Begging for Trouble (2 page)

Bowing to rousing applause, the snazzy dresser grinned and began a stand-up routine that started out tame and built to a bawdy climax. His parting words, “And now, ladies and gentlemen, and everyone in between, please give a warm welcome to the drag stars of tomorrow,” revved the crowd, and the orchestra struck up introductory music. Then the lights dimmed and the curtain parted.

Ellie gazed openmouthed as a sea of men dressed in feathery boas, five-inch stilettos, and sequined costumes in every color in a paint chip display stomped, strutted, and high-kicked across the stage. The music, more exhilarating than what she remembered from
A Chorus Line
, brought the performance to life. Minutes later, the band changed tempo and seamlessly segued into the second number, a slinky rendition of an old vamp song accompanied by a second group of dancers.

“Wow,” Vivian said as she watched. “Who knew men could do women better than women?”

“Certainly not me,” said Ellie. She gave Sam a sideways glance and breathed a sigh of relief. His body posture was less rigid and his scowl had morphed to a thin-lipped grin. “Don’t tell me you’re starting to enjoy this,” she whispered, leaning into his shoulder.

“If you imagine the performers are real women, then yeah, it’s an eye-popper.”

To Ellie, half the fun was knowing that the stage was filled with men dressed like women, but she didn’t want to ruin Sam’s fun. She wondered about Rob’s role in the show, and recalled their first meeting, when Randall, the doorman in one of the buildings housing her dog-walker clients, had sent her to Rob’s apartment to interview for the job of walking Bitsy, his Poodle-Chihuahua mix.

She’d guessed then that he was some sort of entertainer, but had believed he’d been born a female. It was a complete surprise when he showed up last November at a neighbor’s party in an Armani suit that declared him to be undeniably male.

After patiently sitting through several dances, Ellie was sure that her client had been stretching the truth. Each of the four numbers had been big, brash, and beautiful, but none of them included Rob. Then, when the troupe bowed to applause and left the stage, rolling platforms split the orchestra in two, and a spotlight shone on a set of stairs. The comedian dressed in the top hat and tails entered from the right and the audience grew quiet.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome our first feature player of the evening. I give you Miss Bobbi Doll.”

Rob stood in the spotlight’s glow wearing a formfitting red sequined gown, a feathered headpiece that had to weigh ten pounds, and a pair of slingback pumps with stiletto heels. As he glided down the steps, Ellie smiled and poked Sam’s shoulder. “It’s Rob,” she whispered. “The guy who gave us the tickets.”

“Yippee.”

“Pay attention. I’ve been waiting to hear him sing for three months now.”

“Yeah, me, too.”

“Sam, be nice,” she warned. “I plan to introduce you at the backstage party later.”

“I can’t wait,” he said in a smart-ass tone. “It’ll be a perfect end to the night.”

Bobbi Doll stopped at the foot of the stairs and gave a sweeping gesture of welcome. After a clever intro, she—or was it he? Ellie still had no idea which pronoun to use when talking about a cross-dresser—began a stirring rendition of “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend.”

She sat back, amazed at the sound coming from Rob’s mouth. The tone was pure Marilyn Monroe, his body movements identical. The crowd roared encouragement when Bobbi finished and strutted off the stage as dancers returned dressed in fresh costumes for the next number.

“That was your guy?” Vivian asked her.

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m impressed. He was even better than Kylie Minogue doing Marilyn. What do you think?”

Ellie had never heard Kylie Minogue’s impression of the iconic blonde, but she had seen Marilyn in the classic movie and Rob—er, Bobbi Doll—was better at doing Marilyn than Marilyn had ever been. Unfortunately, if she confessed the bit about not knowing Kylie to Viv, it would give her friend another reason to lecture her on getting in tune with the entertainment of the twenty-first century.

“I still wish he’d told me he was a female impersonator as soon as we’d met,” Ellie said, showing her naïveté.

“The way you explained the meeting, I can’t believe you didn’t know,” answered Viv. “I wonder if he’ll do Christina Aguilera.”

Ellie frowned at the name of another singer who was unfamiliar to her. “Trust me, if you’d seen him the way I did that first day you wouldn’t have guessed either. But tonight, well, it’s not just the clothes, hair, and makeup. He has the voice and mannerisms of Marilyn down perfectly. I wonder if he does anyone else.” She turned to her date. “Sam, care to comment?”

