12

“Is this a memorial or a nightclub?” Ridley muttered as they pulled up to Lana LaRue’s memorial service.

For once, he wasn’t exaggerating. The memorial was being held at the Umbry Theatre, the largest and oldest theatre in Valderia, and it was awash with the glitz of an opening night. There were expensive carriages everywhere with white horses that looked like they belonged in a best of show. Giant torches lit with Glowstones the size of a Human head shone bright beams of kaleidoscopic light into the night sky. There was even a red carpet with guards checking names. Just outside of the red carpet, separated by a red velvet rope, were throngs of fans and reporters, all trying to snatch the attention of those attending.

“Is that Roq Champeaux the QuarkTable player?” Nairo said, staring out of the cab window. “And look, that’s that celebrity chef, what’s his name, Finn something.”

“It’s a whose who of the rich and famous,” Ridley said, like he had a bad taste in his mouth.

“I wish we had dressed a little nicer now,” Nairo said, looking down at her crumpled blouse and mud stained trousers.

“We’re here on business, Sarge.” Ridley reminded her.

“Right of course,” Nairo said.

They stepped out of their carriage and made a beeline for the red carpet. As soon as Nairo stepped on the plush carpet, she felt the tremendous heat of attention. She felt curious eyes from the masses fall on her. Keeping her eyes low, Nairo followed Ridley to the entrance.

“Names?” the guard said gruffly.

“We ain’t on there,” Ridley said. He then flashed the two special invites Eliza Hartwell had sent to their office.

The guard looked at the invites curiously and then at them. He looked Ridley up and down and cocked an eyebrow.

“You’re with Ms. Hartwell?” he asked sceptically.

“We’re with the band,” Ridley said. “I play the oboe.”

“Right,” the guard said, but he had no reason to detain them, so he stepped back and allowed them through.

“The oboe?” Nairo whispered to Ridley after they had walked by.

“Yeah… the big pipe right?”

“I think.”

Ridley shrugged, and they walked along the red carpet behind an elderly couple that were dressed up like they were on a night out. The woman’s gown had so many sequins on it that Nairo felt herself going cross-eyed as they walked behind them.

“Remember,” Ridley muttered out of the side of his mouth to her. “We find the Owner and we try and get him alone to question him.”

“I don’t know how easy that’s going to be,” Nairo said. “He’ll more than likely have guards with him.”

“Don’t worry about that. Just focus on finding him and getting a seat nearby.”

“Right.”

They walked through the ancient hallways to the theatre proper. It was one of the most sumptuous hallways Nairo had been in. There was thick carpet everywhere that muffled footsteps and equally thick, cream coloured wall paper on the walls. There were posters of old shows lining the walls, displaying the long and illustrious history of the theatre. Some of them dated all the way back to the first days of Valderia. Red jacketed ushers stood at the doors to the theatre, checking tickets and directing people to their seats. Ridley skirted by them and made his way to the upper tier of seating.

“You think he’ll be up here?” Nairo asked as she followed him up the thin, winding staircase.

“The posh nobs usually have the private boxes,” Ridley replied. “I doubt we could get into them, so our next best bet is to be up high enough to see into them.”

At the top of the stairs they stepped into the dimly lit theatre, and for the first time it felt like they were at a memorial service. The entire theatre had been dressed in black. There were long black curtains on the stage, black banners had been hung around the theatre, even the seats had black ribbons tied to them. On the stage there was a giant painting of Lana LaRue surrounded by wreaths of flowers. Nairo stopped to look at the painting. Most portraits were stuffy and composed, but this one burst with life. Lana was laughing with a bright gleam in her twinkling green eyes. She was perfect. Her teeth were straight and white. Her nose was small and cute. She had dimples in both cheeks and the bounciest red hair Nairo had even seen. She was thin but curvaceous enough, with a long neck and perfect, unblemished skin. She almost didn’t seem real.

“Sarge,” Ridley hissed.

Nairo turned around and saw that he had made his way to the far left of the stage, closest to the VIP boxes. Nairo caught up with him as he peered into the boxes. He was attracting the attention of haughty guests around him who tutted and eyed him with open hostility.

