Myra suddenly took a practical approach. “We can share the expenses. It won’t cost much more to feed three than to feed two. And Kim has agreed to help with the cooking, laundry, and other housework.”
“I’ve even promised Myra I’ll never bring any pork into the house!” Kim squealed excitedly.
“It looks like you have all the answers,” Michael conceded grudgingly. He knew a decision had already been made. Myra and Kimberly might as well have come right out and said, If we want your opinion, Michael, we’ll give it to you. “Who knows? Perhaps your plan will work. Okay. You’ve sold me. For now. I’m certainly willing to give your arrangement a try.”
Michael was not yet ready to acknowledge how excited and enthused and ecstatic he was about the thought of having unlimited access to both the women he loved. He wondered why more people hadn’t stumbled onto the idea of a ménage à trois. Perhaps, he thought, they had.
Four
CICILY PURDUE’S MOTHER, Emma, lived in a run-down single-wide in a grubby trailer park about fifteen miles outside of Bentonville, Arkansas. Most people thereabouts categorized her in the social class commonly called peckerwoods. Bible-thumping on Sundays, hypocritically drinking and fornicating the rest of the week, the woman had never displayed any visible means of support.
Cicily never knew her father. He wasn’t the handsome black preacher who lived in a small apartment behind the white clapboard church (Thank God, Emma sighed with relief when Cicily was born), nor was he the grocer who showed gratitude for sexual favors by extending credit that was never repaid, much to his long-suffering wife’s chagrin. Her father could have been the crotchety old man who tended bar at the neighborhood saloon, the itinerant handyman with an IQ lower than the temperature on a fall morning, the cripple on welfare who spent his days watching professional wrestling on TV, or any of a dozen or so of her alcoholic mother’s other paramours or fleeting acquaintances.
Coming from such undistinguished stock, it was no wonder Cicily grew up to be an amoral amorist. She was born thirty-one years ago in Arkansas, but her trailer trash mother didn’t want to be tied down by a crying infant, so Cicily was shipped off to Fresno, a city known variously as the Armenia of America, the Raisin Capital of the World, or the Armpit of California, where she was raised by a maiden aunt. Cicily married at sixteen to prove her independence and maturity. Her husband beat her at regular intervals, just for good, clean fun. As a parting present, just before Cicily divorced the louse at twenty, he infected her with a severe case of gonorrhea that left her sterile.
At age twenty-two, Cicily packed her few belongings and moved to Roswell, New Mexico, famous for the rumored crash of a UFO complete with extraterrestrial aliens on board. She promptly became a go-go dancer at the Silver Spur roadhouse, twisting and grinding her groin nightly to the cacophony of disco records punctuated by the catcalls and cheers of drunken cowboys, reservation Indians, and undocumented farm hands—all of whom would tuck yellow-stained, worn dollar bills down the front of her low-cut blouse to get what was either a cheap feel or a sneak preview of the merchandise, depending on the man’s skill, luck, and finances.
An exhibitionist by nature, Cicily loved all the masculine attention she received, but after one of her frequent one-night stands resulted in a herpes infection that wouldn’t go away and a few drunken fistfights with a couple of the other exotic dancers resulted in broken bones, she decided it was again time to move on.
Cicily was attractive, in a tawdry, slatternly way. Skin so pale it looked as if it had never seen the light of day, like Belgian endive. Cornflower blue eyes. A small, pointed nose not unlike a bird’s beak. Thin fingers like bird claws. Overly crimson lipsticked lips, with a pronounced patch of carmine rouge applied to each cheek. Bleached platinum blonde hair cut short in a mannish style. She was skinny to the point of being scrawny, but had more than ample natural breasts, without a drop of silicone.
Cicily was nervous and hyperactive, highly opinionated and very vocal. She seemed, at first blush, to be intelligent. That impression was soon negated by the content of her speech, which centered chiefly on sex, her first obsession, or extraterrestrial aliens, her second. In actuality, she was semi-literate, unable to write a complete or coherent sentence.
In Laughlin, Nevada, a small town on the Colorado River with more casinos than houses—the workers in Laughlin live across the river in Bullhead City, Arizona—Cicily found both a new occupation and a man.
