The Complete Honey Huckleberry Box Set

by Margaret Moseley

  There were a few new items in my wardrobe, I noticed.

  I called Janie.

  “What on earth is that fluffy nightgown thing you packed? And that sweet white dress? And where is my old sleep shirt? And thanks for putting in all that money. I think I’m gonna need it here. They have all these games to play.”

  “Oh, I wish I were with you.”

  “Come on out. Catch the next plane.”

  “Oh, you sweetie, I can’t do that. I have Bailey and the house to watch.”

  That kind of worried me. “You’re not afraid to be in the house alone? I mean, I’m not, certainly, but this is your first time. And, well, after Steven Miller died in my living room, I’m not certain the neighborhood is as safe as I would like to think it is.”

  She reassured me. “I’m perfectly happy here. We’ll go to Vegas together another time. I wouldn’t want to crash your honeymoon.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “That’s what the white dress is for. Is it okay for the wedding? I know it’s simple and all, but I thought it was sweet. Looked like you.”

  I eyed the white eyelet sundress, its existence suddenly sticking out like a sore thumb in my closet. I repeated, “Excuse me? Who is getting married?”

  Janie made a blissful noise into the telephone. “Well, he didn’t actually say, but why else would Steven make all those wonderful romantic secret plans? I felt honored to be a part of them,” she added humbly.

  “Are you sure you’re not a romance book aficionado, not a mystery book guru?”

  “What do you mean? I think you and Steven make a cute couple.”

  What Steven had told me on the plane about Janie worrying about discouraging me from marriage made me bite my tongue. In a calm, very rational voice, I said, “Janie, dear, you know that if I get married, it will probably be to Harry. Steven Hyatt and I are just best friends, remember?”

  “Harry is in prison for life,” she announced.

  In my very controlled voice that was cracking at the edges, I replied, “No, Janie. Steven Hyatt made that up. Harry will be home soon.”

  “Have you heard from him?”

  “No, but I have faith.”

  “See, he’s in the slammer in some foreign country. Probably Libya or maybe even Iraq.”

  “Janie,” I screamed, “stop it.”

  After a pause, she timidly asked, “You really going to marry Harry?”

  I looked out at the penguins doing their version of the crash scene in the French Connection and thought. Finally, I said, “You know, I don’t think so.”

  “Honey, do you remember when I talked to Steven Hyatt on the phone and you asked me what he said and I didn’t tell you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, he said he loved you. Really and truly loved you. And wanted to marry you. That he had always loved you. That’s why it was no surprise to me that he showed up here. And I know you love him,” she prattled on.

  “Janie, you must have misunderstood him. Steven and I have never even exchanged a kiss—other than hello and good-bye ones. Geesh, we’re beginning to sound like last Thursday’s episode of The Young and the Restless.”

  “I am not mistaken,” she insisted. “That’s why you are in Las Vegas.”

  “We are in Las Vegas to interview Babe about Twyman’s death. I mean his life. Whatever. We’re investigating something that the police seem to think is nothing.”

  “Yes, and when you two get married in one of those chapels, you’ll be a married investigative duo—just like the Norths or Nick and Nora. Maybe Peter and Harriet?”

  “Janie, that’s it. I’m hanging up now. Leaving. Good-bye.”

  “Wait, Honey. I have one more question.”

  “What? What?”

  “Can I borrow some money from the piano bank?”

  “Oh, lord, yes,” I said contritely. “Janie, I’m sorry, I meant to tell you to take what you needed. I left plenty in there to run the house. In fact, I could run the White House. How much do you need?”

  “Ten thousand.”

  TWENTY–EIGHT

  Anyone who knows me, really knows me, understands what a gentle person I am. I inherited the trait from my father, a dear, sweet soul who wouldn’t hurt a fly. I have always been suspicious of my mother, however; even with her frail, wan ways, she had nerves of steel and what one look from her eyes could do to a noisy adolescent is legend.

