by Maxine Barry
Some of the more experienced knew that weekend shows required living and working closely together, and everything went a lot more smoothly if you made friends and got on together. So by the time Annis Whittington walked in, the room was crowded, much warmer than it had been, and noisily filled with chat and gossip about ‘the business’.
‘I heard she only got the part because of her sister. You know, they wanted the name, but of course they couldn’t afford the real thing. Still, the younger sister is nearly as pretty . . .’
Annis smiled at the two women who were talking about the latest English film to do well in America, and looked around. She quickly picked out Ray Verney.
‘Hello m’dear,’ Ray beamed at her as she approached, ticking her name off his checklist. ‘You must be Annis? Oh good—you’re the killer.’
Annis laughed. ‘Really?’ She rubbed her hands together. ‘I’ve always wanted to play a homicidal maniac!’
Ray quite liked actors—they were all so self-absorbed for one thing. All the better for him! Not one of them was going to be much interested in what the producer got up to behind the scenes.
Ray’s gaze lingered on her face as Annis smiled. He knew she was in her mid-twenties and her free, flowing cap of bell-shaped black hair was very appealing, and her eyes . . . Ray blinked in surprise. They were a strange, tawny, almost amber colour. Very striking. If he’d been a film producer, he would have been excited by those eyes. The woman certainly had . . . something. Still, even beautiful actresses had to eat.
‘Who do I get to kill?’ Annis asked, and several of the others looked up and grinned at her.
‘Me, for one,’ the actor playing the first murder victim spoke up, his eyes caressing as they ran over her. Annis glanced his way. From the way he smiled at her she guessed he was far too vain to be of any interest. She smiled politely but ruefully.
‘And your other victim hasn’t arrived yet,’ Ray noted, with a slight scowl. ‘Reeve Morgan’.
Annis frowned. She’d heard that name before somewhere. A faint prickle at the back of her neck told her that what she’d heard hadn’t been flattering either. Reeve Morgan . . .
‘Hello. I’m Julie.’ A pretty blonde girl introduced herself. ‘This is Gerry.’
‘Hello. Annis Whittington. Have you ever done one of these things before?’ she asked with a small laugh. ‘I haven’t.’
Julie yawned and glanced at her watch. ‘I thought we were supposed to get started at eight?’
Annis’s own watch told her that it was already twenty past. She shrugged. ‘We’re missing one of our number. Reeve Morgan.’
‘Reeve Morgan?’ Gerry said sharply. ‘Really? Too small potatoes for him I would have thought.’
‘Oh?’ Annis asked, raising one black eyebrow inquisitively. ‘I seem to have heard his name before . . . ’
‘He wrote a radio drama which was aired not so long ago.’
‘That’s right,’ Julie said. ‘I remember listening to it now.’
‘It was good,’ Gerry agreed, ‘I suppose that’s why the director cast him in the leading role.’
Annis’s lips twisted. ‘Very clever,’ she said dryly. She herself had no talents in the screen-writing department, although she knew a lot of actors thought of it as a good short-cut to a part. ‘What’s the betting he’s recently written a murder-mystery screenplay?’ she asked, looking at Gerry, who smiled at her knowingly. ‘And what’s the betting there’s someone at this conference who’s acquiring drama for television companies?’
‘I’ve heard something else about him too,’ Julie mused. ‘Didn’t someone say . . . ? I know! Isn’t his father stinking rich?’
Annis smiled bitterly. The thought of rich, good-looking young men just waltzing through life, taking everything for granted, really got her goat.
Gerry coughed. It was a strange, choking-like cough, and Annis glanced at her surprised.
‘I daresay his father knows somebody in television, too,’ Annis carried on grimly. ‘No doubt he’s asked some old school friend of his in the publishing business to give his son’s screenplay the once over . . . ’
Julie had begun to turn a distinct shade of red. That was odd for someone so very fair, and Annis glanced at her, puzzled. Then she became aware that everyone else had stopped speaking.
And then, slowly, Annis felt the colour ebb away from her face, and then rush back. Agonisingly, she glanced at Gerry, who gave an almost imperceptible nod and looked away.
