“I love dogs, how can you say that?”
“Because you don’t have one.”
“I don’t have one because my apartment is the size of a porta-loo, not because I don’t like dogs. It’s no big deal, Oliver. I’m just doing the guy a favour.”
“This is the same guy you just told me is being hauled in for questioning over Jed Moody’s death?”
She hesitated, scrunched her eyes up. “Yep, that’d be the one.”
“Mary, Jesus, Mother of Christ!” Oliver whistled loudly. “Just when I thought you couldn’t surprise me anymore, you go and move in with a murderer!”
“He’s not a murderer.”
“And you know this, how?”
“I just know.”
He scoffed. “You getting soft in your old age, Roxy?”
“Just around the middle. Listen, I’m not calling you to get a lecture. I’m just telling you where I’ll be, in case...” She hesitated again.
“In case we find you chopped up into little pieces?”
“That won’t happen.” She repeated Sam’s address again. “I can’t seem to get through to Gilda’s mobile. Know where she is?”
“No, I don’t. Should I call your mother, tell her you’ve finally flipped?”
“God, no, leave her out of it.”
“So what’s the story then with Jed? You know this is going to be the last ghostwriting job you ever get? The way your clients bite the dust, who’d want you?”
“Hey, it’s not my fault Jed’s equipment was faulty.”
“Is that what they say happened?”
She thought about this. “At this point they’re not saying. He was clearly electrocuted, and it looked suspicious, at least that’s according to my friend Sam.”
“The weirdo with the dog?”
“That’s the one. And he’s not weird. He’s just hurting after his sister’s death.”
“Huh? His sister died as well?”
“Yeah, was found drowned in a creek about eighteen months ago.”
“How do you know he didn’t do her in?”
“Oh, come on, that’s ridiculous.”
“Yeah, right, because family members never kill each other.” He paused. “Jesus, you’re not smitten with the guy, are you?”
She tsked loudly. A little too loudly. “For goodness sake, Olie. I’m feeding his dog, not marrying him. Jeesh!”
“Yeah right, sure. Okay, well, what can I do from here? Need anything?”
“No, thank you. Although I do have to work out what happens now with the book.”
“Yeah, I was trying to sort that out with Houghton, but he can’t give me any answers yet. If it doesn’t go ahead, they’ll owe you a kill fee.” He chuckled. “Excuse the pun.”
“That’s just woeful, Oliver. I mean, poor Jed.”
“I know, Juicy Jed, up in flames. Who woulda thought? And you say the wife wants you out?”
“Yeah, it’s the publicist who wants to keep it alive.” She winced at her own pun then spotted Houghton just outside the studio, chatting animatedly into his mobile phone, one hand gesticulating wildly as he spoke. She wondered about his motivation. Did he care at all for his old client, or was it all about making a buck?
“Well, tell Houghton he needs to call me directly. He shouldn’t be speaking with you about this. He has to confer with me. I’m your agent. That’s what you pay me the tiny bickies for. You’re gonna want a bigger commission, by the way. A tell-all bio is a very different kettle of fish. More work for you, more people to interview, more facts to check, especially now the poor bastard’s dead.”
“I’m not even sure I want to do it.”
“I’m not even sure you’ve got much choice, my dear. There’s nothing else lined up. Everybody thinks they’re a writer these days, you know that. Everyone has a bloody blog. I think you should try to make it happen whether you want it or not.”
She sighed. “I better go, I’ve got a dog to feed.”
“Try to knock some sense into yourself while you’re at it!”
********
An icy chill descended quickly at the small cottage at Grears Crossing. The tall trees blocked out most of the afternoon light and it was just on 5:25 p.m. when Roxy knelt in front of the rusty old woodburner to start the fire.
Fortunately, the metal bin beside it was overflowing with twigs and other kindling, and beside that was a stack of old newspapers and half a dozen split logs. Good, she thought. While she admired Sam’s confidence in her, she wasn’t keen to channel her inner woodchopper tonight. She could manage with what she had.
