by Lynda Wilcox
“So, not line dancing, then.”
I laughed and turned back to my computer. My employer copes as well with my self-opinionated rants as she claims I do with her little foibles.
“How could you investigate anyway?” she asked now.
I swung round to face her and pulled my notebook from my bag. I’d been considering this very question since I’d got into bed last night.
“Well, it strikes me there are three main questions.” I counted them off on my fingers. “Firstly, what was she doing there? Secondly, how did she get in? And, finally, who did she know that would want to kill her.”
“Hmm, means, motive and opportunity.”
KD always put things so much more succinctly than I did.
“Actually, Verity, there are several question you haven’t thought of.”
“Very probably,” I agreed.
She got up and paced back and forth behind her desk.
“Still, for the moment, let’s consider the questions you have identified. Why was she there? We can’t say much about that at the moment.”
‘We’, I thought. What’s this ‘we’ business all of a sudden?
“She was hardly likely to be at the house with a view to renting it,” KD went on, “so, she either went there to meet someone or was taken there by someone.”
“Agreed.”
“Unfortunately we don’t have enough to go on to answer that question at the moment. So, let’s turn to your second point.”
I glanced down at my scribbled notes.
“How did she get in?”
“Yes. To me this is a far more interesting point. And it’s the one question that, with a bit of judicious ferreting, we might actually be able to answer.”
“Judicious ferreting? Really KD, you do have a way with words.”
I was laughing but she took stopped tramping up and down the carpet, looking at me sternly.
“Naturally, dear. I’m a writer. Now, if you really want to get involved, I suggest you pump your spotty, young estate agent friend…”
“He’s not spotty and he’s not my friend.”
“Whatever.” KD ignored this protest. “Ask to view another property with him and then pump him hard about those keys. Where are they kept, who has access to them and so on. That’s the best option, Verity. Because without knowing more about her private life we have absolutely no way of answering question three.”
No we hadn’t but, unknown to KD, I had phoned Silverton Studios before I left home that morning and made an appointment to see JayJay’s producer later that afternoon. I’d meant to tell KD when I arrived for work but there had been so much else to impart I had forgotten that bit. Her negative response to my sleuthing idea deterred me from doing so now.
Still, her suggestion about talking to Tom Powell was a good one and I said I’d give him a call.
“Good. Now where are you with your current workload? When are you going to the library with your reporter friend?”
“Tomorrow morning, so I probably won’t be in until after lunch time.”
She nodded acceptance. Working time was always flexible with KD
“How many possible cases do you think you’ll need?” I asked
“How long is a piece of string? If you start, say twenty five years ago and work forward a few years, that should be enough. It really depends on how many usable crimes you find, of course.”
I nodded, I knew what KD meant by ‘usable crimes’. She had a preference for something nice and domestic, no big business, no robberies and no drug related crimes. At times it was a tall order. People aren’t constantly bumping each other off in quaint English villages, for all you might think so from the book store shelves, but so far I’d always managed to find something KD could work with.
“Don’t bother looking at anything within the last twenty years,” she instructed. “I’ve been here that long and remember nothing of note.”
I wrote all this down on my pad.
“Right. Can you call my agent and see if she’s in, now, please. I’ve had an idea.”
She turned back to the keyboard without elaborating. I picked up the phone and dialled.
“Emma Lawrence Associates.”
“Good morning, Crispy Bacon Sandwich, please.”
I heard a giggle in my ear.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Mortified by my gaffe I hastened to apologise.
“Don’t worry. We all call her that,” the chirpy voice of the receptionist laughed back at me.
Well, with a name like Kristy Baker Sanders, what else could you expect?
“I’m sorry but she won’t be in until three o’clock. Can I ask her to call you back?”
I relayed this information to KD, who mouthed ‘yes’ back at me without stopping the rapid flow of fingers over the keyboard.
I gave the receptionist KD’s name and put the phone down.
Silverton Studios sprawled over several acres alongside the road between Crofterton and Bellhurst. I spent the journey going over the cover story I had concocted. It had more holes than a string vest, and I hoped I could brazen things out if it became necessary. Ten minutes after leaving KD’s I pulled into the car park, at the same time as a large Mercedes. I followed the occupant, a portly, broad shouldered man with receding grey hair, towards the main entrance at the top of a broad flight of steps. A commissionaire in a fancy, dark green uniform manned the door and sprang into action as the older man reached the top of the stairs.
“Good afternoon, Mr Brackett.”
“Afternoon, Ray.”
This individual continued to hold open the door, murmuring a greeting as I passed through.
Inside the spacious lobby I headed straight for the reception desk.
“Good afternoon, Mr Brackett,” the receptionist called out to the man from the Mercedes who had made a beeline for the smaller of two lifts to the left of her desk and now stood waiting for its arrival.
I gave my name and appointment time with JayJay’s producer, Candida Clark, while wondering what might inspire parents to name their daughter after an embarrassing fungal infection. Her secretary soon came to collect me and we walked across to the lifts.
“What’s the ‘P’ for?”
“Hmm?”
“The ‘P’.” I indicated the single button on the left hand lift.
