Sweet Cream Ladies, Ltd. Read online

  “And?”

  “And, he was at Maria’s, coincidentally coming out of the john.”

  I glared at her. “Point?”

  “Maria’s has that bulletin board kind of thingee in between Senors and Senoritas, remember? Non-equity audition notices. Subletting for apartments, which has been really sparse lately, uh, even some ‘wanna date a hot babe?’ notes.”

  “I know the bulletin board well. Bought a programmable coffeemaker from someone only a month before the great Todd split. He kept it, the bastard. So? Point?”

  “Joey said there are three ads up there asking for contact info for Sweet Cream Ladies, Ltd. and requesting that info to go up on the board, to be given on every social networking site on the planet and possibly and preferably plastered on a neon sign in Times Square.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yep. Joey said he didn’t know whether to leave them there and get us some business or take them down before Detective Laramie sees them and slaps us into Sing-Sing without a paddle.”

  “I’m going to ignore the use of mixed metaphors and try to get over the shock of people hunting down hitmen. Oh, that reminds. Sing-Sing. I looked it up online and it is not a co-ed facility. The women get sent to Bedford Hills which kind of threw me since I thought that was where It’s a Wonderful Life was set but then I realized that’s Bedford Falls which also threw me because that sounds like a great place for a slasher movie.”

  Babs stared at me in horror. “My God. You’re rambling. I mean, completely off your nut. Is this the result of the demise of two people, your infatuation with Sebastian Laramie or the fear that you’ll be sent to someplace with the moniker Bedford in the title after Todd Kittredge takes an overdose of nutmeg and has a fling with the drag queens?”

  “Can we say ‘all of the above?’ Jeez. What is going on in the world? Do I need to gather all my worldly goods and move back to Alabama and throw myself on the mercy of the Theatre Department and beg to teach Theatre Appreciation to kids who will spend half the class texting and the other half sleeping?” I closed my eyes. “Now that I muse on this; I’m thinking, not bad. A real paycheck. A real apartment or house. Real bar-b-que with my Dad. Going to Civil War re-enactments up in Warrior and eating that bar-b-que while watching men collapsing on the field of battle but forgetting to turn their cell phones off.”

  “Well, except for that last one, we can find the other things here in Manhattan. Well, not a house, unless you’re willing to move to Brooklyn or Queens or cross the river in Hoboken, but shit—don’t give up yet! I’ve recently been told by the little birdie who handles the real estate for the Actors building over on Forty-third, that my name, after about seven years on the waiting list, is up next as soon as someone either moves or dies. Hmm. Now that’s a real motive for someone to go straight to the top of our hit list. Think about it. An apartment based on sliding actor earnings, which slide more than a water ride at an amusement pay. And I promise to put my train sets away. Anyway, you’d’ve been taking home a real paycheck if those bozo producers hadn’t pulled out of The List and remember—they didn’t close the show, just put it on hold.”

  “Indefinitely. Which means—who the hell knows when we’ll find a backer and meantime, my best bet may be singing in the subway if I can find a spare corner with the other non-employed actors and musicians.”

  “Gad, you’re grumpy. Have another cookie while we figure out how best to put raw nutmeg into Todd’s eggnog tomorrow night.” She giggled. “Actually, I think we should keep Mr. Toddy alive. It would doubtless be equally as satisfying seeing him lying naked next to the drag queens as it would removing his sorry ass from this plane of existence.”

  “You are evil. You know that? Wait. I’m getting an idea.”

  “For finding raw nutmeg or a photographer prepped to take Todd’s picture?”

  “Neither. It’s the business.” I sat up straight. “We could turn Sweet Cream Ladies, Limited into a blackmail for hire operation.”

  “What? No contractual killings?”

  “Stop! I swear if you say that in front of Detective Laramie we’ll end up as the first co-ed prisoners at Sing-Sing—used for entertainment by sex-hungry men who haven’t seen a woman in fifteen years and therefore will ignore the whole age thing.”

