A Note Before Dying
A Ghostwriter Mystery (Book 6)
by
C.A. Larmer
Copyright © 2015 Larmer Media
Revised © 2016
www.christinalarmer.com
Discover other titles by C.A. Larmer at Smashwords.com:
Killer Twist
A Plot to Die For
Last Writes
Dying Words
Words Can Kill
An Island Lost
The Agatha Christie Book Club
Murder on the Orient (SS): The Agatha Christie Book Club 2
calarmerspits.blogspot.com.au
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License Notes
This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Published by Larmer Media, 64 Jarretts Road, Goonengerry,
NSW 2482, Australia
E-book ISBN: 978-0-9942608-0-2
Cover design by Larmer Media
Edited by Michelle Sim, Novel Proofreading
& Elaine Rivers (with thanks)
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Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
About the Author
Connect online
Prologue
The young woman looked up at the figure in the distance, her pale blue eyes widening with surprise. It had been raining solidly for three full days and she had a classic case of cabin fever, eager to get out and return to his arms. But this was not who she was expecting. Feeling disappointed and somewhat caught off guard, the woman still managed a wave as her shoulders relaxed beneath her soggy poncho.
“You’re not going to lecture me again, are you?” she asked, turning back to the creek to search out the shiny red Coolamon leaf she had thrown in earlier. She spotted it now, still trying to snake its way through the rapids and out towards the clearing before becoming snagged between two rocks. She watched the leaf for a few more seconds, wondering if she should try to free it. Her clothes were already sodden from the rain and she had stupidly donned her new suede boots, eager to impress him, but she was damned if she was going to ruin them after just one wear.
Besides, Sam would probably accuse her of cheating. He had such suffocating standards it drove her berserk.
“Wanna race me?” she asked, as the sound of branches crackled underfoot just behind her. “These Coolamons can really move.” She bent over to grab another leaf from the muddy bank, turning back just in time to see a flash of brown before something thick and wet smacked her in the face.
She should have been shocked, outraged even, but she was too busy trying to stop from toppling into that frigid, rushing water. Too late, another “thwack” and she was down this time, headfirst into the creek and caught up against the same rocks that held her leaf prisoner. She had to get up; she knew that very clearly but she was feeling heavy, as though she’d just taken a shot of heroin, and there were black sparkles in front of her eyes.
As she tried to stand, the woman felt something rough wedge into her cheek. A wooden plank? A boot perhaps? Whatever it was, it pushed down hard and unrelenting until her face was fully submerged in the icy depths.
This is what happens when you play with fire. She thought with quiet despair. This is what happens when you disobey your brother.
Then as the last bubbles of oxygen escaped from her paling lips, the young woman spotted her tiny racer dislodge and make a bid for freedom, and she felt a momentary sense of jubilation before darkness finally descended.
Chapter 1
Roxy Parker stared hard at her reflection and frowned. The tailored black jacket and blue and white striped scarf looked okay, so, too, the oversized baggy T-shirt, slipping down ever so slightly on one shoulder, cutting in close to her hips, then across her skinny blue jeans, just enough to hide the fact that she wasn’t quite so skinny anymore.
When on earth had that happened?
She tugged the T-shirt lower, then glanced down to her maroon ankle boots and up to her dangly earrings, all the while chewing mercilessly on her lower lip.
Something was still not right.
Leaning into the mirror, she squinted at her face. Too much makeup, perhaps? Grabbing a tissue, she blotted back the red lipstick, dampened down the eyeliner and stared hard again. Nope, still wasn’t working; she looked ridiculous. That was it. She was trying too hard. Roxy groaned and tugged at the scarf, pulling it off, then ripped out the earrings and reached for a delicate silver necklace. As she dropped it around her neck, she smiled. That was better. Less try-hard, she thought.
The phone rang shrilly and she grabbed it, then tried to sound casual: “Hello, Roxy Parker speaking.”
“Ready for your hot date?” It was her friend and agent Oliver Horowitz and he had that trademark smirk in his tone, the one that boiled her blood.
“It’s an interview, Olie, not a date.”
“Sure it is. So why’re you stressing over your outfit?”
Roxy’s eyes swept around the room. Had she left her front door open? Did he have a telescopic lens peering in through her fourth-floor apartment window?
Olie chuckled. “I know you, Rox, I know your every neurosis. I know you’ve spent all morning trying to work out what to wear, and before that, half the night trying to come up with questions that make you sound like an uber-cool rock chick.”
She relaxed. “You are the polar opposite of cool, Olie. You know that, right?”
“Are you saying I’m hot, Roxy?”
“I most certainly am not! You have an atrocious way of twisting words,” she said.
Oliver laughed. “That’s why I’m the literary agent and you’re the one doing the interviews.”
