“We need to get everyone’s details then we’ll let you get home!” A small cheer erupted as the lights suddenly came back on and several people began clapping as Jed’s body, which had now been placed on a stretcher and covered with a sheet, was slowly carried down the stage stairs and towards the ambulance.
The redheaded groupie yelled out, “We love ya, Jeddie, we love ya, mate!”
But he could no longer hear her, would no longer savour the unequivocal adoration of his fans. Jed Moody was officially leaving the stage for the final time.
Roxy watched on in stunned silence from the bottom of the veranda, perched on one step, head in her cupped hands. She felt chilled to the bone, her body shaking beneath her too-thin coat, but she couldn’t bring herself to move towards the fire, or seek out the warmth of the living room where, she guessed, the remaining band members had now retreated.
Another patrol vehicle soon arrived, and a third uniformed officer appeared walking just behind a short, nuggety man in a crumpled blue suit. He was clearly the guy in charge and strode directly across the lawn towards Annika, who was still being comforted by Houghton on the stage.
Shakily she moved away and into the officer’s arms, sobbing into his chest as he stroked her hair and spoke softly into her ear. They looked almost like lovers, certainly close friends, and for a few minutes no one dared interrupt them. Even the other officers stood back, heads bowed, quietly waiting for instructions from their boss, while the man in charge continued to soothe the grieving widow.
Eventually, Annika pulled back, said something to the man in the crumpled suit, and then let Houghton lead her slowly away from the stage and towards the veranda. Not wanting to intrude, Roxy pulled herself up and fled inside, to the warmth of the living room and the panacea of the bar. As suspected, she found Alistair and Doug slumped on stools, nursing tumblers of whisky, a near-empty bottle of Jack Daniels close by. Alistair nodded at her and then towards the bottle, but she shook her head.
“I just need a glass of red.”
She stepped behind the bar and found the bottle she had opened earlier, then filled her glass to the brim before taking the vacant stool on Alistair’s left.
“You meet Dougie earlier?” Al said, his voice croaky, and Roxy glanced across to the drummer who was now staring towards her, a blank expression on his face.
“Hi,” she said offering him a wave and thinking how immaterial introductions seemed now.
He seemed to think the same thing, batting his thick blonde eyelashes a few times before staring back into his glass.
“Pigs finally arrive?” Al asked, and she nodded. “What is the fuckin’ point?”
“They have to find out what happened.”
“I’ll tell you what happened.” His tone was surprisingly bitter. “Jed got murdered by his own guitar.”
Doug cackled suddenly as though the whole thing was hilarious and said, “Someone put out an all systems bulletin for Fender Strat. Asap.” Then he stopped cackling and slumped lower over his glass.
“You think it was an accident?” Roxy asked.
“Of course it was, happens all the time. Faulty equipment, that kind of thing... If it wasn’t the guitar, it’ll be the amp or mic.” Al shot her a sharp look. “Jesus, what else?”
She shrugged and looked away, not willing to go there.
“Oh Roxy, there you are, how are you holding up?” Houghton was shuffling through the living room from the direction of the veranda; his cheeks flushed bright red, almost matching his hair. She tried to give him a reassuring smile. “I’m so sorry you had to see that. Bit of a shock, hey?”
“How’s Annika going?”
He sighed. “Not good, no, she’s in her room. I took her via the ambulance, got them to give her something strong, to calm her down, you know?”
Roxy didn’t recall Annika being particularly hysterical. There had been wailing women, but Annika was not one of them.
“I’ll have what Annie’s having, thanks,” Doug said, cackling again. He must have been hysterical, Roxy decided. No one could be that flippant.
Houghton ignored him and said, “Cops will talk to Annie tomorrow, when she’s feeling better.” He lowered his voice a little. “Listen, sorry, they seem to want to talk to you now. You okay to have a quick word?”
“Me?”
“Just a few details, that’s all.”
