Dying Words (A Ghostwriter Mystery)

by C. A. Larmer

  Roxy nearly spat her mouthful of tea across the room. “Prostitute?! What the hell—”

  The woman held up a hand. “I apologise, escort or whatever you call yourselves these days.”

  Roxy leapt to her feet. “Hang on a minute, I’m not an escort or a prostitute. I’m a writer.”

  “Writer?”

  “You know?” She pretended to scribble in the air. “I write books and articles for a living. I don’t know what your dad told you but I interviewed him for a book I just wrote. One hour max, over lunch at Giardineto’s. About three, four months ago. That was it. Him, me, two plates of linguine and a digital recorder. Sure, they took a happy snap of us, they do that there for some reason, but that’s as close as we got. And I can assure you, not one item of clothing was shed!”

  Sondra turned as red as her lipstick and a bony hand returned to her mouth, aghast. “I am so sorry ... I thought ...”

  “I know what you thought! It’s not true.” Roxy stopped. “Oh, God, do the police think that too?” And then. “What’s all this about? I am really confused! What has your father been saying about me? I have a good mind to ring him up and tell him off!”

  “He’s dead.”

  Roxy blinked. “Sorry?”

  The woman’s face had paled again. “My father died. Last Sunday night. We buried him yesterday.”

  This stopped Roxy in her tracks. “Oh, right ... Oh God ... sorry.”

  Sondra looked equally deflated and they both slumped back down on the sofa.

  “It doesn’t make any sense, then,” Sondra said, staring into her tea as though that might somehow clarify things. For Roxy’s part she just wanted to know what the hell was going on.

  She cleared her throat. “Look, I’m really sorry to hear about your dad, he seemed like a sweet guy when we met, but I didn’t really know him at all. I’m sorry if someone gave you that impression.”

  “He did,” she said softly.

  “Huh?”

  “My father. He mentioned you, just before he died. He said your name. Roxy Parker. Then he ... then he ...” She searched for a tissue in her handbag but Roxy beat her to it, finding a box on the mantelpiece and handing it over. Sondra took it with a grateful smile and helped herself, giving her nose a delicate blow. As she did so, a strand of slivery hair loosened from her ponytail and got caught up in the tissue. She swiped at it irritably.

  Roxy sat back and thought about what Sondra had said. “Your dad, Berny Tiles, said my name? Before he died?” Sondra nodded, fluttering a look at Roxy. “That’s it?”

  “Not quite. He was dying ... we had all gathered by his bedside, and by the time we did, he was ... well, he wasn’t good. It was clear, though, that he wanted to tell us something, something really important to him, but when he did all he said was, ‘Roxy Parker has it.’”

  “Roxy Parker has it?” She nodded. “Has what? Exactly?” Sondra shrugged a bony shoulder in the air. “Perhaps you misheard him? Or maybe he was talking about a different Roxy Parker?”

  “I considered that. But you’re the only Roxy Parker I can find in the entire phone book. And ... well ... you just told me you did know him.”

  “Yes, but as I said, just fleetingly.” Roxy was beyond baffled; she was in cuckoo land. “Okay, so let me get this straight. Just before your father died, he told you that I have something that belongs to him?” Sondra nodded. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I don’t have anything of your father’s. Nothing.”

  “Nothing at all?”

  She shook her head. “Look, I don’t mean to sound rude, but does it actually matter now?”

  “I think it does matter.”

  “But why? Maybe he was hallucinating, or it meant nothing ... I can’t see why it should matter now that he’s ... gone.”

  “It matters,” the woman said, more firmly this time.

  “Why?”

  “Because my father was murdered, Roxy, and I think it has something to do with you.”

  Chapter 5

  Roxy felt her blood run cold. Oh God, she thought, here we go again. What is it with all her clients dropping dead? Okay, this guy wasn’t, strictly speaking, a client—he was a friend of a client—but it was close enough.

  Her next thought was to declare her innocence and send the woman packing, but there was grief in Sondra’s eyes and genuine confusion. It mirrored hers. Roxy wasn’t sure if she was being accused of murder, or if that’s what the cops believed, but she didn’t like the woman’s implications.