  That look was the one I gave Steven Hyatt the morning we met for breakfast at Lindy’s in the Flamingo. I had lost forty-five dollars from the elevator to the open-air restaurant.

  “What do you mean, I get to play the bad guy?”

  “It’s a cop’s trick, Honey. When they interview someone, there’s a good cop and a bad cop. The bad one hits the suspect with hardball questions that scare the suspect to death. The good guy is there to pick up the pieces, smooth the edges. That way he gets the trust of the suspect and can learn more. Don’t look at me that way.”

  “Okay, one more time. Tell me again why it is that I get to have the heavy part?”

  Steven cemented his toasted bagel with cream cheese and yawned as he said, “Because you’re not. Bad, that is. It’s reverse psychology. She will be expecting me—as the guy—to be the threatening one. We’ll throw her off-track,” he ended confidently.

  “Why do I think this isn’t going to work?”

  “Trust me. By the way, we don’t meet Babe till tonight. What are your plans for the day?”

  Okay, so I waited till he had a mouth full of goo. “First, I thought we’d get married; then I’d like to win back some of the money I’ve lost already, and then … Steven? Are you okay? Here, drink some water.”

  “Get married? To whom?” he finally managed to squeak out the words.

  “Why to youm. Isn’t that the plan? According to Janie, this Vegas trip is where you propose. I thought over dinner and candlelight, but, hey, orange juice and bagels are fine with me. Was this to be a morning wedding or an afternoon affair?”

  “Damn Janie.”

  “I don’t think so. She has your best interests at heart. You’ve got to see this negligee set she put in my suitcase. Her idea of a bridal gown.”

  He wiped his mouth with the linen napkin. “You know Janie. She asks one question and hears only the answer she wants to hear.”

  “Yes, like we’re madly in love and going to be the next Nancy Drew and Ned Nickerson. Only instead of living out of our roadster, we’re gonna take the penthouse here at the Flamingo and swim in champagne while we experience true love.”

  “You’re being tacky.”

  “Ah ha … I’m just practicing my bad-guy routine.”

  “Yeah? Well, it’s effective. So, what questions do you plan on asking Babe?”

  I whipped out my Day-Timer. I never leave home without it. “Suspect changes direction of conversation,” I wrote as I said the words out loud.

  “Okay. Okay. So, Janie thinks you’re in love with me instead of Harry.”

  “Me? In love with you? Nah, you’ve got it wrong. You’re in love with me. You planned this whole Vegas gig so that we could get married in the chapel here.” Both our gazes snapped to the penguins on parade outside of Lindy’s and the nearby sign giving directions to the wedding chapel.

  “Janie told you that? Wow, that’s about what she told me about you. We’ve been set up, Honey, dear.”

  “Then you don’t love me?” I asked.

  “Of course I do. Now tell me those questions.”

  “Okay. I love you, too. I think.” I checked my notes. “First I’m going to offer my condolences.”

  “Nope, won’t work. I get to do that. I’m the good guy.”

  “Oh, right. Well, then I’ll just go right into the hard stuff. Like, when did you first notice that Twyman was a liar and a word thief? I think that should start things off nicely, don’t you?”

  “What’s your follow-up?” he asked.

  “Babe, did you kill Twyman? And, if not, do you know w
ho did?”

  “Works for me. Wanna go gamble now?”

  “Sure.”

  I fell in love with the lights, bells, and whistles that was casino music. I loved the whirring of the slots, the clink of the coins, and the occasional shouts of winners and losers. I found this one machine with double cherries, right behind the give-away car, and you could sit there for hours and nice ladies brought you Cokes and coffee. And you didn’t even have to get up to make change. The machine made it right there for you every time you slipped in a twenty or a fifty. Although, it spit out the fifties a lot, obviously as suspicious as I about the new Franklin look.

  After a while—hours?—Steven came up behind me and sat down at the Double Diamond beside me. “So, are you ahead or behind?”

  “Don’t ask. Wasn’t it great of Janie to put in so much money for me?”

  “Right. Super of her, considering it was your money. Do you have any left?”

