Twice as Dead

by Sue Ann Jaffarian

  I looked up at Dev. He nodded, then added, “As long as we know how to reach you.”

  “Yes, Betty,” I confirmed. “You can go. We also need to know how to reach Clarice Hollowell.”

  “Hollowell?” Betty looked surprised. “You mean Clarice Thomas, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” I said quickly, trying not to look surprised. “Hollowell was her married name.” I didn’t look up at Dev. I didn’t have to. I knew he was listening and taking mental notes. A quick scamper through my memory reminded me that Clarice’s maiden name had been Thomas. It sounded as if she’d gone back to using it. It was a common name, and no one would question her use of it.

  “Clarice came in here last night,” Betty began. “I wait tables Friday nights and weekends.” Betty crossed his slim legs and leaned forward. He seemed jumpy and eager to say his piece and leave. “She told me she’d pay me to wear her clothes and come here today and give you that note.”

  “But you almost left without giving it to me,” I pointed out.

  “I know. I’m sorry,” he said in a hurry. “But I got a text telling me to come home right away.”

  “What’s the rush?” Dev asked.

  “Tiffany—that’s my dog—she’s having puppies. Right now,” he emphasized. “Please, I have to get home.”

  When we didn’t say anything, Betty dug a phone out of his purse and showed it to me. There on the screen was a text message: Puppies coming. He also flashed it at Dev.

  “Anything wrong, Betty?”

  Marvin Gunn had stepped up to our table. Behind him was Zee, holding two small plates of finger foods. I also saw that other people, while keeping their distance, were watching us and straining to listen while they munched snacks and drank their mimosas. We may not have been onstage, but we were definitely the entertainment.

  “I…” Betty looked from me to Dev, then whined, “Tiffany’s having her puppies, Marv, but they won’t let me go.”

  I started to say something, but a look from Dev stopped me. He showed Marvin Gunn his credentials. “I just wanted to ask Betty a few questions in connection with the murder of Shirley Pearson.”

  “Shirley?” Betty turned pale. “But I thought this was about Clarice? I don’t know anything about what happened to poor Shirley!” With each word, Betty’s voice got noticeably higher.

  Several tables of people near us went silent, and soon we elevated from a casual floor show to an entire roadside attraction.

  “Do you have to do this here, Detective?” Gunn moved closer to the table and shot his eyes over the watching crowd.

  “You have a point, Mr. Gunn.” Dev placed his hand back on Betty’s shoulder. “We can take Ms. Rumble here to the station. That way you and your guests can continue in peace.”

  Betty fluttered a delicate hand. He looked about to have an old-fashioned attack of the vapors. “All I know is Clarice paid me a hundred dollars to wear her clothes today and give that note to someone named Odelia. I figured, why not? I was coming to the service anyway.” His big eyes begged Dev to believe him. “That’s all I know, honest.”

  Clarice was that sure I’d be here. I didn’t like the fact she had me so pegged. “But what if I hadn’t come to the service?”

  “Then I was simply to come and pay my respects. I got the money either way.”

  Dev tossed his small notebook and a pen on the table in front of Betty. “Jot down a number and address where you can be reached, just in case.” Betty snatched up the notebook and started writing as if time on a pop quiz were running out.

  “What about you?” Dev asked Marvin Gunn. “What can you tell me about Clarice Hollowell? She might be going by the name Clarice Thomas.”

  Gunn shrugged. “I’ve seen her in here, mostly with Shirley. They were close friends and business partners, but that’s all I know about her.”

  “You don’t know how to reach her?”

  “Sorry, Detective. I didn’t even remember her last name until you just said it.”

  Dev didn’t give up. “How about the name Alfonso or Alfred Nunez? That mean anything to you?”

  Gunn thought a minute, then shook his head. “Sorry, not a clue. Should I know it?”

  “He might have hung around the two of them.”

  “Look, Detective.” Gunn leaned in and lowered his voice. “After Shirley stopped performing here and became a fancy event planner, she started traveling in a different circle. She and that Clarice woman came in once in a while for drinks or a bite to eat. Rambling Rose is just up the street. It was convenient for them. But that’s it.”

