by C. A. Larmer
That bloody paparazzi guy, she thought impatiently as she began to drive off. He’s certainly tenacious.
******
From the sidewalk, someone was watching Roxy, had been watching her all night. All week, in fact. He smiled but it wasn’t a happy smile. He was bitter, she had betrayed him, and she would pay the ultimate price.
Not long now, Miss Parker, he thought. It will soon be your turn.
Then he began to think of 101 ways to kill a ghostwriter.
Chapter 31
Roxy took the first exit onto the Pacific Highway and began the long drive to Yamba, a breezy little holiday town on the NSW north coast. Ordinarily, she liked road trips, but this one felt all wrong, starting with the timing. She didn’t need to be heading away from Sydney right now, away from Oliver and his problems. She needed to be back at her desk, Gilda close by, trying to help solve this series of baffling, horrendous crimes.
But a deal was a deal, a book needed to be written and her mortgage still needed to be paid. So she had organized the interview with David Lone’s old English teacher for Tuesday morning, and needed the full day to get there. She had a book to write, and she had to get on with it.
Thinking of books, Roxy glanced at the small package resting on the passenger seat beside her. It had arrived by post, just seconds before she’d left, and with no time to spare, she’d simply thrown it into the car, along with an overnight bag, a bottle of water and some fruit snacks, and taken off. She’d open the parcel later, but she already knew what was in it. It had to be the editor’s proof of Tina Passion’s latest novel. Roxy wished now, as she glanced down at it, and then back up at the road, that it was a talking book. She’d have the whole thing sewn up by the end of the drive. Maybe even be a step closer to solving the crimes.
Roxy clicked her car radio on, hoping a decent tune might distract her instead, but all she could find was news channels, sports channels, and “the best of the ’80s, ’90s and today!” She grimaced and flicked it off, then concentrated on the road ahead.
Three hours into the trip, she pulled over at a large, neon-lit service station, filled up the petrol tank and purchased a takeaway latté, some dark chocolate and a clump of bananas. She needed all the help she could get to stay alert. Then she quickly checked her mobile phone calls.
There was one from Maria Constantinople at Glossy that caught her by surprise and she immediately returned the call.
“Roxy Parker, I’ve got a bone to pick with you!” Maria boomed on the other end when she’d picked up, and Roxy felt her feet grow suddenly heavier. She did not want Maria picking at any of her anatomy, thank you very much. “And I’m not the only one. Lorenzo Vento is not a happy man.”
“Really? I thought we got along really well.”
“Yeah, so did he, which is why he can’t understand why you weren’t upfront with him. About Oliver.”
Her legs turned to lead. “Oliver?”
“It didn’t occur to you to tell him Oliver was your fuckin’ agent? He rang this morning, had just heard, somehow, that you were on Oliver’s books. He’s fuming, Roxy, cranky as all hell. Told me if he’d known that, you never would’ve got the interview in the first place.”
“Hence the reason I didn’t tell him, Maria. Look, I didn’t want to confuse things, it was irrelevant to this story. I was writing the story for you, not for Oliver. It has nothing to do with him.”
“You sure about that? Or are you using us both to get what you want? And by both I mean Lorenzo and me.”
She swallowed hard. “No, Maria ... well, okay, maybe I did want to help my agent, but—”
“Ah-ha! I knew you were up to something!”
“But I also wanted to write that article. It’s a good story and I needed the work.” She glanced at her watch. She needed to get back on the road. “Were you unhappy with it? Was Lorenzo?”
“Well, no, luckily for you it’s a bloody good story, but that’s not the friggin’ point. The point, Roxy, is that you don’t fuck me around ever again, right?! You want to use Glossy for your own personal crusade, you fuckin’ lay it on the line. You tell me what’s going on! No more bullshit. Got it?”
