Macho Man Murder

by Leslie Langtry

  "I wouldn't get too comfortable with that idea just yet. How are you going to get to the meeting at the zoo?"

  Inez pointed at a car with her mother in it, staring at her cell. "Mom."

  "No more talk about breaking these guys out either. They're getting out soon. They don't need your help."

  The girls looked at each other.

  I knew that look. That was the Mrs.-Wrath-isn't-going-to-like-something look. "What's going on?"

  "Well." Inez looked everywhere but into my eyes. "Don't get mad when something happens later."

  The girls linked arms and walked away. I didn't know what was going to happen tomorrow, but I was pretty sure I wasn't going to be happy about it.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  There was no time to waste. Harold was performing at noon in a one-man show at the Bladdersly Community Theater.

  I drove ten miles, trying to calm down after seeing my girls with Ron and Ivan. This was getting out of hand. I needed to get this case wrapped up and square away my troop before they decided to break criminals out of any of the Iowa penitentiaries, just to see if they could. And they wanted to use Cookie the Girl Scout Camp horse too! I was glad they were creative, but their imaginations could get them in trouble.

  That idiot Grimes. I was going to insist that Sheriff Carnack deal with him. Who thinks something like that is okay?

  I was just beginning to relax as I drove into the town square in Bladdersly and parked out front of a decrepit theater. The marquee had nothing on it indicating that something was going on. I got out of my car and tried the door. To my surprise, it was open.

  To my even bigger surprise, I handed over ten bucks to see Harold perform. I'd seen it before. He hadn't been convincing then, and I was fairly certain that hadn't changed. I took a seat in the back of the auditorium and spotted about two dozen people scattered throughout.

  Damn. I should've brought food. They didn't sell any concessions. Hopefully, a one-man show would be short.

  The lights went out, and a thin, pasty young woman slouched onto the stage.

  In a voice that made her sound dead inside, she grumbled, "Thank you for coming. Now on with the show."

  The curtain rose before she was offstage, but she walked slowly, as if it didn't matter anyway. There was a single spotlight on a single stool. That was the entire set. This was bad. It meant we had to rely on Harold to carry the entire show.

  An enormous man, with three strands of hair combed over on his head, labored from backstage, took a bow, and then perched on the stool. Then he launched into a monologue.

  "I was born in a small shack on the edge of the Louisiana bayou!" His voice boomed, filling the auditorium, which was good since there were so few people there.

  He began to talk about gumbo. In fact, for the next thirty minutes, that's all he talked about. I didn't think there was that much to say about the spicy Cajun dish. I was wrong. I'd like to say it was electrifying, but it wasn't.

  Harold looked terrible. How had he gained so much weight? Where had his hair gone? What happened to him? How had he managed to get into the CIA in the first place? Granted, his career had had the shelf life of a banana, but this was ridiculous. The acting was tenth rate, and the script was alarmingly dull. I did all I could not to fall asleep before the curtain fell. Which it did after a one-hour-long monologue about gumbo. He did four curtain calls, which was interesting because the audience all left before the first one. I only clapped because I felt a little sorry for the man.

  "Hey." I cornered the woman who'd introduced the show. Up close, she looked like she would die at any moment. Her skin was sallow, and her hair was flesh-colored.

  "I'd like to find the actor backstage and congratulate him."

  Sallow girl nodded, as though this happened every day. "I hope you're paparazzi. He's been complaining that no paparazzi has stalked him."

  "Yes. I am the paparazzi," I lied. "How do I get backstage?"

  She pointed me toward a door and warned me that, if I wasn't careful, I might fall through the floor.

  "Where?" I asked.

  "Just watch every step. The building has been condemned."

  "What about the back entrance?" I asked. I didn't have time to extricate myself from a floor.

  "There isn't one." She pointed to the doors I'd come in through. "No back door."

  "Isn't that a fire hazard?" I asked.

  She shrugged, and then she just faded into the bleached-out wallpaper. It looked like she'd literally vanished, were it not for her blinking, rheumy eyes.

  Bladdersly really creeped me out.

