Despite the crumpled exterior, or perhaps because of it, he was as sexy as ever and when he pulled the ciggie out and let his lips open into a smile, his sunflower-coloured eyes sparkled mischievously, and it was like every light in the house had suddenly switched on.
“You must be my Ghostie,” he said, his voice slow and deep as he extended a large hand for Roxy to shake. “I’m Jed Moody.”
Like he had to say it.
Much to Roxy’s horror, she found herself blushing crimson red, her heartbeat accelerating, her legs turning to jelly as she struggled to get up and return the handshake.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he added, filling her quivering silence as though he was used to that, and she giggled.
Yep, she giggled, then tried to swallow it back down as she said, “Oh, no, don’t be silly, that’s perfectly fine.” Then she giggled again.
Roxy was grateful that Annika had not witnessed this embarrassing spectacle, but Jed didn’t seem at all surprised. In fact, he acted as though this was situation normal and was already turning back to his publicist.
“How’s tricks?”
Houghton appeared to be blushing, too, as though Jed’s presence was sending his own emotions into a tailspin, and Roxy didn’t feel quite so foolish. Surely he’d be used to the rock legend by now.
“Yeah ... good ... mate,” Houghton chuckled after each word. “Real, real good.”
“That’s the way.” Jed paused. “You settle that issue for me? Give that prick his marching orders?”
Houghton nodded, flickering glances at Roxy as if to say, “Not now, mate, let’s discuss it later,” but Jed didn’t seem to care.
“I’m not giving that asshole one more cent, got it? Tell him he can go shove it up his—”
“Okay, food’s ready inside!” Annika sang out as she stepped through the French doors towards them. She was about to say something else when she spotted her husband standing there and she stopped, also appearing flummoxed.
There was an intense silence as the husband and wife stared at each other, like two wildebeests sizing each other up.
“So,” Annika said eventually, crossing her arms over her bony chest and narrowing her eyes considerably. “You’re alive after all.”
Jed grinned. “Yeah, sorry to disappoint you.” He winked at Roxy and glanced back at his wife. “So what’s cookin’, good lookin’?”
Annika appeared to bristle then and took a step back. “For you? Fuck all. You can find your own damn food. This is for my guests.”
Jed’s smile tightened. “I think you mean my guests, don’t you, babe? Or have I got that wrong again?” Then he turned to Roxy, who was pretending to be engrossed in her empty martini glass. “Annie always gets a bit pissy when I spend too much time in the studio. She thinks I love my Strat more than I love her.”
“At least someone’s getting some loving,” she shot back and he plunged a fist to his chest as though shot in the heart.
Roxy didn’t know what to say or where to look, but Houghton had clearly seen enough of their banter to know when to cut in.
“I’m sure there’s enough for all of us,” he squeaked. “Come on, folks, let’s go inside and eat.”
Jed swept his eyes from his wife to Houghton and snarled, “Who the fuck died and made you boss?”
Houghton blanched white as the railing posts then and seemed to recoil a little before Jed mock punched him in the stomach and laughed.
“Shit, man, I’m just playing with ya, you know that!” He turned back to Annika. “Can’t stay anyway, babe, I’m in the middle of a take. Just gonna load up and run.”
His tone was suddenly light and carefree as though he had not just had a spat with his wife in front of a journalist. He tugged off his boots then held his hand out to Roxy.
“Come on, Ghostie, let’s be obedient children and go inside.”
Roxy felt her stomach lurch as he took her hand and pulled her to her feet, and she couldn’t help stealing a glance towards Annika, expecting an “I told you so” sneer. But the rock star’s wife was staring towards Houghton with what looked like immense relief across her face.
Had a massive fight just been averted? Roxy wondered. Or was this business as usual in the Moody household?
True to his word, Jed simply piled his plate with food—a selection of cold cuts that Annika had assembled on a platter—then plucked a beer from the bar fridge and winked at Roxy again before heading back down the veranda stairs and across the lawn to the recording studio.
