Luanne gaped at Patti, who was decidedly displeased. “Did you really try to shoot Claire? I know she's meddlesome and occasionally infuriating, but she owes me money for lunch last week.”
“She's meddlesome, all rightâand wrong,” Patti said grimly. “This story of hers is a fantastic series of lies, theatrics, and wild guesses. If she repeats one word of it, I shall instruct my attorney to file a libel suit. She can peddle her books from a little wooden cart in the future.”
“Then you don't have a gun in your purse?” I inserted before the two indulged in further character assassination. “It's okay if we call the police and ask them to come down here right now to examine the contents of your purse?”
She stepped back, opened her purse, and took out the handkerchief to neatly touch the corners of her mouth. She then took out a nasty little revolver and pointed it at us. “It's really not convenient at the moment, I'm afraid. It would have been much easier on everyone if you hadn't insisted on playing detective, but what's done is done. I want the schedule. Once it's in my possession, we can discuss what else needs to be done.”
I pointed my gun at her. “Put that away or I'll shoot,” I said in the fine tradition of the Old West. I would have clinked my spurs had I been wearing any.
“My gun is real. Yours is not,” she responded serenely.
I eased back into the shadows. “Are you sure?”
She advanced, looking somewhat tired of the scene. “Yes, I'm quite sure. Now shall we stop this silliness and deal with the situation like adults?”
At which time Luanne bashed her across the back with a right crutch. The revolver fell to the floor. Patti stumbled forward, waved her arms frantically as she teetered on the edge of the stage, then toppled into the orchestra pit. After what seemed like several seconds, we heard a thud and a muffled curse.
“Bravo,” I murmured as I went to peer down into the black hole. “I'd give her at least a five-six for technical merit. Do you think we ought to call an ambulance?”
“In a minute,” said a male voice from the back of the stage.
As Luanne and I looked up, startled by the intrusion, Warren appeared from the shadows. He bent down to pick up Patti's gun and aimed it in our general direction. He looked around until he located her purse, which he then opened and dug through until he found a key chain. “If you don't mind, I think I'll engage in a sudden and unexpected career move myself. I'd like to commend both of you for the calmness you displayed. She's crazy, a political animal afflicted with rabies. She probably would have shot you dead without a moment's hesitation.”
“Thank you,” I said, eying him cautiously. “It wouldn't have saved her. We've already called the police.”
“She'll have a lovely time trying to explain away the blackmail evidence, but I think I'll take the revolver with me.” He raised his voice to include the woman in the pit. “If she keeps her mouth shut, however, there won't be any evidence to involve either of us in the homicides. Her father can call in the lawyers, and the whole thing will eventually blow over. It's been a pleasure, ladies, but I must run along now.”
“You're not leaving me, you swine.” came a growl of outrage from the pit. “This was your idea, not mine.”
He went to the edge of the stage and leaned forward. “No, darling, it was your idea. Do you honestly think anyone would believe that I wanted to have an affair with someone old enough to play bridge with my mother? I merely assumed it was in the job description somewhere.”
“How dare you!” she called, recovering rapidly from the unexpected exit from the stage. “You seduced me, you pimply little frat boy!”
“I hate pimples,” Luanne said under her breath. She then lifted a crutch and poked Warren in the back. His exit was almost a five-eight.
Somewhere from the back of the auditorium came the sound of applause. The houselights came on more brightly, and policemen scurried in from the corridors on either side of the auditorium. The spotlights suddenly bathed us in a puddle of pink. The single member of the audience, one David McWethy, continued to clap. I took Luanne's hand, and we bowed together.
“C
limb every mountain,” warbled a voice from the center of the stage.
Peter's hand tightened around mine, as if he were resisting the urge to clamp it over an ear to drown out the sound. “How many of them are going to sing this?” he hissed. “We've climbed every mountain in the Alps. Do we have to tackle the Himalayas, too?”
“Only these two,” I whispered back. I noticed the judges ( Mayor Avery, Ms. Maugahyder, and one Sally Fromberger) were doodling on their legal pads and less than entranced with the strange tremolos coming from one of the Lisas. Said girl came to a merciful stop, curtsied to the judges, and trotted offstage as the audience clapped dutifully, if not enthusiastically.