“Oooh, maybe it was the Ghost in the machine!” goaded the drummer and Houghton scowled at him this time.
“Pull your head in, Dougie,” he said, then to Roxy added, “Nothing to worry about, come on.”
He led Roxy back out to the veranda and towards the middle-aged man in the wrinkled blue suit who was, as Roxy suspected, the guy in charge, a Detective Sergeant Rodney Quick. He had short, shaggy blonde hair and bronzed skin. The tan seemed to accentuate the colour of his eyes, which even in the low light looked like glassy blue rock pools as they stared keenly at her now.
“Hey, how you going? I’m Detective Sergeant Quick from the Tweed-Byron Local Area Command.”
She shook his hand, noting it was rough and craggy, before letting him direct her into a chair at the main table. He remained standing, Houghton hovering close by.
“Houghton tells me you got here yesterday,” he said. “All the way from Sydney?”
“That’s right. I was invited up, to write Jed’s autobiography.”
“You written about any other rock stars before?” She shook her head no. “Anybody really famous?”
Roxy looked at him, bemused. What did that have to do with anything?
As if working it out for himself, he didn’t wait for an answer, just pulled a chair out, sat down and said, “Hopefully I won’t have to keep you too long.”
He pulled a notepad from his pocket and began flicking through it as if looking for something to ask, so she took the opportunity and asked a question herself. “Jed was obviously electrocuted, right?”
He kept flicking as he said, “Looks that way.”
“Was it deliberate?”
He glanced up at her. “Why? Have you got some information for me?”
“No,” she said quickly. “I was just wondering.”
He stared at her for a few silent seconds then said, “Can you tell me where you were standing when it happened and what exactly you saw?”
Roxy had a flashback of fire and could still smell the burning flesh. She fought back the revulsion, then slowly went through the events of the night as she recalled them—explaining how Jed had simply spoken a few words to the crowd, picked up his guitar and gave it one quick strum.
“And that’s when all hell broke out?” She nodded. “You were seen conversing with Samson Forrest just before the band went on stage. Can you tell me what you were conversing about?”
Roxy stared at him, confused by the subject change. “Samson Forrest?” It took her a second to work out who he meant. Oh, Angry Beard Man. “Um, just some stuff about his sister, that’s all.” What did that have to do with Jed’s death?
“What ‘stuff’ exactly?”
She tried to think back. “He was just apologising for something he’d said to me the day before. It’s not important now.”
“I’ll determine what’s important, thanks, ma’am. What exactly were you discussing?”
There was an earnest, almost menacing edge to his voice, and she hesitated. What was with this line of questioning? Did he think Sam had something to do with Jed’s death? “Um, Sam had been upset that I was writing Jed’s book. He seemed to think Jed had something to do with his sister’s death.”
The glance the detective gave Houghton seemed to confirm her suspicions and she felt suddenly complicit, as though she was securing the noose around Sam Forrest’s neck. “But, you know, he seemed fine tonight, he really did. He even apologised to me, said he’d just been having a bad day.”
“Did you see where Mr. Forrest went after your conversation ended?”
“He went into the house, I as
sume to the bar.”
“Did you see him at the bar?” She shook her head. “Did you see him again at any time between your conversation on the steps and the moment Jed Moody was electrocuted? Do you have any idea where he might have gone in that ten-minute period?”
Again she shook her head. “But he must have returned to the audience at some stage because I did see him after it happened, he called out and—”
“Told everyone to get back, yeah, yeah. Quite the hero, I’m told.” Detective Sergeant Quick’s voice was as flat as a pancake.
“Sam probably saved a few lives,” Roxy said, feeling a strange need to rise to his defense. “People were pretty hysterical and it looked like they were going to run up onto the stage. If Sam hadn’t stopped them, there might have been more people electrocuted.”
Quick closed his pad and pushed his chair out. “Thank you, ma’am. That’ll do for now. You’ll be hanging around here tomorrow?”
