by C. A. Larmer
“Arts,” Caroline said as David picked up a candle from the table and held it out to light her cigarette. She dragged on it for a second then blew a long plume out while saying, “A giant waste of time, eh, Mr Lone?”
David shrugged, not answering.
“You didn’t like the course, either?” Roxy said and Caroline laughed.
“Like it? I loved it! It was just our Mr Lone here. He upped and left halfway through. Not even a word good-bye! He’s just lucky we’d broken up by then, or I might have taken it personally.” She squinted her eyes at him as she blew a plume of smoke in his direction.
Roxy glanced at David and he said, “Don’t give away all my secrets, Caroline. Roxanne’s getting good money to investigate me, we wouldn’t want to make her job too easy now, would we?”
“My lips are sealed,” she replied.
“No, you have to tell me, why’d you leave so suddenly, David?”
“Oh she’s exaggerating. I just left uni and moved to Wollongong. End of story.”
“Left uni mysteriously!” Caroline amended and his smile deflated.
“This is such a boring topic, Caroline.”
“Not to me, it’s not,” insisted Roxy. “I’m supposed to be writing your life story, remember?”
“Not tonight, you’re not. Tonight, you’re supposed to be letting your hair down and having fun. It’s a party, remember?” He raised his beer to hers and she clinked it back before taking a long sip.
Caroline smiled at them both. “Do what he says, Roxy, or you could be sorry ... Ohmigod! That’s not Jason, is it? Jason Morrison?!” Caroline squealed and then stubbed out her cigarette, blew them both a kiss, and dashed across the room, her champagne glass in hand.
David laughed. “Well, that was Caroline. In full flight as usual. She’s a laugh, right?”
“A barrel of them,” Roxy said. “She’s so different to her brother.”
David’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, Max. I don’t know him at all, to be honest. Caroline invited me tonight.” He studied her for a few moments. “There’s obviously history there for you.”
She took a swig of her beer, feigning nonchalance. “What do you mean?”
“I mean you and Max. What’s the story?”
“Nothing. Well, nothing very interesting.”
“Did you go out once?”
“Oh, no! No, nothing like that!”
She was trying to sound casual but it was clear from his raised eyebrows and hint of a smile that she wasn’t pulling it off.
His smile suddenly looked forced and he said, “Speak of the devil.”
Roxy glanced around to find Max walking towards them, one hand extended towards David.
“It’s David Lone, right? Friend of Caroline’s? I’m Max.”
“That’s right,” David said, shaking it back.
There was an awkward moment of silence and for the life of her Roxy couldn’t think of a thing to say. Both men seemed to be eyeing each other off and she wished badly that Caroline would return to lighten the mood. Finally, Max spoke.
“I’m off to the bar, see if I can’t get myself a drink at my own party. Don’t like my chances. Anyone want one?”
He glanced from David to Roxy and back again. They both indicated their Coronas and he glanced again at Roxy, giving her an inscrutable look before striding away.
David turned to Roxy. “He always like that?”
“Like what?”
“Dark and brooding like he’s Mr fucking Darcy,” David scoffed. “Excuse my French but I loathe photographers, they think they’re God’s gift when all they’re doing is taking a few happy snaps. Not rocket science. All you need is a decent digital camera these days.”
“Oh Max is all right,” she said and his frown softened a little.
“Sorry, I know, he’s a friend of yours.” He paused. “Maybe more by the looks of it.”
David’s eyes swept across her face and she shook her head vehemently. “No way, David. I told you before, there’s nothing going on there.”
“That’s not what Caroline told me. She hinted at some kind of history between you guys.”
“We’re just friends, we’ve never been anything more.”
He weighed this up for a few seconds then shrugged. “Good. You’d be wasted on him.”
She didn’t know what his beef with Max was, but she did know it was time to change the subject. “So, what’s the latest on the William Glad murder?”
