Sweet Cream Ladies, Ltd.

by Flo Fitzpatrick

  Kam nudged him. “So we now have Bootsie with a possible cop boyfriend and you with an informant possible cop boyfriend? This is great, everyone. Open season to do as we please! Party on!”

  I winked at Roger and added my own shade of red to his. “Do you want to throw your bagel at him or should I?” I turned to Kam. “What is with you? Because Detective Laramie hasn’t clapped me in irons, suddenly we’re engaged?”

  He whooped. “It’s a plan. Babs marries Joey so his dad’s lawyer can always get her out of jail. Roger marries the dude from the pub so he can always get the info on nefarious crime busts before they happen. Bootsie marries Laramie and he protects her from conviction because he can’t rat her out the next time the Sweet Cream Ladies hit some creep.”

  “Limited,” I responded absently.

  “What?”

  “Limited,” Babs repeated. “We added that so everyone knows it’s a real company. We thought of I.N.C. but that’s too close to Murder Incorporated and it’s tacky and we’d have to get a corporation entity number as well.” Babs informed him with absolute seriousness.

  Joey groaned. “God. I’m going to have to get Vertigo on speed dial if I hang around you two much longer. Who’s next, by the way? On the list? Yours, that is. Not the show.”

  Everyone looked at me. I strolled over to Kam’s window and stared out at the white powder falling from the skies in chunks.

  “Next? Guess Todd should be although really, it was so satisfying watching him be completely humiliated by all this publicity that it might be better to hold off on his demise, find something else that debases him even more and bump off Bab’s landlord instead. Unless any of y'all has someone they’d like to toss into the pot? Someone who should be buried under an avalanche which could be very easy to do since it appears that snow isn’t letting up anyti . . .”

  “What’s the matter?” Babs asked.

  “I don’t know. I just saw a guy out there that I'm fairly sure was also at the police station. Admittedly, everyone outside is pretty much starting to look like the Abominable Snowman so it’s hard to tell but this guy is wearing a top hat. Very distinctive.”

  Joey sat up straight. “Oh crap. Is it Valentine? Did he follow us here?”

  “No. Valentine is so short he’d be lost in a drift by now. Plus I’m sure I saw this guy talking to Todd. He kind of stood out because he was dressed like Fred Astaire ready for a night on the town with Ginger.” I began humming a few bars of “Stepping Out with my Baby.”

  “So?” Kam shrugged. “Probably one of the better-dressed male hookers trying to find a place to camp ‘til the weather calms down. What’s the problem?”

  “Maybe nothing. But I remember seeing this guy at the precinct because he was wearing the top hat and cape and he was talking to Todd during the whole Y.M.C.A. impromptu rave thingee but mostly he was staring at all of us. And when I say stare, I mean, he stared at me sitting at Laramie’s desk, then turned and started at the rest of you at O’Hara’s desk. Like he was memorizing our faces or something. It’s creepy.”

  Joey joined me at the window. Pilar and Kam were right behind him. Joey peeked out. “Where?”

  I pointed.

  “I do recall seeing the hat, now that you mention it. I wonder if my father hired a private detective to follow me and make sure I stayed out of trouble? That hat is—well, let's say incongruous outside of a theatre.”

  “Why would he stare at all of us?” I squinted. “I don’t like it. He doesn’t look like a detective—especially a plain-clothes, official cop-type.”

  Roger had been silent through most of the inane discussions that had flowed since we got to Kam’s. He spoke up. “No offense, but what does a detective for either the cops or the mob look like?”

  Babs brightened. “Steve McQueen.”

  Pilar grinned. “Now there’s a detective I could love. But if this guy isn’t a P.I. why is he tailing us? Who do you think he is?”

  I couldn’t take my eyes off the guy in the street. The cape couldn’t be seen because the overcoat was a huge white parka but that hat was beyond distinctive. I was feeling more and more jumpy. Finally I turned around and looked at my friends.

  “I think he’s a killer.”

