by EJ Lamprey
Edge looked at her shoulder bag, tucked into the sofa. If Fiona wasn’t at the party, was there even a risk? She rang Brian but the phone went again to voicemail. ‘Phone me—urgent,’ she told it, and tried Kirsty’s number. Also voicemail. For a man who didn’t talk much, Brian was setting a record on this call. She left the same message, drank her cooling coffee and came to a decision.
‘I may—’ Edge cleared her throat and tried again. ‘I may have an outfit. To wear under this black shirt. But I’ll need your help. I need to see if I can even get into it, first.’ She took a deep breath, reached into the bag, and handed over the blonde wig. ‘Could you do anything with that?’
‘Oh, aye,’ Gillian pulled on a few tendrils. ‘But it’ll wreck it, ken? I can cut it into shape, and use my straighteners, but it’ll never be the same efter.’
‘Well, it wasn’t a good one, just a bit of fun. And I have no idea whether I can even squeeze into this. So I guess we start there.’ She pushed through the curtain to the changing area, stripped, stepped into the jumpsuit and started rolling it up her legs, suddenly feeling like a sausage. The soft leather had a bit of give in it, but Brian was right, she had gained a few pounds since the party. A bigger tug finally got it past her hips and she slipped off her bra, put her arms through the off-shoulder sleeves and stretched, groaning. Reluctantly the leather gave a little, cutting into her upper arms. The built-in bodice was the worst, and she tried not to breathe too deeply as she wrestled with the fit, finally calling for help.
‘Damn, this is tight! Gillian, can you come in and zip me up?’
Entrance of pop icon
Gillian followed her through the curtain, stopped dead, and stepped up behind her. ‘Aw, I love it!’ She grinned over Edge’s shoulder at their reflections. ‘If we don’t split the seams—breathe IN—done. Rearrange your tits, hen, that’ll make it more comfortable. But this is Sandy, not Blondie.’
‘Oh, I know.’ Edge glanced down at the bag, and wondered if her straining seams would split if she bent down. ‘But with that black overshirt I was wearing, and the wig, and if you’ll do the makeup, could it do?’
‘Well, try the shirt, but come out and do a birl in front of the mirrors, you cannae see in here.’ Gillian helpfully held the shirt up so Edge could slip it on and they went together into the main part. She watched critically as Edge obediently turned. ‘Nay, hen, you can’t button the shirt over your chest. That pulls it up at the back. Why are you worrying about your boobs, they look fine?’
‘I look like a porn star!’ Edge reluctantly undid the buttons and the shirt dropped obediently at the back. There was still far too much gleaming rounded hip, bottom and thigh catching the light and she gave a slightly hysterical giggle. ‘No. It’s grotesque. Damn.’
‘I’ve seen worse,’ Gillian said mildly. ‘I wouldn’t say you should walk down the street, mind, but it would get you in. I thought you were genuinely worried?’
‘I am.’ Edge gave her a surprised look. ‘But I look like a cartoon character. Jessica Rabbit does Grease.’
‘Your appearance is very important to you, isn’t it?’ Gillian wasn’t being unkind, her voice was uninflected. ‘Cartoon character or not—and like I said, I’ve seen worse—it would get you in.’
‘Oh Gillian, come on! No-one in a million years would mistake me for a pop star of any kind, and the seams will split any minute. One sneeze, and I’ll be up for indecent exposure.’
‘Sit.’ Gillian waved her to a chair next to her makeup box. ‘No, really, leather takes a lot of punishment, you’ll be fine. Anyway, if it’s gonnae split, rather here than in there, eh?’ There was a creak as Edge perched cautiously, but the seams held. ‘You’ve got nice bone structure, and I can do nearly anything with makeup. I can’t make you look like a teenager in a movie, that ship sailed a while back. But the lighting in the foyer is flattering. I can make you look enough like Debbie Harry to get you through that door, if that’s what genuinely matters to you.’
Edge swithered, fretting, and Gillian gave her a sly sidelong look.
