Jest and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 5) Page 8

  ‘I haven’t managed to see her yet,’ I said.

  ‘Are you disbelieving me?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Are you calling me a liar? Why should I make it up or send myself presents? I’m not crazy. Perhaps you haven’t seen her because you haven’t done enough work on my behalf. I’m employing you by the day, remember. I haven’t seen you following me.’ For one moment, I disliked him.

  ‘Exactly,’ I said quickly. ‘That shows how good I am. If you haven’t spotted me then she hasn’t spotted me. The fact that you are still getting all these gifts shows that she does not know that I am on her track.’

  ‘Are you on her track?’

  ‘I have some definite leads,’ I said enigmatically.

  ‘Come with me tonight,’ he said, his mood changing, becoming persuasive and urgent. ‘I’m doing a revue show in Brighton. I’ll pick you up at your shop about six. Sorry about the early start but there’s a lot to check on stage before a show.’

  I swallowed hard. I did not really want to go along with him but it was almost an order. He was a very dominant man, eyes glittering, and he was employing me. He was probably a bully at school.

  ‘I haven’t got a ticket,’ I said.

  ‘Bollocks, Jordan. And wear something snazzy. I don’t go out with anything drab. Do something with your hair.’

  ‘I’ve a dress covered in fireworks. Will that do?’

  ‘Perfect. Only don’t get too near the lighting,’ he chuckled. As I went to leave, I checked over the gifts, hoping there would be a label. ‘Where’s the wrapping paper?’ I asked.

  Threw it all away.’

  ‘Please keep all future wrapping paper,’ I said. ‘And the address labels.’

  ‘I think they were mostly delivered by the shops. Computerized labels.’

  I picked up the flowers. A lovely bouquet of late summer flowers, chrysanthemums and dahlias. The scent was heavenly. ‘I’ll take these. I can check with local florists to see if they have a sender’s address, or better still, if they were paid for by cheque or credit card.’

  ‘You may as well have them,’ he said carelessly.

  *

  Snazzy does not describe anything in my wardrobe. I wondered if Nesta would lend me anything. Perhaps not. Leroy Anderson was more my size and she had lent me a dress once before. I did not want to borrow that blue dress again as it had too many James-type dancing on a landing at Cleo’s party memories.

  ‘Leroy,’ I said, phoning her at the Rustington branch of the estate agents where she now worked. ‘It’s Jordan Lacey.’

  ‘Jordan. How lovely to hear from you. I was beginning to think you had emigrated or got married.’

  ‘Neither on my schedule,’ I said. ‘How about you?’

  ‘As busy as usual. Mad social round. Nothing too outrageous.’ I knew she had not had an easy time last year and did not want to stir up the sad vibes.

  ‘This is a begging call,’ I began.

  ‘What do you want to borrow?’

  ‘A dress or a fancy top. It’s got to look snazzy, whatever that means.’

  Leroy suppressed a laugh. ‘Not exactly your style, nor mine. But I think I might have just the outfit. I bought it at a sale in a rash moment. I’ve never worn it. I take it you are working on something?’

  ‘Yes, in Brighton, at some revue show. I’ve got to look like a comedian’s arm candy. Very dishy arm candy. And I’m being picked up from the shop at six.’

  Now she could not stop the laughter. ‘Cutting it fine, aren’t you, but leave it to me. I can fix you up. I’ll leave work early and come round to your shop, bring my make-up case too. I know you think a double coat of mascara is the full works.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, wondering what I had let myself in for. Leroy had good taste in clothes but I did not like the sound of that laughter. It might be innocent fun on her part but I had to work in the damned clothes.

  *

  Leroy arrived at my shop a few minutes after five with a suitcase full of clothes, but she already had in mind what she wanted me to wear. The other clothes were in case I put my foot down and refused to go out of the door in her choice.

  I put up my CLOSED sign and resigned myself to being made over. Leroy had that look in her eye. She was beautifully turned out, as usual, in a tailored fawn trouser suit and cream silk blouse, her hair shining. She always looked the executive part.

  ‘OK,’ I said. ‘Do your worst. I am clean. I’ve had a shower and put on clean undies.’

  ‘You aren’t going to need much in the way of undies.’

