by C. A. Larmer
Words Can Kill
A Ghostwriter Mystery (Book 5)
by
C.A. Larmer
Copyright 2014 Larmer Media
Cover design by Stuart Eadie
Edited by Novel Proofreading
& Elaine Rivers (with thanks)
Discover other titles by C.A. Larmer at Smashwords.com:
Killer Twist
A Plot to Die For
Last Writes
Dying Words
An Island Lost
The Agatha Christie Book Club
www.calarmerspits.blogspot.com.au
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Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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Please Note
This is a work of fiction. Really it is. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Epilogue
About the Author
Connect online
Prologue
The woman’s limbs flailed in all directions, one Nike trainer flying off as she plummeted from the edge of the cliff down towards the cerulean Mediterranean Sea. She must have screamed (how could she not?) but whatever sound she made was swallowed by the screeching of the train that was hurtling at the same time, through the mountain tunnel, towards the tiny village of Manarola, its happy day-trippers oblivious to her horror, seeing only a stunning view through their raised cameras and iPads.
“Isn’t it peaceful?” one sightseer ventured to another just as the woman’s body smashed against the jagged rocks at the bottom and was promptly collected by a wave and washed out to sea.
A metre below the fence line, her shoe was caught by a prickly pear cactus and settled into its spikes, the only evidence she had come before, while the tourists continued happily snapping away.
Chapter 1
“Max is missing.”
They were three simple words, spoken casually by a woman young enough and pretty enough to still believe she was the centre of the universe and therefore her missing brother a minor inconvenience that she was hoping to palm off (preferably to Roxy Parker), but they still managed to send a sliver of ice through Roxy’s heart.
She froze for a second, the warm glass of Merlot almost at her lips.
“Missing?” she said, then tried a little humour to dislodge the chill. “Like, missing his brain? Missing me desperately? What do you mean, missing?”
Caroline raised one spaghetti-strapped shoulder into the air and shrugged. It was late Thursday evening and not yet summer, but that didn’t stop her from donning a sexy slip of a dress that showed off her golden brown tan and the intricate rose tattoo on the back of her right shoulder. Her long, lean legs were wedged into stilettos as high as the Harbour Bridge and were poking out now from beneath the table.
“I don’t know, sweetie. Personally? I think it’s all a false alarm.” She scooped some lemongrass chicken onto her fork. “I nearly didn’t call you but, well, it’s got Mum and Dad in a bit of a tizz which is bizarre because they never get in a tizz. Unless somebody chops down a tree, of course, or mentions the letters CSG.” She rolled her big brown eyes and plunged the fork into her mouth, talking while she chewed. “Anyway, they haven’t heard from him in a few days and seem to think that’s a big deal—something he said freaked them out, apparently.” She offered her “go figure” look.
The two women were seated at a rickety table in an overcrowded Thai restaurant just a few blocks from Roxy’s inner-city Sydney apartment. When Caroline had called her, keen to “discuss something important”, Roxy had expected little more than boyfriend trouble or a change of career. God knows there’d been enough of both. This, however, was out of the blue.
She took a settling gulp of her wine and returned the glass safely to the table. “A few days is hardly a problem, is it?”
“My sentiments exactly but, well, Mum’s being all loopy on this one so ...” She hesitated. “He hasn’t called you, has he?”
The sudden crinkle in Caroline’s otherwise flawless forehead was not without basis. The last time Roxy had spoken to her supposed “boyfriend” Max, just over six months ago, it had all turned very sour, very fast. They had been dating for almost a year and things were going swimmingly (albeit more treading water than doing laps) until Max mentioned a sudden job offer with Mercedes-Benz in Germany. Roxy had reacted badly, a little “Caroline-like” in fact, and had not managed to find her maturity in the meantime. She was still feeling raw from the rejection and had been hoping Max would do as he always did and make the first move: call with apologies, send her a surprise airline ticket to Berlin, something. But of course he hadn’t done that and so the silence had ensued.
Now it felt deafening.
“Anyhoo,” Caroline was saying, oblivious to Roxy’s internal discomfort, “I normally call Max when I have a problem; he cleans it up for me quick smart. Problem is, well, Max is my problem.” She laughed. “Then I remembered that you’re kind of good at looking into ‘mysteries’”—she used the two finger quotation mark symbol that Roxy abhorred—“so was wondering if you want to track him down for me and tell him to call his bloody parents so I can get them off my back.”
She raised one hand again to a waiter who had been tracking her from the moment she’d walked in and he scurried across, delighted to be at the stunning blonde’s beck and call. She ordered another glass of wine.
“You want?” she asked Roxy, almost as an afterthought, and Roxy tapped her glass.
