by C. A. Larmer
As they drained their champagne flutes and kept the small talk flowing, little did they know that’s exactly what was happening.
Roxy stared at the mirror suddenly, slamming herself back to reality.
Forget gorgeous young things, it has to be William Glad, she thought. He must have passed away sooner than expected.
She pulled on denim shorts, a silky white T-shirt and blue cotton scarf, then stopped, squishing her lips to one side. So why then had Oliver mentioned suspicious circumstances, murder and cops? What could possibly be suspect about an old guy dying of cancer? She shrugged, added a few dangly necklaces and blue flip-flops, then headed outdoors to find out.
Chapter 2
The day was divine—a cloudless sky, a soaring sun, a gentle breeze fluttering from the shores of Elizabeth Bay—yet Roxy barely noticed. Her head was still thumping and her eyes were scrunched into slits, squinting at the cursed sun. She wasn’t much of a fan of summer, at the best of times. It was way too bright and sparkly for her liking but it didn’t help that today she felt like death warmed up. Replacing her Rayban specs with dark prescription Gucci sunglasses, she zipped her oversized leather handbag up tightly, then made her way down the street from her apartment block to the small café on the corner.
Oliver was slouched at an outdoor table, one of only two in use at this hour, and didn’t even notice her approach. He was holding his head up with both hands as though fearful it would drop off, and staring down at his coffee, glumly.
Not a cheerful character by nature, Oliver was also no sulk and usually weathered life like he did most of his clients—with a quick shrug and a no-nonsense attitude. That was one of the many reasons Roxy liked him and had continued using him as her literary agent over the past decade. Today, though, he looked wretched, and she noted that he was still wearing the same shirt he had on last night—an old, black and white bowling shirt with the words “The Fearsome Four” sewn in cursive writing across the top pocket. He’d lost the jacket, though, and stubble was already appearing on his heavy jowls, adding to the desolate facade.
“Bloody hell, Olie, you look as bad as I feel,” Roxy said, dropping into the empty seat across from him and placing her handbag between her feet. “You okay?”
He looked up at her as though surprised she’d actually shown. “Urgh, I’ve had quite the night, I can tell you.”
“You don’t need to tell me, sweetie, the clues are abundant.”
She indicated the plate of greasy bacon and eggs that was half demolished in front of him, the cheap sunglasses that were shielding his eyes, and the box of Paracetamol that looked like it had recently—frantically—been ripped open.
“Besides,” she said, “last time I saw you, you were heading to Party Central with Tina Passion in one hand and a nicked bottle of champers in the other. Finally have our merry way with Miss Erotica, did we?”
“’Course I didn’t. Never do, she’s hot and cold that one. But it’s nothing to do with her.”
“No, of course not, sorry.”
The waiter appeared and she ordered a latté and a croissant before saying, “So, tell me, what’s happened. Who’s shuffled off our mortal coil this time?”
She didn’t mean to sound flippant but she really wasn’t expecting what Oliver was about to say.
“Do you remember Seymour Silva, the author behind the Alien Deliveries series?”
His change of tack surprised her and Roxy had to take a few moments to catch up. “Well, I’m not really into sci-fi but I’ve heard of him, obviously. He’s a pretty successful author, right? And isn’t he one of yours?”
“Was until a few months ago. His manager cancelled our contract.”
“Why? You weren’t delivering?”
“Oh it’s a long, ugly story. Sales were starting to drop off and they hooked up with some slimeball agent called Amy Halloran and that was that. She promised them the world, you know how it goes. Tried to steal Tina off me once if I recall. Luckily that didn’t pan out. Doesn’t matter now anyway.”
“Why?”
“Seymour’s dead.”
Roxy sat forward with a start. “Really?! So William Glad’s okay then?”
“Glad? Still alive and kicking as far as I know. Nope, it’s Seymour. I got a visit this morning just as I was getting in, from the police. They had just found his body and wanted to ask me a few questions.”
“Why you?”
“Apparently he still had my details down in his mobile phone as his agent. Don’t know why they didn’t have Amy’s deets or why they even needed to speak to his agent, but there you go. I got them up to speed, set them on the right path. Couldn’t even think about sleep after that, though. So here I am.” He waved towards the clutter on the table in front of him.
