“What?” she mouthed.
I pointed toward the door of Jean’s office and mouthed back, “Someone’s coming. Can you get the lamp?”
“Shit!” She quickly clicked the light off. “Wait. Maybe it’s some poor paralegal coming to pick up documents?”
“In the middle of the night? Not on your life. We’re in trouble.”
Babs pointed. “Desk! It’s huge. Let’s duck down and hide in case whoever it is coming in here.”
I nodded. We ran and scrunched down behind the desk. Babs whimpered. “My knees are not going to be happy after this. Dang. Could be time to quit eating eggplant.”
I stared at her. “What the hell are you rambling about? And keep it to a soft whisper.”
“Arthritis. Night shade veggies are supposed to be bad for arthritis.”
“Do you even have arthritis?” I asked.
She winked at me. “No idea. Just sounds classier than saying I’m too chubby which is why my knees may never allow me to stand if I stay in this squat longer than one minute.”
I held my finger to my lips. I could hear the door opening and the footsteps grow silent as they stepped onto the plush rug in Jean’s office.
“Forget squatting, ladies. I know you’re here.”
Tammy.
We rose. I smiled. “Hey, Tammy! What on earth on you doing here at two-whatever in the morning?”
“I'm asking you the same thing.” She calmly switched on the overhead. I felt extremely exposed.
“Oh.” I tried to think. Babs, for once, had no words. She was looking up at me with terror in her eyes as she tried not to run her hands through her hair until it stood on end—a habit she has when she’s nervous. And it hit me. An excuse.
“Oh. Uh. Babs lost her earring when we were in the office the other day. So we thought as long as we were awake and bored we’d come look for it.”
It was a stupid excuse, filled with more holes than London’s Albert Hall but it didn’t matter. Tammy didn’t care why we were there. She was too thrilled with cornering us. The look on her face mirrored the expression she had when she’d tried to tackle the squirrel at Clay’s funeral. It wasn’t pretty.
“Forget it, Bootsie. I’m tired of playing games with you two losers anyway.” She calmly reached into her beaded evening bag (which horribly clashed with her latest Marilyn Monroe ensemble) and pulled out a small gun. I didn’t know what caliber it was, whether it was what folks called a “Saturday Night Special” back in the 1970s or if it was a St. Paddy’s Day Surprise. It was pointed at me. It was pointed at Babs. It was pointed at us. I wasn’t happy.
“Tammy! What the hell are you doing? And why?”
“What I’m doing is putting an end to something I started back in December and should have finished. Monica Travers. Clayton Harrison the Third. No one is buying my frame-up of your stupid little club. Plus, I really just don’t like either of you.”
Wacked. She was wacked. Armed, dangerous and wacked. A triple threat. Time to resort to the age old ‘get ‘em talking’ so you can escape routine. Also, I was curious as to the 'why' and the 'how' of this supposedly brainless female getting away with three murders and three shootings.
“Why? I mean—Monica and the others?” I inquired gently.
Tammy snorted. It wasn’t ladylike but then I suppose killing three people, shooting two others and prepping for an explanation before killing two more wasn’t listed under ways to behave with class. “Fine. It’s very simple, really. Monica, as you both know, was schtupping every producer from here to—wherever.” (Not great with words, our Tammy. She could have at least tried to come up with a few analogies. "Here to Cannes." "Here to the Tonys." "Here-to-fore." I pulled my focus back to what she obviously felt were logical and rational reasons for murder.) “The last affair happened to be with my ex-fiancé and I didn’t appreciate it since he wasn’t an ex before Monica got a hold of him. Then I made the mistake of hinting to Clay that I’d been the maid with the basket of wasps because I thought he'd think it was funny but he decided he didn’t want to marry me anymore. After all the trouble I’d gone to to meet him and snag him! Bastard. He had to go since he knew about Monica. Thankfully, you two had already come up with some great ideas. I was there, you know.”
“Where?”
