by Judi McCoy
“Ees not me,” Kronk explained. “Ees management.”
“But we’re not criminals,” the woman named Sharon said.
“Management say police advise them to keep build-ink free of trespassers and news pipple. I only do-ink my job.” With that, Kronk raised a clipboard and waited.
The residents continued to argue, but it appeared they’d gotten the message. Ellie watched while the burly doorman did his thing, matching each person’s identification to a list of names on his clipboard. Finally, he walked to the elevator, again took out his key ring and fiddled with the control panel, and stepped into the foyer.
One by one, the tenants entered the waiting car, leaving her to get to the bottom of the story. “Okay, spill,” Ellie ordered, following Kronk to the front counter. “What’s this all about?”
“I am only obey-ink orders,” he said, his expression soulful. “Authorities say no one goes up unless they prove they leeve in build-ink or someone already here gives okay.”
“So the cops are trying to keep reporters and thrill seekers away from Rob Chesney? Is that what you’re saying?”
“Yes, is what I’m say-ink.” He gave her a grin. “But ees not for you. I am sure you are approved.”
Ellie opened and closed her mouth. While she and Kronk had a decent relationship, she’d never found the man to be totally trustworthy, but every now and then he surprised her. “That’s nice of you, Kronk.”
“But I haf favor.”
She rolled her eyes. She should have known it was too good to be true. “And that would be . . .”
“You are great crime solver, yes?”
Fairly sure she knew where this was leading, she raised an eyebrow. “I have had some success at scoping out murderers.”
“And eef you find geel-tee par-tee, you go to police?”
“I definitely go to police—er—the police.”
“So, before you do, you tell Kronk who ees keel-air. I call reporter and get paid for news. You get credit for solv-ink crime. Ees what you call a win-win deal, yes?”
“Ah, no,” Ellie stated, heaving a sigh. She’d learned from past experience that the Russian was all about the cash, but this was too bold to be real. “And you should be ashamed for asking me.”
Kronk’s expression grew wounded. “Ell-ee, why you say such a theenk? I merely share in your wonderful luck.”
Luck? Now that was a real insult. She’d been tied to a chair and left for dead, had her dog stolen, and just four months ago had been held at gunpoint and threatened with poison. Getting out of those situations had taken a heck of a lot more than luck.
“We split mon-ee? I give you ten—no—twen-tee percent,” he continued.
She pivoted on her toes, walked to the elevator, and pushed the call button. The suggestion wasn’t even worth a second “no.” When the door opened, she stepped inside and punched the number for her first client’s floor.
Finished walking the Davenport pack, she managed to slip past Kronk, who was busy checking in more grumbling tenants, and back into the elevator. She probably should have phoned Rob and asked if he wanted visitors, but she assumed he would expect her to bring Bitsy home without a call. Which she would have done, except for the fact that the poohuahua was too traumatized to leave her condo.
But how to explain this to Rob?
After returning the dogs to their homes, she knocked on his door and waited, positive that someone was watching her through the peephole. When no one answered, she knocked again and heard the dead bolts slide open. Then the door swung inward.
“Ellie. Thank God it’s you.” Rob stepped back and allowed her inside. Then he slumped against the hallway wall and ran shaking fingers through his hair. Throwing her a mournful smile, he said, “I guess I don’t have to tell you about last night, do I? I mean, you were there and all, and—”
He headed down the hall, as if expecting her to follow, and she obliged.
“The first detective on the scene was your date, right? I figured that out when I met you outside the dressing room.” Now in the living room, he dropped onto a butter yellow leather sofa and crossed his legs. Wearing faded Levi’s and a claret red cashmere sweater, he looked sad yet determined. His disheveled hair only added to his pitiable expression. “So did Detective Ryder tell you anything? Is there any word on the real killer?”
She dropped into a matching wing chair across from him. “Yes, Sam was my date. We’ve gone out for a while now, but he won’t—I mean, he rarely discusses his cases with me. In fact, I probably know less about what happened than was reported in the papers.”
