The Queen Con (The Golden Arrow Mysteries Book 2)

by Meghan Scott Molin

  Lawrence. Latifah. And apparently by proxy Ryan, me, and the Arrow.

  Matteo and I exchange significant glances. Cleo is sounding less and less like the Queen of Hearts and more and more like a victim of circumstance.

  “But Cleopatra is no pawn, and I decided, from here on out, I am queen of my own destiny. No more expecting someone else to make it for me.” She turns to me. “I am so sorry you and your friends were hurt. I’m sorry Louis overdosed on the drugs being sold at my party. I want to help you catch this person, in exchange for leniency in my sentencing.”

  The way she frames Louis’s accident isn’t sitting right. “But you’re the Queen. The Queen of Hearts, I mean. Right? That’s what you came to confess?”

  Cleo looks confused. “That’s what he calls me, his ‘Little Queen of Hearts,’ but how did you know? I thought it was sort of a pet name.” She looks between us. “There’s something I’m missing?”

  Uh-oh.

  “Ah,” I press, “so are you here to confess to being a drug lord?”

  I can basically hear Matteo hitting his hand on his head. This is far from an official interview room. I probably shouldn’t even be asking these questions. Ask forgiveness and not permission, I guess.

  “Drug lord—no, I’m a performer. Now, I don’t mind if people have a little fun, but I’m not spending my time dealing, if that’s what you’re talking about.”

  “Purveying is more like it.” My lips thin.

  Cleo looks alarmed now. “What?”

  I eye Matteo, who frantically shakes his head, then adamantly ignore him. “The person who took Muñez’s and Agent Sosa’s”—I pause to make sure Cleo nods in recognition before I continue—“place in the drug community is known as the Queen of Hearts. And since Louis OD’d on those specific drugs at your party, and since Lawrence was pulled aside and threatened at another of your parties . . . well . . . you’re the prime suspect.”

  “I had nothing to do with that,” Cleo says. “I mean, I knew there were drugs there. There usually are a few people carrying, and a few using. But I’m not behind it.”

  “Not on purpose,” I say, grimly. It seems to me that Cleo’s partner probably meant to frame her for all this, and he’s very neatly tied it all up. “This person funding your ‘rise to the top’—can you give us a little more information? Name? Address?”

  Cleo’s face crumples. “I know you’re going to think I’m stupid, but I don’t even have a last name. He always contacted me, never the other way around. It felt like such a dream, I didn’t question it.”

  More like a nightmare.

  Matteo shakes his head. “This is all on your word, which will never stand up in court. I’m sorry you’ve been used, but if you can’t even provide a name . . .”

  “I can do something better. Halloween. He specifically asked me to get involved. To help plan, and to keep him informed about Latifah’s status—”

  “Ha!” Ryan breaks in, pointing at me. “I told you she was up to something.”

  Cleo holds up a hand. “That was the plan, but I told him the day I picked up the pizzas that I didn’t want anyone else to get hurt. That I wanted to break ties. He threatened to tell the police it was me all along, and I was scared, so I agreed to help him.” She looks pleadingly at me. “I swear I didn’t know he was going to try and blow you up that night. I think I made him mad. He knows so much about me, it wouldn’t take much to frame me. And I really meant it, I was going to help just out of the goodness of my heart. I wasn’t going to tell him anything.”

  I snort, and Cleo’s eyes cast downward. “I deserve that. But I promise it’s true.”

  Matteo is all business. “This is all well and good, but what are you offering?”

  “To finish planning the party,” she offers.

  “She’s offering to be Severus Snape,” I clarify for Matteo and Ryan. “We know, but the benefactor doesn’t know we know.”

  “Exactly,” Cleo agrees. “I’ll tell him whatever you want. I’ll get him there, to the Halloween party. I’ll tell him Latifah is definitely going. I’ll help however I can; I just want you to catch him to keep him from hurting anyone else.”

  No one says anything for a long time.

  I clear my throat. “I think we should do it. It ties in perfectly with my plan.”

  “Your plan is terrible,” Matteo quips.

  “Do you have a better one?”

  Matteo is silent.

  I nod at Ryan. “You? Can you think of any other way to assure ourselves of a chance to stop this?” I need his cooperation too.

