Some Like it Hot

by K. J. Larsen

  The three high-fived and Halah passed around her brownies.

  I wrote out a list and handed Cleo the paper. “Would you put these together for me?”

  Cleo read the list out loud. “Four shovels. Oreos. Sandwiches. Flashlights. Large thermos of hot coffee. Flowers. What is this?”

  “Our supplies to get Marilyn’s diamond earrings.”

  Cristina gasped. “I thought you were bluffing. Where are they?”

  “You’ll know when we get there.”

  “You don’t trust me.”

  “Not even a little bit.”

  “When do we get the diamonds?” Cristina asked.

  “Tomorrow is Billy’s funeral. We’ll go the next night.”

  “Awesome!” Halah said.

  I shook my head. “Not you, chica. You and Inga will stay with Mama. You’re both too young to go to county jail and tango with a big woman named Bertha.”

  Cristina laughed. “She’s joking. Right?”

  Cleo shrugged. “The cops arrested me last summer on some bullshit charge.”

  “Wow,” Halah said.

  I said, “Cleo learned a valuable lesson. You can’t threaten to kill people.”

  My assistant winked. “I really learned to tango faster than big Bertha.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  I shut the lights off behind my parting guests and went to bed. A sound woke me in the night. I lay still, listening. There it was again. The scruff of a footstep outside my window.

  My breath caught in my chest. I poked Inga beside me. “Did you hear that?”

  The beagle snored softly.

  My eyes shot to the dark shadow of a man outside my window. He jarred the frame, trying to force it open. I shook Inga with both hands.

  “Kill!”

  She opened an eye and stretched.

  “No more sausages.”

  I rolled off the bed, snagged the phone with one hand, and stuffed the other in a dresser drawer. The 9mm trembled in my grip. I shook a bra off the barrel and punched a number on my cell. Mama has Father Timothy on speed dial. I have Rocco.

  My brother picked up. I didn’t wait for him to speak.

  “Someone’s breaking in.”

  Rocco’s running footsteps pounded the floor.

  “Stay with me, Cat.” A door slammed and Rocco was on his way. I was glad my brother wears pajamas.

  Rocco’s breath was jagged. He was running to the car.

  “If the asshole makes it in before I get there—”

  Glass shattered and my premium platinum alarm system screamed. Inga howled.

  “Shoot him!” Rocco yelled.

  I threw down the phone and released the safety on my Glock. The alarm lit up every room in the house and flooded the exterior with light. The prowler would almost certainly flee. I high-tailed to the front window and jerked back the curtain. The skinny guy was in the spotlight, hightailing it to the dark street. He would’ve made it. But just before he cleared the lawn and hit the dark street, his right foot caught on an in-ground sprinkler. His arms flapped wildly, but they couldn’t restore his balance or give him flight. The bungler toppled flat on his face, one leg hideously tangled. He looked over his shoulder and our eyes locked. His face, racked with pain, was caught in the floodlights.

  Devin stumbled to his feet and, with one leg dragging, hobbled into the night.

  I turned off the alarm and Inga stopped howling. Rocco screeched to the curb. He raced up the steps all bad ass in his PJ’s and slippers. They were the Batman ones his daughters bought him last year for Christmas.

  Rocco charged inside.

  “He got away,” I said.

  My brother put an arm around me, and the dreaded adrenalin crashed. I started shaking and couldn’t stop. Rocco pried the pistol from my hand before I shot up the room.

  Rocco poured me a brandy, and I sat on the couch wrapped in a comforter. He searched the room, inside and out, and nailed a chunk of plywood over the broken window.

  My brother found a box of Tino’s pizza in the fridge. He brought out paper plates, a jar of garlic-stuffed green olives, hot peppers, and a couple beers to wash everything down.

  “I talked to your neighbor,” he said. “The one who wears binoculars around her neck.”

  “Mrs. Pickins. The neighborhood snoop.”

  “She gave me a good description of the perp. She didn’t recognize him.”

  Spy-eyes doesn’t drive. She’d have no reason to hang out at Jack’s Auto Shop.

