Other Books by Miriam Auerbach
Dirty Harriet
Dirty Harriet Rides Again
by
Miriam Auerbach
Bell Bridge Books
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.
Bell Bridge Books
PO BOX 300921
Memphis, TN 38130
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61194-320-7
Print ISBN: 978-1-61194-297-2
Bell Bridge Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.
Copyright © 2007 by Miriam Auerbach
Printed and bound in the United States of America.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.
A mass market edition of this book was published by Harlequin in 2007 under the name Miriam Potocky
We at BelleBooks enjoy hearing from readers.
Visit our websites – www.BelleBooks.com and www.BellBridgeBooks.com.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Cover design: Debra Dixon
Interior design: Hank Smith
Photo credits:
Background graphic(manipulated) © Les Cunliffe | Dreamstime.com
Woman (manipulated) © Branislav Ostojic | Dreamstime.com
Bullet holes (manipulated) © Robert Adrian Hillman | Dreamstime.com
Beach photo (manipulated) © Pokko3 | Dreamstime.com
:Ehdr:01:
Dedication
In Loving Memory
Vlastimila Potocká
1925-2013
Odpočívej v Pokoji
Chapter 1
AS WEDDINGS go, it was a little . . . unorthodox. And that was before the body turned up. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
Let me begin by stating immediately and emphatically that it wasn’t my wedding. Please, that’s not gonna happen (again). At thirty-nine, I’ve been happily widowed for four years since shooting my abusive husband in self-defense. That act of freedom really made my day and earned me the nickname Dirty Harriet.
My real name is Harriet Horowitz. The wedding in reference was that of my best buds, Chuck and Enrique. Now, seeing as these are two members of the male persuasion, some people would say it wasn’t a real wedding. To them I would say, “Get a life!” Love doesn’t get any more real than what these two had going.
Okay, so our beautiful, bountiful burg of Boca Raton and our great state of Florida doesn’t bestow legal recognition on gay unions. As far as I’m concerned, that’s a plus. After all, it was the law that had sanctified my own unholy sham of a marriage. And it was the law that had done shit for me when my husband beat the shit out of me.
So the law, rules, and regulations don’t mean a whole lot to me. Truth and justice do. That’s where my inner vigilante comes in. But more on that later.
Chuck and Enrique’s love was true and just, which is why I was there that April Sunday standing up for them as best human in their commitment ceremony. I was standing, to be precise, at the altar of the Church of the Gender-Free God, waiting for the grooms to walk down the aisle.
In honor of the occasion, I had ditched my daily uniform of black leggings, black tank top, riding boots, and leathers when I dismounted my trusty steed—my 2003 hundredth anniversary Harley Hugger. I wore a rented Vera Wang floor-length silver gown, matched by four-inch sandals and shoulder-length silver earrings. I’d had my normally wild dark hair blown out, and it hung down my back in long silky perfection. My green eyes were fully lined and mascaraed, and my normally bare, raw nails were painted Princess Pearl. Damned if I didn’t look like my former incarnation of myself—a Boca Babe ne plus ultra.
What’s a Boca Babe, you ask? Well, that’s a twopart question. First of all, the town of Boca is located between Fort Lauderdale and West Palm Beach and has been called the Beverly Hills of the East. Just like that other place, Boca’s got its balmy breezes, plentiful palm trees, mind-boggling mansions, serious shopping, and beaucoup bucks. So much money that Boca ranks as the second wealthiest municipality in Palm Beach County, just behind the island of Palm Beach, which is in a whole different class. Think Monte Carlo and St. Tropez. Or, Palm Beach is old money elite and Boca Raton, tacky nouveau riche. And most of the Boca-ites’ new money seems to come from some pretty shady dealings.