Roxy glanced at Houghton who had been watching the conversation quietly, leaning against a railing, brushing his stubble. “I guess that’s up to the band. So you do think his death is suspicious, then?”
Quick didn’t even bother to answer her as he strode down the stairs and back in the direction of the stage, which was now being taped up by the officer with the small moustache.
Roxy watched them for a moment, noticing that several more people were now mulling around up there, some inspecting the musical instruments, one holding a lead up to the light. She guessed they were part of the forensics team.
“Everything okay?” Houghton asked, and she glanced back at him, frowning.
“Do you guys suspect Sam had something to do with this?”
He shrugged. “You know what he’s like.”
Not at all, she thought, but she hadn’t picked him for a killer. An angry man certainly, but not a callous murderer. Still, after she said good night to Houghton and was making her way down the path to the bails, she couldn’t help recalling the words Sam had used on the staircase, just ten minutes before Jed hit the stage:
“The only way Jed is ever going to get justice, is when karma comes and bites him on the bum.”
Had karma finally come calling for Jed Moody? And had it been given a helping hand by a vengeful brother?
Chapter 12
It was not yet 8:00 a.m. when Roxy awoke, and at first she had no idea where she was and what was going on. Then it hit her with a force that made her cringe beneath the sheets, her eyes scrunched up as Jed’s burning body began flashing over and over in her mind like a bad YouTube video stuck on a loop.
She kept seeing Jed strum his guitar, his hand going down hard and fast across the strings just as the piercing crack rang out and the smell of burning flesh filled the air. But something else was niggling at her brain. There had been a cry, just a millisecond before his hand hit the strings. She was sure of it. It was as though someone was crying out to warn him, but it all came too late.
Roxy flung the sheets off and jumped up, trying to shake the horrendous memories away. The cry must have come afterwards, she was getting confused; she was disoriented and traumatised. What she needed was a strong coffee, and fast. Yet Roxy was reluctant to return to the main house. It wasn’t just that she was scared of running into the grieving widow—what could she say to the woman who didn’t want her there in the first place? Roxy also felt like the worst kind of intruder now. No one wants to worry about a houseguest in the middle of a crisis. Maybe she should just pack up and go home?
“Not before you get some decent coffee!” she told herself, stepping into the tiny bathroom.
Roxy stood under the gushing shower for many long, blistering minutes trying to erase the sights and smells and horror of last night. She knew she should get out soon, they were on tank water, after all, but she really didn’t care about that, and she doubted they would either. Conserving water would be the last thing on anyone’s mind today.
Eventually, Roxy gave up and got out, then riffled through her luggage for black gym leggings, an oversized sweater and her joggers. She’d thrown them in on a whim, not really expecting time to exercise, but now she was grateful for them. A long speed walk was just what she needed.
Since returning from Germany, Roxy had done no physical activity and both her brain and body were crying out for some, especially after last night. She slipped a blue cap over her black hair, put on her dark prescription Gucci sunglasses and stepped out of the bails.
If she was lucky, the Goddess Café would be open.
Despite getting badly lost only two days before, Roxy calculated that the café couldn’t be more than a few kilometres away. If she headed down the driveway then stuck to the main road, she had to come across it. And she was right. Within twenty minutes, she spotted the shop just off Jasper Road and, as she got closer, was relieved to find several patrons at outdoor tables, the front door wide open. Most of the patrons looked up as she approached, but she kept her cap down and headed straight for the shop.
Sunnies still in place, Roxy looked around. Govinda was nowhere to be seen, but there was a tall, sinewy man of indiscriminate age with dark curly hair pulled into a thick bun at the top of his head and a tribal tattoo on one arm. He was wearing the hippie uniform—lots of felt and velvet and the customary flares—and might have been in the local band last night. He looked vaguely familiar as he piled avocadoes into a crate at the back of the shop where a small selection of largely bruised fruit and vegetables marked “Organic” were displayed.