“Merlot, please.” Then to Caroline, “Can we just back up a little? I still don’t understand why your mother thinks he’s vanished.”
“Oh she’s being so melodramatic, darling. I’m sure he’s just run off with some German flooz—” she caught herself and had the decency to blush. “Oops.”
Roxy shrugged her off. “I don’t care if he has a girlfriend, Caroline.”
“Sure you don’t. Anyway, I’m not saying he does have a girlfriend, I’m just saying—”
“So why is your mum so worried?” Roxy cut her off. “What did Max say when they last spoke?”
Caroline leaned forward, one dress strap dropping provocatively from her shoulder. “That’s the thing, he didn’t say very much and what
he did say made absolutely no sense. Mum reckons he said he was heading to Brazil for a few days.”
“Brazil? For a few days? From Germany? Really?”
“I know! How bizarre is that? Mum must have heard him wrong. I mean, her hearing’s not what it used to be and Max was calling on his mobile phone, from the road apparently. Anyway, it’s not so much what he said, it was the way he said it.”
The waiter appeared with the wines and Caroline refitted her strap and then took her glass with barely a glance, causing the poor man’s shoulders to deflate considerably as he turned away. She swallowed a generous mouthful and said, “He sounded kind of strange.”
“How do you mean strange?”
“Mum says he sounded worried, stressed even, but you have to remember, Mum’s a hippie. She thinks she can read people’s cosmic energy down the phone line.” Again with the eye roll. “She says Max’s energy was ‘as black as a witch’s breath’. She rang me in a panic this morning when she couldn’t get him on his mobile. He hasn’t been answering his home phone or his e-mails either. I told her to chillax.”
“And you haven’t heard from him yourself?”
Caroline shook her long, glossy locks. “We rarely talk on the phone, darling, that’s sooo twentieth century! We usually just swap texts, tweets, that kind of thing. But only about once a week, if that. I’ve since sent two texts and poked him on Facebook, but no response.” Her eyes squinted. “He did post some rather strange shots earlier this week now I think of it.” She reached for her stiff, lurid orange Prada handbag that had been wedged under the table and pulled out a smartphone, which was also encased in a bright orange cover. “Kind of like mountain shots, with snow and stuff. I don’t think they’re of Brazil. Isn’t Brazil, like, hot?”
After scrolling through the iPhone for some minutes, she located the relevant Facebook pictures and thrust the phone towards Roxy. They looked harmless enough. Boring, even. They were simple landscape shots of a jagged mountainside, some dusted white with snow, the others an ugly greyish brown colour. Dark clouds hung above one shot, another showed glimpses of green valleys and a blue lake below. Max had shared them on his Facebook site with only the words, “Up in heaven” beside them. There was no indication of where they had been taken.
“You want more chook?” Caroline asked, indicating the lemongrass chicken dish, and Roxy shook her head no.
She glanced at the date below the pictures. “So he put these mountain pix up last Monday, nothing to explain where he is, and then called your mum on, what, Tuesday to say he’s heading to Brazil?”
She held a long, manicured fingernail in the air. “Rio de Janeiro to be precise, and he called very early Wednesday morning, actually. Woke Mum up.”
Roxy felt the ice dislodge a little. “Caroline, that was yesterday. He’s been ‘missing’,”—now it was her turn to do the curly finger thing—“about a day and a half, what’s the big panic?”
“As I told you, it’s not what he said so much as they way he said it. Mum felt these really dark—”
“Vibes, yeah, yeah.” She sipped her wine. “You know what it sounds like to me?” Caroline didn’t answer. “Sounds like he’s on a photo shoot for Mercedes, maybe one he doesn’t particularly want to do, hence the dark vibes. Has anyone thought to ring his office in Berlin, ask them?”
Caroline held her palms out. “Now this is why I came to you! Of course Mum didn’t call his office, it didn’t even occur to her. I love the woman but she’s hardly the sharpest peg in the shed.”
“Tool,” Roxy corrected and Caroline looked at her blankly.
“Anyway, that’s a brilliant idea. Can you do it?”
Roxy sighed. “Yes, fine. Do you have the office number? Name of his boss? Anything?”
“Nope.”
“What about his flatmate? Isn’t he living with someone in Berlin?”
“Yeah, some American muso called Jake. Mum and I have both tried him. We’re not completely useless you know.”
“And?”
She took a final mouthful of rice then pushed her plate away. “And nothing. He wasn’t answering. I guess he’s away, too.”
“You haven’t got his mobile number?”
“Why would I? Don’t even know the guy.” She took her iPhone back. “So you can see why we’re all a little flustered.” Roxy stared at her; she didn’t look flustered at all. “But as I say, I’m sure it will all make perfect sense in a day or two.” She glanced at the phone clock. “Shit, I’ve got to get going. You sure you don’t want to come to this party?” She glanced down at Roxy’s demure vintage black dress and strand of white pearls. “You can dash home and get changed first. It’ll be worth it! They’ve got DJ Prawn on the bill.”