Now it was David’s turn to look uncomfortable. He took a long swig of his beer. “I wish I could tell you. The story gets more confusing by the day. I find one clue and then I hit a brick wall and everything falls apart. I’m at a bit of a loose end to be honest, and I just don’t know what to report anymore. Maybe I’ve been barking up the wrong tree all along.”
For the first time since the story broke, David did not look at all confident.
“Okay, so you don’t know who did it. But tell me this,” she paused to sip her own beer, “do you honestly believe what you wrote? Do you really think there’ll be another death? Another writer murdered?”
He mulled this over for a while. “I don’t know, of course, Roxy, but I do worry. Sure, Norman Hicks might be innocent, but there is an obvious pattern even if the police refuse to accept it.” He stared at her strangely. “Sorry, this is a pretty morbid subject. Are you okay?”
Roxy’s head was spinning a little and she gave it a shake. “Yeah,” she said, placing her bottle down on the table. “I think I’ve had enough grog for one night.”
He stepped towards her protectively. “Do you want to get some fresh air?”
She nodded and he led her away from the party and out onto the street where she leaned against a brick wall then bent over a little and took some deep breaths.
“You don’t look too hot,” he said. “I shouldn’t have given you that final beer.”
She shook him off. “No, it’s my fault. This always happens when I mix my grapes with my grains. I’ve had champagne, red wine, now beer. It never does me any favours. I’ll be all right in a few minutes.”
“Good.” He produced a set of car keys. “Then let’s get out of here, go somewhere quieter.”
Roxy looked up. “Really? You want to desert the party already?” She looked at her watch; it was only 11:00 p.m.
“Well, you look like you’ve had enough. I just thought ...” He broke off, looking suddenly embarrassed. “I just thought we could spend some quality time together, that’s all.”
David gave Roxy another of his intense, piercing stares and she felt for a second that she could get lost in those blue eyes, but something held her back. She shook herself out.
“I feel a bit rude, David, taking off so early, and leaving Gilda on her own.”
“The policewoman? She can take care of herself, believe me.”
“Yeah, Gilda tells me you two have locked horns.”
“Well the police force needs a bit of accountability. They act like us journos are only there to annoy them but they forget we’re the ones who crack half their cases. They’d be nowhere if it wasn’t for me ... and you, now I think of it. Didn’t you solve one of Gilda’s cases for her?” She raised one shoulder nonchalantly. She wasn’t going to take all the credit for that one. “They should be thanking us, not trying to avoid us.”
“She’s not avoiding me. Gilda’s a good friend of mine.”
“Well she hates me, I can tell you that for a fact. Can’t believe you brought her here. She can’t be much fun to have around.”
Roxy disagreed. “Actually, she’s great fun and I don’t think she hates you at all. She gets that you have a job to do.” He looked as though he didn’t believe her. “Either way, I’m not ready to leave the party yet. Sorry.”
“Is it the party you don’t want to leave or is it Max?”
She glared at him. “David, I already told you, we’re not going out. Not that it’s anyone’s bloody business.”
“You’re right,
sorry.” He held his keys out and pressed the button on top. A sudden beeping sound and a flash of lights came from a nearby car, a gleaming black BMW. “Think I might head off.”
“Come on, David, don’t be like that. I promise you, we can avoid Gilda and Max if you feel that way.”
He shrugged, his eyes clouded over. “Nah, you go in, I’m not really in the mood anymore.”
“Really?”
He shook his head firmly this time. “Yeah, but you go. You look a bit better now, anyway.”
She shrugged and left him standing in the gutter beside his car, looking forlorn while she chastised herself all the way back in.
What was wrong with her?! she wondered. Why couldn’t she just skip off into the night with the hunky and successful writer guy?
Perhaps it was because she wasn’t quite finished with the “dark and brooding” photographer bloke. Roxy had finally realised that she needed to talk to Max, and she needed to do it tonight.
No more games, she promised herself. It was time to put her heart on the line.
