Dead Man Stalking (Barbara Marr Murder Mystery Series Book 5)

by Karen Cantwell

  Chapter Six

  I made a pot of coffee, and decided to do the full ten cups, given my condition.

  Guy sat at my table and stirred sugar into his cup while he got started on his story. “What do you know about Bloody Cause?”

  “Nothing. What is it?”

  “It’s the title to Vikki Cleveland’s latest book. As of yet, unpublished. Sequel to her bestseller, Bloody Vows.”

  “I don’t know anything about it. You’re barking up the wrong tree.”

  “Any chance you’ll be seeing her soon? Doing any more work for her?”

  “I am seeing her tomorrow, but at her father’s viewing. He just passed away a few days ago.”

  “Oh,” Guy whistled. “That’s very interesting.”

  “Why?”

  “Was he a wealthy man? Did she stand to inherit a fortune?”

  “As far as she knows, he was practically homeless. What in the world does this have to do with her next book?”

  “It’s all part of the story, my friend. All part of the story.”

  “Can you skip the dramatic presentation and give me the facts? It’s late, coffee or not.”

  “You know I’m dramatic by nature. Bear with me.” He pulled a piece of paper from his pants pocket, unfolded it, then retrieved a pair of half-eye reading glasses from his shirt pocket. He unfolded them and placed them on his nose slowly and with great precision.

  I suppressed an eye roll and took a long swig of java.

  “This morning,” he read aloud, “Carter Hoskens Publishers filed suit in district court against author Vikki Cleveland, claiming breach of contract and they’re asking for two million dollars in damages. This afternoon, Ms. Cleveland filed for bankruptcy.”

  “Uh-oh.” I choked on my latest swig.

  Guy peered at me over his glasses. “Is this why she hired you?”

  I shook my head. “She never mentioned either of those things.”

  “It gets better.”

  “Should I go back to wine?”

  “Apparently, she had originally signed a three-book deal with Carter Hoskens. The first, Bloody Vows, was published three years ago and hit the bestsellers lists within weeks of hitting the bookstores because it was optioned by movie producer Arlen W. Arliss prior to publication.”

  “That’s right. I’d forgotten. Arliss is big time. His movies do big box office numbers and win awards. You usually don’t get both. If I remember right, he hasn’t found a director yet.”

  “You are correct, madame movie fan. And rumors are he’s tabled the project entirely.”

  “Why?”

  He shrugged. “That’s as far as my rumor goes.”

  “So you need me to get that meeting with her sooner rather than later. You don’t want rumors, you want it all from the horse’s mouth?”

  “My producers would jump at this kind of interview. Talk to her tomorrow. Give her my card.”

  “It’s her father’s viewing, Guy. I can’t do that.”

  “I’ll make you privy to any information I have on the Chang murder investigation.”

  Hm. I’d promised Roz and Howard I wouldn’t go down that road. Well, technically, I think I’d promised Roz not to get killed. What harm was there in just getting regular updates from Guy Mertz? None, really.

  “Give me your card. If a moment opens up that isn’t grossly inappropriate, I’ll tell her you’re interested in hearing her story. That’s it.”

  “Thank you. You’re a good friend.”

  It was a night for good friendships. “Hold the lovefest until you’ve heard from her. If you hear from her, that is. I’m making no guarantees.”

  Guy left my house as happy as a dog with a new bone.

  Unfortunately, I was wide awake from the coffee. Might as well skim through Peggy’s beauty book, I thought. An hour and a half later, I’d decided on an easy firming facial mask recipe—lemon juice and Greek yogurt. And to de-puff the skin around my eyes I’d use damp green tea bags. With the facial mask slathered on my face, I put on some Frank Sinatra, lay down on my couch, set the tea bags over my eyes, and waited for the magic to happen.

  If only I’d remembered to set the alarm in case I fell asleep.

  Chapter Seven

  I’m seated at a lovely outdoor cafe in Italy, or maybe it’s France. Hard to tell. But it’s very hot and I’m sipping lemonade iced tea and chatting with my good friend Meryl Streep.

