In Deep Shitake (A Humorous Romantic Suspense) (17 page)

Holy frijoles.

She must look worse than she thought. Mo turned toward the mirror. When her eyes met her reflection, she bit back a scream. She did look like a clown… a demented clown…a demented
male
clown. On top of everything her make-up had smeared. Mo blamed that darned cat-woman. Mo had seen her flirting with Ross while they’d been selecting costumes. Susie had obviously done her best to put her rival
,
Mo, at an unattractive disadvantage. Mo had been so intent on choosing something which would disguise her from Clarence that she hadn’t realized how truly awful the costume was.

Mo pulled a paper towel from the dispenser. Turning on the tap at one of the two sinks, she tested one finger under the stream and waited for the water to warm. She heard a flush sound and then the door to the first stall opened. Heather Davies emerged. Heather walked—if one could call a pony canter a walk—to the second sink. Heather turned on the tap and then washed her hands. She looked at Mo’s reflection in the mirror and her lip curled. Even with an “
Eeew
” expression on her face, Heather looked gorgeous.

“
This
is the ladies' room you know,” Heather said.

Mo nodded. She found herself strangely unable to speak. Probably mortification had gotten her tongue. Mortification caused by the costume pushed on her by a
catwoman
. So you could say, the cat had got her tongue.

“The men’s room is across the hall.” Heather finished laving her hands and then dried them with a paper towel.

Mo nodded again.

“Don’t you speak English? I said the men’s room is across the hall,” Heather scolded.

“No English,” Mo managed to choke out. Real smart Mo. What language did she speak?

The water finally warmed. Mo wet the paper towel and then rubbed at the whiteface make-up. She drew off the black wig to let her natural hair fall down her back.

“Oh. You
are
a woman,” she exclaimed. “Sorry, but you looked like a…”

A cell phone trilled. Mo recognized the tune as
You
’re Beautiful.
Heather removed a tiny earpiece from the clutch purse she had placed on the counter and slid the device behind her ear. “You’re talking to Heather,” she greeted.

Heather paused and then screamed, “No.
Absolutely no carnations for my wedding bouquet.
What are you thinking? And no baby’s
breath
either. Are you stupid or just completely lacking in fashion sense? I want
special
flowers. Rare. Nothing pedestrian. Exotic. Got it?”

She paused before speaking again. “Good. Kisses,” she cooed. Heather touched the device at her ear to end the call. She reached into her purse to withdraw a make-up bag, a lipstick, and brush. As Mo wiped the white from her face with a paper towel, Heather painstakingly painted a perfect edge around her pouty, full lips with a bright red lipstick.
You’re Beautiful
trilled again.

Mo slipped into the bathroom stall before shutting the door behind her.

“You’re talking to Heather,” she practically sang. “What? No. Everything is fine with Ross. In fact, I just talked to the wedding planner. It’s those stupid tabloids trying to sell their papers and magazines. It’s all been very irritating.”

Heather subsided into silence for long seconds and Mo assumed the blonde was listening to someone speak on the other end of the phone.

“We are going to start filming on schedule," Heather insisted. "I told you that Ross thinks I’ll be perfect for the part of Francesca."

More silence.

“They’re what?" she finally asked. "What are you doing about it? I would have expected that you, as my sister, would be more supportive of my success. But then you always were jealous. Maybe you won’t get an invitation to my Hollywood wedding after all.”

Silence.

“Oh all right, don’t yell in my ear, Sissy. You’re invited." Heather paused before continuing, "No. I haven’t seen anyone like that.” She paused again. “Well, I think I would know if I had.”

More silence.

“No, no one can hear me. I’m in the restroom with a woman who doesn’t speak English. Or I think it’s a woman. At first I thought it was a man.”

Heather laughed. “Darling, you worry too much. I’ve got everything under control.” With a singsong voice she called out “kisses” and then hung up.

* * * * *

Lurking in the men’s restroom, Ross began to feel like a pervert. If his reflection in the wall-to-wall mirror above the sinks was any indication, he looked like one too. The mask was lurid enough, but the cape added an even seedier quality to his appearance.

In the mirror, he caught the eye of a chap who used the urinals positioned on the wall perpendicular to the bank of sinks. The kid—probably about twenty-two—was dressed as a cowboy, and gave Ross a little come-hither smile and head waggle. Ross jerked away to face the opposite wall. Brilliant. If he didn’t escape from this
loo
soon, the police would arrest him for some alleged lewd behavior. What
fab
publicity that sort of event would be. The tabloids would eat it up just as they had when they caught that rock star with his
wanger
exposed in the public toilet. Ross and what’s-his-name would vie for the number one spot on the list of the top ten celebrity bad boys of the bathroom on VH1.

When would Clarence emerge from the stall? Had he fallen into the bowl and drown? Maybe, Ross should wait right outside the bathroom. Surely from there, he couldn’t miss Clarence when he emerged?

