by C. A. Larmer
‘Really?’ Oliver was showing interest now. ‘Then what makes you think she was homeless?’
Kay gulped her drink down and smiled widely, proud to have them both intrigued. This was her defining moment, her chance to impress. ‘Because her body was filthy and covered in ulcers and other skin conditions you find on people who have lived on the streets for too long.’
During this exchange Roxy had almost forgotten to breathe and she gulped the air in hungrily before asking, ‘But she smelt like a derelict, right?’
‘Oh Roxy,’ Oliver chided, ‘I reckon anyone would smell like a dero’ when they’ve been decomposing on the banks of Rushcutters Bay for half a day.’
‘No, Roxy is right,’ the scientist replied. ‘She had a definite derelict aroma. Decaying flesh is quite a different scent altogether.’ Her eyes began fluttering then. ‘This is all top-secret, you know? I get in big trouble if you tell anybody, especially you Mr Agent Man.’
‘Hey, discretion is my middle name,’ he replied with a suave smile.
All of a sudden, the sky gave out an almighty roar and then broke into giant sobs of rain, forcing the trio to abandon their drinks and seek shelter under the cafe’s awnings.
‘I’m going to make a dash for it,’ Kay was saying, groping for her umbrella and acting as if she had not just made the most astounding announcement. ‘Nice to meet you Roxy.’
They shook hands and then Oliver leant down and planted a quick kiss on her cheek. Kay smiled meekly and skipped off into the rain.
‘I’ll call you later in the week,’ Oliver called after her and then, ‘Thanks, Roxy! You said one question. Not a hundred.’
‘Sorry, Olie, but that was fascinating what she said about the poor old lady.’
He shrugged. ‘But you didn’t get anything on your other old lady, Beatrice Musgrave.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that exactly.’ And to his perplexed expression she added, ‘I’ll explain it all later. I gotta go, too. We’ll talk.’
He waved her goodbye and called out, ‘Be careful!’ as she dashed back past the fountain, across the cement park and the police station and on to Elizabeth Bay Road again. Oh she’d be careful, alright. She had lovely long, thin fingers and she intended to keep them. All ten of them.
Later that afternoon as lightening and thunder played havoc with the sky, Roxy read through her Heather Jackson feature and, feeling somewhat pleased with the result, emailed a copy to Maria at Glossy. Then she shut the computer down, brought out her journal and began to jot down her thoughts. She had embraced the computer age wholeheartedly but there were times when scribbling words on a blank page provided all the clarity in the world. She jotted down the words ‘Beattie’ and ‘Derelict’ and then drew bold black lines from each word towards a box in which she wrote ‘Ronald Featherby’. From the moment Kay had described the mutilated corpse’s clothes as ‘flashy’ she just knew it had to be the same woman Mason Gower had spotted cursing Beattie’s name and threatening to ‘spill the beans’ in the lobby of Ronald Featherby’s law firm. How many designer-clad bag ladies could there possibly be wandering the streets of Sydney?
The real question was, what was the woman’s connection to Beatrice Musgrave? It seemed pretty obvious she had something over the socialite and Roxy suspected it was linked to her supposed daughter. Perhaps she was blackmailing her. That would certainly explain the fancy threads—they could have been hand-me-downs from Beattie, intended to appease her. Blackmail might also explain why the derelict had been murdered. But it didn’t explain the chopped fingers. And none of it, not one little iota, sounded like something Beatrice Musgrave would ever be party to. Roxy had only known Beattie a month but she couldn’t see her carving off a woman’s fingers and then holding her down in the murky bay. She didn’t have the strength for it, let alone the character. And she couldn’t see an old, faithful lawyer friend doing it for her either. Besides, Beattie was clearly intending to tell all. She’d hardly kill, or ask Featherby to kill, for a secret she was about to reveal just a few months later in her own autobiography. Roxy knew all about exclusive rights to a story, but that was too ridiculous a notion.
