Sweet Cream Ladies, Ltd.

by Flo Fitzpatrick

  “Keep the baby,” Howard stated.

  “What!” she squealed.

  “Yes. Your Aunt Rose, who passed into the light five years ago, says to keep the baby even if the father decides not to marry you.”

  Lionel jumped up. “It isn’t me! I just met her!”

  Howard gestured for him to sit back down. “I know this. The father is married, young man. But this child will need someone and Aunt Rose believes you make a lovely couple.”

  Lionel sank back down. He and the girl appeared stunned.

  Howard continued through the room, making pronouncements about secrets he was divining from dead relatives and friends. I had no idea through what means he’d retrieved this information but he was definitely hitting nails on heads. Faces were turning redder and redder as Howard went around the room like a one-man hit squad from some national tabloid rag exposing affairs and frauds and all manner of evil doings, supposedly whispered into the ear of the Great Krempowsky by dead souls eager for scandal. Heaven—or hell—must be a dull place. All I could think of was that NYPD’s finest needed the resources of Howard’s personal deceased private detective. Finally, after ten minutes of sordid tell-alls from the would-be mentalist, Howard returned to the front of the room.

  “Now that everyone is aware of the veracity of my power to call forth the dead, I finish with a final statement.”

  Not a sound. Not a breath. Not a movement. The audience stayed still, shocked and probably damned scared to hear the final statement. Couldn’t be much juicier than what had already been spilled but the man knew how to entrance a crowd.

  “My beloved sister, Minerva, who passed beyond only a few weeks ago, has finally been in touch with me.”

  “How the fool did she manage that? Text him from a smart phone in Purgatory?” I muttered.

  Sebastian’s lips twitched. “Shhh. Who knows? Maybe Howard will let something slip I can actually use to solve Minerva’s murder. I only hope it doesn’t land you and your buddy Babs into a cell for the next thirty years.”

  I turned, ready to argue, but Sebastian gently laid his index finger over my lips then nodded toward Howard. “Let’s hear what messages Minerva is conveying, shall we?”

  Howard held both his hands up to the ceiling. For a second I expected to see Minerva perched on a chandelier in white robes shrieking like the ghost of Fruma-Sarah from Fiddler on the Roof. Howard stared out into the room. He didn’t blink. I’m pretty sure not one soul in this captivated crowd blinked. He waited. The man was a consummate showman. When the suspense grew to obnoxious proportions he finally slowly closed his eyes. Two seconds later, he opened them and stated in tones that were reminiscent of Boris Karloff in any movie role from the 1930s, “Minerva was murdered by someone in this room.”

  Gasps all around. I poked Sebastian. “Excuse me, but—duh. Look at this crowd? Minerva rooked half of them out of their savings and just generally pissed the rest of us off. I could have told you that without the theatrics.”

  “Well, I must admit I’m rather relieved Howard the Great didn’t saunter over to either you or your best friend and condemn you, accompanied by howls of glee from his dead sister.”

  I fluttered my lashes. “No proof and that’d be slander, wouldn’t it?”

  “I wouldn’t test it in court.”

  “Which? The accusation or the slander.”

  Sebastian grinned at me. “Either. Neither.” He rose then extended his hand toward me. “Now that the entertainment is done, care to saunter out to the garden and watch the fireworks?”

  “Fireworks? As though we hadn’t just witnessed a few bombshells?”

  “Well, I was thinking more of the traditional lights in the air. We’re in a great spot to see them over the Statue of Liberty.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Great. I’ll go grab us a clean bottle of champagne and a few munchies and I’ll join you.”

  I did like this man. Champagne and munchies. Could it get better?

  I watched him saunter over to the tables and pile a plate high. My would-be suitor Lionel joined him (minus Thomasina Carmosina) and I held my breath for a moment wondering if the cop and the kid were going to pull out firearms but they merely exchanged a word or two without gunfire or punches, so I relaxed.