“Is that… Mayor Pleasently?” Nairo hissed.

“Shit, it is.” Ridley said as he looked into the box furthest from them, the floppy blonde of the Mayor’s hair giving him away. “Everyone really is here… including the Weasel.” Ridley nodded his head across the theatre at a box opposite them. Sitting in the shadows of a VIP box with two hulking goons behind him and a young, brown haired woman next to him was Westley the Weasel. “Guess even Villains appreciate the theatre.”

“It was probably his dealers that sold her the Burn in the first place,” Nairo said coldly.

“Ladies and gentlemen, if you would like to find your seats, the memorial service will begin shortly,” a man in a tuxedo shouted from the stage as ushers walked up and down the aisles holding up signs for theatregoers to find their seats.

The theatre began to settle down, and the lights dimmed further. Ridley and Nairo took the seats immediately behind them, still curiously searching around, trying to spot their Owner.

“Why’s it got to be so dark?” Ridley muttered as he peered into each box, trying to figure out which one belonged to Shumacker.

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Melancholic music began to play as a hush fell over the audience.

“Wait,” Nairo said. “Is that him?”

She pointed to the box next to the Mayor’s. A family had just entered, there was a wife with a black veil, a baby in her arms, a tall man in a black suit who looked like a butler, and another man in an expensive looking black two piece suit. He had dark hair that was greying on the sides, a clean shaven face with a little dimple on his chin, and looked like he had been quite an athlete in his prime years, despite the middle-aged spread in his midsection he was carrying now. The Mayor looked over and greeted him with a sycophantic smile and wave, that the man returned with a small, dismissive nod.

“He looks the right age,” Nairo whispered. “And he’s got a wife and baby.”

“And he looks like he was born with a silver spoon shoved up his ass,” Ridley replied.

“Shh!” someone from behind them hissed at them.

“I think that’s our man,” Ridley said, ignoring the shusher. “Keep an eye on ‘em.”

They settled back into their seats as the curtain was raised. On stage was a rotund man in a black three piece suit that was barely containing his enormous gut. He was enormous, standing at least six and a half feet tall and with a gut that distended well over his belt line. He had wild black hair that stuck up like it had been shocked. He dabbed his already sweaty brow with a black handkerchief and then dabbed dramatically at the corners of his eyes.

“Welcome all, my name is Ozyamdal Litteragi, director, proprietor, writer, and dear friend to the departed.” He paused for a polite applause. “It is with the heaviest of hearts that I take to the stage tonight for the final curtain call for our beloved…” his voice caught in his throat, and he dabbed at his eyes again. “For our beloved Lana LaRue.”

Again, there was a polite applause, punctuated by sniffles, and the odd sob from the audience.

“Lana was the best of us. As sweet and pure as fresh snow. She was the future of our industry and the darling of our hearts. For her to be taken so cruelly… so young…” again Ozymandal’s voice broke, and this time he sobbed.

He covered his face with the black handkerchief as his shoulders trembled. More weeping broke out in the audience. A young girl ran on to the stage from the wings and hugged him. Nairo watched the Owner’s VIP box. Shumacker looked unmoved. Literally, he was like a frozen block of ice.

“I’m sorry, do forgive me.” Ozymandal dabbed at his eyes and took a deep breath. “Let tonight be a celebration to a light that burned so bright. Let us join together and celebrate the life of Lana LaRue as her friends, nearest and dearest, knew her best!”

Applause broke out.

“Oh boy, this is so hammy I could slap two slices of bread on him and make a sandwich,” Ridley snorted from the seat next to her.

“He is laying it on a bit thick, isn’t he?” Nairo agreed. There was something too performative about the presentation, almost as if even the breaks in his voice had been rehearsed.

“Actors,” Ridley said, rolling his eyes.

The stage was cleared, and a small choir entered, taking up their positions just out of the main light. Eliza Hartwell walked on stage in a beautiful, satin black dress that hugged her figure. She dabbed at her eyes and took a deep breath.

“This was Lana’s favourite song. Wherever you are baby, I hope you hear this,” Eliza said, looking up to the heavens.

Music began, and the choir started to hum.

