Dial M for Mascara

by Bevill, C. L.

  “Gimme,” Mary Grace said, reduced to Neanderthalism by the simple sight of ice cream.

  Callie held the bag out of reach. “Not until you tell me everything.”

  While they sat on the leather couch that took up most of Mary Grace’s living room, she did exactly that.

  Callie’s various interjections: “God, no, really?” “Not into the lake? Yuk.” “I saw the crepe myrtles, may they rest in peace.” “He said what?” “Well, he, she, it, whatever.” “All night long, in front of Mr. Flagg’s mulberry tree, well. He likes you. I can tell.” “My nonna says I’m psychic, you know.”

  The last one got Mary Grace’s goat, or sheep, or whatever farm animal was applicable. “If you’re psychic, why didn’t you see a psychopathic killer lurking around me waiting for opportunity, and also who is it? Huh? Hmm?”

  “It doesn’t work that way,” Callie responded loftily. “Eat some more Karamel Sutra.”

  “Ice cream therapy,” Mary Grace sighed blissfully, several moments later. “My mother’s going to put me in a convent.”

  “I think you have to be a virgin,” Callie said. “And a good Catholic. And there are laws against kidnapping, even if the kid is, in fact, your own kid. Also you’re almost thirty. That’s like, ancient. They don’t want old nuns.”

  “I’m twenty-eight, the same age as you,” Mary Grace snapped. “I think you…oh, yeah.” She relaxed. “Anything to get my mind off you-know-what.”

  “My job,” Callie said. “So what was Jack Covington wearing?”

  Mary Grace said, “What?”

  “Last night, and get your mind out of the gutter,” Callie said with a grin. “Let’s narrow down suspects. Whoever hit you was in dark clothing, right? So what was Jack wearing? You know he’s kind of cute in a nerdly fashion.”

  “Jack’s cute?” Mary Grace repeated. She’d forgotten that Callie had met Jack at one of Mary Grace’s infrequent barbeque parties. Jack’s face popped into her head with a youthful grin and a disarming manner. Four years older than she was, he was still boyish looking. Cute in a schoolboy kind of way. However, his green eyes could be killer. Where did that come from? “He was wearing jeans. I think. Jeans and a t-shirt. No, not a t-shirt, an oxford shirt. Dark blue.”

  “So maybe he clomped you, tried to kill you, realized someone else was there, and did a quick change.”

  “What happened to the gun?” Mary Grace said coolly. She didn’t want it to be Jack. Lately, Jack had been looking at her like he worshiped her little rosy tootsies under her Jimmy Choos. Besides which, he’d driven her home last night. So if it had been him, then why hadn’t he…Brogan. Brogan had followed them home. Brogan had made sure that Jack knew that he was following them home. Maybe it was an innocent man. Maybe it was a guilty man acting like an innocent one. “And why would he be trying to kill me?”

  “He dumped the gun and maybe a dark overshirt,” Callie said firmly. “That place is like Night of Dark Shadows after nine PM. Once he realized Trey was there and the alarm was going off, he didn’t have a chance. Did the police search either one?”

  “No,” Mary Grace answered slowly. “They were helping me. I didn’t see who had attacked me. They didn’t really have a reason.” Trey’s innocent face popped into her head. Flaxen blonde hair. Blue eyes the color of the warmest brightest summer day. A face so pretty it could have been a girl’s face. But instead it was Trey and Trey was young and naïve. “Trey was wearing black trousers, Bugle Boy’s. And a black shirt. He said he’d forgotten his BlackBerry and he was going out clubbing afterwards.”

  Callie made an ‘ummm’ sound and her spoon scraped the bottom of the pint of Phish Food. “Damn, no more fudge fishies.” She looked up and her eyes narrowed. “Could have been him, too.”

  “Come on,” Mary Grace protested. “He’s like twenty-two years old. He makes me feel like your nonna. Besides the gun recoil probably would have broken his shoulder.”

  “Lastly, the mysterious Lolita Lewis.” Callie thought about it. “That sounds like a porn star’s name. Lo-lita Lewis. She prances and dances and sucks your-”

  “Callie!” Mary Grace protested. “She owns a dry cleaning store!”