  “Roz is right,” she says, “you’re beautiful the way you are.”

  “Oh, Meryl,” I say on a breezy laugh, “you’re too kind.” I point to a man in a hat. “Look, is that Frank Sinatra?”

  A light breeze lifts her blond hair gently as it would a heavenly butterfly. She smiles and waves to the man. “Yes, it is Frank. Frank! Over here!”

  Singing “Come Fly With Me,” Frank strolls to our table. He doesn’t talk to us, he just keeps singing.

  I smile and Meryl smiles, but I’m beginning to feel a little awkward because he just keeps singing. Even when “Come Fly With Me” is over, he doesn’t stop to talk. He just moves right on to “Almost Like Being in Love.”

  Meryl is swaying and snapping her fingers and I just keep wishing he’d stop singing, when out of nowhere, Frank, still belting out his tune, picks up my lemonade tea and throws it in my face.

  Instantly, my face feels like it’s on fire. I think maybe it’s because I’m embarrassed that Frank Sinatra has been so cruel in front of the large audience that has amassed.

  Meryl laughs and says, “Roz is right, you’re beautiful the way you are.”

  Stressed from the painful sting, I yell at her. “I know. You said that already!”

  When Meryl opens her mouth to respond, the only sound that comes out is the ringing of a phone. Over and over again.

  I was groggy awakening from the dream, but the ringing phone and burning skin on my face ungroggified me pretty quickly. Rolling from my position on the couch, my bleary eyes spotted the cell phone on the floor. The display faced up and I was fairly sure that the ringing was a video chat coming in from Howard. I snatched the phone quickly before losing the call.

  “Hi,” I said, happy to see his smiling face. “Sorry it took me so long to answer. I was asleep.” I noticed two tea bags had fallen to the floor, and that was when I remembered the beauty treatment.

  I watched Howard’s face go from happy to terrified. “What happened to your face?”

  Using my free hand, I touched my cheek. The yogurt and lemon juice had dried. “It’s just a facial mask I made last night. What’s wrong?”

  Then I realized the burning sensation wasn’t just part of my dream. It continued into my waking life. Not waiting for Howard to explain his concern, I scrambled to the bathroom mirror where I beheld the horror. “My face!” I screamed.

  Overnight I’d turned into a middle-aged mutant strawberry with eyes.

  After hanging up with Howard, I washed the mask off as gently as possible to avoid irritating my face further. Then I revisited the recipe to figure out what had gone wrong. Apparently, I’d missed the instruction to test the lemon on a small patch of skin first. Some people, it seems, can develop a rash when they come into contact with lemon juice. I had a rash alright. In fact, my entire face was one big, puffy, scary, crimson rash.

  The cool compresses and aloe vera didn’t help as much as I’d hoped.

  With only an hour to go before the viewing, I set about looking for a black hat and veil. Wouldn’t you know, I didn’t own one. Neither did Peggy, Roz, or the other twenty people I called in a panic.

  For a few seconds, I actually toyed with wearing the purple belly dancer veil from Amber’s Halloween costume.

  Okay, I considered the veil for a good minute or two.

  But then I decided on th
e hat.

  I’d passed Peaceful Transitions Funeral Home every Tuesday and Thursday during the school year, but had never been inside. The brick building was just a block before the girls’ ballet studio on the north side of Rustic Woods.

  I parked in the lot behind the funeral home and found my way to the path that led to the front stairs.

  A short man smoking a very large cigar leaned on a brick pillar near the entrance. He wore a crisp gray suit with a tomato-red shirt under the jacket. His black hair was gelled in a style that rose several inches above his head. If he was attempting to look taller, the optical illusion failed; the guy was so short he made Michael J. Fox look like Paul Bunyan’s taller brother.

  At the door, I double-checked my Jackie O-sized glasses for positioning, wrestled with the expansive brim of my floppy tangerine hat until it cooperated, and then dabbed my nose with a red bandana fashioned as a handkerchief. There. Homemade beauty treatment catastrophe concealed.

