Slay Belles

by Nancy Martin

  “Because she hadn’t had a chance to steal the bag for herself yet?”

  Darwin nodded. “Plus she realized I finally figured out what she was doing. I’ve been taking the blame for months, and it was Popo all the time!”

  “Did the two of you argue?”

  “We had customers,” Darwin said with a lift to his nose. “Popo and I would never be so unprofessional as to have a disagreement in front of customers.”

  Michael sauntered closer and leaned against a tall mirror. Darwin’s loyalty crumbled entirely.

  “We were going to argue,” Darwin admitted. “But Popo died before I could confront her.”

  I sighed. “Do you see my problem, Darwin? As far as I can figure out, you’re the only person with a real motive to kill Popo.”

  “Then you haven’t looked very far.”

  “Oh?”

  Darwin leaned in and whispered, “Popo was boinking somebody.”

  I tried to comprehend such an impossibility. “You’re joking, right? Who would have an affair with Popo, of all people?”

  Darwin looked me in the eye. “You promise to help me get a new job if I get fired from this one?”

  “I promise.”

  “Okay, then. It was Mr. Rutledge.”

  “Alan?” I cried. “You’re saying Popo and Alan were seeing each other? But he’s engaged to Cindie Rae.”

  “He was seeing Popo before he met Cindie Rae. As soon as his parents kicked the bucket, Popo went after Mr. Rutledge like a barracuda. They met every week at the Four Seasons before his Wednesday matinee.” Darwin shuddered. “I don’t even want to imagine what that scene must have been like. But then he met Cindie Rae. And when he tried to break things off with Popo, she went ballistic.”

  “Let’s get this straight,” Michael said. “The dead lady was having a little WrestleMania with the store owner. Then she blew a fuse when he found true love with the Penthouse Pet?”

  “Yes,” said Darwin.

  “So who smoked Popo?” Michael asked.

  Behind me, I heard another customer arrive at the salon door. Darwin looked up and turned a color that made me fear he had thrown an embolism. I turned to see who had come in and got hastily to my feet.

  A store security guard walked in, followed by two men I knew instinctively were police officers. One wore an Eagles jacket with a green scarf double-wrapped around his neck, and the other had a Columbo-style trench coat.

  The cop with the scarf showed us his badge and made a pretense of courtesy. “Mick Abruzzo? We’d like to ask you some questions. Will you come with us, please?”

  Agog, Darwin gave a squeak.

  The security guard stood aside and allowed the police to do their business, but his hand rested tensely on the pistol that hung on his hip. He was a gangly young man with pale eyes and a shaved head.

  “Don’t go anywhere by yourself,” Michael said to me as he departed with the police. “I’ll be out in a few hours.”

  I followed them out of Popo’s salon, but the store security officer blocked me from entering the employees-only elevator with them. He said, “Sorry, ma’am. You’ll have to take the next car.”

  “All right.” I found myself suddenly staring at him. “Aren’t you the security guard I met night before last?”

  He peered more closely at my face, and recognition dawned. “Sure, I remember you. How are you feeling?”

  In the instant before the doors met, I looked at his name tag.

  It read: CALVIN REILLY.

  Calvin.

  Darwin said to me, “Are you okay? You look like you’re going to faint.”

  I pushed past him and ran for the escalator. Half a dozen shoppers clogged my path, but I wiggled through them all, apologizing as I headed down. At the bottom, I heard someone call my name.

  “Nora! For heaven’s sake, wait for me!”

  Libby bore down on me, laden with shopping bags. “I spent some time thinking last night,” she reported without preamble, “and I decided to return most of the things I bought so far. I don’t know what came over me, but shopping seemed the best medicine at the time and now— My God, what’s wrong?”

  “I just figured out who killed Popo Prentiss.”

  “What!”

  “I have to hurry. The police are taking Michael now and—”

  “Oh, my God, he killed Popo?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Then who—”

  “I don’t have time to explain.” I rushed away from her, hoping to catch the police officers before they left the store.

  “Wait!” Libby called.