The emcee offered his congratulations, then peered myopically through red-rimmed eyes at the card in his hand. “Wasn't that wowsy? Now our next contestant has the cutest little pooch you folks are likely to see. Let's have a big welcome for Heidi and Chou-Chou!”
“Heidi's the tall one,” I whispered to Peter as two pink-clad performers came onto the stage. One had a hula hoop and an optimistic expression; the other had beady black eyes and a defiant glower. To the audience's surprise ( and perhaps disappointment) , the former
coaxed the latter through the hoop without a single drop shed on the stage.
Once the applause faded, Heidi put her hands on her hips and glared at the light booth above our heads. “See?” she snapped. “The only reason Chou-Chou had problems before was that one of the contestants was so jealous she kept feeding peepee pills to poor little Chou-Chou. It wasn't his fault at all, Mr. Meanie!” She snatched up the dog and stalked offstage.
“Peepee pills?” Peter said incredulously.
“Diuretics. Dixie, the clarinetist, wasn't supposed to be in the theater after the parade, so she couldn't admit that was when she heard a male voice in Cyndi's dressing room. She called me last week and we had a long talk. She cried, and I tried very hard not to laugh.”
Luanne was on the other side of me. She caught my eye and tried very hard not to laugh. We were both snorting away as Julianna came on stage and flashed shiny teeth at the judges. In the wings, Eunice Allingham watched with a satisfied expression, her eyes on the contestant but her mind fifteen hundred miles away at the Big One. I could almost hear her humming.
The awesome display of talent subsided, and while the contestants changed into evening gowns, the emcee told several off-color jokes that would have played better at the Dew Drop Inn. In the more sedate confines of the Thurber Street Theater, the silence was eloquent. Mayor Avery's ears turned pink, and Ms. Maugahyder's hand froze in middoodle. A bray of laughter floated down from the light booth.
“What's going to happen to Mac?” I asked Peter.
“Not nearly enough. Although he could have been of great assistance to the prosecution, it seems someone has rekindled his political aspirations. We'll try to peg him
for obstruction and a few pesky charges, but we're getting a lot of pressure from the Governor's office and higher powers that be to stay away from him. Patti Stevenson's father carries a very big stick. Not big enough to protect her entirely, but adequate to keep things very quiet. The prosecutor has hourly migraines.”
The girls swirled back onstage to field demanding questions from the emcee. Julianna said in a steady voice that she wanted to speak for her generation, fight poverty, and help make the world a better place. Dixie admired Mother Teresa and Madonna. Lisa I and Lisa II both aspired to spread understanding and love throughout the country via modeling. Bambi wanted to feed all the underprivileged people, and then model. Dixie also wanted to be the spokesperson for her generation, thus bathing us all in peace and understanding and brotherhood and that sort of thing, you know. Heidi wanted us to know how really much this all had meant to her and Chou-Chou.
After more swirling and simpering, the girls huddled in the center of the stage while the judges scribbled, passed notes, whispered, scribbled, and looked up every now and then at the would-be queens. The audience wiggled around restlessly. The emcee turned his back, but I saw the flash of a flask moving from pocket to mouth and back to pocket. A faint howl came from the greenroom.
I poked Luanne. “You're going to the therapist every day, right? If you let me down, you know how hard I'll blotch.”
“Every single day,” she said in a low voice. “I had the bulemia licked for years, but the pageant set it off again. I haven't binged since the morning after the second murder. I'm doing heavy-duty vitamin therapy, and
following the shrink's orders down to the last stalk of celery.”
“Will you swear to that on your neighbor's vine-ripened tomatoes? As much as it would interfere with my long hours of inertia at the Book Depot or my ever so cheerful chats with my accountant, I will find you three times a day to make sure you're following orders. Damn it, Luanne, I care about you. Bulemia's serious. It can do dreadful things to your stomach, throat, and mouth. It plays havoc with your body chemistry. How will Caron Malloy run around in inappropriate black cocktail dresses if you're not there to clothe her over her mother's protests?”
“I know, I know,” she murmured. “It's a dangerous, potentially fatal compulsion. I started when I first began participating in the beauty pageants, where one's body is everything and every ounce of flab is an enemy. After a while, my body became my enemy. It's going to take intensive therapy to work that out, but I do intend to hang around if for no other reason than to clothe over protest.”
