A Plot To Die For Read online

  A Plot to Die For

  (A Ghostwriter Mystery)

  by

  C. A. Larmer

  Copyright 2011 Larmer Media

  Smashwords Edition

  Cover designed by Stuart Eadie

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  Discover other titles by C.A. Larmer at Smashwords.com:

  Killer Twist — http://www.christinalarmer.com

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  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  About the author

  Connect with Me Online

  Prologue

  From a distance it looked like little more than an old coconut, perched precariously on the fringes of the beach, its husk tufting up in all directions. Upon closer inspection, however, it proved to be a human head, a woman’s, her long hair poking out in every direction while crabs scuttled over the skull, devouring what remained of her flesh. Roxy would have screamed if she could find her voice. Instead, she stared mutely, shaking, knowing only too well whose head it belonged to and wondering, somewhat oddly, where the body had got to.

  Chapter 1

  The rattling single-engine Cessna 182 tipped precariously to one side and Roxy gulped back her anxiety as she saw the tiny island of Dormay wing into view. From this height, it was breathtaking. Jelly-bean in shape and carpeted in thick rainforest, it had a lush hill soaring up at one end and a vibrant green valley sweeping down on the other. And all around it was a trimming of achingly white sand leaching into a fluorescent aqua-blue sea. Beyond the shallows were random clumps of darkness, boasting, Roxy assumed, more candy-coloured coral reef than she’d possibly have time to explore.

  She spotted the resort instantly, perched as it was just below the cliff face at the most westerly point of the island, its verandas strategically positioned to take in that exquisite view. Directly below the veranda was a small patch of greenery that quickly turned to sand and then to sea. And at every glance, toothpick-like coconut trees stood to attention, waving in the breeze. As the plane flew overhead, Roxy could just make out a small jetty directly south of the hotel, jutting out of a rocky bay, and to the north, a cluster of traditional-style grass huts.

  But where is the airport? She wondered momentarily. The plane straightened up suddenly then swept down towards the valley at the other end of the island, and that’s when she spotted it, a light green mat etched into the darker, longer grass.

  “Hold on!” the young pilot yelled back to her, his only passenger. “We’re going down!”

  She assumed this meant they were landing and tried not to panic as they did indeed start to descend towards that dodgy looking patch of grass.

  What have I got myself into? She thought, swallowing her fears and thinking back to just 10 days earlier when the bizarre letter had arrived in the mail. She’d taken it straight to her agent, Oliver Horowitz whose offices were wedged in a dark and dusty part of inner-city Sydney.

  Roxy read the woman’s elegantly handwritten note aloud: ‘I’d like you to tell the story of my life and the life of Dormay Island before I go. Please find enclosed the necessary details. I look forward to seeing you at your earliest convenience. Abi.’

  “It’s slightly odd, don’t you think?” she said, throwing it across to Oliver.

  He sucked the oily remains of a doner kebab from his fingers then picked it up, reread it and shrugged.

  “Odd schmod. You’re getting a free trip to Dormay Island. Christ, you know what Kate Moss and her lot pay for that privilege?”

  Roxy considered this for a moment. Seated in a ratty old armchair in front of her agent’s desk, books piled up beside her and a stack of posters at her feet, she had to agree that Abi’s Retreat was beyond both their budgets combined. She was a relatively busy writer, he a relatively successful literary agent but they still mixed in very different circles to Abi’s clientele. She picked up one of the posters and unrolled it to reveal a zany looking guy with tufts of white hair and a lurid zebra-print suit.

  “You’re representing Sir Laugh-a-lot now?”

  He scrunched the kebab wrapping up and tossed it towards the bin. He missed.

  “Yeah, Larfy’s putting a book out—Lotsa Laughs with Laugh-a-lot.”

  She winced.

  “Hey, don’t knock it! He’s one of the country’s top comics. Makes more money in an hour of stand-up than you and I make in a month. Now, he could afford Abi’s.”

  “Yes, but would they let him in? That’s the question.”

  “Ouch. With that attitude they’ll welcome you with open arms. Wanna a coffee?”

  “Christ no, I have taste buds don’t I? Listen, I’m serious about this. Abi’s invite is great, sure, but it’s slightly ominous, don’t you think?”

  “Bloody hell, here we go again.”

  Oliver sighed, leaning back in his creaky leather chair. In his late 40s, he was not exactly an attractive man—his slightly greying hair was greased and swept back, almost Elvis style, behind his ears, he had a trademark 1950’s bowling shirt on (this one read Tex, whoever the hell that was), and these days he seemed to gain weight by the week—yet Roxy adored him nonetheless. She had worked with him for over a decade. She liked him, she trusted him. That was all that mattered.

  “What’s so ominous about it, Rox?” he was asking, his stubby eyebrows raised wearily.

  “Well, for starters, the woman’s extraordinarily private. I know this because I tried to do a freelance interview with her many moons ago for Glossy magazine. She never returned my calls. It’s well-known, she doesn’t want to be, well, well-known.”

