MURDER WITH ALL THE TRIMMINGS

by Shawn Reilly Simmons

  “You can read any of them, I guess,” Brandi said, following Penelope’s gaze to the man standing quietly still. Penelope recognized him as the one who had approached Francis the other day, the one who made her feel uneasy looking down from the apartment windows.

  Penelope took another step closer. Suddenly the smallest man bolted from his spot, and lunged toward her. Taken off guard, Penelope spun out of the way as he pushed past her toward the front door.

  “Hey!” one of his companions shouted. “You’re gonna miss dinner!”

  Penelope felt a searing pain on her forearm and looked down, seeing a line of blood through a cut in her jacket. “He cut me,” she said, watching the blood darken her sleeve.

  The man banged through the door and was gone, the soft smell of roses drifting on the air behind him.

  Chapter 56

  “I don’t know who that dude was. Just hooked up with us at the park this morning, then made our way down to the shelter for a meal. We ain’t friends. He didn’t talk hardly at all,” the taller man who had been with Penelope’s assailant explained to Detective Doyle.

  Penelope held her arm with her opposite hand, a thick white bandage wrapped around her forearm.

  “We should get you to the hospital,” the EMT said to Penelope as he finished wrapping her arm. “You’re going to need stitches.”

  “Great,” Penelope said. “I’ve cut myself worse in the kitchen. Are you sure?”

  “Well,” he said, “at least a couple, I think.”

  Penelope sighed. “I should have run after him.”

  “And get slashed worse?” Detective Doyle said. “Do me a favor and stop helping so much. You’re in danger, I told you.”

  “I was surrounded by people,” Penelope protested. “I always am.”

  “It only takes a second,” Doyle said. “As you can see.”

  “Brandi,” Penelope said. “Has he been here before?”

  Brandi shook her head but hesitated. “I mean, I don’t think so, but I’m not here twenty-four seven. The night shift guy will be here in a few hours. You should ask him too.”

  “What name did he sign in with?” Doyle asked, looking at the ledger.

  “Chaz,” Doyle said, looking at the register. “And a scribble. Maybe Na is the last name? Or it begins with N A and he stopped writing for some reason.”

  “You know anyone named Chaz?” Doyle asked Penelope.

  “I don’t think so,” Penelope said.

  “Okay, get her to the ER, and then you should go home and stay safe,” Doyle said.

  Penelope nodded and stayed silent, then allowed the EMT to lead her out the front door.

  Chapter 57

  Penelope was back in her kitchen truck two hours later. The doctor at the hospital confirmed she’d suffered a deep scratch that caused significant bleeding on her forearm, but she could get away with some suture glue and butterfly bandages at the deepest part. Her jacket had protected her from a deeper cut, for which she was grateful.

  “Penny,” a familiar voice called from outside the truck.

  Penelope’s heart skipped a beat and she looked down at her bandaged arm. “Joey?” She ducked her head through the service window and saw him there, a look of concern on his face.

  She thought about looking for her spare jacket in the front of her truck to cover her arm, but decided if he had tracked her down in Manhattan and had that expression on his face, he probably already knew what had happened. Bad news travels fast, especially in the brotherhood of police officers.

  “Hey,” Penelope said happily. “I’ll be right out.”

  Joey stood with his hands on his hips, swiveling at the waist and taking in the alley where her truck was parked.

  “Hey man,” Francis waved from the window.

  “You’re supposed to be taking care of her when I’m not around,” Joey said.

  Francis grimaced and shrugged his shoulders then turned back to the grill.

  “It’s nothing,” Penelope said, holding out her arm. “I’ll be healed up in no time.”

  Joey grabbed her and hugged her close, careful not to hold her arm between them.

  “Is there somewhere we can talk?” Joey asked.

  “Um,” Penelope wavered. She held the belief it was never going to be a good topic when people asked if they could talk. “Sure, let’s go upstairs to the suite. I think most of the crew is inside the theater getting set up for tonight’s show.”

