Last Writes (A Ghostwriter Mystery)

by C. A. Larmer

  “Well, I’m out there, and I don’t think you’re great. I think you’re the opposite of great. You’re not worth a sentence, let alone a book, certainly not one from me. I won’t be wasting any of my energy on you.”

  She sighed and looked away. David was right, of course. His biography would have been a huge success for Roxy. She had the inside scoop, after all. She had almost been one of his victims; she had known him intimately. It was sure to be a best seller for both her and her agent, probably the most lucrative book she would ever write. But she didn’t care about that. Never had, and neither did Oliver. They both understood that writing a book about David Lone somehow justified the murders of his two victims, and they weren’t about to give him the satisfaction. He could tell his own story, but she was not going to be a party to it. She was not going to profit from Tina’s and William’s deaths. She did, however, have the whole story contained in her Crime Catalogue at home. She couldn’t help herself. She felt that pasting it in was putting it to rest, or at least containing it a little. But she wasn’t about to tell him any of that.

  David’s smile had turned into a snarl and he stared at her for a few stony minutes before speaking. “You need to get off your moral high horse, woman,” he said eventually, “because I’ve handed you a gift. A gift! Without my story, you’d have nothing. What, you think a few books about crusty old socialites will ever help you crack the big time?”

  “I don’t need to crack the big time. I’ve told you before, I’m not interested in that.”

  “You’re a fucking fool then!” he spat and a guard stepped forward, placing a warning hand on David’s shoulder. He glanced around at him and then at Roxy, his smile back in place but this time it was glacial. “You’ve never had any real success so I’m going to forgive you your stupidity, Roxanne, just this once. But let me tell you what having a best seller is like since you’ll clearly never know. There’s nothing better, Roxanne. Nothing! Nothing better than watching your book go from ... what did you get to? That’s right, eighty-seven.” He sniggered. “Well, imagine watching your book go from a lowly eighty-seven to Number One in a matter of weeks, right around the globe. Knowing your words are in the hands of millions and millions of people, from here to Hong Kong, Berlin, Paris. Knowing that reviewers at the New Yorker, the Guardian, are all reading your words, gushing over them, falling over themselves to interview you. To get you on the phone. No more waiting for celebrities to call you. You are the fucking celebrity! You’re the one everyone wants to talk to, hanging on your every word. They live for you.”

  His once dazzling blue eyes flashed a viciousness she wished she had seen a lot earlier, and several strands of hair had dislodged and were flying about as he spoke, making him look more like the lunatic that he was. “You could get out of that crappy little dive you call a home. Make millions! But you know what, it’s not even about the money, not really. Having a best seller is better than all the money in the world, Roxanne. Hell, it’s better than the best sex you’ll ever have. It’s orgasmic.”

  Roxy shook her head and smiled. “You’ve been locked away too long,” she said. “You’re just horny.”

  He stared at her for a quiet second then laughed his cackling, ugly laugh, which made the prison guard look up. “I always loved your sense of humour, Roxanne,” he said, calming down. “We could’ve been dynamic, you and I. We could have made waves.”

  “I don’t need to make waves, David. I like my life the way it is, nice and calm.”

  He scoffed. “Like I say, you’re a fucking fool.” He whispered the words but again the guard looked up and this time he gave a warning cough. David glanced around and then held his hands up. “Doesn’t matter anyway. I don’t need your pathetic, boring drivel. I’m writing my own book. You wait until my memoir is out. It’ll be the biggest book to hit the stands since ... since ...” He sniggered again. “Since The Supermodel Diaries.” He paused, his eyebrows arched. “I wonder who will play me in the movie this time? Maybe your old favourite Brad Pitt might be available?”

  “I would think he has better things to do,” she said. “In any case, I don’t give a shit. I won’t be watching it. I won’t be reading it. And you, you’ll be stuck in here, unable to enjoy any of the fame and fortune you so desperately seek.” She stood up. “You’ve wasted enough of my life, David. I’m done with you. Don’t hassle me again, I won’t be coming back.”