  I opened the door and tiptoed very carefully through the hall until I came to what appeared to be a dressing room door, which was broken and dented. Harold had taped a Post-it star to it and written his name on duct tape that hung underneath. A hand-lettered sign that said Paparazzi Keep Out! dangled from one corner.

  I knocked.

  "I'm sorry," Harold's voice boomed on the other side. "No autographs. No interviews. I must have my space!"

  I looked around. The show was over, and I was the only one in the hallway. It didn't appear to be teeming with rabid fans. I knocked again.

  "Bob!" Harold's voice changed from commanding to whiny. "I've told you before, I got permission to stay after to meditate and become one with my muse. I don't care if those kids need to get in here to rehearse for the summer fest! Five more minutes."

  "It's not Bob." I pushed the door open and walked in.

  Harold squinted at me. I'd done a fair job of changing my appearance when I left the CIA. Would he recognize me?

  "Finn? Is that you?" He jumped up from his seat with gravity-defying swiftness and, before I could stop him, crushed me in a hug. An overly familiar, sweaty hug.

  For a moment, I thought of throwing him to the floor and crushing his trachea. He deserved it for that comic book. But I wanted to hear his excuse first. Give him a chance before I killed him slowly with a toaster. And yes, you can kill someone with a toaster. It needs to be plugged in and involves water.

  Finally, he released me and, with a dramatic sweep of his arms, insisted, "Sit down! Welcome to my dressing room!"

  The dressing room was a janitor's closet. A rickety table, with an equally ratty mirror perched on it, along with a stool were the only things providing his definition. I gasped for breath before leaning against a wall as he parked his bulk back on the stool.

  "So." He smiled eagerly, pressing his fingertips together. "What did you think of the show?"

  "Oh." It sucked. "It was fun," I lied.

  "Fun." The man sat back and closed his eyes while steepling his fingers. "It's a dark noir piece. Fun isn't a word I would use to describe it, but then again, you never knew much about the theater. And since our line of work was dark and may have been considered fun, I'll allow it."

  "Great. Thanks." Something jabbed me in the back. I stepped forward and pulled a mop from behind me. I shoved it aside. Since the room was so small, it only fell for one second before hitting the next wall.

  "I'm so glad you weren't the paparazzi." He brushed his three strands of hair across the top of his head. "They've been plaguing me since opening night! They even followed me home, and I was terrified I'd end up like Princess Di!"

  The only way he'd end up like Princess Di was if I took him on a ride with two Chechen heavies. But I didn't say that. I didn't want to encourage him.

  Sadly, he took my silence as rapt enthusiasm and continued.

  "You know, working here is so unique. So much better than Broadway. The audience is so much more savvy."

  Really? Half of the people I had shared the auditorium with had been asleep. The others had been playing games on their phones. And this was Bladdersly. The town that thought manure and meth were the great highlights in life.

  "And the fans!" He rolled his eyes. "They chase me through the grocery store! They get my face tattooed on their bodies! You wouldn't believe it."

  "Yeah," I said with a sigh. "
I don't. Look, Harold, this isn't a social call." I took the comic out of my bag and tossed it on the table.

  The man looked at it like it was a dead rat with herpes.

  "So?" he asked.

  "So what the hell, Harold?"

  Harold opened the cover and blanched. I couldn't tell if he was freaked out because I'd busted him or because he was seeing it for the first time. He closed the cover and shoved it away.

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "You didn't read it. That tells me it's because you know exactly what's in there."

  "I don't need to read it. I lived it!" He added a dramatic flourish to the last sentence.

  "You lived it for about two seconds before you were shot for being an idiot. And the story line! You saved me? You were on the floor, screaming like a little girl after you'd gotten shot. I never saw you again."

  "That was acting!" he blustered, his face turning red. "I was acting like I was in pain!"

  "Huh." I shoved the comic back toward him. "What possessed you to turn your one experience in field work into a comic book, with yourself as the hero?"

  "Like I said." His eyes went back to the comic, and he pulled it closer to himself. "I don't know what you're talking about. Now I'll have to ask you to leave before I call security."

