Six Pack of Sleuths: Comedy Mysteries

by Barbara Silkstone

  Mary shivered. It wasn’t the first time she had killed someone. But it wasn’t easy. She forced it from her mind, but suddenly a chill would shoot down her spine and her stomach would do flip flops.

  A couple of the uniforms were talking to the pair of detectives, gesturing and pointing with their hands and occasionally looking over at the patrol car.

  “Yeah, hi,” Mary said, watching the Shark. “Go to hell, uh-huh, hello,” she said. Mary felt off-kilter. She’d just shot and killed an old man, for God’s sake. The adrenaline had worn off and now she just felt tired and cranky. She pictured her bed back in her apartment. She wanted to curl up inside the warm blankets and not come out for a few months.

  Mary saw the tall, pale woman nod toward the car and immediately one of the patrol cops turned and walked toward her. Jake shot her a look as if to say, “There’s nothing I can do right now.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Mary said under her breath again, just as the patrol cop opened up the driver’s door and got behind the wheel.

  “Did someone puke in here or is your gym bag in the trunk?” Mary said.

  The cop put the car in gear and ignored her. They drove away from the scene and Mary instantly felt a touch better.

  “I mean, jeez, it smells like a French whore with a purse full of gorgonzola,” she said.

  The cop looked over his shoulder at her. “I’m taking you downtown,” he said.

  “Downtown? Oh, that’s lovely. We can do some shopping…go get a pedicure—”

  “Ma’am, I hope you realize how serious this is.”

  When they pulled up at a stoplight, he looked up at the rearview mirror. Mary saw that he was a young guy. Probably the lowest ranking of anyone at the scene. He looked a little green around the gills. Maybe he’d never seen a dead person before. He’d probably looked at both the big guy and the old man. Neither one of them looked very good.

  Mary had seen more than her fair share. She should probably be more sensitive to the poor kid.

  “Serious,” Mary said. “Yes. Very serious. So how do you like Sergeant Davies? Did you know she’s made out of wax?”

  The young cop ignored her and guided the patrol car smoothly onto the I-10 freeway.

  “Never mind,” Mary said, once they’d settled into a lane. “Sergeant Davies. What do you think of her?

  “How do you know her?” he finally said.

  “Hey, just answer the question.”

  He looked at her in the rearview mirror. Couldn’t decide whether to be offended at her tone, or to answer. He chose to answer.

  “She’s…good,” he said.

  “That’s what I call a ringing endorsement.”

  “Well, I mean. You know, smart. Efficient.”

  “Now you’re gushing.”

  “She—”

  “Do you think she’s hot?”

  “Ma’am, I’d rather not…I’m driving. And you’re involved in a double homicide. I don’t think I should be talking to you about our detectives.”

  Mary nodded to him in the rearview mirror.

  “Is she still messing around with that Cornell guy?”

  “Okay,” the young cop said. “That’s it. I’m going to stop talking now.”

  “Just tell me the office scuttlebutt. Are they still a couple?”

  He looked in the mirror again at her, as he took the exit for downtown proper.

  “That’s the rumor,” he said.

  Mary laid her head back on the seat and watched L.A. fly past her window.

  You never knew with rumors. Jake had said it was a one-night stand. Well, if it was more than that, good for Jake. Might help him get promoted faster. They made a nice couple.

  Kind of like Satan and Judas.

  Thirty-One

  The cop allowed her to go to the bathroom, then brought her a cup of coffee in an actual coffee cup. The cup read “Death Valley National Park.” Nice.

  “How appropriate,” Mary said. She took a sip. It was awful.

  They left her alone for an hour. Goddamn Jake. How could he leave her in here this long, knowing she’d just killed someone? The depths of his treachery were deepening every day. He was probably picking up the Shark’s dry cleaning, trying to improve the scores on his performance review at the end of the year.

  Or else they were just killing time to make her more willing to talk. Bastards.

  After another fifteen minutes of waiting, the door opened and Jake walked in. He looked tired and frazzled. Mary had no sympathy for him.

