that screws a person up?’
Roxy didn’t have to imagine, she was witnessing it first-hand. Heather Jackson was a sociopath. But she decided to keep that little observation to herself. ‘I can imagine,’ she said instead. ‘What Beattie did to you was unforgivable. You have every right to be angry.’
‘Damn right I do.’
‘I could write that! I could explain how it was, how empty and bereft that left you.’ She was grasping for straws now but Heather had lowered the gun slightly so she continued on, trying to drag in gasps of air as she spoke, her pulse racing. ‘I could write a really inspiring story about how you turned your life around, became the amazing person that you are, and... and the incredibly successful business woman you clearly are.’ Roxy hated the words as she said them but she was fighting for her life now, and they both knew it. The only arsenal the ghostwriter had was words, and from what she could deduce of this woman, flattery and hyperbole were her best weapon. Heather was certainly listening, her eyes screwed into thin slits as she appeared to contemplate what Roxy was saying. She forged on. ‘Even better, I could tell the whole world what Beatrice Musgrave did to you. Expose her for who she truly was.’
‘No! No more publicity for that woman.’
‘No, no, no, you’re right, let’s leave her out of it.’
Heather looked suddenly impatient, glancing at her watch. ‘Where the hell is he?’
‘Jamie? Your agent, he’s coming? Is he a part of all this?’
‘Yes he is, but I don’t need to wait for him.’ She pulled the gun back up and pointed it directly at Roxy again.
Suddenly a low tap sounded at the door and once again Roxy’s heart beat triple time. Heather lowered the gun slightly and stood up.
‘Jamie is that you?’ No answer. ‘Sally-Anne?’
The door swung open and a frail looking woman in a wheelchair buzzed slowly through. Her head was tilted awkwardly to one side and in one hand she was holding a small white buzzer, which she was using to steer the chair. She was wearing oversized spotty pyjamas and had a determined look on her pale face, her lips wedged into a thin line. Heather sprang from her chair, the gun still firmly in her hand and stepped out from behind the desk.
‘Lillian! What are you doing out of bed? Come on, now, let’s get you back. Sally-Anne? Sally!’ She screamed down the hallway. ‘Where the fuck are you!’
The next few moments were utter chaos. Lillian suddenly picked up speed and rammed her chair into her younger sister’s shins bowling her over, the gun flinging in the opposite direction. Roxy pounced on it just as the doorbell began echoing through the house.
Heather let out a long, agonized, ‘Nooooooo!’ and made a dive for Roxy and the weapon. Roxy jumped out of the way, grappled for a louver, pushed it open, and then flung the gun out before it could do any harm. She turned back to find Heather bearing down upon her, a look of absolute hatred splotched across her face, her hair frizzing up in all directions. Before she could reach her, Lillian came to the rescue again, wedging her wheelchair between her sister and Roxy. She looked up at the writer with certitude and determination, and Roxy whispered, ‘Thank you.’
Lilly then dragged her eyes back to her sister. ‘Noooo,’ she said slowly. ‘No... more.’
Heather stopped moving and glared at Lilly. Then she turned the full voltage of her hatred onto Roxy. ‘You fucking cow, what have you done to me?!’
Roxy stood her ground. ‘You did all this to yourself, Marian Johnson.’
‘Don’t you call me that!’ she roared. ‘My name is Heather Jackson. Heather! Jackson!’
‘Well then, Heather Jackson, you’re under arrest,’ came another woman’s voice from the doorway, and all three women swept around to see Gilda Maltin standing at the door. Roxy’s legs almost gave way as relief washed through her like a warm bath. Behind Gilda four uniformed police officers loomed, and within seconds two of them were placing handcuffs on Heather and leading the woman out, a look of outrage across her ruddy face.
‘But... but she broke in here...’ she was saying. ‘I... I haven’t done anything wrong!’
‘Yeah, yeah, tell someone who cares,’ Max declared, suddenly appearing beside Gilda, a wide smile creasing up his entire face. He held out his arms to Roxy and she ran into them then, just as quickly, pulled herself free and grappled for the car keys in her pocket.