“But you’ve solved crimes, caught killers and all that. Doesn’t he ask for your help?”
My help? She wanted to laugh, but knew it wouldn’t be appreciated by a guy who’d just been charged with murder. “He hasn’t approved of anything I’ve done to solve the murd—er—the cases I’ve been involved in. He thinks I’m inept and a danger to myself, so, no, he does not ask for my assistance.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, because the way Randall talks you’re a regular Sherlock Holmes.” He leaned back on the couch. “I was hoping I could hire you to lend a hand in the investigation.”
Hire me? “Rob, I’m not a PI or anything like one. To tell you the truth, I’m a nudge.” Great. She’d just slotted herself in the same category as Sam put his mother. “I really don’t know what I’m doing, but I push and push until I manage to stumble onto the facts.”
“But you’ve caught the guilty party.”
“Yes, but . . . How about I ask you some questions? Maybe if we talk it out, something will come to you that you haven’t thought of before. Then you can tell the cops and they’ll look into it.”
“Sure, fine.” He narrowed his eyes. “Hey, where’s my baby? Why didn’t you bring Bitsy home?”
Ellie swallowed hard, determined to tell a convincing story. “Bitsy is still at my place. I wasn’t sure you’d be here, so I thought it best she stay with me until I knew for certain.”
“I’m out on bail. It took the entire day to get that straightened out.” He started jiggling his leg in a twitchy, nervous kind of manner. “Little did I know there are some restrictions on my trust fund that don’t allow for a withdrawal of a large amount of cash unless I can prove to the attorney in charge that it’s necessary.”
“I heard bail was set at half a million. Isn’t putting up ten percent the norm?”
“Yes, but everything I have is invested. I didn’t trust myself to have that kind of money at my fingertips, so I put myself on a budget. My attorney pays the mortgage on this place, the tenant’s fees, all of it, and deposits a monthly allowance in my checking account. He had to liquidate some bonds to—” He rubbed his hands over his eyes. “Listen to me, going on about money when I’m facing a murder charge. If my mother and father hadn’t already disowned me, this would have sealed the deal.”
Right around Christmas, Rob had told Ellie a sad tale about his dreadful family life, and since Sam was on duty and her mother and the judge were in Barbados, she’d invited him to spend the holiday with her and Flora Steinman. But it hadn’t been necessary. Rob was still on good terms with his sister in Phoenix, and he and Bitsy had flown there for the week.
“Do you think they know you were arrested?” Ellie asked, uncomfortable with the personal questions.
“I haven’t a clue, but I’ve talked to my sister. Kayla’s agreed to stay with me until I’m cleared of the charges. And if I’m not, well . . .” He shook his head. “She’ll take Bitsy home to live with her and Bradley.”
Hoping to drop the dismal family business, Ellie decided it was time to get down to the nitty-gritty. “I don’t mean to be intrusive, but can you explain what happened last night? I’ll understand if you don’t want to tell me anything, of course, but I ran into Kronk and a group of angry tenants downstairs, so I know about the restriction management has put on allowing reporters and thrill seekers into the building.”
“Amazi
ng, isn’t it? No one gives a damn about me. All the tenants care about is their precious right to privacy, and the newspapers can’t seem to talk about anything except the fact that I’m a drag queen and so was the victim. I have to be the killer. It’s nothing less than what any pervert would do.”
“So you’ve seen the papers?”
“I read them, and afterward I was ordered to clam up by Keller Williams, my attorney. He’d probably have a fit if he knew I was talking to you, but I really could use a friend right now, and the guys in the revue . . . Well, let’s just say I wasn’t close to any of them.”
“Okay, fine. I’ll be your sounding board until your sister shows up.” Ellie rested her elbows on her knees. “Why don’t you tell me what happened?”