Now as for Boca Babes, here are some clues: if it costs you $200 to get your hair cut and another $250 to get it colored, you might be a Boca Babe. If you don’t talk to anyone who doesn’t own anything made by Prada, then you just might be a Boca Babe. If your boobs are a size 34DD and your butt is a size zero, then you are probably a Boca Babe. If you live in a house the size of a jumbo jet hangar, then you are likely a Boca Babe. But if you don’t have a husband who’s a doctor, lawyer, investment banker, or developer raking in over a million a year, then you’re definitely not a Boca Babe. And if you’re all of the above but have hit the big 4-0, you’re no longer a Boca Babe—you’re now a Botox Babe.
I shed my Boca Babe persona like a snake shedding its skin the day I shed (okay, shot) my husband, and I’ve never looked back. Now I’m a hog-riding, ass-kicking, swamp-dwelling, private eye making a fine living busting the very people I used to wine and dine with. So my temporary reversion to Babeness gives you some sense of the supreme sacrifice I was making for my friends.
But even though I’d transformed myself for the day, a part of the real me still came through, like the rose tattoo on my left boob that peeked out of my low-cut dress, thanks to the strapless push-up corset that I’d spent a small fortune on. Between that and a pair of my old Gucci high heels, I was in some serious discomfort. After all, I wasn’t 21 anymore. This whole hottie act does not get easier with time. I was ready for this show to get on the road so I could disrobe.
The proceeding seemed to be taking its sweet time, though. So as I waited, I gazed out at the guests. Right up front was Enrique’s mama from Panama, decked out in a lime-green chiffon gown with a matching broad-rimmed hat. She was absolutely beaming at the prospect of her baby boy finally settling down. As Chuck’s family had long since disowned him due to his perceived sin against God and Nature, his surrogates were there. There was my mother, Stella Celeste Kucharski Horowitz Fleischer Steinblum Fishbein Rosenberg, who had recently unofficially adopted Chuck as her honorary son, which made him, I guess, my honorary brother. Mom was all gussied up, as usual, in a butter-yellow cocktail dress with her hair perfectly coiffed in a helmet around her face. She’d beamed with approval when she’d arrived at the church and seen my reclaimed Boca Babe look. I guess she figured my titty-baring getup would finally snag me a man to replace her late, unlamented son-in-law. Of course, she had failed to consider that I had no interest in a replacement, and even if I had, many of the guys at this gathering were batting for the other team.
Next to Mom sat her new squeeze, Leonard Goldblatt, in a white summer suit with a gray tie to complement his gray brush cut. They had met on a cruise a couple months previously. Leonard was a former CIA agent, and as such, I’d initially had my suspicions about his intentions toward Mom. But then I’d actually met him and my guarded apprehension turned to grudging appreciation. Yeah, okay, maybe I’d been guilty of premature evaluation. But wouldn’t you feel the same if your own mother’s vulner
able feelings and fortune were at stake? As it had turned out, Leonard was good for my mother. But forget about that; the man was good for me. His relationship with his own grown children was of the supportive and noninterfering variety, and some of that had rubbed off on Mom.
On Leonard’s other side was Boca’s big-time benefactress, the Contessa von Phul, who sat regally, dressed in her usual Chanel suit and pearls, her sleek mahogany pageboy completing the picture of a perfect seventy-year-old Botox Babe. I’d recently solved a murder case for her, during which she’d met Chuck and Enrique and wangled an invite to the big event. Never far from her side, the contessa’s Chihuahua, Coco, sat primly in her lap, all duded up in a pink rhinestone collar.
Next to the contessa was Guadalupe Lourdes Fatima Domingo. Lupe, as she was known, was a cultural anthropologist who also had had a role in the contessa’s case, and in the process had become a good friend of mine. Today she wore a traditional Mexican embroidered dress, and her salt-and-pepper hair was elaborately swept up with multicolored ribbons. The outfit was an homage to her hometown heroine, the late artist Frida Kahlo.
Beyond the front row sat an assortment of Chuck and Enrique’s friends and acquaintances, including their gay matchmaker, who savvily saw this event as a supreme marketing opportunity and brought along all his clients. There were also all the straight bad boy bikers from Chuck’s maintenance shop, the Greasy Rider, and from the local biker bar, Hog Heaven; and all Enrique’s coworkers from the Boca Beach Hilton, where he was the hotel dick, that is to say, the chief of security.
