Cold Wind to Valhalla (Abby Fouchet Mysteries Book 3)

by Flo Fitzpatrick

  “So, it’s a bust,” I sighed.

  “Well, Gordon did also say that he would not be dropping Kaleb from the suspect pool immediately and that if any real evidence suddenly cropped up, he’d slap the slimy women-chasing s.o.b. into the nearest cell with no regret and much glee. He also said he’d be sending a couple of detectives out to see if either alibi could be confirmed but saw little hope that it could. Or couldn’t. Sorry.”

  “Well, I don’t really like him for Colette’s murder anyway.”

  “Why not?” Johnny asked.

  “Motive. What’s his motive in killing Colette? The far-fetched possibility that she discovered some old patents or an old silent film? And, assuming that she did and they were worth anything, who’s to say Kenny-Ann and Kaleb would inherit from Colette? She might have left everything to the theatre in Austin where she and I did our unforgettable melodrama. She might have left everything to the Cameo Theatre with the request they get better shows in there. Or she might have left everything to the Hayward kids for Ellie to use to become a famous ballerina one day. Who knows?”

  “All true. However, Kaleb does have a motive for shooting Diamond and maybe his motive for Colette is tied up with that and the shootings were just out of sync time wise.”

  “Want to explain that, Mr. Gerard?”

  “Okay. Kaleb and Diamond were having an affair. What if Diamond said, ‘I want more.’ Kaleb doesn’t want to give more. Diamond threatens to tell Kenny-Anne. Diamond then tells Colette all about it. Kaleb shoots Colette to keep her from telling his wife. Shoots Diamond for the same reason because he’d prefer to hang on to the marriage than bust it up for the lowly bartender at the Cameo Theatre.”

  I nodded. “I’ll buy all that. But you and Gordon both have forgotten one thing.”

  “Which is?”

  “Someone also shot at me. Yeah, it was with rubber bullets, but unless that was totally unrelated and some loony soap stalker fan who thought it’d be cute to use Vanessa Manilow for target practice, I’d say whoever was involved in shooting Colette and Diamond is the same person and I honestly can’t imagine Kaleb sneaking away from his Wall Street office and getting down and dirty on the side of a New Jersey cliff in his designer threads.”

  Johnny sighed. “I didn’t forget. And Gordon didn’t forget. Unfortunately, that is one alibi that’s tighter than Scrooge’s wallet at Christmas. Kaleb was definitely in his office that day. He made a great deal of money for a client and himself and there are time-stamped money transactions along to prove it.”

  “See?”

  “Well, it doesn’t mean he didn’t kill Colette. It only means he didn’t personally try to scare you off. He could have hired someone although I have to admit I'm not really liking that scenario a lot."

  “Me too. I’m totally convinced all three shootings have one and only one perpetrator. Unless it’s Geoff and Billie-Clare from Hangin’ who were working in tandem. More than likely clothed for a change—but in tandem.”

  “On set!” could be heard from the entrance to the studio.

  “Ah, nuts. I hear Max's dulcet tones. Are you ready to return with me to Gilberto Davies’ bedroom and ineptly dodge bullets and tackle Barbie’s stunt double?”

  “Oh yeah. I think I have two lines. 'Don't shoot!' and "No! Thea, are you hurt?' Oh, wait. Quick, before I forget, Gordon said he could get us into Colette’s apartment later this week. I'm thinking Thursday would work. He’ll either meet us with a key or we can swing by the precinct and pick one up. Sound like a plan?”

  “Yep. I’m good. I'm actually done after we wrap this one and I have scenes most of tomorrow but Thursday's free all day. How about you?"

  "Free. I think Dennis Noone dies on Wednesday. May I escort you inside?"

  I linked my arm in his and nodded.

  We hauled it back to the set and took our marks. Johnny stood right outside the door but was visible on camera. Dusty waved at me from his side of the room and Heidi somebody, Barbie’s stunt double who didn’t seem to have a last name that anyone ever used, took her own position in the doorway and adjusted her Barbie-look-alike wig.

  Max counted us down silently until he pointed his finger at Dusty to start the action.

  (Dusty takes a step camera right.) “Fredericka! Don’t shoot! Darling, I love you! Thea was just a distraction. I promise I’ll never cheat on you again.”

