Sweet Cream Ladies, Ltd.

by Flo Fitzpatrick

  “Well, there is one other tiny little problem,” I stated solemnly.

  “Oh. We don’t own a car so Joey would have to drive us. I guess that would make him an accessory. So he’d have to agree to all this. Or I could just ask to borrow the keys and take the car.”

  “Well, I hadn't thought of that. But there is one more teensy, itty bitty snafu.”

  “And that would be?”

  “Neither of us knows how to shoot.”

  Chapter 20

  “Whoa, Mama!”

  “Definitely.”

  Babs and I gazed in tandem up at the chandelier that covered half the ceiling of the house in the Emerson Hill area of Staten Island, New York. The house owned by one Giuseppe Carmosina. Father of Joey Carmichael and presumed leader of a crime syndicate that could make Detective Sebastian Laramie Police Commissioner in a heartbeat if he were ever able to arrest the majority of the men in this room on charges that would actually stick.

  “I feel like I’m in a museum.”

  I shook my head. “Nah. A movie set. There’s that quality of unreality. Like everything was brought in and is going to be shipped back to the warehouse when the director yells, ‘that’s a wrap!’ But it is a bit too Godfather clichéd when you think about it.”

  “Oh my. As in wow.”

  “What? Where? Better than the giant lamp?”

  Babs pointed to the winding staircase. Behind the chandelier. “Aside from the whole Tara plantation look of those stairs, take a peek at the artwork. We’re not talkin’ prints and posters here, Bootsie. I’m no expert but unless Giuseppe C found himself a damned fine forger, we’re gazing at some Degas, Renoirs and Rembrandts that are very much originals.”

  I lowered my volume before saying “And all this from the construction business. Who knew?”

  “Hey!”

  We both turned. Joey Carmichael waved at us from across the room, where he stood quietly underneath a very nice Van Gogh. “You want the tour of the gothic horror mansion or you want awesome food?”

  Babs and I turned to each other, then back to Joey. Simultaneously we responded, “Food.” I winked at him. “If I want a tour I’ll just go to the Met or the Guggenheim or watch a DVD of Rebecca for the atmosphere. ”

  Joey linked arms with Babs and me and the three of us headed toward what I presumed was the dining room or at least was being used as such for this New Year’s Eve bash. Joey was right. Awesome food. I counted at least four hot pasta dishes like lasagna and fettuccini. No-or-low carb guests had a choice of roast beef, smoked turkey, ham or salmon. There were fifteen different types of cheese with fifteen options of crackers on one table alone. Veggie trays, fruit trays, caviar trays. For anyone blowing off a diet until the clock struck the New Year, three dessert tables beckoned with tortes and cannolis and ricotta mousse with chocolate sauce and . . .

  “I’m now feeling embarrassed over the puny little hor’deuvres I provided at my own party,” a voice muttered behind me.

  I whirled around. “Chuck? Hey! I didn’t know you’d be here.”

  “I didn’t either. I originally had other plans but Joey put the word out to our crowd of felons to come to Staten Island for great food and to keep you ladies company and out of trouble.”

  “So . . .”

  “So, Kam and Pilar are downing bourbon at the bar and Roger is trying to act butch in front of the mobsters by chatting up a twenty-year old babe named Thomasina who is apparently Giuseppe Carmosina’s only niece." He grinned. "Roger is about to either find himself married or swimming in the East River before the night is over.”

  “Seriously? Thomasina Carmosina?”

  “I kid you not.”

  We hugged each other. “So, Bootsie. Anything new since we were last arrested?”

  “Well, another character has joined the farce.”

  “Yes?”

  “Howard Krempowsky.”

  “Wait. Krempowsky. Isn’t that . . .?”

  “It is. Howard is the darling brother of Madam Minerva and a stalker who apparently does not own a change in clothes.”

  I told Chuck about the meeting with Howard on Christmas Day then stopped.

  “I don’t believe it.”

  Joey and Babs joined us. “What?”

  “Not what. Who.”

  “Fine. I’ll bite. Who?”

  “Howard Krempowsky.”

  “Seriously” Joey grinned. “Babs told me all about the Great Krempowsky. Where is he?”