  She grinned at me then sobered a bit. “Don’t tell anyone but there is a tiny bit of sadness knowing that the father of my only child is dead. Not a lot of sadness, mind you, since, as you know, Clay Harrison was one of the nastiest s.o.b’s to ever inhabit a human body but still, we had about one good month when we were first married and he helped produce an amazingly wonderful child. I don’t know how. Obviously genetics plays less of a role in human behavior than scientists would like us to believe.”

  I patted her hand. “I am sorry. Truly. I mean not only because he was a scumbag you couldn’t escape for far too many years but I’m sorry for any sadness you feel.”

  She was silent for a moment. Then, “Did I ever tell you why we got married?”

  “Not really, no. When we first met we were too busy auditioning and getting into trouble burglarizing houses and hitting every flea market from Brooklyn to Riverdale.”

  She smiled. “I remember. God, I miss those times. I don’t miss the years with Clay but I miss those first years tearing up the town with you. Anyway, I met Clay my last year of high school. He was in college, he was handsome and smart and he acted as though I was the hottest thing on the planet since the invention of radiators. My home life wasn’t the greatest—I had a step-dad who was one of those fire and damnation preachers who thought everything I did went contrary to everything he believed. I wanted out. Clayton provided the way. I was a baby—what the hell did I know? Within months after I married him, I was pregnant with Bree and he was playing around with several sorority sisters from the college I didn’t get to attend. It was a rotten marriage. But I was always so grateful that he’d stood up to my stepfather and gotten me out. I didn’t realize until too late it was so absolutely the proverbial frying pan into fire. And now, he’s gone. I don’t have to pick up a paper and see some twenty-year-old babe who happens to be his latest wife—the total was five counting me and his last divorce was a year ago—anyway, I don’t have to see those pictures of those women out on the town with Clayton Harrison the Third. The world is a better place without him. Truly.”

  We sat in silence for a few minutes, drinking coffee and eating more cookies. The thirty-two pounds (I’d lost the eight from the post-divorce apple turnovers gradually over this past fall when I had no money to buy them) were never going to come off this way but there are times that only caffeine and sugar can soothe a troubled mind.

  Finally, Babs returned to the topic of the “business.” “What did you mean about blackmail?”

  “Oh. Well, not really blackmail because that would get us thrown right back into the interrogation room being grilled by New York’s finest, but look into the scummy deeds being done by scummy people and find ways to get those deeds splashed across tabloids or take pictures that will show the scums in comprising situations that will show up in divorce proceedings. Stuff like that. We’re actresses. We could assume various roles that would allow us access into scummy lives so we could get the dirt on the scums.”

  “My head is really from the usage of scum and scummy in one paragraph, but I like it.”

  I nodded. “Web site time. And a notice on Maria’s restroom walls.”

  She grinned at me. “I do like it, but just one thing . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Can we still keep the hit list? For special occasions?”

  Chapter 11

  December 20th and the weather was acting as if it were Halloween. Beautiful, abundant sunshine; with temps hovering on the good side of sixty. Even the trees at the Peaceful Shades of Harmony Cemetery located just outside of Hoboken, New Jersey were pretending it was still autumn and flashing colors that had no business being seen after November the first anywhere north o
f Georgia.

  Babs glared at a particularly bright evergreen that was living up to its name. “Shit. Bad enough it’s a gorgeous day. Why does this look like a Technicolor romantic movie everywhere? It should be pounding rain and sleet and possibly large pieces of hail that will pierce that ridiculously wasteful mahogany casket and join the dear departed as he’s lowered to what will doubtless be his hellish reward.”

  “Shsssh! Damn, Babs. He was a slime and a bastard but I suppose a little respect should be shown at his funeral. Not to mention if Detective Laramie hears you, we won’t get to listen to the choir sing How Great Thou Art, which I'm sure afterlife Clay still thinks applies to him.”

  She snorted. “You’re right about Laramie. As to respect, Clayton is just lucky that his only daughter who is too old to be pregnant anyway is at a stage of pregnancy where the docs say no flying, so I’m her proxy. And the choir would be better served doing a little ‘You’re so Vain,’ or ‘Before He Cheats.’

