Twice as Dead

by Sue Ann Jaffarian

  When we reached Clark, I handed him his key. Looking around, I didn’t see anything promising a staid and respectful memorial service. “Did you find it?” I asked. “Or did you decide to take us out for brunch instead?”

  Without speaking, Clark held out the paper with the address on it, then pointed to some numbers above a garish, bright purple-lacquered closed door. They matched. A large sign proclaimed the place as Billie’s Holiday. I showed the match to Zee.

  She fanned her face. “Are you kidding?” She kept fanning.

  My shoulders sagged. “I guess the address in the paper was wrong. Probably a typo. Sorry, guys.”

  “No, ladies,” Clark told us with an odd but amused look on his face. “This is the right place. I poked my head in and asked someone. The memorial service is about to begin.”

  “Here?” I didn’t believe him.

  “Here,” he assured us.

  Besides the large sign proclaiming the place’s name, there was an even larger sign claiming Billie’s to have the “Best Drag Revue in Orange County” every Saturday evening. Two shows—nine o’clock and eleven o’clock. Knowing Orange County, it was probably the only drag queen revue in the county. Another sign to the left of the door announced drag queen bingo every Monday night at eight o’clock. I was a little worried about the type of business Billie’s Holiday conducted the rest of the week. Nowhere did it claim to be available for memorial services.

  When Clark pulled open the door, I noticed a sign printed in large block letters stuck to the front. It announced that the club would be closed until one o’clock for a private party. Party? Zee and I looked at each other, but neither moved to enter.

  “You first, Odelia,” Zee finally said. “By all means.”

  Squaring my shoulders, I stepped inside. Considering some of the places I’d been while pursuing witnesses and information, this should be a piece o’ cake.

  A welcome blast of AC greeted me as I stepped down the rabbit hole.

  Also greeting me was a slim man with skin the color of caramel, wearing eyeliner and a light blue caftan. He had delicate features and short black hair tipped the color of a Creamsicle. “You here for the memorial?” he asked in a respectful whisper.

  “Yes.” I accompanied my own whisper with a nod, just in case he had any doubts. Behind me the door shut, closing off the light from outside. I glanced over my shoulder to make sure Clark and Zee hadn’t abandoned me.

  “You’re just in time,” the man said with a sad, small smile. “My name’s Corey. Follow me.”

  Like a trio of ducklings, the three of us followed Corey into the club, which was much larger on the inside than it appeared outside. A long wooden bar with a lineup of empty stools ran along the left side. Behind the bar was the requisite mirror and colorful bottles of booze lined up on shelves, one behind the other, like fans at a sporting event. Half the length of the bar was set out with platters of food covered in plastic wrap and chafing dishes being kept warm with Sterno.

  Across the way, on the other side of the room, was a low stage, its sparkly silver curtain pulled back on either side to reveal a thick backdrop. Corey blazed a trail through the valley of tables and chairs, a napkin dispenser and set of salt and pepper shakers on each, to the aisle between the tables and the bar. From there, he headed for a large open door on the far side of the place. The lights inside the club were turned up, exposing the scarred wood of the tables, the worn vinyl on the bar stools, and the less than glamorous stage. In a dark bar with the right lighting, it probably looked spectacular.

  “Is this a restaurant or a nightclub?” I whispered, taking a couple of quick steps to get closer to our guide.

  “Both,” he whispered back. “We usually open on the weekends for lunch at noon. Best burgers in the area. During the week, we don’t open until four thirty.”

  On the other side of the door that was our destination was a separate room, still good-sized though only about half the size of the restaurant. It was probably a space they rented out for private parties and meetings. Inside, metal folding chairs were lined up with their backs to us, facing a makeshift altar on which stood an easel holding an enlarged photograph of Shirley Pearson. Next to the photograph were several gorgeous baskets of flowers. Flanking it all were two tall candelabras finished off with lit white tapers, standing like guards to an ancient tomb. Nearly all the seats were full, and many people stood along the walls. Corey led us to the back row on the left side, where a couple of empty chairs dotted the row like missing teeth. Two men, their eyes wet and hands clasped, scooted down, condensing the empties to make room for the three of us to sit together.

