Some Like it Hot

by K. J. Larsen

  “Satan?” I said.

  His jaw tightened. “Enjoy your meal, ladies. It’s on me.”

  Cleo couldn’t help herself. She loves free food. “Wow,” she said. “Thanks.”

  I elbowed slugged her again.

  “At least I’m not crazy enough to kill Santa,” she called after him.

  Tierney twisted around to look at her. This time the smile reached his eyes.

  “You can’t kill Santa Claus, Ms. Jones. Everybody knows that.”

  ***

  Tierney’s free food and booze was too much for Cleo to resist. She staggered from the pub groaning, vowing she’d never eat again. I shoved her into Tino’s Buick, ditched the wig, and cranked up the engine. Cleo’s declaration lasted as long as it took to cruise to Tino’s Deli. Five minutes.

  Max and Tino were locked in battle over a chess board as we came through the door, Cleo steadying herself a bit on my arm.

  Max took in the dress I wore to seduce Sylvia’s fiancé and his golden eyes smiled. “God you’re beautiful.”

  “Schank-you,” Cleo sniffed. “That pig Tierney didn’t appsheeate theese legsh.”

  Max frowned. “You were at his pub?”

  “In disguise,” I said pointedly.

  “And Tierney didn’t recognize you?”

  “He knew her legsh right off,” Cleo blabbed.

  “As would I,” the sausage maker said returning with two strong coffees and a plate of ricciarelli cookies.

  Cleo’s eyes got wide. “Yummy,” she said and made a dive for the cookies.

  Tino cleared his throat, “I asked around about the dead guy in Tierney’s bar. His name was Alan Mitchell. Age twenty-seven. No criminal record. No obvious ties to Tierney. Tierney claimed Mitchell broke into the bar after hours to rob him. There was no weapon and no signs of a break-in to support his story.”

  “Kyle Tierney is a big, fat liar,” I said.

  “He’s not the only one.” Tino said. “Cristina and Alan Mitchell lived in the same three-story walk-up on the North Side. There’s no way they didn’t know each other.”

  “Imagine that,” Cleo said.

  “I’ll kill her,” I said.

  Max said, “The question is, did her lies get Billy killed?”

  “I’ll double kill her,” I said.

  “There’s something else,” Tino said. “The night Alan Mitchell died, the Palmer House Hilton Hotel downtown hosted a political fund-raiser. A bunch of Hollywood actors were there.”

  “George Clooney?” I said.

  Tino nodded.

  “Damn,” I said.

  “Women say I look like George Clooney.” Max grinned.

  Cleo stared at Max, her eyes slits. “I can shee it if I schquint. Try it, Cat.”

  “Seriously?”

  Tino swallowed a smile. “The fundraiser event sold one hundred dinner tickets at ten grand each.”

  Cleo feigned a whistle. “That’s a whole lot of pashta.”

  “There was even more jewelry,” Tino said. “Ten thousand dollars bought you a photo op with the stars and a close and personal look at some Hollywood history. Original pieces worn by Marilyn Monroe in Some Like It Hot and in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes were on display.”

  Max said, “Tino has a crush on Marilyn.”

  “What man doesn’t?” Tino said. He topped our coffees. “The theft wasn’t discovered until the following morning.”

  “What was missing?”

  “Marilyn’s diamond earrings from Some Like It Hot. They had been replaced with a replica.”

  “The value?”

  “An auction would bring millions. The earrings were a favorite of Marilyn’s. She had the original Hollywood glass replaced with real diamonds. She wore the earrings at a dinner party in the White House. The studio and insurance company both offered fat rewards. The earrings were never found.”

  “So what’s this have to do with Alan Mitchell?” I said.

  Tino leaned close, his dark eyes gleaming. “Maybe nothing. But there are four million people in Chicago. The night Marilyn’s diamonds disappeared, one hundred of those people paid ten thousand dollars each to dine with the stars. And Alan Mitchell—a guy between jobs, maxed on his credit cards and living in a crappy apartment—was one of them.”

  My breath caught. “Are you sure?”