It had been a long time since Roxy had made a fire, but she was determined to get one started, could tell this old cottage with its gaping timber walls and floorboards would become unbearable without it. She could even see faint strands of late afternoon light filtering in through sections of the ceiling; clearly there was no insulation above.
Roxy had brought her overnight bag and when she placed her iPad and mobile phone on the kitchen bench, she noticed neither was functioning. Clearly she was using the wrong provider for this part of the world. Sam’s mobile phone had worked perfectly well earlier today, and she felt eerily isolated. A quick survey of the cottage confirmed there was no landline telephone. She had a momentary panic before she reminded herself that humans once survived perfectly well without these contraptions, and she would survive too.
If she could just get the blasted fire going...
Roxy scrunched up sheets of newspaper and tossed them over last night’s ash, then snapped twigs and placed them on top. She thought about Houghton and how he, too, had tried to talk her out of staying at Sam’s place.
“He really is a nutcase, you know, the things he’s been saying about Jed.”
“He’s just hurting; after what happened to his sister, he’s looking for someone to blame.”
“He blamed Jed, Roxy. And look what happened to Jed. He’s not to be trusted.”
“Do you honestly think Sam’s responsible? For what happened to Jed?”
Houghton had stopped short then, had just shrugged. “I’m just saying, you’d be better off staying here tonight.”
She scoffed. “What, hiding out in the bails, waiting for Annika to invite me to the big house?”
“Hey, she just lost her husband, you know.”
“I know, I’m sorry. But hiding out is not my style.”
He looked chastened. “I’m sorry about that, yeah? It’s not that you need to hide so much, it’s just that, well, I just want to give Annie her space for now, you understand? She’ll need some time to work through what’s happened. He was the love of her life, after all. God, we all loved him, dearly. He’ll be sorely, sorely missed.”
Roxy placed a larger log over the top of the kindling and lit a match. She had to wonder if Houghton was right. She could think of several people who wouldn’t exactly be weeping over Jed’s casket. Sure, Annika would be anguished and Roxy didn’t doubt her love for the guy, but this was a man who had cheated on her over and over again, and who, in the short time she was there, seemed to give more attention to his music than his muse. Wasn’t his death a kind of freedom? A chance to keep Jed Moody to herself forever?
She thought, too, of Jed’s bandmates, Alistair and Doug. They had seemed pretty shocked the night of his death, drowning themselves in Jack Daniels, but were they heartbroken? Really? Roxy wasn’t convinced. She didn’t really know Doug, but he seemed to find the whole thing more amusing than upsetting. And Al had already made it clear to Roxy that he was no fan of the “selfish prick”.
Even Houghton had agreed there was little love lost between Jed and Al, and Roxy had noticed that herself, up on stage. Would Al weep? Or would he now flourish? If what Houghton had said was true, Al was the brains’ behind the Moody Roos. Maybe this was his chance to take centre stage.
Nah. She shrugged that thought away. Few famous bands ever pulled that off. Roxy had seen it happen from time to time when lead singers died.
Some bands ploughed on regardless, others recruited a new frontman, but very few made a real go of it. AC/DC and Pink Floyd were rare exceptions. Most of the time, if you replaced the lead singer, everything turned to shite—just ask the boys from INXS.
Besides, in rock and roll terms, these guys were ancient. Their current success relied mostly on nostalgia. Without Jed, what was the point? He was the only one anyone ever remembered. No one was going to get nostalgic over Al and Doug.
As the kindling burned out and the logs began to power away, the fire intensified and Roxy glanced around to find Lunar had taken off. She spotted him fossicking near the run of gum trees in the distance, so she left the front door slightly ajar then did a little fossicking of her own.
There was only one bedroom and it was positioned just on the other side of the kitchen. A quick peek inside revealed a small double bed decorated with a bright coloured quilt. Beside the bed was a mismatched timber cupboard, bedside table and chest of drawers. The tiny bathroom was situated on the other side of the kitchen, and had clearly been added on some time after the house had been built. She guessed there was an outhouse somewhere, probably by the chicken pen, and was glad for the luxury of an indoor toilet. Beside the toilet was a tiny shower cubicle with a bright green shower curtain, and one of those old-fashioned ceramic sinks with separate hot and cold taps.
