Sweet Cream Ladies, Ltd.

by Flo Fitzpatrick

  I relented. “Well, he seems to reciprocate the feelings. I watched some major flirting going on and when he told me to be the one to take you home so your virtue wouldn’t be threatened by his lustful designs, he sounded pretty serious.”

  “Shit. Why didn’t you let him throw me over his manly shoulders and take me back to his place in Brooklyn and ravish me?”

  “Because he was determined to be a gentleman. Also I figured you wouldn’t want your first time in six years to pass you by as you lay unconscious while he did the ravishing.”

  We solemnly raised our mugs together. “Thank you. My friend.”

  I bowed my head. “Welcome. You’d do the same for me should that occasion ever arise which I can’t see happening ever again in my lifetime but that’s beside the point.”

  “Was there a point?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “So tell me about The List? Did you get more info on the actual plot last night?” I asked.

  “I did.” She paused for effect. “It’s very fun and possibly a bit too close to home.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Okay. My character—well, the character I read for—Granny Hensonswenson is a sweet old broad who bakes Swedish pastries for the local gang-bangers in the neighbor. In reality, she’s part of—ready for this? A duo that consists of Hensonswenson and Trixie Schmidt, who are contract killers for the local mob, run by the character Roger was reading for last night—Lucien Hensonswenson, who is Granny’s favorite son and a total screw-up and also sleeping with Trixie who happens to be a singer with a band lead by Ray Jo-Jo Robinson, leader of the local gang-bangers and a wail of a rock n’ roll baritone which is probably what Kameron will get.”

  “Stop! Any more of this and I’ll need those aspirin more than you do.”

  “Nah, nah. It’s not as confusing as I’m making it sound. Honest. It’s sort of Arsenic and Old Lace meets The Godfather meets 42nd Street. Wait ‘til you hear the music. Trixie has a show-stopper in Act Two that includes the gangbangers dancing behind her.”

  I groaned. “Now I'm sure I need those aspirin. So Monica Travers gets to demolish a song that will probably end up as the one the Tony Awards choose to use for the show next spring.”

  Babs lifted her eyes heavenward. “You’re a tad ahead of schedule here. First, I have to be cast. Second, the show has to make it to Broadway. Third, it has to be nominated. Fourth.” She stopped. “I have no fourth. I do, however, have to run because it’s now ten o’clock and I have a dentist’s appointment at one and I need to get home and get changed and get to Dr. Kroeger’s office early enough to sit and moon over Joey Carmichael in silence before I’m novacained into submission and they do whatever it is they do to what is probably an abscess.”

  “Go.”

  “What do you have planned today?”

  “Not a damned thing. I’ve got a commercial audition tomorrow but today is zip. I may go online and research means and opportunities for more exotic ways to commit murder.”

  “Ooh. Sounds fun. Email me later if you come up with anything truly evil and doable we didn’t get to last night. Shit. I don’t really recall what we said last night anyway so I need a refresher and outline.”

  We hugged. “Love you.”

  “You too.”

  I spent about half an hour cleaning dishes and giving Selina her combination cat kibbles and caviar (I was serious about that) then headed for the computer. Two hours later I had at least six great ways to bump someone off. One was gender specific to a female, but the others would work well for Todd and Clay. Options!

  I started and saved a new document. I was going to go for bullet points since it looked neater, but decided to make this informal since I’d be mailing to Babs once I finished. So I went for chatty. Check it out. I know we talked about this last night at Maria’s but you were so crocked I’m not sure you’ll remember. So here’s the breakdown. Hit number one: Monica gets hers the next time she has illicit relations with one of her buddies at whatever hotel those relations are being related. You have that great maid’s costume left over from doing that modern version of Tartuffe. You could sneak in carrying a plant that coincidentally has more than one little wasp buzzing.