  “But I thought you and Shirley were tight.” Dev never took his eyes off Gunn’s face nor his hand off Betty’s shoulder.

  “We were,” Gunn explained, “once upon a time. When she died, all her new friends disappeared. Giving her this service was the least we could do.”

  I remained quiet—not an easy thing. I was antsy to question Marvin Gunn about his knowledge of not just Shirley and Clarice but of Scott Johnson and Roslyn Stevens. I hadn’t told Dev about what Greg and I had learned Thursday night, and I didn’t know if he recognized Marvin Gunn from the photo. Geez, even I wasn’t sure it was him. The face was similar but not quite the same, though it was difficult to tell with the beard.

  Dev took his hand from Betty’s shoulder. “You can go.”

  Betty got up to leave but Dev stopped him, holding out his hand. “The notebook.”

  Betty closed it and handed both it and the pen back to Dev, then skedaddled out the door as fast as his espadrilles could carry him.

  Zee approached the table and placed a small plate of food in front of me. Without a word, she picked up my half-empty mimosa glass and drank it down in one gulp.

  Dev was about to say something to Gunn when Betty raced back in, slightly flushed. “Marv, I’ll need tonight off. Tiffany and all, you know.”

  Dev popped a whole stuffed mushroom in his mouth and chewed, his thoughts a million miles away. Without losing a step, he popped another into his face.

  “How many did you grab on the way out?” I asked.

  “Just a couple. Too bad we couldn’t stay. These are great. Wouldn’t mind a few more.” He popped in the third and final, then looked around for a napkin. That, he’d forgotten to grab. We stopped several yards away from the entrance to Billie’s Holiday while Dev tried to figure out what to do with his greasy fingers.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” huffed Zee. “Here.” From her purse she produced a couple of tissues from a travel-size pack and handed them to the large, oily detective. Zee wasn’t happy, but it had nothing to do with Dev grabbing the stuffed mushrooms from the buffet on our way out the door.

  “Never!” she said, walking off ahead of us toward the car. “Never have I been asked to leave a funeral. Or anywhere else, I might add.”

  “Technically,” I offered, trying to be helpful, “it wasn’t a funeral, Zee. It was a memorial service. The body hasn’t been buried yet.”

  She did an about-face and glared at me.

  I turned to Dev. “Am I right or am I right?”

  “Odelia’s right. It was a memorial service.”

  Zee narrowed her eyes until they were no more than dark, furious slits. “I don’t care what it was technically. We were still asked to leave, as if we were a bunch of hooligans.”

  “Oh, come on, Zee,” I told her. “It’s not like we were dancing on tables or throwing punches.” She rolled her eyes at me. “And,” I continued, “it was really Dev who was asked to leave.”

  Dev tossed the dirty tissue into a nearby trash can planted on the sidewalk. “No, I’m pretty sure we were all asked to leave. Though if we’re getting technical, I was there on a murder investigation. I didn’t have to do a damn thing Gunn asked. I left because it would have been counterproductive to stay.”

  I shrugged. “Let’s face it, it could have happened to anyone.”

  Both Dev and Zee came to a halt on the sidewalk and stared at me like I was a giant mouse aski
ng for directions to Disneyland. Looking down at my shoes, I noticed meatball gravy oozing from the peek-a-boo toe of one. It was squishy and totally clashed with the large pale orange abstract of mimosa staining the front of my linen dress.

  Right after Gunn had granted the new doggie daddy leave to take the night off, he’d given Dev a gracious smile and turned him away from the prying eyes of the crowd as if they were two old friends consoling each other. Gunn’s real purpose was to ask if there might be a more appropriate time for Dev to be asking his questions. As discreetly as possible, I had scooted my chair closer to them.

  “This is a murder investigation, Mr. Gunn,” Dev explained again. “What better time than when all of Ms. Pearson’s friends are gathered?”

  “It’s disrespectful, Detective.”

  “I find murder the ultimate disrespect, Mr. Gunn. Don’t you?” Dev looked back around the room. “And we believe Ms. Pearson was killed by someone she knew quite well. Possibly someone in this very room.” Dev put some distance between Gunn and himself. “Speaking of which, may I ask what you were doing last Saturday evening?”