Roxy couldn’t think of anything worse, and that was before she’d discovered her estranged boyfriend was AWOL. She told Caroline as much. “Plus it’s a school night,” she said. “I’ve got a book to deliver tomorrow.”
“Pfft! You’ll never get over Max with that attitude,” she replied and Roxy ignored this as she would identical comments from her mother and watched as Max’s baby sister polished off the last of her wine, grabbed her lipstick from her bag and swiped a strip of bright red across both lips.
She jumped up then leaned down and air-kissed Roxy. “You got this one? I’ll get the next. Sorry to love you and leave you, sweetie, but there’s dancing to be done. Call me on my mobile the minute you find him, okay? I have got to get Mum off my back. If I hear one more loony story from her about dark auras I will kill someone.” She smiled lightly. “Too do loo!”
And with that Caroline dashed out of the restaurant leaving Roxy—and at least one waiter—sighing in her wake.
Chapter 2
“Max is missing?” Oliver Horowitz said, his beady little eyes as wide as they could get, and Roxy quickly shook her head. Caroline had already put her heart through the ringer, she didn’t need to alarm anyone else unnecessarily.
“Not for long,” she assured him, leaning back on the bright red sofa in her agent’s Kings Cross apartment.
It was now late on Friday night, twenty-four hours since her dinner date with Caroline and still no word from Max. Despite her gallant promises, Roxy hadn’t found the time to call Max’s Berlin office, partly because she was presenting the final draft of a book she’d just completed on the life and times of Edward Stray, an ex-politician from the 1960s who had plenty of opinions but very little worth saying.
Roxy usually enjoyed ghostwriting other people’s autobiographies and was never really fazed when her name was left off the cover so they could pinch all the glory—such were the pitfalls of her profession—but this book had been a chore, and she was glad her moniker was nowhere to be seen. The man was both boring and banal and it had been a real struggle to find any glimmers of colour between his monologues on all that was wrong with the youth of today. Luckily, she didn’t have to like a client to write his life story, but gee it helped. And so it was with great relief she had finished the final draft and signed it over to her agent that evening, hence the celebratory drink in Oliver’s apartment.
The other reason Roxy hadn’t moved on finding Max was because she wanted to believe they were all overreacting. Big time. It had to be said, Roxy was usually the first to suspect foul play in any situation, any at all, but this time she didn’t want to play ball. This time they were talking about Max Farrell and she wouldn’t let her mind go there. Not yet.
“Sounds to me like he’s on location for Merc, doing some fabulous photo shoot, but his mum is worried which has got Caroline worried—well, as worried as Caroline can get—so I’m just going to confirm where he is and we can all go back to our boring, mundane lives.”
“Oi, speak for yourself,” Oliver said and she glanced around the apartment, at the empty beer bottles on the coffee table, the TV which was now on mute, and the pile of gossip magazines that she’d clearly interrupted him reading before she’d arrived.
He followed her gaze and said,
“Hey, there is nothing boring or mundane about Miley Cyrus’s descent into hell. Sort of like watching a train wreck in slow motion.”
Roxy stared at him with deadpan eyes. “Right, well, speaking of boring, you did wax lyrical about your fabulous phone plan the other day. Went on and on about how all your international calls are capped so ...”
“So you want to use and abuse me, yet again?”
“Something like that.” She bat her emerald green eyes at him playfully now. “Mind if I make a few calls to Germany?”
“Germany! Jesus, woman!”
She continued batting away and he finally relented, plucking his hands-free phone from its cradle and flinging it towards her. “You know, I get a bonus if I sign friends and family up to the aforementioned phone plan, we just have to do it by—”
“Oliver! I kind of have to call now if I want to get through to Berlin before they all head off to lunch. I’ve just looked up the time difference.” She glanced at her watch. “It’s late Friday evening here, which, if my calculations are correct, makes it midmorning on Friday over there, so I have to act fast. If I wait until tomorrow, it’ll be the weekend. I’ll sign anything you want after that. I promise.”
Oliver pretended to zip his lips shut while Roxy called the number for international directories and after a few seconds said slowly and clearly, “Mercedes. Benz. Headquarters. Berlin. Germany.”
It still took several frustrating minutes and a conversation with an actual human being before she was finally put through. As the dial tone began to ring, she held her breath and crossed her fingers metaphorically.
“Guten Tag, herzlich willkommen auf Mercedes-Benz, wie kann ich helfen?” came a gush of German on the other end and Roxy looked startled for a few seconds before her high school language class kicked in.