Sprayed Stiff

by Laura Bradley

  “You heard us!” Trudy exclaimed. “You’re a dear for climbing up here to save us.”

  Mitzi’s lips stretched in what might be described as a smile only by the criminally insane.

  That’s when I noticed the gun in her hand. Pointed at me.

  My hair wasn’t the only thing about to look like Wilma’s.

  Twenty-Five

  “WHAT ARE YOU DOING, MITZI?” I said evenly. “I think shooting out the bolts in our seats probably isn’t the best way to free us.”

  “The only thing you’re getting free of tonight is this mortal world, Reyn,” Mitizi clarified. She glanced down at her Colt .45. That gun lesson had really come in handier than I’d realized. Everyone should know what is going to send them into the next world.

  “I’m sorry to have to do this, Reyn,” she said. “I really like you. You’re a hard worker and you have a heart, unlike a lot of women I’m stuck with in these charities. Unfortunately, your heart and your work have been focused on the wrong place these last couple of days. If you’d just left well enough alone, everything would have worked out for the best for everyone.”

  “Except Wilma and Shauna and whoever got railroaded for their murders.”

  “Reyn,” Trudy whispered with a whimper. “Don’t make her mad.”

  “Trude,” I whispered back, “I think she’s already over the top of the mad scale. Has been for a long time.”

  Mitzi was waxing on: “I do feel bad about what I had to do to Shauna. But Wilma, she deserved everything she got and more. And your pal here, Fashion-Maven Beauty-Boss Trudy Trujillo, I’m doing the world a favor by getting rid of her, too. No one should be that beautiful and that fashionable all the time, it’s not realistic and makes the rest of us look bad. She makes me feel like the frump Wilma Barrister always told me I was.”

  So much for “Don’t make her mad.” Trudy had stopped whimpering, narrowed her eyes, and opened her mouth to argue. I elbowed her to shut up.

  Spittle formed at the corner of Mitzi’s mouth as she went on in a mocking queen voice, not unlike Wilma’s actually: “Why couldn’t I dress better? Why did I always look like an unmade bed? A cheap, bad-taste, unmade bed. I was a poor representative of the Junior League.” She lapsed into her normal voice. “Other women her age, other sustainers, thanked me for the hard work I did, never mentioning my dress. They knew what was important, but they didn’t have the power Wilma did. She killed my programs that supported teen mothers, that prevented teen pregnancies, saying the Junior League was to enrich children’s lives, not teenagers’ lives. Like teenagers aren’t people, too. I finally told Wilma what I’d never told anyone else in the League—the reason I had to buy clothes at the thrift store was that I am a single mother raising a teenager. The reason I had a baby at fourteen was that my parents didn’t tell me about sex, didn’t give me the information to be defensive.”

  Trudy and I shared a look. The kid in the armadillo costume—could that be her son? No wonder his eyes had looked familiar.

  “I finally told her that the teenage pregnancy prevention programs would make sure no one else ended up like me. And you know what she did?”

  By this time, Trudy and I were transfixed. I felt sorry for Mitzi, even as she held a gun pointed at my heart.

  “She laughed. She said all teenagers who got pregnant were stupid hussies who couldn’t be helped anyway. She told me that she’d overlook the fact that I was a whore, keep it our dirty little secret. But only if I learned to dress the right way, have the right friends, eat at the right restaurants, live in the right neighborhood, and talk the right way would I maybe get what I wanted out of her organization.” She paused, shook her head, and, with her free hand, reached under her glasses to wipe angry tears from her eyes. “The Junior League is a positive force, and Wilma was endangering it with her out-of-control power trip. She had to be stopped.” Her face transformed into a mask of steely fanaticism, her eyes far, far away.

  Whoops and hollers drifted up to us from the theater. Calling for help wouldn’t help. Trudy screamed anyway. Mitzi’s eyes snapped back to the present. “It won’t do any good. I called all the security guards to the office for a pseudo-problem. Everyone else is in the theater. Even if someone is out, you are too far up for them to hear.”