  Inside, a somber man with a caring smile only flinched a bit when he directed me to a room on the left. There, I found Vikki standing alone in an empty room. Well, empty except for the coffin at the front.

  She took a seat in a white chair in the next to the back row and stared straight ahead.

  I sat beside her and instinctively kept my voice low when I spoke. “Any friends stop by yet?”

  She grabbed my hand and squeezed before catching sight of my cover. She flinched more than the somber man. “Thank you for coming.” She seemed fixated on the hat. “No one else has shown as of yet.”

  “Sorry about the hat,” I said. “And the glasses. And the bandana. It’s a long story.”

  “Facial mask gone wrong?” she asked.

  I nodded, slipping the glasses off. “It was the lemon juice I think.”

  She winced, then stared ahead again and we both fell silent. I felt awkward just sitting there with nothing to say. Then I wondered if she expected me to actually view her father’s body. A small shiver shook me. I cleared my throat. “Um, I get queasy looking at dead people in caskets,” I said. “Are you okay with me just sitting here with you?”

  “Absolutely,” she said nodding. “I understand. I’m just glad you’re here. Did your air conditioning get fixed?”

  I blew out a sigh. “Not yet. While funeral homes aren’t on my list of desired destinations, this cool air is a welcome retreat.”

  She smiled. “I know what you mean. Listen, I have to go to New York right after this so my house will be empty. You’re welcome to stay there until your air conditioning is fixed.”

  New York, huh? I wondered if it was unhappy, suing-editor related. “Really? Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  I thought about it. The cats could take care of themselves. I’d just have to go over twice a day to give them some food and scoop their litter. Puddles was a different story. He was needy, even for a dog. “Could I bring our poodle? He’s small, tidy, and hypoallergenic.”

  “No problem.”

  I smiled. Just another reason to like Vikki Cleveland. She was generous with her air conditioning. I decided that since she mentioned New York, it was certainly logical and not too nosy to ask the reason for her visit. “Why New York?”

  “Meeting with my agent. We have a few—” She stopped short and hesitated for a second or two. “It’s a long story,” she finally said.

  Based on the hesitation, I didn’t think inquiring further was wise. I didn’t want to come across as pushy and miss out on a chance to live in an air conditioned house on Lake Muir for a few days. I shifted in my chair uncomfortably, wondering how to change the subject. The stench of cigar wafted past my nose, breaking my concentration.

  A second later, the cigar smoker strutted down the aisle toward the open coffin. He knelt, crossed himself, then stood again, coming just barely above eye level with the casket.

  “Do you know that man?” I whispered.

  “No.”

  “I saw him outside when I came in.”

  “That’s Red Cigala, if I had to guess,” a voice whispered from behind us. “Pretty sure that’s his red car in the parking lot with the personalized plates.”

  I jumped, not realizing someone taken a seat behind us.

  Vikki and I turned at the same time. From the look on Vikki’s face, I’d have to say she seemed surprised as well.

  The voice belonged to a man who grinned at us with less than a full set of teeth. His brown, curly hair formed a sizeable afro and his bulbous nose, along with the missing teeth, gave him a clown-like quality. The polyester disco-shirt only added to the circus effect.

  “You’re Vikki.” He jumped from his seat and ran around, taking one in front of us. Then he grabbed Vikki’s hand without permission and shook it hard. “I can tell. He described you to a tee.”

  “You must be Moyle.” Vikki recoiled a bit before stifling the reaction.

  “That’d be me. Did he describe me to a tee as well?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “To a tee.” She gave me a sideways glance before continuing her conversation with Moyle. “So you know that man?”

  Moyle shook his head most vigorously. “Nope. Nope. Just heard o’ him. From your pop. He’s an awfully small man, isn’t he?”

  Vikki shifted in her seat. “Thank you for coming. I’m sure my father does too.”

  “Red owns a cigar shop somewhere in town,” Moyle said before turning to me. “Who are you? Friend o’ Cee Cee’s? Hey, I like the hat.”

