“The element of surprise,” he said, pointing up at a narrow ledge along the wall and over the doorway. “I'll climb up there and when he comes in with our dinners, I'll bop him on the sconce.”
“You'll try to do that,” said the older woman. “There's no guarantee you'll succeed.”
“Gee, Mom, Wes is really handy. He's not just a gifted artist.”
“Hand me that mallet once I get up on the ledge, Case.” Then Wes backed up and took a running start toward the wall, jumping up and reaching for the edge of the ledge.
“Oof,” he remarked, getting up off the floor.
“Not very deft,” said his wife.
“I suppose you could do it better?”
“I work out at the Girlz Gym in Santa Monica,” said Casey. “I hate to steal your tundra, but, yes, dear, I do.”
“Thunder,” he corrected.
Backing against the opposite wall, Casey ran across the cellar and jumped. Catching the ledge, she pulled herself up onto it. “A simple little jump, Wes, and yet you end up sweating like a fig.”
“Pig,” he corrected.
“Quick, hand me the darn mallet. I hear dishes rattling in the hall.”
Wes tossed it to her. He hid the baseball bat, then suggested to Casey's mother, “Move into the shadows so he can't tell we're all not here.”
The thick door creaked, rattled and swung open. Chip stepped into the cellar, carrying a green tray on which sat three bowls of tomato soup and a bottle of water.
All at once, he tossed the loaded tray to the floor and, as hot red soup splashed, mingling with spouting water. He aimed one of his guns up at Casey. “Never wear a provocative perfume, Miss Casey, when you're planning to ambush—”
Wes had snatched up the baseball bat and bopped him, hard on the back of his skull. One smack did it and Chip was out cold on the floor amidst the watery soup.
* * * *
The three escapees had gone less than a hundred feet along the poorly illuminated corridor, when a thickset balding man planted himself in front of them.
“Oh, crap,” exclaimed Mrs. McLeod. “It's that bastard. Bastian the Bastard.”
“You've nothing to fear, Helena, my sweet,” came the voice of Erle McLeod as he appeared to the rear of the other man.
“Hello, Dad,” put in Casey, perplexed look on her face. “What in the blue devil is going on?”
Bastian told her, “As fate would have it, Mrs. Goodhill, the real and authentic Melody Gormley chose this day to return to life. Just as your esteemed father and I were trying to pass our simulacra off as the real thing.”
“How can they be sure even this one is the real one?” asked Wes.
Kate now stepped forward. “Turns out, which none of these geniuses, including you mother, found out, that the one and only real Melody Gormley has a special birthmark on her ass.”
“How come, Erle,” asked his former wife, “you and this squatty toad are now bosom buddies?”
“We have just held, Helena, an hour-long strategy conference at a cozy little bistro off the Sunset strip. We've decided to team up on a new venture, one that promises more certain rewards than the Melody Gormley fiasco.”
“Should net us,” added Bastian, his frown lightening some, “a comfortable two-hundred thousand net profit.”
“You are welcome, my dear, to join us. Together again,” Erle Standly suggested.
“I'd rather join a leper colony.”
“I do hope you'll change your mind,” he said ruefully. “Because this particular money-making caper definitely needs a woman of your age with your flair for bullshit.”
“How much did you say it'll bring in?”
“Nothing less than two hundred grand”
After a moment Mrs. McLeod said, “Let me think about it, Erle.”
“I'm anxious to see the light of day,” said Wes.
“Me too.” seconded Casey.
“Well then, onward and upward,” said her husband, taking her hand and heading toward the way out.
Copyright © 2012 Ron Goulart
[Back to Table of Contents]
* * *
Fiction: FASHIONED FOR MURDER
by Shauna Washington
* * * *
Art by Cat Scott
* * * *
I'd been waiting for the gates to open and allow me in for what seemed like forever and wondering where the hell Bill, the always friendly security guard, was. I had already put in the four-digit code to call my client's house, but nobody answered. Finally, I relented and began digging through my purse to find my BlackBerry so I could see if I had the resident gate code somewhere in my client list. It had taken me a long time to get a client in this posh community, and I wasn't about to let a closed gate keep me out.
