Detective Fox by Isobel Starling
CHAPTER 1
AGENT
“I got you a great gig, Tom. It’s yours for the taking. You don’t even have to audition.”
Tom Lewis lay in his preferred prone position on his agent’s worn black leather couch, where, over the last six months, he regularly flopped down and despaired about the unfairness of being an unemployed actor of such high caliber. He lifted the red velvet cushion that he’d pressed over his face to block out the sound of yet another complaint from his agent—usually along the lines of: “You know if you really wanna get back out there, you’re gonna have to step out of your comfort zone…”
But no, Tom was pretty sure he’d just heard his agent say he’d got him—a—job? Tom sat up, swung his legs off the couch, and stared at his agent with an expression of disbelief on his face. He hadn’t worked since an exposé in the British tabloids about his ‘Shocking Sordid Gay Sexploits’ months before.
Tom Lewis was considered a pin-up for homemakers the length and breadth of the British Isles, and he also had an enthusiastic American fan base too. The forty-five-year-old actor was the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome, with swarthy looks, wavy raven hair to his jaw-line, and eyes so dark brown they appeared black. In the days before the exposé, a topless shot of Tom could send his fans, who gave themselves the moniker Tomkats, into a hormonal Twitter frenzy. But, no matter how straight Tom presented, privately he was 110% gay and believed that the only people who needed to know that fact were the men he wanted to sleep with. It was no one else’s business, and, so rightly, Tom was appalled at being outed, and alarmed by the vitriol of women online who were devastated that their fantasy man loved cock.
Tom’s preference was for younger men. So what if he was on Grindr. Just because he was a well-known actor, it didn’t mean he wasn’t entitled to a private life. Therefore, Tom had enjoyed his private life, hooking up whenever he could fit cock into his busy schedule.
Tom now knew he’d been deluding himself. After all, with such a well-known face, it was only a matter of time before one of his sexual partners recognized him. And so it came to pass. Tom had been chatting online with a hot young thing named Devin, and later enjoyed an evening of very kinky sex with the twenty-year-old he’d met via the dating site. But it turned out that Devin was a trainee reporter for the Scum or The Mail—Tom couldn’t remember which tabloid. It didn’t matter anyway.
Tom narrowed his eyes and considered his agent with consternation. “Jesus Derek, you could have said earlier and stopped me from whinging on and on for the past thirty minutes.” He said, “Come on, what’s the gig? Spill,” Tom urged, suddenly hopeful… maybe even excited.
Tom’s theatrical agent was Derek Bates, whom Tom had privately nicknamed The Master, for obvious reasons. He sat behind a desk piled so high with paperwork that Tom was surprised it didn’t collapse under the weight. Derek was connected, and he was old school—meaning he wasn’t one for tablet computers, PDF files, and new-fangled script software. No siree; Derek wanted paper copies of all scripts his clientele were considered for, in triplicate. Luckily, Derek’s secretary, Arnold was a computer wiz and would get him out of any technical issues that were beyond him—like turning on the desktop computer!
Derek was in his late fifties, ruddy-faced and sporting a blond wig that a certain horrible US president would probably arm-wrestle him for. He had the body of a man who’d enjoyed far too many rich lunches on expenses, and spent too much time on his arse behind a desk.
Derek met Tom’s keen gaze. “I got you a sweet deal under the circumstances. Five weeks at three thousand per week. There’ll be two weeks rehearsal at two grand a week too”, Derek explained, “They were delighted at the chance to have the man who played the famous Detective Fox on their team.”
Tom’s eyes widened at the thought of that kind of money. It was a decent salary, and with the offers drying up after the social media furor from the tabloid stories, it would be very welcome. His credit cards were maxed-out, and he’d been considering selling his Chelsea riverside apartment to make ends meet.
Tom stared at his agent and noticed the shifty look in his eyes. Suddenly, he felt uneasy. Who would want him so badly without an audition? What the hell was this gig?
“Look, I’ve told you a million times, I am NOT doing panto,” Tom scowled.
“Would I do that to you? Would I?” Derek simpered, sounding wounded. There was a lull for a moment while both men eyed one another suspiciously before Derek said “I’ll have you know that I believe Panto is a wonderful British tradition. But, it’s not a pantomime, okay?”
“Jesus, just tell me… is it a sitcom or a movie? Please don’t say it’s a reality show; you know I’d rather crawl over broken glass than appear on one of those.”
Tom was always very picky about his roles, and so far this stubbornness had paid off. But now he was exasperated, teetering on the edge of agreeing to anything just to have something to take his mind off what a clusterfuck his life had become. Three grand a week for five weeks solid work was not to be sniffed at.
“As I said,” Derek continued, “The client would be delighted to have the Famous Detective on board. They thought it would be a great theme to follow—” Derek took a deep rattling breath and then launched over the cliff…“—in investigating who’s been naughty and who’s been nice.”
An icy shiver ran down Tom’s spine. He was a Royal Shakespeare Company-trained actor, for God’s sake.
“You have got to be fucking joking!” Tom roared in his best Detective Fox voice. Derek held his hands up in surrender to try and placate his client.
Tom’s anger melted away “Has it really got THAT bad?” Derek gave a tight-lipped shrug.
“Oh, Gawd.” Tom rested his head in his hands, and a wave of depression engulfed him.
He was officially a failure.
“Hold your horses; hear me out, Tom. Have I ever let you down? Well, have I?”
Tom didn’t even attempt a reply.
“It’s a good gig,” Derek insisted. ”The starring role of Santa for the Hambling’s Department Store Christmas extravaganzahh.” The agent delivered theatrically. There was a long silence, as if Derek was waiting for his ta-da moment. It never came. Tom just looked at him blankly with those scarily dark eyes.
“Hambling’s—err, Tom, you must know Hambling’s?” Derek said nervously to fill the awkward silence.
“Of course, I bloody know Hambling’s,” Tom spat. “It’s London’s most expensive, exclusive department store.”
“Le Blanc did it two years ago—and The Hoff took the gig last year. You should be honored, seriously. They even want you to choose your supporting cast. Isn’t that great? You wouldn’t have to deal with any arseholes who’d run to the papers. Hambling’s has said they’ll make all of the applicants sign confidentiality agreements. They have top-notch security. If you take the job, they’ll give you carte blanche.”
“Supporting cast,” Tom blurted disdainfully “Don’t make me laugh. You mean Elves.” he huffed.
“Come on Tom, will you do it?” Derek pleaded.
“It’s either this, panto or I don’t know. Have you considered teaching?” He exhaled, exasperated. “You can’t go on like this. And, though it pains me to say, seeing you mope around the place, it’s not good for business, and it’s not good for your brand. Did you see the Daily Mail on Tuesday? Apparently, Tom Lewis ‘cut a lonesome figure, much like the character he’s famous for.”
“I was shopping for groceries for Christ’s sake,” Tom roared indignantly “Who the hell is full of the joys of spring when they’re shopping for toilet roll and detergent?” Tom threaded his hands through his thick, dark hair, slumped back on the couch, and then pulled the red velvet cushion back over his face.