‘Your friend, the woman in the pink dress, she’d do it like a shot, and to hell with how she looked. I ken that because she was wearing a pink dress that was all wrong for her, just because it was right for her big fellow’s tartan. I liked the look of her. She knows how to enjoy life. Ken what I thought when I saw you? I thought, that’s a woman who spends so much time on looking just right that she misses out on a lot of fun.’ She held up a hand as Edge, astonished and slightly indignant, tried to interrupt. ‘That’s what I thought then, hen. You put away two big sandwiches without a thought for your waistline, so maybe I wasn’t entirely right about that. But one minute you were fretting about getting inside to warn someone of danger, and the next you’re baulking because you don’t look pretty enough.’
‘I don’t—okay, yes, I don’t like this. I’d still do it, if I thought it would work. But I don’t think all the makeup in the world could stop me looking like a bad joke.’ She added, after a beat, ‘You’re right about Vivian, my friend. She would try it.’
‘There comes a time in life where you have to think okay, I’m not thirty any more. Or even forty. So then you have to decide, do I give up, coast for the next twenty, thirty years, or do I grab life and twist it to what I want. How old do you think I am?’
Edge politely shaved off five years. ‘Well, I’d normally think fifties, but you’re trying to make a point, so I’ll say sixty?’
Gillian looked complacent. ‘I’m seventy one. Lost me job at fifty, started up on me own, and now we have ten staff. My daughter runs it now, but I like this gig, been doing it eight years, so I send the rest home and finish on my own. Mind, it isn’t usually this interesting. So, what do you say, want to see if I’m as good as I say I am?’ Edge hesitated, then nodded and Gillian grinned fiercely. ‘Don’t move, don’t speak. And prepare to be amazed!’
She had hands like floor-waxers as she rubbed in cream, then foundation, then dusted, powdered, painted and even turned on a little fan, but wincing at her didn’t seem to register at all and Edge gave up and let herself be manhandled.
When Gillian finally seemed to be concentrating only on her eyes, with what felt painfully like a piece of wood, she risked speaking.
‘Gillian, this is really important. If I’m not out in twenty minutes—half an hour at the most;’
‘Call the polis. Ken.’
‘Yes. Well, I’ll give you a number to call first. It’s my niece, she’s with the police, and she’ll believe you because I’m going to call her now and leave a message if I have to. But if her phone’s still off, call the police. And 999, not 101!’
‘Gotcha. Now shut up, I have to sculpt your cheekbones.’
While Gillian attached the wig to her head with what felt remarkably like drawing pins, Edge rang Kirsty’s number again. Still voicemail! Exasperated, she left a quick message, very aware of Gillian listening with interest while expertly applying straighteners.
‘Kirsty, if you’ve talked to Brian you’ll know Fiona’s not in the house, but Donald is. He was supposed to be out over an hour ago, so I have to go in. He’d never leave me waiting, there’s something wrong. Vivian and William are there too. I should be safe enough, but please, if someone called Gillian Campbell calls, something’s gone wrong.’ She disconnected, considered phoning Brian, then shrugged. If he answered, he’d try to talk her out of it. If he didn’t, what message could she leave?
‘So is Donald your fella?’ Gillian asked with interest. ‘Naw, don’t move your head when I pull, hen, keep still.’
Edge dabbed carefully with her fingertips as tears of pain seeped onto her cheeks. ‘No—ouch—a friend. But a real friend. I know what you’re thinking—ouch—that he’s probably chatting someone up but he really wouldn’t.’
‘Such a real friend you couldn’t remember his name earlier. You’re not stalking his pretty blue eyes, are you? Or a wannabe singer trying to get your break?’ Gillian’s busy hand
s suddenly stilled and Edge peered up at her with watering eyes.
‘Do I look like a wannabe singer? He went in on someone else’s ticket, I couldn’t remember the guy’s name, but Rory Wilson from the same band is there. They know about it, he’s not a gate-crasher. And I’m certainly not stalking him, he’s gay, and anyway I’m in a relationship with another guy.’
‘Okay. But if your gay friend makes you feel imperfect, drop him. They can be buggers that way, always pointing out every tiny flaw.’
‘Actually—ouch—he told Brian I looked better for having curves,’ Edge suddenly remembered. ‘Brian thinks I need to lose weight. I hadn’t realized how right he was!’
‘Huh. If you want to look scrawny. Women should have curves, and women who are loved should feel beautiful whatever they wear or how they look. So what do you do, hen?’