  Hits number two and three: Our exes. Clay could accidentally slip into a shark tank if we can just get him to one of those sea attractions in Florida or California or some other state that ends with an “a” in its name. But think of the symmetry. Shark tank—lawyer. As for Todd? This is priceless. We get some raw nutmeg which we slip into Todd’s eggnog at that holiday party Chuck is having next week and is too wimpy to have told Todd and Karalynn to stay away. The nutmeg will cause him to hallucinate. We strip him down to his underwear, then guide him to the top of the Empire State Building where he decides to fly and land, dead and naked next to those four under aged drag queens who are too drunk to notice he’s not interested. Remember? We discussed this one earlier and I even tossed it out to our table at Maria’s but we got sidetracked by your tanned hunky roofers instead of roofies. I still need to come up with something for Madam Minerva like maybe a head bashing since she's a 'head case' —and your landlord.

  I turned the document into an attachment, emailed it to Babs, logged off, then headed out to do a little shopping for the cat and me and walk off a little anxiety. Leo was coming back in a few weeks and I had no other place lined up. Whether folks weren’t touring or they weren’t subletting to divorced middle-aged women, I didn’t know. Didn’t matter. The hardware commercial would be helpful for finances, but like every and any other thing in this business was a complete crapshoot. You either got a gig—or you didn’t.

  Three hours later I was home. I’d gotten the cat more caviar and some canned tuna for me. (Leo left funds for the cat. I’m very honest. I did not use them for my own wants and desires.) I’d bought bread and lentils and curry powder and normal nutmeg and store-brand eggnog and splurged on a pint of bourbon to pour into the eggnog. I’d walked all over the Village taking in the sights of people preparing for Christmas and come back to Leo’s feeling good will toward all mankind except Todd.

  Rodrigo the doorman was nowhere in sight so I opened the lobby door with my foot. Suddenly two large hands grabbed me from behind, turned me around and glared at me.

  “What the hell?”

  “Mary Katherine Kittredge, you’re wanted for questioning.”

  “For what?”

  “Murder.”

  Chapter 6

  “Can someone at least take these groceries back to Leo’s apartment and feed the cat? Believe me, that is going to be one unhappy kitty if she doesn’t get her fish eggs, not to mention the well-known fact that eggnog needs to be refrigerated or it goes bad and I can’t afford to buy that stuff more than one time during the holidays.”

  The man sitting across the table from me in a room that looked like the ones on TV crime shows but really stunk (and no one ever mentions that on TV) shot me a look that can best be described as incredulous. “You are aware that we’re a heartbeat away from taking fingerprints, mug shots and exchanging that very lovely green sweater for a not too flattering orange jumpsuit, aren’t you, Ms. Kittredge?”

  “Call me Bootsie.”

  Pause. Then, “Must I?”

  “It would help me stay grounded, since only the doorman at Leo’s building calls me Ms. Kittredge and no one who wanted to live has called me Mary Katherine since I was two.”

  An eyebrow shot up. “No one who wanted to live?”

  “Oops. That might not have been the wisest thing to say in these circumstances I suppose.”

  A flicker of a grin flashed then was quickly squelched.

  The door opened. In walked a cop in uniform (unlike my new buddy who was wearing a crisp white shirt, leather jacket and jeans) gently pushing my best friend, Barbara Leigh Cummings Harrison. Babs. She was ushered into the chair next to me. The uniform cop exited the room and closed the door. Tightly.

  “Hey, Babs.”

>   “Hey, Boots. What’s up?”

  “No idea. I was shanghaied by this gentleman" (nod to plain clothes cop) "and another guy, brought here in the back of the police cruiser when it was suggested that would be the wiser option than refusing to answer questions and I’ve been hanging out in a room for the last fifteen minutes in this room that begs for a few squirts of air freshener. I guess they were waiting 'til they routed you from wherever. Which was where?"

  “At some bar three blocks from the dentist’s. Drinking heavily I’m still in pain although it’s different now the abscess thingee has been drained. Actually, the officer who brought me here found me a block from Leo’s where I was coming to fetch you for more drinking, although I was going to be the one drinking and you were going to manage to get me home which of course would mean you would not be drinking which is fine since you don’t do a lot of that anyway and neither do I unless my tooth hurts.”

  Plain-clothes cop raised his hand. “Stop!”

  We looked at him. “Stop?”

  “Do either of you realize your situation?”