‘But how... how on earth did you get help? I was certain you’d never get back in time.’
‘Oh you can blame me for that,’ Gilda said. ‘I’ve had my guys following you for a few days.’
Roxy took a few deep breaths and found her way back to the couch, falling into it before her legs really did drop from underneath her. Eventually she said, ‘And there I was thinking you trusted me.’
‘I did trust you, Roxy. I trusted you to lead us straight to the murderer.’ Gilda winked. ‘If it wasn’t for my undercover cops, Max here might never have got help in time. They were just down the road wondering what the hell you were up to. They’d already called me and I was on my way.’
Max nodded. ‘Yeah they spotted me bolting down the street and picked me up. It took me some time to explain it all... I’m just glad you’re okay.’ He joined her on the sofa and grabbed her back in a giant bear hug, ignoring her resistance. Slowly, Roxy let herself melt into him, the tension seeping out into his strong, warm arms.
Suddenly she had another thought and pulled herself free. ‘What about Sally? Did she get away?’
‘Tried to, we nabbed her doing a swifty out the back gate. She’s on her way to the station now,’ said Gilda. ‘Also picked up the manager on his way over. Now he wasn’t a happy camper I can tell you that. Both of them have already started pointing the finger firmly in Heather’s direction. Such loyalty, it warms the cockles of your heart.’ She turned back to several officers standing to attention at the door. ‘Okay gang, let’s seal the place off and start searching for evidence.’
‘This might help.’ Roxy reached into her pocket and produced a mini tape recorder which was still on ‘Play/Record’.
Gilda shook her head laughing. ‘See, I told you I could trust you.’
The rest of the night was a bit of a blur. Wearily, Roxy and Max gave a uniformed office an abridged version of the night’s activities, promising to make their own way to the Mosman police station the next day for official statements. Then Max drove her home, parking the VW close to her apartment block and seeing her to the front door.
‘You had me terrified tonight, Parker,’ he said, his fringe droppin
g low over his eyes. ‘Leaving you to run and get help has to be the hardest thing I’ve ever done.’
‘Well I’m glad you did,’ she said, smiling.
‘Yeah, I guess leaving you seems to be all you want from me, hey?’ There was no bitterness in his voice, just resignation, and before she could think of a reply he was hugging his jacket tighter and heading off down the stairwell.
Roxy watched him disappear, then stepped into her tiny unit and felt relief wash through her all over again. She loved her home, its serenity and coziness. It was a million miles from the chaos and corruption of the world outside, and she was so relieved to be back. For a few minutes there, she had not been sure she would ever see it again. Roxy locked the door securely and turned towards her bedroom, bone tired.
That’s when she spotted the file on Beatrice Musgrave sitting open on the coffee table. Slowly, she picked it up and her throat suddenly constricted, tears welling up in her eyes. She wiped them away impatiently. She was too weary to cry tonight, too emotionally and physically drained. Death had come so close, had nipped at the edges of her smug little life, but she had survived, and she was not going to break down now. She was too bloody tired. Tomorrow could be meltdown day. She closed the file and placed it to her lips, giving it the gentlest of kisses.
‘Good night, Beattie. Rest in peace.’
And then, without taking her clothes off or washing the day’s grime from her face, Roxy fell into bed and into the deepest sleep she’d had in a very long time.
Epilogue
Lillian Johnson looked radiant as she buzzed her chair through the fashionable crowd that had gathered at a trendy inner-city gallery for the first legitimate showing of her abstract art. By now the story of Heather Jackson’s elaborate fraud had hit all the headlines, quite sensationally so, with no mention of Beatrice Musgrave, Roxy noticed. The police had not released the information publicly, and she wasn’t about to spill the beans, either. That was no longer important to the ghostwriter, and it would do Beattie’s memory no service either. The socialite’s daughter had turned out to be a sociopath, and if she knew Beattie the way she believed she did, that was not something the elderly matron would have wanted publicized. If only for the sake of William and Fabian. Whether they knew the full story, she did not know, but she did note that they weren’t here tonight.