Glancing back at the photos in the file, Roxy couldn’t help smiling. Jed was not only a rock star; he had a stunning home and lived in a glorious part of the world. Despite her nerves, this was one ghostwriting assignment she was really going to enjoy.
She said as much to the group as they finished up their coffees and they all burst into laughter.
“What?” she said and Olie shook his head.
“Just don’t stumble across any dead bodies this time, okay?”
Chapter 2
“So how does it feel, glorifying a murderer?”
The harsh tone took Roxy by surprise and she looked up from her iPad-mini and towards a man standing by her table, wide sunglasses covering the top half his face, the beginnings of a beard covering the rest. It wasn’t the kind of beard the young hipsters were all donning these days, thick and meticulously coiffed. This was more the ‘fallen-out-of-bed’, ‘forgotten-to-shave’ look. He was older, too, maybe early forties, judging from the tuft of greyish-brown hair on his head and the soft lines across his forehead. He was wearing blue jeans and a red and blue checked shirt, which had been rolled up at the sleeves to reveal lean, muscled arms, the kind that came from hard yakka, not the gym. He would have been handsome if it wasn’t for the ugly scowl.
“Sorry?” Roxy said, blinking her emerald green eyes at him.
“Are you the Sydney chick doing the Jed Moody book?”
She hesitated. It was true, she was a “Sydney chick” and there was no avoiding that charge. Her tailored jacket, Ray-Ban glasses and coiffed black hair were all dead giveaways, especially in these parts. It was also true that she was ghostwriting a book for Jed Moody, but how did he know that? She’d only just arrived.
Roxy’s flight from Sydney had taken an hour and a half. And despite getting lost twice, as she steered her hire car along the winding roads of the Byron hinterland where the Moody’s property was located, she realised she was running early—she wasn’t due for another twenty minutes—so she decided to stop for coffee. Luckily, Roxy had noticed a few signs on the side of the road advertising The Goddess Café (“A vegetarian café with bite!”), and she was delighted to find it right on the corner of the turnoff to Jed’s road.
Roxy promptly pulled her car into the muddy parking lot and switched the engine off. The café was more of a convenience store than anything else, a weathered old wooden shop with a post office, bottle shop and petrol station thrown in. She lingered out the front for a few minutes, reading a notice board which was plastered with handwritten pleas for work—“any work”—as well as For Sale signs (one VW Kombi van, several items of “preloved” furniture, a range of chickens, aka “chooks”, and a vintage Vox Amp). She also saw ads for Hatha Yoga classes, pottery and something called “The Art of Mindfulness”.
To the left of the shop was a weathered old shed with a sign that read “Trev’s Motor Mechanic”, although the padlocked doors and undisturbed cobwebs suggested Trev hadn’t checked anyone’s motor for some time. To the right of the shop, a cluster of wooden tables and chairs were perched under mouldy umbrellas on the lawn, and below a large Poinciana was a soggy sandpit with some faded plastic buckets and spades. Apart from a heavyset man in a baggy Quicksilver hoodie and dark sunglasses reading a newspaper, the place was deserted.
“You right, chook?”
Roxy swung around to find a woman standing at the front door of the shop, one hand on her tanned hip, her big blue eyes open wide. She had a full head of dirty blonde dreadlocks, many of them interwoven with multicoloured ribbons and beads; a small belly button ring on her bulging tummy, several rings on each ear, and a wrist full of silver bangles which were jangling now as she held onto what turned out to be a young child hiding inside her flowing, gypsy-style skirt. The woman was probably in her early thirties and, despite the chill in the hinterland air, was wearing the skimpiest of tops, her enormous breasts about an inch away from toppling out.
“I’ll have a latté, thanks.”
“Soy milk? Goats? Skim?”
Roxy hesitated. “Do you have normal milk?”
The woman paused for a moment as though Roxy had just spoken French. “Yep... Anything else? I’ve got gluten-free brownies, raw carrot cake, a few energy bars left.”
Roxy shook her head. “Just the coffee, thanks.”
