Last Writes (A Ghostwriter Mystery)

by C. A. Larmer

  “I tried to. I called you yesterday, you didn’t phone me back, remember? So I’m telling you now.”

  She cringed. He was right. She had ignored his calls for forty-eight hours thinking only about herself, her embarrassment over her behaviour Saturday night. Perhaps if she’d swallowed her pride, she could have had time to stop David’s toxic article.

  As if reading her mind, he said, “The story’s not as bad as you think—”

  “It better not be, David, because if you hang him out to dry, I’m done. With you, with the book. I’m done.”

  She stormed out, leaving him looking perplexed behind her. But she didn’t care. She was furious with the way things were working out. She knew now that she had to accelerate her investigations, she had to help Oliver and she had to help him fast. No more pussy footing around.

  It was time to call Tina’s father.

  Chapter 22

  Lorenzo Vento was not at all what Roxy had been expecting. Yes, he had a gruff exterior and yes, he was clearly ashamed of his daughter’s chosen profession, but he was polite enough and eager to please when she finally sat down in front of him over a cooked breakfast at the small café on the ground floor of the Hotel Darlinghurst. Keen to “set the record straight” he’d been thrilled when she’d called that Thursday morning offering her condolences on behalf of Glossy magazine, and requesting a face-to-face interview.

  He hadn’t heard of Glossy before receiving the flowers but that didn’t seem to matter. He was just happy that somebody—anybody—wanted to write something positive about his daughter. And that’s exactly how Roxy had sold the interview to him, as a “celebration of a much-loved Australian icon”. She left all mention of her relationship with Oliver out of it. She didn’t want to muddy the waters or turn him off.

  “At last, a somebody understands!” he’d said in his thick Italian accent, and suggested they meet for breakfast at his hotel in twenty minutes.

  It was sooner than Roxy had expected and she had scrambled to throw something suitably conservative looking on, grabbed her digital recorder and raced down the three blocks to where he was staying.

  “I leave a this afternoon, so you are in luck,” he told her as she slipped into the booth across from him and ordered an espresso coffee. She normally liked her coffee weak and milky, but spotting the small espresso glass before him, decided to play every card she could get her grubby mitts on. So espresso it would be.

  She noticed, too, that he had several of Tina’s books in a green bag beside him, and this surprised her. She thought he would have burned them all by now.

  “You’re not staying for the memorial service?” Roxy asked and he shook his head firmly.

  “Oh no, no, no. This is not a really for me. This is for the young ones. My memories of my Christina, they are in a here.” He thumped his chest with a closed fist. “And in a here.” He tapped his head with one calloused finger. “And they are at Christina’s home, Moree.”

  Roxy nodded, wondering what Tina would think of all that, including his use of her full name, and whether it made her cringe but she kept that to herself and just smiled.

  Oliver had already sent Roxy a full dossier on Tina and her father, and she knew from what she’d read and what she’d gleaned from interviews with other family and friends, that Lorenzo had migrated from Sicily, in Southern Italy, before Tina was born to set up a cotton farm in rural Moree. His Italian wife had not lasted long, running off with the local butcher, a younger Australian guy called Mitch, which scandalised the small rural community at the time, and turned Lorenzo into a fanatical moral crusader for life. Unluckily for him, his daughter had more of her mother in her than he liked, and despite his endless protests and lectures, she had forged her own path, fleeing Moree at just seventeen years of age and starting a life of “loose living” in Sydney ever since.

  Today, Lorenzo did not want to talk about that side. Instead, he was keen to tell Roxy all about the Tina of old, or, more correctly, the young Christina, a girl he described as “devoutly Catholic” and “innocent through and through”.

  With their breakfast in place, Roxy got straight to it, pressing play on her recorder and beginning the interview process. She did not feel disingenuous, nor did she feel like a fraud. She would write a flattering article about Tina Passion, that bit was true. But if, along the way, she could gather more information about the murder and potentially save Oliver’s bacon, that would be an added bonus.

