Murder in the Second Row (17 page)

There was a
quiet footfall on the creaky stairs outside her office. She froze,
listening intently.

‘Jessica? Are
you there?’

Phil popped his
head through her doorway and hesitated. ‘Sorry to interrupt your
work, but I’m going to need a new paintbrush. The only ones left in
the paint room are solid as rocks. Shall I go and buy one, and is
there any petty cash to cover it?’

‘Oh! Sure,
that’s no problem,’ said Jessica, trying to not show that she’d
been momentarily startled. She rummaged in a drawer for the cash
tin. ‘Here’s a tenner, will that be enough?’

He advanced
into the narrow office to take it from her.

‘Are you OK,
Jessica? You look a bit worried – oh.’

Understanding
hit him like a sack of rocks and his whole body slumped. ‘Please,
don’t say that you’re scared of me. Jesus, Jessica, how long have
we known each other? You can’t possibly think that I could murder
someone, could you?’

‘No, of course
not! You idiot! No, I was engrossed in what I was doing and you
startled me, that’s all. Honestly, I’d have looked just as much
like a stunned mullet if Gert had walked in here exactly the way
you did.’

He looked
relieved. ‘Thank God for that. I thought you were one of the sanest
people round this place, and if you started suspecting me then I
must be guilty.’ He managed a laugh. ‘I’ll go and get that
paintbrush then, OK?’

‘Righto then,
off you trot. I’ll get the paint ready for you while you’re
gone.’

She listened to
the stairs creaking under his departing footsteps and smacked
herself on the forehead, muttering. ‘Well that made him feel
better, didn’t it? Sure Pippa, I’ll look after him. He’ll forget
all his worries, helping me out with theatre jobs. Way to go,
Jessica, make him think he’s the scariest thing in town since
Simone hit menopause.’ She strode off to sort out some paint.

Back at her
desk, an email pinged onto her screen from Nick.

Hi Jessica,
here’s a copy of the piece I’ve sent to the paper, the 1878 stuff.
Hopefully they’ll print it in the next day or so. Also attached,
the condolence letter to the Fitzpatricks for you to check and
approve, since it’s coming from the committee.

‘I’ve been
talking to the tourism department at the city council and they’re
keen to include the theatre on a “Whetford historic places tour”
brochure. It would mean staffing the place during office hours and
at weekends so that people could be shown around. What do you
think?

‘I’d love to
come and discuss this stuff with you - if you’re free, how about
lunch today? We really should have a good talk and clear the air
between us.

Yours,

Nick

Jessica read
the message and frowned. How was she going to get out of that? Then
she grinned and jumped up from her desk. She yelled down the stairs
to Phil.

‘Hey, Phil! You
back? Do you want to have lunch with Nick and me later? We’ll go
someplace quiet, I promise, so you won’t be gawked at. Does that
sound like a plan?’

‘I guess so,’
he called back. ‘A man’s got to eat.’

Jessica typed a
return message accepting Nick’s invitation and suggesting they meet
in a small out-of-the-way café down by the river. Nick might be a
bit miffed when Phil showed up as well and he saw that it wasn’t a
secluded tête-à-tête with her, but too bad. She figured there was
safety in numbers.

In the event,
Nick swallowed his disappointment quietly, with only the faintest
reproachful look at Jessica when she entered the café with Phil in
tow.

‘Hi Jessica,
Phil. How – ah, convenient that you’re free to join us, Phil. We
should be able to work out some good ideas for promotion between
the three of us.’

Jessica
rewarded him with a smile and a compliment.

‘I liked your
sympathy letter, Nick, it was beautifully phrased. It should have
just the effect we want – conveying our condolences to the
Fitzpatricks while keeping the public on our side as well. It
should keep those blasted developers from shooting their mouths off
for a while too, otherwise they’ll look very callous and uncaring.’
She nodded towards the counter. ‘Shall we grab a bite to eat? I’m
starving.’

They organised
their food and went to a table in the far corner. Phil sat with his
back to the room. Jessica waited until Nick sat down then chose a
seat between them where she could enjoy the view of the tree-shaded
river.

