by Cassie Page
Tuesday groaned. She hated having to explain her calling to the unbelievers, especially those in authority. But this was worse. These two cops could like them for the murder as fast as you could say I see a tall handsome stranger coming into your life.
“Tea leaves. Yeah, I bet she has a gift. Tell me, Miss Wood. Are you sure it was a man who called you?”
Holley gave him a little wink, her flirt switch still on. “Officer, I know the difference between a man and a woman.”
“I’m sure you do. But did the voice sound at all familiar?”
She shook her head making her ponytail dance around her shoulders.
“Do you know any reason why anyone would want to threaten you?”
“Well, except for the camera guy who is mad at me because I won’t go out with him. He keeps calling me, so I’d know his voice. And really, he’s harmless.”
The two officers gave each other wondering looks. “Tell us about this guy. What’s his name?”
Just then, a cell phone rang. The officer nearest Holley signaled it was his. He answered it and after listening to the caller for a few mumbles, gave the high sign to his partner.
“We need to go now, but someone from our homicide squad will be calling you. Don’t leave town.”
Holley said, “Oh I can’t leave town. We haven’t wrapped on the alient movie yet.”
The officer said, “The what? What’s an alient,” but his partner hustled them both out the door before she could explain.
Tuesday gave Holley the narrowed eyebrows action. “What do you mean a camera guy has been bugging you? And why didn’t you tell me?”
Holley waved her away. “Oh, that’s just Roger. He’s a sweetheart, but he just doesn’t do it for me. We worked on another movie together. He’s assistant to the Director of Photography on the zombie one. Or something.”
“Was he at the reading yesterday?”
“Yeah. I told you about him. He gave me a pep talk before I went into the audition room. He was getting coffee out in the hall. Said I was a natural. He hoped I’d get the part and we could work together again.”
Light bulbs were going off in Tuesday’s head. “Holley, my sweet little cabbage. Don’t you see? He has a motive for killing Ariel.”
“Roger? He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“But if he got rid of your competition, he’d be sure to have you all to himself. You know how these stalkers are. They get obsessed with their love objects and will do anything to possess them.”
“Oh Miss Tuesday, I never said he stalked me.”
“But didn’t you say he called you all the time?”
“Yeah, but he never threatened me. And if he killed Ariel to be with me, why would he threaten to kill me?”
Finally, Holley was making some sense. But wait a minute. “Maybe that was a ruse.”
“And he didn’t creep me out. I thought he was kinda sweet.”
“Oh Holley. You are such a babe in the woods. There are all kinds of reasons he could have for wanting you off the project. Maybe he was jealous of the director. I don’t like the sound of this. We have to check this guy out.”
Chapter Seven: Beyoncé With A Badge
Tuesday’s prayers were almost answered. She’d hoped Detective Ryan Gosling would show up. But it was Beyoncé with a badge that rang Holley’s doorbell. Oh, well. Holley flashed a cordial smile as she introduced herself and shook Detective Kanesha Jameson’s hand, then her partner’s, a whale of a guy coming through the door behind her, perspiring from the short walk from the car to the house.
Detective Thomas Butel. She had just seen Casablanca for the fourteenth time. He was a dead ringer for one of the characters in his white linen suit, Panama hat and portly frame.
Jameson strode uninvited into the living room with her iPad under her arm, ignoring Tuesday, but peering around the room as the two uniformed officers had. She gave Holley a fierce look. Detective Big Guy, Butel, took a seat. Actually, the same leather club chair recently vacated by one of the officers. Tuesday watched him lower his sizable bulk down and heard the squeak of the leather blend with his huffing and puffing as he got himself settled. She hoped the chair would hold up. From the look on Holley’s face, she was thinking the same thing.
Jameson began questioning Holley, while Tuesday considered the wisdom of giving the detective free fashion advice. Holy eyelashes girl. Hadn’t anyone told her that it took more than legs up to the ceiling, cascading hair and moon sized orbs to make a statement? If she wanted someone to put a ring on it she’d have to do better than a shiny three-piece pant suit with super wide lapels and shoulder pads that went out in the ‘80’s. But the detective clearly wanted to move things along and got down to business.