  They went across the street and rode up the elevator in near silence, Joey rubbing Penelope’s shoulders and her leaning into his strong shoulder.

  Penelope let them into the suite, and they headed to the bedroom when they saw one of the editors working on a monitor in the main room. She raised a hand in a distracted wave, not hearing them through her headphones.

  Joey and Penelope sat on the edge of the bed, Penelope looking at her hands clasped in her lap and Joey gazing out the window.

  “What did you want to talk about?” Penelope said.

  Joey hesitated a few second then began. “I want you to come home. Francis can handle this, and your other guys. Hire another chef, if you need to, but I would feel better if were safe back in New Jersey.”

  Something gave in her chest and she looped her uninjured arm around his broad shoulders.

  “I don’t want you to worry about me,” Penelope said.

  “Then come home,” Joey insisted. “Let me protect you.”

  Penelope placed her head on his shoulder and he pulled her closer to him on the bed. He tilted her chin up and kissed her on the lips, then pulled away to look at her face.

  “I can’t just leave, Joey,” Penelope said. “I said I’d do this project for Arlena and Randall and Max. Plus, there’s a missing girl, and for some reason the person who has her is texting me about it.” She pulled out and showed Joey the saved photo of Abigail.

  “Doyle has this in hand, my friend assured me, he’s a good man. And the Madisons will understand if you want to quit,” Joey said. “You’ve been attacked.”

  “It was my fault,” Penelope said, holding up her arm. “I pushed him when I could have just walked out and waited to see who he was. It was stupid of me to engage him like that.”

  “You’re not stupid and it’s not your fault some low life took a blade to you,” Joey said, his voice rising an octave.

  “But you understand I don’t want to walk away from a promise?” Penelope said.

  Joey sighed and gently untangled from her, then walked to the window. After a few minutes of staring down at the theater he said, “What have I gotten myself into with you, Penny Blue? You’re the most important person in my life, and all I want to do is keep you safe.”

  Penelope stood up and went to his side, then leaned into him again. “I promise to be more careful. I don’t want to get hurt either.”

  Joey shifted his eyes toward her and said, “I know I can’t make you do anything, which is part of the reason I fell in love with you. But I can do my best to protect you.”

  “You do a great job at that,” Penelope said.

  “I had a feeling you’d respond the way you did, so I took the next couple of days off. I’m going to be your new apprentice on the truck. You can teach me all your fancy knife skills, boss me around. And in the meantime, I will watch your back.”

  Penelope laughed. “Are you sure you want to join the Red Carpet Catering team? I’m a pretty tough boss.”

  Joey looked down at her arm. “I know how tough you can be. I’m ready for you.” He turned and looped his arms around her waist and kissed her again. Soon they were back on the bed, tugging at each other’s shirts. Penelope was vaguely aware of the outer door of the suite opening again and pulled away from Joey, straightening her clothes and running her fingers through her hair.

  “I’m at work,” Penelope said.r />
  Joey cleared his throat. “You’re right. Boss.”

  Penelope slapped him lightly on the shoulder as someone knocked on the bedroom door.

  “Come in,” Penelope said.

  Chamay opened the door and walked in, holding a few papers in her hand. “Miss Sutherland, I have that paperwork Arlena asked for. That man on the truck downstairs said you were up here.”

  Penelope stood up from the bed. “You found me.”

  Chamay handed over the paperwork and Penelope glanced at the first line. “Wait, this isn’t your name.”

  “Oh,” Chamay laughed. “Yeah, it’s my legal name, the one I’d need the checks to be written to.”

  “So, Charlene Mason is your real name, then,” Penelope said.

  “Yes, I changed it,” Chamay said. “There’s already a Charlene Mason with a Screen Actors Guild card, and there can’t be two of us.”

  “But you’re not an actress,” Penelope said.

