I looked around, but I didn’t see anyone except a woman walking down the sidewalk on the other side of the street. A few cars passed, but no one paid any attention to me or Chez Tango. One guy in a Ferrari did honk his horn and shouted something at the woman, who was now passing the Bright Lights Motel. She gave him the finger, and he sped past.
I caught her eye for a second, but she just shrugged and kept going. From the looks of her outfit-short, tight dress and stiletto heels-she was probably a working girl. If I asked her whether she’d seen anyone here, she’d most likely give me the finger, too.
I turned back to the car. Jeff was going to kill me.
I didn’t have my bag on me, which meant I didn’t have my AAA card. I didn’t have a phone, either.
I had nothing. Except keys to a car that wasn’t going anywhere. And about fifty bucks, thanks to Bitsy.
An inspection of Kyle’s Honda indicated that whoever had done this might have been sending me and only me a message. Because the Honda’s tires were intact. Who didn’t want me to leave? Or, more likely, who didn’t want me to keep moving forward with my little amateur investigation?
I thought about asking Kyle if I could borrow his Honda, but considering the state of Jeff’s car, he might not think I was a safe bet. But I had to do something.
I went back into Chez Tango, pushing open the metal door, hearing it slam behind me with a heavy thud.
“Who is it?” I heard Kyle call out.
“It’s just me,” I said loudly as I made my way toward the stage, where Kyle was practicing a dance step. “I need to use your phone again.”
He curtsied, then shimmied across the stage, his fake bosom shaking.
“Someone slashed my tires,” I said as I climbed the steps up to the stage floor.
Kyle stopped short and pulled himself up straight, but his wig wasn’t on properly and it moved by itself into his forehead. He shoved it back. “What do you mean, someone slashed your tires?”
“Just what I said.”
“My car?”
“Is fine,” I told him. “I just need to call a garage to come tow mine.”
“Mi teléfono es su teléfono,” Kyle said in mangled Spanish. Eduardo should teach him a few phrases.
I found myself back in the little office. I didn’t have a phone book, but I figured I should face the music, so I called Jeff to see where he’d like me tow his car to.
“Murder Ink.”
“Hi, Jeff,” I said, trying to sound casual, but it came out a little funny.
“Kavanaugh? What’s wrong?” Concern laced his voice. This wasn’t going to be easy.
“Well, there seems to be a little problem,” I started.
“Don’t tell me you crashed my car. Please don’t tell me that.”
“I didn’t crash your car.”
I heard a heavy sigh of relief. “That’s good.”
“But someone slashed your tires.”
A sharp intake of breath. “What?”
“The car was parked at Chez Tango. I was inside for maybe fifteen minutes. When I went back out, the tires were slashed. I have no idea who did it. Of course I’ll pay for new tires. It was on my watch. So if you just tell me the name of the garage you want me to have it taken to, I’ll get that done right now. I’m really, really sorry about this, Jeff.” The words spilled out faster than water going over a New Orleans levee.
I could sense Jeff struggling with what to say. Finally, “I’ll call the garage. Do you need a ride?”
I didn’t want to impose any more than I already had, but I could hear the drag queens arriving and knew Kyle wouldn’t have time to chauffeur me around.
“I do.”
“I’ll take care of it. Just go in the parking lot and meet the tow truck, okay?”
“No problem.”
I was about to hang up, but he wasn’t done yet.
“Kavanaugh, it’s a good thing I like you.”
Then he hung up.
I stared at the receiver in my hand. He liked me? What did that mean? That he liked me, or that he just liked me? I hoped it was the latter. I told myself it was the latter. I was the sister he didn’t have. Or maybe another sister. I didn’t know whether he had a sister or not.
I wandered through the dressing room. Stephan Price, wearing a nylon cap over his hair, carefully outlined his eyes with black eyeliner, preparing to bring Miranda Rites out for the night. He spotted me in the mirror and put the wand down. He got up and came over to me, put his arm around my shoulders, and squeezed.
“Hey, girl. Sad about Trevor, isn’t it?”
I nodded. “Yeah, it is.”
“Charlotte must be torn up, huh?”
All the stress of the day chose that very moment to come out. “Maybe she is, maybe she isn’t. I can’t find her. I talked to her this morning before I found Wesley Lambert’s body. I don’t know what sort of game she’s playing.” My tone was harsher than it should have been; I shouldn’t take my frustrations out on Stephan, especially since he had nothing to do with anything that was going on.
“Wesley Lambert?”
For some reason, his brain seemed to have stuck on those two words, as if the others hadn’t registered.
I nodded. “Yeah. He’s dead. He was making poison in a condo on the Strip and managed to kill himself with it.”
“Poison?”
“Ricin. And because of him, I ended up in the emergency room, stripped to my birthday suit, and getting interrogated by Lester Fine, of all people.” I was rambling. I couldn’t stop myself.
“Lester Fine?”
“He called me a victim; he was trying to get me on TV.” I was a lost cause. I wasn’t making any sense.
“Honey, you need a drink.” Stephan leaned over to the dressing table, picked up a glass that was filled with ice and what looked like water, and handed it to me.
I chugged it. Felt like I was in college again. I didn’t even choke when I realized it was vodka. Not my drink of choice, but the moment called for it. I handed Stephan back the empty glass and thought I was going to be sick.
He got me into a chair and told me to put my head between my legs. Go figure, it worked.
“So Wesley’s dead?” Stephan asked.
I nodded as well as I could in my position. I felt Stephan’s hand massaging my scalp. It felt good.
“I knew he’d get into trouble someday. But what does Lester Fine have to do with it?”
“Nothing. He was just trying to drum up the sympathy vote, I think.” I raised my head and didn’t feel sick anymore. Actually, I was feeling rather warm and fuzzy. A glass of vodka would do that to you.
I had another thought.
“But somehow his personal assistant, Rusty Abbott, is part of all this. I just know it. He’s got the queen-of-hearts tattoo, you know, on his inner forearm. He could be the one who shot Trevor with the cork. I saw the ink with my own eyes.”
Stephan laughed and sat in front of the mirror again. He started spreading bright purple eye shadow under his eyebrows. “He’s not the only one with a queen-of-hearts tattoo, you know.”
I sat up straighter. “No, I don’t know. Who else has one?”
“Wesley Lambert.”