Chapter 24: Confrontations
The tall white walls that barricaded Heather Jackson’s house from the rest of the world shone like snow under the harsh sun of the encroaching Sydney summer and Roxy pulled her car to a stop before the gate and pressed the intercom. Within seconds, the maid had answered.
‘It’s Roxy Parker again,’ the young woman said and then, as confidently as she could, added, ‘and I’d like to see Miss Jackson.’
‘She no here,’ the maid replied with what Roxy realized was her standard reply.
‘Perhaps, then, you can ask her if Marian is there instead.’
‘Who?’
‘Marian Johnson from Macksland.’
There was a long pause before the intercom went dead and the gate began to swing open. Roxy repressed a smile as she drove up the driveway and parked outside the front, this time armed with a lot more than an old umbrella. When she rang the doorbell, however, it was not the anxious maid who answered her call, but a tall, middle-aged man with neatly trimmed brown hair and an expensive jacket over a chambray shirt and pleated trousers. He smelled of aftershave, and the hand that he extended to her was cluttered with gold rings, a thick gold bracelet hanging down from beneath his sleeve. This must be his casual look, she thought, grimacing at the overpowering perfume.
‘At last we meet Ms Parker,’ he purred before settling his lips into a wry smile. He waved one hand inside. ‘Come in, please.’
‘Jamie Owen, I assume?’
‘You assume correctly. Please follow me.’
Heather’s manager led Roxy through the marbled entrance and right, along a wide corridor to a set of double doors through which he disappeared. Following him, Roxy found herself in the plush environs of an office, with a large, paper-strewn desk at one end and a maroon leather couch at the other. There were various computers, scanners and photocopiers lined up on a long table by the wall and a set of glass sliding doors, which led out towards a garden and a pool beyond. Another wall was covered in glass louvers, now wedged shut against the cold. And on every wall there were portraits, bright, lurid Heather Jackson classics in all shapes and sizes. She admired them as he closed the doors behind her.
‘Your office?’ Roxy asked.
‘My office away from the office. No rest for the wicked, Ms Parker.’
‘Well, you’d know all about that.’
He ignored the comment and patted the space beside him on the couch where he had already taken a seat.
‘My apologies I never got that information to you.’
‘Oh?’
‘The detailed biography you asked for. I will get onto that but I must say, Heather’s past is not exactly relevant, it’s her painting that we focus on.’
‘You don’t think the two are related?’
He shrugged, clearly not interested in opening this can of worms. He said simply, ‘So what can I do for you?’
‘Actually, I was hoping to speak to Heather directly.’
‘That’s not possible. You can speak to me.’
‘It’s a private matter.’
‘We have no secrets here.’
Roxy chewed over this for a few seconds and then reached into her handbag and retrieved the photo she had taken from Heather’s old neighbor in Macksland.
‘Not even this little secret?’ she asked, placing the picture in front of him.
Jamie barely glanced at the shot before he shrugged. ‘So you’ve been doing a little snooping. Good for you,’ he said and then smiled wryly again. ‘As I said, we have no secrets here. This does not perturb us.’
‘But it’s not exactly public knowledge is it?’
‘And not exactly a secret. I can’t help the fact that not one journalist in 20 years has had the foresight to look into Heather’s past.’
‘And no one ever asked?’
‘Not a one.’ Jamie shifted in his seat impatiently. ‘Look, Ms Parker, what is all this about? You haven’t come all this way to share happy snaps, surely?’
Roxy swept her fringe from her face and nibbled her lower lip contemplatively. She hoped she knew what she was doing. She took a deep breath. ‘No, you’re right. I came to tell you that I not only know who Heather is,’ she said slowly, watching his face for signs. ‘But I know who her mother is. Or should I say, was?’
Jamie shrugged again. ‘Yes, Joyce Johnson, a fine woman.’
‘No, Mr Owen. Her real mother. Her birth mother.’
His eyes squinted very slightly and he waited for her to continue. He was giving nothing away.
‘Beatrice Musgrave,’ Roxy said.
He didn’t flinch. ‘So?’
‘So, you’re telling me you knew?’
‘Of course. As I’ve already said, we have no secrets here.’
‘So you won’t mind me making it public knowledge?’
‘Not at all, although I don’t see who it would serve. Heather has known about her birth mother for some time now. She has nothing to hide.’
‘Then why all the secrecy?’
Jamie stood up and, wandering over to his desk, perched on the end so that he was now looming over her where she still remained, seated on the couch.
‘There’s no secrecy, Ms Parker. But there’s also no need for revelations either. Heather has made a success of herself on her own merits. On her own terms.’ His nose crinkled up distastefully. ‘She doesn’t feel the need to cloud everything with this bit of gossip.’
‘Beatrice seemed to think it was a good idea.’
‘And look where it got her.’