Roxy agreed, apologizing again and hanging up, her heart now heavy. She shouldn’t have deceived Lorenzo, she knew that, but she also knew, as Maria had just confirmed, that she never would have got access to him if she hadn’t. Then she might never have learned about the strange phone calls before Tina died, and about the missing book.
Still, she couldn’t help the feeling of dread that accompanied her on the last leg of the journey. It was never a good idea to get Maria offside, but that’s not what was really worrying her. A few free lattés and a bit of flattery and Maria would come around. No, it was not Maria she was worried about at all. It was Lorenzo Vento. He had seemed sweet enough during their interview, but perhaps he had played her all along? From what Maria said, he was clearly quick to anger and now he was angry with her.
Roxy shuddered. She knew what happened to people who pissed Lorenz Vento off.
Chapter 32
By midnight, Roxy had managed to push Lorenzo from her thoughts and was focusing on finding the Yamba Holiday Park where she’d pre-booked a small cabin for the night, complete with bedding and blankets. She’d only need a room for a few hours so she wasn’t going to waste all her budget on a flashy hotel. When she finally did locate it, she paid the weary looking receptionist at the front office and made her way to the cabin, keen to get some shut-eye. It was extremely basic but it didn’t matter. Once she laid her head down, she was asleep within minutes.
A high-pitched scream woke Roxy from her slumber and she sat up, startled. The scream came again, followed by several others and she realized she was listening to white cockatoos just outside her cabin.
Stretching out, she pulled on her glasses and checked the clock on her mobile phone. It was 7:09 a.m., her least favourite time of the day, but she was glad for the early wake-up call. She had no time to waste.
Roxy got up and took the one step required to reach the tiny bathroom. She stripped off, showered, then returned to her bag to find the flowing, animal-print dress she’d brought along. It was crease-proof and perfect for travel. She threw a wide black belt around her waist, some hoop earrings in her ears and short black boots on her feet then returned to the car.
Half an hour later, she was sitting on a park bench, looking down across a startling white Yamba beach, takeaway coffee in one hand, croissant in the other. It was a perfect summer day. Not yet hot, there was a gentle, salty breeze and the caw of seagulls nearby, and she sat for a few moments just drinking it all in, mesmerized by the beauty around her.
For a few minutes she felt a million miles from the horror of the past week in Sydney, from three murders and a good friend out on bail, and she wanted to hold onto that feeling, if only for a little mental reprieve, but she couldn’t help herself.
Within minutes she was pulling the brown package out of her handbag and ripping it open. As expected, it was the proof copy of Tina Passion’s last novel. Titled Lover’s Delight, it featured a trademark tacky cover of a buxom redhead standing just in front of a bare-chested man, complete with designer-sized pecs and flowing blonde locks. He was looking down at the woman’s neck like he wanted to devour it, and she seemed slightly dazed by it all, her ruby lips parted, her cheeks flushed. Roxy would have sniggered if there wasn’t a loud bell clanging away in her head.
She had seen this book before. If only she could remember where.
She flicked through it, noting various marks made on tiny yellow stickies throughout the book, and on the final page the word “proof” had been printed across at an angle. Perhaps she’d seen it at Oliver’s office before it went to the editor. She made a mental note to ask him next time they spoke and then dropped it back into her bag. There was no time to give it any more attention; she had to prepare for her interview with Mrs Porter.
Roxy pulled out a notepad and pen, and began to jot d
own some questions. More would pop up as the interview progressed but Roxy liked to be organized, so she tried to focus on David Lone and what his favourite English teacher might have to say about him.
He must have shown early promise, but did she really expect him to become quite as successful as he had, to have an international top-selling book and critically acclaimed film to his name?
“Oh, absolutely!” came the giggly reply an hour later as Roxy sat across from the elderly English teacher at her home in an outer Yamba suburb. Mrs Porter looked a little like her name suggested—portly and pink, with fluffy grey hair and a wobbling double chin that was in overdrive now.