Sam raised both brows. “It was an okay job.”

“He did a great job,” she countered. “It’s hard to believe he’s straight.”

Vivian sighed. “You can’t possibly still believe that.”

“But Rob told me so. Why would he lie?”

Sam snorted so loudly that a woman sitting at the next table, who could have passed for a cross-dresser herself, gave him a dirty look.

“You are so narrow-minded,” Ellie said, glaring at him. “If a woman wore a tux would you automatically assume she was a lesbian?”

“And please bear in mind that I wore one on New Year’s Eve,” Viv, one of the girliest girls Ellie knew, reminded him.

“You looked adorable,” Dave said, his eyes shining. “It was an honor to be your escort for the evening.”

“Aw, you’re so sweet,” Viv said, blowing him a kiss.

“Get a room,” Sam grumped, instead of answering Ellie.

“I’m waiting,” she prompted, brushing imaginary lint from the front of her red-and-gray-checked sweater. Viv, of course, was in Donna Karan. “Do you really believe that what a person wears defines who they are?”

“Okay, okay,” he conceded. “But remember the old adage—if it looks like a duck and it quacks like a duck . . .”

The latest dance number wound down and the tophat-and-tails guy returned to the stage. “And now, for your listening enjoyment, I give you Frieda deManeata.”

“Holy crap,” muttered Sam, “now what?”

“Shh,” Ellie told him when the person at the other table again glared in their direction. “For now, this discussion is over,” she told him. “But just wait until we’re alone.”

 

Sixty minutes later, the show was near completion. After the third headliner, Sheleata Burrito, performed, there’d been a short intermission, which allowed the patrons to order another round of drinks and stretch their legs. Then a second comic appeared, this one in a black bustier, mesh thigh-highs, and the necessary stilettos, and did a risqué skit on the joys of being a girl.

When the applause tapered off, the red curtain opened, the orchestra began another number, and the scantily clad comic introduced Miss Bobbi Doll for the second time. Rob entered from stage left on a gilded pallet carried on the shoulders of four muscle-bound men dressed in little more than loincloths.

Wearing a formfitting gown of ice blue satin, he slipped to his feet, stood in a circle of light, and waved to the admiring crowd. Then he broke into a number Viv said belonged to Christina Aguilera. When finished, he blew kisses and scampered offstage, but the audience continued to applaud. A minute later he came out for an encore and sang a Barbra Streisand tune that sounded very close to the real deal.

“Wow,” said Ellie, when Rob left the stage, “who knew?”

“I can’t believe you didn’t introduce me to him the night we were at Flora’s party,” said Viv. “Some friend you are.”

“If I remember correctly, you were doing more important things that night,” Ellie told her. “And I was still shell-shocked from seeing Rob in normal guy clothing.” The night had gone to hell in a handbasket, ending with the authorities driving her and their host downtown for questioning in a murder investigation. “Stop complaining. You’ll meet him soon enough.”

Another troupe of dancers, these performers wearing hot pink and black with twelve-inch-wide headpieces fitted with fuchsia and black feathers, took the stage, and the orchestra played the opening bars of “I’m Every Woman.”

Midway through the number, shrieks rang out from a distance and several audience members sat bolt upright in their seats. Seconds later, the music stuttered to a stop and the dancers clustered on the stage, staring into the wings on the right side.

Ellie grabbed Sam’s hand when he shot upright in his chair. The scream built to a crescendo, and he stood and scanned the audience. “Stay here, and don’t move,” he ordered, and took off at a jog.

Jumping to her feet, she watched him thread his way to the bottom of the tiers, where he disappeared through a door she assumed led to the dressing rooms.

“Where are you going?” called Vivian as Ellie raced down the steps.

“Someone’s in trouble,” she shouted over her shoulder.
And Sam might get hurt.
She headed in the direction he’d taken, hit the bottom of the seating area, and stumbled into a dim hallway.

When her vision grew accustomed to the pale light, she noted that the backstage area was teeming with stagehands, costumed performers, and catering staff, who’d been there, she imagined, to set up for the party. Pushing past them, Ellie made for the crowd hovering around an open door on the right. After working her way through the mob, she stopped short in the doorway.

