Note Before Dying (Ghostwriter Mystery 6)

by Larmer, C. A.

  “It’s a pity he didn’t speak up sooner. He’d started to suspect Govinda a while ago, apparently. She had told him that Melody and the new bub were his, but he had his doubts, the way she kept sneaking off at all hours and firing off secret texts, it got him wondering.”

  “He only had to look at Melody’s face to know he wasn’t the father.”

  “True. But I don’t think he wanted to believe it, not until he heard Govinda tell Wiles that she was with him the morning Macker was killed. That’s when he finally accepted the truth. He went along with Govinda but he knew she was lying, had seen her sneak off very early that morning and he finally had to admit she must have killed Macker. Then left the axe there to implicate Sam.”

  Roxy shivered. “She’s pure evil.”

  “Masquerading as a goddess,” Gilda added, handing the Merlot back to her friend. “Hans must have loved her very much to protect her for so long.”

  Roxy sneered as she took another sip. She’d had enough of protective love. It seemed to be the escape clause for all of them. Everybody was trying to protect everybody else and hurting each other in the process. Houghton had loved and protected both Annika and Jed his whole adult life despite all their indiscretions, manipulation and deceit. Or was it his income stream he really loved and wanted to protect?

  Even Sam had come dangerously close to being locked away for being too protective a brother.

  “How is Sam?” she asked, and Gilda cringed a little.

  “Not talking to me, that’s for sure.” She nudged a toe towards Roxy’s. “I’m sure he’d love to see you, though. They’ve released him, of course. He’s back at his place now. Quick even organised for that bloody dog to be returned to him, he feels so bad.”

  “So he should!” She hesitated. Would Sam even want to see her after everything that had happened?

  As if reading her mind, Gilda said, “He knows you had nothing to do with it, Roxy. He knows you’ve been barracking for him from the start.” She helped herself to more wine then said, “Go on then, don’t waste time with me, go to him.”

  Roxy stared at her. “I thought you didn’t like him.”

  “It’s not him I don’t like, silly! It never really was. It’s the idea of him that got under my nose. The fact that you might stay here with him and desert me in Sydney.”

  “Who says I’m going to stay here with him?”

  Gilda gave her a sideways look. “That’s the whole reason I never trusted him, Roxy. I realise now that it’s not because I thought he was a killer. It’s because deep down I realised you were falling for him, and I didn’t want you to. I was just being a selfish cow.”

  Roxy half smiled. “So what’s changed now?”

  “Maybe I’ve done a bit of growing up myself. Or maybe it has something to do with my own blue-eyed guy.”

  “Wiles? So what about the wife?”

  Gilda’s smile lit up her face. “She moved out the day he caught the plane up. Had nothing to do with me apparently. He was telling the truth when he said they were at breaking point. She’s always loathed his career, had had enough. So we’re going to ... well, we’ll see how it goes.”

  “Good. You deserve happiness.” Roxy paused. “And so do I!” She pushed the bottle towards Gilda and stood up.

  “Back to the ranch?” Gilda asked, beaming up at her, and she beamed back.

  “Oh yeah, it’s time, baby, it’s time.”

  **********

  Roxy heard Lunar before she saw him. A deep, loud “woof!” echoed through the trees followed by a swish of black and white as the dog came racing down the driveway towards her.

  Roxy slowed the car and came to a stop just as Lunar approached, then leaned over and opened the passenger side door so he could jump inside. He bounced towards her, licked her face, then settled into the seat and stared out through the front windscreen, as if to say, “Okay, then, let’s get going!”

  Roxy laughed and closed the door, then continued on until she reached Sam’s cottage, which was now lit up like a Christmas tree. She spotted Sam waiting at the front, a goofy smile in place, and she stopped the car and opened the door, waiting for Lunar to sweep past her before she, too, stepped out onto the drive.

  Sam remained in the doorway, hands in his pockets, shy smile on his face. “I was hoping you’d come,” he said, before glancing behind her. “That crazy cop friend isn’t on her way too, is she?”

