A Corpse in a Teacup

by Cassie Page

  But he seemed eager to hear. “Let me have it. What’s up with the murder case?”

  “Cases, it seems.”

  “Yeah, I heard that on the news.”

  “I can’t get much information that isn’t already out there. I don’t have a need to know as far as the investigation is concerned. I don’t work on the movie set so I’m not even getting any gossip. But I’m worried sick about Holley. My mother is with her tonight, but as far as fending off bad guys, that’s like the family guard dog that leads the burglars to the safe.”

  He interrupted. “Has your friend asked for police protection?”

  “Hmm. Never thought about that. Good idea.”

  “Send a text to your friend now and have her put in a request. It has to come from her.”

  Tuesday pulled out her phone and gave the instruction to Holley. Then she said, “That’s done. Now this evening is not going to be about me. I want to know about your day. What have you been up to?”

  He threw up his hands in a not much gesture. “Clipping coupons. That’s it. Your turn again.”

  “Seriously.”

  “I am serious. I’m going to try out for one of those coupon queen shows. If they don’t take me, I’ll sue them for discrimination. What’s wrong with having a coupon king?”

  Was he serious? Tuesday couldn’t tell. Like any good comedian, his delivery was flawless. But she had so much going on with the case, her mother showing up, her problems with Natasha that she decided to take him at his word and unburden herself.

  “Okay. Let me ask you just one question. Don’t you think it’s suspicious that there are now two confirmed and a possible third deaths?”

  She described Gray Star’s freaking out about another murder.

  He threw up his hands. “So what? People die. You see clusters like that. Police investigate and it’s coincidence. We hated coincidences when I was in the department. Cops always do. But, hey, stranger things have happened. The second woman was older from what I heard. Do we know her health history? And the third? I don’t even know who that is. That could just be a rumor. People get nervous and imagine the worst.”

  “But . . . .”

  He stopped her by ordering some peanuts from the bartender. “Now give me a real problem.”

  “I give up. Okay, here’s a real mystery.” She’d give him the cat story, since it was clear he was dodging the murders. Which surprised her, given his past career.

  She tried to describe the Mulberry Cat to him. She stretched out her hands to show the height, about two feet. “Imagine a cross between a hairless cat with fangs and a cross-eyed flying bat, tie dye it orange and turquoise and squat it over a . . . “

  He raised his hand to stop her. “Enough. I get the picture. And she wants it back?”

  He had leaned in to make sure she heard him over the noise at the bar. She liked the scent of his aftershave, his breath caressing her cheek.

  “I can’t understand how customers can have it facing them while they eat, but go figure.”

  The champagne arrived, and she took a sip. Cold and crisp, the way she liked it. He stirred the ice in his scotch with his finger, then licked it. Sexy, she thought.

  “Why is it your job to find it? You know,” he whispered into her ear as though he were revealing a closely guarded secret, “the police are very good at finding stolen goods.”

  “Yeah, well. Natasha called them. Beyoncé even showed up.”

  “Oh, I thought she was on tour? Her last single not doing too well and she has to moonlight?”

  Tuesday giggled into her drink, choking a bit. “No, there’s this detective. She just looks like Beyoncé. With a badge. Gorgeous. Legs and hair that should be outlawed. It’s just that I have a client every Monday morning, and I open the Café early just for her.”

  “A client? Are you a therapist?”

  “I’m a tasseomancer.”

  “Sure you are. And you’re a dying breed.”

  “I’m not kidding. And actually, we are. A dying breed. I read tea leaves. Didn’t you read my card?”

  “It was for a restaurant. I thought you were a waitress. Seriously? You mean if I ordered a cup of tea here you could tell me the winning lottery numbers?”

  “If that’s what your higher self wants you to know.

  “Well, I don’t know about my higher self, but it would cheer up my bank account.”

  Was he poormouthing it now? She couldn’t tell when he was telling the truth or teasing her.

  “You mean you looked at my card and didn’t recognize The Mulberry Cat?”

