Six Pack of Sleuths: Comedy Mysteries

by Barbara Silkstone

  The woman turned to Mary. “Sorry about that, but we were playing the Jenkinses,” the woman said. She lowered her voice. “I can’t stand Rhonda Jenkins. The woman is a total bitch. And I absolutely despise losing to her.”

  “A competitive drive,” Mary said. “That’s good. So listen, my uncle was murdered,” she said. “Brent Cooper?”

  The woman’s mouth snapped shut. “Oh God, I’m sorry,” the woman said.

  “Don’t worry about it. I just want to see his apartment,” Mary said. “Condo. Whatever you call it.”

  “I’m sorry about that yelling,” the woman’s face had turned red.

  “Hey, don’t apologize,” Mary said. “You’re entitled to enjoy your Golden Years any way you want.”

  “Tell that to the jackass upstairs,” the woman mumbled.

  “My uncle’s apartment…” Mary said.

  The woman shook her head. “The police said I can’t let anyone in. They’ve been in and out of there a couple times. It’s sealed shut.”

  “I’m sure they didn’t mean everyone,” Mary said. “Family is certainly allowed in.”

  “Um…I don’t know…”

  Mary whipped out her p.i. license which she’d put into a slick little leather number that let her flash it like a detective. There was something about a badge that made people more…malleable.

  “Not only am I a grieving family member,” Mary said. “I’m also working as an adjunct with the police. So you actually have to open his condo for me.” She wasn’t really sure what an adjunct was, but she knew the term was vague enough to avoid any charges of falsely impersonating a cop. But hell, Sergeant Davies did that every day and never got busted.

  “Okay, okay. Nothing’s more important than family,” the woman said. An interesting comment coming from a woman who had just finished verbally abusing her husband, Mary thought.

  The woman reached into her desk drawer and pulled out a set of keys. “By the way, my name is…”

  “Rosie,” Mary said. “Your husband mentioned it when you two were chatting.”

  “And you are…”

  “Mary. Mary Cooper.” They shook hands and then Rosie led the way to the elevators. On the wall across from the office a bulletin board held flyers for classes and programs offered to the residents of Palm Terrace. Rosie noticed her looking at the board.

  “People think us old folks just sit around and watch the Wheel of Fortune,” she said. “That’s bull. We write, we paint, we take classes…”

  “Any anger management courses up there?” Mary said.

  Rosie glanced at her as the elevator doors opened.

  “You remind me of Brent,” Rosie said.

  “No need to get nasty,” Mary said.

  Sixteen

  The door was posted with an LAPD notice, but it wasn’t sealed. Mary thought it was probably because it wasn’t technically a crime scene. In any event, Rosie used her key and opened the door, then followed Mary in.

  “Do you mind if I stay?” Rosie said.

  Mary did actually mind, but she wasn’t about to antagonize Rosie and have her put in a call to the LAPD about a nosy niece. Besides, Mary wanted to keep an eye on Rosie until she was gone.

  “Make yourself at home. Throw a fondue party. I don’t mind,” Mary said.

  There wasn’t much to see. A small, outdated kitchen. A decent sized living room with a leather couch and beige carpet. There were some posters on the walls, old handbills of comedy shows Uncle Brent had probably been involved in. She couldn’t help but a feel a little bit of pride for the old man. He may have been abrasive, but he could be pretty damn funny. It pissed her off to see the apartment, see the small amount of success her uncle had experienced. To see how he’d put it on display, and to know that someone had cut his life short. And for what?

  Mary followed a short hallway that led to a bathroom and two bedrooms. And that was it. She didn’t honestly know what she expected to find. Some letters threatening his life? A diary filled with notes about a person wishing Brent harm?

  Mary walked into the main bedroom and took a quick look around. No correspondence. No notes. A few pictures on Brent’s dresser. They were mostly black-and-white. Brent as a young man in Hollywood back in the fifties. He’d been really good looking back then, Mary had to admit. His friends all looked like young comics with tans, hip clothes, and money to burn. The few women pictured were lookers, too. Mary recognized a couple of the men in the photographs. One was now a celebrity of sorts, a talk show host. The other was a semi-well-known comic who’d been the brains behind a comedy series.

