Begging for Trouble

by Judi McCoy

  Ellie caught a cab on Lexington and finished her lunch while she rode to the Village. Turning down the alley behind Guess Who, she walked into the building through the back entrance. Inside, she gazed at the line of doors running up the left side of the hallway. When she peered to the right and saw another corridor with more doors snaking around the rear of the stage, she slumped against the wall. She’d always thought her powers of observation were decent, but she didn’t remember seeing this many doorways the other night.

  Of course, she should have figured as much. Rob had told her the cast of the revue numbered close to sixty, and each performer had three to four costume changes including wigs and headpieces. With six to a dressing room, there had to be ten-plus rooms to inspect, and more than a few participants to interview. Unfortunately, due to her appointment with Anthony Rizzoli, she would probably have only enough time to talk with a couple of cast members before she had to leave, pick up Bitsy and Rudy, and head for the meeting.

  Glancing to her right again, she heard voices from somewhere behind the stage, so she moved in that direction. On the way, she pulled a notebook much like Sam’s, only bigger, from her tote bag, intent on holding a logical conversation with one or more of the showgirls. Then she fished a pen from her bag and peeked into the room—and found two men talking, one in the middle of getting dressed!

  “Hello, sugar,” said the handsome guy with his jeans around his ankles. “You need something?”

  Ellie’s gaze swept the tiny heart-dotted briefs covering his manly assets. Heat rushed from her chest to her neck faster than a prairie fire in August. “Uh, sorry. Wrong room,” she squeaked, retreating into the hall.

  Fanning her face with the notebook, she rested her back against the wall, the words “bad idea” ringing in her brain.

  A moment later, the man stepped into the corridor. “Are you looking for someone special?”

  She closed her eyes. “Ah, no. Not right now. I’ll see you—I mean I’ll catch you—ah—I’ll come back later.”

  She made to leave, but he grabbed her shoulder, rooting her in place. “Take it easy, doll. No one’s going to hurt you here.”

  Ellie gulped down her embarrassment, pasted on a smile, and turned. Her gaze wandered from his buff naked chest to the tight, well-worn jeans now covering his lower limbs. Quickly focusing on his face, she said, “I didn’t think so. It’s just that—”

  “You aren’t used to surprising cross-dressers when they’re in the middle of—cross-dressing?” he asked, a grin etched on his GQ face.

  “Uh, no—yes—uh—” Eye contact, Ellie. No fair looking at anything else. “I don’t belong here. I should probably leave.”

  The man grasped her free hand and gave it a shake. “I’m Bill Avery, aka Eden Rose, and you don’t have to leave unless you want to.” He propped his well-muscled body against the wall. “And while you’re thinking about it, tell me what you need.”

  “I’m a friend of Rob Chesney,” she began.

  “Our Bobbi Doll?” He raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “You his girlfriend?”

  “His girlfriend? Uh, no, I’m his dog walker.”

  “Good to know you’re not spoken for.” He continued to grin. “Because if you’re looking for a man with, say, unusual taste, I’m in the market for a new gal pal.”

  Gal pal? Heat warmed her cheeks again. “I’m already in a relationship.”

  Bill reached out and tugged one of her curls. “With a man?”

  Mustering her courage, she slapped his hand away. “Yes, with a man. Now if you’ll excuse me—”

  “Hey, don’t go off in a snit. People around here are flexible when it comes to sexual orientation.” He shrugged. “If you’re a friend of Rob’s, I assume you understand his lifestyle. I’ve been looking for a woman who knows what a guy like me does for a living. It takes all kinds, you know.”

  Ellie swallowed. She did know, but not firsthand. At least, not until now. Bill seemed nice enough, when he wasn’t being a tease. “I’m here because I want to help prove Rob is innocent of the crime he’s been arrested for. I was hoping some of the girls—”

  “Performers.”

  “Uh, the performers, might know something that would make the job easier.”

  “So you think he’s innocent, do you? Hmm. Interesting.”

