Sweet Cream Ladies, Ltd.

by Flo Fitzpatrick

  “I’m being good, Bootsie. Apart from the fact that my arm hurts as though a bullet was recently removed from it—which it was—I do not want to start something I’d rather not finish in the middle of my mother’s living room. You need to go. So, go. Call if anyone is struck by a brilliant thought and stay safe.”

  “Fine.” I had my hand on the doorknob, but turned and laid a true kiss on the lips of Mr. Laramie. “More later.”

  I quickly opened the door and trotted off after Babs and Joey who were politely waiting for me at the gate of the Laramie senior's property.

  “Whacha’ll think? Brooklyn on St. Paddy’s Day—how long is it going to take us to get back into Manhattan?”

  “Not long,” was Joey’s answer. “Subway is our best—and cheapest—bet. The drunks at the bars won’t be leaving for at least another three hours or so. The train will be empty.”

  He was wrong. Not about the train being fast but about the cars being empty. We were barely able to find empty seats in the car we’d chosen, which was at the very end of the train. Conversation, speculation or investigation was impossible. That was fine. I was talked out anyway.

  Babs and Joey cuddled close, to the amusement of a group of teenagers in leprechaun hats who obviously thought that anyone past the age of nineteen had forgotten what sex, love or lust was all about. I smiled at Babs, smiled at the kids, then closed my eyes and tried to bring to the fore the little piece of itchy information currently lying dormant that I knew would crack the case of who killed Monica, Clay and Minerva and tried to frame Babs and me—and maybe Joey.

  I woke up when Babs prodded my shin with her boot-encased foot. “Hey! Wake up. We’re at Forty-second Street. You can crash at home.”

  I managed to get to my feet and the doors before fifteen people crowded through them to on their way in, then followed Babs and Joey up the stairs to the street. I’m not usually terribly sensitive to creepy things but this day I felt something was off. A presence walking behind me that was wrong. I slowly turned my head and glanced out of the corner of my eyes to see if Lionel, Todd, Mr. C. or if 15 hookers were behind me. Useless. The crowd in the street was as heavy as the packed subway car.

  Nonetheless, I quickly caught up to Babs and Joey. “Guys? I think someone’s following us.”

  “How the hell can you tell?” Babs asked. “There could be a hundred naked leprechauns doing backflips down the street after us and we’d never know.” She grinned. “Interesting imagery though, doncha think?”

  “Maybe if you’re a brownie or a pixie,” I snarled. “And there really is someone other there other than a short green dude hankering after a pot of gold. I have that knife-between-shoulder-blades feeling I had the day Todd informed me that the marriage was over. Although even if someone is following us I don’t know what we can do about it. I’m so tired I’m not sure I’d care if whomever is out there nonchalantly heads on up the elevator with us with a signed confession in hand.”

  I finished my brave statement and shoved open the door to our apartment building. I heard a weird whizzing sound. Joey clutched his shoulder and cried, “I think I’ve been shot!”

  Babs froze. I shoved the two of them inside our building and sort of tackled Babs to the floor. Joey was already there. Three tall gentlemen were in the lobby. I screamed “Get down! “They were obviously well trained actors who follow directions—they ducked while simultaneously screaming in terror.

  “Cell phone! Anybody?” I yelled.

  A shot came through the glass door. All six of us screamed and tried to bury ourselves into the floor.

  A guy I recognized from sharing the laundry room with me on more than occasion raised his phone at me but kept it low. Jimmy somebody. “I’m calling 9-1-1! Now!”

  “Great!” I glanced at a white-faced Babs and a bleeding Joey. “Do you guys think you can crawl to the elevator? Like super fast?” They nodded but didn’t speak. I looked back at the three others now involved in this scene who’d been about to enter that elevator. “Can y’all wait ‘til we get over there, then hit the button? It should still be on this floor since no one else rang for it.”

  Nods all around. Everyone was remaining amazingly calm and clear-headed. I hid an inappropriate smile when I realized the reason for that might be that the three actors, all dressed in garishly forest green leprechaun gear including curled up shoes and buckled bowler hats, were quite clearly royally soused after a long day’s outing at the closest bar and probably weren’t totally cognizant of the fact that all of us in the lobby were in grave danger of being killed by some lunatic sniper who might be right outside the door.

