Last Writes (A Ghostwriter Mystery)

by C. A. Larmer

  “He didn’t say much. I don’t think he knows. He just heard the funeral’s on and asked me to tag along. They must have cleared Norm of any involvement.”

  “It doesn’t make sense! Have you ever met Norm? He’s a total nut job. Nuttier even than Seymour, and that’s saying something. More aggressive, too ...” He stopped. “Tell me they’re not cremating him.”

  She scrunched up her face. “It is at the Halloson Crematorium. Sounds like it to me.”

  This infuriated Lone even more and he began to discharge a string of expletives before he caught himself and apologised.

  “You’re taking this to heart, David. Surely suicide’s better than murder?”

  “In whose book?!” He took a deep, calming breath. “Sorry, Roxanne, I’m being very ungentlemanly but I just can not believe the police are so bloody stupid! I mean, this is dumb, even for them. They are blatantly ignoring viable evidence. Seymour was obviously drugged, he had that suspicious ‘X’ on his wrist, don’t forget, then I find out that he’s been lying to his readers. It is so clear to me and anyone with half a brain, that he was going to reveal the truth and Norman Hicks had to stop him. It’s open and shut.”

  “Not to the police it’s not. And not to Oliver, either. He says that Seymour was as keen to keep the secret as Norm. He doesn’t believe either one wanted the truth to come out.”

  “Hang on a minute. Are you saying that Oliver knew that Norm was the real writer, and didn’t tell me?! How long has he known?!”

  Roxy scrunched her face up tighter. She hadn’t meant to let that cat out of the bag. “I don’t know ... a few months maybe.”

  “A few months! And he didn’t say anything. To anyone?”

  “There is such a thing as client-agent confidentiality,” she said, defensively, but he wasn’t buying it.

  “That’s nonsense! They weren’t even his clients anymore. That was important information, Roxanne. Once he heard about Seymour’s death he should have come forward with that. He should have told the investigating officers.”

  “Well maybe he did, we don’t know that.”

  “I know that,” David said elusively. “It would have made my job a great deal easier. I would have got my scoop out earlier and they might not have been so quick to release the body. Now my story’s dead in the water.” She heard him release a huge sigh. “Apologies again, Roxanne, I don’t mean to take this all out on you but I just hate to think a killer might be getting off scot-free.”

  “I understand that, really I do. But I doubt the police would be releasing the body if there was any hint of foul play. Your theory about Norman Hicks is a good one, but it’s obviously wrong.” There was mute silence at the other end. “Anyway, back to more important topics, like your book ...” She was trying to lighten things up, maybe even elicit a tiny chuckle out of the man, but he was clearly still brooding. “The funeral’s on tomorrow morning, so can we meet up for our interview either in the afternoon or Friday morning, instead?”

  “Um ... tomorrow afternoon should be okay,” he mumbled, sounding distracted. “Um ... around fourish maybe.”

  She agreed and they hung up. Roxy then spent the rest of the day trying to focus on David Lone’s book, but his words kept flying through her brain: “I just hate to think a killer might be getting off scot-free.”

  She thought about this. What if David was right? What if Norman Hicks was a killer and now, thanks to bodgie police work, was getting away with it? She shuddered a little, and then, remembering she was about to spend a morning with him, felt suddenly buoyed. Most people would be jittery at the thought of time with a potential killer, but not Roxy. The funeral was her chance, she realised, to check out Norman Hicks up close and personal, so she could decide for herself.

  She couldn’t wait.

  A rumbling stomach caught Roxy’s attention and she glaced up from her screen and out to the view, which was darkening by the second. Time had gotten away from her and she’d barely eaten all day, so she padded into her compact kitchen and towards the fridge. She opened the door reluctantly, knowing only too well what little nourishment she would find inside. It was just as she suspected. She padded back to the loungeroom and put in a call to her favourite Thai restaurant.

  “Timmy, hello, yes, it’s Roxy ... I’m great, thank you. Just after my usual. Yep, Pad Thai, vegie this time. Thanks, Timmy, appreciate it.”

