THE PRICE OF FAME
by
R C Daniells
BLURB
Where will Antonia's search for truth lead and who will suffer?
When film and TV graduate, Antonia Carlyle sets out to make a documentary about eighties band, 'The Tough Romantics', she uncovers new facts surrounding the death of singer song-writer, Genevieve. This leads her to suspect that the man arrested for her murder was not the killer.
One of the three surviving band members believes it is time to settle old ghosts but the other two have gone on to forge solo careers and don't want Antonia to rake up the past. One of them knows who the killer is, the other needs to hide their guilt.
A growing psychic link with the dead girl and the conviction that justice must be done, drives Antonia to face her own demons, uncover the past and confront the present.
This book has been a long time in gestation.
I would like to thank my writing group ROR:
Marianne de Pierres, Margo Lanagan, Maxine
McArthur, Tansy Rayner Roberts, Trent Jamieson,
Richard Harland and Dirk Flinthart.
My thanks also to the team at Clan Destine Press.
PROLOGUE
The barefoot blonde lay on a carpet of Jacaranda blossoms, not far from the back steps of a stately, but dilapidated old Queenslander. She wore a white tank top and faded cut-off jeans. Two old women bent over her, one watching desperately as the other performed CPR.
Shafts of late afternoon sun slanted through the Jacaranda. Redolent with steamy heat, the golden, oversaturated light reminded me of a 50s Technicolor movie as it painted the grey-haired woman's floral dress in garish tones.
The other woman, the one with improbable red hair, wrung her hands. 'Oh, why didn't I water the azaleas?' The grey-haired woman came to her knees. Placing her hands, one over the other in the centre of the young woman's chest, she rocked forward with each heart compression.
'If you'd touched the tap, you'd be dead.' She was out of breath and flushed. I got the impression she'd been working on the blonde for a while and I didn't really care if she revived the woman or not. 'At your age you would never have survived an electric shock.' She gulped another breath. 'Can't blame yourself for faulty wiring.'
She leant forward to do the breathing thing again. One, two, three, then back to heart compressions.
'Why's the ambulance taking so long?' The redhead muttered. From above I could see her grey roots. Riotous Red, that's what they called the hair dye.
I knew this because she was my Nan and I was going to dye her hair this evening, after I watered the azaleas.
Damn.
Everything contracted…
I lay on my back, blinking up at Mrs Ormiston, the retired nurse, who lived over the back fence.
'Thank god!' Nan whispered.
Mrs Ormiston frowned. 'Antonia, can you hear me?'
I looked into her eyes and saw death. Her death. It was too much. Grey flowers bloomed, filling my vision and I welcomed them as my mind shut down.
CHAPTER 1
It's hard to stride in high heels but I tried, heading up Arthur Davidson's drive. My shoes crunched on private gravel, my breath misted with each exhalation and my stomach churned. Everything depended on this interview.
Although it was early autumn, high in the Dandenong Mountains outside Melbourne it had turned wintery cold. Mature Liquidambars flanked the path, their leaves littering the ground, the scattered reds and golds lending warmth to an otherwise grey day. For someone who grew up in sultry Queensland it was delightfully exotic. My blood-red overcoat matched perfectly. It was brand new and it was a statement of intent.
Since graduating in Film and Television from Queensland College of Arts, I hadn't had any luck pitching my screenplays to producers so, after my near death experience, I'd decided life was too short to play it safe. At nearly 29 I was taking matters into my own hands. My fingers tightened on the satchel briefcase containing a showreel of my best work.
I was going to make a documentary about the rise and rupture of the 80s band, the Tough Romantics. They had weathered a murder, scandal, drugs and fame to produce some iconic music, only to have internal relationships destroy their highly creative team. Since the accident six months ago, I'd done my research and written a treatment. I had an expression of interest from the ABC but, if I wanted to get enough funding for a 10-part series about the music industry, I needed more.
I needed the authenticity Arthur Davidson would give my project. After all, he'd been there the night Genevieve James was murdered. The same night a band was catapulted from cult following into the collective consciousness of the Australian psyche. Her murder had happened 25 years ago this autumn. Even though I was a kid at the time I'd never forgotten. It was the big scandal of the '80s music industry. The press had had a field day after discovering Genevieve, Pia and Tucker's three-way love affair: Rock n Roll Ménage à Trois!
But it was her other lover, the taxi driver, who had been accused of her murder. Pete O'Toole was old enough to be her father. He'd denied killing her and committed suicide before the case was ever brought to trial. No one had ever been convicted of Genvieve James' murder; the girl who died just three weeks short of her 17th birthday.
Growing up, I could not escape her belligerent, waif-like face staring out of all the newspapers. That publicity shot had been taken to promote the Tough Romantics and the media had used the photo repeatedly during the following years as the band went from strength to strength. Like the dingo-got-my-baby case, Genevieve James' murder and the fate of the surviving Tough Romantics was woven into the fabric of our society.
Even so it would have all fizzled out if Pia Zaffir, Jake Tucker and Arthur Davidson, hadn't had the talent to take them further - overseas in fact - to Britain where their tragic background aroused the public's morbid curiosity bringing their music to wider audience. Their cutting edge sound hit a nerve in Europe, particularly Germany. They were lured to the States where the pressure to become mainstream led to a sell-out album and, seven years after Genevieve's murder, the band split up citing incompatibility. Arthur Davidson came home, but Pia and Tucker went on to bigger things.
Arthur married, had three kids and started his own landscaping business. He had, in the last 11 years, become known for his human rights and charity work. Now he was up for election, standing as an Independent in his state electorate.
That was why he'd agreed to see me. His wife, who was handling his PR, had assumed I wanted to talk about the election. Lying, even by omission, made me feel slightly queasy and I took a deep breath to settle my nerves. Once I was in the door I would have to do some