Roxy’s latté arrived and she tested the glass before pushing it aside. “So did they say what happened? How he died?”
He cocked his head to one side. “What do you reckon? The Filth never give anything away. But it was obviously a suspicious death because they asked me where I was between about 8:00 p.m. and midnight last night which was obviously when he died.”
“Well, you were with me, at David Lone’s film launch, of course.”
“Yes, Roxy, I do remember that much, thank you. I told ’em all that. Have a hundred witnesses to prove it.”
“Well, there was that—” She stopped mid-sentence. Roxy was about to mention Oliver’s little disappearing act during the film preview, his quick exit for a smoke around 8:30 p.m., but the look of despair on his face stilled her. She decided not to mention it. It had nothing to do with Seymour’s death, after all. Still, she couldn’t help the tiny chill that was now sweeping over her, and she hugged her arms tightly around herself.
Sensing something, he said, “Don’t worry, Rox, they’re obviously just looking into all avenues.”
“And you’re one avenue?”
“Can’t understand why, I hadn’t seen the bloke in months, hell, probably a good year.”
“How come? I thought you said he’d only dumped you a few months ago.”
“Yeah, but I always dealt with Norm.”
“Norm?”
“Norman Hicks, Seymour’s manager. Odd bastard. Anyway, I sent the cops off to see him. He’ll be cut up, those two were thick as thieves. Quite a team. It is bloody sad. They had real potential in the sci-fi scene. Internationally, I mean. The books were dropping off a bit here, but the world was their oyster. I helped get Alien Deliveries translated into a few languages and they could’ve cracked the almighty US market if they’d played their cards right.”
Roxy touched the coffee glass again and then took a tentative sip. “So what’s the story with family, etcetera? Did Seymour leave a rich and happily grieving widow behind?”
“Trust you to be considering the culprits.”
“I’m just asking.”
“Not that I know of. He was only young, mid-twenties I think, and, besides, Norm was his main man.”
“Oh? Lovers?”
He shook his head, then speared a piece of dripping bacon and thrust it into his mouth. Chewing on it, he said, “Not the vibe I got. More like good buddies.”
“Maybe they had a falling out? Not so buddy buddy suddenly?”
“Hey, steady on, Rox. Nobody’s even saying it was murder at this point.”
“Actually, you did, on the phone earlier but I won’t hold you to that. It’s just that he seems a bit young to die of natural causes, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yeah, but he might have had an accident or topped himself. The cops certainly weren’t giving anything away.” He paused, then offered her one of his lopsided grins. “So, gonna put this one in your Book of Death, are you?”
Roxy flashed him a quick sneer, thought of a smart retort and then simply said, “Yeah, probably.”
There was no point pretending otherwise. Roxy did have an obsession with death, particularly murder, and was compelled for reasons even she could not fathom, to catal
ogue these grisly crimes in a series of large scrapbooks she called her Crime Catalogues each week. Meticulously, she would cut out every newspaper article she could find and paste them in, just as her old friend Amanda used to do with clippings on Pearl Jam back in their high school days. Unfortunately, unlike Amanda’s work, Roxy’s scrapbooks were never-ending. There would be no break-up tour, no sudden decision to quit, to hang up their knives and guns, poisons and pillows. Murder was one consistency you could count on. And so, over the decade, her scrapbooks had grown. At last count, Roxy had twenty-three. She glanced across at the Saturday papers beside him.
“Surely it hasn’t made the news yet?”
He shook his head. “It’ll be all through them tomorrow, though, so sharpen your scissors. This is big news, Rox. The guy had plenty of fans.”
“And at least one enemy,” she replied softly, sipping her coffee again.
Chapter 3
By the time Roxy returned to her apartment, her head was reeling, and not just from the hangover. She had pinched a couple of Oliver’s headache tablets but they had yet to take effect, and her mind was going a million miles a minute.
Who would want to kill science-fiction writer Seymour Silva?