  Babs, helping a wounded Joey, and I scuttled across the lobby as quickly as we were able while remaining on the floor—rather like crabs on a beach avoiding a large pot of boiling water. My buddy with the cell phone used it to tap the elevator button and all six of us crawled inside and quickly punched close. We stared at each other.

  “Damn! Whathe hell's goin’ on?” Jimmy asked. “I’m sure we pay—uh—paid our tab at O’Halloran’s afor we leff.”

  His two friends remained speechless, but nodded.

  “It’s not you,” I told them. “Some sonovabitch is after us.”

  “Why?” asked the shortest leprechaun who appeared to be about six two.

  I sighed. “If we knew that we’d be safe and he or she would be behind bars. Uh, punch ten, would you? And does that cell work in here?”

  Jimmy punched the button for the 10th floor. “Ya wanna make 'nother call?”

  “Well, since we’re not in the lobby I thought it might be prudent to let the paramedics and cops know where to go so they don’t spend fifteen minutes hunting.”

  Babs eyed me with admiration. “Good thinking. Damn. How are you staying so sharp? I’m a puddle here.”

  “I’m always great in the first moments of a crisis, remember? It’s after that I turn into not-so-well preserved jelly.” I punched numbers into the cell and held up my hand for silence. “Sebastian? We need a little help here.” I explained the situation to him, then handed the phone back to Jimmy and stated before anyone could ask why I hadn’t called 9-1-1 again, “Figured he could get the action to us faster than me trying to tell a dispatcher this was a follow-up.”

  We had reached the 10th floor. Jimmy and friends helped a very weakened Joey out and held him upright while I opened the door to the apartment, then all three lifted him and brought him inside to the living room sofa.

  The three absurdly tall leprechauns then stood silently, not sure what to do at this point.

  “Guys? Take a seat if you want and I’ll make some coffee. The paramedics should be here shortly along with half of NYPD’s finest and I’m sure they’ll have a question or two for you—or do you want to get to your apartment and change first? I can send them to you after they’re done with us.”

  Jimmy, who either was the less pickled of the trio or had been unanimously appointed spokesman through some silent communication I hadn’t noticed, responded for all of the boys in green, “We’ll head on up. 1224 D. I don wanna desire to be talkin' to cops lookin' like I’m ready to sing “When I’m Not With the Girl I Love” from Finian’s Rainbow—which, by the way, I did last year in a wonderful dinner theatre somewhere in Michigan. Or Minnesota. Or Missouri. Some ol' place with an 'm.'”

  I grinned, thinking how nice it was to be in the Actors building, then handed Jimmy the doggie bag I’d managed to hang onto throughout the chaos downstairs. “Here. In thanks for your heroics. The bread pudding is awesome.”

  He hugged me then motioned to the silent duo. “Yo! Guys. We’re gone.”

  And they were.

  Babs, suddenly began to cry. “He’s not moving!”

  That was true. But it wasn’t as awful as it sounded. Joey was obviously alive. His chest was rising and falling and his mouth was sucking in air.

  Joey had simply gotten smart enough to pass out.

  Chapter 37

  It appeared as though it wa
s going to be a dejá vu again session only two hours after the last ‘whodunnit’ game we’d participated in at the Laramie house in Brooklyn. I was ready to theorize and muse and use charts if necessary until we figured out who was stalking, who was framing and most important—who was doing the shooting and the killing. There were only three participants to start the game of reality Clue this time. Joey had been taken out on a stretcher to the nearest emergency room. Babs had tried, in vain, to be allowed to accompany the ambulance but three police officers, plus me, had convinced her that she needed to calm down, then head on over to the ER to wait instead of hassling the poor EMTs who didn’t need the distraction of tending to a wacked-out weeping and wailing Ms. Harrison for the twenty blocks it would take to arrive at St. Luke’s-Roosevelt Hospital.

  “Sit,” I sternly told her. “Wait. Scratch that. Go take a shower and give your bloody clothes to one of these lovely forensic guys here, then come back in and I’ll have tea ready for you.”

