by Sandi Scott
"The boys took you to the cabaret? Oh, how fun," Aleta gasped. "How was it?"
"Up until the murder, it was really amazing," Georgie said before taking a bite of her brownie, “but this sounds much more interesting to me.”
“I’ll bet. What do you know about it except that Chesty Lareau is dead?”
“Her stage name was Madame Bray and the interesting thing I found out last night was that it was supposed to be her last performance before she retired.”
“Well, you got half of it right,” Aleta joked morbidly. “It was her last performance. Says here they have no suspects.”
“Indeed.” Georgie took a sip of coffee. “I think I’m going to go buy a bouquet of flowers to take to the club. I gave a hanky to one of the dancers last night too, so I could get it back while I’m there.”
“Flowers would be a nice gesture.”
“Want to come with me?”
“No.”
“Fine, party-pooper. Thanks for the aspirin. I think it’s helping already—the brownies, too.”
“Right.” Aleta’s voice was dry. “Let me know what you find out.”
Georgie went back to her house, quickly showered, and dressed in one of her favorite I don't care outfits. Her head still ached like there was a hot marble right above her left eye, certainly not enough to keep her stuck in bed, but it was enough to convince her any extra effort put into an outfit today would just be too much. So, she opted for her baggy black pants and a loose-fitting gray t-shirt. Of course, she added a couple of bangles around her neck. After all, she wasn't at death’s door or even close. Even so, her red lipstick stayed in the makeup bag.
Bloomin’ Ideas was a flower shop not far from Georgie’s house. “It must be my lucky day.” She mused as she pulled Pablo into a parking spot right in front and next to a splendid silver and black Smart Car. “Can you believe there is a car even smaller than you, Pablo?” As she got out she had to admire the vehicle that was only about four feet long with two comfortable looking seats. Georgie noted there was even a small space in the back that would be perfect for Bodhi then, shaking her head, she turned to walk into the flower shop. To her surprise she saw a familiar face coming out the door of the shop.
“This is a nice surprise,” Obby pronounced as he stopped right in front of her.
“Did you see this car? Isn’t it a riot? It looks like a cartoon character come to life. I wonder what kind of person would drive a car like this?”
"Probably a cool one." Obby was nonchalant as he pulled a set of keys from his pocket and pressed a black fob. The Smart Car chirped to life, winking its lights and snapping its locks open.
“This is your car?” Georgie laughed. “How does it drive?”
"Like a dream. You don't even realize you are in something so small. At least, not until you turn around and can count the bugs on the grill of the Mack truck that's directly behind you.”
Georgie laughed.
"Regardless, the mileage is great, and there is no better car for city driving. I never have a problem parking. Not ever. Hey, how about we go for a spin?”
"I'm sorry, Obby, I can't. I'm buying some flowers and heading off to Northbrook." She explained the whole incident and Madame Bray's death to Obby and watched as his eyes focused intensely on her.
"That really is too bad. Sorry your evening got ruined."
Georgie didn’t want to tell him that her evening was anything but ruined and that this was exactly what she craved to keep the excitement in her life, but she kept her mouth shut for fear of sounding morbid and creepy. "I was with my son and his friend J.R. My evening wasn't ruined. Let's face it. The only person whose evening was ruined was Madame Bray. As gruesome as that may sound."
“True. Very true,” Obby made a face, “but I think it might be nice if you would let me take you out for a nice evening. I promise no murders or deaths or arrests this time. I can’t promise we may not witness a sickness or severe injuries, but no deaths, I assure you.”
“I don’t know, Obby. You are very kind to offer, but my son is in town, and I don’t get to see him often, so my life is quite hectic right now.”
Georgie didn’t want to tell Obby about her ex-husband’s jealous streak, although from the posturing that had gone on during their first date, when Stan met Obby in the course of arresting a murderer , she was sure Obby probably already knew. Just the thought of Stan made her instinctively look around, but he was nowhere in sight. Maybe Andrew was right, she did still love Stan on some level. Going out with Obby felt like cheating even though she was divorced.
