Diva's Last Curtain Call (8 page)

Well, well, well. How interesting. I could feel my curiosity racing into overdrive. I moved over to a table nearer to the door and strained to hear their conversation. But there was no conversation. I was disappointed to see Noelle and Kurt leave. Bermuda Shirt walked over and pressed the button for the elevator. I watched as he got on and disappeared behind the closing doors. I couldn’t stop wondering what was in the box Kurt had given him. I knew no one lived in the marketplace and figured the man had a shop someplace on one of the upper floors. I walked up to the bakery’s counter and bought a half dozen more brownies to take home, hoping also to get a little info.

“Would you happen to know a bald man who wears horn-rimmed glasses and drives a white VW van? I think he has a shop here in the marketplace,” I asked the slender woman who handed me my box of brownies. I wondered if it was willpower or a speedy metabolism that kept her so slim around so many goodies.

The woman thought for a minute before a look of recognition spread across her face. “You must be talking about Mr. Cabot. I don’t know his first name. But I think the name of his shop is Cabot’s Cave. It’s up on the second floor.”

“Thanks,” I told her and headed out to the elevator, wondering what a shop called Cabot’s Cave sold.

There wasn’t much on the second floor of the marketplace. There was a large banquet room, an antique shop and a used book store. Most of the second floor was made up of empty spaces that were being renovated. Paint cans, tarps and rolls of carpet lined the halls. I could smell turpentine and wood shavings. Cabot’s Cave was the last shop at the end of a short hallway. The door of the shop was light blond wood with a large frosted-glass panel in the center. The words
Cabot’s Cave
were painted on the glass in big gold block letters trimmed in black. Underneath that, was the name of the proprietor, Donald Cabot, and a phone number. Hanging from a hook on the wall by the door was a plastic sign that read: Closed. The store’s hours were handwritten on small piece of white cardboard taped at eye level above the doorknob: Open Tuesday thru Saturday 10am—6pm Closed Sundays & Mondays. I knocked anyway. For a second I thought I heard movement behind the closed door but no one answered. Apparently, I was going to have to wait to find out what Cabot’s Cave sold and what was in the box. I pulled a pen from my purse and wrote the shop’s phone number on top of the brownie box. I headed back to my car, stuck the Isley Brother’s Greatest Hits in my tape deck, and headed back to Willow to the sounds of “Footsteps in the Dark.”

Mrs. Carson, my landlady and Mama’s best friend, was sitting in her usual spot on the front porch when I got home. Today, I was surprised to see her dressed not in her usual striped house dress and slippers but a royal-blue warm-up suit and white tennis shoes. Her gray hair was braided in its usual crown on the top of her head. A large tapestry purse with a thick black strap sat on her lap. A big gift bag with a pink pony on the front and a profusion of white tissue sticking out of the top sat at her feet. Mahalia, her Siamese cat, was pawing at the pony’s yarn tail.

“What you got it that box, missy?” she asked as I approached the porch.

“I’ll tell you what’s in the box if you tell me where you’re going looking so cute.” She rolled her eyes, but I could tell she was pleased by the compliment.

“Today’s my great grandbaby’s first birthday. They’re having the party at that Chuck E. Cheese’s place and I’m waitin’ for my ride,” she said with a grimace, which indicated to me that spending time in a restaurant full of screaming kids wasn’t exactly her cup of tea.

“Which one?”

“Loreen’s girl, Sienna. I just hope that baby’s sorry daddy stays away. Did you know he was a thief? He’ll steal the wax right outta yo’ ears if you don’t watch him. I’ma have my eye on that boy if he shows up. Better not start no mess if he knows what’s good for him.”

Seeing as how Mrs. Carson’s favorite son, Stevie, was also sticky-fingered, I was amazed she was being so judgmental. I ignored her comments and opened the box revealing the brownies. She reached inside, grabbed the biggest one and took a bite.

“Not bad. Mine are better, though.”

“Have fun at the party,” I told her as I walked up the steep steps to my apartment. I had the key in the lock and was about to open the door when Mrs. Carson called out to me.