Outside, I heard the unmistakable rumble of Harleys. Ahhh . . . the day’s musical entertainment had arrived in the form of the Holy Rollers Motorcycle Club and Gospel Choir, a group of five black drag queens whom I had met at the rehearsal dinner the previous evening.
I knew they rode their hogs in full riding gear, so it would take them a while to change into their wigs, makeup, bras, girdles, gowns, and all. So I would be standing here in my misery a while longer. I tried to take a deep breath to send some healing oxygen to my aching back and feet, but my chest wouldn’t expand beyond the rigid steel cage of the corset. I coughed and staggered, drawing all eyes to me. Great. Like I really wanted to be the center of attention here. Apparently, my cough provided some kind of permission to the assembly to engage in similar behavior, as there followed a flurry of throat clearing, foot shuffling, seat adjusting, and other expressions of discomfiture.
Finally, the nuptial procession started with the entrance of the first of the Holy Rollers, Cherise Jubilee. She came down the aisle in a red, sequined clingy sheath and a headdress piled high with fake cherries, à la Carmen Miranda.
She was followed by Virginia Hamm, wearing—you guessed it—a pink gown crisscrossed with brown threads and studded with what looked suspiciously like cloves. May the Gender-Free God help us. Next came Keisha LaReigne, wearing an egg yolk-yellow caftan streaked with reddish-brown strips and a bejeweled golden tiara nested in her bouffant hair. Close on her heels was Lady Fingers, in a vanilla-colored off-the-shoulder number that split into separate panels from her waist down to her knees.
The four Holy Rollers lined up next to me at the altar, awaiting the arrival of their final member, Honey du Mellon, before they would launch into their harmony. But she was nowhere to be seen. Nervous titters passed through the assembly as we waited. Finally, she rushed in, out of breath. She’d managed, miraculously, to prop up a set of knockers the size of . . . well, honeydew melons. If her supporting infrastructure was anything like mine, I could see why she was out of breath. But apparently that wasn’t the reason. Arriving at the altar, she puffed, “So sorry, loves. My hog had some mechanical trouble on the way over. I just got here and changed as fast as I could. Okay, ladies, let’s rock and roll!”
With that and a nod to the organist, they launched into “We Shall Overcome.” Now, this particular selection, as I understood it, was an homage to the Church of the Gender-Free God and its founder, the Reverend LaVerne Botay. The good reverend had grown up attending the Dexter Avenue Baptist Church in Montgomery, Alabama, in the fifties, listening to Martin Luther King, Jr. preach the social gospel of service to the world’s oppressed. Like the late great martyr, she’d rejected religious fundamentalism in favor of the Golden Rule.
Now, personally, I wasn’t a particular believer, being the progeny of my dearly departed Jewish daddy and my very present Catholic mom. The only thing I’d gained from that interfaith union was a double dose of guilt. However, I respected the hell out of the Reverend Botay’s message and mission. As the Holy Rollers sang out their souls, tears came to my eyes.
But they weren’t because of the words. They were because of the organ. The damn thing was way out of tune. In fact, it was downright bloodcurdling.
The Rollers were rolling their eyes at each other. I decided to roll with the punches. After all, every wedding has something go wrong. It would all be a fond memory in our collective future.
As the Rollers launched into another spiritual, Chuck and Enrique came gliding down the aisle, hand in hand. Dark-eyed, dark-haired, clean-shaven Enrique was his usual slick and dapper self in his Armani tux. No surprise there. But Chuck . . . Well, any description would only be a gross injustice, and as I said, this whole celebration was about justice. So suffice it to say he was in an identical tux, all 250 redneck pounds of him. His graying goatee lent him a distinguished air, and his bald pate gleamed with what I chose to believe was pure delight, not nervous perspiration.
