The Bookshop Detectives: Dead Girl Gone, page 25
‘That’s probably a wise decision. The local and national press are going to be there. TV, too, I think.’
‘What’s this got to do with me?’
‘Pretty much everything, seeing as the book is about you.’
‘What?’ He stops toying with his cufflink and places his hands flat on the desk.
‘Well, not exactly about you, more the Tracey Jervis case.’
‘Are you fucking with me?’
‘Not at all. I’ve only seen the first three chapters but it’s clear that the story is about Tracey’s disappearance and, given your previous threats, I thought you should know.’
‘She can’t do this to me. Not again. I had nothing to do with her going missing.’
‘And we’re not the ones saying you did.’ I hold up a placating hand. It doesn’t work.
‘But you’re the ones launching the book. The ones who’ve been poking their noses into the case, raking up dirt from the past, spying on me.’
‘We haven’t been spying on you.’ My words lack conviction.
‘You bloody well have, up at the Redwoods.’
‘We weren’t spying, we were walking the dog.’ This is true, although not entirely. ‘What were you doing there, digging with a shovel?’
‘I always bury a coin at all of my projects. Not that it’s any of your fucking business.’
Franklin launches to his feet, sending his chair crashing backwards. His forehead lowers, his shoulders square back, and for a moment I think he’s going to punch me. I’m not scared. Unlike the thugs from the Black Dogs, I reckon I can take Franklin. Given what I know, and the threats that he’s made towards my lovely bookshop, I would gain a good degree of satisfaction from doing so.
‘Get out!’ he growls. ‘You’re done for. You and your crappy little bookshop.’ He points at the door, his hand trembling.
This time I know his threats are for real.
I hurry from the office. Perhaps Eloise is right, perhaps Franklin does deserve everything that’s coming, only he’s vindictive enough to take our lovely bookshop down with him. There’s nothing more I can do. In two days’ time the launch will happen, whatever the consequences.
Eloise: 30 minutes until Isabella Garrante book launch
As if life could get any more surreal, I’m in the green room of a circus. The green tent, I suppose. It’s stuffy, smells a bit sweaty and earthy, and I couldn’t be more amped. We’re about to launch one of the biggest authors in the world.
A scrubbed trestle table stands along one wall, home to a jug of water and some glasses and an assortment of healthy snacks — no blue M&Ms for Ms Garrante then. I zoom in on the drinks table next to it: an array of bottles and even a chiller for the . . . yup . . . that’s Veuve Clicquot by the looks. Ancient dining chairs and occasional tables are dotted around, lending a boho chic sort of vibe. I’m fidgety, bordering on panicky.
‘Who are we about to meet? I can’t wrap my head around it,’ I say to Garth.
‘Georgia, the publicist, and Isabella Garrante.’
‘Yes, yes of course, but who is Isabella Garrante?’
‘You’ll know in a minute,’ he says, infuriatingly, saving himself with a delighted grin and ‘How cool is this though?’
‘Yeah! I can just imagine us in the circus. What’s your act going to be tonight, Garth?’
‘I am The Great Sherlock Tomes himself, of course,’ he says with a deep bow, pretending to suck on a pipe.
He’s still bent over, arm outstretched dramatically, when the tent flaps part and in walks Janet Jervis.
‘Err, hello,’ she says, clearly startled.
‘Janet! Why are you here?’ I say. Garth rights himself; he’s clearly dizzy from standing up too quickly.
‘You’re Isabella Garrante?’ Garth asks.
Janet lets out a strange little laugh, a nervous squeak really. ‘It’s complicated. Shall we sit? It’s a bit of a strange tale I have to tell.’
Janet is fizzing, and I’m not sure what with. Nerves? Excitement? We pull chairs around a battered brass table — it has the most intricate engraving of elephants on it — and settle ourselves. Janet, or perhaps Isabella, takes a big breath.
‘I hardly know where to start,’ she says, and I can’t help but imagine a Scooby Doo ending about to unfurl. Are we actually going to get the truth?
‘Go on,’ we chorus.
‘Well . . .’
At the very moment she draws breath to speak, the tent flap flaps and in walks a short, dark, pixie-haired woman, all jingling bangles and Calvin Klein Eternity.
‘Well, hello at last!’ she trills. ‘How wonderful to meet you in person.’