  “So that’s why the police were here,” she said, more to herself than Sondra. “Listen, you have to believe me, I met your father once. We had a lovely lunch at a restaurant in North Sydney, he gave me some quotes for a book I’m writing, but that was all it was. An interview.”

  “I don’t think you killed him, if that’s what you’re worried about,” the other woman said and Roxy felt her heart beat relax.

  “Then why ...?”

  “That’s what I want to know. Why? Why did my father mention you of all people before he passed away?” She held a skinny hand up. “Don’t tell me he was rambling, please, that’s what my husband says and I refuse to believe it. My father was determined to say your name, he was adamant. It took him a while but he did it. He said your name. And he said you had it, whatever ‘it’ is. Did he give you something? Anything that day you met for lunch? Any documents? Old letters? Anything?”

  “No, just some colourful anecdotes, that’s all.” And they weren’t even that colourful.

  She looked bitterly disappointed. “Can you at least tell me what you were working on with him?”

  Roxy nodded. “I’ll go you one better and get you a transcript of everything he said to me. I taped the entire conversation, although, to be honest, I don’t remember it having anything to do with you or your family. You see, I’ve been ghostwriting a book—”

  “Ghostwriting?”

  “That’s what I do for a living. I write other people’s autobiographies.” The woman still looked at her like she was speaking French, so Roxy explained. “Basically, a client who can’t or doesn’t want to write their own story hires me to do it for them and I usually keep my name off the book. That’s why they call it ghostwriting, or ghosting.”

  “So it looks like they’ve written it themselves.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s not exactly an honest living, but it pays the bills. Or most of them. Strictly speaking, it was Book It Publishing who hired me to do the bio on Sir Wolfgang—”

  “Wolfgang?” her eyes fluttered again and she appeared to pale even further.

  “Yes, do you know him? Your dad was an old acquaintance from Indonesia.”

  Roxy had spent the past six months researching and writing the mining magnate’s life story. Wolfgang Bergman had made and lost and made his fortune again in the wilds of Southeast Asia. Mostly oil and gas, but there was a little copper and gold thrown in for good measure. Sir Wolfgang was as rough as the terrain he had pillaged, and despite being close to eighty-five, was as frisky as a young mare, and Roxy spent most of their interview time ignoring his leering looks, sleazy innuendo and wolfish grin, which is why she came to nickname him ‘Wolfman’. Of course, she didn’t tell Sondra any of this, but it was fairly clear that Sondra wasn’t his biggest fan either and from the second she mentioned Wolfgang’s name, a frown had settled on her porcelain forehead.

  “Yes, I know Sir Wolfgang,” she said. “My father was his biggest fan. Although he didn’t even bother turning up to Dad’s funeral.” There was an edge in her voice now, a cold, distant look in her eyes. “I didn’t realise Dad was involved in that book.”

  “Only in a very small way. He had a few stories to tell about their days in Jakarta and Irian Jaya, nothing very exciting. As I say, I’ll get you the full transcript and you can read it for yourself. Maybe I’ve forgotten something. Maybe he told me something he wants repeated to you guys.”

  Roxy didn’t believe it for a moment but it seemed to placate the woman and
she stood up, clutching her handbag.

  “Thank you. That would be very kind. I have taken enough of your time.”

  She reached into her bag and retrieved her purse. From it, she plucked out a small business card and handed it to Roxy. It was illustrated with a bright red rose and had the name Blooming Bros in a fancy script across the front.

  “That’s my husband’s business, really, I just help out when I can. Use the e-mail address at the bottom; it will get to me. If you could send the full transcript there.”

  Roxy nodded and took it from her, then began to show her out when she suddenly remembered the photo. But surely it couldn’t be about that?

  “There is one thing,” she said and the woman turned back, a look of hope squeezing out the anxiety in her eyes. “Sorry, I completely forgot about it because he didn’t actually give it to me, per se, he sent it—”

  “What?!” she interrupted, her eyes as wide as saucers now.