  “All done debriefing your boss?” Mary said.

  Jake stopped. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Mary put a finger to her chin. “Hmm. What could that mean? What could the subtext possibly be?”

  He let out a heavy sigh and dropped a file folder on the desk. “This isn’t the time,” Jake said.

  “That’s what you said last time,” Mary said. “She’s really got you under control – did she put a dog collar on you and call you dirty names-”

  “Mary,” he said through gritted teeth. “You’re not doing yourself any good.” Jake’s eyes snaked over toward the mirror.

  “I know she’s listening,” Mary said. “Probably watching your tough guy interrogation tactics and touching herself every time you-”

  “Cut the shit and tell me what happened.”

  Mary raised an eyebrow at his flaring temper.

  “Oooh,” she said. “I think you just made her moan.”

  Jake ground his jaws together. “What. Happened.”

  Mary sighed. “Okay. I actually do have a confession to make. Are you sure I shouldn’t have my lawyer here?”

  “Come on, Mary,” he said, his voice softer and his body relaxing. “It’s me.”

  “Okay,” Mary said, nodding as if she'd reached a decision. “My confession. Here it is.”

  She let the pause hang for a moment.

  “I’m a chubby chaser. I like tubby guys.”

  Jake’s eyes went half-mast.

  “That big guy I was with?” she said. “I planned to take his giant ass home and screw his brains out. There’s nothing I like more than grabbing a couple handfuls of Dubuque ham-”

  The door banged open and the Shark walked in.

  “Jake, I’ll take over.”

  “Ooh,” Mary said. “I think you’ve just been demoted Jake.”

  “Shut up,” Davies said.

  Mary rolled her eyes. “Potty mouth,” she said.

  “Jake,” the Shark said. “Out.”

  Jake turned and headed for the door.

  “I bet he likes it when you boss him around, doesn’t he?” Mary said. “I can tell you’re the Alpha Male in the relationship, that’s for sure. Does he have food bowls with his name on them?”

  The door slammed shut and the sound reverberated in the small room. Davies said nothing. She just looked at Mary, gathering herself. Mary looked back at her. One eyebrow raised.

  “What’s the problem?” Mary said. “I really do like the plus-sized guys.”

  The Shark nodded. “How about we help each other out?” she said.

  “You mean…cooperate?”

  “You give us some information, we’ll give you some information.”

  “That sounds very Democratic,” Mary said. “Very American.”

  “So tell me something. Anything.”

  Mary nodded. “That makes sense. Perfect sense. Okay, here’s what I know-”

  The door burst open and slammed against the opposite wall.

  “That’s enough!” Whitney Braggs said as he walked into the room accompanied by a tall, regal woman with a pinched face and frizzy hair.

  “I’m Joan Hessburg,” the woman said. She handed a card to Davies. “I am an attorney and Mary Cooper is my client,” the woman said. “Are you charging her with a crime, Detective?”

  The Shark looked like a pile of horse manure had just been dropped at her feet.

  “The cavalry led by Bob Barker,” Mary said. “I love it
!”

  “Sons of bitches kept us waiting for a half hour,” Braggs said and glared at Davies.

  Mary shook her head. The guy looked like a walking advertisement for Nautica but beat people up and had the mouth of a Navy construction worker.

  “Let’s go, Miss Cooper,” her new attorney said. She gave the Shark her card. “Contact me if you wish to further question my client.”

  The Shark took the card and threw it on the floor, then headed for the door.

  Mary turned to Braggs and her new attorney.

  “You got here just in time,” Mary said. She nodded toward the departing Davies. “She was going to do a full cavity search on me. But here's the awful part, she said she was going to have me do one on her afterward.”

  Mary shook her head, and looked toward the mirror. “Sicko.”

  Thirty-Two

  Mary needed a drink, and she invited Braggs and the attorney. Of course, Ms. Hessburg begged off. Time is money was the unspoken excuse. She left Mary with a card and a lingering scent of Chanel. Or maybe J. Lo.