There was no way in hell Tom would lower himself to dressing in a red, padded Santa suit. He’d worked hard to become a serious actor, and he’d worked harder on his washboard abs. He’d taken sword fighting lessons, learned to ride a horse, and spent years perfecting his range of accents. Detective Fox was a deeply troubled soul who'd ‘seen too much’, and Tom had dug deep to find the wounded, loner Dick who always solved the case—and had no idea just how devastatingly attractive women found him.
The last series of the show ended with a cliffhanger. The actor who’d played his sidekick, Banks, had been shooting his mouth off on set and causing trouble amongst the cast so, in the show, he was killed off, and Fox never discovered whodunit. The storyline was supposed to be continued as a sub-plot for the new season as Fox tirelessly searched for clues as to who killed his partner.
Tom was sure he’d be back on the show sometime in September, but now the producer was saying it would happen after the New Year, and they would have a less troublesome actor lined up to be the new sidekick. But then there were whispers in the press about recasting Detective Fox, too, and until the producers made a decision, Tom Lewis was in limbo, twiddling his thumbs.
Tom came to a decision. He could not take a role as Santa, not for anyone, no, no, no. Talking about Christmas made him realize that he had no plans for the holidays this year. He was a forty-five-year-old, single, unemployed actor, and in all honesty, he would probably be alone on Christmas Day, drowning his sorrows in a bottle of Bombay Sapphire Gin and a tub of ice cream. It was the most pathetic situation he could imagine. Tom’s closest friends had families or plans to jet off to warmer climes. Tom could barely afford a meal out these days. He would probably get sympathy invites, but the thought of spending the holidays with other people's screaming kids was not a welcome one. Tom could take or leave children—leave them, mostly. He wondered idly if all actors who’d played Santa Claus secretly hated kids eventually.
Tom pondered for a moment longer. Was he really suited to play Santa Claus? Of course, he could play Santa, he was an actor, a professional, for goodness sake, and a friendly old man in a fat suit was well within his range. It would be good to have a reason to get out of bed in the morning, and seven weeks work for nearly twenty grand—now that would see me comfortably into the New Year.
If Tom took the role, he would do it his way. He lay there on his very patient agent's couch and thought about actors he’d admired who‘d played Father Christmas. There was Fred Astaire, and Richard Attenborough, and, more recently Tom Hanks and John Goodman. Lots of successful actors played the big guy, and it hadn’t damaged their careers.
Tom pulled the cushion away from his face and took a deep breath. He grimaced morosely, and then said, “Damn it—tell them I’ll do it. But there’ll be no one-to-one. No hugs. No photography. I’m not having stranger’s kids sitting on my knee, and suing me in twenty years for ruining their childhoods.”
Derek gave a deep gravely laugh. “Atta Boy.” he cheered “I knew you’d say yes. It’s all been arranged. Auditions are on Friday.”
Corpse at Captain's Seat by Josh Lanyon
Chapter One
“Another secret passage?” Ellery Page, owner and proprietor of Pirate Cove’s only mystery bookshop, balanced the phone receiver between his cheek and shoulder as he hurried to finish the Crow’s Nest’s payroll. With house guests arriving for the weekend, he was in a rush to wrap things up within the next hour, so he could get over to the ferry landing.
“We can’t be sure unless we open the wall up,” Tony Brambilla, Ellery’s contractor, was saying.
Brambilla and Sons had managed to pull off something close to a miracle as they’d worked to finish renovations on Captain’s Seat before the winter—and Ellery’s guests—set in. When Ellery had inherited the dilapidated 18th century mansion after the death of his Great-aunt Eudora nine months earlier, the place had been just about ready for the wrecking ball. A recent fire on the second floor had not helped matters.
Ellery said quickly, “No! Don’t open any walls. My friends are arriving on the one o’clock ferry.”
“All righty. Well, that door on the leeward side bedroom no longer sticks and the loose floorboards have been repaired. If there is a passage behind that wall, it probably connects to the tunnel opening onto the library.”
During the extensive renovations, no less than two separate secret passages had been discovered within the walls of Captain’s Seat. That was not unusual for the oldest buildings on an island that had once served as a pirate hideout. However, as exciting as was the sound of secret passages, the walkways inside Captain’s Seat had turned out to be dank, dark tunnels filled with empty broken crates, spiders—one of Ellery’s least favorite things—and not much else. One day he’d get around to fully exploring those interior alleys, but they were low priority. After all, he’d happily lived nearly a year in the old mansion without even realizing they were there.
“Enjoy your house,” Tony was saying. “In the spring, we can talk about tackling those structural cracks in the cellar.”
Ellery’s heart sank at the words structural cracks, but he said with determined good cheer, “Yes. Thanks for all your hard work, Tony. Captain’s Seat is like a different house.” A house not in imminent peril of spontaneously combusting every time he flipped a light switch.
“It’s good to have Pages on the island again.”
That sentiment seemed to be broadly held on the island, but it still surprised and touched Ellery. Prior to inheriting Captain’s Seat, he hadn’t even known Buck Island existed—let alone his Great-aunt Eudora.
He ended the phone call with Tony, firmly blocking out all thoughts of structural cracks. He was just finishing up the payroll as the doorbell chimed in welcome and Nora Sweeney, his assistant manager, returned from lunch.
Nora was a wisp of a woman, just over five feet in her sensible shoes. Her eyes were the color of steel and she wore her long gray hair in a severe ponytail. Though prone to gossip and wild flights of imagination, she was clever, loyal, and boundlessly energetic. In addition to her vast knowledge of the island and all its inhabitants (past and present) Nora possessed an encyclopedic knowledge of mystery, which had proved beyond valuable to Ellery. Before inheriting the Crow’s Nest, he’d had zero interest in crime, either real or fictional.
What a difference a few months could make!
Watson, Ellery’s black-spaniel-mix puppy, hopped down from the long wooden library bench where he had been gazing solemnly out the picture windows at the empty cobblestone streets.
Pirate’s Cove in November looked suspiciously like a ghost town, right down to the eerie tendrils of white mist winding around hanging signs and plant urns and porch columns. It was hard to remember that just two months earlier, tourists had crowded the streets, buzzing around in rented golf carts and filling up the beaches, shops, and cafés. Filling up local cash registers as well.
Nora stooped to pat Watson. “Looks like we’re going to have snow this weekend,” she announced.
“You’re kidding.” Ellery went to the windows, gazing out at the ominous leaden skies and white capped harbor. Granted, ominous was normal for this time of year. “A lot of snow?”
Nora unwound her long red scarf. “I shouldn’t think so, dearie. Not this early in the season. February’s the worst month for snow. This time of year, we won’t see much beyond a little powder. It’ll provide a bit of local color.”
“Right.” He was already regretting his decision to not invest in a backup generator. But money only stretched so far, and the roof, plumbing, and electrical wiring had taken precedence.
Nora joined him at the windows, musing, “I hope your friends won’t have too rough a crossing.”
Yikes. “Me too.”
For a moment or two they watched the wind gusting across the waves, rocking the scattered boats in the harbor.
Yes, the island could be a bit desolate this time of year.
As though reading Ellery’s mind, Nora said, “I don’t suppose your friends will be all that interested in outdoor activities anyway.”
“No. True.” Ellery glanced down at Watson, who wagged his tail hopefully. “Let me finish up a few things, buddy. Then we’ll go for a you-know-what.” To Nora, he said, “Tony Brambilla says they think they’ve discovered another hidden passageway, but they can’t be sure without opening the wall up.”