“Come on, we ain’t here to enjoy the show,” Ridley murmured to Nairo. He jumped out of his seat and stalked down the rows until he found the stairs. “We need to try and get into the VIP box.”

“No chance,” Nairo said. “It’s going to be guarded. Especially with the Mayor in the box next to him. We won’t even get close.”

Nairo was right. They couldn’t even get to the foot of the stairs that led up to the VIP boxes. There were guards and police stationed at the entrance to the stairs, and they didn’t look like they could be easily fooled by one of Ridley’s bizarre aliases. Nairo and Ridley circumvented them, trying to find another access route but everywhere was closely guarded. After three failed attempts they realised there was no way of getting through.

“We’ll have to wait until the intermission,” Nairo said.

“Great,” Ridley sighed. "Well, I don’t fancy going back in there, we might as well try and do something useful with the time.”

“Like what?”

“Wasn’t LaRue’s body found in this theatre?”

“I think so.”

“Then let’s go and have a look at the scene.”

“How? It’s backstage.”

Ridley shrugged and made a beeline for the backstage entrance to the theatre. It was surprisingly easy to slip their way backstage as everyone was busy watching the show. After slipping an usher a gold piece, they were able to make their way into the bowels of the Umbry theatre, and it was rather disappointing. The glitz and glamour of show business ended at the curtain, apparently. Backstage was a bare, slightly dirty, and disorganised space. There were people running around in a panic, holding dresses, costumes, pieces of sets, with half completed make up, and pushing around large crates. Nairo had learned from Ridley that when you were somewhere you shouldn’t be, you just walk confidently in one direction and not make eye contact with anyone. That was what they did. They strode forward, aiming for where they assumed the dressing rooms would be.

“Umm excuse me?” a shrill, timid voice said from behind them.

They stopped and turned to see a young, harried looking woman holding a clipboard and blinking owlishly at them from behind thick spectacles.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“We’re with the band,” Ridley lied.

She blinked again and looked them up and down.

“I don’t think so.”

“We’re with Ms. Hartwell,” Nairo said.

“How do you fans keep getting back here?" The woman sighed. “This is a memorial show! Can’t you at least have some respect tonight of all nights! Security!”

“No, we’re not fans,” Nairo said quickly. “We’re Ms. Hartwell’s guests. Look.” Nairo held up their invitations, and the woman peered at them.

“What’s up, Stef?” a burly, red jacketed security guard said as he made his way over to them.

Stephanie looked at their invitation suspiciously.

“These are invitations, but that doesn't mean you can be backstage,” she said to them. “Can you escort these two back to their seats?”

“We need to talk to Ms. Hartwell,” Nairo said.

“It’s about some important business she has going on, and she won’t be happy if you send us away,” Ridley warned the girl.

Stephanie chewed her lip and then ran her hand through her greasy, tousled hair.

“Okay fine. Roger, take these two to Eliza’s dressing room. If she doesn’t want to see them, then throw them out… Mariah, that costume isn’t going on until the final quarter! I needed the blue one! The blue one!” Stephanie ran off, waving her clipboard at a beleaguered seamstress.

“Sure thing,” Roger muttered before nodding at Nairo and Ridley. “Come on.”

He led them through the frenetic maze that was the backstage area until they reached Eliza’s dressing room. He knocked twice and waited.

"What?"

“Ms. Hartwell, I’ve got two of your guests here, they say they need to talk to you.”

“Guests? I don’t have any guests! Go away!"

Roger turned to them and raised an eyebrow.

“Come on then, let’s be having you.”

“Ms. Hartwell, it’s us!” Nairo shouted through the door. “Quinn’s friends!”

There was a scraping noise followed by the clattering of furniture falling over.

“Just a minute!”

There were more frantic sounds, and then the door cracked open. Eliza was standing there in just a slip, her eyes wide and her pupils the size of small saucers. She rubbed at her nose.

“What are you doing here?”

“We need to talk. Can we come in?” Ridley said, brushing past the security guard and pushing the door open.

“Okay. Yes. Sure. Thank you, Roger, I’ll take it from here.”

“You sure, maam?” Roger asked.

His only response was the door being slammed in his face.