  Sebastian returned, laden with cheese and crackers and fruit and chocolate and champagne and nodded for me to open the French doors, which did indeed lead out to a gorgeous yard. Or garden. Hard to tell since snow was still on the ground so any veggies or herbs were covered. We found a bench that some thoughtful groundskeeper had swept clean of that snow. Laramie climbed onto it then helped me up as well.

  “Which way?” I asked.

  He pointed. “See? The Lady of the Harbor is all lit up and ready.”

  “Wow. I’m impressed. Even without fireworks. These are the reasons I stay in New York, you know. Regardless of expense, joblessness and humiliation. Beautiful.”

  He nodded but wasn’t looking east toward the harbor. He was looking at me.

  Fireworks suddenly began shooting up around the Statue of Liberty. I could hear bells and whistles and shouts of “Happy New Year!”

  Midnight.

  Sebastian put his hand under my chin and gently tilted my head up. He leaned down and gave me the best kiss I could remember ever participating in my entire life and that includes the all-important first kiss at age fourteen.

  Maybe, just maybe, it was going to be a happy new year after all.

  Chapter 2 3

  January 4th. It had been less than a week since the Carmosina New Year’s bash and that lovely kiss at the lips of Sebastian Laramie. But instead of a happy new year, it was turning into a creepy one.

  Babs and I were being followed. Or stalked. I’m not sure what the difference is although followed sounded less threatening than stalked. Either way, I was not happy.

  Babs was the first to realize we had a shadow. We were on our way home after grocery shopping and were approaching the door to Leo's when a box of pasta resting at the top of an overflowing bag fell out. Babs bent down to pick it up and spotted someone darting behind a car.

  “That’s odd.”

  “What is?”

  “Why would someone duck behind a car and stay there?”

  “Who?”

  She bobbed her head toward an old town car that apparently hadn’t been moved since Christmas. Tickets dotted the windshield.

  “Where? I don’t see anyone,” I told her.

  “That’s because he or she ducked behind the car. Like I said—odd.”

  The next time we realized someone was on our tail was at the revival movie down in Soho. It must have been short people day at the theatre because I was the tallest person on line waiting to get tickets. Which meant I could see over everyone’s head and also meant that when I’d turned to talk to Babs I’d been able to see a someone literally diving into an open doorway across the street.

  “Okay. I think your friend is back.”

  “Huh?”

  “Whoever was hiding from us the other day. I just witnessed a very fine pike dive and roll into Gracie’s diner there. Normal people do not go head first and butt in the air into a doorway when they’re simply out to grab some lunch.”

  I started keeping a mirror in one hand every time I went out. Very helpful for spotting the ducking diver doing his or her thing behind dumpsters, other doorways and lots of SUVs.

  It wasn’t Howard aka The Great Krempowsky. Either he’d given up gazing at Leo’s building because he’d had two chats with me in one week and decided nothing else would be gained by bugging me or he’d gotten a gig out of town and was doing his magic act in Fort Lauderdale or someplace with kinder weather than Manhattan in January. At any rate, I hadn’t seen any trace of top hat, tails or eerily Minerva-like features since the Carmosina party.

  It wasn’t the police. I’d called Sebastian about three days ago to ask if he had assigned someone to tail me—and Babs who was staying with me since
her scummy landlord had cut the heat.

  “Tail?”

  “Yeah. As in surveillance.”

  “Bootsie, you’ve got to quit watching cop shows. Really. I know you’re terribly loyal to Crime Unit New Jersey because they gave you a nice gig playing a deranged bag lady three years ago but quite honestly—your taste in TV is pretty plebian.”

  “You’re not answering the question, Laramie.”

  He sighed. “Bootsie, no one from this precinct has been assigned to keep an eye on you. For starters, that could be considered harassment and we try to avoid lawsuits. Then there’s the fact that you haven’t been charged with anything lately and you weren’t actually charged before so you did not post bail which means no one has had to lurk around your place waiting to see if you skip town. And third, sadly, we’re in the middle of something truly horrific and don’t have time to mark the comings and goings of Bootsie and Babs to the grocery store or diner.”

  I paused. “Horrific?”

  “Yeah. Nasty. A gang from Queens decided to re-enact the late Eighties and do a drive-by near a housing complex in Chelsea.”