‘You’re Isabella Garrante?’ is my tentative offer.
‘Ha, ha, no, I’m Georgia, the publicist. We’ve been emailing.’ She looks to Janet, so we do too. ‘Sorry to interrupt. It seems Janet was just about to do the big reveal.’ She settles in, clearly enjoying herself.
Janet nods, fizz slightly popped but not entirely flat.
‘So . . .’
She begins again and the tent flap emits a furious slap of nylon, and in stalks our very own Phyllis flanked by a truly huge security guard.
I spring to my feet. ‘Oh my god, you’re not Isabella Fucking Garrante?’ I yell.
‘What? No, no of course not. This eejit got hold of me as I was coming in to do my job.’ She spits the last word at the security guard, who ignores her.
‘This lady is in possession of this pole. A clear and present danger to security,’ says Mr Jobsworth: massive, softly spoken, completely in control of himself and the situation.
‘What? It’s a hurley stick. I have a game after work!’
The security guard remains silent, waiting for a decision.
‘It’s absolutely fine, Mr . . . err. Phyllis works with us and is indeed a keen sportswoman.’
‘As you wish, Mrs Sherlock.’ The hulk unhands Phyllis, who shakes herself and exits the tent at speed, hurley stick under her arm.
There’s a shocked hiatus. Janet brings her hand to her forehead. ‘As I was—’ Georgia sets out on a mission to the wine chiller.
There’s a crunch of baked earth and gravel from just outside the somewhat abused tent flap, and it is gently lifted.
In walks a slender blonde woman, hair pulled into an elegant chignon, expensively draped in a dress of such delicate pale-pink chiffon silk that I immediately worry she’s going to get circus dirt on it. She walks over to us and extends a graceful hand.
‘Isabella Garrante,’ she says with a tinkly laugh and a lovely smile. Her teeth are, of course, white, straight and even.
I’m standing before this vision of perfection with my gob open when Garth says, ‘Deirdre?’
It is indeed Dead Girl Deirdre emerging from behind the blonde vision to stand beside her and take her hand. Deirdre has absolutely surpassed herself for the occasion. She’s wearing a studded leather choker and an inordinate amount of tattered fishnet. Her hair is wildly crimped. She raises her geometrically painted eyebrows and drops her own bombshell.
‘Also Isabella Garrante.’ She drops one eyebrow, the other revelling in this strange turn of events and choosing to retain the high ground.
‘Your eyes are blue,’ I yell at Deirdre. ‘Where are your spookily dark eyes?’
‘Contacts for the demon peepers.’ Her eyebrows are having a wonderful time displaying her amusement.
Blonde Isabella turns her lovely head towards Janet and, continuing this afternoon’s game of What the Fuck is Going on Tennis, so do we all.
‘Would you mind beginning the story, Mrs Jervis?’
‘I was about to and then . . . well, never mind.’ Janet gives herself a wee shake, straightens her jacket and draws breath in a fourth-time-lucky manner.
‘So you know I’m a writer, and that I go on writing retreats fairly regularly?’
‘Yes,’ I reply. I glance at Garth, who seems to have lost the power of speech.
‘Well, I’ve actually been visiting my daughter, Tracey.’
Janet pauses and I can tell she’s wringing every drop of drama from this revelation. I don’t disappoint — I immediately yell ‘She’s alive!’ and clasp my hand to my mouth to stop my fried brains falling out.
Garth, however, keeps his head.
‘Go on,’ he says.
‘When Tracey disappeared, I truly had no clue what was going on. I really thought I’d lost my baby, that something terrible had happened to her. The thoughts that went through my head are things no mother should ever have even to contemplate.’ She swallows, takes a moment to compose herself.
Blonde Isabella smiles encouragingly and moves to her side. Garth quietly gets up and pours Janet a glass of water.
‘I only had that terror for six days before I knew she was alive — the longest six days of my life.’
Blonde Isabella links arms with Janet, stroking her hand. Their intimacy only adds to my confusion.
‘Tracey rang me to say she’d run away but that she would be in real danger, like mortal danger, if anyone found out. I had to keep it from everyone — her father, that poor teacher, everyone. We arranged a time for her to ring me every Sunday when her father was out at a church meeting. If he was home for some reason, I’d pretend it was a wrong number or something and she’d know we’d have to wait until the following week.’