“Take a seat, hon. I’ll bring it out.” She jingled a hand towards the tables then disappeared inside the darkened shop, the small child vanishing with her.
Roxy chose a seat in the sun and stretched her legs out under the table, then checked her mobile phone. There were no missed calls so she retrieved her iPad from her handbag. It was still in airplane mode so she switched back and began trawling for the WiFi. Her nerves were still skittish from the drive and she needed the distraction.
“No coverage out here, sweetheart,” said the man from the other table. He pushed his wraparound glasses up onto his head and squinted at her with smudged brown eyes, a sly smile on his lips. He was well into his fifties with a receding hairline and a straggly greyish brown plait down his back; his face a ripple of deep wrinkles and fresh sunburn. He had a tabloid newspaper spread out in front of him and a packet of cigarettes close by.
Roxy closed the lid of her iPad case feeling like a goose. “Oh well, thought I’d try my luck.”
He watched her for a bit longer then returned to his newspaper just as a white Jeep came rattling to a stop in front of the shop. Roxy hadn’t paid it much heed so she was stunned when the driver leapt out and charged straight up to her table, accusing her of glorifying a murderer.
“Well? How does it feel, glorifying someone that evil? I bet you’re not going to mention that in your fancy book.”
“I ... I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she stammered.
He stared at her for a few more seconds then his scowl softened and his voice cracked a little. “Just ask him about Sunny. Ask him what really happened.”
Before Roxy could demand to know what he was on about, he had turned away and was striding back to his vehicle. As he cranked his door open and jumped inside, Roxy noticed a large black and white dog in the passenger seat, staring back at her with wide, curious eyes.
The older man at the café had seen all this and was now watching Roxy curiously, his smile widening. She blinked at him confused before turning back to the road where the Jeep was spitting up dust as it rounded the bend and disappeared from sight. The waitress had also witnessed the incident and was shaking her dreadlocks slowly as she placed a recycled coffee cup in front of Roxy.
“Don’t let Sambo worry you, chook. He’s carrying a lot of dark energy these days.” She glanced down the road. “’Course, you can’t blame him, after what happened to Sunny.”
“Sunny?”
“His sister, sweet young soul. Showed up dead on the Moody property about eighteen months back. All very innocent, but he seems to think otherwise.” She sighed heavily. “I’ve tried to soothe him, everyone has, but nothing’s worked. He just can’t seem to let it go.”
Roxy wasn’t listening now, all she could hear were the words “dead” and “Moody property” and they were ricocheting around her brain. “Dead?” she repeated now. “What happened?”
“Sambo’s sister drowned trying to cross a swollen creek; silly, silly kitten.”
“And he blames Jed Moody?”
She smiled sadly. “Better than blaming yourself, hey?”
The waitress twirled around and headed back into the café, her beaded skirt jangling as she went. Roxy’s insides did a little jangle of their own. Before she could give it any more thought, the man with the wraparound glasses loomed over her, blocking out the sunlight.
“Wanna make some easy cash?”
“Sorry?”
He dropped a business card in front of her, leaned in and said, “Let me know where and when, you get 10 percent.”
Then he, too, strode away, this time around the back of the shop and towards a rusty white Commodore stati
on wagon.
Roxy looked at the card, saw the words “Macker Maroney Photographer” printed beside a mobile phone number and website. He must be paparazzi she thought, looking up just in time to see him wave as he drove off.
Roxy slumped back in her seat and stared forlornly at her coffee.
“Bloody hell, Roxy Parker,” she thought, echoing the words of her agent many, many times before. “What have you got yourself into this time?”
Chapter 3
The shop was surprisingly dark when Roxy stepped inside to pay for her coffee and make her escape. She had been in the Byron Shire less than an hour, had not even met Jed Moody yet, and already she felt wrung out. What had started as harmless anticipation at meeting her teenage idol had turned to deep apprehension. This job wasn’t going to be as straightforward as she’d anticipated. Already, one man was trying to steal pictures of her client and another was accusing him of murder.
Olie and her friends were right. It had become a recurring theme in Roxy’s life.