Roxy’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Are you saying she was killed over it?’
Jamie laughed in a kind of mocking way. ‘I’m not saying any such thing! It was suicide remember? You journalists really are experts at twisting the truth, aren’t you?’
‘Well how about this for the truth, Mr Owen: Beatrice was about to reveal Heather’s true identity in her autobiography but before she got a chance to she turns up dead. It all looks a tad incriminating to me.’
The manager laughed again, this time more heartily. He appeared to be enjoying himself. ‘Why on earth would Heather want to kill her birth mother, especially before the book came out? Heather had everything to gain from the revelation, including a swag of the old woman’s money. I hardly think she has motive to kill.’
‘Yet she didn’t want the book to come out, you said so yourself.’
‘Oh we are going in circles, Ms Parker!’ He was irritable again. ‘Heather doesn’t need the money. I know you might find that hard to believe. But, well, Heather’s an old fashioned gal from way back. She’s built up a name all on her own. She doesn’t want or need to be associated with anyone else, least of all traditionalists like the Musgrave clan.’
Roxy chewed over this for a few seconds and then asked, ‘Whatever happened to Margarita Moralis?’
Jamie stared blankly back. ‘Who?’
‘Heather’s maid for a few years, until she got the sack.’
‘I vaguely remember her.’
‘Vaguely? Surely she was your worst nightmare? She threatened to write a revealing book about your client.’
‘Oh Miss Parker, if you knew how many fruit loops we have to deal with you wouldn’t be asking such asinine questions.’ He was already flicking through the papers on his desk as if preoccupied or plain disinterested. It irked the young woman and she could feel her temper returning. This guy was an arrogant jerk and she’d had just about enough of him.
‘Cut the crap, Jamie,’ she spat back. ‘The book was written, about to be handed over when, according to the publishers, the author suddenly vanished from the face of the earth. It seems mighty convenient to me, and I’m sure my friends at the Mosman Police Department will have no trouble finding out what happened if you’re not willing to talk.’
The lawyer glanced up from his papers and feigned a smile. ‘Ahh, now I remember. Margarita Moralis. A slutty Spanish woman. Fancied herself the next J. Lo. It was all a publicity stunt for her singing career. That??
?s why she disappeared. She couldn’t go through with the book because it was a pack of lies and she knew she’d get hit with a lawsuit. Did her publishers happen to mention that when she disappeared, so did their hefty advance? No, forgot to mention that did they? Well why don’t you go back and ask them about that? Sounds like a mighty scam to me. Go ahead and look Miss Moralis up. I’m sure her publishers will be most grateful. The police, too.’
Roxy considered this for a few seconds and then replied sullenly, ‘I will.’ She was unsure whether to believe him. Why hadn’t Oliver mentioned the advance? That shone a whole new light on things. The look of amusement that swept across his face was more than she could bear and, realizing that there would be no more revelations here today, stood up abruptly.
‘I’ll leave now, Mr Owen,’ she said as politely as she could muster, ‘but it’s not the last you’ve heard of me.’
He shrugged indifferently as she swept out of the room and back down the hallway to the marbled lobby. The housekeeper appeared from nowhere and escorted her to the door. ‘To make sure I really do leave,’ Roxy thought angrily. She took a quick glance towards the door that had opened so mysteriously the last time she visited and noticed that it was slightly ajar, only a dense darkness visible beyond.
‘What’s in there?’ Roxy asked.
‘You go now,’ the maid hissed, as though her very life depended on it and swung the front door open for her.
Roxy relented and let the woman lead her out into the darkening driveway. But she was no longer feeling defeated. Thanks to her little foray into Jamie Owen’s inner sanctum, she now knew for certain the identity of the woman in Heather Jackson’s winning portrait ‘Not Drowning, Waving’. It was hanging in the office, had pride of place behind Jamie’s desk, and it was the spitting image of Marian’s older sister, the light-haired girl in the wheelchair.
It was Lillian Johnson.
Murder. Mayhem. Death and destruction. It all screamed out at Roxy as she slowly flipped through her old scrapbooks hoping to find some news of the missing maid, Margarita Moralis. Oliver called these her Books of Death, but Roxy had turned to them for information in the past and hoped they would help her now. She could not recall cutting out any such article but then how would she? There had been so many murders since then, so many missing faces and mutilated corpses, most of them forgotten by the indifferent hands of time. Roxy began her search in the scrapbook titled the same year that Margarita had disappeared. But she knew that she would likely have to keep looking through later scrapbooks for someone fitting her description. Indeed it often took many years for bodies to be recovered, if at all.
As it turned out, it had taken almost two years for the then-decomposed body of Margarita Moralis to show up, still wedged behind the wheel of the car she had been driving when, according to the almost nondescript news article, she had ‘crashed through thick forest one dark night to die alone, unnoticed for years’. The article, which was headlined ‘Forgotten Crash Victim Found’, did identify the victim as ‘aspiring singer’ Margarita Moralis, but made no mention of Heather Jackson or her tell-all book. Nor did it mention any money found with the body. It simply stated the cause of death as ‘accidental’.