‘I’m a scriptwriter. Well, I was. My agent says I need to up my image before she can get me more work. She’d love this, pity I have to be incognito. My last major gig was on Several Seasons, do you ever watch it? That was the series shown last year, not this year’s.’ She went back to the matter in hand. ‘I just need to make sure Donald’s all right. Ouch, Gillian! If he is, if he genuinely forgot, I’ll punch his lights out and come straight back here.’
Gillian grinned down at her. ‘I loved Several Seasons but the latest series is crap. They need you back on the show. Pout. Not bad. Remember, keep your eyes half closed, and your chin forward. Ta dah!’ She spun the chair back to the mirror and Edge blinked away tears and stared.
‘You’re very good,’ she said admiringly and Gillian laughed, pleased.
‘Not bad, is it? Debbie Harry dressed up as Sandy. But if you keep the shirt on, even the Sandy bit isn’t so obvious. Now remember, Edge, you look a million dollars. You’ve had the best makeup job money could buy. You know why the outfit scares you? Nine men out of ten are gonnae look, no matter what age they are. Half of them would be happy to close in, no questions asked. Tonight, nice polite Edge Cameron is staying home. Women—or your gay friend—would find flaws but trust me, the average guy overlooks a helluva lot for someone who is confident. Don’t you dare shrink and creep around. Go knock ‘em dead.’
Come Into My Parlour
Edge paused at the top of the close to catch her breath and screw up the courage to step, however briefly, into the crowded street. She peeked round the corner to get her bearings, put her head down and scurried into the vestibule, pausing to recapture the sensual pout, her heart hammering. The sun was long gone but the sky was still a dark velvety blue, and street lights had come on. Nobody seemed to have noticed her, although the crowds had thinned from the earlier rush, but she felt incredibly exposed. The house vestibule candles were burning very low now, and in their soft flaring she gathered her courage, then rang the bell. The same extremely squared-off security man answered immediately.
‘Hey, Blondie.’ This time he didn’t look bored. ‘Bit late, aren’t we?’
‘Not too late, I hope,’ she managed huskily and he held the door wide.
‘Come on in. Straight to the desk with you.’
The woman standing next to the desk was good looking, faintly familiar, forty-something, hair piled high and wearing the inevitable little black dress; in this case long and quite low-cut. She was smiling, showing large but excellent teeth, slightly reproving.
‘We’d about given up on you. The voting stops at midnight, so you’ll have to really work the crowd to have any chance of winning. Anyway, come with me, I’ll show you where you can leave your jacket and check your makeup.’
She peered closer and seemed slightly amused, and Edge clutched her overshirt defensively. Leave it? At any moment the event manager would either start laughing or demand that she leave. Instead she said mildly, ‘You’re a little older than we expected, to be honest, but I suppose that’s more in line with the band’s revival. That outfit should pick up a few male votes. Don’t be offended.’
‘I’m not,’ Edge assured her gratefully and meekly followed her through a baize door, looking quickly away from the big security guard’s interested appraisal and wishing again that her shirt was longer at the back.
‘We’ve been using the front cellars for the dressing rooms,’ the woman—why was she so familiar?—added as she led the way down a stone-walled corridor and a short but very old stone staircase. ‘Watch your footing, these bits of the house are ancient.’
‘The cellars?’ Edge said uneasily, following her unwillingly. ‘Don’t they stretch down into the old city?’
‘Yes, they do. We’re constantly being asked for access. Of course, the lower levels are unsafe but these rooms are fine, they’ve been in constant use for centuries. Some of them, like this one, are used as staff apartments the rest of the year. Here we go. Door marked with the red cross for the ladies.’
She put her shoulder to a heavy door marked with a faded red X which opened grudgingly to reveal a comfortable-looking, slightly seedy sitting room with pull-on covers on heavy, once-good chairs, a sideboard with glasses, cups and a coffee machine, slightly neglected oak floorboards and a strip of Persian carpet in front of a sagging couch. ‘No-one else here at the moment, you’ll have it to yourself. It won’t be long, I’ll send someone to get you shortly, or make your own way back. The coffee’s fairly fresh, help yourself.’
Edge walked in, then stopped, obscurely uneasy. There’d been no such polite separating of the sexes in the outside room, and there were no coats or handbags. She turned, then recoiled at the sight of Fiona scrambling up from a chair against the wall, out of sight of the door as it thudded shut.