  ‘Wanna bet?’

  ‘Now look at this, Jordan. This is the works.’

  She produced her choice, held it up for me to admire. It was stunning but I could not believe that I was going to wear it. The dress was small and I am a tall woman.

  ‘Call that a dress?’

  ‘It’s a mini-dress. You’ve got decent legs, haven’t you? Don’t worry, I’ve brought some strappy shoes. They have elasticated straps and fit most sizes.’

  ‘The whole thing is strappy,’ I said, stomach falling as I turned the garment this way and that in my hand. ‘There’s not much of it, is there? It’s nothing but an arrangement of straps. Look, it’s only got crisscross straps lacing across the back. Nothing to hold it up.’

  ‘You did say snazzy. Show business arm candy? Brother, this is the goods. You’ll be a star.’

  ‘I don’t want to be a star.’

  ‘Look upon it as a lifetime experience. You’re being paid for this, aren’t you? Well then, stop grumbling and get into it, girl. I’ve still got your face to do.’

  I had to admit that Leroy knew what she was doing. The dress fitted like a glove, even though I could hardly bear to look at myself. The impossibly heeled sandals fitted but I doubted if I could walk two steps in them. She worked wonders with my hair and my face. I did not recognize myself. Glitter? It was dabbed everywhere. In my hair, on my eyelids, on my cheeks, my lips, my bare shoulders. Call me Glitter Queen of Latching. I was shedding it all over the floor.

  ‘Isn’t this a bit over the top?’

  ‘I’ve brought a boa to cover your shoulders if you are that embarrassed. It’s only feathers but I know they help.’

  ‘Where do I put my notebook, my mobile, my keys?’

  ‘Girls these days don’t carry anything. Maybe a lipgloss and a credit card. You could pin your keys inside the top.’

  ‘Leroy, I must have paper and a pen.’

  ‘Put them in your knickers.’

  *

  Leroy had gone, still laughing, and I was waiting to be picked up. I could not sit down because the sequins would stick into the back of my legs. I waited, standing up, calling myself the biggest fool under the sun.

  The doorbell rang and I went and opened the shop door. It was ten to six. George Hill was early. But he wasn’t. It was DI James, hovering on the doorstep, tall and dark and intense. His jaw almost dropped with surprise. He stared at me.

  ‘Jordan? Is that really you?’

  ‘It’s me.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To some theatre revue show in Brighton. It’s OK, I’m working. This is gear. Borrowed.’

  ‘Have you seen yourself?’

  ‘I know. It’s not me at all. I’ll be all right.’

  James paused, wondering whether to say anything or ignore my appearance and simply carry on as if I was in my usual jeans and T-shirt. He cleared his throat.

  ‘Anne Steel,’ he said. ‘She was almost dead before the gardening shears severed her spinal cord. They have measured the external bleeding. I thought you ought to know if you are working for Mr Steel.’

  ‘Strangulation?’

  ‘Partly. Forensic came up with all the normal evidence. She may not have been completely dead but she was nearly dead. The shears were final.’

  ‘I don’t know why you are telling me this,’ I said. I did not want to think about Anne Steel.

  James gave a deep groan. ‘I never know why
I tell you anything.’ He looked at me again. ‘You’ve done something different to your hair.’

  ‘You are so observant. No wonder you are a policeman. You’d be wasted in any other profession.’

  ‘I suppose these things are called Jennifer Lopez curls.’

  ‘How should I know? Leroy used tongs.’

  James did not answer. He did not want to know what Leroy did with tongs. I could almost read his face. He was gathering his thoughts together and it was as if he was about to say something quite sensational. I waited hopefully.

  But as he took a breath before speaking, a silver-painted people carrier drew up, flashy jester flashing on the nearside door. George Hill leaped out of the car and came up the steps. I pulled in my stomach and tried to look as if the dress was normal evening wear.

  George looked at the flame-red mini-dress covered in shimmering sequins, the long tanned bare legs, the strappy sandals on spiky heels, the mass of flamboyant corkscrew curls. Then he looked at DI James and he did not like the warning he saw in the detective’s eyes.

  He turned to me as if I were his sole property.

