Sweet Dreams Boxed Set (163 page)

He nodded. “The same crew is in tonight, with some slight changes in bar staff. The cast of course, is the same. No, that’s not right, is it?” He stopped, brought a trembling hand to his lips. “Desi won’t be here.”

“Did Desiree have an understudy?”

“Yes. Cherry.” His eyes welled with tears. “And you’re right, the show must go on.”

That wasn’t why she had asked the question, but she didn’t correct him. “Is there anything else you can tell us about Desiree that might help us find her killer?”

“I don’t know what. She was happy. Well-liked within the community. Financially secure.”

“Mind if we start questioning the bar staff?”

“Please, do whatever you need to.”

“Mustang! Oh my God. I just heard! It’s so awful.”

They turned. A slight man in skinny jeans, a tight angora sweater, and high heels rushed into the club.

“Cherry!” Mustang stood to meet the other man.

The understudy, Micki realized, watching the two embrace.

“I’m devastated,” Cherry said. “I can’t believe this has happened!”

“I was the one who found her.” The club owner’s voice broke on a sob. “I came in…there was blood in the back hallway… I followed the trail and—”

He bit the last back, visibly pulled himself together, then waved Micki and Carmine over. “This is Detective Angelo and Detective Dare. They promised they’re going to find the one who did this.”

Micki stood and held out her hand. “I’m Dare. I didn’t catch your name.”

He took it, his palm damp, hand trembling. “Cherry.” He looked at her, then quickly away. “Cherry Chablis.”

“Is that your legal name?”

“Stage name. My legal name’s Chuck.”

“Chuck what?”

“Chandler.”

“And you prefer we call you Cherry?”

He nodded but once again, his gaze darted sideways. Her eye twitched.

“Mustang said you’re the victim’s understudy.”

At the description, Cherry looked sick. Mustang swayed slightly and grabbed Cherry’s arm for support. Micki was surprised they both didn’t topple. Neither spoke.

Carmine stepped in. “That is correct, Ms. Chablis? You were understudy for the deceased.”

He nodded.

“I understand Desiree was brilliant in her roles.”

“I will be, too.” He looked at Mustang. “I won’t let you down, ’Stang. I promise.”

He squeezed Cherry’s hand. “I know, sweetie, but at this point, I’m not certain when we’ll start back up.”

Micki watched as several emotions moved across the understudy’s face. Regret. Longing. Fear? Desiree had been the star that Cherry had longed to be. Envy had turned Vanderlund into a murderer, had it turned Chablis into one as well?

“You said it yourself a minute ago, Mustang. The show must go on.” Micki looked directly at Cherry. “I have no doubt you’re as good as Desiree was. You deserve the opportunity to prove it.”

Chablis shifted from one foot to the other, gaze averted, obviously unbalanced by her approach. Micki went on. “Don’t you think you’re as good a performer? Maybe even better?”

“What a horrible thing to…I can’t, considering—”

“But you have longed for this chance? To prove yourself?”

Sweat beaded his upper lip. “Of course, but who wouldn’t? It doesn’t mean anything.”

Angelo jumped in. “Where were you last night, Cherry?”

He blinked, false lashes hitting his eyebrows. “Here. I’m here almost every night.”

“What time did you leave?”

“The same time as everyone else.”

“Everyone else?”

“Well…not everyone. I couldn’t have.”

“What do you mean?”

Three blinks. Eyes focused somewhere over her left shoulder. “Desi must have been…I’m assuming, she must have been…the last, you know. To leave.”

“Did I say she was murdered last night?”

“Wasn’t she?” He swiped his upper lip. “I guess I just assumed, because…I don’t know why.”

“Last night, did you leave alone?”

“I don’t remember. I…yes, I did.”

“I thought you said you left with everyone else?”

“I meant, around the same time as everyone else.”

“So someone must have seen you leaving? Someone?” Micki looked toward the bar, the crew who had worked the night before, from one person to the other in question. Their expressions began to register suspicion.

“I don’t feel so well,” Cherry said, taking a step backward. “I need to sit down. I’ll just—”

He turned and ran.

Micki took off after him. He moved really fast for a guy in three-inch heels, darting past the officer stationed at the club’s entrance and into the crowd of the curious clustered beyond the crime tape.