She drew another black line down the page and underneath it wrote the word ‘police’. Had they already connected the two women? Had they, like Roxy, jumped to the seemingly improbably conclusion that Beatrice killed the dero’ to shut her up and then, out of remorse, threw herself into the sea?
Roxy tossed her pen down impatiently. It was all so absurd. Beatrice Musgrave was not a murderer. She glanced back at the page. Ronald Featherby. She picked up her pen and circled his name over and over and over. He might not be a murderer, either. But he might know someone who is. Perhaps he had set the whole thing up, as a favor to an old client? She needed to see him and soon. But first, there was the matter of the unfinished biography.
Chapter 10: The Son
It did not take long to track William Musgrave down. It was now after 8pm on Wednesday night but, with Beattie’s description of him as a ‘mad workaholic’ in mind, Roxy had a feeling she knew just where he’d be, even so soon after his own mother’s funeral. Donning a warm overcoat, Roxy headed out into the chilly night, dashing to her car and turning the heat up a little as she drove along Botony Road to the grimy industrial suburb of Mascot where the head office of Musgrave Incorporated was located. She parked in the empty car park and strode up to the main entrance, almost knocking the lone security guard to the floor as she buzzed on the intercom.
‘Office hours are nine to five,’ he stammered, holding the glass door ajar, unwilling to let her in.
‘Yes, I’m aware of that. I need to see William Musgrave. I believe he’s here now?’
‘Well...yes...but Mr Musgrave? You can’t disturb Mr Musgrave.’
‘It will just take a minute. If you could tell him that Roxy Parker wants to see him, explain that I’m an associate of his mother’s.’
Of course she could have called by in the morning, or better yet, made an appointment, but Roxy knew she could only get face to face with someone as busy as William Musgrave through drastic measures, like daring to interrupt him out of hours. And it worked. The guard was so overawed by Roxy’s audacity, he let her in and, leading the way past the polished lobby to the information desk beside the elevators, picked up the phone.
Pulling her beanie off and loosening the scarf around her neck, Roxy strained to hear what he was saying, but it didn’t really matter. She had a hunch William Musgrave would soon be down. He may have given his mum very little of his time, but Roxy suspected William still kept one eye on her affairs, and would certainly have known something about the autobiography. You don’t run a family corporation so well by letting things like that slip. The guard’s sudden look of relief confirmed her thoughts. Within moments he was leading her to a cream suede sofa along one wall.
‘Please take a seat, Miss, Mr Musgrave will be with you shortly.’
Roxy thanked him and did as instructed, dropping her bag to the floor. The lobby was large and sterile with the information desk on one side and a shiny metallic sculpture on the other. A large gold and black billboard listed the various departments and senior staff, noting which floor they could be located on, and Roxy considered jumping up for a closer look. She was keen to see what floor Beattie’s grandson Fabian worked. But before she had a chance, the elevator bell let out a loud ‘bing!’ and William Musgrave stepped out.
Beattie’s only son was the antithesis of his father. He was rake thin, with long, gangly limbs and pale, almost sallow skin, the kind you get when you spend too much time indoors, doing the books. By contrast, Terence had been a tanned, almost portly fellow who looked like he knew exactly how to have fun.
Roxy jumped to her feet and extended one arm. ‘I’m Roxy Parker,’ she said, taking his limp hand in her own. She noted a barely constrained frown on his face. ‘I was a friend of your mother’s and, first of all, please let me pass on my sincerest condolences. She was a good woman.’
>
‘Thank you, Miss Parker. I believe you were helping her with the autobiography?’
‘That’s right.’
He indicated for her to take a seat and then asked, ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Well forgive me for the timing, so soon after the funeral, but it’s about the book—’
‘The autobiography? What about it?’
‘Well, we hadn’t finished and as you’re her next of kin, I wanted—’
‘Oh, I see,’ he said, cutting her off and producing a business card from his pocket. ‘Call my office in the morning and speak to my personal assistant Anabell Lorrier. She’ll see about squaring up outstanding payment.’
‘I’m not talking about payment, Mr Musgrave, although that would be good, thank you. The reason I’m here is to seek your permission to continue writing it. After all, it was your mother’s final wish to have her life story published.’