  For the first twenty minutes or so, Roxy let Lorenzo ramble on about his “bellisimo baby girl” and her “innocent childhood”. He had his own agenda too, she could see that. He wanted to absolve himself of any blame, not so much for the manner of her death as for the way in which she had lived. He went to great lengths to emphasise her love of Jesus and of her good grades at school.

  “She such a sweet girl,” he said, not for the first time, “so innocent, so good.”

  She let him continue in this vein a little longer than she normally would but it couldn’t go on too much longer. She glanced surreptitiously at her watch. Max would be here in twenty minutes, or at least she hoped he would. Unable to face the call, she had sent him a text message on her way to the hotel, alerting him of her impromptu interview and asking him to show up in an hour to take the photos. She hadn’t received a reply so hoped he was free and available, but she couldn’t think about that now. The real reason she was here was to get some information, and it was time to get on with it. She took a deep breath and then gently steered Lorenzo to the present, and to the week of his daughter’s murder.

  “You’ve been in town for the past few weeks,” she said softly. “That must have been a privilege to spend Tin ... I mean Christina’s last days with her.”

  He looked up, frowned slightly. “Yes, I come a week ago last a Saturday. I had not a seen Tina for many months, so I come a to Sydney to see her. To tell her to come home.” He looked down. “Always she say no.” He looked up at her again. “If only she had come a home ... Maybe she would ...” He choked, looked away again.

  Roxy let him gather himself while she added it up. If he was telling the truth, Lorenzo had arrived the morning after David Lone’s premiere. The morning after Seymour Silva died. She felt disappointed and then suspicious.

  “And you drove all the way down from Moree? Or do you fly?”

  “I like to drive. I can not a stomach the airo-planes. This is not for me.”

  “Wow, that’s a long journey, and such devotion to see your daughter. How long does it normally take you? To drive down, I mean?”

  “It’s not so far. Eight hours, depending on the traffic. That’s why I drive through the night, not so much traffic at night.”

  She wondered if there was much traffic the night he drove down and if there were any witnesses or CCTV footage of him on the highway. Or had he had snuck off earlier and arrived into Sydney on Friday night, in time to kill Seymour, then pretended to show up fresh on Saturday morning?

  Then she wondered, yet again, as she watched him chew slowly on his eggs and bacon looking like a man whose heart had been crushed to smithereens, what possible motive this sad old man would have for killing his own daughter, let alone two relative strangers. A loathing for her books and her agent did not seem strong enough. It was time to get serious.

  “I have to ask, Mr Vento, so please don’t be upset, but did you know the other two writers who recently died?” She braced herself but he didn’t seem at all perturbed by this line of questioning, almost as if he had been expecting it.

  “I do not know this man Silva, and I do not know the gardening man. They are strangers to me,” he said. “And I do not think they have anything to do with my beautiful Christina.”

  “What do you think?”

  He pushed his plate away and leaned back in his chair. “I think some crazy man has done this. Some sex-crazy fan has tried to have his way with my beautiful Christina and she has fought a back and she has been killed.”

  Now hi
s anger was rising and she knew what was coming. He launched into a tirade about erotic fiction and how “poor, foolish Christina” was dancing with the devil each time she published a book. He kept glancing down at the books by his side, and back again. “And don’t a start me on Oliver Horowitz.” He humphed. “The police they think he did it and, okay, so I don’t believe a this, but let him suffer!”

  Roxy did a double take. “You don’t think Oliver did this?”

  “No, no, no. Not this Oliver Horowitz.” He almost laughed. “He too weak for this. He is a spineless poofter but he not killer.”

  It was the nicest thing anyone had said about Roxy’s agent in days, and she smiled. She also wanted to tell Mr Vento that Oliver was not the gutless wonder he had created in his head; he was a good man, an honest man, a man who had such a soft spot for Lorenzo’s daughter he would have killed for her in fact, but now was not the time or the place, so she let it pass She almost told him, too, that she was one of Oliver’s clients, just like Tina had been. She had a nagging feeling that she should ’fess up, that it would come back to bite her one day, but she took the gutless option and stayed quiet.

