by M. Z. Kelly
“Holysweetgezohyes,” I said, along with a few other things, and then closed my eyes, moaning. When I finally opened them again, I froze in mid-orgasm. Someone was coming up the path!
“Jack, someone’s coming,” I whispered.
“I know,” I heard him say from down below. “Just relax and let it happen.”
“Isn’t it a lovely evening,” an elderly woman said a few moments later as she and her date came up the walkway toward us.
I tried to remain calm, barely stifling a couple of hallelujahs. “Yes,” I squeaked as the couple walked over to where I was sitting. “It’s quite warm—for a February, I mean.”
I folded my hands together pushing down my dress, trying to send a message to the man who, like a parade float driver, was still busy shifting the transmission under my hoop skirt.
After introductions, during which I learned that the couple had been married for fifty-one years, Edith said, “You look beautiful, my dear, and I so love your dress. It’s really quite ...”
“Oh…yeeessss!” I squealed, cutting her off.
The float driver hadn’t gotten the message and was revving the engine again, causing a momentary ruffle of petticoats and lace. I suppressed a moan, coughed, and ran a hand across the dress, trying to cover up what I’m sure had not gone unnoticed. For the first time in my life, I prayed that I wouldn’t have an orgasm.
“Your dress is quite divine ...” Edith finally added. She stared at me for a long moment before turning to her husband, Bob.
I tried to control myself but started praising the lord again. “Oh my God ...” I regained some control and looked at the couple. “The dress ... it’s very special to me. It might sound strange, but wearing it is ... it’s like a religious experience.” What the hell was I saying? I must have lost my mind.
Edith’s brow furrowed. She exchanged looks with Bob again and then bent down to me. “Is everything all right, dear? Are you in some kind of distress? I have a cell phone. I can call 911, if needed.”
“No, it’s just that every now and then I dress up like a southern debutante, go out in public, and have a man perform cunnilingus on me.” Okay, I didn’t say it. Instead, I said, “No, I’m fine. I’m just excited ...” I stifled another moan and my voice took on a high-pitched edge. “I mean, I’m ... happy ... it’s such a wonderful evening ... it’s just great to be alive.” Geese, why didn’t I just start singing, Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah?
Edith lowered her voice and reached into her purse. “Are you on medication? Sometimes drug reactions can cause your symptoms. I once took a hormone replacement drug that gave me gas.”
I heard my driver chuckle somewhere beneath the parade float.
“No, I’m not on drugs and I don’t have gas,” I said before another squeal slipped out. I silently cursed the man under the float.
Edith glanced at Bob again, before looking back at me. She pulled the phone out of her purse and whispered, “I’m going to call 911 right now, dear. I think maybe you’re trying to give me a secret signal.” She looked around the grounds, then back at me. “Maybe you’re being stalked.”
Now I really did need divine intervention. If this continued, my fellow officers would respond to the scene and find Jack under my dress. I’d had enough.
“Edith, listen to me carefully,” I said. “Put your phone away. I am not in distress. I am not having a drug reaction or gas pains. And I am not being stalked. I am having an orgasm because there is a man under my dress who is having sex with me.”
The elderly woman’s eyes and mouth all grew wide at once, giving her an expression that was something between a fascination, titillation, and horror. She turned, took Bob’s hand, and they almost ran down the path together.
I was in the middle of giving my float driver his pink slip when my phone rang. I immediately recognized my best friend Natalie’s British accent. “Kate, sorry to bother you. You’re probably having the dog’s bollocks and all at your party, but we need your help. There’s been a murder.”
“What? Where are you, Nat?”
“Mo and me—we’ve been workin’ security for the Michael Clinton wedding. It’s up on Sunset Plaza.” My friend paused, catching her breath. “It’s the wedding couple. They’re both dead.”
After getting a few more details, I hung up, pushed Jack out of my dress, and in my best southern accent said, “There’s been a murder, dahlin’. I’ve gotta go.”