  Matteo sighs. “Fine, I’ll talk it over with Rideout.”

  “Tell him about my ideas for the costumes.”

  Ryan squints. “Yeah, remind me again why you’re not in costume in this scenario?”

  “Well,” I say, drawing it out, “someone has to host, and everyone already knows me. Everyone already can recognize Matteo from TV, so this is the only way to have him close to the action without tipping off our suspect. There are queens coming from all over California. That’s why this is perfect.”

  Neither Matteo nor Ryan looks enthusiastic, or sold on the idea.

  Matteo eyes Cleo. “How do we get your benefactor to agree to attend?”

  Cleo is prepared, it seems. “It’s simple. Just release the news story that Lawrence will make a recovery and his first appearance will be at the party after the parade—a presentation or something. Announce the Golden Arrow is in custody and you consider the investigation finished. Then you go undercover and wait for him to try and attack Lawrence, catch him red-handed, and voilà. One crime, neatly solved.”

  In the bed next to us, L stirs, and we all sit up straighter.

  “What the hell are you guys yammering about?” L says after a long moment of silence. “Can’t a queen get her beauty sleep?” His eyes widen as they land on Cleo.

  “We’re planning how to catch the person who did this to you.” The other one, but I don’t want to stress him out with details.

  L is silent a long time, and when he speaks, he sounds incredibly sleepy. “I’d rather you not.”

  I squeeze his hand. “It’s okay. Matteo and Ryan have agreed to go undercover as queens to try and catch them.” I ignore their looks of outrage. Okay, maybe agreed was a strong term. I nod toward the door. “We’re just leaving to go to the station and iron out our plan.”

  Lawrence gives a wheezy laugh, is quiet long enough I’m pretty sure he’s fallen back asleep, then speaks without opening his eyes. “You’d better take pictures. I want to see Hot-Lanta with boobs.”

  CHAPTER 30

  Shwanda and Amy Blondoniss have done a bang-up job—even I barely recognize Matteo or Ryan. Matteo makes a sultry contemporary Ariel—Shwanda’s homage to my bright red hair and a nod to the princess theme of the float. The entire past week, I’ve frantically thrown myself into costume construction—usually my favorite activity ever, but the time for these projects was so compressed I even did the draping on Ryan and Matteo. We plundered the entirety of L’s costume closet—upstairs and down—for material for all the looks. Ryan has his navy-inspired look, which didn’t take as much time as the supersecret look for the halftime of the lip-sync competition. If shit is going to go down, at least Ryan will look amazing.

  Ryan and Matteo both needed themed looks to wear in and near the float, and I simply adore the man in front of me—comfortable enough to be rocking a green-sequined skirt, flared at the bottom to suggest a tail. The ruffles that line the skirt’s layers hide Matteo’s thigh holster, and I cleverly sewed in a kill switch—a rip cord of sorts so that if Matteo really needed to run, the skirt would essentially disintegrate around him.

  “Is the clamshell bra really necessary?” Matteo asks. “And how does anyone ever see anything with these eyelash things on?”

  “You’ll get used to the eyelashes. I’d skip them except . . . no pageant queen would ever skip them. It would be a dead giveaway.” Amy Blondoniss silences Matteo
by applying another coat of green, glittery lipstick.

  L’s drag family is the utter best. “We couldn’t have done this without you guys.”

  “No one hurts our family and gets away with it,” Amy says.

  Luckily, Ryan has submitted more willingly to his ministrations, and his buxom, navy-boy-inspired Sailor Moon, princess of the galaxy, costume, to be exact. This look has been easy to put together; the trouble is going to be selling it. I have to hope that Ryan has a strutting, dance-loving queen somewhere deep inside his gamer soul.

  Shwanda comes over to check Matteo’s makeup and gives a nod of approval before leveling her gaze on Ryan. “Okay, remember, your name is Camila Toe Parker. You’re from Northern California, and this is your first year. It’ll go fine.”

  I have my own doubts, but there isn’t time to address them as Rideout arrives.

  He eyes Ryan, then Matteo, and wisely keeps his likely less-than-complimentary thoughts to himself. “The undercover detail is ready to roll with the float.”

