Begging for Trouble (13 page)

“I don’t, but I have a friend near here. I stop in to say hello a couple of times a week.”

“Then I’ll still see a lot of you. That’s great. And don’t worry about my account. I’ll get my money’s worth if you promise to use my biscuits as your special treats and keep reminding your clients to do the same.”

“Will do,” Ellie said, standing. “Oh, and don’t be surprised if you have a visitor.”

“A visitor?”

“Be patient. You’ll meet him soon enough. Catch you later.”

She stepped outside, thinking. She’d used up her free time scouting for Joe, so she would need to wrap her sandwich and eat it on the way to the club. But first, she had just the thing to teach her pal a lesson.

“Look what I’ve got,” she said when she returned to the coffee shop. Joe was still sitting at the table, his expression grim. “Free samples.”

“Some friend you are, going to the dark side and accepting contraband.”

She opened the bag and held out a cookie. “Stop being such a grouch and try one. Tell me what you think.”

He grabbed the treat and gave it a quick study. “Shaped like a carrot? These must be for kids.”

Ellie recalled Sara’s teething biscuit comment. “Yep.” She waited while he took a bite. “Well?”

Still frowning, he swallowed. “They’re good, but they’re hard as roofing tiles.” He took another bite. “I have to admit, the taste does grow on you.”

She choked back a grin. “Great, considering they’re dog biscuits.”

Joe’s eyes opened wide. He swallowed what was left of his cookie. “What?”

“I said they’re dog biscuits, you dope. And you would have known the ‘bakery’ was for dogs if you’d bothered to do a little investigating.”

Still wearing a stern expression, Joe crossed his arms. “You did that on purpose.”

“Of course I did. Now go next door and introduce yourself to Ms. Sara Studebaker. Tell her you have an idea that will benefit both of you.”

“I do?”

“Yes, you do.” Ellie wrapped what was left of her sandwich in a napkin and tucked it in her bag. “Tell her when she rings up a sale, she should hand the customer a coupon for a free cup of coffee next door. That way she won’t have the hassle of making pots of coffee and supplying sugar and cream, and people will stop in your store to buy something from your case for themselves to go with the coffee. It’s a win-win deal.”

Smiling for the first time since she’d arrived, Joe said, “Maybe you should open a promotions firm instead of a dog-walking service.”

“You like the idea?”

“I’m going over there right now to discuss it. Want to come along?”

“Sorry. Don’t have time. But I’ll be by soon to hear how you made out. Maybe tomorrow. See ya.”

 

Ellie caught a cab on Lexington and finished her lunch while she rode to the Village. Turning down the alley behind Guess Who, she walked into the building through the back entrance. Inside, she gazed at the line of doors running up the left side of the hallway. When she peered to the right and saw another corridor with more doors snaking around the rear of the stage, she slumped against the wall. She’d always thought her powers of observation were decent, but she didn’t remember seeing this many doorways the other night.

Of course, she should have figured as much. Rob had told her the cast of the revue numbered close to sixty, and each performer had three to four costume changes including wigs and headpieces. With six to a dressing room, there had to be ten-plus rooms to inspect, and more than a few participants to interview. Unfortunately, due to her appointment with Anthony Rizzoli, she would probably have only enough time to talk with a couple of cast members before she had to leave, pick up Bitsy and Rudy, and head for the meeting.

Glancing to her right again, she heard voices from somewhere behind the stage, so she moved in that direction. On the way, she pulled a notebook much like Sam’s, only bigger, from her tote bag, intent on holding a logical conversation with one or more of the showgirls. Then she fished a pen from her bag and peeked into the room—and found two men talking, one in the middle of getting dressed!

“Hello, sugar,” said the handsome guy with his jeans around his ankles. “You need something?”

Ellie’s gaze swept the tiny heart-dotted briefs covering his manly assets. Heat rushed from her chest to her neck faster than a prairie fire in August. “Uh, sorry. Wrong room,” she squeaked, retreating into the hall.

Fanning her face with the notebook, she rested her back against the wall, the words “bad idea” ringing in her brain.

A moment later, the man stepped into the corridor. “Are you looking for someone special?”

She closed her eyes. “Ah, no. Not right now. I’ll see you—I mean I’ll catch you—ah—I’ll come back later.”