“Kendra, that Reverend Rollins came by here lookin’ for you. Said it wasn’t nothing important and he’ll stop back by. I hope you ain’t steppin’ out on that nice Carl, are you?”

“No. It’s nothing like that,” I called out, opening my door. Since it wasn’t anything important, meaning not about Lynette, then why was he stopping by?

“Good! ’Cause that Carl’s a cutie and anyway I heard Morris Rollins was running ’round with that Winette Barlow. You know, Crazy Frieda’s sister-in-law?”

Huh? I almost dropped the box of brownies. I turned to ask her to repeat what she’d just said, but a car horn sounded and I watched as my landlady hurried off the porch and jumped into a waiting car.

I’d met Winette Barlow last year when I’d been attending a funeral. Winette’s deceased sister-in-law, Elfrieda aka Crazy Frieda, whom everyone in town had mistakenly thought to be a bag lady, was also laid out that day in the same funeral home. Much like Rollins, Winette was an attractive fifty-something widow. She was always stylishly dressed and very friendly whenever I’d run into her in public. I didn’t have to think why he’d be attracted to her. I heard a purr that sounded like a busted carburetor and looked down. Mahalia slunk up the steps, leapt gracefully up on my railing, and looked at me with her almond-shaped blue eyes as if to say, “Well,
you
don’t want him. So, what’s your problem?”

Damned cat.

The next day I was back in Springfield. I kept a half-hearted eye out for Lynette, though I knew I wouldn’t see her. I’d called Greg the night before and he hadn’t heard another word from her. He’d lied to Justine and the kids, telling them Lynette was away on an overnight trip for work. He didn’t know how long he could keep the news of Lynette running off from her mother. Greg and I had agreed that if Lynette didn’t turn up the next day, we’d have no choice but to tell Justine. I wasn’t looking forward to that conversation at all. In the meantime, Allegra had indeed come back to stay with me.

I was sitting on my couch with a bottle of wine and the box of brownies, having a pity party over a man I had no business being upset over, when my door flew open, revealing Allegra with all her crap—again. This time, I refused to give up my bedroom and made her sleep on the couch. My sister was understandably jumpy. Every time she heard a car door slam she would run to the window, convinced it was Harmon and Mercer coming to arrest her. Plus, she polished of the rest of my brownies.

“I needed them more than you,” she’d told me when I spotted the empty bakery box. I’d only been out of the room a few minutes. She must have inhaled those last three brownies. Then I watched as she picked up the half-full wine bottle and chugged the rest of it wiping a trickle of wine from her chin with the sleeve of her shirt.

“Allie, it’s going to be okay. Carl’s a damned good lawyer. You have nothing to worry about.” I gave her hand a reassuring squeeze.

“Yeah, I have to admit he looks like he’d be damned good,” she’d said with a sly smirk, then let out a small belch.

“He is,” I’d told her rather frostily. Then, having nothing left to say, I had gone to bed and dreamt about catching Allegra and Carl in my bed feeding each other brownies.

My sister was actually the main reason I was back in Springfield. I wanted to know what was in the box that Kurt had given Donald Cabot, and if it could possibly have anything to do with Vivianne’s murder. I knew I had to help my baby sister no matter what, even if she did annoy the hell out me and was after my man. Once this mess was cleared up, she could go back to L.A. and leave me to live my boring life.

This time, when I arrived at Cabot’s Cave, the door was open. As I walked in, I could hear Percy Faith’s “Theme from a Summer Place” coming from an old record player sitting on the shop’s front counter. A slight breeze was coming from one of the shop’s large open windows. Cabot’s Cave wasn’t cavelike at all. It was a large, light and airy space with a high ceiling, bright white walls and same the gleaming blond woodwork that the front door was made of. The shop was filled almost to the gills with old movie posters, vintage records, toys and other odds and ends connected either to the movies or television. Under one glass-topped display case there were vintage lunch boxes from the fifties, sixties and seventies. The two dozen or so boxes included the Flintstones, Howdy Doody, Star Wars and Scooby Doo. I even spied a yellow Josie and the Pussycats lunch box identical to the one I used to carry as a kid. My mouth fell open when I saw the price, and I wished I’d held on to mine. Who knew old lunch boxes would be so valuable?