  “I have no reason to believe otherwise. Rob is a very nice man. He’d never do anything to hurt someone.” When Bill arched that same perfect eyebrow a second time, she decided she’d had enough. “Look, I can see you’re not the person I should be—”

  “No, no. I’m sorry. It’s just that I thought the police had already decided Rob was the one who did Carmella in. I didn’t realize there were still questions.”

  The other man, who’d been inside the room, stepped out wearing a floor-length pink dressing gown and matching three-inch mules. “What’s going on out here?”

  “Uh, I’m Ellie Engleman.” She held out her hand. “I’m a friend of one of the performers.”

  They shook as the man said, “Gary Wallace, but I’m better known as Sheleata Burrito. Just make sure you get the names right and we’ll get along fine.” He cut his eyes to Bill. “Is this guy bothering you?”

  “Not a bit,” Ellie said, feeling more relaxed. It was then she recognized the rather large Amazon with the last name of Burrito. “I remember you from opening night. You did that fabulous Dusty Springfield medley. It was great.”

  “Thanks. I try. This show is my chance to branch out in a more refined manner, if you know what I mean.” Sheleata tossed her long black hair. “A girl has to do what a girl has to do.”

  “I’m just here to talk to some of you about Rob Chesney.”

  Sheleata narrowed her eyes. “Did I hear you say you were the one who takes care of Bitsy? Rob talks about you every once in a while. Almost had some of us convinced you were a saint.”

  “That’s very sweet of him to say, but all I’ve ever done is listen when he needed to talk. I was here the night of the . . . incident, so I took Bitsy to my apartment. I’ll be returning her to Rob later today.”

  The Amazon crossed her arms over her massive chest. Though she wasn’t wearing a stitch of makeup, her actions were all girl. “That little baby is a cutie. I’ve been thinking about getting a dog, but not yet.” She tied the dressing gown tighter. “So what do you want to know about Rob?”

  “I have some questions about the—about Carmella, and I was hoping someone here might be able to help.”

  “Carmella, eh?” She glanced at Bill. “Have you filled her in on the charming Miss Sunday?”

  “Not yet,” said Bill. “Do you think we should?”

  “Hey, Carmella was no pal of mine, girlfriend. Now that she’s gone, why not?”

  “What about Carmella?” Ellie asked, lowering her voice and taking a step closer. “If you know something that might point the cops in another direction—”

  Sheleata waggled a finger and slipped into the dressing room. Bill motioned for Ellie to follow, which she did. Inside, the Amazon took a chair and crossed her legs, and Ellie prepared to listen.

  “Go ahead, Eden, you start us off. Your info will be blah, compared to what I have to say,” Sheleata stated.

  Bill ran a hand through his hundred-dollar haircut. “Truth be told,” he began, “not too many of us cared for Carmella. If you ask me, there are probably a dozen cast members who are glad to see her dead.”

  “See? Boring.” Sheleata looked at Ellie. “He’s just saying that because the bitch tried to steal one of his precious wigs.” Her eyes cut to Bill. “Why don’t you tell our friend what you thought of the girl?”

  Bill scowled. “That’s nobody’s business but mine, and you know it. Carmella is—was—difficult with almost everyone.” He nodded toward the room next door. “Lily and Pearl both had a bigger ax to grind.”

  “Lily? Pearl? They didn’t care for Carmella either?”

  “Absolutely not,” Sheleata said. “But personally, I
don’t think it was someone from the show who did her in. I think it was someone Carmella was blackmailing.”

  “Carmella was into blackmail? Are you sure about that?”

  Bill shifted in his seat. “Like most of us in this business, Carmella liked to blow her own horn. We go over the top because it’s what people expect from the guys who live this lifestyle, but with Carmella, it was . . . different.”

  “That may be so, sugar, but I know more. Carmella used to brag about her conquests to whoever would listen. Said she’d been receiving ‘friendship money’”—Sheleata used air quotes to set the words apart—“from a guy, and he was in line to become one of the city’s VIPs. Said if he didn’t come up with more cash, she was going to see to it that his time in the public eye was over.”

