Sweet Cream Ladies, Ltd. Read online

  I laughed. “I’m so sorry we’re not doing this show. I mean, our show—The List. I can tell rehearsals would be a joy since everyone has the same sick humor as Babs and I.” Then I sobered. “You know, we shouldn’t even be considering the exes and other freebies. Now that we’re unemployed again Babs and I should be out scouting for real clients.”

  Kameron shook his head. “I may be joining you. I’m not sure how much longer the soap is going to hang on. There’s talk of going online with it but the shows that have done that haven’t been terribly successful. I think folks just like being able to work in the kitchen or plunk down in a Student Union lobby and watch TV without dealing with a computer.”

  “This is why I work for an office temp place,” said Pilar. “Have you tried that, Bootsie?”

  I offered up a rather unladylike snort. “Tried but no cigar yet. I’ve been looking for admin-assistant jobs but it’s crazy. I remember when I worked temp like mad all over the city. Now they want someone who’s either just starting out or has worked for the same firm for thirty years. I type seventy words per minute—but I can’t get sent to an office somewhere for a day? And I can’t tell you how many times I’ve gotten, ‘sorry but you have no work history for the last twenty years’ so fuggedaboudit. I try to explain that I do have work history. I taught at a bloody college for God’s sake. But they see nothing in an office setting. And I applied as a ballroom dance instructor at two different studios who said they were hiring but I wasn’t ‘right.' Right meaning I'm not twenty."

  “Can’t you sue for age discrimination?” asked Kam.

  “Well, they don’t come out and said it so it’s tricky. But it’s also pretty obvious. I passed the teaching test. I was in the process of filling out paperwork where one has to put one’s social security number and date of birth for identity and suddenly, ‘oh, I’m so sorry. We made a mistake. That position was filled yesterday and the manager is only now getting around to letting everyone know.’ Yeah. Sure. I may be ancient but I’m not stupid.”

  Babs handed me the plate with one banana flauta left. “Take it. You need it. We’ll expand the operation before dispatching Clay and Todd. We need money until the residuals for the Hollywood FX commercial start coming in. And hopefully, you’ll get the hardware one.”

  “We need money even if I do get it. It’s local and the residuals stink.”

  “Well, shit. So is mine now that you bring that up. But it’s very cool. I wish I could get a copy of it.” She glanced around the table. “Okay. While we wait for the commercial ship to launch—anyone know anyone rich who wants to pay for a slime bucket to die?”

  Before an answer could be framed by any of our cast mates from the short-lived play, another voice was heard. From right above my head.

  “It appears you’re going to be needing that money soon, Ms. Harrison. For bail and a good attorney.”

  I glanced up. Detective Sebastian Laramie stood just behind my chair. He was glaring at Babs.

  “Where the hell did you come from and what the hell are you talking about?” she barked.

  “Babs. Hush it.” I said quietly.

  “What’s going on, Detective?” came from Joey.

  “Babs Harrison, you are wanted for questioning.”

  Shocked expressions and silence all around. Finally, Kameron asked what everyone was wondering. “For what?”

  “Murder,”

  “Oh shit,” spat Joey. “Not again! Whose?”

  “Clayton Harrison,” responded Laramie. “The Third.”

  Chapter 9

  For the second time in less than a month, Babs and I were in the interrogation room of the 10th Precinct of the New York Police Department. My presence hadn’t been requested for the command performance, but there was no way I was going to let Babs deal with this by herself. Joey also accompanied us to the station but he and I were quickly barred from the room. I sat on a bench outside and watched what I gathered was the nightly appearance of about ten streetwalkers who’d taken up residence on W. 28th Street and 9th Avenue and were doing enough business to warrant a cycle of arrest, bail, work the corner, arrest, bail, work the corner until a judge decided to throw the group into whatever hell-hole is reserved for the real Sweet Cream Ladies. I was rather intrigued at the reasoning for their chosen location since that area of Chelsea is not known as Hooker Heaven but business was obviously booming.

