“Shay. I’m cursed. I am Abby the Absurd.”
“I’m fairly certain we established that in March when you and musical ghosts were bonding.”
“Yeah, well, I really didn’t imagine I’d be offered the title only two months later and believe me, I’d love to relinquish it to whatever bum wishes to have the honor.”
She nodded before taking a huge slurp of her own drink. “Okay. So, what’s the deal with Colette’s last words? What were they and is it early enough in the plot to try figuring out what they mean?”
I downed the other half of my margarita then jumped up and grabbed the now-tipped baton we’d taken from Omar. Four in the morning, slightly soused and I started twirling. Horizontals again, hand spins, finger spins, wrap-arounds. There was no reason this should make me feel better about the events of the night but it did. It also seemed to get my brain working.
“Colette’s words. In no particular order because I can’t remember the order. Uh. Something about history repeating. And the name Ken. See. Um—clown. And harm. I don’t know if she was trying to tell me she knew she’d been in harm’s way? Uh. Cinnamon. Which of course made me crave a roll or donut even in horrible circumstances. Cold wind. Um bla . . . which meant zippo. Oh! I’m forgetting. She definitely said ‘move. And ‘he.’" I stopped. “Wait. Maybe that was movie and not move and he. Why she’d be talking about a movie is beyond me but then the whole stream of consciousness was beyond me since I didn’t exactly have a point of reference to all this.”
Shay perked up. She’s just started directing films for an independent company called Headlights Productions this past year and is very focused on helping making Headlights a successful company and producing movies that sell so anything with the word movie or film thrills her immediately. “Movie?”
“Maybe. After all, I truly have no idea what she meant but I do know she was trying damned hard to tell me something and whatever it was was important enough to send a killer hunting for information. I wonder if it could have something to do with the new episodes for Endless Time? I mean, they’re all about early movies. Hopefully without too much shooting—people that is, not film.” I didn’t bother to wipe away tears that streaked down my cheeks and made my nose run. “I hate this! Why Colette? The cops think it might have been accidental because of the way she was shot—it appeared to be a ricochet but obviously someone was after something and willing to aim a gun at another human being even if the original intent wasn’t murder.”
“Stop.”
“What?”
“You’re rambling."
“True.” I closed my eyes but couldn’t blot out Colette’s face growing pale and her speech losing volume as she struggled to hold on to her life.” I opened them again and swallowed hard. “So. Anything jump out at you?”
“Other than the fear you’re going to poke my eye out with that wildly spinning baton? If you’re going to twirl at least keep your own eyes open. But as to jumping? No. Look. I love you. You’re my best friend. But it is now exactly four in the morning. You’ve had a very bad night. I had a ridiculous flight and I have to gear up for another one in about a week to wrap up Silhouette Tower in Prague if at all possible. We need sleep for approximately three days and . . . ”
“And?”
“I hate to say it, but we need Johnny.”
I stared at her. “Gerard?”
“Know any others?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Fine. Not the way you know Johnny Gerard.”
“Well, it's been so long since I've seen him I've nearly forgotten."
“Girl, forget your raging hormones and anger that he’s off in the wilds of ski-land and I suggest you call him tomorrow and see if he can make sense of any of this. He has the clearest brain of any male I know outside of your father and my father but I really don’t think we want the male parental units involved in murder, do we?”
I shuddered. “Absolutely not. Mr. Chairman of English department Martin would be parsing every sentence telling us our grammar sucked. And Mr. Paul Fouchet would be extremely warm and wonderful and comforting but want to go all ‘whup-ass’ on anyone who looks cross-eyed at his darling child. Not to mention that he’d also want to hit every historical walking tour of Manhattan and I’d be fired from the soap. Plus, I’d be a complete piglet by the time he left because he’d also drag me into every diner and deli that makes true New York cheesecake and there are far too many to count. Or worse. He’d tell Minette and my sweet mother who knows and sees all would come up here and drag me back to El Paso and I’d never find out if Vanessa Manilow gets run over by a train.”