“Ms. Wood, the uniformed officers told me that you’ve been informed about Ms. Ariel Cuthbert’s death.”
Holley gave her a mournful shake of her head. “It’s way shocking.”
“Did you know the deceased?”
“Oh, yes. Me and Ariel? We auditioned for the same part. It’s in a new zombie movie. I play a lady pilot of the last plane to leave planet earth . . .”
Without apologies Kanesha made it clear that she was piloting this ship. She interrupted Holley mid description of the space age costume she would wear if she got the part, strategic cutouts and all.
“And you were colleagues, is that right?”
“No, we just worked on the same movies sometimes.”
“Can you tell me where you were last night between ten p.m. and four a.m.?”
Holley looked surprised. “Here. I got these phone calls and I was afraid to go out.”
“We’ll get to those calls in a minute. Tell me about your relationship with Ms. Cuthbert.”
“Well, like I said, we worked on some films together. The best one was Love Among The Flesh Eating Vampires. I played the beautiful but fragile daughter of the ruler of the last days of planet Earth. Sort of a princess type thing, only they weren’t really royalty. See my father . . . “
“MISS Wood. Would you say you were on friendly terms with Miss Cuthbert?”
“Oh yes. I’m on friendly terms with everyone. She has a bit of a rep, though.”
Butel broke in. “We’ve heard about that.”
Holley answered, “But I believe in manifesting positive vibes, and I make sure I drop negativity from my aura.”
Detective Oh Beautiful One put up her hand to stop her, either because she was getting hopelessly lost in the plot or she was tired of Holley’s digressions.
“You have a pretty strong motive for wanting Miss Cuthbert dead.”
“But how could I have caused her death? I don’t manifest heart attacks or anything.”
“How do you know she had a heart attack?”
“That’s what someone said on Facebook.”
James looked at her partner. “How’d that get out?”
Butel curled his lower lip and shrugged I don’t know.”
Jameson turned back to Holley. “Okay. But let’s just say it wasn’t a heart attack. We don’t know that for sure, but let’s just say. With her out of the way, you have a lock on the role, right.”
Holley considered this. “Yes, that’s true. But if you think I killed Ariel, you couldn’t be farther away from the truth. I mean, how much negativity would that bring down on my head? I wouldn’t live long enough to meditate that karma away.”
“Nevertheless, it would be a plus for you.”
“Yeah, but I’d get the part whether she was dead or alive. I mean Mr. Vitale walked me out to my car. What more do you need?”
“Who is Mr. Vitale?”
“You don’t know Goren Vitale? Director of the Immortal Night of the Living Man Eating Viruses, Spawn of the Man Eating Living Dead and . . . “
“So Mr. Vitale was choosing between you and Miss Cuthbert.” The detective was jotting down notes on her iPad.
“No contest, detective. It would do me no good to off Ariel because the job was mine anyway. Gor
en as much as told me so. Maybe she would have gotten a supporting role. Like my handmaiden or something.”
The detective tacked to starboard to avoid the rocky shoals of Holley’s digressions. “You reported receiving a threatening call.”
Holley confirmed this with a nod of her head and described the call, word for word, breath for wheezy breath.
“Have you noticed anyone lurking around your apartment? Has anything in your apartment been disturbed?”
“No.”
“Have you ever received troublesome calls before?”
Holley waved her hand. “Are you kidding me? All the time. Drives me bananas.”
Jameson shot a Yeah, now we got something look at Butel, then furiously took more notes. “Tell me about them.”
“Well, every night at dinnertime I get this call to see if I want my carpets cleaned. Then . . . “
Jameson took a deep, aggravated breath that Tuesday could relate to, while Butel snorted behind his hand. He had to study the ceiling quite intensively to keep from laughing. He gave Tuesday a wink that was so good-natured she could have married him on the spot.