  ‘Get in, gorgeous,’ said George, grinning. ‘The night is young and the night is ours.’

  Eight

  Sitting in that tight red dress was not easy. It rode up and the edges of the sequins dug into the soft back of my legs. The big car had roomy, upright seats and I was able to drape the boa over my knees for modesty. Jack’s flashy Jaguar would have been impossible.

  ‘You look great,’ said George Hill with an admiring nod. ‘No one would guess you were a PI. You look like a bimbo.’

  I swallowed the two-handed compliment. ‘I hope I can act like one,’ I said. ‘Tell me, what do bimbos drink?’

  ‘Vodka and champagne.’

  ‘Both at once?’

  He laughed and showed off his nice teeth. I think he’d had that whitening procedure. I suppose if you were in show business you could put it against tax.

  ‘I’ve got you a seat right in the front row. I want you to be seen and heard. Make a point of coming backstage and being all lovey-dovey, all over me. I don’t mind what you do or say as long as she sees us carrying on.’

  ‘Arc you certain she will be there?’ I was not sure I could be all over him. I thought he was very good-looking but I did not know if I liked him.

  ‘She’s always there.’

  We were on the A27 to Brighton, travelling through the brightly lit tunnel that cut under the South Downs. Swiss engineering at its best, or had it been British?

  ‘I checked the local florist shops and found the one that sent the bouquet. They’ve no name or any record of the woman, except that it was a woman and she paid cash. They remembered her because she said the flowers were for an anniversary, a very special anniversary.’

  George groaned. ‘Anniversary of the day she started stalking me? I told you she was off her rocker.’

  The evening air was cool now that the sun had gone down. I wanted to wrap the feather boa round me like a scarf and snuggle down. I was not used to wearing half a dress.

  ‘Would you like the heater on?’

  ‘Please … thank you.’ That was nice.

  ‘You shivered. I’ll put a jersey in the back so that you can wear it for the journey home. It won’t matter then what you look like.’

  ‘Thank you. Will it be very late? I’m a working girl.’

  ‘Depends whether we get asked on to a party. One eyeful of you in that red dress and we’ll be bombarded with party invites. I’m at my best at two in the morning.’

  I hoped not. I’m at my worst at two in the morning. The plastic bits were already making me itch. The time could not come soon enough when I could take the dress off and have a good scratch. And my cool, cool sheets would be bliss.

  ‘I’m first class at that time, too, but especially when I’m up a tree,’ I rabbited on. ‘You wouldn’t know. That’s my other case. Classified.’

  ‘What a girl,’ said George, only half-listening, tapping the wheel. He was tensing up. Perhaps it was pre-show nerves. The temperamental star under pressure. ‘We’ll have a great time and you’ll solve the mystery identity of the stalker.’

  ‘I’m definitely going to win,’ I agreed. It was easier to say what he wanted to hear, it’s in the stars. Tell me a joke.’

  ‘Wait for the show.’

  *

  The Regal Theatre in Brighton was old fashioned, cosy, with red plush upholstery, masses of gilt paint, but packed to the ceiling with punters. The revue was obviously popular. I did not recognize the star names on the billboards, only George the Jester. George ploughed through his fans, laughing and joking, taking me backstage to his dressing room. He was besieged on all sides by people wanting to speak to him. He was incredibly efficient in the way he dealt with stage crew and the problems. He was not just a walking joke book.

  ‘Good house?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah. We’re full. Big coach party from Blackpool.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll work in a Blackpool joke. Got a couple.’

  He slipped his arm round my waist and gave it a squeeze. ‘This is my dressing room. Make yourself comfortable. Be an angel and mix me a G and T, ice, lemon, a double. There’s ice in the fridge. Have what you want yourself, darling, then come out and impress the natives. Act the part.’

  The dressing room was cell-sized but well-appointed with make-up unit and mirrors, armchair, shower and lavatory, wardrobe and shelves. His stage jacket was hanging on a preformed stand. It matched my dress … almost. It was covered in sequins, only these were jet black. The lapels were smooth black silk. George would look magnificent.

  I found clean glasses and mixed his G and T. I took a tonic and ice for myself. There was no lemon. They looked exactly the same. His drink was in my left hand. Mine in my right.