  “I only looked at your e-mail and phone number. But I’ve heard of that place. It’s a bit glitzy for an out of work inventor, though.”

  There it was again, his reference to having to watch his pennies. Yet he had picked an upscale bar, unless he was going to stick Tuesday with the bill. If that was the case, she wouldn’t have ordered VC. Why was he so vague about what he did for a living?

  “No, really,” he said. “What do you do there? I’m interested.”

  Tuesday could expound for hours on the power of Tarot cards, pendulums, tea leaves and the lines in a person’s palm or the numbers in a birth date, as long as it was to a willing listener. But she froze when she detected a skeptic or someone willing to make jokes at her expense. She wasn’t sure about Mr. Gorgeous, where he stood on the supernatural, but she had blurted out that she was a tea leaf reader and couldn’t take it back.

  Tuesday lifted her frosty flute and toasted his scotch on the rocks. “I told you. I read tea leaves.” She took a sip, but he returned his glass to the table.

  She cocked an eye at him. “You like to nurse your drinks?”

  “It’s my way of keeping alcohol in check. It was an occupational hazard when I was a detective. I always order scotch on the rocks so I look like the man. But I hate scotch, so I don’t drink it. I found when I refused a drink, I got a lot of grief. People assume you’re an alcoholic. This way, I put in my order and then nobody pays attention to whether I drink it or not. Less hassle.”

  “So you don’t drink at all? You’ll make me self conscious because I like my champs”

  “And I like my Drambuie after dinner. But that’s usually my limit. So drink up.”

  He signaled the server for a glass of ice water. She breathed a sigh of relief. They were off the tea leaf subject. She thought.

  “So, like, did you go to school to study tea leaves?”

  He had a twinkle in his eye but not a sarcastic tone in his voice.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I did. I studied with a woman in England who has celebrity clients. She is amazing. She even helped me write a book.”

  He nodded approvingly. “So you’re an author.”

  “I am. I’ve sold a total of 123 books.” She cocked her head, proud.

  “You have that many friends?”

  “I do. Actually 125. I gave away two books as gifts.”

  “Well, can’t you ask the tea leaves how to market your book?”

  “It doesn’t work that way.”

  She didn’t want to talk about tea leaves any more. She wanted to talk about the cat. She felt adrift for a moment so she turned the attention on him. “What about you? What do you do besides clip coupons?”

  He reached over and put his hand on hers. “Listen, I believe life is too short not to laugh a lot. But that doesn’t mean I don’t take you seriously.”

  He looked directly into her eyes and her stomach started doing back flips, even as she realized he was still avoiding answering her question. Before she could bring the conversation back to him, he said, “So are you like a psychic?”

  This time there was no joking in his tone, making her more comfortable. “Technically, no. I’m sensitive and I pick up on vibes, but that’s not what I do when I give a reading.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad. You mean you’re not going to come up with the winning lottery numbers this week.”

  Tuesday had heard that bad joke s
o often she couldn’t even force a laugh anymore. But he had such good nature in his voice, it caught her off guard. “Only if you split it with me,” she mocked.

  “You got a deal. I’m only teasing, you know. This is LA, remember? Anything goes. My sister invited me to a placenta planting party last month. So whatever floats your boat. Telling people they have good luck coming their way seems like a good way to spend your time. Who am I to judge? Besides, I can get my own freak on.”

  Oh no. Here it comes. Something that’s too good to be true is usually too good to be true. She fingered the pocket flap on his leather jacket. “A man in motorcycle leathers usually can.”

  “Motorcycle? Oh, you mean the other night? I’m not a motorcycle dude. Those things will kill you. I like my bones intact, thank you. I get respect when I wear them. And scuffed up leather chaps will get the bad guys to bow down every time.”

  Tuesday narrowed her eyes. “You still hang out with bad guys?”

  “The world is full of them. You always have to be ready for the bad guys.”