  I pointed with my fork. “There. Under Edvard Munch’s The Scream. Fitting. I wonder if talking about him always conjures him up?”

  Babs stood on tiptoe to see then dropped her heels back down. “Why the hell is he here? Do you suppose he’s trying to prove that Joey’s dad or an associate of his dad killed his sister?”

  Howard had spotted us. He waved. He took off his top hat. He bowed.

  “He’s coming over.”

  “I see that, Bootsie, but I don’t think he’s here to kill us so we can still enjoy a hearty meal.”

  “Maybe that’s the plan. He found the caterer and told him to make everything so yummy we’d eat ourselves to death.”

  Howard had reached our table. “Ladies. Chuck. Mr. Carmichael. Or do you prefer Carmosina.”

  Joey sighed. “Make it Carmichael.”

  “Whichever. Nice to meet you.”

  Joey eyed him with some suspicion. “No offense, but why are you here? I don’t recall seeing your name on the guest list.”

  “I’m a—what’s the term? Ah. A plus one. Unless that’s already consider passé?”

  I jumped right one. “Forget the terminology. Who’s the plus?”

  He pointed at Vertigo Valentine who was standing by the booze table chatting up a tiny blonde woman whose back was to us. She was tightly encased in a red satin dress that showed off an extremely phenomenal figure. She held a long cigarette holder in one hand while running her fingers up Vertigo's back with the other.

  “Vertigo? You’re Vertigo’s date?” Babs snickered.

  Howard shook his head. “No, no. I was invited by the attractive woman standing beside him. My job is to keep Mrs. Valentine from getting suspicious about Mr. Valentine although everyone in the city is now aware that he and Ms. Tarantella are—friends.”

  I groaned. “I’m so confused. And wait. Are we by any chance talkin’ Tammy Tarantella who was supposed to marry Clay Harrison?”

  “We are. And it’s very simple,” Howard stated. “Ms. Tarantella has recently charmed her way into becoming the mistress of Vertigo Valentine, who would like to keep his wife from actively discovering what could cost Vertigo a fine bit of cash in any alimony battle should Mrs. Valentine decide to leave the man. Vertigo needed someone to bring the lady to this party and did not want one of Carmosina’s hunkier bodyguards to accompany her, fearing that sweet little Tammy might be as unfaithful to him as he is to his wife. Apparently I’m safe because he is aware that Ms. Tarantella is not my type. I prefer someone taller, older and with a better brain. He and I chatted at the police station the day after my sister met her sad fate. He started off explaining that none of his clients—that includes your three—had anything to do with Minerva’s death and ended up asking me to escort Ms. Tarantella.”

  “Well, that’s kind although pretty bizarre of you,” I said. “But it’s New Year’s. Aren’t you giving a show somewhere?”

  He smiled, which made him look about ten years younger. “I am. Right here. I shall be providing a little entertainment somewhere around eleven before the fireworks display that rings in the New Year. Mr. Valentine is a huge fan of magic and all things mysterious. Have you been invited yet to that castle he calls home? Not six blocks from here. Rumor has it belonged to a count from Bulgaria back in the late 1800s who fancied himself a Draculean hero and convinced his architect to build basements with coffins and winding secret staircases and probably attics with hidden compartments. At any rate, Vertigo has seen my show five times now. I gather that was a
childhood dream of his.” He grinned. “Being a magician. Not seeing my show— although I’m vain enough to believe that might also have been something he dreamed about when young.”

  “I’m getting a headache,” I murmured.

  “Have some protein. You look pale, Bootsie. Something troubling you? Perhaps our conversation on Christmas Day?” He paused, and then continued. “Or have you heard the news? Seen today’s paper?”

  “What? No, I haven’t seen the paper. Did someone else get arrested for Minerva’s murder? Did someone else get bumped off a roof? Did someone get eaten by a giant gorilla a la King Kong over at the Hollywood FX museum? Uh. Did someone get bitten by a asp?”

  His lips twitched “No.”

  “So?”

  “No deaths to announce unless this news makes you so angry you decided to take a shot at your ex.”

  “What? Why?’

  “Crap. I’m sorry. Forget I said anything.”

  “No, no. Go ahead, Mr. Krempowsky. If something’s up I need to know.”