Annis took a deep, slow breath, and slowly turned around.
Standing right behind her was the most handsome man Annis had ever seen. He was about six feet tall, with very dark brown hair which curled loosely. Everything about him screamed classical good looks—from the strong chin, to the straight, well-shaped nostrils, to the full, but tightly-moulded lips. His eyes were the deepest blue she’d ever seen. There was obviously some Celtic ancestry somewhere in his blood. Right now, those eyes were boring into her like lasers. He looked well-heeled. Successful. Too handsome for words. And angry.
And he had to be—could only be—Reeve Morgan.
And Annis knew with a sinking heart that he must have heard every derogatory word she’d been saying about him. She felt her chin angle up in mute challenge. Her tawny eyes flashed. She was damned if she was going to cringe with embarrassment or apologise. Even if she was in the wrong! She held out her hand. It was perfectly steady. ‘Hello. You must be Reeve Morgan?’ she asked coolly, her voice ringing out clearly.
Reeve looked down at the hand she held out. And found himself taking it. Her grip was surprisingly firm.
When he’d walked in and heard himself being bad-mouthed, he’d found himself anticipating the black-haired woman’s grovelling apology. But she looked about as embarrassed as an ice queen.
He looked into the level, tawny, unbelievably lovely eyes. They seemed to trap his breath somewhere between his lungs and his throat. Damn her, did she have to look so . . . amused?
‘Yes. I’m Reeve Morgan,’ he agreed, his voice cold and uncompromising. ‘And you are . . . ?’
‘Annis Whittington.’
‘Annis,’ he echoed grimly. And managed a smile—a simple flash of perfect, white teeth. ‘You obviously know my family background right down to my very rich father. By the way, he made his fortune in car parts.’
Annis forced herself not to blush. It was only because she was such a very good actress that she managed it. ‘How nice for you,’ she said sweetly.
‘And he did, as it happens, give me a loan to see me through my training. Anything else you’d like to know?’ he asked grittily.
Annis’s chin lifted yet another inch, at five feet six, she’d always found tall men a literal pain in the neck. This one, she realised instinctively, was going for the double—a physical pain in the neck, and a figurative one! As the rest of the cast held their breath, waiting for an explosion, Reeve wondered what those flashing tawny eyes would look like, sleepy and sated after a night of passionate lovemaking . . . ? He felt his body stir, and firmly held it in check.
Annis ignored the voice at the back of her mind that insisted she owed him an apology. Apologise to . . . him? Never in this life! Instead she asked coolly, ‘Yes. Just one thing. Do you have a screenplay you’re hoping to sell at this murder weekend?’
And suddenly it was Reeve’s turn to use every ounce of his acting skill. To keep the tell-tale shocked reaction off his face. Because she had him, fair and square. He was hoping to sell a screenplay he’d written to one of the literary agents at the conference. Not that he’d ever admit it now. He’d rather undergo torture than admit anything to this tawny-eyed virago!
He allowed himself a single, cool, mockingly superior smile. Then, with some effort, dragged himself away. He left Annis standing there, fuming, and walked towards Ray Verney. As he did so, he could feel her eyes boring into his back.
What a sharp-tongued, evil-minded . . . what a beautiful, clever, interesting woman . . .
CHAPTER THREE
Second-year student, Frederica Delacroix pushed open one of the two heavy wooden doors of the Ruskin School of Drawing and Fine Art and found herself in a tiny space with egg-shell blue walls and two other doors facing her, giving way to a black-and-white tiled hall. She paused in the entrance foyer as she noticed that a new exhibit had gone up; the work of a photographer.
She sprinted up the concrete stairs to the second floor and glanced into the studio to see whether anybody was about. Nobody was. It was only nine-thirty in the morning, and most of her fellow artists were late risers. She carried on up to the third and top floor, where her small ‘workspace’, shared with three others, waited for her.
