by C. A. Larmer
“But your father knew.”
“Yes,” she said, choking back sobs and staring into Roxy’s eyes imploringly, “but he forgave me, don’t you see?! Before he died, in the hospital, he made it clear it was okay. Why else would he call me in, tell me where the deed was? He finally understood how much it meant to me, how angry I was and he must have regretted that decision. In his dying breath he didn’t accuse me of hurting him, he didn’t try to tell the police, instead he said your name. He wanted me to track you down and find that deed. He wanted me to have that mine. I know he did.”
Whatever makes you feel better, thought Roxy bitterly. Instead she said, “So why didn’t you just come to me and tell me the truth? Ask me to help you find the deed to the mine? Why pretend to have no idea what he was talking about? I was chasing my tail for half the week.”
“How could I tell you? That gave me a motive for ... ”
“Murder?”
“For his accident! I didn’t mean to kill him!”
She sobbed again as the waitress waved, catching Roxy’s attention. She looked up and then across to the front door where Gilda and Calhoun were standing, a look of anticipation on their faces. Roxy held a hand up to stall them. She was close to getting the whole story now but she needed to know one more thing, if only to help her sleep better at night.
“So that’s why you broke into my apartment? You were trying to find the deed?”
“That wasn’t me!”
“No, it was your goon of a husband. But he didn’t find anything, right?”
Sondra looked away and blew her nose again.
“You tried to put me off his scent, didn’t you? Told me your husband was tiny, ‘the size of a gnome’, but you lied, Sondra. I recognised him anyway from that stupid, Russian, floppy eared winter hat he wears, he had it on today and he was wearing it the night he broke into my house. They looked like bunny ears in the dark.”
She glanced back at Roxy, chewing on a fingernail again. “I’m so sorry about that. I told him I would take care of it. But he didn’t listen! He said it was easier if he could just get into your place, look for the deed and go. We didn’t know where it was, we didn’t realise it was in the photo, but we had to try. Tony said no one needed to get hurt. No one would even know what we were after. But when he couldn’t find it there or ...”
“At the publisher’s?”
She nodded. “Well, that’s when I knew I had to speak to you directly. I thought Dad must have given the deed to you at first, told you about it for Wolfgang’s book. But when you had no idea, I figured it must be attached to that photo. That was the only thing he’d given you. That’s why I hired you. I’d read how you did a little sleuthing and I honestly thought you’d find it taped to the back of the photo or written on the back or something. I never realised it was in the frame. But you found it. I knew you would.”
Yes, thought Roxy, but you hadn’t counted on me finding more than an old handwritten deed.
“The police are here,” Roxy told her gently, leaning back and waiting for the fallout, but she didn’t look alarmed. She simply nodded slowly and straightened her hair, pulling it into a tight ponytail again.
“Good,” she said eventually. “I’ve had enough of all of this. It’s ... it’s nearly killed me. The guilt. The anxiety. It’s not worth ...”
She stopped, choked back a sob and Roxy said, “What? All the gold in the world?”
Sondra didn’t say a word as she walked her out to where Gilda and Calhoun were waiting, handcuffs at the ready.
Chapter 35
Spring had shown up at last and everywhere the sun was shining, the birds were chirping and the first flower buds were beginning to sprout, but none of this was of any interest to Roxy Parker. She was wedged inside the cool, dark confines of Pico’s Wine Bar, an oily plate of tapas and a glass of merlot in front of her. To her right sat Gilda, also enjoying tapas on a lunch break from work. She had a glass of cola in her hand and was raising it in a toast to Roxy.
“Are you sure we can’t talk you into joining the force?”
Roxy laughed, brushing a strand of hair back with one hand and raising her glass to her lips with the other. “I’ve told you before, you simply couldn’t afford me.” She bat her eyelashes playfully.
Gilda placed her glass down and produced her smartphone, glancing at it briefly. “Waiting to hear back from Forensics,” she explained. “They’ve impounded both of Tony Lane’s white vans and it looks like one of them has had work done recently, so we suspect that was the one used in the hit and run. They’ll find out soon enough.”
“And Tony’s not telling?”
“Neither is Sondra. We have her confession to you but she’s retracted everything, of course, and lawyered up, big time. Berny’s neighbour might be some use, and we have the waitress’s testimony, too. They’re not getting away with this, Roxy, I can assure you.”
“They very nearly did.”
“That’s true. If she hadn’t called you in to investigate, if she’d left it all alone, she probably would have got away with manslaughter and be free as a bird right now.”
“But she might not have found the deed to the old Byou mine.”
Gilda chewed on a calamari ring. “No use to her in jail.”
“So what does happen to the gold mine? Where does it end up?”
“With Renata and her son, if they play their cards right.” Gilda winced. “Sorry, no pun intended. She’s had lawyers lining up to represent her; apparently she’s got a good case for ownership so, well, she could end up a very rich woman. You know, I can’t help wondering if she’s smarter than she looks. Did she marry Berny Tiles for the money or for the visa so she could stay in the country? Or both?”
Roxy shook her head. “I like to think, deep down somewhere, it was love. And if it wasn’t love, maybe it was to escape a sexual predator.”