  Babs, Joey and I all looked expectantly at Howard. “Okay. Sorry to spill this at a party, but the news is that the esteemed Todd Kittredge and Karalynn Van Desson have announced their engagement. It’s all over the society section. Rather a quick engagement period, if you ask me. I gather the date has been set for February 14th. So . . . romantic.”

  The kick in my gut wasn’t from the pasta I’d been devouring. I closed my eyes, then opened then and tried to speak calmly.

  “It shouldn’t hurt, but it does. Damn that lousy excuse for a human being. Here I am wondering where I’m going to live in about two weeks. Wondering how I’m going to pay off the divorce bills Todd saddled me with while he gets ready to marry the heiress. Well, Happy Frickin’ New Year to everyone.” I turned and faced the booze table. “I think I’ll join Vertigo and your date and chat about life, love, liberty and where’s the best place to find a gun. After all, he’s my lawyer. He could start working up my defense long before Todd Kittredge turns up in an alley with a bullet in his icy heart.”

  I stalked off to find the closest bar (there were many around the room) and get royally and totally smashed. I hadn’t taken two steps when a very young, very handsome, very Saturday Night Fever-style male tapped my shoulder.

  “Yo.”

  “Yes?”

  “You wanna gun?’

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I heard you say you wanted to take down some sleaze in an alley. You’re a pretty lady. I can either get you a gun or do the deed for you.”

  Before I had a chance to respond, four guys of varying ages, heights, weights but one mind and one outfit—that same Travolta white disco suit circa 1976—suddenly surrounded us. “Gun? Somebody say gun? Who needs one? Who needs takin’ out? What kind ya want? Honey, you’re in the right place.”

  Hands were in pockets. Hands were in suspenders. Suddenly those hands were flashing heavier bling than the rings on the pinkies. I’d never seen so much weaponry in one circle displayed outside of a gun show a college boyfriend had escorted me to when I was nineteen. And I’m not talkin’ guns that were being stealthily offered. Nope. Guns were in the air. Guns were being twirled. Guns were thrust into my face. If Todd had chosen that moment to crash the Carmosina party all I would have had to do was point and Todd would have been a target within seconds.

  “No. No, really, thanks, guys. I appreciate the—uh—uh—well, look, let’s all grab something at the bar, yes?”

  “Sure.”

  My friendly wiseguy in training guided me over to the bar. “What would you like?”

  “Vodka tonic.”

  He gave the order to the bartender. I immediately requested a double.

  “So, what’s your name?”

  “Bootsie.”

  “Hey, that’s cute! I’m Lionel Paccaduscio.”

  “Like the train?”

  “Huh?”

  “Oh never mind.” At least it wasn’t not a stereotypical mob-movie sounding names like Tony, Vito, Guido or Carmine although I was pretty damned sure if I yelled out any of those names, five guys would respond. I couldn’t believe I was in the middle of the biggest cliché in criminal history. Italian mob boss with heavily-armed, but damned cute Italian ‘associates’ crawling all over the big mansion.

  I slugged down my vodka tonic and immediately ordered another. What the hell. Very open bar at a mobster’s mansion. If I got drunk enough I might just grab Lionel, Tony, Vito, Guido and Carmine and ask about the finer points of the contract killing trade. If I got really drunk I might just forget about the dream of shooting Todd Kittredge and indulge in an activity that had been less than pleasurable the very few times in the last six years Todd and I had engaged in it but appeared that Lionel probably was more than adept at doing by marching Lionel right up the stairs to the nearest bedroom.

  I smiled at my new friend. I winked at the bartender. And ordered another.

  Chapter 2 1

  Fortunately—or not, depending upon one defined fortune—Babs and Joey intervened before Lionel and I could head upstairs (following on the heels of Vertigo Valentine and little blonde Tammy) to a spare bedroom to engage in what would doubtless have been some enjoyable activity to end the old year.

  “Bootsie!”

  “Wha . . ?”

  “How many drinks have you tossed down in the last twenty minutes?” Babs demanded.

  “Not nearly enough.”

  “Yes you have.” She smiled at Lionel. “Hi. I’m Babs. I’m Bootsie’s best friend and right now although you’re terribly cute and obviously intent on making her cougar of the year, I need to take my friend away.”