  Roxy laughed and stepped towards him. “She’s officially banned.”

  “Good. She’s a classic case of ‘be careful what you wish for’. She nearly got me locked up for life!”

  “I think that was more Wiles and Quick’s doing, but anyway, you’re out now. You’re okay.”

  “Thanks to you.” He pulled his hands from his pockets, stepped towards her now. “You’re the only one who had any faith in me.”

  Before Roxy could say anything, he wrapped his large arms around her and pulled her into a deep embrace. The horror of the past week evaporated in that moment, and she felt an overwhelming sense of calm. It was as though she had finally found her place, had finally come home.

  “I’m so sorry about your sister,” she whispered as they continued holding onto each other.

  “You play with fire...” Sam began, but she pulled back and stared into his eyes.

  “No way!” she said. “That’s just Govinda’s crap. ‘Hippie’ my foot! She’s the biggest fraud I ever met; there’s not a spiritual bone in that woman’s body. Listen to me, your sister did not deserve to die. No matter what she did, she did not deserve that.”

  He nodded, fat tears filling his eyes. He cleared his throat and brushed them away. “I can’t believe it was Govinda. For eighteen months I’ve been unloading to her ... I never knew...” He shook his head. “She played me, big time.”

  “I don’t know about that, Sam. Maybe she did it to assuage her guilt. She was probably the one who made the little memorial at the creek where Sunny died, kept replenishing the flowers. Maybe it’s been eating her alive all this time. If there is such a thing as karma, Govinda knows she’s in for some major strife. In any case, she got the ultimate punishment—she killed the only man she’s ever loved. She did that. She has to live with that for the rest of her life.”

  “I wonder what will happen to those poor kids.”

  Roxy shrugged. “Who knows? Hopefully Hans will step up, take care of them all. Although I wonder whether Annika will try to get custody of Jed’s girl and the unborn child. I’m not sure she should though. Be nice to keep the siblings together.”

  He nodded and stepped back. “Are you coming in? I make a mean coffee, you know.”

  She laughed. “Yeah, I think I will. But I’d like more than coffee this time.” She hesitated. “Are you up for that?”

  His face lit up, his smile widened. “Up for it? I’ve been waiting for it since the day you arrived, since I first saw you sitting at Govinda’s Café, tapping away at your stupid iPad looking all beautiful and innocent.”

  “Really? You liked me then?” she laughed. “Wasn’t that the day you abused me about protecting a killer?”

  He smiled. “The way you handled that, the way you looked at me with those big green eyes of yours, I just knew I had to see you again. Why do you think I was at Jed’s gig that night? Certainly wasn’t there to watch the Moody Roos, that’s for sure.”

  She blushed. If only she’d known, but then again, maybe she had known. Maybe that’s why she had felt so comfortable with him, had so readily agreed to watch over Lunar the next day. Deep down she had known all along.

  “Then you went and kidnapped me, if I recall.” She laughed again. “You sure have a funny way of showing a girl you like her.”

  “How about this then.” He took her face in his hands and kissed her long and hard on the lips. When he had finished, Roxy’s head was spinning and she wasn’t sure she could feel her feet anymore.

  He smiled knowingly and said, “Come on, then, you look like you need that cup
pa.”

  Then he took her hand and led her across the threshold while Lunar followed close behind, wagging his fluffy black tail with pure delight.

  ######

  About the Author

  Christina Larmer is a journalist, magazine editor and author of ten books including The Agatha Christie Book Club series, An Island Lost and six in the popular Ghostwriter Mystery series. She also wrote the non-fiction book A Measure of Papua New Guinea (Focus; 2008). Christina 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.

  Connect with Me Online

  Sign up to my mailing list to be notified about new releases, exclusive giveaways and my latest news and views: www.calarmerspits.blogspot.com.au

  christina.larmer@gmail.com

  facebook/CALarmer

  Twitter: @CALarmer

  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; and 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?”

  Kirsten smiled politely, exchanged glances with another club member—they had exchanged those kinds of glances before—and shook her head, no. Her black bob did not budge.

