The squirrel returned the look with one of sheer antipathy.
Tammy’s lips pursed. Using her black prayer book she attempted to unobtrusively motion the squirrel to remove its offensive presence from the top of the coffin before it either spread nut crumbs or made little squirrel poopies on the expensive white fabric covering the mahogany finish.
The squirrel calmly bit into the acorn. It paused. A light came into the dark eyes. With what appeared to be total malice aforethought, it raised its paws and threw the acorn directly at Tammy. Tammy shrieked right in the middle of “thou annointest my head with oil.” The squirrel snickered then began to scamper from one end of the coffin to the other.
By this time everyone who was in attendance at Clayton Harrison’s funeral was following the action with great interest and varying degrees of amusement.
Tammy angrily removed her black lace hat and the silver hatpin that had anchored it to her head. Holding the pin in her right hand like a Bowie knife, and her hat in her left like a shield, she stalked toward the coffin. The squirrel stopped at the south end of the mahogany casket then casually turned its back on the big mean human. Its little tail rose high into the air and it leaned down and mooned her. Tammy threw her hat to the ground and began shouting obscenities at the furry rodent who’d apparently managed to bring a stash of acorns with him when he first decided to use Clay’s coffin as a lunch counter. Acorns flew with deadly accuracy at Tammy who rapidly lost control of her self and the situation and pounced on top of coffin jabbing wildly in an attempt to commit “Sciurusicide” with a hatpin. Which was when the squirrel jumped up, landed on Tammy’s head and began to tug at her hair.
Before Tammy lost all her lovely blonde curls, Jason Leder, the preacher and three other stalwart pallbearers joined the fray by lunging across the coffin. They succeeded in stripping the white cloth off the coffin and banging their knuckles on the hard wood. One of them finally was able to disentangle the squirrel from Tammy’s head.
The squirrel made a leap to the ground. Tammy saw her chance. She removed one of her five-inched spiked Jimmy Choos and threw it at the squirrel. Missed by a good two feet. The squirrel grinned at her and swished its tail. A now truly enraged— and possibly deranged—Tammy removed the other shoe and made a leap for the squirrel in an attempt to drive a spike through its head. She tripped on the white cloth the pallbearers had dislodged from the top of Clay’s coffin and ended up sliding like a runner stealing home perilously close to the open hole awaiting that coffin. The squirrel pranced over to her, stared down into her face. Then he spotted Tammy’s black lace hat. Ignoring his chance to bite, spit or do other physical damage to his new enemy, he grabbed the hat in his two tiny paws.
He ducked under the hat. He sped off. Fifty people watched a black lace garden hat dart from headstone to headstone. All that could be seen under the hat was a swishing red tale.
Babs turned to Sebastian and me. My ribs were in pain from the laughter I’d tried to contain without success. Sebastian’s lip was bleeding where he’d bit it trying to contain his own merriment.
Babs smiled sweetly at us, then solemnly proclaimed, “I now have the epitaph for Clayton’s headstone. ‘Behaved like a white shark in life. Eaten by a mechanical grey shark in death. And upstaged at his own funeral by a chubby red squirrel in a large black lace hat.’”
Chapter 12
“I could hear your teeth grinding all the way across the room. I’m so sorry, Bootsie. If there’d've been any way to get Todd to stay home, I’d’ve done it. Sadly, he is still a client so I felt obliged to invite him.”
I gave Chuck Willingham, my agent and friend, a hug. “It’s okay. Really. I’ve known for the last few weeks that Todd and the adolescent bimbo would attend your annual bash. Enough time for me to prepare, although sadly not enough time to get down to one hundred-twenty pounds and look dazzling.”
Chuck smiled. “Bootsie, you’re dazzling at any age and any weight and Todd is an idiot. And honestly, aside from his stupidity in letting you go, what I really don’t understand at this point is why he’s bothering to keep me on as agent. It’s not like he’s pursuing his singing career anymore. Too busy being Mister I’m-in-Business-Now-Watch-the-Money-Grow. What am I missing? Why is he hanging on?”
I grinned. “So he can attend your parties and sample the excellent eggnog, fruitcake and cheese logs? Which truly are excellent. Who does your catering?”
