by Patrice Lyle
Tattoo Tex held the stairwell door for me, and we raced up the steps to my room. No time to wait for the slow elevator. The hallway was empty, probably because everyone was gathered outside ready to hang Aunt Alfa.
I jammed my key into the lock, and we rushed inside.
"I need to use the bathroom, but the laptop's on." I pointed at my computer on the table. "My suspects file is the only thing open."
"I'm on it, doc."
I shut the bathroom door and took a whiff of lavender essential oil for some much needed calm. The hotel had become an unexpected war zone, and I didn't think it was safe for Aunt Alfa to stay in the hotel, much less Manatee. But I doubted that darn Fifi would let us leave now.
How had my life gotten so complicated? I washed my hands, luxuriating for a moment in the vanilla cherry scent of my Sparkle O hand soap. Mmm. Smells divine.
"You see anything that screams murderer?" I asked as I strode into the hotel room.
The distressed look on Tattoo Tex's face told me he had. He stared at the laptop and refused to make eye contact.
What's he so upset about? Then I remembered. Holy cocoa nips. In my late night haze, I'd added him to my list of suspects.
"Tattoo Tex, I was tired when I wrote that. I totally don't think you're a suspect."
He let out a weary laugh. "I don't care about you thinking I'm a murderer. I care about you dissing my cowboy hat. I'm a long, tall Texan, doc. How would you feel if someone dissed your blonde hair and chocolate addiction?"
Funny, I knew just how I'd feel.
I held my palms up. "I'm sorry, Floyd—"
"Who's Floyd?" He sounded irritated as he pushed back from the table.
Oh, no. I let out a sigh that could have knocked over a sumo wrestler. "He's my ex-fiancé. I'm so used to arguing with him that it just slipped out." What a dumb move.
He wrinkled his forehead and pointed at me. "You're engaged?"
"I was sort of engaged. But not totally engaged. I mean, I never accepted the ring because it was pear shaped." Like me. I took a deep breath to stop rambling. "I broke it off with Floyd after I met you, Tex."
"You shouldn't have done that on my account." He theatrically tilted his hat toward me and then headed for the door. "Being a cowboy is who I am, and if you don't like it, then we're never going to work out."
"Please, Tex, wait." I hurried after him.
He halted at the doorway and turned around. The shine in his eyes hinted at tears. "I'm real sorry you don't like me for who I am. I reckon a Texan tattoo artist cowboy ain't good enough for some fancy, glittery, dark chocolate eatin' doctor."
"That's not true."
"I bet you don't like the flames on my truck either. You probably think they're tacky."
The man knew me too well, but I'd never admit it. "No, I, um, really like the flames."
"Uh-huh." He cast me a sad look before wrenching open the door. "Later, doc. I hope you have a nice fancy life with your fancy fiancé Floyd."
"I don't want a fancy life." I just want you.
Tears of my own welled up when he stalked out and slammed the door shut. Just when my life was reaching an amazing crescendo, I was about to lose everything.
Aunt Alfa and Tattoo Tex.
I flipped the locks and wished I could erase the last five minutes of my life. But I couldn't. I could, however, try to turn what had happened with Tattoo Tex from a calorie consumed into a calorie burned.
I sat down at my computer and stared at the screen. I did a double take. Aw. Tattoo Tex had typed in a sad face next to the cowboy hat comment.
See? At least he doesn't care you think he's a potential murder. He's just upset you don't like his cowboy hat.
I would work on that as soon as I solved this annoying double murder.
My mind was on overdrive, and I desperately needed a break. I thumbed through the flashcards and landed on an Evidence Collection card.
Ensure evidence is extracted from covert places.
Hmm. Not sure I'd done that. Norman's check was sort of covert, but the pork burrito bag was in plain sight. What had I overlooked?
I scanned the room, and my gaze landed on Mystic Ming's journal. A distant memory arose of me when I was fifteen. I'd written a letter to the president of Sparkle O asking if I could have a summer job in the product development department.