Frederica uncovered her easel and, with a rubber band, gathered her tightly-curled, long auburn hair off her face and into a rather becoming pony tail. She reached for her smock, which smelt of linseed oil, as her deep velvet brown eyes assessed her work-in-progress. She looked taller than her five feet eight, possibly because she had that particular kind of slender build that made her seem willowy. At only twenty, she carried herself with the confidence of a much older woman, but a smattering of freckles ran across the bridge of her nose like impudent childish memories. Men found the combination irresistible. Not that she ever noticed male appreciation.
From the age of five, her ambition had been to break through the male-dominated world of painting to become a respected, noted artist. She, therefore, had little time or inclination to pursue such feminine things as trendy hairstyles, fashionable clothes, make-up or men. It would have annoyed many women to see how she wore the old canvas smock as if it were a designer original. Her skin, the fair, creamy pale colour of camellias, didn’t need cosmetics. Her hair, a Titian cascade of rich auburn which had never felt a hairdresser’s scissors, would have made an advertising mogul drool.
But Frederica had eyes only for her latest canvas.
It was a depiction of a semi-detached house on a council estate, poverty-stricken and lived-in. The bumper of an old car was in the foreground. A satellite dish was on the wall of the next door house. A cat slept on the roof of the porch. Nearing completion, even a novice could tell that it was extremely well-painted. The cat was black-and-white, and Frederica was just in the process of giving it whiskers. It was so real that anyone looking at the painting could almost hear it purr out loud. The liquidity of the bones, the upturned chin, were so . . . feline. It was an hour before Frederica finally stepped back, looking at her work, wondering if it really was good, or if she was only fooling herself. She removed the smock, glancing at her watch as she did so.
It was Friday, and she had no tutorials until the following Monday, so she left, trotting lightly back down the stairs. In the Hall, a first-year student stopped, his eyes lighting up. Tim Gregson was good-looking—and he knew it. All dark hair, grey eyes and flashing grin. ‘Hello there, gorgeous.’
Frederica gave him a good-humoured, if slightly jaded, smile.
‘Fancy coming with me to check out that new Jazz club?’ he asked, leaning as close to her as he could get without being obvious about it.
Frederica took a hasty step back. ‘No thanks. Busy.’ She quickly cast about for something to take his mind off his libido. ‘How are Prelims going?’ she asked softly, and watched his face tighten in apprehension.
The three-year Bachelor of Fine Arts course at the Ruskin was divided into distinct stages—the first year being the hardest, for it was then that every student had to pass exams in no fewer than six disciplines—Painting, Drawing, Print-making, Sculpture, Human Anatomy and Art History. In the second year, students chose one or two areas to concentrate on. The third year was then taken up with building a body of work for the Final Degree Show.
Tim Gregson gulped nosily as he contemplated exams. ‘Oh, all right I think. It’s the Drawing I’m worried about. Sculpture is more my line.’
Frederica nodded, not without sympathy, and managed to slip away. If she’d been paying more attention to the notice board she would have noted the imminent arrival of a Visiting Fellow—the eminent art expert and gallery owner, Lorcan Greene. But she didn’t see it, however, and instead strolled back to St Bede’s.
Situated just off St Giles, St Bede’s was a large college, with three big student residences. As she made her way to her pleasant room in Walton, overlooking the Fellows’ Garden with its impressive silver birches, she began to smile. Life was looking good. She was on her way. She had all but waltzed through her Prelims, and had no doubt about her choice of future discipline. Her Tutor was in complete agreement with her—Frederica Delacroix had been born to paint. She was one of those students Tutors lived for—an obvious, stunning talent.
Frederica packed a small overnight case, and as it was a fine day, she decided to walk to the train station. Her home was a small village in Gloucestershire on the edge of the Cotswolds, and it was prime landscape-painting country. The train was on time and the journey was relatively short. When she alighted, carrying her case with careless ease, it was barely one o’clock.
As she walked up a narrow lane frothing with cow parsley, she noticed with pleasure that the swallows had arrived. Rainbow House, the Delacroix family home for centuries, was on the very outskirts of Cross Keys, and was a sturdy, square, no-nonsense country gentleman’s residence; her heart lifted when she turned the last bend in the narrow country lane and saw it. Her mother, a keen gardener, kept the square, walled garden in immaculate, colourful, condition and her solicitor father, was the last in a long line of Delacroixs.
