After that momentary pause, the heels began clacking double time. I picked up the pace and followed her tap dance down the stairs to the first floor. Moving past the main court, she headed for the adjacent mural room, then froze, squeezing her purse-pooch in a stranglehold. Standing next to her, I saw her inhale sharply at the scene in front of us. She covered her glossy pink mouth with glossy pink fingernails.
“Oh my God!” she whispered between fingers.
Lying in the middle of the marble floor was the lifeless body of a woman, and my friend and part-time coworker, Delicia Jackson, one of the actors in the play, was kneeling by her side.
The woman’s legs were twisted at an impossible—and indiscreet—angle, her arms akimbo. Blond curly hair masked her face. Her pink polyester skirt was hiked up high enough to reveal a matching pink thong.
But it was the hilt of a dagger jutting from the woman’s back that held both Mary Lee’s and my attention. A circle of blood surrounded the ornate handle.
Delicia gave another bone-chilling scream that echoed throughout the main court, causing the hairs on my unshaved legs to stand at attention. Delicia bent down in her vintage floral frock and chunky black heels, circa 1940s Nancy Drew, and hesitantly touched the pool of blood with her fingertip. Recoiling in horror, she cried, “Oh. My. God. She’s totally dead!”
Dee glanced up and spotted Mary Lee staring at her.
She licked her bloody finger.
Then she grinned.
Mary Lee, still frozen to the spot, finally released her death grip on her little dog Toto—or whatever. Before she could sic the little pooch on Delicia, I shouldered past her and called out, “Stop tape.”
My videographer and fellow office worker, Berkeley Wong, lowered his video camera, a look of exasperation on his youthful face. Costumed as Kutesy Millstone, the Alphabet Detective, he wore a simple black dress that fit him perfectly. He finished the look with a “Santa Teresa” baseball hat covering his normally spiky hair. The only accessories that didn’t fit his role were the purple Chuck Ts on his feet.
I moved closer to the body, then said, “Delicia, you sound more like Miley Cyrus than Nancy Prude.”
Acting as if she was offended, Delicia stuck out her tongue at me. But then, Dee was almost always acting. She’d had bit parts in every local production from
Beach Blanket Babylon
to
Teatro ZinZanni
, but her dream was to be on Broadway.
Berk shuffled over, giggling. “Presley’s right, dude. You’re not a Disney tween—you’re the World Famous Valley Girl Detective. Try it like this.” He put a hand on his waist, stuck out his hip, and spoke in a falsetto. “ ‘Oh. My. God! She’s
like
totally dead!’ ”
“And, Dee,” I added, “try not to lick the blood off your finger during the real performance tomorrow night.”
“Good
God
!” came a screeching voice behind me. “What are you people
doing
?”
Remembering Mary Lee, the constant thorn in my balloon, I turned around to explain the crime scene to her. While Botox kept her from frowning, it didn’t prevent her face from turning the color of her pink outfit.
“It’s okay, Mary Lee. They’re just rehearsing.”
I turned to Delicia and whispered, “Better leave out the scream until showtime.” I rolled my eyes toward Mary Lee.
Delicia grimaced, displaying teeth tinged pink from licking the fake blood. “Where did you get this stuff?” She spat. “Tastes like cherry cough syrup. Yuck.”
I glanced down at the weapons strewn about the “deceased” mannequin. All the red herrings were there—various artifacts copied from authentic museum pieces that doubled as murder weapons. The dagger, a nearly perfect replica of the one encased upstairs, protruded from the mannequin’s back, supported by a hunk of clay hidden under the “victim’s” pink polyester blouse.
“Berk, can you do a sweep of the crime scene so we can—” I started to say.
The shrill voice behind me cut me off. “Excuse me. But is that supposed to be
me
?” The sound of clicking heels and yapping dog started up again as Mary Lee closed the gap between us.
“Well, yes, but—”
“Because I have
no
intention of lying on the floor in my Chanel suit. Especially not like that!” She indicated the obscene way in which the corpse was lying—the hitched-up skirt and glimpse of pink thong—another one of Delicia’s many pranks to further irritate the woman in charge.
Mary Lee, thinking it was the starring role, had insisted on playing the soon-to-be-deceased museum curator California de Young. Once she realized she only had a few lines before her “death,” she’d promptly glammed up her meager role with expensive designer clothes, heavily insured jewelry, and movie-star makeup. I could hardly argue with her, since she was running the show, so to speak. I just hoped she’d play dead for most of the evening.