“Maria’s restaurant. Jean and I were having a drink together and we heard Babs talking about how the pair of you were going to be hit women. I knew you wouldn’t go through with it. Neither of you has the guts. But I knew I could.” Her voice, which wasn’t exactly musical and lilting on a good day, had flattened to a near monotone. She sounded disinterested. Not a good sign. No passion doubtless equaled no mercy.
I shivered but ventured another question. “Why Minerva? And did you shoot Todd and Detective Laramie and Joey? And if so—why?”
She smiled. It was a sneaky smile—one of those “I know something you don’t” sneers that junior-high school female bullies who lead cliques get when they’re ready to start a whisper campaign about the new girl that generally involves rumors of sleeping with the football team, and the coach of girls’ volleyball, while simultaneously letting the snake out of the biology class and giving it a new home in the vice-principal’s wastebasket. “I had a little help. Especially with Minerva. You didn’t imagine one person could handle all those people did you? Not to mention sneaking into your tacky new apartment to check for more great ideas you might have left on a computer."
Babs finally spoke. “Jean?”
Tammy laughed. Wait. That doesn’t quite express the reality. What she did was cackle. She sounded like every wicked witch in every scary fairy tale from Grimm to the Wizard of Oz. “Jean? Seriously? That wimp! Jean is clueless. She wouldn’t have helped me anyway. The only thing she did was remark that—uh—scenario I think she called it—that you guys came up with sounded like a brilliant way to bump people off.”
“You and Jean are just good friends, then, yes? Not partners in bumping those people off?”
“We’re cousins. Didn’t you notice the resemblance? Well, I guess not or you wouldn’t ask.”
Now that she’d mentioned it I could see traces of similarity in looks. The big eyes, the perfect upturned noses, the heart-shaped face. The fashion sense, if one wanted to call it fashion. The bleached-blonde giant 1980s hair was also the same but anyone with a bottle of peroxide and a curling brush could copy that look. But I’d never seen that very distinct expression of madness, combined with sheer evil, in Jean’s eyes.
I was persistent. Or nosy. “So. Not Jean then. Who’s been helping you?”
A male voice boomed from out of the shadow of the doorway. “I have.”
I recognized the voice before I saw the face. “Howard.”
He stepped next to Tammy and bowed. “At your service.”
“Well, well. So you killed your own sister? Damn, man, that’s beyond cold,” I stated.
Babs poked me in the side and whispered, “Don’t provoke him.”
I glanced down at her. “Seriously? You think anything we say will change the fact that he and Tammy are here with murder on their demented little minds? Plus Howard lied to us and to Sebastian. He said he didn’t kill Minerva.”
Silence as three people in the room stared at me in sheer amazement. Babs spoke first. “Bootsie, for someone who says she doesn’t trust, you are still the most gullible person on the planet. I mean— the man is a murderer but you can’t believe he lied?”
“It is a bit paradoxical, I suppose. I’m extremely disappointed anyway. I believed him and even took him off my suspect list after he told us that.”
Howard blinked. “I must agree with your friend. For a smart woman, Ms. Kittredge, you are naive to the enth degree. And by the way, I don’t appreciate either the words 'demented' or 'little' but you have indeed nailed the purpose of our visit.”
“How’d you know we’d be here?” I asked.
“Followed you. One or the other of us has been following you for weeks. I
stopped when you confronted me and Tammy took up the cause. When we were afraid you’d notice, I stepped in again. Had to leave my top hat at home for those duties since you’d’ve been too quick to spot me.”
“Okay. You too are amazing in your ability to lurk and stalk without notice. But back to my original question, why your sister?”
“Oh for the love of Pete, Bootsie, don’t you get it?” (What I didn’t get was who in the 21st Century says love of Pete but I wasn’t about to bring up stupid anachronisms at this point in the scene.) “I’m no different from any of your friends who were rooked out of thousands of dollars by Minerva. She did the same to me in other ways. Pretending she would back my show. Then after I’d spent those thousands renting space and equipment she said, 'No way.' But she had one good trait. Our parents left a considerable fortune to Minerva. She added to it and in a moment of family solidarity willed it to me. I met Tammy when I was auditioning young ladies to be my assistant last October before Minerva pulled the plug and sent me back to that dive on John Street. Tammy and I grew better—acquainted—and when she filled me in on the plans of the Sweet Cream Ladies, it seemed the perfect opportunity for us both to join forces and be rid of the people who’d harmed us the most.”