  “Finding anything back there?” Rosie called from the kitchen area.

  “Just a bunch of sex toys,” Mary called back. “Some of them are pretty heavy duty.”

  She took a peek in the bathroom. Nothing there but a newspaper in a little shelving unit that held soap and hand towels. It was open to the obituaries, of course. Old people loved to read obituaries. Sort of a sneak preview.

  “How much longer do you think you’ll be?” Rosie called.

  “Sorry, I’m putting some of these sex gadgets into my purse,” Mary said. “I’ll need to do some very thorough research with them. Lots of testing.”

  Mary walked back into the living room. “I’m just kidding. I’ve got all those things at home.”

  Nothing, Mary thought. I’ve learned nothing.

  “Anything else?” Rosie said, clearly anxious to be done with this.

  “I guess not,” Mary said.

  They left the apartment and Rosie locked the door.

  “I suppose you want to talk to the ladies, too? Like the police did?”

  Mary stopped. “What ladies?” She looked closely at Rosie and the woman now realized that she’d offered some information that hadn’t been requested – always a bad idea.

  “Oh, nothing, never mind…”

  “Rosie,” Mary said. “What ladies?”

  She read the expression on the woman’s face as realization that it was too late for a retraction. Rosie let out a long, exasperated sigh.

  “Apartment 410,” she said. “Please don’t mention my name. I don’t want to get on their bad side.”

  Seventeen

  The ladies turned out to be three women in their sixties or up who shared a huge condo. The apartment was tastefully decorated, everything top-of-the-line. Much bigger, much nicer than Brent’s place.

  Mary thought the women in general looked pretty good for their ages. Their personalities, however, were iffy. The self-appointed spokesperson was Helen, a tall, thin blonde with an attractive but stern face. She had a thin martini glass in her hand, filled with a red concoction. A Cosmo, Mary thought.

  Fran was the nervous one. Mary could tell by the way the woman fidgeted on the big white couch. And the way she occasionally bit her lower lip. She was petite and had dark brown hair with frosted tips that probably cost a pretty penny.

  The third was the quiet one. Her name was Rachel and she took herself out of the picture quite literally, standing off to the side so Mary had to turn her head to see her. She had black hair and a worn face but a body that Mary would kill for.

  “So, what, you’re his niece, you said?” the leader, Helen, said.

  “That’s right,” Mary said.

  “So what do you want? We told the police everything we knew.”

  “And what was that? What did you know?”

  “Can’t you ask the cops for all that?” Helen’s voice was deep and stern. This woman could have been an Admiral in the Navy, Mary thought.

  “I know this is shocking, but they just don’t seem to enjoy sharing everything they know about murder cases with civilians.”

  The other two women glanced at Helen, as if curious to see how she would react to someone actually standing up to her.

  “You don’t have to get snippy,” Helen said.

  “I’m not asking the cops,” Mary said, her voice softer but not to the point of pleading. “I’m asking you to h
elp me. Someone murdered my uncle, and I’d like to help find out who. Is there anything you ladies can tell me?”

  “Nothing,” Helen said. “At least, nothing useful. The cops pretty much told us that.”

  “Well–” Fran started to say, leaning her head to the side as if she were walking a tightrope, looking for her balance.

  “Shut it,” Helen snapped. She glared at Fran then turned her gaze back on Mary. She took a sip of her Cosmo and watched Mary over the rim of the glass.

  Rachel, who so far hadn’t said a word, walked over to the dining room table where a glass pitcher sat, nearly empty. She poured some into a glass, then came over and refilled Helen’s. Mary wondered if that entire pitcher had been full and if so, how recently.

  “She’s probably with the police,” Fran whispered to Helen. She widened her eyes for emphasis. “Maybe she works in the drug department.”

  “Oh, Christ!” Helen shot back. “Why don’t you just go play with your vibrator?” Helen then spoke to Mary. “Just ignore her. Look, this is a small community, everyone knows everyone at Palm Terrace. Hell, we could all probably show the cops a thing or two when it comes to surveillance. But we really don’t know anything.”