I can’t keep my trap shut at this point and have to ask. ‘Where was she?’
‘She settled down near Raglan. So when I go on my writing retreats up there, it’s Tracey I’ve been visiting. She started to join in some of the writing exercises. Turns out she has quite the talent.’ She looks from Blonde Isabella to me.
So does Garth.
‘What?’ I ask, looking from one to the other.
‘Tracey is Isabella Garrante. This lady,’ says Garth, gesturing towards the blonde vision, ‘is Tracey. Ergo, she is also Isabella Garrante.’
‘And so am I,’ adds Deirdre.
‘Two IFGs?’ I say weakly.
There are confused glances and Janet takes the opportunity to conclude her story.
‘So when you visited me, and I saw Tracey’s handwriting on the envelope, I was flabbergasted. She hadn’t said a word! It took me a while to get out of her what she was up to. And here we are.’
‘Here we are indeed. Thank you, Mum,’ says Blonde Isabella.
‘You’re . . .Tracey Jervis?’ I ask.
‘Oh Eloise, do keep up,’ says Garth.
‘Yes, I am. Or Isabella Garrante, if you like.’ Blonde Isabella, Tracey, IFG extends a manicured hand, and I shake its writerly perfection. I study her face and yes, there’s teenaged Tracey, just a little more worn. Age suits her.
‘Tracey. I’m so very pleased to meet you,’ I say, and stand back to let Georgia do the formal introductions as I’ve suddenly run out of words.
Garth says hello like this is all very normal and she’s not the most famous author on the planet or a missing girl from twenty-odd years ago. Georgia and Garth pull up more chairs, pour more water, and we all settle again, including Deirdre who is cool as a cucumber. How can she be Isabella Garrante, too? She’s not even a fan.
‘Sorry for all the drama,’ says Tracey.
‘I don’t think you are, young lady,’ says her mum, and they both laugh.
‘Why us, Isabella, err Tracey? Why send us that envelope?’ I ask.
Tracey crosses her legs and smooths her skirts. There’s a lovely ruche around the bottom of the dress and as her calf crosses her knee I notice her shoes, strappy and silver. An exotic creature has joined the circus.
‘Mum often mentioned you, the crazy booksellers in the Village. Used to be police officers but now a wannabe author and a woman with pink hair who gets dragged around by a massive dog.’
‘He’s a rescue, he’s . . .’
‘Shush,’ says Garth.
‘I fell in love with the idea of you. You’re just perfectly the right people in the right place at the right time. I knew I wanted to come home to launch this book, but I couldn’t just ring you up and tell you all about it because of the non-disclosure thing. The book will cause huge ructions and, I have no doubt, a legal battle. There are things in there that are about to cause Franklin White some life-changing problems. I can’t prove them on my own and I needed your help.’
Flattery from a lovely lady in a pink ruchy dress works on me, and I am now hanging off her every word. I turn to Garth, who’s stroking his beard, eyes narrowed.
‘It’s taken us to some quite dark places, investigating your disappearance,’ he says.
‘Yes! I thought you were dead!’ I hold my hands to my head.
‘We all thought you were dead,’ says Garth. ‘All of New Zealand thought you were dead.’
‘I know. And I am genuinely sorry if I have put you in harm’s way. It gets worse, and I can tell you everything now. It’s all in the novel but I’d like you to hear it from me. I’m so thankful for what you’ve done.’
I’m not entirely sure what we have done, to be honest. Perhaps helped the truth to come out, whatever that is.
‘So, Franklin,’ Tracey continues. ‘He was charming, so loving and attentive. I was going mad with all the schoolwork, the constant running from one thing to the next, all of which I had to excel at, according to my father.’
I see Janet wince.
‘I fell head over heels. I know now it was a crush, hormones raging and all that, but it felt so real at the time. I can clearly remember how I felt before I saw his true side. My heart still flutters when I think about it.’
Yuck, I think, as Isabella takes a breath and composes herself to continue.
‘I was so hothoused that I was stifled — naïve really — and Franklin offered an escape into another world. Ha. I got a lot more than I bargained for, I can tell you.’
‘Yes, you can tell us,’ says Garth a little sternly, and I throw him a look. I would like this half of Isabella Garrante to stay in love with us, please.