Roxy felt her stomach clench again. It had been doing that for the past week, ever since Oliver had announced her latest ghostwriting gig; an autobiography for one of Australia’s hottest musicians, Jed Moody, of the infamous Moody Roos. The band had been Australia’s premier
rock act in the 1990s, and while their star had faded of late—thanks to encroaching middle age, a spate of mediocre albums and the frontman’s dodgy dye job (why, Roxy often lamented, did older men think faux black hair suited them?)—Jed, at least, was still a household name. Several solo albums, the odd arrest for drug possession and a sexy swagger that hadn’t diminished all these years later, made sure of that. And despite the bad hair, Jed had kept her heart rate at rocket speed for the past week. Roxy didn’t normally worship false idols, and found most celebrities boring at best, but there was something about Jed.
She took a few deep breaths and eye rolled Oliver.
“What do you want, Olie? I’m a very important person and I’ve got to get off the phone. I have a plane to catch.”
“Not before brunch with your literary agent, you don’t. Haven’t forgotten that, have you? We’re all waiting.”
“Well, I’d be there now if you let me get off the phone and finish getting ready.”
“By ‘getting ready’ you mean ‘tarting yourself up’?”
“By ‘literary agent’ you mean ‘the guy who takes 15 percent for being a smart arse’?”
He laughed again and hung up.
Roxy’s local, Peeps Café, was bursting to the brim and out onto the sidewalk. She had to take a good look around before spotting her friends, just inside, wedged together against the coffee bar, deep in conversation.
She smiled and made her way through the queue. They had managed to save her a stool, and she dropped onto it, stealing quick kisses from the group as she went.
“I can’t believe you all made it,” she said, waving off the menu Oliver was holding out. “I am only going for a week, you know that, right?”
Gilda Maltin scoffed. “You’ve barely been back a fortnight and you’re off again. I had to take the day off work just to see you.”
“Really, you took a day off for me?” Roxy blinked incredulously. Gilda was one of the state’s finest detectives and had been working virtually nonstop since being promoted to the Homicide Serious Crime Squad.
“Well, how else am I supposed to catch up with my best mate?”
“You could bring out the cuffs and chain her to her apartment bed,” suggested Oliver, and Gilda stared at him, her top lip curled up.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
His beady little eyes narrowed and he nudged his chunky eyebrows up and down.
“Urrgh, you guys are disgusting,” said Caroline, her button nose wrinkling. “Well, I’ve seen more than enough of Roxy over the past month, thank you very much. I’m just here for the coffee, if it ever comes.” Her big brown eyes glared at the waiter who was usually more attentive but was now busily sweating over a hot espresso machine. Caroline was the youngest in the group, the pretty blonde one, and she wasn’t used to being ignored, didn’t like it one bit.
“Give him a chance, Caro,” said Lockie, their Scottish café owner friend whose many years in Sydney had not diminished his thick accent. “It’s hard work when ye café gets a five-star rating in the Herald. Bet the crowds have been coming thick ’n’ fast ever since.”
“Yeah.” Oliver groaned. “It’s been the curse of this place. We used to have it to ourselves, eh, Rox? Maybe we should have met up at your caf’, Lockie.”
He mock shuddered. “Noooo way, I needed a break. Place has been a wee bi’ stressful of late.”
“Why?” Roxy asked. “What’s going on?”
Gilda held a hand in the air. “Hold it right there. Sorry, Lockie, but we’re here to catch up with Roxy. Are you all packed? Excited about meeting Juicy Jed?” Her smile was smarmy.
Roxy shook her head. “What is it with everyone? I’m interviewing the man, for a book. I’m a professional, okay? This is a ghostwriting assignment. I am not going to Byron Bay to hook up.”
“Well you can’t, the guy’s married,” said Olie, and Caroline snorted.
“Like that’s ever stopped anyone.”
“Least of all Jed Moody,” added Lockie. In response to everyone’s raised eyebrows, he added, “What? I scan the gossip mags while I’m at the supermarket, too, ye know.” He turned to Roxy. “Besides, I thought Max was the only man for you.”
The very mention of photographer Max Farrell’s name brought the group to an awkward silence and Gilda and Caroline began shooting death stares at the Scotsman. He looked at them bemused, then back at Roxy who just sighed.
“You clearly aren’t as switched on as you think, Lockie. Max and I have broken up. For good this time... It’s over. We’ve both agreed, and we’re happy with that. Right, Caroline?”
Max’s sister gave a noncommittal shoulder shrug and, sensing Roxy’s growing discomfort, Gilda quickly jumped in. “Rightio then, let’s drop that tender subject and get back to Juicy Jed, shall we?”