I flipped through the albums and was inspecting a plastic-encased soundtrack to the movie
West Side Story
when Donald Cabot emerged from another room and greeted me with smile. Today he was dressed in a red-and-black two-toned bowling shirt with the words
Daddy O
stitched on the front pocket, and jeans cuffed and rolled up past his ankles. Red Chuck Taylor high-topped tennis shoes were laced tightly around his skinny ankles and made his already big feet look boatlike. The shop’s lights made his bald spot look shiny and his eyes squinted at me from behind his thick horn-rimmed glasses. If pressed to describe what look he was trying to capture I’d have to say it was
Revenge of the Nerds
meets
Grease.

“Hello. Are you finding what you’re looking for?” he asked with such hope and enthusiasm I wondered how many customers he actually had on any given day. Was there a big market for memorabilia?

“You’ve got a lot of good stuff here,” I replied, ignoring his question and making a sweeping gesture around the shop.

“Thank you,” he said, grinning and turning slightly red. I could tell he was as proud of his shop as any mother would be of their child.

“You know, if you can’t find what you’re looking for here I can always try and track something down for you from another collector.” I was about to tell him that wouldn’t be necessary when I happened to glance over his shoulder and noticed a poster on the wall. I brushed by him and stared at what looked like an original poster for the movie that launched Vivianne DeArmond’s career,
Asphalt City
.

The poster depicted a very young and beautiful Vivianne dressed in a tight black skirt, slit thigh-high on one side, and a yellow halter top. A black scarf was knotted around her neck. Black open-toed, high-heeled sandals graced her feet and large silver hoop earrings dangled from her ears. Her hair was long and wavy with one side falling over her right eye. Lush red lips pouted seductively as she leaned suggestively against a lamppost with her voluptuous breasts thrust out and straining against her top. The movie’s tagline, “Love Her at Your Own Risk,” screamed in red letters across the top of the poster, underneath the title.

“It was her most famous role,” said Donald Cabot walking over to stand beside me. “Her other film work was quite special, as well, but she could never quite capture the intensity of emotion she projected as Pearly Monroe,” he continued wistfully. I wondered what he thought about
Demon Kitty
.

A lot of people thought
Asphalt City
was a masterpiece. I thought it was one of the most depressing movies I’d ever seen. Vivianne played Pearly Monroe, a prostitute who seduces a naive young policeman, Sam Hart, and talks him into robbing and killing her vicious pimp and lover, Johnny Desmond. Instead, their plan backfires and Desmond kills the cop in self-defense. Pearly rats Desmond out to the police and testifies against him in court. Desmond is sent to the electric chair. After his execution, a destitute and guilty Pearly realizes she loved Desmond after all and can’t live without him. The movie ended with her throwing herself off a bridge. The credits rolled as her trademark black scarf fluttered in the wind. Not exactly an uplifting tale, but Vivianne’s performance was excellent. Plus, the fact that Vivianne was rumored to be romantically involved with the movie’s very French and very married director, Jacques St. Marchand, didn’t exactly hurt ticket sales.

“She deserved an Oscar for that role,” Donald Cabot declared indignantly.

“Yes, she did,” I agreed. “I saw you at the award ceremony for Vivianne DeArmond this past Saturday, didn’t I?” I asked matter-of-factly. Cabot swung round and gave me a startled look.

“You were there?” he asked, surprised.

“Of course I was there. I’m a huge Vivianne DeArmond fan. I can’t believe she’s really gone.” I shook my head and tried my best to look distraught.

“I cried like a baby when I heard about it on the news. Hollywood has lost one of its brightest stars. I just wish she could have done one more movie.” He looked as if he was about to cry and I pressed on.

“And to think there was a killer roaming around the auditorium,” I said to gauge his reaction. Just how much of a fan of Vivianne’s was Donald Cabot? Did he try and approach Vivianne in her dressing room and get angry when she rejected him again? Could he have killed her?

“You know,” he said, looking around as though the shop was filled with people and he didn’t want to be overheard. “I tried to see Vivianne in her dressing room and that horrible assistant of hers was guarding that room like a sentinel. I wonder where in the world she was when Vivianne was murdered. If you ask me,” he murmured, looking around again. “I bet she killed Vivianne.”

