A Plot to Die For (A Ghostwriter Mystery) Read online

  “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.

  “Are you from here? Originally?” She was wondering about that Aussie accent.

  He caught her eye again. “I’m local, if that’s what you mean. But I went to boarding school in Australia for my high school years. Then I did a hospitality course in Cairns before coming back to help Abi out.”

  “So you’ve known her a while then?”

  “Abi? Yeah, she’s like a second mum to me. Practically brought me up. My own mum used to work for Abi before she passed away.” He paused. “So, yeah, she was the one who put me through school, all that. Anyway, enough about me. I should be giving you the rundown on the place.”

  He promptly launched into what she assumed was his usual tourist rant, complete with history, geography and climate details. He explained that while it had been pretty dry lately, this was, traditionally, the wettest time of the year and most guests, particularly those from Europe and those wanting to scuba dive, came between April and November when they could be assured of drier, more consistent weather.

  “Although they still find plenty to complain about,” he said with a slight chuckle.

  “So this is wet season?” Roxy squinted up towards the cloudless sky.

  “Yeah, gets really humid this time of year. Cyclone season, too. But it’s been a good year so far.”

  “Well thank God for that.”

  “Oh you’ll be right.”

  “Ever had a bad one?”

  “Cyclone? Oh, we’ve had a few scary moments, man. Lost one of our jetties about 12 years back, a few workers’ huts ’nother time. But no, luckily it’s never been bad enough to tear the old house down. Touch wood!”

  He tapped the side of his head with a laugh.

  Roxy had already Googled the island so had some of the information he was telling her, but not everything. There was not a great deal on the internet about Dormay and absolutely nothing about its owner that didn’t appear to be third-hand and contradictory. She was variously described as ‘eccentric’, ‘shrewd’, ‘industrious’ and ‘sweet’ and it was hard to form a true picture of the woman. Perhaps that was intentional, thought Roxy. In any case, it was clear from Google and her own experience that Abigail Lilton didn’t do interviews, and Roxy wondered why. It was not a particularly good omen for the book.

  She was about to ask Joshua when he yelled back to her, “There’s the jetty!”

  She noticed the dirt road turn to gravel and, through the coconut trees spotted a bleached wooden pier with a white railing reaching out to a small, protected bay. There was a gleaming white and blue yacht tied up at one end with its mainsail down and several sprightly seagulls perched atop the mast as if they owned it; and at the other end, a freshly painted wooden shelter, no doubt for guests to impatiently tap their toes while the staff prepared their vessel for boarding.

  He didn’t stop, continuing on for a few metres more until the scrub gave way to manicured lawn and the coconut trees to brightly coloured bougainvillea and hibiscus. There were two bungalow style huts under shady mango trees and what looked like a gardening shed, and between each one was a pebbled pathway that meandered across the lawn and towards the main house.

  The house itself was just coming into view behind an enormous fig tree, and it really was a majestic sight. Standing on rickety legs, three-stories tall, it featured decorative arches around its three-quarter verandas and purple-flowered vines drooping down at intervals. Behind the house was that lush, green hill, so steep in places that all that survived were a few ferns clinging on to the sheer rock face.

  Joshua slowed down and parked just below a small veranda at the side of the hotel where a staircase led up to the main door and a large white sign read ‘Reception: Welcome!’ A bright yellow frangipani flower had been painted beside it.

  As Roxy stepped out of the car, she spotted a woman, also in her 30s, descending the stairs. She had a mop of crinkly, auburn hair that had been chiselled into a chic bob above porcelain skin and emerald green eyes. She was wearing a light green top over flared, white linen trousers and Roxy wondered how she managed to look so cool in this heat.

  The woman darted Joshua a quick glance, her eyebrows raised skyward as though offering a silent question, and Joshua shook his head very slightly, as though the answer to that question was a tentative no. A brief flicker of something—was it anger, annoyance?—flashed across the woman’s face but when she turned to Roxy her smile was firmly in place.

  “How do you do, I’m Helen Lilton. Abigail’s daughter.” She gave Roxy a quick, curt handshake. “Mother’s tied up right at this moment but she’ll meet you for cocktails later. I assume Josh has filled you in on the schedule?”

  “Yes, he has, thank you.”

  “Good.” Helen threw Joshua another look before saying, “Come with me please and we’ll get you checked in.”

  They followed her up the steps and while Joshua continued inside with her bags, Roxy was led to a corner of the veranda and into a cushioned wicker chair that was facing towards the ocean. This was clearly not the main veranda but was small, shady and intimate. Roxy felt instantly relaxed.

  “Please, just wait here while we get you settled in. I know those plane rides can be a little bumpy. I understand from my mother that your visit is... complimentary.” She paused, her smile slipping slightly. “But I’ll still need your credit card if you don’t mind.”

  Roxy handed it over and, as Helen disappeared, spotted a jug of iced lemongrass tea and a glass that had been placed on a matching wicker table. She poured herself a drink, taking a long refreshing gulp before settling back to admire the view.