“Oh, that’s for the Penthouse suite. It’s John Brackett’s office on the top floor.”
“He has a whole floor to himself, does he?” I smiled.
“Well, he is the CEO.”
Deposited in her office some few minutes later, I found the producer of Star Steps was just as I had pictured her. Stiletto-heeled shoes made more of her medium height and build — she would probably run to fat in her later years— and with her honey–blonde hair swept up in a neat French pleat. She wore an expensive, pale grey business suit over a pastel silk blouse.
“Candy Clark.”
Candy, now, eh? Well, that was hardly surprising. Not that I was going to let her get away with it.
“Candida. That’s a pretty name,” I said, innocently.
“Yes. It’s from a Tony Orlando song of the same name. And you are?”
It was a bare five minutes since the receptionist had announced me. Ms Clark must have a very short memory.
“Oh, I’m Verity Long, ‘Oh Hi!’ magazine.” I might as well start as I meant to carry on - lying through my teeth.
She looked blank, as well she might seeing as it was an invention of my own, made up in the car on the drive to the studios.
“I don’t think I’ve heard of that one.”
“It’s like ‘Hello’, only for the blind.”
I mentally crossed my fingers and prayed that blind people everywhere would a) forgive me and b) miraculously be blessed by the gift of sight.
Candida, however, didn’t bat an eyelid. She returned to her desk and waved me to a chair.
“Hold all calls, please, Jenny, and if that old trout Kathleen Davenport
calls, tell her I’m evaluating her proposal and I’ll get back to her, OK?”
She slammed the phone down.
My ears pricked up at the mention of KD. What proposal was this and how dare this woman call her an old trout? I added it to my list of reasons not to like Ms Clark.
“Kathleen Davenport?” I tried to make it sound as if the name was vaguely familiar instead of one I uttered every time I answered the phone in the morning.
“Yes, she’s some crime novelist who wants me to make a series out of her books, pfft”.
Did she indeed? I ignored Candida’s dismissive tone. This was news to me and I thought it a brilliant idea. I was just about to say so when I remembered why I was there and my stupid cover story.
“Anyway, er, Miss Long.” She checked my name on a scrap of paper. “I can give you ten minutes before an executive meeting. What can I do for you?”
“I’m writing a piece about Jaynee Johnson,” I began in my best professional air and with what I hoped was a winning smile. “Her life and work, her rise to fame, that sort of thing.”
“Well! You’re certainly quick off the mark, I must say.” She threw me a suspicious glance before adding, “and what’s the point? The woman’s dead, isn’t she?”
Maybe Jaynee’s producer had never heard of eulogies. She gave me an icy stare.
“Yes, but I’m taking the line that a popular and much loved celebrity, who brought so much joy to so many people, especially our readers, has been taken from us far too early.”
Her eyebrows were nearly under her hairline and I felt like gagging on my own hypocrisy but I was in full flow now and gushed on.
“We have lost a shining star from the television firmament, a star burnt out far too soon, too young, with the world at her feet and …”
“Yes, yes. I get the idea.”
Luckily Candida Clark interrupted this load of unmitigated tosh before I went too far overboard and turned a talentless slapper into a modern saint.
“Well, what can I tell you?” Her gaze drifted to a point above my head. “JayJay was a much loved friend and colleague, easy to work with, who got on with everybody. She was warm-hearted, full of praise and encouragement for the contestants on Star Steps. JayJay was a perfectionist who worked hard to get things just right whilst making things as easy as possible for others. Her current fame was just reward for her natural talent and all the hard work she put in.”
Ye gods! I looked up from my notebook where I was making a good show of writing all this down. I had to hand it to her. I thought I’d been over the top but this woman was better at fiction than KD.
“She will be a sad, sad loss,” she went on, bringing her gaze down from the ceiling, her voice growing mournful as she dabbed at dry eyes with a tissue. “It was a pleasure and a privilege to work with her. I shall miss her so much.”
The business-like tone returned
“There. Will that do?” She dropped the unused tissue in the waste basket.
The hypothetical readers of ‘Oh Hi!’ might have lapped it up but it didn’t help me to understand why someone had hated JayJay that much they’d put a dagger in her heart. I nodded before I said,
“I’m sure our readers will appreciate that. What did you think of Jaynee, personally?”
“Personally? Harrumph. Well, personally what I thought about Jaynee Johnson isn’t fit for publication”
This was more like it. Now how did I get her to talk? She saved me the trouble.
“Not fit for publication at all,” she looked at me pointedly.
“Ok.”
I put the notebook away. I could take a hint and she wasn’t to know I had a very good memory.
“Jaynee Johnson was a bitch. A scheming, conniving little bitch who would use anybody and anything to further her career.”
“Anything?” Just what was she implying?
“Oh yes.” She smiled grimly before answering my unasked question. “Including her body, of course, though she did have considerable brains.”
“She did? She always seemed like an air-head to me.”
Candida Clark gave a bark of laughter.
“Oh, she was certainly clever enough to give that impression.” She looked down at her desk for a moment. “It is just so typical of Jaynee to mess everyone about by getting herself killed before the end of the run.”
