by C. A. Larmer
‘You just said she had died, I assumed from an accident or old age or something. And then I was playing tennis with Janey Swan, you know the one who’s husband works for—’
‘Cut to the chase, Mum, what did Janey Swan say?’
‘She said the woman killed herself, threw herself over a cliff or something.’
‘In any case it’s very tragic,’ Roxy replied.
‘It’s pathetic, that’s what it is!’ Lorraine’s voice had grown agitated, she seemed upset. ‘Suicide is a form of weakness. I’ve always told you that. It’s a coward’s way out. The stupid, stupid woman.’
‘I agree, Mum, but we don’t know the full circumstances.’
‘I don’t care, it’s irrelevant. What about the people she left behind? Did she think about them when she slit her wrist?’
‘Slit her wrist? What are you talking about? Let’s stick to the facts, Mum, apparently she threw herself off her balcony. And quite frankly I don’t think anyone left behind really gives a shit—’
‘Well you don’t know that!’ The woman was almost hysterical and it surprised Roxy. Her mother didn’t usually spare her emotions for anyone besides Charlie and herself. ‘Anyway,’ she continued, a little more calmly, ‘mind your language, dear.’
‘Sorry, Mum. Are you okay?’
She heard a sniffle on the other end of the phone. ‘Fine, fine. I have to be off, Charlie will be home soon and I haven’t even started dinner.’
‘You sure you’re okay? I didn’t know Beattie was a friend of yours.’
‘She wasn’t. I didn’t really know her, not to speak to, anyway. I used to see her about. It’s just tragic that’s all. She was probably more loved than you realize.’
They said their goodbyes and as Roxy made herself a cup of tea it dawned on her that her mother was right. Someone at that funeral did love Beatrice Musgrave very much.
Roxy deserted her tea and dashed to the bedroom to retrieve the funeral photographs she’d taken from Max. She spread them out on the dining room table anxiously. At first she could not find him and she groaned with exasperation. Then she saw him, standing just out of focus in the background to one shot, holding his battered hat, his gray hair wispy around his temples, his black suit sitting awkwardly on his lanky frame. Despite the fogginess of the focus she could tell he had the weathered complexion of a man accustomed to a lot of sun. This had to be the ‘old guy in a beat-up suit and Akubra’ that Max had mentioned, the only man weeping over Beattie’s coffin. She wondered why Max hadn’t taken a close-up picture and, wanting to know more about him, dialed the photographer’s studio. The answering machine clicked in so she hung up and tried his new smartphone. It took several rings before he answered.
‘Can I call you back in a couple of minutes?’ he asked, a little breathless. ‘I’m in the middle of a shoot.’
‘No prob’s, I’m at home.’
She scooped up the photos and returned to the sunroom to switch on her computer. Clicking open the Musgrave file, she began to scan through the transcription of Beattie’s last interviews. As soon as she saw the words, ‘first love’, she stopped and read the paragraph out loud.
‘Oh yes I had my fair share of admiring bachelors,’ Beatrice had said and Roxy had noted that there was laughter in her voice, ‘almost like a giggling school girl!’ she had typed in brackets.
‘Anyone in particular?’ Roxy had prompted.
‘Yes, one very special lad. Frank. He was a dashing farmer’s son from Macksland, a small country town. Strong hands, soft nature. I met him nearly 50 years ago. He was my first love and you can never forget your first love, not even if you try.’
Beside this Roxy had written the words ‘misty-eyed’. It was intended to add color to the manuscript but she wondered now whether there was more to the man from Macksland than she realized. She had a hunch it was the same guy wandering about all alone at Beattie’s funeral, the man Max had captured despite himself. And if so, he must still hold a soft spot for Beatrice Musgrave. She had just looked up Macksland on Google Maps and it was in rural New South Wales, 700 kilometers from Sydney. That’s a long way to travel for someone you hadn’t seen in 50 years.