I was all set to mail my letter and résumé when Aunt Alfa excitedly told me she'd gotten me a summer position at an organic farm. I'd been secretly devastated but didn't want to disappoint her. I couldn't bear to tear up the letter, however, because I'd sketched several new eye-makeup cases and colors hoping Sparkle O would want to develop them.
So I'd hidden the papers in the cover of my journal.
It was a long shot, but it was all I had. I retrieved the journal and my manicure scissors. Using a delicate hand, I cut back the stiff paper covering the front side of the journal. Nothing but glue inside. Then I tried the back and found nothing there either. Figured. Didn't Mystic Ming have any secrets?
I'd set the journal on the bed in defeat when I noticed the binding. Three large holes were looped together with leather rope. What if Mystic Ming had folded-up some top-secret thing and hidden it in the edge?
I retrieved my hot pink ceramic tweezers and carefully untied the wraps. I lifted the cover off and brushed my thumb against the pages. Nothing. Oh, come on. I did it again. And again. Perseverance paid because the fourth pass dislodged a piece of paper folded accordion-style.
The paper fluttered to the floor, and I retrieved it. After I unfolded it and focused on the picture the page contained, I swear my heart stopped.
Apparently Babette and the psychic surgeon knew each other quite well. The revolting image showed them in a most compromising position in bed. Mystic Ming had written a few heartfelt words, too.
Charles going bang-bang with fat porker. Wonder how much Mystic Ming can get for silence? Norman make good money as engineer, and Babette won't want divorce because she a crap psychic.
Then I remembered what Mystic Ming had said to Garnett in the elevator. Charles should no eat so much bang bang pork. This was the break I needed. An affair was a total motive for murder.
But who did it? Babette or the psychic surgeon? Babette probably had a bigger motive because she'd lose income if Norman found out and divorced her. I needed evidence, though. Babette was outside riling up the crowd, so now was a good time to search her room. I rifled through the vendor listing and saw that Charles and Babette's rooms were on the same floor.
How convenient for them.
My theory gelled faster than too much cornstarch in gravy. What if they'd hired Van to spike the food and then killed him? Aunt Alfa had seen Babette and Van arguing, and I'd seen Van and Charles arguing. Then Van was asking Babette about money. Oh, and now I knew why Babette was implicating Aunt Alfa in her bogus séance. Babette wanted to throw suspicion off them. It all made sense.
Now if only I could prove it.
I rose from my chair and realized I didn't have a key for either of their rooms. But where there's dark chocolate, there's a way. I would not be deterred. I flipped through the flashcards and lucked out. Instructions on lock picking were provided. Yes. I rooted through Aunt Alfa's beauty bag and grabbed a couple of her hairpins.
I'd never been so happy my auntie wore curlers.
For my safety, I snagged her travel bottle of Aqua Net hairspray and the lighter she used for incense. Hairspray plus fire equaled blowtorch (knowledge gained from a risky high school experiment). As I was tucking the red lighter into my purse, I noticed the advertisement.
Wanna Get In My Granny Panties.com.
Oh, for the love of chocolate ganache.
I was at my door when I realized something. Even though Tattoo Tex was mad at me, I should tell him about my plan just in case it went awry. I snapped a photo of the evidence and texted it to him. Along with a note.
Huge break in the case. Charles and Babette are having an affair, and I
bet one or both of them killed Mystic Ming. Probably Van too. I'm on my way to their rooms to see if I can find any stashes of Cosmic Cakes or bottles of peanut oil.
Then I tore out of my room ready to catch a killer.
Or two.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Aqua Net Never Goes Out of Style
Babette's floor was quiet when I arrived at her door, but my bravado had wilted like day-old cilantro.
Could I really break into her hotel room?
I have to. Aunt Alfa's life's on the line.
I retrieved a hairpin from my purse and took out the lock-picking instructions flashcard. Insert and wiggle until clasp releases. Sounded easy. But first I'd better make sure no one was home. I lifted my hands to knock and froze when I heard a voice thundering inside.
"I want to take that pizza cruise, Babette," Norman hollered. After a long pause he added, "And I'm doing it with or without you. I'm serious." Then the sound of a phone slamming down filled the airways.