Back inside, Roxy noticed the music was now pumping and the lights were a lot dimmer. She looked around for several minutes, trying to find Max, and eventually, across the dance floor she saw him, fleetingly, before the revellers swirled to block her view. She craned her eyes, peering through the writhing bodies, trying to catch him again.
Ah, there he is!
He was leaning against a wall right up the back and she smiled, raised one hand in the air to wave, hoping to get his attention, when she realised something and dropped her hand back. He was standing very close to another woman, their shoulders touching and his head leaning into hers. He was whispering something in her ear but she couldn’t quite make out who it was in the darkness. She watched him for several seconds, mesmerised, then felt her heart lurch as she recognised the woman he was talking to.
It was Gilda Maltin.
Roxy watched them for a few more minutes, debating whether to walk up and interrupt them—I mean, how much more of Gilda’s life story did the man need?—when Max suddenly took Gilda’s hand and lead her gently away from the party, and up the back stairs towards the mezzanine level.
Towards his bedroom.
Roxy gasped. She let out a tiny, agonised groan then turned on her heel, and fled into the night.
*******
The clock reached midnight. How appropriate, he thought, the perfect time for this little princess to turn into a pumpkin. But he had a much better fairy tale ending in mind for this writer, and from his coat pocket, retrieved a large, shiny red apple. He placed it to the side while he reached into his gym sack, pulling out a tiny bottle of strychnine and a large syringe. As the woman lay unconscious on the floor beside him, he injected her with the poison straight into the eye, and then refilled the needle and injected a little into the apple. He had to wait several hours for death to take hold, her body writhing and buckling, her face spasming, her eyeballs popping, her mouth foaming up, but he tried not to watch.
Fortunately, there were plenty of trashy books around to distract him. They weren’t much chop but they could certainly kill an hour or two. Eventually, when she had stilled, her last gasp now echoing across the fashionable polished floorboards, he placed the book aside and felt for her pulse.
Nothing.
His own pulse skipped a beat. He had done it. My God, he thought. It gets easier each time. He snapped himself out of his reverie and pulled out a cloth, wiping her frothy mouth clean, then reached for the apple. Placing it between her lips, he forced her perfect white teeth down upon its soft flesh and tore a good mouthful from it. Then, leaving that small piece in her mouth, he placed the rest of the apple in one manicured hand and splayed her body out neatly across the floor. He surveyed the scene carefully, making sure everything was in its place. He felt a momentary pang of regret, but it was too late now. It was his only option, he knew that. He’d stuffed the first two up very badly. He wasn’t going to stuff this one up, too.
Besides, this writer would be missed the least.
Then he slowly collected his things, noticed the book he had half finished and pinched that, too, before silently slipping away.
Chapter 15
The sound of beating drums and screeching violins woke Roxy from a deep sleep and she sat up with a start, her head pounding, then looked around the room and felt the headache intensify.
Where the hell was she?
She glanced down to one side and spotted a man’s naked body entwined in the sheets, and reached a hand to her mouth to stifle a cry. She felt her stomach lurch. She grappled for her glasses, which, blessedly, were sitting on a table to her right, and wedged them into place, then snuck another quick look.
Oh my God. It was David Lone.
Roxy glanced around nervously, realising now that she was obviously in his bedroom. On the bedside table there was a selection of photos of the writer posing next to film stars and politicians, and on one wall she spotted a promotional poster for The Supermodel Diaries. She looked down at herself, slightly relieved to see her shirt and underwear still in place, but wondered where her jeans, shoes and handbag had got to, and why the bloody music was blasting so loudly. It took her another moment to realise the din was coming directly from her head, an aching, screeching migraine.
Roxy crept out of bed as quietly as she could manage, towards what looked like the bathroom. Ah yes, a very large, blindingly white bathroom. She softly shut the door, stepped across to the toilet bowl and threw up. Then threw up again.
She winced, flushed the toilet, and then staggered to the sink where she splashed cold water on her face before glaring at her reflection.