Roxy sat back in her chair and began playing with her hair, twirling the black strands in one hand. Was this old country guy the father of Beattie’s secret child? Had they seen each other since? Perhaps they’d been secretly meeting all along? And what, if anything, did it have to do with Beattie’s death? Roxy was about to reach for her journal—to get her thoughts into some sort of order—when the phone rang. It was Max.
‘Sorry about that,’ he said, the sound of traffic almost drowning him out. ‘The model’s being a complete prima donna and I don’t know where we dredged the make-up artist from, he’s useless. We’re on our way to the last location now so I’ve got a few minutes. What’s up?’
‘Just a quick question about the funeral again.’
‘Jesus, Roxy, you still obsessing about the old woman? Are you getting paid to do that?’
‘That’s not the point. You mentioned an old guy—’
‘Hey? I can’t...you, what...say—’ The line was breaking up so Roxy spoke as quickly and clearly as she could.
‘I want to ask about the old man you saw at the funeral!’
‘Goldman? Who’s that?’ He could hardly hear her. ‘Oh damn, Roxy, it looks like we’re gonna...out...you there? Hello?’
‘Max, yes, I’m here!’
‘I’ll try you later, we’re in a dodgy transmission area...I’ll...you later.’
‘Okay!’ she called back, exasperated.
‘Hey wanna catch...at Indi...light... cheapie tonight? 8 o’...?’
‘Indian Delight, at 8pm?’
‘Roger!’
‘Okay, Max, see you then!’
She hung up disappointed. Her questions about the farmer would have to wait. In the meantime, she had to get her thoughts on paper before she went insane.
Journal in hand, Roxy jotted down the ‘facts’ as she saw them.
• Beatrice Musgrave had an illegitimate daughter of whom most people, certainly outside of immediate family, had no idea. Fabian had confirmed it.
• Beattie was about to reveal the name and whereabouts of this daughter. She had told Roxy as much.
• Just days before she was due to spill the beans, she ended up dead.
• Beatrice Musgrave had almost certainly been murdered. The police might believe it was suicide but Roxy was not convinced. As Fabian had concurred, Beattie wasn’t the suicidal type.
• Whoever killed Beattie intended for it to look like suicide. If not, they were lucky bastards. I wonder if there was a note? There had certainly been no mention in the media.
• Beattie may have been killed to hide the truth about her daughter.
• The secret daughter may or may not have been alerted to the real identity of her birth mother before Beattie died.
She drew a circle around this last point and then added a bunch of question marks. Surely, if the daughter had been told, she would have put her hand up by now? Shown up at the funeral? Claimed her stake in Beattie’s fortune? As far as Fabian knew, she had not. It had all been silent on that front.
Roxy groaned and stretched, then stared at her notes again. For now she had to assume that the daughter had not been told. The real question then was: who wanted to shut old Beattie up? Roxy suspected that Fabian and his brother-in-law Angelo were not the only ones who would have liked the secret to remain just that. Roxy turned over a new page and jotted down the names: William Musgrave, Ronald Featherby and The Man From Macksland. The son, the lawyer and the first love. Had any of these men wanted to silence the society matron for good?
She considered William first. Was his apparent disinterest cloaking something deeper and more sinister? After all, he lived for the business his father had left him, the business he had successfully built into an even bigger empire after his dad’s death. Sharing it with a stranger was surely u
nthinkable. His own son had thought him heartless. But did he have murder in him?
Next she considered Beattie’s lawyer, Ronald Featherby. He had been one of her closest friends, had acted in her best interests for over 40 years. How far did his loyalty extend? Did he kill the old derelict to save his client embarrassment and then her, too? Perhaps he felt death was preferable to the scandal that her revelation would unleash.
It all seemed too outlandish to the young writer, so she turned her attention to the third suspect, the man from Macksland. Perhaps he had come to Sydney to try to dissuade Beattie from writing the book? If the missing daughter was his, and he had a family or some sort of reputation to uphold, then he may not want the truth to be revealed. But surely if he had killed her he wouldn’t have shown up at the funeral, and he certainly wouldn’t have looked so sad.
