A Corpse in a Teacup

by Cassie Page

  Tuesday gave him a flirty smile. “We could change that. I know restaurants that serve better steaks.”

  She melted when he looked deeply into her eyes, settling a grin on her. “Well, we just might have to talk about that.”

  To catch her breath she brought up Ariel’s death again, but he was reluctant to discuss it. She pressed him. “If you’re a retired cop, don’t you have some theories?”

  They were sitting side by side in a booth and Tuesday stretched to pull her jacket off, a Moschino Cheap and Chic original. He helped her slide it off her shoulders and set it on the opposite bench. He pointed to it and said, “That’s why I like you. You’re not afraid to make a statement. I don’t know anyone else who would wear shoulder pads in the twenty-first century.”

  Her eyes popped wide. “Do you know why I like you? I don’t know another man who knows that shoulder pads are so twentieth century.”

  She told him about the jacket. She’d had a friend who was an assistant to the designer when he was up and coming, before AIDS cut short his dazzling career. Her friend left it to Tuesday in his will when he died of old age at eighty-four. It was her most treasured piece. She had lent it to an east coast museum when they did a show on designers of the eighties.

  She preened a bit. “I thought it was just the thing for an important first date.” She wore it over a tulle skirt, ankle tights and ballet flats. “I know it’s a little conservative but I don’t know your vibe yet.”

  He did something with his eyebrows that set off nice sparks in her stomach. He said, “I like your vibe just fine.”

  She lowered her eyes shyly and he took it as an invitation to change places. He slid into the seat across from her, next to her jacket. “I need to look into those baby blues. This is better. I get the full frontal. Ouch, don’t take that the wrong way. You know what I mean.”

  She threw her head back, laughing. “You’re making me blush. Not my best look. And they’re hazel, not blue. Pay attention.”

  It was his turn to laugh. Tuesday needed to keep the flirting under control until she got her bearings. This was fun, but she wanted to be sure he wasn’t playing her. After all, she was breaking one of her major rules. No dating cops. But he was ex, so maybe that made it okay. She turned serious. “Let’s get off the hot seat and talk about Ariel.”

  “Wow, from the frying pan into the fryer. Do we really want to spoil the mood by talking about a dead girl?” He looked skyward. “No offence, Ariel.”

  Tuesday grimaced. “Oh, maybe I’ve made a mistake. Maybe you didn’t work in homicide. I just assumed since you were a detective . . .”

  “Oh I did my stint on the mean streets.”

  “I have an ulterior motive for talking about the case.”

  But just then Betsy returned with bread and their salads. Tuesday tried not to make a face when she tasted the bottled dressing. She wasn’t a food Nazi but she did like fresh and organic. Unless it was ice cream. Or candy bars.

  He took a bite and winked at her. “Best Caesar in LA,” he said, talking around a mouthful. “Am I right?”

  Tuesday chewed and smiled gamely, then pushed her plate away. “Saving myself for the steak.”

  “Wait till you try their ribeye. Man o man.”

  Tuesday wanted to get back to the subject at hand. “As I was saying, my sources tell me . . .”

  He grinned. “Sources? Now you sound like me. When I used to have sources.”

  She grinned back. “I’m not trying to go all CSI on you. It’s just that I’ve been hearing things. If the police are looking into this, something’s up. This crisis has taken over my life, and I didn’t even know her. But it’s affecting my client and she means the world to me. I’d like to find out what I can, so I can be a support to her.”

  Betsy returned with the steaks. He was still evasive, dug into his ribeye before he answered. Tuesday noticed that he liked his beef well salted. “But why are you drilling me? Like I said, I quit the force a couple, three years ago. I have no inside contacts. I don’t know anything you don’t know.”

  She had stepped on his toes. She could see that in the uncomfortable shrug he gave her, so she backtracked.

  “I’m overstepping my bounds. We don’t have to talk about this at all. No way. It’s just that I’m really worried that Holley is in danger. But that’s not your problem. I’m sorry if I upset you. I know she’s okay tonight. She has a friend who’s coming over to stay with her.”

