Sweet Cream Ladies, Ltd.

by Flo Fitzpatrick

We didn’t bother to talk. We didn’t need to. The afternoon had been exhausting and had yielded no answers as to who had shot Todd. I knew it wasn’t Babs and she knew it wasn’t me because we’d been together at the time. We just couldn’t tell Laramie where we’d been because we’d been actually been in the process of committing a totally separate crime.

  It hadn't been a huge whoppingly felonious crime but it had been crime nonetheless. A spot of breaking and entering and illegal transfer of film. While Todd Kittredge had been on the receiving end of a bullet in his rear, Babs and I had been sneaking into the offices at Hollywood FX where we’d been told the DVD for her commercial had been held. Stupid and nonsensical but we had a reason. Everyone in town was talking about the great commercial she’d done —and she’d never seen it. Neither had I. I’d managed to swipe the key card from a supervisor at the museum earlier that day. I’d let Babs in at five ‘til eleven just before closing and she’d waited for me down in the employee lounge. At eleven-thirty, we’d used the passkey, then spent fifteen minutes looking through drawers that held various promotional items for the museum. Once we identified the DVD, we’d loaded it into the handy-dandy notebook Babs had brought and watched the admittedly awesome commercial four times in a row before then making an illegal copy. That office was at the opposite end of the museum near the back entrance and since Todd had been shot at the front entrance, we never heard a thing. I’d planned to confess the B & E to Sebastian only if that witness he’d hauled in for the line-up had screamed, “That’s her! I saw her fleeing down the alley two seconds after that man was shot!”

  I had no burning desire to inform Sebastian. Breaking and entering. Copying a DVD, although, really, the museum should have provided Babs with her own DVD like most companies do. Shoot. She not only had the DVD from her toilet tissue ad but once a month we were getting a huge package of tissue from the folks who had hired her for their commercial, which was very kind of them. Plus, it wasn’t as if Babs planned to sell it or throw parties where she charged for the privilege of having friends watch it. She just wanted a copy so she and I could "ooh" and "aah" over how wonderful she’d been and also critically examine the commercial for any flaws in acting.

  The nefarious alibi—if we ever had to use it—took care of Todd’s shooting. The other murders were still up for grabs. Our alibis weren’t great for any of them, although I thought having a ticket to a model train convention was sheer genius on Babs’ end—or would have been if the ticket had had an actual date instead of a generic “Any time this week” stamp.

  “We still need a good one for Minerva’s murder,” Babs muttered. Thirty years of friendship. She was reading my mind.

  “We do. Especially since the Irish walking stick was the murder weapon. That kind of narrows the window, doesn’t it? “

  “Yes and no. From what Joey told me after he got questioned for the ninetieth time or so, the cops really aren’t sure when Minerva got whacked. Lots of folks at the party. Lots of time to do the deed, then put the stick back into Fred’s umbrella stand. And lots of gloved hands and long coats with which to obscure a shillelagh— even a bloody one.”

  “Not to mention lots of motive although I think the police like ours the best. Or mine since for this murder you’re kind of incidental. You merely despised the woman because I did.” I held the Chinese food bags while Babs opened the doors to our apartment. “I’m kind of astonished that Laramie or someone else hasn’t arrested us yet.”

  “You just said it. Too many folks. Too much time. No fingerprints. Tons of people with a serious hate on for Minerva."

  We immediately headed for the kitchen. I plunked the bags of food down on the counter. “You want first dibs on the shower?”

  “No, I’m good. I didn’t do as much wild dancing as you did. I need to lie on the floor and rest for a few minutes."

  I nodded. We both turned and walked into the living room.

  “Uh, Babs?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Did you decide the stress of the last few weeks was too much and take up a nicotine habit?”

  “What? Hell, no. You know I’m allergic as all beyond. Why?”

  I pointed to the end table that held our landline and the pens and the papers and an opened pack of cigarettes. “That’s not mine. It’s not yours.”

  She grabbed it up. “Definitely not mine. Not yours.”

  “Then, Goldilocks, who’s been smoking in our house?”

