In Deep Shitake Part 31

"When you got here he was dead?" Officer Tim asked.

"Yes."

"Are you sure you didn't argue with him when you got here? Things may have got out of hand and there was an accident?"

Meatb.a.l.l.s. Now she was a suspect. "No, of course not," Mo said with more than a touch of irritation in her voice.

"Oh no, this dear girl had nothing to do with poor Clarence being dead," Mrs. Truesberry interjected. "I was working away in my garden. You see I always garden for at least two hours everyday. When it's not raining of course. The flowers are always so open and fragrant at this time of day."

Mo gritted her teeth to keep from interrupting the prattle to suggest that Mrs. Truesberry get on with proving to the officer that Mo hadn't murdered Clarence. However, snapping at her only defender might not be such a good strategy.

"Anyway, as I said," the landlady continued. "I'd been working away in my garden for some time when I saw Ms. Tuttle arrive. We talked and then I followed her upstairs. When we went into the apartment there was Clarence. Dead as a doorpost."

"Doornail," Officer Tim corrected, as he made more jottings in his notebook.

"I'm sure it's doorpost," Mrs. Truesberry said quizzically.

"The saying is doornail," Officer Tim insisted.

"Doorpost makes more sense," the landlady said.

"Why does doorpost make more sense?" Officer Tim asked with a huff. "They're both dead."

"Is this important?" Mo asked with impatience.

"No, ma'am. You're right." Officer Tim glanced back and forth between Mo and the landlady. "I guess you're in the clear. It seems that Mrs. Truesberry here is your alibi...Unless you two are related to one another."

"Oh no, officer. I've only met Ms. Tuttle for the first time yesterday when she came by looking for Clarence with that handsome young man."

The officer smiled as he tapped his chin with the pencil. "That's right. You hang out with Stephen Dagger, don't you?"

"You mean Clarence?" Mrs. Truesberry asked.

"No, that SpyMatrix guy," the officer replied.

"You do mean Clarence," the landlady said.

"He means Ross Grant," Mo said and then bit her lip. She might be angry with Ross, but she didn't want to bring him into a murder investigation."

"Yeah, the actor that's known for the saying 'that's virtuoso'. The one with the big gun."

"Clarence had a big gun," Mrs. Truesberry said with a sniffle bordering on snivel. "He had a big gun and it killed him." Full-blown sobbing erupted from the old lady, including shaking shoulders, runny nose, watering eyes. "He loved being Stephen Dagger. But somebody didn't think it was so virtuoso." More sobbing continued.

"Oh lard," Mo groaned.

"Am I understanding right that you know this victim, Clarence, also went by the name Stephen Dagger?" The officer asked Mo.

"It depends on how you define the word know," Mo said following in the strict hairsplitting construction of words that had been made famous by a certain President. Mo had more sympathy for the man.

"Well, if he did, perhaps that actor-friend of yours didn't appreciate being impersonated." The officer tapped the pad with his pencil. "Maybe that actor came over here to confront this Clarence and they had a fight. Do you know where that actor was at the time of the victim's death?"

"Know where..." Mo hesitated then hedged again. "Know is such a hard word to define. Do I know? If a tree falls in the forest and I didn't see it fall, do I really know that it made a sound?"

Officer Tim placed a hand to his hip, near the nightstick, which fit into a loop hanging from his belt. He gave Mo a glare that said he could beat the truth out of her with it at any second. Or maybe she was imagining things.

"Look, officer, I don't really know where Ross Grant was in the last few hours, but I do know that he did not kill Clarence."

Why was she defending Ross after all he'd done? She couldn't help herself.

"I think that foreign Gigantor guy that was looking for Clarence is the killer. I think that's who Clarence was afraid of when he called me. That's probably who was at his door when he told me to hurry over. And Gigantor works for that Kubikov guy who owns Hoochie Mama's House."