  Chapter 17

  I absently-mindedly removed a red Christmas ribbon from between Selina’s eager little cat paws while I stared at the few presents I’d gathered around me. All of which were very nice. Babs had given me a fantastically warm, long, violet-colored densely quilted coat she’d unearthed at a thrift store. My dad had sent a ridiculously huge and very cute stuffed elephant (he knows I can’t resist stuffies and never have) along with a check and a funny reindeer card upon which he’d written “do what you want with this, Bootsie; just don’t spend it on groceries or utilities or anything useful.” The would-be cast for The List—at least those I’d bonded with over drinks at Maria’s and interrogations at the 10th Precinct—had gotten together and come up with a digital device that seemed to be a cross between a cell phone and a laptop computer.

  Then there was the weird present. Not only weird in what it was—DVDs of three different versions of Peter Pan—but also weird as to where it came from. The note attached had stated, “We’ll see you for dinner soon, Love from Lorelei and the Laramies.”

  I’d made it through my first Christmas as an officially divorced person. I’d lived. Hadn’t turned into a lush, a drug addict, or gone screaming naked through the streets—the latter not being an option anyway since, although the blizzard conditions of three days before Christmas had subsided, it was still damned cold out there and New York City when it’s cold is—I repeat—damned cold. I had gained about four pounds thanks to Babs’ other present—a gift basket of dessert items baked by the woman herself. Not only is Babs an awesome friend and actress, she’s one fantastic cook. I’ve seen her go into a kitchen the size of small hall closet and emerge three hours later with a Thanksgiving feast to feed fifteen people with every bite being beyond delicious. This particular little grab bag of goodies included Danish sugar cookies, raspberry square bars, a fruitcake (I happen to be one of those strange people who actually love a good fruitcake) and a bevy of chocolate bourbon balls that were bite-sized and went well with coffee, cocoa—or nothing.

  I grabbed one of those bourbon balls, popped it in my mouth and began debating about how to spend the rest of Christmas Day. Babs and I had exchanged gifts yesterday at Maria’s then she’d headed for the airport to take the red-eye to Atlanta to see Bree. I’d gone to midnight Mass at a church that would have been easy walking distance if it hadn’t have been for the giant snowdrifts blocking access to sidewalks. I’d come home and slept and gotten up and opened the rest of my presents and chatted with my dad on the phone. I’d fed Leo’s cat, played with Leo’s cat, trotted downstairs to give Leo’s Christmas check to Rodrigo the doorman, along with a much smaller gift of toasty thermal socks from me. Rodrigo had been thrilled—it’s tough standing all day opening doors, receiving packages, dealing with crazy tenants and having to be outside far too often to hail cabs for those tenants. He’d gleefully announced that the socks were a ‘blessing!’”

  Rodrigo must have sensed I was thinking about him. The buzzer buzzed and when I answered he shouted “You . . .ave a . . . here!” (Note: Rodrigo wasn’t being rude by shouting. New York apartments have the worst intercom systems ever invented and I swear the tonier the apartment the more static from doorman—or door— there is.)

  “Who is it?” I yelled back.

  “I” garbled, garbled, garbled, “up . . .” No way to even tell if the speaker was male, female or a talking canine.

  There was no point in asking again or even responding. I hung up and waited for Leo’s buzzer to buzz to find out if Todd, Lorelei Laramie or Vertigo Valentine had come for a visit.

  None of the above. When I opened the door Babs greeted me with two suitcases and an expression of woe mixed with pissed.

  “Flight cancelled?” I mused.


  “Well, hell, yeah. Of course, they couldn’t tell us that at three a.m. when it was scheduled to leave. No, no. They string you along and pretend the blizzard isn’t back. At least we were in the terminal and not on the plane,” she groused.

  “I’m sorry, Babs. I know you wanted to see Bree. But at least you’ll get to go in March when the baby’s due.”

  “True. And let’s face it, Christmas in New York is just far more entertaining than in Atlanta much as I love my baby girl and the city.”

  I helped her lug her luggage inside and peel off the layers of outer red coat, red muffler, red gloves and red ski mask. “So. Soda? Eggnog? Straight bourbon? Margaritas? I have tons of food in the kitchen to go with whatever beverage you desire and we can pull out the Scrabble board and the CDs of Dan Fogelberg and Cat Stevens and do a marathon.”

