by C. A. Larmer
‘Oh?’
‘Beatrice Musgrave—may she rest in peace—chose to end her life. I don’t believe there can be any clearer statement that, in fact, she did not want to finish the book.’
‘Yes, but do we really know it was suicide?’
He did not flinch. ‘That’s the official report. I have no reason to question the police, the forensic scientists, the coroner. Perhaps you do?’
‘No, not really, it’s just a hunch.’
‘On what evidence is your, er, hunch, based?’
Roxy slammed her lips shut. She debated whether to tell him about the daughter Beattie had mentioned. Roxy had carried the burden of Beattie’s secret around since her death and was desperate to share it with someone who might be able to shed some light on the truth. She wanted so much to confide in this polite old man with the gray hair and the Grandpa specs. But, again, her instincts begged for silence. So she shrugged her shoulders and said, ‘No evidence. Just a hunch.’
‘I see. Look, Ms Parker, I do appreciate your concern but there is no scoop here.’ He smiled warmly enough but there was a slight cynicism to his tone. ‘Beatrice’s beloved husband died five years ago to the week that she died. Did you know that?’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘She may not have told you, but she never really recovered from the loss. I think, if anything, her final wish was peace...and silence.’
Roxy did not believe him for one moment. In the interviews, Beattie had made it perfectly clear that her marriage was a loveless one. Why, then, would her husband’s death destroy her? No, she knew he was throwing out red herrings and was now thankful she had stayed silent. The lawyer was hiding something and she guessed it had everything to do with the well-dressed derelict and Beattie’s secret daughter.
‘You’re a journalist, too, I believe?’ he said.
‘Yes I am.’
‘I’d like to make one thing crystal clear.’ His tone had turned icily formal. No more Grandpa Ronald, she thought. ‘The information that you retrieved from Beatrice Musgrave was given in good faith and for the sole purpose of her authorized biography. Now that we have...agreed...that the biography is to be aborted, and I believe her next of kin, William Musgrave has also stipulated this, I expect the information to be concealed and any notes that you have made destroyed immediately. In other words,’ and he paused then, as though for effect, ‘it would be morally and ethically reprehensible to use any of the information for your own purposes.’
‘I see.’ She understood him perfectly. He was warning her to shut up. To give the story away. To let sleeping dogs lie. He clearly didn’t know who he was dealing with. In fact, Beatrice Musgrave had signed no confidentiality or exclusivity agreement nor could there be a copyright on her life story. ‘I won’t be using any of the information Beatrice provided to me in our interviews,’ she said calmly, wondering if that was a glimmer of relief that she spotted flickering across his face. ‘But I can’t promise you I won’t be writing about Mrs Musgrave somewhere down the track.’
His eyes turned stony then and she quickly added. ‘I’m not out to hurt anyone Mr Featherby, least of all Beatrice, but I have reason to believe there is more to her death than a case of lovesick suicide, and if my hunch is correct, it is the right of the public to know that. Quite frankly I find it abhorrent that not one of Beattie’s relatives or close friends has questioned this. That you’re all just willing, hell you’re eager to accept that someone as full of life and as dignified as Beattie would throw herself, willy-nilly, over a bloody balcony! It’s ludicrous, and about as likely as you becoming a hip-hop star!’ She took a deep breath, tried to calm down her tone while the old lawyer simply glared at her from the other side of the desk. ‘Now, your power and standing in society may help you to quash the truth, but I’m a journalist, Ronald and I smell a rat.’
He paused, took a deep breath of his own, then said very softly, very sweetly, ‘If there is a rat, Miss Parker, it might end up biting you back.’
‘Is that a threat?’
‘Oh no my dear, just a warning from one friend of Beatrice Musgrave’s to another. I know it’s hard for you to understand this now, but I am acting solely in my dear friend’s interests. Not mine. You need to take a good, hard look at your own motives and decide in whose interests you are working.’
Roxy shook her head and stood up. ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Featherby. It has been most...enlightening.’