  “Well, I’m only playing quarters now, but when I run out, I go over there to that dollar slot and win it back.”

  “Excuse me, you’re winning at the dollar slots and losing here? Why aren’t you playing the dollar slots all the time?”

  “I like this machine. It knows me.”

  He idly put a quarter in the Double Diamond and hit triple Double Diamonds resulting in revolving lights and colored bells. Or some such. I was too frustrated to think clearly.

  “How? Why?”

  Steven accepted a complimentary scotch from the cutely dressed lady with the tray as another attendant took down the information he needed from such a big winner. Steven pocketed the dough and stretched. “Think I’ve had about enough of this. I’m starved. Wanna eat Chinese?”

  “No, thought I would start with a Caucasian,” I said. “I have one in mind.”

  “Honey, honey. You can’t get upset over this stuff. It’s just another game. But actually, it’s good practice for you.”

  “How so?”

  “Think how mean you’re gonna feel tonight when you meet Babe.”

  “Right. I planned it so it would work out that way. Okay, let’s go meet your Chinese,” I said as I slid off my seat.

  “One more thing I’ve been thinking about though,” Steven said as we wound our way through the casino floor.

  “Yeah?”

  “I want to know more about this negligee.”

  TWENTY–NINE

  When Steven and I showed our tickets at the door of Babe’s late show, a strange-looking man stepped forward. He reminded me of a hawk: tall, thin, and gaunt; a scavenger hawk.

  “Ms. Huckleberry?”

  Startled, I said nothing, so Steven answered for me. “Yes, can we help you?”

  He smiled at that. An inward smile at some private joke. “No, but I can help you.”

  I found my voice. “Excuse me?”

  “Never mind. Babe sent me to find you. She’s reserved some seats for you.”

  “Oh, well, please thank her then.”

  We followed the man, who didn’t identify himself, winding our way through the tables to the front row. On the table in the center was a yellow reserved sign, for special guests, it read. Our guide whisked the sign away and made a low bow over the table. No one rushed to stop us, so Steven and I slid into the seats. The man smiled his ambiguous smile again, did a little bow, and disappeared.

  “What was that all about?” Steven asked.

  “I have no idea. Do you think this is for us?” I asked, indicating the floor caddy beside our table, filled with ice and champagne.

  The question was answered by a uniformed waiter who appeared from nowhere and proceeded to open the bottle and pour us cold glasses of very good champagne.

  The special attention did not go unnoticed by those around us as they craned their necks and whispered to one another, trying to place our faces with their images of celebrities.

  Their curiosity was only heightened when Babe appeared following a Comedy Store warm-up act that was genuinely funny. We were relaxed and laughing when the lights went dark following the comedian’s introduction of the one and only Babe. As they came on again in a blaze, almost too dazzlingly white and blue, I closed my eyes, only to open them as Babe appeared in the display. The crystals on her dress reflected the startling stage lights, and she appeared almost ethereal. The audience rose as one to give her a resounding cheer. Us included.

  As the applause dimmed, so did the spotlights, leaving the star in a bath of a soft glow as she acknowledged the homage and stood, arms spread downward and head bowed. She raised her head and looked directly at me.

  The audience followed her gaze. They watched as she smiled and I smiled back a reply to a question I saw in her eyes, a question to which I didn’t know the answer. I didn’t even understand the question, but our contact seemed to please her.

  I didn’t know what to expect from her performance. Other than knowing that Babe was one of those ubiquitous celebrities whose name and figure appears everywhere, I had never had the experience of seeing her actually perform. I had seen her on Letterman, recognized his respect for her as they giggled and chatted through a segment of the show. But I never really understood what she did.

  What she did was magic.

  Not the kind of magic that was being performed throughout Las Vegas as we sat watching Babe’s performance. No card tricks, no sawing in half, no disappearing jungle animals, but a magic that could only be attributed to a real entertainer giving the performance of her life.

