Next up was a vision of Howard, aka The Great Krempowsky, in his top hat and black cape, pulling rabbits out of hat. Except that the rabbits were huge and they all looked like Todd. Rabbit after rabbit leapt up and ran to the edge of a huge stage, then suddenly turned into squirrels, then flew off into the theatre house while the only member of the audience, Clayton Harrison the Third, sat with arms folding muttering, “Scam, scam. Fraud, fraud. Get that squirrel!”
I figured I was passing into that state of between sleep and waking where nightmares turn to reality.
Then there was vision of the house Todd and I were inspecting with an eye toward buying. This was very real. The house had been very real. The house had also ultimately been bought by my dear ex during the divorce proceedings and was now the living quarters for Todd and Karalynn. It was a great house. Built in the 1880s in the Victorian style, what I’d call a four story since it boasted a basement (with a laundry room—nirvana to folks who’ve been dealing with Manhattan apartment building laundry facilities that consisted of three washers and two dryers for about 240 residents and usually at least two washers and one dryer broken) a first floor with kitchen, dining area, and living room, second floor with three bedrooms, and a livable attic. One attic window had had a view of Scarsdale and everything upstate. It even had its own ghost—the original owner who’d apparently been murdered by his wife. In my semi-conscious state I wondered if I could enlist his help and either scare Todd to death (literally) or just drive him loony by plopping cold spots in the middle of the bedroom and clanking chains at midnight.
Then things got weird. Well, the whole rabbit-squirrel nightmare wasn’t exactly un-weird. But perhaps summoning a ghost hadn’t been the best idea while enduring a half-waked stream of consciousness. Because suddenly the visions seemed very real. I could have sworn people were popping in and out of that bedroom, leaning over me and making not so nice statements.
“What happened to Minerva and Monica and Clay is nothing. You’re not the only one who can get away with murder.” “Sweet Cream Ladies? You’re about to become limited all right—permanently.”
Those last two comments knocked the remaining dregs of alcohol clean out of my system. I opened my eyes. I was alone in the bedroom.
The door opened. I slid off the bed and prepared to do battle.
“Oh good. You’re awake. It’s about twenty minutes ‘til The Great Kremposwsky’s show, so you have time to redo your make-up and get your ass downstairs.”
“Hi Babs.” I sank back down on the edge of the bed. “I’m not sure I’m ready for magic. Especially with Krempowsky who will probably find a way to contact Minerva and have her pop out of his top hat. Hell, I’m not even excited about ringing in the New Year. I’ve been having odd dreams here.”
“Oh?” She sat down beside me. “Such as?”
I told her about the memory bombs. Then I told her about the creepy line of nameless people who were making not-so-veiled threats.
“The thing is—I don’t believe I was dreaming. I was zonky but I could swear someone or more than one someone was saying that stuff. Especially about getting away with murder.”
Babs squinched her eyes at me. “Howard?”
“Well, he does think we killed Minerva so that’s possible. Unless Todd snuck someone into the party just to terrify and annoy me.”
She nodded. “Wouldn’t put it past him. Hmm. I wonder if all our new buddies are trustworthy?”
“Like?”
“I love them but how much do we really know about Kam, Pilar and Roger?”
“And . . .
She sighed. “Yes. And Joey. I must admit to some surprise when I discovered who daddy was. And then there’s Chuck. Whom I also love but who actually is still Todd’s agent and who let Minerva into his party.”
I groaned. “Oh my. We’re naming suspects.”
“We are. Who has motive to sneak into a room while Bootsie is sleeping off the effects of a short booze binge and scare the shit out of her?”
We stared at each other. Finally I said, “Well, as you’ve pointed out, all our suspects were in the vicinity of Chuck’s party during Minerva’s tumble from the roof. Everybody knew of our plans to bump off Monica and Minerva.”
“And Clay,” Babs added. “Don’t forget Clay.” She smiled grimly. “Although I’ve done my best to do just that for the last twenty-odd years. I must admit, evil as it sounds, I sleep sounder at night knowing he’s not going to ever talk to me again, yell at me again, call me names again,” she paused, “Or hit me again.”