  “Apparently the guy took a head-dive running away,” Rocco said. “Mrs. Pickins said he has a gash on his head and a bum leg.”

  “Karma’s a bitch.”

  He eyed me curiously. “She said you got a good look at him.”

  “He was scrawny. Wore a lot of black.”

  “And you have no idea who he was?”

  I shrugged.

  Here’s the thing. Devin is an idiot. Last spring he stole some Australian red and pink diamonds from me. I stole them back. Now he thinks the diamonds are his and that I have them.

  Well, they aren’t and I don’t.

  I thought maybe if I could convince Devin the diamonds are gone, he would go away. I wanted to handle this with minimal bloodshed. Devin was pissing me off, but I didn’t need the DeLuca men to kill him. At least not yet.

  I said, “Thanks. Is that your Batmobile parked in front?”

  “It is, Robin.”

  “Maria will be worried.”

  “She was worried about you.” He dragged another slice from the box. “I called her. She’s okay now.”

  I tucked the comforter around me. “I’m okay too. You can go home now, bro.”

  “Not a chance.”

  Rocco sat beside me on the couch. I slept the rest of the night with my head on his shoulder.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Billy was to be buried at one-thirty. I had one last chance to find his St. Christopher necklace.

  I parked across the street from the strip poker house as the two women drove off in a late model Mazda sedan. I gripped my first cup of coffee like a lifeline and nibbled on a bagel. The ogre opened the door and grabbed the paper off the porch. Damn. The big oaf looked like a slow reader.

  I opened up my Laura Caldwell novel and kept an eye on the front door. Billy’s funeral was at eleven-thirty. If the big guy wasn’t out of the house by nine, I would text two words to Cleo.

  Plan D.

  Last night I told Cleo I was going after Billy’s St. Christopher. I said, “If the roomies don’t leave, we’re onto Plan B.”

  “What’s Plan B?”

  “Plan B is where you kiss your Camry good bye. You drive by and smash into one of their cars. My crazy cousin Frankie arrives on the scene with sirens blaring. The roomies come out. I sneak in and find Billy’s St. Christopher before the funeral.”

  “I gotta go with C or D.

  “What’s C?”

  Plan C is me smashing their car with the Silver Bullet.”

  “Watch your mouth.”

  “Or Plan D. You make me a partner.”

  “I have a partner.”

  “So have Inga burst their car into flames.”

  “You do flames?”

  “I’ll torch the sucker.”

  I thought about it. “An explosion would buy me extra time.”

  “Everyone loves fireworks.” She grinned. “Partner?”

  I winced. “Torch away. But only if I text Plan D.”

  “Yahoo!”

  “And you have to promise not to shoot anybody.”

  Cleo didn’t like it. She blew her lips. “Fine. But I do not speak for Frankie.”

  At 8:55 I ditched the book and stared bleakly at my phone. I was running out of time. I closed my eyes and evoked
the saints. There had to be thousands of them. I figured one of them could boot that guy out the door.

  When I opened my eyes, the ogre was strolling to his car. He wore jeans and sneakers. Maybe he worked construction.

  I rolled my eyes up and winked at the saints.

  I texted Cleo. No fireworks.

  When he was gone, I skipped up the steps and let myself in.

  The living room was a wash of warm yellows and browns. The furnishings were surprisingly chic for this blue-collar neighborhood. A painting above the hearth was a Julian Ritter original. Maybe it fell off the back of a truck like Uncle Joey’s scotch.

  Frankly, I didn’t care. I was here for one thing. Billy’s funeral was in a few hours. And if St. Christopher cared at all about his necklace, he’d give me a shout-out. I listened. Chris was the strong, silent type.

  I made my way through the dining room, kitchen, and master bedroom with the Jacuzzi bath. The master rooms smelled of musk. The clothes in the walk-in closet were ogre-sized. The master bath had a supply of unused toothbrushes and women’s toiletries—presumably for guests. Even ogres get lucky.