Jack reluctantly came up for air and ran a hand through his tangled brown hair. I looked into his smoky brown eyes, as he borrowed a line from Margaret Mitchell and said, “Just so you know, Scarlett, you should be kissed often and by someone who knows how.”
I stood up, gathered up my purse and said, “In case you haven’t noticed, Rhett, we’re way beyond kissing.”
Chapter Two
After calling my partner, Charlie Winkler, I notified dispatch and had them send patrol units to the address Natalie had given me. I then had Jack drop me and Bernie off at the crime scene, cursing the fact that I hadn’t brought a change of clothes. We met up with Charlie in front of the home where Natalie reported the crime had taken place.
“It’s just another homicide, Kate,” Charlie said. “You didn’t have to get all gussied up like you’re trying to be a movie star or something.”
Chunky Charlie tries to be funny when he’s not busy being a human locust and devouring anything that crosses his path. He’s old enough to be my father, with thinning brown hair and a moustache that he’d recently dyed to impress his girlfriend.
Lately I’d been worrying about my partner’s weight and blood pressure. His health problems, the stress of raising his sixteen year old daughter, Irma, and having sex—yuck—with his new girlfriend, Wilma, all appeared to be taking their toll.
“Figured with my middle name I might as well start dressing the part,” I said.
Charlie sometimes teases me about my name. I was born, Kate Hedwig Sexton. My dad, having been a big fan of old Hollywood, gave me Hedy Lamarr’s given first name. During her lifetime, the now deceased movie star had the good sense to shorten her name to Hedy. I was just thankful that only a few select people knew that I was also a Hedwig.
After a brief marriage to a man named, Doug Witherspoon, I’d taken back my maiden name. The only thing I’d gotten out of the crummy marriage was ruined credit and the memory of seeing my ex, an assistant DA, screwing his secretary in an interrogation room while a video recorder was running. The recording had made the rounds of every LAPD precinct, and I had been relentlessly needled about my choice in men.
The fallout from the video had made me sometimes wonder why I’d decided to become a cop. My dad was also an LAPD officer, killed off duty when I was only four. He was gunned down in a local park. The crime was never solved. In some ways I knew that I was probably symbolically pursuing the ghost of my father’s killer.
Pearl Kramer, a retired black chief of detectives who’d come out of retirement part-time, had been called by our lieutenant to meet us at the crime scene. He met up with us at the front door where the uniforms were waiting. I gave everyone the official explanation about the mayor’s party and my dress, just to get it out of the way, before asking about the details of the crime.
“The groom’s name was Michael Clinton,” the younger of the two uniforms said, glancing at some notes. “He and his bride, China, were found dead in an upstairs bedroom about forty-five minutes ago.” He looked up from his notepad. “It looks like a murder-suicide.”
“Guess the honeymoon’s over,” Charlie said, unwrapping a candy bar.
The older of the two cops was handsome with silver hair that made him look like he belonged in one of those erectile dysfunction ads. He told us that our new boss, Lieutenant Edna, had radioed that he would be at the scene within the hour.
Captain Skully, my previous supervisor, was found dead in his office a few weeks after making false accusations that I’d compromised the last investigation by talking to the press. Despite my h
omicidal thoughts, the captain’s death had been determined to be from natural causes.
“Who found the bodies?” Pearl asked.
“The wedding planner, a Marley Jenks,” the ED cop said. He made eye contact with all of us before adding, “Just so you know, everyone’s pretty freaked out in there.”
The home was a contemporary multilevel structure, consisting of steel and glass rectangular boxes that cascaded onto one another and down the hill. The main structure of the house sat at the highest point of the street, overlooking the city. From watching a few of those TV real estate shows, I guessed that it was in the eight to ten million dollar price range.
As I walked into the residence, I realized that my carefully styled ringlets of hair were starting to unravel. I’m tall with green eyes, even features, and olive skin. I was usually presentable, but I wondered how anyone was going to take me seriously at a murder scene dressed like something out of the civil war. I decided to hang my badge around my neck for identification purposes, at the same time knowing that the entire ensemble was ridiculous.