  I caught a glimpse of a group running through the maze of walkways, but I lost them because I didn’t want to move my head and alert Mitzi to her need to kill me quicker. I hoped the guards had figured out their problem was on the WonderWoman and not wherever Mitzi had sent them.

  I needed to stall her long enough for someone to gallop up on a white horse, or fly up on a unicorn, rather. I eyed the stairs. A mountain goat would work, too. I wasn’t picky, I’d take anything. “But why Shauna, Mitzi? Was she part of Wilma’s power trip?”

  “No.” Mitzi looked almost regretful for an instant. “I met Shauna doing my required hours working the rummage sale in the Coliseum. She was sweet, pretty, and stupid. I knew I had to get rid of Wilma, but it seemed to me that killing her was just too good an ending. It didn’t really make her understand what she’d done. So when Shauna mentioned that she was an expert in clown makeup and that she liked older men, I figured out a plan to properly torture Wilma. I started writing Percy Barrister notes signed by Shauna. Percy was easy. He was a longtime philanderer. When he started sending her flowers and expensive jewelry and taking her to romantic getaways, they really did fall for each other. I think they would have made a good couple after we got Wilma out of the way, if only Shauna had kept her mouth shut about the murder.”

  “So Shauna was in on the murder?”

  “As an unwilling accessory, if you will. I got her there by saying Wilma was going to a masquerade party and needed clown makeup. That girl was obsessed with clown makeup. She was uncomfortable coming to her lover’s house to do his wife’s face, but in the end she couldn’t resist. When she saw I had the gun on Wilma, she balked. But then I threatened to kill her, too. She did the makeup, and I made sure Wilma knew Shauna was her husband’s hussy. But the best part was the look on Wilma’s face when she saw her own face in the mirror. Good thing I always carry my only luxury with me at all times—my Main Mane hairspray put the finishing touch on Wilma’s demise.” Damn, that’s why her tight little bun smelled familiar to me. Mitzi had a look on her face like she’d seen heaven. Trudy and I shivered simultaneously.

  “Then I shot her. Shauna started crying, and I almost shot her, too. I should have. I should have put the gun in her hand and made it look like a murder-suicide. But I’m a softie. A stupid softie. I thought Shauna was so empty-headed that she had no conscience. I thought she and Percy could live happily ever after.

  “And she might have, except you had to pay her a visit. And then send that cop. It’s all your fault. The next thing I know, Shauna tells me she can’t live with herself unless she tells the truth. I went over to make sure she couldn’t live with herself anymore. Now, Reyn Marten Sawyer, I’ll do the same to you.”

  Her finger began to squeeze the trigger.

  At least I was going to be spared the clown makeup. Although being shot dangling from the WonderWoman roller coaster wasn’t terribly dignified.

  “Freeze!” yelled a voice from below, but not too far below. It was pretty close. But the familiar baritone was also shaky. I looked down and saw Scythe only two flights away, holding his Glock on Mitzi. “Police! Drop your weapon and put your hands up.”

  Even from my vantage point through my bare toes, I could see his face was glazed with sweat. His shirt was marked with huge wet patches. His hand might have been shaking slightly, but his eyes were hard and focused. I didn’t think he’d miss. So why didn’t he shoot already?

  “I thought Jackson was in better shape than that,” Trudy whispered. “A sixteen-story jog up the escape stairs shouldn’t make him look like a couch potato in a marathon.”

  We heard sirens in the distance.

  “I think that’s EMS for your boyfriend,” Trudy added i
n a stage whisper.

  At least my friend’s sense of humor would send me laughing into the next life.

  “Shut up,” Mitzi ordered. “There’s nothing you can do to help yourselves except say your prayers.”

  “Throw down your gun,” Scythe yelled. I noticed his free hand gripping the handrail so hard it was bloodless. Hmm. Was macho man afraid of heights? His shirt was completely saturated now. His hand left the rail and went to the gun. “This is your last warning.”

  Mitzi jerked, and I instinctively braced for the bullet. I heard a ping over my head and saw Mitzi slump like a rag doll over the handrail. Suddenly the ride jerked forward. We picked up speed, racing past Scythe, whose face looked an odd shade of green. Mitzi passed us in the air, falling faster than we were going. Trudy screamed. Don’t ask me what I did. I don’t remember. I just hope it didn’t involve regurgitation.