  In fact, Abigail Lilton had spent her entire life avoiding the spotlight, choosing instead to establish herself and her boutique resort in the heart of the vast Pacific Ocean on the remote Dormay Island. It was one of a handful of islands that made up a small, independent Pacific nation, clustered on the edge of an expansive coral atoll, equidistant from Australia and Papua New Guinea.

  The resort, Abi’s Retreat, was an aging yet still majestic colonial Queenslander. It featured wide wooden verandahs and crisp white shutters, friendly local service and secluded, shell-strewn beaches, and was a favorite amongst the rich and famous as much for its isolation as its unique holiday experience. Stressed out executive types, celebrities and bored heirs alike could book the six-bedroom place all to themselves or share it, begrudgingly no doubt, with other deep-pocketed individuals assured of privacy, anonymity and genuine adventure.

  Abi’s Retreat was famous, worldwide, as the smallest, most sought-after, ramshackle hotel in the tropics. And while it was kept in good nick, it had barely changed since Abigail renovated the original plantation house 35 years ago. Nor had her ‘no-press policy’ which was not the only reason w
hy the invitation in Roxy Parker’s hands had the young writer stumped.

  It was the hastiness of it.

  The elderly hotelier had suddenly decided it was time to tell her life’s story and wanted Roxy for the job. Okay, that part made sense. Roxy Parker was a writer of some repute. Sure, she wasn’t being invited to literary festivals every week or swapping tweets with Peter Carey just yet, but she was known in the industry as a very good ghostwriter. She could help almost anybody turn their life story into a pretty entertaining ‘autobiography’. They got the credit, she got to pay off her credit card. It was a win-win.

  Yet most of Roxy’s clients came to it slowly. They mulled over the idea for a long time, took a little coaxing—should they really spill all? Wasn’t that a little arrogant? Then, sufficiently coaxed by family, friends or financially motivated agents, they met with Roxy in person, chatted, often for many hours (in one case many months), to see if they really could work together and were on the same page, so to speak. Once that was agreed, they signed on the dotted line and began the complex process of synchronizing their insanely busy schedules.

  Not Abigail Lilton. She didn’t just want Roxy, a ghostwriter she’d never even met, she wanted her pronto. And, assuming the answer would be yes, had already included a cheque for airfares and a detailed description of when to come, what to bring and how to get there.

  “So, she’s changed her tune. It happens,” said Oliver.

  “Yes, but why the hurry? And what about the line ‘before I go’? Seems a bit, I dunno, strange. Where’s she going? Exactly? Is she running away? About to cark it? I just wonder why the rush?”

  “Maybe the poor old duck’s got cancer, that’s why she finally wants to break her silence. She realises her time is running out. Does it make any difference?”

  Roxy snatched the letter back from him, scowling at his paw prints.

  “She’s told me exactly when to come, what flights to get on, and she hasn’t even left me a phone number so she’s just assuming I’m going to show up.”

  “And aren’t you? What have you got keeping you here?”

  “Hmmm, let me see.” Roxy held a hand up and began counting on each finger. “Tortuous lunches with my mother, Lorraine; cheesy articles for Glossy magazine; Sex & The City re-runs all by my lonesome at home... Of course I’m going, it’s just so out of the blue. Excuse the pun.”

  It was Oliver’s turn to wince. He shook his head at the writer sitting before him. Roxanne Parker was an attractive woman, early 30s, thick black hair, groovy Rayban-style specs. He liked her, had enjoyed representing her for the past decade, but she did have an annoying penchant for making mountains out of molehills.

  “You’ve always got to think the worst, don’t you?” he said. “Your business is ghostwriting other people’s stories; she wants you to write her story, so just do it. Take the money and run. Besides, I reckon it’d be a juicy one, what with all the celebrity guests who’ve supposedly passed through. Rumour has it, royalty go there to bonk their mistresses stupid. This could be bestseller stuff, Rox. Might even end up a film deal.”

  “Let’s not get too carried away.”

  “Just go, have fun, do the interviews and come back. It’s that simple.”

  “Fun? Moi?” Roxy bat her eyelids at him then laughed. “I’m going, I’m going already. Just wanted to pass it by you, get your perspective, that’s all.”

  She reached for her oversized, brown, leather handbag and got to her feet.

  “So, I guess I’ll be out of your hair for a while.”

  “Great, couldn’t be happier, bugger off,” he said. “But, hey, take your mobile in case you need to call me, and leave me a contact number for the retreat. You know, in case something ‘ominous’ happens...”

  He did the wiggly quotation mark thing with his fingers (a pet hate of Roxy’s if you must know).

  She scoffed. “Now who’s being dramatic?”

  She swept in and planted a kiss on her agent’s stubbly cheek. “Besides, what could possibly go wrong?”

