by C. A. Larmer
“This book about Davo really needs to come out soon,” added Oliver. “Gotta strike while he’s hot.”
“I’m always hot,” David said, winking again.
She ignored that and said, “But are we calling it ‘Unauthorised’?”
This was a sticking point for Roxy. It smacked of overt sensationalism. Oliver laughed nervously.
“Oh, Roxy, I was just throwing that about the other day. Let’s just get started on the book and see how it goes.”
David grabbed one of Roxy’s hands, taking her by surprise, and she felt a jolt of electricity race through her. His skin was warm and smooth, and he cupped her hand between his own, staring deeply into her eyes. “Roxanne, let me assure you I am after as tasteful a book as you are. But I also want it to reach as wide an audience as possible, so it needs to be entertaining. Not sleazy but scintillating. There is a difference and you can pull it off, I know you can. You did it with your last book, and you can do it with this one. I’m happy to lay myself bare for the book—so to speak. I will answer every question you ask, and you can follow me anywhere you choose. You’ll have an all-access pass.” He raised his eyebrows a few times, teasingly, and she couldn’t help laughing.
“All right, fine, let’s do it. What’s the deadline?”
“Yesterday,” said Oliver.
“Then we better get started.” She released her hand from David’s grip, anxious to regain some control. “Let’s talk word count, chapter ideas, that sort of thing.”
“We’re one step ahead of you,” said Oliver. “The publisher has already sent through a bit of a brief, I’ll print it out for you.”
Over the next two hours the agent and his writers nutted out a rough profile of the David Lone Story. They agreed on word count—about 60,000—with two colour sections of photos and illustrations, and discussed some rough chapter headings. David also drew up a preliminary list of interviewees and provided Roxy with contact details, and they scheduled their first “official interview” for the following Thursday morning. Oliver then printed out a standard contract for them all to sign.
Just as they were reading through the small print, a curvaceous blonde burst into the room, decked out in a tight pink and silver dress, with skyrocketing black heels and numerous silver necklaces dribbling down her exposed cleavage, some lost within the spongy folds.
It was Tina Passion, of course. Roxy recognised the romance writer from the large cardboard cutout that Oliver used to keep as pride of place in his office. She was another of Oliver’s clients and, if memory served Roxy well, was once a lingerie model before she tried her hand at erotic fiction, the type of love stories that left Mills & Boon readers blushing under their crisp cotton sheets. As far as Roxy could tell, Tina Passion sold very well, helped along, no doubt, by the fact that she was a regular on the social circuit, her billowy bosom popping up at every tacky nightclub opening and horse racing event going. She had a kind of Dolly Parton charm, too, that won over the women, although Roxy was about to become an exception.
“Oliver, gorgeous!” she said, ignoring the curious writers as she flung herself across the desk and towards the agent, planting a sloppy kiss on his cheek and leaving a bright pink smudge behind.
He pulled away, a giddy grin on his face, and waved one hand towards Roxy and Lone, spluttering, “Tina Passion, meet Roxy Parker and David Lone, two of my top writers.”
“And here I was thinking I was the only one,” she purred, giving Roxy the once-over before turning her attentions to David.
“Mr Lone. How delightful! I saw you at your film premiere the other evening. Couldn’t catch your eye, though.” She sounded slightly offended, and David swept in and took one of her hands, planting a slow kiss on the back of it.
“Apologies for that, Ms Passion,” he said. “I can not believe I missed someone as stunning as you.”
Tina’s eyes lit up, Roxy looked ready to throw up and Oliver just looked flustered.
“Er, you’re early, Tina,” the agent cut in. “I’m not quite finished here—”
She removed her hand slowly from David’s, her eyes still firmly upon him, and said, “No need to rush. I just dropped in to postpone.”
“Aw, really?”
She turned back to Oliver who was no longer grinning. “Yes, schnooky, enormous apologies and all that, but I have to get a rain check. Papa’s in town, freaked out by all the nonsense in the press about Seymour Silva being bumped off.” She shot Lone a wicked smile. “So I’m stuck entertaining him this evening, would you believe?”