  Chapter 32

  Babs stared at me, then at the cigarettes. “The super? No, can’t be. I had a huge discussion with him about three days about his mom getting lung cancer and him blaming it on the fact that she smoked for sixty years. So who? And why? I mean, not only why is someone sneaking in here to light up why is someone breaking in to do it? Anything else added or out of place?”

  As I noted previously in this narrative, Babs and I had been scrupulously cleaning the kitchen and the bathroom. The living room was still in a state of ‘we’re moving in and it could be some time before everything is put in its proper place.’” I snorted, “As if we could tell? ”

  “Good point. But still . . . “

  I nodded. “I agree. Let’s take a look-see and try to find missing items. Or bugs − as in listening devices.”

  “Who’d want to listen?”

  “Babs, you’re dating the son of a . . . “ I hesitated in case wireless transmitters might actually be transmitting,” . . . a man who does business with people who might not be always kosher in their other business dealings. A man who has already shown an interest in our activities as has been evidenced by the appearance first of Lionel, then Vertigo and why doesn’t Mr. C know anyone with a normal name like John or Fred?”

  “What? Joey’s not normal?”

  “Fine. Joey is a great name and I shouldn’t be casting stones since I’ve been Bootsie since I was two. Anyway, back to the point. It’s very possible that Mr. C might want to keep tabs on the woman his son is obviously crazy about.”

  She snorted. “Ya think?”

  “What? Keeping tabs? Hell, yeah.” I responded.

  “Well, there is that, but now that we’re on the subject, do you really believe Joey is crazy about me?”

  I smiled. “In a word—yes.”

  We hugged for a second before returning to the mystery of the forgotten cigarettes.

  “Do we actually know anyone who smokes?” she asked.

  “I think the question is more—how many of the people we know actually smoke but don’t do it in public. New York has pretty strict laws now about lit cigarettes. And we’ve mainly been in restaurants with folks who might be considered suspects in any murders or break-ins. So they can’t light up there—the restaurants. They could probably light up while committing murder or doing a spot of B & E. I don’t remember seeing ashtrays at Kam’s that afternoon we all hauled it to his place after our arrest but that doesn’t mean that he doesn’t go through five packs in private on a daily basis. That goes for Pilar and for Roger and for all the—guests—at Mr. C’s party. Yeah, it was a party but most people who smoke don’t like to indulge at very crowded soirees, so our nicotine addictive burglar could be anybody. Of course, Lionel smokes but he doesn’t really have a reason for busting in—or does he?”

  “Hell if I know. Okay. We’ll forget the cigarettes for now and focus on who might have motive for breaking into our abode.” Babs closed her eyes. Finally she opened them and inhaled. “How’s this for the answer? Anyone trying to get us arrested for good on charges of killing Monica Travers, Clay Harrison the Third and Minerva Krempowsky."

  I shook my head. “Not sure about that. Those with motive would already know that we’ve spent more time in the 10th Precinct in the last months than we have at home. I’m surprised the cops haven’t set up a medicine cabinet with our own toothbrushes in there. Anyway, they’d know that the cops searched Leo’s place and your old place as well and came up with nothing but that inane email I sent you with all my brilliant ideas for
bumping people off. Which amounts to nothing.”

  “True. Okay. Since you’re the comer-upper with brilliant ideas, what’s your theory?”

  “Maybe someone is looking for a new email. One that lays out our next scenario for hitting—oh—perhaps your landlord or Todd or Karalynn or Tammy or our lawyer?”

  Babs stared at me. “Wow. Either we need new friends or we’re not very likeable. That’s five more people who need to leave this earth.”

  I grinned. “I’m sure I can think of a few more. And after all, some people have to wait until the sequel to join the hit list.”

  Babs chuckled. “Good point. Okay, back to the original discussion . . .”

  “Did we have one?”

  “Yeah. Remember? Who broke in here and left the smokes and why? And how they got in.”

