A Plot to Die For (A Ghostwriter Mystery)

by C. A. Larmer

  “But what if he didn’t see us? What if he was here for some other reason?”

  Her eyes looked hopeful and Roxy frowned.

  “Somehow I think it would be better for everyone if your husband was quietly spying on you and Luc that morning, not knocking poor Abi over the head and burying her in a ditch.”

  “He wouldn’t do that! He may be a dreadful bore but I honestly can not see him hurting Abi. I just don’t see why he would.”

  Roxy stared hard at Maya. “Come on, you told me yourself he envied this place. I also know he had money troubles. Maybe he figured that Helen would be more likely to hand the island over to him with Abi out of the picture. He could then turn it into the giant, money spinning resort he wants it to be.”

  Maya looked appalled. “That’s insane! He didn’t need Dormay. He told me, only yesterday afternoon, that he was about to come into some cash. There’s no way...” She caught herself, stopped, considered this for a moment. “Oh shit.”

  “Exactly. Where was that cash coming from, suddenly?”

  Maya frantically shook her head. “No, no, no! It was something to do with a business deal, back on the mainland. He would not kill an old woman for money. It’s ridiculous.”

  She shivered a little and pulled her towel tightly around her body.

  Roxy pushed her empty glass aside and stood up.

  “Where are you going?” Maya asked, worried, and Roxy wondered whether the young woman was more concerned with hiding her adultery than she was with clearing Wade’s name. Either way, there were tough times ahead. Wade was either a cold-blooded killer, or an embittered husband and she had a pretty good idea which one Maya would have preferred.

  “Calm down, Maya. I’m just going to phone home.”

  She left Maya sitting out on the veranda, nibbling on her empty champagne glass.

  In fact, Roxy returned to the library for what seemed like the 10th time that day and logged back on and into her email account. It was cheaper than a phone call. Easier too, especially when dealing with her mother. Surprisingly, and much to her relief, neither Lorraine Jones nor Oliver Horowitz had been in touch and she contemplated her next move. She decided not to say anything to her mother about the recent events but knew it was time to get her agent in the loop. She composed an email, giving as abridged a version of the past two days as she could, then clicked ‘Send’.

  While waiting for a reply, Roxy sat down on the small lounge chair. That’s when she spotted the coffee table book on regional myths and legends. Someone must have put it back. Roxy’s heart leapt. At last something was going her way! She picked it up carefully, as if it were made of glass, and turned straight to the index. Within seconds she was immersed in a macabre tale of severed heads and hungry crustaceans.

  The traditional burial ritual on Dormay was first developed over a thousand years ago, when the islanders were headhunters and the region still practised cannibalism. It was a ritual that preceded the arrival of the Catholic missionaries and one that was so strong, so revered, that even white man’s threats of hell and damnation could not shake the locals out of it.

  At least four neighbouring islands also adhered to this strict, ceremonial burial process. Helen had described it well: when someone passed away by fate or foul deed, their loved ones smoked the body and then buried them standing vertically in a deep ditch right on the edge of the beach. This was vital. The body had to be close enough to earth, to ground the spirit, but near enough to the sand to encourage crabs to peck away at the protruding head’s flesh. This was not seen as ghoulish at all, simply a practical way to clean off the skull before it was removed and taken to the main burial site (preferably on a hilly slope so it could look down on the land around it). The body was also eventually removed and reburied near the skull, but tradition dictated that the head had to go first, to oversee the mourning process and to prepare the body for rest. That’s why it sat upright, protruding from the sand—because crabs could do a faster job than the natural decomposition process.

  A tiny shiver ran down Roxy’s spine and she sat back and thought about this. If truth be told, it wasn’t a bad way to be put to rest after death: sitting out, watching the world from hence you came. She wondered whether the locals still adhered to this burial tradition, and who amongst them knew about it? Judging from the look Maurice and Popeye had shared that horrific morning on the beach, she had to conclude that they, at the very least, had some knowledge of this ritual.