Chapter 6
The banging at the door matched the banging in my head. I lifted that head and squinted at the clock sitting cheerily on my nightstand. The luminous dial read four-thirty. I’d gotten a half-hour’s sleep.
I groaned, literally fell off the bed, grasped the bed for support in standing, then staggered through the apartment, intent on stopping the noise by any means necessary. I even grabbed the baton I’d left propped against the door frame to use as a weapon in case a murderer came calling, although since I’d put the tip back on I couldn’t see it really doing much damage unless the murderer laughed himself to death watching me do vertical spirals.
I flung the door open. Johnny Gerard took a step inside.
We stared at each other. Then he grabbed me by my shoulders, pulled me close to his chest, leaned down and gave me a kiss that nearly curled my hair to match Shay’s spiral perm.
I heard a cough. I turned. Shay stood in the doorway to our kitchen, digital camera in hand. She smiled. “Be glad I’m your best friend, Abby. Otherwise I could sell these last moments to a tabloid and earn our rent for the year. I can see the headlines now. Vanessa Manilow Found in Lip-Lock With Gregory Noble, Manhattan’s Awesome Detective and Supercop. It’d go viral in minutes.”
Johnny snorted. “Way too long. For a first paragraph? Possibly. But you need a shorter title or no one will buy it aside from reputable papers who wouldn't want it anyway.”
I ignored the banter between the two of them. “Johnny! What are you doing here at four-thirty in the morning? Aside from kissing me which admittedly was very nice or would have been if my head wasn’t pounding."
“Morning? Take another look, woman. It’s late afternoon.”
I opened my eyes a bit more and focused on the room instead of the man. He was right. Now that the living room windows were open, the room was illuminated with natural light. For some reason, the thought that I’d actually gotten twelve hours sleep instead of a half an hour ticked me off. Possibly because my body still felt like the latter.
“Fine.”
Johnny smiled. My heart melted at the sight of shaggy red hair and freckles.
Then it hit me. I whirled around and growled at Shay. “And you, you traitor. Why are you up? And dressed? In full make-up and honest-to-God combed hair. Dangit, you were as sloshed and exhausted as I was last night.”
She fluttered her lashes. “I’m taller?”
I groaned. “I need sustenance. Shay, would you care to make yourself useful and indispensable and whip up some blueberry pancakes? I’ll love you forever.”
“If I make them, will you love me forever?” asked Johnny.
On a normal, un-hung-over day, I would have been able to pop out a couple of bright little bon mots to answer Johnny apart from “I already do.” Today, after one horrendous night and a brain and body devoid of feelings other than sick, sad and still a little scared, I had nothing to say. Plus, I was well aware that I looked like dog poo on a stick. It’s hard to be witty and cute when your hair is sticking straight up (sans mousse and going to bed with it still pretty durned wet) and what was left of the make-up that didn’t wash off in the shower the night before because you were too busy getting blood out of your hair and hadn’t messed with eye-make up remover and it didn’t matter how you looked anyway because you assumed you’d be waking to a roommate who wouldn’t ca
re that you resembled that dog poo, was smudged all over my face. Traces of blusher were doubtless mingling with the tiny smidgeon of eye shadow that was now smeared all over the tip of my nose.
I glared at Johnny. “Go away. Find a slope in Crested Butte and slalom your way down.”
“No. I came racing here from the airport to find out how you were doing after hearing about Colette and I am not turning around and heading either to my apartment or back to Colorado. Aside from my desire to be with you, we start filming Endless Time next week and I’m done with the slopes unless Yolanda finds an excuse to send Gregory Noble to Antarctica.”
“Fine. Then stay here and help Shay. You can make coffee. I am showering again and scrubbing my face and rewashing my hair. And guys? I want to inhale the scent of caffeine while I’m showering, along with blueberries and carbs.”
“I’d make book that neither carbs or caffeine have a distinctive smell,” Shay calmly stated.
“Did I ask for an opinion? Now, excuse me while I try to become a human being again.”
