Killer Twist (Ghostwriter Mystery 1)

by C.A. Larmer

Chapter 7: Searching for Suspects

  Monday morning dawned bright and cloudless, doing very little to cheer up workers as they made their way back to the grindstone. Roxy congratulated herself, as she often did on Mondays, for not having an office job. She was simply not the nine-to-five type, forgetting as she always did that she tended to do longer hours than that and worked most weekends. As she sat down at her desk and scanned her diary for the week, Roxy’s good humor quickly dissipated. She was scheduled to return to the Musgrave mansion for the next installment of Beattie’s life story that very morning and for the first time since she had begun, she longed desperately to do just that. She wished she could turn up at the grand old house and find the elegant hostess ready and waiting, eager to share cups of tea and her life story. She sighed heavily. If only Beatrice had not been so determined to tell that story, ‘get it all out once and for all’, she might still be alive today, spooning some Earl Grey tea leaves into her ivory china tea pot in anticipation of Roxy’s visit.

  Roxy realized, of course, that it was all conjecture. She understood that she could well be barking up the wrong tree, that the old lady could have done herself in, as others were so quick to assume. But she just didn’t believe it. Not for one second. She felt a sudden urge to finish transcribing their interviews together. There were four hours of tape left to write up and it seemed imperative that she do it, and do it soon.

  Overnight Roxy had contemplated finishing Beattie’s biography for her and had decided to approach the Musgrave family about this very subject. But right now she had a strong urge to see what else was on those tapes, in case there was something important that she’d missed. Perhaps Beattie had made a previous, albeit subtle, mention of another child or given some indication that she was contemplating her own brutal death. If the police aren’t interested, she thought striding into the kitchen, I am. She prepared a plunger of fresh New Guinea coffee and fetched the tapes.

  As they noisily rewound in her small recorder, Roxy set her laptop up on the dining room table so that she could drink in the view as she worked. She poured herself some coffee, added a few sugars and some milk, took a good long sip and then pressed the start button on her tape recorder. As the ferries chugged across the horizon and the sun beamed down on the ferns just beyond, Roxy ploughed slowly through, noting down anything that rose an eyebrow or tickled her instincts.

  By mid-afternoon she had listened to the final tape, the last aborted interview in which it was made perfectly clear by Beatrice that there were, indeed, skeletons in her closet. Roxy pushed the laptop aside, stood up and stretched like a cat easing out the aches and pains of sitting in a concentrated state for too long. Then, needing both a distraction and an outing, she fetched her handbag and rummaged through for the blue scrap of paper Heather had given her with the name of her agent Jamie Owen written on it. When she located it, she picked up the phone and dialed the number scribbled below it. On the first ring a gruff voice answered, ‘Owen!’

  ‘Hi, is that Jamie?’

  ‘Yes, who’s this?’

  ‘My name’s Roxy Parker—’

  ‘This about the umbrella?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You got it?’

  ‘Yes, I had a good look and found—’

  ‘Good. I’ll send a courier for it. Give me your address.’

  ‘Actually I’m about to head out. I’m happy to drop it into Heather.’

  ‘Not necessary, thank you Miss Parker. Drop it into my office. 323 Park Street, seventh floor. Leave it with the receptionist.’

  ‘Oh, okay, no probs.’

  He hung up without another word.

  ‘As polite as your client, I see,’ Roxy remarked into the empty receiver. She flipped the paper over to jot down the address when she noticed the words ‘Miss Roxanne Parker’ scribbled on it. Again, it surprised her—how strange that Maria would refer to her in such a formal way. This was for an artist, after all, not the Lord Mayor. But there was something else now, too, something about the writing. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it. Roxy shrugged and began scribbling down Heather’s manager’s details, then fetched the gold umbrella, her boots and a jacket. The sooner she was rid of it the better.

  Within the hour Roxy had dropped the umbrella off and was back at her desk perusing her notes on Beatrice Musgrave. She felt oddly relieved, now that the umbrella was out of her hands, and fresher, too, for the break. These little outings—to fetch the paper, do a grocery shop, grab a bite at Lockies—were almost ritualistic for Roxy. They helped clear her head and get her out of the house, something she understood was important, even if her heart wasn’t in it. She recalled a week some time back when she hadn’t stirred at all. She was finishing several big articles, Max was away and the weather had not been conducive, but by the Friday she was crawling the walls and when the takeaway guy arrived with her dinner, she had practically thrown herself upon him, desperate for company and conversation. Perhaps she wasn’t the loner she pretended to be.

