by C. A. Larmer
They both sighed loudly together and sipped their drinks.
“Have they confirmed what the poison was yet?” Roxy asked and Gilda nodded.
“Strychnine, which is telling in itself.”
“Yes,” said, Roxy, her eyes widening. “That must narrow it down considerably. I mean, how many people have access to that kind of stuff?”
Gilda shrugged. “Sure, it’s difficult to get hold of these days, but not impossible. And it does lend some weight to your Lorenzo theory.”
“How so?”
“Well, from what I can ascertain, while it’s been banned from most domestic poisons, Rat Kill, that kind of stuff, it is still used in some rural areas, to keep down feral animal populations.”
“Do they have a feral animal problem on cotton farms in Moree?” Roxy asked and Gilda gave her a knowing smile.
“There’s something you might want to look into. In any case, it works to Oliver’s advantage because they have to connect him to a strychnine supply and so far they haven’t been able to do that. There was nothing at his house or office.”
“Here’s hoping they don’t. Listen, maybe we’re looking at this all wrong. Maybe it’s none of those people. Maybe it’s a failed writer, or agent or a total stranger, a lunatic serial killer that’s randomly targeting writers for the thrill of it. It happens.”
“Yes, but usually there’s some reason, some trigger. And it doesn’t explain the shears, how they ended up in Norman Hick’s car, or the phone—how that ended up at Oliver’s office. To me, the phone is the most telling clue because it shows that whoever used that had access to Oliver. That’s why I don’t think it’s a stranger, but anything is possible, I guess.”
“So what happens now?” Roxy asked.
Gilda scrunched her lips to one side. “I wish I knew. From the police side, they’re awaiting fingerprints from that blasted phone and the results of a bunch of other DNA tests—hair samples, that kind of thing. But that may come to nothing. As you know, they’re talking to Oliver today, I just hope he doesn’t give them any more reason to arrest him.”
“They won’t arrest him! Surely?”
“Could well do, Roxy, so prepare yourself.”
She didn’t know what that meant. Should she start baking a pie to hide a file in?
Gilda stretched and stood up, readjusting her bikini strap under her summery dress. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a spot of sun-baking to do. But you and I are not finished, missy.”
“God no, we have to stay in touch over this, I’ll Google strychnine and see what I can find.”
Gilda held her head to one side. “I was referring to the party on Saturday night. I have some stuff I need to tell you, about Max.”
Roxy’s stomach lurched again. “It’s just not important now—”
“That’s what you keep saying, but it’s not true, Roxy. I know you’re worried about your agent, but you’ve got to keep your own spirits up, too. And I think you need to hear what I have to tell you.”
Roxy winced. She didn’t want to hear that Gilda had spent a romantic night with her best friend, Max. She didn’t want to hear that Gilda had fallen for Max and he for her. That they were terribly sorry, that they hoped it wouldn’t ruin anyone’s friendships. She didn’t want to hear any of it. Not now. Not ever. But she was weary to the bone and she was in avoidance mode, so she said, simply, “We will talk, soon, I promise.”
That placated the policewoman for now. “Roxy, you have to watch your back, okay? I told you I didn’t believe there was a crazed serial killer, but I don’t know that for sure so don’t take any chances. Someone is clearly targeting writers, and we don’t know why. You still got that alarm of yours?” Roxy nodded, feeling uneasy. Gilda was referring to the personal security alarm she had bought on eBay a few years earlier. She carried it in her handbag most of the time, trusting that its piercing siren would scare potential attackers off. “Keep it on you, day and night. Don’t answer the door to strangers, and don’t take any chances.”
“This is not making me feel any better,” Roxy told her.
“Not intended to. You can feel better when Oliver’s off the hook and the nutcase who’s doing this is safely locked up behind bars.”
And on that cheerful note, they bid each other farewell and Roxy watched Gilda as she departed. Then she grabbed her things, hugged Lockie good-bye and also left.