  “It happened at my daughter’s wedding reception,” Zee added, as if that might jar Gunn’s memory. Instead, he looked at her as if she were an annoying fly.

  When the mimosa man came by again, I took another glass. This time, Zee took one of her own. I asked the waiter if he could bring us two Cokes, diet or otherwise, one each for Clark and Dev. Then I noticed Clark wasn’t around. I stood up and scanned the room but didn’t see him. I sat down again, thinking he must have gone to the men’s room.

  Gunn looked surprised by Dev’s question. “Why, I was here, as I am every Saturday night. The revue is our biggest night. I’m always here on Saturday evening, and I personally close the place at 2 am Sunday morning.”

  I couldn’t help but chuckle. “Detective Frye doesn’t exactly hang out in gay bars.”

  Again, Gunn was surprised. “Billie’s Holiday isn’t a gay bar. Most of our clientele is straight, especially for the drag revue and Monday night bingo.” He gave us all a smug look. “You folks don’t get out much, do you?”

  Ignoring the dig, Dev plodded on. “You have anyone who can vouch for you last Saturday?”

  Gunn looked around the room and smiled. “Ask almost anyone here in drag.”

  About the time Gunn took his leave, the sodas arrived. Dev pulled the straw out of one and drank down half of it, followed by downing a flaky phyllo dough triangle stuffed with cheese from one of the plates Zee had fetched. He ate and drank in silence and watched the crowd, the wheels in his skull working in sync with his chewing.

  Seeing the small plates on our table were nearly empty, Zee started to get up for a refill. I stopped her. “I’ll go. I need to stretch my legs and see where Clark’s at.”

  “Snag some of the tiny meatballs while you’re at it,” Zee requested. “There was a big crowd around them before.”

  “And more stuffed mushrooms,” Dev called, still not taking his eyes off the crowd.

  Even though the crowd had thinned some, it was still healthy in number. People were hanging around, talking and laughing. Some were hugging. Nowhere did I see Clark. I worked my way to the bar and the food, hoping the meatballs and mushrooms were still in good supply. I grabbed two of the small plates and filled one with carrots and celery, some cheese cubes and crackers. On the other I piled a few of the phyllo pastries and several mushrooms. A man watched me fill my plate. In an exaggerated gesture, his disapproving eyes scanned my plus-sized body like an MRI.

  “I’m eating for four,” I explained, treating him to a gooey, sweet smile.

  I moved on to attack the meatballs. They were arranged neatly in their chafing dish, each speared through with fancy toothpicks like tiny gravy-coated lollipops. I plucked out several and added them to the plate with the other hot foods.

  Across from me, a man was adding a few meatballs to his own plate. He looked vaguely familiar. I stalled, pretending to be picky about which gob of meat I chose while trying to place him. He was middle-aged and kind of nerdy, like a junior college math teacher. He wore wire-framed glasses and his head was mostly bald. What hair he had left was gray and trimmed close to his head in a ring.

  “They look delicious, don’t they?” I asked, striking up a conversation.

  He glanced up as he put two on his plate but didn’t say anything. He took a step sideways to consider the next tray of food.

  “A friend of mine is addicted to the mushrooms.” I held out my plate, showing off the small pile I’d made for Dev.

  He sighed and concentrated on his food, clearly blowing me off. Either he thought I was trying to pick him up or a silly woman starved for chitchat. I had my suspicion as to his identity, and my knees nearly knocked in anticipation. The hair was different, but the build and face were the same. I hadn’t seen him in the crowd of mourners in the service, but he could have arrived after or simply blended in with the crowd. He had the kind of face and nondescript appearance that wouldn’t stand out even if he were alone in a room. Some people were like that. Even when they showed up, others had trouble remembering they were ever there. It was the perfect persona for someone trying to hide in plain sight.

  I held out the meatball still suspended in my hand. “Do you think they make these with ground turkey, ground beef, or a blend?”

  This time the man looked up at me with undisguised disgust. Getting a full-on look at his face gave my notion legs to stand on. I was talking meatballs with Scott Johnson. I’d bet my next mimosa on it.

  “I don’t want to appear rude,” he said to me in a quiet voice, “but I’d like to be left alone.”