“I’m not suggesting we seek out a Justice of the Peace,” Obby teased. “I was hoping you would join me for dinner and maybe a movie. Something simple. Harmless. We can even stay in your part of town.” Georgie saw the twinkle in Obby's blue eyes. They playfully wrinkled in the corners even though he only grinned slightly. He sure was handsome.
“Can I think about it?”
"Yes. I'll tell you what we can do." Obby looked at his watch. "Let's plan to go out in a week. I'll pick you up in my Smart Car at seven o'clock at your home. I remember Aleta saying you live in Little Vietnam, correct?
“Yes. That’s right but—”
“Great. I’ll pick you up. We’ll have dinner and go to a movie or play or something. If you think it over and decide you don’t want to go with me, you can call and cancel the date. Otherwise, just expect me at your door at seven.”
“What?”
"Great. It was lovely seeing you again, Georgie." Obby gently shook Georgie's hand. His large hands nearly engulfed her petite, dainty ones. "I'm looking forward to next week already." He climbed into the Smart Car and waved goodbye as the tiny vehicle zipped away.
“I think he just pulled a fast one on me, Pablo.” The orange Beetle sat there happily without comment.
You can call him and cancel as soon as you get home. Or, you can think about it for a day or two then cancel. This isn’t a death sentence reprieve. You’ve got until six-fifty-nine to back out of it, so at least think about it for now, Georgie argued with herself. I mean, what will Stan say? What will he do if he finds out? He won’t do anything because he won’t know. It’s as simple as that. Georgie felt her stomach flip excitedly as she contemplated going on a date. She hadn’t been on a date with anyone in so long, except one truncated date with Obby—which ended in Stan arresting the man Obby had been meeting on business. She didn’t consider lunch or a meal with Stan a date. Even if they went out for dinner and dressed up, it wasn’t a date. It was two adults going out to talk and make plans and discuss their children. It was never a date. But, could it be a date? Georgie shuddered as she walked up to the glass refrigerators and peered at the flowers. There were roses, carnations, lilies, and flowers Georgie couldn’t identify but thought they were beautiful.
“Everything looks nicer surrounded with baby’s breath and lush greenery.” She decided on half a dozen yellow roses with all the trimmings. It isn’t much, she thought as she drove to the club. It’s just a gesture to be kind and to offer some comfort. To get a chance to talk to someone who has something interesting to say about this case.
Surprisingly, her mind kept going back to Obby. “I don’t know why you’re thinking about him,” she chastised herself out loud. “You barely know the guy. A couple of conversations and an invitation to his private art gallery, followed by dinner and a show doesn't make him something special. He’s just a man.” Not just any man; he was a man who wanted to take her out on another date. He definitely said date.
Stan’s offered to take you on dates, too. The little voice inside Georgie’s head wouldn’t let it go. Unfortunately, Stan's idea of a date was a bottle of wine under a heavy blanket and see what happens next. Although Stan’s offers were tempting, they lacked the mystery that Obby offered. She knew Stan, not that he had nothing to offer her, but he was still Stanley Toon no matter when or how often he asked her out. Obby was different in more ways than one. Plus, he had those pretty blue eyes that melted he
r heart.
"Get a hold of yourself, Georgie. You're not in high school anymore. And, if you don't pay attention, you're going to miss your street," she mumbled, "then a fifteen-minute drive turns into half an hour. Pay attention, girl. Watch where you're going." Too late. It wasn’t until Georgie hit the sign indicating she was in the seven thousand north area when she needed to be in the five thousand north area that she admitted to herself that she had missed her turn.
“Thinking about boys,” she muttered disgustedly. “You missed the exit because you were daydreaming about Obby. Pitiful.” But, she still couldn’t stop thinking about him.
Chapter 6
When Georgie finally found her way back to the club, she saw a small cluster of people outside taking pictures and shaking their heads. Some were looking on curiously. Others had been crying and brought stuffed animals or flowers like she had. A collection of offerings had already begun to accumulate behind the sturdy boots of a rather large fellow guarding the door. “People must have really liked the Madame,” Georgie said to Pablo who didn’t answer. “I’m sorry I never got to see the show.”