“What’s your dad worried about?” asked Oliver.
“Oh he’s just being protective, you know what he’s like.” She scooped her long locks up with one hand and swept them back behind her while the other hand readjusted the necklaces that were still half hidden down her décolletage. “How about we get together Saturday night instead? I should be able to get rid of him by then.”
“Er, sure. He doesn’t want to meet with me, does he?” Oliver’s eyes looked panic-stricken and she giggled.
“Not after your last get-together, no, no, no! I wouldn’t do it to you, darlink!” She giggled again, her nose pinching up where the cosmetic surgery interfered with her usual laughter lines, and the look of relief that now swept crossed Oliver’s face had Roxy intrigued. She wondered what that was about, but there was no time to enquire. Tina was already flinging herself back across the desk, smothering Oliver’s cheek with more kisses.
“See you at Pico’s, Saturday night,” she said, straightening up. “Ciao!”
Then she waved her long, spidery nails at David and ignored Roxy completey before clicking back outside, her powdery perfume choking the air behind her. The two writers turned to Oliver with undisguised smiles.
“We’re just heading out for a bite to eat. It’s business. That’s all.”
“Of course it is,” Roxy said, indicating his cheek. He swiped at the lipstick mark, only managing to spread it further. “And Pico’s to boot!”
“You don’t have the monopoly on the place,” he retorted, knowing only too well it was once the venue for Max and Roxy’s get-togethers.
“Monopoly? I barely have a memory of the place it’s been so long. It’s all yours.” A twinge of regret swept through her as it always did when she thought of Max and their flailing friendship. “Although I wouldn’t have thought it was your style.”
“Well, it’s about two blocks from Tina’s townhouse so …”
“Ahh, I get it,” Roxy laughed. “Hoping for an invitation back, are we?” When he ignored this, she asked, “What’s your history with Tina’s dad? Sounded like bad blood.”
Before Oliver could answer, Sharon’s voice came through the intercom: “Got Erin Hayden on the phone for you, Ol’. Put her through or what?”
“Oh, yeah, sure,” he said and then turned to the writers. “Just read through the contracts, this won’t take a moment.” The call was put through and as Oliver spoke to Erin it was clear he was getting bad news. “Yeah, right ... Oh, dear, I’m sorry to hear that, Erin ... Okay, well that all makes sense ... Yep ... Yep ... Can I call him or ...? Okay, well then give him my best.”
Roxy looked up from her paperwork, an eyebrow raised and he shook his head at her, then bid good-bye to Erin and hung up.
“Not good?” she asked.
“Nah, I don’t think we’ll be seeing much more of poor old William Glad around the place.”
“Oh no.”
“Yep. Erin tells me his condition has worsened considerably in the past few days. He’s at home now, bed-ridden. They’re bringing in a full-time nurse on the weekend, to help him through his palliative care.”
“Can’t his daughter move in, help him out?” asked David, putting his contract aside.
“I’m sure she’d like to but she’s got a brood of her own to take care of. She’s a single mum, you know. Four or five kids.”
Roxy gasped. “Yikes, that’s a lot on her plate. Poor Erin. Is there anything
we can do?”
He shook his head. “Erin just says he’s bedbound and trying to tidy up loose ends. Saying good-bye to friends and family, that kind of thing. Oh, it’s such a shame. He was one of the greats, at least in horticultural circles.”
David’s phone beeped suddenly and he jumped on it, reading the incoming text, his eyes lighting up as he did so.
“Now what?” asked Roxy and he held a hand up, finishing the text before getting to his feet.
“Sorry, gang, but I’ve got to cut this short. It’s just as I’d hoped.”
“What is?” asked Roxy. “Is it to do with Seymour Silva’s death?”
“Yes it is. I have the scoop to end all scoops!” He beamed, looking like a young boy holding up his first soccer trophy.
“Well?” said Roxy. “Spill!”
“No can say. You’re going to have to read it in tomorrow’s Tele.”
She groaned. “You’re not always going to be this secretive, are you?”