  Joey was spending his time pacing and muttering, “Does she need a lawyer? Do I need to call one? What the hell is going on in there?”

  Finally I grabbed his hand. “Sit. I’m as nuts as you are but until that door opens and Laramie gives us some indication of how deep the poop is there’s not much we can do. How long has it been?”

  “Thirty damned minutes.”

  “Okay. That’s enough time to get her alibi or whatever. I wish he’d at least come out and tell us something. It’s this inactivity and lack of information that’s making us crazy.”

  The door opened. Sebastian Laramie walked out. My breath caught for a second. The man definitely had a strange charm. I hadn’t been this attracted to someone in fourteen years. Shoot. I wasn’t sure I’d been this attracted to Todd. That life-saving thing had probably had a lot more to do with the attraction than I cared to believe. I shook the thought away.

  I stood up and joined Joey who’d stomped over to Laramie prepared to do battle. “Detective? What’s up? Can Babs go home now?”

  “We’re looking into her alibi. If it seems reasonably true, she’s free to go.”

  “Well, why you’re checking, can you please tell us what the stinkin’ hell happened to Clay?”

  “He was murdered,” was Laramie’s response.

  “Duh. Got that earlier,” I growled. “I’d like to know the when and the where and the how, if that’s okay with you?”

  He stared at me. “Not yet.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I have some questions for you as well.”

  “You’re not serious!”

  “I am.”

  Joey intervened. “Do you have questions for me, Detective? I would assume the answer is no, so if I’m correct in that assumption, would you mind providing a little stinking, bloody information before I decide to cause a riot in your station?”

  I did like this guy. Joey seemed to genuinely care about Babs—something she hasn’t had much of in her life—at least romantically speaking.

  Laramie looked at Joey. He looked at me. He looked back at Joey. “Who are you?”

  “Joey Carmichael. Stage manager for The List.” Joey grimaced. “I guess I can still claim the title even though the show’s on hold.”

  “And you know Babs Harrison—how?”

  “She was cast as Granny Hensonswenson. Or Hensonswensonbenson. Whatever. We’ve had a few drinks together. And yes, I know that sounds like a very limited acquaintance, but I’d vouch for her in a second over people I’ve known for thirty years.”

  Laramie glanced at me, then turned his focus back to Joey. “Hensonswenson? Are you kidding me?” He exhaled. “Okay. I do understand that, Mr. Carmichael. There are people that one feels one knows within a very short span of time. One goes on instinct and trusts that the instinct is spot on.”

  I had the odd feeling those last two comments were directed at me. Or about me. But now was not the time to ask Laramie what his instincts were telling him.

  A young policeman in a uniform interrupted whatever comment I was disinclined to make anyway. He and Laramie moved about six feet away from Joey and me and proceeded to have a moderately animated discussion.

  After about four minutes, the young cop headed back to a desk, sat and began typing into a computer. Laramie took two strides and loomed over me. “Your turn.”

  “What?”

  “Babs, for the moment, is free to go. I’d like to ask you a question or two.”

  I scowled at him. “Fine. But can you do that here in the open and not in that ghastly excuse for anything approaching comfortable
and airy?”

  He fought back a smile and lost. “I suppose I could. Where were you this last night, Ms. Kittredge?”

  “What time?” I answered.

  “Eleven."

  I shrugged my shoulders. “Not sure. Probably on the subway. I think I was home around midnight. I know I had to wait for a train at Forty-Second Street for about twenty-five minutes—so at eleven? Walking.”

  “Why were you out?”

  “What? I have a curfew now? I was out walking because this is New York getting really close to Christmas time and I love seeing the tree at Rockefeller Center and buying those wonderful hot honey-roasted peanuts from vendors in the street and staring into windows at cute little jackets and boots and sparkly dresses for New Year’s parties I’m not invited to, nor have the money to buy, even if I knew someone giving one.”

  “In other words, you have no alibi.”