It had her intrigued, but Olie was right, she didn’t even know if it was a suspicious death and it certainly hadn’t made the papers yet. Instead, there were several other sordid tales worth cataloguing: a drive-by shooting in Cabramatta, a guilty verdict on the Shaken Baby story she’d been following closely, and a husband-killer out on appeal. She did a little victory salute. She wasn’t into corporal punishment but the poor, battered wife had probably done the world a favour.
Seated at the small desk in her sunroom, the place that served as her home office, Roxy snipped away quietly, methodically, making sure to retain every precious word. Then she reached for the latest scrapbook in a lower drawer and the gluestick beside it, and began to paste the clippings in. As she did so, she wondered again why she did this, why she felt the need to cut and paste in all this misery. Was it simple, morbid curiosity? Or did she believe that by containing the violence neatly in a catalogue, she would somehow control the uncontrollable?
The ringing phone broke her from her reverie, and Roxy picked it up quickly, forgetting to look at the caller ID number as she normally would.
“Roxy speaking,” she said breezily.
“Hey, Parker,” came a deep drawl on the other end and her heart skipped a beat.
“Oh, um, hi,” she managed, now just sounding breathless.
It was Max Farrell, her best friend. That is, until about six months ago when their relationship took a nose dive. Long story short: Max had declared his undying love, Roxy had run screaming into the night, and they had never quite moved past it, despite several attempts to do so. Yet Roxy wanted to move past it desperately, and not just because Max was a gorgeous human being and a hunky one at that (think: stubbled square jaw, breathtaking smile, and tall, athletic build). They had met at a press conference almost three years earlier and connected over a mutual loathing of the whole celebrity scene. Despite being a top-gun photographer, as in demand for his celebrity snaps and funky fashion spreads as he was for his aspirational advertising images, Max kept it all at a sardonic distance, and loved the way Roxy didn’t buy into it, either, more content in each other’s company than an A-list crowd.
And that’s what Roxy missed most. She missed Max’s company. He was the only person in the world who could snap her out of a bad mood with a few beers and a bit of light banter. The only one who could drag her out of the house when she was determined to stay in, and who knew when to get involved and when to leave her the hell alone. Unfortunately, after her rejection, he had left her more than alone, he had left her lonely and pining for him. But she wasn’t about to tell him that.
“How’re you doing?” he asked, perhaps for the second time.
“Me? Fine, yeah, fantastic actually. Really, really fantastic.” She clamped her lips shut. Scrunched her face up. She hadn’t meant to sound so enthusiastic.
“Oh, right, well, that’s good to hear.” Yet he sounded a little deflated. Would he have preferred to hear that she was miserable? “Listen, I won’t take much of your time. I was just wondering if you’re doing anything next Saturday night.”
Now Roxy’s heart was racing. Was her old friend asking her out? On a date?
As if reading her mind, he quickly added, “It’s just that I’m throwing a bit of a thing at my place and thought, you know, you might wanna come along. Maybe bring a mate.”
“Oh, right. Sure.” Her heart returned to slow-mo speed again.
“Maybe you could bring Gilda what’s-her-name. She seems pretty cool. For a cop.”
Gilda Maltin was a police officer Roxy had befriended eighteen months earlier while working on a ghostwriting assignment for an elderly Sydney socialite called Beatrice Musgrave. Roxy’s job had been a simple one—to interview Beatrice and turn her words into a fabulous book for which Beattie got all the credit and Roxy got all the money, or at least enough to pay her mortgage for six months. Sadly for both of them, the ghostwriting assignment went belly up when the client, herself, was discovered belly up in the rocky bay below her mansion. She’d been murdered. Gilda had been the detective in charge and was not at all perturbed when Roxy began poking her nose into the case, unable to just let it go. In fact, they had worked together to solve the case, and had remained in touch ever since. Both women were strong-willed with an irreverent sense of humour but Roxy doubted it was Gilda’s jokes that had Max singling her out. It probably had more to do with her sexy good looks.
She felt suddenly depressed. “Sure, I could do. Or maybe I could bring Oliver. He’s having a bad week.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, one of his old clients turned up dead this morning.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously. The police aren’t giving much away at this point, but it’s pretty tragic.” She took another breath. Was that a voice she could hear in the background? “How have you been, Max?”