  She wasn’t sure how to take that. Maybe being on your guard was a hangover from his police days. She said, “So break it to me gently. What’s your gig?”

  “You should see my ride.”

  “A Honda civic?” she joked.

  “Oh, give me some credit for a little class. A Chevy Malibu.”

  Tuesday laughed. “You call that freaky? My grandmother has one. What’s your guilty secret? Or, are you just teasing me?”

  “Oh I definitely have a secret. But there’s no way to describe it. I’ll have to show it to you.”

  “Ha. I’ve heard that line before. Seriously. I believe you can tell a lot about a person when you know what makes them happy. So what’s your thing?”

  He threw his head back and laughed. “You sure you want to know?”

  “I can live dangerously. Let me have it.”

  He leaned over the table and whispered, “Don’t tell anyone, promise?”

  Now he was looking serious. Tuesday hoped she hadn’t stumbled into dangerous territory. Was he going to reveal something she couldn’t abide? Kinky sex, a taste for banned substances? Well, she asked for it.

  “I’m not kidding. You need to promise to keep the lid on this. I have a reputation to uphold.”

  “You’re secret’s safe with me.”

  He reached deep into his pants pocket and looked over his shoulder to make sure no one was looking. Tuesday’s heart started to pound.

  “Here goes,” he said, and pulled out a harmonica.

  “You’re kidding me. You play a harmonica?”

  “Tuesday if you want to feel happy you just have to have a girl with pink hair on your arm and an ax in your pocket. If you can blow a little Charlie McCoy on top of it, you’re in heaven.”

  Then he wet his lips, closed his eyes and started playing some country western, a whining, lovesick tune she didn’t recognize, but which grabbed her in the gut.

  Customers at the tables near them applauded and made requests. “Let’s hear Orange Blossom Special. Know any Hank Williams?”

  The owner shook his finger from the bar in a no-no.

  Mr. G. threw some money on the bar for the drinks and said, “Let’s get out of here before I get thrown out.” He took Tuesday’s hand.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To the freak show.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six: The Freak Show

  A minute later they were in the parking lot approaching a red 1970 Mercedes 270SL convertible, which accounted for the wind tunnel effect she had heard. He helped her into the two-seater, walked around to the driver side, hopped over the door and slid down into his seat.

  She applauded. “How long did it take you to practice that move?”

  “I used to be a stunt man for a while.”

  He turned his head over his shoulder to back up, so she couldn’t see if he was kidding. “What was all that about a Malibu?”

  “The Malibu is for business. This is for sin.”

  “Working Girl.”

  “And you’re working it.”

  “You know this red clashes with my hair color.”

  “I’ll have it painted tomorrow.”

  He headed for the Hollywood Freeway. Tuesday said, “Before you run off with me, I need to know where you’re taking me.”

  “I’m taking you to see my baby.”

  “Literally?” Tuesday didn’t do well with children.

  “Don’t laugh, but I’m building an RV.”

  Tuesday tried to hide her surprise, and disappointment. The closest she ever got to camping was falling asleep by the side of somebody’s pool while they barbecued. And that was close enough for her.

  “You’re quiet,” he said. “Can’t you see yourself crossing the country in your own vehicle, stopping by the side of a remote mountain stream, catching trout for your dinner?”

  She avoided his eyes and studied the view as he wound up through the hills. For the next twenty minutes he described his love of building things with his hands and occasionally inventing things. He had filed a patent on a new lawnmower and was still describing the mechanism when they pulled into his driveway atop a hill that overlooked the reservoir and all of downtown LA. He eased the car next to a black SUV he had parked in the driveway.

  As they got closer, she saw it was a Porsche Cayenne. A tan Malibu was parked on the street. “Do you have a fleet license for all these cars?” she asked. He just grinned.

  The stunning view took Tuesday’s mind off the fact that her dreamboat turned out to be Handy Man Hank, definitely not her type. “Very nice,” she said, definitely impressed with his real estate, though.

