“Sorry, Detective. Didn’t mean to interrupt although I’m sure the ‘where were you’ question was going to be asked sometime during this interview.”
“It was. Now, then, you have the ‘when.’ The ‘where’ was a hotel in Manhattan which shall remain nameless although I have no doubt more than one enterprising journalist already has photos of each floor, the email address of every member of the staff and the room service menus. At any rate, someone wearing a maid’s uniform delivered a basket bearing the lethal wasp to the room where Ms. Travers was staying. According to an eyewitness, Ms. Travers opened the basket and several irritated wasps flew out. Ms. Travers was stung. Ms. Travers went into anaphylactic shock and died quite quickly.”
“Eyewitness?”
“Yes, Ms. Kittredge. Eyewitness. Not a suspect at this time unless the person pre-arranged for the basket to end up in Ms. Travers’ hands.”
Babs piped up with, “Well, Gee Jiminy. Eyewitness, my ass. You mean whoever Monica was screwing, don’t you? My word. You need motive? Why don’t you check out half the wives in Manhattan whose husbands were playing fast and loose with Travers? They’ve got a helluva better motive for wanting her dead. Accusing either Bootsie or me is absurd. Oh. That reminds me. Do we need a lawyer?”
Laramie glanced at Babs with an expression of surprise. She’s short and fluffy and cute and talks a blue streak and most people tend to underestimate her intellectual ability—which is fierce.
“We are not unaware of other persons of interest, Ms. Harrison. And you’re welcome to call an attorney if you wish.”
Babs glanced at me. “Should we?”
“I don’t know. I get all my police procedures from watching police procedurals. Usually the guilt-stricken, for good reason, are the ones calling attorneys. We’re only being questioned. And the so-called motive stinks worse than this room so I can’t imagine why we’d be charged with anything.”
Babs nodded, then winced again and rubbed her sore jaw. “True. Besides, I don’t know any attorneys. Well, other than Clayton Harrison the Third but we can’t call him because he’s next on our hit list.”
Silence. I closed my eyes and prepared to feel chains strapped to my ankles. When that did not instantly occur I opened them.
Detective Laramie was staring Babs. Then he stared at me. After approximately two minutes (that felt like two years) worth of staring he headed for the door, then threw it open. I heard a distinct squeak and contemplated the wisdom of suggesting a little WD-40 on the sucker. He spoke one word, “Go.”
“Go?”
“Yes. Both of you are either ridiculously inept or ridiculously clever. Today is not the day to determine which and I have work to do so I can’t play whatever game you seem intent on playing. Go away, don’t leave town— and don’t kill anyone else on your hit list.” A last small twinkle appeared in those eyes, accompanied by a very tiny lift at the corners of Sebastian Laramie’s mouth.
“Thanks, Detective. I think.” I quietly moved past him, grasping Babs by the arm and forcibly shoving her through the door.
“You’re welcome. I think.” He held the door open for us before adding, “I trust I will not have occasion to haul the pair of you back inside this room. Please note that we will be checking alibis for the time Ms. Travers encountered the wasp. Believe me when I say I sincerely hope we are able to confirm yours and believe me also when I say I hope the next time we meet will be under far more delightful circumstances.”
Laramie winked at me. At least it looked like a wink. Could be he was just fluttering lashes that were far too long for a tough NYPD detective to own— or he had a speck of dust in his eye.
Babs and I stayed silent as we weaved through the men and women in blue, cluttered desks and possible felons littering the 10th Precinct. We stayed silent as we emerged into the fresh air and a steady stream of snowflakes littering the vehicles, passersby and our shoulders. We stayed silent as we plunked down the going rate for a copy of the most outrageous New York tabloid out of the many littering the newsstands.
I was surprised to see that only one of the papers featured Monica Travers’ face on the cover. Apparently Monica had chosen the wrong day to become a famous victim of homicide since two prominent politicians were being featured for engaging in various sex acts I wasn’t sure even had names.
Seeing one of the faces finally broke our self-imposed silence. “Shit.”