  Tino smiled. “The ticket was in his pocket. And George Clooney signed it for him.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The doorbell woke me just before seven. I pulled the pillow over my head. It was way too early for good news. And I’d had enough of the bad stuff lately. I didn’t know who was out there, but it couldn’t be a member of my family.

  I know this because I have a premium platinum alarm system. My brother Rocco had it installed last summer after someone left a dead rat in my bed. It’s kept the rats out since. But DeLucas are a plethora of cops and crooks. They trample past my security like it’s a revolving door at Macy’s.

  The bell rang again. I wiggled into my bunny slippers and grumbled all the way to the door. Anyone cruel enough to show up before my first cup of coffee had best be bringing donuts.

  I flung open the door and Mrs. Bonham attempted an apologetic smile. She removed her sunglasses. They were the wrap-around type with dark frames. She wore them to conceal red, swollen eyes. God knows the sun was barely up.

  I scanned her hands for a white bag. No donuts, dammit.

  “I hope I’m not intruding.”

  Tying my robe, I said, “Not at all. Come in. I’ll make coffee.”

  She followed me to the kitchen.

  “I would have called—”

  “Calling is good.”

  “—but I didn’t have your number. And I didn’t want to wake your mother.”

  I smiled. “By now she’s made Papa’s breakfast, taken my dog for a walk, and is probably pulling bruschetta from the oven.”

  “Your mama is a wonder.”

  “Yeah. I wonder about her too.”

  I ground the darkest beans I had, and made a thick, caffeine-rich sludge in my French Press.

  In lieu of donuts, I ducked my head in the fridge. I suspected it was a little early to break out the chocolate fudge cake. I thought I deserved it. Being dragged out of bed by a woman crying at your door is a scream for chocolate.

  I dipped my finger into the fudge frosting and popped out of the fridge with a bowl of grapes and my extra Tupperware of Mama’s pastries.

  I sat with Mrs. Bonham. She dumped cream in her coffee and two sugar cubes.

  “Have you caught the killer, dear?”

  “Not yet, but I have pulled every available resource I have to help me on this. With a couple of cops, the FBI, and two ex-spies, we’ll follow the evidence and see where it takes us.”

  The fact was, there was an astounding lack of evidence to follow.

  Mrs. Bonham nodded soberly.

  “I can’t really talk about the investigation, but I can tell you we have a prime suspect.”

  “What does Captain Bob say?”

  “Bob is on, let’s just say, a different page.”

  Mrs. Bonham nodded. “I don’t think he liked my son all that much.”

  “Really? I can’t imagine why.”

  She bit her lip worriedly. “I’m afraid you’ll be in hot water with the captain.”

  “I wouldn’t worry all that much.” I laughed. “Billy would get a kick out of that.”

  She smiled.

  “Why are you here, Mrs. Bonham?”

  Her brow furrowed. “Well, someone was in my house yesterday. They broke in when I was at the funeral home making arrangements.”

  “Did you call the police?”

  She shook her head. “I didn’t notice until last night. I couldn’t sleep so I went into
Billy’s room. A few things had been moved around. Most people wouldn’t see it. But I’m a fastidious housekeeper.”

  Billy had called her anal-retentive.

  Mrs. Bonham glanced around my kitchen with unspoken approval. I silently blessed the Merry Maids. They had been here yesterday.

  “Do you have any ideas of who it could have been?” I said.

  “It was Nicole. I’m sure of it.”

  “Ah. Billy’s ex.”

  “Not ex, dear. There wasn’t a divorce yet. Billy was hurt she left him. He went on bragging about a big payment he was expecting from a client. Something about diamonds. It was nothing but a hot-air. Billy, God love him, was a blowhard. Like his old man.”

  I figured the “big payment” was the mother lode of cash Billy expected to find in Kyle Tierney’s safe.

  “I’d like to talk to Nicole. Do you know where she’d be staying? Does she have friends here?”

  “If she has half a brain, she’s gone back home.”

  “To Kansas.”

  Mrs. Bonham gave an odd smile. “I was thinking, Oz.”

  We finished off two pots of coffee and all the pastries. I gave her my card, and she put my number in her phone.

