#3 Hollywood Crazy: A Holllywood Alphabet Series Thriller

by M. Z. Kelly

  After trying to console him, I thanked Harry Clinton and told him that I’d be in touch if I had any further questions. It was after two in the morning and my headache was in full swing. Bernie and I went to look for Pearl and Edna as my phone rang.

  “This is Sergeant Anderson with the New York City Police Department,” I heard a man say. “I’m calling about your mother.”

  I sucked in a breath. “What’s wrong?”

  “Your mother is under arrest for assault on a police officer.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  According to the Sergeant, my mother had been arrested for resisting arrest and assault on a peace officer, after she refused orders to leave Central Park. She had slapped a cop. It seems that Mom was using her nude body, yes nude, to form the letter A in the phrase, WORLD PEACE.

  I’m not sure why being nude was a requirement, but I did remember her telling me that the demonstration had something to do with ending all wars on the planet. While I’m all for world peace, the thought of my mother’s nude body forming the letter A was horrifying.

  I’d known about the upcoming demonstration for months and I wasn’t entirely surprised that Mom had caused trouble. My mother is the same woman who not too long ago hallucinated about having sex with a dead president after her facelift surgery.

  Mom was also a part-time psychic who went by the name, Miss Daisy. As Natalie recently said to me, “Your mum is a Muppet in a tin foil hat.”

  After making bail arrangements, using money from Mom’s bank account and promising to pick her up at the airport in a few days, I checked on Charlie. I reached his girlfriend, Wilma, who was at his bedside. She said that my partner was resting comfortably and thought they’d be running some tests on him in the morning. I told her that I’d come by and check on him tomorrow.

  My headache felt like a vice that was squeezing what was left of my brain by the time I pulled into the driveway of the home I share with my friends in the Mount Olympus neighborhood of Hollywood. Olive, my car, sputtered and backfired as I turned off the ignition.

  I looked at Bernie and said, “If this car breaks down again, I’m buying a motor scooter like the one Mo rides. I hope you look good in a helmet.” Bernie licked the air in that way he has that makes me think he understands what I’m saying.

  My car is a 1984 Ford Escort that I paid cash for because my ex ruined my credit. I drive the car during work hours only for the mileage reimbursement checks, but lately, with all the repair bills, it was a losing proposition.

  “You look like you’ve been on the last train to Clarksville and it just derailed,” Natalie said as I came through the door.

  I told her hello before taking a quick call. After ending the brief conversation, I tossed the phone and my keys on the coffee table in disgust. The call was all I needed to take Natalie up on her offer of a nightcap.

  Natalie handed me the drink. “It’s called a screaming orgasm—vodka, Baileys Irish Crème, and a dash of mook.”

  “Mook?”

  “It’s better that you don’t know.”

  I took a sip. The name of Natalie’s drink made me think about that part of the evening I’d spent with Jack under my dress. The thought brought a half-smile to my lips. But after the night’s other events, my Gone with the Wind escapade now seemed a long time ago, especially after the phone call I’d just received.

  “No Jack tonight?” Natalie asked.

  “Just called. Off to DC on assignment for a few days. Happens a lot lately.”

  “He does seem to snog and run.”

  “Where’s Mo tonight?” I asked, deliberately changing the subject.

  “On her way. Stopped by Denny’s for some of that raspberry-rump pie she’s crazy about. Says it keeps the lady lumps in shape and her energy level up.” Natalie studied me for a moment. “Maybe it’s time to throw a benny, about Jack I mean. Tell ‘em the conjugal visits just ain’t cuttin’ it anymore.”

  I sighed and took another sip of my screaming orgasm. While the drink didn’t live up to its name, it was delicious.

  “Maybe,” I said, feeling my headache finally releasing its grip. “I just don’t know if I’m ready to replace Jack with a G-Stim.”

  “That reminds me, Mo and me got us a list of Michael Clinton’s fuck bunnies if you wanna take a look at it.”