Nora’s eyes kindled with excitement. “That makes sense. Captain’s Seat is nearly as old as the Pirate Eight.”
The Pirate Eight were the first manor houses built on Buck Island. All eight homes had started out as pirate fortresses.
“Why would Captain Horatio Page have needed a bunch of secret passages? He wasn’t a pirate.”
“True, but he was surrounded by pirates.”
Ellery considered that cryptic remark as he returned to his office to make sure he hadn’t left anything pressing undone. This was the first long weekend he’d taken since moving to the island—not counting two weeks of convalescing from a concussion sustained while snooping.
As he was checking his email one final time, Jack phoned.
Jack Carson was Pirate Cove’s chief of police and Ellery’s boyfriend—in fact, he was now Ellery’s fiancé. A delightful fact Ellery was still getting used to.
“Hi, what time are you heading over to the ferry?”
Ellery glanced distractedly at the clock. “Two. Are you going to be able to get away tonight?”
“That’s the plan,” Jack said. “Do you need me to bring anything or—?”
“No. Just you.”
Jack made a sound of amusement. “I think I can manage that. How many of your old crew are arriving this afternoon?”
“Flip, Tosh, Lenny, and Chelsea. Tomorrow we’ve got Oscar, Freddie and Belle.”
“Okay. And Tosh and Freddie used to be married?” That was quintessential Jack, making sure he had the cast of characters straight. Jack was not a play-it-by-ear guy. He was a show-up- on-time-and-know-your-lines guy.
“Correct.”
“But that’s not going to be awkward because it was a long time ago and everyone is over it.”
“Right. Hopefully.”
“And Belle and Oscar used to date, but now she’s dating an English peer.”
It sounded kind of ridiculous when Jack put it like that, but was nonetheless accurate.
“Yes.”
“And you’re confident we’re going to get through the weekend without them killing each other because they haven’t killed each other yet.”
Ellery spluttered a laugh. “Something like that. I mean, it’s all ancient history.”
“Yeah, why doesn’t that reassure me?” Jack sounded wry. “Have you seen the weather report for the weekend?”
“Nora says it’s going to snow.”
“She’s not the only one. You might want to chop some extra firewood. Just in case.”
That was a good thought—and so very Jack.
Ellery said, “Will do. Anyway, getting snowed in could be fun.”
“Getting snowed in could be very fun, although probably less fun with a crowd.”
Ellery’s mouth curved. “I can’t argue with that. But we’ll have other snow days.” He could say that now with confidence.
“That we will,” Jack said, and Ellery could hear the smile in his voice.
The sea surrounding Buck Island was more than a body of water. For centuries that mysterious deep had created a barricade against the outside world and shaped the character of the islanders. It remained a constant presence, hovering on the edge of the island’s every interaction. The sound of it filled the dark nights, its blue shadow provided the backdrop of every single day.
As Ellery waited for the ferry, he could taste the sea on the raw east wind, smell it as the winter-rough water tumbled and roiled golden strands of seaweed. A clammy mist clung to his skin. Watson repeatedly shook himself as though trying to rid himself of the salty sting.
The ferry was late by nearly twenty minutes, and when it finally docked, only a handful of slightly green passengers stumbled down the gangplank. Most of them seemed to be Ellery’s friends.
“Ellery!” Tosh waved to him, towing Lenny along.
“Ahoy!” Ellery waved back. “Welcome to Pirate’s Cove!”
Tosh and Lenny were followed by Flip, who looked like a well-groomed ghost (right down to the phosphorescent tinge of his face) and Chelsea, huffing and puffing as she dragged a mountain of luggage behind her.
Watson, who had never met any of these people in his brief life, nonetheless began to bark as though he’d spotted long-lost comrades.
Arf! Arf! Arf!
“Oh, my gosh, he’s SO cute!” Tosh’s voice rang across the water.
Unsurprisingly, Tosh—tall, red-haired, and boundlessly energetic—seemed the least bothered by what had clearly been a rough trip from Point Judith.
Ellery started down the concrete walkway, and everyone spent the next few minutes hugging and kissing hello.
“I can’t believe you’re finally here,” Ellery told them.
Arf! Arf! Arf! Watson seconded.
“Same,” Lenny moaned. “If I’d realized we had to round flipping Cape Horn…”
Tosh said, “Ell, you look terrific! You’re like a walking ad for J. Crew. Here, take Lenny before she falls into the harbor. Our luggage is still onboard.”
Ellery stopped hugging Flip—Phillip Daly to talent agents and casting directors—in order to receive Lenny, or “Goth Girl” as they’d referred to her back in the day. Lenny was small and wiry with black-green hair and wide green eyes. Usually, her eyes were wide. At the moment, they showed a tendency to roll back in her head.
“Ugh,” Lenny moaned, and sank through Ellery’s hold in order to sit on the cement. “Another three minutes and I’d have thrown myself overboard.”
“That happens a lot in these parts.” He moved to help Chelsea with the tower of suitcases she was attempting to haul single-handedly up the walkway. He called after Tosh, “Wait. Isn’t this your luggage?”
Flip and Lenny laughed. “That’s just Chelsea’s gear,” Flip told Ellery.
“Hey, I’m past the age of living out of a knapsack,” Chelsea snapped.
Ellery did a doubletake. Not at the luggage. At Chelsea.
Chelsea was, without question, the most gifted actor in their clique, but off-stage she had always made a point of scorning any kind of (her word) artifice. She was average height, average weight and, regardless of the season, preferred to dress in jeans and flannel shirts. As long as Ellery had known her, she’d worn her lank brown hair to her shoulders and avoided any makeup more elaborate than lip balm. But now?
Now Chelsea’s brown hair was stylishly cut and gilded with coppery highlights. She wore lash extensions and had clearly had lip injections. Like Tosh, she wore combat boots, jeans, and a black parka that, except for the color, looked exactly like Tosh’s teal one.
“Wow. Chelsea. I almost didn’t recognize you behind all those suitcases.”
Chelsea knew exactly what he meant. Her smile was sour. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
“And that’s just her hair products,” Flip put in.
Chelsea made a face at him. “Ha. Ha.”
“Help,” Lenny moaned. She was now flat on the cement as Watson worked frantically to deliver mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.
Ellery abandoned Chelsea’s luggage and went to rescue Lenny. He scooped up Watson who, knowing his life-saving work was not done, objected loudly. An elderly seagull perched on the white railing, was offended by such language, and began to offer his views.
The remaining passengers straggling off the ferry gave their impromptu theatrical production wide berth.
“Where are you parked, Ell?” Flip drew Lenny to her feet.
“It’s the navy-blue VW behind the snack bar. I think we can all squeeze in, but I hired a taxi to bring your luggage to the house.”
“You didn’t have to do that.” Chelsea looked more uneasy than relieved.
But yeah, unless Ellery wanted to make several trips to and from the ferry landing, he had to do that. “Common procedure. No worries. Ezra won’t lose your luggage.”
Chelsea looked unconvinced.
Lenny, half-draped over Flip’s shoulder, said, “Someone should tell Ell about the escaped maniac.”
Naturally, Ellery laughed. Chelsea said, “You only think she’s kidding.”