‘I’m not too
sure about offering regular tours of the theatre though, Nick,’
said Jessica, getting back to the business in hand. ‘Putting that
into a brochure would be a long-term commitment, and we’d need to
talk it through at committee level. But there’s always the option
of doing a few special tours, just for a couple of weekends for
instance.’

Nick and Phil
both nodded, chewing thoughtfully.

‘I know MaryAnn
was a bit scathing about ghoulish tours taking advantage of the
murder, but we could promote theatre tours without any mention of
that, couldn’t we?’ Jessica was getting warmed up now. ‘People
might well be curious about the theatre just because there’s been a
murder there, but we would advertise the tours simply as opening up
a historic building to the public. Why they come is up to
them.’

‘I see your
point,’ said Nick, swallowing his mouthful. ‘We use their unseemly
interest in a crime site but without being seen to exploit it.
Great idea, Jessica.’

‘Do you think
we should wait until after the show has finished?’ asked Phil.
‘It’s a bit risky having the public tramping through backstage when
we’ve got props and wardrobe things lying about – bits might get
nicked as souvenirs.’

‘Oh, I think we
can manage that scenario,’ said Jessica. ‘We can grab a theatre
member and dress them up as a policeman to stand guard out back. It
can all be part of the show. Anything really vital can be put away
while the tours are on, of course. We need to strike while the
iron’s hot on this, while people are still interested in the place.
Plus it’ll be great promotion for the show. Thank goodness we’re
doing a murder mystery – imagine how badly it would fit with a
ballet or a pantomime!’

‘OK Jessica,
could you ring round the committee to get the go-ahead and then
email me? I can get an advert in ready for this Saturday if I know
by tomorrow.’

‘Good timing,’
said Phil. ‘School holidays start this weekend and I know only too
well that ravening hordes of the local student body will be mad
keen to see where a murder happened. Just don’t ask me to be on
tour duty, please!’

‘Sure about
that?’ teased Jessica. ‘You could give them all that extra
background about being interrogated by the police, and history is
your special-interest subject, too. I really think you should be
there, Phil.’

‘My duty to the
theatre doesn’t extend that far, I’m afraid. Find yourself a
well-educated lion-tamer, he’ll have all the skills needed for the
job.’

‘Right,’ said
Nick, ‘I’d better get back to work. Thanks for coming, you two. It
was lovely to see you Jessica,’ he added in a low voice as Phil was
walking away.

‘Nice to see
you too, Nick,’ she said brightly. ‘Glad your injuries are healing
so well. I’ll email you later, OK? Bye!’ She made a quick exit
leaving him gathering up his papers looking faintly forlorn.

The advert for
the weekend tours ran in Wednesday’s paper. In Thursday’s paper,
Bayldon Oliver let rip in a scathing letter to the editor.

What sort of
society do we live in that allows commercial exploitation of a
young girl’s tragic death? The Regent Theatre, long a hotbed of
crime, is now inviting the public to gloat over a murder scene. One
might expect a period of mourning. One might expect quiet
contemplation and grief. But the Regent Theatre Committee has seen
fit to invite all comers to visit the site where poor little Tamara
Fitzpatrick was brutally slain less than two weeks ago.

They should be
ashamed. Our entire town should be ashamed. That old and dangerous
building should be removed at the earliest opportunity to prevent
any more such vicious crimes against helpless young women.

Bayldon Oliver
plans to dedicate a memorial fountain to Tamara Fitzpatrick as a
centrepiece in the new mall waiting to be built on the site where
the aged Regent Theatre currently stands.

On Thursday
evening, Bruce Fitzpatrick came to the theatre and sought out
Jessica, feverishly insistent that she speak with him.

‘I have to ask
that you reconsider holding these tours of the theatre. It’s
inappropriate and disrespectful.’

She could see
from his pale skin and rapid breathing that he was only just
keeping it together. He held a hand to his mouth for a moment then
continued in a low, trembling voice. ‘My wife Ruth is very
emotional, very highly-strung. This has been hard enough on her as
it is. The extra publicity – she’s – I’m afraid for her, I really
am.’ He put a hand on Jessica’s arm. ‘You have to stop the tours.
You MUST.’ His grip tightened. ‘Let our daughter rest in peace,
please. We just want this to fade away quietly. You have to listen
to me.’