Holy chocolate pretzels. Better not break into this room. I clutched the hairpin and flashcard and hurried toward the psychic surgeon's room. After I pressed my ear to his door for a few minutes, I rapped on the wood. No answer so I was certain the room was vacant.
Time to pick and roll.
My heart pounded as I picked my first lock. It took a few nerve-wracking seconds, but my stellar manual dexterity came in handy, and the door sprung open. To think I'd only used my handiness for cosmetic applications and hair styling before. A whole new world had opened up to me.
Literally.
Walking into Charles's room was like being transported onto a porno set (or at least what I imagined one to be). Whips, chains, and leather masks littered the floor. Nasty magazines with naked blondes on the covers filled an open suitcase on the bed. But those weren't the most shocking things. Nope, that would be the travel folder with an itinerary for Charles and Babette's upcoming cruise.
An adult cruise, as evidenced by the pictures on the brochure. Eeww.
No wonder she didn't want to take the pizza cruise. She was getting ready for her cameo.
Without thinking, I sat on the bed and then immediately jumped up. Who knew what germs lurked? Plus I had a mission to complete. I needed something to tie Charles and Babette to the murder. I tore back the covers and almost barfed. Definite evidence of adult activity decorated the sheets, along with a familiar-looking feathered headpiece.
I rifled through Charles's two suitcases, but didn't find anything incriminating. I searched through the closet, but found only grocery store bags filled with dirty laundry. Then my gaze landed on the garbage can. The police on TV always rooted through those so I did too. But nothing. My PI instinct shrieked, There's evidence in here. Where though?
The answer hit me along with a pang of nausea. Charles's dirty laundry was encased in grocery bags. I approached one and peered at the label. Greens & Groceries.
My fingers twitched, and I wished I'd had gloves with me. But if I were going to save Aunt Alfa I'd have to dig through Charles's laundry now and sanitize my hands later. I used a hotel pen to extract the hazmat bags from the closet. Once they landed on the bed, I started breathing through my mouth and dumped out the contents.
Several white banana hammocks that appeared to have been worn more than once cascaded onto the bed along with socks, shirts, and a pair of shorts.
I shook the bag hard and a couple of receipts fluttered onto the bed. My pulse raced when I grabbed the receipts and scanned the listed items. Oh, holy chocolate babka. One receipt showed two boxes of Cosmic Cupcakes, and the other one boasted a bottle of peanut oil.
Yes! Evidence to support my theory.
I was about to text Jock Cowboy when a key clacked in the lock of Charles's doorway. A chill shot down my spine as I hurried toward the drapes. But I didn't have time to hide behind the orange fabric because the door opened, and the psychic surgeon walked in.
He took one look at the receipts dangling in my hand and kicked the door shut. A sinister smirk spread across his face as he removed a surgical knife from a pocket of his scrubs.
"Well, well, Dr. Piper Meadows. It looks like we have a little problem."
"Problem?" I feigned confusion. "I'm not sure what you're talking about."
Charles advanced on me with the knife, and I screamed. "Shut up, or I'll slice your throat." His pupils darkened, and his tone was razor sharp.
My pulse raced as I backed into the heavy drapes. I had nowhere to go and nothing to fight him with. His scalpel versus my two incriminating receipts didn't yield a fair fight.
Wait. I have my hairspray blowtorch. But how can I get it from my purse?
"Look, Charles. We're both in a bind here." I struggled to keep my voice from trembling as my mind raced, formulating a blowtorch-extraction plan. "I'm breaking and entering, and you're, um, well, you have some receipts for two suspicious items. Why don't we settle this the democratic way?"
"And what, vote? For whether you live or die?"
What could I do to stall? Then I remembered his rock-paper-scissor game with Garnett.
Yes. That might work!
I pointed at his scalpel and fanned the receipts. "How about a game of rock, receipt, scalpel?"
It was a ludicrous suggestion, but he might like crazy stuff.
He narrowed his eyes, apparently pondering my plan. "That's my favorite game, but why should I bother when I've got the upper hand?"
I glanced at the disgusting magazines piled in his suitcase. A dog-eared copy of Naughty Blondes lay on top. Perfect. I'd use his perversion against him.