  She hung up and then stepped back into the kitchen and towards a small wine rack by the fridge. She reached down and smiled. If there was one item she was never short on, it was a decent bottle of merlot. She made sure of that. She pulled out a 2011 Coonawarra, unclasped the top and poured some into a Morrocon tumbler from the cupboard.

  As she sat sipping the wine and listening to a Billie Holiday CD, she realised she hadn’t yet asked anyone to Max’s party. Part of her wanted to invite Gilda, and part of her didn’t want to give Max the satisfaction.

  He could source his own flings, thank you very much.

  She briefly considered David, but decided against it. What if he got the wrong idea? He was flirtatious enough, without the extra provocation.

  Perhaps she should turn to her usual escort for times such as these. Roxy lowered the volume on her stereo, scooped the phone back up and called Oliver. A night out could be just what he needed. She’d lock him in now, then sort out the details at tomorrow’s funeral, or at least, that was the plan. Unfortunately, Oliver wasn’t at home and his mobile number went straight to voice mail. Roxy didn’t bother leaving a message but she did wonder where he was and why everyone in the world had a social life except for her.

  The downstairs intercom buzzed loudly and she jumped, surprised by her own jitteriness, then grabbed her purse and headed down several floors to retrieve her takeaway from the smiling delivery guy. As she climbed up the stairs, the first nutty scent of Pad Thai wafting towards her, she knew, deep down, that no wild night out would ever replace this as one of her favourite occupations.

  ******

  A few hours later, across town, an occupation of a very different kind was under way. The man exhaled long and hard, his body dripping with sweat, adrenaline coursing through his veins. He prodded the corpse again and a tentative smile slunk across his face.

  He was astounded that he had actually done it. It had been easier than he had imagined and something else, too. Exciting. My God, it had been exciting! He wasn’t expecting that.

  The exhileration of the kill had now replaced any feelings of remorse. He felt strong, powerful, all conquering, and he didn’t want it to end.

  In fact, it wasn’t over yet. He had so much more to do, just like the last one. He took a deep, settling breath, grabbed the gardening shears and got to work ...

  Chapter 9

  Roxy could feel a trickle of sweat beneath her dress and she shifted uncomfortably as she cranked open the car window. She was in Oliver’s beat-up, old Holden, on the way to Seymour’s funeral, and she wondered as they drove whether air-conditioning had even been invented when this vehicle was designed. She glanced across at her agent who also looked sweaty, but then he always looked sweaty, and he was now whistling into the wind, clearly unperturbed by the soaring heat. While she had donned her most demure black dress for the occasion—think Audrey Hepburn meets Grace Kelly, with a string of pearls and some kitten heels thrown in—Oliver looked like he’d chucked on the first bowling shirt he could find. Matched with scruffy black jeans and a fedora, he didn’t exactly look like your average mourner, but then again, she doubted this was going to be your average funeral.

  While the Holden creaked and groaned and made a strange rattling sound that Oliver insisted was perfectly normal—“cha-chaa-clunk” followed by an agonising squeal, then “cha-chaa-clunk” again—Roxy began fanning herself with an old Rolling Stone she had located on the backseat. It wasn’t working.

  “Are we there yet?” she asked and he glanced over at her with a crooked grin.

  “What are you? Five? We’ll get there
when we get there. Just chill.”

  “It’s hard to chill in this noisy old furnace.”

  “Watch it! This car is vintage I’ll have you know. Some people pay good money for old Holdens.”

  “Yes and some people also buy Celine Dion albums. Doesn’t make it right.”

  “Ouch! What’s buggin’ you today?”

  She sighed, kept fanning. “Nothing, sorry. Just didn’t sleep well last night. Kept thinking about the Seymour case and—”

  “What case? There’s no case.”

  “Well, David thinks—”

  “Forget Davo! He’s a sensationalist. That’s why he gets paid the big bickies at the Tele, but unfortunately for him, this story is over. Kaput. He has to let it drop. So do you.”

  “Fine,” she said, opening the magazine and immersing herself in a story about an indie rock band called Ghost Mountain. There was something about the name that had her intrigued.