She made to leave, but he grabbed her shoulder, rooting her in place. “Take it easy, doll. No one’s going to hurt you here.”

Ellie gulped down her embarrassment, pasted on a smile, and turned. Her gaze wandered from his buff naked chest to the tight, well-worn jeans now covering his lower limbs. Quickly focusing on his face, she said, “I didn’t think so. It’s just that—”

“You aren’t used to surprising cross-dressers when they’re in the middle of—cross-dressing?” he asked, a grin etched on his
GQ
face.

“Uh, no—yes—uh—” Eye contact, Ellie. No fair looking at anything else
.
“I don’t belong here. I should probably leave.”

The man grasped her free hand and gave it a shake. “I’m Bill Avery, aka Eden Rose, and you don’t have to leave unless you want to.” He propped his well-muscled body against the wall. “And while you’re thinking about it, tell me what you need.”

“I’m a friend of Rob Chesney,” she began.

“Our Bobbi Doll?” He raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “You his girlfriend?”

“His girlfriend? Uh, no, I’m his dog walker.”

“Good to know you’re not spoken for.” He continued to grin. “Because if you’re looking for a man with, say,
unusual
taste, I’m in the market for a new gal pal.”

Gal pal?
Heat warmed her cheeks again. “I’m already in a relationship.”

Bill reached out and tugged one of her curls. “With a man?”

Mustering her courage, she slapped his hand away. “Yes, with a man. Now if you’ll excuse me—”

“Hey, don’t go off in a snit. People around here are flexible when it comes to sexual orientation.” He shrugged. “If you’re a friend of Rob’s, I assume you understand his lifestyle. I’ve been looking for a woman who knows what a guy like me does for a living. It takes all kinds, you know.”

Ellie swallowed. She did know, but not firsthand. At least, not until now. Bill seemed nice enough, when he wasn’t being a tease. “I’m here because I want to help prove Rob is innocent of the crime he’s been arrested for. I was hoping some of the girls—”

“Performers.”

“Uh, the performers, might know something that would make the job easier.”

“So you think he’s innocent, do you? Hmm. Interesting.”

“I have no reason to believe otherwise. Rob is a very nice man. He’d never do anything to hurt someone.” When Bill arched that same perfect eyebrow a second time, she decided she’d had enough. “Look, I can see you’re not the person I should be—”

“No, no. I’m sorry. It’s just that I thought the police had already decided Rob was the one who did Carmella in. I didn’t realize there were still questions.”

The other man, who’d been inside the room, stepped out wearing a floor-length pink dressing gown and matching three-inch mules. “What’s going on out here?”

“Uh, I’m Ellie Engleman.” She held out her hand. “I’m a friend of one of the performers.”

They shook as the man said, “Gary Wallace, but I’m better known as Sheleata Burrito. Just make sure you get the names right and we’ll get along fine.” He cut his eyes to Bill. “Is this guy bothering you?”

“Not a bit,” Ellie said, feeling more relaxed. It was then she recognized the rather large Amazon with the last name of Burrito. “I remember you from opening night. You did that fabulous Dusty Springfield medley. It was great.”

“Thanks. I try. This show is my chance to branch out in a more refined manner, if you know what I mean.” Sheleata tossed her long black hair. “A girl has to do what a girl has to do.”

“I’m just here to talk to some of you about Rob Chesney.”

Sheleata narrowed her eyes. “Did I hear you say you were the one who takes care of Bitsy? Rob talks about you every once in a while. Almost had some of us convinced you were a saint.”

“That’s very sweet of him to say, but all I’ve ever done is listen when he needed to talk. I was here the night of the . . . incident, so I took Bitsy to my apartment. I’ll be returning her to Rob later today.”

The Amazon crossed her arms over her massive chest. Though she wasn’t wearing a stitch of makeup, her actions were all girl. “That little baby is a cutie. I’ve been thinking about getting a dog, but not yet.” She tied the dressing gown tighter. “So what do you want to know about Rob?”

“I have some questions about the—about Carmella, and I was hoping someone here might be able to help.”

“Carmella, eh?” She glanced at Bill. “Have you filled her in on the charming Miss Sunday?”

“Not yet,” said Bill. “Do you think we should?”

