Dying Words (A Ghostwriter Mystery)

by C. A. Larmer

  Roxy filled her friend in on the bizarre visit from the two officers earlier that day, then on her chat with Sondra Lane. “Says her dad was murdered, do you know anything about the case?”

  “Hmm ... sounds a little familiar but I’m not working on it if that’s what you mean. Did she say her dad was murdered or she just thinks he was?”

  Roxy considered this. “The latter, I think. I mean, she seemed pretty confused, grasping for straws.”

  “I will never understand people, Roxy. Why would they prefer to know their loved one was murdered rather than just dying innocently? I mean, surely that’s a little more soothing.”

  “Maybe they need to know it was avoidable or want someone to blame?”

  “Yeah, or maybe humans are just plain nutty. Okay, leave it with me and I’ll get back to you. So it was Detective Sean Leary, you say?”

  “Yep, although I can’t remember the other guy’s name, sorry. Not even sure he told me.”

  “I know Leary, he’s an old-timer from the Cremorne branch, near my old stomping ground. Was his partner a young redhead, wet around the ears?”

  “Yep, looked about twelve.”

  “That’d be Eddie Calhoun. Okay, I’ll hunt them down and find out what’s going on. I wouldn’t worry too much. Sounds like they were just crossing t’s, dotting i’s, that kind of thing. Hey, why don’t we get together tonight, chat about it then and catch up at the same time? That is if Max will let you out of the dungeon.”

  “He won’t have any choice,” Roxy said. “Where do you want to meet?”

  “How about that cool little wine bar you used to go to a lot. Pico’s?”

  “God, I haven’t been there all year. You’re right. Max has been monopolising my time. I barely ever go out anymore.”

  “Right, well, come out tonight and we’ll catch up. Eight p.m. would work for me. Oh, and Roxy?”

  “Yes?”

  “Leave your violin at home with Max.”

  Roxy laughed as she hung up the phone.

  Chapter 7

  Pico’s hadn’t changed one bit since Roxy was last there. It was still a shabby, bohemian-style wine bar perched on the grungier side of the city, and a favourite amongst artists, musicians and other creative types. Max had first introduced Roxy to the bar over three years ago, and they had made it their own, and as she strolled in and looked around today, she wondered why they hadn’t been here of late. It was home to many of their happiest memories. It was also the place where they first fell in love.

  She groaned. They had barely been anywhere over the past eleven months (and four days), their life narrowing down to a five-kilometre radius between his place, her place and the Indian restaurant in between. Sort of like the Bermuda Triangle, she thought gloomily as she pulled out a leather barstool and sat down.

  “Hey, Roxy Parker,” the barman said, smiling widely. “Long time no see. What’re you after? Merlot?”

  She laughed. “Hey, Pedro, you remembered?”

  “You’re the only one who ever drinks it,” he said, winking. “I’m sure we’ve got a crusty old bottle here somewhere.”

  As he turned to prepare the wine, she rummaged through her handbag for her iPhone. Gilda was running late and had sent a text message to that effect, so by the time she got to the bar, Roxy had polished off half her glass of wine and was already nibbling on potato wedges.

  Gilda looked stunning as always, her golden blonde hair wispy around her face, dark eye shadow smudged around her wide, brown eyes. For a forty-something policewoman, she was surprisingly stylish, too, in tailored woollen trousers, black and white striped top, and killer heels that looked incapable of chasing down bad guys.

  “Love your hair!” Gilda was saying, swooping in to plant a quick kiss on her friend’s cheek before ordering a gin and tonic. “What happened to your trademark bob?”

  “Time, or lack thereof,” Roxy replied. “Easier just to let it grow out.”

  “Goodness, Max really is monopolising your time. Well, it looks fab. Shall we grab a table?”

  They collected their stuff and slipped into a side booth where they could have a little more privacy and space to spread out. Gilda produced her phone and placed it on the table.

  “Did I mention crime never sleeps?” she said by way of apology and Roxy waved her off.

  “So did you find out anything on Berny Tiles?”