  I closed my eyes for a second. “I suppose not. Believe me, had I known I was expected to produce one this evening, I’d’ve come up with something far more exciting and filled with witnesses. Pole dancing at Randy’s Randy Ranch over on Tenth Avenue or sitting in Santa’s lap at Macy’s reciting my wants for December Twenty-fifth.”

  A real smile lit up his face. “Have you done either?”

  “No to the former and yes to the latter although that was back in my hometown of Tuscaloosa when I was six and it wasn’t a store. It was a school play I was in and Santa lent his talents at the end of the show for anyone under the age of ten who cared to bug him for footballs, dolls and one-horse-open-sleighs.”

  “And what did you bug him for at age six?”

  “A baton. I was determined to be head majorette of my high school before I ever entered the halls. Now, then, if you’re done with Santa for the moment, and you see no point in grilling me over trying to recall what tourists I spoke to who would be folks you’d have to chase down who might vaguely remember me snapping their picture with their three-year-daughter in front of the Christmas tree so they’d have a nice photo to take back to China, could you please, please, tell me what happened to Clayton?”

  “Well, I suppose literally, you could say he was eaten by a shark.”

  That stunned me. “What?”

  “Eaten by a shark.”

  “I heard you, Detective, I’m just a bit thrown since I don’t think this is the season for swimming out in the Hamptons and I don’t remember exactly hearing any stories about great whites or tiger sharks attacking there anyway.”

  “This was in the city.”

  I sank back down onto the bench. Joey sank with me. He hadn’t said a word since Laramie had asked for my alibi. Now he looked sick. “Oh shit.”

  Laramie raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”

  “You’ve got to be talking about that Hollywood attractions museum that’s due to open in January.”

  I nudged him. “Is that the place you and Kameron mentioned earlier? Hollywood FX? Where Babs did the commercial.”

  Joey nodded. “Hollywood FX. That’s what it’s called. It’s supposed to be like a museum of all the cool special effects stuff done in movies over the last sixty years or so. A King Kong climbing the Empire State Building. One of the uglier mummies coming to life. The White House blowing up in Independence Day. Water covering Lady Liberty in Day After Tomorrow. All kinds of cool stuff.”

  “Yeah, Babs said it was very fun. I think they filmed her in a space suit doing the save the earth thing from Armageddon.”

  “There is also . . .” Laramie began.

  “A stinkin’ shark a la Jaws,” Joey interrupted.

  I knew my own jaw was on my collar at this point. Probably wasn’t pretty. I didn’t care. I’d gone from stunned to whatever the next step is. Amazed. Flabbergasted. Shock.

  “How did a fake shark cause Clay’s death?” I inquired with more calm than I thought I was capable of exhibiting at this point.

  “It’s animatronic. The teeth can actually chomp down on things—and people. Mr. Harrison was found between the jaws. Two rather large teeth had pierced his heart.”

  “Good God! How can you even imagine Babs—or I— could handle what would be needed to do that? Hell, you’d have to get Clay to agree to jump inside the thing first and then get it to work and chomp at the right time! “I cried.

  “Precisely.”

  “What does that mean, precisely?”

  “Ms. Kittredge . . . “

  “Would you please call me Bootsie? I feel like I’m Todd’s mother when you say that. No one has ever called me that and I hate it. It’s worse than Mary Katherine.”

  “I’d like to keep this professional at the moment,” was the response.

  “Well, shit. Fine. Anyway, go on with your theory, Detective,” I stressed.

  “As you say, someone could have persuaded Mr. Harrison it would be a lark to get between the shark’s teeth. A fun picture to send to friends. A child could operate the mechanical device used to get the creature to chew, especially if Mr. Harrison was unaware of someone’s intentions. And before you ask, it would have been impossible for Mr. Harrison to do this himself accidentally, or any other way for that matter. Someone operated that machine.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yes, oh.”

  Joey shook his head. “But Hollywood FX isn’t open for another month or so. Did Harrison and—whomever—break in? Wait. Didn’t Babs say he was one of the attorneys?"

