Murder at the Cabaret_A Pet Portraits Cozy Mystery

by Sandi Scott

  "Andrew, do me a favor." Georgie dug into her purse and pulled out the business card she had received from Calvin Bernard. "Use your phone to look this guy up?"

  “Sure.” He snatched the card and pulled out his phone while J.R. looked over his arm to watch. “Who is this?”

  “He and Mr. Bray had a meeting today that I sort of spied on.”

  “Is that really what you do all day?” Aleta teased. “I think you need to get another hobby.”

  “I just want to know if he is what he says he is.”

  “Says here that he is an entrepreneur and a restaurant owner. He owns three in the surrounding suburbs and has two prospects,” Andrew reported.

  “That’s more or less what he told me.”

  "Wait, he's got a publicity page here. Oh, my!" Andrew gasped.

  “What is it?” Aleta leaned toward the image on his phone. “Maybe I don’t want to know.”

  “There is a picture of him holding a cat the size of a German Shephard.”

  Everyone took a turn looking and gasped. “That must be Tiny,” Georgie chuckled.

  “How do you know?”

  “When I spoke to him I told him I painted pets. He told me about Tiny. Tiny is nothing even remotely close to being tiny. I don’t think this cat was ever tiny—ever in it’s huge, bird-swallowing, ground shaking life,” Georgie gasped, “but look at how happy he is with that beast. Yikes!”

  When their food arrived, the table fell silent for a few minutes as everyone had something to shovel into their mouths. Just as quickly the conversation picked up again discussing the possibility that Madame Bray’s killer might be evading justice more every day. “What if we don’t figure out who it is?” Andrew asked. “Do you just walk away and leave it to the police?”

  “If I must, but I haven’t played all my cards, yet, kid. Sometimes the only thing we can do is hurry up and wait.” Georgie winked at her son. He smiled back proudly.

  Chapter 16

  The next day, thanks to Andrew, Georgie slowly discovered how easy it was to track someone down via the Internet. She certainly wasn’t a Luddite, shunning new technologies; but she had no real desire to sit in front of a screen. However, her son was quick on the draw and was able to find what she was looking for within seconds—Taylor Bray’s home address.

  “Do you want us to go with you, Mama?” Andrew asked.

  "No. I'm just going to do a quick drive-by and see if I notice anything strange. I will probably come back empty-handed. So, you boys go have fun."

  She drove Pablo to the neighborhood where the Brays lived. It wasn’t as fancy or exotic as Georgie had assumed it might be. In fact, it was quite the opposite. The houses were all similar. The yards were approximately the same size with almost the same kind of bushes and flowers growing in them.

  “I am in the Bungalow Belt for sure,” Georgie mused. The Bungalow style of house was prevalent in the Midwest. Like her and Aleta’s homes, the bungalow was an inexpensive yet sturdy and beautifully made house that was all the rage from 1910 thru 1940. They stayed warm in the winters and cool in the summers. The living area was on one floor. Georgie loved them. This neighborhood was a fine example of bungalows.

  She parked Pablo five blocks from where the Brays lived and decided to take a walk. She wore her loose sweatpants and a red t-shirt with her red gym shoes in order to pretend she was a walker. If anyone looked at her funny, she'd just start to pump her arms then wave a howdy-do as she breathed noisily in and out. So far, as she admired the lovely structures, no one paid her any attention.

  When she got closer to the Brays’ house, she saw they had a larger front porch. It was thick and solid with forest green pillars that were a beautiful contrast to the red brick. There were wind chimes hanging from the gutter that tinkled lazily in the slight breeze. The copper mailbox attached to the porch had ‘The Brays’ painted in rolling script with curlicues off the “y” and the “s”. "Whoever did the decorating had wonderful taste," Georgie observed as she got closer. Their house did stand out from the majority of the other houses in that it had more stuff on the lawn and on the porch: bird baths, sculptures, and whirligigs. It looked pretty.

