Bada-BOOM!

by Wally Duff

  She held a white lace handkerchief in her right hand and did an air-dab of her eyes with it to clear away tears of sorrow in anticipation of at least one press photographer being present to document the grieving widow.

  When there were no camera clicks, she jammed the handkerchief into her purse and stomped into the room. Her eyes were dry, and her professionally applied makeup was perfect. No tears had begun, and from the sour look on her face, I didn’t expect any.

  Linda poked me. “Chanel,” she whispered.

  “What?”

  “Chanel. Suit, purse, shoes. My mother has an outfit like that, and even my father complained about how much it cost.”

  “Whatever, but we have to do something pronto, or Cas is going to get arrested for impersonating Diane Warren.”

  “Don’t look at me. This was your idea.”

  “My idea?”

  “The only reason we’re in this room is that you think there’s a story here.”

  She was right, but I didn’t want it to end with Cas in jail. I hopped up. “If this doesn’t work, pull the fire alarm.”

  “That’s illegal.”

  “It might be, but it’s what the good guys do when they need a diversion.”

  “And you’re sure we’re the good guys?”

  “Let’s hope.”

  I walked up to Diane. Two men stood behind her. They looked like they belonged in a father/son print ad for Neiman Marcus. They wore double-breasted blue blazers with glistening gold buttons, gray slacks, white shirts with French cuffs, and patterned bow ties. At least the colors of the ties didn’t match.

  “Mrs. Warren, I’m Christina Thomas,” I said, pulling out a Chicago Tribune press credential from my backpack. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “May I see that?” the older of the two men asked. “We are Mrs. Warren’s lawyers.”

  Crap.

  The credential wasn’t a fake, but Carter gave it to me intending it to be temporary. I handed it to the older lawyer. He examined it and returned it to me. I put it in my backpack and took out a small spiral notebook and pen, items I always carry in case I run into a potential story.

  “I understand Dr. Warren was both a lawyer and a highly respected ophthalmologist,” I began.

  I knew enough about Peter to ask background questions that might prove that I was a reporter working on the information for his obituary. Five years ago, the FBI had ordered me not to enter the abortion clinic where I was blown up. Because of their pressure, I was fired by the suits at the Washington Post, but before that happened, I’d been exiled to writing obits and I knew what questions to ask.

  Diane Warren glanced at my well-worn, baby-glop-stained backpack. She dismissed me with a wave of her hand.

  “Billy, please handle this,” she said to the younger man, who had stepped up beside her. “I never,” she turned away from me, “talk to the press without an appointment.”

  She beckoned to the older man. “William, please find someone in charge. Let’s not make this last any longer than it has to.”

  “Excuse me,” Molly said from the doorway. “Can someone help me?”

  36

  The great distractor was in the room. Molly’s latest breast implants were also her biggest, and they were prominently displayed in a short, patterned, blue and black Diane Von Furstenberg wrap dress.

  The height difference between Molly and Mrs. Warren was magnified by the five-inch, Christian Louboutin, open-toed blue pumps with a silver heel which Molly had on.

  “Honey, are you in charge here?” she asked, as she stared down at the top of Diane’s head.

  Diane looked up at Molly and blinked. “Honey? Are you speaking to me?”

  Molly took a sip of her Venti Starbucks before she answered. “Oh, for sure. I could tell when I walked in that we have a lot in common — you know, the clothes and all — so naturally I gravitated to you.”

  The younger man stepped forward before Diane came unglued. “How may I help you?” he asked, as he stared at the successful results of Molly’s recent breast surgery, a radiant smile on his face.

  Molly boob-touched Billy’s left arm. “Someone called and said that my little Winston had been hit by a car, and I was told to come down here. I need to see him.”

  “Winston?” Billy asked. “Is he your son?”

  “Son? Oh, no. I have four little boys, and they’re fine.” She paused. “Okay, they’re a little wild, but boys will be boys, right?” She poked Billy in the ribs. “Didn’t catch your name, sweetie.”

  He held out his hand. “William Warren, Jr.”

  They shook hands.

  Whoa! Warren? Peter’s brother?

  “Nice to meet you.” She held onto his hand longer than she needed to. “My goodness, your skin sure is warm. Is the rest of you that hot too?”

  His face turned red. “I am pleased to meet you, Miss... Um?”

  “It’s Mrs., and Winston is our bulldog. Poor old guy has cataracts. Can’t see worth a darn. I hope he’s all right.”

  The older man stepped up to Molly. “I think you are in the wrong location, madam.”