I gave her a quick hug. “I can’t even imagine what you went through. Todd is a creep but at least he never laid a hand on me.”
We sat in silence for a few moments. I mused, “Vertigo? Or Tammy? Or both? We could put her on the suspect list. She might be pissed over Clay and the shark since she didn’t get to marry him and share in his earnings and she might have decided to take it out on me. After all you have Joey looking out for you. And Vertigo probably knew Minerva and hated her—he’s the type to have invested in her business and gotten rooked out of money.”
She snorted. “Tammy is taking care of Valentine in between cruising cigar shops for other rich older men. I can’t see her tossing fake psychics off roofs?”
“Cigar shops?”
“Yep. Clayton once told me he met more of his young bimbos in cigar stores than anywhere else. Apparently there was an article in some women’s magazine that said those were good places to hunt down wealthy males. Don’t ask. I didn’t really care to hear about the mating habits of the rich and horny.”
“Wow. The things I learn from you. Amazing.” I grinned at her. “Hey. I’m less creeped out now, though. Possibly ready to take on the world downstairs and watch Krempowsky pull rabbits out of his hat and even take one tiny sip of champagne at the stroke of midnight. As long as one of the suspects didn’t put poison in it.”
“Joey is guarding a bottle of good stuff for you, me and him,” Babs said. “And regardless of how little time he and I have known each other, I trust him not to kill either of us off tonight.”
“Comforting.” I got up and headed toward the restroom that adjoined this very luxurious bedroom. “Give me five. Don’t leave. I don’t want to make the trek down those stairs solo.”
“Gotcha.”
I made myself presentable in five minutes. Babs and I sauntered out into the empty hall then paused at the top of the stairs to check out the action in what I was calling the ballroom of the Carmosina mansion.
And action was the apt term.
Lionel, Vinny, Vito, Tony, Guido and Carmine were lined up on one side of the room. Hands were in pockets, in suspenders, or behind backs.
Opposite the buddies or cohorts or bodyguards of Giuseppe Carmosina stood one man. Hands at his side, rather casually dressed for the evening in jeans, white shirt and a black tux jacket, stood Detective Sebastian Laramie.
Chapter 2 2
“Why is Sebastian Laramie in Giuseppe Carmosina’s living room looking as though he’s about to reenact the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre with five thugs glaring at him. Doesn’t he know it’s New Year’s Eve and he’s the only non-thug down there?” I whispered to Babs.
“It is looking a bit dodgy in the corral. But Joey’s waving at us and appears cheerful so perhaps all parties will keep guns holstered until whatever needs sorting out gets sorted out,” she responded.
We cautiously made our way down the stairs. Sebastian spotted us when we’d reached the mid-way mark and strolled over to greet us once we’d hit the bottom step.
“Ladies.”
“Detective.”
“Now, now. Let’s make it Sebastian. I’m not here in any official capacity—yet.” He smiled.
“Not that it isn’t lovely to see you, but if you don’t mind my asking, why are you here?” I inquired.
“Joey Carmichael invited me.”
Joey had joined our trio by this time. He nodded. “I did. Heard through various
grapevines that the good detective was not working the crowds in Times Square or any other spot in Manhattan and thought he might enjoy mingling with various suspects in a friendly setting.”
I pointed to the quintet of wannabe mobsters. “Friendly?”
Joey grinned. “They’ve been told to play nice. And as for Detective Laramie—no hunting for concealed firearms, right?”
Sebastian's right eyebrow lifted ever so slightly. “I do not have a warrant to hunt for concealed firearms. So I couldn’t use what I found anyway. But Joey, you might mention to your father’s—guests—that they should keep anything that needs concealing concealed. There are those pesky rules criminals hate to admit exist about plain view that I’d prefer not to invoke.” He turned to me. “I understand from Joey that you’ve had an encounter with Minerva’s brother?”