Tuesday decided that Holley’s sincerity would convince the most hardened skeptic. It was time for her to leave. She opened her tote bag to take a quick peek at her phone and saw the time. Holy wandering plot line. She’d done enough client handholding for the morning. She had to get to work at the Mulberry Cat. After a snafu on opening day when Tuesday made a pit stop on the way to work and mistakenly took the Starbucks’ restroom key to the Café and left the Cat’s key on Starbuck’s hook, Tuesday made sure that opening the Café on time was her top priority. Natasha, the owner, had made it clear that she didn’t care how popular her readings were, another screw up that lost customers and Tuesday was out. It had taken Tuesday months to convince the new owner that a tea leaf reader and a Café went together like sugar and lemon, and she wasn’t going to jeopardize her gig that paid salary plus hefty tips to listen to the detective ask questions to which she already knew the answers.
“I’m sorry detective, but I have to split. I’m a working girl and I don’t think you need me anymore.”
Detective Jameson took a long look at Tuesday as though deciding whether to file criminal charges for wearing bilious yellow and black corduroy genie pants and a Mick Jagger tee shirt with a chartreuse leopard scarf. She studied the pink Afro and turned away for a moment to catch her breath before she asked, “And you are exactly?”
Tuesday jumped in with “Miss Wood’s confident,” before Holley could cause more trouble by revealing her occupation. “The ball and chain will have my hidey ho if I don’t get to work on time.”
If she expected a laugh at the Cab Calloway reference, she was mistaken. Stoneface Jameson asked, “What is it you do?”
“I’m the manager of The Mulberry Cat Café in Larchmont Village,” she said, which was almost true. She had a key to open up and start setting tables for the lunch crowd.
Unsympathetic to Tuesday’s employment pressures, the detective said, “Please give me your contact information in case we need talk to you later to corroborate Ms. Wood’s story.”
Incredulous, Tuesday said, “At work?”
Jameson flashed a cold smile and her badge. “At wherever we think it’s necessary.”
Tuesday flashed a look at the ceiling and muttered, “Whatever,” and dug a Mulberry Cat business card out of her wallet. Then she gathered up her tote.
Holley bounced off the couch. “You’re not going to leave me, Miss Tuesday, are you? I thought maybe you could give me another tea leaf reading and tell me who the corpse is you saw in my tea cup.”
Tuesday raced out of the house before the detective could take that in, but had to stop when she saw the detective’s car parked behind hers in the driveway. She turned back toward the house, but Detective Jameson was already outside waving her keys. On her way to her car she said, “Miss Tuesday, what time do you get off work?”
Tuesday confirmed that it was four o’clock.
Before Jameson moved her car she said, “I’ll need you to come down to the station and give us a statement. I’d like to know more about bodies you see in teacups.”
Chapter Eight: Hello, Kitty
Tuesday had to work extra shifts at the Café to make up for the lost fees and tips during the week she spent at Olivia’s. She rarely worked Mondays, but she had told Natasha to count on her for the afternoon crowd. That meant opening the Café on time, making sure the tables were set and the garden in the back patio was in shape. The landscaping company tended it, so that part of her job easy. Just check that the sprinklers were turned off, the bird poop cleaned up and the walkways were dry to prevent slips and falls. The back of the Café opened onto a small mall and the landscapers were able to clip, prune, sweep and water without entering the restaurant.
Tuesday walked through the patio’s French doors and unfurled the awning that shielded diners from the sun, then opened the three umbrellas on the tables out of reach of the awning’s shade. As she scooped up some stray leaves from the tables, she glanced at Chef Marco’s prized herb garden. No one was allowed to touch the garden, but she leaned over and pinched a few deadheads she knew would annoy Natasha, and for which she would be blamed. She could hear the kitchen staff arrive and get to work The servers and Peter, the sommelier, were now hunkered down at the bar discussing new wines on the menu.
