Last Writes (A Ghostwriter Mystery)

by C. A. Larmer

  Was she just being paranoid?

  She pulled her handbag closer and continued walking while reaching for her keys and double checking her body alarm at the same time. Yep, it was still there. Still activated.

  She left the main street and turned into the alleyway when something moved in her periphery and she stopped and glanced around again, fear trickling down her spine. There was no one there.

  She picked up her pace and strode the few metres to her car, was just about to unlock the door when a flash of light caught her eye. Roxy swung around again and this time she spotted him, a photographer, standing close to a large council bin, a bulky camera in one hand, a look of guilt on his ruddy face.

  Roxy could not have been happier. There wasn’t a serial killer trailing her, after all, it was just the bloody paparazzi. They were obviously trying to get pictures of Oliver, and, failing that, anyone remotely close to him. She thrust the keys back into her bag and headed straight for the photographer whose guilty look was fast being cloaked by a kind of stubborn determination. He was thrusting his chin in the air and holding the camera at bay as though fearful she was about to wrestle it from him. No doubt that had happened many times before.

  “You right?” she said, scowling.

  “Yeah,” he muttered, not offering any other explanation.

  “I don’t know where Oliver Horowitz is, if that’s who you’re after. But I am going to spend a very exciting hour with my mother, Lorraine Jones, at the Flower Pot Nursery, Lane Cove, if you’d like to tag along. She’d be so thrilled to see her pearls and twin set in the local rag.”

  He shrugged. “Just doin’ my job, lady.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re the one who has to sleep with yourself at night.”

  She turned on her heel and walked back to her car. By the time Roxy started the engine, she noticed that the photographer was checking his camera and walking in the opposite direction. She exhaled. While she really was meeting up with her mother that day, she didn’t exactly want the paparazzi tagging along.

  These fortnightly catch-ups were stressful enough as it was.

  By the time Roxy got to the café, Lorraine was at a table, tapping one nail on the top of her thin, gold wristwatch.

  “And what time do you call this?” she said, standing to allow Roxy to kiss her lightly on one powdered cheek.

  “Sorry, I had some vermin to dispose of first,” she replied, slipping into a seat.

  Lorraine’s nose wrinkled up. “Rats?! Oh dear, I hope they’re not out of control?”

  “Me too. Have you ordered?”

  “Yes, darling, and I nearly ordered for you but I know how you carry on.”

  Roxy ignored this, jumped up and ordered a latté and a vegie focaccia. She needed fortifying today. Not only did she have a full hour with her mother, as she’d told the photographer, but she was meeting with Max, later, and that would also require superhuman strength.

  Back at the table, Lorraine launched into a long discussion about her latest renovations and about Charlie’s plans for a fabulous European holiday. It pleased Roxy for once. She normally loathed small talk, but she needed a break from discussing Oliver’s case and she was hoping her mother would not bring it up. Lorraine would hyperventilate if she knew Roxy was helping Oliver, and she would try to get her off the case.

  After their food had arrived and was half eaten, her mother finally asked, “Is that Oliver Horowitz I keep hearing about on the news the same Oliver Horowitz as your agent?’

  Roxy felt her stomach drop. So much for clean getaways. She nodded, trying to look nonchalant.

  “Did he really kill three people, Roxy? Three writers?!”

  “Of course he didn’t, Mum!” A few people looked around and Roxy lowered her voice. “He’s been accused of one murder only at this stage—”

  “Oh, well, that’s perfectly fine then,” said Lorraine, pursing her lips.

  “But it doesn’t matter because he didn’t do it. He’s being framed.”

  “Framed? By whom, darling?”

  She shrugged. “I wish I knew.”

  “Oh dear, I do hope you’re staying out of it, young woman.”

  “You know me, Mum. Of course I’m not. I have to help him.”

  Lorraine’s eyes widened. “Roxanne Parker, you listen to me. You need to leave all of this to the police and you need to look after yourself.”

  “Mum, I can’t desert Oliver.”

  “Yes you can, especially if he’s got a penchant for murdering writers.”