‘Well, things progressed as you know and I really thought that Franklin was going to leave his wife, that we would run away together and that I would be free, free to be a poet, or whatever I wanted. I didn’t think about the practicalities of it, of course, not until I really had to. Dad was going to move to Wellington when I went to uni to “keep an eye on me” and make sure I continued to excel. I couldn’t face it. Franklin was my escape route, not that he ever intended to be, of course.’
Tracey’s voice cracks slightly and Janet fishes in her handbag for a tissue. Georgia murmurs comforting words and I get up and head to the drinks chiller. A minute later and my practised hand has opened a bottle of the Veuve Clicquot and handed a flute to Tracey. I offer a glass to each of the assembly; Georgia and Deirdre accept, and Janet and Garth decline. I pour myself a glass just to be friendly.
‘Can you continue?’ asks Garth, trying to be sympathetic.
Tracey nods. ‘Oddbean was around a lot of the time, and Franklin and I used to meet in the garret he had above the art studio. That’s what he called it, a “garret”. So pretentious now but so romantic I thought then, like something out of a Dickens novel. Oddbean had all his art gear up there, including a small photography studio. Franklin started to take photos of me.’
I inhale sharply. Tracey leans over and pats me on the knee.
‘Nothing dodgy . . . at first.’ She pauses. She sure knows how to tell a story.
‘But before too long he would tease me and joke around and pose me and undress me and, well, the photos became far more risqué. It was so gradual and felt like part of our intimacy. I thought I was enjoying it, but I know now that I was trying so hard to be okay with it, for everything to be perfect. Deep down I was uncomfortable. I think I knew he was taking advantage.
‘The only person I ever confided in was Prudence, my dear Prudence.’ Tracey laughs her tinkly laugh, glancing at Deirdre. ‘She was furious. Said I was being an idiot and that Franklin would have a hold over me forever. At first I put it down to jealousy and ignored her. But she’s always been right, haven’t you?’
‘Yes. I generally am.’ Deirdre winks at Tracey, sips her champers and crosses her legs, the leather of her knee-high stilettos squeaking.
‘You’re Prudence?’ I shriek at her.
‘Yes. That’s one of my names.’
‘Blue eyes. Bloody hell.’ I’m slowly, slowly catching on. ‘But you went to England.’
Deirdre laughs. ‘I did. I kept in touch with Tracey after Janet let me know she was alive and well. We’ve been tinkering about with stories for years as Isabella Garrante. I moved back to the Bay about a year ago, once we hatched the plan to write the novel that would finally give Franklin his come-uppance.’
‘And you’ve been skulking about our bookshelves all this time. Half of Isabella Fucking Garrante.’ I shake my head, bewildered and a little bit betrayed.
‘Eloise, let Tracey finish, then we can grill Deirdre,’ says Garth. ‘Franklin had a hold over you, Tracey?’ he prods.
‘Oh yes. I mean I wanted to belong to Franklin, or so I thought. But gradually, as things escalated, I started to suspect I’d swapped one repressor for another.’
‘Yes. Eleanor kept your poetry and we read it.’ I clear my throat. ‘My stems, my petals. He caresses—’
Tracey’s cool, controlled elegance slips for a moment, and she flushes, interrupting loudly.
‘Oh! Oh dear. I must, err, catch up with Eleanor and retrieve those.’
This, I can see, is not the time to tell her we have them filed away in our incident room.
‘Anyway, Prudence said we had to get the photos and the negatives of the more incriminating ones. I knew I was heading for trouble and I didn’t want to drag Pru into it with me, so when I thought Oddbean was at an arts function I went to the studio, planning to break in.’ She stops suddenly and tears prick at her eyes.
Janet shuffles her chair closer and takes Tracey’s hand.
‘This is the hard bit. There was a set of stairs on the outside of the building leading up to the garret. It was dark and I was being quiet just in case, and as I set foot on the stairs I heard voices. The door to the garret was slightly open and light was spilling out. I recognised the voices: it was Franklin and Oddbean, and they were arguing. I couldn’t quite hear the words, so I crept up the steps and looked in the door — it was open just enough so I could peer in.’ She pauses again. ‘So this is it, Eloise, Garth. This is the crime that happened.’