  But now it was time to knuckle down to business. Roxy pressed a random key on her keyboard and the laptop danced back to life, displaying the page titled, ‘B. Musgrave’ which she had been working on that morning. Unfortunately, as she scanned the transcription, nothing especially revealing stood out. While the older woman had lamented one thing or another, the loss of her first love being about the saddest of all, her tone was otherwise upbeat. If anything, Beatrice Musgrave had sounded like a woman with everything to live for. While she clearly didn’t have a very close relationship with her ‘workaholic’ son, she did dote on her grandson and got enormous satisfaction from her volunteering and charity work.

  And then of course there was the matter of the daughter. This was particularly perplexing. If there really was another child, none of the papers had mentioned it. They had listed her son William as Beattie’s ‘only child’. It was clearly not common knowledge, and Roxy wondered who else in Beattie’s life knew about this daughter? Had her husband known? Did William? Was the daughter estranged? Had she been adopted out at birth? It was all very strange and Roxy guessed it could have been the reason Beatrice was writing her biography: to get the truth out at last. It might also have provided a motive for murder if someone had not wanted the truth revealed.

  Roxy wondered who else knew about the secret daughter and if any of it was related to the threatening emails she, herself, had been receiving. Certainly none of the names mentioned in Beattie’s interviews corresponded with the initials AIL from the Hotmail account. In fact, after four hours of tape Roxy had only noted four names of any interest.

  She perused the list. The first was Terence Musgrave, Beattie’s husband of whom she said, ‘He was not the perfect husband, but then I was not perfect either.’ Roxy wondered what she meant by that and if he knew about the daughter but concluded it could now be of little concern. Terence had been dead for five years. She turned to the next name on the list: William Musgrave, Beattie’s ‘only son’. ‘He’s a mad workaholic,’ Beatrice had remarked. ‘I rarely see him.’ She had also insisted that he was in favor of the biography. Mentally, Roxy scratched him off the list.

  William’s son Fabian was also mentioned in the transcript and, while Beattie described him as having ‘a lot of growing up to do’ she also called him, ‘sweet, charming and attentive.’ Of all the family he was the only one she had mentioned as being against the book. Roxy wanted to find out why. Perhaps he was the one sending her the threatening messages. She underlined his name and made a note to pay him a visit.

  The final name on her list was Ronald Featherby, Beattie’s longtime lawyer. ‘He’s such a dear friend,’ Beattie had remarked. ‘I’d trust him with my life.’ What else had Beatrice entrusted him with, Roxy wondered? Perhaps Mr Featherby was holding the key? Roxy made a similar note next to his name.

  The phone let out a shrill cry and Roxy nearly jumped out of her skin. She quickly saved the copy and grabbed the remote. ‘Roxy Parker speaking.’

 
‘Hey Parker, how’s it goin’?’ It was Max and he sounded more cheerful than the last time they had spoken. ‘I heard about Beatrice Musgrave. Pretty shocking.’

  ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘The police dropped by and it seems they’re determined to think it’s suicide.’

  ‘And you don’t?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know.’

  ‘It looks like I’ve been roped in to cover the funeral for the Tele.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah.’ His tone flattened. ‘Let’s just say I’m hard up for cash.’

  ‘When is it? You have to tell me how it goes.’

  ‘See if I can spot a murderer wandering about?’ He was joking but Roxy had lost her sense of humor. ‘Look,’ he continued when she did not respond, ‘that’s not the reason I called, I wanted to say thank you.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Well, after what you said the other night, I took your advice and saw Sandra again.’

  ‘The suede-jacket woman?’

  ‘Yes and, well, suffice to say, we went for dinner Friday and she just left this morning.’

  ‘Good for you.’ Roxy felt her stomach lurch. That explained why he hadn’t called her all weekend. Max had a new playmate and she was out of the picture again. It didn’t happen that often, but when it did, she always felt a little irked. Her mother and Max were wrong, she did need people around. She just didn’t like admitting it.

  ‘So what did you get up to over the weekend?’ he was asking. ‘Working as usual?’