  What a lovely way to check in! Roxy recalled her last holiday, waiting in a seemingly endless queue in a stuffy Melbourne hotel foyer to retrieve her room keys. No such annoyances here. The view was spectacular and the breeze that wafted in from the ocean was cool and revitalising. From this vantage point, Roxy could just catch a glimpse of the main beach and she noticed a blonde couple alighting a rubber dinghy. They had full diving gear on and what looked like a spear each. A local man was running down the beach to help them.

  “The Zimmermans,” Helen said returning with some forms. “They’re here on an adventure.”

  There was something in her tone that made Roxy look up but Helen’s expression was perfectly neutral. She handed the papers over.

  “Just fill in the details and we’ll have you in your room in no time.”

  “No hurry. I could sit here all day!”

  “And, indeed, some people do.” She smiled but there wasn’t a lot of humour in her eyes.

  She disappeared again as Roxy filled out the requisite information. One question, however, had her stumped: Purpose of visit? It was clear Helen knew she wasn’t a normal, paying guest, but at the same time, she had to wonder how much she had been told. It was likely Abi had informed her own daughter about the book, how could she not? Yet Roxy wasn’t taking anything for granted. Part of her contract routinely involved complete and unequivocal confidentiality. The whole point of using a ghostwriter, and not a co-writer
, was to keep the real writer’s identity ghostly or hidden. No one was to know that Roxy Parker had written the book, not the person whose name was etched in the largest font possible across the front cover. In many cases Roxy’s clients hadn’t even told loved ones they’d hired her, and it wasn’t her place to say. She was the ghost in the machine, and she had to remain that way. It seems like a raw deal, especially if you have an ego, but for some reason—mostly financial—it didn’t irk Roxy at all.

  She decided to leave the line blank for now.

  Less than ten minutes later, she was being escorted back through the lobby for a quick tour of the hotel. It wasn’t air-conditioned and it clearly didn’t need to be, its tall ceilings, plentiful open windows and large fans working wonders with the ocean breeze. There were traditional local artefacts at every glance—grotesque face masks hanging on the walls, crude wooden statues perched in corners, and a decoratively painted front desk where Joshua was now tapping away behind a computer.

  “This is an old plantation house that’s being constantly restored by my mother,” said Helen, “despite the best efforts of sun, sea and cyclone. Through there—” she indicated a large veranda that faced directly West towards the sea—“is the main entertaining area.”

  Roxy noticed the wide, shaded deck had an assortment of lounge chairs and wicker furniture with a bar at one end and a set of stairs at the other leading down to the beach.

  “You can hang out there anytime you like,” said Helen. “The staff will bring you refreshments. And if you feel like going fishing or diving, we usually launch the Zodiacs from the main beach just below this veranda. They’re stored under the house. But, please, ask Joshua to organise a skipper for you. We don’t recommend guests take them out alone. The water’s pretty flat here but it can still be tricky launching off the beach.”

  She gave Roxy the once-over as if to determine whether in fact she would do something so silly.

  Roxy held her hands up defensively. “Oh I don’t think you’ll find me doing anything too tricky while I’m here. I don’t even know what a Zodiac is.”

  “Well that’s a relief. I can’t tell you how many of our guests turn into Action Heroes the minute they hit Dormay. But just so you know, a Zodiac is an inflatable dinghy. We have several on the island.”

  “Sounds scary.”

  “Glad to hear it. The yacht might be more your scene.” Again, the once-over. “That’s also available most days should you want to have a sail around the island or take a trip to Beela. Again, just speak with Joshua. Okay, then, through here—” Helen’s hand moved across to the room directly behind the lobby and leading out to a veranda on the other side of the hotel—“is the dining room where most meals are taken. You’ll notice a set of stairs at the far right, they lead out to a small patio should you want some peace and quiet.”

  She turned and walked them past the dining room to the library. It was in the north-easterly corner of the hotel and was blocked off from the main lobby by a large bamboo screen painted with pictures of local fish.

  “Our library is very small, but it should suffice.”

  Roxy poked her head around the partition and spotted a tiny antique wooden desk with a computer and telephone on top, and beside it a bookshelf that contained what looked like an assortment of pulp fiction and classics. A plush lounge chair had been placed in the corner with a side table overloaded with glossy coffee-table books.

  “And here,” Helen continued, leading her back to the main room, and to the bottom of a wide set of stairs, “is the way to your room. At the top of these stairs, on the first floor, turn right. Number 5. Your bag is already up there and Mary will help you unpack.”

  “Oh that won’t be necessary.”

  “Suit yourself. As you know, drinks are in an hour on the main veranda, and dinner after that.”

  She gave Roxy one of those smiles that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

  “You don’t do the cocktail hour?”

  Helen shook her head. “Not really my thing, but I suspect you’ll enjoy it.”

  Once again, it felt like a slur but Helen’s smile was still firmly in place, and Roxy gave her a curious look as she thanked her and made her way to her room. Helen was clearly a cool customer, Roxy decided. She’d better tread carefully with that one.