  But did it really matter? Helen was right, of course, anyone at the resort could easily have picked up this book in the library and got informed. Any one of them could have set Abi’s body up to be discovered that way, to throw suspicion, perhaps, upon the locals.

  Worse still, it might all have been a terrible fluke. After killing her, they may have thrown her into the nearest ditch, not realising it was not quite deep enough to bury her entire body, head and all. Perhaps the visible head was purely coincidental?

  Roxy groaned. She was getting more and more confused by the minute.

  “Something wrong my dear?” It was Doc, standing at the doorway with his fisherman’s cap on. He looked much improved from his earlier outburst and she noticed he had changed his shirt and given himself a shave.

  “No, nothing to worry yourself about.”

  “But I do worry, very much so.”

  He glanced behind him cautiously before stepping into the room and taking the seat by the computer. “May I have a word?”

  “Of course.”

  She shut the book and set it aside as inconspicuously as she could.

  “I know Helen has asked you to look into all of this, to do a little sleuthing.”

  “She told you?”

  “Not in so many words, but unlike everyone else here, I’m not an imbecile. What I want to know is, my dear, whether you’ve come any closer to working out who it is? Who killed Abi that is.”

  Roxy shrugged. “Quite frankly, Doc, everyone’s looking guilty to me.”

  “Really? Even the boring old Zimmermans?”

  “Especially the boring old Zimmermans.” He looked at her, puzzled. “Think about it: they’ve been hanging out quite a lot with that boat guy Willie and I know for a fact that Abi had a problem with Willie. She thought he was up to something, she told me so herself.”

  “What was he up to?”

  “I don’t know! Abi didn’t quite say but those Zimmermans seem a bit on edge to me. I was thinking that was just their personality, being Swiss Germans and all that, but now I’m not so sure.”

  “And me?”

  “Sorry?”

  “You said, my dear, and I’m trying not to take it personally, that you suspected us all. So why do you suspect me?”

  His expression was deadly serious and, remembering his earlier outburst, she wondered how candid she should be. She launched in.

  “To put it bluntly, Doc, you of all people had the greatest means and opportunity.”

  “The quinine, right?”

  “Yes. We don’t know if your stash really got stolen from underneath your nose, or whether you used it on poor Abi. You certainly had opportunity—you were sitting next to her at dinner on Tuesday night, next to that glass of gin and tonic, and could easily have slipped the drugs in. You were also the last to see her alive, you took her back to her room, after all. Insisted on it, if I call recall.”

  He was nodding his head. “Yes, yes, means and opportunity certainly don’t bode well for me. But, pray tell, what on earth would my motivation be? Why on earth would I want to kill my dear friend Abigail?”

  “Well, I have to admit, your motive is pretty weak, but it is motive nonetheless.”

  “Go on.”

  She took a deep breath. “You knew about Abi’s plans for the island, didn’t you? About handing it back to the people.”

  He stared at her, clearly hesitating.

  “I figured you’re such old mates and if she told you about the book, she probably talked to you about this,
too.”

  He slowly nodded his head. “Yes, Abigail did discuss it quietly with me on a few occasions. I tried to talk her out of it, if truth be told. I didn’t think it would be very fair on Helen, but it was Abi’s choice. Nought to do with me.”

  “Well, not necessarily. The way I see it, if you knew that Abi was about to hand the island to the people, perhaps you felt that they’d close down the resort, and you’d be out of a home. So you stopped Abi before she could sign away the lease.”

  He scooped his cap off, contemplating this.

  “I’m sorry but I think it’s all a tad tenuous,” he said at last. “Being out of a home and, shock, horror, moving back to Melbourne is hardly worth killing for my dear. I have plenty of savings believe me. It’s not like I’ll be out on the streets. And there’s another thing you’re forgetting.”

  “Oh?”

  “Even if I did kill Abi so Helen could keep Dormay, I couldn’t be sure Helen would even let me stay on. Even Maya the moron can see we’re not the best of friends. Half the time I suspect Helen can’t stand the sight of me. I don’t know why...”