“Why not? It’s all going to come out anyway. The victim was Art Pearson, stage name Carmella Sunday. We weren’t lovers, as the papers suggest, and we certainly weren’t friends. In fact, Carmella could barely tolerate me.”
“So he—er—she was just someone working in your show?”
“She danced in the revue, but she wasn’t just any performer. Carmella was my understudy. If I got ill or couldn’t go on for any reason, she had my numbers down pat.” Rob stood. “Hang on a second. Let me show you something.”
He left the room and Ellie bit back a sigh. It sounded as if this Keller Williams guy had a pretty good idea of how to handle the press. She only hoped he was a decent trial attorney.
Rob returned and passed her an eight-by-ten glossy. “Take a look at this.”
Ellie gazed at the photo, a picture of Rob in full drag, complete with the ice blue satin gown he wore during his second number. “Um, I don’t understand. This is you the way you looked in your final song last night.”
“But that isn’t me,” he said, his expression bleak.
She held the photo at arm’s length and studied it. The person in the picture wore the same blond wig and elbow-length gloves, the identical headpiece. . . . If this guy wasn’t Rob, it was someone who had him down cold. “It’s not?”
“Nope. That’s a picture of Carmella Sunday, vamping as my understudy.”
Chapter 4
Ellie blinked back her surprise. “But he—er—she looks exactly like you.”
“Spooky, isn’t it?” Rob shrugged. “It’s the makeup, of course, and the wig. Cosmetics work wonders, but Art and I do have the same basic features, eye color, face shape, that sort of thing. Trouble is . . .”
She moved to the edge of her chair. “Go on.”
“The trouble is he auditioned for the part I have in the show as well, only we were called up in last-name order so I performed ahead of him. Apparently Carmella’s act was similar to mine, our wigs are almost identical, and we sing a few of the same songs. When she heard me onstage, she raised a huge stink, claimed I’d stolen her shtick, said she’d take me to court, the works.”
“But you didn’t copy her act?”
“Lord, no. I’d been playing in small clubs around the country for a couple of years, even before my parents disowned me. Carmella was strictly a Big Apple celebrity. She claimed I must have seen her act after I moved here, then worked up something just like it and come to the tryouts ready to go.”
“How did you find out about the show’s casting call?”
“I subscribe to a couple of Web sites that announce openings for movie and television roles, plus live shows as they become available. I assume Carmella did, too, but we never discussed it. Apparently she canceled her last gig at a small club in the Village because she was positive she’d get one of the leads at Guess Who.” He ran a hand through his already messy hair. “I still can’t believe this has happened.”
“How are the police tying you to the murder?” Ellie bit the inside of her cheek before she could add “other than finding you next to the body with the murder weapon in your hand.” “They need a motive to make a good case, and since Carmella wanted your job, I’d be more willing to believe she was planning to kill you, or at least find a way to take over your role.”
“Funny you should say that, because I often thought she was looking for a way to get me kicked off the show. Things calmed down over the last month and she seemed to accept the job of understudy, and that’s what I told the cops, but they didn’t believe me. Said they had me at the site with the weapon in hand, and I had a motive—getting rid of my competition.”
Ellie cringed internally. She’d been involved in the murder investigation business for a while now, and she knew what the cops would believe. Unless someone could convince Sam and Vince there was a more logical motive, they would never listen to a word Rob said. “Then you’ll just have to find a way to prove them wrong.”
He shook his head. “My attorney said they’d come around once he had a chance to run a background check on Carmella. He claims she could have been killed by anyone: a past lover, a current lover, a random murder by someone who hated gays—”
“So Carmella was definitely gay?”
“That was the talk around the dressing room. The gay drag queens outnumber the straight ones by ten to one, and the straight guys don’t talk about it for fear of being snubbed by the others. I just kept my mouth shut, but I’m sure people in the cast figured it out.”
“Are you aware of anyone who might have it in for you enough that they would frame you for the crime?”