“Don’t worry, Mary Lee,” I said, biting my tongue before I said something more that I’d regret. I knew if I opened my piehole and spewed every time Mary Lee annoyed me, I’d be left with a mouthful of mincemeat and no job. A small price to pay, I thought momentarily, then remembered I needed the money, after being downsized from my college teaching job.
After taking a deep breath, I explained the logistics of the play and her role once again. “We’ll have a nice cashmere throw on the floor so you don’t get your clothes dirty. And you won’t have to stay there long. We’ll replace you with the mannequin.”
Mary Lee stomped closer to the corpse for a better look, brushing past Delicia as if she wasn’t there. Sticking out her razor-sharp Manolo toe, she gave the mannequin’s torso a little kick.
“That doesn’t look anything like me. Where did you get that
hideous
plus-sized outfit—Walmart? I’m a size one, for God’s sake. Those shoes are a disgrace. I wouldn’t be caught dead in those thrift-store knockoffs. And that wig—it looks like someone combed it with the dagger. My hair doesn’t look anything like that. Not at
my
salon’s prices. Is this supposed to be some kind of a joke?”
While Mary Lee ranted, Delicia had risen like a ghost from her kneeling position, the bloody dagger in hand. Slowly drifting back, she slipped behind Mary Lee, raised the phony knife, and brought it down to within millimeters of Mary Lee’s back.
Repeatedly.
The “Eee—eee—eee” from the
Psycho
shower scene screeched in my brain. Good thing that dagger was made of Styrofoam. This was supposed to be a make-believe murder.
While the weapon might not have been real, the murderous expression on Delicia’s face looked authentic. I didn’t blame her for her lethal thoughts. Delicia and Mary Lee had been at odds since the first rehearsal a couple of weeks ago. I had a feeling that was when Mary Lee began to suspect there was something going on between her son, Corbin, and Dee.
According to Delicia, the young man had been coerced by his strong-willed mother into playing the part of Sam Slayed, Hard-Boiled Gumshoe. An aspiring artist and son from Mary Lee’s first marriage to Jason Cosetti, Corbin had been raised with a silver paintbrush in his hand. He’d reluctantly agreed to participate in the museum fund-raiser in exchange for some help from his influential mother in getting a sponsor for his own art show.
In spite of her sharp tongue and pit-bull personality, I felt for Mary Lee. Her relationship with her son seemed to be the only real human connection she had—and she apparently felt threatened by Dee.
No wonder. Petite, curvy, with long dark hair, Delicia was a natural flirt. More than one man who’d crossed her path had fallen for her. But unlike other romantic adventures she’d had, this time she seemed truly interested in the scruffily attractive urban-chic artist, in spite of the fact that at twenty-five, he was five years her junior.
Once Mary Lee realized what was going on between her prized son and a “common out-of-work actress,” she had shown her dislike and disapproval of Delicia every chance she got, often referring to her as “the help,” “that little girl,” and “what’s-her-name.” Naturally, this did not bode well for the overly dramatic Dee.
At the moment, Mary Lee stood hands on hips, shaking her head at her “deceased” doppelgänger. Behind her back, Delicia quietly picked up another bogus weapon—a bow and arrow—and pretended to shoot it through Mary Lee’s head. By the time Delicia lifted the fake statuette and mimed clobbering Mary Lee, it was all Berkeley and I could do not to laugh. Good thing Mary Lee was oblivious to the pantomimes behind her back.
Pressing my lips together, I glared at Delicia and shook my head sharply, hoping she’d get the hint and knock off the theatrics.
Mary Lee caught me out signaling Dee and said, “What’s going on?”
I shrugged like a student caught passing notes in class. “Nothing . . . I . . . we—”
Mary Lee spotted the thickly beaded mock necklace Delicia had just retrieved from the floor—perfect for strangulation.
“I was just cleaning up . . . ,” Delicia began, looking as innocent as Jack the Ripper.
“That’s it!” Mary Lee screeched, startling all of us. She turned to me, but kept her eyes on Delicia. “I’ve had it. I want her out of here. Now!”
Before I could defend Dee, a voice called out from across the court.
“Mother!”