  She would eventually come to regret that.

  “Mr Vento, you said that you think your daughter was killed by a stalker or a crazy fan. What makes you think that?”

  He shifted in his seat, shrugged, looking suddenly uncomfortable. “The police a, they say I no speak a, I have to keep quiet.”

  Not if she could help it. “Mr Vento, my article won’t appear for two or three months as this is a monthly magazine and it works way ahead, so nothing you tell me can harm the case. It will be old news by then.”

  Okay, so this was not strictly true but she was grasping at straws. The more time she spent with Vento the less she was convinced of his guilt. Which left her with a big fat zero. He looked at her as if he didn’t believe her, then he smiled—a craggy, kindly smile.

  “I tell you because I like you. You good girl.” She gave him her most pious smile in return. “When I find Christina ...” He stopped, choked a little, a tear swelling in one eye. “When I find my beautiful baby girl ...” Again the tears but there was anger now too flashing across his face and Roxy placed one hand gently on his to urge him on. “Lots of her books have been slashed to pieces and there is one a missing.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, the new one, it is gone. Tina showed me this one last a week. She was reading it, she called it something like a evidence?”

  “A proof? That would have been her proof copy.”

  “Yes. I look a everywhere for it. I hope to take it away so that Oliver man can not make more money from it, but it was a gone. And I am happy. I hope it never comes back. Now he cannot publish it and destroy my baby one more time from the grave.”

  Again, not strictly true. The editor had a copy, so did several computer hard drives, but she wasn’t about to tell him that. She wanted to get hold of that book now more than ever. If Lorenzo was telling the truth, then the murderer had clearly stolen it.

  Why? Was there something in that book that gave him away?

  She made a mental note to ask Oliver about it when she got the chance.

  The tears were welling up in Lorenzo’s eyes again and she glanced at her watch. Max was due any minute now and she had so much more she wanted to ask.

  “And why do you think all of this indicates a stalker?” If anything it seemed to implicate a father who was dead set against her books.

  “This is not all. The police they tell me there was one strange number that was calling Christina’s house all that night, leaving no message, but calling, calling ...”

  Now this was interesting.

  “Can they track the call? Do they know who it was?”

  He shook his head sadly. “No, it is not a number that we know. It is not my number. It is not a number for any of her friends. This is why I think it is a stalker who wanted my baby girl and when he couldn’t get her, he destroyed her.”

  Just then Max arrived. Great timing, she thought crankily, she had so much she still wanted to ask, but it was clear that Lorenzo was getting weary so it was probably just as well. She stood up as Max approached the table, clutching his camera bag, and made the introductions while the two men shook hands.

  “Thanks for coming on such short notice,” she said and he nodded quickly before pulling her aside.

  “So how do you want to work this? Lighting’s not real great in here. Can I take him outside?”

  No small talk, no chit-chat, just straight to it, and she didn’t blame him. The last time Max had tried to talk to her she’d slammed the door in his face.

  “You’re the expert, do whatever you think’s best.” She turned back to Lorenzo. “How much more time have we got before you need to head off? You’ve got quite a drive ahead of you.”

  “Hornsby is not so far.”

  “Oh, you’re not heading back home to Moree today?”

  “No, no. I go to stay with my cousin, Fabio, he has a big house in Hornsby. I cannot stay here for any longer as it is too expensive for me.”

  “So how long are you staying with him?” she asked, adding, “Just in case I need to check a few facts with you?”

  “For a week, maybe more. I hope the police can release my beautiful baby so I can take her home.” He looked at his watch. “I leave in about a one hour.”

  “That’ll do it,” Max said, opening up his camera case and setting to work.

  Forty minutes later, Lorenzo bid them good-bye and returned to his room to pack up while Roxy called the waitress over to pay the bill. Glossy would reimburse her later. Max was also back at the table, putting his gear away, so Roxy asked, “Did you want a freebie coffee or something before you head off?”

