In Deep Shitake (A Humorous Romantic Suspense)

by Patricia Mason

“Come on, baby, you don’t have to lie to me. The word is out all around Hollywood that there’s a sequel in the works. And here you are starting a hush-hush new project in Savannah, Georgia? It has to be the SpyMatrix sequel.” She caressed his shoulder and then squeezed it lightly. “You can admit it. Sweetie, I promise you I’ll be great as Francesca.”

  Honesty was not cutting it. Maybe there was another way to get the information he wanted from Heather. He was an actor wasn’t he?

  Ross smiled and tried to look sheepish. “You caught me. I am doing the SpyMatrix sequel, but I’ve been secretive about it because the financing isn’t certain.”

  A sly smile quirked Heather’s lips. “Don’t worry about that. With me in the picture, the financing will be a breeze. Do you know how much money we’ll make between U.S. and foreign rights, not to mention the product placements? And that’s before the peripheral merchandizing like the big gun replicas, the action figures, and all that stuff. It will be megabucks.” Her eyes gleamed with dollar signs.

  “Now that my secret is out and I’ve been totally honest, I expect the same from you. What’s up with Clarence?”

  Heather turned away. “Clarence who?”

  “Don’t get coy on me now. You want to play Francesca, don’t you? Tell me about what’s going on with Clarence.”

  Heather pivoted and seemed to search his face for something.

  Ross pushed her closer to the cliff. “I promise that if I have anything to do with a SpyMatrix sequel, I’ll use whatever influence I have to get you the part of Francesca. How about that?”

  Why not promise something that would never have to be delivered.

  “Now, will you tell me what’s going on?” Ross said.

  “Are you jealous?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?” he hedged. Jealousy was something Heather would understand.

  “Oh, baby, don’t worry. Clarence is just the guy who’s helping me retrieve some embarrassing photos,” Heather said. “Once I get those photos, Playboy wants them. It’ll cause a huge scandal…and give me a buttload of publicity. Not to mention the money Playboy will pay.”

  “Why would Clarence help you?”

  She waved a dismissive hand. “He thinks he’s in love with my sister.”

  “Why did Clarence get his agency operative to try to break into my car?”

  “Sweetie. You weren’t being cooperative with information about the sequel, now were you? Clarence thought you might have some information in your car. I wanted confirmation of the sequel.”

  “I’m still not clear on why Clarence is involved.”

  “Like I said, Clarence is in love with my sister. He’ll do anything for her,” Heather said. “And I’ve promised my sister a share of the spoils of all this. She’ll do anything for money.”

  A trait that ran in the family, apparently.

  “Who has these photos right now?”

  Heather directed her gaze to the side. He knew she was about to evade. “A Russian guy. Walnikov. Olinov, Rostinov… something like that.”

  Kubikov.

  “Why would this Russian guy deal with Clarence?”

  “That’s the funny thing about it,” Heather said with excitement.

  Ross seriously doubted anything could be funny about this situation.

  “When he contacted the Russian’s representative, Clarence didn’t use his own name. He used the name Stephen Dagger and the rep seemed to think he was you. Isn’t that funny?”

  “Hilarious.”

  Suddenly, pieces of the puzzle started to fit together.

  “And is this Russian going to just give your valuable photos back?”

  “Clarence has something the Russian wants.” Heather frowned as much as the Botox in her forehead would allow for. “But there’s been a little trouble with the Russian. Clarence promised to straighten it all out.”

  Bloody hell. Clarence had involved Ross with the Russian mob.

  “Oops.” A shadow of concern passed behind Heather’s eyes.

  “Oops, the Russian?”

  “No.”

  There was something besides the Russian to oops about? Bollocks.

  “I did something I shouldn’t have last night. There’s somebody I need to call right away.”

  “Who? What else is going on, Heather? Tell me.”

  “Oh, I need to call that reporter guy. Stewart Milton. You’re not going to get mad or anything are you? Promise you won’t be mad.”

  Ross knew she meant the American-mad like angry. “I promise I’ll go mad if you don’t tell me what is going on.”