  Babs and I looked at each other, than back at him. “Not really,” I said.

  “Somehow I’m not surprised. I feel like I’m dealing with a vaudeville comedy duo who have a routine going and haven’t noticed the hook in the wings. But you’re not walking off the stage any time soon. You are currently being detained at the 10th Precinct of the New York Police Department and you would be wise to cut the levity for at least a moment or two.”

  Babs' mouth dropped open. Babs, who’d been drinking after dealing with the dental problem, which was the primary reason Babs had been drinking more in these last two days than in the thirty-odd years I’d known her. Which meant Babs was about as much use as Selina the cat after rolling in catnip for an hour. Time for me to step up and be the adult. But instead of “Why the hell were we hauled in here?” what came out was, “What’s your name?”

  Another glimmer of amusement. “Sebastian Laramie. Detective.”

  “Holy shit. That sounds like a heavy metal country singer on a rodeo tour.” My face turned scarlet. “I’m so sorry. That was completely inappropriate. But you actually have an amazingly cool name. I can just see it on the label of a platinum-selling CD.” Could see his face on that label too but I didn’t say it. The man was getting ready to arrest me for murder and I was checking him out like a teenager at a Sadie Hawkins dance. Brown hair on the longish side; ridiculously blazing blue eyes. A craggy sort of face—handsome in that non-pretty, totally masculine way Humphrey Bogart or Gary Cooper had been. (I’m a huge fan of the classic movie channel.) I put his age at fifty, plus or minus five years.

  “Detective Laramie, before my foot gets any further down my throat would you please tell us what we’re doing here? The word murder got tossed around earlier but other than the overly-cooked bagel I made the mistake of heating in the frying pan this morning I don’t recall anything even close to death occurring today or any other day.”

  He shook his head. “Do you know Monica Travers?”

  My mouth dropped to match Babs'. “I don’t know her personally but I know the name—assuming we’re talking about the actress.”

  Babs mumbled, “Using the term actress extremely 'effin loosely. Talk about murder. Give Travers a script and watch a slow and painful demise.”

  I glared at her. “Hush.”

  “Well, it’s true and you know it. Watching a cat sleep for six hours is far more exciting than the Hoover.”

  Obviously Babs had imbibed more than one drink after leaving the dentist. She should have kept the cotton wads inserted and soaked up the alcohol.

  “Babs. Not helping. Be quiet.”

  “Okeydokey.” Her head dropped and she began to snore. Softly.

  Det.Laramie stared at Babs but directed his question to me. Quietly, so as not to awaken Babs. “Hoover?”

  I nodded. “An actor who sucks the energy out of each scene, much like the famed vacuum cleaner. Monica Travers sucks so thoroughly she could step up to a Dyson.”

  He was quick. “I thought you said you didn’t know her?”

  “I don’t. I mean, I’ve never met her. But I’ve seen her on stage. Let’s just say I was less than impressed.”

  Babs woke up long enough to say, “She sucks.” Then the head went down again and the snoring continued.

  Laramie blinked several times. “Unbelievable. Is she always like this?”

  “Only after major dental implements have been poking around her gums. Or when she’s been imagining those dental implements for days while also dealing with two auditions and the pain of an abscessed molar. Normally she’s as sane and sober as I.”

  He did smile then. “I have so many responses to that and so little time. Not to mention most of the responses might be less than professional. But I do thank you for the explanation about Ms. Harrison.” We stared at each other for a few moments.

  “Monica?” I inquired.

  “Hmmm?”

  “Monica Travers, Detective. You were asking if we knew her?”

  “Oh. Yes. I was.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she was murdered last night.”

  That woke Babs up. “What the . . .? Did I hear right or am I dreaming?”

  “How?” I asked.

  “Wasp.”

  “Wasp?” I asked, but weakly. I knew what was coming. Call me Madam Minerva but I swear knew what was coming. I smiled. It was weaker than my question. “A white Anglo-Saxon Protestant?”

  Sebastian Laramie wisely ignored that feeble attempt at humor. It hadn’t worked all that well at Maria’s only last night. I don’t know why I thought it would go over better in a seedy interrogation room in the Manhattan’s 10th Precinct in Chelsea.