  Outside our little tent, the crowd has gotten louder and louder. It’s time to take our place in line for the long drive to the venue. Matteo and Rideout have failed to find more than just the registered name of the catering company’s owner. The address was empty, and no credit history exists for this person. Either they deal in cash only, which seems unlikely, or the identity is a fake.

  We’ve baited our trap as best as I could figure out how—with Lawrence. We’ve told everyone we could think of that while Lawrence is still recovering, he plans on attending the lip-sync competition and making a special presentation.

  “Okay, we need to go over all this again,” Matteo says, then smacks his lips awkwardly around the glittery lipstick. “Ryan will keep a lookout on the float. Rideout and his crew will move with the float, and I’ll be riding in the cab with the driver. We all are wired, so make sure to signal at the very first sign of trouble. We don’t expect anything until the presentation, but . . . you never can be too careful.”

  We all nod. We have to hope that the Hatter is targeting Lawrence and will be drawn out by our bluff. So much hinges on tonight. Going in with only a hunch and a prayer feels rocky at best.

  I mount the stairs to the finished float and take a seat near the back to operate the champagne fountain behind the dancers, all my senses on alert. Beneath my feet, the engine of the large truck pulling the float roars to life, and the ship’s floor gives a shudder. In short order, we’re rolling out to Santa Monica behind several pedestrian groups and a jazz band. Dusk is falling; throngs of people line the street, and up ahead somewhere, music blares over a sound system. My blue Alice dress swishes around me in the wind, and I take stock.

  Cleopatra. She’s holding court in the prow of the boat, wearing a pink-sequined gown shot through with gold. Golden wings sprout from her back, she carries a harp, and her sash says, “Miss(es) Heaven.” Ryan joins several of the other dancers and loads up with Mardi Gras beads to throw. The music pumps to life, the lights on the interior of the float go up, I press the “On” button for the fountain, and we’re live. Cleopatra’s gaze connects with mine and she smiles. I return it as we roll forward.

  Game on, bitches.

  By the time we reach the venue, it’s fully dark, and the number of costumed people on the street makes looking for the Hatter impossible. I’m hot and sweaty despite the chill in the air thanks to the motor for the fountain, and frustrated. The float is a huge success—the crowds of people love the dancers and the bubbles created by the frothing champagne, and wave to the princesses at the bow of the boat. That should be balm to my soul—step one is complete for L’s vision—but all it does is amp my anxiety for the next step: the party, the lip-sync competition, and the presentation.

  We disembark the float at the door of the bar, and about one hundred people walk in the doors with us—queens, friends-of-queens—everyone is in costume, and it’s nearly impossible to identify anyone. I wade through a group of Club Kid–inspired queens and make my way into the emptier part of the venue. Halloween is my favorite holiday, mostly due to the costumes—I’m not disappointed tonight. Everything from a zombie Khal and Khaleesi to Dangermouse, and several convincing Supergirls. We also have our fair share of Golden Arrows, and several people running around in large hats. Any of whom could be our suspect, if my hunch about his costume is correct. I run right into Rideout, who is coming up from the back of the house.

  “Did he show?” We’d been hoping the caterer would be easy pickings and show up when the food did.

  Rideout shakes his head. “Someone from Hat Trick showed up, but he says the owner is coming later. Cleo assures us she’s played it straight and convinced him to come.”

  Great. I resist the urge to wipe my hand across my eyes, given my carefully applied makeup. The general atmosphere is amping up, and I look around. My eye catches a familiar form—I blink twice to make sure it’s really Daniel walking toward me.

  “Daniel!” I call out. “Or should I say . . .” I take in his costume. He looks a little like a Korean Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, so I’m stumped.

  “Tweedledee,” Daniel answers, giving his beanie a twirl. “Harrison is . . . well, he drew the short straw. Ryan told me there was a theme when I called to find out if it was okay if I came. I almost dressed as the Golden Arrow, but figured that it might be a little soon for that joke.”

  I swallow as awkward silence descends. “I’m—ah—sorry about that whole thing.”

  Daniel takes a moment to meet my eye again, then sighs. “I’m just lucky it was my little girl’s fall break with her mom and she has no idea I was in jail. I suppose I can eventually take it as a compliment that you thought I was cool enough to be a superhero.” He offers a hand, and I take it, giving it a firm squeeze. Things may not be perfect between us, but I have a feeling they’ll return to normal eventually.