I had one of the uniforms take Bernie as Charlie and Pearl left me and went upstairs to check out the crime scene. I then met up with Natalie in the great room where dozens of guests were milling about.
Natalie is not only my best friend, but she and Mo, a former pimp—yes, pimp—are my roommates. They’d started a private detective business a few months back called, Sistah Snoop, and had been hired to provide security and assist with planning for the wedding.
After commenting on my attire, Natalie said, “Mo’s standin’ guard outside the upstairs bedroom with the coppers where the bodies are located.”
Behind her there was a lot of crying and groaning. One of the guests, a woman who looked like a long-haired Mick Jagger with a lot of plastic surgery, appeared to be on the verge of hysterics.
“Mo thinks it might’a been a case of rough sex,” Natalie continued. “But I think that’s a bunch of codswallop. The groom, that’s Michael, was a wankhead who always had his landing gear up, look’n for a hanger. Maybe China decided she’d finally had enough.”
My beautiful blond-haired friend has her own colorful variation of the English language thanks to a rough upbringing with a hard-living father in Great Britain.
“How well did you and Mo know the bride and groom?” I asked.
“We’ve been help’n Marley, she’s the wedding planner, prepare for the big day for a couple a months. China, the bride, was a real sweet pea. The wedding was at sunset out on the lawn and the couple was supposed to leave on their honeymoon at nine.” Natalie lowered her voice, motioning to the guests behind us. “A bit of a rumpus has been going on here since the bodies were discovered.” She motioned to the Mick Jagger stick figure. “The BM is ‘bout ready to shit her cookies.”
“BM?” I asked.
“Bride Mama. She’s been off her tits, slamming down doubles since the ceremony.”
No sooner had Natalie made the comment than the BM, who Natalie introduced as Linda Warner, stumbled up to me. In a voice that sounded like a drunken version of the wicked witch from The Wizard of Oz, she said, “Arrre ... yooou ‘n ... chaarge here?”
“Yes, I’m with LAPD,” I explained.
She gave me a once over, nearly falling over as her gaze moved down and took in my outfit. “What’s with ... the queeen bee ... costume?”
I explained about my dress, the party, and then said, “We’re going to check on things upstairs, Mrs. Warner.” I tried to focus on a face that was bordering on a clownish mess of implants, fillers, and smeared makeup. “As soon as I know something definitive, I’ll come back and talk to you.”
The Oz witch’s voice took on an even higher pitch as she waved her arms through the air. “If that fuuuucking bassssstarrrd ... hurt my ... dauuuuuughter I’ll cut his ... big fuuuucking diiiiick off.”
An attractive well-dressed woman who reminded me of a young Meg Ryan came over to the BM’s side. She tried to steady her and said, “He’s already dead Mother.” She looked at me and broke into tears. “They’re both dead.”
Then the flood gates gushed opened. Both women broke down, crying. I was starting to feel sorry for the BM when she turned to me, opened up her collagen-filled lips, and barfed all over my hoop dress.
Chapter Three
Natalie and I simultaneously jumped back, doing the vomit mambo, as the BM let loose. Unfortunately, the circumference of my dress made it a prime target for the witch’s pitch. I got slimed. For some reason, I imagined the BM cackling at the result and saying, “I got you, my pretty!”
“She’s shouting her groceries,” Natalie yelled. “Somebody get her into the loo.”
Mags, the BM’s daughter, tried to steer her mother toward the bathroom, but Linda Warner fell and had to be carried away by another guest. I ended up in the kitchen with Natalie, running hot water over a rag that I used to try removing the vomit from my rented satin dress.
“It’s ruined,” I said, throwing the rag onto the counter in disgust.
“Fraid the whore’s bath didn’t help it much,” Natalie agreed. “You want me to go poison the BM’s tea? She’s crazy as a bingo bat, anyway.”