  “Not yet,” Chamay said with a roll of her eyes. “I’m one step closer now.” She eyed the paperwork and then Penelope.

  “You know that as Arlena’s assistant you’ll be running for coffee, and walking her dog, answering the phone at all hours and booking travel arrangements? It’s not an acting job.”

  “Oh, I know,” Chamay said. “But it’s not what you know, it’s who you know, right?”

  “I suppose,” Penelope said.

  “Ta to you as well, sir,” Chamay said as she turned and bounced out the door.

  Joey waved his hand in a half wave as she closed the door. “And who was that chipper young woman?”

  “I’m not sure,” Penelope said, staring at the documents in her hand. “An assistant with a stage name.”

  “Do you know what Cary Grant’s real name was?” Joey asked.

  “It’s not Cary Grant?”

  “No, it’s Archibald Leach,” Joey said with slight exasperation.

  “What? I’ve never heard that,” Penelope said. “You and your classic movie channel trivia.”

  “I like the classics,” Joey said. “A lot of people use a different name in the business.”

  Penelope’s eyes fell on the file boxes lined up against the wall and something clicked. “I wonder how many use not just a different name, but a different identity.”

  “What?” Joey asked, following her gaze. “What’s in there?”

  “The history of the Vitrine,” Penelope said.

  “But the crimes are happening now,” Joey said. “How is information from…” he eyed one of the boxes “…1946 going to help you solve the killing and disappearance of Big Apple Dancers of today?”

  “The past has a way of creeping up on us,” Penelope said. “Plus, Elspeth isn’t really Elspeth.” She tapped her finger on her chin. “Where do you think the real Elspeth went?”

  “Well, you said the deceased girl was using her identity, and didn’t you say she seemed flush with cash?” Joey asked.

  “Yeah, and she was a bit of a scam artist maybe,” Penelope said. “What if…what if Elspeth got herself to the city, then just wanted to disappear.”

  “Or she was made to disappear by someone taking over her identity,” Joey said.

  “But that doesn’t explain the money fully,” Penelope said. “I get the impression from getting to know her family it wasn’t always great at home.”

  “But she made it here,” Joey said. “Why would she want to disappear after she’d gotten to her goal?”

  “Maybe to get away from her family permanently?” Penelope thought about the times she’d seen Mr. Connor’s anger in the past few days, and about what Mrs. Connor had said in the coffee shop, about how Elspeth’s father wanted a different life for her.

  “Seems an overly elaborate scheme,” Joey said. “Why not just run away?”

  “If you run away, people come looking for you,” Penelope said. “Maybe she swapped identities with a girl, Cassie Chadwick, and then just slipped away, getting a head start? But something happened, Cassie didn’t hold up her end of the bargain…but if she had it might have been a year before anyone knew Elspeth was gone.”

  “Her parents wouldn’t have come and seen her perform?”

  Penelope shook her head. “Her father especially did not support this career, or her lifestyle choices. He wanted her to stay close to home, live a more traditional life.”

  “But it Elspeth wanted this so badly, would she just give up her dream of dancing in New York?” Joey asked.

  “Maybe it was worth it to be out on her own, or she decided to go about it in a different way,” Penelope said. “She’s just starting out, she didn’t have a career to lose yet.”

  Penelope set Chamay’s paperwork on the bed and went to one of the boxes in the middle of the pile and pulled it out. “Let’s look at the 1970s.”

  “What are we looking for?” Joey asked.

  “Any connection to Elspeth,” Penelope said. “Maybe we’ll find another sort of ghost haunting the Vitrine Theater.”

  Chapter 58

  The next morning Joey drove them into the city in his police cruiser. “I can park on the street and no one will bother it,” he said. They were able to miss the biggest push of rush hour over the bridge because there was no matinee that day, so they only had to arrive early afternoon.