  Mary had killed before. She’d shot an insane husband set on killing his ex-wife. She’d killed a drug dealer determined to kill her client’s son for some sort of supposed deal gone bad.

  Each time, there was a delayed reaction. Initially, the justification was enough. Over time, however, it wasn’t easy. It was like a darkish cloud hanging over her for awhile. The immediate solution? Booze.

  But Mary had to clean herself. So she had Braggs drive her home and sent him out for drinks. If the guy was going to be around, he might as well be useful. By the time she had showered, Braggs showed up with enough bottles of beer, booze, and wine to satisfy a fraternity during Rush week.

  She requested a double Jack Daniels on the rocks. Braggs quickly complied. Mary sat on the couch. She didn’t want to look out at the water, but she did.

  “Have you ever had a lychee martini?” Braggs asked.

  “If you live in L.A., you have to,” Mary said.

  She heard him using a shaker and turned to see him pouring its contents into a martini glass. He came over and sat to her left, in a club chair facing the ocean.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” he asked. The smooth voice had taken on the role of trusted confidante.

  “No.”

  “Okay.”

  “Do you know who Noah Baxter is?” she said.

  “Of course,” he said, and took a sip of his martini. Mary looked down at her drink. A bunch of ice. She held it out and shook it at Braggs. He hopped up and refreshed it, then brought it back to her.

  “So?” she said.

  “We all knew him,” Braggs said. “He was a stand-up, just like all of us. But he was the worst of the worst. He had a really, really dark sense of humor that never came across well with audiences. He shocked them instead of making them laugh. Not a good trait for a comedian.”

  He drank from his martini and Mary drained half of her Jack on the rocks.

  “He ended up writing for other comedians, who would take his stuff and lighten it up a little bit. It really wasn’t that bad, it just needed a little bit of…sanity.”

  “Yeah, that’s the impression I had of him,” Mary said. Already her brain was going slightly numb. It felt good.

  “But eventually, his stuff fell out of favor and as I recall, he had some personal problems. Drinking, drugs, or something.” Braggs waved his hand around as if a mosquito were bothering him.

  “And then?” Mary said.

  “And then he bought a one-way ticket to the Land of Hollywood Forgottens. It’s a community that keeps growing, every day. Easy to get into, very difficult to get out.”

  Mary nodded. Of course. He went where it seemed like every lead in the case of her uncle’s murder had gone: nowhere.

  Her glass looked empty so she held it out to Braggs again. He refilled hers and his own, then came back.

  “I thought I heard some rumors about him getting a job in Las Vegas or something,” Braggs said. “Managing some female comedian, but that was it. He fell off of everyone’s radar.”

  Mary nodded. Her head felt like it had put on ten pounds.

  “There’s a million guys like Noah Baxter,” Braggs said. “A little flash of success, then a disappearing act when they realize the big payday is never going to come. Most of them don't even realize it's over. Can't admit it to themselves. It's really kind of sad. Of course, I can't speak from experience. It's just that I'm very sympathetic-”

  Mary stretched out and put her head on a pillow. She drank awkwardly from her glass, but she got the Jack down. Drinking Jack made her think of Jake. Jake the Jerk. She giggled.

  “I might know someone who could tell us more about Noah,” Braggs said.

  “Oh, yeah?” Mary said. Her voice was thick with sleepiness.

  “Margaret Stewart.”

  “Martha Stewart? The domestic goddess?”

  “No, Margaret Stewart,” Braggs said.

  “Who the hell is that?” Mary slurred.

  “She used to be my agent. And Brent’s agent. And Noah’s agent.”

  “Lady gets around.”

  “In fact, she was everybody’s agent back then. A powerhouse.”

  Mary closed her eyes and the first faint stirrings of sleep, like the start of the incoming tide, slowly swept across her forehead.

  “I think I'm going to fall asleep,” she said, a sound suspiciously similar to snoring began to come from her mouth. “You can let yourself out-” she started to say, but never finished the sentence.

  “She knew everyone,” Braggs said. “But most of all, she knew where all the skeletons were. That's more valuable than anything for sale on Rodeo Drive, that's for sure.”