“Here’s Tosh,” Flip said, and they all turned to watch Tosh ably steering two large suitcases down the gangplank. The wheels of the luggage thumped noisily on the aluminum and carbon fiber ramp.
Watson, firmly clamped beneath Ellery’s arm, wriggled to get down, shouting enthusiastic greetings, as though Tosh had just returned from an overseas voyage.
“Did you tell him about the homicidal maniac?” Tosh was only slightly out of breath as she rejoined them.
Ellery laughed again.
“He doesn’t believe us,” Lenny said.
Flip said, “Yeah, but really.”
“Oh, come on.”
Tosh shook her fiery hair back, saying earnestly, “No, Ell, listen. When we got to the ferry terminal there were all these cop cars with flashing lights. We asked what was going on, and one of the officers said a patient had escaped from the Rhode Island State Psychiatric Hospital, and that they had reason to believe he was going to try to get to Buck Island.”
Ellery rolled his eyes. “Okay. Sure. Do they call him the Cat?”
“What?” Tosh was confused. She looked at Flip.
“Or does he have a hook for a hand?”
Flip snorted, but said, “We’re not making this up.”
“Okay, maybe it’s a mass hallucination. All that fresh air at once could be dangerous for you city folk.”
“City folk?” retorted Tosh. “Who are you supposed to be? Rilla of the Lighthouse?”
Ellery laughed.
“Okay, but seriously,” Lenny said. “And then once we boarded, the crew came around and checked all our tickets again.”
“Well, there you go,” Ellery said. “We all know the only reason to collect tickets is to prevent homicidal maniacs from enjoying free rides.”
“Okay, but there weren’t that many passengers. And after they checked our tickets, the crew started searching the boat. They were trying to pretend it was standard procedure, but come on! They were checking the lifejacket storage bins. They were obviously looking for someone who shouldn’t have been on board.”
Chelsea said, “We’re not saying he actually got on the boat. Just that they were obviously worried he might have.”
Flip said, “I know it sounds like one of those spooky campfire tales, but—”
It seemed some things never changed.
Ellery was half-amused, half-exasperated. “You know, it’s not like I’ve forgotten we did The Cat and the Canary at Tisch.”
Flip, Tosh, Lenny, and Chelsea all looked at each other with varying degrees of blankness.
Ellery prompted, “Eccentric Uncle Cyrus dies and leaves his estate to his niece Annabelle with the stipulation she has to spend the night in the creepy family mansion, but then when Annabelle and the other heirs arrive at Haunted Hollow, they’re stalked by a mysterious figure they believe to be the Cat, an escapee from the local asylum who’s hiding out in the secret passages. I know you remember. Flip was the Cat and Noah played Uncle Cyrus.”
Noah. Wow. He felt a pang at that memory.
“Noah. That’s right,” Flip murmured.
“Oh,” Tosh said. “I do remember. I played Annabelle. You were Charlie.”
“You were terrible,” Chelsea informed Ellery.
“I know.”
Tosh said vaguely, “Noah. God.” She glanced at Lenny, who was frowning at the ferry as if still waiting for a final passenger to disembark.
Ellery uneasily studied the Pirate Queen, rocking back and forth in her mooring.
Was something going on with the crew? There seemed to be a lot of serious-faced conferencing going on between the crew members gathered at the stern of the ship.
“I’m pretty sure you’re the only one who even remembers that production,” Tosh said. “But even if it is a funny coincidence, why on earth would we make up a story like this?”
“Why would you saran-wrap me to the sofa?”
Tosh and Lenny started giggling. Flip looked slightly guilty. Chelsea said, “You looked chilly lying there.”
“Why would you pose a demon mannequin in my closet? Why would you—”
Flip interrupted, “Okay, yes, we all love practical jokes. Let’s not forget, you’re the one who put that demon mannequin in my bed.”
“Oh, that was brilliant!” Tosh exclaimed. “They heard your scream all the way over in Manhattan.”
Flip made a face at her.
“You put a fake tarantula in my oatmeal!” Ellery was laughing though. They were all laughing.
“Oops. That was me,” Chelsea admitted. “I lied about it being Flip’s idea.”
“Anyway,” Flip said, “Your boyfriend’s the chief of police, right? Why not ask him?”
The Voluptuous Vixen by Frank W Butterfield
Prologue
1198 Sacramento Street
San Francisco, Cal.
Saturday, August 7, 1954
About a quarter until noon
I knocked on the door of my old bedroom. We'd only been living in my family home for a few weeks, so it still seemed odd to me to see that familiar door behind which I'd spent many lonely, frustrated, and angry hours.
My father opened the door and smiled. "Come in, boys." Carter, my handsome ex-fireman of a husband, pushed me forward and we walked inside.
Alex LeBeau, the groom, was looking handsome in his wedding suit. As part of our gift to the happy couple, we'd arranged for him to get outfitted for not only the day of his wedding to my stepsister, Marnie Wilson, but also for their honeymoon. According to Marnie, he'd balked at the idea. The notion of two men giving another man a bunch of clothes to wear was just too strange for him. But, when she'd shown him her new outfits for their honeymoon, a gift from her mother, he'd finally given in and let us help.
Alex's father, one Mr. Victor LeBeau, was standing next to his son. They were speaking softly in French. Mr. LeBeau, and his wife Sophie, had immigrated from France back in the 20s. Alex, born Alexandre, was only four years old at the time and had grown up in the City. He might have been born French, but he was definitely an all-American kid. He even played baseball every Saturday afternoon in a beer league. He was a year older than me, but he was still a kid in my eyes.
Both his father and his mother worked for the City of Paris, the department store down at Union Square. They lived in a small apartment at the corner of Vallejo and Stockton, and took the cable car down Powell Street to work each morning.
When Alex had proposed to Marnie about a month earlier, she'd readily agreed and we were all happy for her. I had been worried that she might want to quit working as my indispensable secretary but, a few days earlier, she'd sat down with us over dinner and explained that she and Alex were in agreement that she would work after they got married. Marnie even told us they weren't sure about having children, which was somehow unsettling in a way that was confusing.
In the meantime, they were getting married at our house, a big pile of rocks on Nob Hill at the corner of Sacramento and Taylor. Her own mother had married my father back in April over at Grace Cathedral. That event had turned into a big brouhaha, so she'd asked us if they could get married here.
We'd happily agreed and now the big day had arrived. Once they were married, they were driving down to the new house that my father had just bought on the coast south of Carmel and then, on Wednesday, they were sailing on the S.S. Hilo to Honolulu. Once they arrived the following Sunday, they would be spending two weeks at the "Pink Palace," also known as the Royal Hawaiian Hotel, on the beaches of Waikiki. The trip had been part of our gift as well. We even managed to get them the best rooms on the ship and in the hotel, courtesy of the efforts of Ralph, my intrepid travel agent.
I walked over to Alex and his father. They looked up and his father smiled. Alex, on the other hand, looked nervous. "Well?" I asked.
Rubbing his hands together, Alex sighed. "If this is supposed to be the happiest day of my life, then why am I so danged nervous?"
I laughed and said, "Can't help you there but I bet my father can since he just got hitched himself."
My father harrumphed behind me and said, "Leticia and I did not get 'hitched,' Nicholas. We were betrothed. And, Alex, my boy, I was just as nervous as you even though I'm a good thirty years older."
