Cold Wind to Valhalla (Abby Fouchet Mysteries Book 3) Page 5

  “Which he did." Detective Clark appeared right behind me, stepped out and shook hands with Johnny. “Nice to see you, Gerard, although not the greatest of circumstances.”

  “When are they ever when you’re involved?” Johnny responded. He paused. “No offense. I didn’t say that quite tactfully.”

  Clark smiled. “I get it.”

  Johnny held the door open for Shay and me as the detective headed into the theatre. Shay stayed behind me and whispered, “He looks like a young Harry Belafonte! Chee-wow-wah! Is he single?”

  I turned and glared at her. “I have no idea.”

  Johnny tapped Shay’s shoulder. “He is. Go get him, girl. Unless you and Fuji plan to get together again once baseball season is over and he has a life? In about eight months or so?"

  “We’re on and off. Same with my buddy in Prague.”

  She strolled into the theatre, straightening her shoulders, flipping her hair back and obviously preparing to endear herself to Gordon Clark. That was the only mildly humorous moment I’d witnessed since we’d left the van and gotten close to the Cameo Theatre.

  I suddenly froze.

  “Abby?”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t do this. I really, truly, honestly do not want to step back inside this theatre today. Or a month from today. Or ever. I’m trying hard not to be sick here, Johnny.”

  Johnny put his arms around me and held me for a few seconds. I took a deep breath and pulled away when I felt capable of standing without fainting. I nodded. Clark came back to the exit and extended a hand to gently guide me through the door. Shay firmly said, “You two deal with the Abster. I’m going to track down Diamond Richards, assuming she drove here after sailing around Times Square in her big fat Corvette, tackle her to the ground and get some answers.”

  Clark hadn’t seen Shay since he was concentrating on Johnny holding me upright. Now his brows rose an inch. “Excuse me? Who are you?”

  I managed a smile through my fog of panic, fear and nausea. “Sorry. Detective Gordon Clark. The tackler there is Shay Martin. My roommate and best friend."

  Shay scowled at me then smiled at Clark. “Hi, there.” Her tone changed to pure silk. Shay was in conquest mode.

  And Clark appeared ready to be conquered. “Hi, yourself. Very nice to meet you, although, as Johnny noted, perhaps not under the best of circumstances.”

  All five feet and ten inches of Shay turned into super-coquette. Her eyelashes fluttered. Her smile charmed. If I hadn’t have been concentrating on not shaking hard enough to send chandeliers reeling, I’d’ve belly-laughed. Shay oozed, “I decided Abby needed some extra support in coming down here and facing her demons today.”

  “Holy Lucifer! Shay, you make it sound like you’re doing an intervention for shopaholics or something. Facing my demons? Have you been watching self-help shows again?”

  “I am completely serious and those demons are memory bombs that are liable to explode in the middle of some dramatic scene you’re filming if you don’t get backstage and pool all your great acting instincts for emotional memory and figure out everything that Colette said to you.”

  She was right. I knew she was right. I wasn’t happy that she was right but since she was I let Johnny walk me into the theatre, then lead me over to the body chalked outline I now noticed was rather incongruously only about three feet away from the candy vending machine.

  Seeing that machine made me recall my stupid comment to Ivan about death from a Zagnut and Diet Coke. I sank to the floor and sobbed.

  Chapter 8

  Manhattan does not have ‘new’ cemeteries for obvious geographic space reasons. Colette Currie would be buried in Queens. But for all the folks in New York City who wanted to say ‘farewell,’ whether they were good friends or colleagues from shows she’d done years ago, but couldn’t make it to the funeral, a huge memorial bash had been planned by the cast of “Hangin’. Whoever’d made the arrangements had wisely chosen to avoid the Cameo Theatre. I, for one, was very grateful I didn’t have to step inside the Cameo again and made a mental note to avoid ever auditioning for anything that might possibly end up in that space.

