by Norma Lehr
Deadly Shuffle
An Abby Rollins Mystery
by
Norma Lehr
Camel Press
PO Box 70515
Seattle, WA 98127
For more information go to: www.Camelpress.com
www.normalehr.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Cover design by Sabrina Sun
Deadly Shuffle
Copyright © 2014 by Norma Lehr
ISBN: 978-1-60381-979-4 (Trade Paper)
ISBN: 978-1-60381-980-0 (eBook)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014939975
Produced in the United States of America
* * *
For Marlene, our lead singer.
***
Big thanks to my editors Catherine Treadgold and Emily Hollingsworth.
And the critique group for their support.
Many, many thanks to the authors of Deadly Doses: A Writer’s Guide to Poisons (Writer’s Digest, 1990), Serita Deborah Stevens and Anne Klarner, for allowing me to refer to their very useful and entertaining book.
* * *
CHAPTER 1
Monday morning the floors at the Roseville Galleria Mall east of Sacramento virtually shook with crowds of customers shopping for after the holiday bargains. Abby Rollins, owner of Starduds, “Dance supplies and all that Jazz,” stepped on the escalator, along with grandmothers, mothers and children headed for Upper Level 2. During the ride, she listened to the buzz of plans for upcoming spring recitals and dance competitions. With any luck, this group was headed for her shop with a black and white overhead Starduds sign, illuminated and rimmed with small flashing bulbs of gold and silver marquee lights.
Even before the Christmas season, she’d advertised sales in Sunday’s pullout section of local newspapers featuring lower discounts. California spring still wasn’t due for at least six weeks. To cover all her bases, she’d sent out colorful brochures to dance instructors requesting they pin notices on their studio bulletin boards: Starduds’ Specialty—Costumes for every Shape and Figure.
Abby entered Starduds this particular morning with grand thoughts of her shop overflowing with dancers. She leaned across the counter and craned her neck to look out the storefront window. A group of females stepped from the escalator and headed down the hall toward her open door.
By noon, sales had soared. By twelve fifteen, most of the customers were headed for the Upper Level Food Court to feed their hungry kids. Maybe raise their own blood sugar levels with flavored coffees to wash down Saturday’s Special: fresh-baked Cinnamon Glazed Dandees.
With only two customers in the store, Abby was ready for a chai fix. She edged her way past the tall rack of tights, the three shelves of leotards, and on to the back of the store, where she poked her head in the arch that opened into the costume design room. “Whew, Margie, can you come out front to the register while I take a break?” Abby tilted her head. “Not that I’m complaining. Sales have been good. In fact, it’s been a great morning.”
She wandered into the room and fingered the yellow net and lavender chiffon fabric cut and gathered on the table. “Beautiful.” She picked up a printed form and ran a finger down the list. “Is this the order for the six Juliet tutus?”
Margie nodded as she removed straight pins from her mouth and dropped them in a plastic container. “I’ll fill this out for you to sign. By the time you get back, it’ll be up front next to the computer.” She rose from the stool, placed both palms at the center of her back, and stretched. “What time is it?” She checked her watch and frowned. “Bring me back a Double Trouble from the coffee cart, will you?” Her hand passed over the worktable like a creative wand. “I’ll need to sip on a hard shot of caffeine if I want to finish three of these skirts by closing.”
Abby promised Margie her fix and made a beeline down the hall for the Carousel.
Fifteen minutes later she returned with Margie’s Double Trouble and a low-fat chai for herself. In the short time she was gone, the store had filled with customers again. Excusing herself, she wedged her way inside, holding the foam cup shoulder high. Margie looked hassled. A strand of her once-red hair, now a lovely shade of senior champagne, hung loosely over one eye while she rang up sales at the counter. Three women peppered her with questions regarding shoe sizes.
Margie mouthed, “Help,” her eyes wide and pleading.
A familiar voice from behind startled Abby. “Sugar, you got a Help Wanted sign to place in the window? Looks like you need another pair of hands.”
Abby turned. “Mother.” Her eyes widened. “What are you doing here?”
Trish Malone laughed and gave Abby a squeeze, nearly tipping over the Double Trouble. “Wipe that frown off your face, darlin’.” She ran her fingers over Abby’s brow. “No one died. Everythin’ is fine. I’m here on business.”
Relieved, Abby set the cup on the edge of the counter. Margie swooped it up in an effort to prevent a spill while she closed a bag of sequin hair accessories for a teenage customer.
“Can you handle the register for a bit?”
“Sure.” Margie stared. “Is that … is she?”
Abby raised a brow and nodded as she steered her mother toward the back of the store.
“You look great, Mom. You’ve lost weight. What kind of business? Did you sell a house up here?”
“Whoa.” Trish waved a hand. “First things first. My real estate business is on hold for the next few months. On my way here, I had an early brunch in Auburn with Heather Lashley at Blue Sky Realty. We’ve been working together via email on a sale in the foothills. I gave her my input, and she’s offered to handle the closing without me.”