  She beamed at me. “I love it. Gad, I’ve missed our games and sing-a-longs even if you’re the only person singing. Lately, it seems we’re be too busy dreaming up ways to murder folks or auditioning or being hauled into police stations. It’ll be nice to relax and fight over what does and does not constitute a word.”

  We hit the kitchen first to make nachos and margaritas and then got down to the task of slapping down tiles to form words we knew didn’t exist in any dictionary.

  “So, Bootsie, you really got an invite from Sebastian’s mom?”

  “I did. I’m not sure if she sent it because she loves the fact that it needles her son to invite a suspected murderer to dinner or if she is certain she totally bonded with me in those few lovely moments we talked at the precinct or if she’s simply desperate for Sebastian to have a date.”

  “All of the above would be my guess. Although I can’t imagine the craggily handsome Mr. Laramie would have difficulty in that area.”

  “Craggily handsome? Ooh, wait. I can get rid of my two ‘Gs’ with that and put a ‘Y’ on a triple letter. Thanks.”

  She groaned. “Might have known you’d get sneaky and come up with a word that probably isn’t a word but I can’t challenge since I used it in a sentence two seconds ago. And you’re avoiding the issue.”

  “Issue?”

  “Yes. The Sebastian issue.”

  “Oh poo, Babs. The man believes that I—and you for that matter—spend half our waking hours bumping off folks. Do you really think it’s wise for me to get involved with someone who wants to put me behind bars and has a mother who sends invitations to someone she called an over-aged hooker?”

  “I don’t see the problem.”

  “You wouldn’t,” I muttered.

  “Meaning?”

  “You’re having a great time dating the son of a mob boss who sends sleazy lawyers named Vertigo Valentine to get you and your friends out of jail.”

  “And your point?”

  I pondered her question for a moment. “I don’t have one.”

  “Didn’t think so.”

  We grinned at each other.

  “I have to say, though, I did rather thoroughly enjoy the sight of Todd Kittredge looking pathetic at the Tenth Precinct even if the reason I was there was to be questioned about a murder in order to see that sight.” Babs stated rather convolutedly.

  “That was nice, wasn’t it? Truthfully, watching him dodging the reporters who were roaming around the station and fending off advances from male hookers was so delightful; we may have to keep him alive a bit longer. Come up with more humiliation.”

  “Ideas?”

  “Not yet. Something will hit although I’m not sure anything will top that spread on page six of multiple tabloids showing Todd in his scanties lying a few feet from Minerva.”

  “She scares me,” Bab muttered.

  “She’s dead.”

  “I know. But she’s the type who will have left something in her will that’s destructive. You watch. She’s a total villain ‘ess.’ Which, by the way I have.”

  “You have?”

  “Yes. That’ll be sixty-five points please.”

  “Crap! Had I known you were holding ‘esses’ I’d’ve come up with something unpluralable you couldn’t add to."

  “That’s not a word.”

  “Unpluralable? It should be. It’s very straightforward, don’t you agree?”

  Babs stopped just as she was depositing new tiles to her little letter tray. “That reminds me.”

  “What?”

  “Speaking of villains, although possibly not plural, I saw Fred the Ripper outside the building here when I was trudging through the snow from the subway.”

  “What? Who?”

  “Fred the Ripper. You know. The creepy guy who was dressed like he was good for a few choruses of ‘Top Hat’ a la Astaire, but has that whole Jake the Ripper aura around him.”

  “Oh shit.” I took a quick slug of my drink. “Are you sure?’ Wait. That’s stupid. Of course you’re sure. You have impeccable observational skills and you got a hard long look at the guy three days ago when he followed us to Kam’s from the police station.”

  She nodded. “He creeps me out. And he was definitely eyeing this building. I mean, maybe he was looking for a Ginger or a Cyd to take a few turns around the street in the snow with him but I don’t think so.”

  I shuddered. “More likely looking for an Anne or Mary Ann or Katherine—or a Bootsie to skewer. Who the hell is he? Why was he talking to Todd at the station? And why is he interested in me?”

  We stared at each other.