  She turned to the guard who nodded and began to lead her away.

  “Oh, and by the way,” she said, turning back. “There are plenty of things that are better than a best selling book. Or even a movie starring Brad Pitt. I’ll say hi to Max for you, shall I?”

  With that she walked out of the prison and away from the biggest story of her life and towards her brooding photographer guy who was waiting patiently in the car park, a worried look of love across his soft, brown eyes.

  And she smiled widely because she knew that he was the only happy ending she needed.

  ######

  About the Author

  Christina Larmer is a journalist, magazine editor and author of Killer Twist and A Plot To Die For (the first two in the Ghostwriter Mystery series), An Island Lost, The Agatha Christie Book Club, and the non-fiction book A Measure of Papua New Guinea: The Arman Larmer Surveys Story (Focus; 2008). She grew up in Papua New Guinea, spent several years working in London, Los Angeles and New York, and now lives with her musician husband and two sons in the Byron Bay hinterland of Northern NSW, Australia. Christina is passionate about crime fiction and when she’s not scribbling away, can be found immersed in a classic Agatha Christie.

  Connect with Me Online

  http://www.christinalarmer.com

  http://christina-larmerspits.blogspot.com/

  christina.larmer@gmail.com

  Want to read more by C.A. Larmer?

  • Here’s an introduction to the second in the Ghostwriter Mystery series:

  A Plot to Die For

  When ghostwriter Roxy Parker accepts a job at a tropical island resort, she expects little more than a good story and a touch of sunstroke. Instead she stumbles upon her hotelier client, murdered and buried in a plot of sand, her head protruding ghoulishly for the crabs to devour. And around her, an ensemble cast of glamorous guests who are all hiding something behind their over-sized Gucci sunglasses.

  In this modern homage to Agatha Christie’s Evil Under the Sun—and the second in the Ghostwriter Mystery series—sassy writer Roxy Parker finds herself on a remote island retreat with a collection of fabulously wealthy guests, shifty locals and biased police officers, all of whom she must rely on to help solve the mystery of who killed resort owner Abigail Lilton.

  A Plot to Die For

  Copyright 2011 Larmer Media

  Cover designed by Stuart Eadie

  Prologue

  From a distance it looked like little more than an old coconut perched on the fringes of the beach, its husk tufting up in all directions. Upon closer inspection, however, it proved to be a human head, a woman’s, her long hair poking out in every direction while crabs scuttled over the skull, devouring what remained of her flesh. Roxy would have screamed if she could find her voice. Instead, she stared mutely, shaking, knowing only too well whose head it belonged to and wondering, somewhat oddly, where the body had got to.

  Chapter 1

  The rattling, single-engine Cessna 182 tipped precariously to one side and Roxy gulped back her anxiety as she saw the tiny island of Dormay wing into view. From this height, it was breathtaking. Jelly-bean in shape and carpeted in thick rainforest, it had a lush hill soaring up at one end and a vibrant green valley sweeping down on the other. And all around it was a trimming of achingly white sand leaching into a fluorescent aqua-blue sea. Beyond the shallows were random clumps of darkness, boasting, Roxy assumed, more candy-coloured coral reef than she’d possibly have time to explore.

  She spotted the resort instantly, propped as it was just below the cliff face at the most westerly poin
t of the island, its verandas strategically positioned to take in that exquisite view. Directly below the veranda was a small patch of greenery that quickly turned to sand and then to sea. And at every glance, toothpick-like coconut trees stood to attention, waving in the breeze. As the plane flew overhead, Roxy could just make out a small jetty directly south of the hotel, jutting out of a rocky bay, and to the north, a cluster of traditional-style grass huts.

  But where is the airport? She wondered momentarily. The plane straightened up suddenly then swept down towards the valley at the other end of the island, and that’s when she spotted it, a light green mat etched into the darker, longer grass.

  “Hold on!” the young pilot yelled back to her, his only passenger. “We’re going down!”

  She assumed this meant they were landing and tried not to panic as they did indeed start to descend towards that dodgy looking patch of grass.

