by Lynda Wilcox
“A bribe?” he asked in measured tones, one brown eyebrow raised.
“Do you always treat your chief suspects to dinner and flowers? Or did you single me out for special attention?”
He looked at me suspiciously, then indicated the wine glass on the draining board.
“Have you been drinking, Verity?”
“Water,” I snapped. “Just water.”
Annoyingly, he picked up the glass then grunted on seeing the residue of colourless liquid at the bottom. The policeman in him still made him sniff the contents, though, which only stoked the fires of my anger.
“Verity,” he began, his eyes pleading with me, “What is all this? What’s the matter?”
I turned away. In truth it wasn’t fair to blame him; my anger would be better directed at myself for I had broken my own guidelines, my own golden rule. I had allowed myself to hope, permitted myself to dream and ended up hurt, as so often in the past.
“Verity,” he said again, softly, touching my shoulder. I shrugged him off and moved so that I put the table between us.
“Why do you think you are our chief suspect?” He tried again.
“Well aren’t I? I found her.”
I racked my brains for any figures Jim had quoted but his exact words were gone, washed away by the rising tide of anger that had swept over me since yesterday morning.
“Statistically, the person who claims to have discovered a body is most likely to have committed the crime. Isn’t that what you policemen believe? “
He ran a hand across his forehead and through his brown locks.
“That is often the case, yes, but look, Verity …”
“And statistically …”
“Damn statistics.” He brushed this aside with a gesture of his hand. “There are other factors to be taken into consideration.”
“Well, Jim Hamilton …”
“What? That twerp from the Crofterton Gazette? I might have known he’d ferret you out. Is that who’s been filling your head with this statistics nonsense?”
His voice was raised as he leaned towards me over the table, hands resting on his knuckles. I took exception to his description of Jim and wasted no time in telling him so.
“How dare you be so rude?” I flung at him. “Jim is a personal and long-standing friend. I trust him.”
As though slapped, he took a step backwards but it wasn’t my accusation of rudeness that had rocked him.
“And you don’t trust me?” he asked quietly, looking me straight in the eye.
“Not when you use the pretext of a dinner date to grill me about the JayJay murder case, I don’t.”
“I did nothing of the sort,” he protested. “It was you who raised that subject when we got back here.”
This was so patently true it served only to incense me even more.
“And what of you? You knew Jaynee Johnson, didn’t you?”
He looked baffled by this tangent but answered the question anyway.
“Yes, I knew her.”
“And did you take her out? Did she get the ‘Fabulous Farish’ treatment, too?”
I saw his brow darken, the jaw clench in anger at the epithet but it was too late; my temper bubbled over.
“Were you screwing her?”
Conscious of my coarseness I stopped, my lips clamped, the shame of my words colouring my cheeks.
“I wasn’t, as it happens. I never had the pleasure. Not that my sex life is any of your business. This case is not your business.”
“What do you mean, ‘not my business’? I found her wretched body.”
“Which gives you no right to interfere with my investigation. Look, I’ve told you before, stay out of this. And stay out of my life.”
“I’m not in your life,” I retorted.
“No, you’re not but I had thought … even hoped, that you might be.”
He wrenched open the door and strode through it, slamming it behind him.
That night, for the first time in fourteen years, I cried myself to sleep.
Chapter 9
As I’d expected, I encountered no difficulty getting past reception when I announced my presence at Silverton Studios that Tuesday afternoon. After all, I did have an appointment. I’d made it that morning before I left KD’s, though not for another half hour yet, leaving me plenty of time to visit the Penthouse suite. Once out of the lift on the top floor I walked up the remaining two flights of stairs, pulling on a pair of thin cotton gloves as I did so — no point in leaving evidence of my visit. I tapped quietly at John Brackett’s door. I’d already checked that he was away from the studios that afternoon but I wasn’t taking any chances. I’d expected to see an enormous room covering the whole of the top floor but found the CEO’s office appeared built to more modest proportions, a fact explained by the wooden partitions of the folding wall to my left. The floor to ceiling window that faced me offered a wide view of the surrounding countryside and the studio car park directly below, thus allowing the head of Silverton to observe the comings and goings of his staff and the arrival of visitors from the comfort of his executive chair behind the desk. Only an old fashioned, leather edged blotter and a gilt framed photo of JB’s wife (at least I assumed it was his wife - the one KD said he never slept with) cluttered the top. I worked my way quickly and methodically through the drawers on the left hand side finding nothing more interesting than a few executive toys and a print out of Health and Safety regulations. A folder in the top drawer on the other side offered greater food for thought containing, as it did, a list of all the Studio’s employees, including contract staff like JayJay and Ferrari, and their current salaries. I gave a silent whistle, quickly scanning the sheets. How much? This lot of talentless dross made more money in a ‘season’ than I was likely to earn in a lifetime. I put the file back where it came from then hit pay dirt in the drawer below. Written on a single sheet of paper in the neat round lettered hand that I instantly recognised as JayJay’s, I read this curious billet–doux, dated Monday 17th May.