Shay muttered, “Gonna take more than hot water and coconut shampoo.”
I ignored her. I ignored Johnny. I did as I’d said I would and headed straight for the bathroom. I was tempted to take an abnormally long shower just to irritate Johnny, who obviously wanted to spend some time with me, but I let my better side prevail and only did a quick wash and rinse. I also decided to forgo the coconut scents. For some reason, the simple act of opening the bottle cap and taking a whiff made me nauseous. Today was a day for simple. Basic.
I was out and dressed in less than fifteen minutes. My hair was wet but since it generally does better drying on its own, I didn’t worry about it. I smushed some mousse through it and figured that was plenty of styling. I grabbed a huge purse from the chair in my bedroom where I’d flung it last night, then sauntered out to re-greet my roommate and my globetrotting fiancé.
“So? Johnny. I assume that Shay has told you whatever you needed to know about last night’s doin’s? Which is probably fraught with misinformation since she was not exactly in a sober state of mind when she and I were discussing all this at four a.m.”
He tossed aside the arts and TV section of the newspaper he’d been perusing. To Johnny’s credit, his next words were not, “Why didn’t the Post mention we’d both be filming Endless Time starting next week?” Nope. Instead, he nodded in answer to my question, handed me a cup of coffee, then stated firmly, “Yes, she told me what she knew. Now, drink fast. I’m glad you’ve got your bag. We’re off.”
“Dare I ask where to?” I took a quick gulp of coffee.
“Cameo Theatre,” was Johnny’s response.
I had no initial response other than to stare at him in horror.
Shay chortled, "Whoa, Nellie! This is so trite. Returning to the scene of the crime. Like this is going to answer any questions? Assuming we can get inside. I’m sure crime tape is everywhere.”
Johnny grabbed hoodies off the coat rack in the front hallway, then tossed them to Shay and me. “I called Detective Clark to ask if he’d mind if Abby took a little trip to the theatre to refresh her memory of anything she might have been too upset to even realize might be important. He said, ‘Cool. Do it with my blessings.’”
I stared at Johnny and somehow found my voice. “Wait. You’re kidding. How do you know him? You’ve been back less than twenty-four hours.”
“Gregory Noble character research. Gordon Clark and I have been friends since I first did a revival of Les Miz. Really. He was a beat cop in Times Square back when I was struggling to get my name in lights on Broadway,” he grinned, “and we kept running into one another and chatting and when I got the gig with the soap a few years ago he helped me with information about criminal activity—well, the detecting of, that is. I'm surprised he didn't tell you that last night but he does get very focused so I'm sure he didn't think it was relevant that he was speaking to the love of my life."
“Great. Good. So, how about just letting Gregory Noble and the real Detective Clark do the 'detecting of' today?”
He shook his head.
I sighed. “So we’re off to the Cameo Theatre. The place I am least inclined to spend any time in. The place responsible for a possible leap into Post Traumatic Stress Disorderland. Are you guys going to pay my psychiatric bills when I start screaming in the middle of the night?”
Shay snorted. “If you haven’t gotten PTSD after nearly getting killed twice in the last year you’re not developing a case now. So don’t get all wimpy on us. I want to see this crime scene.”
“Ha! You, Shay Martin, are such a liar. You want to see the posters of the naked men all over the lobby of the Cameo.” I snarled.
She beamed at me. “There are posters? Really? Naked men posters? What are we waiting for? Finish that mug, Abby and then it’s Metro-cards out. Let’s roll.”
Chapter 7
A van bearing the brightly painted logo, Endless Time, had been parked in front of my building.
I glanced at Johnny. “Say what?”
He smiled. “Yep. I called Yolanda as soon as I got back and told her I had need of transportation since her favorite Abby could use a break from the subway after her ordeal last night. She said I could use one of the vans for however long I desired.”
As I mentioned before, Yolanda Barrett is the head writer of the soap. For some reason she likes me a lot. I think it’s the tamales I get my parents to send up from Texas delivered straight to her door on a monthly basis. Although, why she doesn’t get her husband’s parents to do that I don’t know. He’s from Austin where some of the best Tex-Mex food in the state is found on every corner of the city.