  “Well the last question is the easiest. This is not the most secure building in Manhattan. There’s no doorman. There are a gazillion actors roaming around who are doubtless lending their keys to other actors who are living here without subletting agreements while actors number one go out on tours or head south for the winter to recupe. Not to mention that these doors have locks that could be picked by a three-year old after five minutes on the internet scanning a site labeled, B & E: Hone skills not taught at pre-school.”

  Babs smiled. “Very good point. Okay. The news here is that, assuming someone did break in to learn out plans, you and I haven’t been laying out any new scenarios for contract killings. Or uncontracted killings. The bad news is that maybe this has nothing to do with Sweet Cream Ladies.”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “I vote for two tall glasses of raspberry tea. It’s fifty-five degrees outside. It’s a heat wave. Let’s relax, drink up and figure out how we’re going to track down an elusive Goldilocks.”

  The corner of Babs’ mouth suddenly turned down. “Much as I like the idea, I have a better—albeit less pleasant—option.”

  “Which is?”

  “Heading out to Staten Island and confronting Mr. C.”

  “Babs, we don’t know if he’s behind the break-in.”

  “I don’t care. We do know he’s behind sending Vertigo Valentine and his exotically-dressed associate to try to convince us to give up our budding careers in crime and turn ourselves in so his darling boy won’t be bothered by the cops anymore.”

  “True.”

  Babs was just warming up. “Plus, he sent Lionel to spy on us. And he flippin’ needs to get out of Joey’s life except for birthdays, Christmas and San Gennaro Day and let him lead it as he sees fit.”

  “Is he interfering in more than just the affairs of Joey and his lady love?”

  “Oh yeah.” Babs began pacing around the living room. “Mr. C has called Joey at least three times a week since New Year’s telling him about great construction jobs in the city. Jobs that pay mucho more than a stage manager’s salary—especially when the stage manager’s job gets derailed along with the actors and the stage manager has to go on the road with small children’s theatre companies. The companies—not the children. Anyway, Joey said he’s about ready to move to Australia if his father doesn’t quit bugging him. Either that or disconnect his landline and buy numerous disposable cells.”

  “He needs to tell his father to shove it. I thought they had all this worked out when Joey was like twelve?”

  Babs groaned. “They did. Apparently, I’m the cause of Mr. C’s now total disappointment in his child. Which is exactly how he thinks of him. Well, a bit older because Giuseppe Carmosina is now thinking in terms of the next generation. Which is why he’s pissed at Joey. Joey did not take over the family business and Joey is dating a woman who is definitely not of child-bearing years unless that woman wants to go invitro and become a world record holder or a freak on reality TV.”

  “Oh crap.”

  “Yeah.” She stopped. “Okay. That does it.”

  “What does it?"

  “Just thinking about all this is making my blood boil enough to add Mr. C to the hit list and that would not be a wise move for many reasons including the fact that Babsy here has no desire to end up wearing heavy concrete shoes while taking a dip in the East River after Mr. C’s connected buddies find me. But I think it’s time for a trip on the ferry to the big mansion and time for Babs to stand up for herself and the man she loves and tell the old creep to stuff it.”

  We started gathering up our stuff. Then I stopped. “Hold it.”

  “What? Don’t talk me out of this. I’ve got a good mad going and I’m rarin’ to fight.”

  “We’re supposed to meet your best beloved and eat and go to the show tonight. Remember?”

  “Oh. Yeah.” Babs sank back down into the overstuffed chair she’d retained for thirty years after Clay had pronounced it ugly. It was. It was also very damned comfortable and I, for one, had enjoyed many days lounging in it after stressful auditions or killer dance classes. She sighed. “Should we invite Joey to the confrontation? Or should we lie and tell him we’re too tired for the movies and planning to hit our REM sleep cycle around 8:30 pm so we’re skipping the movie?”

  “Joey’s too smart to fall for the sleep ploy. He knows there’s no way the two of us will sleep for the next forty-eight hours or so after spending the afternoon in jail. We’ll be too busy plotting our next moves to confuse the fine men in blue at the Tenth Precinct.”

  “Okay. So? Any ideas?”