She had invited Roxy to her modest brick house for the interview, explaining that she no longer taught English at school, but had moved into university lecturing.
“But I haven’t even been at university for the past six months. I’m waiting to take up a fellowship in Literary Classics at a school in London.”
“Sounds exciting,” Roxy said and the teacher laughed.
“Liar! It sounds dreadfully boring, but I’ll just love it. Sadly, most people don’t appreciate the classics anymore. They’d prefer quick, vacuous reads, I’m afraid.”
Roxy thought then of Tina Passion’s novel that was wedged in her bag and smiled. She was probably right. Tina’s books sold like wildfire.
“So where would you put David’s book?” she asked. “A potential classic or a vacuous read?”
Mrs Porter—who appeared not to have a first name and if she did was not yet telling—gave her a wide, wobbly smile. “Well, my dear, it’s a wonderful book! I just knew my little Davey would be a star.”
“Why? Was he a natural talent or—”
“It wasn’t so much that as his determination,” she said. “He was always such a charmer, so sweet, but also fiercely determined. When he set his mind to something, he had to have it. I remember we had a writing competition in Year 9, and Davey came second in that. Oh, boy was he disappointed. Angry, even, with himself.”
“Angry, why?”
“Because he didn’t come first, dear. He had to come first and the next year, he did! He worked so hard at his short story I thought he’d have a breakdown. But it was superb, a truly great piece. That’s when I thought to myself, this boy will go far. Nothing will stop him.”
“Well you were right,” she said and the teacher giggled again.
“But he had to work at, I’ll make that clear. He wasn’t as natural a writer as some of my other students, but he had the raw determination that sets you apart. Plus, as I say, he was a right charmer. That helped.” Her little eyes twinkled and it was clear David’s charms still worked on this old teacher. “Of course, not everybody was as enamoured,” she added, heaving herself up to fetch more hot water for the teapot.
“Oh?” Roxy said, following her into the kitchen.
“Well, perhaps I’m speaking out of school now—excuse the pun—but, no, I do know at least one of his past teachers who was very surprised to hear of David’s success. More tea, dear?”
Roxy held her cup out and Mrs Porter refilled it before waddling back into the living room. They settled onto her old sofa again.
“Yes, if you’re going to do this book about him, I guess you need to give a balanced view. You should probably speak to Edward Green, he has a very different take on our Mr Lone.” She smiled wickedly. “You’d hardly know we were talking about the same person.”
“Edward Green?”
“Yes dear, Professor Edward Green, that was David’s Creative Writing teacher at Southern Cross University. We’re in the same faculty now. Davey didn’t mention him?”
“Not really, no.”
“I shouldn’t be surprised. Edward was hardly his biggest fan.”
“Really? Why?”
She giggled. “I’m being a bit naughty, aren’t I? Being a bit salacious.” She said the word with gusto. “Perhaps you’d best chat to him directly, I wouldn’t want to be spreading rumours.”
Roxy thought about this. David had distinctly asked her not to research his university days and she had accepted that. Yet something Caroline had said, something about his leaving university “mysteriously” had stuck with her, and now Mrs Porter was alluding to something more, something “salacious”.
Isn’t that what Oliver and the publisher had wanted all along?
“Where is this Professor Green?” she asked and the teacher giggled again.
“I see I have got you hooked! He lives about an hour’s drive away. I don’t have his number but I’m sure you could locate him easily enough.”
An hour later, as Roxy made her way back to her car, she considered what Mrs Porter had said and whether she should call Professor Green. She glanced down at the contact details she had just Googled on her smartphone and frowned. He lived up at a place called Ballina, not far from Lismore where the university was located. It was almost a hundred kilometres away, but then, what was one more hour of driving after such a long journey? Perhaps she should knock this on the head now? Perhaps it was important?
