Kameron and Pilar had managed to make it across the room to our corner without too much interference from drunks determined to bend Santa’s ear with requests for things that were doubtless out of Santa’s reach and illegal to boot. Roger spotted Joey waving and pulled Chuck along with him to join us. Hugs all around and an instant discussion of who was wearing what, who was ‘doing’ whom and whether or not The List might be back in rehearsals before Kameron found himself having to play Cupid for a Valentine’s party hosted by the star of the new reality show Bounce Your Booty which was raking in big bucks for slimming down has-been celebrities by means of pogo-stick marathons.
“I think you’d make a very cute Cupid,” I teased him. “But why all this extra work at holiday parties? I thought you soap stars earned a living wage?”
“Yeah. That once was true. But Two Days to Sunset is about to be two days to wrapping up forty years of divorces, murders, illegitimate babies, crooked politicians and gays coming out to the delight of politically correct housewives.”
“Say what?”
“Unless the network gives us a stay of execution, the last episodes will be shot next week. So I’m lining up any gig I can to pay the rent.”
Chuck shook his head. “I’ve got three actors on that show. And Kameron isn’t one of them, although I’m trying to entice him away from Ivan. Along with Roger. By the way, the Two Days to Sunset producer is here tonight, getting sloshed and hitting on every brunette under the age of twenty-five.” He grinned. “Male and female. He’s not picky.”
I perked up. “Susceptible to blackmail?”
Chuck’s eyes opened wide. “Do you have a hidden camera?”
“Maybe. Could depend on your response.” I smiled.
“Sadly, no to the blackmail. Everyone in and out of the business knows he’s a horny old goat who generally gets so drunk he truly doesn’t recognize the difference between the sexes and doesn’t care who goes home with him or whether every tabloid from here to Australia plasters his picture on the front page.”
Kameron sighed. “Shame. I really like working on daytime drama and would love to see Two Days to Sunset continue with me playing whatever the hell they want me to play until I’m so old I’m literally riding off into the sunset.” He lifted his glass of eggnog high into the air. “A toast to us all to somehow surviving the disaster of soaps dying, shows crashing and TV pilots never being aired. To Tony Awards to this great band of actors and Chuck finding us all jobs that will pay his— and our— bills now and through next year’s Christmas bash.”
Cheers all around as the small crowd of old and new friends gathered slugged down brews guaranteed to brighten our spirits even if the toast was more hope than reality.
More toasts came in quick succession from Joey and Chuck and Roger. At some point in the drinking, one of the toasts Roger made sounded like he was cheering water buffalo cruising Michigan Avenue in Chicago. I could swear we were toasting to Idaho becoming a sovereign nation and the reincarnation of Fred Astaire who would star in the newly revived Two Days to Sunset, which we renamed Sunset Boulevard’s Days are Numbered.
I was feeling no pain and enjoying every minute. I wasn’t much of a drinker, although I’d always been able to hold my liquor better than Babs. I hadn’t even turned to strong spirits during the strife and pain of the last couple of years. My vice had been apple turnovers and Maria’s banana flautas. But tonight I’d seen Todd and his girlfriend, some damned ugly men oozing money and bad taste and I’d stood up to Madam Minerva and I felt it was time I was rewarded. I quit counting eggnogs and straight bourbon after about five.
I knew I wasn’t going to be a chipper little bird who came bouncing out of her bed he next morning (sadly assuming I woke up in my own) but I truly didn’t care.
And I was right. When what appeared to be morning came shining in through the window, my head felt like a garbage compactor was in the process of squeezing out what gray matter was left after the night’s sequentially stronger booze fest. I groaned and slid out of bed—thankfully the one I used at Leo’s, and prepared to tell Babs and Joey, who’d come home with me, to shut up now because they were being obnoxiously loud.
Then I realized it wasn’t Babs and it wasn’t Joey. They were silent. The noise was coming from Leo’s fifty-two-inch LED TV. Babs and Joey were pointing at the screen and the picture that took up the entire width of that screen. The morning news was on and it was far more entertaining than morning news had a right to be.
