Strictly Murder
Authors: Lynda Wilcox
Strictly Murder
by
Lynda Wilcox
Strictly Murder © 2012 by Lynda Wilcox. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or parts thereof, in any form.
All characters are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Dedication
:
This book is dedicated to David Gaughran, who showed me the way.
Acknowledgements
:
Cover design by Katie Stewart: www.katiewstewart.com
Edited by Gregory Lynn: http://tftmm.wordpress.com
And to Richard, always.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
I had been in the job only six months when my employer pulled a gun on me.
"You do see that you have to die, don't you Verity. That I can't allow you to live."
She sat on the opposite side of the desk, perfectly composed, perfectly groomed, not a dyed black hair out of place, her glossy red fingernails curled around the weapon she pointed directly and steadily at my heart.
"I know my typing speeds haven't been so hot lately," I began, my voice surprisingly calm though my mouth felt as dry as a sandpaper sandwich.
She smiled grimly. Using the hand that wasn't engaged in threatening my life, she removed a cigarette from a packet on the desk in front of her and placed it between her red-painted lips. She tilted her head to one side, her eyes never leaving mine. Then she pulled the trigger.
I jumped in my chair, hand clutched to my chest, eyes closed, anticipating the bang, the searing pain and the ensuing darkness. Instead I smelled smoke—cigarette smoke. I opened my eyes.
She still had one end of the cigarette pressed between her lips but now the other protruded into the flame of the novelty lighter she held in her hand.
"Really, Kathleen. You nearly gave me a heart attack. If that's your idea of a joke I don't find it at all funny."
"I'm sorry, Verity, I thought you'd realise the gun wasn't real."
She dropped it on the blotter. I picked it up, turning it over in my hand, giving it closer inspection. A clever little piece of work.
"Where did this delightful bauble come from?"
"Hmm?" She drew on the cigarette. "Oh, it's just some toy of my ex–husband's."
I got up and crossed to my own desk on the other side of the room where I dropped the 'gun' into my bag. I'd dispose of it later.
"And what's this about not allowing me to live?"
"Ah yes." She became animated, stubbing out the cigarette in an ashtray and wafting away the cloud of smoke with her free hand. "It's my new idea for a story."
It is my joy, I use the word loosely, to work for the famous author Kathleen Davenport, writer of crime stories featuring the massively popular detective, Agnes Merryweather, a Church of England vicar. Her books sell in shed loads but KD had written nothing in the last two months, claiming writer's block. In reality we hadn't found a case meaty enough for KD to get her teeth into. My role in this was to discover and research old cases, spending most of my time in libraries, dusty newspaper archives or trawling the internet. KD would then take the bare bones and basic facts of an old real life crime and, changing names, locations, genders and dates, work her magic to weave them into a new piece of fiction. In some cases she had been known to change even the guilty party, making it the butcher, rather than the baker, whodunit, as it were. As a system it worked and worked well, earning KD a lot of money and giving me an interesting, well paid job with the added bonus of the occasional cardiac arrest. What more could a working girl ask for?
"Is this from an old case or an original idea?" I asked.
"Oh, it's an original idea," her eyes gleamed with excitement. "Where an employer, a financier perhaps, shoots his secretary because she knows too much about his dodgy dealings. I thought you might be pleased if I
modelled
the secretary on you."
"Not if I end up dead, I won't be."
I poured myself more coffee from the percolator on a table by the door. Putting the jug back on the hot plate I went on,
"Besides, if you start having original ideas, I could be out of a job."
"Unlikely, Verity, dear. I employ you for more than your skills as a researcher, you know."
"Really? What skills might these be?"
I resumed my seat as she rose from hers.
"Well, obviously, they don't include anticipating my need for caffeine at the same time as your own," she laughed, making a beeline for the coffee machine.
"But other than that," I prompted. Getting praise out of KD was akin to drawing teeth.
"Your main skill as far as I'm concerned, is coping with me. I'm aware that not everyone can do that, Verity, but you do it very well."
I nodded. My two predecessors in the role of PA had lasted a mere six weeks - between them.
KD took the coffee mug to the circular table placed between two easy chairs in the conservatory that formed an open extension to the large office. She sat down gracefully and reached out a hand for the morning paper.
"I see they've still not found her."
"Who?" I asked, still pondering how my ability to cope made me so attractive to my boss.
"Jaynee Johnson."
She turned the paper round to face me and I crossed to the table for a closer look. Splashed across the front page in large banner headlines were the words "JayJay still missing!" Underneath a grainy photograph of a buxom woman took up nearly the rest of the page, with just enough room left below for the words 'Full Story Page 4'. I didn't bother to read it.
"Who the hell is JayJay" I asked taking the newspaper from KD's outstretched hand.
"Oh, come on, Verity, you must know who JayJay is. She's a celebrity, the star of
Star Steps.
" She caught my blank look. "With Greg Ferrari."
"Nope. Never heard of either of them."
"Don't you watch television?"
"Not the rubbish that passes for light entertainment these days, I don't, no. When I was a girl cream rose to the top while dross sank to the bottom. These days it's the other way round."
She gave me a glance that implied I must live in a cave.
"Oh but you should. It's a massive hit; people are queuing up to take part in the show."
I wasn't listening, I was studying the photo - it showed an averagely pretty face with a big mouth full of white teeth surrounded by a profusion of wavy hair. Blonde obviously - if not naturally.
"So what's this show about then?" I asked throwing the paper back onto the table.
"It's a dance programme, on every Saturday," KD told me. "Contestants, members of the public, are teamed with celebrities and they have one week to learn and practice a dance routine before they are filmed in a dance-off to decide the winners."
"A dance-off?" Already I'd decided I didn't like it. Any programme that could so butcher the English language in a quest for tabloid ratings was not for me.
KD nodded.
"It's the same celebrities every week but a new member of the public and, at the end of the series there is a finale where the winners have a…"
"Dance-off?"
"Right. To find the overall winner."
"And where do this Jaynee Johnson and Greg Whatsisname come in?"
"Oh, they're the presenters. Greg Ferrari used to be a professional dancer and Jaynee Johnson is a celebrity."
"A professional celebrity, I assume?"
My sarcasm brought me a glare from KD who probably never missed a programme.
"They do their own routine at the beginning of the show before they introduce the contestants. They're really good," she assured me before adding, wistfully, "it's like watching Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers."
Bless her! Bloody
Star Steps
must have been the highlight of her week.
"So how long has the bimbo been missing?"
"Really, Verity, if you've never watched the show how can you judge her a bimbo?"
I shrugged. I knew the type.
"Maybe she's in a secret love nest, somewhere," I suggested. "Or having a face lift in a private clinic. Or a brain implant in Switzerland."
"She disappeared about a week ago, I believe," said KD in her frostiest tone, getting up and going to her desk. Opening a drawer she took out a DVD case. "I've got a recording here of the show that I made for a friend. You might like to watch it. You know, to bring yourself into the 21st Century."