Just as I found my BlackBerry, the exit on the other side started to swing open. Never one to let opportunity slip through my fingers, I quickly maneuvered my BMW X5 to the other side of the gate shack and waited as a green Crown Vic with tinted windows shot through the opening. I couldn't see who was driving, and didn't care. I whisked inside the gated community before the gate could swing back.
As I was driving up the entrance road I saw Bill trotting back toward the gate and waved. He didn't wave back. I wondered what his problem was but kept my mind on the task: I had to drop off my latest purchases for the Rosenettes and, more importantly, get paid so that my credit card balance wouldn't go into maximum overdrive.
I always worry about things like gates not opening and my credit taking a nosedive due to a wealthy client putting a stop payment on one of their checks. Luckily, the Rosenettes were longtime clients and were always prompt in paying me—sometimes Ms. Rosenette would even toss in a couture outfit for me along the way. Perks of the job. My anxiety today was due in part to the slight discomfort I felt whenever I entered ritzy places like Lake of the Desert. It was one of the most exclusive areas of unincorporated Las Vegas, or as most people called it, the place where the real rich people lived. As a fashion stylist to the rich and famous, I was technically the hired help, but unlike my ancestors, I didn't have to go to the back door.
I drove my car up the hill toward the Rosenettes's house. It was all severe angles and large windows reflecting the desert sun. Of course, the windows were mirrored glass to kept the rays out, but I wondered what their air-conditioning bill must have been like.
Not that it mattered. If you could afford to live in a place like this you didn't worry about light bills. But my middle-class upbringing was popping up again. I made a mental note to put it away when I talked to Ms. Rosenette about the plans I'd drawn up for her daughter's upcoming wedding during our weekly meeting. That's what I do: plan and shop for rich people, even the so-called rich folk wannabes. They pay me to make them look chic, and I love to spend money, even if it isn't mine.
In the front of the house a stone fountain of ornate stones with a spray of water seemed out of place against the backdrop of the modernistic design of the house. But that sort of mirrored the Rosenettes. Mister was old money, and way past middle-age; Missus, the blonde trophy wife, was only a few years older than me. Well, maybe more than a few, considering her daughter was nineteen. But Ms. Ronsenette had the best Botox money could buy to erase any of her telltale wrinkles. I was pushing thirty and smoothed on the cocoa butter morning and night.
I took my time getting out of my car and gathering up my notebook and sketches. Ms. Rosenette had made it clear she wanted something totally new and stylish for Henrietta's big day. I felt sorry for the bride, with such a name as that—I assumed she'd been named after her father, Henry—but having six or seven figures in your checking account would even the score on that count. Anyway, Henrietta always went by her nickname, Heni. I had her pegged for a party girl the first time I met her. When I went to measure her she smelled like reefer. But that was her business. After all, she was rich and didn't have to worry about nothing—at least not the same things I worried about, like how to pay my rent bill thi
s month.
I rang the bell and waited, listening to the sound of the chimes echoing behind the frosted glass of the front door. I waited for an appropriate length of time and pressed the doorbell again. What was this? The maid's day off?
That's when I remembered that the Rosenettes also had a butler, an older black guy named James. They had a black maid, too—Ruby Ann. I guess employing me rounded things out for their support of minorities. The chimes faded once again with no response or movement inside.
It must be the butler's day off, I thought, as I gathered up my stuff and began walking around to the back of the house, thinking they were out by the pool, or something. I'd been to their house a few times for my initial interview and subsequent consultations. They liked to sit in back by their pool that looked big enough to host the summer Olympics next time around. Although the yard wasn't fenced in, a barrier of thick bushes surrounded the sidewalk along the side of the house and the pool area as well.
Not wanting to seem like a burglar or anything, I called out as I walked, “Ms. Rosenette? It's Stacey Deshay.”