‘Arrrggh!’ she screamed, throwing her journal aside. It was all just speculation; her mind was running away with her. None of it made sense and there was still so much she did not know, such as the identity of the missing daughter and what connection, if anything, this had to do with the well-dressed derelict. ‘And who, pray tell, would have the stomach to slice off her fingers?’ And why?!
Roxy thought then of the aggressive Angelo and his waif-like sister. Were they in it together to rob Fabian blind? And how, if anything, was the mysterious Heather Jackson connected? Roxy had still not worked that one out but couldn’t be sure there was any involvement. Heather could be the secret daughter, of course, her age certainly corresponded and they obviously knew each other. At some point Beatrice had given Heather the ghostwriter’s details and Heather had arranged the interview. But why? Perhaps they had simply shared the same hairdresser?
She let out an enormous sigh, checked her watch and then jumped up and began gathering the photos together into a neat pile. She had to get ready for her dinner date with Max. As she placed the pile neatly in a folder, she glanced again at the top picture of the old man in the beat-up hat. Roxy had a feeling he was more than that and made a mental note to ask Max about him that night.
The rich, spicy aroma of chicken korma wafted towards them as the waiter placed a well-heaped plate on the table and Roxy pushed the Indian Naan bread aside to make room for it. She was planted across from Max in a booth at Indian Delight, a cheap Indian restaurant in the grungy heart of Darlinghurst. Dozens of brightly dressed couples, mostly gay, wandered arm in arm on the street outside and the dull thud of the nightclub upstairs could be heard over a tinny tune now coming from a small stereo by the kitchen. Like Pico’s, this was one of Max and Roxy’s favorite haunts.
Tingling with chilled Semillon and hungry as hell, the friends dug into their food and savored the taste, the ‘Delight’s delectable cuisine a conversation stopper every time. Eventually, when she had had her fill, Roxy relaxed into her chair and watched her friend eat.
He had combed his hair today and his long-sleeved, red T-shirt looked freshly washed. He was chomping away at the bread with all the enthusiasm of a kid at McDonald’s and she felt a glow of warmth inside her. Max had been her sanity stick for so long she didn’t know what she would do without him. Secretly, she was pleased he was single again but she would never admit that, certainly not to him.
‘You seem more relaxed tonight,’ he said, stopping to gulp his wine.
‘I feel great.’
‘Any special reason?’
‘Well, Maria Constantinople emailed this afternoon with a bunch of stories she’d like me to do.’
‘Excellent.’
‘I know. They’re all your usual women’s stuff, and they’re not due for a while, but it’s good to have a solid stack of work lined up. I think the Heather Jackson feature has booted me up a few pegs in Maria’s eyes at least.’
‘She really liked it, huh? You want anymore?’ He was already scraping the dregs into his bowl so she didn’t bother answering.
‘Actually, I think she was mainly impressed by the fact that Heather came to her demanding that I do the interview. Suddenly I have some clout.’
‘Heather Jackson came to you?’ He looked up, surprised.
‘Yeah, weird, eh? I think she got my name from Beatrice Musgrave before she died.’
‘Ah, there’s that name again.’
Roxy sipped her wine quietly. Max was being protective and she could understand his concern. To the outsider she certainly must appear obsessed, frantically trying to find foul play where none might exist at all. Roxy sat upright and looked her friend square in the eyes.
‘Can you let me try to explain it to you? I really need you to understand this.’ He shrugged, looking far more interested in the food than anything she might say, so she continued, choosing her words carefully. ‘Beatrice Musgrave revealed her secret daughter to me the day before she died. I believe she had her reasons. She might have foreseen her death and thrown me this clue to set me on the right track, or maybe it was pure coincidence. In any case I owe it to her memory to check out every lead. If nothing comes of it, at the very least I have honed my investigative skills. At best, I might put a murderer away and pay homage to her memory. Which, right now, is in tatters.’
‘And you’re not doing it for the scoop? The great story at the end of it?’
‘Christ, you sound like Beattie’s lawyer!’ She paused. ‘To start with, maybe I was, I dunno. But now, no, I’m honestly not. In fact, if my investigations uncover something that is of no interest to the public and does not serve to respect Beattie’s memory, than I’ll let the whole thing drop. Not give it another thought.’