  What have I got myself into? She thought, swallowing her fears and thinking back to just 10 days earlier when the bizarre letter had arrived in the mail. She’d taken it straight to her agent, Oliver Horowitz whose offices were wedged in a dark and dusty part of inner-city Sydney.

  Roxy read the woman’s elegantly handwritten note aloud: ‘I’d like you to tell the story of my life and the life of Dormay Island before I go. Please find enclosed the necessary details. I look forward to seeing you at your earliest convenience. Abi.’

  “It’s slightly odd, don’t you think?” she said, throwing it across to Oliver.

  He sucked the oily remains of a doner kebab from his fingers and then picked it up, reread it and shrugged.

  “Odd schmod. You’re getting a free trip to Dormay Island. Christ, you know what Kate Moss and her lot pay for that privilege?”

  Roxy considered this for a moment. Seated in a ratty old armchair in front of her agent’s desk, books piled up beside her and a stack of posters at her feet, she had to agree that Abi’s Retreat was beyond both their budgets combined. She was a relatively busy writer, he a relatively successful writers’ agent but they still mixed in very different circles to Abi’s clientele. She picked up one of the posters and unrolled it to reveal a zany looking guy with tufts of white hair and a lurid zebra-print suit.

  “You’re representing Sir Laugh-a-lot now?”

  He scrunched the kebab wrapping up and tossed it towards the bin. He missed.

  “Yeah, Larfy’s putting a book out—Lotsa Laughs with Laugh-a-lot.”

  She winced.

  “Hey, don’t knock it! He’s one of the country’s top comics. Makes more money in an hour of stand-up than you and I make in a month. Now, he could afford Abi’s.”

  “Yes, but would they let him in? That’s the question.”

  “Ouch. With that attitude they’ll welcome you with open arms. Wanna a coffee?”

  “Christ no, I have taste buds don’t I? Listen, I’m serious about this. Abi’s invite is great, sure, but it’s slightly ominous, don’t you think?”

  “Bloody hell, here we go again.”

  Oliver sighed, leaning back in his creaky leather chair. In his late 40s, he was not exactly an attractive man—his slightly greying hair was greased and swept back, almost Elvis style, behind his ears, he had a trademark 1950’s bowling shirt on (this one read Tex, whoever the hell he was), and these days he seemed to gain weight by the week—yet Roxy adored him nonetheless. She had worked with him for over a decade. She liked him, she trusted him. That was all that mattered.

  “What’s so ominous about it, Rox?” he was asking, his stubby eyebrows raised wearily.

  “Well, for starters, the woman’s extraordinarily private. I know this because I tried to do a freelance interview with her many moons ago for Glossy magazine. She never returned my calls. It’s well-known, she doesn’t want to be... well-known.”

  In fact, Abigail Lilton had spent her entire life avoiding the spotlight, choosing instead to establish herself and her boutique resort in the heart of the vast Pacific Ocean on the remote Dormay Island. It was one of a handful of islands that made up a small, independent Pacific nation, clustered on the edge of an expansive coral atoll, equidistant from Australia and Papua New Guinea.

  The resort, Abi’s Retreat, was an aging yet still majestic colonial Queenslander. It featured wide wooden verandahs and crisp white shutters, friendly local service and secluded, shell-strewn beaches, and was a favourite amongst the rich and famous as much for its isolation as its unique holiday experience. Stressed out executive types, celebrities and bored heirs alike could book the six-bedroom place all to themselves or share it, begrudgingly no doubt, with other deep-pocketed individuals assured of privacy, anonymity and genuine adventure.

  Abi’s Retreat was famous, worldwide, as the smallest, most sought-after, ramshackle hotel in the tropics. And while it was kept in good nick, it had barely changed since Abigail renovated the original plantation house 35 years ago. Nor had her ‘no-press policy’ which was not the only reason why the invitation in Roxy Parker’s hands had the young writer stumped.

  It was the hastiness of it.