She continued to drive past the building and parked her car in the next block. The street smelled like exhaust from the early morning traffic and buses. People walked briskly on their way to work, looking down at their phones or quickly hustling along ready to dash to catch a WALK signal before it changed to DON’T WALK. A hum in the background could be heard as a nearby construction site came alive with heavy machinery crunching and grinding along. As Georgie neared the club, she studied the man at the door. He was a uniformed policeman that she did not recognize as being from Stan’s precinct. That was too bad. The uniformed officers she did know would have let her in without blinking. “Of course, you don’t know this guy. This is Northbrook. The only reason Officer Berd was here was probably because he was in the vicinity and picked the call up on his scanner. This guy is a suburban cop. He will require a little more finesse, she told herself.
“Excuse me.” Georgie waved in her best “old lady” manner. “Excuse me, Officer. Can you tell me where the West Park Senior Center is?”
“I’m sorry?” The officer said as he looked down at Georgie.
“The West Park Senior Center? I’m meeting my sister there. She’s expecting me.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I don’t know where that is,” he apologized.
“Oh, dear. She gets so upset if I’m late. Plus, I’m desperate for a bathroom.” Georgie began to shuffle back and forth from right foot to left and back again. “Can I slip inside here and use the facility?”
The officer looked around and sighed with annoyance. “Well, excuse me for being old,” Georgie snapped, pushing tears to the surface of her eyes. “I hope when you get to my age and need help you won’t encounter a person such as yourself.” The officer’s mouth fell open.
“The days of kindness are really over and gone,” Georgie sniffled. “How many times have I donated to the Fraternal Order of Police’s Christmas Fund? Well, too many to count. I can’t take that money back now. It’s gone. Gone!”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the officer put his hands up, “but there was a murder in here last night.”
“What? No wonder you are out of sorts.” She stepped up to him and looked kindly into his face. “How horrible. That is no way to start the day. Patrolling outside a club where a murder happened. Well, your day can only get better from here.”
“Let’s hope so, ma’am. Here,” he pulled the door open for her, “the ladies room is down the hallway and take a left at the bar.”
“I’ll be quiet as a mouse. Thank you so much.”
Georgie slipped through the door like her bladder was about to burst and shuffled down the hallway out of sight. Once inside the club, she saw the man who was the Master of Ceremonies the previous evening. Without hesitating she approached him. “Hello,” Georgie introduced herself to the man. His face was pulled down with the gravity of the situation, and he looked as if he hadn’t slept, although his clothes were wrinkled. “I was here last night. I am so sorry for your loss.” She handed him the bouquet of flowers.
“Thank you, Madame,” he almost whispered. “Did you enjoy the show?”
“What I did see, I thoroughly enjoyed,” Georgie said softly, placing her hand gently on the MC’s arm.
“Please forgive my manners. I am Henry Dupre.” He reached out to shake but only captured the tip of Georgie’s hand in his fingers. “Madame Bray and I had worked together for years. Such a long time to get to know someone. I don’t know how I’ll function from day to day without her.” His bottom lip trembled, and his eyes flooded.
"Did I hear correctly that she had been strangled?" Georgie trod carefully.
Henry Dupre nodded his head, his breath catching in his throat. Putting his hand to his throat, he absently fondled the loose fabric of his tie and watched as the police who were still on the scene roped off the entire stage with police tape. An occasional flash illuminated the club as the crime scene photographer snapped photo after photo of the same spot from different angles.
“If I had just been a few seconds earlier—”
“You can’t blame yourself for this,” Georgie soothed.
“She was a star on that stage. Everyone who was here was here to see her. There was no one like her: not in Morocco, not in the French Riviera, not in Paris. No one could put on a show like Madame Bray—no one.”
Georgie started to feel bad for intruding on this man during the initial shock and grief. Perhaps she should step away from this case. No one expected her to help solve this murder. The police detective assigned to this was more than capable of handling all the details and would probably come up with the solution on his own.