Johnny opened the front passenger door for me. Shay climbed into the back and we tried to converse about anything that did not have to do with where we were headed.
We talked about Crested Butte and the survivalist theatre group who had made peace with Johnny’s friend and were looking forward to a successful season even though snow was unlikely for the next three months or more. We talked about what crazy plots the writers might be brewing for the Fort Lee episodes. We talked about Shay’s amazing ability to shoot the Gothic musical movie in the Czech Republic in less than two months. Nothing helped. My palms were sweaty. My eyes hurt. My pulse was racing worse than an Olympic sprinter and I was beginning to feel all the classic signs of a panic attack.
Johnny glanced at me while he skillfully avoided a collision at the corner of 44th and 8th Avenue with a new red Corvette convertible being driven by a black-haired woman wearing a very cute matching red fedora who seemed intent on running us off the road.
I squinted. “Sweet Manic Mama!”
“What?”
“That’s Diamond! Diamond Richards the bartender who sent her mutant teenage son to mug me for information.”
Shay asked first although all of us were thinking it, “Pardon me, but how in blazes did a theatre bartender get the bread for those wheels? How much do those suckers go for anyway?”
Johnny Gerard, master of all trivia, answered, “They start at around sixty grand. That’s without foo-foo extras.”
“Who needs foo-foo in a convertible?” I growled. “And Shay’s right. How is this woman driving a car that costs more than what we pay in rent for a year?”
“Ha!” Shay exclaimed. “Diamond Richards has just jumped to the head of the suspect list!”
“What suspect list?” I asked. “There is no suspect list. As far as I know there are no suspects to list. Yet.”
“Well, if there were—and there will be now that the team of Martin, Gerard and Fouchet are on the case—Diamond Richards would top it simply by virtue of driving a car she shouldn’t be able to afford and if she can afford it why did she send baby boy Omar out to play mugger with a cheap baton for a weapon instead of something more expensive and classier? Not to mention, but I will, what sort of stupid name is Diamond? Sounds like a spy dealing cards in a casino. You should tell Yolanda to write her in."
“Oh, shut up, Shay.”
Johnny shook his head. “I hate to agree with Ms. Martin, especially since she mangled that explanation, but she has a point. Unless Diamond Richards has a lover or a second income or won a lottery, a working bartender with at least one kid will not normally be flashing that kind of ride. And since her son was your mugger, that does make her more than eligible to be placed on that suspect list—when we get the nominations in order.”
My shakes now had the shakes. “Will the two of you stop it? I’m already not loving being back where I saw a friend die last night and you’re not helping. And while I’m at it, why exactly am I back here, the one place on earth I have no desire to see again?”
Johnny’s voice was gentle. “Hon, Omar Richards was sent by someone. He tried to mug you last night to get information and that means you’re a target and the sooner we find out why, the less you’re going to be in danger.” He muttered under his breath but I heard it, “I hope.”
Silence. Johnny pulled the van into a parking lot about two blocks from the Cameo Theatre, then the three of us cut through the alley that led to the stage door. I saw no yellow tape, which surprised me, but I figured the cops and crime scene investigators had had over twelve hours to do whatever needed to be done although I had originally assumed that it would take them days and weeks with little kits and fun instruments and dusting powder and sprayers that spray luminal and Lord knows what else that picks up blood and other bodily fluids.
I was actually rambling to myself. Anything to keep from the realization I was about to re-enter Hell.
Johnny casually pushed open the back entrance to the theatre.
“How did you do that? I don’t recall that your enumerable skills include lock picking? Or did you pick those up in Crested Butte?”
Johnny delivered a short kiss to my nose before explaining. "I called Gordon from your place and asked if we could take a look around. He said sure as long as he’s on the scene. And he said he’d leave the stage door unlocked for us.”
Cold Wind to Valhalla (Abby Fouchet Mysteries Book 3) Page 4