I wasn’t sure what was creeping me out more. The fact that this pair had killed three people, that they were planning to add two more to the list—that would be Babs and me—or that Howard and Tammy were lovers. I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to get within three feet of the Great Krempowsky, much less engage intimate activities. Then again, Tammy wasn’t exactly known for being discriminating in her choice of romantic partners.
Babs had finally retrieved a normal speaking voice. “Why the shootings? Todd and Detective Laramie and . . ." that voice trembled, “Joey.”
Howard nodded. “Todd was a favor for Bootsie. I don’t like him. He’s an arrogant, narcissistic sonovabitch.”
“Got that right,” I muttered.
“The detective was a bit of a mistake. It was obvious he wasn’t going to arrest either of you ladies for the murders or Todd’s shooting. I let Tammy do the shooting again even though she missed with Todd. He was supposed to die. As was the original intended target in Staten Island.”
I couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t even ask about Joey. So Babs took up the slack. “Why Joey? And who was the intended target? Mr. C?”
“One and the same. The idea was for Carmosina to be shot and Vertigo Valentine to be blamed.” Howard inclined his head toward Tammy. “A really brilliant plan if I do say so myself because everyone would be asking who had motive to kill Carmosina outside from other business associates. It's well known in the Carmosina circles that Vertigo Valentine will take over the business when Carmosina dies. One glitch. I discovered that Joey is still in the will. That’s the nice thing about having one of Vertigo’s associates in the family, so to speak. Jean gave Tammy a key to this office so she could pop in and wait for her on those many occasions the girls chose to go out to dinner or shop or have their little spa days. Tammy gave it to me and I found the Carmosina will. Apparently Mr. C. had not given up hope that Joey will recant his shameful desire to be in the theatre and will follow in Dad’s footsteps one day. Everything was left to Joey. But if Joey died intestate or was found guilty of Daddy’s murder—well all would revert to Valentine. And Tammy has already been working her considerable charms on the man. We were planning a wedding and a quick funeral.”
“My God. This is the most convoluted b.s. I’ve ever heard!” I exclaimed. “All this for what? Money?”
Tammy and Howard nodded and smiled an exact same smile at the exact same time. That’s when I knew we were in deeper doo-doo than the cow pasture behind my grandparents’ farm out in Epps, Alabama.
Time to blow off conversation and figure out a way to exit. Stage left, stage right, or even better—a trap door that would drop us all the way down into whatever tunnel Twentieth Century bootleggers had used. If we happened to stumble across a bottle or two of leftover booze, well, that'd be fine, too.
Chapter 40
There were no exits either stage left or stage right. Stage left was a wall filled with diplomas and a painting or two. Stage right was a wall taken up with giant movie posters. Jean Liuzzi apparently loved old movies as much as she loved dressing as though she was starring in one. I didn’t see any traps in the floor or strings in the air that led to fly space. And center stage was—us—and a desk, which hid us from about the thighs down.
Thankfully, Howard and Tammy had decided to ignore us for the few moments while they discussed the best way to kill us without causing a large blood pool to stain the white Ankara rug. Whether to dispose of our bodies elsewhere or just leave us here. Howard sighed, “I’m a magician. One would think I could magically make these two idiots disappear.”
Tammy was all for aiming and firing and letting the chips, ladies and blood fall where they may.
Then it hit me. Magician. In one of those bizarre “I only remembered this because my life literally depends on it” moments I recalled Howard telling me that Vertigo Valentine loved magic and old gothic romantic movies. That Vertigo's home—a castle— was filled with secret passageways and hidden compartments. Wouldn’t the dramatic Mr. Valentine have added a touch or two in his offices? Especially offices in a building that doubtless had strange staircases leading to stranger spaces?