  “The photo.”

  “What photo?!”

  “Your dad sent me a photo to go in the book. It was the only picture he had with Sir Wolfgang and he said I might like to use it. I never actually received it myself, you see, I asked him to post it to my agent, and then he forwarded it on to the publisher.”

  “That must be it! What was in the photo, did you see it?”

  “Yes, just briefly at my agent’s office.” Roxy thought about it. “It was a pretty boring picture, Sondra. If I recall correctly, it was a really old black and white portrait taken of your dad, Sir Wolfgang and a couple of other people at some conference or something. Nothing very exciting. In fact, I don’t think it even made the book because I can’t recall seeing it in the final mock-ups.”

  Sondra’s red cheeks and animated eyes showed she didn’t think it was unexciting at all. “Can I see it?”

  “Of course. In fact, I’m sorry it hasn’t been returned to you.”

  “Do you have it?” She looked around anxiously again.

  “Oh, no, not here, I don’t.”

  The woman’s shoulders drooped and Roxy thought then of a kite. Sondra seemed to dip and soar on Roxy’s every word. She was clearly in a very brittle emotional state and Roxy felt for her. Losing your father was always a struggle, losing him to murder was unthinkable. “I can easily find it for you. It must still be with the publisher. Even if they didn’t did use it, they’ll have it in their files. I’ll track it down.”

  The shoulders straightened again. “Oh please do, as soon as you can. It’s very important.”

  “Of course, but the publisher won’t be there today; I’ll call them on Monday, first thing.”

  Again, the woman thanked her and headed towards the door.

  “Just don’t get your hopes up,” Roxy called after her. “It’s a really ordinary shot.”

  Sondra stopped and turned back. “Perhaps it wasn’t so ordinary to my father,” she said.

  Chapter 6

  “I’m going to give her five minutes and then it’s onto my work,” Roxy decided after Sondra left and she had put a call through to her local locksmith. He would be there within the hour and she couldn’t wait. She still felt uneasy and couldn’t help darting wary glances at her front door, fearful it might burst open at any point.

  She shrugged her fears away, pulled off her sweaty tracksuit and threw herself under a shower. Ten minutes later and another furtive glance at the front door, she strode into her small sunroom-cum-office and switched on her laptop. As she watched the screen dance to life, she thought of Sondra’s visit and what it could possibly mean.

  Sondra Lane seemed to be on some wild goose chase but she was clearly desperate and Roxy felt for her. Having lost her own father so young, Roxy understood the need for answers, but she had never got any herself, and she wondered whether Sondra would. Shivering a little, she recalled the woman’s earlier words:

  “My father was murdered, Roxy, and I think it has something to do with you.”

  She sat back and thought about this. How bizarre that a dying man would utter her name in the last moments of his life. Of all the things he could have said, of all the names he could have called, he called out hers. She didn’t feel flattered, not at all. If anything she felt uneasy, as though she had just been thrust, unwillingly, into someone else’s torment, and a small chill trickled down her spine.

  “Stop it!” she told herself, trying to shake it off. Sondra’s husband was right. It was probably just the final, delirious ramblings of a dying man. Or maybe he was just trying to get all his ducks in order, so to speak.

  Roxy scrolled through her files and located a folder dubbed “Wolfman” and double clicked. Inside she opened a file named “Boring Berny” and felt a flush of guilt. She hadn’t meant to sound so mean, but he really had been rather dull, the last man she would have expected to get caught up in a baffling murder mystery. Roxy opened it, curious now as she glanced through the content.

  It was just a few pages, a fairly brief interview about Berny’s dealings with the well-known mining billionaire. Long story short, Berny had done some surveying work for one of Wolfgang’s Indonesian copper mines in 1973, and they had started a friendship that, as far as she could tell, seemed more lopsided than anything else. Berny had nothing but gushing praise for the older magnate, while the magnate had very little to say about Berny other than that he was a “good bloke” who might have a good quote or two to contribute to the book. In fact, Wolfgang hadn’t mentioned Berny at all and it was only after Roxy had pressed him for more colour—mining books were dreary by nature—that he had suggested Berny for an interview.