Each staff member contributed to spiffing up the Café. It was a prestigious place to work and doubling down on housekeeping duties not covered by the janitorial service, such as making sure there was no dust on window sills or smudges on mirrors, paid off in handsome tips. Tuesday might complain to her friends about the extra chores tacked on to her workday, but knew it paid off in the end. Because of the attention to detail paid by the staff, customers willingly coughed up the high prices on the menu. Happy customers were more likely to want their tea leaves read. Even Natasha wiped the bathroom sinks, filled the hand lotion dispensers and straightened the paper towels in their baskets when vacations or flu bugs left the Café shorthanded.
Today Tuesday didn’t mind the busy work. It took her mind off the pressures that were growing by the minute. By rights, she shouldn’t have any anxiety about meeting with Detective Jameson. She had done nothing wrong. Except maybe to pick a coral lipstick this morning that, the last time she looked in a mirror, clashed with her hair color. But to get back on topic, anyone who spent more than five minutes with Holley would know her client was incapable of committing murder. So she should not be worried about Holley ending up in jail or getting tossed in the hoosegow herself.
Except that anything is possible. Innocent people were incarcerated all the time for crimes they didn’t commit. She learned that lesson in Darling Valley. Adding it all up, maybe she was justified in having the jitters this afternoon. She tossed the stray leaves and deadheads into the trash behind the counter.
Marco was in the kitchen, now, rattling pots and pans. Prep for the lunch menu was largely done the night before. The simple but award-winning lunch menu consisted of sautés made with farm-to-table artisan ingredients and tossed salads so fresh a member of the Mulberry Mafia, as the Café’s customers were called, joked that he felt like a cow grazing on a hillside when he ate one peppered with special herbs fresh from Marco’s garden.
Lunch was easy on Marco, though he made up for it at dinner with complicated, five star dishes and desserts that kept him and his assistant, Rowena, hopping. A big part of Rowena’s job was fending off Marco’s demands and insults. Marco had a chef’s girth and a basketball player’s height. His size dominated the kitchen, along with his imperious demeanor. Tuesday could hear their voices climbing a decibel or two, signaling the beginning of a rumble in the kitchen.
Just then the front door opened, Natasha entered with an armful of flowers that she placed next to the Mulberry Cat, her precious blown glass sculpture for which the place was named and which to Tuesday was ugly as sin. Tuesday always avoid
ed looking at the piece. It resembled one of those bizarre plastic surgery disasters where women try to resemble cats. It looked neither feline nor human, but misshapen, a reject from a horror movie. Yet Natasha’s love for it was legendary.
And so the Café’s day began.
Part of the thrill of reading tea leaves for Tuesday was the surprise of what she found in the bottom of a stranger’s cup. Part of the anxiety of a reading was being sure she was interpreting the symbols correctly. A basket of flowers to one reader could be an upside down ship to another, with totally different meanings. However, she had a real feel for the messages left by tea leaves, confirmed so often by clients returning to tell her that yes, the person who owed her money had finally coughed it up, or the new job had come her way or Tuesday was right to urge her to be careful of the man who had just entered her life. He was just picked up for check fraud.
Those who didn’t find her advice helpful mostly kept it to themselves, for she received very few complaints. She was mindful that, while some of the Café’s customers bought a reading as a joke to share with their friends, Tuesday took her work very seriously. She continually took classes to hone her skills on the interpretation of symbols and sought counsel from her teachers about tea leaf arrangements that puzzled her. She took her readings seriously because she knew some people, such as Holley, depended on them. She took them as seriously as she did the advice she received from her own diviners. Doctor Darla the sandtray coach, Vera the psychic and the cloisonné pendulum she used to access her own inner font of wisdom.
That afternoon she was happy to confirm to a repeat customer that she would deliver a healthy baby; that the house of a single mother desperate for money would sell quickly at a profit; and that yes, her anxious client who lived in nearby Hancock Park and came for a standing appointment once a week was probably going to find her lost diamond ring.