  Gilda’s smoky brown eyes lit up. “Oh yes I did, and no wonder everyone’s knocking on your door.” She paused as Pedro brought her drink across, thanked him then continued. “You’re right, the Cremorne branch is still handling this one at this stage. I’m not sure what the daughter told you ... Sandra was it?”

  “Sondra. And not much.”

  “Okay.” She took a gulp of her drink, the ice rattling in her glass. “According to Leary and Calhoun, Bernard Tiles definitely died from injuries sustained by a hit and run.”

  “So that’s why they were checking out my car, looking for suspicious dent marks. Cheeky buggers.”

  “Yes, well, they obviously didn’t find any and the only witness—a very vague, very elderly neighbour of the deceased’s—said something about a white van. So your navy blue Golf is off the hook, for now.”

  “But what about me?” She remembered the detectives enquiring about other cars she might have driven in the past week.

  “They have to keep an open mind, Rox. The deceased did say your name before he slipped off this mortal coil, so they’d be remiss not to look into it.”

  “I get that, but they’ll see I have an alibi and I couldn’t possibly have done it.”

  “Already checked out. Your mother and Charlie have verified that you were with them that night. Good thing you slept over.”

  “Yes, well, I have to get completely trashed to survive an evening with Mum, you know that. Then I was over the limit and I would never drink and drive.”

  “Always the model citizen.” Gilda smiled.

  Roxy thought about her mother then and wondered why Lorraine hadn’t called. The visit from the police would surely have unsettled her and she would no doubt give her daughter the grilling of her life over lunch tomorrow. Roxy cringed at the thought, but she felt grateful, too, that she had an alibi. She knew how these things went. Oliver had recently been through a similar ordeal, and Roxy didn’t like the idea of being on the receiving end of suspicion and false allegations, all because you didn’t have anyone at home to vouch for you.

  “Have they got any suspects at all? Any idea of motive?”

  “Not yet, no. According to the witness—who has cataracts, by the way, so I doubt her evidence will ever see the light of day, excuse the pun—she heard an almighty ‘thunk’ just outside the victim’s house, and looked out her window and spotted some bloke jumping into a white van just before it sped away. She hobbled out and found Mr Tiles severely injured on the road outside his front gate.”

  “And when was this?”

  “About 10:15 p.m. on Father’s Day. Last Sunday. According to the daughter, he’d been home alone all night. Apparently she was supposed to meet up with him, as you do on Father’s Day, but he cancelled at the last minute, said he wasn’t feeling well or something like that.”

  “So what was a sick man doing hanging outside his house at that time of night?”

  “Exactamondo!” She took a swig of her gin. “Very suspicious. Leary and his lot are continuing with their enquiries.”

  “So it’s not considered a ‘serious crime’ yet?”

  “Still being investigated. Obviously Leary’s team has to look at all the options before they hand it over to us, if they ever do. I mean, hit and runs are tricky crimes, Roxy. They happen more often than you’d care to know, most by innocently bad drivers who have no idea they’ve just wiped out an old guy crossing the road. Maybe he’d gone for a late night stroll or something. But these cases do tend to remain open until the driver is located and motive is eliminated. I mean, the guy was old but he wasn’t that old, and the
fact that the driver never stopped and rendered assistance, and that someone else was present at the scene and fled with the driver, makes it all look very, very dodgy.”

  “I wonder why I didn’t read about this.”

  Gilda smiled over her gin and tonic. “Didn’t make your Book of Death, eh?”

  Roxy squinted her emerald eyes. “I call it a Crime Catalogue, and you know that.”

  “Whatever helps you sleep at night.” Gilda winked. “Shall we order some decent food?”

  Roxy glanced down at her plate of wedges. “God no! I’m thoroughly enjoying my high carb overload, but you go right ahead.”

  Gilda plucked a menu from a nearby table. “I need something heartier than that.”

  “So, what you’re saying is, I’m officially in the clear?”

  “Thanks to your mum, yes, but my hunch is, somebody was out to get this poor man. They weren’t mucking around. Any idea why? Or, more importantly, why he said your name—of all the names in all the world—just before he died?”