  He turned off the ignition and raised the soft top on the convertible. “If you work hard for your money, you should be able to enjoy it. I don’t like to feel cramped.”

  Tuesday wondered if that referred to his relationships as well as his living space, but before she could ask he hit the garage door remote.

  A bank of fluorescent lights flicked on and Tuesday understood why he was putting the top up on his car. It wouldn’t fit in the garage, which was jammed with tools and worktables set up around a large vehicle covered by a tarp.

  “Shall we,” he said, his face beaming with pride.

  Tuesday wondered how she was going to fake enthusiasm for a mode of transportation she loathed.

  Her heavy boots crunched over the driveway. He explained that paving it was in his budget for next year, but as for now he and his guests had to put up with gravel. Tuesday was glad she wasn’t wearing any of her vintage Chanel heels.

  “Well at least this wasn’t a scam to get me inside to,” she hooked air quotes, “see your etchings.”

  “Aw,” he said, his mouth drawn down into a frown. “I was hoping you’d show me your etchings.”

  “In my apartment it would be mandalas.”

  “I’ll take what I can get.”

  She told herself to put the brakes on the flirting. If Mr. Gorgeous turned out to be a fish and stream kinda guy, she was going to have to let him down easy. He was cute, but not that cute.

  The RV, what she could see of it, was on blocks. She recognized an engine sitting on a table in the corner. The other pieces of machinery were a mystery to her that he began to unravel by introducing her to a crankshaft, carburetor and set of brake pads.

  “They’re lovely,” she said, trying to hide her boredom with a bright smile. All that Tuesday cared about in the way of the internal combustion engine was that it started up when she turned the key. However, she did recognize band saws, sanders and several boxes of neatly organized nuts and bolts on the shelves. Had he built his kitchen cabinets, too? She hoped he would spare her that tour.

  “So,” he said, affecting a drum roll on a worktable. “Are you ready for the unveiling.”

  Tuesday, gritting her teeth behind a fake smile, nodded yes. He flipped a corner of the tarp and at first all she saw was gleaming wood. She gave him a puzzled l
ook as he rolled the tarp up and over whatever it was he was building. Eventually she realized it was an antique car of some kind.

  She did a double take. “What the? I thought you said you were building an RV?”

  He took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. “But that’s what this is. It’s a hundred years old. One of the first ever made. I found the parts and plans on eBay and started restoring it.”

  “Are you actually going to take this on a cross country trip?” She walked closer and looked into the small window on the side. She saw benches and a rudimentary sink.

  “Nah. I was pulling your leg. I do like camping, but I never imagined that would be your sport. I do love restoring things, though. When I get this done I’ll get enough for it at auction to buy a kit for an airplane. That will be our ride.”

  She held her breath for a beat. “You’re assuming there will be an us that far down the road?”

  He had his back to her and couldn’t see his expression when he said, “What’s wrong with being an optimist?”

  When he turned around again, he became a tour guide. “But first I have to finish the auto camper. That’s what they used to call them. Pierce Arrow made the first one. Very pricey car in those days. The chauffeur would take care of setting up the equipment and laying out the picnic and bar. Then people started adapting their Model T’s and what have you and making their own contraptions. Putting small sheds on wheels and covering the sides with canvas, towing them behind the family two door. They were hardly a step up from covered wagons. When they caught on, companies got serious about building rooms on wheels with toilets and kitchens. This one is about a hundred years old. Yeah, I told you that. I get excited.”

  To prove that point, he reached his arms around her and gave her an enthusiastic squeeze.

  “I already have two collectors bidding on it. I’m waiting for a guy in Elkhart to make some parts for me. Elkhart makes more RV’s than any city in the world. But you probably knew that.”

  Tuesday threw her head back and guffawed. “Oh, yeah. I knew that. Like I know how to build a space ship.”

  But she had to admit, she was impressed.

  Then he reached into a cardboard box and pulled out an old fashioned driving cap and placed it on his head. “How do I look?”