  Eventually Oliver turned into a gravel courtyard and pulled the car up beside some others in the front of a large sign that read Halloson Crematorium. Beyond it was a monolithic brick building where a large crowd had gathered. Oliver put the Holden into park, extinguished the spluttering engine, and leaned back against the vinyl bench seat. For a moment they both enjoyed the quiet while Roxy wondered whether the damage to her eardrums was reversible.

  He leaned back in his seat and stared at her. “You cool?”

  “I wouldn’t use that word exactly,” she said, peeling her dress off her back and reapplying some lipstick. “But yes, I’ll be fine. Come on, we’re running late.”

  Roxy opened the car door and stepped out. Oliver followed and they began walking towards the largely young, almost exclusively black-clad crowd that were milling around, kissing and commiserating. One or two were dragging on cigarettes and several were laughing, as though it were a garden party and they hadn’t a care in the world.

  At that moment a very short, very fat man with tufts of red hair and splotchy white skin that had been squeezed into a black, unironed suit, stepped out of the crowd and began waddling towards them. A woman with purple streaked hair and a long, flowing black dress called out to him but he ignored her completely and headed straight for Oliver, grabbing him by one elbow and dragging him away from the group. Roxy followed.

  “Jesus fucking Christ, Horowitz! What the fuck have you done to me?!” he hissed and Oliver looked taken aback. “You see yesterday’s fucking news or what?!”

  “Yes, I did, Norm. Look, I’m sorry, mate—”

  “Don’t fucking ‘sorry mate’ me, you fucking prick. You should be fucking sorry. David Lone’s one of yours, right? You spill the beans on me? Give him the inside goss?”

  Oliver shook his head vehmently. “No way, mate, I wouldn’t do that to you, told you I wouldn’t, and I didn’t. I’m very big on client confidentiality. Just ask Roxy here, she’s one of my clients. I don’t know how he found out, honest I don’t.”

  Norman Hicks whipped his eyes across to Roxy who was pretending to be very interested in the bush beside her.

  “Roxy?”

  She looked up. “Yes, Roxy Parker. My condolences—”

  He ignored her and whipped back to Oliver. “It’s a fucking joke. I was going to break the story when I was good and ready. Jeese Louise, it’s a fucking disaster.” He took a deep breath through flaring nostrils and Oliver cringed, ready for the next onslaught, but Norman’s sneer instantly subsided. “Anyway, you good? Haven’t seen you for a while. All good at work, that kind of thing?”

  Oliver shrugged and Roxy stared at him, speechless, as Norm rubbed his pudgy hands together.

  “Okay, better get back to it. The wake’s at Venus’s pad afterwards. Just get the details from her.”

  And with that he waddled off towards another group of mourners gathered to one side.

  “Bloody hell,” said Roxy. “Dave’s right, he’s as nutty as Seymour.”

  Oliver nodded. “But at least Seymour had an alien abduction to blame for his mental health issues. Oh, looks like they’re moving inside. Don’t forget to switch your mobile off so it doesn’t ring in the middle of the service. That’s all we need.”

  Oliver began moving towards the crematorium which had now swallowed up half the congregation. Roxy located her phone and began changing her profile to silent. As she did so she glanced at the mourners ahead of her and noticed several had turned to glare at them.

  “I’m not sure we’re the most welcome people here today, Olie,” she whispered, catching up to him. “We could be centrestage at the next funeral if we’re not careful. Should we quietly slip away?”

  “Nah, don’t worry about it. Norm’s always like that. Up and down. Don’t take it to heart.” Then Oliver stopped and turned back to Roxy. “Speaking of which, if you see Davo let me know and we’ll get him out of here fast before he gets a crucifix through his.”

  David Lone was smart enough to avoid Seymour Silva’s funeral and Roxy just hoped he had the good sense to also stay clear of the wake back at Venus’s pad, wherever the hell that was. Roxy didn’t attend the wake, insisting Oliver go it alone. She had questions to organise for her interview with David that afternoon, and she was feeling suddenly ill-prepared.

  The ghostwriter had done hundreds of interviews in her time, but oddly enough, had never actually interviewed another interviewer, especially not one as accomplished as David Lone. She wanted to get it right because if she didn’t, he’d be the first to know.