  Holley had assured her that she would keep trying Roger. If he couldn’t come over and sleep on her couch, she would ask Harry, the hairdresser, who had a black belt in Tae Kwan Do. Tuesday had promised to check in as soon as she got home from dinner.

  He put his fork down to reach across the table and take her hand. “Listen, I’m being a jerk. Of course you’re worried for your friend. I should have gotten that. I’ve just tried to keep a lot of distance between me and my former life. I was trying to sideline the conversation. Forgive me?”

  “Of course. It’s just that since you were at the police station, I thought . . . “

  “I don’t have connections, but I have friends there. I was just meeting up with some of the guys.”

  “I get it. You’re a man of mystery.” She cut into her steak. At least it was medium rare, just the way she liked it. Not that she ate a lot of meat. She tried to keep vegetarian, but she believed a steak once in awhile was good for her iron levels. And her taste buds. Was she ever going to stop having arguments with herself over what she ate?

  “Listen, I won’t say I’m not interested in this case. Occupational hazard. I can quit the force but my curiosity comes with me. I have some theories, sure. But I’m not in the pipeline anymore, so this is just speculation. If they say it was a heart attack, I’d go with that. Killer would have to be pretty savvy to make a young woman’s death look like natural causes if it wasn’t. In an older person, yeah, but how old was she? Mid-twenties? You just can’t fake that.”

  “What about poison? Couldn’t that make a death look like natural causes?” She thought about the Darling Valley case.

  He was a fastidious eater. He broke his bread over the side dish so there were no crumbs on the table and dabbed at his mouth with his napkin from time to time. Tuesday liked a man who was neat and tidy He finished his steak before she did, crossed his knife and fork across the plate.

  “You know that I’m not a forensic expert. But in my experience, the poisons someone in the general public could acquire, and there are plenty--poison isn’t that hard to get your hands on--but the common ones? Available to the consumer? Rat poison and the like? They leave traces. Even poisonous garden plants like oleander. Soon as the medical examiner goes to work they find it in the bloodstream, the tissues, the stomach. Nothing like that’s been reported.”

  Betsy came by to take his plate away, but he stopped her. He pointed to Tuesday. “My friend hasn’t finished yet.”

  Betsy smiled and turned to the next table. Tuesday was impressed. “How very polite of you.”

  He shrugged. “It’s in my blood. My mom was a caterer. Russian service in our house, every night. Everybody gets served at the same time, everyone’s plate is cleared at the same time. It’s nice when you think about it. No one is left eating alone after everyone else is finished. Nobody notices if you finish first, so nobody calls you a hog.”

  “I take it you had an older brother.”

  “Two. The teasing? They were on me for everything, but not at dinner. They had to follow the same rules.”

  Tuesday shrugged. “I’m an only child.”

  “You’re lucky.”

  “Maybe.” She wasn’t going to get into her family history. She’d have to run up her cholesterol numbers with a lot of steak dinners before she’d agree to go there. He seemed to get it and pushed on with his version of Ariel’s death.

  “I’m not saying you couldn’t make a young person look like they had heart failure. I’m saying it isn’t easy to fake it. A person falls
down the stairs and it could be an accident or maybe they were pushed. But there’s no accident that gives you a cardiac arrest. An electric shock, poison, whatever you try. Any coroner will spot the signs right away. If LAPD isn’t coming up with anything, I’d go with heart attack. It happens. You read about these young kids, high school athletes fifteen, sixteen years old. Perfect specimens you think. They work out one day and bam.” He punched his fist into his hand and Tuesday jumped. “They’re gone. And another thing. Nothing was disturbed in her house. So there you go. Heart attack.”

  There was a note of finality when he said heart attack. Perhaps his memories of his time on the force troubled him and he wanted to stay away from murder and mayhem. Tuesday got that. But she couldn’t let it go. Holley’s safety could be at stake. “The news shows are calling it a suspicious death. Doesn’t that tell you something?”