Nobody answered. I kept walking. For a moment I felt an uncharacteristic chill as I passed under a trellis that shaded the walkway. The pristine brightness of the pool, with its lawn chairs and umbrella tables, came into view. The water shimmered as it reflected the overhead sun, but the evenness of the water was broken by the figure of a man floating languidly. As I moved closer I called out again, but the floater didn't move. He was fully clothed, and face down. I set my Louis Vuitton purse down on one of the tables and hurried to the edge. Tendrils of gray hair billowed out from the sides of his head, and it looked like Mr. Rosenette, a reddish aura surrounding his head.
I grabbed an aluminum pool hook and extended it over the water, trying to reach the floating body. It was too short. No way was I going to dive in and pull him to the side. I not only couldn't swim, but I was wearing my new Christian Louboutin shoes. Plus, the man didn't look like he was in any hurry at all. Still, I felt a certain sense of urgency to try and do something. I extended the pool hook again, this time trying to stir the placid water so the body would float toward me. I repeated this three times and was just starting to make some progress when I almost lost my balance and fell in the water. Not a good idea. I set the pool hook down and dug my cell phone out of my purse and started to dial 9-1-1 when I heard the approaching sirens.
Good, I thought. Let the professionals handle this. I gathered up my stuff, and began walking toward the front of the house. That's when I saw the cop standing there pointing a big old gun in my face.
“What is your emergency?” the operator asked on my phone.
Before I could say anything the cop yelled at me. “Get on the ground. Now!” His voice had all the tact of a bullwhip.
“I was calling 9-1-1,” I started to say.
He stretched his arm out more and repeated the command, this time punctuating it with the B-word.
Normally when some calls me a name I give it right back to them times ten. This time I swallowed my pride and nodded, laying the phone, my purse, and the drawings down in a neat pile as I got to my knees.
“All the way down,” he yelled. “On the ground.”
“On the ground? I'm wearing my Roberto Cavalli dress,” I pleaded.
“Do it now.”
That gun looked awfully big so I figured I'd deal with the dry cleaning bill later and did as I was told. For now Five-O had the upper hand. The next thing I knew more cops were running around and one of them was ratcheting handcuffs over my wrists.
“Hey, what are you doing?” I said. “I'm the one who was calling you.”
“Shut up,” the big cop who'd been pointing his gun at me said. “How's the victim look?”
I glanced over to see another cop kneeling by the pool shaking his head. “Better call for a supervisor and the detectives.”
“Good,” I said. “Get somebody out here that knows what they're doing. And take these handcuffs off me while you're at it. They're hurting my wrists.”
“Get used to it,” the big cop said.
I made a mental note to remember his name and complain. But first things first: My Cavalli was taking way too much abuse being on the ground. “Could you please help me up?”
The big cop responded by sticking the sole of his dirty old shoe against my back.
“Just keep running your mouth,” he said. “See where it gets you.” He used the B-word again.
That was the final straw. I told him, in language that left nothing to the imagination, exactly what I thought of him, his mama, and what he could do with his big old gun. It got me up off the ground and into the back of a hot squad car, with my hands still cuffed behind my back. I swear the mean pig turned off the air conditioning and let me swelter, until some guys in suits arrived. Then things got real interesting.
* * * *
I spent the next forty minutes in the back of a squad car that smelled like it hadn't been washed since they'd changed sheriffs. By this time I knew my once showgirl flat-ironed hair probably was looking like a frizzy cotton ball. And I shuddered to think what the gritty plastic seat was doing to my Cavalli dress, not to mention having my hands cuffed behind my back. I was going to need a trip to the beauty shop and the spa as soon as I got loose. But right now that was the least of my worries.
Then a guy in a sport coat came over and opened the car door. I turned and put my feet on the ground. He introduced himself as Detective Myers. “For the record, Ms. Deshay, I want to advise you of your rights before I talk to you.”
I nodded and he read off the rights I'd heard on TV. He sort of looked like a big toad, rough skin and bulging eyes. When he finished he asked if I wanted to talk to him about what had happened.