  I nodded. “That last one is the best. ‘Before He Cheats’ is an awesomely wonderful song but a bit late since Clayton Harrison started cheating on you—when? About five days after you were married?”

  “Try the day after. We had to wait to go on the honeymoon because Mister Miser Harrison Esquire got a better deal for the week after we were married. So we went to a downtown Atlanta hotel. Which was where my maid of honor decided not to act honorably and hooked up with the new groom while I was out shopping for bikinis I didn’t want to don anyway. Bitch.” She lowered her voice when a well-dressed woman who looked about twenty-three glared at her. “Her, too. Bitch I mean. Tammy Tarantella. The latest in a long line of bimbos.”

  “Wait. Did you say Tarantella? Like the dance? Seriously?”

  “I did and she’s a mover all right. She’s lucky he died before she could marry him, since he was relatively decent to women before they walked down an aisle with the scum. Then again, I’ve heard tales that Miss Tammy was out to marry anything with a pulse and a bank account so they might have been perfect for each other.” She sighed. “I shall try to restrain myself from informing everyone here about what a total abusive, cheating, lying shithead the soon-to-be rotting worm-food truly was.”

  “Honey, with that air-tight casket and the make-up job he doubtless got at the funeral home, he’ll look better than the bimbo in twenty years.”

  I couldn’t help staring at the woman Babs had identified as Tammy Tarantella. She was a Karalynn clone with blonde hair, blue eyes, and the perfect figure, i.e. thin except for boobs that had to be fake to be that high and perky. Dressed in a black sheath with a black lightweight long jacket, black shoes that had to be Jimmy Choos or Prada and a very large black lace hat that screamed, “garden party Mississippi 1860.” She was staring at us. Well, she was staring at Babs.

  “Why the hell is she glaring at you? You and Clay haven’t been married for twenty-five years or more.”

  “Oh. Isn’t it obvious? She’s heard that I’m the one responsible for feeding Clay to the shark before she got her wish to become the fifth Mrs. Harrison. Or is it sixth? I lost count after three since I was so thrilled with never having to share a home, dinner or anything else with the man. Yippee!”

  “Sshh!”

  We grinned at each other, which drew more frowns from the crowd gathered around the draped coffin holding Clayton. We immediately drew on years of acting classes and dramatic productions to plaster appropriately somber expressions on our faces. Tammy sent one more searing glance our way, then returned to hide her face in an enormous lace handkerchief that was only eclipsed by the gargantuan black lace hat perched on her head.

  “I love her hat, “I whispered. “I want it. I wouldn’t waste it on funerals. I’d wear that sucker down to the deli whenever I was in the mood for a nice pastrami on rye. Or simply walk down Fifth Avenue for hours.”

  “That sounds good right now. The pastrami; not the walk. Damn. Are they ever going to get Clayton into the ground so we can get out of here? Bad enough listening to this preacher, who’d obviously never had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Harrison the Third in person, wax far too eloquently back at the church about the sorrow he assumed everyone was feeling, but I swear the good reverend has now hit every psalm and proverb translated. I want food. I want alcoholic beverages. And somehow I can’t see Tammy trotting over to invite us to the after-funeral shindig.”

  “Ya think?” I glanced away from the heartbroken histrionics currently on display by Clay’s latest and ultimately last mistress. “I don’t even care about chowing down. I just want out of this place before another interrogation marathon instigated by Sebastian Laramie. That is one suspicious detective. He keeps looking this way. I can’t believe he hiked it out here so he could watch our reactions to all the ridiculous lies told about what a good person Clayton was. I mean, we’d already told him we couldn’t stand the man.”

  Babs nodded but kept the motion small to keep other mourners from noticing that at least two members of those gathered to wish Clay a fond farewell were not behaving with proper decorum. “Well, I'm still convinced he likes you—and that's as a woman and not a suspect. Of course, he has plenty of reason to be suspicious—at least of me.”

  “I don’t know, Babs. I’m looking around here and I see more than one face that seems less than devastated to know Clayton won’t be walking the earth anymore. Since your ex was . . . “

  “The meanest, lyingest, cheatingest, pond-sucking scumbag in the entire Northeast and Mid-Atlantic?”