He shrugged again. “I doubt it, but who knows. It was just such a shock returning to the dressing room and finding her like that. I saw her lying in that pool of blood and thought I could help.” He stared at the floor, as if trying to recall the details. “When I bent down, my feet slipped out from under me and I sort of fell against her body. My hand touched the scissors and it was automatic.” He rested his head on the sofa back and closed his eyes. “My fingers curled around them and I pulled.”
“Was it you that screamed?” Ellie asked.
“I was too terrified to say a word. The screamer was Regina Devine. She was standing in the corner of the room when you looked in. The three headliners shared that dressing room with their understudies: Carmella, Regina, and Frieda. It’s convenient for rehearsals, so I imagine she was coming in to take a break. When she saw me with the body, I guess she just lost it.”
“And you think Carmella was in there to freshen her makeup or redo her hair?”
He raised his hands in a who-knows? gesture. “Those are the obvious choices, but she had a couple of minutes before performing in the finale. Maybe she just wanted to sit and put her feet up.”
Sliding back in her chair, Ellie decided it might be less than smart to press Rob any further. He needed time to go over things, maybe consult with his attorney again, or merely get a good night’s sleep. She only wanted to clarify two more points. “Are you sure you didn’t see anyone run from the room as you made your way there?”
“It was opening night and I was a hit. Instead of leaving the wings immediately after the encore, I hung out for a minute or two, basking in the applause and congratulations from the stage people.” He ran a shaky hand over his face. “Hell, I don’t know. I vaguely remember someone walking toward the back of the building as I approached the room, but I have no idea who he was or where he’d come from. I’m not even sure it was a man. It could have been a crew member, one of the other girls going to a different dressing room . . . anyone.”
“It’s just my opinion, but I think you should take some downtime, relax and try to recall everything that happened. Let it play over in your mind, maybe write it down in an outline—whatever works.”
His shoulders dropped as he looked at her. “You’re probably right. I’m so damn tired I can barely think straight. My brain should be clearer in the morning.”
“That’s the spirit. Now, last thing—do you have any idea why someone would want Carmella dead?”
“You’d have to ask the other girls. There were a few I thought she might be close to. I only know most of them by their first name, but I did give the cops a list. I’m
sure Detective Ryder would let you—”
“Ah, no. He wouldn’t.” After glancing at her watch, Ellie stood. “I’m sorry to leave you, but I have dinner plans, and I’ll be late even if I go now.”
“But you’ll bring Bitsy home tomorrow, right?”
That depended on the outcome of Dr. Dave’s exam, but she’d worry about it after he checked the poohuahua out. “Um, sure. When is your sister scheduled to arrive?”
Rob stood and followed her to the door. “Her flight gets in at three, but she may have a bit of trouble getting here.”
“Trouble? Just have her catch a cab. They’ll be lined up and ready to go outside the terminal.”
He leaned against the hallway wall. “That will all depend on Bradley, I’m afraid.”
Ellie had assumed that was the name of Kayla’s husband or son. Now she wasn’t so sure. “Does Bradley have a problem?”
“Not according to Bradley he doesn’t, but the choice of a ride won’t be up to him. It’s going to depend on the cabbie.”
“Okay, now you’ve lost me.” She grabbed the doorknob. “Speak English, please.”
“Sorry. I guess I’m too wrapped up in my own problems to discuss my sister’s. Bradley is a dog.”
Ellie grinned. “A dog? Well, that should be a piece of cake. Almost every driver in this city will transport a canine. They might charge her an extra fee, but if it’s the cost of the ride you’re worried about, they all take credit cards. They’d probably even give her a hand juggling things if she had too much luggage. If that didn’t work, I’m sure Randall would ring you when they arrived so you could come down and pay the tab.”
“It’s not the money. Kayla has a trust fund, too, and she’s been careful with her investments.”
Tired of playing the guessing game, Ellie said, “Well, then, don’t keep me in suspense. What the heck is Bradley’s problem?”