  She complied because she was still in too much shock to argue. I collected the clothes she modestly dropped outside the bathroom door (after she’d gone inside) and handed them to some crime scene kid who looked about twelve.

  Sebastian nodded at me. “You too.”

  “Me too, what?”

  “Clothes. You’re so busy being stalwart and strong you might not have noticed but that cream-colored top has a whole mess of red mixed in.”

  I glanced down. He was right. He was also right that I was being stalwart and strong, but somehow seeing Joey’s blood on me ended the fantasy that I was calm in a crisis. I sank to the floor and began to shake, then to sob. The shaking and sobbing lasted the full ten minutes Babs was in the shower. Sebastian didn’t say a word. He didn’t try to stop me. He didn’t try to hold me. He quietly discussed something with the teenage forensic detective and let me get all hysterics out of the way.

  I finally stopped when Babs came back into the living room wearing blue capri pants, high-heeled boots, a pink sweater and a black jacket with “St. Ignatius High School” on the back. I believe that was an old letter jacket belonging to a boyfriend Babs had when she was sixteen who apparently had never been concerned that she absconded with his jacket after graduation. She looked like she was ready to play an elderly version of Rizzo in a bad production of Grease. She hadn’t a clue what she’d put on and I didn’t bother to enlighten her.

  Sebastian helped me to my feet, using his good arm, then shooed me off to follow Babs’ example (at least as concerned getting cleaned and giving up my clothes—I was pretty sure he’d prefer I emerged in something with a bit more class than my best friend’s incomprehensible ensemble.)

  I took my time. Babs was obviously still not in her right mind so there was no point in rushing over to the hospital. I scrubbed my body and I shampooed my hair and put a nice moisturizing rinse on it and got out and very carefully redid my make-up. Our bathroom connects the main bedroom and the junior bedroom so I was able to go right to my closet and pick out a pair of black jersey travel pants (very slimming) and a green pullover sweater than brought out the strawberry in my hair. I took the time to dry my hair so I wouldn’t look like I’d just stuck my finger in an electric socket. A touch of mousse and spray and I was ready. Strong. Stalwart. And once again furious beyond all measure that someone was messing with my friends and me.

  No one from the forensic team was in the living room. I must admit I was glad. All nice and efficient and kind but I didn’t want to have to put a front for anyone. I was in a mixed state of angry, scared and staving off another bout of hysterics. It would be easier on everyone if Sebastian and Babs were the only persons there if any of the above emotions took over.

  “You look very nice,” Sebastian stated.

  “Thank you. So, are we on our way to the hospital to see how Joey’s doing?” I asked. “And I know this is a dumb question but any report on our free-wheeling shooter?”

  “He’s great,” was Sebastian’s response. “Joey, that is. Don’t know about the shooter since we still don’t know his identity but Joey is being well taken care of. I called the hospital in my official capacity as a detective and asked for a report and learned from a nurse buddy of mine that that the bullet is out of his forearm, he’s still conked from the anesthetic, resting comfortably in the ICU where they’d prefer no one visit for the next six to eight hours and will probably be released late tomorrow afternoon if he’s given some time to heal. Oh, and apparently he regained consciousness in the ambulance long enough to comment he was very glad he was the one to have taken the bullet and not his wonderful Babs.”

  Babs smiled. It was a weak smile but it was better than a growl, hysterics or words not heard in the Bible. “I really, really want to find out who’s behind all this and I really, really want my first official killing as a sweet cream lady to be taking out that person by means a lot less kind than a bite from a bee, chomp from a shark or a nutmeg-induced trip off a roof.”

  “Wasp,” I stated absently.

  Sebastian bit his lip. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t just hear Babs Harrison plotting murder although I must say I sympathize with her intentions.”

  I sank down into the comfortable ugly chair. No one wanted to use the sofa since it was soaked with Joey’s blood and I assumed the forensic team would take it away and hopefully burn it once they were done establishing that the blood was indeed his and not some other victim of violence since Babs and I seemed to be attracting them lately.

  Babs didn’t sit. She paced. Sebastian plopped down into my great-aunt’s old rocking chair I’d rescued from storage. For a moment there was silence.

  I sat up straight. “Oh my.”

  “Yes?” came from Sebastian.

  “Mr. C.”