  “Are you Junior’s brother, sweetie?” Molly asked him, as she nodded toward Billy. “I think it’s cute when brothers dress alike. I do that with my kids all the time.”

  Molly’s eyes widened as she looked over Billy Warren’s shoulder at the viewing rooms. I followed her gaze.

  Uh-oh!

  Cas walked out of the viewing room with Dr. McDermott. There was only one door out of the room, and it was behind where we stood.

  Cas was on a collision course with Diane.

  37

  “I am Billy’s father, William Warren, Sr., and I say again, I believe you are in the wrong place,” he said.

  “Gosh, I don’t think so.” Molly opened her large Louis Vuitton shoulder bag. “I wrote the address down here somewhere.”

  At that same moment, Diane saw Cas moving toward the exit behind all of us.

  “She’s... She’s here!” Diane screeched, pointing her bejeweled arm in Cas’s direction. “Do something!”

  In the process of rummaging around in her bag, Molly stumbled toward Diane. Suddenly, the white top of her Venti Starbucks drink seemed to explode off the cup, and the contents splashed down the front of Diane’s Chanel suit.

  “Whoopsie,” Molly said.

  Diane screamed as she frantically tried to wipe off the latte dripping down the expensive black material. Molly reached out to help, but when she did, she dropped her open bag on the floor, spewing its contents onto Diane’s feet and legs.

  “Dang it,” Molly said as she leaned over to scoop everything back into her bag. “Sorry. I’m not used to these new heels.”

  Diane continued to squeal as she kicked the contents of Molly’s bag off of her feet. The two men watched as Molly bent toward them to pick up her spillage. Their eyes bulged out as they were given a spectacular view of Molly’s most recent breast surgery. They ignored Diane and rushed to Molly’s side to assist in the cleanup.

  Linda grabbed Cas and pushed her out the room’s exit door. I followed. We still heard Diane’s screams as the elevator doors closed.

  38

  The Hamlin Park Irregulars were at Dinkel’s Bakery, which is almost three blocks from our home. The aroma from fresh chocolate chip cookies, powdered sugar stollen, strudels, and muffins in shoulder-high glass cases hung in the air. To the right of the front door in similar cases were bear claws, long johns, and multiple varieties of donuts slathered with different flavors of frosting. Each time I come in, these smells make my mouth water and my stomach grumble.

  We sat on chrome metal chairs with red plastic seats around a square Formica table in the small bay next to the main bakery.

  “Where did you learn how to do that, Molly?” I asked.

  “The farmers taught me,” she said.

  “They did a good job,” I said.

  “Thanks. They told me I was a natural.”

  “It’
s a good thing you were late,” Linda said.

  “I wasn’t. I’d parked my Range Rover when a black Maybach Mercedes drove up. I saw a man help Diane Warren get out of the back seat.”

  “How did you know it was Diane?” Linda asked.

  “I recognized her from a story in Town and Country last month. I knew you and Tina were inside with Cas, and I came up with a plan.”

  “Was spilling the coffee on her your idea?” Linda asked.

  “Nope. The farmers showed me how to squeeze the cup to make the top fly off. I practiced it a lot. I can empty almost an entire cup on someone with one squeeze. Dumping the stuff in my Louis Vuitton was my own idea.”

  Cas hadn’t said a word since we left the medical examiner’s office.

  “Cas, we realize you’re depressed, but you have to admit this whole encounter with Diane was funny,” Linda said.

  “It was, and I appreciate what you guys did for me.” She sighed. “But something else is bothering me.”

  I looked at Molly and Linda and shrugged my shoulders. We waited.

  “It’s what Dr. McDermott told me they discovered from Peter’s head.” Cas stared at her hands and then looked up. “He had a lethal form of AIDS when he died.”

  39

  We all began talking at once.

  “AIDS?” Linda asked.

  “Wow,” Molly said.

  “How can they make a diagnosis like that this fast?” I asked.

  Cas held up her hands to stop the commotion. “That was the first thing I asked the doctor. She said that for their own protection they always run a rapid antibody screen for AIDS before they begin an autopsy.”

  “And it came back positive?” I asked. “That’s hard to believe.”

  “I suggested it might be a lab error,” Cas said, “but she told me they repeated the test and it was still positive.”

  “How do they know it was lethal?” Linda asked.

  “They called in an AIDS specialist from the University of Chicago. He told her this was a new strain of the AIDS virus from Africa and there are no drugs available in the United States to treat it.”

  “Peter must have contracted it from a patient’s blood,” I said. “He was a surgeon. It could happen.”