But his luck didn’t hold. The famously derelict French Quarter streets proved his undoing. He landed sprawled and weeping on the pavement.

Micki reached him, pinned him down with a knee to his back. “You have the right to remain silent—” She wrenched one arm around behind his back, snapped on the cuff. “Whatever you say can and will be held against you in a court of law.”

The other arm, wrist cuffed. “Do you understand these rights as I have presented them to you?”

“I didn’t mean to do it!” he cried. “It just happened!”

“Do you understand these rights?” she asked again, as Carmine sauntered up, two uniforms with him.

“Yes! Yes, I understand! But you have to believe me, it was an accident!”

“Dude, you shot him four times.”

“But I never meant…I promise, I—” He started to sob.

Angelo bent and helped him to his feet. “So, why’d you do it, man?”

“Desi had everything…she wouldn’t share. I just…suddenly, I couldn’t…I just…snapped.”

Same as Vanderlund, Micki thought.

Fricking weird.

Micki met Angelo’s gaze. She saw by his expression he was thinking the same thing.

Chapter Ten

7:10 P.M.

Micki sat at her desk. The sun had nearly completed its descent and the shift in lighting fit her mood.

“Good news,” Angelo said, grabbing his jacket off the back of his chair. “The major gave us a pass tonight. Job well done, he said.”

“I feel like we didn’t do anything.”

“You serious?” He shrugged into the jacket. “Murder, confession, arrest. Case cleared. Times two. It doesn’t get better than that.”

She looked away, then back. “Something’s wrong with this. Tell me you don’t feel the same way.”

“I don’t. Look, it’s weird, hell yeah. But so what? Life is weird and everybody is freaking nuts.” He shook his head. “Two murders, two days. Both closed. We’re a helluva team. Let’s grab a beer at Shannon’s to celebrate.”

“You go. I’m beat.”

“C’mon, Dare. A beer and some backslapping will do you good.”

“So would sleep.” She forced a smile. “Really, I’m toast.”

“Your loss, partner.”

She watched him go, then turned to their report. Neither of the victims nor their killers had known each other. They travelled in different circles. Big time different. The modes of death, also different.

But in a bizarre way, everything else pointed to connected crimes. Both victims were queens. Both killed by a rival. In each case a crime of passion in which the perps claimed to have snapped.

She and Angelo had missed something.

Micki got to her feet and grabbed her jacket. She hadn’t been lying when she told Carmine she was beat. But she wasn’t going home to rest.

Chapter Eleven

7:50 P.M.

A sign announcing Tonight’s Show Canceled hung on Club Me-Oh-My’s entrance, accompanied by black netting and a mourning wreath. Micki tried the door, found it locked, and peered through the window. A couple dozen or so folks stood at the bar, some more were seated at tables or milling about. She spotted Mustang and knocked.

He came to the door, peeked out. She held up her shield, though from his expression she knew he recognized her.

He cracked open the door. “How can I help you, Detective?”

“I was hoping to ask you and your employees a few more questions.”

He frowned. “I thought you got your man?”

The bitterness in his tone didn’t really surprise her. In a way she was the enemy for uncovering the killer from among them. “I just want to make certain we didn’t—” Micki bit that back and started again. “I want to get this right. I know you do, too.”

He cracked the door a bit wider. “Go on.”

“Were you surprised about Cherry?” she asked.

“Yes! My God, I was stunned.”

“Did you suspect Cherry was jealous of Desiree?”

“Sure I did. Show business is tough, especially when you’re always playing second fiddle. But kill over it?” He leaned closer, lowered his voice. “We’re a close community. We protect each other. We hold each other up. This…no. Not possible.”

“I agree.”

His jaw dropped. “But…I don’t— Cherry confessed.”

“To pulling the trigger, yes. But I have a strong feeling there’s something else going on.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I’m here. Hoping to figure it out.”

He looked at her for a long moment, as if weighing whether she was telling the truth. Finally he nodded and let her into the club.

“We’re in mourning, Detective. We lost two friends today.”

“I understand. I’ll be respectful, I promise.”

Micki circulated through the club. Some were resentful of her presence, others suspicious. Most ignored her or were blatantly rude.

She didn’t belong. They were angry. And hurting.