  When I had exhausted the downstairs possibilities, I moved up the staircase along a curved banister and down a carpeted hall. The house had two bedrooms upstairs, an exercise room, and a bathroom at the end of the hall. I guessed the bedrooms belonged to the woman who beat Billy at strip poker. One room was showcase neat. The other was a scream for my Merry Maid.

  I searched quickly and methodically. Rummaging through drawers, sliding open closet doors, and peering under beds. I was running out of rooms and losing hope fast.

  The jewelry box was in the messy room on the unmade bed. It was buried in a small mountain of clothes. Not intentionally. She seemed to have tried on a dozen outfits before deciding what to wear today. I wondered where she went.

  It was a music box from Tiffany’s. When I opened it, a dancing ballerina spun around to “Edelweiss.” A keepsake, perhaps, from childhood.

  Under the ballerina was Billy’s St Christopher’s necklace. The necklace I had seen hundreds of times had transformed since confirmation day. The surface was worn almost smooth from Billy’s constant fingering of his good luck charm. The personal inscription had long disappeared.

  I draped the necklace around my neck and gave St. Christopher a thumbs-up. Tucking the jewelry box under the mountain of clothes, I made one sweeping glance around the room before hustling down the hallway.

  Halfway down the steps the doorknob turned. Crap. Maybe the ogre wasn’t a construction worker after all. Maybe he went to the store for milk and smokes.

  I scrambled back up the steps and made a nose-dive under the messy woman’s bed. I didn’t expect her to vacuum the floor anytime soon.

  The dust tickled my nostrils. I squeezed the bridge of my nose to stifle a sneeze. He came in talking on his cell.

  “Next weekend works for m—She’s not coming. Cuz it’s over, Ma….No, you can’t call her. It doesn’t matter why we broke up…Okay. She’s a slut. I’m done with her….Tell you what. I’ll come down next weekend, take you both out to dinner….I know it’s Pa’s birthday (laughs). Don’t ask me what I got him….He weasels it out of you….A hint, then. It’s for his train collection. That’s all I’ll say….He’s never seen anything like it….Don’t worry about the money, Ma. I got a big promotion at work….Love you, too.

  Ogres have nosey mothers too.

  I decided he was alone. He rattled dishes in the kitchen. Probably getting something to eat.

  After a while, he turned on the television in the living room. He was settling in. I was trapped.

  I had already checked every room for an exit strategy. In the business of stalking people, things can get sticky. A balcony or big tree to throw myself in may come in handy. There was a sorry lack of ledges and fire-escapes in the ogre’s house. And I didn’t bring a parachute.

  I texted Max with the ogre’s address and a brief note. Hiding upstairs. Distract ogre. Will exit kitchen. Alley.

  Max texted back. Fee. Fi. Fo. Fum.

  Twelve agonizing minutes later, the doorbell rang.

  I zoomed to the head of the stairs and held my breath. The TV muted. The door opened.

  Max’s voice boomed. “Good morning, sir. I represent Chi-Town Polling. We’re asking people in Bridgeport about their favorite Chicago style pizza.”

  “Not interested.”

  “I’ll only take a moment of your time.”

  “Go away.”

  “Italian sausage and mushroom? Or pepperoni and olive?”

  The ogre growled. “Your foot is in my door.”

  “Anchovies?”

  I slipped out the kitchen door and flew down the alley. The Hummer trolled down the side street and parked to intercept me. Max got out.

  He took my hands and looked me over.

  “Are you okay, Kitten?”

  “I‘m fine. Thanks for the lift.”

  “I would have gone with you.”

  I smiled. “Who would pick us up? We can’t all fit in Cleo’s Corvette.”

  “We do if you sit on my lap. What did you learn?”

  “The ogre’s girlfriend dumped him. He bought his dad something for his train collection.” I sneezed. “And it’s a dust fest under that bed.”

  “That’s it?”

  I waggled the St. Christopher from around my neck and beamed. “It was in a jewelry box.”

  “You rock.”

  My pocket vibrated. I grappled behind me and dragged out my cell phone.

  “Pants on Fire Detective Agency.”