"If you win, I could do something naughty." I swallowed down the urge to vomit.
"Ooh, I love a naughty blonde." His voice went from psycho killer to porn-store pervert.
Eeww. But no time to gross out. I stepped toward him. "How about I remove a piece of clothing for every game I lose?"
A slimeball grin covered his face. "I'll do the same."
Holy goat cheese. Hadn't expected that.
I summoned a seductive smile. "We'll use the scalpel for scissors and the receipts for paper?"
"Works for me." He was playing right into my plan of a calorie truly about to be burned.
"Best of three?"
"Sure." Should I spell out the stakes? Why not? "Just to be clear, if I lose I remove an article of clothing."
His mouth hung open as his gaze inched from my highlights to my sandals and back again. "Yeah."
"But if I win, I walk. And if you win, you call the police on me for breaking into your room?"
No matter what, though, I'm going to torch you for implicating Aunt Alfa in a double murder.
He nodded, but his creepy expression told me I'd be playing for nothing. He would renege and slice my throat whatever the outcome. But, I reasoned, the stupid game bought me some time. And maybe I could garner some dirt for when I escaped.
Had to think positive.
I set the receipts on the bed, and he followed suit with the scalpel.
"Count of three?" I made a fist.
"You start." He balled up his hand and stepped so close his BO nearly choked me. The naturopathic doctor in me felt bad his nerves were on overdrive, but the potential murder victim in me was glad he was nervous.
I could definitely use that to my advantage.
"One, two, three." My fist stayed a rock.
He smiled at his flat hand. Then he picked up the receipt and pressed it hard on my fist. "Receipt covers rock. I win."
My flesh pebbled with chills. "Round one goes to you."
He leered at me. "Take something off."
My chest tightened as I kicked off my sandals. They flew past him and banged against the dresser.
"You cheated. Shoes aren't clothes."
Since when? "They're an integral part of my outfit."
"Take off something else."
Oh, for the love of chocolate schnapps. I hesitated, trying to decide which was worse? My skirt or blouse?
<
br /> "Hurry up or the game's over, blondie."
I decided on my blouse. I set my purse on the bed and slipped out of my top. His barf-inducing gaze instantly affixed to my pink sequined bra. I hoisted my purse over my shoulder to feel less naked and keep my weapon close.
"Why'd you kill Mystic Ming?" I hoped my lingerie would distract him into talking. "Because he knew about you and Babette?"
He gritted his teeth. "Ming had no right to blackmail me. That little rat turd." He let out a blast of coffee-scented breath. "Should I start round two?"
I nodded and assessed his mental state. He was clearly stressed and agitated. I needed to bring up Babette. Talking about his feelings for her might divert his attention away from me, so I could grab my weapon.
"Ready?" he asked.
"Yep."
We both made fists, and then he counted to three.
My hand shot out in a flat form, but his were in a V-shape. Darn.
"I win again." His hand hovered above the scalpel, but then he turned and pretend-slashed my hand. If we weren't engaged in such a sick game of cat-and-mouse, I would have shrieked. But I bit my lip and sucked down the scream. I couldn't let him sense my fear.
"I'm having so much fun," I said in my best ditzy-blonde voice. "Care to make it five rounds?"
He shrugged. "Why not? But take off your skirt."
My stomach churned as the sickening realization of my situation overcame me. I undid the zipper, and my PI bravado fell off along with my white eyelet skirt. I had to get the upper hand. Once again his pervy gaze went to my lingerie. What I wouldn't have done to have switched out my pink lace bikinis for a pair of granny panties.
He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. "Ready for round three?"
"Sure." Goosebumps broke out on my arms, but I played it cool. I made a fist and then relaxed it. "Are you in love with Babette?"
"She's the love of my life. Ming didn't care if he ruined us by blackmailing her. After he snapped that picture of us at the last expo, all he wanted was money. Babette couldn't afford a divorce, so Ming kept after her. Demanding money all the time, so I had to kill him." Charles's eyes glittered with insanity. "Sometimes you have to slay for true love. Know what I mean?"