A Star is Dead

by Elaine Viets

  On the kitchen counter was a mixing bowl of chocolate icing. Six iced cupcakes were on a paper plate, and more were waiting to be iced.

  ‘These are your favorite, Angela,’ she said. ‘Chocolate swirl. Would you like one, Detective?’

  Butch declined, possibly because he thought she might be a poisoner, but I decided Brenda’s cupcakes were to die for. I took one. We both turned down her offer of coffee.

  Brenda stood at the sink and iced the cupcakes while Butch and I sat at her kitchen table.

  ‘Did you take some food to a homeless man camping out in Shirley Circle?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, yes, four days ago,’ Brenda said, slathering a cupcake with icing and then adding it to the plate. ‘I brought him a nice, big lunch. Late lunch, really. It was close to three o’clock when I got there.’

  ‘Why did you do that?’

  She iced another cupcake and licked icing off her thumb. ‘Mrs DuMont – she’s my employer – saw him panhandling by the interstate. She followed him, and learned he was camping in the lot. She said we should feed him – it would be Christian charity.’

  Hm. Mrs D had never exhibited charity in any form, Christian, Buddhist or Muslim.

  ‘What did you give him?’ Butch asked.

  ‘I wanted to fix him a nice pot roast sandwich, but Mrs DuMont said men liked spicy food, and she’d make him an Italian sausage sandwich, with lots of peppery red sauce. Fixed it with her own hands, she did, while I put together the rest of the food – four big oatmeal cookies, a bag of tangerines, a bag of potato chips, a nice slice of apple tart and a big bottle of water. I slipped in that pot roast sandwich, too.’

  ‘Then what?’ Butch asked.

  Two more iced cupcakes joined the others on the plate. ‘Mrs DuMont told me to go to the lot on Shirley Circle and give him the food. I was scared at first – I didn’t know the man. What if he had mental problems or something? Mrs DuMont said he was perfectly harmless and I could have the rest of the day off. Shirley Circle is on my way home. I went, but I kept my pepper spray in my coat pocket, just in case, along with my cell phone.

  ‘He turned out to be nice as pie. We chatted for a bit. His name is Harry Galloway. He’s a Vietnam War veteran. He served eighteen months over there and got sent home when he was wounded in the leg. He was happy about the lunch. He was hungry and was looking forward to a good meal. He was trying to go south, where it was warmer. I gave him two dollars – that’s all the cash I had with me – and then left. I didn’t see him again, so I guess he got his ride. There. I’m all done.’ Brenda had iced the last cupcake.

  ‘I have an odd request, Miss Crandle,’ Butch said. ‘May I look at the shoes you wore that day?’

  Brenda looked puzzled. ‘My shoes? Yes, I suppose. They’re in my closet. I haven’t cleaned them yet – I do that on my day off. I have several pairs for work. They’re all white Nurse Mates, like these.’ She lifted her foot to show her thick-soled shoes.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ she asked.

  ‘Just a little disturbance at the lot,’ Butch said. ‘Nothing serious. There are several footprints there, and we’d like to sort them out. If I could borrow your shoes for a day, it would really help me.’

  ‘They’re in my bedroom,’ Brenda said. Butch followed her down the hall for the shoes.

  I was quite sure that Evelyn DuMont – may she fry in hell – had used innocent Brenda to kill Harry. I figured Butch didn’t want Brenda to tell Mrs DuMont that Harry Galloway had been murdered. We both knew the press wouldn’t bother covering the homeless man’s death.

  While I waited, I eyed the icing bowl, tempted to lick the spoon. Instead, I ate another cupcake. After all, Brenda had offered it to Butch.

  Butch came back with the shoes in a brown paper bag under his arm and a smile on his face.

  FIFTEEN

  After that horrible day, I sat in my kitchen for a while, too exhausted to move. My broken cell phone sat on my kitchen table like an accusation, but I was too tired to tackle it. Mario needed my full attention, and I could make a fatal mistake when I was this tired. I needed a fresh, rested brain for cyberwork.

  About seven, my rumbling stomach reminded me that I hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast, about a million years ago, except Brenda’s cupcakes, and food eaten in the line of duty didn’t count. I needed protein. I scrambled myself an egg, my go-to meal when I don’t feel like cooking, which is most of the time. I never was much of a cook and after Donegan died, I gave it up for good.