  Callie’s eyes rolled. “And apparently she’s a wham-bam-whoopie-mam, according to you, so what is she doing there on a Friday night?”

  “Dry cleaning homework?” Mary Grace answered weakly. “She was wearing blue jeans and a blue T-shirt. A dark blue T-shirt, by the by, before you ask me. But I don’t even know her. I’ve probably only spoken a dozen words to her in six months and half of those were last night.”

  “Finish your ice cream,” Callie instructed firmly. “We have STD.”

  “STD. Not me. I haven’t had sex in a long time. A long, long time. I might as well be a virgin, I-”

  “Stuff To Do,” Callie said. “Idiot.”

  “Like what?”

  “Got to go look for the gun, and then we go to search Jack’s place. We might as well start at the top of the list.”

  “The hell you say.”

  •

  High noon in Arlington, Texas in the midst of a concrete jungle was like walking into an oven that had been pre-heated to mega-broil. They could see wisps of heat curling up from the inflamed pavement. They sat inside the air conditioned magic that was Callie’s Mazda Miata and were appropriately reluctant to exit.

  “Okay,” Callie said finally. She pointed at Pictograph Inc.’s front door. “You came out last night. Locked the door behind you, right?”

  “It’s a key pad,” Mary Grace said, staring at the scene of the crime. It seemed a million miles away. “No key.”

  “Was the light on?”

  “The light was on,” Mary Grace confirmed. “I was looking inside my wallet to make sure I had enough cash. Then I dropped my Diorshow Mascara. Omigod. I never got that mascara back. Sacrilege. Absolute sacrilege.”

  “Maybe someone was just trying to rob you,” Callie said and then wrinkled her nose. “Except that ‘Die, Mary Grace, you little bitch,’ thing. That kind of puts a hole in that theory. Big hole.” Callie demonstrated the size of the hole by spreading her hands about two feet apart. “I got to tell you, MG,” she added in a much more serious tone of voice. “That scares me.”

  “Yeah, me too,” Mary Grace commiserated sincerely. “And the thing about the mascara is pretty bad, too.”

  “All right, back to business,” Callie said firmly. “You were still in the light when the guy-”

  “Or girl.”

  “-When the guy or girl slugged you?”

  “No, I took a step out toward the row,” Mary Grace pointed. Pictographs Inc. was tucked inside other industrial buildings. Most of them appeared as though eighteen wheelers would drive up at any moment and drop off freight, and, in fact, some of them did. There were a few store fronts to which customers actually came and parked, like Pictographs and like the car restoration business across the row from her place of business. The rest of the businesses did a myriad of services from shipping to rug cleaning. There was an industrial construction supplier two rows down and a business that built racing engines was next to that.

  “So that big board over Vintage Rides’ storefront is where one bullet finally ended up?” Callie asked.

  “No, in a classic restored 1968 Camero inside the shop. Mr. Martelli is probably muy pissed-o-rama.”

  “It could have been in your head, instead,” Callie said. “Hey, I rhymed.”

  “This whole place is pitch-black two steps past the front door. I’m complaining to Jack on Monday,” Mary Grace sighed. “Like it’s going to make a difference if I’m dead before they put in a few security lights.”

  Callie stared at the front of Pictographs and then looked around. There weren’t any trees here. There weren’t any bushes. As a matter of fact, there wasn’t any kind of vegetation, unless you counted a few weeds poking up through cracks in the cement. “There isn’t any place to toss a gun.”

  “What if he threw it into
his car,” Mary Grace mused. “No, I would have noticed the interior light coming on.”

  Callie suddenly stopped. “I know.” She looked at Mary Grace. “Is there a way up to your roof?”

  Mary Grace groaned. “At least it isn’t breaking and entering. And it’s probably not a felony.”

  •

  “Oh, baby,” Callie groaned. “Oh, baby, just a little more.”

  “Shut up.”

  “A little harder, baby,” she implored. “Just a little harder.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Callie,” Mary Grace snarled. “What did you eat in Cancun? You must weigh ten pounds more than when you left.”

  “If I can just get my foot over the top, MG,” Callie said. “And insults will not endear you to my continued and glorified assistance.”