Mr. LeBeau nodded. "Alors, this is what I tell you, mon fils. It is normal. If you were not nervous, then I would be concerned."
Alex nodded and said, "Thank you, Papa." He quickly hugged his father and then stepped back. Looking around the room, he asked me, "Isn't it weird to be in your old bedroom like this?"
I laughed and said, "You have no idea."
My father cleared his throat and asked, "Where is that Charlie Woodmore?" He was Alex's best friend and his best man for the ceremony. They had been swimmers at St. Ignatius Preparatory School, which I had attended as well. Although "attend" was stretching things a bit. I had a faint memory of the two of them but mostly what I remembered were the many days that I played hooky, particularly at the end.
Carter said, "He should be here in a minute or two. He was taking care of some last minute things."
Alex sighed dramatically. "Did you help him?"
Carter crossed his massive arms and replied, "I'll have to take the fifth, Your Honor."
Charlie and a handful of their friends had been decorating Alex's 1949 Ford Coupe by stringing up tin cans to the rear fender. Carter had lent a hand. I'd decided to be Switzerland, and remain neutral on the matter.
Right at that moment, Charlie burst in the door, and said, "Come on Al. Time to get a move on, boy."
Charlie had the same build as Alex. Both were long and lean. Alex had dark brown hair with brown eyes while Charlie had dusty blond hair that tended to fly around in the wind no matter how much pomade he rubbed in. His blue eyes sparkled in the sunlight. He was attractive, that was for sure. They both still swam as much as they could, even down in the chilly waters at Ocean Beach.
Charlie's wife, Eva, was one of the gals standing up with Marnie, along with her cousin from down in Burlingame, a sweet girl of 20 or so by the name of Hilda. Marnie's matron of honor was another cousin, a woman of about 35, who lived in Hercules, a small town across the bay. Theresa was busty and, I had noticed, had picked a dress a little too small for her figure. Her husband, Jake, seemed to like it. Marnie had once called him a horn-dog and after spending some time with him the night before during the rehearsal dinner, I could understand why. He couldn't stop talking about Theresa's rack. Even to Carter and me.
Besides Charlie, two of Alex's friends, Ron and Jeff, were standing with him. Ron was a real estate agent, something he'd reminded me about forty times in the last twenty-four hours. Jeff was a police sergeant who worked at the Mission Station and had, so far, kept his distance from Carter and me.
After Charlie combed his hair back in place, Carter and I headed out along the hall and down the stairs to the great room where everyone was waiting. My father and Mr. LeBeau were behind us. Alex and Charlie brought up the rear.
We hadn't set up chairs. Instead, everyone was standing. There was a buffet spread already laid out by our amazing cook, Mrs. Strakova. Drinks were being served by our butler, Gustav, and his boyfriend (and our gardener and occasional chauffeur), Ferdinand. Our housekeeper, Mrs. Kopek, was assisting the kitchen along with a couple of girls hired for the day.
The room was packed with guests from both families. In keeping with tradition, the groom's family and friends were generally on the right, behind his parents. Marnie's crowd was standing behind her mother, and my stepmother, the redoubtable Lettie.
My father walked back into our office, where Marnie had been stashed away for the duration. Since her father was nowhere to be found, Dr. Parnell Williams would be doing the honor as her stepfather. Once the rest of us were all in place, the minister motioned to a string quartet seated by the garden door who stopped playing Mozart and began to play the Wedding March from Lohengrin.
We all turned and watched as Marnie stepped slowly out of the office on my father's arm and began to make her way down the aisle marked by ribbons tied on small wooden posts. She was dressed in white. Her dress was plain and had a long train and she was gorgeous in it. She'd had what Carter's mother had called, "a full morning of beauty," and looked amazing. She'd always been cute. But as she walked down the aisle she looked, well, radiant.
. . .
Once the ceremony was over, Paul Verdier, the President of the City of Paris company and a strikingly handsome man in his early 70s, announced his gift for the couple. It was a very large bottle of French champagne without a label. The bottle rested on a cart and was secured in such a way that allowed it to be tilted for pouring. It had been bottled a few years earlier in France and brought over and added to Mr. Verdier's personal cellar. He supervised one of his employees, a young man of about 25, who carefully opened the large bottle. After everyone had a glass, Mr. Verdier made the first toast to the happy couple. It was all in French and, by the way that Alex's parents both laughed long and hard while Alex turned bright red, it must have been a doozy.
We'd planned four initial toasts, and I was up next. I hadn't thought too hard about what I wanted to say because most of it was too sappy and sloppy. Once the cheering was over, Mr. Verdier said, "Now it's time for Nick, the bride's brother, to toast the bride and groom."
I stepped in front of the fireplace and lifted my glass to Marnie and Alex, who were standing right next to me. "To the best darn stepsister a guy could ever want." I looked around the room and could suddenly hear my own sister's laughter drifting down from upstairs. Janet had been gone for over year, but now living there, in the house we'd grown up in, made me think of her more than I had in all the years after I'd left.
I caught Carter looking at me with a crease of concern on his forehead. He winked at me and smiled. I nodded and continued, "And to Alex, her new husband and my new brother. May you both have years and years of joy and happiness together. To Marnie and Alex!"
Everyone in the room repeated, "To Marnie and Alex!" Marnie stepped next to me and gave me a hug. "Thanks, Nick. I love you."
"I love you, too, doll."
She giggled and stepped back as Alex came forward and shook my hand. "Thanks, Nick."
"Welcome to the family, Alex. We're all a little crazy, but don't worry. I'm sure you'll do just fine."
Alex and Marnie both laughed at that. I turned back to the room and said, "And now it's time for Mr. LeBeau to give his toast."
. . .
Carter and I were walking through the crowd to make it over to the buffet. He wanted more of the puffed pastry with beef in it. And I wanted more caviar. An elegant woman in her 50s, who was holding a small plate of the puffed pastry, stopped us and asked, "You are Mr. Williams, oui?"
I nodded and said, "I am." Motioning to my husband, I said, "And this is Carter Jones." She smiled and nodded. I said, "Thank you for being here. Are you a friend of Alex's parents?"
"Oui. I am Mrs. Anne-Marie Boudier. I work for Mr. Veladier. Are you familiar with the Normandy Lane?"
Carter said, "We first discovered it at Christmas, as a matter of fact." This was an area in the basement of the store that had little shops that, I'd heard, were like the stores in France. There was a cigarette counter, a place to buy bread and pastries, and a little restaurant where they turned meat on a spit.
"I work in the patisserie, the bakery." She picked up one of the pastries. "Who is the person that is cooking these delights? Surely you must have someone from France who works for you?"
I shook my head. "Our cook is from Czechoslovakia. The east part, near Poland."
The woman shook her head. "Non. That is not possible. This has the flavor of Paris. I can taste the time before the war in these foods."
I shrugged. "Maybe Mrs. Strakova lived in Paris before the war. I know she owned her own restaurant at one time. Would you like to meet her?"
Mrs. Boudier nodded.
Carter, who had been stretching his neck to see if any of those pastries were left, put his hand on my shoulder, and said to the woman, "But, only if you promise to not try to hire her."
Mrs. Boudier laughed and nodded her head. "Yes, of course." She put her hand on her heart and said, "I promise."