Mrs. Truesberry abruptly stopped sobbing. "Yes. Clarence said he was afraid of a Russian and for me to watch out for some wrestler-type coming to the house. Ms. Tuttle is right. It was that illegal immigrant Russian who killed Clarence. Everybody knows the illegal immigrants are the ones doing all the crimes in Savannah just like Ms. Tuttle said."

"I didn't say that." There was a note of more than a little hysteria in her voice. "Illegal immigrants do not do all the crimes in Savannah. I don't even know Gigantor guy's immigration status. He may be in this country legally for all I know."

Officer Tim stared. There was silence for a few beats before he spoke. "Okay then. I've got your contact information and I'm sure the homicide detective will be in touch."

Apparently she was no longer a suspect.

The officer pointed his stubby pencil at her. "Don't leave town."

Apparently she was still a suspect.

"You know, I think those Russians might also be after me and Mr. Grant."

He turned away. "Yeah sure. Come by the precinct and give a report."

A call on her cell phone was just what Mo didn't need at that point, but it was just what Mo got. A call from her boss.

"I wanted to remind you that you have a meeting scheduled with Jessica Nelson," Harry said. "She wants to finish the briefing on her case that was interrupted the other day."

"What more does she need to know?" Mo asked. "Her husband is a cross dresser. Does she want me to give her his dress size?"

"I have no idea. All I know is that she wants to meet." Harry replied "Does it have to be now?"

"I know, I know. But she is the client. And she has a check to give you. Payment in full on her bill." Harry's voice had the gleeful tone she always got when discussing money, especially money she was going to receive.

"Really Harry? I've just found Clarence's body. Remember?" Mo walked away from Mrs. Truesberry with a little wave and made her way toward her car.

"Yes, I'm sorry, honey," Harry said. "I know you must be upset. But what good will not getting paid by Mrs. Nelson do for Clarence at this point? He'll still be dead if you don't meet with the client. And we don't get paid."

The great sorrow her boss felt over Clarence's demise wasn't enough to diminish Harry's love of the buck.

Mo counted to ten in her head. Did she really need this job? Yes, and she still had to have that bonus Harry had been promising.

"Just go meet with her and then take the rest of the day off," Harry said.

"All right," Mo conceded.

"I really am sorry, Mo. I don't want to hurt you with this, but I need to get paid."

"That's okay, I understand. You're only a cog in the wheel of the dump truck that ran over me and then backed up again. You're not the actual truck." Mo tried to laugh and couldn't. She hung up with a weary, "I'll see you tomorrow."

Now off to meet with another cog.

Mrs. Nelson answered Mo's knock to her front door wearing an outfit a hooker would love. She had on a halter top, black mini skirt worn over fishnet stockings, and thigh high black boots laced up the back with pink neon laces. Mrs. Nelson had even donned a matching pink pageboy-style wig to cover her dishwater-blonde hair.

Mrs. Nelson's minivan was metaphorically operating on three wheels. Her china place setting lacked a dinner plate. Her bridge game was playing without a full deck. The woman had clearly gone insane.

"If my husband wants to hang out with strippers then I might as well give him what he wants," Mrs. Nelson said as she led Mo into her living room.

"Ummm. Right." Mo sat down onto the beige loveseat in the beigest of beige rooms she'd ever seen. "What can I do for you today?"

"Would you like some coffee?" Mrs. Nelson asked.

"No, thank you."

"How about tea?"

"No. Nothing, thanks." Please let's get this business done so that I can go home, crawl under the covers and forget this day ever happened. But Mo knew she would never be able to forget the sight of Clarence's crumpled, spiritless body. "I don't think there's anything we didn't cover the other day in my report on your husband. Do you have questions?"

"Oh no. I understand everything." Mrs. Nelson perched on the edge of the beige sofa opposite Mo with her knees pressed tightly together. The prim pose was almost laughable given the outfit. But Mo didn't feel like a laugh.

Taking an envelope with the agency's invoice inside from her bag, Mo handed it to Mrs. Nelson. "Our final invoice," she said then cleared her throat. Mo always found it hard to ask for money. "My boss said you wanted to pay the agency today."