  He stopped, his eyes misting over. “So it’s all a bit, well, unlikely, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, I do!” Roxy said, almost relieved.

  She liked this old guy as much as she liked Helen and took no pleasure in accusing him of murder. “Which is why you’re not actually top of my list.”

  He exhaled dramatically. “That’s a relief.”

  He coughed, shifted in his seat. “So, what about Helen? What do you think about Helen?”

  “I don’t know what to think. She’s coming out looking worst of all.”

  He scrunched his cap up in his hands and then unscrunched it again.

  “I don’t see why she should.”

  “Come on, Doc—means, motive, opportunity. She had them all, in spades.”

  “But you must know she wouldn’t do this! Surely you can see that?”

  His eyes searched hers, imploringly, and she held her hands up defensively.

  “Hey, I’m trying to point the finger elsewhere, really I am, but even you’ve got to agree it doesn’t look good for her.”

  He shook his head. “No, no I don’t have to agree with that at all. Not when there’s sneaky bastards like Wade and the Zimmermans about. That’s where you should be looking. Believe you me!”

  He stood up and she squished her lips a little to one side.

  “What’s going on, Doc? Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  He shook his head emphatically. “No, no, I just feel sorry for Helen, that’s all. She has so much on her plate and then to have everyone think she did this, it’s too much to bear.” He pulled the cap back onto his head. “I’m going down to the jetty if anyone needs me.”

  Roxy watched him leave and wondered at his ferocity. He was the first to admit he didn’t have the best relationship with Helen yet he seemed ready to go into battle for her. His loyalty to Abi clearly knew no bounds. Roxy sighed, trying to shake him off, then returned to the computer to find a message from Oliver in her inbox. She opened it with a smile.

  “Well what a surprise!” he had written. “You continue to amaze me Roxanne Parker! You should get your own TV show—Murder She Ghostwrote—it’d be a huge hit. I hope you’re keeping your nose well out of it but I know that’s a physical impossibility for you so all I’ll say is: TAKE CARE! I gather the book deal’s now off? It’s not your fault so you’re within your rights to ask for a kill-fee. Damn, there’s a pun if ever I heard one! Anyway, let me know how it all goes and when you’re getting back. I can collect you from the airport. Olie.”

  Roxy jotted him a quick reply, explaining that at this point they were all still detainees at Dormay and she promised to get in touch when she had more news. She was just about to send it when something occurred to her. She sat back in her chair and tried to think. It was there, just out of reach, a distant memory right on the recesses of her brain.

  Just as Abi had loved this island and the ocean surrounding it, Roxy Parker’s passion, as morbid as it sounds, had always been true crime. From her early days at university she had got into the habit of cutting out news clippings of famous murders, kidnappings and other acts of violence that caught her eye, and pasted them in a series of scrap books she dubbed her Crime Catalogue. Oliver Horowitz preferred to label it The Book of Death and teased her mercilessly about the scrapbooks whenever he could. But they had served the writer well on several occasions, and today she had a feeling they would come through again. She vaguely recalled a news story about quinine from at least a decade ago that had her intrigued enough to snip it out and paste it in. She couldn’t quite remember what it was about, but she had a feeling it might be important. If Oliver could find it amongst her collection at her home, she might just have the information she needed.

  She pulled the keyboard closer and continued to type: “Can you do me a HUGE favour? As fast as possible? Use the spare key I gave you and break into my apartment. I’ve got some scrapbooks I need you to look through...”

  Chapter 15

  The word was out. That night in the dining room, everyone was buzzing with the news that Abigail had been poisoned with quinine. Wade, who’d returned to Dormay in time for dinner and with a very foul mood in tow, was telling the group he’d never heard anything so preposterous.

  “It’s all a bit bloody far-fetched if you ask me,” he was thundering. “Abi was getting on a bit, not as bright as she used to be, she obviously just took more quinine than she meant to. Ten grams is hardly enough to start stressing about.”