  “Yes, that would be helpful. But I’ve got to warn you again not to get involved in something that’s a police matter.”

  “Not to worry, we’re just tossin’ a line in the pond, see’n what bites the worm.” She smiled and we heard a door open somewhere upstairs.

  “Are Prissy and Nana still awake?” I asked.

  “Catchin’ up on their beauty sleep.”

  Prissy is another of my roommates. He or she is a transvestite who runs a local goth shop called, Voodoo Mama. We rent the house from his great-grandmother, Nana Hannah, who’s in her eighties and has a bedroom on the second story of the rambling Spanish-style house.

  The residence has an impressive view of the city, but the Mount Olympus neighborhood is a far cry from the one Nana and her long deceased husband once knew. It’s now a mixture of wealthy foreign nationals from Russia, Israel, Iran, and several Arab countries.

  While Prissy is six feet five with hair that changes color almost daily, Nana is just the opposite. She’s barely five feet tall with ruby red lips and flowing white hair that has Tidy Bowl highlights. Prissy’s great-grandmother probably tips the scales at eighty-five pounds. She’s short, skinny, and a little scary.

  According to Nana, she and her now deceased husband bought the house in the early 1970s from the estate of a couple who died in the home under suspicious circumstances. While nothing was ever proven, I’m told that the police suspected the couple’s deranged son poisoned his parents so that he would inherit the proceeds from the sale of the house. While the police were still investigating the deaths, the son was told he’d been cut out of the will and he hanged himself in the basement.

  Nana told me that the house is haunted and she sometimes hears the movement of furniture and, on a couple of occasions, even someone screaming in the basement. So far, I’d been spared any ghostly apparitions, other than sometimes seeing Nana Hannah roaming the halls late at night making her signature clicking sound. The clicking comes from her dentures which, lacking Fixodent, she habitually clicks.

  “That you, honeybucket?” Natalie called out.

  A moment later, a young man with a wild shock of black hair and wearing 3-D glasses stumbled into the family room. Natalie’s new boyfriend, Tex, bore a resemblance to what I imagined Albert Einstein must have looked like in his twenties.

  “Natalie told me about the murders,” Tex said to me. “You need my assistance. I can help solve your case.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Why is everyone a cop when there’s a crime to be solved?

  “It would be a statistical anomaly that the deaths are a murder-suicide,” Tex said, coming over to the sofa. “Especially given that the crime occurred on the bride and groom’s wedding night.”

  “Maybe China turned into one of them Bridezillas,” Natalie suggested. “Could be the weddin’ didn’t go like she planned, so she plugged Michael.”

  Tex must have realized that he still had his 3-D glasses on and removed them. He’d probably been watching one of those alien movie marathons he’s crazy about. Natalie’s boyfriend doesn’t live with us, but lately he seemed to always be around like an annoying fly that snuck in when the door was open and begged to be swatted.

  “There’s less than a two percent probability that what you’re postulating is likely,” Tex said to Natalie.

  Tex’s real name, if I remembered correctly, was, Theodore Ernest Xavier Alexander Sampson. The story goes that his parents owned a bar in Laredo and gave him the name to honor the lone star state. His Texas-sized name and acronym was eventually shortened to Tex. My theory is that there was also a guy named Jack Daniels helping out with the naming process.

  I wasn�
��t going to divulge any additional information about the murders, but decided to humor Tex. Knowing that he was brilliant in his own strange way and that he had a statistical program he used to calculate the odds for or against virtually everything, I said, “Did The Spockster give you any other insights?”

  Tex declined one of Natalie’s screaming orgasms, at least the liquid kind, and poured himself some orange juice from the fridge.

  “It’s a double murder,” Tex said. “Given that it happened at the residence where the wedding took place, it’s likely that the killer had a close relationship to the victims—maybe a friend, business associate, or even a family member.”

  “Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, thinking that the suspect categories covered a lot of ground.

  Tex put an arm around Natalie, his tongue hanging out. He looked like Bernie when he’s about to hump someone’s leg. There’s nothing worse than a horny nerd.