She left the office as calmly as she could but Ronald Featherby’s warning echoed loudly in her ears and by the time she reached the elevator, Roxy was shaking from head to toe. The truth was, she wasn’t exactly sure why she was pursuing the woman’s death so passionately. Why couldn’t she just let it go and get on with her carefree existence? Deep down she believed it had more to do with a sense of righteousness—of finishing the job Beattie had hired her to do—than the newspaper scoop he had accused her of seeking.
But was it worth the headache?
Roxy massaged some rich moisturizing cream into her black locks and then swept them up into a warm bath towel. Fastening her bathrobe tight around her waist, she stared hard at her reflection in the mirror. Jet black hair, porcelain white skin, glossy green eyes. It was a striking combination and she was looking okay for 30, she knew that. Few wrinkles remained when her smile dissipated, and she credited good sun-sense and, she had to concede, excellent genes. Her mother was also relatively blemish-free for her age. Still, Roxy wasn’t about to rely on that—she hadn’t been able to rely on her mother in years—and so she picked up some nourishing night cream and applied a little around her eyes, mouth and forehead. Just in case. Then she padded out into the living room, pushed open one window slightly to allow a cool breeze to trickle through and pressed ‘play’ on her stereo. As Nina Simone belted out a sorrowful tune, she made herself a herbal tea and then collapsed onto her sofa to think.
Now that she had calmed down, she had to concede that however odious Ronald Featherby appeared, he was most likely just protecting his client posthumously. It was clear from Mason’s banter at her mother’s dinner party that Featherby knew all about the derelict and her threats against Beattie. In turn, he probably knew about Beattie’s little secret. And now that both women were dead he probably wanted the truth to die with them. The big question was, how much, if anything did he have to do with one or both of their murders?
Roxy stretched her legs out before her and considered the phone message she had received from Maria Constantinople while she was out. In her trademark gruff way she had said simply: ‘Got the piece, it’s good stuff. Didn’t like her much, did ya?’
Roxy cringed. She had hoped her disdain was not so obvious. Heather Jackson did not seem like the sort of person you’d want to make an enemy of.
Chapter 12: The Grandson
While combing her newly washed hair through, Roxy’s doorbell buzzed. ‘Who is it?’ she said into the intercom.
‘Fabian Musgrave,’ came a lazy drawl and the writer blinked back her surprise. It was Beattie’s grandson.
‘I’ll just be a second!’ With the lawyer’s subtle threat clear on her mind, Roxy’s nerves began to jangle and, trying to remain calm, she slowly made her way to street level. This time the fuzzy glass entrance door revealed a slim figure leaning to one side. She swung it open to find that Fabian Musgrave was not so much slim as painfully skinny with a greasy mop of blond hair and the same high cheekbones as his grandmother. In his early 20s, he wore black skinny jeans with a ripped white T-shirt and a dark jacket over it. The jacket looked a little old, ratty even and he appeared more like a down-and-out rock star than the heir to a vast fortune. His face was unshaven and his biker boots were old and scuffed. Only his voice gave him away, it was well-spoken in the same Private-school-boy way as his father’s. He thrust one hand out to shake hers.
‘You’re not what I was expecting,’ he said, giving her the once-over, then added, ‘Can I come in for a minute.’ It wasn’t a question and he was
already halfway through the door.
‘Sure, help yourself,’ Roxy replied. ‘I’m on the fourth floor. You up for the walk?’
‘I think I can manage it.’
Once inside Roxy’s apartment, Fabian immediately took a seat, choosing the largest sofa chair and almost falling into it. Her nerves relaxed considerably. This guy didn’t look strong enough to swat a fly.
‘Can I get you something? A coffee, tea? Orange juice perhaps?’
‘Got Scotch? On the rocks, thanks.’
Roxy glanced at the clock, it was not yet 4pm. She found an old bottle of whisky in the back of a kitchen cupboard, made him a drink and sat down, facing him across her lounge room. He lit a cigarette and dragged on it between sips and she noted that he didn’t bother asking her permission. She got up, opened a window and fetched him a saucer for his ash.
‘Dad’s secretary said you were looking for me,’ he said eventually.
‘Yes I was, but I didn’t mean for you to come all the way over—’
‘Well I’m here now. What’s up?’
