15

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know you would be coming back here,” Eliza tittered nervously as she quickly cleared away a few things, including a little pile of orange powder.

“Did we interrupt the party?” Ridley said with a wry grin on his face.

“What? Oh no… I just… you know it’s just a little umm… after a performance it just helps me too…” Eliza stammered.

“Hey, relax, we ain’t the police,” Ridley said, looking around the cramped and messy dressing room. "Well, she used to be.”

“You did?” Eliza’s eyes widened and she wiped at her red nose again.

“Yes, but I’m not anymore.” Nairo replied.

“Oh right… okay. Well… ummm… what are you doing here?”

“Is that Shumacker up in the VIP box?” Ridley asked, looking at the pile of scrunched up lingerie in the corner of the room.

“Oh, probably.”

“Is he a middle aged man with dark hair, greying on the sides, and clean shaven? He had a woman and a young baby with him.” Nairo said.

“That sounds like Fred.”

“He brought his wife to his mistress’ memorial service?” Ridley said incredulously.

“Of course, it would look strange if she didn’t accompany him to such a big event. But he brought the baby too?” Eliza asked.

“Yeah,” Ridley said.

“That is strange,” Eliza said, sitting down on a collapsable wooden chair and downing the remains of her champagne. “But from what I hear, his wife isn’t totally right upstairs. She’s so protective of that baby, she won’t let him out of her sight for a minute. She won’t even let Fred go near him unless she’s there.”

“Did his wife know about Lana?” Nairo asked.

Eliza lit a smoke and then gave a small titter.

“If she didn’t, she was the only one in the city. Fred’s an Owner, he does what he wants, and everyone, including Leanne Shumacker, has to accept it.”

“That his wife’s name?” Ridley asked, and Eliza nodded. “Do you think you could get us face to face with Shumacker? We still need to talk to him.”

Eliza poured more champagne and shook her head.

“No chance. At social events like this, Fred is the dutiful Owner. He has security around him at all times.”

“Shit,” Ridley grumbled.

“Anyway, I told you Fred didn’t hurt Susie.”

“We still need to eliminate him from our investigation,” Nairo said.

“I wish I could help, but me and Fred aren’t exactly close like that. Drink?” she asked offering them the bottle.

"No thank you, we're working." Nairo said quickly before Ridley could be tempted. But his mind was solely on the case.

“Can you take us to Susie’s dressing room?” Ridley asked. “The one she was found in.”

“Why do you want to go there?” Eliza said sharply.

“To see the scene of the crime,” Nairo replied. “There may be some clue there as to what really happened.”

“The police have already been in there,” Eliza said.

“Despite that, we might still be able to find something useful. You said yourself, the coppers called it a suicide straight away, there may be something they didn’t even bother looking for,” Ridley said.

“Okay… that makes sense,” Eliza conceded. “I can take you there, but I don’t want to go in.”

“That’s fine,” Nairo said.

Eliza hopped off her chair, slightly unsteady on her bare feet, and she tottered towards the door.

“Umm, do you want to put something on before we go?” Nairo asked, looking at the sheer slip Eliza was wearing.

“Oh gosh!” Eliza tittered, her cheeks ruddy and her eyes slightly unfocused.

“Here,” Nairo said, taking off her black long coat and draping it around the singer’s shoulders.

“Thank you!” Eliza said, flashing Nairo a white toothed smile before wandering out of the room.

“Nice going, Sarge.” Ridley muttered as he walked past her. “You ruined the view.”

“Keep it in your pants, Ridley.”

He grinned at her, and they followed behind Eliza as she led them through the warren of tiny dressing rooms until they reached one that had police rope across it still. There were black candles and flowers laid out in front of the dressing room.

“No one’s been in here since,” Eliza said, hugging the coat around her.

“You can just wait here,” Nairo said to her. “We’ll only be a few minutes.”

Eliza nodded and wiped at her nose miserably.

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Ridley removed the police rope and opened the door. The dressing room was bigger than Eliza’s and had more creature comforts and less mess. There was a large mirror above the dresser with little Gowstones all around the edges. Opposite to that was a little, squashed sofa, and a wardrobe bursting with clothes. One corner of the floor was piled high with discarded clothes.

“It's very... pink,” Ridley said, looking around the room.

It was true. Nairo didn’t know how old LaRue actually was, but the dressing room felt like that of a teenage girl. There were posters of beautiful dresses hung all around, punctuated by paintings of horses and fields. There were packs of empty sweet treats strewn around the room and, as Ridley had said, a lot of pink. There were pink dresses, pink wigs, pink powders, and even the sofa was dressed in a pink blanket.

Nairo and Ridley began their silent dance of discovery. Ridley began rummaging through the drawers of the dresser while Nairo opened the closet. Without speaking, they both knew they were looking for anything hidden. Most drug addicts had little hiding places for their stashes. Usually they were in false bottoms, the back of closets, under beds, or inside furnishings. Quickly and efficiently, they made their way around the room, bumping into each other occasionally.

“Nothing,” Ridley murmured after a few minutes.

“I remember reading in the papers that the police had found an opened packet of Burn when they discovered the body,” Nairo said.

“Yeah, that tracks. So what’s wrong?” Ridley asked her.

“There’s nothing else.”

“Nope.”

“There should be.”

“Yep. Paraphernalia. Pipes. Lighters. Hell, there’s not even a razor blade or an empty pack of smokes in here. No Chaaraam. Nothing.”

“So what was she doing? Eating the Burn?”