“Back to the grindstone,” Houghton explained as Roxy’s shoulders drooped.
“Maybe I could grab him in the morning?”
Annika barked with laughter at this then filled up her own plate and promptly vanished, this time deep inside the house somewhere, Coco clipping along beside her. Roxy heard a television crank on and a door slam shut.
Houghton handed Roxy an empty plate, then the two of them helped themselves to some antipasto before settling into matching velvet armchairs in the living room. The French doors were now closed to the encroaching chill, and they ate quickly, making small talk as they went. Roxy was eager to ask Houghton about the angry bearded man who had berated her at the Goddess Café, the one whose sister had drowned on Moody land, yet something made her resist. Perhaps it was because there was more than enough tension in the air already, or perhaps she simply didn’t have the energy tonight.
“Come on,” Houghton said, as they took their plates into the kitchen. “Let’s call it a night, eh? Get you settled into the bails.”
“Should we just clean up first?” She indicated the stack of dirty dishes that were now threatening to topple over into the large, double sink. He shook his head.
“Cleaner’ll take care of it in the morning,” he said, also sounding weary. He glanced down at her socks. “You might wanna chuck your shoes back on, though, it’s a bit of a trek.”
The old bails were, in fact, an easy stroll along a leafy pathway that ran around to the front of the house and back towards the main road. Roxy had not noticed the path or the bails when she first drove in but was relieved to be putting some distance between herself and the Moodys.
Annika had not exactly been the most welcoming of hosts, and Jed had given her little more than a cute nickname and a cold shoulder. Was it always like this? Perhaps things would improve in the morning.
“Hey, listen, I’m really sorry about earlier on,” said Houghton as they stumbled along the path, torches in one hand, overnight bags in the other. “Annie might be a bit prickly, but he can also be a total prick when he wants to be.”
Roxy snuck a quick look at Houghton through the torchlight. He was being oddly candid for a publicist.
“But don’t quote me on that, eh?” he said, as though he’d just realised that himself.
“You get to edit it anyway, right?”
He chuckled. “Yeah, right.”
“So what is it with those two? Going through a rough patch, or is it always like that?”
“Bit of both, I’d say. He’s really focused on his music, which is great, but he forgets he’s got a wife sometimes. His wandering eye doesn’t help. It can make her a bit, you know, tetchy.”
Bitchy, more like, Roxy thought, but kept that to herself.
“Just don’t read too much into it, eh? They always make up eventually and then the cycle starts all over again.” He sounded exhausted by it all.
Roxy shook her head. She just couldn’t understand it. Annika might rail against other women and their attempts to destroy her marriage, but Roxy wasn’t sure there was much of a marriage there to start with. They didn’t want to publicise their union to the world, and she wondered now why they even stayed together, especially if Jed was preoccupied with his music and pretty women? It’s not like there were children to protect, unless, of course you counted Annika’s faithful pup, which Annika clearly did.
And why, more importantly, did Jed stay? He was still a renowned “Rock God”, could
have any woman he wanted.
As if reading her thoughts, Houghton added, “You know they’ve been together nearly twenty years. I guess it counts for something.”
“Wow,” Roxy said. She’d barely lasted two years with Max Farrell before she’d pulled the plug. And he’d been as faithful as poor old Coco.
“Must be some kind of record for any celebrity couple,” Houghton was saying, and Roxy laughed.
“I dunno. I think Sting and Trudie have been together almost thirty years. Oh, and Bowie and Iman must be getting up there somewhere.”
“Bloody hell, Jed’d be thrilled to hear you put him in the same company as that mob. Ah, here we are. Your own private Idaho.”
They had reached a fork in the path and he was shining his torch to the left, towards a small wooden structure with a short, wide door and a pot of what looked like lavender out the front. A sensor light switched on and Roxy flicked her torch off and bid him good night.
“Where are you staying?” she asked, and he flashed his torch back down the path to the right. She could just make out a timber and corrugated iron cottage sitting in the shadows of a large Poinciana.