Oh, Roxy, what the hell have you done?
There was a soft tap on the bathroom door.
“You okay in there?” David called out and she swung around, startled.
“Yes ... yes ... I’m fine,” she managed to croak, her head throbbing with every word. “I’ll just be a minute!”
“Take your time. I’ve put your jeans by the door. I’ll see you out in the kitchen.”
“Thanks!” she sang, trying to sound casual but coming across stressed out.
She swung back to stare at her reflection again. Her hair was tufted up at the back, her eyeliner was so smudged she looked like a raccoon, and her lips were puffy and cracked. She glanced around, then quietly opened the bathroom cabinet and looked inside. Thank God for metrosexuals, she thought, grabbing a bottle of cleansing milk and dripping a little into one palm before scrubbing her face clean. She washed the cream off, then found some moisturiser and applied a little, perking her skin up. Next, she squeezed a little of his toothpaste onto one finger and brushed it over her teeth, rinsing her mouth thoroughly before sweeping her fingers through her hair, calming it down.
“Not your best look,” she said quietly to the mirror, but it would have to do.
She opened the door, retrieved her jeans and slipped them on.
Out in the kitchen, Roxy found David wearing nothing but a pair of baggy blue and white checked Calvin Klein pyjama pants, hard at work on a gleaming gas stove. He was cooking something, and had already prepared a cup of coffee from the espresso machine on the marble kitchen bench. The kitchen, like the rest of the house, was enormous and kitted out with the very latest in appliances including a four-door, stainless steel fridge, matching stainless steel dishwasher, and an induction oven that almost took up half a wall. There was an oversized silver clock hanging on one wall, and a large pantry half hidden behind white doors.
“You want that one?” David said, turning towards her and indicating the cup.
His hairless chest was tanned and boasted a chiselled six-pack, and she tried not to stare as she dropped onto a black leather barstool at the other end of the kitchen bench.
“God yes,” she said, dragging the much-needed cup towards her. “What’re you cooking?”
“Spanish omelette. It’s my speciality.” He raised his eyebrows a few times, smili
ng widely, then turned back to the stove.
He looked like he was having great fun and she wished she could say the same. Sipping her coffee and watching him cook, his back muscles flexing as he did so, Roxy tried to stop ogling him and get her thoughts together, to remember how she had ended up in David Lone’s bed.
All she drew was a blank.
David leaned down into a cupboard and produced two oversized white dinner plates, then placed two pieces of French bread on each plate, a slice of omelette and a fork. He sprinkled some spinach leaves over the top and some cracked pepper, then pushed one towards her, pulled a second stool from underneath the bench, and sat across from her, digging in hungrily.
Roxy took a small mouthful and was sure it tasted great, but she couldn’t stomach anything today. The orchestra in her head had died down, but her stomach was now playing a game of killer volleyball.
“Come on,” he said. “Eat up. It’ll do you some good.”
She took another bite and then dropped her fork back down. It was no good. Nothing was going to take this hangover away. She sighed, took a deep breath then asked what needed to be asked.
“Um ... what happened?” He looked up at her blankly, the fork suspended near his lips, so she added, “Last night. What happened? Exactly?”
He dropped the fork back down. “You don’t remember anything?” She shook her head and he looked incredulous. “Nothing at all?”
She scrunched her lips to one side. “Sorry, not really, no.” She hesitated. “Did we ...?”
“God no!” he said and then added, more gently, “I wouldn’t do that to you, Roxanne. You were in no state.”
The volleyball game calmed down a little. “So what happened then?”
“Well,” he took a quick forkful of egg, “we were at Max’s party and you’d just brushed me off.”
“I do remember that bit, which is why I’m a little surprised to be here.”
“Yeah, well, that makes two of us. About two minutes after you left me whistling in the wind beside my car, you came running out and demanded I take you home. If I remember correctly, you said something like, ‘Take me back to your bed or lose me forever.’”