  I closed my eyes. I hadn’t read a paper or watched the news the last couple of days but I remembered the 80s and I knew drive-by shootings generally meant someone very young and very innocent would get caught in the crossfire. “What happened?” I asked in a monotone.

  “Exactly what you’re imagining. These . . . thugs . . . shot up the area by a playground. Eleven o’clock at night. No one out except the gang members they were targeting, right? Wrong. They hit two kids who were cutting through the playground on their way home after dinner at grandma’s three blocks away. Ages twelve and eight.”

  “Oh God.”

  “The only hint of good news is that neither child died. Both are in the hospital and they’re under guard in case our shooters decide they don’t need witnesses. Critical, but not dead.”

  “Well, that’s something anyway. Sebastian, this is awful. I hate to ask, but what about the guys they were actually shooting at?"

  “Dead. Two. Also kids. Both were eighteen.”

  “Also awful.” My voice cracked. I don't deal well with any bad news involving children or animals.

  “I agree. But, back to your original question, since half the force is out looking for the perpetrators, there is no one left to keep tabs on Kittredge and Harrison.” He paused. “I assume you’re being good ladies and not doing anything that warrants keeping tabs?”

  “Unless you consider temp work in scummy offices doing data processing a bad thing, the answer is no.”

  “At least it’s work.”

  “This is true.”

  His tone changed. A hint of concern crept in. “So we’re not the ones following you. Are you certain someone is?”

  I gave him a quick synopsis of the stalker spottings for the last four days.

  “I don’t like this, Bootsie.”

  “Well, duh. Neither do I.”

  “I can send someone to keep an eye on you two.”

  “No! Really. You need all the manpower you’ve got to get the drive-by bastards off the streets before you end up with a gang war and children in worse shape. We’ll be fine. So far nothing spooky has happened. No dead flowers delivered to the door or anything. I just want to know who it is." I paused. "And Babs and I have a plan for that.”

  He groaned. “No. I do not want to hear the word plan coming out of your mouth when it involves you, your buddy and anything other than planning what’s for dinner.”

  “Now, now. We are strong. We are invincible. We are the Sweet Cream Ladies.”

  “Limited.”

  “Precisely. And we won’t let wasps sting, or push anyone off a roof or feed him or her to a mechanical shark. I promise. We only want to be able to go to the store or a diner without feeling eyes upon us. So, we’ll find out who the eyes belong to and let them know we don’t appreciate the attention.”

  “Bootsie . . .” he started.

  “Sebastian. It’s okay. Now, go keep the city safe from the real felons.” I hung up.

  Babs had been sitting on the couch listening to my end of the conversation. She wanted to know about the drive-by shooting. I provided the few details Sebastian had given me.

  She growled. “I hate people who hurt kids. Just pisses me off more than I can say.”

  “Want to add the Maniacal Menaces from Queens to our hit list?”

  “Possibly. Although they could be tough. Automatic weapons are not something I care to deal with. And where did you come up that name?”

  “That’s what they are. Maniacal and definitely menacing.”

  Babs paused for a moment of thought before continuing, “So the cops aren’t on our tails and Howie the Great Krempowksy has either gotten taller or is wearing heels. And as far as we know he’s been our only stalker since Christmas. Are we ready to put our brilliant plan into effect?”

  I nodded. “Yep.”

  Our plan was actually pretty simple. Babs was to head out and go north. Hopefully our stalker would follow her. Meantime, I’d hang back in the lobby to see if he’d taken the bait, then head out—disguised—and become the hunter. Babs would lead him or her into one of our favorite diners and I’d be there to grab him or her —or at least get a good idea who it was before he or she sensed a trap and ducked out.

  It was a sunny, clear, ridiculously warm for Manhattan in January day. A lot like the day of Clayton’s funeral. For a moment I wondered if Tammy could be our elusive hunter but I couldn’t imagine her literally diving into a diner to avoid us, thus getting her perfect clothes dirty. Besides, this person was much taller. Babs and I donned our trench coats and trotted down to the lobby. We peeked outside to see if we recognized anyone. The sidewalk was pretty crowded which was going to make it tricky for me to figure out who was following Babs, but we thought this could be favorable. Our stalker wouldn’t know he’d been vice-versa-ed.