  ‘No I did not work the entire weekend.’ Now she was feeling defensive. ‘Besides, I’ve got a hot date tonight.’

  There was a brief pause on the other end and then Max said, ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes really. Why, does that surprise you?’

  ‘No, no not at all.’ Was that ridicule in his voice? ‘So who’s the lucky guy?’

  ‘I’ll tell you all about it on Thursday,’ Roxy said, ‘that is, if you still want to meet on Thursday?’

  ‘Yeah, what do you reckon?’

  ‘Well, I figured now that you’re in love—’

  ‘Whoever said anything about love? See you at Pico’s at seven. ‘Til then, have a cool week, hey?’

  He hung up and Roxy felt hollow inside. It was not that she was jealous, she decided, she just liked having him all to herself. Then she thought about her ‘hot date’ and cringed. She hadn’t lied exactly, she did have a date tonight, but it wasn’t exactly hot. It had taken her a few days, but she’d finally worked out why the ‘dashing young lawyer’ that her mother had been trying to set her up with sounded so familiar. It wasn’t his name, it was his company: Featherby & Phillips. It was clearly the firm of Ronald Featherby, Beattie’s good friend and lawyer. That’s why it had rung a bell. She kept the phone in her hand and pressed speed dial. Her mother answered.

  ‘You still on for dinner tonight?’ Roxy asked.

  ‘Naturally! Don’t tell me you’re going to make an effort and come along?’

  ‘Don’t push it, Mum, or I’ll cancel.’

  ‘Alright darling, don’t get in a tizzy. We’ll see you at 7:30. Sharp.’

  ‘And Mason what’s-his-name is going to be there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll see you tonight.’

  ‘Oh and Roxanne?’

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘Try not to wear black this time.’

  Lorraine and Charlie Jones lived in the fashionable North Shore suburb of Lane Cove in a modestly sized house that overcompensated with bulky antique furniture and rich, patterned hues intended to suggest English aristocracy. The result was a cluttered, claustrophobic effect, which was exactly how Roxy felt whenever she came visiting. The house she had been brought up in, before her father died, was older, more spacious—rambling even—and settled on a large plot of land in the decidedly unfashionable suburb of Hornsby, much further north. Roxy wondered if her mother ever missed the old place like she did but one look at the woman gliding towards her with her pearly blonde bob and her long gold chains, suggested otherwise. Lorraine had slipped into the life of an upper middle-class gentleman’s wife smoothly, never looking back at the teaching career she had given up or the old friends she never seemed to find the time for now. She took Roxy’s hands in hers as though greeting a distant friend.

  ‘I’m so glad you came, Roxanne,’ she cooed, leading her through the living room towards the kitchen before adding, ‘even if you did wear black.’

  ‘It’s chocolate brown, Mum.’

  ‘Same difference.’ Her eyes swept down to Roxy’s flowing brown skirt, buckled at the waist with a thick leather belt, and back up to her creamy cardigan and long chained necklace. ‘Charlie’s delighted you’re here, too. He’s mixing up quite a feast.’

  ‘Hi Charlie,’ Roxy murmured to a large, well-built man wearing a frilly apron over trousers and a lemon sweater, his hands immersed in a bowl of what looked like turkey stuffing. He waved one crumbly hand towards her.

  ‘How the hell are you, Roxy? Glad you could make it.’

  ‘Thanks for inviting me.’ Why is it, she wondered as she always did, why she felt so out of place in what was supposed to be her family home? ‘I come bearing gifts.’ She produced a bottle of red wine from behind her back and her mother took it from her.

  ‘Merlot ... hmmm.’

  ‘It’s a good drop, Mum, take my word for it.’

  ‘Thanks Roxy,’ Charlie called out. ‘Lorraine why don’t we crack open the bubbly? There’s a bottle of the good stuff in the fridge.’

  Roxy watched as her mother slipped the Merlot into a cupboard and retrieved the champagne. She felt her stomach tighten but kept her mouth shut. She did not want to get into a fight tonight.

  ‘Mason is on his way,’ Lorraine said and Roxy felt a pang of guilt. She did not ordinarily like using people for information but she was doing it in the name of dear old Beatrice. And besides, it was thrilling her mother no end, thinking she was finally making an effort to meet ‘dashing’ eligible bachelors.