“Oh crap.”
“Doesn’t sound like an appetizing firm but they do a nice spread,” I deadpanned.
“The ‘oh crap’ is due to spotting Todd heading this way. Do you want me to divert him toward the ham and roast beef tray or are you okay?”
“I’m fine. He’s probably looking for you anyway. There’s no real reason for him to even say ‘Merry Christmas’ to me especially since he’s done everything imaginable to ensure I don’t experience one for the entire rest of my life. Go, Chuck. Run while you can.”
I watched Todd walk across the room, Karalynn in tow, and studied him with the eye of someone who now saw the truth. A tall, handsome man, not pretty. The straight nose and strong jaw appeared harder and colder than I remembered. And had he seeded the receding hairline?
Todd and Karalynn had reached us. He shook Chuck’s hand; introduced him to his twenty-four-year old mistress. Chuck made some “nice to meet you” remark then was lucky enough to be hailed by an overweight gentleman who had “producer” stamped all over him. Chuck gave me a one of those “are you going to handle this without too much angst?” looks. I nodded and motioned him away.
Todd then turned to me and smiled. Charmingly. Todd had always been and still was a charmer. Charisma oozed from his pores. He was an effin’egotistical snake oil salesman who bewitched with words and stares and could cast spells a Nineteenth-Century itinerate preacher selling heaven in a rented tent on a prairie in Iowa would envy.
“Bootsie. You look great. How are you?”
“Terrific, you adulterous sack of manure. How the flippin’ fryin’ frick do you think I am after you left me with more bills than a pond of ducks, no job, no recognition in a career that thrives on names and thirty-two extra pounds gained from stuffing my face all those nights you were schtupping the teenager you had the nerve to bring to this party?”
I did not say that. I do not say things like that in public. Besides, visions of a raw-nutmegged, out of his head, underwear-wearing Todd nestled comfortably in the laps of four young men clad in garter belts, fish-nets, black leather thongs and not much else flashed through my head. It calmed me a little, thus enabling me to say, “I’m just dandy and terrific, Todd. Hello, Karalynn. Do enjoy the party. Have some more eggnog. It’s delicious, especially with nutmeg and whipped cream on top. Or have a bourbon-and-coke. Oh wait, your drinking tolerance is about on par with a thirteen-year-old breaking into Dad's home supply so maybe you should stick with unlaced eggnog so you don't do anything embarrassing. Oh gee, golly. Will you look over there? I see Babs and her date waving by the Santa Claus who looks remarkably like Kameron Tinibu who plays the paraplegic pilot on Two Days to Sunset. And Pilar the elf with him whom I also know who should have been in The List and come to think of it was until the show was scrapped for whatever reason.” I bit my lip and tried to breathe and talk slowly and stop my horrible rambling. “Bye now. So lovely to see you and hopefully that won’t happen until the next Christmas party when I’ll have made arrangement to be off in Tanzania or the Indian Ocean Islands.”
I have no idea whether my exit from the corner where Todd and Karalynn stood staring after me was even moderately classy or resembled a victim's dash through a Halloween slasher movie. I only knew I had to get away before that calm dissipated and I began howling obscenities at the pair of them.
Babs grabbed me before I could actually charge through Chuck’s front door—be it open or closed. “Hold it! Don’t let him drive you out of here. Have a drink. Have two. There are some major players on the Broadway scene here and yo
u need to be lovely and sweet and funny and meet them outside of studios where they are sizing up whether you are fit to be the star in their next production.”
“I’m not.” I spat out.
“You are. You’re talented and gorgeous and you need to start being aware of that.” Babs growled back. “You cannot let that ass get to you. That’s why he’s here, you know. Chuck told me he feels terrible about sending an invitation but it went out to all his clients and he really didn’t think Todd would make the trip from Scarsdale.”
Joey was following this short exchange with interest. “Want me to take him out? As in—mess up the custom-tailored threads he’s sporting with a little nosebleed? And why the hell is he acting like such a maggot to Bootsie? He’s the jerk who was doing the dirty—not her.”
“He’s jealous,” came from Babs.
Joey nodded. “Ah. That makes sense.”