Gilda nodded firmly “We already asked if her son was Wolfgang’s, but she’s not telling. Still, you’ve got to wonder. The timeline certainly fits. Renata has been working for Wolfgang for almost twenty years, and the son’s nineteen. She started as a sixteen-year-old at one of his houses in Jakarta, apparently. He only brought her out here about four years ago. I believe Berny first met her then and, yeah, maybe he gave up the gold mine in exchange for Renata, not so much for himself, but maybe to get her out of Wolfgang’s house, save her from that sleazebag.”
Roxy grimaced. “I’d like to think so, too, but I have a feeling he died still thinking Wolfgang was a hero. So where does all this leave Sir Sleazebag?”
“Back in his plush mansion, minus one gold mine. Oh, and a wife, apparently. I hear Ginny’s filing for divorce. Betty’s allegations were the last straw. Hasn’t spoken to her husband since Betty made her statement about that night of the Survey Congress. Thanks to Betty, Sir Sleazebag is officially out of the closet.”
They clinked their glasses to that. “I’m so glad Betty finally spoke out about him,” said Roxy, “told the world what a monster he is.”
“Yes, it was very brave, but I’m afraid it won’t count for much at this late stage. There is such a thing as a statute of limitations, plus it was in Indonesia and all the witnesses are now deceased. Still, mud sticks and people are already looking sideways at him. You’ve gotta love that. His reputation is stuffed, but legally he’s off the hook and, physically, at least, he’s on the mend; I’m told he’ll be up and about marketing his autobiography soon. I hear it’s brilliantly written.”
She winked and Roxy scowled. “I wish I could take that book I wrote and tear into a million pieces. I always knew he was a slimeball, but I had no idea how dangerous he could be.”
She shuddered thinking of all the times she had been alone with the man, of all the sleazy comments she had deflected during their interviews, as if they were harmless. But he wasn’t harmless at all, at least he wasn’t once. Perhaps it was just old age that had saved Roxy Parker. She shuddered again.
“I talked to the
publisher and of course they aren’t going to mention anything about Betty’s rape allegations,” Roxy said. “They insist it’s all scandals and lies, that she’s made it all up to get her son off the hook.” Roxy scoffed. “They were quite keen, though, to add a chapter about the Byou gold mine saga. Thought that would make brilliant copy. Not surprisingly, Wolfman has nipped that idea in the bud. He’s paying for the book, so well, money always wins in the end. That’s one bio I’m glad I haven’t got my name on. Sometimes it’s a relief being a ghost.”
They munched on their calamari and a fresh plate of Chorizo sausage that had just arrived, and didn’t speak for few delicious minutes before Roxy asked about Betty’s son. Despite what Brian had promised his mother, he didn’t confess to anything when questioned by Gilda but was currently out on bail facing two charges of murder and one of attempted murder and break and enter.
“He’s up the proverbial creek,” Gilda said, licking her fingers. “Pathology has already connected his DNA to DNA found at the Brownlow crime scene, and we’ve matched his mobile phone to the call that came in for Gordon Reilly the night before he died.”
“The one pretending to be someone from the Matt Talbot Hostel?”
“Yep, Brian must have listened in to your phone call to Betty and found out where his dad was staying. The owner of the bedsit says Gordon got a late phone call that night, saying they needed him in at the hostel, first thing in the morning. Brian obviously wanted to draw his dad out. I don’t know if he intended to push him down the steps originally, or if he just cracked, but he’ll probably plead manslaughter to that one if he’s smart. Still, the fact remains he killed his own dad while trying to avenge his mother, some thirty-seven years later. Crazy stuff, eh?”
Roxy shook her head sadly. “This whole saga is insane. It’s horrendous how one drunken night in a foreign land back in 1975 has managed to destroy so many lives.”
“And one simple picture was able to bring the truth out.”
“Two, actually,” said Roxy. “If it wasn’t for the restaurant Polaroid showing Sondra and Tony in the background on Father’s Day, she may never have cracked.”
Gilda nodded. “What do they say about a picture being worth a thousand words?”
“That’s it, although I do think the photo at the Survey Congress is the one that really speaks volumes. I looked at it again last night and it gave me a chill. I was so wrong about that one. It wasn’t a boring picture at all. If you look closely you can see Berny, staring over towards one side. I thought he was leering at Betty, but he wasn’t. He was ogling his idol, Wolfgang, the man who could do no wrong. And there was poor Betty, innocently smiling, Wolfgang wedged right up to her, a little too close to comfort. And in the middle of the photo is the poor hubby Gordon, looking miserable, as if he already knew his life was about to take a terrible turn.”
They both sighed and Gilda ordered another round of drinks. As they waited, Roxy had a sudden, bleak thought.
“Do you think Berny mentioned my name as he lay dying to help his daughter out? To make sure she got hold of the deed to the gold mine? Or do you think he said it to show everyone that she had a motive to kill him? To make sure she got caught?”
Gilda’s eyes widened. “Oooh, that’s creepy! I’d like to think the former, but who knows with families. As Betty’s son has just shown, they can be ugly, vindictive beasts.”