The picture was quite clear and absolutely delightful. The press had gotten hold of a photo of Todd Kittredge stretched out in the laps of four overly-made-up boys wearing garter belts, corsets, leather-thongs and not much else. Todd was similarly dressed but his cosmetics were a tad less smeared. He appeared to be barely awake—and somewhat surprised to be having his very comprising photo snapped in the early morning hours.
At the far right-hand side of the frame lay another costumed actor in the scene. Only it was obvious by the angle of the body, this performer wasn’t going to be moving for a while.
I should be more gender-specific. The performer was female and known to one and all around Manhattan and the tri-state area simply as Minerva. Psychic. Counselor. Deceased.
Chapter 14
“Well. Wow. That’s—uh—all over the news,” I said.
“No shit,” came from Babs.
“I assume we can expect a knock on the door soon?”
She nodded. “I’d say so. I’ll hold off Detective Laramie while you run and shower and slap on some make-up. Joey will help me dazzle him and his troop of policeman with rapid-fire conversation about the latest ecological disaster to hit Oregon residents who really hate ecological disasters since it does mess up that fantastic hippie environment they’ve had going for years. I remember because my favorite cousin lives in Seattle and Bree and I used to visit and Seattle was less than a day’s drive to Portland and Bree and I would head over there for some great shopping in funky flea markets run by a bunch of elderly ex-Berkeley graduates who’d stopped on their way to Canada to avoid the draft and taken up residence in hiding.”
“Babs, you’re rambling.” I glared at her.
“Merely getting prepped and primed to deal with the great detective. Hurry. And wear something cute for your next interrogation. Slap on some violet eye shadow too so your eyes look greener.”
I headed for the bathroom but called out, “Not sure it matters. Something tells me this time I’m going to fitted with a neon orange jumpsuit that’ll be too tight in all the wrong places and clash horribly with my hair.”
I was in and out of the shower in five minutes. Brushed my teeth, quickly applied some make-up (including that dab of violet eye shadow) and had started blow-drying my hair when the inevitable happened. Babs poked her head around the door and waved at me to stop the dryer. “He’s here.”
“Think he’ll give me about five more minutes?” I asked.
Babs turned and yelled, “She needs another five to get beautiful! You good with that, Detective?”
Whatever he said was muffled by the noise of the dryer I’d switched on again. If the answer was no, I’d find out soon enough when Laramie et al beat down the doors and dragged me, with semi-damp hair waving and frizzing in the breeze, down to the pokey to be fingerprinted and photographed. Great. I’d end up with a mug shot that made my drivers license look like a super model winner.
I emerged five minutes later, fully clothed and hair dry if not exactly styled salon-perfect.
“Detective Laramie. Been too long. Want some coffee?” I asked as brightly as I could manage at nine a.m. after a night of partying that hadn’t landed me back home until four.
“We are brewing several large pots down at the station,” was his response. “Notice I emphasize several and large.”
“And that would be—why?” I inquired.
“Because you, Ms. Harrison, Mr. Carmichael and numerous other cheery and hung-over theatrical types who attended Chuck
Willingham’s party last night and on into the wee hours will be guests at the 10th Precinct for a good proportion of the day. Since it’s now snowing, New York’s finest wanted to be sure each and every one of you remained comfortable and warm within the confines of our house.”
“Oh.” I glanced at Babs, who raised both eyebrows at me. Numerous other cheery and hung-over theatrical types. Murderous divas? Good news for us? Rounding up more than just the Sweet Cream Ladies? She shrugged. We might be sharing unspoken speculations but we had no way of knowing what the outcome of seeing more than one suspect questioned might be. No clue as to how the police would be handling the latest investigation of a recently deceased person who’d deserved to be dispatched to the afterlife and whose demise had been the topic of conversation more than once over the last few weeks by Misses Babs Harrison and Bootsie Kittredge.
Laramie was right about the snow. There’d been a decent dusting at four a.m. (which was the last time I remember being outside) but the two or three inches now been joined by two or three more and Manhattan was clearly about to endure a rip-rollicking blizzard by end of the day. I was heading straight into snow-bound-town to join a bunch of other murdering divas in a police station probably until Christmas, which was day after tomorrow.