‘My dear John,
Further to our recent meetings, you are aware of my current dissatisfaction with ‘Star Steps’ and my desire to quit the show. After considerable reflection, I have decided that a financial incentive, no matter how generous, is an inadequate reason for me to stay, and only the removal of the problem we discussed will suffice for me to remain.
I will leave this in your capable hands, you have always satisfied my needs until now, and await your reply before making further decisions about my future.
Yours, etc
Jaynee Johnson.’
Well! This was a turn up for the books.
I put the letter back and pushed the drawer closed on its silent, easy glide runners when suddenly I caught the sound of voices in the corridor outside. In a panic I ran for the nearest door, barely pushing it to, but not closed, before Candida Clark entered with Greg Ferrari a step behind her.
“Really, Greg. What do you want?”
“You know what I want. It’s the price you’re asking that’s the question.”
This sounded like manna to a curious woman like myself and any thoughts I might have had about silently closing the door and leaving them to it vanished like an ice-cube in a heatwave. I bent my ear to the door.
“Did you like my idea?” asked the dancer.
“Loved it! Absolutely loved it.” The producer oozed insincerity. “But I can’t give you your own show, Greg. The Studios haven’t got the money and, besides, you haven’t got the …” she paused. I thought she was going to add ‘the talent’ but she went on, “… the presentation skills.”
“I’m hardly likely to learn them then, am I, if that’s the case?”
Greg’s reply was the whine of a petulant child.
“Maybe, if you took that show I mentioned …”
Her voice was soft, caressing, tempting.
“And if I did?” the reply came huskily.
I risked a glance. The pair stood very close toge
ther, his hands on her hips, head buried in her neck, mouth close to her ear. She was backed up against the desk with her arms around his neck. With mounting horror, I watched his hands slide upwards, pushing the sheath of her dress almost to her waist - she wore nothing underneath - while she fumbled at the front of his trousers.
Hell’s teeth! They weren’t going to …? Were they? They were! She spread her legs and with a soft moan let him enter her. I had one quick view of Greg Ferrari’s rather nice, tight, little butt before silently closing the door and moving away from it.
Oh, great, I thought, as I looked around me. My refuge was John Brackett’s personal bathroom. I took the only seat. And waited. Unfortunately the partition walls weren’t sound proofed. I consoled myself with the thought that at least this meant I would know when they had finished and ran over their conversation again in my mind. If JayJay’s letter and Greg and Candy’s conversation was anything to go by, neither of the presenters of ‘Star Steps’ had been particularly happy bunnies of late. Would that be enough for either of the current occupants of the room next door to bump her off, though? And what of the problem she had mentioned in her letter to JB? Had she been asking for someone to be sacked and if so, who? That might be reason enough to kill her but wouldn’t the threat of a quick trip to the Daily Scream with some salacious gossip about her have been just as effective? Whilst the comment regarding JB always satisfying her needs intrigued me, I decided this was merely a veiled reference to an affair between them. Maybe Holly might know. I would certainly add it to the list of questions I intended to ask when, if, I saw her. I looked at my watch, it said twenty five to three, so I was already late for my appointment. Come on, come on, I thought impatiently, a poor choice of words under the circumstances. Didn’t this pair know the meaning of the term ‘a quickie’? A final groan announced the finale of their performance and I breathed a sigh of relief. Too soon, as usual, for I heard Candida say, “I’ll just use the bathroom.”
I cringed, my mouth dry, heart racing, palms wet. A bead of sweat trickled slowly down into the small of my back. I shivered, my throat constricting at the thought of my imminent discovery. Her footsteps approached the door. The handle turned.
“No, wait, Candy.”
Just in time Greg’s voice stopped her.
“JB’s back. He’s just pulled in to the car park.”
“Shit! Come on, let’s get out of here.”
I offered up a silent prayer of thanks to a deity I didn’t believe in for my deliverance then, when I heard the outer door close, was off the executive porcelain faster than a heat seeking missile. There was no sign of the lovers when I inched open the door and glanced into the corridor. With the penthouse lift fast approaching, I ran for the stairs.
It took me the better part of ten minutes to calm down and regain a measure of composure after my narrow escape. I spent most of that time locked in a cubicle in the ladies where, thankfully I did not encounter Ms Clark, before I felt ready to face Holly Danvers.
“I’m sorry I’m late, Holly,” I said when I finally sat facing her across the desk.
“Oh, don’t worry about it,” she waved a hand. “Are you all right? Only, you look a bit flushed.”
She, on the other hand, looked cool, calm and neat in dark blue trousers and a crisp, white blouse. The string of chunky wooden beads she’d worn on my previous visit had been replaced by a slim gold chain half hidden by the auburn curls.
“Yes, I’m OK thanks. It’s this heat. It doesn’t suit me.”
I was referring to the weather though my comment could have applied just as easily to the passion I’d just witnessed upstairs.
“So, what did you want to see me about? How have you got on with the diary?”
“Not bad. I’m halfway there with the list of names I made before I gave it to the police.”
“Did I help on Saturday?”
“Yes, you did. It meant I could cross you of the list.”
“Me?” Her voice came out as an indignant squeak. “I can’t think why on earth I’d be in there. I mean, it’s not as if I saw her anywhere else but here.”