  Roxy’s room was easy enough to find. There appeared to be six rooms on the first floor—three at the front, facing the ocean, and three at the back looking out towards the cliff face—and Roxy’s was one of the back ones, directly above the library. She stepped inside to find a young local woman with the blackest of skin and the meekest of smiles waiting for her. She bowed her head politely.

  “Welcome, Missus!” she said in a singsong, melodic voice. “I unpack your bags now. Tenkyou.”

  “Err, no, actually that won’t be necessary,” Roxy said and the younger woman’s smile dropped. She looked confused. Clearly no one had ever rejected her services before.

  “No offence or anything,” Roxy rushed in. “It’s just...” she pointed to her small suitcase. “There’s not much to unpack. I’ll be fine.”

  Still looking doubtful, Mary left and Roxy shut the door behind her. Then she glanced around the room and stifled a shriek of delight. It was simple yet stunning, and so utterly, blindingly white, she felt like she had been dropped into the middle of a snowflake, a glorious, luxurious, straight-out-of-Vogue Living snowflake. The wide wooden floorboards had been painted white, as had the wooden walls, the high ceiling and the shutters. In the centre of the room was a white four-poster bed draped with a white mosquito net and plumped up with an odd assortment of cushions—almost the only colour in the room, some light pink, some floral, one or two red and white checked. In front of the bed was a rustic, white wooden chest on which were placed several light rugs, a small turtle carving, some shells and a vase of fresh bougainvillea. Beside the bed stood an antique wooden cupboard where her suitcase and computer bag had been placed. On the other side were a small table and two wooden chairs. Again, all white. Above the lot was a crystal chandelier that hung down like an elegant spider’s web.

  One wall featured two large shuttered windows, and Roxy crossed to them now and opened the shutters wide. The sun streamed in, still bright at this hour, and she glanced out. Her room looked down to a small paved area that was shrouded in hibiscus trees and a myriad of ceramic pot plants. That must be the peaceful patio Helen mentioned, she thought.

  There was a small bathroom at one end and a white cupboard that opened to reveal a well-stocked mini-fridge. A note above the fridge read, ‘Compliments of Abi’. She glanced over the contents: assorted soft drinks, miniature bottles of liquor, brightly wrapped chocolate bars. All your basic nutritional requirements. She grabbed one of the bars, peeled it open and threw herself onto the bed with a whoop.

  How could she have ever have given this job a second thought?

  Chapter 3

  An hour later, freshly showered and donning a red and blue striped cocktail dress she considered far too skimpy for her untanned limbs, it was Roxy’s turn to give herself the once-over. She stared at her reflection. Yes, she was obscenely pale for the tropics—she had considered using fake tan for, oh, about two seconds before deciding she just couldn’t be bothered. It wasn’t her style. She’d never been much of a beach babe, had always preferred a good book and a cosy lounge somewhere snugly indoors over a sweaty towel on a crowded beach. Still, this place wasn’t exactly crowded, she decided, and she could probably stomach a little sunshine between interview sessions. Perhaps she could set up her tape recorder on a sunny deck somewhere and multi-task? She ran one hand through her black, now jaggedly cut bob, straightened her fringe down, readjusted her wide-rimmed glasses and contemplated. Something was missing. Ah, yes. She reached for her make-up bag and retrieved her matt red lipstick, then applied a thick layer that instantly added colour to her Icelandic face. Much better. She dropped it back in the bag, grabbed her room key and
headed downstairs to the lobby.

  A small crowd was already gathering on the main veranda when Roxy arrived and she was about to join them when a local waiter with greying hair and a tray of champagne appeared at her side. As she scooped up a glass, he smiled widely, revealing dirty red teeth, which would have shocked her if she didn’t know better. Part of her internet research had revealed that the people in these parts—all over the Pacific region in fact—enjoyed chewing something called betel nut which left them in a kind of stained-tooth stupor. She wondered if it was worth it, and whether she’d be craving the stuff after a night with this lot.

  Roxy glanced around the veranda. Billie Holiday was belting out a mournful tune on a hidden stereo somewhere but she needn’t have bothered, she could barely compete with the crashing of the ocean just metres away. A gust of fresh, salty air slapped against Roxy’s face as she stepped out towards the crowd.

  “Roxy Parker!” roared a husky voice from one side and she turned to see an elderly woman hobbling towards her, one bejewelled hand holding firmly onto an ornate walking stick, the other clutching onto a large glass overloaded with ice and lime. The woman was short and round, her ample body wedged into a bright floral meri blouse, and had a large red hibiscus poking out from one side of her long, grey, frizzy hair. She placed her drink on a table and grabbed Roxy’s hand firmly in hers.

  “Hello, Abigail,” Roxy guessed, “great to meet you at last.”

  “Please! Call me Abi. If it’s good enough for Charles and Camilla, I reckon you can manage it!”

  She roared with laughter then scooped her drink up again. “Sorry I couldn’t come fetch you at the strip, love, it’s been a bugger of a week. Just the usual staff problems, and then, to make matters worse, some of the crayfish spears have been nicked! What the hell that’s about I cannot tell you. But I intend to find out.”