  I spotted him. He was also wearing spy wear gear. Black trench coat. Belted. A very 1950s style black fedora on his head. But it was a he. Years of acting classes had taught me to observe people. How they stand. How they walk. How they talk. Small gestures. How they take a pack of cigarettes out of right-hand pocket, which tells me they’re left-handed. How they light the cigarette and ignore the glares of New Yorkers who are now accustomed to a smoke-free city.

  I jabbed my fingers into Babs shoulder and hissed, “See?”

  She nodded. “Got him.” She started to open the door, then stopped.

  “Hey.”

  “Yo?”

  “What do we do if this guy turns out to be super dangerous? I mean, like, you confront him and he pulls a knife. Or a gun.”

  “Oh.” I stared at her. “We’re so dumb. I never thought of that. I guess since Howard Krempowsky wasn’t loaded with weaponry, at least not that he was flashing anyway, I assume everyone else is the same when it comes to packing heat.”

  “Packing heat? Sebastian's right. Your taste in crime shows is atrocious. And yes, I could him. He's not a soft talker."

  “Fine. Whatever. Okay. Slight change in plan. We make sure if we confront—and that’s an ‘if ‘because all we really need to do is see if we recognize him—but if we recognize him and decide to ask him why the fool he’s playing stalker we make sure that we do this in full view of other people and that one of us is behind him holding something like a tray.”

  “As in—whap over head of hoodlum?”

  “Precisely.’

  “I like it. In fact, I must admit that I’m in a bit of whapping mood since yesterday’s audition sucked and I can’t go whapping the casting director.”

  I sighed. “Okay, Babsy, my buddy, out you go. Hold off on the whapping until I signal, then you can whap away to your rejected heart’s content. I shall now hang back, don my sunglasses and my overly-wide brimmed Indiana Jones hat and prepare to play Natasha to your Boris.”

  “Why am I Boris?”

  “Because you’re short.” I
grinned at her as I casually opened the door.

  Babs sauntered through and cheerfully greeted Rodrigo. She quietly asked him to go inside for a second. This was part of the plan. I needed to let Rodrigo in on the secrecy involved so he wouldn’t yell out my name and let Whomever know Babs wasn’t the only part of the team that was outside.

  Rodrigo was thrilled to be part of the spy game and kept silent so I could sneak outside and begin the quest to discover who was harassing me. I darted in and out of crowds and kept Black Fedora in sight. For some reason it was reassuring to see. I figured any guy with nifty fashion sense might not be a killer. Then again, he did smoke cigarettes but so did my mom for fifty years so that didn’t necessarily make him a bad guy.

  I almost lost both Babs and Black Fedora at the corner of 39th and Eighth Avenue when the light changed and a gazillion New Yorkers surged in front of me. I knew where Babs was going so I plowed through and continued down the route we’d discussed earlier. I was a bit nervous that I’d miss any confrontation if he ducked into the café and immediately darted out again if he saw Babs.

  Luck was with me. I peered into the window of Jingles and saw Babs settling into a chair, facing away from the door. Perfect. Black Fedora was in the doorway. He hesitated; obviously trying to figure out whether he needed to stick around and get a cup of coffee or roam the city until Babs was through with lunch.

  The former. He went to the counter and put in an order, then found a spot in the corner. It was a bit too far for a confrontation but close enough for me to see that I didn’t recognize him as anyone I’d originally considered on the list of possible stalkers. I did however recognize him as someone I’d seen before though.

  Someone from the New Year’s Eve party. I’d nearly gone upstairs with him but had had my virtue saved by Babs and Joey. He’d later been twitchy and nervous when he’d seen Detective Sebastian Laramie come in his tux and jeans to the Carmosina mansion.

  This was one of Giuseppe Carmosina’s boys. A real live mobster-in-training and my wannabe boyfriend for a night. Lionel.