  So the memorial was being held at this lovely old ballroom at the corner of One-Hundred-Eighty-Fifth Street in the Washington Heights areas of upper Manhattan. It was a beautiful spot. I’d attended a wedding there about eight months back. Now, remembering my joy at that event and thinking about bright new beginnings for the couple made it even tougher to listen to eulogies from Colette’s friends who'd gathered to say goodbye. Some guy named Taylor Mills, who apparently had been Colette’s romantic partner at some point in the last few years had called me to ask if I’d be willing to talk about Colette. I told him that no matter how good my acting skills may (or may not be) on stage or television I was certain I couldn’t pull off a speech without crying or ducking in fear a bullet might be aimed at me. However, if folks could ignore possible sobs or wincing I’d give it my all and try to tell humorous tales about the very few gigs Colette and I had shared.

  So, here I was at the memorial, listening to Taylor Mills crying about what a beautiful soul Colette had and how she had departed this earth too soon and how she should never be forgotten by anyone. Next up was listening to an actor and an actress whose names I didn’t catch (probably because I remembered seeing more of them at the Cameo Theatre than I wanted to recall) wax eloquently about what a perfect person Colette had been as their stage manager and how no one would ever measure up to her and how deeply she’d be missed and life was ‘just awful wasn’t it?’ My turn. I was suddenly standing at a podium looking out at an audience. I was ready. This crowd was going to remember Colette as the warm, funny, brilliant person she was and not the girl who’d died in my arms only a few nights ago.

  “I met Colette one summer during college. We were doing a show in a very funky little theatre in Austin although why she was in Texas escapes my recollection. Anyway, this theatre was known for offering original works—especially melodramas. Our first production together was an original version of Jack the Ripper. Colette played a flower girl—sort of an Eliza Doolittle type— complete with baskets filled with fresh flowers on a nightly basis. I played three dead hookers.”

  I gazed out at the crowd. “Well, that’s not factually correct. I was only dead as hooker number one in Act One, which I’ll get to in a moment. My second hooker got to say some lines in Act Two before meeting “Jack” and the third hooker made it through an interesting sequence in Act Three before Jack sent her into the afterlife and me backstage to wait for curtain calls. I remember that in Act Two I appeared as hooker numero dos in some sleazy night-gown looking thing, said my lines in a broad Cockney accent, then engaged in a spirited fight with Jack, which I ultimately lost. Act Three: I had no lines so I had to do something memorable either before or after Jack did the “ripping.” Colette, with the instincts of a director, suggested I have the piano player play a few bars of Swan Lake while I died. So, as the music played, there I was— hooker numero tres, in a fancy-schmancy saloon-girl outfit (basically a corset and petticoat) doing the dance of the dying swan—en pointe— before finally expiring Stage Left.”

  I could now see smiles from my audience. But this wasn’t about me —it was about Colette and I needed to get to that while I could still talk and not choke. I took a deep breath.

  “During Act I, as hooker numero uno I had to lie on the floor for about ten minutes, in a costume that had bloody-looking guts sewed into the front, while the actors playing cop and detective checked me out and discussed the situation. Enter Colette Currie, imp. The detective character in this wonderful little scene was named Officer O’Hara and opening night, that’s exactly how Colette, in her flirty flower girl accent, addressed him. The second night, he became Officer ‘Oh Reilly.’ The third night was the beginning of Colette stretching out the syllables to Officer Ohhh Flanagan.’ By this time I was twitching a little on the floor but holding it together. So was Donny Black, who was playing Officer O�
�Hara. Each subsequent night Colette changed the name of the Officer and added a few extra syllables to the ‘oh’. But Donny and I were determined not to break character.”

  I paused; making sure the crowd was with me. They were theatre people. They loved this. “Then came the last three nights of the run. Night one. Colette crossed from stage left to stage right, fluttered her enormously false lashes, paused and cheerfully stated, “Top a the evenin’ to ya, Officer ‘Ohhhh Susanna.’”

  Colette’s friends chuckled. But I wasn’t finished.

  “Donny and I kept it together—barely—but waited, with more than a bit of trepidation for what Colette would do second to last night. We were not disappointed. Colette made her cross, fluttered the lashes, paused and even more cheerfully chirped, “Well, Faith and Begorra! If it isn’t Officer ‘Ohhh-di-do-day-day!’”

  The chuckles turned to quiet laughter. I had more.