Mary Lee whirled around, her face twisted with rage. Corbin Cosetti strode into the room, wearing a trench coat and snap-brim fedora, à la Sam Spade. He looked better in the costume than in his usual torn-and-paint-splattered shirt and jeans, and I could see how Dee might be attracted to him. With dark hair and eyes, he was a quite a contrast to his fair mother.
“This is none of your business, Corbin,” Mary Lee hissed. “Please don’t interfere.” She turned back to me and pointed to Delicia. “That woman has done nothing but disrupt the play, distract the others, disrespect my authority, and . . . and . . .” she sputtered.
Poor woman. Her controlling attachment to her son was threatening to ruin the fund-raiser. I had to do something to ease the tension. But before I could reassure her, Delicia stepped forward—and into Mary Lee’s face. She looked dumbfounded at Mary Lee’s outburst and accusations.
“What are you talking about, lady?”
“Don’t act innocent with me, missy,” Mary Lee said. “I know your game. And I refuse to have you ruin this important event!”
“Listen, lady,” Dee said. “I don’t work for you. I work for Presley. And you and I both know what this is really about. You’re not worried about your stupid-ass fund-raiser. You’re trying to control your twenty-five-year-old son!”
Before Delicia could do something stupid with the fake knife she still held in her hand, Corbin moved in between the two women and pushed them apart. At nearly six feet, he towered over them.
“Knock it off! Both of you!” He turned to Mary Lee. “Good God, Mother. Dee’s right. Stop interfering in my life! I’ll see whomever I want, when I want, and you have nothing to say about it.”
He spun around to Delicia, who was gripping the knife handle so hard, her knuckles were white. “And you. For God’s sake, stop baiting her. You know how she is.”
I frowned at the mini-drama playing out in front of me. This was way better than the little murder mystery I’d prepared. Unfortunately, while there might not be the sudden appearance of a dead body, there would certainly be a dead career if I didn’t take charge of this imploding situation.
I looked at Delicia. “Dee? What’s this all about?”
She shrugged like a pouty teenager.
I turned to Mary Lee’s son. “Corbin?”
He continued to glare at his mother.
“Mary Lee?” I finally said.
She snarled. “This tramp you’ve hired is trying to get her hands on my money.”
“What?” I said, almost laughing.
“Oh, don’t be so naive. I know her type. She’s digging her hooks into Corbin to get at my money. She might be fooling you, Corbin, but she doesn’t fool me. And I should know, since it’s happened to me more than once.”
“Mother!” Corbin shouted. “That’s crazy. Dee’s . . .” He looked at Delicia. “She’s just a friend.”
Delicia flashed Corbin a daggered look. Translation: “Oh really, mama’s boy?”
Corbin quickly backtracked. “I mean, sure, we’ve gone out a few times. But your accusations are ridiculous! You’ve got to stop trying to control my life. You asked me to do this play—and I agreed, only because you said you’d find someone to show my work. But that doesn’t mean you can run my life.”
“Don’t you see, Corbin?” Mary Lee pleaded. “She’s nothing but a common
actress
! And a lousy one at that. She’s only acting like she cares about you. Just like the others, she’s after the money. How can you be so blind?”
Corbin crossed his arms. “If she leaves, I leave. And you’ll be without two key characters the night before your play. Good luck finding replacements at this late date.”
I pulled Mary Lee aside, not unaware of Dee’s piercing eyes. “He’s right, Mary Lee,” I said. “We can’t afford to lose anyone at this point. Look, the event will be over tomorrow night, and it’s going to be a real moneymaker. You don’t want anything to go wrong now, after all the work you’ve done.” My voice turned to a whisper. “I’m sure this ‘thing’ will take care of itself once the play is over.”
Mary Lee pulled away from me and turned to the dozen cast members staring at her. Locking her jaw, she spun around and stomped away, her clicking heels like knife points on the marble floor.
“Bee-otch,” Dee said under her breath. “I should have stabbed, clubbed, and garroted her when I had the chance.” I shot a look at her. Berkeley stifled a grin, while Corbin just shook his head as he watched his mother walk away. I caught a glimpse of Sam Wo, the security guard I’d been speaking with upstairs, standing in the doorway. He lifted his hat at me sympathetically and disappeared into another room.
As soon as Mary Lee left the room, the cast visibly relaxed. Me included.