I glanced at Babs. “Yes?”
“I voted for that guy. I’m so embarrassed.”
“Hey, he did manage to pass some really cool legislation helping the homeless even if he was a pervert.”
She brightened. “That’s true. And at least he was single so he wasn’t running around on his wife while doing whatever he’s accused of doing.”
I grinned at her. “He also looks quite good in a garter belt and corset.”
“Better than I do, anyway. Look at those legs. I’d kill for those legs. Of course at four foot zippo I’d kill for any legs.”
“Hush, Babs! Do not say kill! We may be miked or something and our conversation will be going directly into Detective Sebastian Laramie’s ears. We’ll get hauled back to jail and I’ll never get back to feed Selina and the damned cat will eat Leo’s apartment and I’ll never get another housesitting gig.” I squinted at the front of the paper. “You’re right though. Those legs would do nicely in a road show of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert.” I began to hum “I Will Survive.”
Babs grabbed me. “Stop it! I’m going to pee in two seconds from a combination of cold, lack of nice facilities at the station and those three drinks I had however many hours ago.”
I don’t know why this struck me as funny. It wasn’t. But it did. And Babs shared my humor.
We started to laugh. Couldn’t stop. We’d reach that point of hysteria where we literally had to cling to each other to keep from falling onto the sidewalk, which was fast becoming treacherous with icy crystals.
“Home.”
“Whose?”
“Leo’s. I have to feed the cat and put up the groceries the cops were so kind as to give back to me. And you’re in pain and you don’t need to be alone, not to mention the bathroom at Leo's is much closer than yours uptown.”
We trudged over to West 22nd Street. This time Rodrigo the doorman was in place and more than willing to usher us into the lobby. “Miz Kittredge! I am so sorry. The police came by earlier and asked if you still lived here and what could I do? I had to say ‘yes.’ I wanted to be here to warn you they were hunting for you but then Mrs. Bergman in 5E needed all her packages brought in.”
I smiled at him. “No problem. It’s not your job to hide fugitives anyway.”
“So is everything all right?”
“Well, yes and no. Listen, howzabout Babs and I get upstairs and put away the groceries and feed the cat and I’ll bring you down some hot cocoa and tell you all about it.”
That agreed upon, Babs and I marched up the stairs to Leo’s apartment on the third floor. I opened the door; Babs grabbed Selina before she could bolt. I sent her straight to the couch while I took care of food and kitty. “You. Go lie down. I’ll bring you an ice pack and some eggnog—without raw nutmeg but possibly with a little bourbon.”
“Raw nutmeg?”
“Oh. I forgot. You were out getting soused while I was creating plots for murder. I’ll print it out for you so you can read and sip.”
She nodded. “Who gets the nutmeg?”
“Todd. My original plan was to spike his eggnog, then get him to the Empire State Building and let him fly but I’m thinking that’s not terribly feasible.”
“Why not?”
“Partly because the only chance to put the nutmeg in the nog will be at Chuck’s party which is like four blocks from here and let’s face it—the Empire State Building is about forty blocks too far. So a change in scenery is needed.”
Babs grinned. “Chuck’s in a six-story walk-up. With access to a roof.”
“Tha
t should do it.”
The phone rang before we had a chance to elaborate on the scheme.
“Well, speak of the devil!”
“Psst, “Babs hissed. “Is that Todd?”
“No. It’s Chuck.”
“Ah. Okay. I’ll let you talk business then.”
Two minutes later business was over. I hung the phone into the receiver and turned to face Babs. “I have an audition. In one hour. And you have a commercial audition. So get sober.”
“For?”
“Chuck said yours was for something fun. That’s all he’d tell me. That and the address which I was smart enough to jot down.” I handed her a torn piece of a memo pad. “Very mysterious but he said you’d love it. Mine is for the role of Trixie, mob mistress and contract-killing partner of Granny Hensonswenson. With any luck and a marvelous audition, you and I will show Manhattan what real hit women are like!”