“Tempting, but it’s probably not a good idea to have another murder tonight.” I tried to straighten my crumpled dress and pushed back my hair that I was sure now looked like twisted ringlets of fur. “Natalie, can you come upstairs with me while I take a preliminary look at the crime scene? I want you and Mo to tell the other investigators what you know.”
“Sure, just let me get out of these opera pumps.” She removed her high heels. “’Bout to give me a foot hickey.”
At five feet eight inches, Natalie is an inch shorter than me, blonde, and gorgeous. Men drool and step on their penises when they see her. While I have decent features, I have to admit that I’m envious of my best friend, almost to the point of having a girl-crush on Natalie.
We were headed for the stairway when a man dressed in a $5,000 suit cornered us. He introduced himself as Marvin Chauncey, the deceased bride’s agent.
“I need to know the circumstances of what happened here tonight, Ms ...”
“It’s Detective, Detective Sexton,” I said. “And there’s nothing I can tell you at this time. We’re just beginning ...”
“You don’t understand,” Chauncey interrupted, wiping his brow with an embroidered handkerchief.
China’s agent was about fifty with dyed black hair that was braided into cornrows. His diamond stud earrings looked to be at least a carrot each. His demeanor gave the impression of someone who practiced being earnest in the mirror for hours, but just couldn’t quite pull it off when it counted.
“China was about to break into the big leagues,” Chauncey said. “Hollywood Daybreak is going national. There’s a lot at stake here.”
“Hollywood what?” I said.
“That morning talk show on the sidewalk,” Natalie explained before Chauncey could break in. “They got those highchairs over on the walk of fame on Sunset and chat it up with all the celebs. It’s a slap and chuckle circus and ...”
“It is,” Chauncey interrupted, clearly unhappy with Natalie’s representation, “a discussion forum for the entertainment industry. It has garnered national attention and acclaim.” His voice broke slightly. “China was about to become a huge star.”
I pushed past Chauncey, telling him that if we had anything worthwhile to tell him I’d been in touch.
“Chauncey just lost his meal ticket,” Natalie said as we headed up the stairs. “The popinjay makes me wanna puke on his Ferragamos.”
“I’ve had enough puking for one day,” I said, just before I heard a man calling out to us from below.
“We demand to know what’s going on here,” the man said as we stopped on the landing and looked down at the crowd. He appeared to be the spokesman for several party goers who had gathered around him and were shouting drunken encouragement.
Another man yelled, “Some of u
s have important duties to attend to. We’re leaving.”
From somewhere above me I saw a large figure moving. I glanced to the upstairs hallway and saw that Mo had pushed through the line of officers and was coming downstairs to meet us.
Mo is big, black, and has a “don’t take no shit” attitude. Her former duties as a pimp involved her trying to get girls off the street and into a better life, before she and Natalie went into their private detective business.
Mo was wearing a tight little black dress, the operative words being tight and little. The tiny lacy outfit barely covered her considerable assets, both fore and aft. It gave the impression that another large float had joined my parade.
“You want me to take the rebel rousers outside, stuff a cupcake in their mouths?” Mo asked.
I shook my head. “I’d better make an announcement. Things are getting out of hand.”
Below us, there was more shouting and some movement toward the doors. Allowing the guests to leave the scene before names and statements could be taken was not an option.
“Everyone, please listen to me,” I said, raising my voice.
The crowd settled down for a moment, before a woman shouted, “Why should we listen to you? You look like you belong at a costume party.”
Several other guests apparently found this amusing and joined her in laughing at me.
Between the BM, the barf, the pompous agent, and the angry mob, I’d had enough. “I’m only going to say this once,” I said, my voice coming up another notch. I raised my badge. “This is a police investigation. No one leaves until the scene is secured and statements are taken from everyone. Anyone who fails to comply will be subject to arrest.”
What followed was a mini-riot as a handful of guests surged toward the front door. One of the men took a swing at a uniform and was pepper sprayed. A drunken woman fell, ripped her dress, and began screaming. That’s when the BM came stumbling out of the bathroom, did the Jagger swagger into the living room and said, “Somebody get me a drink.”