After locating a towel, she had a quick shower and changed into fresh black leggings and a baggy red jumper from her overnight bag. Back in the living room, Roxy combed her wet hair and glanced around. She could still find no television set, but she did see a relatively modern stereo sitting beside a cluttered bookcase. She stepped across and pressed “Play” on the CD player. Soon the soft dulcet tones of Nick Drake began to stream through the air, and she smiled. Sam Forrest also had good taste in music.
As she let the song wash over her, Roxy continued poking around, knowing she should be minding her own business but intrigued nonetheless. There were no pictures on the walls but a few photos had been clustered together on a sideboard that she hadn’t noticed the first time she’d been here, and she took a closer look. There were several photos of an elderly lady with a soft mop of long, white hair. In one of them, she was standing by a horse, a wide smile on her face and a small hibiscus flower poked out above her ear. In another, she was reaching down to pick up a small child wearing an enormous cloth nappy. That had to be Sam’s grandmother, she decided, judging from the photo quality and the woman’s age. A larger frame displayed a picture of three children, circa 1980s. The boy, just on the cusp of puberty, wore a pair of Stubbie shorts and a worried smile; the two girls were older and wore matching terry toweling dresses. They both had mousy brown hair, and faces crammed with freckles. Sam and his older sisters, thought Roxy, surely?
Then she spotted the picture of Sunny. It had to be Sunny; this girl was young and breathtakingly beautiful, and she was clearly taking a selfie, her arms reaching out and getting lost behind the lens. That was something her older siblings would never have done. So much for Miss Anti-technology, Roxy thought. She might not own a mobile device, but she clearly had access to a digital camera of some sort.
Roxy picked up the photo and studied it. Sunny had long, cashmere-blonde hair that draped over her eyes provocatively, and a face that was tanned and blemish-free. Her nose was small and perfect, her teeth straight and gleaming white, and the smile she was offering the camera was coy, even a little cheeky, and it choked at Roxy’s heartstrings. She wondered now if Sam was right. Had someone deliberately put an end to that beautiful smile? And if so, why?
Perhaps it was time to get a few things straight. Roxy placed the photo back on the shelf then returned to her overnight bag and located her journal, a small, leather-bound book that went everywhere she did. Catching the pen before it fell out, she opened it to a blank page before settling onto the couch and quickly beginning to write.
As the fire crackled away, Roxy scribbled down every event she could remember of the past two days. It had been a while since she’d last written in her journal, but she felt the need now to get it all down, every detail from Jed’s final night. As she did so, it suddenly hit her, something she had completely forgotten about—she recalled crouching behind the bar, bottle of red wine in her hand, as Annika talked suggestively to a man who was not Jed.
She underlined those last two words and gave it some thought. Who had she been talking to? What did they say? Most of it was now a blur—it seemed so long ago—but one thing Annika said stood out very clearly and now sent shivers down Roxy’s spine.
“We have to act. It’s time, babe, it’s time.”
Wasn’t that the same thing Jed called his new song, the one he was about to sing before he was electrocuted? The one he dedicated to the “love of his life” while staring out at the crowd, away from his wife?
Had Jed Moody fallen in love with someone else? Was he planning to leave Annika, and did she know that? The way Annika had talked in that darkened living room had sounded intimate to Roxy, though her words could almost have been an instruction, a directive to a secret lover. She shuddered. Could Annika have killed her husband? Or ordered someone to do it?
“Stop it!” Roxy said aloud. “You’re letting your imagination run wild again!” Oliver would be so disappointed with her. So, too, would Max.
As if hearing her voice, Lunar reappeared, trotting inside then straight up to Roxy, planting his head in her lap again.
“I’ve already fed you, boy,” she said, watching his eyes droop. “Is this about Sam? If so, I’m worried too.”