  “It’s just that I got jealous about you being at that motel.” Heather bit her lip. “I traced the phone number on my caller ID from when you called last night.” Heather trotted to her handbag on the sofa, opened it and reached inside. “Anyway, Milton happened to call me for a quote about you and the Stooges woman.”

  “Mo,” Ross said intently.

  “Yes, Mo. What kind of name is that? Anyway, I’m afraid I was a little indiscreet. You’re not mad are you?”

  “Of course not.” He was angry, but not crazy—yet. “Are you saying that you were the source for that story about Mo and me at the motel?”

  Giggling, Heather punched the keys on her cell. “It’s okay. I’ll call him and retract my information. He won’t dare print it without me as a source.”

  What had he done? The scene with Mo played in his head. Why hadn’t he given her the benefit of the doubt?

  “And I get the part right? I mean I deserve that role right?”

  “Right. You’ll definitely get what you deserve,” Ross said, using all his acting ability to keep a calm demeanor. His right hand was fisted so tight, he lost feeling in his fingers. “Now where is Clarence? I’d like to speak to him.”

  “He called right before you got here and he said he was at his apartment.”

  * * * * *

  “Wha, wha, wha,” the voice of the client sitting in front of her droned on.

  “Uh huh,” Mo replied when there was a pause. She swiveled in the office desk chair in a one hundred eighty degree arc, gazing up at the ceiling tiles, as she tapped the eraser end of her pencil on the pad in front of her.

  She heard the guy but her mind didn’t really register the meaning of the words. She couldn’t think of anything but Ross, the mistrustful mushroom head.

  “Wha, wha, wha, wha, wha.”

  The client paused.

  “Yes. Um hm,” Mo said.

  “Wha, Wha . . .”

  How could Ross have accused her of betraying him to Milton? Wait a minute. Why was she wasting more seconds of her life on the fajita? No. From now on she would not think about him. He didn’t deserve the headspace.

  “Wha, wha.”

  “I see.” Mo tried to look at the guy and feign an expression of interest. Then she concentrated on the pad and scribbled a few words as if taking notes. What had she written? Ross, Ross, Ross, Ross, Ross.

  Mo ripped the page off the pad and turned it face down. She leaned forward in the chair and concentrated on the client.

  The man, probably in his late thirties, was distinguished by a distinct overbite that included front teeth of such an unusual length that he couldn’t avoid a strong resemblance to a rabbit. The teeth also seemed responsible for a speech impediment that created an inordinately large number of “f” sounds in his sentences.

  “I really think I’m cursed,” the client said, with the “th” in think sounding like an “f”, along with the “s” in cursed. “I mean there is no other explanation for my wife’s cheating.”

  “So you want our agency to find out if your wife is cheating on you?”

  The bunny – er man’s – brows converged in a frown. “No. Haven’t you been listening?”

  Mo straightened defensively. “Of course I have. I just want to clarify. You want our agency to get proof of who your wife is cheating with?”

  “No, of course not. I know she’s sleeping with my business partner.
She admitted it. I said that when I first came in.” He half stood and then leaned over the desk. “You weren’t listening to a word I was saying, were you?”

  “Yes, I was. But you must admit that your situation is a little unusual. I’m having a hard time with the concepts you’re talking about.”

  The bunny bought that explanation and sat back in his chair with a muttered “ofay” for acknowledgement.

  “Why don’t you just tell me exactly what you want our agency to do for you?”

  “I want you to find out who put the curse on me—wizard, witch, warlock, voodoo priestess, whoever it was—and get it removed.”

  “Let me get this straight. You believe that you have been literally cursed.”

  “I don’t know about literal because I can still read and write just fine. It’s the romance department where I’ve been cursed.”

  “Uh huh.” Mo resisted the urge to place compression on the sudden pounding at her right temple. “And in what way precisely have you been cursed?”

  “It’s Jimbo.”

  This was getting even more confusing. Was she supposed to know who Jimbo was? “What about Jimbo?”