  I reached the main entrance of the store, plunged through the revolving door, and dashed onto the sidewalk.

  And collided with the Salvation Army Santa who stood ringing his bell just outside the door. When I hit him, he gave a startled grunt and sprawled on the pavement, knocking his bucket off its tripod and causing such a clatter that every pedestrian for two blocks turned to look. His bell clanged onto the sidewalk and proceeded to bang its way into the street, where it was run over by a bus.

  Libby burst out of the revolving door and crashed into me. “Oh, my God, Nora, you’ve killed Santa!”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said in a gasp, kneeling down to help the poor man. “I’m so, so sorry! Are you hurt?”

  “M-merry Cwithmuth.” Santa lay stunned on his back, blinking dazedly up at the sky.

  I tried to loosen the big black button at his throat, but I couldn’t paw my way through his synthetic beard. “Oh, God, I think he’s got a brain injury! Libby, call an ambulance.”

  Libby dropped her shopping bags and leaned over us to peer more closely at the man in the red suit. “He doesn’t have a brain injury! His hat and wig broke the fall.”

  Santa sat up unsteadily. “Whath happem?”

  “But he can’t speak!” I cried.

  My sister bent down and used a Kleenex to retrieve a small item from the sidewalk. She held it up to the sunlight. “Because he knocked out his false teeth. Here, bub, try this.”

  “Twanths,” he said, accepting his teeth. He slid them into his mouth without a care for hygiene and waggled his jaw around. Then he grinned up at Libby. “You’re a lifesaver as well as a looker. Want to get a cup of coffee with me?”

  Libby put her hand down to help him to his feet. “You’re a charmer, Santa. Feeling okay?”

  “Not bad.” He stood up unsteadily and dusted off his velvet pants. “How about we check my vital signs over coffee?”

  “I’m too young for you.” Libby handed his bucket back to him.

  “You won’t know what you’re missing until you try.”

  I scrambled to my feet and put the tripod upright again. While Santa tried to pick up my sister, I grabbed Libby’s gifts that had tumbled onto the sidewalk and stuffed them back into their shopping bags. I found a rolling pin and slid it into a Williams-Sonoma bag. The boxed bottle of Chanel perfume went into the Haymaker’s bag. The heavy autobiography of a former president had come out of bag marked BARNES & NOBLE. The red leather bustier, coming unraveled from its tissue paper, flummoxed me.

  Libby snatched the bustier and stuffed it into her purse without missing a beat. “You took that hit like a real tough guy, Santa. Do you work out?”

  “Down at the Y, sure. Aerobics class three days a week. Some free weights on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

  “It’s paying off.” She felt the muscle in his arm. “You must have played football in your younger days.”

  “Linebacker at Rutgers,” he said with pride. “Now that I’m retired, it’s easier to stay in shape, though. You ought to think about power lifting. You’ve got the build for it. You don’t mind my saying, you’re built like a brick outhouse.”

  “I hope that’s a good thing. You really okay?”

  “Sure.” Manfully, Santa pulled himself up to his full height.

  I handed all the bags back to Libby. “I can’t believe you.”

  “Hey, you’re both pr
etty cute,” Santa said. “How about an early lunch? There’s a place around the corner that makes a top-notch grilled cheese sandwich. My treat.”

  “Sorry.” Libby tucked a twenty into his bucket. “But we’ve got to track down a criminal.”

  “Oh, yeah? You girls undercover cops or something?”

  “Or something,” Libby agreed.

  As I tried to calm my heart into a normal rhythm again, I saw a familiar figure come out from around the corner of Haymaker’s and cross the street. I grabbed Libby’s arm. “Look! It’s Calvin!”

  “Who?”

  “The security guard who probably shut down the electricity to the store when Popo was murdered. There he goes.”

  “Must be his lunch hour.” Libby squinted after Calvin as he strode away from us. “He’s kinda cute.”

  “He’s bald,” said Santa. “I’ve got all my hair, see?”

  “I’m going to follow him,” I said.

  “Not without me,” Libby shot back. “You’ve already knocked down one innocent bystander.”