  Before I had a chance to answer, someone knocked on our front door.

  “Joey?”

  Babs shook her head. “He’s way too early. But it does harken back to your point about anyone getting in. No one even bothers to buzz through on the downstairs intercom.”

  We stared at each other. “Should I open the door?” I asked.

  “I don’t think anyone planning harm is going to stand outside and knock so I vote yes and another yes to installing a decent peephole tomorrow. We could yell at them while the door is closed, you know.”

  I nodded as I called out, “Who is it?”

  A voice answered in tones that were less than cordial. “Open the bloody damned door, Bootsie!”

  I did. Lorelei Laramie stared at me. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to use the ‘D’ word.”

  I grinned. “Door?”

  She didn’t grin back. She was shaking so hard I was afraid she’d collapse before she had a chance to tell us what was obviously thoroughly upsetting her.

  “Lorelei? What’s wrong?”

  “It’s Sebastian. The damned fool has been shot.”

  Chapter 3 3

  There have been three occasions in my life where a statement has stunned me to such an extent that I’ve physically felt as though I’d gone into shock and the walls have closed in and voices have receded into far distances and my extremities have turned to jelly.

  The first event occurred when I was seven and my mom sat me down and gently revealed harsh truths concerning the existence of Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy. She avoided any mention of leprechauns and Peter Pan; knowing instinctively that would have sent her gullible, unrealistic and far too whimsical young child over the edge.

  The second occasion was far more recent. The day Todd Kittredge informed me that I no longer existed for him as a wife—or even as a human being—had sent me into that abyss of time passing without knowledge or care.

  This was much worse. Visions of Sebastian lying in amidst puddles of his own blood, darkening and oozing away his life, immediately flooded my mind. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t feel my feet or my legs or my arms but I knew I was alive because I could still hear my heart and was convinced all the rest of Manhattan was listening as well since it was ridiculously loud and racing like a runner headed for the water bottles at the end of the New York marathon.

  Babs took over. “Bootsie. You don’t look so hot. Lorelei, no offense, but neither do you. Both of you sit down and Lorelei, you tell us what the hell happened and where is Sebastian now and how is he.”

/>   She gently led the two of us into the living room and pretty much pushed me down onto the sofa before gesturing to Lorelei to take the comfy armchair I’d rescued from storage. “Go ahead.”

  Lorelei nodded. “I’m so sorry to have blurted that out that way. Sebastian is alive, thank God. He’s over in the Staten Island North Shore hospital. Shot in his upper arm and wouldn’t you know it? It’s his left arm and he’s a lefty so that leaves out paperwork for the next few weeks.”

  I spoke without thinking, “Or shooting the sonovabitch who shot him.”

  Lorelei grinned at me. “Or that.”

  I shook myself. “I’m so sorry. That was a dumb thing to say. I’m just so relieved he’s not horribly wounded but it’s still a gunshot and that’s so far beyond my comprehension for injuries and I’m extremely angry anyone could do this. What happened?”

  “Don’t really know,” the mother of the big brave cop stated. “I got a call from a Doctor Wingnut or something like that, telling me that Sebastian had been admitted about an hour ago and the bullet had been removed and he was resting comfortably and if I wanted to pop in and see him to do it this evening because they’ll keep him overnight but probably release him tomorrow which seems ridiculous to me but then again mothers are dropping twins in maternity and on their feet playing tennis the next day so what the hell do I know?”

  Babs was quicker than I. “Staten Island? Why Staten Island.”

  Lorelei glared at her. “Because he was on the bloody stinkin’ landfill-filled borough when he was shot. Jeez. Whaddya think?”

  Babs tried not to snicker. This was serious business.

  “I guess Babs means why was he on the Island in the first place,” I stated then sat up straight. “Damn. It’s like he released us from jail, then immediately headed to Staten Island and got shot. What a timeline. Lorelei, did anyone say anything about why he was there? Following a clue about a murder or a shooting or a mob boss getting out on bail?”

  Lorelei shook her head. “I’ve told you everything the doctor told me. He wasn’t exactly a chatterbox.”