  An older lady wearing a sun hat was in her yard next door to the Brays working on her flower garden. Georgie saw a perfect opportunity. “Excuse me?” she waved. “May I ask you a question?” The woman stood, and like any adult approached by a stranger, squinted and sized Georgie up from top to bottom.

  “Hi,” Georgie sighed. “My name is Georgie, and I’m considering moving to this neighborhood.” She pointed to the “For Sale” sign across the street. “I just thought I’d take a walk around and see things up close. What do you think of the neighborhood?”

  “Oh, hello, Georgie. My name is Mary. Well, I’ve lived here for almost twenty years. I love it.”

  “Yeah?” Georgie made her tone encouraging, hoping the woman would continue talking about the neighborhood.

  “My husband and I inherited this house from my mother-in-law, one of the benefits of being married to an only child. We are happy to say the property value has always gone up.”

  “Is that so?” Georgie listened patiently.

  "Yes, in fact, most of the people that live here have been here for at least five years. It's a quiet neighborhood. No real problems. Sometimes a party gets loud or kids are out too late on their stoop, but nothing serious."

  “I just love bungalow houses. So strong. This one is really done up right.” She motioned to the Brays’ house. “Nice neighbors, are they?”

  The woman rolled her eyes.

  “I’ll tell you this,” she said. “If you are considering the house across the street that is a nice quiet place. The neighbors on either side are quiet. One is a widower; the other is a family with two college age children. Very nice people. This, on the other hand, hmph!” She jerked her thumb toward the Brays’ property.

  “Trouble, huh?”

  “They are always fighting. Or, at least they were always fighting.”

  “Really?” Georgie was engrossed. “Are they newlyweds? It is true what they say that the first year is the hardest. Perhaps that has something to do with their arguing?” Georgie offered innocently.

  “Oh, no. This duo has been together and living here for over five years. They didn’t fight every night, but they developed a reputation on the block as being inconsiderate and too loud for our tastes.”

  "Well, let's face it. These houses are close together. You'd have to be quite insensitive to think your neighbors couldn't hear."

  "Exactly," Mary replied.

  “What do they fight about?”

  "I could never really tell," she continued. "You could hear them two doors down, but as for what the point of their arguments was or who started what, I could never tell. Guess they won't be arguing anymore."

  "Why ever not?" Georgie played dumb. "Is this house going up for sale, too?"

  “Not just yet. Actually, it’s quite sad. The woman was murdered,” Mary whispered.

  “No,” Georgie gasped with wide eyes, putting her hand to her lips. “Did the husband do it?”

  “No one knows. The police are still investigating.”

  “Have they come to talk to you?”

  “Just once. I told them about the fighting. I felt I had no choice.”

  “Of course,” Georgie soothed.

  “They weren’t home that night. See, his wife was in show business and was murdered at work. She was some kind of dancer or something. I never knew, exactly.”

  “So, he was there when she died?” Georgie prodded.

  “I’m guessing he was since no one was home here.”

  “How very interesting.”

  "Yes. I know that she traveled a lot with her job. Like I said, she was some kind of dancer and would often tell me in passing that she was going to California or Seattle or somewhere to put on a show. I wasn't interested."

  “Not even a little curious?”

  “Not really. Like I
said, we heard those two fighting a lot. It was too much. We didn’t want to get too chummy with them. The last thing we wanted was for some domestic dispute to spread over to our house.”

  "I don't blame you," Georgie replied. "Let me ask you this. Do you think the husband had anything to do with his wife's death?"

  "I couldn't say for sure," Mary answered, "but I will say my husband and I asked that very same question."

  "Well, you've been very helpful," Georgie assured Mary, sticking out her hand to shake. "It was great meeting you."

  "You, too. If you do decide to move to the neighborhood, please stop by again. My husband grows his own vegetables and we always have too many for just him and me."

  “That’s very kind of you. I will do that.”

  As Georgie walked away and circled around the block back to Pablo, she mentally reviewed the events of the night Madame Bray turned up dead on stage. There was a lot of hoopla going on. She remembered seeing Henry Dupre and so many of the dancers, but she was almost positive that Taylor Bray was not there.