  As it turned out, Mason Gower was anything but dashing. He looked handsome enough if you liked your dates straight up—short back and side hairstyles with stiff, overly starched suits—which Roxy did not, but he had pomposity of a male peacock and the personality of a pigeon. He was an arrogant know-it-all and it delighted her immensely. Whatever guilt she was carrying, quickly disappeared. Even better, he was a big mouth and had no qualms discussing his work, his colleagues and his boss, Ronald Featherby. But it was what he had to say about Beatrice Musgrave that left Roxy reeling.

  They were well into the main meal, an extravagant duck and sautéed vegetables affair with minted peas and an orange sauce, before Roxy dared to broach the subject.

  ‘So what’s your boss like?’ she asked as matter-of-factly as she could muster. ‘I’ve heard all sorts of things about that man.’

  ‘Oh yes, Mr Phillips is quite an interesting character—’

  ‘No, I mean Ronald Featherby, his partner.’

  Mason looked up from his plate with a frown. ‘Ronald Featherby? Why he’s a bore. What ever could you have heard about him?’

  ‘Maybe I got it wrong,’ she said, adding, ‘a bore you say? How do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, dull as a doorknob. Plays by the rules. Never gives anything away. The whole company is terrified of him because of it.’ He plunged a forkful of meat into his mouth and began chewing violently. Roxy felt a surge of disappointment. Had this dinner been for nothing? She picked at her food gloomily. She didn’t know what she was expecting Mason to reveal, but she was half hoping that Featherby was the philandering type, that perhaps he and Beattie had been embroiled in an illicit affair that he didn’t want revealed.

  ‘Roxy’s a very clever writer you know!’ Lorraine announced and the younger woman rolled her eyes with exasperation. Her mother always did this, embellishing her abilities like a public relations consultant. She didn’t really give a toss about her daughter’s profession, was never
very interested. That is until strangers came along. Then it was boasted about, often in laborious and embarrassing detail. Mason simply shrugged his shoulders and kept right on chewing. Charlie, too, seemed uninterested in conversation. He was too busy admiring his own cooking. Roxy had an idea.

  ‘Actually, now that you mention it, Mum, I was just working on an autobiography with Beatrice Musgrave,’ and then almost as an aside: ‘Of course it’s all over, now that she’s dead.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Mason. ‘Now there’s an interesting woman.’ Roxy looked across at him, her eyes narrowed with interest. ‘Beatrice Musgrave was one of our clients, you know?’

  ‘Oh really?’ she feigned surprise. ‘So why do you think she’s particularly interesting?’

  ‘Well, let’s just say she had friends in low places.’ He placed his fork down deliberately and leaned back in his chair to scan the group, his eyes darting between them.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘As far as I could tell, old Mrs Musgrave had ... now, how should I put it?’ He stopped to consider this, plucking a bit of food from between his teeth as he did so. ‘She had a few dirty little secrets I’d say.’

  Roxy could barely restrain her smile. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Weeeeeell,’ he produced a toothpick from somewhere and began jabbing at his teeth again. ‘There was some indication that she had a past. A pretty dark past.’

  ‘Oh you’re making all of this up, you big liar!’ Lorraine squealed. ‘I used to see old Beattie Musgrave around the traps. Not a hair out of place. If she had any past to speak of, it was in a past life! As Queen Victoria! Everyone ready for dessert?’

  Roxy could have throttled her mother. She glared at her across the table but Lorraine was already clearing away the plates and had indicated for Roxy to do so, too. Reluctantly, Roxy picked up the empty serving bowls and deposited them in the kitchen. When she returned to the dining room, Charlie and the lawyer were discussing their share portfolios. She wanted to scream.

  It was not until dessert was over and coffee had been served before Roxy had a chance to broach the subject again. With the subtlety of a sledgehammer, Lorraine and Charlie had dragged the couple into the living room, handed them a glass of dessert wine, and then simply vanished. Roxy knew exactly what they were up to and, for the first time in her life, was grateful. She seized the opportunity.

  ‘Tell me more about Beatrice Musgrave,’ she implored. ‘I’m intrigued!’

  ‘Sure, but first, you tell me, what’s a beautiful woman like you still doing on the shelf?’

  She swallowed hard, attempted a smile. ‘Just fussy I guess.’

  ‘Be careful you don’t get left there.’