  “Closing night. Donny and I both considered taking massive amounts of valium, Percocet or splitting an entire bottle of tequila to keep from reacting but we were afraid we’d miss Colette’s brilliance so we stayed sober and prayed to the muses of melodrama to get us through. We knew Colette would have a good one. A great one. I was prepared. Or so I thought. I’d changed my blocking to a spot as close to the edge of stage left as I could get which meant I could hide my face in the curtain. Donny was going to shove his face into his hat when the great moment came. So, we waited. Colette quietly tipped her little straw hat in reverence to me, the dead hooker on the floor, crossed to stage right and joined Donny. She fluttered her lashes. She paused. Then, with the biggest grin I’d seen on a face since that episode of Crocodile Cut-ups featuring the croc facing that idiotic super model holding the bacon, Colette very cheerfully sang out, ‘We’el, Faith and Mr. Muldoon! If it isn’t me ol’ chum, Officer Ohhhh-bi-wan-kenobi!’ And one dead hooker rolled off the stage into the wings.”

  I listened to the howling belly laughs the story had invoked and watched Colette’s friends and fans literally holding their sides. I was afraid to laugh because I knew it would quickly turn into tears, so I stared at my own friends, i.e. Shay, Ivan, Johnny and Detective Gordon Clark (whom I couldn’t really classify as a friend at this point but definitely knew he was no enemy and since Shay seemed hell-bent on charming him I assumed he’d be joining us for dinner at the apartment every chance he got) and forced myself to play a mental game of “Who could have shot Colette and why?”

  I have great focus and the marvelous ability to multi-task. So I kept talking, all the while tucking faces away in my memory and wondering whom I could slap on a suspect list. I continued shifting the crowd from the Jack the Ripper hilarity to calmly telling cute anecdotes from the two episodes of Search for Serenity Colette and I had done together. I needed to bring down the emotion for everyone.

  I was fairly sure Shay, Ivan and Johnny knew I was doing a paranormal bit by having my brain be in two places at the same time but they love me and no one else had a clue I was dreaming up motives to go with those seemingly benign faces I was inwardly slandering. And I suppose a face can’t be slandered but I didn’t care whether I was mixing metaphors or simply using lousy grammar while trying to stay composed and play "Officer Ohhhh Get me the Hell Out of Here."

  The good news was that I got through my eulogy or stand-up routine or whatever I was doing without breaking down in front of two hundred people. The bad news was that I had no idea how to start naming suspects, although Diamond Richards was at the top of the list simply because I didn’t trust her and didn’t think much of her parenting skills.

  By reason of romantic association Taylor Mills was up next in my head. So were those two anonymous performers who’d talked with so much emotion about Colette, for no good reason other than I’d thought their eulogies had stunk.

  After that I was flummoxed. I knew I really shouldn’t be accusing people I didn’t know merely because I didn’t know them but I instinctively was sure someone in that crowd had pulled that trigger. I did spot Colette’s cousin Kenny-Anne and figured I’d put her on the list just because she might be inheriting some potful of jewelry or something Colette might have stashed and also I wasn’t sure if Colette had been trying to gasp out her name as she lay dying.

  It was time for me to step off the stage. Time to mingle. Time to hunt for a killer.

  Chapter 9

  Kenny-Anne, the cousin who’d collaborated with the Hangin’ cast to arrange this memorial for Colette, had also done a bang-up job of arranging for one of Manhattan’s best catering firms to do the honors after the speechifying was done. A smorgasbord of delights had been laid out for the mourners. Being performers—and realizing I’m villianizing myself by saying this—the mob barely finished crying and applauding the last speaker before rushing those tables like the Dallas Cowboy defensive line eyeing a defiant quarterback and tackling with a vengeance.

  For once, I had no appetite. I was very proud of myself for entertaining the crowd with frothy anecdotes but I’d been acting the part of a woman with more bravado than was even a smidgeon of how I was feeling. I wanted to curl up into a sleeping bag, zip the cover over my head and emulate bears for a winter. I wanted to walk across the George Washington Bridge, screaming into the waters below every five steps where no one would hear the curses and the wails. I wanted . . . it didn’t matter. I stood inside the door eyeing the food fest and checked my watch and debated on the seemliness of ducking out without a word to anyone and heading right back to my apartment.