  The WonderWoman transported us into the belly of a welcoming committee at the base of the ride. Lexa and Asphalt were there amid a milling mass of uniforms and familiar faces. Trudy started telling the story a mile a minute before the ride even came to a halt.

  I just smiled.

  Terrell Hills police chief Ferguson waved and winked, flipping me a thumbs-up sign. Manning looked disgruntled that I’d come out unscathed. Harland looked relieved. I saw Mama Tru with her arm around Mitzi’s crying son, who had his armadillo head under his arm and was talking to a plainclothes detective. Someone I hadn’t seen in a long time helped me out of my seat. Detective Fred Crandall, Scythe’s old partner, slapped me on the back, got all choked up as he tried to say something, and wrapped me in a mushy two-hundred-and-fifty-pound bear hug instead.

  “Fred, what are you doing here?” I asked.

  “You messed around in every jurisdiction except San Antonio proper with this craziness. You were beginning to hurt my feelings. Thanks for having the grand finale on my watch, little girl, although you had us fu—effing scared down here.” He gave me a noogie on my head. Aw, shucks.

  “Course, next time you go on a death mission, you probably don’t want to wear a getup that makes you a good target at twenty miles. Gee, I could have picked you off from the ground.”

  “I’ll remember that, Fred,” I said as I gave his balding head a noogie back.

  Trudy’d gone through the story in four different versions by now. She had the uniforms transfixed. Mario had reached her and was nuzzling her as she told the story. It didn’t seem to put off her admirers.

  Lexa came from behind to give me a hug. I noticed a uniform sticking close to her and Asphalt, who stood just to her right. I guessed they still had some explaining to do. “I’m glad to see you’re okay,” I told her. “I wish you’d let me know you weren’t dead in a ditch somewhere.”

  “I was attempting to keep you out of danger,” she said, shaking her head. “I guess I was a little late in that.”

  “They called us, though,” the uniform said, “when they got worried about where you’d gone. Otherwise, you might not be alive right now.”

  I hugged Lexa again. She explained, “I finally got hold of the work records from the Junior League. I noticed that Shauna and Mitzi had worked side by side in November. After that was when my father started taking weekends away and acting secretive. I remembered Mitzi had been pretty combative a few times with Mother. I knew she despised Wilma. I merely acted on a hunch with the advantage of hindsight.”

  “Good hunch.”

  “Thank you for everything you did for me, and for my mother.” She gave me one last hug. Asphalt took my hand, kissed it, and bowed.

  “Thank you, Asphalt.”

  “It’s Phillip Pallister, actually,” he corrected.

  “Good name for a high school band teacher.”

  He bowed with a grin. The patrolman ushered them to a waiting police car.

  “Miss Sawyer.” Another patrolman approached, talking intermittently into his two-way radio. “There is a Charlotte Holmes in the parking lot, asking for you. She says she’s your associate.”

  “What does she want?”

  “Apparently, the car she was riding in was accidentally totaled on the access road by one of our cars that was rushing to the scene.”

  Charlotte! I’d made it this far, and now her parents were going to kill me. “Is she okay?”

  “Yes, ma’am, she and the gentleman with her.”

  “The car the police hit…it wasn’t a brand-new Porsche, was it?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m afraid it was.” Emphasis on “was ,” I noticed.

  I groaned. “Tell her I’m incapacitated. Unable to talk. Unable to see her. Or her date.”

  The uniform gave me an odd look and wandered off. I watched a Stetson work its way through the madding crowd. I met clear green eyes that chastised as they welcomed. Boy, was he dreamy. I was suddenly embarrassed again by my outfit. Did I have my priorities in order or what? “Ranger Calhoun.”

  “Clint to you.”

  “Clint.” Wow, would that be considered intimate or just friendly? Why did I feel like a cheating wife? Just saying his first name made me feel guilty for never calling Scythe by his.

  “You are certainly a hero. Again. We might have to sign you up with the Rangers.”

  “Nah, I don’t look very good in cowboy hats.”