I glanced down at Jean’s desk. I didn’t see any buttons to push. I did, however, spot an interesting and rather incongruous item nestled next to her state-of-art computer. A hurricane lamp. The kind used by smugglers to light their way as they stored treasure into tunnels off the seas of Cornwall. Circa—well—definitely Pre-Twentieth-First century. Or even Pre-Eighteenth. I had no idea if lifting the glass lid would send us hurtling into vampire’s lair or that prayed-for trap door or simply start some tinkly music but I lifted it.
The wall of books right behind Babs and me suddenly spun inward, revealing another room. I didn’t stop to question the architecture or the luck. I grabbed Babs by the arm. We took two very fast steps backward. We were in. The next question was how to close the damn door/wall before our killers could join us.
Tammy and Howard took a second to stare at us in shock and total disbelief. It gave me just enough time to notice the candlestick on the table right inside this panic room. Cute. We’d had Jamaica Inn with the swinging lantern. Now it was time for Young Frankenstein. I pulled it and the bookcase swung shut.
Babs blinked at me. “You’re brilliant!”
“Nah. I have that marvelous audio memory which tosses in conversations about Vertigo and Jean both loving movies and Vertigo loving secrecy at just the right times. The lantern worked. There’s a candlestick in a panic room with no candle. I do hope this bloody thing is bullet proof because I’m sure they’ll be flying within seconds.”
“Do you think we’re trapped in here now? I mean, how will we know when to pull that candle again and rejoin civilization?”
I exhaled. “No clue. Vertigo may be somewhat sleazy and odd and too devoted to Mr. C at the expense of his other clients and dumb enough to have fallen for Tammy but he’s also sharp and tricky and sneaky and a lover of secret passageways. He wouldn’t have created this set-up without a back-up plan. Shoot. The idea is to escape from someone dangerous who’s still in the office, right? So I’ll betcha there’s another way out. Very possibly leading to the basement of Jazz Babies. Bootleggers doubtless created all this back in the Twenties.”
“At least there’s some light in here.”
I nodded. “Okay. Wait. Light. We had the lantern; we had a candlestick. What else constitutes a light source that might be movie worthy?”
I spotted it as I was asking. A huge flashlight, sitting on top of a very cute, very large stuffed version of E.T.- the extra-terrestrial.
“Love it.” I grabbed it and clicked the switch to ‘on.’
Another door swung open. We immediately slithered through and found ours
elves on a winding staircase. I continued to hang on to the flashlight. “Oh wow. We’re talkin’ Vertigo here!”
“Well, makes sense. It is the chosen moniker for our lawyer acquaintance,” Babs grinned.
“Do we go up? Or down?”
“Down. I don’t like the idea of finding myself on a roof with The Great Krempowsky and his buddy after what he did to his own sister.”
“Not to mention that if there is a tunnel it would lead from a basement, not a rooftop,” I stated.
We’d already made it down one floor during this exchange. We were bound to hit underground soon. We had to get to a phone and a security guard before Howard and Tammy caught up to us.
“Phone.”
“Are you channeling E.T.?” Babs inquired.
“No. I’m wondering if we can get a signal inside this gothic staircase thingee? I'd like to call Sebastian and tell him to send New York’s finest.”
Babs grabbed her cell from her belly bag and pressed. “Nothing. Did you bring yours?”
I nodded and popped mine out of the cute little compartment my gigantic bag had built on the front for the purpose of getting to one’s mobile when one is in a hurry. I handed it her since I was also holding the honkin’ huge flashlight.
“Anything?”
“Nope. I guess it’s like the subway. Totally protected from cell tower pings or bars or whatever.”
“Okay. On our own then.” I sighed.
“Hey!”
“What? Signal?”
“No. Forget the phone. Look, Bootsie. A real live door that might lead us to a real live room where we could find a real live phone and . . . “
“Got it!”
Babs opened the disappointingly normal-looking door.
“Hang on. Before we get any further let’s see if there’s a chair we can use to prop this sucker open. I’d like to be able to return in case we can’t get out of wherever this is and I’d also like to be able to hear the clattering if Tammy and her accomplice come down these stairs.”
I held the door while Babs dragged a sturdy wooden chair into our stairwell and managed to hook it under the door handle. “Okay?”
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