  “I’ve been madly racking my brain trying to work that out. I can only guess that Sondra’s hubby was right and he was delirious at that stage.” She only hoped the detectives believed that too. “I had recently interviewed him for the Wolfgang Bergman book I was writing. I told you about that book, right?”

  “Yes, you had some charming name for him if I recall.”

  “Wolfman. I also like to call him Sir Sleazebag on occasion.”

  Gilda laughed. “Sounds like half the blokes I work with. The other half are married.” She sighed. “Anyway, yes, that explains how you know him, although it doesn’t explain why he said your name at such a critical moment. You’ll probably hear from Leary about the transcript. He’ll want a copy, I’d say.”

  “And he can have one. But what else should I do?”

  “Nothing! I know that’s hard for you, Miss Super Sleuth, but the Cremorne branch is on it and you need to leave them to it. Why the victim said your name right before he died, nobody knows, but Leary’s more interested in the hit and run angle, so let him work that angle and see what he finds. If they do manage to uncover the driver, it will probably all make sense. And if it doesn’t, it’s probably not relevant. Just step away.”

  “Gladly!” Roxy said.

  She’d made a promise to both her mother and to Max almost a year ago that she’d had enough crime and misadventure for one life, and would steer clear of it in the future, and she intended to keep that promise.

  Gilda’s big brown eyes watched her closely for a few minutes as though she didn’t believe her, then she signalled the waiter over and ordered a Greek salad.

  “Let’s move on to more exciting topics. How’s it all going with Max? You moved in yet?”

  Roxy finished off her merlot with a large gulp and said, “Think I need another one of these first. You?” Gilda agreed and Roxy signalled the barman with two fingers. He nodded and set about making their drinks.

  “Oh dear, this doesn’t sound good.”

  “He wants me to move in.”

  “And that’s not good?” Roxy shrugged. “You’re not ready?”

  “We’ve been going out less than a year, it’s not long.”

  “You’ve known each other over three years. Doesn’t that count for anything? What’s the problem?”

  “There’s no problem.”

  Gilda cocked a blonde eyebrow at her just as the drinks arrived, followed soon after by Gilda’s salad. She popped a chunk of feta cheese in her mouth before saying, “So what’s going on?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Roxy, it’s me. ’Fess up.”

  “Nothing’s going on ... I don’t know. I just love my apartment. I love my space, my freedom.”

  “More than you love Max?”

  She groaned. “Why does it have to be one or the other?”

  “Look, I agree with you. There’s a reason I’m still single, and it has little to do with the fact that most of the guys left on the market are cast-offs, not worthy of a garage sale. I, too, love my own space and I can’t imagine finding anyone who deserves to clutter it. But you have found someone very worthy. He could clutter my place any time he likes.” She sighed dreamily. “He’s one of the good guys, Rox. He’s trustworthy, he’s sweet, he’s a giant bloody spunk. That’s like the full trifecta. I honestly don’t know why you aren’t running towards him with open arms. Actually, scrap that, I do know why.”

  Roxy looked up from her glass warily. She had a feeling she wasn’t going to enjoy hearing this next bit.

  “You obviously don’t love him. Not really.”

  This surprised Roxy. She was expecting the usual lecture about her inability to commit, her immaturity or selfishness, but a lack of love had not occurred to her. She didn’t like the sound of that.

  “I do love him. Very much,” she replied sulkily.

  “Not enough, though, to move in with him.” Gilda took a swig of her drink. “Listen, I always say when you know, you know. Well you obviously don’t. It took you forever to get together with the poor bugger, now you’re hesitating again? Riiiing, riiing, that’s a warning bell, Missy, that you are with the wrong guy.” She held her hands up, revealing recently polished nails. “Sorry, but it has to be said.”

  Roxy chewed over this as she chewed on her wedges. She didn’t agree with her friend; it was ridiculous. But she was not in the mood to argue either, so she eventually said, “Can we let it drop? Move on?”