  Laramie turned to Joey and nodded. “Precisely. Mr. Harrison been inside the museum many times in the last few weeks.” He whipped his head back toward me. “And we’ve been told, at least one of those times was in the company of a short, platinum-blonde woman who bears a striking resemblance to the ex Mrs. Clayton Harrison the Third. Babs.”

  Chapter 10

  “So what was your alibi?”

  “Well, first of all, I told him I had a perfectly good reason for being at Hollywood FX.”

  “You did?”

  “Stills for the museum for promo. The client wanted stills done rather than taking them from the commercial. I thought I told you?”

  “You didn’t tell me what the shoot was for —just that you were doing stills. You were in a hurry and I was in a depressed state of mind and needing my Christmas walk around midtown. Anyway. That part is reasonable. But what about the actual time of Clay’s murder? After all, the shoot for the stills was much earlier. What’d you tell the good detective about that?”

  “Oh. It wasn’t bad. But it was pretty damned unverifiable.” Babs stated.

  “Don’t tell me. Trains?”

  “Yep. I explained that I was attending the model train expo down at the Javits Center that runs each night til one a.m. for the next week. I did keep my ticket.”

  Babs loves model trains. One reason I avoid the idea of rooming with her in her tiny studio apartment is that what floor space is left after the bed, desk, media center take what’s needed is filled with train tracks and funky little train depots and houses and factories, etcera, etcera. I nearly decapitated a toe one night when I stayed with her when I was stumbling toward the bathroom and stepped on a Christmas fir tree. Sharp little devil.

  “What did Laramie think of this unverifiable alibi?”

  “He seemed amused. Asked me if I preferred Lionel, HO or wide gauge and whether I knew the scale ratios for each model.”

  I grinned. “And when you recited your vast wisdom in those areas?”

  “He sighed. Said nothing surprised him anymore about anything I did. Or you.”

  I paused before asking, “What did he say about me?”

  She smiled. A bit too sweetly. “Pardon me? Weren’t you the one asking if we were like thirteen the other day?” She relented. “He merely said that the two of us always seemed to be saying the wrong things at the wrong time and he wouldn’t put it past us to have bumped off Monica Travers and Clayton Harrison the Third for no other reason than to see if we could do it to annoy him. Then he asked if you were currently dating anyone.”
<
br />   “He didn’t!”

  “He did. Swear. He likes you. We should use that, you know. Might keep us out of prison.”

  I snorted. “The only thing that’s going to keep us out of prison is if the folks on our hit list drop during the times we have really, really good alibis. I’m not sure Laramie bought my Christmas-window-shopping-and-helping-tourists-with-photo-ops story. But how do you disprove something like that? For that matter, how do you prove it?”

  “Ticket stubs worked this time, “Babs responded.

  “I suppose it might also help if these people getting bumped off weren’t topping our hit list along with exact or similar scenarios of their demises,” I added.

  Babs chuckled. “Want to hear something hysterical?”

  “Oh sure. Regale me with comedy. I need it after losing the best theatre job I’ve had in twenty years and nearly getting arrested all within five hours.”

  “Hang on. We need coffee. Did you pick up any the other day when you were getting exotic treats for the cat?”

  “Didn’t need to. Leo has more flavors around here than an ice cream parlor. He also has the most awesome coffee-grinding-coffee-brewing machine ever created. What kind ya want?”

  Babs takes her coffee seriously. She thought for a good minute before requesting Bavarian chocolate with cinnamon. I headed for Leo’s kitchen to brew a pot, neatly arranged some Christmas-iced tree-shaped cookies on a tray, whipped up some cream and took the coffee break goodies back into the living room.

  We spent a few minutes preparing. I couldn’t stand it any more. “What’s hysterical?”

  “Huh?”

  “Are you getting senile? You said something was hysterical—I’d like to know what it is since I haven’t found getting my butt hauled into Manhattan’s Tenth Precinct every hour on the hour to be the highlight of an already rotten year.”

  “Ah. Sorry. My mind is too filled with stuff right now. Anyway—hysterical. Yes. Joey called me about two minutes after you and I got back here. You were in the john.”