  The photo of Shirley was a glamour shot or possibly a professional headshot. She looked out on the attendees like royalty waiting for the crowd to hush so she could impart words of wisdom to her subjects. From unseen speakers, a soft instrumental piece played.

  We were barely seated when the music stopped and a tall, slender man dressed in a black shirt, shiny black tie, and black pants took the stage. He looked to be pulling forty rather than pushing it. His dark hair was cropped close to his head, as was his beard. His angular face sagged with grief. He introduced himself as Marvin Gunn, the owner of Billie’s Holiday and longtime friend of Shirley Pearson’s. He thanked us all for coming.

  Gunn talked with emotion, saying the things usually said at a memorial service for a loved one. He told the gathering how he’d first met the then-Doug Pearson shortly after Doug had arrived in Los Angeles as a very young man, confused and alone, seeking a new life and to be accepted as himself. Next to me, the two men who’d moved to accommodate us nodded in understanding and clutched each other’s hands. As tears welled in his eyes, Gunn continued, describing how Doug had blossomed after becoming Shirley. How she’d been a natural onstage and an astute business woman offstage, even starting her own successful event planning business.

  I craned my neck this way and that until I thought it would snap. Being short and being in the back row, I couldn’t make out the faces of any mourners except those seated in my row. All I could see was a lake of heads of various heights, colors, and genders, and even the genders were hazy in many cases. If Clarice was here, I wouldn’t know until the service was over and people left their seats. From the back, none of the people I could see looked like Clarice. Three mourners wore straw hats. When the service was over, they would be my first targets.

  As Gunn continued to speak, I studied him, getting a sense of familiarity. I’d left my large, bulky tote bag at home, opting instead for a smaller shoulder bag. It currently sat on my lap. From it, I discretely removed the photo and looked from it to the altar several times. Standing in the back of the group in the photo was a man who looked sort of like Marvin Gunn, though I wasn’t positive. The man in the photo didn’t have a beard, and his hair was longer. He was standing almost directly behind Shirley Pearson, who was sitting next to Clarice.

  Was Marvin Gunn also running from something in his past? Was it a criminal act, like Shirley, or something else? Or maybe he wasn’t a runner at all. For all I knew, Marvin Gunn always was his real name, and he just happened to know the same people.

  I scanned the photo again. There were a couple of other unidentified people in it, making me wonder if they’d be here today to say goodbye to Shirley. I focused on the unknown faces, hoping to burn them into my memory. It wasn’t as if I could go around the service holding the photo up against people’s faces for comparison.

  To my left, Clark gently poked me. When I glanced his way, he bent close to my ear and whispered, “There’s a cop here. I’m sure of it.” He directed my gaze over his left shoulder.

  Crap!

  Standing against the back wall was Dev Frye. He was just a few feet away, wedged into the corner, trying to look inconspicuous. But between his bulk and his conservative suit in a sea of colorful caftans and trendy attire, he was failing big time. He was looking straight at me. He didn’t look pleased. I gave him a small smile and finger wave be
fore turning my head back toward the altar. After all, it was a free country, and I did know Shirley—sort of. Why shouldn’t I be here?

  “That’s not just a cop,” I whispered to Clark. “That’s Dev.”

  Clark didn’t glance back but looked straight ahead, a smart-ass grin plastered to his face. “I like the man already,” he whispered from the corner of his mouth.

  When he was done, Marvin Gunn invited people from the audience to come up and say a few words about Shirley. At first, the crowd remained self-conscious and silent until one young man got up and talked about how Shirley helped him find a job and a place to live. Then another man stood and praised her generosity. A woman, beset with tears, told the crowd how Shirley had helped her family get through her brother’s death from AIDS. One after another, people somberly filed up to the altar to sing Shirley Pearson’s praises, making her sound more like a saint than an armed bank robber.