“I’m sure you are right, Mr. Dupre. Thank you for sharing a little bit about Madame Bray with me. I’ll leave you to talk with the police and wrap things up.”
“Your kindness is appreciated, Ms. Kaye. Thank you.”
Georgie thought that Mr. Dupre had reminded her of someone. Finally, it came to her that he was a Vincent Price minus the exaggerated accent and rolling “R”s. He was very tall and thin and perhaps it was the lifetime spent on the stage that gave everything he did a slight theatrical flair. He certainly fit the role.
As Georgie walked back to the door she saw Tammy Laloup whom she had met the previous night. She, too, had been crying. “Tammy? I don’t know if you remember meeting me last night.”
“Georgie,” Tammy spoke in a whisper. “Of course, I do. What are you doing here?”
“I felt awful about what happened. I came to pay my respects and to give my condolences to Mr. Dupre. I brought him some flowers. There are bouquets and gifts piling up outside the entrance.”
“That is really nice of you. Thanks.”
Georgie nodded. “So, what is going to happen to the show? I do hope you and your husband won’t have any trouble finding work.”
“Are you kidding?” Tammy swatted with one hand as she wiped her eye with the other. “I think the reservations clerk said that we’ve sold out for the next two weeks.”
“What?”
“Madame Bray was thinking of leaving the show. She was going to retire, or travel, or sit and watch Judge Judy reruns or something. Nevertheless, she told all of us that she was contemplating hanging up her corset and quietly living out the rest of her life. I can’t imagine that because Madame Bray was anything but quiet. Although, you understand what she meant.”
“I do,” Georgie concurred.
“If she just left, the sales would just slowly drop off—but a murder?” Tammy blinked back tears. “As much as I hate to admit it, it’s good for business. People love that gory stuff. Now the club could be haunted, the murderer could still be lurking around, and a history of unfortunate events at this place could be dreamed up just to add to the atmosphere—makes me want to come and sit in the audience at least once.”
"It is true," Georgie admitted. "There are those of us
who do enjoy some of the darker aspects of life."
“What did you say?”
“I mean, you are right. Look at how popular the true crime section of the bookstore is. It’s packed.” She coughed, hoping Tammy didn’t pick up on her Freudian slip. “How is your husband holding up?”
“He’s a mess. He was already working with Madame Bray when he and I met. Just looking at him you can see his heart is broken.”
“Have the police said anything about clues or suspects or anything?”
"Not to me they haven't. In fact, it's kind of spooky." Tammy put her hand on Georgie’s wrist and pulled her closer. "They said her windpipe had been crushed so badly that whoever did this was acting out an intense hatred for her. I can't believe it. No one hated Madame Bray. She might not have been the motherly type to everyone, but she never came across as a woman who could be so despised."
Georgie shivered. "Strangling is so personal, that's usually the act of a disgruntled lover not a complete stranger," Georgie muttered.
“What?”
“I’m sorry. I mumble.” Georgie cleared her throat again. “I was just saying, ‘Saints in heaven preserve us.’” Tammy nodded her head even though Georgie was sure she didn’t know the old saying. “Are you going to look for a replacement?”
“Not sure about that.” Tammy put her hands on her hips and took a deep breath. “Henry already said that the show must go on and that we were to give the crowd what they wanted. If they wanted the macabre, we were going to give it to them.”
“Well, Tammy, I’ve taken up enough of your time. I’m just going to see myself out.”
“Thank you so much for stopping by. I was so glad to meet you, and please tell Andrew and J.R., it was wonderful to see them, I just wish it had been under better circumstances.”
“I will tell them.” Georgie meandered her way back to the hallway that led to the exit, listening to various conversations and watching the expressions of the performers who were still there. Her mind reeled as she thought there was one person who stood out from the crowd—Henry Dupre. “He’s the only one who had something to lose if Madame Bray left the show.” Her voice bounced back to her from the empty hallway. With a hearty push on the heavy club door, Georgie squinted against the bright light and saw the police officer who was standing guard.