She glanced at the clock on the wall above the stove. An hour had vanished and she’d barely noticed the time. She wondered if Sam would be home soon, or if she and Lunar were in for a long night. Her stomach growled then and Lunar blinked up at her, surprised.
She laughed and stood up. “Come on, then, let’s see what else is in that pantry.”
After throwing some more wood on the fire, Roxy wandered into the kitchen to start searching the fridge and cupboards. Lunar had been fed, but she was famished. There was an onion, some zucchini and packaged pasta. She could work with that. She recalled seeing tomatoes and parsley growing in the veggie patch around the back and she pulled on some oversized gumboots and trotted outside before it got too dark, Lunar bounding ahead.
Twenty minutes later, Roxy had the pasta bubbling away and the tomato sauce simmering on the old gas stove. It smelled delicious. Was that the fresh ingredients, or was she just plain starving? Roxy realised that, apart from a few coffees, she hadn’t eaten a thing all day. No wonder it was so appealing.
Leaving a generous portion in the pan for Sam just in case he hadn’t eaten, Roxy scooped some pasta into a bowl then returned to the sofa, watching the fire burn as she ate. Lunar turned in a circle a few times then dumped himself close to Roxy’s feet, and she dropped one hand to stroke him as she ate. She’d never had a pet, not even as a child. Her mother had detested animals, felt they were too smelly and took too much of her precious (albeit idle) time. Roxy would love a dog now, but her tiny apartment would be torture to a dog of this size. And she wasn’t interested in small breeds like Coco. Might as well get a cat, she thought.
“Or a rodent, eh, Lunar?”
Lunar thudded his tail hard against the rug, ears twitching in response to her voice.
Just as Roxy was scooping the last of the pasta from her bowl, the dog’s ears pricked up again and he leapt to his feet and started barking. A car was approaching.
Roxy jumped up too, not sure whether to be happy or alarmed. It had to be Sam. Didn’t it? But Lunar’s response said otherwise. His tail was no longer wagging and the hair on his back was standing up again.
Roxy placed her bowl aside, swallowed hard then stepped towards a front window, pulling the curtain aside. She could just make out a dark-coloured vehicle, a sedan of some sort, pulling up to the house. It wasn’t Sam’s Jeep. Roxy’s stomach dropped. She looked back at Lunar who was now barking like a
watchdog, pacing up and down in front of the door. Never before had she longed so much for a working telephone.
Roxy leaned down to calm Lunar, or perhaps she was just holding onto him for her dear life. Roxy heard the slam of a car door followed by the muffled crunch of gravel, then a loud banging on the front door that made her jump and Lunar launch into another round of barking. Her stomach now in her throat, Roxy glanced at the dog and then at the door, wondering whether to open it. Was it even locked?
Finally, rediscovering her vocal chords, she yelled out, “Who’s there?”
There was an interminable pause before a familiar voice boomed back, “It’s your fairy godmother, let me in!”
Chapter 18
Gilda Maltin was standing just on the edge of the front deck exhaling thick plumes of condensation, her eyebrows knotted together, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. The second Roxy opened the door Gilda burst forward, grabbed her in a hug and didn’t seem to want to let go.
“My God, woman, you gave me the scare of my life!” She pushed Roxy back and began to check her over. “Are you okay? He didn’t hurt you, did he?”
Roxy stared at her spellbound, still not sure if Gilda was really here or if it was just a mirage. She was clad in her usual city getup—tailored pants, silk shirt, heeled boots and a creamy cashmere coat that would stand out in these parts like dreadlocks in the Upper East Side of Manhattan.
“Come on, then,” said Gilda, “let’s get inside, it’s bloody freezing out here.”
Gilda dragged Roxy back in, one hand still holding onto her as though afraid she might vanish, the other slamming the door shut. Lunar had stopped barking and was now glancing from Roxy to Gilda and back, clearly not sure whether to slobber on this strange woman or attack. Roxy finally came to her senses and bent down towards the dog.
“She’s okay, Lunar, she doesn’t bite.”
Gilda’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah, but does she? That’s the question.”
Note Before Dying (Ghostwriter Mystery 6) Page 11