“Apologies, but I’ve still got to double check a few things first. I don’t want to get ahead of myself.”
Oliver looked worried. “Give us just a hint, Davo, something to whet our appetites.”
He considered this. “Okay, well, all I can say is I now have conclusive proof that Seymour’s death is suspicious. There is at least one person who had ample motive and opportunity.” Then to their wide eyes, he added, “That will have to tide you over until tomorrow. I’ve really got to run. The editor is going to want my copy pronto.”
He dashed out leaving them both staring after him, perplexed.
Roxy looked at Oliver, her emerald green eyes squinting inquisitively. “What the hell was all that about? Do you know who he’s talking about? Who is this person with motive and opportunity?”
Oliver shifted his gaze and shuffled the papers in front of him. “Er, well not really. I mean, I’m not sure what he’s gonna say. I guess we’ll have to wait and see if it makes the Tele.”
Chapter 8
As it turns out, David Lone’s “scoop” not only made the next morning’s paper, it was all anyone could discuss on talk-back radio, TV chat shows and at office bubblers across the nation. And with good reason. It was riveting stuff.
David’s front-page article was headed, “Space Invaders! Shocking literary fraud” and in similarly sensational detail, revealed that Seymour’s agent, Norman Hicks, was in fact the real writer behind the Alien Deliveries sci-fi series and Seymour merely the “front man”. The story went on to suggest, very strongly, that this “literary fraud” might, in some way, have a bearing on Seymour’s sudden death, yet stopped at pointing the finger directly at Norm. The paper’s lawyers would not have allowed that, but the inference was clear and Roxy could read between the lines, which she was doing now, over the phone to Oliver.
“I can’t believe it!” she said, pulling the pages a little closer with one hand as she held the hands-free reciever with the other. “According to David, Seymour Silva didn’t write the books, his so-called manager did. What a shock!”
Expecting Oliver to gasp along with her, Roxy paused for a few seconds but Oliver remained oddly quiet. That’s when it hit her. “Oh my God. You knew, didn’t you?!”
“Knew?” he managed.
“Of course you knew, that’s why you were so worried yesterday. How long have you known? Were you in on the whole thing?”
“No, I bloody wasn’t.”
“You must have known something, Oliver, you were his agent.”
He paused again before saying, “Not initially I didn’t. But, yes, okay, eventually I cottoned on.”
“Oh my God!” She dropped the paper and switched the phone to her other hand, tucking her legs up underneath her on the living room sofa where she was sitting. “How did you work it out?”
“Can’t believe I didn’t work it out sooner, to be honest. Seymour’s as thick as a brick. Every time I ever asked him a question, about the books or plot or whatever, he always deferred to Norm. It was pretty bloody obvious in the end.”
“But why? Why would Norm let someone else take the credit for his work?”
“Think about it, Roxy. You said it yourself to me several times—the books aren’t that great. Wouldn’t sell half as many if there wasn’t such a sensational story behind the supposed ‘writer’. Seymour had the good fortune of being abducted by aliens, for Christ’s sake. Who better to front a series of books about aliens than someone who was actually abducted by one?”
She rolled her eyes. “Hate to break it you, Olie, but I suspect that Seymour wasn’t actually abducted by aliens.”
“Irrelevant, his readers believe it and that’s all that matters. You couldn’t ask for a better marketing pitch. Look, I don’t know who approached who first, although I suspect Norm had some rejected manuscripts gathering dust in his top drawer, then he sees the amazing news stories about Seymour’s supposed abduction and decides to approach him about ghostwriting his books.”
“That’s not ghostwriting, Olie,” she said defensively. “Norm was writing fictional stories and using a celebrity to sell them for him. It’s verging on fraudulent.”
“It can’t be illegal if both parties agree to it, surely. Either way, they came to me as a team with the first book and I never cottoned on. I don’t honestly reckon they meant to continue the charade for so long, but after that one sold so well, and then the second and third ... Well, they just went with it. I only worked it out myself during promotion for the last book, the fifth one. I told them they needed to come clean, to spill the beans before something like this happened. I knew it’d come out eventually. Always does.”