  I had a caffeine buzz when we walked to the porch.

  “Billy loved you,” his mama said. “The night he died, he told me you were the one who got away.”

  I laughed. “Billy had been drinking.”

  I watched her drive away and took a long, steamy shower. I blow-dried my hair and threw on my fav pair of black curvy jeans and a soft peach sweater. When I finished, doing my five minute make-up routine, a message was waiting on my phone.

  It was from Mrs. Bonham.

  “Caterina, I meant to ask if Billy mentioned something about his St. Christopher necklace. You’ll remember it. I bought it for his Confirmation. Captain Bob insists it wasn’t found on him. I never saw Billy without it.” Her voice caught. “I don’t want to bury him without his St. Christopher necklace.”

  She shouldn’t have to. She’s had enough grief already. The funeral was in two days. I didn’t have a lot of time.

  I stepped into a pair of black wedge booties, grabbed my slate jacket, slung my Tignanello tote over my shoulder, and headed for the door.

  I had a plan. I was pretty sure I knew where Billy’s St. Christopher was. He lost it to a pair of aces.

  ***

  Before my hand found the knob, the door pushed open. Uncle Joey stood on the porch, a large box in his arms. Four more boxes were stacked beside him.

  I said, “Did you ever know that you’re my hero?”

  Uncle Joey grinned. “Everything we know about the life and death of Alan Mitchell is in these boxes.”

  “It looks like a lot.”

  “I flipped through them last night. I can cut to the chase and give you the condensed version.”

  “Cut away.”

  “Alan Mitchell is dead.”

  I kissed my uncle’s cheek and hoisted a box in my arms. “Come in. I’ll make coffee.”

  My Uncle Joey is a Chicago cop in the true DeLuca family tradition. He, however, does it better than most. He lives in a big house with a swimming pool. And he lives large. Joey rubs elbows with some of the most powerful men in Chicago. He also knows where their secrets are buried. He’s generous and fiercely loyal to his family and friends. I’m not saying my uncle’s in anybody’s pocket. But I suspect he has his hand in more than one cookie jar.

  We set the boxes around the kitchen table. I made coffee while Uncle Joey noshed on some beef curry pillows Cleo made for Mrs. Millani’s bridge party.

  I nosed through a box. I found crime photos and my chest tightened. There were detectives’ notes from interviews with the victim’s family and friends. The investigators couldn’t establish a connection between Mitchell and Tierney. The staff did not remember serving him at the pub.

  Uncle Joey said, “Tierney claimed it was a robbery gone wrong. Mitchell tried to rob him. But the only gun in the room was Tierney’s. And he shot Mitchell with it.”

  “What do you think?”

  Uncle Joey seized a garlic-drowned shrimp. “I think if a cop hadn’t heard the shot, Mitchell’s body would be on the bottom of the lake wrapped in chains.”

  Uncle Joey added, “The night he died, Mitchell told friends he was performing a magic act for a Boys Club in Skokie.”

  “Why lie?”

  Joey shrugged. “The Boy’s Club date was a month out.”

  “He’s not the only one who lied. Cristina told Billy she tended bar that night. She didn’t. She got someone else to cover her shift.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Oh, and you’ll love this. Tino says Cristina and Mitchell knew each other.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “Knew each other?”

  Uncle Joey stretched back in his chair and rubbed his stomach. “Okay, so it appears the connection between Mitchell and Tierney was the bartender.”

  I walked over to the coffee pot and refilled his mug. “The night Mitchell was killed, he attended a political fundraiser at the Palmer House Hilton Hotel. Tickets went for ten grand each.”

  Joey snorted. “That’s half of Mitchell’s earnings for the year.”

  “It gets better. The event showed off celebrities and Hollywood jewelry. A pair of Marilyn Monroe’s diamond earrings went missing that night. They were never found.”

  A slow smile spread across Uncle Joey’s face.

  I said, “Alan was a magician. He could pull rabbits out of a hat, coins out of children’s ears, and handkerchiefs out of hands.”

  “He could make earrings disappear.”