  “If my husband suddenly turned up dead on stage, I would have run up there to see if there was anything to be done. I would have held his hand or, in Stan’s case, slapped his cheek a couple times to get him to come around.” You did have a piña colada. The rum went straight to your head, her little inner voice reminded her. “Yes, I know that but I still don’t recall seeing him. No one shouted Get Taylor or find Mr. Bray!. Nothing like that. I would have remembered,” she said as she walked down the sidewalk. “No. I’m sure of it. He was not there. At least, he wasn’t there for anyone to see him. I wonder where he was? What was his alibi?” It could have been anything. Georgie didn’t dare speculate.

  Just as she was about to climb into the driver’s seat she saw a man approaching who was walking two pug dogs. Georgie just had to stop to chat, there was nothing that could put a smile on her face as quickly as seeing another pug owner with their pugs. “Hello.” She waved. “Your pugs are beautiful. What are their names?”

  “The black one is Kong and the fawn one is Godzilla.”

  Georgie burst out laughing. “Well, they certainly are a pair of cuties. I have a pug, too. His name is Bodhi. He thinks he’s a person.”

  “Don’t they all?” the man said. He was in his mid-forties with wild graying hair that stood out like Albert Einstein’s. “I haven’t seen any other pugs in this neighborhood. Did you just move here?”

  Georgie just repeated the same story she had told Mary. She mentioned the house across the street from the Brays that had the “For Sale” sign in front of it.

  “Yes. I know that house. That is across the street from a couple where the wife was just murdered.”

  “You don’t say?” Georgie replied.

  The man continued to say that he knew the couple on sight but not by name. He said he wasn’t surprised when he saw the write-up in the paper.

  “Really? They weren’t a happy couple?”

  “Not from what I heard.” The man stooped down to pet his dogs as they panted and snorted at him and Georgie and each other. “They didn’t look like they belonged together. She appeared to weigh at least twice as much as he did, mostly in the bosom, and neither one of them could agree on anything. If one said it was day, the other said it was night.”

  “Were you friends with them?”

  The neighborhood has had some Christmas open houses over the past few years, and I always stopped in at their place. They had a beautiful home and always decorated it like crazy for the Christmas holiday. Every time I went they were fighting.”

  “In front of people at the open house?”

  The man nodded his head.

  “They were quite a sight. It wasn’t like I caught them on one bad year; it was every year. For sport, I’d bring a couple of friends with me just to say, ‘Watch, at this place; they’ll be fighting.’ They never disappointed.” Georgie wasn’t sure what to think of this additional information that confirmed the Brays was not a happy couple.

  “Well, still, it’s a shame what happened,” she added.

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you know what Mr. Bray did for a living? She was a performer of sorts, right?”

  “Yeah.” The guy gave a sly smirk. She did a cabaret show at a theater in New Town, I think. I don’t know what he did. I don’t know if he worked at all.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Only a woman in charge of the purse strings would talk to her husband the way she talked to him. At least, that’s how I see it.”

  “Interesting.” Georgie petted the pugs that toppled playfully all over each other trying to get a little bit of her affection. “Well, I’ve held you guys up long enough. Thank you for the information.”

  “Sure thing.” The man smiled. “Have a good day, ma’am.”

  “Goodbye Kong. Bye Godzilla,” she giggled as she climbed into her Volkswagen.

  As she drove toward home, Georgie decided to make a pit stop. There was a little pastry shop she had passed on the way to the Brays’ house. Pulling into the parking lot, she thought she would pick out something for dessert tonight, but what she really wanted to do was sit and think for a minute. “Their marriage was on the rocks and that was confirmed by two neighbors, unless they were one of those couples that fought so they could make up all the time. That sounds like something Stan would do,” she chuckled.