“Is that why you were sacked?”
“Yeah, probably. They didn’t quite say that but ... well ...”
“Why didn’t you tell anyone? Leak the truth?”
“Hey, my loyalty is to my writers, you know that. I promised Norm I’d keep it quiet and I did. Besides, it’s not my job to do David Lone’s job. If no one else twigged then so be it. Doesn’t matter now.”
Roxy shook her head. “I think it does. David’s absolutely right, it shines a totally different light on the whole death. Certainly provides motive. Maybe Seymour was demanding more of the cut from the royalties, or threatening to reveal all and Norm wanted to shut him up before the truth came out.”
“But how does that help Norm? With Seymour dead he can hardly write any more books, can he?”
She thought about this. “He could say there were a few extra books in the pipeline, lots of deceased authors bring books out postumously. Hell, they even brought one out by Patrick White recently. He’s been dead for over twenty years.”
Oliver was not buying it. “Look, Roxy, think about it. How does it benefit Norm to kill off Seymour? There’s only so many books you can bring out posthumously before people start suspecting. And from what Norm told me, neither man wanted to come out of the closet. Now Norm’s forced to if he ever wants to write another book. Maybe no one wants to read a book from an ordinary, unknown bloke called Norm, who never got ‘abducted by aliens’.”
“You’re doing that annoying curly thing with your fingers, aren’t you?” Roxy asked. It was another of her pet hates.
“Here’s another thing to consider,” he said, ignoring her. “What if the readers don’t believe Norm is the real writer? What if they think he’s taking the credit now Seymour is dead? Only Seymour can verify the story and he’s gone. What if Seymour’s fans don’t buy it? What if they think Norm is just cashing in? It’s risky.”
“You could verify it.”
He snorted. “Me? I’m just a sleazy agent, no one believes anything agents have got to say.”
“Yeah, you’ve got a point. So why, then, would Seymour kill himself?”
“Dunno that either, I’m afraid. But Seymour Silva was hardly the full quid. I mean, the guy was convinced he’d taken a trip to outer space with little green men. Clearly delusional. Maybe he thought the litle green men were coming back for
more. Look, this is all very lovely, but I can’t sit around gasbagging all day. The reason I called was to see if you can come to Seymour’s funeral with me tomorrow.”
“Really? They’re releasing the body? After what David’s just revealed? Surely he’s right—this does suggest motive.”
“Not to the cops it doesn’t. I got a group e-mail about twenty minutes ago—the funeral’s on tomorrow, 10:00 a.m. sharp.”
“Oh, right.”
“Will you come along?”
“Well, I didn’t exactly know the guy, Olie. I wasn’t—”
“Please, Rox. I could do with the moral support.”
She sighed. “Of course, okay. What are the details?”
“It’s at the Halloson Crematorium, out past the airport, you know it?”
“No, I don’t. Got an address?”
“Oh shit, Shazza’s screaming at me, got someone on the other line. Look, I’ll pick you up if you like. In the morning, about quarter past nine. That’ll be easier.”
He hung up and Roxy stared down at the newspaper again and then had a sudden thought. Damn it. She would have to put off her first interview with David Lone. They were scheduled to meet at Lockie’s Café right when the funeral was on. She knew which one she’d prefer but she had promised her agent, so she phoned David to postpone. He was furious, but luckily not with her.
“Funeral?!” he cried down the phone five minutes later. “You mean they’re releasing the body?”
“I guess so. The police must be convinced it was suicide.”
“That’s utter bull—!” A beeping noise interrrupted him and he said, “Hang on a second.” After a long wait, David returned. “Sorry, that was my editor. She’s not happy. The paper’s just heard about the funeral, they need me in there ASAP. Arrrghh! Makes me look like a bloody fool. The whole premise of today’s article is that Seymour was murdered. It’s so obvious that his sleazy manager is the culprit. I mean, I practically handed him to the police on a platter, and now ... What did Oliver say? Why did they change their mind?”