  I hadn’t known she sang, but she wrung tears with her heartrending blues tune. I hadn’t known she was funny, but in a saucy bit, she winked and drew blushes from my escort and roars from the audience as she used Steven as a foil for a naughty joke. She strutted her magnificent figure across the stage, her trademark full bosom a source of awe to even my eyes as it sparkled and glowed in the neck-high crystal dress. She dipped, she bowed, she glittered. She held the audience, this small part of the world, for a brief interlude; for a small dot in the space of time, she held us all in her hands.

  And then it was over.

  The house lights came on, shocking us all into gasps. Babe had been there, and then she was gone. Suddenly, the applause that everyone had neglected to give her while she had been before us was deafening. Calls and whistles begged her to come back, but only the single white light on the stage carried a whisper of what had just transpired. The people finally began to quiet down, realizing it was truly over. They began to filter out of the large room. Silently.

  “What was that?” I asked Steven.

  “That was the one and only Babe,” answered a voice at my elbow. Our hawk stood there, that smile on his face again.

  “Yes,” I agreed.

  “She’s waiting for you.”

  Steven and I followed him through a mirror that was a door. It seemed appropriate.

  Show business truly is all blue smoke and mirrors. As we edged through the cables and backdrops backstage, the glamour of the moment began to fade, but I was still awestruck when our escort opened the door with the large gold star on it. He gestured for us to enter.

  Babe was reflected a thousand times in the huge mirrors that lined the walls. She was greedily smoking a cigarette, huddled in a fluffy pink robe on a nondescript chaise longue. Her discarded crystal beaded dress, reflected only in dimmed makeup lights, had lost its glitter, as had the star who had worn it.

  I spoke first. “Miss Babe, that was a wonderful show.”

  She raised her head. “Yes? You liked it?”

  “Liked it? It was the most fantastic show I’ve ever seen.” I didn’t mention it was the first I had ever seen.

  “And you?” She looked at Steven.

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ve never seen anything like it,” he said.

  “It was the best show you’ve ever done, Babe,” said the man in an unexpectedly soft voice. “The very best.”

  “Ah, good. It is good to go out being the best,” she whispered.

  “Pardon?”
I said.

  The man answered my question. “She means this is her last show here at the Grand. We’re closing tonight.”

  “I’m Honey Huckleberry,” I said to him, hoping for a name. “And this is my friend, Steven Hyatt.”

  “Kevin Richardson,” he said reluctantly.

  Babe repeated my name. “Honey Huckleberry. What a name. You should be in show business, Honey. You’re too young and pretty to be a sleuth. Do you sing?”

  “No, ma’am, I don’t. Not at all. But, what do you mean? A sleuth?”

  She ignored my question and turned to look at Steven. “And how handsome you are. You look familiar to me. You are in show business, yes?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I am. Well, I’m a movie director. Maybe you’ve seen one of my films?”

  She murmured, “Hyatt. Hyatt. Yes, you did that little avant-garde film that received such interesting reviews. What are you doing now?”

  Flattered that she recognized his name, Steven told her about his new film, due in theaters in a few weeks. How he had also written the screenplay, and that he had filmed most of it in Australia.

  “I shall look forward to seeing it,” she said graciously.

  “Miss Babe, we don’t want to take up much of your time,” I said. “I just wanted to tell you about Twyman. Thought you might like to know about his death. And I have just a few questions.”

  Continuing to ignore my digression, Babe asked, “And are you two in love? You look like a bride, Honey. Kevin, I think they must be on their honeymoon, don’t you?”

  Kevin Richardson lit a cigarette and gave it to Babe. “Oh, definitely, Babe. They have that look.”

  “Well, we’re not. On our honeymoon,” I said. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you, Miss Babe. I just thought that maybe you could answer a few questions that have been bothering me. It was upsetting to be next to Mr. Towerie when he died.” My voice trailed away.

  Babe sighed. “Oh, all right. Clover did tell me you were persistent. She crushed out her cigarette, lit another, and looked at me with a very tired face that the heavy stage makeup couldn’t cover.