“Sense? What sense? What the hell is he jealous of?” I demanded. “He has money, a new girlfriend, the proceeds from the house we stupidly bought months before he left, that thankfully we sold before completely losing everything, and I still haven’t figured out how he took his cut before sending me about an eighth of the actual amount—um, he has a new job that pays an exorbitant salary and a new home courtesy his mistress's daddy—what am I missing?”
“Friends. And talent.” Babs stated.
“What?”
“I repeat. Friends. Only you’re not missing them. He is. The man has alienated everyone he ever worked with. He charms them to start, then when they get to know him, they tolerate his company but consider this, Bootsie—does anyone other than Karalynn even like him? Think about this, too. When he started sabotaging your career with Chuck six years ago, you were getting the good callbacks for TV shows and for Broadway roles. He was wearing a breastplate and Viking horns in the back row of a production of Wagner’s The Ring Cycle. Sure, at the Met—but still—back row.” Babs stared at me. “You know it’s true. He couldn’t stand having you actually make a success of your life when he couldn’t so he had to do everything possible to ruin you.”
I bit my lip. “And he did a whale of a job at it.”
Joey shook his head. “No. He didn’t. You’re in a dry patch now but things will turn around. I’ve watched your work and now that you’re back auditioning and getting your name out there, something fantastic will happen. Could be The List. It’s not dead, ladies. It’s just hibernating until word comes in from two angels who are playing hardball about wanting to make some casting decisions.”
“Really?” asked Babs.
“Really. I was in a meeting yesterday with Eva and with George the producer who is happily married and not the one who’d been rolling in various bunks with Monica Travers. Who, incidentally, was part of the problem and now that the problem has been solved, so to speak, by an enterprising wasp in a fruit basket, George and the angels are negotiating again.” He paused. “Who the hell is that weirdo woman who just joined your ex and his, uh . . . ?“
“Slut,” Babs interjected.
I stood on my tiptoes to see what constituted a ‘weirdo’ at a party full of performers. “Yowzer. I don’t believe this.”
Joey and Babs turned to me. “Yes?”
“It’s Madam Minerva. In the flesh, which is way more fleshy than I. She’s currently chatting with Todd. Probably hitting him up for more donations to her little psychic hotline. I’m all for him contributing now that my credit card isn’t paying for those donations. Let her soak the idiot for every cent.”
Joey seemed fascinated. “Who is she?”
I explained all about Minerva and her so-called counseling and crazy online site.
Joey squinted at her. “Hang on. I've heard of her. She has a habit of grabbing some poor actor in a cast, then enticing that actor to get everyone in the cast to use her services as a therapist. Been doing her shtick for about twelve years. She’s a first-class bitch although she’s a better actor then half of Manhattan because she comes off as truly sweet and sympathetic before she walks away with the contents of wallets and safe deposit boxes.”
My eyes opened wide. “Wow. I had no idea she’d been doing this for so long.” I thought for a second before letting a huge grin flash, “Babs, this is a plus! She was next on our list after Todd anyway. Maybe we can add a little nutmeg to her eggnog too and get rid of both Todd and the Madam in one fell swoop. And blame twelve years worth of irate actors for it.”
She brightened. “Love it. Does Todd take bourbon or rum with his nog and what about Minerva?”
Joey grabbed her arm as she was turning in the direction of the punch bowl. “No.”
“What, no?”
“I don’t know if you two imps are teasing or not but I don’t want either of you going anywhere near Todd and that woman with anything resembling a poisonous brew.”
Babs sighed. “Fine. Fine. Party pooper. Okay. Let’s circulate and meet all these important people and stay out of trouble—at least for the next hour or so. Keep me semi-sober, Joey.”
His eyebrow rose about an inch. “Why?’
I answered for her. “Because she can’t hold her liquor and she’s liable to say or do something to Todd Kittredge that will get her arrested and first up on the local news tonight. And he can't hold his either so this could lead to a hugely manic kerfuffle all the way around.”
Babs' eyes gleamed. “Now that you mention it and we all know that to be true—lead me to the grog and the nog.”