  (Oh yeah, right, like that’s ever going to happen. Gilberto Davies is a lying cheating scum sucking pond toad and he’s going to hunt down the next babe in the county in five minutes for a quick shag if you don’t put a bullet through his heart right now.)

  “Fredericka! Don’t you see he’s lying? He’s cheated on all of us. On you. On me. On his wife. He’s not worth a bullet. Put the gun down!" I shouted (as Thea) and edged closer to the closet door.

  Heidi the stuntwoman nodded in agreement with my statement that Gilberto wasn’t worth the bullet, then took careful aim—at me— hitting me in the chest. I bit down on my blood capsule and smacked my left side to pop the blood pack and start the stream flowing across my costume. Johnny (as Dennis Noone) ran in screaming and lunged toward Heidi-Fredericka, wrestling her to the floor and delivering a great punch to the jaw, which knocked her out. He ran back across the room toward me and cradled me in his arms.

  “Dennis . . . promise . . . me one thing.”

  “Anything, my darling, anything.”

  “Find . . . my child. Make sure she goes to her father. He’ll take good care of her.”

  “Where is she? And who is her father?”

  “Her name is Emilia. She lives . . . (gasp for air while holding hand over chest wound) with . . .my sister Sarah (moans in pain) in Passaic. But Sarah . . . hates her.”

  “Who is her father?”

  (Continues to gasp) “Norman Jones. He and I . . .Emilia is . . . ours.”

  (Gilberto from across the room shudders and spits.) Thankfully, Dusty was careful not to aim that at Johnny, Barbie or me. Then he yelled, “Damn you, Thea! How could you? That’s perverted. He’s a colored!”

  “He's the love of my life.” (Thea passes out.)

  Chapter 31

  “She’s dead.” Johnny clicked his cell off and exhaled.

  “What? Who? When? Hold on. What in blazes are you talking about?”

  “Diamond Richards. She apparently woke up after surgery, said a few words, and then died.”

  “Johnny! Oh my God! That’s horrible! What’s going to happen to Omar?” I asked.

  He smiled at me. “You’re a good person, Miss Dancer. Anyone ever tell you that?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because I give you the news that Diamond spoke before she died and you don’t jump in with something like, ‘did she name the shooter’? You ask about her kid. That shows a kind heart.”

  After I finished turning red, I ignored the compliment and repeated my question. “Uh. Okay. So, as I was asking, what about Omar?”

  “Ah. Gordon said that Diamond’s ex-husband, who lives in Queens but blessedly is not part of that big gun-running bust the other day, is a subway engineer and a man who has been fighting for custody of Omar for the last three years since Diamond has been very stingy with visitation. Mr. Richards apparently is more than happy to take over raising his son completely on his own. From what Gordon told me, Richards is a decent, hard-working guy who will doubtless be a better influence on his son than Diamond was. Not to speak ill of the dead, but the woman had, uh, . . ."

  “Issues. Let’s just say issues and not malign her too much.” I stated. “Hey, I hate to ask, but I’m in Vanessa Manilow spy mode so I want to be thorough. Any chance the ex-Mr. Richards was the one who shot her so he could get sole custody?”

  “Not according to the two-hundred or more folks on the number Seven train who made it safely from Forty-Second street to Roosevelt Avenue in Queens.”

  “Well, that makes me feel better. Much as I’d love to see murderers brought to justice, I’m very
glad to hear that. I’d hate to think that Omar’s dad was a killer. The kid needs a good parent." I sighed. "Not to change the subject, but I've got to get out of this costume and wash my face. Wanna walk me to wardrobe and give me any and all scoops from our chatty detective? Like if there’s anything else regarding motive for Diamond?” I asked.

  Johnny smiled. “I would love to escort you. It’s not often I get the chance to accompany my adorable fiancée while she's wearing a corset dripping with fake blood. Most of which landed on your face, woman. I only got a dab from the arm-cradling."

  I grimaced. “I wish it wasn’t so sticky. I need to wash my face about three times. This particular stage effect is not kind to one’s complexion.”

  We headed out of the studio where our shooting scene had been filmed and toward the wardrobe trailer. We waved to a few of our fellow actors who were trooped in doorways, feverishly studying scripts, and to Dusty, who was already exiting the wardrobe trailer in new clothes since he hadn’t been sidetracked by Gordon Clark calling about real-life murders.