She paid the barman for the drinks and waited until Roxy had several sips under her belt before she said, “Speaking of which, heard how Max is doing?”
Roxy scowled. “Yeah, he’s well. Why wouldn’t he be? He’s in Berlin, making a small fortune.”
“You know this because you’ve buried the hatchet and are talking or ...?”
Roxy blushed. “Caroline is my informant. She’s furious with us both for the way things ended.”
“So it has ended?” Gilda looked disappointed but not surprised.
Roxy blew a strand of black hair from her face. “I don’t know. But he’s over there and I’m over here and ...”
“... never the twain shall meet?” Gilda looked at her sideways. “Jesus, woman, there are these new inventions called airplanes. They’re amazing. You can catch one and be with him in less than twenty-four hours, you know? Not to mention Skype, e-mail, Facebook ...”
Roxy shrugged. “Yeah, well, maybe one day. We’ll see.”
Little did Roxy Parker know, she would be heading to Berlin within weeks, and she would be doing it for all the wrong reasons, but that’s a story for a future date. For now, Roxy was simply trying to deconstruct another gruesome week in the life of a ghostwriter. So much for her promise to Lorraine and Max.
“Come on,” Roxy said, “let’s drink up and toast old Berny Tiles. Killed by his own daughter, and on Father’s Day. I think I’ve got problems? It doesn’t get much sadder than that.”
Gilda agreed and raised her glass.
######
About the Author
Christina Larmer is a journalist, magazine editor and author of Killer Twist, A Plot To Die For and Last Writes (the first three 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 Agatha Christie Book Club
Part 1
Everything was ready. The table was set, the flowers arranged, the English Breakfast tea was brewing in a delicate china teapot and there was a plate of cucumber and crème fraîche sandwiches beside it (crusts cut off, of course). It was the perfect backdrop for the inaugural meeting of the Agatha Christie Book Club.
And it was the perfect place to set a murder in motion.
As the seven members of the new book club nursed cups of tea and waved battered copies of Evil Under the Sun around with gusto, one member was watching the group very closely. This person didn’t really care about the book, didn’t give a jot about Agatha Christie if truth be told, had just pretended to care, to gain entry to this club, and to get the devious plan rolling.
And it was a good plan! There was no point in false modesty now. It had taken a lot of time and a lot of effort, but it would all be worth it in the end. If it worked—and how could it not?—it had the potential to destroy one life, wreak havoc on another, and leave this bunch of pretenders for dead.
They would never know what hit them.
The book club member sniggered. Hell, even the great Agatha Christie would be left scratching her head...
Part 2—Chapter 1 (Three weeks earlier)
Alicia Finlay was in the wrong book club.
She hadn’t realised it at first. Had come along, faithfully, every month for three months, the latest Pulitzer Prize-winning novel wedged under her arm, a strained smile on her lips, and pretended to be having fun. But there was no fun to be had.
Finally, on the fourth Monday night, it dawned on her.
You could blame the bottle of red. Alicia had been sitting quietly enough, half listening to a monologue about the central themes of this novel—something to do with British Imperialism and ‘inevitability’, apparently—when a 2007 Margaret River cabernet sauvignon caught her eye. It looked delicious. So, too, did the plate of hors d’oeuvres that had been placed, along with the bottle and eight crystal wine glasses, just out of reach on a side table. Alicia spotted miniature crepes topped with salmon and goats cheese; asparagus sticks rolled in thin slices of prosciutto; an
d something that looked vaguely like pâté.
But she knew how these things went. It would all have to wait until the serious chatter was over. Alicia glanced furtively at her watch. Forty minutes to go. Her mouth salivated and she turned to the man on her right but he was deeply engrossed in something the woman to her left was saying.
“The glass church is, I think, a potent symbol of Oscar’s vanity and, er, the vulnerability of his misguided belief system,” the woman, Verity, a jittery, primary school teacher, explained. “It’s, well, you know... both strong and fragile at the same time. Don’t you agree, Alicia?”
Alicia darted her eyes from the side table where they’d strayed again to the grey haired woman talking and smiled awkwardly.
“Oh, um, I...” She paused. Chuckled a little. “Actually, sorry, wasn’t really paying attention. Thought I might help myself to a glass of red.”
“Red?”
“You know, red wine.” She stood up. “Does anyone else want me to get them a glass while we’re chatting? Something to eat?”
The book group’s hostess, Kirsten, sat forward with a start. As always, she was immaculately dressed, this time in a beige cotton top, black linen pants and chunky red, resin beads that looked like they’d been plucked straight out of an up-market magazine fashion spread. Her black hair had been yanked into a stiff straight bob around her neck, no doubt in line with the current fashion but, coupled with sharp cheekbones and porcelain skin, left her looking a little like a wicked witch. Alicia wondered whether she realised that.
“Ahh, sorry, Alicia,” said Kirsten, “but it’s not really time for wine, we’re still in discussion mode.” She tapped her thin, gold wristwatch twice.
“Oh,” said Alicia, dropping back into her seat. “We can’t discuss and drink at the same time?”