“Hey, Carmella was no pal of mine, girlfriend. Now that she’s gone, why not?”

“What about Carmella?” Ellie asked, lowering her voice and taking a step closer. “If you know something that might point the cops in another direction—”

Sheleata waggled a finger and slipped into the dressing room. Bill motioned for Ellie to follow, which she did. Inside, the Amazon took a chair and crossed her legs, and Ellie prepared to listen.

“Go ahead, Eden, you start us off. Your info will be blah, compared to what I have to say,” Sheleata stated.

Bill ran a hand through his hundred-dollar haircut. “Truth be told,” he began, “not too many of us cared for Carmella. If you ask me, there are probably a dozen cast members who are glad to see her dead.”

“See? Boring.” Sheleata looked at Ellie. “He’s just saying that because the bitch tried to steal one of his precious wigs.” Her eyes cut to Bill. “Why don’t you tell our friend what you thought of the girl?”

Bill scowled. “That’s nobody’s business but mine, and you know it. Carmella is—was—difficult with almost everyone.” He nodded toward the room next door. “Lily and Pearl both had a bigger ax to grind.”

“Lily? Pearl? They didn’t care for Carmella either?”

“Absolutely not,” Sheleata said. “But personally, I don’t think it was someone from the show who did her in. I think it was someone Carmella was blackmailing.”

“Carmella was into blackmail? Are you sure about that?”

Bill shifted in his seat. “Like most of us in this business, Carmella liked to blow her own horn. We go over the top because it’s what people expect from the guys who live this lifestyle, but with Carmella, it was . . . different.”

“That may be so, sugar, but I know more. Carmella used to brag about her conquests to whoever would listen. Said she’d been receiving ‘friendship money’”—Sheleata used air quotes to set the words apart—“from a guy, and he was in line to become one of the city’s VIPs. Said if he didn’t come up with more cash, she was going to see to it that his time in the public eye was over.”

“That was just wishful thinking,” Bill insisted. Then he looked at Ellie. “You talk to Lily and Pearl if you want to hear somebody gripe about Carmella. Nita Zip, too.”

Just then, another man walked in. “Hello, girls,” the slender African-American said. Then he eyed Ellie. “And who are you, precious?”

“This is a friend of mine, and she was just leaving.” Bill stood, drew Ellie to her feet, and guided her out the door and into the hall. “We’ll get into this later, but not with Coco around. She was a good friend of Carmella’s, and she’s talked smack about your pal since before he was arrested.”

Bill disappeared into the dressing area, leaving Ellie alone. Not practiced in running a real investigation, the way Sam did, she decided to write down the names Bill mentioned and whatever Sheleata and Bill had said about them. Then she heard a commotion in the main hallway and followed the noise, hoping to corral another performer or two into giving her insight. If she was lucky, she’d run into Nita Zip or one of those other people Bill had mentioned. She also had to find the two women Rob had told her were understudies.

She turned the corner and bumped into a pair of stagehands pushing a rack loaded with costumes. “Coming through,” said one, while the other shoved her aside. Before she could right herself, a different guy, this one wearing a tool belt strapped over his baggy jeans, plowed past, muttering, “Damn queens,” and, “That’ll be the day.”

Frazzled, she plopped into a chair, most likely the one she’d sat in the night of the murder, and checked her watch. She had just enough time for one quick interview if she planned to make her meeting with Anthony Rizzoli.

A cross-dresser wearing black leather pants and a matching bustier walked by and smiled. “Can I help you, doll?”

She stood and held out her hand. “I hope so. We’ve never met, but I was wondering—could I ask you a few questions?”

 

Sam stood in the doorway of a dressing room off the main hall, a few doors down from the crime scene, forcing his brain to focus on the matter at hand. But damn, it was difficult. He’d never watched a man put on makeup before, much less one who wore spike heels and a snug bodysuit in satin, lace, and close to a ton of glitter.

“Sweetheart, there are probably a couple dozen reasons why someone would want to kill Carmella,” the black-haired she-male said, grinning. She then stroked on another coat of lipstick in a color that reminded Sam of a fire engine. “I, for one, wanted that girl’s complexion. I mean, did you see her skin? It was carmelicious. Me, I never tan like that.”