  I turn to the corner where the deejay has already set up, a huge rack of lights ready to shine onto the oversize dance floor adjacent to the bar. I snag the microphone he has ready for us, and I mount the stairs to the catwalk that juts out into the space.

  “Hello, everyone!” I paste on the brightest smile I can. This is for L. This is for L. I freaking hate public speaking. In fact, I’m shaking in my black Mary Janes. Hundreds of eyes turn to mine, and large groups shift into the space, surrounding the stage by degrees. Waiters, dressed all in black, mingle through the crowd holding platters of steaming appetizers; service has begun.

  “Welcome!” I say again, trying to give the crowd time to settle.

  I had anticipated it would be difficult to identify our suspect before the presentation, but I didn’t know how hard. There are costumes of every make and model here. And more than several that involve Alice In Wonderland. It’s our only guess that perhaps, given the Hatter’s affinity for the work, he’ll wear a costume related to it.

  Matteo is also unnerved by the growing crowd. I can tell by the way he’s pacing the front of the crowd near the stage, his hand drifting every now and again to his seashell belt to make certain his holster is in position. I keep an eye on him and Ryan from the stage as I make my way to the end of the catwalk. Time to get Operation Mad Hatter underway. I introduce myself and share L’s vision for the evening to much applause. All the while, I’m watching the crowd. Eye contact from Shwanda, Amy Blondoniss, and Rideout. All shake their heads. It looks like we’re going to have to flush our quarry.

  Out of pleasantries, I motion to the decorated table to my right. “You’ll see our panel of esteemed judges for our Lip-Sync Spooktacular, and let’s make sure to mention that our winner gets a fabulous gift prize basket put together by our sponsors!” Our judges take their places, and the event begins just as Halloween festivities get into full swing outside.

  The first half of the lip-sync goes off without a hitch. There is a killer MJ queen duel with the song “Thriller,” and once or twice I’m so captivated that I forget I’m supposed to be watching for a would-be killer.
All too soon, the lights come up, and the judges have their heads in a huddle over their score sheets. The thrum of my pulse sings in my ears as I realize that this is our moment. This is what our planning and scheming have brought us to.

  My heartbeat matches my shuffle as I climb back up, standing to face everyone from the base of the catwalk.

  I clear my throat, catching sight of Matteo. He’s craning his neck around, pushing his red wig over his shoulder to allow better peripheral vision. At about my three o’clock, Daniel stands near the front—he doesn’t know exactly what’s going on, but I suspect he knows me well enough to read my unease. He’s looking at me with mild concern—a good reminder to keep up my cheery onstage persona. I don’t want to tip our poker hand too soon. Over his shoulder, I catch sight of another concerned face, and this one makes my stomach bottom out a little.

  Lelani. Dressed in a gorgeous black leather jumpsuit and brilliant, ringed faux-fur tail, she’s the Cheshire Catwoman. But she doesn’t look self-assured and polished. She’s watching me with so much anxiety written on her face that I know Ryan has told her enough of the plan that she knows he’s in danger. Heck, her boyfriend got injured by flying food debris worse than I did. She’s got a horse in this race too; as much as I wondered how Ryan and Lelani’s relationship was faring, she obviously cares about him. To the task at hand. Deploy net number one.

  “Before we get to our presentation, let’s give our sponsors a round of applause. I’d like to invite them up on the stage so that we can thank them properly.” I pull out a sheaf of notecards so that it looks official, even though this is part of our dragnet operation. In and among the local news station, makeup companies, party rental company, and hair products, I call the name of the catering company. It’s a special kind of torture, not being able to crane my neck around to see what happens when I read the name “Hat Trick,” but that’s what Matteo and Rideout are here for. Soon there is a line of people behind me, and after I give a short description of each of their businesses, I invite the crowd to join me in a round of applause in thanks. It’s nice for those vendors who didn’t come here with murder plans to get recognition, and it gives me an excuse to turn around and survey the line of folks behind me. No one looks familiar, no one looks threatening. I chance a glance at Matteo, who is in obvious contact with Rideout through his wire—he offers me a small shake of his head and my shoulders droop. Okay, step two.