  “Pretty much. “I paused, then grumbled, “Uh oh.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Laramie is headed this way. Either he’s going to arrest us for bad manners at a funeral or he believes we’re returning to the scene of the crime and is going to haul us in.”

  “This isn’t the scene of the crime, Bootsie. That was a fake shark tank at Hollywood FX.”

  I waved her off. “Semantics. You know what I mean.”

  “I do. Let’s book it. I’ve done my duty to my daughter anyway. I can tell her that I went to the church and prayed for her father’s soul, which needed a helluva more redemption than a few Hail Mary’s even with Bootsie the semi-fallen Irish Catholic chiming in. I’m not sure why we came to the cemetery anyway.”

  “Because we got a ride from Jason Leder who is still standing solidly waiting for the last hurrah to be hurrahed and we can’t leave unless we want to walk about fifteen damned miles to the nearest transit to Manhattan,” I stated.

  “Betcha Laramie would give us a ride back.”

  The man himself arrived by my side as Babs was musing about the prospect. He nodded to both of use then quietly said, “I would be more than happy to provide you ladies with transport back to the city.”

  “Ah, but at what price?” I muttered.

  “No charge.”

  “Other than grilling us as we wind our way through the Holland Tunnel?”

  “Now, now. Would I take advantage of the grieving widow and her best friend at a moment like this?”

  I narrowed my eyes while Babs tried not to snort too audibly. “I have several responses to that comment, Detective, but out of respect for the folks visiting loved ones at Peaceful Shades of Harmony I shall not raise my voice to the heavens and shout them at you.”

  Babs added, “I’m not his stinkin’ widow anyway. He married at least four times more after we divorced.”

  “Any of the other Mrs. Harrisons here?” Laramie inquired.

  “Hell no. They hated him as much as I did. I’m only here since Clay’s only child, who also happens to be my only child, couldn’t come. But, you want motive? Track down and check with one or more of the other Harrison widows. Or for that matter ask Jason Leder. Who was Clay’s law partner for the last thirty years and who doubtless will make a potful off of the insurance from Clay’s death and who despised his partner personally but stayed in the partnership because, although Clay was a toad, he was a damned brilliant attorney and made their little entertainment firm a
n indecently enormous amount of money. Which, I might add, neither I, nor the other Mrs. Harrison’s ever saw. Or ask his male paralegal whose wife Clay was banging on a regular basis. All viable suspects.”

  Sebastian glanced at me.

  I shrugged my shoulders. “Don’t look at me, Laramie. Thankfully, I was never married to Clay Harrison. I seem to remember the most money I ever got from Clay was five dollars that Babs here wheedled out of him one night when I was visiting so I wouldn’t have to swim across the Hudson and could take the PATH train instead, with a little leftover for a soda at the station. He was a mean miserly bastard who barely allowed me into their home to see Babs before they split.”

  Sebastian stared at me. “Sounds as if Babs isn’t the only member of your small club to have detested Harrison and wanted to see him dead.”

  My eyes widened and my jaw literally dropped. But it wasn’t in response to Sebastian’s comment.

  “Oh. My. God.”

  Sebastian and Babs both stared at me. “What.”

  I pointed. Sebastian and Babs turned.

  I was facing the area underneath the tent where the minister, Tammy, Jason Leder, and the five other pallbearers who were privileged to be considered part of Clay Harrison’s funeral party stood, which was a few feet away from the white-cloth draped coffin that held the deceased. The preacher and most of the crowd were intoning the 23rd Psalm with mouths moving and heads bowed.

  Except for one. Well, the mouth was moving, but not in prayer.

  A slightly pudgy red squirrel had made its way to the top of Clay Harrison’s coffin. He held a small acorn between even smaller paws and was in the process of gnawing on the thing while eyeing the humans around him with an air of someone whose lunch was being disturbed with all this durned speechifying.

  What could be described as mildly comic quickly turned into farce.

  Tammy Tarantella started it. She raised her head and aimed at piercing look at the squirrel that was clearly meant to say, “move it or lose it."