  “Muuum ...” She looked around. “Keep your voice down. And, for the last time, he didn’t do this thing. So I’m perfectly safe.”

  She sighed and glanced at her nails. “Well, at least he’s in jail. That’ll keep you safe for a while.”

  “Actually, he’s been released, he’s on bail.”

  Lorraine’s eyes widened again. “Oh, dear, darling, that’s very scary. What if he did do it? He could kill you.”

  “Muum!”

  “No, don’t you Mum me. I have always thought that Oliver man was a tad slimy. I’ve told you that before. He’s an agent, for goodness sake. I wouldn’t put it past him.”

  Roxy pushed her half-eaten sandwich away and stood up. “I’m not going to sit here and listen to this. I’m too busy, I’ve got too many things on my mind.”

  Lorraine leaned across and grabbed her daughter’s arm. Her voice softened considerably. “I am not trying to be mean, Roxy. I am your mother, and I have a right to be worried about you. You have always had such blind loyalty to people. I don’t know where you got that from but it’s always been your biggest failing.”

  Roxy shook her free, grabbed her bag and stood up. “I see it as one of my greatest traits, Mum.” She went to walk away then turned back. “And by the way, I got it from Dad.”

  At her car, Roxy got that spooky feeling again. This time she wasn’t in the mood. She did a fast pirouette and spotted the photographer leaning forward in his car, his lens at the ready. She raced towards him while he dropped his camera and attempted to start his engine.

  “You have got to be kidding me!” she screamed at him.

  He hunched over, as though afraid she’d reach in the half-opened window and smack him one. “I was just checking ...” he stammered.

  “Get any nice shots of Mum? She looks good for sixty, don’t you think? Do you mind sending some copies to the apartment? They’ll look good in the family album.”

  He didn’t say anything so she just stared at him for a full minute before shaking her head and walking away. She wasn’t really angry with the man but it helped to have a sleazy photographer around to take her growing anxiety out on, and screaming at him had felt very therapeutic. What’s more, her outburst seemed to convince him she was a dead end, and he was already pulling out of the car park ahead of her and skidding away.

  “Good riddance!” she screamed after him, and started up her own vehicle.

  There was a sudden tap on the window and she jumped. It was just her mother. Roxy buzzed the window down and looked at her.

  Lorraine smiled stiffly. “I’m very sorry, Roxanne. It’s only because I care, you must know that. Anyway, if there’s anything Charlie and I can do to help that agent friend of yours, I mean, Oliver, well, just let us know.”

  “You just rang Charlie, didn’t you?”

  She looked away. “Yes, he says I’m to be more supportive.”

  “He’s right.”

  “I know. I know.”

  Roxy sighed. “Thanks, but there’s nothing much you can do, besides, I have to put it aside for a few days. I’m leaving town tomorrow. Got some work to do on the David Lone biography. I’ll be up north at Yamba for the next day or so. Perfectly safe.”

  Lorraine looked relieved. “Lovely! Get away, that’s a great idea. Why don’t you take a few extra days up there while you’re at it? Go all the way to Byron Bay? I hear it’s beautiful this time of year.”

  “I’ll just be gone twenty-four ho
urs, Mum, I am very busy.”

  “Okay, okay. Just a thought. Well, be sure to call me when you get there.”

  “Mum, I’m thirty-two, not thirteen.”

  “Writers are being slaughtered in their beds, Roxanne, at least humour me with this one. Please.”

  “Fine, fine, but it’s a long drive so I won’t arrive until very late Monday night. I’ll call you on Tuesday, let you know I’m okay. I’ll definitely be back Tuesday night at the latest. Okay?”

  That seemed to make Lorraine happy. She smiled, blew her daughter a kiss and waved as she drove away.

  Chapter 30

  “She’s just worried about you, that’s all,” Max said softly, “and she has reason to be. I’m worried too.”