  He glanced up, shook his head then returned to his camera. The look in his eyes was not so much cold as detached, and again, she had to wear it. She nodded at the waitress who strode off to tally the bill, and watched silently as Max cleaned his lenses and placed the camera back gently into its cushioned slot in his camera case. When he was done, he clicked it shut, stood up and brushed a stray lock from his face.

  “Any other pix I need to take for this Glossy article?”

  “Well, there is the memorial service tomorrow ...”

  “I’ll be there, just text me the time and place.”

  “Look, Max, I’m really sorry about the other day—”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said, then he picked up the case, smiled stiffly and walked away while Roxy’s heart lurched heavily, then went into freefall.

  Chapter 23

  By lunchtime on Friday, Roxy had almost finished a full rough draft of the Tina Passion article and was changing out of cargo pants into yet another demure black dress for the writer’s memorial service at an inner-city park. She had been wearing a few too many black dresses lately, she thought sadly, as she slipped it on.

  The park was small, just a few blocks from Tina’s townhouse, and it was jammed full of people when Roxy turned up, all of them dressed brightly in vivid colours, tight, revealing clothes, and enormous flowers in their hair. She needn’t have worn the dress after all, she realized, and lurked near the gate, watching as they gathered in the centre just to the side of an enormous fig tree.

  Someone had placed tall bamboo poles with lurid scarlet flags at intervals around a wide circle, and the crowd were gathering there, kissing and hugging and holding hands. She spotted Oliver on one side and raised a hand to him. He said something to a tall, skinny woman with a bright magenta kaftan and flowing grey hair, and then made his way across to her.

  “Thanks for coming, Rox,” he said, giving her a warm hug. “I really appreciate it.”

  “No worries, Oliver. Are you okay?”

  He didn’t look okay. Despite the bright Hawaiian shirt, his pallor was even greyer than the last time they’d met, and he looked like he’d lost weight. Dark bags hung under both eyes and they were darting around everywhere as if looki
ng out for trouble.

  “Anyone giving you a hard time?” she asked and when he didn’t answer her she said, “You might have mentioned the dress code, Olie. I stand out like a virgin at a key party.”

  He glanced back at her, as though only noticing her for the first time and he tried for a smile. Couldn’t quite pull it off. “Sorry, yes, Tina’s friends all thought we should dress as Tina would like, you know, bright and cheerful, that kind of stuff.”

  More cheap and cheerful, she thought as she glanced around at the lurid Lycra and fake breasts, but she wasn’t about to split hairs with him. Not today.

  “I see Max is on the job,” he said and she followed his eyes across the park to the other side where the photographer was busy setting up a tripod. At just that moment he looked up and caught her eyes, and she felt herself blush. She smiled weakly and he smiled back then returned to his tripod.

  “You two friends again?” Oliver asked and she shrugged. “Well, Roxy, all I’m gonna say is life’s too bloody short—that’s what you need to take away from today.” He looked back towards the throng who were now positioning themselves, holding hands and settling down for the ceremony, which was clearly being led by the tall, skinny woman Oliver had just been chatting to. “You going to join us? Veruna says she’ll start any minute now.”

  “No, you go. I’ll hang back here if that’s all right.”

  “Oh shit, here comes Davo,” Oliver suddenly announced. “I’m outta here. Can’t believe he has the audacity ... Don’t let that traitor anywhere near me.” He darted back towards the main crowd.

  Roxy turned around and watched as David Lone finished parking his car just beyond the gate, in a no parking zone. As he stepped out, he caught sight of her and waved.

  “Hello!” he called out as he approached. “You well? You look great.”

  “I’m in black. Apparently it’s no longer de rigueur at funerals.” She noticed he was wearing a dark suit and wondered if he’d also missed the memo. She also noticed that he was still talking to her despite her cranky outburst at the bar a few days earlier. He clearly had a tough hide and she suspected he was used to abuse in his line of work. She decided not to mention it.