Laramie led Babs, Joey and me into the 10th Precinct, followed closely by the two uniformed officers who’d accompanied the detective to Leo’s apartment. I stepped through the entranceway and suddenly fell into a Christmas-nightmare-rabbit-holed never-never-no-way-in-hell-ever-land.
I’d been right about murdering divas. I knew all of them. Well, the majority of them. Seated on benches, sitting in chairs at desks, standing by water coolers—all awaiting questioning were Chuck Willingham, Kam Tinibu (still in his Santa suit), Pilar Ojeda (still looking remarkably fresh and cute in her elf costume) and Roger Bachmann. I had a vague recollection of discussing switching agents with Roger and then chatting about some guy called Ivan Sonovabitch. Then I saw the four guys in drag, none of whom looked a day over fifteen, all of whom were dressed in garter belts, fishnet stockings, corsets—and thankfully very colorful parkas to keep what would have been very exposed flesh from freezing. They were singing. “Deck the Halls.” They were quite good, especially considering they were doing this a cappella.
Next to them, seated with his head down and an expression of shock, doom, gloom and complete humiliation was my ex-spouse, Mr. Todd Kittredge, wearing an identical outfit to the carolers but with a black, boring corporate coat. Garish make-up had globbed into smeary stains across his cheeks and all around his eyes. It was the best sight I’d seen in years. Even better, I did not see Karalynn Van Dessen, heiress to the Van Dessen fortune and stealer of husbands, anywhere in sight. Could be she was being questioned. Could be she’d been hauled off to Rykers in handcuffs. Or could be she’d seen the morning paper or local news photos featuring the narcissistic bastard she planned to marry and decided he didn’t look all that great in Rocky Horror drag gear camped out next to teenage boys while a dead woman lay four feet away, so she’d gone running back to Scarsdale and Daddy.
Lovely sounds continued to issue from the corner of the precinct where the drag queens entertained. They’d switched tunes and now were creating really fine harmonies for a rendition of “Carol of the Bells.” Pilar waved at me and yelled, “Aren’t they great? You really need to see their show—I’m sure they’ll comp you some tickets.”
“Thanks, Pilar,” I called back while stifling the impulse to join the kids and hug them for their services in completely demolishing the reputation of Todd Kittredge. It would only lead to trouble because Sebastian Laramie would immediately assume that the quartet and I had been in league with one another, which he was probably thinking anyway after that little exchange between Pilar and me.
Sebastian motioned for me to sit down by the side of his desk. I did, but not quietly. “What? No harsh lights in the interrogation room today?”
“It’s in use, “he replied.
“Oh.” I scanned the room again. “Oh sweet Village People! Am I still drunk or is that a cowboy, a fireman and a construction worker by the door? Okay. I need coffee.”
Sebastian glanced toward the corner I’d indicated. “Oh hell. “
“What?”
“The cowboy and the fireman are two hustlers who’ve been doing a great business about two blocks from the heliport on West Thirtieth. They usually make a joint appearance on a weekly basis in our precinct along with an Indian chief, a leather-clad cop and a male construction worker. They all sing, by the way and apparently provide their clients with menage a multiples. But, that particular construction worker is not a 'he' and does not provide the same services as those gentlemen—at least I hope not.”
“Dang, you’re right. He’s a she—and not exactly young.”
“She’s eighty-two,” he muttered.
“And you know this because she also makes an appearance weekly for some indiscretion?” I asked.
“I know this because the appearance is usually once a month when I’m really busy and I’m aware of her age because she’s my mother.” His closed in what appeared to be a prayer for mercy, then opened them, revealing an expression of sheer agony. “She’s singing, isn’t she?”
I bit my lip. “I believe so. Sounds remarkably like ‘Macho Man’ although it’s in a key—I’m—not sure I can identify.”
Sebastian snorted. “That’s because it hasn’t been invented. The woman is tone deaf.”
“And loud.” My hidden smile turned into a delighted grin. “She’s heading this way.”
“Oh shit.”
“Quick, tell me why she’s dressed like a construction worker.”