  I ate my sad, solitary egg and washed my dinner things. I was still hungry, but there was nothing else to eat. I was too tired to shop. I needed sleep.

  As I was putting away the frying pan, I heard a car in my drive. A quick check out the window showed it was Clare Rappaport’s beat-up green Land Rover. My mother’s old friend was carrying a pink cake box from the Chouteau Forest Bakery. What luck. The Dessert Fairy had arrived.

  Clare was smiling when I answered the door, so I assumed the crisis with her negligent children had been resolved. She cared too much about her son and daughter to look this happy if she had disinherited them.

  I brushed aside her apologies for arriving without calling – Clare never called – and invited her in. ‘You’re sure it’s not too late?’

  ‘It’s only seven-thirty,’ I said. I didn’t mention that I was thinking about going to bed before she arrived. ‘I was just making some coffee. Come into the kitchen. Can I help you with that cake box?’

  ‘Yes, yes. I hope you like Bavarian whipped cream.’

  I opened the box on the kitchen table.

  Oh, man. The sugar bomb supreme. Eight layers of chocolate cake with cherries and real whipped cream, topped by more whipped cream and semi-sweet chocolate shavings. Some women claimed the Bavarian whipped cream cake was better than sex. I wouldn’t go that far, but it was darn good and definitely satisfying.

  Clare propped her silver-headed cane against the wall and took a seat at my kitchen table. ‘My problem is solved,’ Clare said. No, she announced it. ‘I have no doubts about my children anymore. I made the call, like I told you I would. I told Jemima and Trey they should come next Saturday for a family conference. I was having financial issues and wanted to discuss my problems with them. They didn’t wait. They showed up this evening with this beautiful cake.’

  Her eyes glowed. Tonight she wore a powder blue coat dress like the Queen of England, but white-haired Clare looked even more regal. I made admiring noises as I looked at the cake. I didn’t have to fake those. My mouth was watering.

  ‘First they whisked me off to dinner. They reserved a corner booth at Solange, my favorite French restaurant. She has the most divine sole – it’s flown in from England.’

  I brushed away a mental picture of a big fish reclining in an airplane seat and started making coffee.

  ‘The booth was quiet,’ she said, ‘and we could talk in privacy. I explained that I would be completely broke by the end of the year and would have to sell the house. They were so sympathetic. My daughter patted my hand and said, “Don’t worry, Mother, that’s our job. We’ll come up with a solution.”

  ‘Trey, who’s the practical one, said, “We need facts, Mother, before we make any serious decisions. I’d like to bring in an accountant to look at your books for a professional opinion.”’

  ‘Are you going to let him do that?’

  ‘I’ll see what my daughter comes up with first. It was such a pleasant dinner.’ Clare sounded wistful.

  ‘Afterward, I invited the children back to my house for coffee and cake. They both said they had to leave – Jemima had something with the children and Trey had a trip to Singapore early in the morning. I thought you might like to share the cake with me while it’s still fresh.’

  ‘I’m glad you stopped by,’ I said. ‘I’ve just finished dinner and was wishing I had some dessert when you appeared out of the blue with my favorite cake.’

  ‘Angela, I can’t tell you how happy I am that both chil
dren didn’t wait until next Saturday to see me.’ Her look of maternal satisfaction warmed my heart.

  I set out my mother’s flowered dessert plates and silver, as well as Mom’s thinnest coffee cups, and linen napkins. I even brought out her silver cake server. By that time the coffee was ready.

  ‘Cream or sugar with your coffee?’ I asked.

  ‘Black, please. This cake is going to be sweet enough.’

  ‘Will you cut the cake while I pour the coffee?’ I asked.

  Clare cut the cake into quarters and gave us each one. She picked a chocolate shaving off her piece.

  ‘Go ahead. Dig in,’ I said, pouring her coffee.

  ‘I can’t resist,’ she said. She was grinning like a little kid.

  ‘I’ll join you as soon as I pour my coffee.’

  ‘Mm,’ Clare said after her first bite. It was rather large for the ladylike woman and the second bite wasn’t any smaller.