"Yes, that's what I said." Mrs. Nelson sat impa.s.sively staring at Mo. She made no move to get her checkbook, merely placing the envelope on the coffee table. For a few awkward seconds Mrs. Nelson made no move at all.

"If you don't have any questions, perhaps you just want to give me a check for the invoice and I can be on my way," Mo urged. Let's move this along, lady.

"Are you sure you don't want something to drink? How about water?"

"No really. I don't want anything." Except to get out of here. What was this crazy woman waiting for?

"Did I tell you that my husband and I are going out tonight?"

She planned to go out dressed like that? Mo plastered a pleasant smile to her face. "No. I'm glad for you."

"Maybe you'd like to come with us," Mrs. Nelson said.

Trying to answer in a pleasant tone, Mo responded. "It's nice of you to ask, but I can't."

At that moment Walter Nelson -with his Nixon face in a Tina wig and attire matching his wife's, -strode into the room, causing Mo to jump.

"Yes, Miss Tuttle. Come with us," Nelson said, stepping closer to loom over Mo. "We're going to Hoochie Mama's House."

s.h.i.+take. This was not good. Mo stood and inched backward in the direction of the front door. "No, I can't tonight. Maybe another time."

Nelson lifted his hairy arm. His hand with long red tipped nails held a gun. "I'm sorry, but I have to insist, Ms. Tuttle. You're coming with us."

Mrs. Nelson went to her husband's side as she nodded. "Yes, we have to insist." Her expression was sympathetic. "It really is for the best, Ms. Tuttle. Mr. Kubikov wants to talk to you. And he's paying us a lot of money to take you to him.

Chapter Eighteen.

The crowded parking lot at Hoochie Mama's House gave Mo some slight comfort.

Surely, the Russian mobster wouldn't kill her in the midst of this stripper-loving crowd.

But fingers of fear ripped at her slight jacket of comfort when the Nelson sedan proceeded through the parking lot and headed down a dirt path toward a warehouse building some distance from the club. Only one vehicle was parked outside. The black SUV Mo had seen on more than one occasion.

Mrs. Nelson pulled her sedan to a stop next to the SUV. "I'll meet you in the club later, baby." She puckered her lips and made smoochy sounds at her husband.

"Okay, boo." Mr. Nelson puckered right back with smoochy sounds of his own, still holding the pistol on Mo.

If she hadn't been so afraid to die of gunshot wounds, Mo would have puked.

Walter Nelson dragged Mo out of the vehicle and into the building. A giant float, the length of a football field, dominated the interior. The float, covered in tacky tissue paper, was topped with a paper mache replica of the Hoochie Mama's House building and sign. Along the length of the float were the words "Happy St. Patrick's Day."

Mr. Nelson tugged Mo around the front of the monstrosity where she saw Kubikov, Gigantor and a smaller goon.

"Ah, Ms. Tuttle. Nice to see you again." Kubikov came forward, took Mo's hand and kissed the back as if he was welcoming her to an emba.s.sy reception instead of holding her captive. "You know other guest," Kubikov said, taking Mo by the shoulders and turning her.

Near the front of the float, Ross sat slumped and unconcious, tied to a chair-she prayed he was only unconscious.

What had they done to him?

Mo broke away from the Kubikov and pushed past Nelson uncaring about his threatening gun, as she scrambled toward her love on shaking legs.

A gash with clotted blood marred his temple. Kneeling by his side she placed trembling fingers to his cheek. It was warm to the touch. He was alive!

"Oh, Ross, Ross." Mo stroked her fingers through his vibrant brown hair. Ross moaned and leaned into her hand as if by instinct. "He needs a doctor. He probably has a concussion."

"No doctor. Mr. Dagger will soon awaken and join in our party," Kubikov purred. "It is pity, but we start without him."

Kubikov snapped his fingers and Gigantor came forward. Jerking Mo up, his beefy fingers bit into the flesh of her upper arm.

"Where is it?" Kubikov demanded with a harsh sneer.

"What do you want," Mo cried. Tears of frustration sprang to her eyes. "Just tell me what it is?"