  "What security?" I asked.

  "Bob!" he shouted.

  A tiny, wizened old man, crippled with arthritis, crept in. He only came up to my shoulder and looked like he would blow backward if I breathed on him.

  "Take her away!" Harold waved his hand in the air imperiously. "She is invading my sanctuary."

  Bob looked me up and down. Then he looked at Harold. "Nope," he said as he walked out the door.

  "I'll tell you what I'm going to do." I leaned over Harold, and he let out a shrill cry. "I'm going to go get a tongue depressor, some twine, and a Dremel tool. And I'm going to come back, and you will give me the answers I need."

  I was bluffing—because where the hell was I going to get those things in Bladdersly? And I sure as hell didn't want to spend my money here.

  "I really don't know anything!" Harold whined. "Seriously!"

  I eased up. "I'm not buying it, Harold. If you'd never seen it before, you would've at least looked through it."

  The man grabbed the comic and pawed through it roughly. For a brief moment, I thought about urging him to be careful, but that was just the druid in me talking. After a few moments, he tossed it right back at me.

  "How do I know you didn't do this?" He stuck his chin out to look menacing, but it came off as pathetic.

  "If I did it," I reasoned, "I wouldn't make you aware of it. I'd keep all the royalties for myself. Duh. And you certainly wouldn't be the hero."

  The moment I mentioned money, his eyes lit up. I could only imagine that he was barely making ends meet. He got to his feet with considerable effort and held up his index finger.

  "Royalties, eh? I demand half!"

  "You're already making all of it," I snapped. "Don't try to bluff me, Harold. Your acting was more convincing."

  "I want a lawyer!" He pounded on the tiny stool, and it wobbled, on the verge of collapse.

  "You're not under arrest." I pinched the bridge of my nose. "This isn't that kind of thing."

  "It isn't?" He looked disappointed.

  "No."

  "Too bad. I've always wanted to do a crime drama."

  "Look." I was exasperated. "Are you going to admit that you made this comic?"

  "Yes! I mean, no!" he hedged.

  "So you did do it!"

  "No, I didn't. But I want my share of the profits."

  My conviction was starting to slip. Harold could barely hold a simple argument together, let alone be the evil mastermind behind a comic.

  I pointed at him. "Well, I have no idea how to get you money I don't have."

  "Why don't you have it?" Harold frowned.

  I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Because I didn't do this!"

  "You didn't?" He grabbed the comic and started going through it again.

  "No. Why would I be here accusing you if I'd done it?"

  This argument seemed cyclical to me. What was happening here?

  "Let's start over. Harold, I found this comic. It tells the story of what happened in Honduras—our story. I didn't write it, and I'm here to find out if you did."

  Harold rolled his eyes. "Why didn't you just say so?"

  "Are you telling me," I said very slowly for his slow brain, "that you didn't write, illustrate, or publish this comic book?"

  "No. I wish I had." He looked pitiful. If I weren't so angry with him, I'd have felt bad for him.

  I threw my arms up into the air. "Well, if you didn't, who did?"

  "I don't have a clue." Harold clutched the comic to his chest.

  Problem was, neither did I. I gave him my cell number and, out of pity, let him keep the comic. I had two bags of them in the van. Was my time wasted here? The man was infuriating and completely unstable.

  If he hadn't created Beetle Dork, who had?

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  "Why do you have a horse in your front yard?" Rex asked once I got home.

  He was standing in our driveway, looking across the street at Cookie the horse, who was tied to a newly installed stake in my yard.

  Betty and Inez. I should've guessed.

  "Oh, um, he was supposed to be delivered on another day for a troop meeting. That's Cookie." I turned and walked across the street.

  Cookie looked up from the grass he'd been eating. Then he went back to it. A note was pinned to his bridle.

  Call when you are done. I'm in town and will pick him back up. Jo

  Rex followed me. "So this is Cookie! The mythical creature I've heard so much about." He slid his right hand over the horse's shoulder.