  “I have no answers, Bootsie.”

  I let out a whoosh of breath and stood up. “Enough.”

  “What?’

  “I’m going to put on my new violet coat that my best friend so generously gave me and I am going to go outside and I am going to ask Fred the Ripper who the hell he is and why he’s stalking me. Todd gave me so much grief in our last five years together about being a wimp and not standing up for myself—although when I did he just shot me down—anyway, screw it. I’m not going to sit here cowering in front of a Scrabble board while some jerk skulks around in the snow like a stinkin’ rat waiting for a mouse named Bootsie to appear.”

  Babs’ mouth dropped open, then she stood as well. “Shoot, woman. Whither thou goest, I goest with you. Standing up for yourself is all lovely and wonderful but if this guy is some kind of serial killer you’ll need the intrepid, albeit short, Ms. Babs by your side to aid in any fisticuffs or spitting.”

  We headed for the hall closet and began pulling out the scarves, sweaters, coats and gloves we’d need to be able to survive in the cold and snow. The cat followed, intent on swatting the large puff at the end of Babs’ ridiculously long muffler.

  “Maybe we should take Selina?” Babs asked. “Could be quite intimidating. Black cat. White snow. Pissed as hell for being outside in white snow. We could throw her at Mr. Creepy and run if things get tense.”

  We started down at the cat. She arched her back, glowered, then turned and stalked off toward the kitchen.

  I shook my head. “I’d say that’s a no. Wish I knew the squirrel from Clay’s funeral. Now that’s a scrapper I’d pay to have on my side in any fight.”

  “I keep imagining I’ll be walking down Broadway one afternoon and see the black lace hat just trotting along with a tail stuck out behind it.”

  We grinned at each other and finished donning our fighting apparel. I locked the door. We decided not to wait for the elevator and headed right for the stairs. Time to get our blood pumping if we were going to have a showdown with a killer.

  Chapter 18

  He noticed us the instant Rodrigo opened the door. How could he not? I was dressed like a giant plum and Babs like a ripe cherry tomato. This was good though. Fred the Ripper might not be too quick to murder two women who were already drawing attention from the hardy souls who’d braved the cold to make the most of a snowy Christmas afternoon and roam the city in search of pretty sights.

  He stared at us for a second, then turned and ran.

  “Shit.”

  “What do we do no
w?”

  Babs sighed. “We chase him. Hell. We’re out here, we might as well work off those bourbon balls with a little exercise.”

  “Through the snow.”

  “More calories that way.”

  “Oh jeez.”

  We ran. Mr. Top Hat was pretty easy to follow. The top hat bobbled as he bobbed and weaved his way down Christopher Street. Since we seemed to be the only three people in Manhattan dumb enough to be running through five foot drifts of snow, no one got in our way. No one stared or pointed or yelled or called the cops because anyone crazy enough to be outside assumed we were jogging to keep warm. So the chase stayed between this merry little trio of fox and two ‘just past middle aged’ hounds.

  And then—we lost him.

  “Where in blazes did he go?”

  Babs panted, “He must have ducked inside somewhere.”

  “Well, duh. The question is where? There are about forty doors on this street that look like they lead somewhere.”

  She closed her eyes turned around three times, then opened them and pointed. “That one.”

  “Why?”

  “Because fate will guide us. Because it’s close to the last place we saw him. Because I’m really cold and this is a café that appears to be open and if our killer isn’t inside we can still order some hot cocoa and scones or something and get dry for two seconds.”

  All excellent points. The first two weren’t terribly logical but the last two made up for that. And to be honest, I wasn’t really sure what to do if we did find our mysterious stalker. Pummel him with our mittened hands until he told us why he was mooning around us like a frat boy after a homecoming queen? Ply him with cocoa and scones until he explained his odd actions?

  I opened the door for Babs. “The guy’s probably six blocks away by now anyway. Ducked into the subway and is headed to Queens or something.”

  I was wrong. The instant we stepped inside the cozy little café I spotted the Ripper sitting at a small round table. He was clearly not surprised to see us, nor did he seem terribly agitated at the thought. He politely gestured for us to join him. We did.