‘Nothing really. I just wanted to pass on my regrets.’
‘Oh.’ He sounded disappointed.
‘Yes, your grandmother was a great woman and, as you probably know I was writing her biography.’
‘Yes I did know.’ His sudden smile looked strained. He drained his whisky in one gulp. ‘Speaking of which, what did old Bet’ have to say?’
‘She said you were charming, always popping in, paying your respects.’
‘I mean about life in general.’
‘I’m sorry?’
He got to his feet and walked towards the window where he took long drags on his cigarette, staring out at nothing in particular. ‘I mean, how was the story going? Did she say anything profound, something I can take away with me now that she’s... you know?’
Roxy was not clear what Fabian was driving at but had a feeling it had something to do with the daughter. She wondered if he knew. ‘Not really,’ she said instead. ‘We didn’t get very far, you understand, before she was...well, before she died.’
‘Nothing too exciting then?’
‘Nothing you wouldn’t already know.’ Roxy eyed him from her sofa. What was his game? ‘Perhaps if you’re so interested in her story,’ she said casually, ‘you could give her lawyer a call, he has the original tapes of the interview.’
‘Yes, I know.’ He returned to the sofa and ran one hand through his scraggly hair with what seemed like exasperation. ‘Why did you have to give them to him? He’s not even family, man.’
‘Your dad okay’ed the move. Surely he’ll let you have a copy?’
Fabian sat upright. ‘Look, here’s the thing. She probably told you I was against the book?’
Roxy remained quiet, waiting for him to continue.
‘It’s just that, well, it’s about all of us, you see. It’s all very well for old Beattie to bare her soul in her autumn years, but it’s the rest of us that pay. That is, if she did have anything, you know, interesting to reveal?’ He was probing again and she just shrugged back. ‘So I just want to know if there’s anything she said that might, um, shall we say, affect the rest of us?’
Roxy leant back in her chair as casually as she could. ‘Fabian, apart from how extravagant the wedding reception was, your Grandmother never revealed anything very interesting at all during our taped interviews.’ Strictly speaking that was not a lie, but the young man did not look convinced. ‘Honestly, it was just standard stuff about her childhood. Why? What could she possibly be hiding?’
He considered that for a few seconds and then stamped out his cigarette and lit another. ‘As I say it’s my life, too, I’d just like to know what’s out there.’
‘Well, so far, nothing. Your grandmother’s death put a stop to the book, remember?’ She scanned his face for signs of remorse but it was more like relief that flooded his eyes. He stood up, the cigarette hanging in a kind of James Dean way from his mouth and she wondered how long he’d practiced that.
He shook her hand again, then with a puff of smoke he was out the door and had disappeared back down the stairwell without so much as a thank you. Roxy locked the door behind him just as her smartphone beeped loudly. She had a text message. She dashed into the sunroom and scooped it up, tapping at the numbers until her heart skipped a beat. It was another threatening message:
‘Warning!!! We won’t give you another chance. Drop the story or you die.’
She stared at the screen and shook her head furiously. Roxy had honestly believed the threats would stop now that Beatrice was dead. Had she been on the wrong track all along? And if so, what story were they referring to? In any case, one thing was perfectly clear. There was no way Fabian Musgrave could have sent it.
‘Of course Fabian could have sent the message,’ Max chided as he handed Roxy her glass of Merlot and pulled his own beer, something tall and foreign, up close.
‘How?’ she asked incredulously.
Once again, the good friends were wedged at their usual spot at the far end of the bar in Pico’s.
‘He could have typed the message into his mobile phone before he got there and then just clicked send the second you closed the door on him. It did come after he left, right?’
She thought about this for a moment. ‘Yes, but only just.’
‘Or he could have got someone to send it for him while he was conveniently hanging at your house. Gets him right off the hook.’
‘So he gave himself an alibi.’
‘Yep. That is, if he did send it. You still don’t know that.’
Roxy gulped her wine and shook her head. ‘But what’s the point? Beatrice is already dead. Why threaten me now?’
‘Dunno, maybe he’s just stupid.’