As the happy couple reached the altar, the Rollers, with perfect timing, ended in glorious harmony: “Free at last, free at last. Thank God Almighty, we are free at last.”
Yes! Thank God Almighty I would be free at last of this sartorial straitjacket, not to mention the grinding organ noise. Just as soon as the Reverend Botay arrived, the vows would be exchanged, the blessing bestowed, and we’d all be outta there and off to the reception at Hog Heaven.
So, okay . . . where was she? Minutes passed as we all looked nervously at each other. Okay, I know I said all weddings have snags, but enough was enough. I’m an investigator, after all. With a “don’t worry, I’ll take care of this” nod to a baffled-looking Chuck and Enrique, I set off to investigate.
I headed past the altar where a door led to the back rooms. The door to the reverend’s office was halfway open. Just as I was about to rap on the door, I saw her. The poor woman was crumpled behind her desk, her violet-and-white vestments flowing about her petite body. Rushing over, I could see clear as day her skull had been smashed in and her black hair was matted with blood. The murder weapon was lying right next to her, also covered with blood. A big metal organ pipe. No wonder that monstrosity was emanating those bloodcurdling screeches.
Bile came up my throat. I ran into the adjoining bathroom and dry heaved in the toilet. I couldn’t believe it. The last two weddings I’d attended had both ended in murder. Maybe marriage really was a dangerous proposition. Yeah, okay, so I’d been the perp last time, blowing away my husband at a friend’s wedding reception. But how could this be happening to me again?
Then my conscience, always a little slow on the uptake, came on line. What the hell was I doing feeling sorry for myself? A good woman, a woman of peace, had been savagely slain.
It was time for Dirty Harriet to take charge. I pulled out my cell and called the cops.
Chapter 2
I COULDN’T leave the scene until the police arrived, so I had no choice but to call Enrique on his cell and brief him on the situation. God, how I hated to do this to him and Chuck on their big day. Enrique handled it with perfect calm, composure, and decisiveness, just as I knew he would, security pro that he is, which is why I’d chosen to call him instead of Chuck. Although Chuck looks awful mean and imposing and outweighs Enrique by a good hundred pounds, in reality he’s a teddy bear and it’s Enrique who’s the rock in the relationship.
Enrique said he’d handle everything in the church sanctuary while I stayed at the crime scene. Frankly, I thought I got the better end of the deal. I could just imagine the hysteria that would ensue among the guests when they heard the news. I’d rather be alone with a dead body than with a bunch of drama queens—male or female.
Naturally, while waiting for the police to arrive and begin their official investigation, I began my unofficial one. I looked around the room. The office walls were covered with plaques and certificates honoring the reverend’s many charitable deeds for the community. There were no signs of struggle. Apparently, the reverend had been attacked unawares. Her desk bore the usual materials one might expect: desk pad, pen holder, telephone. There was a bible with an accompanying concordance and prayer book. A red velvet binder contained the homily for today’s wedding ceremony. A pair of reading glasses, undisturbed, rested beside it.
I returned to the bathroom that adjoined the office, but nothing was amiss. Then I stepped outside the office door, which opened onto a corridor. I took a few steps out, staying close to the office door so that no one could enter without my seeing them. The room to the left of the office was a kitchen, and on the right was a small meeting room containing about ten chairs arranged in a circle. This was where the Holy Rollers and I had changed from our biker gear into our ceremonial wear. I had draped my own street clothes over the back of one of the chairs, and I saw that the Holy Rollers had done the same. Except only four of their outfits were there. One was missing. What was that about?
Taking a final quick look around the room from the doorway, I saw something I hadn’t when I’d been there earlier. A panel on the back wall had been slid open, revealing the huge pipes of the organ. So the instrument backed up to this room. I could see where one of the pipes had been yanked out. That must have taken a lot of strength. Maybe the kind fueled by rage. Then, apparently, the killer had gone to the reverend’s office and bashed her head in, probably while her back was turned.
Dirty Harriet Rides Again Page 1