  He took her hand again. “Here’s what I think. Your friend Holley should do everything she can to make herself feel secure until this is all worked out. Not because I think anything is going to happen to her, but double bolted doors, a great big dog, police cruising her neighborhood a few times a night? All that promotes mental health. Can’t hurt. Beyond that, I think you should let the police do their job and let it go. Take care of your own mental health.”

  “You’re probably right.” That’s what she said. But no way was she going to let this drop. If there was anything she could do for Holley, she wouldn’t leave a tern unstoned, as the old joke went. She wasn’t sure what her next move would be, but there had to be a way she could get information from the police that would help Holley.

  Betsey stopped by again and this time she was able to clear the table. While she swept away crumbs, he said, “One more thing. Don’t pay attention to the news. The press never gets these things right.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Oh, you have some first hand experience?”

  So she told him about visiting Olivia and the whole armoires and arsenic case. She wanted to ask why he left his job so young, but didn’t think she should ask. Maybe he just couldn’t take the blood and gore anymore. Time to change topic. Though she was curious about one thing. He didn’t talk about another job. So what was his source of income? She didn’t think the police department paid well enough for retirement in your thirties. Investments? Maybe a family member left it to him.

  Betsy returned with dessert menus.

  He opened his. “Please tell me you have a sweet tooth. Their Chocolate Volcano Sundae is a killer.”

  Tuesday frowned. “Oh, I shouldn’t. I really don’t eat sugar. I just don’t allow it in my diet. Ever. Well, almost never. Sometimes you just need to fix a sinking blood sugar.”

  “Well I’d say yours is heading for the South Pole. What do you say we split one?”

  Tuesday patted her stomach to show she was full. “I have no room.”

  They went back and forth and finally she said, “If you insist. But only if you tell me what you meant when you said you were an inventor. Have you invented a better mousetrap?”

  He waved her comment away. “Ah, just fooling around. I like to tinker. I have a lot of time on my hands.”

  Just then Betsy called out, “Hey y’all. Clear the deck. Coming through with a bucket of poison.” She plunked down a mountain of chocolate and cream between them and a pair of plates and spoons. “Fight over it, kiddies.”

  He rubbed his hands together and made a show of licking his lips. “Bring it on, woman.”

  Tuesday grabbed a spoon and said, “I shouldn’t. I’m just having one bite.”

  “Oh c’mon. You’re not going to let me self-destruct by myself.”

  That’s when Tuesday wondered if there was someway she could sneak away and talk to Olivia for advice. Because she knew now that she was in double trouble. On top of being the sexiest guy she had met this millennium, he was as big a sugar addict as she was.

  On the drive home she called Holley. Harry had arrived with a chilled bottle of Pinot Grigio and they ordered takeout. Tuesday hung up, relieved that Holley was safe for the night. Now she could turn her attention to Mr. Gorgeous.

  The first thing that popped into her mind though, bothered her. Did he say that Ariel’s house wasn’t disturbed? How did he know that? On the news, Detective Johnson refused to comment on that detail. A friend at the precinct must have told him. Yet he’d insisted he had no inside information. Her delight with their dinner transformed into a thrum of anxiety. Was he going to turn out to be untrustworthy after all? She’d had enough of that in her life.

  Chapter Twenty-One: Where’s Roger

  Late the next morning, Tuesday headed over towards Larchmont Village mulling over every morsel of the previous evening, savoring the laughs, the innuendos, the sweet kisses. Her happy reverie was interrupted by her cell phone. It was Holley, but Tuesday wasn’t wearing an earpiece. She let it go into voice mail, then hit speaker and replayed the message.

  Holley was frantic. She almost drove off the road when she heard her say, “Miss Tuesday, have you listened to the news? Electra? You know, Mr. Vitale’s wardrobe person? She was found dead this morning.”

  Goren Vitale nervously fiddled with a water bottle as he waited for his potential cast and crew to assemble in the rehearsal room he used for the film. Detective Jameson had called the meeting and now sat behind Vitale furiously entering notes into her iPad and whispering into the ear of her partner. The normally cheerful Detective Butel had lost his effervescence, instead giving a depressingly somber nod to each person who entered the room, gave his or her name to an officer with a checklist and found a seat in one of the hastily acquired metal folding chairs and benches. When Tuesday had shown up with Holley, Jameson allowed her to attend the meeting reluctantly. She only agreed when Tuesday reminded her that she was one of the last people to have seen Electra alive. Perhaps she might remember an important detail.