‘Or maybe he—or any of them, his dad, the lawyer—is worried I still might write the piece. It could be a warning to let sleeping dogs lie.’ She considered that for a moment. All three men knew she was still keen to get the story told.
‘Yeah that’s possible. So you’re determined to believe Beatrice Musgrave was murdered?’
‘I just know she was. Her lawyer practically threatened me to butt out today and I have a feeling Beatrice was somehow connected to the Jane Doe found in Rushcutters Bay last week. It could be the same woman who was threatening her at Featherby’s office. How many Chanel-dressed bag ladies can there be? Argh, it’s all so exasperating! In any case, if I could just work out the identity of the people who’ve been emailing and texting me, I might get a few answers.’
‘People?’
‘Yes, well the third message used the term “we”.’
‘You should check the return number.’
‘I did. Zip.’
‘Jesus, it’s quite a tangled web you’ve woven yourself into here, Parker!’
‘Tell me about it. You hungry? Let’s eat.’
Roxy signaled the waiter for a bar menu and, while she scanned it quickly, Max reordered drinks.
‘I’m gonna go the Nachos,’ she told the waiter.
‘And a steak sandwich for me,’ he said. ‘So, Rox, when are you going to tell me about your hot date?’
‘Nothing to tell. How’s your new woman?’
‘Oh no you don’t!’
‘What?’
‘You always do this.’
‘What?’
‘You change the subject. For a woman who spends her life trying to get straight answers out of people, you sure do avoid giving them yourself.’
Roxy played with her drink for a minute and then rolled her eyes resignedly. ‘There was no hot date, Max. It was just that lawyer guy my mother wanted me to meet.’ His jaw dropped and she quickly added, ‘It’s not what you think. I thought he could help me with the Musgrave case, he works for Beattie’s lawyer.’
‘Oh that’s real decent of you.’ He ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head at her.
‘Well I’m being honest.’
‘You’re being manipulative. And
you accuse me of being heartless.’
‘Look, it was a harmless dinner.’
‘Yeah, under false pretenses. The poor guy gets all excited, thinks he’s got a chance, and actually he’s just being used for journalistic purposes.’
‘He’s a lawyer, Max, hardly a lamb to slaughter.’
The food arrived then and they ate in stony silence for several minutes. Max ordered himself another drink.
‘You’re drinking a lot lately, you know.’
‘When did you become my keeper?’
‘Just mentioning it.’
They fell silent again and then Max pushed his plate towards her. ‘Want some chips?’ It was his way of calling a truce and she scooped a few up, trying for a smile. But she was feeling a little forlorn. These weekly drinks were fast losing their sense of fun. They seemed to be arguing all the time, constantly picking at each other, just like she imagined married couples did. She tried changing the subject, she was good at that.
‘Did you bring the funeral photos?’
‘Some of them. I downloaded the rest. They’re on my camera in my bag. I’ll get it in a minute.’
‘Thanks, Max, I appreciate it.’ But there was something in his sad brown eyes that suggested he did not believe her.
The next morning, Roxy awoke with a vicious hangover. She’d downed one too many Merlots the evening before in an attempt to keep up with her drinking buddy and because she hoped it would lighten the mood. She had also resisted, with considerable effort, the temptation to ask for his camera straight away, to scan the pix he took at Beattie’s funeral. The very subject seemed to send his mood southward and so she had decided to wait for another time, when he didn’t have alcohol fuelling his emotions. But, despite her efforts, the evening had remained strained and she wondered, for the first time in a year, whether they ought to catch up the following week. It depressed her enormously but she charged into a steaming shower and tried not to think about it. It was her way.
As the water pumped down upon her, Roxy turned her attention to last night’s text message. She could not be sure who had sent it (again, the return number came up as unlisted) but, even worse, she still could not be sure which story they were referring to. That was the most exasperating part, they could be referring to some other story, not the Musgrave one. The only other option was the Heather Jackson interview. It didn’t seem likely but Roxy had to maintain an open mind. Perhaps someone had it in for the yuppie artist? A rival painter envious of her publicity, perhaps? It seemed like a stretch but she had better look into it, just in case.