‘Damn, don’t let the door—oh, blast.’ Fiona ran to the door as it closed. ‘Hey!’ She hammered on the heavy wood. ‘The door handle on this side doesn’t work, come back!’ She waited tensely, then slumped and turned back in. ‘She must have pulled it shut, it closed more slowly last time. Oh well, they’ll be back. If only it hadn’t been Moira, I’m not really supposed to be here!’ She smiled ruefully at Edge, then looked her up and down, puzzled. She herself was in a long midnight blue dress, slim-fitted with a plunging neckline which found little to reveal, her mop of hair coaxed into a cloud of curls. ‘You look familiar, do I know you? I’m Fiona Bentwood, by the way.’
‘That was Moira Murdoch?’
But of course it was. The smile, the different hairstyle and clothes, had made just enough of a difference and she groaned in horror. What had she done?
Said The Spider To The Fly
Fiona stiffened at the sound of her voice. ‘Edge?’ She backed away, looking nervous. ‘What’s going on?’
‘You tell me. You’re not even supposed to be here. The event manager told the police you weren’t. I’d never have come in if I’d known.’ But Edge could feel her heart sinking even as she said it. It hardly needed for Fiona to look surprised. Was there even an event manager?
‘I’m staying here. Where else would I be? And what did the police want this time?’ Fiona slipped behind the sofa. ‘Keep away from me, Edge. I mean it. I will hurt you if I have to, and you know I can. You just stay right there until Moira comes back to fetch you.’
‘She’s not coming back.’ Edge was impatient. ‘Not for any good reason, if she does. Put your brain into gear, you numpty. I’m not the person trying to kill you, and if I was, I wouldn’t tackle you on a one-to-one basis. Certainly not wearing something as stupid as this.’ She flapped her over-shirt open, then closed it again defensively. ‘You can see I’m not carrying any kind of weapon. I didn’t even bring my handbag. But I do think you’re in danger, and now I think I’m in danger too.’
‘Someone else in the tontine?’ Fiona looked sceptical. ‘I can’t see Moira Murdoch of all people doing their dirty work.’
‘Brian doesn’t think it’s the tontine at all. He thinks it’s the Murdochs, first killing Tim and then making sure you and your son don’t claim Tim’s title.’
‘Brian?’ Fiona’s suspicious face soften
ed slightly and she thought about it. ‘No, that can’t be right. Fergus doesn’t even have Tim’s name on his birth certificate.’
‘Oh, it’s complicated.’ Edge was impatient. ‘Something about heir of the body potentially being a legal status in Scotland, if acknowledged by the father. Certainly old lady Murdoch knew about it, don’t you remember that odd meeting? If you think about it, it hangs together. And for sure if Tobias and Moira killed Tim to inherit the title, they’ve got to get rid of Fergus, too. You were probably incidental, just to stop you getting hysterical and pushing too hard for a police investigation.’ Fiona glared at her and Edge glared back. ‘Look, Fiona, it wasn’t me who tried to kill you, okay? So get that thought out of your pea-sized brain, and who’s left?’
‘Well, it can’t be them,’ Fiona said stubbornly, still behind the sofa. ‘Tobias is completely work obsessed, he doesn’t even want to go to the shooting party on Monday and—oh, okay, Moira and he did nearly come to blows about it. She did go on a bit about him acting the way the future Laird should, and insisting that they have to go. But I’ve been here since yesterday morning, they’ve had umpteen chances. Why am I still alive?’
‘Because they would be the first suspects. They had to wait for the party, when the house would be filled with suspects. Oh, my God. Brian was right. By coming here, I’ve given them one on a plate. You’ve told them all about your suspicions of me.’
‘Of course I have.’
‘Oh, bugger.’ Edge hurried back to the door. ‘Somehow she found out who I am. We have to get out of here. This is a trap. What’s wrong with this door?’
‘The latch is stuck, it won’t work. That bloody wood must be a foot thick. I shouted for ages.’
‘You didn’t think it odd that someone left you here?’
‘No-one left me here. I found the room by myself. Moira was talking earlier about opening the cellars up for the artistes to use, and she wouldn’t bring me down. She said I’d tear the rooms apart looking for a way down to the old city, and that there was only one that had any access anyway, marked with a red cross. I sneaked down when the party was in full swing, the stupid door closed behind me, and I’ve been stuck since. I knew someone would open it up eventually, for the artistes. I was just waiting.’