She adjusted the waistband of her skirt and squinted at her reflection in the full-length mirror. “I haven’t lost weight. Actually, I’ve put on a few pounds.” She patted her hips. “But now our property’s in escrow and when the pressure’s off, the pounds will drop.” She turned back to Abby. “I came up to see you, baby, before I’m off to Palm Springs.”
Palm Springs. Abby cringed, she hoped only inwardly. Betty Ford Clinic? Again? She leaned closer to her mother.
“No need to sniff, dear.” Trish took her daughter’s hand. “It’s not what you think. I haven’t had a drink for what seems like forever.” She gave a hearty laugh. “Not a day goes by I wouldn’t like to have a belt, but you’ll never see me in that place again.” She tilted her head as her eyes filled with warmth, then regret. “I’ve said it many times before, but no one in the family would have done for me what you did back then. I’m just so sorry you had to listen to all the horrible and vicious things I said at the time.”
Trish blinked hard. “I’ve made my amends again. Let’s get off of the black past and talk about now.” She gave a firm nod. “I do need your help—desperately, sugar—but help of another kind.”
Before she could ask what kind of help, they were joined by Margie, who’d rushed back between counter sales and lifted Trish’s hand. With a slight bend from the waist like a queen to a peasant, Trish slowly shook it.
Abby held her breath, fearful Margie, in her celebrity worship, might kiss her mother’s fingers.
“I’m so glad to meet you.” She frowned at Abby. “Even if we haven’t been introduced.” She turned back to Trish. “I must let you know what a fan I am of you and your sisters—the famous Malones. Your trio was the best!”
She sighed. “I mean the greatest. I watched the Fabulous Fifties and Sixties at Atlantic City on PBS during the holidays and well, your harmony is still …” she shrugged enthusiastically, “fabulous!”
Trish flashed Margie her stage smile.
Abby cringed. Here we go!
Trish posed with one arm dramatically lifted toward the ceiling. She bent her other elbow and balanced her arm near her waist. One shapely leg shot out from the high slit in the pencil skirt of her beige business suit as she pointed the narrow toe of her fashionable shoe.
Margie’s mouth fell open. “My goodness. You look like Debbie Reynolds.” She paled and patted her chest. “Who is another one of my favorites, by the way. I mean, with the pose, and that suit ….”
Trish lifted her chin, took in a deep breath, and looked down her nose. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” she said, and immediately trilled out softly, “Ta-a-mmy, Ta-a-mmy, Tammy’s in love ….”
As though responding to a call from the past, three older ladies trotted back and surrounded Trish while she finished a chorus. They clapped and all spoke at once as they searched their purses for pens and paper to get autographs.
Trish held out her palms and warded them off. “I’m not who you think.”
“We know who you are,” said a tall woman with flared nostrils. She dug through her shoulder bag and held up her iPhone like a trophy. “You’re Trish Malone.” She gave a half-nod that turned into a firm shake of her head. “Tammy’s terrific, but please sing one of the trio’s favorites. One that topped the charts.”
“And,” pleaded another customer, her arm around the camera lady, “can we get a group picture?”
Abby stepped back, leaned against the wall and let her mother, for old time’s sake, have the stage.
Trish dropped to a lower key and sang the chorus of “Forever Believe Me,” one of the trio’s big hits. She then waved her small audience off, complaining she’d been driving all morning and needed time to rest. She signed for the fans, graciously posed for the picture and then swept through the arch to the back room.
Abby followed, but not before she pressed Margie to take care of the shop a few minutes longer. Margie headed to the front of the store with a gaggle of her peers to compare notes on old times.
“Okay, Mom. You said you needed help. Tell me. Is it money, your health, what?”
Trish checked the cup size on a tan sports bra wrapped in plastic. “Money? Health? Good heavens, no! Real Estate in Yucca Valley has been booming.”
She made a complete slow turn. “I do need someone to talk to, sugar. I’m deeply worried about a friend of mine.” She frowned. “Thomas Levine. A prominent plastic surgeon. He called this morning while I was on my way here. He sounded awful. Depressed. Said he’s been feeling ill. You’ve met him. Maybe you forgot. I brought him to your grandma’s house when you were a child. He held you on his lap and read to you. The only man friend of mine you didn’t shy away from. Do you remember, sugar? When it was time for me to leave and get back on the road, you never wanted him to go.”
Yes. Abby remembered snuggling up to him on Grandma’s porch swing while he told her stories or read to her. Sometimes when he left with her mother, she’d go to her room and cry, read the book he’d left for her and pretend he was her daddy. But as the years passed, the visits became fewer and farther between. Abby grew up. Thomas Levine became a fond memory.
“Nice man,” Abby said. Furrowing her brow, she added, “You think he’s seriously ill?”
“I won’t know until I see him. He didn’t sound like his old confident self. He came across like, I don’t know, paranoid. Said he knew someone was going to kill him. He kept warning me to be careful. Not to trust anyone from the past.” Trish wrung her hands. “So unlike him. Thomas has always been a strong, confident professional man. Lord knows, in the past when things weren’t going my way, he offered a broad shoulder for me to lean on.”
Abby could see her mother’s concern. She was tempted to ask if Trish thought he might be drinking, then decided to let it go. “Does he live in Palm Springs?”