She didn’t really feel threatened but decided that Gilda was right about one thing at least. She needed to get home and get organized because if Oliver Horowitz was officially arrested, she’d need more than a freshly baked pie.
Chapter 27
The phone call came sooner than she expected. Roxy was just steering her VW Golf down Elizabeth Bay Road to her apartment block when Oliver’s number came up on her mobile. She pulled into a bus zone and picked up.
“Oliver, where are you? Are you okay?”
A long, weary groan. “No, Rox, I’m not okay. They’re arresting me, under suspicion of murder. Whatever the hell that means.”
It meant he was in serious shit and Roxy echoed his groan. “That’s insane, Oliver, completely insane. Where are you now?”
“Police headquarters, waiting to go through the fingerprinting process.”
She felt nauseous. “Can I come and see you? Is there anything I can do?”
“No, don’t bother, no visitors allowed.”
“And your lawyer?”
“Thomas is here. He’s trying his best, but it’s not looking good. He says I could be held in custody for the entire weekend.”
“What?!”
“Might not be able to make bail ’til Monday, if at all.”
“Oh for God’s sake.”
“Don’t stress too much, Roxy. I’ll be okay. But I just need to know that you’re out there, doing what you do best.”
“I’m looking into this, Oliver, I will find the truth.” She told him about her morning meeting with Gilda, omitting all mention of Amy Halloran. She didn’t want him to feel any more threatened than he already felt.
“Well, I’m glad Gilda is helping,” he said. “Hey, I can’t talk long. I just wanted to tell you I’m okay and ask if you can go to my office on Monday and help Shazza man the phones and maybe get a press release out, categorically denying these charges, that kind of stuff. If I don’t get on the front foot with this, my client base is fucked. You know David Lone’s already taken off?”
“Yeah, well, I’m beginning to realise that David Lone only worries about David Lone. Of course I’ll help Sharon and we’ll calm this whole thing down, but you’ll be out on Monday and you can do all that yourself.”
“Oh, shit, they’re hassling me to hang up. Thanks for everything, kiddo.”
He sounded like he was giving his last good-byes and she choked back a sob. “Take care,” she told him as the phone clicked quiet.
Roxy sat for a few moments, shocked that it had got to this and more determined than ever to get organized. She took a deep breath, checked the rear vision mirror and pulled out onto the street again. She needed to get home, finish the Tina Passion article and get that off her To Do list. Then she needed to sit down with her trusty journal and start making sense of what appeared to be completely and utterly senseless.
Three hours, two cups of coffee and a plate of noodles later, Roxy stood up from her sunroom desk and stretched like a cat. She had finished the Tina story and e-mailed it off to Maria at Glossy, and had then gone on to make some notes in her journal on the Oliver Horowitz case.
She had also Googled the words “Strychnine” and “agricultural use” and come up with some very interesting information. While most people now needed a special license to possess strychnine for their own use, the Department of Agriculture did use strychnine-treated grain bait to control an oversupply of emus in some rural regions across the country.
She wondered if there were a lot of emus running amok in the plains of Moree.
Chewing on the thought, she p
added into the living room, flicked on the TV, and sat down on the sofa with her journal. The bulletin would start in ten minutes and she hoped Oliver’s face would not appear on the screen, but she wasn’t about to hold her breath. Instead, she opened her journal and started reading through it, when a soft knock on the front door made her look up with a start.
Somebody had got into the building without being buzzed in from below. She felt a tremor of fear rush down her spine along with Gilda’s words, “Someone is clearly targeting writers. Don’t answer the door to strangers, don’t take any chances.”
Her legs felt like lead suddenly as she stepped off the sofa and towards the door. She didn’t have one of those peek holes, so could only ask, in a faltering voice, “Who is it?”
A young woman’s voice came back, strong and upbeat. “It’s Caroline!”
Now a wave of relief rushed over Roxy followed quickly by pleasant surprise. She unlocked the door and swung it open to find Max’s sister standing on the doorstep, a bottle of wine in one hand, a small grocery bag in the other. She was wearing a pair of billowing silky pants in a bold floral print, with a strappy blouse and stilettos, and had scooped her long hair up into a high ponytail, pink gloss on her lips.