‘And if you stumble upon the murderer?’
‘I call the police and they take it from there.’ He looked hard into her eyes. He was clearly worried and she tried for a confident smile. ‘I’m not an idiot, Max, you know that. But I can’t just let it drop, not when my conscience tells me otherwise. Can’t you see? I’m doing it for Beatrice, and because it just seems the right thing to do. It’s that simple. Do you understand?’
He sat back and smiled. ‘I understand that you’re a better person than me, Parker. If there wasn’t money in it, I don’t think I would bother.’
‘I don’t believe that for one second. You underestimate yourself, Max. You always have.’
He blushed a little at this and looked away. ‘So, Miss Marple, what now?’
She reached for her handbag and retrieved his funeral shots. ‘That’s why I was calling you this afternoon.’ She placed the clearest picture of the old man in front of him. ‘What can you tell me about this guy?’
‘Country bloke,’ he said, stopping to take a closer look. ‘On his own as far as I could tell.’
‘Did he appear to know the family?’
‘Again, not that I could tell. Actually, no, that’s right Sofia and Fabian said they didn’t know him, in fact, they were particularly interested in who he was, even asked me to photograph him and get his name for them. Apparently he’d gate-crashed, he wasn’t invited.’
‘So where’s the photo?’
‘That’s just it. He refused, wouldn’t let me snap him, not even unposed. He seemed friendly enough, but said we were there for Beatrice, not for happy snaps. Now let me think. He did tell me his first name...’ Roxy went to speak but held her tongue. And then he said it. ‘Frank someone-or-other, I think that’s right.’ She could have reached across the table and kissed him. ‘Anyway,’ he was saying, oblivious to her joy, ‘he said he was from the country and that he and Beatrice went, “way back”.’
‘Did he mention that he was from Macksland?’
He shrugged. ‘Dunno, sorry. What makes you think he’s from there?’
‘Beattie told me her first love was a guy called Frank from Macksland. It has to be the same guy, it just has to be. And I reckon he’s the father of her illegitimate child. In any case I am sure he holds some of the keys to this mystery.’
‘So where to now?’
‘Macksland, of course!’ She took a long sip of her wine and beamed
at him across the table, her green eyes twinkling with excitement under her straight black fringe.
‘You’re kidding, right? That’s a fair hike to go on a hunch.’
‘Well, sweetie it’s not like I’ve got anything worth hanging around for.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment shall I?’
‘You know what I mean. The first of the Glossy stories aren’t due for another fortnight—’
‘Parker, Parker, Parker,’ he said, cutting her off and pushing his own messy fringe out of his eyes. ‘It’s always about work for you isn’t it?’
Roxy signaled for the bill. She was in a good mood, she didn’t want to spoil it, not tonight. As Max walked her to her car she could tell he had grown sullen again. He had been sullen a lot of late and she wondered if there was some horrible secret that was bringing him down. Perhaps he’s suffering from depression, she thought.
‘Can I score a lift?’ he asked. ‘Left the old Holden at home, it was full of equipment.’
‘Of course, jump in.’
They didn’t speak much during the drive but when they reached Max’s warehouse he sparked up. ‘Wanna come in? I’ve got something I want to show you.’
Roxy hesitated. She was tired and she needed to get home and book a flight for Macksland. But there was something in his eyes, a kind of eagerness that she could not refuse. She parked in a side alley and followed him inside. A dim lamp barely illuminated the studio, but he did not attempt to turn any other lights on, simply lit some candles instead.
‘Do you want a drink?’
She shook her head no. ‘What did you want to show me, Max? I can’t stay long, I’ve got to book a flight remember?’
He considered this for some time and then produced a photo from the table and held it up to her. It was a picture of them together at some party they had gone to several months before. They were smiling and their arms were slung casually across each other’s shoulders.
‘What do you see there?’ he asked. Roxy stared at the shot, trying to spot something out of place, to make sense of her friend’s strange mood. She flung her hands up, flustered.