  The client’s face flooded with a reddish hue. “Jimbo is gone. Jimbo has taken a vacation.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.” Mo had to risk the question. “Who is Jimbo?”

  “He’s my-er-equipment.”

  Understanding dawned. “Oh you’re impotent.”

  “Hell no. I’m a man all right. Jimbo’s not working because I’ve been cursed. You see. I had this fling with my secretary and my wife found out. Anyway, she hired somebody to curse Jimbo and he hasn’t been on the job since then. He looks just fine. Nothing’s wrong with him except the curse. I can show you if you want.” He stood and put his hands to his zipper.

  Mo had visions of the bunny whipping his carrot out for a demonstration, and leaped to her feet. “No, that won’t be necessary.”

  Harry would pay for this.

  “You stay right where you are. I’ll be right back.” Striding out of the office, Mo made her way through the reception area and then to Harry’s door, which she almost threw open.

  “Is this some kind of joke?”

  “What do you mean?” her boss asked.

  Mo’s explanation had Harry roaring with laughter. “I had no idea.” Harry wiped the joy moisture from her eyes.

  “What the jalapeño do I do with him?”

  “Tell him we’ll look into it. In a few days, tell him we’ve found the voodoo priestess and the curse has been lifted. Then give him the name of a urologist and tell him to call and ask for some little blue pills. Ol' Jimbo will be back to work in no time.”

  “Great.”

  The old fashioned black phone on Harry’s desk rang.

  “Dang that Clarence.” Mo’s boss snatched up the receiver before the bell fell silent. “Incredible Love,” Harry grumbled. “It’s you. When are you going to get yourself back to work, young man?”

  Harry glanced up at Mo. “Yes, she’s right here.” The boss held the receiver up. “It’s Clarence. He wants to talk to you.” Covering the mouthpiece Harry whispered, “You have my permission to fire him if you want to.”

  That’s good since Mo was fairly certain she’d already fired him earlier that day. Glowering at the phone as if it were the person on the other end of the line, Mo tentatively took the offering and held it to her ear.

  “Just give me one reason why I should talk to you after what you pulled earlier,” Mo said.

  “No logical reason.” Clarence’s voice was faint. He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. I was afraid, I guess.”

  The little turnip did sound pitiful. Mo felt herself melting, but then the memory of Ross’s accusations steeled her. “That’s just not good enough, Clarence. What’s going on?”

  “It all started when I fell in love with someone.”

  “Heather. Ross’s Heather?” Mo asked.

  “No. Her sister.”

  “Her sister? Who’s her sister?”

  “She’s married to…somebody.… to get money," Clarence began. "I tried to blackmail Kubikov, but he won’t pay. Anyway, my girl doesn’t really love me. She was just here and she hates me now. She thinks her husband knows about us.” There was silence from the other end. “Listen, this is awkward over the phone. If you’ll come over to my apartment, I’ll tell you everything. I can’t come to you. I don’t think I was followed home, but they might see me if I leave here again.”

  “Who is they? Kubikov and Gigantor?”

  “I’m sorry, Mo,” Clarence said. “It’s my fault. I created a mess by pretending to be Stephen Dagger.”

  “You certainly did.” Mo gritted her teeth to keep more insults from flying. “Did you have to make it appear to Ross that I was lying to him about the car thing?”

  “I can only say I’m sorry,” Clarence said. “I just didn’t want to look like a turd to a guy who’s been my idol.

  “Yeah, so you made me look like one,” she grumbled. “What are you going to do about all this?”

  “I tried to clean up the mess I made,” Clarence offered.

  “By blackmailing a Russian mobster? That only made things worse.”

  “I know, I know. I did it all for her and now I realize she didn’t really love me. She said we needed money to begin our life together.”

  “Again I ask, by blackmailing a Russian mobster? Are you crazy?”

  “Okay," he admitted. "It wasn’t the smartest thing to do, but it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  He sounded genuinely scared. “You’ve got to call the police, Clarence. These guys are dangerous. You could get hurt. If someone’s gonna hurt you it’s gonna be me, mister,” she said trying to joke.