“That’ll be three bucks, thanks,” the waitress said, one hand on the cash register, the other wrapped around the toddler who clung to her hip like a baby koala. The child had a tangle of long, blonde curls and a strand of tiny amber beads around her neck, although she could easily have been a he, it was hard to tell.
Roxy smiled at the child, a girl she decided, and then realised with a start that she was suckling on her mother’s breast, which had now spilled out of her top. Both mother and child seemed perfectly at ease with this arrangement, the girl even watching Roxy intensely as she drank, her wide, yellow-green eyes twinkling with mischief, and Roxy couldn’t help blushing despite herself.
She was all for breastfeeding in public, admired it in fact, but it wasn’t something you encountered very often in the city, at least not at the cash register while paying your bill.
The woman deftly snatched Roxy’s cash, opened the till and handed her some change, all without causing any disturbance to the child. Roxy had to admire her skills. This woman took multitasking to a new level.
As Roxy turned to leave the cafe, the waitress called after her, “Say hi to Jed for me. Tell him Govinda sends her love.”
Roxy’s eyes widened. “You know Jed then?”
She jiggled her daughter higher on her hip. “Everybody knows everybody around here chook!”
As Roxy left the shop, she felt a sudden yearning for the overcrowded anonymity of the big smoke.
It was now just before 5:00 p.m., Roxy’s designated arrival time, and she stared at the publicist’s scribbled directions to the Moody property. “Moody Views” was located on Jasper Road; a good hour’s drive southwest from the airport, forty kilometres inland from the popular coastal town of Byron Bay. It had all seemed simple enough when she read the directions, but no sooner had Roxy turned down Jasper Road when she found herself hopelessly lost.
“This is ridiculous!” she hissed, pulling the car over so she could read the directions again.
“Moody Views, 88 Jasper Road, just down from the Goddess Café.”
That had to be the only Goddess Café in the area, surely? And this had to be Jasper Road. She hadn’t taken any unexpected turns. The problem was the numbers, which seemed to be all over the place. Lot 102 on one side, No 45 on the other, and there wasn’t a number 88 or a “Moody Views” to be found. Eventually, after turning back for the third time, Roxy decided to take a punt on the only driveway along the entire stretch of road that boasted a lock-up gate (currently open) and fresh, sealed tar. She figured if anyone had the means and motivation, it had to be the local celebrity.
Slowly, carefully, she manoeuvred her tiny red hatchback through the gate and across the bumpy cattle grid, then continued driving past a wide, open field. The road seemed to stretch for kilometres before plunging into thick, subtropical rainforest, which extinguished the remainder of the day’s light and forced Roxy to grapple with the controls to locate the car’s headlights. The canopy overhead was lush, but she soon drove out into a clearing where a historical timber mansion managed to dwarf what would otherwise have been an impressive fig tree beside it. The house resembled the pictures in Oliver’s press clippings and Roxy felt a flood of relief. She glanced at her watch and her relief evaporated.
She was fifteen minutes late. Damn it!
Several structures sat on either side of the main house, including what looked like horse stables, a sizeable polyethylene water tank, and a large timber shed with an extremely high roof and a vintage Valiant parked out the front.
Roxy turned towards the main house and rolled her car to a stop in front of the fig when a tall, painfully thin woman appeared from the stables. The woman was wearing tight jodhpurs and riding boots and she had the same dark colouring and the same haughty expression as the woman in the magazine. It had to be the wife, Annika Moody, Roxy decided.
As Roxy switched the engine off and got out, she spotted someone else exiting the stables, a man with dark glasses and a goatee. He was pulling his hoodie down over his face as he walked away from Roxy’s car and towards the high shed. He looked vaguely familiar but it wasn’t Jed Moody. She knew that much.
Annika was now walking swiftly towards Roxy, tapping one sinewy thigh with what looked like a horsewhip, her long black hair swishing from side to side, her frown intensifying. She wore a low, V-neck sweater, which emphasised her bony décolletage, and around her neck hung a thin gold chain with a tiny crystal attached.
