Deadly Dues (33 page)

“Gretchen,” I said, slowly and patiently. “Did you not realize that at that point I didn't even know I had the key? I didn't even know there was a key!” I had started quietly but revved up to a shout.

“But you have it now, Lu,” she whispered, and straightened her arm, the way target shooters do.
Damn, damn, damn. I wish she hadn't played that role in the police series, where they taught her to shoot.
“Where is it? You have the key and I have the gun.”

“I get your point.” She didn't crack a smile. She never got my jokes, anyway.

“You killed Stan,” I said. I was quick, just ripping along here with answers, mostly by the process of elimination. An iceberg might have moved more quickly in the deduction department, I noted, trying to find excuses for my idiocy. Trust? Denial? Plain old stupidity?

“I went to his office, and he was passed out on his desk,” she said.

“That was me,” wheezed Pete from the floor. “Just couldn't get a grip.” His hand was still trying to grab at Gretchen's ankle, but each time, he flinched and pulled back.

Gretchen glanced at him sadly, as if he were a terrier with a bad paw. “I tried to wake him up to get the key, but he was out of it. I was so mad,” she actually squinted and made a few lines on her forehead. “I was really put out. Annoyed.”

I could imagine.

“So I grabbed the letter opener and stabbed him with it. It was so messy.” She paused. “And then I remembered he hadn't told me where the key was.”

Dear Gretchen. Although I was rephrasing that thought to
Scary Gretchen.

“How did he end up in the river?”

She shivered. “That was so hard. You have no idea. I went through the Yellow Pages and just couldn't find anybody to help me. I needed to get rid of him for a while. So I went down to East Hamlin Street and pointed my gun at two guys and told them I'd give them fifty bucks to take Stan from the dumpster and throw him into the river.”

“Man, Gretchen, you are so cheap,” moaned Pete from the floor.

“Hey, I got it done, didn't I?” She waved the gun at Pete for a moment, and he clamped his lips and eyes shut and played dead. So did Sherilyn. Mitzi had gone, so that left me as the only bravely live body in the closet.

“So, Lu, give me the key.”

“Hmmm. There's a problem.”

She waited, her eyebrows crinkling.

“I put the key in my safety deposit box on my way here. We'll have to go the bank together,” I said brightly.

Her beautiful face contorted, and once more had nasty little frown lines all over its porcelain, unmarked territory.

“I don't believe you.”

Behind her, I saw a purple blob on the floor, moving like a huge teddy bear in slow motion.

“It's the truth, Gretchen.”

She was steadying her shooting arm
. Move it, Mitzi.

Mitzi grabbed at the shoe rack behind Gretchen and tried to pull herself up, but her grogginess and poundage made gravity her enemy. I could see her struggling. It didn't help that she had a huge, ugly Birkenstock in one hand.
Mitzi owned a Birkenstock? I was horrified.

Mitzi could only haul herself halfway up the rack, then she would lose a few inches and sink back down. Gretchen saw the rack swing slightly and twisted her arm around. Mitzi heaved herself forward and tossed the Birkenstock to me, just as Gretchen turned and pointed the gun at Mitzi. Pete, bless him, lunged forward horizontally and bit Gretchen on the ankle, screaming in pain as he did. It must have been like biting ten-week-old, dried-out chicken bones.

I caught the Birkenstock—
thank goodness for that role in the women's baseball epic of twenty years ago
—and hit Gretchen on the back of the head with all I had, and that was plenty, given the adrenalin panic I was experiencing.

Gretchen yelped and fired the gun. Luckily, she missed Mitzi by a mile, but finished off a Kate Spade bag hanging on the wall.

Gretchen went down in pieces like a pack of pick-up sticks. She landed on Pete, who yelped in pain.

“God, that hurts! She has points I never dreamed of! Get her off me.”

Mitzi crawled over to him and tried to push Gretchen off him.

“Ouch! Man, that is excruciating. And some men did this voluntarily?”

I slid down the rack of shoes, the Birkenstock clutched to my chest.

The shoe closet door burst open, and Ryga jumped in, gun in hand. Two young police officers, a guy and a woman who looked like teenagers, were behind him, guns drawn.

“Lu! Mrs. Lauterman called me. Said you might be in trouble.”

Then he looked at the closet, the semi-comatose bodies, the shoes, Mitzi's large purple behind, the gun, and the once famous Lulu Malone collapsed against the rack.

The expression on his face had been one of no-nonsense authority. Now that was replaced by another, which I couldn't identify precisely, but I am pretty sure it wasn't flattering to Lulu Malone.

He gestured the officers into the closet. One held a gun on all of us, while the other carefully picked up Gretchen's pistol and put it in a bag. More officers brushed past Ryga, until there were almost as many people in the closet as shoes. Ryga gave orders and divided us up so we could give our statements separately to the officers. All very efficient and comforting, in a strange way. It was even more comforting to see Gretchen and Sherilyn taken away in handcuffs.

I like to think I have a powerful effect on men from time to time, as long as I am dressed right and the dimples are in place. I wasn't crazy about seeing an attractive man turn his back on me, shiver horribly, hunch over and stumble away drunkenly, in the throes of either laughter or revulsion. I know I can be intoxicating, but this wasn't what I had in mind.

Some weeks later, I sat at the head of a table in a private dining room at the Hyatt. I was on my second glass of a very fine organic Chardonnay from California, and gazed happily at Bent, Geoff, Mitzi, Mrs. Lauterman, Pete (who was out on bail for assault, bail which I had paid, of course) and Horatio. I had also invited Hal Shapiro as Horatio's date.

“Order whatever you want. Don't look at the prices,” I said. I signalled the waiter for another bottle of wine.

Mrs. Lauterman looked unhappy, although I was sure it had nothing to do with her second excellent martini.