“Not quite as slick as yours, but it’ll do the job. G’night.”
As he shuffled off down the path and was swallowed up by the darkness, Roxy continued on to the bails, pushed the door open and stepped inside.
Houghton had not been exaggerating. Common old milking barn it may once have been, but today the bails looked like something out of Vogue Living, albeit in miniature; all crisp white walls, and shabby chic furnishings. She pulled the front door shut and switched on a low lamp, casting the room in a warm orange glow. It did little to improve her mood and as she dropped her bag by the wrought iron bed and began searching through it for her bath bag and pyjamas, she couldn’t help feeling an encroaching sense of dread.
Shaking it off, she brushed her teeth, changed into her pyjamas and slipped under the thick white duvet. Things will look better in the morning, she told herself as her eyelids began to droop. They’re just having a bad night, but everything will be okay.
Still, it didn’t stop her dreams from turning into a warzone—Annika in fatigues, Houghton close behind driving a cross between a military tank and an old white Jeep, the angry bearded man beside him, a look of rage on his face. Beyond them all, completely out of reach, was Jed Moody. He was standing bare-chested in an open field, hands beckoning them towards him while he mocked them with his sexy, slouchy smile.
Chapter 7
Roxy woke up with a start.
She fumbled first for her glasses, then for her iPhone, which she’d placed beside the bed the night before, even though it had absolutely no network coverage.
“Shit. Shit. Shit!”
It was 9:45 a.m. How the hell had that happened?!
Jumping out of bed, she frantically looked around. The bathroom, where was the bloody bathroom? Towel, was there even a towel? She flung herself towards the only other door in the small cottage and spotted the gleaming shower vestibule. In her exhaustion she hadn’t even noticed it last night. To one side of the shower hung an enormous fluffy white towel and beside that an even fluffier-looking bathrobe.
She whipped on the shower, discarded her pyjamas and jumped in.
Fifteen minutes later Roxy was dressed and stumbling back down the pebbled pathway towards the main house, her trusty digital recorder and notebook in the handbag over her shoulder. Unlike the day before, there was no time to dally over her outfit. She’d just pulled on some skinny jeans, a crumpled top and a creamy blue cardigan, then slipped into the same boots and necklace, and swept a strip of red lipstick across both lips. It would have to do.
As she reached the main house, she pulled some fingers through the back of her hair and straightened her fringe down. The front door was locked, and this surprised her. She’d been led to believe country folk didn’t need to lock their doors. Perhaps burglars had a better sense of direction than she did?
Roxy continued around the veranda to the back of the house where all the action seemed to happen, but there wasn’t a soul about.
Had she missed Jed altogether? Was he already hard at it in the studio?
“Still snoring,” came a voice from below the veranda, and Roxy spotted Houghton perched at the bottom of the staircase, a cigarette in one hand, a cup of coffee on the step beside him. She walked down the stairs to join him.
“There’s food inside if you’re hungry,” said Houghton. “The cook does a mean omelette.”
“There’s a cook as well as a cleaner?”
“Oh, only when there’s guests about.” He chuckled. “You weren’t expecting Annika to cook for you, were you? Last night’s spread was an anomaly, I can tell you that.”
“So when does Jed normally get up?”
“Whenever he wants. Did a late one in the studio again, I believe. Probably best to chill out for a few hours, just hang back, okay?”
Roxy’s shoulders slumped again. Okay, this was new. Her previous clients had been almost exclusively elderly. The elderly were the ones who generally commissioned someone to write their life story, not only because they had actually lived a life, but because they were usually the only ones who had the spare cash to splurge on something so self-indulgent.
And with the elderly came early mornings. She’d learned that one the hard way. Being a classic night owl, Roxy had struggled with the early hours but had learned to adapt in the interests of her clients and her endlessly hungry mortgage. Many of the interviews had started at dawn. One client even liked Roxy to show up before dawn, so they could be well on the way when the sun showed up.