  “Cee Cee?” I repeated cautiously.

  “My father’s nickname,” Vikki explained. “Barbara, this is my dad’s friend, Moyle. Moyle, this is Barbara Marr. Not a friend of Cecil’s.”

  Moyle frowned deeply. “What? You had a problem with him?”

  “No, no,” I defended myself. “I didn’t even know him.”

  “Then why didn’t ya like him?”

  “I didn’t say I didn’t like him, Mr. Moyle. I’m sure he was very nice.”

  “Moyle. Just Moyle. No Mister. Just Moyle.”

  Vikki had said her father was odd. I wondered if he was more or less odd than this character.

  Finally, the short man, who might be Red Cigala according to Moyle Just Moyle, made his way back down the aisle, stopping a moment to narrow his eyes at the three of us.

  When he was gone, Moyle said through a pinched nose, “Yup. Definitely Red. Smells like cigars. I’m glad we don’t have them where I’m from. Outlawed, you know.”

  I’d never heard of cigars being outlawed in any US state. I wondered if he was from another country. “Where are you from?”

  Instead of answering, he turned his head in the direction of the door to watch a woman with dark brown hair. She stopped just inside the viewing room, took a moment to cry into a handkerchief, then continued down the aisle. As she walked, she replaced the cigar scent with a pungent odor of cheap perfume. She stopped beside the coffin and wept into her handkerchief some more before stiffening with resolution. She took a deep breath and hissed at the coffin before spinning on her heels. She eventually halted in front of us.

  “Are any of you related to that vile excuse of a man?” she asked in a heavy Slavic accent.

  “He’s my father,” Vikki answered weakly.

  An unexpected smile crossed the woman’s face. “You are Vikki then!” She thrust her hand at Vikki to shake. “I am Isbel Morozov-Pivovarski. Your papa lived in my house. He did not pay his rent before deserting me like a dirty scoundrel in the night. Did he perhaps leave something for me?”

  “No, I’m sorry Isabel,” Vikki said. “He didn’t leave much of anything behind.”

  The lady frowned and corrected Vikki. “ISS bel,” she said. “ISS bel.”

  “I’m sorry. Izbel,” Vikki corrected herself.<
br />
  “Iss!” the lady said. “Not with the Z but an S like a hissing, venomous snake! ISSbel. I hiss at your papa who did not leave me my... my rent.” She stormed out the door.

  I was suspicious that hissing Isbel’s weeping had been a complete put on. Her eyes weren’t red or wet.

  Moyle laughed. “Don’t worry, your pop couldn’t ever get her name right either. He always just called her Pivo. They were lovers, you know.”

  Vikki cringed. “More information than I needed, thank you.” She looked at her watch. “I wish time would go a little faster.”

  “Time.” Moyle gave us both a wink. “It’s more in your control than you think.”

  Vikki rolled her eyes and took a deep breath, but she didn’t respond.

  “Ah,” Moyle said. “He told you, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, he told me. Listen, Moyle, wouldn’t you like to go up and pay your respects?”

  He shook his head. “Nah. It’s okay. I run into him here and there. Much rather see him alive than dead.”

  I was beginning to wonder if Vikki’s father and Moyle weren’t old friends from the mental hospital. I was about to ask him what he meant by that last comment when the sound of squeaky wheels distracted me. I turned my attention back to the door.

  A tall, pencil-thin black man with snow white hair and ice blue eyes pushed a wheelchair bearing a very heavy man with long, stringy hair and a beard that touched his lap.

  “Aha,” said Moyle. “I wondered if they’d show. That’s Wee Willy Snow—the tall guy—and Carney Smutz. Smutz owns the lawn care company your pop worked for. Wee Willy is his assistant.”

  Both Wee Willy and Carney Smutz eyed us briefly on their trajectory toward Cecil’s casket. Once there, they each bowed their heads in a moment of prayer. After their moment of supplication, Wee Willy began digging around in the coffin as if looking for something on the dead man’s body.