Chapter 8
It was dejá vu plus one all over again. Joey, Kameron, Roger, Babs and me at Maria’s Casa. We’d been joined by a very cute, very young Pilar Ojeda, who’d been cast in the part of Nevada Noriega, the girlfriend of head gangbanger whose name I couldn’t remember but was being played by Kameron who seemed more than pleased that he and Pilar got to share a nice kiss in Act Two, Scene One of The List.
Well, that wasn’t quite right. Make that should have been able to share a nice kiss. As things now stood, the only smooching this pair would get to do would be off stage because the show we’d all been cast in only nights before had just gone “on hiatus.”
How did I know this? Because we’d all very recently come from the first—and at this point the last— reading of the show. It was flukey and amazing and fun that the same group who’d enjoyed a meal and a brew at Maria’s the night Babs got schnockered and announced the grand opening of Sweet Cream Ladies, Limited had all been cast but I hadn’t been questioning the gods who’d arranged it. I’d been stupidly enjoying the lovely feeling of knowing I’d be onstage in two months playing Trixie alongside these very fine actors and, as if that weren’t treat enough, getting a very fine paycheck as well. I might actually be able to get a place of my own. Or do a share with Babs, who was sick of her studio and her scummy landlord and spent more time with me wherever I was apartment-sitting than she did at her place.
Then the good stuff stopped. Our director, Eva Martinez, had politely waited until the cast had arranged their chairs in a circle, then told us the bad news. Due to financial difficulties, The List was on hold. Indefinitely. As in—if you get a job passing out flyers in front of a fast-food chain or an all-nude strip joint—take it.
We’re all professionals. We know there are more ups and downs to a career in theatre than the stock market the day after small European countries announce their entire financial systems are in disarray. Nonetheless, we were all devastated. Not only monetarily but theatrical souls need feeding and the only way to get nutrients is onstage or in front of a camera.
So we decided to bond and commiserate and head up to 53rd Street to hit Maria’s for nachos, burritos and possibly a plate of her amazing honey-and-whipped-cream-topped banana flautas.
After about thirty minutes of grinching, grousing and groaning about the show, accompanied by sounds of margaritas swooshing into glasses and “aah’s” over those flautas, Joey raised his hand for silence.
“I vote we table our despair over the show and move on to topics far more entertaining.”
“Such as?” I asked.
“Well, I would really like to hear the first-hand story of what it was like being grilled by, let me quote, the ‘divine Detective Sebastian Laramie,” Joey teased.
“How did you know about that?” I asked. Then I added. “And who told you Laramie is divine?”
Babs delicately sipped the club soda with lime and smiled. “Me.”
“Oh. Duh.”
“I thought it was an interesting experience,” she stated.
“How the hell would you know? You snored through most of it. But yeah, sure. Being hauled down to the precinct and questioned for murder was right up on my ‘things to do before Christmas’ list. I even calendared it into my cellphone to be sure I wouldn’t forget.”
Kameron had perked on the first mention of grilling and police. “Wait, wait! What’s all this about?”
I patiently told him about both of us being under some slight suspicion for the murder of Monica Travers. He laughed. “What? Just because you announce to an entire bar your plans to bump someone off and that someone turns up dead the next day?”
“Pretty much. Of course, as I explained to the good detective, there really wasn’t a motive here unless he wanted to count that off-chance that I’d get the role of Trixie if Monica were gone.” I paused. “I wonder if he’ll bring me back in now that that particular motive really is a motive?”
Babs snickered. “I’m sure he’ll find some excuse even if that’s not the one.”
These were not stupid people we were sitting with. Heads nodded, eyes winked and Pilar lifted her glass in the air toward me. “Are we implying that Bootsie has a boyfriend?”
I groaned. “Run! Run now before Babs’ ability to turn anyone in listening distance into a pre-pubescent becomes too contagious. No, Bootsie does not have a boyfriend. Laramie was merely being a gentleman during the questioning and Babs is embellishing because she kept falling asleep during the interrogation and is pissed that she didn’t get the chance to cause further damage to our reputations by elaborating on our plans to kill off ex-husbands, a fake psychic and Babs’ landlord.”