William let out a little, mocking laugh then, his thin nose crinkling as though he’d just heard something particularly distasteful. ‘Yes, well I really don’t know that the fading memories of my dear old mother are really worth sharing with the entire world. After all, it’s not like she had anything particularly titillating to say, right?’
Roxy stared at the businessman blankly. Was he fishing for information, she wondered? In any case, if William Musgrave knew about his secret sister he was not owning up to it and she wasn’t about to break it to him, at least not until she had proof.
‘Besides,’ he continued, ‘I thought you’d only just started.’
‘We were a third of the way through, but I could quite easily continue the research on my own.’
‘What on earth for?’
‘To cherish her memory, for starters.’ She didn’t try to hide the disdain in her voice but he seemed unperturbed.
‘No, no,’ he was saying in that conclusive way businessmen have of finishing things up and shutting you down. ‘But thank you anyway, Miss Parker. As I say, call Anna tomorrow and you will have your money. We’ll cover all your expenses, don’t worry about that.’
Roxy was infuriated. That’s what William Musgrave thought this was all about, a last pitch effort to profit from his mother. It rattled her nerves but she let him steer her through the shiny lobby, past the guard now standing to attention like he was at Buckingham Palace, and out the exit into the damp outdoors.
‘Would you like the tapes back, then?’ she asked, testing him and, once again, he passed with flying colors.
‘No, no I don’t think that’s necessary. Just dispose of them, that would be fine.’ Roxy smiled to herself. If William had killed his own mother to shut her up, or at the very least sent Roxy the threatening messages, he’d hardly be so relaxed about the interviews. Surely he’d want to get hold of their conversations to determine exactly what Roxy knew.
‘Perhaps,’ Roxy continued, ‘I could give them to Mrs Musgrave’s lawyer?’
‘Why would you want to do that?’
‘Well it seems foolish to trash them in the light of her, um, suicide. They may hold the key to it all. It just seems the right thing to do.’
He was growing quickly impatient and, glancing at his thick, gold Rolex watch, nodded his head and said, ‘Fine. Good idea. As I say, speak with Anabell in the morning and she’ll give you the details for a Ronald Featherby.’
Roxy thanked him and, as she watched him stride quickly inside the building, it occurred to her that William Musgrave was simply not very interested in his dead mother. In fact, he’d probably not given her a second thought since they dragged her lifeless body from the shores of Balmoral Beach five days ago. Beattie’s son was not only harmless, Roxy concluded as she started up her VW Golf, he was heartless, too.
The following morning, Roxy picked up the phone and dialed the number William Musgrave had given her.
‘Good morning, Musgrave Incorporated, Anabell speaking.’
‘Hello Anabell, Roxy Parker’s my name, William—’
‘Oh yes Miss Parker,’ she said, cutting her short, ‘Mr Musgrave told me to expect your call. Can you hold?’
Roxy indicated that she could and waited just three seconds before the assistant returned, providing her with the account department’s details for invoicing, and a phone number for Beattie’s lawyer, Ronald Featherby.
‘Was there anything else I could help you with?’ Her voice was polite but there was a slight edge, too, and Roxy suspected the efficient PA was not exactly happy about Roxy’s unsolicited visit the evening before. It undermined her authority. Roxy had had plenty of experience with executive assistants, her step-dad Charlie had one of his own. Her name was Jenny Golden but they called her ‘the pit bull’ and she more than lived up to her name, refusing anyone, including Roxy and her mother, access to her boss until they had gone through her. It gave her a sense of purpose.
‘Well, actually there was one other thing,’ Roxy said cheerfully.
‘Yes?’
‘I was hoping to get in touch with Fabian Musgrave. Can you put me through to him?’
There was a brief pause before she replied, ‘Fabian does not work with the firm anymore.’
‘Oh, then if you could give me his number that’d be great.’
‘We are not in the habit of handing out personal numbers, you understand?’