  Johnny waved as well, then turned his attention back to me.

  “No news. No scoops. Gordon feels sure that not only was Ms. Richards having an affair with Kaleb but that our girl was also in the process of blackmailing Colette’s killer. I have to agree. It seems to me that whoever shot Diamond was also the person who shot Colette and probably the one who shot at you during filming.”

  I stayed silent for a few moments as we continued to walk.

  “What? You’re awfully quiet, Ms. Fouchet. Thoughts?”

  “Yeah. But not good ones. I’m wondering if this is it? The end? Colette’s gone. Diamond’s gone. I’ve been warned away from investigating by bomb threats and bouncing bullets so I haven’t done anything lately that looks—uh—investigative. With all that said, is the killer’s mission accomplished? Am I safe? For that matter is Omar safe? Did he see that napkin? Oh crap! Johnny! Is Omar safe?”

  “I don’t know. Should be. Diamond did tell everyone that she’d burned that napkin and that Omar never saw it in the first place but murderers tend to be paranoid. Believe it or not, I mentioned that to Gordon before I called you. He said there wasn’t a ton the police could do but that he’d suggested to Mr. Richards that he might take a little paid leave time from driving trains under the East River and take Omar to someplace like Arizona —preferably for a couple of weeks.”

  “If they’d like a maid, I’ll volunteer. I wouldn’t mind being someplace warm for the rest of this so-called late spring; not to mention away from killers. Maybe I should call Minette and Paul and tell them to prepare my old room." I paused. “Wait! It just hit me. You said Diamond said something before she died. Anything intelligible? Anything of interest, like, who did this?”

  Johnny nodded. “I knew you hadn’t forgotten. The answer is yes and no.”

  “Yes and no, what?”

  “Yes, it was intelligible. And interesting but ultimately not enlightening.”

  “While we’re using ‘ing’ words, you, Mr. Gerard are being ‘maddening.’”

  “Sorry. I’ll watch the vocabulary. Anyway, Diamond Richards’ last words were, and I quote, emphasizing where I was told she emphasized, ‘I promised not to tell. Why . . . shoot me?”

  “I take it the pause between the 'why' and 'shoot' did not contain a name?”

  “You got it. Sadly, not even a gender-specific pronoun.”

  We were in front of the wardrobe trailer. Johnny politely held the door for me but I didn't go in immediately even though the fake blood was making me itch.

  "I can't help still musing about Diamond’s ‘why shoot’ comment. It’s so vague. Could be Diamond talking about her knowledge of who shot Colette or she could have been keeping quiet about having an affair with Kaleb, which, by the way, I heard he now claims was one time in a moment of weakness before he got married but admittedly while he was officially engaged to the sweet Kenny-Anne, which does not fly with meeting Diamond in McCartney's Pub.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Shay. She got it from Gordon who got it from Kaleb when he was questioning him yesterday.”

  “Well, I’m offended. Gordon didn’t say a word to me just now.”

  I grinned at him. “He didn’t tell me either. Shay did. And you and Gordon were busy discussing murder and last words. Shay and I were going for the romance aspect.” I groaned.

  “What?”

  “Romance. I’m back in my corset in three days.”

  “You are? I haven't seen the latest script. I thought you died today? Why are you filming again in a corset?”

  "Ah. Pays to read it forward. I did not die today. I die next week. Meantime, Yolanda has added a twist, which makes me understand why she's scared to come back from wherever. I can't believe she didn't call and tell you. Anyway, I will be tied to railroad tracks soon, wearing my bloody clothes after being carried from the Fontana Inn. At some point I have a flashback scene, again in corset, with Thea Donovan and her lover who happens to be her child’s father. Norman Jones. Black vaudevillian. As you know, much frowned upon in the Nineteen-teens."

  Johnny nodded. “And stupidly still much frowned upon in some circles even today." He stopped. "Something just hit me."

  "What?"

  "Auraliah Lee via Madam Euphoria. What did she say to beware of? Bigots. Colette was African-American. Could that possibly mean anything?"

  "Hmm. I don't know. The only possible bigotry I can think of would have been if she'd actually gotten the role of Fantine in that tour of Les Miz and someone bitched that it should be given to a white girl. But aside from the insanity of that as motive for murder, she did not get the role and the one she was up for was in Dreamgirls and no one is doing non-traditional casting for that." I sighed, started to go inside the trailer, than turned around. "January."