  “I’m sorry,” I told him, putting the meatball on my plate. “How insensitive of me.” I pretended to leave the buffet, then turned around and stood in front of him again. “One last question, if you’ll permit me?”

  He looked up, making no attempt to hide a look of barely reined impatience. “What else?”

  I leaned slightly forward, my boobs dangerously close to the meatballs. I motioned for him to lean forward, too, so we could have a private word. Surprisingly, he did so.

  “Tell me, Scott,” I whispered. “Where have you stashed Roslyn Stevens?”

  Scott Johnson jerked back quickly like I’d spit in his face.

  “And what are you running from?” I tacked on.

  “Who the hell are you?” He’d leaned forward again, his hushed words sounding like the first complaints of a tea kettle.

  I’d expected my questions to elicit some sort of fear, but I saw none in his medium-brown eyes, only surprise and anger—and emptiness. His eyes were a cold dead zone that made me pull back on my side of the serving tray.

  A woman came up next to me and surveyed the mushrooms. “Don’t bother,” Scott snapped at her. “They’re awful.”

  She looked shocked by his words, having probably already eaten some and found them delicious, but the edge in his voice turned her away.

  Scott turned his attention back to me. “Who are you?” he asked again, this time coating his question with menace.

  “Who I am doesn’t matter, Scott. What matters is that huge, bulky homicide cop over there.” Without taking my eyes from Scott Johnson’s face, I pointed in the general direction of Dev Frye. “Besides Shirley Pearson, he’s asking people about some other folks you know, like Clarice Thomas and Alfonso Nunez.”

  His eyes never left mine, but instead of widening with surprise, they narrowed until they almost joined to make one horizontal abyss.

  “I’ll bet he’d also be interested in asking you about Scott Joyce.”

  The chafing dish of meatballs flew at me so unexpectedly I barely had time to jump back. It landed on the floor with a crash, dousing my ankles and feet with warm gravy. Instead of apologizing for the mishap, Scott took off toward the back of the room and disappeared down a corridor marked with an exit sign.

  Heedless of the stares from the crowd, I took off after him. I didn�
��t get far. Actually, I didn’t get more than one single step before my foot hit a puddle of gravy and I went down like a pudgy cat surprise testing a Slip ’n Slide—howl and all. On the way down, I grasped at the nearest thing to me—a waiter carrying a tray of mimosas. I took him to the floor with me. The two of us wallowed in gravy and booze while mourners snapped off photos with their phones like a bunch of tourists.

  Marvin Gunn was not amused. He rushed over, reaching me about the same time as Dev and Zee.

  “Enough!” Gunn bellowed. One of his feet skidded on a meatball, and he went down on his backside.

  Zee grabbed napkins from the buffet and did her best to dry me off. “What on earth is going on, Odelia?”

  Dev was more solicitous. “You okay?” he asked. He looked toward the exit. “Who was that you were talking to?”

  “Scott Johnson,” I whispered.

  Dev took off for the corridor. When he returned a couple of minutes later, Gunn, the waiter, and I were back on our feet. Dev shook his head, letting me know he’d come up empty in his late pursuit.

  Gunn, his face red and puffy with rage, stomped up to Dev. Even though Marvin Gunn was tall, he still had to look up. “I want you and these lunatics out of here, Detective. Right now!”

  That’s how we ended up on the sidewalk, me with gravy in my shoes.

  We were just a few feet from Clark’s rental car when Dev asked, “Are you sure it was Johnson who threw the meatballs at you, Odelia?”

  My eyes moved from my shoes up to Dev, but it wasn’t Scott Johnson who was on my mind. “Has anyone seen Clark?”

  The two of them looked around as if he’d materialize from one of the nearby shops. Like me, they’d completely forgotten he was with us.

  “You two stay here,” Dev ordered. “I’ll go back in and get him.”

  As soon as Dev headed down the street, Zee cornered me. She grabbed my arm, and not too gently. “What is this about, Odelia?”

  Since Clark had the car keys, we had no choice but to stand on the sidewalk in the heat. I steered Zee out of the sun, taking refuge under an awning that stretched across several storefronts. Leaning against the brick wall between a nail shop and a dry cleaners, I brought her up to date on everything.