A Plot to Die For (A Ghostwriter Mystery)

by C. A. Larmer

  She turned to the assembled group and quickly added, “Please, don’t panic, anyone! We still have plenty of fresh seafood to go around.”

  She took a sip of her drink and then lowered her voice a little. “So glad you could make it, love. And at such short notice. Joshua pick you up from the strip okay?”

  “Yes, thank you he was right on time.”

  “Oh, he’s a good boy my Joshy. And Helen get you settled in alright?”

  “Yes, Helen was great, too.”

  She snorted at this. “Not sure we’re talking about the same Helen, then!”

  This brought another stream of husky laughter from the old lady, then she leaned in and lowered her voice again. “Look, we’ve got lots to yak about, I’ve go so much to tell you, but I’m not gonna overload you on your first night. Let’s just have a bit of fun, eh? Come on, I’ll introduce you to the madding crowd.”

  Abi led Roxy towards a 40-something man with a thick, black goatee who was deep in conversation with a painfully thin, much younger woman dragging on a cigarette. They pulled apart as Abi approached.

  “Right, this is Luc Bermont, our resident artiste extraordinaire. Luc, this is Roxy, writer from Sydney.”

  The artist bowed his head slightly and flashed her a seductive smile. “’Ow do you do? Welcome to Dormay.” He had such a thick French accent it was almost farcical.

  “Hello,” she said, restraining her smile.

  It wasn’t just Luc’s voice that was cliché. He was strikingly good looking with the chiselled jaw and oily black hair of your stereotypical French man. He had a black fedora on his head and a crumpled white shirt that was unbuttoned enough to reveal a tanned chest beneath bead necklaces. His wrists were also covered in beads and he was wearing thick, black-rimmed glasses that on any normal human being—read, Roxy Parker—would look positively geeky. But Luc, the artiste, managed to pull it off, and Roxy clamped her mouth shut before she started drooling.

  “Luc’s here under the patronage of a French benefactress, putting together a portfolio,” Abi was saying. “Still, he’s more than happy to offer art classes to guests who feel that way inclined. Isn’t that right, Maya?”

  She turned their attention to the woman beside him who was equally as stunning, but in a younger, more sun-kissed Californian way.

  As it turns out, Maya Thomas was British, not American, but her bronzed body had clearly left the soggy shores of Mother England some time ago. She was wearing a long, sexy silk number that was slit up one side and down low at the back with oversized beads dangling across a pancake-flat chest. Her sun-streaked, blonde hair was draped over her bony shoulders, fluttering up occasionally in the breeze, and she looked as though she wasn’t wearing a shred of make-up. She had that just-out-of-bed look that Roxy had never even attempted to pull off, certain she would just come away looking sleep-deprived. Maya had it down pat. She, too, looked familiar to Roxy, but it was probably just her catwalk-caliber legs and Vogue-cover good looks. If a photographer had suddenly appeared with a strobe light in tow, shouting, “Work it, baby, work it!” Roxy would not have been surprised.

  “This is one of our locals, Maya Thomas,” Abi was saying while the young woman rolled her eyes playfully and exhaled a mouthful of smoke.

  “Oh don’t be silly, Abi, I’m hardly a local! I’ve been here five minutes.”

  Then, after a brief pause, added in her plummy English accent, “Thank God!”

  She looked Roxy up and down—clearly a prerequisite to being on Dormay—then offered a small smile that revealed slightly crooked teeth. It cheered Roxy up enormously.

  “Do you live on Dormay?” Roxy asked and Abi snorted.

  “Might as well!”

  “I do not live here, Abi! I just pop over on the weekends, and when I have art classes.”

  She glanced at Luc and Abi snorted again. Maya blew a plume of smoke in her direction then turned her attention back to Roxy.

  “So, you’re a writer? How simply thrilling! I’d love to be a writer—imagine, creating all that mischief with words!”

  “Well. I’m not sure it’s all that mischievous. But, yes, it’s a decent living.”

  “Is that why you’re here? Are you going to write about all of us? How exciting!”

  “Oh, well, I—”

  “Okay, time to mingle,” Abi said, dragging Roxy towards another section of the veranda where a stately looking couple were sitting on a plush cream lounge that had been positioned just out of the wind. They were sipping what looked like orange juice.