“Oh yeah. To be totally factual, I’ve now had two run-ins. And a weird nightmare that might have been real, which was creepy enough to make me consider heading to Times Square to be with the comfort of two million people. But that’s beside the point. Both encounters with Howard took place near food, which is rather interesting. Both encounters were less than appetizing although the food each time was damned good. Which reminds me, now that I’m awake and still trying to get over the effects of the five, count ‘em, five vodka tonics I drank much too fast, I’m going to head over to the veggie table and stoke up.” I inhaled. “Uh. Care to accompany me?’
“Love to. I’ll toss a charming smile to the Carmosina—guests—who are watching my every move. How the hell do they know who I am, anyway?” Laramie growled. “Do I have a giant tattoo on my forehead that reads, ‘serious police presence—do not pass go unless you want to find your butt in jail.’?”
I grinned at him. “I’m sure most of these guys have posters of New York’s finest on dartboards in their basements. Or yearbooks of cops on their bookshelves at home with pictures. They’ve been memorizing who’s who and in what precinct since they were old enough to read.”
He winked at me. “That assumes they’re literate. I’d be more apt to buy the dartboard theory.”
We sauntered arm in arm past the ‘boys.’ I noticed that Lionel, who might have broken my newly virgin status if Babs and Joey hadn’t wisely gotten an emotional Bootsie away from the kid, wasn’t part of the gang. I glanced around and spotted him chatting up a very young, very attractive lady wearing a very tight, very low-cut, very pink mini dress. She was sipping a very colorful drink that matched her outfit and probably had more fruit than punch. Smart. She didn’t appear to want rescuing and I figured Bab and Joey would let Lionel have this particular conquest.
We reached the veggie table. I piled a plate high. So did Sebastian. He nodded toward a couple of empty chairs not far from French doors that led outside into the Carmosina garden. “Shall we? We have a few minutes before Howard Krempowsky takes the stage or floor or wherever he plans to do his mezemering.”
“Sure.”
We sat. We ate. We drank non-alcoholic sodas. Mine was as caffeinated as I could make it.
“So, Detective Laramie . . .” I began.
“Can we make it Sebastian so I won’t feel the need to arrest anyone or duck from glaring potential felons?” he countered.
I grinned at him. “Sure. So. Sebastian. What’s your story? Bio? Resumé?”
“You met my mother. That should tell you everything you need to know.”
I chuckled. “Were you part of Lorelei’s Christmas present buying brigade?”
He groaned. “Not until the end. The wrapping and mailing. I came close to committing a small misdemeanor and stealing the DVDs out of the box to give some deserving child on the street but Mom convinced me you needed to get your Peter Pan back on.”
“I think I love your mother but I also think it’s going to take a lot more than a few movies showing a kid in green tights flying through the air for me to rejuvenate.” I nudged him. “You’ve managed to change the subject from the original ‘tell me your life history’ question.’”
“I did?” Sebastian smiled. “I guess I did. Okay. If you must have the scoop, here it is in a few words. Born in Brooklyn, raised in Brooklyn, escaped to college in Colorado, came back and decided as long as the family was pissed at me for not joining the bricklayers union I’d really get ‘em riled by becoming a cop. So I did.”
“Why Colorado?” I asked.
“It wasn’t Brooklyn. And the University of Colorado has a great music department. Believe it or not, I was considering becoming a concert violinist. Hard to imagine, right? Anyway, I decided I was good but not great, which seemed to be the general consensus of the music school so I bowed to their expertise and decided to do something that would earn me a living while also making me believe I was occasionally doing some good for society. Let’s see. Been a cop for twenty-four years and actually have convinced myself I do a nice job. Have never had to shoot anyone. That’s a plus. Have put some really bad people away and tried to keep some marginal ‘I could become a criminal or not’ folks from going down the wrong path.”
“So . . . marriage?”
“I’m in favor of it. For everyone, gay or straight, which makes me a flaming liberal lunatic amongst many of my more conservative blue brethren.”
“Not what I meant and you know it.”
“Yes, Ms. Kittredge. I was married once. For a whopping ghastly sixteen months before my spouse decided she hated being a cop’s wife and preferred a life in with a Hedge Fund CEO. Thankfully, no kids and not because I wouldn’t have liked a few but because that would have been traumatic watching their parents fight over money or lack thereof.”
“Got it. Sorry.”