“Doubtful,” Ridley said. “Nothing else was found with the body and removed?”

“Not as far as I can remember. I could send a comm to Conway and get the police report.”

“Do that. Where was she found?”

“On the sofa.”

They both turned and faced the sofa where Lana LaRue had spent her final moments.

“Give me a hand,” Ridley said.

They pulled the sofa forward in the cramped space and then pulled up the pillows.

"Well, the girl had a sweet tooth,” Nairo said, picking up a half finished packet of powdered chocolate balls that had become wedged in the side of the sofa.

“She was eating before she died?” Ridley asked. “Burners don’t eat when they’re high, makes ‘em sick.”

“Could have been from before,” Nairo said. “There’s loads of empty packets around here.”

“Yeah…” Ridley said thoughtfully. “Bag that. We’ll take it with us.”

Nairo nodded and slipped the half eaten packet of sweets into an evidence bag.

“There’s nothing else here,” Nairo said, looking around the room and feeling an odd sense of sadness.

Susan 'Lana LaRue' Delaney had barely begun life. She was just a kid really, dragged out of suburban anonymity and thrust into the limelight. And now she was dead.

“What’s that?” Nairo asked, wandering over to the drawers that Ridley had pilfered through.

“What?”

Nairo picked up a nearly empty plastic pill bottle. Inside there were a few sticky looking twigs with small black berries on them.

“Dunno,” Ridley said.

Nairo looked at it curiously. There was something familiar about the bottle, but she couldn’t place it. Without thinking, she popped the bottle into her pocket besides the half eaten pack of sweets.

“It looks like Eliza was at least telling the truth about LaRue going straight,” Ridley said. “Not even a bottle of wine in here.”

“Shame Eliza doesn't follow her example,” Nairo said.

“Its showbiz, Sarge. They’re all high as pigeon balls. But it does paint a picture. Lots of drugs, lots of alcohol, lots of partying. How straight LaRue was is up for debate but she wasn’t doing anything in here.”

“Agreed.”

“Come on, I think it should be close to the intermission. We might be able to catch Shumacker coming out of his box,” Ridley said.

They left the room and Eliza showed them the quickest way back to the theatre.

Ridley’s internal clock was spot on as usual. The lights had come back up, and the mourners were all flooded towards the bars and toilets during the intermission. Nairo and Ridley hung around the bar closest to the VIP boxes, trying not to raise suspicion. It was quieter here. Most VIPs order drinks and food to their boxes, so it wasn't particularly busy. Just when they had given up hope of running into Shumacher, they heard raised voices coming down the stairs. A woman’s shrill voice punctuated by the pitiful cries of a baby.

“I will not stay here a minute longer to be embarrassed!”

“Do as you wish Leanne,” a bored, disaffected man’s voice replied.

“I am going home!”

The door to the stairs opened, and the Shumacker’s came storming out. Lady Shumacker was first. She was an elegant woman who was probably absolutely stunning in her younger years. She was tall, with a long neck, dark hair, blue eyes, and high cheek bones. Her eyes seethed fury as she stormed by them, clutching a squealing babe to her breast. She made eye contact with them for only a brief moment before raising her nose haughtily and storming past. Wilfried ‘Fred’ Schumacker came next. He was quite an average man up close. Average height, average build for his age, with a plain, somewhat chinless face. He sighed as he watched his wife storm away before turning to the butler.

“Carter, see Lady Shumacker gets home safely. I will return by myself.” Shumacker said as if already bored with the whole display.

The Butler was altogether more striking than his master. He was a whole head taller, broader in the shoulders, with a long face. He had thick eyebrows and eyes so dark they almost looked black. He looked younger than Shumacker, but life had worn him rough. He had the faint remains of a scar across his left cheek.

“Yes sir,” Carter, the Butler replied.

He had the guttural accent of Valderia’s working class accent masked with the sweet sugar of one educated at a place where everyone had double barreled surnames.

The Butler gave Shumacker a stiff bow and then turned to follow his Lady. He looked at Nairo and Ridley standing there, there was a flash of suspicion in his dark eyes, and then he was gone.

“This is our chance,” Ridley hissed at Nairo, stepping towards Shumacker.

“Ahh Fred! Good to see you old chap,” a gaunt old man suddenly appeared from another staircase and shook hands with Shumacker.

With him came three guards that firmly placed themselves between Ridley and Shumacker. They eyed Ridley with open hostility. As the relentless PI tried to duck around them, Fred was already gone, having been whisked away by more social interactions back up to the private box.

“Damn it!” Ridley snarled.

“What are you doing here? This is a private members lounge,” a haughty usher said to them as he came over with two more red jacketed security guards.

“Oh shove it up your ass,” Ridley snapped at him. “Come on, Sarge. We ain’t getting close to him here.”

Together, they left the theatre with more questions and very few answers.

"Sounds like Lady Shumacker might not be as naive as people think," Nairo said.

"It's one thing for your husband to have secret affairs," Ridley said. "And another to have it rubbed in your face."

“It didn’t seem like he was particularly bothered,” Nairo said.

“Most Owners are borderline psychopaths. Must be in the genes.”

“What’s our next move?” Nairo asked as they climbed into a waiting cab.

“We need to find out more about this Shumacker,” Ridley growled.

“Time to start poking bushes and asking questions?” Nairo said.

“Yeah. Something ain’t right with him. I got a gut feeling.”

“Could be you’re hungry,” Nairo said playfully. “Want to stop for mystery meat and a beer?”

“You read my mind, Sarge.”