  “Peter was an ophthalmologist,” Cas said. “They’re not like real surgeons. They never have any bleeding during their cases. If they see one drop of blood, they freak out.”

  “Could he have gotten it from Diane?” Linda suggested.

  “Nope,” Molly said. “They weren’t having sex.”

  Cas’s jaw muscles went into spasm. “And how do you know anything about Peter’s sex life?”

  “He told me,” Molly said.

  Cas jumped up, knocking over her chair. “You’re lying! Peter would never talk to you about private things like that.”

  Molly finished her glazed donut and patted her lips with a napkin. “People think I’m a dumb blond with big boobs, and they tell me everything, especially men. Peter was no exception.”

  “When did this happen?” Linda asked.

  “When we had lunch with him at Panera, I knew by the way he looked at me that he wanted to talk.”

  Cas picked up her chair and sat down. “He did not look at you like that.”

  “Did too. When you were at the counter to get your lunch, he told me how pretty my eyes were.”

  “Molly, has anyone ever done that before?” Linda asked.

  “Done what before?”

  “Noticed your eyes.”

  “Nope. No one knows what color my eyes are, including Greg.”

  I used to be included in that group, because until she asked me during the last story we worked on, I wasn’t sure what color they were either.

  “How did Peter arrange to meet you?” I asked.

  “After you guys left, one of Greg’s managers came up to me and said the gentleman with us left his business card for me. His cell phone number was written on the back.”

  “You’re such a liar,” Cas said, now in serious risk of cracking a molar from grinding her teeth.

  Molly pulled out a business card from her purse and handed it to Cas. She read it and threw it on the table. I picked it up. It was like the one he gave me. And the cell number was the same.

  I read the message to myself:

  It is imperative that I meet with you immediately. Please call me as soon as possible. P.W.

  I passed the card to Linda. She read it and looked up.

  “Molly, why did you wait to tell us this?” Linda asked.

  “Well, duh,” Molly said. “You guys never asked.”

  40

  Molly and Cas have repeatedly commented on how much Linda and I look alike. We’re five eight, with easily tanning skin and mostly brown hair, although Linda “enhances” hers to cover up the gray. I don’t, at least not yet.

  Linda curled one of those stray artificially brown hairs behind her ear. It was her “tell” that she was about to begin an interrogation of Molly.

  “When did you meet Peter?” she asked.

  “A couple of days later,” Molly said.

  “Where?”

  She pointed at a table in the corner. “Right over there.”

  “I don’t believe this,” Cas said.

  “I don’t see why you’re upset,” Molly said. “All he wanted to do was talk about you.”

  Her eyebrows shot up. “Me?” Cas asked. “He wanted to talk to you about me?”

  “Uh-huh. He wanted to know everything about you, your kids, especially your life with Joe. He asked way personal questions.”

  “Which I suppose you answered.”

  “No way. The farmers taught me to answer a question with a question. That’s how I found out about his sex life with Diane.”

  We waited while she carefully applied lipstick.

  “Molly, what did Peter tell you?” Linda asked.

  “Oh, right. Where was I?”

  “Peter and his sex life,” I said.

  “Didn’t happen.”

  “What didn’t happen?” Linda asked.

  “He didn’t come right out and admit it, but I don’t think they did it anymore.”

  “And he didn’t object to this?” Linda asked.

  “Guess not.”

  “What did he do for sex?” Linda asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?” Linda asked. “That’s hard to believe.”

  “Oh, he wanted to have sex.”

  I saw it in Cas’s face before she said it. “Molly, tell me the truth,” she said. “Did he hit on you?”

  “Me? Gosh no, why would you ask that?”

  “Seems obvious to me,” Cas said. “I mean, look at you for God’s sake. You’re every man’s wet dream.”

  “I am that, but I would never fool around on Greg, and Peter knew that.”

  “He did hit on you, and you turned him down, right?” Cas asked.

  “No, all he wanted to know is if I thought you would be interested in him again. He said he was willing to leave Diane for you.”

  41

  Cas shut her eyes and lowered her head. Tears trickled off her cheeks onto the tabletop. Her breathing came in irregular gasps.

  “Did you know he was sick?” Linda asked.

  Cas raised her head. “He told me he didn’t feel good, but I don’t think he found out what was wrong until he went to the doctor yesterday afternoon.”

  “Maybe that’s when his doctor told him that he had AIDS and it couldn’t be cured,” I said.

  “Once he found out, he might have decided suicide was his only viable option,” Linda said.

  “Could Fertig have given Peter AIDS?” Molly asked.

  “Peter was not gay,” Cas said.