Babs brightened. “I’d forgotten about him. Oh yeah. Let’s put him down for killing right after Todd Kittredge gets his. I need a good way for him to meet his demise, though. Let’s see—force him to drink the rancid paint he slapped on my apartment three weeks ago in an attempt to call it a renovation and up the rent?”
“Shit! Babs! Would you stop it? Watch. That’s exactly what will happen and Sweet Cream Ladies, Limited will be back at the 10th Precinct but this time without all the courtesy and probably handcuffed to the table.”
“Or the backboard of Sebastian Laramie’s bed,” Babs muttered. “Well, Bootsie will be, anyway.”
Joey, a wise man, intervened before my embarrassment reached record levels. “Ladies. Please tell us, how many are on the hit list currently? And are these all gratis hits or will you be earning a good living anytime soon?”
Babs responded, “I think we’re up to—what—five? Let me see. Monica, Clayton, Todd, my landlord—no that’s just four.”
“You forgot Madam Minerva,” I added.
“Oh yeah. Okay. That makes five then. Sadly, no pay yet.” She turned to me. “Are you still listed on Todd’s life insurance? That would be a nice bonus.”
I shook my head. “Nope. He removed my name the day he announced I’d been erased from existence.”
“Shame.”
Our new cast mates were listening to all this with great interest.
“I think it’s a brilliant idea. Lady hit-women. But really, you must find a way to make some money off this,” Pilar commented.
Babs beamed at her. “It is good, isn’t it? We’re still working out the glitches on the hows though. Sadly, the whys and whos are mounting up. I never realized before we began talking about it that there are this many scummy creeps—of both the male and female variety—who need to be done away with.”
Joey grabbed her hand then laid a kiss on her palm. “Just don’t put me on that list and I’ll be glad to help in any way I can. So, who’s next and what’s the means and motive?”
Babs and I stared at each other. I spoke first. “It’s a toss-up. Between her ex and mine. Probably mine first since the plan for Clayton—Babs’ ex includes luring him to a shark pool somewhere. Which could mean flying him down to Florida or San Diego or someplace.”
“You could try the new museum opening up,” was Kam’s contribution. “Can’t remember the exact name but it’s something to do
with Hollywood special effects which is why the press release caught my eye. At any rate, they’re going to have some of the biggies from various films and I’m pretty sure I saw something about a mechanical shark.”
Babs beamed at him. “Perfect! I know about that museum. I just did a commercial for it. Believe it or not Clayton is handling some legal papers for it. I got a sneak peek at all the attractions during the shoot. I remember that mechanical shark. I like it. No expense for a flight to Orlando. Should have thought of that already!”
I glared at her. “Will you stop? We’ll be in the slammer just for imagining murder.”
She shrugged. “They only do that in movies. But tell them about the Todd plan. I personally think it’s very creative.”
“Oh.” I smiled. “It ain’t bad. Everyone already knows the motive, which is that Todd is a narcissistic assholey sonovabitch. The means is raw nutmeg acting as an hallucinogen then dumping him off the roof of our agent’s building. The problem is the opportunity. Well, the roof is fine but we really need to grab four underage drag queens to pose in a photo next to him at some point during the enterprise. Preferably before he’s dead and has just enough awareness left to see the picture that will run in the next day’s tabloids.”
Five people nearly soaked the table spewing out their drinks in sheer hilarity. The comments and questions were diverse but all reflected definite glee.
“Ingenious!” from Joey.
“I know where to find raw nutmeg!” from Kameron. “Except I’ve heard you have to use a lot for it to work.”
“When and where’s the party?” from Roger. “Are we all invited? Can I bring my boyfriend?”
“Do you need help tossing?” from Joey.
“I can supply the underage drag queens!” from Pilar. “I know the producer of that show over on Sullivan Street. It's called Tres Fabulous. It’s going great but I’m sure some of those guys could use a few bucks. They’re actually all legal age but they look like they’re about fifteen.”
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