  Cookie the horse had an unusual past with my troop. When we'd just started out as a troop, we'd taken the girls to feed the horses at camp. The girls had noticed that there was one horse all alone who wasn't getting fed. When Jo, the equestrian director, was asked about this, she said they were getting rid of him because he wasn't good at handling a new rider every hour. You'd have thought she'd said he was going to a glue factory from how the girls cried and carried on.

  For an entire year, the girls drew pictures of Cookie. They wrote epic sagas about Cookie. They cried and begged us to bring Cookie back to my house to live in my yard. By the time we got back to camp the following summer, Cookie was still there. The girls were elated when Jo explained that they'd decided to keep him after all. After all we'd been through, I toyed with kidnapping Cookie and actually taking him to a glue factory.

  Okay, I wouldn't ever do that. And I had gotten used to the girls still talking endlessly about the damn horse.

  "Yes," I answered. "That's him."

  "What are you going to do with it? Is that a note?" Rex reached for it, but I tore it off and stuffed it into my pocket.

  "I'm…" My mind searched for an answer. "I'm going to ride him."

  I untied the reins from the post, put my foot in the stirrup, and lifted myself up and over. If Rex had been in front of Cookie, he'd have seen the shock on my face that I'd pulled it off.

  "When have you ever ridden a horse?" Rex looked alarmed.

  Across the street, Leonard and Philby were in the window. Leonard was barking, presumably at the giant dog I was now riding, while Philby was plastered to the glass yowling. For as much abuse as she gave me, she didn't like me interacting with other animals. I had no doubt I was going to get chewed out when I got home.

  I tugged on the reins. Cookie gave me a dirty look before starting to munch on a shrub.

  "This doesn't look safe." Rex tried to take the reins.

  "It's okay. I rode a lot in the CIA. Carlos the Armadillo had a whole stable at his ranch in Colombia."

  I'd ridden a horse exactly two times, not including the extremely tame trail rides with the girls at camp. And neither time was when I was underc
over with Carlos the Armadillo. The first time had been in Uruguay. I was working on a lead just outside Montevideo that eventually led me to the Colombian drug lord.

  I was supposed to visit some hermit in the middle of nowhere, and our contact, who was supposed to give me a car, showed up with a horse and a map.

  "You are an American," the woman had said. "Here's a horse."

  She'd handed me the reins then got into a Cadillac and drove away. If you've ever had to learn something the hard way, like driving a stick shift or motorcycle without instructions, well then, you had it easy. Oh sure, we had horses in Iowa when I was growing up. I'd just never actually ridden one before.

  I did know that my foot went into the stirrup, so I had started with that. What I hadn't known was that 1) the horse was named Fuego Diablo and didn't like to be ridden, and 2) that he would take off if such a thing was attempted.

  I was dragged about one hundred feet on my back, foot in the stirrup, before I managed to kick myself loose. I never did find that hermit. Turned out I didn't need him because, when I got back to Uruguay, I threatened the woman with a blowtorch (that I didn't actually have nor really intended to use) until she gave up the intel.

  The second time was in Yemen, and I had actually made it into the saddle. This horse was much tamer because he was ancient. We rode for about a quarter of a mile before he fell over. Dead. Onto my leg. It took three men to free me, but I understand that he fed the village for a week.

  "Don't worry," I insisted to my husband. "I know what I'm doing."

  I gently nudged Cookie in the sides with my shoes. Cookie responded by refusing to go anywhere. I nudged a little harder. Still nothing. Then I kicked him in the ribs hard with my heels, and he took off at a gentle trot.

  I could swear I heard my husband laughing as I rode away.

  What was I doing, I wondered as I rode through my neighborhood. People looked at me funny, but then, they always did that anyway. When I walked Leonard, sometimes Philby would insist on going with. I had a baby sling I used for that. You haven't lived until you've walked around with a furious Hitler cat strapped to your chest.

  We plodded around the block a few times before trying to cross the busy street a few blocks up. Unsure how to handle the crosswalk, I leaned down and punched the button to change the traffic light. Then I waited for it to turn green.