  Lionel glowered. He was even sexier when he was pouting. That whole bad boy image. “Why?”

  Babs is not only loyal, funny, and has the look of a pixie, she’s wise and diplomatic and knows how to avoid getting a junior mobster pissed at losing a potential bedmate. “I need her. I’m having a crisis and she’s the only one who can get me through it. I’m so sorry. I’ll send her back when it’s dealt with.”

  “Oh. Okay.” Lionel grabbed my hand and kissed it. “I’ll be right here, Bootsie.”

  “Thanks, Leo, Lionel, whatever. You’re a sweetheart."

  Babs led me about two steps away. “Are you crocked?”

  “Sadly, not really. I ate too much. The booze isn't making near enough of a dent. I'd rather like to get drunk. I'd rather like going into a corner somewhere with the hot gangster boy and making out for an hour or two.

  Babs motioned to Joey, who’d been politely standing at the end of the bar. “Grab her before she acts on that idea."

  He took an elbow. Babs took an elbow. They escorted me toward the stairs. I went grudgingly but without protest. “Hey, dija’ll see the firepower on those guys? I’m tellin’ ya, Babs, it’s like a candy store around here but with guns. We could shoot Toddy nine ways to Sunday and not even have to give the weapon back ‘cause those guys have got more of ‘em than Tammy the bimbo has shoes. Shoot him. Toss the gun in the harbor. Toss him in the harbor. Hell! Toss Tammy in the harbor. Then get on home. Come to think of it, do y'all suppose anyone will get popped before the night is over? How about ol’ Howie? Bet we could steer Tony, Vito, Guido and Carmine his way and they’d dispose of him without anyone the wiser. Maybe we could ask Howard to do himself him. After all, he’s a magic man."

  Babs snickered. "I like the idea of Howard committing some sort of 'cide' that doesn't include killing either of us."

  I nodded. "Then again, he’s Minerva’s brother and I don’t care what he said about her, she needed to be tossed off that roof for all the crappy stuff she did to me and to everybody else at Chuck’s party. Although not nearly as much as Todd needs to have a bullet sail through him. He also needs a new wardrobe. The Great Krempowsky, that is. Not Todd. Todd will have a wonderful wardrobe courtesy of the Van Desson fortune very, very soon. But, I mean, really that whole top hat magic thing is kinda old-fashioned, idn’t it? Then again
, he’s gonna perform tonight so he needs to be costumed. Or entombed!”

  I began to get hiccups. “Oh hell. Did I just guzzle down a craploada booze? Why isn't it making me feel better? And where's that cute li’l Lionel?"

  We were in front of a bedroom by now. Babs quietly steered me inside and then pushed me onto the bed. I sank down on it and began to cry.

  "That bastard! I can't believe he's announcing to all the society pages that he's about to be the rich Mr. Van Dressen. And I'm still friggin' unemployed. The sonovabitch needs to die!"

  Babs nodded. She found a quilt and covered me, dug into her purse and brought out four aspirin. “Take these after you've had a very good cry so when Joey and I come wake you up in about an hour you won’t have the gargantuan headache any sane person would get after consuming like five vodka tonics in the space of fifteen minutes, especially considering the fact that you never drink more than one drink in three hours at any given time.”

  "Thanks." I buried my head in the pillow but did hear Babs say to Joey as they left the room, “She’s upset and slightly schnockered, but she’s right about one thing. Todd Kittredge is in dire need of shooting.”

  They were gone. The tears stayed. I’d tried to push away all the rotten thoughts going through my head since Howard laid the little bombshell about Todd and Karalynn’s upcoming nuptials but images of their wedding kept dancing in my head like demonic sugarplums in a twisted Nutcracker ballet.

  One vision that was way too clear was the last session Todd and I had had with Madam Minerva. Where she’d sweetly told me to “let it go.” Where Todd had been sympathetic and understanding about my desire to try to make the marriage work but refused to give up Karalynn. Seriously. By that time I knew he was having an affair with her but still unaware that Minerva was the go-between. I’d told Todd he needed to get a dictionary and find the definitions for commitment and vows. He’d stormed out of Minerva’s office (in her apartment—very cozy—we’d been sitting on a sofa with cats roaming around) and left me to pay the check to Minerva for the “counseling.”