  Fran got up and paced behind the couch. Mary watched her and thought, Come on, crack, Fran. Crack.

  “So why did the police talk to just you three?” Mary said. She had no idea if that was true, that they hadn’t questioned anyone else at the building, but if she was wrong the ladies would correct her.

  They didn’t.

  Mary put the thousand-yard stare on Fran, the weak link.

  Helen drained the last of her Cosmo in one long swallow. She started to speak but then Mary saw a shudder run through Fran’s body. Fran wheeled on Mary.

  “It’s our fault!” she said.

  Helen slammed down her glass and jumped to her feet. “Goddamnit!”

  “I can’t survive in prison!” Fran shouted back. “Do you know what those big nasty guards would do? I’ve got a nice ass! They’d be all over me trying to…”

  “…trying to get you to shut the hell up!” Helen shouted.

  “Are you with the drug people? The AFT? The ATM? What are they called?” Fran asked Mary.

  “No, I’m not with the police or the government. But I do like drugs. All kinds really,” Mary said. “I sniffed a bunch of glue on my way over here, actually.”

  Now the quiet one, Rachel, spoke up. “Hah! She’s a smart-ass, just like Brent!”

  “I’m just going to come out and say it,” Fran said.

  “Here she goes…” Helen said, shrugging her shoulders and walking toward the kitchen.

  “We illegally…” Fran started to say.

  “Hit me,” Helen said to Rachel, who had put together a fresh pitcher of Cosmos and now dutifully refilled Helen’s glass.

  “…filled Viagra prescriptions,” Fran finished.

  Mary closed her eyes. She hadn’t really been expecting these ladies to confess to her uncle’s murder, but still. Viagra?

  “Are you going to arrest us?” Fran said.

  “They were for my uncle, weren’t they?” Mary said. “That’s why the police talked to you?”

  “We were his harem,” Helen offered. Apparently, now that Fran had dumped the goods out for all to see, she had thrown in the towel, too.

  “Okay?” Helen said. “We all took turns. We shared him. But it started to get to be too much for him. And we were at each other’s throats because say, if Rachel did Brent in the afternoon, he couldn’t get hard for me in the evening…”

  “Please…” Mary started to say.

  “…he’d be a goddamn limp noodle for me,” Helen said, glaring at Rachel.

  “We had his schlong on timeshare,” Fran said, her nervous energy rapidly changing into giddy relief.

  “And his balls, too,” Rachel said, her words now slightly slurring.

  “He had a nice tool,” Helen said, a wistful note in her voice.

  “And he sure knew how to use it,” Rachel said.

  “Ladies!” Mary said. “I don’t need the details. I really don’t.”

  “So we had to come up with a system for Viagra,” Helen continued. “Because his prescription wasn’t enough. So we got another guy here to have his doctor prescribe it, then we reimbursed him, plus we’d give him a little something extra for his effort.”

  “But you didn’t have anything to do with his murder,” Mary said.

  “Not unless you count trying to screw him to death,” Rachel said. Both Helen and Fran giggled.

  “Not unless you count sitting on his face and trying to smother him,” Rachel said, on a roll.

  “Stop, okay?”

  The ladies were barely able to stifle their giggles.

  “No, I don’t believe any of that would hold up in court as attempted murder,” Mary said. “Did you have anything else to offer the police?”

  “Just the last time we saw him, which was Rachel,” Helen said.

  “Well, technically,” Rachel said. “I didn’t see him because he was behind me the whole time.” Rachel thrust her hips forward and made an ass-slapping motion with her hand.

  “Why do I feel like I’m in a locker room?” Mary said.

  “When we did it doggy, he used to do this trick…”

  “With his thumb, right?” Fran said.

  “Thank you, ladies!” Mary pulled out her card. “Call me if you think of anything not involving details of my deceased uncle’s genitalia.”

  “We’re always here to help,” Helen said with a straight face. “But we’ve got nothing else to tell you.”