“W
hy do you think that? Did you hear them arguing or something?” I asked hopefully.

“Oh, no, nothing like that,” he said quickly. “But I never saw that woman leave Vivianne’s side the whole time she was at the ceremony. It’s strange she would have left Vivianne alone and she’s sure mean enough to be capable of murder.” He was certainly right about that, I thought, as an image of a raging Harriet Randall being wrestled to the ground by the police flashed in my mind.

“Why were you trying to see Vivianne?” I asked.

“I wanted to invite her to my unveiling,” he said, rubbing his hands together excitedly.

“Of your shop?”

“My new display. Come and see,” he replied, ushering me toward the back of the shop from which he’d emerged only moments before.

I allowed him to lead me into a small room just off the shop’s main area. He flipped a switch on the wall and I felt as though I’d stepped into a shrine. The entire room was wall-to-wall Vivianne. The walls were adorned with posters from every one of her movies, including
Demon Kitty.
There were mannequins dressed in her movie costumes. I recognized the black skirt and yellow halter top from
Asphalt City,
and the midnight-blue evening gown she wore as torch singer Ginger Nolan in the movie
Club Savoy.
There were autographed pictures and movie props: the silk cushions she lounged on as scheming harem girl Yasmeen in the movie
Arabian Adventure,
the sparkling silver crown she wore during her guest starring role as alien Queen Zenobia on an episode of
Star Trek,
and the nunchacku she used as ass-kicking private eye Sassy Parker in the early seventies blaxploitation movies
Sassy Mama
and
Sassy Mama’s Revenge
. There was even a crate full of copies of her unmemorable one and only album,
ViVi Sings,
which one harsh music critic said should have the word
badly
tacked on the end of the title.

I wondered what Vivianne would have thought of her entire career laid out in this little room. Would she have been flattered or, like me, wondering if Donald Cabot had a cage in his basement with her name on it? I could feel Cabot’s eyes on me awaiting my reaction. I certainly didn’t want to disappoint or offend him since I’d yet to get the information I’d come for.

“This is amazing. How in the world did you get all of this stuff? Is all this authentic?”

Cabot had been grinning until I asked about the authenticity of his display, then a frown eclipsed his face and he got a little huffy. “Of course it’s all authentic. Most of it came from memorabilia auctions, and the rest I bought from private sellers.”

I noticed some of the items weren’t movie-related and must have been Vivianne’s personal things. The movie stuff didn’t have prices, but the personal items had tags on them. I looked at the tag on a cream-colored lace slip and had to keep my jaw from dropping. Donald Cabot was charging an arm and a leg to anybody who wanted a piece of Vivianne.

“I didn’t realize this kind of stuff would be so valuable,” I said.

“To be honest, there hasn’t been much interest in Vivianne’s memorabilia in quite some time. But now that’s she’s dead there’s been renewed interest in everything to do with her. You’re looking at the single largest collection of Vivianne DeArmond memorabilia in the world and it’s only going to get bigger,” he announced beaming.

“Really. Why is that?”

“Let’s just say I’ve tapped into a new source,” he said coyly. Based on what I’d witnessed yesterday, I knew who the new source must be.

“Am I the first one to see this new display?”

“Actually, I was quite honored to have Vivianne’s ex-husband and former manager, Cliff Preston, attend a private viewing of the collection. He even brought his wife and son with him. He was quite impressed.”

“Wow. When was this?” I asked excitedly. My enthusiasm may have been fake but not my interest in his answer.

“Hmm. Let’s see,” he said concentrating. “It was last Friday evening, the night before the awards ceremony. I was hoping he’d bring Vivianne with him but no such luck.” He shook his head sadly.

“How’d he even know about your display?”

“Oh, I contacted him months ago when I first heard the Starburst Film Festival was going to be honoring her. It was long overdue in my opinion,” he sniffed. “Anyway, I wrote and told him I was putting together a display and invited him to view it. I wrote to Vivianne, too, of course, but she never responded. I just know that assistant of hers probably never even gave her my letter.” I nodded in commiseration.