She became a keno runner for a large casino designed to resemble a paddlewheel river boat. Her job consisted of wearing a skimpy costume and walking quickly past the tables in the coffee shop, shouting out the word “Keno” as she went, and, when stopped by diners, taking their bets and delivering them to the keno lounge. Cicily was paid the minimum legal wage plus tips. She was fired after mooning an elderly gentlemen—she never wore undergarments—who failed to tip her sufficiently after he had a sizable win.
The man who entered her life—Peter—was a semi-employed musician for a third-rate country-western band, a man some twenty years her senior. Cicily laughingly told people she liked to collect antiques. On the promise of a better job that never materialized, Peter moved to Las Vegas with Cicily in tow. She again became a keno runner for a casino and Peter mostly sat at home.
To make ends meet, or perhaps just to quench her hyperactive libido, Cicily would bring other men to her apartment, for a price, and entertain them while Peter stayed out of sight in the next room, sometimes softly strumming his guitar, occasionally joining in the party if the visitor desired kinky sex.
In no time at all, Cicily acquired a deserved reputation as a bimbo and a slut. Few were surprised when she turned up dead in the living room of her second-floor walk-up.
When Cicily’s body was discovered, it was completely nude. Her throat had been slashed from ear-to-ear—deeply, almost surgically. Her white halter top and mini-skirt were folded neatly on a chair, without a drop of blood staining them. Death must have been near-instantaneous, yet Cicily had seventeen stab wounds on her torso, as if they were inflicted as an afterthought or just for malevolent fun. Her nipples had been sliced off and placed over her open blue eyes, almost symbolically. The murder weapon, a hunting knife with a nine-inch serrated blade, had been inserted up to its hilt in her vagina.
And Peter was nowhere to be found.
Five
KIMBERLY AND MICHAEL rode into work together. Kimberly pointed out that since she was now living in the condo and both were employed at the Las Vegas Times, there was no sense in buying gas for two cars. She and Michael agreed to drive on alternate days.
Actually, Kimberly wanted to spend a few minutes alone with Michael each day, meaning away from the Times and without Myra. Even though Kimberly was highly elated over the ménage à trois arrangement, for now, she felt the need for some intimate moments for just the two of them. All the way to work, Kimberly cuddled against Michael’s shoulder and whispered libidinous suggestions in his ear—erotic things she wanted him to do to her that night, lascivious things she promised to do to him. Michael laughingly agreed to buy a can of whipped cream and a jar of maraschino cherries on the way home to fulfill one of Kimberly’s fantasies.
Kimberly held Michael’s hand as they climbed the stairs to the second-floor offices of the Times, but prudently released it just before they walked through the wide plate glass door. Neither of them wanted to start tongues wagging.
Kimberly went directly to the small cubicle office they shared. Michael stopped by the receptionist’s desk. He knew the receptionist had a crush on him, for she never failed to compliment him on his manly physique, his good looks, his curly black hair, or his nut-brown eyes.
After picking up the stack of messages that accumulated during his week’s absence, Michael strolled over to the office of his managing editor, E.J. Geller, and stuck his head tentatively through the door. Michael was prepared to defer his meeting until later, if Geller was busy or someone was in his office.
&nbs
p; Geller was seated at his desk proofreading copy that would be printed in the afternoon edition. “Come on in, m’boy, come on in,” he greeted Michael warmly, peering over the top of his horned-rimmed glasses. “Welcome back, Michael. How was your vacation?”
Michael slid his six-foot-two, 180-pound frame into one of two leather chairs positioned in front of Geller’s desk. “It was wonderful, E.J. Thanks so much for letting us stay in your villa. We all had a great time.”
“The weather must have been good. You acquired quite a tan.”
“It rained at night a couple of times, but, for the most part, the days were sunny. I tan easily. Myra and Kimberly got a touch of sunburn, though.”
“Did you get to see any of the sights?” Geller inquired. “There’s a lot to do on the Yucatan Peninsula.”