  Uncle Joey dragged another box onto the table. He removed the lid and stuffed a hand inside. He opened a small plastic bag and pulled out a pair of chandelier earrings made with round, cascading crystals.

  “These earrings were at the crime scene. Costume jewelry. They were close enough to the body to be bagged with the evidence.”

  “Oh my God.”

  He peered closely at the earrings. “What?”

  I zipped to the bedroom and returned with my laptop. Joey scooted his chair next to mine. Moments later I had the newspaper article up.

  The headline, Marilyn’s Diamonds Stolen from Star Studded Fundraiser, filled the screen. I looked at the earrings on my computer screen. And I stared at the glass copies in my hands.

  My heart skipped around in my chest. I couldn’t breathe.

  A slow chortle began in Uncle Joey’s throat and swelled to a full-out bwahahaha belly laugh.

  Other than a ten million dollar price difference, they were identical.

  Chapter Nineteen

  When Uncle Joey was gone, I sat in the kitchen with the earrings and the crime scene photos. Alan Mitchell was dressed in the usual black tie fundraiser garb. Not designer label, but decent quality. An ugly brown-red stain covered most of Alan Mitchell’s white shirt. He’d taken a hit in the chest that propelled him backwards. He lay sprawled on his back, legs twisted as if they’d crumbled beneath him. The earrings aligned with an outstretched hand.

  There were no visible signs of struggle. Chairs were in place. Tierney’s glass and the bottle of Jameson remained undisturbed on the table. Not a drop had been spilled in the violent exchange that ended Mitchell’s life.

  I brushed the crumbs from the table and piled our dishes in the dishwasher. I grabbed my Alfani slate-colored jacket and Tignanello tote again.

  I stepped outside and locked the door behind me. I beeped the alarm on Tino’s Buick.

  Half way down my steps, there was a sound. A horrible sound that mimicked fingernails on chalkboard came drifting around the side of my house.

  “Hey! Open up.”

  I winced. “Sylvia?”

  The red-head flounced around and met
me at the front. I was relieved she left her fox friends behind.

  “I had to look up your website,” she said. “Your address wasn’t on your card.”

  “My address isn’t on my website, either.”

  She sniffed disapprovingly. “I don’t know how you expect to get business.”

  The omission of my address isn’t an oversight. I piss off too many people to hang out a welcome mat. Especially with my office attached to my home. I get enough uninvited guests as it is.

  I heard my teeth grind. “You apparently skipped the part about calling for an appointment.”

  She shrugged. “I saw it.”

  I forced the edges of my mouth to curve. “Well then how’d you find me?”

  “What can I say? I’ve got the gift.”

  “Like a stalker.” I unlocked the door. “There should be a cup left in the pot. Come on in.”

  Sylvia followed me to the kitchen, and I poured her a mug of coffee.

  “Eeeuw!” she said standing over the crime photos. “Is that guy dead?”

  “Deader than Elvis.”

  I shuffled the pictures into a pile and put them back in the box. “This is for a case I’m working on.”

  Sylvia twirled the earrings in her hand. “Are these real?”

  “They’re copies of the real ones.” I scooped them from her palm, tossed them in the box, and dropped the box on the floor with the others.

  Sylvia plopped on a chair and leaned forward. Her boobs, and the butterfly tattoo, nearly spilled out on the table. She gave a conspiratorial wink.

  “Whatcha gonna do when you find the real ones?”

  I massaged my temples. “What makes you think I’m looking for the real diamonds.”

  “Well duh! You’re a detective, aren’t cha?”

  “Sylvia,” I said, now rubbing my temples. “Why did you want to see me?”

  “I need to use your can.”

  Lovely. “It’s down the—”

  She waved a hand. “Yeah, yeah. I know. I saw it when I came in.”

  She trotted off and I downed a glass of water with a couple Excedrin. Sylvia was going through a rough time, I told myself. She’d been played by the man she loved. Her wedding was off. The gossip vultures that she called friends would be circling. In time, if she’s smart, she would be doing the happy dance. Sylvia was lucky to get out before she had to split her hard-earned grieving cash with that money whore.