  “It’s enough to make you very sick, Wade,” said the doctor.

  “Lucky for the murderer, then, because she wasn’t her usual sprightly self. Can’t help thinking if she was, she’d have given him a right bollocking!”

  Roxy had skipped cocktails, eager to finish off transcribing Abi’s interviews and check her emails before dinner, and was running late so slipped into her seat beside Doc as discreetly as she could and waved the wine waiter away. She needed to give her liver a night off. She noticed that Helen had not yet materialised but everyone else was there, including the Zimmermans. Abi’s chair at the head of the table sat empty again.

  “We can’t even be sure she had any quinine in her body,” continued Wade and Doc looked outraged.

  “Look, here, Wade,” he said. “You can’t dispute the pathologist’s report—”

  “Pathologist my arse! That means a half-literate local bloke in a shed out the back of the bloody hospital. You can’t put any credence in what the ‘pathologist’ said. Nope, Davara’s got it wrong. Again.”

  “Chief Davara knows what he’s talking about,” Joshua said, rising to his Uncle’s defence. “He’s not an idiot, man, he’s good at what he does.”

  Wade appraised the young man and was about to renew his tirade when he thought better of it. He shrugged and let it go as Maurice and Popeye appeared with plates of steamed mussels.

  They ate in silence for a while and Roxy darted a glance towards Luc and Maya. They were clearly avoiding each other’s eyes again, Luc preoccupied with his meal, Maya with getting her glass filled and refilled. She was dressed more demurely tonight, her fitted black dress revealing little more than a black choker around her throat and tanned arms below cupped sleeves. Roxy wondered if she was playing the Good Wife now and whether it was all too late.

  Maya caught Roxy’s eye and shook her head very slightly, as if warning her off. When Wade turned to look at her, she smiled sweetly and said, “So, Roxy, where were you at cocktails? You’re usually up for a glass of vino before dinner.”

  “I was just doing a bit of work. I also needed to check my emails.”

  “Oh? Anything interesting?”

  “No, I’m still waiting on something. But I did read some very interesting stuff on-line about quinine.”

  She paused to sip her water and Maya’s eyes lit up.

  “Oh yes, Miss Super Sleuth, w
hat did you uncover?”

  “Probably nothing you don’t already know.” She glanced at Doc then. “I was just looking up symptoms of quinine poisoning, that sort of thing.”

  “And?”

  “And it’s nasty stuff. In fact, I think it’s pretty clear from the way Abi was acting that last night, that she really was suffering quinine toxicity.”

  This line she directed at Wade and he snorted, unimpressed.

  “How do you mean?” asked Luc.

  “According to my sources, quinine toxicity at the very least causes sweating and nausea.”

  “Abi was sweating like a pig that night! Do you remember?” Maya said.

  “Everyone sweats here,” retorted Wade. “It’s the bloody tropics!”

  Roxy ignored him and continued. “It can also cause severe vomiting, gastro problems, abdominal pain and even weird things like tinnitus—you know, hearing problems—and,” she paused for effect, “it can also cause blindness.”

  “Blindness?” This was Doc now.

  “Yes, according to the health website I looked up, you can temporarily lose your sight.”

  “Oh. My. God!” squealed Maya. “Do you remember? Abi said something weird about all the lights going out? I just thought she’d lost her marbles.”

  “Yes,” said Roxy. “I remember that very well. She looked like she couldn’t focus on any of us. Perhaps the quinine had blinded her.”

  Doc began shaking his head. “Oh dear, oh dear, I should have known. I should have done my research. She might be alive today.”

  “Don’t you blame yourself, Doc!” said Maya. “You weren’t to know. It’s hardly your fault.”

  “It’s nobody’s blasted fault,” barked Wade. “Davara will find that out soon enough. It was clearly some crazy man passing by the island. You mark my words, this will all get sorted out and we will go back to the business of living our lives.”

  “Well, except for Abi of course,” said Maya, stroking her smooth black choker, and they all stopped and thought about this for a moment.