  After peeling her sticky funeral frock off and showering, she slipped into a fresh, 1950s-style cotton dress that was lighter and more colourful, then sat at her desk and began to work.

  After a good hour, Max’s face suddenly flashed through her brain and she sat back with a thud. She’d completely forgotten to ask Oliver to his party.

  Roxy glanced at her screen clock. It was almost 2:00 p.m. She tried calling but Oliver was still not answering and she was starting to panic. She left a message and tried to focus on her work again, failing miserably.

  “Come on, Oliver,” she said aloud, only too aware she was talking to herself, and not caring one bit. It had become a daily habit after years of living alone and she had given up trying to break it. She didn’t mind sounding like a loony, there was no one to hear her after all. “Ring me!” she implored. “Riiiiing meeeeee!”

  Glancing back at the ticking clock, she sighed. She needed to lock in a date for Max’s party, and fast. Perhaps she’d better ask Gilda after all. Turning up like a Nigel No Mate was worse, she decided, than turning up with his next potential conquest. Besides, she had a feeling Gilda wouldn’t go for Max’s type.

  “You mean that hunky photographer friend of yours?” Detective Superintendent Gilda Maltin asked a few minutes later when Roxy had rung and been transferred to her office phone.

  She slumped back in her seat. “Yep, that’s the one.”

  “Oh I’d love to go. Is he seeing anyone?”

  She slumped even further. “Don’t know.”

  “Really? I thought you two were besties.”

  “No, not so much anymore.”

  “Right,” said Gilda. “So, what are the deets? To the party, I mean.”

  Roxy filled her in, arranging to meet earlier at her place for a pre-party drink.

  “That’ll settle your nerves,” Gilda said and Roxy bristled at this.

  “Nerves? I haven’t got any nerves.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  Gilda was too perceptive for her own good, although it no doubt helped enormously in her role as the North Shore’s head detective.

  “Course you don’t,” she said and then, “Oh, hang on a minute.” There were muffled voices at the other end and after a few minutes Gilda said, “Sorry, sweets, gotta go. We’ve got another nutter on the loose, keeping us all on our toes.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, grisly homicide.”

  “Sounds interesting.”

  “To you, I’m sure it will be! Can�
��t talk, got to get back to it.”

  Gilda said a hurried good-bye and Roxy felt a sudden pang of regret. She liked Gilda, had enjoyed their occasional catch-ups because she was easy company and fun to be around. But that was the whole problem. They were two traits Max also adored.

  Roxy was beginning to wonder whether she’d just hammered the final nail in the coffin of their once vibrant relationship.

  Speaking of coffins, Roxy glanced around. Perhaps the news channel would have some coverage of Seymour Silva’s funeral—she had noticed a few reporters there—or maybe there’d be details on the homicide Gilda had referred to? She flicked on the TV and waited patiently while an excruciatingly dull stock market report droned on. Perhaps it wouldn’t be quite so dull, she decided, if she actually had some stocks to report on. She was about to get up and make a pot of coffee when a familiar face appeared in a small window on the screen behind the anchorwoman.

  Roxy’s heart dropped.

  She grabbed the remote control and zoomed up the volume: “Gardening Guru William Glad found dead this morning in the grounds of his sprawling northern suburbs mansion,” explained the anchorwoman, a middle-aged ashen blonde with barely there spectacles and a stern look on her face.

  Oh no, thought Roxy. Dear old William. His cancer must have caught up with him at last.

  Or had it?

  She realised there was something strange about this news story. The wording was all wrong, and what was a dying man doing in the grounds of his sprawling mansion anyway? He should have been safely tucked up in his sick bed. She ramped the volume up even further.

  “Glad, aged sixty-six, had been battling cancer for some time and leaves behind a daughter, Erin, and five grandchildren. Police are currently at the scene, investigating, and we’ll bring more to you as this story unfolds.”

  As the anchorwoman moved on to the Syrian crisis, Roxy sat back, stunned.

  That wasn’t an obituary, it was a news item. It must be the homicide Gilda had mentioned. She worked in the northern suburbs where William had lived. Cancer deaths didn’t usually warrant police attention she thought, and then sat forward.