“Houghton was supposed to be here before you,” she exclaimed. “I was expecting him first.”
She sounded extremely annoyed, and Roxy wasn’t quite sure how to respond. Did Annika want her to bugger off until the band’s publicist arrived?
“He did tell you I was arriving around five, right?”
“Houghton says lots of things, most don’t amount to much.” Now she sounded more weary than indignant. “Oh well, you’re here now. Might as well come in.”
Annika began crunching down the pebbled driveway towards the house where a tiny, fluffy white dog appeared, belatedly yapping at Roxy.
“Oh shut up, Coco!” Annika cried out.
“Should I bring my bags?” Roxy called after her.
Annika continued walking, “No, you should not. You’re staying the night in the bails.”
The bails? Roxy’s jaw dropped. Wasn’t that a barn where they milked dairy cows? She tried not to think the worst as she grabbed her oversized handbag from the passenger seat and locked up, before wondering why she bothered. It wasn’t likely anyone was going to pinch it out here. Burglars would be hard pressed finding the place.
Annika hung her whip on a hook by the front door and slipped her polished brown R.M. William’s riding boots off. Roxy noticed a pile of muddy shoes on either side of the enormous Balinese-style wooden doors and took this as her cue to unzip her boots. She hoped desperately that she was wearing a decent pair of socks.
Annika had already pushed open one of the doors and was padding softly down the long hallway, the dog one step behind. Roxy had to rush to catch up, her mismatched blue socks now on full display.
The hallway broke off into various different rooms, but Annika swept past them all and towards the back half of the house where the hall ended and a wide, curved doorway opened into a spacious living area. At one end of the room Roxy could see the opening to what looked like a kitchen and at the other end, a rather impressive bar complete with chrome and leather stools, and a staggering array of liquor bottles. Glasses of various shapes and sizes were hanging from an overhead railing, and there was an ornate mirror against the wall. Beside it were several gold and platinum albums that had been framed and hung up, loot collected during the Moody Roos’ heyday, no doubt. Just to the left of the bar was a side door that appeared to lead outside.
Annika was now behind the bar, Coco still at her feet, and she was holding a bottle of Stolichnaya vodka in one hand, a pair of silver tongs in the other.
“So, you found us okay,” she
said.
Roxy wondered for a moment if she was talking about the trip from the airport or the trek down the hallway. In any case, it wasn’t put as a question so she decided not to mention her many wrong turns.
“We’re not on the GPS,” Annika continued, “which is just the way we like it. I suppose you need a drink?”
“Yes, thanks, that was certainly a long drive.”
Annika snorted. “How long did it take you?”
“About an hour.”
“And how many hours have you wasted sitting in Sydney traffic?” Before Roxy could reply, Annika was shaking her head. “I find it bizarre the way stupid city folk get so stressed the second they get on a country road. I’d much rather drive along a few dirt roads past koalas and rainforest than sit in the smog of the city waiting for the lights to go green. Wouldn’t you? Vodka cocktail?”
She was still waving the bottle in the air and Roxy nodded. It wasn’t her favourite tipple, but it would do the job. As she watched Annika mix the cocktail like a professional barmaid, splashing pomegranate juice, Cointreau and lime into the vodka, Roxy wondered whether to take her to task on her comment or quietly concede that she was right.
Roxy loved her city life, but there was no denying she had lost plenty of precious hours stuck in the middle of bumper-to-bumper traffic. The woman had a point, but it still riled her a little. Did she have to be so aggressive about it?
Choosing to avoid the bait, Roxy stepped away from the bar and towards the centre of the living room, which was as beautiful as the magazine spreads had promised, and then some. The main feature wall had been plastered with luscious Florence Broadhurst wallpaper, a decorative palm and vine design, and in front sat a plush purple velvet sofa, with matching armchairs on either side. An enormous TV set, stereo system and turntable dominated a second wall while the third was made up of pretty French doors that were currently closed but still revealed a dazzling green view beyond.
Note Before Dying (Ghostwriter Mystery 6) Page 2