  “Roxy, this is the Zimmermans, all the way from Switzerland would you believe? They arrived about a week ago, their second visit to Dormay. Ingrid and Bernard, meet Roxy Parker.”

  And then, as if to avert further questioning, she added, “Roxy’s just here on a holiday.”

  “Of course! Are not we all?” snapped the muscular-looking woman who extended a firm hand to shake.

  Her husband did likewise but said nothing, just stared up at her coolly. They were both handsome with the athletic build and tanned physique of people who clearly spend a lot of time outdoors. Probably into extreme sports, Roxy decided, hating them instantly. She noticed a stunning gold necklace around Ingrid’s throat, with a shiny brown and gold pendant attached.

  “I like your necklace. What is that?”

  Ingrid reached one hand up to stroke it. “Tortoise shell,” she said proudly and then, glancing at Abi, added, “it is imitation, of course.”

  “Better bloody be!” said the hotelier. “They won’t let you out of the country with the real deal, love. It’s endangered.”

  “Yes, Abigail, I am well aware of that.” There was curtness in her tone.

  She could be Helen’s soul mate, Roxy thought but instead said, “So, no turtle soup on the menu here then?”

  Abi looked at her blankly before doubling over with laughter. “Not bloody likely!” She straightened up. “But I can tell you, the locals love it. It’s one habit I couldn’t beat out of ’em, no matter how hard I tried.”

  “Seriously? They eat turtle meat?”

  “Tastiest tucker you can find apparently. Not real PC but, well, it’s their land isn’t it? Their tradition. I turn a blind eye to the occasional turtle. That’s the truth... just don’t write about it.” She winked.

  At that moment the elderly waiter approached Abi but before he could say anything she announced, “Speaking of locals, it doesn’t come much more local than Popeye. He helps out, mainly in the dining room, has been working here for decades.”

  He nodded his head politely then murmured something in Abi’s ear. She sighed loudly.

  “Apologies, people. Got a situation in the kitchen that needs sorting. Enjoy your cocktails, and I’ll see you at dinner.” She headed off.

  Roxy turned back to the Zimmermans who were watching her closely.

  “I think I spotted you guys earlier.”

  The woman looked momentarily put out. “What do you mean? Where was that?”

  “You were just coming in from your dive, I think. Earlier this evening.”

  “Ah, yes, yes, just a dive.”

  Roxy could have sworn Ingrid’s shoulders relaxed a good two inches.

  “We love to explore the reef, don’t we Bernard?”

  Bernard nodded.

  “So, you’re here on a diving holiday then?”

  “Of course, it is the best place for it, yes?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t know, I guess I’ll find out.”

  “Best place this side of the Great Barrier Reef,” came a croaky voice behind her and Roxy swung around to find a man in his 70s with a neatly ironed safari suit and a freshly shaven face.

  “Looks like I’m going to have to introduce myself since Abigail clearly considers me part of the furniture these days. Dr Fergus Spinks at your service.”

  “Hi Doctor Spinks, Roxy Parker. I’m just in from Sydney.”

  “Well, we can’t blame you for that now can we? Come, let’s freshen up tha
t drink.”

  Roxy glanced down at her barely touched champagne glass but before she could protest he clasped one arm through hers and led her away towards the small bar at the end of the veranda.

  “Sorry about that, my dear, but I thought I’d better rescue you from the Swiss couple. Can’t get an interesting word out of either of them—trust me, I know. I was stuck next to them at dinner last night. That’s two hours of my life I’ll never get back. However! I get the feeling you have a little more to say for yourself, what, what?”

  Roxy laughed. “Well, I’ll try and think of something vaguely interesting, although, to be honest I’m not sure I can compete with this crowd. They’re an intriguing mob.”

  The doctor surveyed the room. “Phhf! Dull as dishwater the lot of them. All got their heads so far up their proverbials they can barely string a sentence together that doesn’t start with ‘I’ and end in ‘me’. So, you’re a writer I hear?”

  “Yes I am.” Roxy caught herself and laughed. “Sorry, there’s that ‘I’ word again.”

  He dismissed this with a wave. “And you’re here to write Abi’s life story, eh?”