  She recalled later wondering why. Apart from the gushing praise, Berny had little to contribute and, if anything, seemed almost protective of his old mate. He did confess that they both drank and gambled way too much for their own good, but that was as colourful as it got. It wasn’t exactly X-rated stuff.

  As she reread the transcript now, Roxy got the same impression she had when she first interviewed Berny, the strange feeling that he was holding something back. She had forgotten about that. Several times Berny had gone to say something and had checked himself, retraced his words and changed the subject. She hadn’t thought much of it at the time—most friends and family were guarded when a tape recorder was rolling—but she wondered now if there was more to it.

  Or was she just reading into it for Sondra’s sake?

  Roxy finished the transcript and sighed. Berny Tiles was just as she remembered, sweet but dull, and she couldn’t see anything particularly exciting or alarming in the copy, certainly nothing that should interest his progeny. There were no loving words of wisdom, no mention of changed wills or where he might have hidden the family jewels. It was all about Wolfgang, and all pretty benign. She closed the file, attached it to an open e-mail and then popped Sondra’s husband’s business address at the top.

  As she watched it whiz off to the Blooming Bros e-mail in-box, she went back through the PDF layouts of the entire Bergman book that had been sent to her by the publisher. She always kept “mock-ups” of her books on file. While Roxy’s job was officially over once she sent the text in, she liked to be involved in the editing and layout process, just to make sure her words had been transplanted correctly. She wasn’t just being a perfectionist. Roxy’s reputation was also on the line. Her name might not be on the cover, but it was always the writer who copped the blame when the editing work was sloppy.

  In Bergman’s case, however, she had been particularly fastidious. Despite his old age and sleazy overtures, he was a cunning businessman, not someone you wanted to get offside. At least, that’s the impression Roxy got. She did not want to feel Wolfman’s bite.

  Wading through it all again now, it was clear that Berny’s photo had not made the final layout, just as she’d thought.

  Roxy stood up and stretched her long, lean body out like a cat, then stopped and stared at the sun that was just starting to set on the glistening bay below her window. Her apartment might be small a
nd shabby but it had a lovely harbour view and she regularly had to remind herself to soak it up, lest she forget. It was one of the reasons she had bought the place, was breaking her back to pay the hefty mortgage, and it was also why she was reluctant to move in with Max, despite his many offers.

  Max’s warehouse might be four times bigger and a great deal slicker, but it didn’t have this intoxicating view, and she reminded him of that whenever he pressed the point. He said it was just an excuse and he was probably right, but she wasn’t about to admit that to anyone, least of all herself.

  She shook all thought of Max from her mind, picked up her phone and dialled. After five rings, a cheerful voice answered.

  “And there I was thinking Max had locked you up in a dungeon somewhere, never to be seen again.”

  Roxy laughed. “Sorry, Gilda, I’ve been pretty preoccupied. How have you been? How’s homicide working out?”

  Detective Superintendent Gilda Maltin had been promoted from the Mosman Area Command, in Sydney’s swanky North Shore, to the Homicide Serious Crime Squad in the heart of the city, a little over six months ago and had barely had a spare moment since then.

  “Busy, too, but not with fun and games like you,” she said.

  “They haven’t got you working on a Saturday have they?”

  “You of all people should know that crime never sleeps.”

  Gilda was one of Roxy’s best friends, had been since they cracked a murder case together, over two years ago, and Roxy adored her. She was smart, funny, and as unlike a police officer as anyone could get—a tiny, blonde thing with a cunning brain and bawdy sense of humour. They had shared many a good laugh together and it warmed Roxy’s heart to know she had one of the city’s top cops on speed dial. She didn’t normally like to abuse it, but her curiosity was now piqued.

  “Listen, I hate to disturb you at work but I do have a work related question.”

  Roxy heard a clicking keyboard in the background. “Just a sec,” Gilda said. There was more clicking and then everything went quiet. “Shoot.”