She unlocked her car and slipped in behind the wheel, trying to make a decision. David had been adamant that she keep his university days out of it. But why? There was clearly a story here and she would be remiss as a biographer if she did not seek it out. She groaned. It was the last thing she felt like doing, but it was the first thing a good biographer would do. You were supposed to show the whole story, not just one side. You were supposed to be impartial, isn’t that what David had said about his own work? She reached into her handbag and pulled out her mobile phone, then began to make the call.
Back in Sydney, Lorraine Jones was also staring at her phone, willing it to ring. Roxy had promised she would call on Tuesday, but had clearly neglected to, yet again.
“Just leave her be,” Charlie said, wandering past as Lorraine reached for the handset. “You promised you’d wait for her to call.”
“I know, I know.” She dropped her hand back down guiltily. “But why hasn’t she?”
“Because she’s working, my love. When she finishes, she will give you a tingle then.”
Lorraine tried not to frown, it worked havoc on her wrinkles, and returned to reading the latest Women’s Weekly.
Chapter 33
Professor Edward Green was a tall, willowy man, with a bushy beard and gold-rimmed spectacles. He was quite the English professor cliché, right down to the stern attitude and patronizing tone. He was a very busy man, he’d warned Roxy when she’d finally located him over the phone, but if she was willing to make the drive he was willing to find ten minutes to “discuss Mr Lone” as he so eloquently put it.
By the time Roxy got to Ballina, it was close to 2:30 p.m. and she made her way directly to the local library where she was assured he could be found, hovering by the aviation section. A pet hobby, apparently.
It didn’t take long to spot him, not only because he personified your cliché professor. He was also one of only two people in the building, the other being the librarian.
“That was quick,” he said when she introduced herself. “You must have broken a few road rules on your way here.”
She ignored this and indicated a nearby desk. “Do you mind if we sit down and I can record this?”
He’d promised only ten minutes and she wasn’t going to waste a minute of it. He nodded and they both sat across from each other, Roxy placing her recorder in between. Professor Green leaned back in his chair and began stroking his beard, waiting for her to proceed. To start with, she asked if he had read David’s book on the Supermodel murders and he sniffed.
“Yes, I have read it.”
“And what did you think?”
He stopped stroking his beard. “Well, it’s not exactly my style, but that’s not to say it’s not a very good attempt.”
She cringed. It was like red ink all over his manuscript. Must try harder. She knew David would not appreciate that review.
“It has been hugely successf
ul,” she said, feeling a little defensive on his part.
“Quantitative success is one thing, Ms Parker, quality is quite another.”
“He’s also had critical acclaim. Not one bad review.” He shrugged dismissively. “The book has just been made into a very good movie, and he has two more book deals in the pipeline. That must really surprise you.”
“Surprise?” He sat forward. “I’m not at all surprised.”
“Really? I got the impression from Mrs Porter that you thought David wouldn’t amount to anything.”
“Then you got the wrong impression. I would have bet my house that man would become a successful writer. If that’s what he wanted.” He hesitated then asked, “What sort of book are you writing?”
“I’m doing a biography on behalf of a publisher,” she said, adding quickly, “it’s not a fanzine. I do want the truth, Professor Green.”
“Then I’ll give it to you. The David Lone I knew was always a rather tricky character. Arrogant, zealous, a complete charmer. But his charms were wasted on me. I didn’t believe he had an ounce of real talent, but I knew that he had drive. And he was driven, really driven to be a writer.”
“So why did he leave your writing course then? Mrs Porter tells me it’s one of the most acclaimed in the country.”
He hesitated again. “Have you asked him that question?”
“Yes. He doesn’t want me to pursue it.”
“Then perhaps you should respect his wishes.”
“I want to get to the truth, Professor Green. I’m not interested in writing a one-sided story. If there’s something important to say, I’d like you to say it.”
Still the man hesitated. He leaned back in his chair and stroked his beard for some time, clearly giving it considerable thought. Eventually, he said, “I can’t see how this can hurt now. I mean, it’s a matter of public record after all.”