  “I don’t know about that.” He took his off and tried it on me. Where have you been all my life?

  “I have a few questions, Reyn. But first, the most important one.” Clint put his hand on my elbow and guided me to a quiet corner. A quiet, dark corner.

  Something felt off. Wrong. Missing. What was nagging me?

  Scythe! Where was he? I looked around Clint’s fine form at the crowd. No Scythe.

  Uh-oh. With his fear of heights, was my daring detective still stuck fifteen stories in the air?

  Clint was talking, but I hadn’t heard a word he’d said. He looked questioningly at me, waiting. “So, what do you think?”

  “Sure,” I said. Whatever you said. “Have you seen Detective Scythe?”

  Ranger Calhoun drew his black eyebrows together in a frown. “No. Why?”

  “Excuse me for just a minute. I have to check something.” I darted around him and ran out into the open, looking up at the top of the WonderWoman. Sure enough, there was a lone figure on the escape stairs, hanging on to the railing for dear life, looking at the sky probably so he wouldn’t look down. I was pretty sure Scythe’s fear of heights was not common knowledge around Testosteroneville, and that he wanted to keep it that way. He had saved my life. The least I could do was try to get him down. But how? When does a man forget everything around him, from common sense to phobic fear? I had an idea.

  A young patrolman stationed nearby watched me curiously. “Can I use your two-way radio?”

  “No. I’m sorry, ma’am.”

  “Look, can you keep a secret?”

  He looked interested, so I went on: “Detective Scythe saved my life up there, and now he’s having a bit of a problem coming down.” I cocked my head skyward.

  He looked up, his eyes widening. “I better call for help.”

  “No! Sometimes if you go after guys with vertigo, it magnifies the fear. I want to try to talk him down.” I held out my hand. “May I?”

  “Only if I can listen in.”

  What choice did I have? I nodded and asked him to get us a private channel. He held the radio close to my mouth but kept hold of it himself. Cozy. Not very conducive to what I had planned, but I’d have to wing it for Scythe’s sake.

  “Scythe, this is Reyn. Please talk to me.”

  We waited and watched. Nothing. He was a statue.

  “Uh…” What could get his attention? I threw some throat in my alto. “Jackson, please, I need you to come down.”

  I saw him reach carefully for the radio on his belt. Slowly, he lifted it up. His voice sounded hoarse. “Did you say you want me to come?”

  He caught on quick. “You know that deal that we didn’t get quite to
its climax the other night?”

  “I know that deal.”

  “Well, maybe we should talk it through in detail, right now.”

  “In detail? Sounds good to me.” I could see him relaxing against the handrail, starting to bring his gaze down.

  “Let’s go through one stage of the deal for every flight down you take. You must correct me if something is not what you desire.”

  Scythe sucked in some air that whooshed in our ears. The patrolman was blushing madly. “First, let’s talk about where you want to put that whipped cream…”

  By the time we got through stage fourteen, I thought the patrolman with me was going to pass out from embarrassment. I was squirming with sexual frustration. I blew out a breath as Scythe told me he’d see me at the bottom. I looked at the patrolman. “At least you switched to a private channel, right?”

  Oops. The look on his face said it all.

  Crandall came out of WonderWoman central, his body shaking so hard with laughter he couldn’t walk straight. “Good job, Reyn. You caught the bad guy—or gal, as the case may be—saved your savior, and even earned some extra money along the way.” He held up a handful of twenties.

  I watched Lieutenant Jackson Scythe make it down the last flight of stairs, worn out but back to his sexy self. I shot Crandall a look. “What is the money for, Fred?”

  Jackson and I met halfway. He drew me into a sweaty hug and whispered his thanks. “You called me Jackson.” His laser blues glowed and added some silent promises to that deal.

  Crandall slapped Scythe on the back. “These are payments for the phone sex you two just had. Better than any such call, is what those with that experience are reporting. You’ve got enough to pay for all those little details you two described. So that means you and Scythe better get busy tonight. We expect part two tomorrow.” He winked. Mario peeked around the corner with a go-for-it sign. Trudy popped up next to him and gave me an odd look, then cocked her head toward a space beyond me. Was she trying to tell me something?