“Because she is one. A proud third generation member of the Union of Bricklayers and Allied Craftworkers. My sister and my brother are the fourth generation. Bricklayers. My whole bloody family are bricklayers—except me. I was nearly disowned when I became a cop.”
The lady in the hard hat, work gloves, cargo pants and heavy yellow parka strode toward Sebastian’s desk, then, in a move that delighted me more than I could express, leaned down and gave the tough detective a smooch on the lips. Then came the rapid conversation.
“Sebastian.”
“Mom.”
“It’s snowing. Did you know it’s snowing?”
“I did.”
“Do you think we’ll be snowed in here?”
“Highly likely. You could leave now and try to make it back to Brooklyn before you’re stuck.” It was obvious this was Sebastian Laramie’s dearest wish—get Mom out of the station and onto the subway and out of his hair. Mom wasn’t buying it.
She removed the hard hat and shook out an Eighties-style mall-rat big-haired mane of white hair. “Nah. I’m staying here. Your father is going to want to decorate the tree tonight and I always get in trouble for adding too much tinsel and lights. This looks far less stressful.”
I glanced around the room at the variety of tense felons, felon-wannabes, suspected murderers (my friends included) cops typing on ancient computers, cops slapping handcuffs on and off offenders, drug dealers on cell phones calling high-powered attorneys and wondered what the fool life was like at the elder Laramie house when Christmas trees were involved.
The female elder Laramie leaned down and stared into my face. “You’re very attractive. Are you a hooker?”
Sebastian exhaled loudly. “Mother! Hush! Please! No, this is not a hooker. This is Bootsie Kittredge. She’s an actress. Leave her alone.”
Blazingly blue eyes that were a perfect match to her son’s nearly pierced mine. “You’re pretty enough to be a hooker, if a bit old. Don’t take that wrong—it’s just that most of ‘em are about fifteen these days. Are you and Sebastian dating?”
Sebastian rose from his seat, grabbed his mother by the shoulders and whirled her around to face the exit and the faux Village People duo. “Stop! Bootsie is currently here to be questioned concerning a murder and neither she nor I wish to be e
ngaged in one of Lorelei Laramie’s little matchmaking schemes. Now scoot. Go home. Torment Dad with tinsel. Torment the dog with tinsel. I know. You don't have a dog. Get one, then torment him with tinsel. I don’t care. The operative word is torment anyone but me. And the second operative word is go as in go away.”
“Lorelei? Very cool name. Very theatrical and Marilyn Monroe-y,” I interjected.
Mrs. Laramie turned back around, not one bit chastened by Sebastian’s comment or seeming in the least inclined to obey his instruction to vacate the premises. She grinned at me. “Wait. You’re one of the hitwomen, right? Fantastic! Sebastian has told me all about you.”
Sebastian groaned. “Mother! Go away. Now!”
“Are you kidding? This girl will come in handy! I have an entire list when you’re through with yours, young lady. Mostly politicians and management types. And I’m not leaving until I find out who got what was coming to them. Today, that is. Not the ones to be dispatched later. Bootsie?”
“A fake psychic who was not best beloved by half the population of Manhattan.”
The grin widened. “Madam Minerva? So, you’re involved in that whole mess with the good-looking man who was found in his underwear with the Rocky Horror costumed teenagers?”
“You think he’s good-looking?” I asked.
“Well, yeah, sure, but even from here I can see he’s a narcissistic sleaze bucket.”
“I believe I love you, Mrs. Laramie,” I stated.
“Lorelei. Please. Make it Lorelei. He’s your ex, right? Take it from me, girl, you’re well rid of him. Todd Kittredge. Heard that name on the news on the way over. He’s a suspect too, I hope.”
Sebastian sank back down into his chair. “Would you like to conduct the investigation, Mom?”
She snorted—sounding exactly like her son. “I’d do a better job than you, kiddo, if you arrest Bootsie here for tossing that menace to society off the roof. I personally know of two women from my weekly Mah Jong game who talked about bumping the bitch off. She rooked them for at least four thousand bucks each through her ridiculous web site. I wisely told them it was a scam but they didn’t believe me. Fat lot a good a college education is when people don’t have the common sense they were born with.”
Sweet Cream Ladies, Ltd. Page 9