  “No, Ms. Kittredge. A real wasp. Someone wearing a maid’s uniform left a plant for her in a hotel room where she was found. One wasp was also found. I gather that Ms. Travers was allergic to wasps. Fatally so.”

  “Oh shit.”

  Two ridiculously blue eyes bore into mine. “Yes?”

  “Oh. Nothing.”

  “Were you perhaps going to explain why you and Ms. Harrison were plotting the death of Ms. Travers by the exact same means?”

  “Howdja know that?”

  “Babs! Jeez, woman. Go back to sleep. You’re not helping here.”

  She smiled at Detective Laramie then winced. “Ow. Remind me not to smile for the next week or so. Hurts like a holy molar.”

  He was not impressed with Babs’ smile or her pitifulness and pain. “We know about that plot because half of Maria’s Casa heard it last night.”

  I growled, “Aside from the fact that that was not a plot, it was a joke, why aren’t our fellow so-called plotters in here?”

  “What makes you think they aren’t?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “We have more than one interrogation room, Ms. Kittredge.”

  I didn’t bother to tell him to call me Bootsie. The time for flirting and cute conversation had ended—and never should have begun.

  “Look, Detective. Five people were horsing around at a restaurant, admittedly being quite catty about a woman none of those five people stand. Monica was not only a lousy actress but had the rep of being a hot number in the sack and that just puts a bad light on anyone trying to get a job through actual talent. Anyway. We were three sides of silly. We were not engaged in a conspiracy to hijack insects and send them on their merry way to knock off Monica Travers.”

  “Sounds nice. Sounds reasonable. Except that Ms. Travers was murdered by those hijacked insects and you have a motive for wanting her dead.”

  “What!” I jumped out of my chair, knocking it over in the process. Laramie calmly circled the table and set it upright, then motioned for me to put my butt back down. I inhaled. “What are you talking about? I never even met the woman. What possible motive would I have other than trying to class up the acting profession?”

  Babs tapped my shoulder. �
��Uh, Bootsie?”

  “What?” I snapped.

  “You left your cell at Leo’s so you didn’t get my message a few hours ago.”

  “Message?”

  “Yep. Joey called. He said the producer wanted you to come in and read for the part of Trixie.”

  Chapter 7

  In the midst of the horror show that had become my life, I spared a good five seconds of inner glee. Trixie the mob mistress with the show-stopping song in Act Two. Visions of Tony Awards danced in my head. Bowing and thanking the director and the cast and giving interviews to all the local TV stations. Then the reason why the producers were calling in other actresses to audition for Trixie barreled through my head and that inner glee turned to slush.

  “Did you know Monica had been murdered?” I asked Babs.

  “Oh hell, no! I didn’t even know she was dead. Joey didn’t say anything like that when he called. He was trying to track you down before the word went out to agents all over the city. I had the impression that Monica had been removed from the cast—not from the earth.” She glared at Detective Laramie. “And I had the impression that’s what Joey thought, too.”

  I joined in the attack. “By the way, while we’re on the subject, that’s a pretty lousy motive, Detective. Yeah, in fiction, actors can get bumped off by their understudies but that’s after they’ve been given the role. I haven’t even auditioned. How crazy would I have to be to hunt up a wasp in December on the off-chance that it would find Monica Travers and sting her, leaving me to audition with two hundred other hopefuls?” I stopped “Out of curiosity and a definite need to know, how exactly was Monica murdered? I'm not dumb. I get the wasp thing. I’m talking the where and the when— if it’s kosher to tell the interrogatees?”

  “I can provide you with a few facts that are already public knowledge. Starting with the ‘when’ which was three a.m. last night.”

  “We were asleep at the time.” I hastened to say.

  “Of course you were.”

  Had I sensed a hint of sarcasm in that comment? A slight emphasis on “of course”? Undoubtedly. Nonetheless, I ignored the impulse to elaborate on our admittedly flimsy alibi although I was itching to point out to the detective that if we’d known we needed an alibi Babs and I were damned well creative enough to have come up with a whoppingly good one.