  Mary Grace shoved. Callie squealed and went over the side of the roof. Mary Grace almost tumbled to the ground. She had been perched on a wing wall, trying to give Callie a lift onto the roof. There had been an argument about who weighed less. Some ugly words had been exchanged, but clearly Callie won, being only a size eight, despite a week of eating just about anything that would fit into her mouth.

  Words drifted down from the flat roof, “They had the best enchiladas I’ve ever had. Chicken and seafood, and these tortilla turnovers filled with bananas and beans. Oh-my-god.”

  “What?” Mary Grace called. “Did you find the gun?”

  “You should see the amount of bird poop up here,” Callie called, disgust coloring her voice. “What kind of birds can poop that much? Pterodactyl pigeons of prodigious proportion?”

  Mary Grace took a breath. “Jesus Christ, Callie. You scared me. Do you see a gun?”

  They had gone inside Pictographs and found no entrance to the flat roof. Outside there wasn’t any kind of ladder. The building was single story and no fire escapes were necessary. But Callie’s unerring eye had discovered a wing wall that connected the building to the back where a dumpster was located. “We can get up there,” she’d said decisively.

  “It’s getting down that might be a problem,” Mary Grace muttered to herself. “Do you see the gun?” she repeated loudly.

  Callie’s head appeared over the side. Her red hair was askew and her eyes twinkled in excitement. She hadn’t had this much fun since her Great Aunt Cecilia had been caught shoplifting Revlon at the drugstore and threatened to beat the security guard with her cane. “No, but someone’s been here before us,” she said. “There’s a clear outline in the bird poop of a gun. Someone came back to get the evidence.”

  “Glorioski,” Mary Grace mumbled.

  Chapter Five – Saturday, June 18th

  A divine facial involves the application of a well-mashed ripened banana to one’s face for not less than ten minutes. After which the banana may be consumed or applied to a lover’s torso for an interesting twist on a banana split sans iced cream, whipped cream, and a cherry.

  – Aunt Piadora’s Beauty Hints

  A decision had to be made. Either they could call Arlington Police Detective Victor Bloodsaw and tell him that the two of them had unashamedly and manifestly attempted to tamper with evidence in an ongoing official investigation. (Could an imprint in bird dookie really be considered evidence; they weren’t sure, but they thought maybe it could be. The whole discussion on bird dropping evidentiary status had been like listening to Bill Clinton asking what the definition of ‘is’ was. ) Or they could call Dallas Police Detective Frederick Brogan so that Callie could, in fact, judge the state of his ass for herself.

  “Or we could do nothing,” Mary Grace interjected ironically. She could imagine trying to explain to a police detective, from either city, that all they had to do was to make a mold from a deep pile of bird poop. “You know, that only works with foot prints in dirt,” she said firmly. Mary Grace didn’t really know if that was true, but it sounded good.

  Callie carefully let herself hang over the side of the building until her arms were stretched all the way out and then dropped with a grunt. She bounced to her feet and swept red hair out of her sweaty face. “Tire tracks, too. I saw this one episode of The New Detectives where they made a cast from where a dead body had lain for a period of time before the murderer came back to move the body. He had a chipper/shredder. Got the idea from Fargo, don’t cha know?” She vigorously brushed bird crap off her jeans. “Or did you see the episode of CSI where they made a mold of the knife wound. That really wouldn’t work, but it looks great on TV.”

  Mary Grace wiped sweat from her forehead. It was true that the industrial business area was 95% concrete and asphalt and as hot as the seventh level of hell. “What am I going to do?”

  Callie grimaced. “Don’t worry, MG,” she said, putting an arm around Mary Grace. “We’ll figure it out before something really bad happens.” She pushed her friend toward the car. “Now we stake out Jack’s place. Where does he live?”

  Mary Grace stumbled toward the fire-truck-red Miata. “How long have we known each other, Callie?”

  “Since about two weeks after I was born. You were already five months old. I had to play catch up. You being the older, experienced woman and all.” Callie shoved Mary Grace into the passenger seat and climbed into the driver’s seat. “I don’t recall our first meeting but I’m sure that we were instantly simpatico.”

  “This car is going to stick out like a big, freaking, inflamed thumb.”

  “Depends on where he lives,” Callie said. “Where?”