  Uncle Joey lowered his voice to a whisper. “Where are you? This gig starts in half an hour.”

  I squawked. “Omigod! Billy’s funeral.”

  ***

  Max shoved me in the Hummer. He flew across town zigzagging in and out of traffic, climbing the sidewalks twice to avoid slowing down.

  He braked hard at my door.

  I ran inside and raced to the bathroom. I brushed my teeth, swirled mouthwash while splashing perfume and slapping blush on my cheeks and Dr. Peppering my lips. I finger combed my hair back in a honey bun and squirmed into pantyhose and a black Jackie-Kennedy style A-line dress and Ferragamo pumps. I grabbed a soft plum silk scarf, my black Fendi bag, and flew out the door in four minutes, thirty nine seconds. A personal record.

  Max drove like a madman. If I wasn’t rolling in a tank, I would have made my peace with God.

  “Do you want me to come in with you?”

  I checked Max out. Always a pleasure. He was dressed in a white tee with four floating heads of the Grateful Dead and a pair of black Levi’s. Maybe not the best choice for a funeral.

  “Billy loved the Grateful Dead,” I admitted. “And Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia was his favorite ice cream.”

  “I have a sports coat in the back. It’ll cover most of the heads.”

  “Why not? It’ll make Billy smile.”

  The street in front of the church was lined with parked cars. Max jetted to the curb and parked by the fire hydrant.

  “You’ll just make it. Knock ’em dead.”

  Max grabbed his jacket and we hit the ground running.

  I said, “Stall Father Timothy. I need a minute.”

  The church was packed. Bridgeport is a tight-knit community. We show up for funerals and any other community event that involves food.

  Billy’s family jammed the first few rows. People reconnect at funerals. There were waves and whispers in the pews. I saw friends I hadn’t seen since high school.

  My twin brothers were there. They’re big guys and easy to spot in a crowd. Michael and Vinnie were younger than Billy and didn’t really know him. But they knew Mama was cooking.

  Cleo sat on an aisle seat honking into a hankie. It’s tough to lose someone you kne
w seven whole hours.

  Captain Bob stood in the back of the church next to Papa. They ran Billy out of town. I hadn’t seen Billy again until the other day.

  Captain Bob’s daughter stomped past her father and kicked his shin. I glared at Papa and made a mental note to smack him later.

  I dipped my fingers in holy water and crossed myself. Billy was laid out in front of the altar, positioned under a light. The beam gave him a halo-like glow. Billy would laugh his socks off.

  The golden bronze casket was a top of the line “Sleeping With Angels” model. Grandpa bought one last year when he had pneumonia. He got stuck with it when he didn’t kick the bucket. He took out the extra cot in the guest room and placed it beside the double bed.

  I marched to the front of the sanctuary. I could see Max blocking Father Timothy in the wing. I quickened my pace and decided he only appeared to have the priest in a choke hold.

  I stood at the casket with my back to the crowd. I removed the St. Christopher necklace from around my neck, gently lifted Billy’s head, and slipped it around him.

  Then I touched his face and said good bye. His skin felt cold and empty. I didn’t know where Billy went, but he sure as hell wasn’t in there.

  When I turned around again, Mrs. Bonham’s sad eyes smiled.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  I brought a tropical fruit salad and bottle of wine to the wake. I threw in some boxes of Ding Dongs for Billy.

  Mama organized the food while I helped the ladies in the kitchen until Mama kicked me out.

  She stuffed a cookie in my hand and whispered, “The gossip stops when the kids are around.”

  I had to wonder if she remembered I’m thirty.

  I directed traffic to the backyard where Papa and Uncle Rudy set up chairs borrowed from the church. Father Timothy made the rounds, praying with people and making them cry. I figured Billy wouldn’t want people to be sad at his party. I ducked every time I saw the priest coming.

  I knew most of the people there. But I kept an eye open for a woman with Kansas written all over her. I didn’t know if Nicole Bonham would show. Or even what she looked like. Mrs. Bonham wasn’t exactly displaying pictures of the evil daughter-in-law.