  “Who you calling innocent?” Santa asked.

  I took off after Calvin with Libby in hot pursuit. She wobbled on her high heels and struggled a little with her heavy shopping bags, but she kept up the pace. We tailed Calvin for two more blocks, keeping a safe distance so he wouldn’t observe us. The lunch-hour crowds hadn’t hit the sidewalks yet, but plenty of holiday shoppers made good cover for us. I explained to Libby more fully about what Darwin had told me and Calvin’s connection to Cindie Rae.

  Eventually Libby began to limp. “I didn’t plan a ten-mile hike when I got dressed this morning. These shoes are killing me.”

  I stopped dead and ducked closer to the nearest building. “Look, Calvin is window-shopping.”

  Libby bumped into me from behind. “For what?”

  We hung back and watched as Calvin slowed down and peered into the window of Victoria’s Secret.

  Libby said, “Here’s an Easy Spirit store.”

  I was afraid to tear my gaze from Calvin. “Uh-huh.”

  “If I keep walking on these shoes, I’m going to be crippled. I’m going in. Wait for me here.”

  “I’m not waiting, Libby!”

  “It’ll just take a minute. Here, hold some of my bags.”

  She handed me two enormous shopping bags and disappeared into the shoe store. A moment later, Calvin started walking. I followed. He went another block before pausing again, this time in front of a take-out deli. I watched as he pulled out a cell phone and made a call.

  Two minutes later, Libby reappeared, out of breath but no longer limping. “These Easy Spirits feel great! You should try some. Very comfy. Not terribly attractive, maybe, but I didn’t have time to be choosy. What’s he doing?” She leaned over my shoulder to watch.

  “Ordering some lunch, I think.”

  “I could use a bathroom myself.”

  “Libby, why don’t you go back to Haymaker’s and finish your shopping?”

  “Because I’m making sure you stay out of trouble. Look, he’s going inside that take-out shop.”

  We watched Calvin haul open the door and step into the deli.

  “I bet there’s a restroom in there,” Libby said.

  “You’re not going in.”

  “Why not? He doesn’t know who I am. I could slip inside and figure out what he’s doing.”

  “He’s reading the menu board.”

  Libby stewed for another two minutes. “I’m going in,” she declared. “It’s unhealthy to walk around with a full bladder.”

  “Libby—”

  “Here, hold a couple more of my bags, will you?”

  My sister thrust two more shopping bags into my hands and dashed for the deli before I could grab her. I had to admit she was lighter on her feet in her new shoes.

  Chapter 8

  When Libby disappeared, I shifted all the shopping bags from one arm to the other, straining under the weight of gifts my sister planned to return, but keeping my eyes on the small restaurant. Minutes ticked by, and my feet began to get cold.

  Libby came out of the deli. With her fingers, she oh-so-casually combed her hair away from her face. Then she tossed her hair over her shoulder and strolled toward me, hips swinging.

  I recognized all the signs. “Tell me you didn’t try to pick up Calvin while you were in there.”

  “Of course not. He looks terribly callow up close. But there was a very charming gentleman waiting for a latte, who—”

  “Are you so desperate for male company that you— Never mind. What is Calvin doing?”

  “Waiting for his lunch. He must be a hearty eater, by the way. He ordered two meals to go—a burger and a Greek salad.”

  “Maybe he’s picking up for somebody else.”

  “I suppose he— Look, here he comes!”

  We dodged into the doorway of a stationery shop and pretended to admire a display of Christmas cards. I tried to hide in Libby’s shadow.

  Calvin walked past us, holding a clear plastic bag by its handle. Two Styrofoam containers were inside. He headed back in the direction we had come.

  “He’s going back to work,” Libby said.

  But he turned right instead of left, heading away from Haymaker’s.

  “Let’s go,” I said, already in pursuit.

  We tailed Calvin for four more blocks and ended up on a short residential street lined with apartment buildings that had been designed in the days of fallout shelters. Scraps of newspaper tumbled in the street, and a homeless person slept on a grate, wrapped in trash bags and guarded by a scraggly cat on a leash.