“I feel guilty that I didn't figure out what you were doing behind locked bathroom doors, but I associate bulemia with younger women. You've already had your midlife crisis, my gray-headed friend. You should be fighting an urge to overdose on Mah Jongg or lithe young gigolos with sunlamp tans.”
“While you, of course, are decades away from a midlife crisis?” she whispered tartly.
Before I could respond, Mayor Avery gave the emcee the envelope. While the audience held its collective breath, we worked our way from sixth runner-up to first runner-up. Julianna shrieked, burst into tears, and was swarmed by her court. Caron Malloy, a child of many
talents, appeared with a crown and stuck it into Julianna's upswept hair. Eunice's arms remained crossed as she gazed at her gal, but her eyes glittered more brightly than all the Vasolined teeth on the stage.
Miss Thurberfest reigned supreme.
“What was all that muttering about midlife crises?” Peter asked once we were on the sofa in my living room.
I poured two glasses of wine and handed one to him. “It's an excuse adults use for behaving in an adolescent manner. A rationale for irrational behavior. Teetering on the brink of middle age doesn't give one a license to abandon responsibility for a few cheap thrills.”
“Oh,” he murmured, trying to sound wise. “Then we're too old to change our ways, huh? We'll just trudge along in our respective ruts until we drop?”
“Who's in a rut? A lifestyle isn't necessarily a rut. It's order and continuity. It's a sense of comfortableness, of knowing what you want from life and how best to acquire it.”
“Not even one little cheap thrill?”
I looked at the broad grin, the hint of gray in the curls over his temples, the deceptively mild color of his eyes. “Can I help it if I have reservations?” I said, shrugging.
“I know you have reservations,” Peter murmured, moving in with great charm. He nibbled here and there, then added, “I suppose I'll have to trudge along in the rut until I wear you down.”
“For these reservations, you need a passport.”
STRANGLED PROSE
THE MURDER AT THE MURDER AT THE MIMOSA INN
DEAR MISS DEMEANOR
ROLL OVER AND PLAY DEAD
A DIET TO DIE FOR
A REALLY CUTE CORPSE
DEATH BY THE LIGHT OF THE MOON
POISONED PINS
A HOLLY, JOLLY MURDER
A CONVENTIONAL CORPSE
OUT ON A LIMB
THE GOODBYE BODY
Â
Â
Available from St. Martin's Paperbacks
“Fast paced ⦠the ending should surprise you.”
â
Winston Salem-Journal
on
A Really Cute Corpse
Â
“Joan Hess fans will find a winning blend of soft-core feminism, trendy subplots, and a completely irreverent style that characterizes both series and the sleuth, all nicely onstage.”
â
Houston Chronicle
Â
“Whether she's hammering my funny bone or merely passing a feather beneath my nose, Joan Hess always makes me laugh. Murder only raises Joan Hess's wicked sense of humor. Enjoy!”
âMargaret Maron, author of
Storm Track
Â
“Definitely entertaining. Hess deftly sprinkles red herrings and odd characters throughout.”
â
Library Journal
on
The Murder at the Murder at the Mimosa Inn
Â
“
Dear Miss Demeanor
is great fun ⦠Hess's poniard is tipped with subtle wit.”
â
Chicago Sun Times
on
Dear Miss Demeanor
Â
Â
More â¦
Â
“Hess's theme is a serious one, but she handles it with wit. Claire is an appealing character, and this is an engaging mystery for anyone who likes crime mixed with comedy.”
â
Booklist
on
Roll Over and Play Dead
Â
“Hess's styleâthat of a more worldly Erma Bombeckârarely flags. Amiable entertainment with an edge.”
â
Kirkus Reviews
Â
“Joan Hess is one funny woman.”
âSusan Dunlap
Â
“Joan Hess is the funniest mystery writer to come down the pipe since England's incomparable Pamela Branch. And oh, how well Joan writes.”
âCarolyn G. Hart
Â
“Hess is not only witty, but has a lot of insight into human motivation that moves the story along in fine fashion.”
â
Mysterious News