  Tuesday had her own reasons for wanting to attend. She was becoming more and more protective of Holley and wanted to know what was going on.

  She looked around the room and recognized most of the faces from the memorial the other night, all looking as shopworn as the director. Two deaths in one week? The element of fear clouded the room. No doubt they all wondered who would be next. Who could have done this? If asked, Tuesday would have put her money on Zora, leaning against the wall behind the director.

  She wondered why Roger was not there. Surely he had been invited. The director’s wife, however, was at her husband’s side in a show of support, minus the butterfly earrings.

  No doubt Brava’s appearance at the Café for lunch was a public relations tactic. She demonstrated for the public that the unfortunate death of an actress did not rattle her. What’s more, it could not possibly harm her husband’s film. But beneath her firm mouth and steady eyes, Tuesday questioned how she was really coping with the latest tragedy. How would their people spin this one? Every blog and news outlet was talking about the zombie curse, painting Goren Vitale as a magnet for death. Lose your vitality by working for Vitale was how one website described it.

  The director took a long swallow from his bottle of water, then cleared his throat. “Attenion, everyone. Your attention, please.”

  The please came across as pathetic, yet yhe crowd fell silent, most likely hoping for some news or action that would break the tension. Finally, Vitale took a deep breath and spoke.

  “I don’t have to tell you all what a tragedy this is. If you know me, you knew Electra. You know how much I relied on her. She created the signature look for my characters. This is an incalculable loss to me personally, as well as to everyone who knew her.”

  Tuesday thought she saw Mrs. Vitale’s mouth tighten a bit. Hmm, was there trouble in the teepee over her husband’s mistress, wardrobe mistress that is?

  In the beginning of the week, Monday morning at the Burbank airport, she’d heard Vitale’s name for the first time. But after many Internet searches and Holley’s input, now on Fri
day she felt she knew him quite well. He was the leader in a cult film genre, one that the general public hardly knew existed and mainstream reviewers ignored. His followers, however, threw money at him in the form of fan clubs, Vitale Zombie Fairs, movie reenactments, books, a zombie clothing line and the sale of millions of movie tickets worldwide. He’d created a money machine for his backers. These murders could hurt this cottage industry if fans of the grotesque on screen shunned death in real life. Vitale had a lot at stake in keeping this situation under control.

  He started by calling the two deaths “one of life’s cruel coincidences.” Several people nodded in agreement, notably his wife.

  “Las Vegas would love the odds of this happening twice on a zombie movie, but there you are. None of us live forever. If anything, we should all be sure that we have our annual checkups.”

  From this seeming non sequitur, Tuesday saw that he was spinning Electra’s cause of death as a previously undiagnosed illness. Goren confirmed it when he said, “Little did she know she was a walking time bomb. She was a tough cookie. You’d have thought she’d have a strong heart.”

  He wasn’t going to damn his movie with suggestions of murder. But who was he kidding? If it was a heart attack, what were the police doing there?

  He announced that this morning the LAPD would question everyone connected with the film. They hoped to have the interviews completed by mid-afternoon. His wife cut in, a vision in black and Goth makeup.

  “Everyone,” she said in her husky, accented voice, “I have called Marco at The Mulberry Cat Café to see if he would open his kitchen early and prepare lunch for us. He said he was only too happy to oblige.”

  Tuesday whispered to Holley, “What kind of pull does she have in this town if she has Marco on speed dial and can get him to drop everything to cook for her at the last minute?”

  Holley and Tuesday were sitting next to Gray Star. She/he wore a similar jumpsuit to the one she’d worn to Ariel’s memorial, but in a different shade of gray. Tuesday pointed to it and asked, “Electra?” Gray Star nodded. The makeup appeared unblemished, but sadness rimmed her eyes. “We were so close,” she said, before sobbing into her hands.