Michael nodded. “We spent a day at Xcaret. That was a lot of fun, especially swimming in the underground river. We wanted to go to Chichén Itza to see the pyramids, but ran out of time. Mostly we just lazed around the pool at the resort. A week isn’t nearly enough time for a Cancun vacation. It seems that as soon as you’re unpacked and settled in, it’s time to repack and leave.”
Geller’s eyes narrowed. “How about Myra and Kimberly? Did they enjoy the trip?”
Michael felt himself blushing. “Yes. Enormously. They shared some memorable experiences.” Boy, did they! Michael thought to himself.
Geller leaned forward slightly. He unwrapped a cigar and poked it in his mouth. “I was a little concerned when you asked Kimberly to go with you and Myra on the trip. As you found out, the villa’s two bedrooms are on opposite sides of the living room, so there’s a fair amount of privacy. You know the old saying: Two’s company, three’s a crowd.”
“We didn’t even—” (Michael started to say “use the second bedroom,” but caught himself just in time.) “have a single argument the entire week. Both Myra and I love Kimberly. Really.” Neither of us can seem to get enough of her, he snickered to himself.
“That’s good to hear. You know how I feel about the three of you. You’re like my own children.”
“As a matter of fact, we got along so well that Kimberly’s decided to move into the condo with us,” Michael volunteered. “It was Myra’s idea, actually,” he quickly added, when he perceived a perplexed look cross Geller’s face.
“Oh? Do you have to live together to cut back on expenses?” Geller worried. He thought perhaps one of them had acquired a gambling habit.
“No, it’s not a matter of money at all,” Michael laughed nervously. “Though, as you know, I’m long overdue for a raise,” he hinted. “Kimberly’s been rattling around in that big house of hers. It has some very unpleasant memories for her, and she wants to get rid of it. If things work out, we’ll eventually sell the condo and build a house for the three of us.” The moment the words left Michael’s mouth he realized they would trigger more questions he didn’t want to answer.
“And what happens if Kimberly decides to get married?” Geller quizzed. His newspaperman’s instinct had just sent up a red flag.
“Kim assured us she isn’t planning to get married for a long time—if ever. As you know, her previous marriage was a disaster.”
Geller nodded in agreement. He was well aware of the torture Kimberly had gone through with her ex. “Yes, it certainly was. But Kimberly seems to have put that in her past.”
Michael’s head nodded like that of a bobble head dog on the rear deck of a 1957 Chevrolet. “Yes, she has. Completely. Right now Kimberly’s very satisfied with her life.”
“Are you telling me she’d rather live with you and Myra than have a place of her own?” Geller questioned.
“That’s right,” Michael nodded again. He tugged at his collar. It suddenly seemed much too tight. The line of questioning was making him most uncomfortable.
Fortunately for Michael, Geller changed the subject. “I know you have to catch up on visiting restaurants for your Anonymous Gourmet column, but perhaps you can do me a little favor. A little favor.”
Michael owed Geller a favor for the week’s vacation in Cancun, but he’d learned every “little favor” for Geller had to have its parameters clearly spelled out in advance. “Sure, E.J. As long as it doesn’t involve investigative reporting. You know how I feel about that. Whenever you have me foray out of my field I wind up in a major predicament of one sort or another.”
Geller lit his cigar and took a puff before replying. “No, m’boy, nothing like that,” he said reassuringly. “I just thought you could ask Myra to gather up some background information for our little newspaper. She still works for the Blue Hawaii Hotel and Casino, doesn’t she?”
Michael nodded. “Yes. Myra used to work for Gold Crest, but she transferred to Blue Hawaii when they opened. She’s been with the Crest Resorts organization for about five years now.”
“A keno runner at the Blue Hawaii was found murdered yesterday. Quite brutally. Quite brutally. Perhaps Myra knew the girl. Her name was Cicily Purdue.”
“I’ll give Myra a call right away.” Michael was feeling magnanimous, now that Geller had stopped questioning him about Kimberly. “I might even stop by the Blue Hawaii this afternoon and talk with some of Purdue’s coworkers myself.”
“That’s a good idea, Michael. A good idea indeed.” Geller was pleased. For once, Michael was showing initiative.
“What did E.J. have to say, Michael?” Kimberly asked, when Michael entered their shared office.