  “What about him?”

  “Well, he and Joey aren’t like the most affectionate team of father and son on the planet but someone needs to tell him about what happened.”

  Sebastian shook his head. “Done and done. I called him on my way over here. I’m sure he’s at the hospital trying to bully his way into seeing the son and heir, which is another reason Babs doesn’t need to be there. A Romeo and Juliet scene is not needed at this point.”

  Babs scowled. “I would never create a scene in the ICU. Classy is my middle name.”

  “Unlike your outfit,” I muttered without bothering to lower my volume.

  “Huh?”

  “Go to the mirror, Harrison, and then try to refrain from a few choruses of 'There are Worse Things I Could Do.'” I snickered. “You and Vertigo’s associate would make fantastic honorary Pink Ladies.”

  She ended a bout of pacing in front of the antique mirror we’d hung above the sofa. “Oh shit. How the hell did I end up in this?”

  “Shock.”

  “I need to change before I go outside. If a producer caught sight of me I’d never work again.”

  She whirled around and headed for her bathroom. I grinned at Sebastian. “I wonder what the statute of limitations is on stolen letter jackets from forty-odd years ago?”

  Sebastian wisely ignored me although I did hear the hint of a snicker being stifled before he coughed, then said, “She’s right about one thing. We need to figure out who killed Monica, Minerva, Clay, shot Todd, tried to shoot Carmosina and shot me instead and then shot Joey and I suppose must have a reason behind all these actions other than dislike of the way we all wear our clothes or something equally inane.”

  “Wait.”

  “What?”

  “Something is tickling my brain.”

  Sebastian did snicker then. “Tickling your brain? That’s kinky, Ms. Boots.”

  “Just to you, Laramie,” I shot back. “Spending too much time at the Feather and Fur S& M bondage store on Forty-fifth Street?”

  “How the hell do you even know though that place exists?” He glared at me.

  “How the hell old do you think I am and how long do you think I’ve lived here?” I paused for a second, “Now hang on and
let me think. Something about clothes. And Babs. And Grease. Or other shows.”

  I started humming “It’s Raining on Prom Night” which had been an audition song of mine ages ago when I was young enough to still be considered for any or all Pink Ladies even though it’s supposed to be a duet. I closed my eyes and let songs from various shows I’d seen or been in drift into my head while I tried to figure out what that innocent tickle in the brain meant. I opened my eyes and stared around the room, not noticing anything until I hit the ridiculously huge plant that took up half the space underneath the window. Babs and I had been intending to find a better space for it since it messed up any chance of sitting on the window seat and enjoying the view but we’d been a bit busy with other projects and avoiding shootings. I wasn’t sure now why it was drawing my gaze but suddenly I was singing the title song to Little Shop of Horrors and suddenly the tickle became a huge honkin’ ‘Yo! This is it!’ in my brain.

  I jumped up. “Audrey!”

  “Audrey who?” came from both Sebastian and Babs who was back in the living now dressed more appropriately in jeans and a cute pink sweater.

  “One.”

  “What?”

  “Audrey One. Not Two. Little Shop of Horrors. As in the bimbo who sings the duet 'Suddenly Seymour' and that I was lucky enough to get to play in dinner theatre back when I had the figure for the role.”

  Sebastian winked at me. “I think you still do and would be more than happy to sing with you but right now I’d like to believe you haven’t gone on some deep end and you actually have a reason for bringing up the show and the female lead?”

  “Oh yeah. It just hit me. It’s been nagging at me ever since Monica Travers died. And it nagged even more the day Babs and I had to do the line-up. But the nag is gone and the memory is solid.”

  “Go on, dammit! What are you trying to say?” came from the other two people in the room in a neat chorus.

  “Audrey. With the sundresses and the look of a serious Monroe gangster’s moll. Jean. Vertigo Valentine's associate. She was at Maria’s with some other blonde Audrey wannabe sitting one table away from us the night Babs and I told the world all our plans for how we were going to supposedly kill off Monica Travers, Clay Harrison and Todd Kittredge. There were a bunch of actors there that night in costume and I didn’t really remember faces. But anyway, it was the night Babs announced to the restaurant she and I were now the Sweet Cream Ladies.”