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, propped 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 and 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 writers’ 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 he 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-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 favourite 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 why 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 Salman Rushdie 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 ...”
“
So you haven’t kissed and made up with Max yet?”
Roxy frowned and looked away. Now why did he have to bring that up?
Max Farrell was a talented local photographer and one of Roxy’s best friends. Roguishly handsome and really good fun, he had more mates than he had time for but it was to Roxy that he had offered his heart. And she had trampled on it superbly, insisting they should remain ‘just friends’. You can imagine how that went down.
Roxy still regretted the way she had reacted, but she was angry, too, angry at him for placing his heart in her path. She hadn’t asked for it, and she didn’t want it, and she had told him as much. They had been such great mates, she was determined to remain that way. But of course, once trampled, the heart is not so amenable, and it was their friendship that was now suffering the consequences. They hadn’t seen each other in weeks.
“I think he’s moved in with that Sandy chick,” she said, trying to sound as though it hadn’t cut her to the core.
Oliver could see straight through her, of course, but let the subject drop. “You’re going, then? To Dormay?” he said instead.
She relaxed considerably. “Of course I’m going, it’s just so out of the blue. Excuse the pun.”
Now 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, apart from commitment issues, she also had 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?”
If you enjoyed this excerpt, continue reading A Plot to Die For
Other books by C.A. Larmer
Ghostwriter Mysteries:
Last Writes (Book 3)
Dying Words (Book 4)
Words Can Kill (Book 5)
A Note Before Dying (Book 6)
Plus:
The Agatha Christie Book Club
Murder on the Orient (SS): The Agatha Christie Book Club 2
An Island Lost
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