“Hey there!” he called out. “I’m Hans.”
“Hi, Roxy Parker.”
His face crinkled into a smile. “I know who you are. You’ll be needing a coffee then?”
She stared at him, stunned. This really was a small town. “Thanks, yes, latté with cow’s milk please.”
“I’ll bring it out to you, just pop your three bucks on the counter if you like.” He then turned back to the crate and continued unloading, so she did as suggested before heading to a spare table out near the road. It had just one chair and she was glad of that. Several people were staring at her again and she didn’t meet their eyes. She didn’t know if they’d heard the news about Jed, but she didn’t want to engage with anyone. Not yet, not before her caffeine fix.
Unfortunately for Roxy, Macker Maroney had other ideas.
“Hell of a night, hey?”
Roxy looked up to find the photographer looming over her, his dark glasses on.
“Were you there?” she asked, trying not to scowl.
“I heard the goss. Can I hear your version of it?”
Now she let the scowl have full rein. “Not a chance.”
Roxy looked away but it didn’t perturb him. He pulled a chair from another table and plonked it across from her, then sat down.
“Look, I’m really not interested—”
“Oi, just hear me out first, love, no need to shoot me down in flames.”
Roxy’s scowl deepened and she looked around. The same patrons were still watching, some now frowning, and she hoped they did not think she was about to spill the beans to the local paparazzi. She felt grubby again all of a sudden.
Macker did not seem to notice her discomfort, simply reached for the cigarette packet in his shirt pocket and held it out to her. She shook her head and he said, “I don’t know what you’ve heard, but I work for the local paper, the Valley Times. It’s a legit newspaper, and I’m just trying to get the facts straight.”
He was now lighting his cigarette with a plastic lighter, holding one large hand around it to shade it from the breeze. “I just want to know what happened, that’s all, how it went down. I think we all owe it to Jed. We just want to do justice to Jed’s memory.”
Roxy felt a wave of nausea. What a sleazebag.
She was about to say as much when the shopkeeper appeared with her coffee. He handed it to her, glanced from Roxy to Macker and back again before leaving them to it. She felt even grubbier and wanted to race after him, to expl
ain that she didn’t know this guy and she didn’t intend to help him out.
Sighing heavily, she reached for the sugar dispenser and poured several teaspoonfuls into her cup, then gave it a little swish while Macker continued dragging on his smoke, watching her intensely. After a good sip of her brew, she decided there was no point arguing with him; she had encountered paparazzi before. Best to just shake him off.
Keeping her tone as casual as she could, she said, “I understand you have a job to do, and I’m glad you want to get the story straight. But I’m not the person to speak to. You should try calling the house or maybe contact the police directly.”
He blew smoke up into the air, then leaned forward, his nicotine breath stale; his eyes just visible behind his dark glasses. “I just want to hear your side of the story, love, it won’t take you long.”
Roxy smiled stiffly. “I don’t think so.”
He sat back. “I’ll pay you well for it. You’re without a book now, you’re going to want my money.”
“I don’t need your money, book or no book.”
“Too good for that, huh?”
Roxy groaned audibly and placed her hands on the table to push her chair back, but he grabbed hold of one wrist and held her down.
“You think you’re better than me, don’t ya?”
Roxy shook her wrist free and glared at him. “I know I’m better than you.”
“Why, because they let you in the front door? That makes you worse, sweetheart, because you’re the one peddling their lies. At least I’m putting some truth out there, setting the record straight.”
“What?” Roxy’s jaw dropped. “You call sneaking photos behind bushes and repeating gossip in trash mags the truth? Are you serious?”
“Oh, so you’ve never read any of those ‘trash mags’ before? Of course you have! You all do. And who do you think puts that stuff in there? It doesn’t write itself, you know.”
Note Before Dying (Ghostwriter Mystery 6) Page 7