  Roxy tried to hide the joy that his concern erupted in her and coughed, swallowing back the smile. She was tucked up on the enormous sofa in his warehouse, Caroline on one side, Max on the other, an opened bottle of wine between them. She couldn’t have felt safer, but she knew that Max, Oliver, and yes, even her mother were right. She had better watch her back. It had been over a week since the last murder. Perhaps the killer was getting antsy.

  As promised, Roxy had arrived for Sunday night dinner with the Farrell siblings, and was not at all sure what to expect. She knew she had to set the record straight about David Lone. Both Max and Caroline had assumed that she was sleeping with him, and she shouldn’t have allowed that. It had been sweet revenge for Max’s dalliance with Gilda, but it was time to ’fess up. She glanced around, still expecting the policewoman to appear from the upper bedroom, rosy from an afternoon lovemaking session, one of Max’s oversized shirts on, and she had to shake herself a little to remove the disturbing image.

  There’s no way she could deal with that.

  As if reading her mind, Caroline said, “Max has got something to tell you, about Gilda Maltin, don’t you, Max?”

  She stared hard at her brother who hid momentarily behind his floppy fringe, not meeting anyone’s eyes. Caroline coughed and stood up.

  “I’m heading out for a ciggie, then I’ll see how Max’s dinner is going.”

  “Do you need a hand?” Roxy asked, surprised to learn that Max was actually cooking, and even more surprised by the delicious smells that were now emanating from the kitchen.

  “No, you stay here,” she instructed Roxy. “And listen to Max. Max.”

  He got another of those stares and smiled slightly. “You’re so bloody bossy, Caro. And you promised me you were giving up.”

  Caroline reached down to the table to grab a packet of cigarettes and a lighter and smirked at him, then smiled at Roxy and padded off. Max took a deep, loud breath and swiveled on the sofa so he was facing Roxy. She went to say something but he held up one hand.

  “Please, hear me out.” She nodded, relaxed back into the seat and waited. “You seem to have the wrong idea about Gilda and me,” he began.

  “It’s really none of my business, Max, you’re a free—”

  “Can I finish?”

  “Of course, go on.”

  “That night at the party, I was talking to Gilda.”

  “Yes, I know, but—”

  “Uh!” He held the hand up again. “You’re letting me finish this time, remember?”

  She smiled, whispered, “Sorry.”

  “So, yes, we were talking and then it just got so damn noisy, we went up to my room.” She shrank back, not sure she really wanted to hear this now. “And then we kept talking. That’s all that happened. Lots and lots of ... talking.”

  She looked at him. Frowned. “Really? Up in the bedroom? Just talking?”

  He laughed. “Yes, I know, it’s not the usual occupation up there, but that’s the truth. Sorry to disappoint you.” There was a clouded look in his eyes.

  “Disappoint me?”

  “Well, you seem intent on thinking that Gilda and I will get together. I don’t know why. I don’t feel that way about her. Never did.”

  “But you asked me to bring her to your party.”

  “So?”

  “So I just assumed that ... well ...”

  “I asked you to bring her because I thought she’d be fun, and I thought she’d help you lighten up and enjoy yourself. For a change.”

  “You sound like my mother,” she said and he laughed again.

  “Sometimes even your crazy mother is right.”

  Caroline reappeared. “I hear laughter, that’s a good thing, surely?” She glanced from Roxy to her brother and back again.

  Roxy smiled. “Yes, Max was just setting the record straight. Now it’s my turn.”

  “Not yet, you don’t,” said Caroline. “Max, your curry is ready to go. We should take this to the dining table, I’ve set it up and the food awaits us.

  “Hang on, Caro. Roxy, what did you want to say?”

  “No, no, I’ll tell you later, let’s eat. I’m starving.”

  They jumped up and made their way towards a large wooden door that had been turned into a very rustic-looking dining table on one end of the warehouse. Max had a motley selection of chairs around it, some 1950s vinyl and chrome, several wooden ones, a couple of stools. Roxy chose a cushioned chrome one and sat down, placing her wine glass in front of her. Caroline had done a beautiful job of decorating the table with scented candles, matching cutlery and a small vase of fresh flowers.

  “I didn’t know Max had a cutlery set,” Roxy said, and Caroline whistled.