  Chapter 2

  A sudden bump broke Roxy’s thoughts as the Cessna landed on the grassy airstrip once, twice, then spurted skyward again before settling finally on terra firma, and roaring to a halt. She peered outside her window and saw nothing but swaying palm fronds yet the pilot was already turning the plane about and heading back the way they’d landed toward a small grass hut.

  The airport I assume, thought Roxy as she tried for a smile. She wondered how the rich and famous handled this kind of arrival, and made a mental note to ask Abigail.

  Perhaps it was all part of the ‘experience’.

  The pilot, a jovial Australian bloke called Davo, had met her at the international airstrip on the main island, Beela, a place the locals simply referred to as ‘the mainland’. She’d flown in directly from Cairns in far-northern Australian that afternoon and was thankful she didn’t have to overnight at Beela. It was a pretty shabby capital as far as capitals went, with one or two half-decent concrete buildings and a few blinking neon signs standing somewhat incongruously beside shanty style shops and dusty market stalls.

  Davo brought the Cessna to a shuddering halt beside the hut, switched the engine off, unhooked his seatbelt and stepped through the cabin to unlock the exit door. As he did so, a blast of hot air rushed in and Roxy felt as though he’d just opened the door to an enormous furnace.

  “You’ll get used to it,” he said, noticing her discomfort, then helped her out and into the hut.

  She grappled for her prescription sunglasses and swept a hand through

  her black fringe, which was already sticking, clump-like to her forehead. At that moment, Roxy could hear another engine roaring and she looked around to see a muddy, white four wheel drive crashing through what appeared to be thick jungle at one end of the strip.

  “Right on time as usual,” Davo said, then walked back towards the plane.

  The vehicle creaked to a halt outside the hut and a man in his mid-30s, in Bermuda shorts and a white cotton shirt, came bounding out. He was of mixed race with the dark skin, short, wavy hair and chocolate brown eyes of a local, but when he spoke, his accent was authentic Australian. He sounded more ocker than she did.

  “Roxy Parker? Hey man, welcome to Dormay. I’m Joshua, General Manager.” His teeth gleamed white as he smiled widely and grabbed her hand to shake.

  “Hi Joshua,” she replied.

  “Flight okay?”

  “Yeah, well, not a great selection of inflight movies and the drinks trolley was a bit scarce but it did the job.”

  He laughed. “Your first small plane, then, eh?”

  Before she had a chance to answer he took off towards the Cessna and was back in seconds, holding her small suitcase and laptop bag.

  “You travel light.”

  “Sorry, no six-piece Louis Vuitton luggage for me.”

  “Hey, don’t apologise. It makes a welcome change.”

  He placed her things into the back of his car, opened the passenger door and motioned her inside. “It’s air-conditioned, much more comfortable. I’ll just be a sec’.”

  Roxy settled into the back seat gratefully as Joshua returned to the plane to help the pilot unload what looked like a bulging mailbag and boxes of supplies. They loaded them together into the back of the 4WD, then returned to the Cessna.

  After several minutes, Roxy looked back to see Davo hand Joshua a brown paper bag, the kind you get from pharmacies. Joshua glanced inside and then said something to the pilot whose smile instantly deflated. He grabbed the bag and rummaged through it while Joshua rubbed one hand through his hair. They spoke for a few minutes longer, Joshua growing increasingly agitated and the pilot clearly trying to placate him, when the latter spotted Roxy. He said something to Joshua who swung around to her. He smiled widely, retrieved the bag without another word and returned to the car.

  “Sorry about that,” Joshua said, slamming his door. “Ready to go?”

  Within seconds he
had backed up and was charging off down the grass, away from the airstrip. Roxy glanced behind her in time to see the pilot steering his own craft in the opposite direction for take off. They clearly weren’t into long goodbyes on this island.

  “So, it’s your first time on Dormay. What brings you here? Rest? Recreation?”

  Roxy paused and, realising he expected an answer this time, didn’t quite know what to tell him. It was clear from the general manager’s question that he didn’t know about the ghostwriting assignment, or if he did, he’d forgotten. Either way, she wasn’t about to spill the beans. Abigail hadn’t mentioned confidentiality in her letter, but then she hadn’t mentioned much at all and, knowing how private the woman could be, Roxy opted for caution.

  “Bit of both I hope,” she said.

  He caught her eye momentarily in the rear-view mirror.

  “So, have I got the place to myself?”

  “Not quite, no, but it’s not our busiest season either. Mixed bunch this week. You’ll meet ’em all at pre-dinner drinks. It’s on the main veranda, every evening from 6pm. You got a cocktail dress, right?”

  He gave her another quick glance and she was glad she’d remembered to pack a few fancy numbers for just such an event. But would her op shop vintage frocks be a match for the designer couture of her richer fellow guests? She cringed at the thought.

  The drive from the strip to the hotel took about 20 minutes and was as much a white-knuckle ride as the plane journey, traversing thick rainforest, crunching over coral-edged rock faces and roaring past endless coconut trees bulging with nutty missiles. Joshua was clearly a man of few words but she forced the conversation anyway, desperate for a distraction.