He smiled at me. “I’m over it. It was twenty years ago after all. One generally does get over a divorce.”
“So when I’m seventy-five I’ll be chipper and cheery again?”
He stared into my eyes. “Bootsie, you’ll be fine. Sooner than you believe. You don’t love Todd. You may have once upon a time but you don’t now and what you’re dealing with is that nasty hurt from rejection and feeling like you were played for a fool. I get it.”
My eyes watered. “I guess it would help if my nose weren’t rubbed into the greatness of Todd’s life now that I’m no longer in it. Sorry. That sounded whiney, didn’t it?”
Sebastian patted my hand. “It’s okay. I understand.”
“Thanks. Okay—tell me exciting stories about the Tenth Precinct. Any major cases you yourself personally solved all by your little lonesome?”
“Dozens.” He grinned. “Believe it or not, crime has been down the last few years. I'm aware that you watch every crime drama on TV that’s set in New York but believe or not, we don’t have homicides on a weekly basis that get wrapped up in an hour. Or less, if one counts commercial breaks. We hadn’t seen any major murderous sprees until the Sweet Cream Ladies got rolling a couple of weeks ago.”
“Limited.”
“The spree?”
“No. The name of the—whatever—group, association, corporation, partnership. It’s Sweet Cream Ladies, Limited.”
“I stand corrected.”
I glared at him. “So you’re still blaming Babs and me for all the murders?”
“Possibly. You must admit it’s pretty suspicious that all three victims were on your list and that they died as planned on that list.”
“Ha! Minerva didn’t. Nutmeg and a bungee jump off the roof without a cord were to be the cause of Todd’s demise. And since he’s not demised that obviously didn’t go as the list laid out. So there.”
“And what went wrong?”
“Interrogating me, Detective?”
“No, no. Merely curious. No Miranda warnings. No harsh lights and thumbscrews.”
“Yeah.” I smiled then noticed activity on the other side of the room. “Uh oh. Magic time.”
“What?”
“Krempowsky. You did hear he was going to perform didn’t you?”
“Do you want to
move closer to his stage?" Sebastian asked.
“No way. I’m quite happy right here. I have no desire to be drafted as and find myself sawed in half. With the way my life has been going, he’ll use a real saw and a box that doesn’t have whatever fake interior is needed for the victim—uh-volunteer—not to get skewered and I’ll end up as a shish-kabob.”
We stayed where we were and watched Howard gesture for the lights to be dimmed. The show began.
Howard was good, too. Very entertaining. He did indeed pull a rabbit or two out of his top hat. He asked for a volunteer to be lasered in half by something that smacked of light swords a la Star Wars. The attractive girl who’d so quickly become my replacement in Lionel’s affections gigglingly offered her services and managed to come out alive and still chortling with glee. Lionel himself agreed to be levitated and Howard even passed a few rings across his body to show the ‘no wires’ bit. I was impressed.
Twenty minutes in and Lionel back on his feet. Howard held up his hand for silence. “Ladies and gentlemen. At this point in my show I normally entertain, amuse and astound with feats of mental acuity, borrowing watches from members of the audience and telling them stories about their grandparents and aunts in Kansas and suggesting whom they should or should not marry. But tonight, because we have such—celebrated guests, I thought I’d shake things up a bit and conduct a wide séance.”
“Did he just say a wild séance?” I whispered to Sebastian.
He shook his head. “He said wide. Although I’m not sure what the difference is.”
Howard smiled directly at the two of us as though he’d heard our quick exchange. “I call this a wide séance because, instead of small group sitting around a large table holding hands, I simply ask for complete silence among a wider audience and allow the spirits to speak to me without imploring some poor Sixteenth Century Native American guide to return from the dead and mumble pat answers to me, which I pass on to you. No. This is more—direct. I talk to the dead. I get answers.”
Howard raised his other hand. Not a sound was heard in a roomful of people who’d imbibed more alcohol than Yankees fans after a ten-inning game. He shut, then opened his eyes, then casually walked over to Lionel and his newly intact girlfriend.
Sweet Cream Ladies, Ltd. Page 14