  “That was just wishful thinking,” Bill insisted. Then he looked at Ellie. “You talk to Lily and Pearl if you want to hear somebody gripe about Carmella. Nita Zip, too.”

  Just then, another man walked in. “Hello, girls,” the slender African-American said. Then he eyed Ellie. “And who are you, precious?”

  “This is a friend of mine, and she was just leaving.” Bill stood, drew Ellie to her feet, and guided her out the door and into the hall. “We’ll get into this later, but not with Coco around. She was a good friend of Carmella’s, and she’s talked smack about your pal since before he was arrested.”

  Bill disappeared into the dressing area, leaving Ellie alone. Not practiced in running a real investigation, the way Sam did, she decided to write down the names Bill mentioned and whatever Sheleata and Bill had said about them. Then she heard a commotion in the main hallway and followed the noise, hoping to corral another performer or two into giving her insight. If she was lucky, she’d run into Nita Zip or one of those other people Bill had mentioned. She also had to find the two women Rob had told her were understudies.

  She turned the corner and bumped into a pair of stagehands pushing a rack loaded with costumes. “Coming through,” said one, while the other shoved her aside. Before she could right herself, a different guy, this one wearing a tool belt strapped over his baggy jeans, plowed past, muttering, “Damn queens,” and, “That’ll be the day.”

  Frazzled, she plopped into a chair, most likely the one she’d sat in the night of the murder, and checked her watch. She had just enough time for one quick interview if she planned to make her meeting with Anthony Rizzoli.

  A cross-dresser wearing black leather pants and a matching bustier walked by and smiled. “Can I help you, doll?”

  She stood and held out her hand. “I hope so. We’ve never met, but I was wondering—could I ask you a few questions?”

  Sam stood in the doorway of a dressing room off the main hall, a few doors down from the crime scene, forcing his brain to focus on the matter at hand. But damn, it was difficult. He’d never watched a man put on makeup before, much less one who wore spike heels and a snug bodysuit in satin, lace, and close to a ton of glitter.

  “Sweetheart, there are probably a couple dozen reasons why someone would want to kill Carmella,” the black-haired she-male said, grinning. She then stroked on another coat of lipstick in a color that reminded Sam of a fire engine. “I, for one, wanted that girl’s complexion. I mean, did you see her skin? It was carmelicious. Me, I never tan like that.”

  He resisted snorting. Before questioning Frieda deManeata—real name: Michael Woolsey—he’d interviewed a few other performers and received the same vibe from each of them. These drag queens were irreverent and entertaining and, as far as he could tell, truthful. He would never confess this to anyone, but he’d even lost the creepy feeling he’d had when he was here to watch the opening-night show.

  “And the other reasons?” he asked, trying to keep a straight face.

  “Well, this is between you and me, but”—Frieda waggled a finger to draw him near—“I heard she was arrested for prostitution a few times in the past. Can you imagine? I mean, no drag queen worth her thigh-highs would ever be that stupid.”

  Sam had already researched the victim’s criminal history. He knew exactly how many arrests Carmella had, where they’d taken place, the charges, and the names of the other persons involved. Her last arrest, almost a year ago, had led to a trial, where she was given a slap on the wrist. Since then, there’d been no other police interaction, but he intended to speak to the men in her past over the next few days.

  “Thanks.” He closed his notebook and looked at his watch. “I take it the rest of the performers will be here soon?”

  “They usually trickle in until about six and gab for a while, but they’re putting on their war paint by seven.” Frieda swung around in her seat and crossed her milelong legs. “Have you talked to Angel Bebé yet?”

  “He’s—er—she’s on my list. Why?”

  “Because she and Carmella did not get along. And check out Nita Zip, too.”

  “I was told she was on the stage at the time of the murder,” said Sam.

  “Maybe so, but someone has to take Carmella’s place as Bobbi’s understudy, and Nita’s been itching for the job.”

  “Did she tell you that in private?”

  “Honey, very little is private around here.”

  Sam made another notation in his spiral. “I didn’t realize they had understudies for the understudies.”