Roxy liked to start late, preferred it in fact, but midday was probably stretching it, especially considering the deadline she was on.
“I spotted Al earlier, you can always speak to him,” Houghton said, noticing her disappointment.
“Alistair, the bass player?”
“That’d be the one.”
“Great, that’s a start.”
“But fetch some breaky first, eh?” He went to wave his hand then dropped it back. “Just before you go, a quick word.” She turned to look at him. “The boys are putting on a bit of a jam tonight, just working out some of the chinks in their new tunes. You’ll wanna hang around for that one.”
Roxy’s eyes lit up at the thought of watching the Moody Roos in action. “So the drummer’s here, too?”
“Not at the property yet, he lives down in Byron, but he’ll be here soon. We’ll crank the barbeque up about five-ish, sink a few brews. Should be a bit of fun, they always are.”
“Do they get together and jam often?”
His smile deflated slightly. “Not often enough, nah. Try to grab Jed before then if you can. He’ll be back in the studio this arvo.”
“That’s the tall shed over there, right?” She pointed to where the blue Valiant was still parked. “And Alistair, where can I find him?”
“Getting up to no good as always.” He said it so quietly she wasn’t sure she had heard right. He looked up at her and said, more clearly, “Try the stables, round the front.”
With a full plate of omelette and a cup of strong coffee under her belt, Roxy made her way back around the front of the house towards a large timber barn painted mission brown with white fringing and a pine fence around the perimeter. The Moody Roos bassist was standing outside the open barn door when Roxy approached, deep in conversation with a young, redheaded woman barely out of her teens. Roxy recognised Alistair this time. He was still wearing the thick black glasses of his youth, his goatee a new addition, no doubt compensating for his rapidly receding hairline.
He was holding the young woman’s hand and whispering something in her ear, and she giggled briefly before spotting Roxy. The young woman quickly snatched her hand back, plunging it into the pocket of her jeans, and strode off towards a small silver car parked behind Roxy’s hatchback.
Alistair turned to see what had startled her.
“Alistair Avery?” she called out and he blinked a few times as if trying to place her. There was an almost overwhelming stench of manure lingering in the air. “I’m Roxy Parker,” she said, holding out a hand to shake. “Jed’s ghostwriter.”
He looked confused for a moment and then said, “Yeah, right, how you doin’?” He shook her hand. “My turn now, is it?”
“In fact, you’re the first. Haven’t spoken to anyone else yet.”
“Guitar Hero still sleeping, is he?”
She smiled. “Apparently. Can you spare me an hour or two? Just some background questions?” When he hesitated, she quickly added, “I’ll try and make it as painless as possible, I promise.”
“Sure, where do you want to do it?”
She looked around. “Wherever you like.”
He led her around to one side of the stables where several horses were feeding in a fenced-off paddock. There was a wooden park bench beside a water trough and he strode across to it and they sat down. As Roxy pulled her recorder out from her bag and placed it between them on the bench, Alistair tapped at the top pocket of his leather jacket and pulled out a packet of loose tobacco and some cigarette papers.
“You mind?” he said, pointing to the tobacco.
When she shook her head, he crossed one leg over the other and got to work rolling his own cigarette, delicately placing the tobacco in the paper and gently rolling it until it was thin enough to lick closed, before lighting it up. As he did this, Roxy took the opportunity to study him close up.
Alistair Avery was never considered the good-looking one; that honour went to Jed, naturally enough. But even the drummer, Doug Campbell, with his unruly blonde curls and wide, goofy smile, managed to steal more hearts than Al ever did. Al always seemed a little too serious, a little too dull, and it wasn’t just because of the specs, Roxy realised now. He was a very ordinary-looking bloke, medium height, slightly on the plump side. Almost forgettable if it wasn’t for the fact that he was one third of Australia’s hottest rock act. If anything, middle age had improved his looks, the goatee and deepening wrinkles adding some much needed character to his otherwise bland face. But only just.
Note Before Dying (Ghostwriter Mystery 6) Page 4