‘Oh, of course. Well perhaps, if you do happen to see him, you could pass on my details? Let him know I was hoping to have a chat. My number here is—’
‘I have your details, thank you Miss Parker. Good day.’
Roxy smiled as the line went dead. Anabell Lorrier had obviously been to business school with ‘the pit bull’.
Chapter 11: The Lawyer
Ronald Featherby was the antithesis of his young protégé, Mason Gower, and this disheartened the ghostwriter who suspected from their first handshake that afternoon that he would not be of much assistance at all. Featherby was quiet and assured in a manner only achieved from years of legal wrangling. And he chose his words carefully, deliberately. Well into his 60s, he was semi-bald with gold spectacles on his nose and a suit that was stylish without being showy. His handshake was firm and friendly.
‘I’m so glad to meet you,’ he told Roxy, after offering her a seat and sending his assistant for coffee. Ronald had been most obliging on the phone and asked Roxy to come straight in with the tapes. She thought his urgency odd, but did as he asked and, upon her arrival was whisked straight into his stately office. ‘Beatrice told me quite a bit about you,’ Ronald was saying. ‘She was very fond of you.’
‘Well, thank you Mr Featherby, I’m flattered.’
‘No need to be. I’m sure her faith was not misplaced.’
Roxy wondered if there was a subtle threat in there somewhere. Or was she just being neurotic? ‘Beatrice also spoke highly of you,’ she said. ‘She called you her “saving grace”.’
He leant back in his large leather chair and placed one hand under his chin, as though contemplating, but did not acknowledge the compliment.
‘Not that anything could save her in the end,’ she continued, undeterred. ‘Poor Beatrice. I was so shocked to hear of her...death.’
‘I believe you have some tapes for me?’
‘Yes.’ She fetched them from her bag and placed them in front of him on the desk noting as she did so that it was completely clear of paper, just host to a small laptop, two telephones and several photo frames, which were facing his way. She wondered if he turned them round to face clients when he wanted to give a friendly impression. The assistant appeared with an espresso coffee, which he placed before her, and in his other hand he produced a small silver mug of milk and a silver sugar bowl. He placed them beside the coffee and promptly departed.
‘Thank you!’ Roxy called behind her and then turned back to the lawyer. ‘You’re not joining me?’
‘No, but please enjoy.’ He took up the tapes and scrutinized them. ‘Are these the only copy in existence?’
‘Yes.’ She
was lying, of course. Experience had taught her to duplicate everything, no matter how meaningless they appeared to be. The lawyer didn’t need to know this. He studied each tape carefully and then placed them in a drawer to his right before turning his gaze back upon her.
Ronald Featherby was clearly one of those people who had a tendency to allow long gaps in the conversation, knowing only too well that the likes of Roxy Parker would feel compelled to plug the silence with small talk. This time, however, she bit her tongue and simply sipped her coffee, staring straight back at him. Two can play this game, she thought, and if you’re not giving anything away, neither am I.
‘Are there any outstanding invoices you need me to take care of?’ he said at last.
‘No, thank you, Ronald. William is looking after that.’
‘Fine.’ There was a sense of finality in his voice, although his face retained its warmth and, leaning back in his chair casually, he looked like he had all day. She decided it was time to show her hand.
‘Ronald, I wanted to ask you a question regarding your client.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘According to Beattie you were one of her dearest friends and, being her lawyer you’d be in the best, most objective, position to answer this.’
‘Yes?’
‘It was perfectly clear to me that she wanted her story told. She came to me to write it. She had organized another interview with me just before she died. I understand that death has prematurely silenced her, but I wonder whether I should...whether we should fulfill that wish posthumously.’
‘What exactly do you mean?’
‘I mean finishing the book. Researching it myself. Getting her life story told.’
‘I see.’ He rocked a little on his chair as though giving her suggestion considered thought. After several seconds he sat upright and, his hands interlocked on the desk before him, said softly, ‘I understand your concerns, Ms Parker, and I appreciate them. I’m sure dear Beatrice would, too. But you seem to be forgetting one rather important detail.’