  “No problem,” Tex said. “If you need any further help just let me know. I possess a rare form of eidetic memory and sometimes can pick up olfactory, tactile, and even gustatory sensations from a scene, long after an event has occurred. As you might imagine, it can be a bit of a curse working at a place like Chica Caliente.”

  “Tex suffers from alextorophobia,” Natalie said. “Fear of chicken from workin’ at the restaurant. Sometimes, the trauma even makes him break out in hives.”

  “The force is strong with this one,” Tex said, nudging Natalie. “I just might bring you to the Geeks of Armageddon convention.”

  “You’re so brainy and romantic,” Natalie said, nuzzling him.

  “That’s true,” Tex said with a slight grin, then added, “But just so you know, it’s against my programming to impersonate a deity.”

  Quoting lines from Star Wars, statistical analysis, and making random references to nonsense were just some of Tex’s favorite activities. Ugh—Natalie’s taste in men was odd, to say the least.

  I took another sip of my drink, wondering how much more probability theory, eidetic memory, and chicken trauma I could take. That’s when I heard Nana Hannah’s voice coming from upstairs and the trauma kicked in again.

  “Don’t drop me,” Nana called out. “At my age my bones are fragile. I hit the floor and I’ll snap like a chicken bone.”

  “Don’t worry, if I drop you, I’ll make a wish first,” I heard Prissy say before breaking into girlish laughter.

  Nana apparently didn’t appreciate her great-grandson’s attempt at humor. After more discussion about bones, along with a reference to bad hips and incontinence, Prissy finally made it down the stairs with his great-grandmother.

  An image of Norman Bates in drag carrying his dead mother down from the attic came to mind. Nana Hannah denture-clicked into the room, all arms and legs.

  Prissy was sporting orange hair tonight and wore a long black dress imprinted with the faces of famous dead people. Lots of chains and a spiked dog collar completed the ensemble.

  “I feel like shit,” Nana said. “I could croak at any moment.”

  “I’m working on that energy drink for you,” Tex said. “It just needs to ferment for another forty-eight hours before I skim the slurry off the top.”

  “Better hurry. I don’t think I’ll last the week.”

  “You’ve been predicting your eminent death for the past ten years, grandmamma,” Prissy said in his high pitched voice.

  “Don’t call me that. It sounds like I’m one of those rich old ladies with no hormones and a bad attitude who plans to leave all her money to her cats.”

  I looked at Natalie, raised a brow, but kept quiet. From what I understood, Nana Hannah had six cats upstairs. I’d made a silent vow never to venture into Nana Hannah Never Land so I’d never actually seen any of them.

  Natalie and Tex walked over to the kitchen counter to fix Nana a drink as Mo came through the front door. She was working a hair pick like she was trying to find a lost canary in her mountain of dyed red hair.

  “Did I ever mention that I hate helmet hair?” Mo said to me. “Maybe I should give up riding a scooter. I look like one of them hedge creatures they got at Disneyland.”

  “You mean a topiary?” I said.

  “Whatever.” She gave up on looking for the bird and rushed over to where we were sitting. “Got me some really big news.” She turned to her snoop sister. “Natalie get over here. You’re not gonna believe this.”

  Natalie let Tex take over fixing Nana’s drink. When she took a seat, Mo said, “I met up with that Holly Sawyer woman as I was leaving China’s place tonight. She wasn’t invited to the wedding because her and China weren’t getting along so well, but she heard the news about their deaths.”

  “She and China were having problems?” I asked, remembering what China’s sister, Mags, had said about them.

  “I dunno, there was somethin’ about China’s agent wanting more money than Holly got for her to work on the show. Anyway, Holly asked me if I wanna go on Hollywood Daybreak and talk about the case.”

  Natalie was on her feet. “What did you tell her?”

  “I said, sure, as long as my blonde baby sister can come along.”

  Natalie practically did a cartwheel, stumbled back, and caught herself just before landing on Nana. I think I heard Prissy making a wish that had something to do with an inheritance.