  When people were finished, Marvin Gunn returned to the altar. In closing, he invited the gathering to stay for refreshments. His last action was to call a man from the front row up to the altar, introducing him as a pastor from a local church. The pastor invited us all to bow our heads in prayer.

  Not that I wanted to tick off God or anything—I need every advantage in my corner—but I couldn’t help but raise my head while everyone else’s was bowed to survey the crowd. And I was glad I did, because one of the ladies wearing a straw hat was trying to sneak out.

  I wasn’t the only one who noticed. From the back of the room, Dev Fry was dividing his time between watching me and watching the woman make her getaway.

  The woman had been seated on a far aisle seat. As she tiptoed out, I stood as quietly as possible, which caused Zee to open her eyes and turn her bowed head my way. Zee didn’t approve of people sneaking out during prayers of any kind, and the look she gave me told me so. I pretended I didn’t see it and turned to edge pass Clark, who had the aisle seat on our side. For a brief moment, he blocked me with his knees. Then, seeing my quarry, he moved his legs to let me pass. I felt sure he wanted to get up and follow, too, but there was no sense spooking the woman with a mass exodus. As it was, I was going to have Dev tailing my every move, and Clark knew it.

  I still wasn’t sure if it was Clarice Hollowell or if she’d noticed me yet. The woman had her head down, the hat tilted to cover her face. But the slim build was the same, and I was sure it was the same dress she’d worn the day she stopped by my home. Fortunately, there was only one exit from the room, and we were going to reach it about the same time.

  Glancing at Dev, I saw that he was watching me like a hawk. He was really screwing up my plans. I needed to ask Clarice some questions, but she would never talk while he was there. And I would never get a chance to ask her anything if Dev swooped in and nabbed her for police questioning.

  Good thing for all of us, the pastor was long-winded. Most of the mourners kept their heads down while the quiet and desperate race for the door went on behind them.

  The woman was scurrying, moving fast and quietly on wedged espadrilles. She made it to the door just before me. Not moving from his corner, Dev never took his eyes off us. He was letting me do his legwork—waiting until I tackled her before he sauntered in and took charge. It annoyed me, but I was too occupied in my pursuit to shoot him a look full of daggers.

  Out in the bar area, waiters in white shirts and black pants were removing the plastic wrap and readying the food for the mourners. I wanted to call out to the woman as she scooted toward the front door and her getaway but knew my voice would carry back into the quiet memorial service. Instead, I picked up my pace, my heels sounding out a choppy Morse code across the hard club floor. So much for not disturbing the service.

  “Pssst,” I called to Clarice through my teeth. “Hold up.” She didn’t stop.

  Determined to catch up to her before she made it out the front door, I briefly entertained the thought of a tackle. Instead, with one last effort, I put some kick into my step, thankful the maze of tables was slowing her down. Just as she reached the door, I got a hand on her arm and stopped her.

  “I need to talk to you.”

  She spun around, her head still down so I couldn’t see her face. With a sinking feeling in my gut, I grabbed the straw hat and snatched it from her head.

  “Hey!” A head shot up, eyes frightened and indignant at the same time. It wasn’t Clarice. It wasn’t even a she. Under the hat was a slight young man wearing makeup and lipstick.

  “I’m sorry.” I handed the hat back. “I thought you were someone else.”

  “You Odelia Grey?” my prey asked in a forced breathy voice.

  Behind me, I heard the service breaking up and people filing into the restaurant.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “This is for you.” He opened his bag, pulled out a slip of paper, and handed it to me.

  “Hey, Betty,” a man called from the bar area. “This woman bothering you?”

  “No, Stan,” the guy in the Clarice costume called back. “We’re good.”

  “Everything okay here?” came another voice. I didn’t have to turn around to know that Dev Fry would be behind me. Betty started to head out the door, but Dev stuck out a hand to detain him. “Hold on a second, please.” He discreetly flashed Betty his badge.