  “I struggled, I can tell you, but after rooting around in his kitchen drawers, I managed to find some that look close enough.” She pushed a bowl of rice towards Roxy. “Help yourself.”

  Roxy took a few spoonfuls and then added some Tikka Masala curry over the top. “This smells so good, Max. I didn’t know you were such a good cook.”

  He shrugged. “I can pull it together when I have to.”

  “Plus he had me as his sous-chef,” Caroline said, taking the curry bowl and helping herself.

  When they had finished filling their bowls, Max held his glass up. “To better times ahead,” he said, glancing from one woman to the other.

  “I’ll drink to that,” said Roxy. Then she added, “And to Oliver, may he get out of this mess, and soon!”

  They all cheered and drank.

  “I know you’re probably sick of talking about it,” Max said, “but how’s he going? What’s the latest news?”

  For the next hour, the three friends got so immersed in the Oliver Horowitz case, Roxy didn’t get a chance to talk about David Lone, and set the record straight. When the conversation finally lulled, she realised she didn’t want to. They were having so much fun and she was finally feeling close to Max again. She feared that bringing up another man, no matter how innocent, was going to ruin everything. So she let it drop for now. She didn’t even mention her impending trip to Yamba, to work on David’s book. She had a hunch he wouldn’t be too thrilled by that either. So she kept it to herself.

  Her silence would turn out to be a very dangerous mistake.

  Later that evening, after the friends had eaten and cleaned up, Max insisted on walking Roxy back to her car, which was just as well as it was parked well away from his warehouse, the only empty spot she could find.

  “You never asked me what we were talking about,” said Max as they walked side by side, their arms just brushing, a tingling sensation filling her every time they touched.

  “Sorry?”

  “Gilda and me, at the party. We went up to my room to talk.”

  “Oh right. I just assumed you were going through Gilda’s life again in minute detail.”

  He laughed. “No, not that.”

  “Okay then, what were you talking about you?”

  “You, of course. Who else?”

  She stopped, turned to face him. “Me? Really?”

  “Really.” Max stared through his fringe at her, his eyes soft and gooey again and she had to look away. She resumed walking.

  “Sounds dull,” she said, trying to sound f
lippant. “So what were you saying? What a pain in the proverbial I can be?”

  Max took one of Roxy’s arms and stopped her, forcing her to turn around and look at him. “I’ll tell you that if you tell me whether you and David Lone are ... together.” He said the words as though they cut, and she smiled at him.

  “No, Max, we are not together. Never were. Well, I did spend that night, but I was drunk and nothing happened and it doesn’t mean anything anyway.”

  He looked beyond relieved, he looked blissful and he did something that would have irked her once. He pulled her into his arms and he held her tightly for a few glorious minutes. She could feel his strong, sinewy body beneath his shirt and she breathed him in then, the soapy smell of his skin tinged with the scent of fresh coffee and something else, something more masculine, before he was pushing her back out and staring into her eyes.

  “Gilda was wondering why I hadn’t made a move on you and I was explaining that you didn’t like me that way. And she then told me I was a bloody fool, that I was wrong.” He hesitated. “Am I wrong, Roxy. Is there a chance ... for us?”

  She felt her legs melt as she said what should have been said a long time ago. “Yes, Max. There is a chance.” She held one hand up quickly. “But I need to get a few things sorted first. You know what I’m like—hopeless at multitasking. I need to help Oliver and then ...”

  He smiled. “Then we’ll try again?”

  She nodded. “Yes, let’s definitely try again.”

  Max leaned in and kissed her very quickly on the lips, but it was electrifying and she felt all her internal organs dance about, in a good way this time.

  “Come on,” he said, “let’s get you on your way.”

  Five minutes later, as Roxy waved him good-bye and started her car’s engine, her elation turned to anxiety. She had that creepy feeling again. She looked about. The street was dark and, apart from Max who was retreating back to his warehouse, it appeared empty. She scowled, shook her head and strapped herself in. She didn’t even bother reaching for her alarm this time. She knew exactly who it was.