  Natalie screamed, “Yes...yes…we’re gonna be stars. Maybe we’ll make the rounds of all those mornin’ talk shows?”

  “I gotta get me a new outfit, nails and maybe a wig,” Mo said. “I’m thinkin’ pink hair might work for me—somethin’ that Nicky Minaj might wear. Whatcha think, Kate?”

  I was trying to come up with a polite response when Nana said, “Wow, this drink is really good, Tex. What do you call this?”

  “It’s a Screaming Orgasm,” Natalie said before Tex could answer. My friend was still jumping for joy and shouting, “Yes,” as if to demonstrate the drink’s effect.

  “Wow,” Nana said. “I think I’ll have a double. Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had an orgasm? I think it might have been back in the summer of ’83. There was this guy named, Roy, who I fantasized was Paul McCartney.”

  I finished my drink and walked into the kitchen, not wanting to hear the details of Nana and Roy doing the dirty deed. I was putting my glass in the sink when I saw some kind of device on the counter. It had a battery attached to it that was being charged.

  “A new invention?” I asked Tex.

  “More of a reinvention,” he said. He removed a plastic cover and it slowly dawned on me that it was a larger, modified version of the G-Stim. “All that talk about Michael Clinton’s gadget got me thinking. I’ve created a supercharged version that I call, Mr. Peepers.”

  I laughed. “Mr. Peepers? Really?”

  “The name comes from some childhood sexual play I engaged in, involving a…”

  “Enough,” I said. “If Mr. Peepers was your scout master I don’t want to hear about it.”

  Natalie joined us in the kitchen. “You can even hook your iPod up to it while you’re playing poke the pie,” she said.

  Behind us, Nana spoke up. “Maybe I should give that thing a try. You’re never too old to ride the solo saddle.”

  “I’ve heard enough,” I said, heading for my bedroom with Bernie. I closed my door, using the last bit of strength I possessed to keep away images of Prissy’s grandmamma riding the souped-up man pony.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The next morning Bernie and I stopped by the hospital to see Charlie on the way into the station. I was running late and had tossed on a pair of J. Crew toothpick cords that made me realize my legs weren’t exactly toothpicks. My hair was also rebelling. I’d spent twenty minutes trying to style it into something that looked casual and flirty. Instead, I got frizzy and unruly.

  I hadn’t slept well, thanks to what I can only assume was Natalie and Tex playing with Mr. Peepers in the bedroom next to mine. It was either that or Natalie was blu
dgeoned to death in the middle of the night by Nana who murdered her for the sex toy.

  Charlie was resting comfortably and waiting for the results of some cardiac tests. He was predictably the hospital’s worst patient and refusing to eat the food.

  My partner even tried to convince me to buy him a candy bar from the snack machine in the waiting room. I gave him a lecture about healthy eating and told him I’d come by and check on him later.

  Even though I was assigned to the Robbery Homicide Division stationed out of the Homicide Special Section in Los Angeles, due to office space issues related to budget cutbacks, I spent part of my time at the Hollywood Station on Wilcox Street.

  As soon as I arrived at the station, Lieutenant Edna called me and Bernie into his office. I wondered if he was still upset about the reporter’s comment from last night.

  I soon learned that Henrietta had another agenda. “Since Winkler’s out of commission for a while and Pearl only works part-time, I’ve got to assign another detective to the wedding murders.”

  “I’m willing to work with whomever. I just want Charlie back as my partner after he returns to duty.”

  Edna picked up his phone and called someone over the intercom. When he hung up, he said, “I understand about wanting your partner back. In the meantime, however, I want us all to act professionally about the way we handle things.”

  “As I said, I’m willing…”

  “Meet your new partner,” the lieutenant said, motioning toward the door.

  I turned as Jessica Barlow slithered into the office. The detective had her lips pursed together, probably in an effort to hide her forked tongue.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said, turning back to Edna. “Why don’t you just plunge a knife into my chest, now.”