“Sure,” I said. “Why not?”
“So why were you at the Rosenettes's?”
“I have a weekly appointment with Mrs. Rosenette for fashion consulting. I'm also working on her daughter's wedding. I brought some stuff over for her.”
“Fashion?”
“It's what I do. I'm a fashion stylist.”
Myers just stood there and waited, nodding as I explained how I'd gone around to the back when no one answered the bell.
“And you didn't think it was strange that no one answered?” he asked.
“I figured it was the maid's day off.”
Myers made a few notes on his pad and said, “How did you get along with Mr. Rosenette?”
I shrugged. “I dealt mostly with his wife. I'd only seen him a couple of times.”
“So you knew it was him in the pool, then?”
“I sort of thought so.”
Myers canted his head. “Officer Dillups said you didn't seem overly concerned about being close to a dead body. And he mentioned you were handling a pool hook.”
I felt like telling him what I thought about Officer Dillups, but figured he wouldn't care. “I used to work at the morgue, and I was trying to get him over to the side so I could check for a pulse.”
“Didn't you see the injury to his head?”
“Yeah, it looked kind of gross.”
Myers frowned. “And what time did you say you got here?”
“A few minutes before you guys did,” I said. “Ask Bill, the security guard. He can tell you.”
“We will,” he said. “Count on it.”
“Can you please take these handcuffs off? They're hurting my wrists.”
Myers motioned for me to stand up and turn around as he uncuffed me.
“That's a nice X5 you got.” He pointed to the customized pink and black hood emblem on my car. “Lots of bling.”
“Thanks.”
“I'm surprised you can afford it. Business must be good.”
I smiled and wagged my head, giving him a flash of my pissed-off-black-girl routine. “Don't get too excited. It's leased.”
He nodded with approval. “Mind if I search it?”
“Huh? Don't you need a warrant for that?”
Myers chuckled. “You been watching too many Jay-Z videos. Your cooperation would be greatly appreciated.”
I don't know what shocked me more. That Myers listened to rap or he thought he'd find something in my car. But I had “99 Problems” of my own, and being suspected of murder was one of them. “Mind telling me what you're looking for?”
Myers smiled. “If you don't mind, I'll ask the questions. You own a gun?”
I did own one. In fact, Bill the security guard had helped me pick it out. I talked to him all the time. He was an ex-cop, so I'd asked him about what type would work for me. When I'd bought the gun I'd brought it by to show him.
I thought about the blood circulating around Mr. Rosenette's head. “He was shot?”
“Maybe. Why? You shoot him?'
“No.”
“Then you won't mind my searching your vehicle, will you?” He reached in my purse and took out my keys. “So, do you own a gun?”
Wasn't he a nosy-Rosey . . . But at this point I figured I didn't have much choice. Warrant or not, they were going to do what they wanted. Besides, this was one time I had nothing to hide. “Yeah, I've got a concealed carry permit, but you probably already know that.”
Myers smiled again. “I do. A three-eighty Walther, according to our records.”
This guy knew everything but my blood type. I thought about my little gun with the pink rose on the slide. It was tucked away nice and safe in the drawer next to my bed. I told Myers that.
“Detective,” someone said behind me. I turned and saw Dillups and shot him the dirtiest look I could muster. He had Bill standing there with him. “You'd better talk to Officer Crandell here right away.”
Myers nodded and motioned for me to slide back into the squad car. “I have to stay in this nasty old car?”
“For now.”
“But I didn't do anything,” I said.
Myers motioned my legs inside and slammed the door. I watched through the smudged window as he went over to Dillups and Bill. Myers listened as they talked, then frowned. He asked Bill a few questions, which consisted mostly of Bill shaking his head and looking grim. Myers pointed in my direction, and asked Bill another question. I smiled and waved through the window. Bill showed no reaction. Dillups and Bill turned and walked away together. Myers ambled back to the car and opened the door.
AHMM, May 2012 Page 9