A cell phone tone echoed off the room’s tiled walls with the irritatingly familiar theme music from
SpyMatrix
.

“Cheerio,” a voice with a fake British accent said from behind the stall door.

Cheerio? Who said Cheerio anymore?

“Stephen Dagger here.”

Stephen Dagger? The
git
, Clarence, was calling himself Stephen Dagger? He had taken the impersonation thing too far now.

“Heather,” Clarence said. “Why are you calling me? I’ll be out in just a minute." He paused. “It’ll be completely fine. We’re just a bit behind schedule, that’s all.” Clarence gave an affected “
sh
” instead of the “
sk
” sound on the word schedule. “It’s virtuoso,” Clarence declared.

What was virtuoso? Did the imbecile even know what that
SpyMatrix
catchphrase “
it’s
virtuoso” meant? How could he? The saying was meaningless—only a line that had been added when the director had demanded the screenwriter insert something that would become famously quotable like “I’ll be back” or “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.” But Ross had felt ridiculous each time he’d had been forced to say that stupid line.

“There’s no need for you to get your knickers in a twist.” Clarence made a chuckle that sounded like he was saying “ha
ha
” before the Dagger-wannabe fell silent again. “I’ll call them again right now if that’s what you want.”

What was this
prat
up to?

* * * * *

Clarence closed his cell phone and its ringer sounded almost immediately. He knew who the caller was even before he glanced at the phone’s face. If Heather
was
panicking that meant someone else would be also. He groaned and then flipped the cell open again. “Hey sweetie,” he answered.

“We have to get out of here. You have to make him pay the money,” the female voice said from the other end. “If
he
found out it was
us
…”

“Don’t worry,” Clarence said, aware the accent he’d been feigning had completely faded.

“You keep saying that but still no results.” Her hysteria rose with each word. “Is it Heather’s photos you’re concerned about?” She screamed the question. “At this point I don’t care if we get them. Just the money.”

“Okay, babe,” he soothed. “I’ll arrange to get the cash today. We’ll be
outta
here in a few hours.”

“All right. But if you don’t get the money this time, I don’t want to see you again.”

The certainty in her tone sent a chill through Clarence. He couldn’t lose her now when they were so close to what they’d dreamed of. She was counting on him.

“I’ll get it,” he choked out. “I love you.” But as he said the last words he knew she’d already hung up.

Clarence didn’t want to call
Kubikov
from his own phone, but he was desperate. None of his efforts to threaten the big man’s underlings had resulted in any money. So despite his trepidation, Clarence punched in the numbers. As the line rang the first time, he cleared his throat.

“Da.”
Kubikov’s
voice came aggressively at him, making Clarence jump.

“Cheerio,” he said, donning the accent. “Do you know who this is?”

“Dagger,”
Kubikov
replied.

“Then you know what I want. I’ve got copies of certain documents that could cause you problems."

“I understand your threat,” the gangster interrupted. “If I give money, we meet in person.”

 “No. I won’t meet you,” Clarence said. “I’ll give you an address to drop off the package. Once I have the money and Heather's photos, I’ll mail you the documents. You’ll just have to trust me.”

“You want photos
and
money? Photos take longer. They in safe deposit.”

A nerve at the corner of his eye began to twitch as he thought for a few seconds before finally replying, “Just get me the money then.”

In response, he received a long silence.

“I’m mailing the documents after an hour,” Clarence warned, trying not to see the fear in his own eyes reflected in the mirror. “I can mail them to you or to the police. You choose.”

After a pause,
Kubikov
asked, “What your address?”

Clarence hadn’t considered what address to use for the drop. Not his own definitely. Only one came to mind. “Um...528 Gaston? Put the money through the mail slot in the door.”

“
Da
,”
Kubikov
said before ending the call.

Shit, shit, shit. Clarence punched more numbers into his phone. After four rings, voicemail answered.

“Mo, this is Clarence. Call me back as soon as you can. I need to know what you found last night. Um… Harriet wants to know what you found in the Mercedes. And there’s something else I need to talk to you about.” He took a deep breath and slowly let it out. “Anyway it’s urgent, but nothing to worry about.” He forced a laugh. “But don’t go home. Just call me back as soon as you possibly can.”

Moments later Clarence barreled out of the stall and the door banged, metal against metal. He pushed past someone in a Phantom of the Opera costume on his way out.

* * * * *

Mo wondered how much longer she could hide in this restroom stall. She really had to pee, but she didn’t want to be caught with her pants down, literally or figuratively, when Heather made her move. Besides, there was something weird about peeing with Heather there freshening her make-up on the other side of the stall door.

A number of women came and went. Some of them pulled on the door to see if anyone occupied the stall. Unfortunately, the lock on this particular stall wasn’t working and each time someone tried the door, it opened readily.