  “Please yes, or I’ll slip into a coma.” Gilda forked some salad into her mouth and began chewing while she said, “Wanna hear about my riveting love-life instead?”

  Roxy eyed her suspiciously. “I thought you said there was no love-life.”

  “Well, I use the word under advisement, but I have been dabbling a little online.”

  “Go girl!” Roxy said, cheering up enormously. “Okay then, give me every scintillating detail.”

  Gilda proceeded to fill Roxy in on her adventures on a popular dating website and the “disaster dates” she had recently “endured” and they spent the rest of the night laughing hysterically and drinking far too much alcohol. Max was now the furthest thing from Roxy’s mind as she slipped into buddy heaven and let it roll over her like a warm blanket, or a glass of 2004 Barossa merlot.

  Chapter 8

  “It’s ridiculously cold in here,” Lorraine Jones announced, taking the spare seat beside Roxy at the Flower Pot Café where they met every second Sunday for a bite to eat and a few nibbles at each other.

  Roxy glanced around at the motley collection of pot plants and garden furniture, each with a price tag attached. “It’s an outdoor café, Mum.”

  “Doesn’t mean they can’t get some of those fabulous gas thingies, you know the ones I mean? The tall stand-upy ones that light up.”

  “You should work in a hardware shop,” she deadpanned. “I think you mean patio heaters, the ‘thingies’ that contribute more to global warming than the entire island nation of Vanuatu.”

  Lorraine glared at her daughter. “We are not going to start on that topic, are we?”

  Roxy shuddered, remembering too many heated conversations with her conservative mother and stepdad. “No, no, I’ve learned my lesson there. No sex, religion, politics or climate change.”

  “How about crime then, that seems to be the recurring theme in your life.” Lorraine’s eyes squinted and Roxy knew what she was getting at.

  “Why don’t we order first? I can’t manage this on an empty stomach.”

  After Roxy had placed their orders—two vegetarian focaccias, a latte and a sparkling mineral water—she returned to her seat and found her mother still eyeing her dubiously.

  There was no more avoiding the topic, so she launched in. “Okay, so I gather the policemen have been in touch. Well, if you’re wondering what they were on about, I’m as clueless as you are.”

  Lorraine pursed her bright pink lips and began to play with her gold chain, the look on her face sa
ying very clearly, “I know you, my dear, don’t even try.”

  “Honestly, Mum, it has nothing to do with me.”

  “So why, then, do I have two very frightening police officers show up at my door yesterday?”

  “Mum, one of them looks like he should still be at primary school, the other’s a geriatric. There’s nothing frightening about either of them.”

  Lorraine ran a hand through her neatly straightened, ivory blonde bob. “Their questions were rather scary.”

  “They just wanted to know if I was with you last Sunday night, right?”

  “Yes, but why, my dear? They simply refused to elaborate, quite outrageous , and I did explain to them that we are good friends with the deputy police commissioner himself.”

  “Good friends?”

  She blinked several times and dabbed a serviette at the corners of her mouth. “Well, we met him once at a party with Harold and Tina Donaldson, but anyway, that’s not the point. The point is, why were these policemen asking about you? What have you been up to?”

  “Nothing. Honestly! Look, they didn’t tell me anything either. All I know is, some poor guy I interviewed once, really briefly for a book I was writing, showed up dead outside his house on Father’s Day. Cops are looking into it, just speaking to anyone who had any dealings with the man over the past few months. It’s really nothing to worry about.”

  She didn’t mention the small matter of the man uttering her name in his dying breath, and her mother clearly didn’t know about that, because she said, “I guess they have to interview everyone and with your record of dead bodies, I’m not surprised they’ve come knocking. Luckily I could verify your ...” she hesitated, her nose crinkled a little, “alibi. I was only just saying to Charlie how lucky you are to have been with us that night.”

  “Yes, really lucky to have spent Father’s Day with a man who is not actually my father.”

  “Now don’t you start on Charlie—”

  “I’m not knocking Charlie. I’m just saying, I miss Dad, that’s all.”