  Roxy was surprised. So the old guy knew. That was interesting. She nodded. “Have you known Abi long, Doctor Spinks?”

  “It’s Doc for short if you don’t mind. Er, let’s see, how long have I known Abi? Over 30 years I reckon. Is that long enough for you?”

  Roxy beamed. “It’s perfect! You could be a valuable font of knowledge! How do you guys know each other?”

  “Oh let’s just say it’s a very long, and very scandalous story.” He chuckled then placed a finger to his lips as if to silence himself.

  “That’s it?! You’re going to use the word ‘scandalous’ to a writer and then leave it at that?”

  The old man laughed again. “All in good time, my dear, all in good time.”

  Another waiter, much younger than Popeye, appeared to announce that dinner was being served in the dining room.

  “Thank you, Maurice,” Doc said, taking Roxy by the elbow again and steering her back across the veranda towards the lobby.

  “Come along, young lady. I’ll show you the way, and hopefully neither of us will get stuck with those blasted Snoozermans.”

  In the dining room, a large table had been laid with the finest of silverware and crystal wine and water glasses. Candles were burning at intervals and flowers strewn down the centre. Roxy was shown to a seat beside the doctor with Abigail at the head of the table on his other side. Next to Roxy was a spare seat and beside that, Maya, who was holding her wine glass out for Maurice to fill. Directly across from Maya sat Luc and beside him Ingrid and Bernard Zimmerman. The chair on Abi’s other side was empty, as was the chair at the other end of the table. Yet all were laid out.

  Joshua appeared looking surprisingly dapper in a black jacket over a blue striped cotton shirt and dark jeans and, after greeting them all warmly, took the seat next to Abi. Just moments later Helen strode in with a glass of water in her hand, glanced around the table with a quick smile, then sat down at the other end, facing her mother. She had changed into a simple black, sleeveless dress with a string of pearls around her neck and another string around one wrist.

  “Wade’s on his way,” she said to no one in particular but Maya sat up straighter, nearly knocking her wine glass over in the process.

  “Really? But... but he never comes over on a Monday.”

  Helen shrugged. “He rang about an hour ago. Said he needs to see me for some unknown reason. He won’t be long.”

  “In the meantime, then, I’d like to propose a toast,” said Abi, raising a replenished glass of gin and tonic.

  “To our newest guest, Roxy Parker. May she enjoy her stay and leave more enlightened in spirit and darker in tan!”

  She laughed heartily and they all raised their glasses to Roxy who, of course, was mortified. She felt like shrinking under the table or, at the very least rushing out and finding the first bottle of fake tan she could get her pasty paws on. She hid her face behind her champagne glass.

  “I like your creamy skin,” said Luc, reading her mind from across the table. “It makes you look, how you say, like an English rose?”

  “Oh, huh-lo! I’m the only English rose here thank you very much!” said Maya, smirking.

  “You will burn too quickly,” announced Ingrid, waving the wine waiter away. Bernard, too, refused wine. “You must use the SPF 30, yes?”

  “Um, yes, I have plenty of sunscreen with me,” Roxy said, pointing at the bottle of cabernet sauvignon that was being held out to her along with some semillon.

  Neither drop was Roxy’s favourite—she was notoriously hooked on merlot—but any old red would do tonight, and besides, both drops looked like top-shelf stuff. Maurice filled her glass with the lush liquid and moved on.

  “Put it all over you tomorrow,” Ingrid was saying. “Don’t even forget your ears. Yes? This can burn, too.”

  “Oh no! We can’t possibly have burnt ears!” Maya rolled her eyes playfully at Roxy.

  Just then a booming voice could be heard coming from the lobby.

  “God help us,” said Helen, deadpan. “His Highness has arrived.”

  Roxy smelt Wade Thomas before she saw him, his spicy aftershave slinking into the room seconds before he did, barking orders as he came.

  “Double scotch, on the rocks, Popeye—and go easy on the bloody rocks!”

  He stopped and stared at the assorted diners.

  “Good evening all! Sorry to crash your little soiree.”

  He slipped his cream linen jacket off to reveal a crinkled black shirt underneath that wasn’t quite hiding his slight paunch. Wade Thomas was a large man, well into his 50s, with a receding grey hairline and slight stubble on his face.