  The elderly hotelier had suddenly decided it was time to tell her life’s story and wanted Roxy for the job. Okay, that part made sense. Roxy Parker was a writer of some repute. Sure, she wasn’t being invited to literary festivals every week or swapping tweets with Salman Rushdie just yet, but she was known in the industry as a very good ghostwriter. She could help almost anybody turn their life story into a pretty entertaining ‘autobiography’. They got the credit, she got to pay off her credit card. It was a win-win.

  Yet most of Roxy’s clients came to it slowly. They mulled over the idea for a long time, took a little coaxing—should they really spill all? Wasn’t that a little arrogant? Then, sufficiently coaxed by family, friends or financially motivated agents, they met with Roxy in person, chatted, often for many hours (in one case many months), to see if they really could work together and were on the same page, so to speak. Once that was agreed, they signed on the dotted line and began the complex process of synchronizing their insanely busy schedules.

  Not Abigail Lilton. She didn’t just want Roxy, a ghostwriter she’d never even met, she wanted her pronto. And, assuming the answer would be yes, had already included a cheque for airfares and a detailed description of when to come, what to bring and how to get there.

  “So, she’s changed her tune. It happens,” said Oliver.

  “Yes, but why the hurry? And what about the line ‘before I go’? Seems a bit, I dunno, strange. Where’s she going? Exactly? Is she running away? About to cark it? I just wonder why the rush?”

  “Maybe the poor old duck’s got cancer, that’s why she finally wants to break her silence. She realises her time is running out. Does it make any difference?”

  Roxy snatched the letter back from him, scowling at his paw prints.

  “She’s told me exactly when to come, what flights to get on, and she hasn’t even left me a phone number so she’s just assuming I’m going to show up.”

  “And aren’t you? What have you got keeping you here?”

  “Hmmm, let me see.” Roxy held a hand up and began counting on each finger. “Tortuous lunches with my mother, Lorraine; cheesy articles for Glossy magazine; Sex & The City re-runs all by my lonesome at home...”

  “So you haven’t kissed and made up with Max yet?”

  Roxy frowned and looked away. Now why did he have to bring that up?

  Max Farrell was a talented local photographer and one of Roxy’s best friends. Roguishly handsome and riotiously good fun, he had more mates than he had time for but it was to Roxy that he had offered his heart. And she had trampled on it superbly, insisting they should remain ‘just friends’. You can imagine how that went down.

  Roxy still regretted the way she had reacted, but she was angry, too, angry at him for placing his heart in her path. She hadn’t asked for it, and she didn’t want it, and she had told him as much. They had been such great mates, she was determined to remain that wa
y. But of course, once trampled, the heart is not so amenable, and it was their friendship that was now suffering the consequences. They hadn’t seen each other in weeks.

  “I think he’s moved in with that Sandy chick,” she said, trying to sound as though it hadn’t cut her to the core.

  Oliver could see straight through her, of course, but let the subject drop. “You’re going, then? To Dormay?” he said instead.

  She relaxed considerably. “Of course I’m going, it’s just so out of the blue. Excuse the pun.”

  Now it was Oliver’s turn to wince. He shook his head at the writer sitting before him. Roxanne Parker was an attractive woman, early 30s, thick black hair, groovy Rayban-style specs. He liked her, had enjoyed representing her for the past decade, but, apart from commitment issues, she also had an annoying penchant for making mountains out of molehills.

  “You’ve always got to think the worst, don’t you?” he said. “Your business is ghostwriting other people’s stories; she wants you to write her story, so just do it. Take the money and run. Besides, I reckon it’d be a juicy one, what with all the celebrity guests who’ve supposedly passed through. Rumour has it, royalty go there to bonk their mistresses stupid. This could be bestseller stuff, Rox. Might even end up a film deal.”

  “Let’s not get too carried away.”

  “Just go, have fun, do the interviews and come back. It’s that simple.”

  “Fun? Moi?” Roxy bat her eyelids at him then laughed. “I’m going, I’m going already. Just wanted to pass it by you, get your perspective, that’s all.”