  Roxy kept her smile in place, thinking: With prats like you around, there’s nowhere I’d rather be. But she bit her tongue and tossed her hair back provocatively instead. Years of watching the likes of Maria Constantinople at work had taught her how and she needed to humor him long enough to get what she came for.

  ‘Perhaps we can do this again some time?’ he suggested. ‘Outside of your parent’s house?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ she lied. ‘So, Mrs Musgrave?’

  ‘Ah yes, the society queen. Suffice to say she had friends in ugly places.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  He sipped his glass of wine slowly, stringing out the suspense. Roxy noticed that he had dripped some sauce down onto his starched cotton shirt and stifled a giggle. She suspected he would be livid when he discovered it in the mirror later that night.

  ‘One day, about a month or so back,’ Mason began, ‘I was working on the People vs Avery case. Did you hear about it?’

  Roxy remembered it well. Avery was a pharmaceutical company who, a few years back, had a class action law suit brought against them by thousands of women who had used their diet pills and ended up with chronic, sometimes debilitating stomach cramps. Only a few months ago, Avery had successfully beaten the suit in court without having to pay a cent or make any disclaimers. As far as Roxy knew, the diet pill was still available for sale. It had made her sick to her own stomach at the time but she simply shrugged imploring him to continue. She was not here to get into an argument.

  ‘So I’m standing out in the lobby with the CEO of Avery. The Chief Executive Officer, you understand, the top dog.’

  Yes, you idiot, I do know what CEO stands for.

  ‘And this hideous woman—if you can call her that—comes hobbling in, smelling up the place like you wouldn’t believe, and screaming to God almighty that she wants to see Beatrice Musgrave!’

  ‘Goodness, who was she?’

  ‘Well I hardly know that. She’s not exactly someone I’d ever associate with.’

  ‘Of course not. What did she say? Exactly.’

  ‘Oh something or other about Beatrice owing her and how she’d spill the beans—“I’ll ring The Gossip Show!” she screamed. Which is hysterical, really, because we all know the show’s been off air forever.’

  ‘How intriguing!’ Roxy felt like a mother humoring her child. ‘What happened then?’

  ‘Well, I’m trying to get Mr Daniels— the CEO—out of there. It was hideously embarrassing. And then old Ronnie appears and ushers her quickly into his office.’

  ‘Ronald Featherby?’

  ‘The very one.’

  ‘So any idea at all what she meant? Who she might have been?’

  ‘No idea. She certainly smelt like a derelict but was extraordinarily well dressed. Chanel I believe.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘She was wearing a Chanel jacket or some such! Bit dumpy, if you ask me, but the girls in the office were green with envy wondering how she could afford something like that.’

  ‘She could have just been an eccentric rich woman.’

  ‘Hardly! I know my derelicts, darling. I get enough of them harassing me every morning on my way to work. No she was definitely a bag lady and a mad one at that. A nasty piece of work. Probably got lucky at an op shop.’

  Roxy thought for a second. ‘How old was the woman?’

  ‘She looked about a hundred and five—’

  ‘Yes, well, living on the streets will do that to you. But could she have been much younger, given a decent scrub and a bit of make-up? Like, in her 50s or—’

  ‘Good Lord no! Why on earth would you ask? No, no, no, this woman was definitely an old broad, gray hair, bent over, the works. As old as Beattie I’d say.’ Mason shivered all over then, as though the mere memory of the woman disgusted him, then he struggled to his feet. ‘Time to “make a movie” as they say.’ He giggled at his own line. ‘Big case in the morning.’

  Roxy nodded amiably and walked him to the door.

  ‘So, we’ll talk again. What’s your number?’

  ‘Actually Mason, let me take your number instead.’

  ‘Oh, one of those, hey?’ He didn’t sound perturbed and wedged one of his business cards into her hand before slopping a wet kiss on top. Roxy pulled her hand away firmly and tried for a smile. When he had finally driven off, proudly revving his BMW in the process, Roxy felt a sigh of relief followed quickly by a prickle of excitement. Okay, so the bag lady clearly wasn’t the secret daughter, that was clear. So who was she then? And why was she threatening Beatrice Musgrave? Did she also know about the daughter, or was Beattie hiding something else? And was she the one who killed her? Roxy slipped back into the house, fetched her keys and then slipped quietly out again. It was late and she wasn’t in the mood for her mother’s endless questions.