  Clarence laughed half-heartedly on the other end. Then he fell silent for long moments. When he spoke again his voice was choked. “I was so obsessed with my love for this woman, I would’ve done anything she wanted me to.”

  Mo heard a clatter in the background. “Maybe Betsy’s come back,” he said.

  “Betsy?”

  “She's Kubikov’s wife,” Clarence said.

  “You’re having an affair with his wife and blackmailing him?” Mo shouted. “Don’t go to the door, it might be the mobster’s goons.”

  “You’re right,” Clarence whispered. “I’m going to hide until you get here. Hurry.”

  * * * * *

  Mo ran from the building and sprinted for her Mini parked across the square. As she got closer, with the trees and the monuments of the square behind her, she spotted Milton leaning against the hood.

  “Get your aspartame off my car, you parasite.” Mo clicked the button on her key that released the car door locks.

  The smarmy sneer that passed for Milton’s smile slipped a bit. “I want to talk to you.”

  Mo reached for the door handle. “I don’t want to talk to you.”

  When she would have pulled the car door open, Milton clapped a hand across the window on the door and held it shut. “You don’t seem to appreciate the opportunity I’m giving you to comment on the story tomorrow.”

  “The one you showed us earlier? What do you need my comment for? I thought you had it all wrapped up.”

  Milton glanced down and to the left and she knew she was about to hear a lie. “I do have it locked up. I have solid sources.”

  “Yeah right,” Mo smiled. “Heather backed out, didn’t she? She’s not going to back your facts and the paper is concerned about a lawsuit.” Pulling open the door against his resistance, she laughed. “Classic.”

  Milton’s sneer changed from smarmy to evil. “If you don’t back my article about the affair, I’ll run with my other story.”

  Mo hopped into the seat. Milton blocked her from closing the door. “What story is that?” Mo asked.

  “The world will be shocked to know that Ross Grant is gay.”

  A spurt of laughter burst forth from Mo. “You do that. You print a story t
hat claims Ross is gay. You haven’t let the truth stand in your way so far. Good suggestion.”

  She tugged the door and it hit against Milton’s back. “Get out of the way or I’ll close you in it,” Mo warned.

  When he grudgingly moved to the side, Mo slammed the door shut, fired the engine, and accelerated away. She didn’t have time for this shitake with Milton. What had happened to Clarence while she had her run in with the reporter?

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Crêpe,” Mo muttered as she turned to circle the block for the third time. “The parking in this city is a crime.”

  Just when she thought she might have to chance parking in an illegal space, she spotted a black SUV pulling away from the curb at the end of Clarence’s street. “It’s about time.”

  Mo backed into the spot just as Mrs. Truesberry emerged from the front door of the house. By the time Mo got out of her car and was striding toward the building, the landlady had tottered down the stairs and taken a position kneeling, gardening spade in hand, at her flower bed.

  “Can I help you, dearie?” Mrs. Truesberry asked when she saw Mo approach.

  Impatient to get to her goal, Mo slowed but didn’t stop. “Not really. I’ve come to see Clarence.” Running up the stairs she reached for the knob of the door.

  “I don’t think he’s home,” Mrs. Truesberry called to her before springing up. The landlady was truly limber for someone in her sixties. Although she did seem somewhat winded. “I haven’t seen him since you were here yesterday. I think he’s out with his girlfriend.”

  Mo hesitated, curiosity getting the best of her. “Girlfriend?” she asked.

  “Yes, Betsy something,” the landlady said with a frown. “What a liar he is. The dear boy has been telling me for months that he didn’t have a girlfriend.”

  “I just spoke to him on the phone and he said to come here.” Mo glanced around but didn't see anyone.

  “Oh.” The landlady's face set into a frown that made the lines in her forehead and around her mouth pronounced. Mrs. Truesberry swiped at her flushed cheek with a hand clad in a pink gardening glove and left a smudge of dirt in the marionette line by her mouth. “Come to think of it, there was quite a racket in his apartment earlier. So maybe he did come home. Can I show you upstairs?”