  Climbing out of the car she could smell the heavy scent of chocolate as soon as she opened the door. “Welcome to Maxine’s,” a tiny young lady behind the counter shouted. “Please take a number.” Georgie nodded. The place was busy with late morning traffic. No one wants to cook breakfast on Saturday morning. She sure didn’t, and she was pretty sure Aleta wouldn’t either, but first, she had a hunch to check out. “I wonder what Calvin Bernard is doing for breakfast?” she said softly under her breath, taking out her cell phone.

  Chapter 17

  “Absolutely, Ms. Kaye!” Calvin Bernard was loud with excitement over the phone. “I know exactly where Maxine’s is. I’d be happy to meet you there. Can you give me half an hour?”

  “Of course, Mr. Bernard.”

  They exchanged a few more pleasantries before Georgie ended the call and took a seat. There were only three tables in Maxine’s bakery. Small little wooden tables for two that formed an L- shape at the far end of the store. Georgie took the only available table, which was closest to the window. An elderly couple sat at one table sipping coffee and chatting quietly. The other table was occupied by a twenty-something staring at his phone. With a warm coffee in her hands and half an hour to decide what to eat, Georgie studied the pastries and formulated her story in her head before Mr. Bernard arrived. She was a divorcee and living quite comfortably. With many friends and family still close by, she often felt bored and alone. What better way to meet new people than to invest in a restaurant? Although not the most airtight story, it should get the door open at least.

  Mr. Bernard arrived just as Georgie was ordering herself a sliver of raspberry coffee cake. “I’m sorry to stuff my face in front of you, Mr. Bernard, but I didn’t have any breakfast this morning. Would you like to share? This sliver of coffee cake, as you can see, is more like a wedge than a sliver.” She pushed the little plate toward Calvin.

  “Thank you, no, Ms. Kaye.”

  “Please, call me Georgie.” Without much hesitation Georgie pulled the plate back in front of her and carved another forkful.

  “Georgie. Please call me Calvin,” he continued to tell her that he had a McDonald’s breakfast with his ten-year-old daughter this morning. “Mom has a cold so I handled breakfast. I’m a whiz at the drive-thru.”

  Georgie laughed nodding her head. “You must have gone to the same father’s culinary course as my ex-husband.” They both chuckled as Calvin pulled several folders from his briefcase and spread them out on the small table.

  “Well, let me tell you, Georgie, this is a very exciting time.” Calvin went on to describe the indi
vidual investment opportunities he had available.

  Georgie was surprised that Calvin had his hand in several restaurants that would be popping up in various parts of the city. “My goodness, Calvin. How did you get involved in so many projects? And how do you keep them all straight?”

  “You’d be surprised.” He ordered himself a small cup of coffee. “I went to college and got a degree in political science.” He pointed his finger at his mouth and pretended to gag, “But, I couldn’t find a job. A buddy of mine had gone to work with his father who was in construction. They were building a brand-new restaurant.”

  “Really?” Georgie was not at all interested, but the best way to a man’s heart was not through his stomach, but rather a gentle pat of his ego. “That’s fascinating.”

  “Yes, I learned how the restaurant was being built via investors who were delinquent in their payments.” He carefully sipped the hot coffee. “That meant the guys—me—didn’t get paid. Everyone was on anxious, wondering how things would work out.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “Everything ended up being okay, but I saw an angle. I spoke with my buddy and got him to introduce me to the guys investing. Then I spoke with the guy who organized the investing. Well, you know, I’ve got the gift of gab.”

  “That you do.”

  “So, Mike—the middleman’s name was Mike Pilsen—hired me on as sort of a freelance broker. I made over seventeen connections and recruited four new investors in a local restaurant that you might know.”

  “Really, what is that?”

  “Maxine’s,” he grinned smartly.

  “You helped get this place up and running?”

  “I was able to put together a couple of investors to help get it up and running several years ago now. Isn’t that something?”

  “That really is.” Georgie wondered if he had made such an impact all those years ago to help establish Maxine’s why it wasn’t on his website? Georgie brushed the thought away. What did she know about websites and promoting a business?