The three of us headed toward the tables laden with alcoholic beverages and forty different cheeses. I really would have preferred just hunkering down in front of the dessert table but two minutes of talking to Todd called for more comfort than chocolate marble cheesecake or Kahlua pecan pie could provide. Bring on the booze. I was tough. I could handle the entire punch bowl myself and not feel a thing.
Before I got the chance to do more than take one very large sip of eggnog sans nutmeg someone wrapped a hand around my arm. I turned and faced a smiling Madam Minerva.
Chapter 13
“How are you doing, dear?” asked Minerva. “Oh, don’t bother to answer. I can see for myself. You look—tired— and rather sad and you’ve obviously been eating a lot of carbs. I’m so sorry, dear. I do wish you’d stayed in counseling longer. I’m certain I could have helped you overcome your fears and confidence issues. But it is lovely to see you out and about instead of hiding your head in a pillow somewhere sobbing each night and not understanding the concept of letting go.” She loosened her grip on my arm, then reached out and grabbed my hand and squeezed it in apparent sympathy for my pitiful plight.
The old Bootsie, the low-self-esteem Bootsie married to the louse who had turned her into the old, low self-esteem Bootsie, would have ducked her head and mumbled a response like, “I’m fine, really I am,” and waited for the inevitable spate of comforting words from a soul-sucking woman who was making, if not millions, then at least six figures a year by spouting comforting words to gullible people desperate to believe her. The old Bootsie would then have been suckered into revealing more than a glimpse into a life that was being pelted by an avalanche of financial and emotional problems that had been aided, if not directly caused, by that same gentle-sounding so-called psychic who was a piranha in disguise.
But the barely new Bootsie, co-founder of Sweet Cream Ladies, Limited, who’d in the same week stood up to a police detective and then nailed the role of Trixie the mob boss’s bimbo in an audition for a Broadway-bound show that, while derailed for the moment, might still jump back onto the track before Bootsie really did grow too old to take on the part; the Bootsie who’d managed to keep from bursting into tears upon sight of the ex-husband even though she continued to think in run-on sentences—that Bootsie made the instant decision to stand up to the charlatan and fight back. Politely.
I disengaged my hand from her grip then stated, “Madam Medusa—oh pardon me, I meant Minerva—I’d say it’s good to see you but truly, it’s not. I have
no intention of engaging in conversation with you. I suppose you wangled a second-hand invitation from Todd so you could seduce more than one guest here into desiring your services, but l do want to assure you that if I’m asked for a reference or even hear that anyone in this crowd plans to seek you out for—guidance—I shall make it my sole task for the next six months to get the word out that you are a cheating, fraudulent, fake, scheming bitch who hides beneath the veneer of goodness and light and loving kindness. Now then, I’d suggest you take advantage of the free food and drink around here and keep your hands, your phony sympathy and your business cards to yourself.”
The grandmotherly features twisted into a caricature of a fairy-tale witch two seconds before preparing to send a poisonous potion to a princess. Any princess. Minerva whirled around and did, indeed, head off toward the nearest table serving hard liquor.
Babs, who’d followed this exchange with wide eyes and great interest, threw her arms around me. “Hot damn! Bootsie’s back! Did you see the look on that ugly face? Whoa. It’s a good thing there aren’t any small children or puppies here because they’d be ashes or gingerbread cookies if she glanced at them. Ya done good, kid. I’m proud of you.”
“Thank you, thank you. All donations and praise graciously accepted.” I grinned. “She’s still on the hit list though. As a service to any and all possible future clients to save them from the pain of money disappearing and lies ruining their lives.”
Joey bowed to me. “I’d say this calls for a toast. Just hang on for a sec so we can include our wannabe castmates. Looks like Santa and his little elf buddy Pilar are taking a break. And I see Roger chatting with Chuck. I heard that Chuck recently took him on as a client after Roger parted company with Ivan Sonavabitch who is one of the worst agents ever to open an office in New York.”
“Say again? Sonovabitch?”
“Well, that’s a slight distortion of the surname. I believe it’s actually Sosumov but it’s too close not to bastardize. And believe me, he is. I could probably round up at least ten customers for you two who’d be very happy to pay to place Ivan on the hit list right under Madam Minerva. ”
Sweet Cream Ladies, Ltd. Page 8