I’d witnessed Kurt Preston and Noelle Delaney selling a box to Donald Cabot. It had obviously held some of Vivianne’s things. I wondered if Kurt had known his mother’s memorabilia would become so valuable once she was dead. Did he get tired of her refusing to give him money and come up with a deadly plan after seeing this display? Was Noelle involved, as well? She certainly needed money, too. If I was right and Kurt and Noelle had something to do with his mother’s murder, I knew Harmon and Mercer would want proof. Even if they didn’t believe me, at least they’d have someone else to be suspicious of besides my sister.

“To be honest, Mr. Cabot, I’ve come here because I have a small collection myself. I collect items owned by local stars. I’d like to buy something for my collection. Is everything here for sale?” I said looking around the small room.

“Everything is for sale. What would you like?” Donald Cabot said his face glowing with excitement.

“I’m not quite sure. Do you have any suggestions? Are these all of Vivianne’s things or do you have more that I haven’t seen?” I asked carefully.

“This is everything. I think I may have just the thing for you, it came in yesterday. Vivianne was said to be quite the collector when it came to purses, although this is the only one I have,” Cabot said gesturing toward a small black beaded evening bag perching on top of the white dresser used in Vivianne’s romantic comedy
Nightie Night
.

I walked over and picked the bag up. It was an unusual triangle shape. The sides and bottom of the bag were stiff, silk-covered, and heavily beaded. The top was soft black cloth and closed completely when I pulled the velvet drawstring. It sort of looked like a small ornate laundry bag. I examined the price tag. Ouch. At a hundred and fifty bucks it wasn’t cheap. Not surprisingly, it was the least expensive thing on display and I knew I had to buy it to prove to Cabot I was serious. Plus, the bag was pretty cute and I needed a new black one. I’d been looking on my usual trips to Déjà Vu thrift store without luck.

“I’ll take it,” I said holding the bag out to Cabot. He grinned like a Cheshire cat.

“Excellent, though I have to warn you, this wasn’t used in any of her movies. This was a personal item, though she was photographed with it.” He gestured to a black-and-white photo of Vivianne in a beaded evening gown with the purse looped around her wrist. “I just had the picture of her with the purse until yesterday. I was so pleased to actually add the purse to the display.”

“Wonderful. It’ll be perfect for my collection,” I told his back as I followed him up front. “I’d be interested in seeing more of Vivianne’s handbag collection. Would you happen to be able to give me the name of the person who sold you this one?”

He didn’t answer me and I realized he was waiting for his money. I pulled out my checkbook and blew my grocery budget for a month. I held the check just out of his reach and he looked at me impatiently.

“Your seller? Do you know if he has any more of Vivianne’s handbags?” I said, waving the check in front of his face. His greedy little eyes glittered behind his thick glasses.

“That information is confidential,” he said reaching again for the check, which I still held out of his reach.

“You can’t help me at all? I’m willing to pay top dollar.” The mention of money practically made Cabot salivate.

“How about I tell my seller of your interest and see what else he may have?”

“I’d really like to talk to the seller myself if that’s possible. Of course, you’ll handle any sales that result from this meeting,” I added quickly when I saw the scowl pop up on his face at the mention of meeting with his seller.

“Leave me your name and number and I’ll see what I can do,” he said, reaching out and snatching the check. I gave him my name and number and left with my new purse.

When I got home there was a gold Mercedes Benz parked in front of my duplex. I got out and walked up the front steps. Morris Rollins was sitting on the porch with Mrs. Carson. Just great. He was the last person I wanted to see. The two were laughing like old friends even though I knew Mrs. Carson didn’t have a high opinion of Holy Cross and disapproved of Reverend Rollins’s popularity with the ladies. I was tickled to see that even my seventy-two-year-old landlady wasn’t immune to Rollins’s charm. She was giggling like a schoolgirl.

“Here she is,” said Mrs. Carson when they finally noticed me coming up the steps. Rollins stood up, making a striking figure even casually dressed in his tan pants and white crew-necked shirt. I could smell his Lagerfeld cologne as I approached the porch. I wondered if Winette Barlow liked the way he smelled, then realized it was really none of my business.