Rob knelt next to a body lying facedown on the dressing room floor, his beautiful gown soaked in blood, the scissors in his hand covered in the same sticky liquid. In a far corner stood one of the dancers, still in costume from an earlier number, staring openmouthed and wide-eyed.

Before Ellie could speak, Sam took a swatch of cloth from his jacket pocket, used it to remove the scissors from Rob’s hand, and wrapped the cloth around the weapon. After setting it on a counter, he grasped Rob’s elbow and pulled him to his feet. Then he flipped open his phone and made a call.

Rob shivered and glanced at the doorway. When their gazes locked, Ellie sent him a smile of encouragement, then stepped back into the hall and rested her backside against the wall. Tears sprang to her eyes while she struggled to process the terrible scene. Rob couldn’t have done whatever it was she’d just seen. He was a sweet guy she’d grown close to over the past few months. Now he was a friend.

A siren wailed in the distance, its piercing sound growing louder, and she knew it was Sam’s backup. She ordered herself to take slow, deep breaths, hoping it would calm her pounding heart. The lights overhead flickered to life. A man wielding a clipboard walked into the room and quickly returned to the hall, his face a pasty white.

Officers marched in from what she assumed was the rear entrance of the building and began clearing people out and into another dressing area. Ellie closed her eyes and pressed herself against the wall, hoping to remain invisible, but when she raised her lids, she saw Vince Fugazzo, Sam’s partner, eyeing her intently.

“Ellie?” He wore an expression of both confusion and surprise. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m—I was watching the show.”

“And Sam was with you?”

She jerked her head to the left. “He’s in there—with the victim.”

An officer she thought looked vaguely familiar grasped her elbow and Vince gave the guy a look. “She can stay, Murphy. Just secure the area.” Heaving a breath, he stared at her in full police mode. “Stay here, and do not move until either Sam or I come out to get you. Understand?”

Nodding, she slumped forward, still taking deep breaths. Who was on the floor lying in that pool of blood? Why was Rob holding what could only be the murder weapon? What the heck had happened?

EMTs and a cadre of crime scene investigators charged in from the rear entrance, probably because everyone in the audience was being cleared out through the front. Moments later, more men entered and she recognized them as the forensic team. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Dr. Emily Bridges quickstepped past her along with a slim young woman with almond-shaped eyes and short dark hair.

As the medical examiner charged by, she did a double take and stepped backward. “Ellie?”

Ellie heaved a sigh. This was the fifth time she’d met Emily Bridges. Four of the meetings, if she counted this one, were at crime scenes where Dr. Bridges had been the medical examiner of record. The fifth was at a Christmas party Sam had taken her to given by Captain Carmody. The woman probably thought she was some kind of jinx. At the very least, she would agree that Ellie was living up to her reputation as Sam Ryder’s bad penny.

“Dr. Bridges. I—uh—hello.”

“Is Sam with you?”

Sure. She followed him around like a gore-hungry groupie, always hoping to be involved in his latest murder investigation. She nodded toward the dressing room doorway. “He’s inside with the victim. We were here watching the show when it happened.”

The ME gave a faint smile. “I’d like to say it’s nice to see you again, but it seems that every time we meet there’s a dead body lying around.”

“I didn’t have a thing to do with this,” she said, feeling the heat rise from her collarbone. “Honest.”

“Oh, I believe you.” Dr. Bridges nodded at the young woman on her left. “This is Dr. Jordan Kingsgate. She’ll be training beside me for a while. Jordan, this is Ellie Engleman. You might run into her from time to time in the course of learning the ropes. It seems that being in the wrong place at the wrong time is a hobby of hers.”

Great,
thought Ellie. Thanks to the episodes she’d been involved in over the past year, she now had a reputation as a permanent fixture with the crime scene teams working Manhattan. “I don’t look for trouble. It just seems to find me,” she said, shaking Dr. Kingsgate’s hand.

“Nice to meet you, and call me Jordan.”

“You ready?” Dr. Bridges asked her. “It’s time to go in.”

The two women disappeared through the door, and Ellie drew in a breath. Then she pulled out her cell and called Vivian. “It’s me.”