  “Hope I haven’t kept you, I’ve been very bloody busy.” He stared directly at Abi. “Just had an enlightening chat with the Lands Commissioner as it happens.”

  Abi frowned slightly then simply waved one hand at him.

  “Oh come, sit down, Wade, and don’t make such a fuss. Entrees are about to be served. Popeye, can we just get on with it, please.”

  Popeye, who’d returned with Wade’s drink, handed it over and then dashed off again. Wade took his seat beside Maya and placed a burly arm around her slender shoulders.

  “So, how is my beautiful bride this evening? Have a lovely day did we?”

  Maya smiled briefly. “Yes, Wade.”

  “What was it today? No, don’t tell me. Let me guess. Hmmm... I know! Art classes with Luc, right?”

  He turned his steely grey eyes towards the artist and Luc simply held his gaze, unfazed.

  “So, what exactly have you been teaching my wife, Monsieur Bermont? Soft brushstrokes, I hope?”

  Luc swept his dark fringe from his face. “She eeze quite the talent, your wife.”

  “I’ll bet she is,” Wade said, then catching sight of Roxy on his other side, turned to her. “My, my, I’m being rude. Who have we got here then?”

  Roxy leaned back a little, as intimidated by his burly presence as she was by his overpowering perfume. Abigail made the introductions.

  “Roxy Parker, this is Wade Thomas, our esteemed local Governor. And conniving property developer to boot.”

  She roared with laughter at this, the red flower falling from her ear as she did so. Abi picked it up and shoved it back in while Wade shook his head at her.

  “Not that I’ve had any luck with you, Abigail Lilton.”

  He turned his eyes back to Roxy. “Don’t listen to a word the old lady says. This region’d be stuck in grass huts and breastfeeding pigs if it wasn’t for me.”

  Helen groaned. “Honestly, Wade, we don’t need another lecture about how you saved the savages from themselves.”

  “Hey, watch it, Hel’, don’t call my people savages,” interjected Joshua.

  Helen swivelled her head. “I’m sorry? Your people?”

  She was staring at Joshua with a look of am
usement on her face and Joshua was reddening under her gaze.

  “That will do, children,” Abi said sternly and they both looked away.

  Wade, meanwhile, hadn’t quite finished.

  “If it wasn’t for me,” he went on, “you wouldn’t have a proper bloody international airport to fly into. You know they used to have a crappy old thousand-metre, single runway grass strip at the mainland? The mainland! It was as bad as the sorry excuse for a strip that Abi’s got here at Dormay.”

  “Hey watch it, bucko!” she said. “Don’t knock grass airstrips, it’s all part of the—”

  “Adventure? Yeah, yeah, so you keep telling me. But they have to get to the mainland first, Abi, you know that. They didn’t even have a proper terminal before I came along. Just a dodgy shed with a few portaloos. Until I invested in a decent-sized, paved runway, air-conditioned terminal, proper customs department, the works, no one could fly in anything bigger than a DC-3. Now...well, what did you come in on?” He stared at Roxy.

  “Er, I think it was an airbus.” Aircraft sub-types weren’t exactly Roxy’s forte. It had an engine, a pilot and it got her from A to B, that’s all she remembered.

  “Exactly!” he was saying. “And the Zimmermans over there, they came on a Boeing seven-four-bloody-seven! If it wasn’t for me and my ‘conniving’ developing ways we wouldn’t get half the tourists we get today.”

  He directed that last comment to Abi.

  “Roxy’s a writer, you know?” said Maya, clearly trying to change the subject. She had no doubt heard this rant before. “Isn’t that exciting?”

  “Really?” He turned his whole body towards Roxy this time and she leaned back even further. “And what are you writing about?”

  Before Roxy could answer Abi held one hand up to silence her.

  “It’s alright, Roxy, let me answer for you. I think it’s time I got this over with.” Abi paused with every eye upon her but waited until all the entrée plates had been delivered and the staff had left the room before saying, “I can see you’re all very curious and you won’t leave the poor love alone until the truth is out, so here it is. I’ve invited Roxy to the island to write my life story. I think it’s time I got my book out, and it’s our quiet season so it’s as good a time as any.”