  “Why not?” Alicia persisted and Kirsten looked slightly taken aback.

  “It’s just not what we do... here.” She fumbled for her sheet of questions. “Okay then, if we can return to the subject at hand. Where were we exactly? I think we were up to question four? Yes, style of writing. Have you got anything to say about that, Wilfred?”

  She stared pointedly at a large man with a shaggy beard and gold-rimmed glasses who was slouched in an armchair across from Alicia. He pushed the glasses back into position and then slid one hand down to his beard and began caressing it lovingly. He’d been waiting for this.

  “Right. Well, I have to say I’ve never been a big fan of Carey. I think he tries very hard but I’m not quite sure he’s pulling it off. His writing, well, it leaves a lot to be desired don’t you think?”

  A few murmurs of agreement broke out around the lounge room where the meeting was being held and, encouraged, he launched into his trademark sermon on the fallibilities of the modern author. There wasn’t a decent writer left in the world, apparently; not since Hemingway and Salinger had a good book been published. Alicia couldn’t help wondering what a microbiologist would know about that but pushed the thought away and let out a long, soft sigh instead.

  Why hadn’t she noticed it earlier? Why had it taken four sessions and a forbidden bottle of wine to make her see what was probably blatantly obvious to everyone else in the room from day one?

  She just didn’t fit in here.

  The truth is, Alicia Finlay couldn’t care less about literature. She just wished she did, the same way a woman who guiltily watches Desperate Housewives on TV wishes she could find the strength to switch over to that really important current affairs program on the public broadcaster. She just didn’t care enough.

  Alicia’s mind wandered now to her own bookshelf in the cluttered, semi-detached terrace house she shared with her sister, Lynette, and their black Labrador, Max. The shelf was huge, took up an entire wall and tipped ever so precariously to the right. It was bursting with well-thumbed paperbacks, mostly crime novels, and mostly by British author Agatha Christie. Alicia smiled. What really woke her up in the morning and saw her drift off to sleep at night was an old-fashioned whodunit. And if it happened to be penned by the Queen of Crime herself, all the better.

  She suppressed a giggle. Imagine if she suggested Murder on the Orient Express for the next book club! Wilfred would have a fit. Kirsten would choke on her chamomile tea. And I’d be in book heaven, she thought.

  That’s it. Enough’s enough.

  She stood up. She walked across to the side table. She picked up the bottle of red and poured herself half a glass. As she did so, the room fell silent behind her and she could feel their eyes boring into her back. She wondered if Kirsten would tackle her to the ground and wrench the glas
s out of her hands screaming, “But it’s not drink time yet!”

  She turned around slowly and tried for her bravest smile. Kirsten’s eyes were abnormally wide. Verity looked nervous, glancing between Alicia and Kirsten. And Wilfred had stopped stroking his beard.

  “What are you doing, Alicia?” Kirsten asked.

  “Just helping myself, before I head off,” she replied.

  She finished the drink in one large gulp, placed the glass down and reached for her handbag.

  “But... but where are you going?”

  She took a deep breath. “Look, I’m really sorry, guys, I gave it a go, but this club is clearly not right for me.”

  They all looked stunned, as if it hadn’t even dawned on them, and Alicia realised then that it probably hadn’t. They were so self-absorbed they hadn’t noticed the elephant in the room. A wistful look crossed Verity’s face and for a moment Alicia thought she might leap to her feet and follow her out.

  “But... but what about your book?” Kirsten demanded, grabbing Alicia’s pristine copy of Oscar and Lucinda from the antique coffee table and thrusting it towards her.

  “Oh no thanks, Kirsten, you’re welcome to it. I’ve got much better things to read at home.”

  And with that Alicia Finlay walked out on the Monday Night Book Club, their suffocating rules and their tediously dull literature, and she returned to her inner city home where her sister was just starting work on a crispy duck stir-fry, her dog was wagging his tail maniacally, and her latest Agatha Christie novel, a well-thumbed copy of Murder At The Vicarage, was waiting, temptingly, by her bedside.

  Chapter 2