This seemed a little harsh even by the bitchy standards I assumed prevalent in TV and Theatre circles.
“How long is the run?”
“Usually eighteen weeks.”
“As long as that?”
Hell’s teeth! No wonder people talked of little else but ‘Star Steps’. They couldn’t get away from it.
“Yes,” Candida said. “It’s a gruelling schedule. We are all feeling pretty exhausted by now. It’s just a shame that JayJay’s death means we won’t get to record the final few programmes.”
“Thank you. Our readers will appreciate a bit of background on the making of ‘Star Steps’,” I lied. A sudden thought occurred to me and I tried one more question. “The public like to think of JayJay and Greg as a couple. Were they romantically linked, do you know?”
“I believe so, for a while at least but I think that all ended about the middle of April.”
She gave a grunt and looked at her watch - I’d had well more than my allotted ten minutes.
“Now, if you want to know more, especially about her personal life, you’d do well to speak to Holly.” She picked up the phone and punched in a number.
“Holly?” I asked
“Holly Danvers, her secretary.” She spoke into the phone. “Hi, Holly. It’s Candy. Are you free to see a magazine reporter who’s writing a piece about JayJay? Yes. She’s here with me now. Good. I’ll send her along.”
The redoubtable Candy Clark rose, our interview over.
“Nice to meet you, Miss Long. Holly’s office is down the corridor, third on the left.”
I smiled and closed the door behind me.
Jaynee Johnson’s producer obviously had no love for the dead woman, I reflected as I headed down the corridor, but whether she’d killed her or not remained to be seen.
Chapter 3
I liked Holly Danvers almost as soon as I set foot in her office. She was a total, and welcome, contrast to the brassy producer I’d just left. In age, in looks, in style. Her genuine smile greeted me warmly as she offered me a seat. I trotted out the lies about my fictional magazine and its non-existent readers, ashamed to be deceiving this girl - she couldn’t be more than twenty - with her clear, fresh skin unadorned by any make up except for a flicker of mascara and her childlike gaze.
“Candida tells me that JayJay was clever. Would you agree?”
“Oh, she was. Very clever. She had been to university and had a degree, you know.”
The thought of Jaynee Johnson dancing through the halls of academia was a new one.
“Really? What in? Media studies?”
“No. She had an MA in English from Durham.”
So, maybe not the air head I’d presumed her to be, then.
“What was she like to work for?”
“She was lovely,” came the unexpected reply - I’d hardly pictured JayJay as a model employer. “She was really nice to me. She bought me a lovely silk scarf for my birthday, and … and…”
Suddenly she was in floods of tears. Real tears, not the crocodile variety employed by Candida Clark.
“I’m sorry, Miss.”
She opened a drawer and pulled out a box of tissues.
“No.” Instinctively, I reached a hand across the desk to offer comfort. “I’m sorry to upset you.”
I waited until the weeping abated, unsure whether to go round the desk to her or stay where I was.
“She was so kind,” Holly dabbed at her streaming eyes. “I really liked her. Why would anyone want to kill her?”
She gazed at me, beseechingly, but I had no answer to give her.
“I don’t know, Holly, but I’d li
ke to find out.”
Uneasy at my own deceit in the face of her real grief, I thought it time to live up to my name. It was time for honesty.
“Holly,” I began. “I’m not a magazine reporter.”
“You’re not?” Baffled, her fingers worked on the bundle of wet tissues, scrunching them into a ball.
“No. I’m a PA, like you. I work for Kathleen Davenport.”
“Really?” She perked up. “I’ve read all her books.”
“And, well, you see, it’s just that I found the …” I had been about to say ‘body’ but thought better of it, no need to set her crying again. “I found JayJay.”
Her eyes widened.
“You mean you …? In that house?”
I nodded
“Oooh” How awful.”
“So, I feel involved, you see.”
“And so you’re going to investigate. Just like Agnes Merryweather.”
I groaned inwardly.
“Well, that’s the police’s job. I just wanted to find out more about her. Talk to her friends, her colleagues. Build up a picture of JayJay.”
She nodded enthusiastically from the opposite side of the desk.
“Oh, I see. Like a detective, building up your case till you uncover the killer.”
This kid’s innocence was remarkable. Did she really think I could beat the police at their own game?
“Holly, this isn’t a book. This isn’t a story - it’s real life. There really is a killer out there. JayJay is really dead.” Her face threatened to crumble again. I hurried on. “So all I’m doing is trying to find out information that will help the police, without putting me, or anyone else, in danger. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“So, what can you tell me about Jaynee? Was she popular?”
“Oh yes. Everyone liked her. She got on well with everybody.”
“Including her producer?”
Holly’s viewpoint certainly didn’t tally with what I’d heard from Candy Clark.
“Yes. I remember once in the canteen, somebody spilt vinegar and it went on Candida’s dress. JayJay was really sympathetic and said how disfiguring the acid could be, but then she looked at the mark and said it would all come out in the wash.”
I wasn’t as sure as Holly seemed to be that this was a mere girl-to-girl chat about laundry but I let it pass.