I said, "Stay right here and let me see what's happening in the kitchen." Without waiting for a reply, and knowing that Carter wouldn't abandon his post, I strode across the dining room and into the kitchen.
Mrs. Strakova was sitting at the kitchen table, eating a sandwich, while the two girls were putting out new plates. As always, the cook was calm and placid will everyone else was running around. Seeing me, she quickly stood up. "Mr. Nick? Is anything wrong?"
I shook my head. "Not at all. The food is amazing, as always. There is a woman outside who used to live in Paris and claims you must be French." I noticed that Mrs. Strakova looked down when I said that. "She'd like to meet you, if you're not too busy."
The older woman took a deep breath and sighed. "Oh, yes, that is fine."
"Are you sure?"
"Oh, yes." She didn't look happy.
"I can ask her to come by the house some other time, if you'd like."
"No, no. Let's get this over with."
"What?" I asked.
"It is nothing. Now would be a good time, Mr. Nick. Not so busy."
I nodded and asked, "Can I take a plate of those puff pastries with beef to Carter?"
Mrs. Strakova's eyes widened in delight, and she smiled. "Oh, yes! Does he like? I made them for him."
I nodded enthusiastically. "He likes them a lot."
. . .
With plate in hand, I made my way over to where Carter and Mrs. Boudier were standing. Carter broke into a huge grin when he saw what I was carrying. I handed him the plate, offered my arm to Mrs. Boudier, and away we went.
When I opened the kitchen door, I saw that Mrs. Strakova was standing by the table as though she was ready for the firing squad. As Mrs. Boudier walked in and looked around, she suddenly stopped and said loudly, "La ZaZa!! Non! This cannot be!"
Mrs. Strakova looked downward. The French woman said, "Mr. Williams! How can you hide this from the rest of San Francisco?"
"Hide what?"
"She." She nodded at Mrs. Strakova. "You have the most famous woman chef of the 1930s working for you!" Walking over to where Mrs. Strakova was standing, Mrs. Boudier reached out and offered the cook a kiss on both cheeks and began to speak rapidly in French. Mrs. Strakova nodded and replied in the same language.
Meanwhile, behind me, I heard the kitchen door open and a gasp. I turned and saw Mr. Veladier coming through with Mr. LeBeau behind him. Mr. Veladier grabbed my hand enthusiastically. "So! It is true! La ZaZa works for you, Mr. Williams!"
I just shrugged. As Mr. Veladier walked over to join the two ladies, Mr. LeBeau stood by me and quietly said, "She was in the resistance, and it was said that she died before the liberation. And, then, poof! Now she is working in your kitchen."
By this time, there was a steady flow of people streaming in, all exclaiming in French. I looked around and said, "Let me find Mrs. Kopek before this gets out of hand." Before I could get through the crowd, Mrs. Kopek herself came in and managed to squeeze her way over to me.
Looking at her, I asked, "Did you know Mrs. Strakova was a famous chef in Paris before the war?" The two of them had grown up together in what had become Czechoslovakia. But Mrs. Kopek had been in San Francisco since 1935, so she might not have known about any of this.
She looked up at me in wonder and shook her head. "No. I know none of this. So strange she no tell me. But, then again, we no talk about the war much. Too many bad memories."
Mr. LeBeau nodded and said to Mrs. Kopek, "She was in the resistance. It is said that she murdered several German officers through her cooking. She could make it look like a heart attack.
Mrs. Kopek smiled wanly. "Now this." She wagged her finger. "This does not surprise me."
. . .
Once the uproar in the kitchen had settled down, I found my way over to Carter. He was still munching on his personal set of pastries while talking with Jeff, the groomsman who was a police sergeant at Mission Station.
"Where you there the night he came in?" That was Carter.
Jeff nodded. "No. But I heard about it after he was murdered. You two were the ones who caught the men who did it, right?"
Carter said, "Along with our friend Mike Robertson, who used to be a lieutenant at North Station."
I looked around for Mike but couldn't see him. I wondered if he'd taken his date upstairs for a "tour of the house."
Jeff took a drink of champagne and nodded thoughtfully. "I never heard what the whole story was."
Carter said, "These two brothers were trying to be mobsters. One of them had done a job for us back a few years ago when we put a safe in our basement."
"That was over in Eureka Valley," I added.
Jeff took another sip.
Carter continued, "So, one of them was working for the construction company that's building Nick's new office building."
Looking at me, Jeff asked, "And you own that construction company, now, right?"
I nodded. "Yeah. The second brother, the one who worked for them, murdered the President of the company. The board wanted to sell out and it looked like a good deal."
Carter shook his head. "Don't let him fool you. Nick isn't a businessman. He just wanted to put one of our friends in her own company. And, of course, he was right. She's already got more work than she can deal with."
"She?"
I nodded. "One of the gals who lived next door to us over on Hartford Street."
Jeff's eyes boggled for a moment when he realized I was talking about a "lady couple." That was a term that Carter liked to use.
Picking the story back up, Carter said, "So, these two clowns end up burning down our house to cover for the fact that they looted our safe. And then they try to get the playwright next door to us to admit he did it. That part is still fuzzy to me."
I looked up at Carter. "They threatened to burn down his house."
"Oh yeah, I forgot about that."
Jeff shook his head. "And then I heard the lieutenant at North Station, who was in charge of the case, resigned as soon as it was over."
I nodded but didn't explain that he had done so before he was exposed in a blackmail scheme. And that he now worked for us. And was that he was Mike's date and was probably upstairs involved in some highly unnatural relations. I figured Jeff would find all that out later from Alex. Or most of it, anyway.
. . .
The time had come for the happy couple to get on the road. By the stretched smile on Marnie's face, I could tell she was ready. They had both changed into more comfortable clothes. Marnie was wearing a pale green skirt under a coat of the same color and a frilly white blouse. Alex was in light brown trousers and a checked coat with big shoulders and a wide lapel. They both looked worn out and happy, all at the same time.
The party moved out onto the sidewalk on Sacramento Street. Alex's Ford was running and ready for them to jump in and go. But Marnie still needed to throw the bouquet. Standing on the edge of the top step of the stairs leading to the front door of the house, Marnie called all the unmarried gals to gather around. There weren't that many, but they made a show of it. She reached back and threw the flowers up in the air.
Since I was standing by the car, I didn't see what happened next, but apparently, in tossing the flowers, Marnie's right foot slipped down the edge of the step and, in an attempt to catch herself, she twisted her left ankle, which then crumbled underneath her. As she fell, she managed to collapse onto her cousin Charlene who then fell onto one of the gals from the department store. She tried not to fall too hard on anyone and stuck out her left hand. In doing so, she broke her arm as it hit the marble step below.
As Lettie said later at the hospital, "If this is the worst that happens, they'll do just fine."
Robert Riverton: Mail-Order Bride by Eli Easton
Chapter One
March 15, 1860
New York City
“It was from Aunt Dinah’s quilting party, I was seeing Nellie home!”
Robby’s melodic tenor echoed in the narrow corridors backstage as he made his way to his dressing room. He exchanged winks, grins, or backslaps with everyone who squeezed past him. He was in a damned pleasant mood. The standing ovation they’d just received had put him on top of the world.