“Oh, you were only in there once,” I reassured her. “That interview I asked you about.”
Mollified, she nodded.
“There’s just three now. Three names or entries I can’t account for. Dawn, Mr Smith and Spaniel. I don’t suppose they mean anything to you?”
She thought about this for a moment, looking gravely at me, forehead creased.
“No, I don’t think so. Sorry.”
“Well, never mind.” I remembered the letter I’d found in the drawer upstairs. “Holly, do you think JayJay could have been having an affair with John Brackett?”
Her eyebrows nearly reached her hairline.
“Golly, no. He’s the head of the Studios and he’s married.”
I wanted to say, “so what?” but in Holly’s world view these things were obviously considered to be mutually exclusive
“What about JayJay and Greg?”
“No. He’s already spoken for.”
I was so surprised at the sureness of her tone and the flash of cunning behind her eyes as she leant towards me over the desk that I nearly missed the glimpse of a small, golden crucifix that her movement revealed on the chain round her neck.
“Spoken for? In what way?
“You know, he’s engaged.”
“Is he? Who to?”
She gave this some thought for a moment before replying.
“I don’t know. But it’s fairly common knowledge, I think.”
Not to me it wasn’t, but then I didn’t work here and hear all the canteen gossip. Could she be making this up, I wondered. And if so, why? I jotted away on my notebook for a moment, the silence between us growing. Holly was a definite enigma, I decided, as much an anachronism in her own age as I was in mine. I glanced up at her sharply. There she sat, on the other side of the desk waiting patiently and calmly for me to finish my notes. Then, as if to distract me, she suddenly announced:
“I have remembered something that might interest you, though.”
“You have?”
“Yes. JayJay was writing a book. An autobiography.”
Was she indeed? Now that might well make interesting reading, especially if it was the usual kiss and tell revelations about her celebrity friends.
“Now that could be very important. Well done.”
I smiled across at her pleased face before making a note of this on my pad.
“She also said it was going to be an exposé,” Holly pronounced this ex posy, “and would include the struggle of her rise to the top.”
I groaned inwardly. Spare me the sob stories of talentless tarts. I reckoned any struggle in JayJay’s getting on top merely involved a change in her sexual position.
“Had she finished it?” I asked. “Is it with an agent or publisher?”
“I don’t know. She hadn’t said anything about that. Not to me, anyway.”
“So what had she told you?”
Once again that delicate crease appeared on Holly’s brow. After a moment she said, “Well, she said she was writing this book about her life and that it was going to be called ‘The Wash’?”
“The Wash?”
“Yes. I said it was a strange title and she said I’d understand when I read it. She promised to give me a signed copy.”
Her face drooped with sadness. I thought she might burst in to tears. To change the subject I asked her another question,
“JayJay had a mobile phone, I take it?”
“Of course!”
Her tone suggested I’d asked if the Pope was Catholic.
“She had one of the latest ‘iPhones’. I occasionally had to call her on it.”
“Recently?”
“Oh, no. Not since April or early May, I shouldn’t think.”
So it couldn’t have been Holly who’d been the last one to call JayJay. Unless she’d called after the killer. So why not admit it? My brain w
as reeling with too many questions.
“Well thanks, Holly. That’s been really helpful. You’ll let me know if you remember anything else, won’t you?”
She followed me to the door.
“I hope you and the police find who killed her soon, Miss. I miss her,” she said simply.
I nodded and softly pulled the door to behind me.
God, but he was beautiful! Beautiful in the classical sense. Standing in front of him outside the restaurant was like being in Florence looking up at Michaelangelo’s David. Well, all right, not exactly, of course. David hasn’t got any clothes on and Greg Ferrari came dressed in Armani.
“Verity! You look wonderful.”
He kissed me on the cheek.
“Thank you,” I replied as he put a hand beneath my elbow and ushered me into the restaurant
If Jacques was surprised to see me twice in four days and with two different escorts he was far too dignified to show it as he led us to our table.
I slid onto the chair Greg held out for me, shivering nervously as his hands brushed my bare shoulders. His presence had made us the centre of attention, heads had turned when we walked in, ‘oohs’ and ‘ahs’ of recognition had accompanied our progress through the restaurant. Jacques whisked my napkin off the table, flicking it out before laying it across my lap. There was the merest hint of a raised eyebrow when he handed me the menu before moving smoothly away.
“So, Verity. What do you like to eat? I hope you’re not watching your weight.”
“No. Do you think I need to?”
Greg laughed, a harsh bark.
“Not at all. It’s just that so many women are.”
I wondered how many women he went out with.
“What about you?” I asked. “As a dancer you can hardly pile on the pounds.”
“Oh, I go to my gym and work out everyday. Dancing does help to keep the weight down and as long as I don’t overdo it on the pasta or potatoes my weight is fairly constant.”
“Chocolate is my downfall,” I said, scanning the menu quickly to make sure Jacques’ famous chocolate mousse still featured. It did. I decided to skip a starter. Unfortunately, Greg went for oysters which meant that, when they arrived a short time later, I had to either watch him lasciviously pouring them down his throat or stare at the occupants of the other tables. I chose the latter option.