“Hello,” I called out, forcing a smile.

“I’ve got some news for you about Lynette,” he said, trotting down the steps to meet me halfway.

“You saw her?” I stopped and looked up at him. The sunshine made his brown skin glow.

“No. But she called and I know where she is. I thought we could go and talk some sense into her,” he said, heading to his car and opening the passenger door for me. Why did I suddenly feel like I was stepping into a lion’s den?

“Where is she?” I asked, getting in and sinking back against the leather seat. Rollins got in, started the car and pulled away from the curb before answering.

“She’s at the Heritage Arms. She said she knows you and Greg are worried and wanted me to let you know she’s okay.”

Was he kidding? The Heritage Arms was a roach motel on the edge of town that catered to cheating spouses, truckers, hookers and college students looking for a cheap place to host a party. I was familiar with the Heritage Arms because I’d lost my virginity there the summer before going off to college. I’d also had the misfortune of being attacked by a murderer a year ago in one of the Heritage Arms’s less-than-luxurious rooms. I could think of a million other more desirable places to go and be alone, like a cave, for instance.

“When is she planning on coming home?”

“I didn’t exactly get the impression that she was planning on coming home. She just told me to tell you guys she was okay,” he replied, negotiating a turn. I groaned.

“She’s getting married in four days. What is she thinking?” I’d been sympathetic to my best bud in the beginning, but now I was pissed.

“I don’t think she’s thinking at all. I think she’s running scared. Sometimes that happens when people finally get what they want.”

“Well, I could wring her neck,” I said in exasperation. “She’s got a wonderful man who loves her and wants to marry her and what does she do? She runs away.”

“Most people have a hard time seeing what’s right in front of their faces,” Rollins said softly. I glared at him after I realized it was a not-so-subtle dig at me and his loud, infectious laugh filled the car. I couldn’t help but smile.

“Not me,” I replied innocently. “I know Carl’s a good man and I’m not running from him.”

“Does that mean you and Carl are getting married?” he asked. His tone was casual but I saw his hands grip the steering wheel a little too tightly. He had a hell of nerve.

“Not anytime soon. What about you, Reverend? Is there a new lady in your life?” He didn’t answer until he stopped at the next light.

“Would it bother you if there was?” he asked, turning to look at me. I could have sworn I detected a bit of sadness in his eyes. I looked away.

“Why would it bother me?” I questioned, sounding cold even to my own ears. He didn’t respond and we drove in an uncomfortable silence until we were about to pull into the hotel’s parking lot.

As we were pulling into the lot, I noticed a black Nissan Altima pulling out and speeding away. It was Lynette.

“There she is,” I said, pointing to the black car. “Hey. Where’s she going?” I reached across Rollins’s lap and honked his horn. Lynette never looked back. “Follow her,” I ordered Rollins, who put his foot on the gas sending me flying back into the passenger seat.

Lynette was driving as though she was in the Indy 500. Rollins’s Mercedes was right on her tail. We were on a two-lane road with cars traveling in the opposite direction, and we couldn’t pull along side of the Nissan. Rollins was honking his horn for her to stop, but she wouldn’t look back. We were close enough for me to see the back of her head and her ponytail. Her car windows were rolled up and I could hear music blaring. She couldn’t hear me. I yelled out the window again.

“Lynette! Pull over! Where are you going!” No luck. Finally there were no cars coming down the opposite side of the road and Rollins pulled alongside Lynette’s car. I was practically hanging out the window waving my arms.

“Lynette! Lynette!” Just then I saw a blue pickup truck heading straight for us. There was no way we could pull into the other lane because of Lynette’s car. I screamed. The driver of the pickup laid on his horn. Rollins grabbed my shirt and pulled me back in the car. He jerked the wheel to the left just in time and ran the Mercedes into a ditch on the side of the road. I groaned and laid my head against the dashboard. Rollins and I were both breathing heavily.

“You okay?” he asked rubbing my back in slow circular motions. I was going to be more than okay if he kept rubbing my back like that. I was going to fall asleep in his lap, not that he’d complain. Then I wondered if he rubbed Winette Barlow’s back, too.