“Seeeing Nellie hoooome!” he bellowed in the big finish as he banged into his dressing room. His name, ROBBY RIVERTON, was on the door, and there was a water pitcher and a single rose on the table. This was the good life.
He plopped down at his dressing table. In the mirror Jenny Daley appeared, looking like an exotic flower in her red kimono. She leaned against the doorframe. “How you have a scrap of energy after three shows a day, I’ll never know.”
“Tis the reward of a pure and saintly heart,” Robby said, laying on a thick Irish brogue.
“Bollocks. You’re depressingly young. That’s all.”
Jenny Daley was a huge star of the New York stage. She played Lady Macbeth in their current production, and easily convinced the audience she could bend a man to her will with her raven hair and green eyes. She’d managed to outrun her age so far, though Robby figured she had to be nearing forty.
“You hardly even break a sweat,” Jenny complained.
“Nonsense. I’m wet as the Hudson in unmentionable places. Lord, I’m parched.” Robby reached for the pitcher. It was vilely hot onstage, especially under the costumes and makeup. He tilted the china pitcher over a glass, but nothing came out.
“Flory!” he bellowed. He went to the doorway, squishing Jenny aside, and stuck his head out. “Flory!”
Jenny stuck a delicate finger in her ear. “And to think I once had excellent hearing.”
Flory, a mousy little thing of about fourteen, came running. “Yes, Mr. Riverton?”
Robby ignored the hearts in her eyes. “My pitcher is empty again. How many times must I remind you to keep it filled?”
Her face fell. “Sorry, Mr. Riverton.” She bobbed a curtsy and ran off with the pitcher. With a huff, Robby returned to his chair.
“Don’t be hard on the girl,” Jenny tsked. “She’s awfully mashed on you, Robby.”
Robby began wiping off his makeup. “You forget, I was that girl. I labored backstage for four years, and I always had water ready for the actors.”
“Yes, but you are smart and capable,” Jenny said gently. “Thank God not everyone is, or we’d have even more competition than we have now.”
Robby gave her a smile in the mirror. “You’re right. Though how you stay so humble, I’ll never know.”
She made a face. “I’ve been set down a peg or two in my life. Now, are you coming out with us tonight? Don’t tell me you’re working, for I shall despair if you say no.”
Robby grimaced. “Not tonight, me bonny lass. I have an audition tomorrow. Need to memorize my lines.”
“Oh? What’s the play?” Jenny slunk into the room with renewed interest.
“Nick of the Woods at the Tripler.” Longing shot through Robby’s chest. He really wanted this role.
“Ooh! That ghastly thing?” She looked delighted.
“Yes, life in the wilds of Kentucky. It’s quite bloody, you know.”
“The play is? Or the real Kentucky?”
“Both.”
She shuddered. “Lands. You couldn’t drag me any farther west than Philadelphia.”
“I concur. But playing a frontiersman would be loads of fun. Don’t you think? All that growling and snarling and…hair.” Robby made claws with his hands and grimaced horribly at her in the mirror.
She laughed. “Darling, you growl like a kitten. You’d sooner be cast as Nick’s wife. Want to borrow my red dress for the audition?” She smiled at him prettily.
“Nick doesn’t have a wife. He has animal pelts, and knives, and a vengeful heart.”
“Pity. You’d be a shoe-in for Mrs. Of-the-Woods.”
Robby would never live down the fact that his first big break at Burton’s New Theater had been in a female role. He’d been working in costuming when the actress playing Ophelia fell ill with the flu, as did the understudy and several other cast members. Hamlet had been his mother’s favorite, and Robby had every line of the play memorized. He’d stepped forward and, at nineteen, got his first role on stage. The audience and critics had loved his “tender insanity.”
Well, why not? Men played women’s roles in the olden days. If anything, Robby considered it a double feat of acting—playing the part of “Miss Angeline Smith” who was playing the role of Ophelia. He was blasted proud of that performance.
“I can growl,” he said firmly. “When you come see me in Nick of the Woods, I shall put you into convulsions of terror.”
“Well, good luck, my bene boy. We shall miss you tonight. You know what they say about all work and no play.”
She kissed his cheek and glided from the room, a picture of grace.
She didn’t give Robby the chance to respond, but what he said about all work and no play was that if he were very diligent, and very lucky, he might one day be as famous as Jenny Daley.
Robby finished removing his makeup, thanked Flory and gave her a sweet smile when she returned with water, and put on an undershirt and dressing gown. He settled down with a bottle of wine an admirer had sent backstage, turned up the lantern to its highest pitch, and dove into the realm of the dreadful Nick. He paced and grimaced, shouted and groaned.
He could growl, damn it. He needed a role like Nick. He’d been playing pretty boys for five years now, always the son or the young, naive lover. Hence his role as MacDuff’s son in the current production and not Macbeth. He needed to prove he was ready for mature roles despite his baby face.
He was so focused on his task that he lost track of time. Then tiredness hit him like a sledgehammer from out of the blue, and he could barely keep his eyes open. He glanced at his pocket watch. It was just after midnight. The unsavory elements would be out and about, and it was a twelve-block trek to Mrs. Grassley’s boarding house. He should have left hours ago.
When he exited the back door of the theater, the sky was pitch black and the city was transformed by the flicker and shadow of gas lamps. It was cold, the sort of cold that made the inside of your nose crisp and brought tears to your eyes. Robby pulled on his gloves, struggling with them under the back door’s gas light. At least the cold woke him up. If he walked fast, he’d be home in no time.
Only he got no farther than one step. He was suddenly aware that near the opening of the alley were moving shapes. There was a shouted, “No, please,” and a barely there snick of a knife.
Robby blinked in surprise. His eyes adjusted to the shadows just in time to see the act. Two large men held the arms of a dignified-looking fellow with gray hair, an elaborate moustache, and a three-piece suit. A fourth man, a short bulldog of a brute with thick jowls, a heavy wool coat, and a bowler hat, attacked the gray-haired man, jabbing forward with his right arm. The victim’s face contorted with agony as the knife plunged. Bowler-Hat stabbed again and again until the man with the gray hair slumped, lifeless. And still the knife moved once, twice.
Robby was so close, he could see the sticky glint on the blade.
He only realized he was panting in terror by the rapid cloud of condensation that formed in front of his face and faded, formed and faded. Then he made an involuntary sound, a sort of lowing, and the three men snapped around to look at him.
“Don’t stand there, you nimenogs. Get him!” Bowler-Hat bellowed.
The men who were holding the victim let him drop to the cobblestones. It wasn’t until they’d taken a step toward Robby that he found the sense to move. He briefly considered going back into the theater, but the door had locked behind him, and there was no time to muck around with keys now. He dove to the right. The alley wasn’t a dead end, thank God. He came out on Centre Street, the sound of his pursuers loud in his ears. He ran harder and faster than he’d ever run before in his life, on and on, street after street, turning as often as he could. He finally turned onto a familiar street and, seeing no one when he glanced behind him, dove into the Long Shoreman.
Jenny and her friends frequented the establishment often, and Robby was not unknown there. The owner, Phil, was a good sort. After no more than a brief plea, Phil stuffed Robby into his private office then vanished again. With his ear pressed to the door, Robby heard Phil’s voice and the angry demands of his pursuers. The back door banged as someone rushed out.