  ‘I can’t wait to taste that cake, Clare,’ I said, as I poured my own cup and then set the pot back on the coffee maker. ‘I’m so glad you stopped by.’ That sounded crass. I added, ‘I mean, I’m always glad when you stop by. You’re a link to my mom, and I miss her. I know you do, too. I always enjoy your company.’

  I heard a strange whistling noise, like a blocked tea kettle.

  ‘Clare?’

  I turned around and saw Clare’s face was as white as her hair and she was clutching her throat.

  ‘Clare! What’s wrong?’

  She couldn’t tell me. Her lips and tongue were swollen, and she was turning blue.

  I thought I saw the signs of anaphylactic shock.

  ‘Clare!’ I shouted, as the panicked woman wheezed and clawed at her throat for air. ‘Do you have allergies?’

  ‘Peanuts,’ Clare gasped. She seemed on the verge of collapse. Now her face was flour white, her eyes were red, her tongue was so swollen she could hardly talk.

  ‘Clare!’ I had to get her attention. ‘EpiPen! Where’s your EpiPen?’

  ‘Purse,’ Clare gasped. That effort was almost too much for her.

  I upended her Chanel bag on my kitchen table, and pawed through the lipsticks, tissues and mints until I found the EpiPen. I jammed it into her thigh, the best place for this kind of injection. In an emergency, you could inject someone through their clothes.

  I called 911 and heard, ‘Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?’

  ‘Help!’ I told the operator. ‘I have an eighty-three-year-old woman who I think is in anaphylactic shock. I stuck her with her EpiPen. She’s breathing a little easier, but she needs help fast. Yes, Angela Richman. I’m in the old guest house on the Du Pres estate. Hurry!’

  Clare was breathing easier, but she was still wheezing. The crisis wasn’t over. She tried to talk and I said, ‘No talking, Clare. You need to save your breath.’ She was still too pale and now she was shivering. I brought in the throw from my couch and wrapped her in it, then put her feet up on the other chair.

  By the time I’d made her a little more comfortable, I heard the ambulance in my drive.

  I ran out the front door and waved the four paramedics inside.

  ‘It’s Clare Rappaport. She was here for cake and coffee. She brought the cake, took two bites and started wheezing. She said she was allergic to peanuts. I injected her in the thigh with her EpiPen.’

  The paramedics quickly loaded her on the stretcher. ‘I’ll follow you to the hospital,’ I said, and squeezed Clare’s hand. She looked terrified, and every day of her eighty-three years.

  SOS was mercifully close, and for the second time that miserable day, I was back in the emergency room. I prayed that this visit would have a happier outcome.

  Once in the ER, I found Clare Rappaport. I was relieved to see she wasn’t in Room One, for the hopeless cases. She was in Room 2B, swallowed by a hospital bed. Now the dynamic woman seemed small and shrunken. Her snowy hair had come loose from its tight chignon and her blue coat dress was rumpled. Her skin was papery.

  I smiled when I saw her. ‘There you are.’ She looked so fragile I was almost afraid to touch her, but I gently took her cold hand. She hung on like I was a lifeline. She was still wheezing. An ER doc who looked young enough to be Clare’s granddaughter came in, listened to her chest, then gave her another epinephrine injection. A nurse and I helped Clare into an ugly hospital gown and the nurse started an IV.

  The ER doc came back, looking serious. ‘I’m ordering you a breathing treatment, Mrs Rappaport.’ She spoke too loudly, the way younger people sometimes talked to the elderly.

  ‘I’m old, not deaf,’ Clare said, and I was glad to see this sign of spirit. Her color looked a little pinker. The nurse fitted the breathing treatment mask over Clare’s face.

  Clare fell asleep during the treatment. She was still asleep when the nurse gently removed the mask. I held the old woman’s soft, veined hand and fell asleep myself.

  When the ER doctor came back sometime around eleven, I woke up crusty-eyed and confused. Where was I? I heard the blare of televisions and the operator calling, ‘Dr Daniels. Dr Daniels. Please call 7533.’ I realized I was back in the ER, this time with Clare.

  ‘I’d like to admit you overnight, Mrs Rappaport,’ the ER doctor said. ‘You’re looking better, but we want to continue with the IV, the epinephrine, and the steroids.’

  Clare didn’t look too unhappy. In fact, she seemed relieved. After the doctor left, she said, ‘Angela, honey, this was above and beyond. It’s time for you to go home.’