‘Why then did I even cut it out?’ Roxy wondered before reading on. When she saw the words ‘Police have not ruled out foul play’, the penny dropped. She had expected a follow-up article confirming that it was, indeed murder, but after scanning the next few pages she realized no such article was forthcoming. She wanted to know why. Surely the police had twigged when they learned the driver’s identity? Surely they, or the publisher, had connected her to the Heather Jackson tell-all? There was only one way of finding out, it was time to pay her new friend another visit. She grabbed her jacket again and headed back out.
Standing beside the snack dispenser, kicking the side with one heeled shoe, Gilda Maltin looked even smaller than she had behind her desk and, as Roxy strode towards her, she wondered, yet again, how the police detective managed to remain so self-assured in such a macho world.
‘Does nobody get Saturdays off anymore?’ Roxy said and Gilda swung around to face her, her thin eyebrows raised with a mixture of surprise and delight.
‘Roxy Parker,’ she said, scooping up a chocolate bar from the tray below her. ‘I didn’t expect to see you back here so soon. Can I offer you a piece?’
‘No, thanks, I’m more of a savory girl myself. Can we have a quick word?’
‘Absolutely!’ She led the way back to her office and, slipping into the seat behind her desk, began munching on her bar. Roxy sat down in front of her.
‘I’ve got a favor to ask.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Have you heard of the name Margarita Moralis?’
Gilda stopped chewing long enough to give the name some considered thought and then said, ‘Oh, yes, you know it’s kinda familiar, but nothing’s quite connecting. Why?’
‘I’m just doing some research on a story about the artist Heather Jackson.’
‘Yeah, I know her. Abstracts. Not my kinda stuff but there you go.’
‘Yes, well, Margarita was her maid and—’
‘And she disappeared suddenly! Now I remember her. A guy I was seeing at the time was working on the case. Real asshole—the guy, not the case.’
Roxy couldn’t help laughing. ‘Well I know her body was recovered from a car wreck about two years later but I don’t know if they ruled the crash as accidental or foul play.’
‘And you’re just checking your facts, right?’
‘Right.’
‘For your story?’
‘Yes.’
‘So what does Heather Jackson have to do with Beatrice?’
Roxy bit her lip. She had revealed more than she intended. ‘Oh you’re a smart detective, you’ll be running the force one day.’
‘That’s my intention,’ she said, then placed her half-eaten chocolate bar aside and began tapping away at her computer anyway. ‘Well, if as you say, they found her, it’ll all be in here.’ She worked away for some time and Roxy kept her fingers crossed. This could be the missing link.
‘Now, let’s see.’ Gilda pulled the screen around so Roxy could also get a glimpse. ‘Yep, here it is and you’re right, we did find her. Eventually. It’s strange that I don’t remember it, though. It must have been very low-key.’
‘It was,’ Roxy replied. ‘Just one small news story.’
‘That probably means the police weren’t giving out a lot of details. Let’s see why.’ She turned back to the screen and began reading: ‘Margarita Angela Moralis, aged 27, found deceased at the bottom of Piers Hill. Let’s see ... Cause of death: blunt force trauma to the head and spine, consistent with a car accident. Cause of car accident: faulty brakes.’ She glanced up at Roxy with a rueful shrug. ‘Not real hopeful I’m afraid.’
‘So there were no suspicious circumstances at all?’
Gilda began pushing the cursor down the screen reading as she went. ‘Hmm, hang on a minute, this sounds a bit odd. It says here that she had substantial damage to her elbows and upper torso.’ Roxy sat up. ‘Oh, no, no, it says they could have been consistent with a violent car crash. See, it’s hard to say for sure when the body is so badly decomposed. Strange she wasn’t discovered for so long. Must have been a pretty quiet part of the world.’
‘Yes I think it was thick forest. And no mention of major amounts of cash found on her?’
Gilda glanced up at her suspiciously. ‘Not that I can see. What’s all this about, Roxy?’
Roxy shifted in her seat. ‘Right now, I’m working on a bit of a hunch and to be honest I’d rather not say. Not until I sort a few things out.’ Gilda did not look impressed so she quickly added, ‘But you’ll be the first person I call if there’s anything to report. I promise.’
The detective placed the last bit of chocolate in her mouth before curling the wrapper into a ball and flinging it neatly into the paper basket by the door. ‘I’m gonna let this
one go, Roxy,’ she said, wiping her mouth with one hand. ‘But I’ve got my eye on you, and I like you, so do me right and I won’t do you no wrong. Got it?’ Roxy nodded her head vigorously and made a quick exit.