Killer Twist (Ghostwriter Mystery 1)

by C.A. Larmer

Chapter 11: The Lawyer

  Ronald Featherby was the antithesis of his young protégé, Mason Gower, and this disheartened the ghostwriter who suspected from their first handshake that afternoon that he would not be of much assistance at all. Featherby was quiet and assured in a manner only achieved from years of legal wrangling. And he chose his words carefully, deliberately. Well into his 60s, he was semi-bald with gold spectacles on his nose and a suit that was stylish without being showy. His handshake was firm and friendly.

  ‘I’m so glad to meet you,’ he told Roxy, after offering her a seat and sending his assistant for coffee. Ronald had been most obliging on the phone and asked Roxy to come straight in with the tapes. She thought his urgency odd, but did as he asked and, upon her arrival was whisked straight into his stately office. ‘Beatrice told me quite a bit about you,’ Ronald was saying. ‘She was very fond of you.’

  ‘Well, thank you Mr Featherby, I’m flattered.’

  ‘No need to be. I’m sure her faith was not misplaced.’

  Roxy wondered if there was a subtle threat in there somewhere. Or was she just being neurotic? ‘Beatrice also spoke highly of you,’ she said. ‘She called you her “saving grace”.’

  He leant back in his large leather chair and placed one hand under his chin, as though contemplating, but did not acknowledge the compliment.

  ‘Not that anything could save her in the end,’ she continued, undeterred. ‘Poor Beatrice. I was so shocked to hear of her ... death.’

  ‘I believe you have some tapes for me?’

  ‘Yes.’ She fetched them from her bag and placed them in front of him on the desk noting as she did so that it was completely clear of paper, just host to a small laptop, two telephones and several photo frames, which were facing his way. She wondered if he turned them round to face clients when he wanted to give a friendly impression. The assistant appeared with an espresso coffee, which he placed before her, and in his other hand he produced a small silver mug of milk and a silver sugar bowl. He placed them beside the coffee and promptly departed.

  ‘Thank you!’ Roxy called behind her and then turned back to the lawyer. ‘You’re not joining me?’

  ‘No, but please enjoy.’ He took up the tapes and scrutinized them. ‘Are these the only copy in existence?’

  ‘Yes.’ She was lying, of course. Experience had taught her to duplicate everything, no matter how meaningless they appeared to be. The lawyer didn’t need to know this. He studied each tape carefully and then placed them in a drawer to his right before turning his gaze back upon her.

  Ronald Featherby was clearly one of those people who had a tendency to allow long gaps in the conversation, knowing only too well that the likes of Roxy Parker would feel compelled to plug the silence with small talk. This time, however, she bit her tongue and simply sipped her coffee, staring straight back at him. Two can play this game, she thought, and if you’re not giving anything away, neither am I.

  ‘Are there any outstanding invoices you need me to take care of?’ he said at last.

  ‘No, thank you, Ronald. William is looking after that.’

  ‘Fine.’ There was a sense of finality in his voice, although his face retained its warmth and, leaning back in his chair casually, he looked like he had all day. She decided it was time to show her hand.

  ‘Ronald, I wanted to ask you a question regarding your client.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘According to Beattie you were one of her dearest friends and, being her lawyer you’d be in the best, most objective, position to answer this.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It was perfectly clear to me that she wanted her story told. She came to me to write it. She had organized another interview with me just before she died. I understand that death has prematurely silenced her, but I wonder whether I should ... whether we should fulfill that wish posthumously.’

  ‘What exactly do you mean?’

  ‘I mean finishing the book. Researching it myself. Getting her life story told.’

  ‘I see.’ He rocked a little on his chair as though giving her suggestion considered thought. After several seconds he sat upright and, his hands interlocked on the desk before him, said softly, ‘I understand your concerns, Ms Parker, and I appreciate them. I’m sure dear Beatrice would, too. But you seem to be forgetting one rather important detail.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Beatrice Musgrave—may she rest in peace—chose to end her life. I don’t believe there can be any clearer statement that, in fact, she did not want to finish the book.’

  ‘Yes, but do we really know it was suicide?’

  He did not flinch. ‘That’s the official report. I have no reason to question the police, the forensic scientists, the coroner. Perhaps you do?’

  ‘No, not really, it’s just a hunch.’

  ‘On what evidence is your, er, hunch, based?’

  Roxy slammed her lips shut. She debated whether to tell him about the daughter Beattie had mentioned. Roxy had carried the burden of Beattie’s secret around since her death and was desperate to share it with someone who might be able to shed some light on the truth. She wanted so much to confide in this polite old man with the gray hair and the Grandpa specs. But, again, her instincts begged for silence. So she shrugged her shoulders and said, ‘No evidence. Just a hunch.’

  ‘I see. Look, Ms Parker, I do appreciate your concern but there is no scoop here.’ He smiled warmly enough but there was a slight cynicism to his tone. ‘Beatrice’s beloved husband died five years ago to the week that she died. Did you know that?’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘She may not have told you, but she never really recovered from the loss. I think, if anything, her final wish was peace ... and silence.’