  "What?"

  "You mentioned Madam Euphoria. The other part of that warning was the word January. Which I'd completely forgotten even though we found that poster of that movie with Cinnamon called The January Sun." I got excited. “Johnny! Maybe it is the movie motive after all! Maybe Colette found a copy of The January Sun and discovered it was worth a pile and someone was trying to scare her into giving up its whereabouts!"

  "Not bad. Or at least, it sounds more sensible than anything else we've come up with."

  We smiled at each other.

  “I’ll get cleaned up and meet you in about thirty minutes for a quick lunch. Uh. If you get bored after you change that shirt with the wee dab of my blood, you might check out that new saloon set we’re demolishing in about a week after the rockin’, ramblin’, rootn’, tootin’ Wild West style bar fight.

  “Cool! I'm in that one. Haven't had a chance to see it but I know I'm Gregory for the bar fight. Isn't that where you get to ride by on some poor horsey and throw a rock at Dusty?"

  I grinned. "Oh yeah. He told me he trusts me with the horse but doesn’t trust my throwing arm and keeps asking props if that rock is made of papier-mâché or some joker is just grabbing one from the woods. At least I get to wear Nineteen-seventeen style Western jeans for that one. I truly am glad Dolores vetoed Abby in the skivvies on a horse.”

  “I’d imagine that could chafe depending upon how skivvy the skivvies are, and how soft the saddle,” Johnny commented.

  “I’m going in now, Gerard. I shall emerge bloodless and clean and ready for a road trip if you can set it up for this afternoon.”

  “Which would be to where?”

  “Diamond Richards' apartment.”

  Chapter 32

  Johnny, Gordon and I stood inside the living room of Diamond Richards' apartment on 11th Avenue near the corner of West 52nd street.

  “I have just realized something extremely creepy and disturbing. I swear I’ve spent more time in the last month in the apartments of murdered women than I have in my own. ” I asked as I shivered.

  “Not to sound heartless, but it was your idea to come here.” Johnny stated.
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  “I’m aware of that. And I’m not backing out of searching, especially since Gordon was so kind as to get us in. I’m simply waxing philosophically on the ridiculousness of my life.”

  Johnny shook his head. “It’s not nearly as ridiculous as Diamond’s life. This place is beyond belief. Looks like the Wicked Queen’s ballroom in Snow White. I’ve never seen this many mirrors in one room outside of that awful disco set we had back during one of my comas. She was trying to raise a kid here? A teenage boy? No wonder he’s so messed up he’s trying to rob people at the end of a baton.”

  “It does seem to have a general air of narcissism,” Gordon commented.

  “Gentleman, gentleman! A bit of kindness. I hate to tell you, but you’re wrong. At least about the reason for the abundance of mirrors. Look at where they’re placed. Got nothin’ to do with anyone hangin’ out gazing at themselves for days on end.”

  Gordon and Johnny stared at me. “No? Then what?”

  “Manhattan. A very small one bedroom in Manhattan. Mirrors open up a room. They create space where none exists. Come on, guys get with the decor!”

  My two escorts, who apparently had never shared a dorm room with three other people and learned the art of creating space, shrugged. Johnny said, “If you say so. I still think it’s creepy.”

  “Well, yeah, fine, whatever. Try squeezing into a place like this and not feeling claustrophobic. Especially with a large teenage boy. I’m feeling more sympathetic to the woman by the second.”

  “Forget the mirrors. Just what are you looking for, Abby?” asked Gordon.

  “I'm so sorry you asked that since I really do not know. I'm hoping for the actual napkin with the message to mug me. Or some great clue somewhere that names Diamond’s killer or names the person who gave her the napkin or a list of people who were hassling Colette in the week before her shooting. Maybe a million-dollar life insurance policy tucked away for Omar. A pirated DVD of The January Sun starring Gabrielle Garrity. Something!”

  Johnny and Gordon both gave me a “we’ll humor her because she’s obviously deranged and reaching” look but did nod and begin to turn over pillows, look behind the numerous mirrors and paintings and dig into empty flower pots. I left them to it and headed for Diamond Richards’ bathroom.