Micki slid onto a barstool. The bartender looked so much like Tom Cruise she did a double take. “Can I get an ice water?” she asked.

“Sure.” A moment later, he set the glass in front of her. “Tough crowd.”

“I don’t blame them. I’m an intrusion.”

“Then why’re you here?”

“My own peace of mind.”

“I’m Jack, by the way.”

“Micki Dare. Good to meet you.” She eyed his martini. “Cosmo?”

“I’m not working.” He lifted his glass. “Want one?”

“I am working.”

He sipped the pink drink. “Actually, these were Cherry’s favorite. I’m celebrating her.”

“Cherry’s not the one who’s dead.”

“No, but she won’t be drinking one for a very long time.” He twirled the glass; the motion created a swirling, pink tornado. He stopped abruptly and the liquid sloshed over the side. “We were friends, Cherry and I.”

“Were?”

“Are,” he corrected. “Although it seems like that’s ending now as well.” He took a sip, then another. “We liked the same things. Saints football, mystery novels. Stuff like that.”

“Cherry ever talk about Desiree?”

“Some.”

“Did she seem angry at her?”

“Not at her. More frustrated at always being second banana. The situation did sort of suck. But no big deal. We all get frustrated, right?”

“Right.”

“I don’t think Cherry did it.”

Micki looked at him in surprise. “Even though she admitted she did?”

“Yeah, even though.”

“Okay, make a believer out of me. You have a theory?”

“Mind control.”

She almost laughed, choking it back at the last moment. “You’re not serious.”

“Maybe somebody brainwashed him. That kind of shit happens.”

“On TV.”

“In real life,” he countered. “Ever watch Fox News?”

She laughed at his attempt at humor. “Okay, I’ll bite. You have somebody in mind?”

“Cherry’s shrink maybe. There was something about her I didn’t like. Not at all.”

“Cherry was seeing a psychiatrist?”

“Who doesn’t?”

She didn’t, not anymore. Though she’d been told on more than one occasion she should. Usually about the time the word crazy was uttered immediately with the word bitch.

“Do you know what Cherry was seeing this shrink about?”

“Same thing we all do: our demons.” She cocked an eyebrow in question and he went on, “C’mon, Detective, you can’t guess? Our lifestyle comes with a lot of baggage. We don’t fit the two cars, two kids, house in the burbs model. Or any of the other socially ‘acceptable’ ones for that matter. Our model comes with rejection, bullying and, for some of us, physical violence.” He paused. “Even from our own families.”

Sad as it was, she knew it was true. “This shrink—you got a name?”

“Yeah. Renee Blackwood.”

Renee Blackwood.

That was it. The connection between the two crimes.

Vanderlund and Chablis had both been seeing the same shrink.

Chapter Twelve

10:30 P.M.

Micki dialed Carmine from the car. He answered, sounding sleepy.

“Dr. Renee Blackwood,” she said. “That’s the connection.”

“Dare? That you?”

“Yes, it’s Dare. Wake up, Carmine, this changes everything!”

He yawned. “Then you better hit me with it again.”

“Vanderlund and Chablis were seeing the same shrink. Dr. Renee Blackwood.”

She heard a rustling in the background, as if Carmine was climbing out of bed. Then the definite sound of the phone being shifted from one ear to the other. “I don’t get it.”

“The two perps, their paths did cross.”

“Okay, so we add that to the growing list of coincidences.”

“That’s total bullshit. We need to question Blackwood as soon as possible.”

“You’re out of your mind. It’s the Friday before Mardi Gras, there’re a hundred fifty thousand extra party animals in town and any manner of crazy shit could erupt at any time. I’m catching some sleep while I can.”

“These murders weren’t random. They’re not unrelated.”

“We have two perps in jail. I’m going back to bed.”

“No! Angelo, wait—”

“Get yourself some sleep, Dare. You need it.”

Then he hung up.

Micki sat, engine idling, dead air against her ear. He was right. She’d sounded like a crazy person. Show up at a prominent doctor’s home in the middle of the night? To question her about two murders that had been solved?

Micki dropped the phone to her lap and pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. She should be grateful—two cases cleared, right out of the gate. She should be giving herself a pat on the back for a job well done, instead of manufacturing complications.