“Lulu, dear, the prices here are more than my condo fees. Are you sure you can afford it?” She turned to roll her olive down the table to Horatio, who was appropriately appreciative.

“Absolutely,” I dimpled. “I am a woman of means.”

And I was. When Stan's safety deposit box was opened by the bank and the lawyers, we had discovered that although he had followed Sherilyn's orders to block my payments, he hadn't been totally compliant. He had put my money into a high-interest investment account, and I now had more money than I had dreamed possible from those long gone Bow Wow commercials. Not only that, but the DVD sales of
Darling, Detective
had been surprisingly brisk, and I was looking forward to the royalties that would land in my bank account in the next year.

Mitzi was beaming, too, as I had not only paid her commission on what was owed me, but had also given her great comeback in the shoe closet by paying a commission on the interest, as well, which was not inconsiderable.

Stan's box had yielded other surprises. We all knew Stan had salted away a lot of money in investments, but we didn't know that he had changed his will in the last month of his life. I hadn't realized he had no family except for distant cousins. He had divided his assets between the Old Actors Charity and Pete, Bent, Geoff, Gretchen and me. I guessed that Stan, with his Irish Catholic background, had felt a surge of guilt and had determined to make reparations for the ills he had inflicted on us.

Gretchen had immediately sunk her share into the best lawyer she could find to defend her against murdering her benefactor. They were probably whispering together in the visiting room at the prison at this very moment. Sherilyn was in the same facility for assault, and after much more whispering, there was now talk of a reality series starring Gretchen and Sherilyn as star-crossed, secret lovers who overcame all odds in order to commit to each other behind bars. The tabloids had photos of Sherilyn and Gretchen, dressed in stylish prison garb, holding hands across a table, with ominous guards, straight out of
One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest
, standing over them. The concept had “hit show” written all over it. That's showbiz.

Bent was grinning like a Halloween jack-o-lantern. He had traded in his old beater of a van for a newer version. It was still a beater, but it didn't make as much noise. Geoff looked dreamy and happy, no doubt imagining how terrific his love life was going to be, now that he was not only a hunk, but also a hunk who was almost out of debt.

Pete wasn't actually smiling, but he looked relieved. His dance with the garden gnome was going to remain our little secret, as long he brought over a pie once a week. We had negotiated some flexibility for him—a tourtière one week, blueberry tarts the next. It just had to be pastry, and my lips were sealed with sugar and butter.

He didn't know it yet, but given my changed financial circumstances and the realization that he not only hadn't been planning to kill me in the closet, but hadn't seriously tried to kill Stan either, I was formulating an offer to set him up with his own catering business. I knew he needed a big change in his life. And I still had a life, thanks to him and the gnome. I reminded myself to send Jerome, who had given it to me years ago, a nice gift, perhaps a designer tie.

Hal was talking quietly to Horatio, who was on his best behaviour. I pretended I had invited Hal for Horatio, and it was partly true, as it was the only way I could convince the restaurant to allow my pooch entry. I also wanted to express my appreciation to Hal for bringing my big bow-wow back to me. And, okay, maybe there was a little bit of thinking that once Hal saw me at my best, he might be more receptive to the occasional dinner.

Not a big deal, though as at this point I needed some quiet time to assess my future.

Horatio was sitting politely on a chair, with a large linen napkin around his neck and a triple serving of the garlic escargot in front of him. I noticed that Hal occasionally gave him little pointers on having only one at a time, as a concession to etiquette.

We chatted happily and ate our way through prime rib, lobster, Arctic char, game hen, candied asparagus, assorted vegetables and exotic salads, which had been tweaked, made over, coloured, embellished and renamed into items one sees only on the Food Network. Soft jazz played over the sound system, with the occasional world music or retro ballad mixed in.

Mitzi tapped on her wine glass with a spoon to get our attention, then raised her glass.

“To Horatio!”

We raised our glasses and drank heartily. Horatio's ears lifted at the sound of his name, and he sent us all a happy and aromatic burp.

Mitzi had been so inspired by the change in our fortunes that she had become Agent Terrible again, landing Horatio a very nice gig in a series of household cleaner commercials.
Don't ask.

“And one more toast,” she said. We waited.

“Today I got a call from Beeswax Productions.” We all knew they had produced the
Darling, Detective
series. “The DVD sales of the series have gone through the roof. The DVD just won an award from Crime Television. Beeswax is over the moon and has raised financing for a series redux. Starring Lulu Malone in her original role as Dora Darling, returning to the workforce after a stint in Afghanistan.”

My mouth and my eyes popped open with amazement.

“They want a meeting next week to discuss terms,” she said, rolling her wine around in her glass with naughty gusto. “Assuming you are willing,” she added innocently, looking at me from under her wild curls.

“Am I willing?” I was laughing in a truly demented way. Then I paused. “Isn't the timing of the war a little off? Dora would be working with a walker by then—no offense, Mrs. L.”

“None taken, dear.”

Mitzi waved her plump little paw dismissively. “You've been out of the game too long, Lu. This is television.”

At that moment, the waiter was clearing my plate. He did a double take, and pulled back.
Uh-oh. I knew that look.

He stood very tall, and elegantly sang, in a beautiful, trained tenor, “Doggie Doggie Bow Wow.” He held the last note in tribute, bowed slightly and left the room.

I smiled benevolently and raised my glass.

“To Dora Darling, Detective.”

We drank again. I had hired a limo for the evening, so we could party with abandon.

“You could be a real private eye, Lu,” said Pete. I smiled, knowing he must mean my deductive powers, although perhaps he was being a bit generous, as I had been more than one or two steps behind the action, rather than ahead of it. “You just kept on trying to figure things out, no matter how many embarrassing mistakes you made. And diving into that dumpster . . .”