“No,” said Roxy. “This needs to be made clear, once and for all.” Roxy took a deep breath and spoke very slowly, as if addressing a group of dimwits. “Max. And. I. Are. Not ... I repeat not ... An. Item. Got it? We’re best mates. He’s in Berlin, where he works, I’m heading to Byron Bay—”
“To interview a rock god, no less,” said Gilda, trying to lighten the mood, and Roxy nodded.
“Exactly. And that’s all there is to it.”
Yet, as she got up to order a latté, she couldn’t help wondering why her heart still felt like it had been pummelled with a sledgehammer.
When Roxy returned, Oliver had a plastic folder out in front of him. He was wading through what looked like press clippings and website printouts while Caroline and Lockie keenly watched on. Gilda had stepped outside to take a phone call, and Roxy stole her stool, closer to Oliver, and raised questioning eyebrows at him.
“The Moody Roos’ publicist couriered this over late yesterday. Says it might help.”
“Anything interesting?”
“Nah, just stuff about past albums, a few interviews, nothing sensational. You’re in for a treat, though, the house looks like a stunner.”
He handed over a glossy six-page spread, clearly ripped from the pages of a luxury home living magazine, which featured an enormous white timber Queenslander-style mansion. The photos were mostly of the interior and revealed expansive polished wooden floorboards and expensive designer furniture. In several shots, the blurred image of a thin, black-haired woman could be seen striding, first through a gleaming silver kitchen, then along a tapestry lined hallway, like a ghostly presence, just beyond the camera’s grasp. It sent Roxy’s memory barrelling through time.
She had an immediate flashback. It was circa 1998, she was wearing her favourite ripped denim jeans and tight Stussy T-shirt, standing, wedged to one side of a smoky inner-city pub, watching a late-night gig by the Moody Roos. The bass player, Alistair Avery, was on the right-hand side of the stage, his body barely moving as he plucked at his bass and stared out at the crowd through black-rimmed glasses, a look of utter boredom on his face. The drummer, Doug someone-or-other, was up the back, hammering away with his sticks, a goofy smile on his lips and his long blonde curls flying about as he played. In front of them both and eclipsing the band with sheer energy and pizzazz, was the eternally sexy Jed Moody, the real reason everyone had showed. Back then he was already getting long in the tooth, and was no longer filling concert halls, but that night the place was packed. Roxy remembered a gaggle of groupies hanging out at the front of the stage, clinging to his every word, ogling him lasciviously as he strutted the stage as if he owned it.
And to the side of the stage, just behind an enormous speaker, was a woman who looked like she owned him. She was tall and thin with chiselled cheekbones and dark, almond-shaped eyes, which kept darting from Jed to those groupies and back again. Roxy had been surprised by her intensity and had wondered back then if she was Jed’s girlfriend or the manager, perhaps? Whoever she was then, the magazine spread revealed that she was now Jed Moody’s wife.
“Oooh, she looks a wee bi’ scary,” said Lockie.
Oliver sco
ffed. “Nothing our Writer Extraordinaire can’t handle.”
Roxy just smiled, hoping he was right.
“Bloody Chief Houlihan,” Gilda snarled, returning to the group. “He’s nagging me to take some of my accrued time off and suggested I don’t come back to work today.”
“Why would he say that?” asked Roxy.
“Something to do with budgets, being over them. That’s the third phone call today. He’s worse than your mother.”
Roxy shuddered, and they all shuddered along with her. “No one’s worse than my mother,” she said, and no one had the heart to disagree.
“How is Ms Control Freak?” asked Gilda. “She must be cranky you’re not hanging around.”
Roxy grimaced. It was worse than that. When Roxy broke the news over dinner a few days ago, her mother, Lorraine Jones had stared at her daughter with the facial equivalent of a sigh—head tilted, slackened features, pure disappointment in her eyes.
“What?” Roxy had asked, her shoulders tense and ready for battle.
“Nothing, darling, it’s just ... well, I can’t help wondering if you’re trying to avoid me. Is this all about not having to spend any time with your mother at all?”
“Mum, it’s work, it’s not personal.”
Lorraine sighed, verbally this time. “I thought you said you were going to stay put for a while. You’ve only been back in the country ten minutes.”
“Actually, I’ve been back ten days and I’m only going up the coast. Not all the way to Germany.”
“Might as well be Europe, darling. Byron Bay.” Lorraine turned her nose up like she had just smelt something bad and Roxy knew exactly what she thought of that idea. “Isn’t it full of hippies, and feral people that don’t bathe?”
Roxy laughed. “Hardly. More like TV executives and rock stars these days, hence the reason for the trip. I’m actually doing a book on Jed Moody, and there’s nothing feral about him.”
Note Before Dying (Ghostwriter Mystery 6) Page 1