  “You can’t.”

  “What?”

  Johnny grabbed both my hands and squeezed. “Much as you want to bolt, you have to stay for at least another half hour.”

  I glared at him. “And I want to do that—why?”

  “For the chance to be questioned by Colette’s killer who is doubtless anxious to discover what Colette murmured to you. That would also be because it’s not a great idea to be known as the actress who was either so distraught or such a snob that she couldn’t hob and nob and do the social networking bit with Colette’s friends and families at his memorial.”

  I sighed. “You’re right. I’m ticked that you’re right but I accept it.”

  “Why are you ticked that I’m right?”

  “It’s not that I’m ticked that you’re right really; it’s more that I’m still generally ticked at you.”

  Johnny slapped an expression of sheer astonishment on his features. “Me? What did I do?”

  “Don’t play innocent, Gerard,” I snarled at him. “You dragged me down to revisit one of the worst experiences in my life and I’m not over it and it didn’t do a damn bit of good and knowing you you’ll go sneaking off into the wilds of Russia or someplace—oh God—no, not Russia, it’s too close to the Czech Republic—not after this past spring—anyway, you’re just going to let me deal with Colette’s death and the insanity it’s already becoming while you go running off to help open theatres for ski bum survivalists intent on setting off avalanches to uncover hidden treasure or something.”

  “You need a drink.”

  “I do not need a stinkin’ drink! I need privacy and space and the chance to mourn a friend in private without trying to decipher hidden meanings in a bunch of meaningless words. Or play bloody detective and vilify all these fine folks. One of whom may need vilifying because he or she may be a murderer but why in fiery furnaces can’t the police figure that out and not me?”

  Johnny was silent for a moment, then he put his arms around me and let me be silent and quit shaking while he held me. “I’m sorry, Abby. Truly. Honestly, the only reason I dragged you back down to the Cameo Theatre was the hope that you’d remember something that would keep you out of danger. I’m scared for you. But I didn’t stop to think of how traumatic that might be.”

  I sniffed.

  He smiled down into my eyes. “And I am not chasing around the world until we get this solved. Can’t even if I wanted to which I don't since we’re about to enter New Jersey and
earn a living this week.” He gave me a little space away from his chest but continued holding me. “Abby, my brilliant, gorgeous love with the kind heart, I am truly certain that in this room, right now, someone with murder on his or her mind is standing and calmly debating his or her next move while joking and eating their way through the delights of a very fine food spread. And I am certain that person is going to pump you for information. The only thing I’m not sure about is whether you should provide it.”

  I stared up at him. “Colette’s last words.”

  “Yep.”

  “You believe they’re that important?”

  “Well, if Diamond Richards was paid to find out what they were within minutes of Colette’s death, I’d give that a ‘yes.’”

  I shivered “You want to know something? I was pretty terrified when a murderer believed I knew the whereabouts of a magic flute but this is already looking worse. I do know what Colette said. I just don’t know what she meant and until I do, I’d rather no one else hears them outside of Detective Clark, you, Shay and Ivan. So what do I do?”

  Johnny quietly murmured, “Whatever you decide, make it fast. You’re about to have company.”

  Cousin Kenny-Anne and a man who put the ‘Gorge’ into Gorgeous were headed our way. I couldn’t stop staring at her companion. I adore Johnny (even when I’m furious with him) and I adore Johnny’s looks—which I have labeled as Irish bandit on his way to confession with his red hair, freckles and emerald eyes—but if a man could ever be called pretty without any feminine context to that prettiness, Kenny-Anne’s buddy took the honor. His brown hair was a shade lighter than the outrageously long lashes covering a color of blue eyes I never remembered seeing even in a 264 pack of crayons. He was about six-two, with what appeared to be a swimmer’s lean physique under the immaculately tailored charcoal suit. His features were—well—I kept coming back to the word pretty. Refined, sculpted nose and prominent cheekbones in a perfectly oval shaped face. I blinked, closed my eyes, opened them and realized I wasn’t dreaming and the Adonis was now three feet away.