“No. Wish he did, but he has a successful practice in Florida. He’ll only be in town for a short time. He’s there to speak at a plastic surgeons’ conference.”
“You look disappointed.”
“I am. Don’t get to see Thomas that often. At one time I seriously thought of marrying that gorgeous man.”
“Yeah? What changed your mind?”
“He got into trouble. Made some bad choices. Lawsuits cropped up. Old friends turned on him.” Trish stared at the floor. “I’d really like to hear his side of what went down.”
“Did you turn on him?”
“I wouldn’t say I ‘turned.’ His story made front page medical news and I didn’t like some of what I read.” Trish rubbed her hands together. “Can’t get over the sound of his voice. So strange and low, fearful. So unlike him. Mentioned twice he hadn’t been feeling well. I’m hoping it’s nothing serious.
“While he’s in Palm Springs, he’s joining our old group for poker. Next Friday. He called to make sure I’d be there. I reassured him I would.” She tapped her chin. “I’m the dealer.” Trish began to pace. “I’ll know more after I see him. For now, let’s change the subject, shall we?”
Abby nodded with relief. Having her mother confide in her about one of her male friends left Abby feeling uncomfortable. And uneasy. Brought up old stuff from the past. “You mentioned two things. What else has been happening?”
Trish made a quick turn-around. Her face lit up with one of her famous smiles. “You said I look great. Did you mean it?” She patted her stomach and frowned. “I’m starting a low-carb diet tomorrow.”
Abby grew impatient. “Yes, I meant it. Just tell me. What is it?”
“I came here to see my only child. It’s been over two months since Thanksgiving, you know.” She pecked Abby on the cheek. “I really need your expert help right now.” Trish offered an enigmatic smile and raised an eyebrow. “You’ll never guess. I’ve been offered a chance to audition for the Palm Springs Follies. To sing, of course, but I also need to know a few basic jazz and tap steps. Who better to teach me than my own daughter, a former Manhattan Toppette?”
“Sure.” Abby breathed a sigh of relief. “When’s the audition? What made you decide to give it a try? Isn’t Aunt Ginny a regular solo act in the show?”
Trish moved over to the costume table to check out the pastel nets. “Yes, Ginny’s a regular, but she’s not sure she’ll be able to finish the season. She needs a hip replacement. The show needs a singing replacement, so she called me.” Trish fanned her hand. “I know. I know. I’ve never performed professionally without my sisters, but Ginny’s been with the Follies singing solo for six years now. Your aunt Dorie has been doing her solo act on stage in Branson.
“We got back together to sing for The Las Vegas Seventy-Fifth Celebration. Then we did the Atlantic City gig for PBS. Now it’s my chance to go solo, honey. The director knows who I am. I’ve practically got the job without auditioning. Who knows, if it works out, he might keep me on as a regular.”
“You’d give up real estate?”
“No. The Follies run from November through the end of May at The Plaza Theatre. The rest of the year I’d go back to selling property. It’s a dream job for any trooper over fifty-five. I’m turning sixty-eight, and there are performers in this production in their seventies. One great gal in her eighties.” Trish’s eyes lit up. “Just think. Five years from now, you’ll be fifty-five and eligible to audition.”
She hesitated and gazed into her daughter’s eyes. “I really, really want to do this.” She motioned past the arch to the women out front chatting with Margie. “Look out there. My fans remember me.”
A hush fell over the back room as Abby mulled over her mother’s words. In five years you’ll be fifty-five. Good grief! Time passed swiftly. Her grandma’s voice echoed through her head, Gotta jump at good offers when they come your way, chi
ld. Chance it or lose it. She had recited this old phrase to Abby many times and also to Trish.
Abby cleared her throat. “I can understand what this means to you, but you’ve never done a show like this. You were never a dancer. The rehearsals can be rigorous. Those older women doing the Follies are former showgirls. They’ve spent their adult lives performing on stage—in cabarets, nightclubs.”
“I know all the pros and a lot of the cons. Ginny warned me it could be grueling at times.” She lifted her chin. “I’m not going to be a dancer. I’ll sing. It’s only a couple of soft-shoe steps I need to learn.” Her eyes caught fire. “I know I can do it. My question is, will you help me or not?”
Abby shook her head and then nodded. “Of course.” She offered her mother a winsome smile. “When and where?”
The next day was clear. A bit of California cold. The morning clouds that sailed in from the Bay area had now moved on to the east and settled over the Sierra, allowing the noon sun to shine on the mall’s outside promenade. While Abby waited for Renee, her long-time dancing friend from the Toppettes, to join her at the soup and sandwich shop, she settled back, glanced around at the shoppers, and mentally took stock of her life and her shop.
A former high-stepping Manhattan Toppette, a professional tap dancer herself, she knew Starduds was one of a kind. She’d worked hard to put it together. To her credit, she had New York Theater training from the seventies and eighties and at times she still performed with an adult tap group in Sacramento. Divorced, with grown twins attending college, she had found it difficult opening Starduds on a shoestring eighteen months ago, but it had been worth the effort. Now at last the business was beginning to show a nice but modest return, a promise of a bright future if she continued to work long hours and stay focused.