  Mary fell asleep then, an image of the old man she’d shot as a skeleton, dancing around in the dark.

  Thirty-Three

  Her eyes grated open, like stone doors in an Egyptian tomb. Mary stared at the ceiling for several minutes, rewinding the film of last night, watching it in reverse order. She didn’t like what she saw.

  Mary pushed back the blankets and sat up. Her head hurt and her stomach ached. She walked out to the kitchen and made coffee, then stood with her head hanging down while it brewed. Extra cream and extra sugar went in to bolster her recovery. She sat at the kitchen table and a little yellow note caught her attention.

  10 a.m. Margaret Stewart.

  It was signed Whitney Braggs. And there was an address scribbled next to Margaret Stewart’s name. Mary looked at the clock.

  She had forty-five minutes to shower, dress, and get out to Beverly Hills.

  Great.

  Mary started for the shower and slipped off her robe, then froze.

  She had on her pink pajamas. She thought for a moment, and then a horrifying thought nearly drove her to her knees.

  Had she put them on herself?

  Or had Braggs?

  Suddenly, her head hurt even worse.

  Thirty-Four

  Margaret Stewart’s face was so taut from plastic surgery that Mary worried it would snap and fly across the office like a Frisbee. She had the urge to go over and plunk out a rhythm on it like a tribal drum. Didn’t the woman have a constant headache?

  “That was quite a group,” Ms. Stewart said. Mary guessed the woman’s age to be seventy-ish, and thought the voice matched the skin: tight and unforgiving. Mary glanced around the office. Black leather, polished chrome, black-and-white photography. Typical power agent office.

  “Yes, dysfunction in large numbers.” Mary said. “Always the hallmark of a good time.”

  They’d already done the necessary introductions and had started in on the history of Brent Cooper and his gang.

  “They certainly took the party with them,” Ms. Stewart said. “And it was always a big party.”

  “In what way? Drugs? Gambling? Monkeys in lingerie?” Mary asked.

  “Lingerie, yes. Monkeys no. At least, no monkeys at the parties I went to. I'm sure at some point,
animals were involved.”

  “Anything criminal going on?” Mary said. “Anything that would make someone come back later and start killing people?”

  Margaret Stewart shrugged her shoulders, then nodded at Braggs. “Why don’t you ask him? He was there.”

  Braggs shook his head. “Not like you,” he said. “I had gigs, flew around, didn’t see those guys and gals for months at a time. You were there constantly.”

  “Besides,” Mary chimed in. “You probably knew everyone. And you most likely knew them better than he did. Braggs here, from what he tells me, just hung out and partied. He was probably busy de-flowering the female population of Beverly Hills.”

  “It would be arrogant of me to agree with you, but I must confess that’s a fairly accurate statement,” Braggs said.

  “I’m thinking they confided more in you,” Mary said to Ms. Stewart. “You know, crying to the agent about all of their problems and issues. That’s the stuff we need to know about.”

  “That’s very perceptive, Ms. Cooper,” Margaret said. “But I was their agent not their babysitter and I did not perform confessions. They didn’t tell me everything because if they had problems, they certainly didn’t want anyone to know about them, especially their agent.”

  “Yes, I’m sure all actors and actresses prevent their agent from witnessing their neuroses firsthand,” Mary said. “Come on, Margaret. This is L.A. Agents know where all the bodies are buried. Or at least who put the bodies where. And they’re good bodies because it’s L.A. and everyone works out.”

  “Here’s what I meant,” Margaret Stewart said. “I just said they didn’t come and blab all of their war stories to me. Yeah, I heard some stories. Some were true, most of them were probably not.”

  “Why don’t you tell us about the ones that were probably true? If there actually were any.”

  The older woman pushed back from her desk and crossed her legs. She let out a long breath.

  “That was a long time ago,” she said. “Let’s see. There was a core group. Brent Cooper was definitely one of the ringleaders. God he was a smartass. Arrogant, pushy, and a vicious mouth. You remind me of him,” she said to Mary.