“I come bearing gifts!” she said, stepping in and planting an air kiss beside Roxy’s right cheek.
“How did you get through the front door downstairs?”
“Oh, easy peasy! There was some old bloke heading out, I sweet talked him into letting me in. May I?”
Roxy waved her through, then glanced outside before relocking the door and leading the way to the small kitchen. There she fetched wine glasses while Caroline reached into the bag and produced creamy King Island Brie, seaweed crackers and olives. Roxy found a platter and handed it over so Caroline could arrange the snack, and they returned to the living room in time to catch the 6:00 p.m. news. Roxy pushed the now wilting tulips aside to make room for the platter, then picked up the remote control and increased the volume.
Oliver’s arrest was the leading story but Caroline did not look surprised. “Gilda already rang Max,” she explained. “He’s still on the Jeep shoot, so he asked me to drop by. See if you’re okay.”
Roxy melted a little. “That’s sweet.”
“That’s Max,” Caroline said, giving her a pointed look before turning back to watch the screen.
A very young, very glamorous reporter was gushing about the latest “enthralling development in the Snow White murder”, as though she’d never heard anything so exciting. Roxy wanted to scream at her, “There’s human beings involved in all this, you imbecile!” But she bit her tongue and bit into some cheese instead.
According to the imbecile, “local identity and celebrity agent Oliver Horowitz was being held for questioning in relation to erotic novelist Tina Passion’s recent murder.” A very dated photo of Tina appeared on the screen followed by the embarrassing paparazzi shot from David Lone’s film launch—the picture of Oliver looking heavily intoxicated beside her. They couldn’t have found a sleazier, more predatory shot and she wanted to scream again, but at least there was no connection suggested between the two earlier deaths. Thank goodness for small mercies, she thought, turning the sound down as the anchorwoman reappeared and moved on to other stories.
Caroline studied Roxy carefully, chewing on the top of her wine glass. “Dreadful stuff,” she said eventually. “And I gather from your expression, they’ve got it all wrong.”
“Absolutely, Caroline, my agent didn’t do this.”
“I believe you, darling, Max tells me you’ve known him forever and he’s a good bloke. So what can we do, Max and I? How can we help?”
Roxy chewed on her own glass and tried to think. “I don’t know. I’ve been racking my brain, trying to make sense of all this. Three writers dead, no really obvious motives, at least not consistent ones for all three.” She placed her glass down and grabbed her journal, opening it up and pointing to her notes. “Have you got a second, for me to go through it with you? I’m still trying to get my head around it all.”
“That’s why I’m here, baby,” Caroline said, slipping her heels off and scooping her legs up underneath her. “What’ve you got?”
“Okay, well, I know two people who might have had motive to kill the sci-fi writer Seymour—his manager and his agent. But neither has a real motive to kill William Glad, the gardening guy, or Tina. I know that Tina’s dad might have had reason to kill her, but why would he want to do away with Seymour and William? Even Erin, William’s daughter, might have killed her dad if she thought he was going to forbid her publishing his back catalogue, but—”
“Hang on, back catalogue,” said Caroline. “What do you mean?”
Roxy explained about William’s refusal to republish what could amount to very profitable gardening books. “I believe that Erin really needs money. She’s a single mum, a brood of kids. Maybe she got desperate. But again, why kill Seymour and Tina? Why would Erin want to hurt them? It’s soooo frustrating!”
Caroline agreed. “A real Bermuda triangle.”
“Yes, that’s exactly what it is. And poor Oliver’s drowning in the middle of it all. He has the terrible misfortune of being the one and only common link.”
“Well, that and the fact that a dodgy mobile phone was found in his possession.”
Roxy looked up. “Gilda tell you that? Yeah, well, it wasn’t in his possession, it was stashed in a pot at his office.” She jumped up. “That’s what I can do next. I need to talk to Sharon and I need to talk to her now!”