  Abruptly, Calvin jaywalked and opened a plate-glass door to let himself into one of the buildings. Libby and I watched him disappear inside.

  “Now what?” Libby asked.

  From behind us, a male voice said, “Ho, ho, ho, girls. Want some company?”

  It was Santa. He carried his collection bucket in one hand, and his eyes twinkled roguishly behind his synthetic beard.

  “Are you following us?” I demanded, prepared to play tough in order to get rid of him. “Because we’ll call a cop if you are.”

  “No need for that.” He held up one hand to calm me. “I am a cop. Or was. Retired after twenty-two years of service in the Lancaster County sheriff’s department.”

  “Well, you can’t give speeding tickets to any Amish buggies around here,” Libby snapped. “We’re on a serious mission.”

  “Me, too,” said Santa. “I’ll do anything to have lunch with you, doll face. Even lend a hand in your covert operation.”

  “How old are you?” Libby asked. “Take off that beard.”

  Santa pulled the beard down low enough so we could get a better look at his face. He wasn’t bad, actually. Kind of wrinkled, maybe fifty-something. He said, “Don’t get fooled by the false teeth. I got my real ones kicked out by a kid who resisted arrest.”

  “All right, you can stay,” Libby said.

  “No, he can’t,” I said.

  “I can be helpful.”

  I sighed. “You two wait out here and flirt with each other. I’m going into the building.”

  Libby said, “My sister is very impulsive. I have to keep an eye on her.”

  “And I’ll keep an eye on you,” said Santa. “See? Things are starting to work out for us already.”

  We went into the apartment building and found ourselves in a small lobby with plate-glass doors on both sides, one of them cracked as if it had been kicked. Someone had tried to repair it with masking tape. A line of mailboxes with buzzers greeted us from one wall.

  I read the names on the mailboxes, hoping to find Calvin’s. My finger stopped on apartment 3B, however.

  Cindie Rae Smith.

  “I’ll be damned,” said Santa, tilting his head to read through his bifocals. “Is this the real Cindie Rae Smith?”

  “How would you know her?” Libby asked with a new edge in her voice.

  “She’s in the papers all the time.
She’s the one, right? The Penthouse girl?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “How do we get into this building?” Libby asked. “Without letting Cindie Rae know?”

  I laid my hand flat on six buzzer buttons at the same time and leaned on them all. Seconds later, a variety of voices squawked on the intercom.

  “UPS!” I yelled. “Delivery!”

  Immediately, the door buzzed open and we went inside.

  “Stairs or elevator?” I asked.

  “Definitely the stairs,” Santa said with new respect.

  Libby eyed him doubtfully. “Can you make it three flights?”

  “Can you?” he asked.

  We trooped up three flights with Libby bringing up the rear. To lighten her load, Santa and I split her remaining shopping bags between the two of us.

  The third-floor hallway was L-shaped and smelled like incontinence. We checked the numbers on the doors and found Cindie Rae’s apartment at the end of the hall. We edged closer to listen, but a television blared in the next apartment, drowning out all other sound.

  “I can’t hear anything,” Libby whispered.

  “Shh.”

  “I don’t mean to stick my nose in your business,” Santa said, “but is anyone armed in this situation?”

  “Calvin is,” I said. “At least, he was wearing a gun in the store.”

  “Jeez,” said Santa. “I was afraid of that. We need to call the Philly cops. It’s foolhardy to bust in on somebody with a gun.”

  Libby pulled out her cell phone and checked the screen. “I’m not getting a signal in here.”

  “You should get a new service,” Santa advised. “My ex-wife uses Verizon and gets great reception.”

  Libby glanced up from her phone. “You’re divorced?”

  “Three years,” Santa reported. “I hate living alone, but what’s a guy with false teeth supposed to do? I volunteer for the Salvation Army and the Meals on Wheels and the—”

  “Could we get back to business here?” I asked. “Somebody go call the police.”

  Libby said, “She has man trouble. It makes her testy. I’ll go down the hall to see if I can get a signal there.”