  Roxy did not believe him for one moment. In the interviews, Beattie had made it perfectly clear that her marriage was a loveless one. Why, then, would her husband’s death destroy her? No, she knew he was throwing out red herrings and was now thankful she had stayed silent. The lawyer was hiding something and she guessed it had everything to do with the well-dressed derelict and Beattie’s secret daughter.

  ‘You’re a journalist, too, I believe?’ he said.

  ‘Yes I am.’

  ‘I’d like to make one thing crystal clear.’ His tone had turned icily formal. No more Grandpa Ronald, she thought. ‘The information that you retrieved from Beatrice Musgrave was given in good faith and for the sole purpose of her authorized biography. Now that we have ... agreed ... that the biography is to be aborted, and I believe her next of kin, William Musgrave has also stipulated this, I expect the information to be concealed and any notes that you have made destroyed immediately. In other words,’ and he paused then, as though for effect, ‘it would be morally and ethically reprehensible to use any of the information for your own purposes.’

  ‘I see.’ She understood him perfectly. He was warning her to shut up. To give the story away. To let sleeping dogs lie. He clearly didn’t know who he was dealing with. In fact, Beatrice Musgrave had signed no confidentiality or exclusivity agreement nor could there be a copyright on her life story. ‘I won’t be using any of the information Beatrice provided to me in our interviews,’ she said calmly, wondering if that was a glimmer of relief that she spotted flickering across his face. ‘But I can’t promise you I won’t be writing about Mrs Musgrave somewhere down the track.’

  His eyes turned stony then and she quickly added. ‘I’m not out to hurt anyone Mr Featherby, least of all Beatrice, but I have reason to believe there is more to her death than a case of lovesick suicide, and if my hunch is correct, it is the right of the public to know that. Quite frankly I find it abhorrent that not one of Beattie’s relatives or close friends has questioned this. That you’re all just willing, hell you’re eager to accept that someone as full of life and as dignified as Beattie would throw herself, willy-nilly, over a bloody balcony! It’s ludicrous, and about as likely as you becoming a hip-hop star!’ She took a deep breath,
tried to calm down her tone while the old lawyer simply glared at her from the other side of the desk. ‘Now, your power and standing in society may help you to quash the truth, but I’m a journalist, Ronald and I smell a rat.’

  He paused, took a deep breath of his own, then said very softly, very sweetly, ‘If there is a rat, Miss Parker, it might end up biting you back.’

  ‘Is that a threat?’

  ‘Oh no my dear, just a warning from one friend of Beatrice Musgrave’s to another. I know it’s hard for you to understand this now, but I am acting solely in my dear friend’s interests. Not mine. You need to take a good, hard look at your own motives and decide in whose interests you are working.’

  Roxy shook her head and stood up. ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Featherby. It has been most ... enlightening.’

  She left the office as calmly as she could but Ronald Featherby’s warning echoed loudly in her ears and by the time she reached the elevator, Roxy was shaking from head to toe. The truth was, she wasn’t exactly sure why she was pursuing the woman’s death so passionately. Why couldn’t she just let it go and get on with her carefree existence? Deep down she believed it had more to do with a sense of righteousness—of finishing the job Beattie had hired her to do—than the newspaper scoop he had accused her of seeking.

  But was it worth the headache?

  Roxy massaged some rich moisturizing cream into her black locks and then swept them up into a warm bath towel. Fastening her bathrobe tight around her waist, she stared hard at her reflection in the mirror. Jet black hair, porcelain white skin, glossy green eyes. It was a striking combination and she was looking okay for 30, she knew that. Few wrinkles remained when her smile dissipated, and she credited good sun-sense and, she had to concede, excellent genes. Her mother was also relatively blemish-free for her age. Still, Roxy wasn’t about to rely on that—she hadn’t been able to rely on her mother in years—and so she picked up some nourishing night cream and applied a little around her eyes, mouth and forehead. Just in case. Then she padded out into the living room, pushed open one window slightly to allow a cool breeze to trickle through and pressed ‘play’ on her stereo. As Nina Simone belted out a sorrowful tune, she made herself a herbal tea and then collapsed onto her sofa to think.

  Now that she had calmed down, she had to concede that however odious Ronald Featherby appeared, he was most likely just protecting his client posthumously. It was clear from Mason’s banter at her mother’s dinner party that Featherby knew all about the derelict and her threats against Beattie. In turn, he probably knew about Beattie’s little secret. And now that both women were dead he probably wanted the truth to die with them. The big question was, how much, if anything did he have to do with one or both of their murders?

  Roxy stretched her legs out before her and considered the phone message she had received from Maria Constantinople while she was out. In her trademark gruff way she had said simply: ‘Got the piece, it’s good stuff. Didn’t like her much, did ya?’

  Roxy cringed. She had hoped her disdain was not so obvious. Heather Jackson did not seem like the sort of person you’d want to make an enemy of.