by C. A. Larmer
As for Lillian Johnson? She had become a celebrity in her own right and while her tale of being hidden away by an evil sister for years was fabulous media fodder, it was her artwork that really inspired people. Roxy was thrilled by the twitters of praise that were now emanating around her.
She was standing to one side, a glass of champagne in hand and beside her were Max, Oliver and the police detective Gilda. ‘Heather Jackson was wrong,’ Roxy told them with a sad smile, ‘There’s nothing off-putting about Lillian at all.’
‘Oh she was just justifying her own greed,’ Gilda said. ‘But she certainly underestimated her sister’s mind. She might not be able to talk very well but she’s as switched on as the rest of us. And she definitely underestimated Lillian’s strength. I gotta tell you, Roxy, if she hadn’t come along when she did and started ramming that maniacal sister of hers, you mightn’t be with us today.’
‘I’m well aware of that and still working through it, thanks very much for reminding me,’ Roxy replied with a shiver and a smile. ‘I gather poor Lilly knew nothing about her sister and niece’s murdering spree? Or the fact that she was even being duped?’
‘Not a thing. They restricted her contact with the outside world and monitored what she watched on TV and read in the papers. You’re just lucky Lillian was awake when you broke in. She says she heard the whole thing and that’s why she came to your rescue. Actually I think she thought you were the maniac until Sally started talking. And then of course when she saw her sister with the gun... Deep down she knew they were bad eggs, but she had no idea of the extent of it.’
‘So how did she get out? I gather the doors were locked?’
‘The adjoining bathroom door was locked but not the main bedroom door. It seems they missed that one.’
‘But didn’t she wonder why they locked her away, why she wasn’t allowed out?’
‘Oh but she was! They took her on occasional excursions I believe. They just did it incognito, always using vans from the delivery entrance, and going to out of the way places. She thought nothing of it. As long as she was left alone with her paints, she was content. Apparently she was often asked to paint people she didn’t know or like, as a “favor” to her sister, but she never really thought anything of it. Had no idea her sister was passing them off as her own. If you look at the artworks at the house, all the signatures have been removed. She was none the wiser. I gather, though, that Lilly didn’t much like her sister and niece but it seems she trusted them both implicitly. That’s why she moved in with them after her parents died. By the way, that was the only murder you got wrong.’
Roxy looked up from her glass. ‘Oh?’
‘Yeah. The Johnson’s did die in a legitimate car crash, from a brand of brakes that were known to be faulty. That’s where Heather got the idea for Margarita’s death. She gave her the same model vehicle to use, took out the working brakes, put in the faulty brand and waited for the accident to happen.’
‘Bloody lucky it happened on a lonely stretch of road!’
‘Heather Jackson was one of the luckiest con artists I have ever met,’ Gilda agreed. ‘It’s a miracle no-one twigged until now.’
‘Until nosy Roxy Parker, you mean,’ said Oliver and they all drank to that.
Roxy ignored them and asked, ‘What about the midwife?’
‘That was her first little test of the brakes. It didn’t quite work, though, Agnetha was just maimed. Heather had to finish the job, of course. Agnetha was threatening to tell all. It seems she’d been blackmailing both Beatrice and Heather for years, and that’s partly why Beattie decided to tell the truth once and for all. Better to make a clean breast of it.’
‘So the designer clothes she was wearing?’
‘A gift from Heather, I suspect, to shut her up. When that didn’t work, we believe Heather killed her but not before slicing the extra fingers off in the hope of hiding the old midwife’s identity.’
Max laughed then. ‘Idiot! If only she’d known that would be the one thing that would catch Roxy Parker’s attention.’
‘Yeah,’ Oliver said. ‘If she’d just let old Agnetha drown no-one would have noticed. She would have been just another sad Sydney statistic. Silly woman.’
‘So what about Beatrice?’ Roxy continued, desperate to get the facts. It had been a few weeks since that dreadful night, but it was her first chance to properly catch up with the policewoman. Roxy had been preoccupied with ticking off a few freelance articles and licking her wounds, while Gilda had been tied up with the investigation.