For a long moment all was silent, and there was only the pounding of Robby’s blood in his ears. Then a light tap on the door startled him. Robby stepped back to let Phil in.
Phil carried a whiskey bottle and two shot glasses, and he filled them. “They’re gone. Here, drink this.”
Robby took his and swallowed gratefully.
“What the hell was that about?” Phil grumbled. “Is The Weekly Sun hiring thugs as their critics now?”
“I saw a murder.” Robby’s voice was hushed, as if it were afraid to come out. He dropped down onto a settee crowded with coats, the strength leaving his limbs.
“No kiddin’? Did ya really?” Phil didn’t sound especially surprised. Murders were far from uncommon in New York City. “Well, we can smuggle you outta here after a bit, and you should be all right. I told ’em you went out the back and off they went.
Robby shook his head. It had all been such a blur. But a heavy, dark feeling was settling on him, a sense of utter doom and dread. “No, they saw me coming out of the theater. Had to have gotten a good look at my face. There’s a gas lamp above the door.”
“Oh. That’s a bit of rum luck.” Phil pushed aside some coats and sat down next to Robby. He poured them both another shot.
“And I was so thrilled to have that new poster of me stuck up at the front of the Burton too,” Robby said with a bitter laugh.
It had pricked Robby’s pride every time he passed that poster. There were five glass frames hanging at the front of the theater, and several were dedicated to the current and next production, so being featured in one of the remaining slots was the privilege of a drawing attraction.
The poster depicted Robby standing with one foot on a stool, a dashing cape cast over his shoulder, his face angelic as he looked toward the heavens. The costume, complete with leggings and puffy pantaloons, was from his recent role as Laertes in Hamlet. His face, unfortunately, was completely bare in the image, without even whiskers to disguise him. WITH ROBBY RIVERTON the poster proudly announced.
Yes, it was rum luck. The rummiest. Robby wondered how long it would take the men to trace him to Mrs. Grassley’s boarding house. A day? An hour?
“Ah, Robby, I wouldn’t worry about it,” Phil said amiably. “They’re probably some no-accounts who won’t even bother to go look at the front of the theater. Why should they? You saw something, they scared you off, end of story. It was dark, wasn’t it? You probably didn’t get a good look at their faces. They’ve no reason to track you down.”
Robby stared at Phil, that sense of doom settling deeper. Ice crept up his spine and he thought he might cast up his accounts. This couldn’t be happening. Dear Lord, his life was ruined. Scorched earth. He couldn’t go back to the Burton, or any other theater in New York. He probably shouldn’t even go back to Mrs. Grassley’s to collect his things.
Because he had recognized them, or at least one of them. He’d just seen Mose “The Terror” McCann, leader of the Bowery Boys and the most notorious gangster in New York, murder a man in cold blood. And Mose McCann was known for being smart, vicious, and very careful to never leave witnesses.
Robby grabbed Phil’s shoulders with both hands, like he might grab a life raft in a treacherous sea. “You must help me get out of town, Phil. Because if I don’t, I’m a dead man.”
Too Hot for Santa by Helena Stone
“ARE YOU still here?”
“Obviously.” Nick glanced up from his tablet and studied his sister’s face since her tone of voice didn’t give him any clue whether she was bemused or exasperated.
“You realize his plane is scheduled to land in less than an hour, right?” She quirked an eyebrow. “And that it will take you at least that amount of time to get to the airport?”
“Yes, Jen. I’m very aware of both those facts. Just as I know that even if the plane lands on time—”
“It will. I just checked the website. There are no delays.”
“Even if he does arrive on time,” Nick continued as if he hadn’t been interrupted, and without admitting he’d been checking the airline’s website too, “he will still have to get his luggage and make his way through customs and to the arrivals hall. I’ve got better things to do with my time than hang around in airports waiting for some spoiled star to make his appearance.”
Jenny’s sigh signaled loud and clear she was about to lose her patience with him. “Really? We’re going to have this discussion again?”
Nick shrugged. He’d made up his mind, and it didn’t matter what she said or how often she repeated it, he wouldn’t be swayed.
“How do you even know whether or not he’s spoiled? Did you read up on him? Watch him in action? Did you negotiate with him and make all the arrangements?”
It was Nick’s turn to sigh because she was right. Until half an hour ago, he hadn’t so much as looked up Jonah Walsh on the internet. Still…. “If he wasn’t spoiled before, he’s bound to be now that you’ve dealt with him. Even the most humble person would get a huge ego boost out of being flown halfway around the world in order to join the cast of a Christmas play. It’s not as if we have a lack of actors in Australia.”
Jenny’s features tightened. “You know why I asked him. That part needs to be played by someone who is actually Irish, rather than an actor who can do a reasonable imitation of the accent.” She glared at him. “As you well know, he’ll be paying back the price of that ticket from his wages. Besides, it’s not as if you’ve been busting your balls to find someone else to replace Ciaran.”
Unfortunately Nick had no comeback against that last accusation. In fact, he’d been as relieved as Jenny when Ciaran had mentioned that he knew the perfect actor to replace him and had gone as far as setting up the initial contact between Jonah and Jenny. Of course the possibility this Jonah might have delusions of grandeur was not what really bugged him.
Jenny wasn’t finished. “You’ve dealt with demanding stars before. I refuse to believe that’s the reason for your hostility toward someone you haven’t even met yet.”
Nick cursed the fact that she appeared to have read his mind. Not that it surprised him; it was an ability she’d had since the day they were born—Jenny half an hour before him.
“Are you going to tell me why you’ve been acting narky for days now?”
“Don’t pretend you don’t know why I’m upset, sis.” Nick glared at her. “Of course you can cast whoever you see fit in your play. What I would like to know is what possessed you to tell him he could stay with me while he’s under contract?”
Jenny laughed, visibly relaxing while Nick’s annoyance increased. “That’s what’s got you all upset?” She made an obvious effort to get her mirth under control again. “What else was I going to do at such short notice? It’s the height of the holiday season. There’s no affordable space for rent this time of year. And paying for him to stay in a hotel for three months, or expecting him to cover those costs, would be lunacy.”
“Whereas forcing me to put him up for that length of time is just dandy. Right?”
“Nick.” Jenny lowered her voice and took his hand, as if trying to placate him. “He won’t be staying with you, not really. The reason I thought it would be a good solution is because you have that granny flat. You won’t have to see him at all if you play your cards right.”
Nick gave up. The sensible part of him had long since agreed her arrangements made sense. Just because that was true didn’t mean he had to be happy about having a stranger living on top of him. Granny flat or not, the guy would be his guest as well as an employee of sorts, so he’d have to be agreeable to him at the very least.
“Don’t you want this play to succeed?” All lightness had disappeared from Jenny’s voice.
“Of course I do,” Nick growled. He knew all too well that if the play failed, it would put their production company in a very perilous situation. While they would be able to overcome the financial loss if the play bombed, their reputation probably wouldn’t survive a fiasco. He glanced at the screen in his hands, shocked to discover the plane would land in half an hour. “I’d better go and get him.” And pray I don’t get stuck in traffic.
“You do that.” Jenny kissed his cheek. “And Nick?”
He got up and returned her kiss.
“Be nice.”
Lacey Daize