  It was interesting wandering about backstage. I had only experience of front-of-house work in my voluntary capacity at Latching’s theatre. George was on stage, checking the line of the spots. He was particular about the lighting.

  ‘Darling,’ he exclaimed, planting a kiss on my curls. ‘My G and T. Just as you know how to make it. Delicious. Mmm, you’re an expert … at everything.’ His hand wound itself round my waist again and squeezed the flesh. ‘Time to change. Thirty minutes plus. You make a good G and T.’ His face was controlled, almost a mask.

  ‘You’ve drunk mine by mistake,’ I said. ‘It was a straight tonic.’

  ‘Then I’d better drink mine before I dehydrate,’ he said, taking the second glass. ‘Smile, darling. Dazzle with the teeth. She’s over there and watching.’

  I wanted to turn round and look but he had a tight hold on me. George was nuzzling my hair. I could smell his aftershave, Aramis. Heady stuff.

  ‘Can’t wait for tonight’s show,’ I gushed. I was out of my depth with girly small talk. ‘You’ll be marvellous, as usual, you hunky man, I know.’ I leaned closer in what I hoped was a provocative manner, nudging him with my bare shoulder.

  ‘Love it. Love it, more, more. Every word will be for you, darling,’ he murmured, practically eating my ear. ‘And I can’t wait till afterwards. You and I together, alone … it’ll be bliss.’

  I wanted to go home. What was he paying me? It wasn’t enough for this garbage.

  ‘Darling, angel, sweetiepie,’ I replied, thinking big Goldie Hawn smile. ‘It’ll be wonderful.’

  I heard high heels clattering down the passageway, breaking into a run. Then a door slammed. She had gone out of the rear stagedoor. George let his hand drop and straightened up. He need not have been quite so fast about removing his hand.

  ‘I’ll go and find my seat,’ I said. ‘You probably have a load of things to do.’

  He nodded. ‘I get wound up before a show. I need to relax, get myself together. Shower and change. Don’t wish me luck.’

  ‘Break a leg,’ I said.

  ‘Both legs.’

  A stagehand took me through a side door, along some musty ba
ck corridors, through another door that led into the main foyer. The manager knew all about my ticket and showed me to a seat in the centre of Row A. I sat down slowly, taking time to glance along the row both ways. I was looking for a smartly dressed forty-year-old woman. It was not easy. There was a whole row of smartly dressed women of that age and half of them were looking at me. Perhaps George had a surfeit of stalkers.

  It was a long time since I’d been to a live theatre, sitting in the audience, not just selling ice creams in the interval. Big band jazz is the love of my life. Films come a close second, but I don’t get to many these days. This was going to be fun. I relaxed and forgot about the sequins and abbreviated dress. It would have been even nicer if James had been sitting beside me, though I’m not sure if he would have enjoyed the first half of pop groups and the big ballad singers belting their hearts out.

  The magician was amazing. His name was Max. He was tall and thin and his tricks were truly baffling. He roamed across the stage, shedding doves. I couldn’t see where he hid anything. His hands were elegant and feminine, coaxing his magic. I half hoped he might be at one of these promised aftershow parties, and I could probe him for a few secrets.

  In the interval I cruised the bar, smiling and nodding, as if I was a regular part of the scene. Several people smiled and nodded back. I was taking in the smartly dressed etc, filing their faces, distinguishing features, identifiable differences. One woman caught my eye.

  There was something about her. My sixth sense was in gear. She was a well-preserved forty but it looked like hours of hard work. Her make-up was painstakingly applied, as if it had been preceded by plant facials and face masks and an apricot scrub. I throw mine on. I can wash, dress and be out in three minutes plus. She probably allotted a couple of hours and that didn’t include wardrobe time.

  She was also wary. She did not meet my eyes. Her dress was champagne-flowered chiffon, draped over a well-upholstered bust and rounded hips. The shoes were expensive, intricate straps holding her small feet together by a miracle.

  But her hands were a giveaway. They did not stop moving. She was holding a glass of white wine but there was constant interaction. Her nails were painted gold and she began a slight, nervous washing movement when she put down the glass. Washing hands syndrome was significant, I knew. I ought to take a course in human psychology.