  Penelope’s arm ached a bit, but she was grateful it wasn’t a worse injury and wouldn’t affect her work too much. Plus, she had an extra set of strong hands on the set that day. When she thought about Joey in her kitchen truck in an apron wielding a spatula, she smiled every time.

  “Uh oh,” she said, reading the news on her phone. She’d scanned the news sections of all the local papers for any news on Abigail. She hadn’t seen any more vanishing texts from the anonymous sender either.

  “What’s up?” Joey asked, keeping his eyes on the road.

  “Nothing,” Penelope said. “Well, on Page Six they’re talking about the Madisons again, about how they’re not getting along on the set of their behind-the-scenes documentary at the theater.”

  “What? Are they not getting along?” Joey asked.

  “I think they’re fine,” Penelope said. “It’s a bit frantic, and they’re working out their roles, but they’ve just started.”

  “The papers have to print something,” Joey said with an irritated wave of his hand. Sometimes Penelope could picture him as a much older man, and the thought warmed her heart and made her chuckle at the same time.

  “Were you able to find anything out about Elspeth’s finances?” Penelope asked. She’d seen him working on his laptop at the kitchen island the night before and hoped he was able to uncover something.

  “Clarissa is looking into the financials, whatever accounts in her name we can find. And she’s pulling a credit check on any new accounts opened, addresses, things like that.”

  “She’s not going to mind?” Penelope asked. “She’s always so by the book.”

  “Nah, she likes me now,” Joey said. “We do favors for each other. Plus, it’s for a case. She’s a crime fighter first and foremost.”

  Their search through the first few years of the seventies didn’t yield any familiar names or faces. The photographs were all turning sepia, so everyone had an orange glow that started to look normal after the third box.

  “It was the kind of photo processing they used back in the day,” Joey explained. “My parents have old albums with pictures like that, uncles and stuff.”

  “I’m glad they figured out how to fix that,” Penelope said. “Although it was kind of cool to see the world in Technicolor, or whatever you call it.”

  “Lots of big hair,” Joey said. “And flimsy costumes. Like that iconic Farrah Fawcett poster.”

  “Another sign of the times, before they discovered thicker lining for bathing suits,” Penelope said. “
I can’t believe the Snow Queen wore that same Christmas tree head thing all the way back then.”

  “Tradition,” Joey said with a shrug. He pulled into a spot outside the apartment building and tucked his police parking card on the dash before locking the car and heading with Penelope over to the alley.

  The truck was locked up tight, and the iron gate secure. Penelope pulled out her keys and opened the gate, ushering her newest chef inside and then locking it up behind them.

  “Let’s see you make an omelette,” Penelope said once they were inside.

  “Seriously?” Joey asked.

  “Yes,” Penelope said, pointing at the grill.

  A half hour later Penelope and Joey shared a spinach, mushroom and goat cheese omelette and she felt certain he could help out sufficiently on the truck and not get in the way during the rush.

  “Delicious,” Penelope said, then kissed him on the cheek.

  “No flirting when I’m on the clock,” Joey warned. He wiped his hands on his apron and shook Francis’s hand as he entered the kitchen.

  “Warning, Boss,” Francis said in a low voice. “Miss Madison is fired up about something and she’s on the way over.”

  Penelope sighed, and tried to think what it might be.

  “Did you see that crap in the paper?” Arlena asked. Penelope had come out of the truck and met her in front of the coffee urn on the table behind it.

  “Oh, the thing about you and your dad not getting along?” Penelope asked. “Yeah, I saw it.”

  “Who gave them that information?” Arlena asked.

  Penelope thought for a second. “I don’t know. But maybe the question is why would someone give them that tip?”

  Arlena looked at her and raised her palms in the air. “I have no idea. Max and Daddy want this project to be successful, it’s for our family. I trust you implicitly.”

  “Well, any publicity is good publicity?”

  “Maybe. But I’d rather focus on how we’ve hired a crew that employs all women. Something positive.”