“Not too much. He wanted to know how we enjoyed our vacation. Geller was a little worried—thought you might have been a fifth wheel. I assured him that was not the case. I even told him you’ve moved in with Myra and me.”
Kimberly raised a hand to her mouth. “You didn’t! You didn’t tell Geller we’re all sleeping together, did you?”
“Of course not. Though maybe I should have,” Michael teased. “It might have given him a vicarious thrill.”
An eyebrow raised. “Oh, and are you thrilled now, my sexy lover?”
“Yes,” Michael grinned. “I had serious doubts about the ménage at first, but now that we’ve had a week to try it, I have to admit you and Myra were absolutely right. I’m happier now than I’ve ever been in my entire life. And I’ve never seen Myra more relaxed and content than she is now.”
“I feel same way,” Kimberly stated. “It’s amazing what a little water can do for the desert.”
“Speaking of Myra, I need to give her a call. A keno runner at the Blue Hawaii was murdered and Geller asked me to check with Myra and try to get some background information on her.” Michael picked up his phone and punched in the numbers for Myra’s private line. She picked up on the second ring.
“Hi, Myra, it’s me.”
“Hi, me,” Myra squeaked. “I didn’t expect you to call me so early in the day. Do you miss me already, baby?”
“Of course. But that’s not why I’m calling. Do you know anything about a Blue Hawaii employee named Cicily Purdue? A keno runner?”
Myra’s voice took on a serious tone. “Yes. I just heard about her murder. I didn’t know the girl personally, but I’ve seen her working in the coffee shop. Why do you ask?”
“Geller asked me to get some background information on Purdue for the Times. If you’re too busy, I can stop by this afternoon and schmooze with Cicily’s coworkers.”
“No, that’s fine. I’ll handle it. I have a couple of hours to kill. Since I work here, I might be able to learn more about her than a newspaper reporter—which is how you would be perceived. Unless there’s a deadline for the story, I’ll tell you tonight whatever I manage to find out.”
“That should be okay. Oh, by the way, I have to review a restaurant tonight. Can you make it for dinner?”
“Probably not,” Myra fretted. “Some travel agents are arriving in town about seven and I have to pick them up at the airport. Take Kim with you. If I get free and it’s not too late I’ll join the two of you. Keep your cell phone on so I can track you do
wn.”
“Okay, sweetheart. I love you.”
“I love you too, Michael. Give Kim a big kiss for me and tell her I love her, too.”
“I will.”
Michael replaced the instrument on the hook. “What was that last ‘I will’ about?” Kimberly asked.
Michael closed the door to their office, then took Kimberly in his arms and kissed her passionately. “That’s from Myra. And from me,” he said.
Six
PAPA PAUL’S ITALIAN RESTAURANT is located in a middle-income residential-area shopping center in the Spring Valley section of Las Vegas. As the eatery is off the beaten path for tourists, its customers are almost exclusively locals. A casual atmosphere and moderate prices contribute to the popularity of the establishment.
Papa Paul’s does not take reservations. On weekends, diners often have to wait up to half an hour before they’re escorted to their tables. This night, a Monday, the restaurant was not crowded. The hostess said Michael and Kimberly could be seated immediately.
Michael ordered a mixed green salad with creamy Italian dressing to start. For his entrée, he decided on penne in a sun-dried tomato cream sauce, dotted with bite-size morsels of poached Norwegian salmon and liberally sprinkled with capers. Kimberly selected the Caesar salad with grilled chicken breast. When checking out a restaurant, Michael usually ordered a Caesar salad himself. Watching the preparation of the classic recipe was his first test of a restaurant’s quality, but he surmised that in this tiny storefront café the salad would not be made tableside. He was correct. It was not. Regardless, he tasted Kimberly’s salad, and had to admit it was quite palatable, as it had been made from scratch in the kitchen and not drowned in bottled dressing. Kimberly tried Michael’s pasta and said she would be able to duplicate the dish at home with a high degree of accuracy.
“Oh, you can cook, too?” Michael teased.
“I’ll do anything to please you,” Kimberly promised sensually, moistening her lips suggestively with her tongue. “In any room of the house.”
A Time For Us (Michael Kaplan Mysteries) Page 4