Ten minutes later, Roxy found Caroline by an open window, finishing up a cigarette. She fetched an old saucer-cum-ashtray and handed it to her and then they both returned to the sofa, Roxy feeling even more deflated. She’d managed to hunt down Oliver’s receptionist at home to discuss just who could have planted that phone, but Sharon had been adamant.
“Sorry, love, but not one of those people have been into the office in the past week, not one.”
“Not Tina’s dad or Amy Halloran or Norman Hicks? What about Erin, William’s daughter?”
“Nope, haven’t seen her since before William kicked the bucket. Oliver met her at the house but she never came in here, or at least not that I know of. ’Course, that’s not to say they didn’t pop in after hours, or break in. But then we would’ve noticed that.”
“Yes, except most of Oliver’s clients have the code to that street entrance door, they could easily have let themselves in the building and hidden it one night.”
Sharon disagreed. “We still lock our own internal office door upstairs when we leave. That’s an old-fashioned lock. So unless they had a key ...”
“And who has the keys?”
“Just me and Oliver, love, no one else.”
Roxy growled. “Damn it.”
“Yeah, love, not friggin’ good,” Sharon said. “You’ve spoken to him?”
“Yes, he sounded terrible.”
“And who wouldn’t?! Oh, Roxy, who’s doin’ this to him?! This is such a stitch up!”
Roxy told her she didn’t know, but she was going to try to find out and that seemed to make the older woman happier. Still, as she slumped back down next to Caroline and took another long sip of her wine, Roxy wondered whether this case was beyond even her natural sleuthing talents.
“More wine?” Caroline asked and Roxy held her glass out.
“Thanks. I really needed this.”
“You might need it even more in a minute.”
Roxy looked at her, bemused. Caroline held up her iPhone. “Max just texted me. The shoot’s done. He’s on his way over.”
Roxy felt a wave of panic rush through her and then took another larger gulp of wine while Caroline watched her closely.
“When are you two going to get your shit together?” she said finally.
Roxy scowled. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I don’t know what you mean!?” she said mockingly. “Honestly, Roxy, I’ve been watchi
ng you two from afar for years, it’s exhausting!” She hesitated and then changed tack. “I have to ask: are you and Lonesy, well, are you really together?”
The cocked eyebrow indicated she found the whole idea ludicrous and Roxy felt suddenly defensive. “If you mean did I end up back at his place last Saturday night? Then yes, yes I did.”
The eyebrow rose even further. “Damn, I thought Max was just being neurotic as always.” She hesitated. “Listen, Roxy, David Lone can be a charmer, I know, he charmed me once, but—”
“But you’re here to tell me your brother is a much better match?”
“Max is a good guy, Roxy, and he cares for you deeply.”
“So deeply that he keeps running into the arms of every other woman he can find?”
“What women? He’s been single for the past six months—that has to be some kind of record for him.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Sure I’m sure. He broke up with some airhead chick called Sandra ages ago, and he’s been pining for you ever since. Can’t look at another woman, it’s all Roxy this, Roxy that. No offence or anything, but it’s getting a bit tired. Can you help me out and give him a second chance?”
Roxy stared at her, perplexed. “So what’s Gilda, then, a practice run?”
Caroline’s eyebrows dropped this time. “Gilda? The policewoman?”
“Yes. They got together at his party, or didn’t Max mention that?”
“No,” she said, looking slightly miffed, “no he did not. Are you sure? That’s not the impression I got.”
“Well that’s Max for you. If that’s what he calls pining, then, no thanks, I’ll pass.”
Caroline gave this some thought and was about to say something when the buzzer screeched indicating there was someone downstairs.
“That was quick,” she said, glancing at her luxury silver Tag Heuer watch.
Roxy jumped up and pressed the intercom. “Max?” she said.
“Ah, no, actually, it’s David,” came an unexpected voice. “Can I come in?”
Oh God, she thought, glancing at Caroline, panic-stricken, but the other woman was already up and grabbing her heels and bag.