One day, she knew, she would marry and have a family of her own. So far, though, she hadn’t even had a lover. Still, there was plenty of time for all that.
She walked through the gate that lead to the west side of the house, glancing up at the dormer windows on the second floor as she did so. She coveted that corner room—a lot of windows, a lot of natural light, as it got both morning and afternoon sunlight. It would make a perfect artist’s studio. Now that her father was finally convinced she was going to be a painter, it wouldn’t take much to persuade him to convert the room for her.
‘Frederica! Darling! I didn’t know you were coming home for the weekend!’ The voice came from a big clump of beautifully scented white peonies. Closer inspection revealed Donna Delacroix, Frederica’s mother, on her hands and knees, pulling up some recalcitrant groundsel.
‘I did tell you,’ Frederica said mildly with a fond smile. Her mother’s memory had nothing on a sieve!
‘Oh, yes, I suppose you did,’ Donna stood and hugged her daughter. ‘Do you want some lunch?’
‘Hmm, yes please,’ Frederica said, following her mother into the cool, terracotta-tiled farmhouse kitchen. She ran up to her room to unpack and wash, and when she came back down, the kettle was boiling merrily.
Donna was a small, neat, utterly English country lady, who worked in a charity shop two days a week, was a member of her local Women’s Institute and took pride in her home and garden—opening both to the public in the summer, to raise money for charity.
Her mother rushed off after lunch to join one of her friends in a baking marathon for the forthcoming village fête, so Frederica had the whole afternoon to herself, spending some of it in the small but well-stocked library, and the rest of it walking in the bluebell woods at the furthest boundary of her father’s small plot of land. When she returned, the church clock was just striking five. Surprisingly, her father’s car was already parked in the driveway.
James Delacroix was sitting in his favourite chair, smoking his pipe when Frederica whirled in to his study.
‘Freddy!’ He regarded his only child with affection, expecting, and receiving, an embrace and a kiss on the cheek.
‘Dad.’ Frederica stood back, her head cocked to one side. ‘You’re home early.’
James coughed. ‘Er . . . yes. Your mother is out, isn’t she?’ Frederica suspected that he already knew the answer. She smiled. ‘Yes, she is.’
James grunted, looked at
his pipe, looked at his daughter, coughed again, and stuck the pipe in his mouth. ‘How’s school?’ he mumbled around it.
He always insisted on referring to her studies at Oxford as ‘being at school’. He’d never really approved of her choice of career, but when she’d won a place at the prestigious Ruskin, he’d become resigned to his fate of having an artist for a daughter. Not that Frederica could blame him for having doubts. Despite being only very vaguely related to the great nineteenth-century French artist, Eugène Delacroix, several members of her family had, in the past, tried their hands at painting—with only one or two having met with even modest success.
In the Victorian era, an ancestor had begun collecting paintings, and his descendants had caught the bug, the result being that Rainbow House now possessed some very fine paintings, some mediocre ones—and some that made Frederica cringe with embarrassment! In addition, scattered amongst these paintings were Delacroix family originals, most of which were quite dreadful.
So when his only daughter had announced, at the age of six, that she was going to be a famous artist, it was hardly surprising that James Delacroix had hoped she’d grow out of it. But she hadn’t. Now, with her Tutor’s recent endorsements still echoing in his ears, James Delacroix was hoping that Freddy’s artistic expertise could come in downright useful.
‘Da . . . a . . . ad,’ Frederica said, stringing his name out cautiously. ‘Is something wrong?’ She knew that sheepish look on his face only too well.
James sighed. ‘Come with me,’ he said, leading her to the Blue Salon, which appeared much as it always had: good, solid country furniture, fine but faded velvet curtains, and the usual Rainbow House mix of paintings—the good, the bad and the ugly. Frederica immediately noticed the gap on the wall, and quickly pointed it out.
James blushed, making Frederica stare at him in amazement. ‘Dad?’ she said, her voice sounding sharper than she’d intended.