He was shaking
her now, quite violently. ‘You must! You have to stop people
talking about her! Please, I beg you, make them stop!’

‘Hey!’
Jessica’s bellow stopped him in his tracks. He let go of her arm
and she rubbed it angrily. Then sympathy for his obvious distress
overtook the pain of her bruises. ‘Bruce, I understand how upset
you are, and I’m terribly sorry that this has caused your family
more distress on top of what you’re already suffering. Of course
we’ll respect your wishes.’

Tears of relief
welled in his eyes. ‘Oh thank the good Lord. My wife will be able
to put this all behind her at last. I’ve been so afraid.’

Jessica had a
sudden dire thought. ‘Just one small thing, Bruce. When we call off
the tours we’ll have to run some adverts to let people know they
are cancelled. It’ll mean more public announcements, and might
generate more speculation.’ He paled, trembling. Jessica sat him
down on the foyer sofa before he passed out. ‘Bruce, are you all
right? Shall I get you some water?’ He shook his head, staring up
at her miserably. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t rather just let things
continue quietly?’ she said. ‘I can promise that there’ll be
absolutely no mention of Tamara or anything at all about her
circumstances while people are in here, and the public will be very
strictly limited as to where they can go inside the building. We’re
not trying to take advantage of a tragedy. All we want to do is to
show people this wonderful historic building so that they
appreciate it and don’t allow it to be torn down.’

She looked into
his reddened, watery eyes. His entire body was shaking as he wrung
his hands. Jessica reached out to touch his bony shoulder.

‘What would you
like us to do, Bruce? It’s entirely up to you. Shall we run more
advertisements to cancel the tours, or allow them to proceed with
respect?’

‘No more
advertisements! Please! Ruth would… That mustn’t happen.’ He
swallowed. ‘Nothing more in the newspaper. Do the tours if you
must, but no more publicity about the girl. No more.’

He turned and
fled, leaving Jessica still rubbing her bruised arm and feeling
equally bruised inside. What had they done to these poor grieving
parents? She shook her head sadly. Was it all worth it? How could
they ever make it up to them? Nothing could bring Tamara back, but
it would be another tragedy if the theatre had to die as well.

On Saturday
morning Jessica reluctantly hauled herself out of bed early enough
to get things organised at the theatre ready for opening to the
public at 10am. She locked the few vital props away in the
downstairs props room and made sure the dressing rooms were tidy.
At 9.45am Stewart showed up to do guard duty backstage, and she
outfitted him with a police uniform from wardrobe. He didn’t look
terribly convincing, but he assured her that he would keep a close
eye on things. At 10am she went to open the front door.

A queue of
people waited, lined up right along the front of the theatre, many
of them trying to peer into the foyer. It seemed that public
interest was high, and Jessica mentally rubbed her hands together
at the prospect of winning over more supporters to their cause. She
unlocked the door and they surged forwards.

‘Welcome,
everybody,’ she said. ‘Please come in. Gather in the foyer and I’ll
give you a few brief facts about this great old building.’

When they were
all inside, Jessica climbed a few steps up the sweeping foyer
staircase to address them. Twenty-odd faces turned towards her
expectantly. She consulted her notes.

“Friends, hail
and welcome, triumph and delight

at your fair
presence fill our hearts tonight.

Within this
pretty building, nobly graced

With beauty,
form, intelligence and taste.”

‘Those were the
first words spoken on stage at the opening of the Regent Theatre,
on July 18th 1878, to a packed house of over a thousand people.
Considering that the town had a population of 6000, it wasn’t a bad
turnout.’ She paused and smiled. ‘The auditorium is still the same
size as it was then, but now we give people a little more comfort
and only seat 380.’

‘Excuse me,’
said a young woman with bottle-blonde hair. ‘Can we see where the
murder happened?’

There were
murmurs of agreement from the rest of the crowd.

Jessica’s heart
sank. These weren’t potential converts to the cause. These were the
ghoulish thrill-seekers that Bruce had been so afraid of. Still,
perhaps she could turn their curiosity into genuine interest if she
played them right.