She took a long sip of her champagne and then said, ‘Well it seems your first interview with Heather for Glossy magazine sped that murder up a bit.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Sally tells us—and thank God for her, Heather has been characteristically tight-lipped—that during your interview at Lockies Cafe, Heather overheard you say Beatrice Musgrave was about to reveal something big.’
‘Aye!’ chirped Lockie suddenly appearing from behind them. After quick introductions were made all around he said, ‘Remember, Roxy? Heather was on the phone and I asked you to a shindig the following Monday.’
‘And I said no because one of my clients was about to reveal something BIG. Damn it. If only I’d kept my big mouth shut.’
Max punched her gently on the shoulder. ‘Hey, come on, you weren’t to know Heather had set the whole thing up to see what you knew.’
Roxy sighed. ‘Yeah, I just thought she wanted to be interviewed by the great Roxy Parker.’ She shook her head angrily. ‘So Heather panics, realizing she’s running out of time, and races over there to throw poor Beattie off her balcony.’
‘Charming isn’t she?’ That was Oliver. ‘Come on guys, enough of the gore, let’s go and get some tucker, I’m starved.’
‘Any chocolate?’ Gilda chirped and Roxy allowed herself to laugh for the first time in a long while as they zigzagged through the crowd and past dozens of Lillian’s wonderful, bright portraits, towards a table set up with a range of hors d’oeuvres. They each helped themselves and then returned to their quiet corner.
‘So what about that dodgy grandson, Fabian?’ Max wanted to know before stuffing an elaborate prosciutto and asparagus concoction into his mouth.
‘Oh he’s pretty harmless,’ Gilda replied and then turning to Roxy, said, ‘Of course you could still press assault charges on the thuggish brother-in-law.’
Roxy shook her head. ‘No I don’t think so. That lot have got problems of their own. Good riddance, I say. And what about the lawyer, Ronald Featherby?’
‘He’s pulled the client confidentiality card on us. Not saying very much at all.’
‘Sneaky bastard.’
‘Yeah well, in any case I figure he knew of Beattie’s past but had zip to do with Agnetha’s murder. Not really his style. We’re pretty confident it was all Heather’s doing, with a little help from Jamie and Sally-Anne.’
Suddenly the crowd began to part and Roxy spotted Lillian being wheeled towards them. An enormous smile enveloped her face and Roxy felt as if she was seeing the portrait, ‘Not Drowning, Waving’ in the flesh this time: happy, content, surprisingly self-assured. When she was directly in front of Roxy she stopped and flung one hand, her only working hand, towards her. Roxy took it warmly in her own. A woman stepped out from behind her and also held out her hand.
‘I’m Petra, Lillian’s new assistant and we’d both like to say a warm thank you for everything that you’ve done.’
‘It was nothing at all,’ Roxy insisted and then, turning to Lillian asked, ‘Are you going to be okay?’
Lillian’s eyes lit up and she bobbed her head several times. ‘Y-ee-es,’ she said happily.
The assistant added, ‘Lilly would like me to tell you that, as a special thank you present, she would love to paint your portrait some time. That is if you’re available.’
Roxy couldn’t contain her delight. ‘I would love to! Thank you!’
Later, when Lilly had lef
t, Lockie grabbed Roxy’s arm. ‘You have to let me come and watch! You have to!’
‘Whoa, down boy!’ She smiled. ‘Of course you can come. I couldn’t think of a better person to keep me company.’
And then Roxy took a long, slow sip of her champagne. It wasn’t her favorite, Merlot, but tonight it would do the job. She raised her glass into the air.
‘This one’s for you, Beattie Musgrave,’ she said softly as the crowd swelled around her again.
About the Author
Christina Larmer is a journalist, magazine editor and author of A Plot To Die For (the second 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/
[email protected]
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 point 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.