  “Not officially, but that doesn’t stop a girl from dreaming.” Frieda batted her inch-long eyelashes. “And if you’re ever in the mood for information that’s a little more personal, you know where to find me.”

  Relieved to be dismissed, Sam backed out of the room and closed the door. Then he shook his head. Until he’d met this crew of cross-dressers, dog lovers had topped his list of odd ducks and nut jobs. After grilling a couple of these faux women, he realized he owed Ellie an apology.

  Frieda, as well as the show’s director, had told him most of the performers wouldn’t mind talking in front of the others, and suggested that he hang around while they got ready for the show, but Sam had no intention of watching exactly what was involved in cross-dressing. Instead, he opted to catch the performers as they filed in, but he also had to take a final look at the crime scene. It was possible he might find something he’d missed earlier; if he didn’t, he had to give the room back to the participants.

  After the backstage manager unlocked the dressing room door, Sam ducked under the yellow warning tape and perused the area. Flecks of blood still dotted the floor, even though the club had been given the okay to hire a cleanup crew for the worst of the mess. Forensics had to forgo the usual practice of preserving footprints because so many of the cast had tromped in and out when they heard the scream. Thanks to the traffic, the police had gotten little they could use in the way of shoe identification.

  Scanning the room, he crouched down and spotted the hot pink dog carrier Chesney owned, still tucked where Vince had found it. The forensic team had returned and dusted it for prints, but just as he’d figured, they’d found only Chesney’s. Taking it to Ellie seemed like a good idea, because she was babysitting the pooch that owned it, but he didn’t want to give her a chance to quiz him.

  In fact, he’d made a point of not contacting her since she’d made that one phone call because he knew if they met, her string of questions would surely lead to a fight. He scanned the room, trying to think straight. Well, maybe not a fight, but certainly a heated discussion. And only because she considered Rob Chesney a friend.

  He ran a hand over his jaw, thinking about the facts in the case. Chesney had opportunity because his number had been over for a while before the scream. They’d found him kneeling over the body with the weapon in hand. Since the shears were long and narrow, they’d held only partial prints, and most of those were smudged beyond recognition. Though he and Vince had yet to ferret out a motive, Sam was certain they’d find one eventually.

  As the lead on this case, it was Vince’s job to take care of the up-front stuff, coordinate with the DA, speak to the press, and answer to the
top brass. That left Sam free to question witnesses and amass the data needed to prove Chesney had committed the crime. When he and Vince weren’t side by side, they talked a couple of times a day, going over the clues and putting the pieces together. They’d worked out a rhythm that suited them, and they often rotated the lead on their assignments.

  Except when Ellie was involved.

  And that seemed to be happening more and more these days. He could forgive her the first murder. Finding a client dead could have happened to anyone. And she’d been a victim of circumstance in number two. He could even give her a buy on number three, but this fourth episode was too much. Was there something in her attitude that made her attract violent crimes like the dog crap she scooped attracted flies?

  Worse, she was so used to snooping, she simply couldn’t let things alone. In fact, he could practically feel her presence in his bones right now. He took a seat on one of the stools in the empty dressing room and began flipping through his spiral, hoping to put things in order, and then he heard a familiar voice in the hallway.

  “We’ve never met, but I was wondering—could I ask you a few questions?”

  At the sound of those words, Sam stood, jammed the notebook in his jacket pocket, and headed out the door.

  Chapter 8

  Sam closed his eyes and counted to ten.

  What the hell was Ellie doing here?

  He raised his gaze to the ceiling. Of course, she was here. A friend of hers, a fellow dog lover, was in trouble.

  He straightened his tie, took a calming breath, and pulled out his badge. He thought he’d made himself clear the other morning, when she’d called to ask about Chesney’s bail hearing. He should have taken the time to lecture her then on minding her own business, but it wouldn’t have mattered. Ellie had never listened to him in the past. Why would she take his advice now?

  Thinning his lips to enhance his I’m-in-charge expression, he strolled out of the dressing room, dodged several performers parading down the hall, and stopped at Ellie’s side. Raising his shield to her face, he said, “NYPD. I need to see you in private.”