  ‘Do you want me to call your children?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘There were peanuts in that cake. One – or both – of my children tried to kill me. I want you to have that cake tested. I’ll pay, Angela, but promise me you’ll do that.’

  SIXTEEN

  The next morning, Clare Rappaport was pounding her silver-headed cane on the tile floor of her hospital room.

  ‘I’ll disinherit both those fucking ingrates!’ she said.

  ‘Clare!’ I was shocked at her language. She never talked like that. Clare was one of those women who said ‘oh, sugar!’ instead of ‘oh, shit!’

  She’d definitely recovered from the last night’s near-fatal attack. Clare was sitting up in one of those high-backed chairs found only in hospital rooms, dressed and waiting for the final paperwork so she could leave. Her housekeeper had brought her fresh clothes early this morning. Clare’s white hair was once more in an elegant chignon. Her color was good. As soon as I returned with her fur coat and her purse at eight-thirty this morning, she put on her light pink lipstick. Now she was ready for battle.

  Clare began raging against both children. They were selfish, greedy and only interested in her money. They never bothered to call her. They didn’t mean a word of those promises they’d made to help her last night. ‘They want to kill me off now so there’s still some estate left for them to inherit!’

  She took a deep breath. This was the break in the tirade I’d been waiting for. ‘Clare, let me check it out first,’ I said. ‘There must be some mistake.’

  ‘There’s no mistake,’ she said, eyes narrowed. She pounded her cane on the tiled floor.

  ‘I.’ Pound.

  ‘Nearly.’ Pound.

  ‘Died.’ Pound.

  ‘The Forest Bakery’s Bavarian cream cake doesn’t have peanuts,’ I said. ‘I should know. I’ve eaten enough of them.’

  ‘This one did. When I get out of here, I want Mrs Holmesby to drive me straight to my lawyer so I can change my will.’

  Pound. That cane again, coming down like a judge’s gavel.

  I couldn’t let Clare do this. I didn’t care about Jemima and Trey, but with this move, Clare would destroy her family ties permanently, even if she changed her will back. My mother would have stopped this. I had to, too. For her sake.

  ‘At least let me investigate,’ I said.

  ‘Well …’ Clare hesitated.

  ‘Please, Clare. I’m not asking for any thanks because I went with yo
u to the hospital, but let me check this out before you make any decisions.’

  OK, I played the guilt card. But it was for a good cause. Clare took so long to answer, I could almost see the wheels turning in her brain. At last she said, ‘All right, Angela. I’ll give you three days. Then I’m going to see my lawyer and my money goes to the dogs!’

  And the cats. Clare was determined to leave her millions to the Humane Society.

  Three days wasn’t much time, but it was something. I thanked Clare, and left for my ten o’clock breakfast with Becky, the ‘street model’ from Jessica’s show, at the St Louis Pancake House. Greiman had threatened to interview her and ‘lock her up’ but I doubted he’d do that. He didn’t need to now: He’d already arrested Mario for Jessica’s murder. Greiman wouldn’t make the forty-minute trip downtown for nothing. He was one detective who would never die of overwork.

  On the drive to the pancake house on Jefferson Avenue, I thought about Becky’s words: I saw something at the hospital when Jessica was there. I think it killed her.

  And what did her odd little jingle mean: Since you’ve been so dear, I’ll make it clear. It’s not the red – it’s the blue.

  What did she see? Who did she see? Did one of Jessica’s entourage pour vape juice into the star’s throat spray? Was Becky trying to extort money for this information? Was she blackmailing one of the California crew? Or did Becky kill Jessica and now she was trying to deflect attention from herself?

  Becky had a good reason to hate Jessica: The star had cruelly forced a destitute woman to strip in front of jeering strangers for a hundred bucks – and Becky had to beg to keep on her underwear. I was still embarrassed when I remembered her humiliation, and angry at myself that I’d stayed to watch it.

  By the time I got to the St Louis Pancake House, the morning breakfast rush was over. The old pancake house was a forties-style relic with shining chrome and generous booths. Even the waitress had a forties name: Roxy. Her pink hair was a cheerful beacon in the restaurant’s pale blue vinyl color scheme. Roxy gave me a wide booth near the window. I ordered coffee while I studied the menu and checked my watch. At ten past ten, there was no Becky.