  “I didn’t do anything wrong,” Betty protested, his Adam’s apple bobbing like a trapped mouse in a snake’s belly. Dev guided Betty away from the door to a nearby table, depositing his keister on a chair.

  Ignoring both of them, I opened the note to read three words written in a tight hand: Odelia, you’re fired.—C.

  Fired?

  People not staying for the reception were slipping by me and out the door, murmuring various subdued forms of “excuse me” as they passed. I stood rooted to the floor, staring at the note in my hand, a confused island in an eclectic sea of mourners, until a strong hand gripped my arm and dragged me to the side and out of the way. I looked up to see the hand belonged to Clark. Next to him was a concerned Zee. I passed the note to Clark.

  After reading the note, Clark handed it off to Dev. “By the way, I’m Clark Littlejohn.”

  The announcement caught Dev by surprise. “Odelia’s brother?”

  “Yep, one and the same. I understand you’re Detective Dev Frye.” Clark stuck out his hand. Dev took it and gave it a strong shake, his other brawny hand on Betty’s shoulder like a paperweight.

  “Dammit,” I said to no one in particular, “I should have known Clarice wouldn’t have worn the same dress twice in a month, let alone in the same week.” I wanted to kick myself for taking the bait.

  “Odelia, are you okay?” The question came from Zee.

  “She fired me, Zee.”

  “Who fired you?”

  It was then I realized I hadn’t told Zee anything about the past few days’ events—and with good reason. She was still reeling from her daughter’s wedding being a murder scene, and I had wanted to keep her out of the peripheral problems.

  “Never mind, Zee. It’s just crazy talk.”

  Zee moved directly in front of me, one hand on her hip, the other clutching her purse. “I’m far from stupid, Odelia. I knew you didn’t come here just to say goodbye to Shirley Pearson.”

  “You’re right, but let me fill you in later.” She looked at me, her dark face full of doubt. “I promise,” I tacked on quickly.

  “I’m going to hold you to that.” The hand once on her hip was now pointing a finger at me.

  A waiter came by with a tray of champagne flutes filled with orange liquid. “Mimosa?”

  I took one. Zee, who hardly ever drank alcohol, declined. Clark didn’t drink. And Dev was on duty. Before the waiter could get away, I kicked back the sweet and bubbly concoction, replaced the empty glass on the tray, and scooped up a second one as backup.

  Zee eyed me as if I were one of her kids caught in a suspicious act.

  “What?” I looked at the drink in my hand, then back at her. “Th
ey’re small.”

  “If you’re going to guzzle like that,” Zee told me with disapproval, “I’m going to get you some food.”

  “Swell,” I answered, my eyes not on her but on Betty.

  Zee left, and I took the chair next to him. Dev was standing like a skyscraper over the tiny cross-dresser, questioning him but getting nowhere. Clark stood nearby, his trained eyes surveying the milling crowd for anything out of the ordinary. Two cops hovering over the person I wanted to question were two cops too many, even if one was supposedly retired.

  “When did Clarice give you that note?” I asked Betty.

  “Like I told this … this brute,” he shot his eyes up at Dev, “my name is Betty Rumble, and that’s all you’re getting from me.” He crossed his arms over his flat chest like a petulant child.

  Betty Rumble? My eyes did a quick scan of the man in drag next to me. He wasn’t wearing a wig. Under the hat, his hair was blond, short, and spiked. He had great cheekbones and knew how to wield both blush and eye shadow to his advantage. But even by female standards, he was pretty skimpy in the bulk department. He didn’t look like he could rumble with Muffin, let alone go a few rounds with Wilma Flintstone.

  I took a drink from my mimosa. “Look, Betty,” I started again, infusing my voice with softness, helped no doubt by the booze, “I know you didn’t do anything wrong, but I need to talk to Clarice. Where is she?”

  He uncrossed his arms—a good sign. “Look, if I tell you, will you let me go?” He didn’t look up at Dev, just at me. When Dev squeezed the hand on his shoulder, Betty jerked it from his grasp. “I really have to get home. It’s an emergency.” He sounded genuinely flustered.