  “North Arlington,” Mary Grace said, resigned. “I’ll give you directions.”

  “But first,” Callie announced. “I have some dry cleaning questions.”

  “Oh, no,” Mary Grace moaned.

  •

  Two doors down from Pictographs, Inc. was the location of Big John’s Dry Cleaning. A sign in the window announced that cleaning leather and furs were also their specialties. Callie marched determinedly towards the place and looked over her shoulder at Mary Grace.

  “Do we have to?” Mary Grace whined.

  “Yes, grow some testicles,” Callie snapped.

  “That would be physically impossible and not to mention make me a hermaphrodite.”

  “Come on,” Callie wheedled. She opened the door and bells tinkled warningly.

  Mary Grace went inside and discovered that the place didn’t appear to be the lair of a mad killer. Instead it seemed to be like a thousand other dry cleaners businesses. Counter in front, cash register to the side. Metal racks for the completed goods were attached to the counter. In the back was a revolving set of hangers with hundreds of plastic encased clothing.

  Lolita Lewis looked up from the magazine she was reading and said, “Help you, ladies?”

  Her expression was curiously bland and disinterested. Callie blinked and glanced at Mary Grace, who shrugged and nodded at Lolita, indicating that she was the one who had been present during the shooting attempt. Mary Grace was wondering what Callie had expected, for Lolita to throw herself on the floor as soon as they entered, pleading for leniency from the law?

  “You don’t recognize her?” Callie asked, jerking a thumb at Mary Grace.

  Lolita looked at Mary Grace with dark brown eyes and her creamy expression blank. “Um? Should I? Do you live near me? Sorry, I’m not always good with faces.”

  Callie frowned.

  Mary Grace thought that either Lolita was completely innocent or she was a fine actress. She didn’t seem to know Mary Grace from Britney Spears. “I work at Pictographs,” she said tentatively.

  Lolita continued to appear blank. “Do you do your dry cleaning here? Do I have something for you? A receipt is very helpful, but also we file by last names so…”

  “No, I don’t have anything here,” Mary Grace said quickly.

  Callie put a hand on her cocked hip and studied Lolita. “So you were here last night?”

  “Sure,” Lolita said. “We were short someone. Guy quit to work at a telemarketer’s place. I had to work until 10 PM. Can you believe
they had a mugging last night?”

  “That was me,” Mary Grace said.

  “You mugged someone?” Lolita said disbelievingly.

  “No, they tried to mug me,” Mary Grace corrected.

  “Oh,” Lolita said. Then, she added, “Oh. Sorry. Hope you’re doing better today?”

  “So, did you see anyone else last night?” Callie interjected quickly.

  Lolita shook her head. “No, just her,” she pointed at Mary Grace. “And her boss, I think. And what’s his name, the little blonde haired twerp who hit on me. Then there were all the policemen and firemen. Whole lot of fuss. I had one of them walk me to the car later.”

  “You didn’t see anyone else?” Callie persisted.

  Lolita shrugged. “I closed up at 7 PM and got to work on what needed to be done in back. When I get going on the presses I can’t hear a bomb drop.”

  Callie sighed. “Well, thanks, anyway.”

  When they were outside, Callie said, “What do you think?”

  “I think she didn’t recognize me,” Mary Grace said honestly. “So I guess she couldn’t want to kill me if she didn’t really know me, right?”

  “Right. Let’s roll. We got your boss’s place to break into.”

  “Peachy.”

  •

  Jack’s Saturn Vue wasn’t apparent when Callie did a slow cruise by the sleepy avenue upon which he lived. Neither one of them was brave enough to venture close enough to look inside the windows of the closed garage so Callie parked the Miata and they sat in air conditioned splendor waiting for something to happen. “So when were you here before?” she asked Mary Grace suggestively.

  “Company picnic,” Mary Grace said gratingly. “Jack grilled brats. There was watermelon and lots and lots of potato salad and lots of other employees there. And you have the mind of a hound dog. And I’m insulting hounds, when I say it.”

  “Oh, sweetie,” Callie protested. “I can’t think of the last time you had a date. Ever since you dumped Ivan, he of the polygamous tendencies, your love life has been kaka. You don’t even try. Ma tried to fix you up with that guy, what was his name?”