“Good,” he said, hurriedly. “Look, sorry, can’t talk long I’ve, um, got someone here.”
As if on cue, a woman’s throaty laughter filled the ear piece, plunging Roxy’s heart back down into her stomach. Talking to Max was like playing ping pong with her internal organs, and she wasn’t sure how much more of this they could take.
“So you can come?” he asked.
“Huh?”
“To the party? Next Saturday night. From nine.”
“Oh, yeah, sure, I’ll be there.”
“Good, see you then.”
And with that he was gone and Roxy was left staring forlornly at the phone, her heart now as flat as a ping pong bat.
Chapter 4
“Men can be such bastards, darling,” Lorraine Jones said matter-of-factly as she scanned the menu with one long, varnished nail. It was now lunch time on Sunday and mother and daughter had met at the Flower Pot Café as scheduled. “He was never right for you anyway. At least you can move on now.”
“I don’t want to move on, Mum,” Roxy snapped back. “He was a mate and now, because I won’t sleep with him, I’m suddenly taboo.”
“He invited you to his party, didn’t he?”
“Yeees,” she had to concede.
“So, stop your whining and see it as an opportunity to meet someone else. Surely Max has got some lovely friends with real jobs and clean hair that he can introduce you to?”
Roxy rolled her eyes. “Oh, yeah, I’m sure he’ll be throwing them at me. Anyway, that’s hardly going to improve things, me going out with one of his mates.”
Lorraine placed the menu down and turned her eyes upon her daughter, shaking her head as she did so. “What am I going to do with you?”
“What?”
“You’re almost thirty-two and you still haven’t learnt. Men and women can’t be friends darling, it’s—”
“A cliché,” Roxy interrupt
ed, “straight out of a bad Meg Ryan movie. Look, let’s just drop it, okay? What are you having?”
“The salmon bagel. Hold the capers and red onion. And a mineral water. Sparkling.”
“Good, I’ll go and order.” Roxy jumped up. “Before the queue builds up.”
The Flower Pot Café was beginning to fill with patrons, most of whom had just purchased a selection of flowers or potplants from the adjoining nursery. It was a bright and boisterous eatery with a decent-enough menu and quick service if you got in at the right time. Lorraine and Roxy had begun meeting here each fortnight only recently and found the atmosphere mutually compatible, having tried several other venues before with varying degrees of success. Roxy’s favourite haunt, Lockie’s Café in Surry Hills, proved far too downmarket for the aspiring Mrs Jones, and it didn’t bother her daughter who had grown tired of hearing her mother gripe about gays and “grotty inner-city types”. Their next choice, the Ivy in Lane Cove, was certainly plusher but they had swung too far the other way. Roxy felt completely out of her depth there, and lamented the way her mother spent most of their luncheons waving to one “darling friend” or another, duly pointing out their bachelor sons as she went. And so Roxy decided, this, too, would not do. Then one day, quite by accident, mother and daughter ran into each other at the Flower Pot Nursery which, they realised, was located almost halfway between their two homes. Here was the perfect solution. If only Mum could change her attitude, Roxy thought, plonking back down in her seat.
“The food won’t be too long,” she said and before Lorraine could return to the conversation about her love life, or lack thereof, added quickly, “Did I tell you I’ve got a new book to write?”
Lorraine looked pleased. “Really, who is it this time? No eccentric hoteliers, I hope?”
She was referring to another client of Roxy’s who had shown up dead, murdered for her precious boutique island resort in the Pacific. This time, Roxy had gone on to write the hotelier’s life story, thanks to her generous daughter, but it had been a gruelling experience so soon after the death of Beatrice Musgrave, and she had shied away from ghostwriting biographies for a while, instead choosing to write relatively simple, albiet vacuous, articles for women’s magazines and supplements in the Sunday papers. Life was much less traumatic that way. But it was ghostwriting she loved most—turning people’s life stories into an entertaining narrative that their family and friends could enjoy—and she was now looking forward to sinking her teeth into another one.