  Mary opened the door.

  “Come back anytime, Mary!” Fran called out.

  Eighteen

  “You sure that’s all you want, baby? Information?”

  Mary leaned against the door frame of the dressing room, if you could call it that, behind the stage at the Leg Pull. Cecil, the manager, hadn’t lied to her about when the comedian who might know the identity of Brent’s ‘friend’ would be performing.

  She looked at Jimmy Miles, a fifty-ish black guy wearing a glittery shirt and shiny black pants. A half a bottle of Jheri Curl had to be in his hair.

  “Liberace know you’re wearing his shirt?” she said.

  She had come directly from her office where she’d tied up some loose ends on another case, filed paperwork, and cleared her e-mail. She’d also tried to erase from her memory banks the X-rated information she’d received from the three Senior Nymphs at Palm Terrace. It wasn’t an easy thing to do.

  After she left the office she came over once more to the Leg Pull to try to find out more information about Uncle Brent’s partner. When she pulled up to the place, she vowed that once Brent’s killer was locked up or dead, Mary would never come anywhere near the Leg Pull again.

  Now, the Liberace comment had hit home and Jimmy’s eyes went wide in feigned shock. “Whoooeee!” he said. “That is some kinda mouth you got. Naughty, naughty, naughty.”

  “Naughty? Let me guess, now you’re going to ask me if I need a spanking. Come on, if you’re not funny, try at least to be original.”

  The comedian gave her a big smile. “You sure are quick, baby! I like that!”

  “I really appreciate that, Jimmy. High praise,” Mary said. “Now I’d like to make this quick, too. Brent Cooper.”

  Jimmy’s eyes went wide again. “That guy got killed out back? What about him? Not me – I’m a lover not a fighter.”

  “You know anything about the guy he was performing with that night?” Mary said. “Your boss Cecil said you knew everyone.”

  “Shit.”

  “According to Cecil, you’re a regular gossip hound.”

  “Who does he think he is labeling me like that?” His voice had risen a couple of octaves. “No one labels me! Goddamn, I’d like to kick his ass one of these days.”

  “Ease up there, Macho Man.”

  “You makin’ fun of me?”

  �
��No, I’m being sincere. Just tell me who he is or where he is, I don’t care which.”

  Jimmy looked at her. “You like my shirt?”

  Mary debated about pulling out the .45 again, but decided against it. So she said, “I love your shirt. I’ll stop by Radio City Music Hall and ask the Rockettes if I can borrow one of theirs so we can match.”

  “That’s how it’s gonna be, huh?” he said. “Tell you what. Ordinarily I’d let a pretty little lady like you buy me a couple drinks first. But since I go on in about ten minutes, I don’t think I should be partaking in any of that nice booze out there. So why don’t you just give me some of that cash riding on that sweet ass of yours and I’ll buy myself a couple shots after the show. I’ll even toast you. That’s how Jimmy rolls, baby.”

  Mary sighed and pulled out a twenty. She held it in the air.

  “Let me hear something other than all those crackling sequins,” she said.

  Jimmy snorted. “Asshole’s name is Barry Olis,” he said. “Some old, un-funny geezer lives over at the Vista Del Mar apartments on Venice. Only reason I know that is because he’s got some lame-ass joke in his routine about it.”

  Mary gave him the twenty.

  “Add that to your wardrobe budget.”

  Nineteen

  Vista del Mar. View of the ocean, or Oceanview, in Spanish. Not quite, Mary thought. More like Vista del Winos and Liquor Stores.

  She parked the Accord and went to the apartment complex’s lobby, if you could call it that. It was more like a combination phone booth and port-a-potty. Small, dirty, and home to a few mystery puddles that looked like Apple Pucker after it’d been processed through someone’s oversized liver.

  Jeez, Mary thought. Uncle Brent’s place was like Camelot compared to this shithole.

  She was surprised to see the name Olis listed on one of the mailbox slots. #312. Mary looked around but didn’t see an elevator so she took the stairs. On the first landing, a man lay sprawled in his own vomit.