Six Pack of Sleuths: Comedy Mysteries Page 16

  So she focused back on the house.

  No lights on in any windows. But she knew someone lived here, at least recently. Someone who used a cell phone and called Harvey Mitchell, probably more than once.

  Someone named J. Venuta.

  Mary reached inside her sportcoat and loosened the .45 in its holster. She was still mildly fearful of knocking on strange doors, after the one at the old guy’s apartment had proceeded to be blown to smithereens. Her breath was rapid and shallow, so she forced herself to take a few deep breaths.

  The doorbell was to the right of the door, so Mary used the solid brick wall to shield her body as she rang the bell. She heard the resulting chime in the house and waited. Mary looked around the small neighborhood; no one seemed to be out and about. She saw a woman walking a Great Dane.

  Mary turned back and rang the bell again, but still no answer. She reached across the door and rapped hard, three times. No one answered, but the door did open slightly.

  Now her heart started beating even faster. Ducking into a strange house with no idea of who or how many people might be inside wasn’t one of her favorite things to do.

  But that name, J. Venuta. Mary knew it meant something. So she pushed the door open and stepped inside.

  Seventy-Three

  Even in the dim light, it was easy to make out the bodies.

  One just four feet or so from the door. One sprawled in front of a wingback chair. Another slumped against a sideboard. And a body halfway into the kitchen with only the legs visible.

  She bent down to the nearest old guy.

  Blood had poured from a bullet hole in the side of his head.

  Gun in hand, Mary silently walked into the middle of the room.

  The killer had come from the hallway, she thought. Had somehow distracted the guys and then silently appeared and started shooting.

  Popped the guy in front of the hallway, near the chair. Then probably took out the one standing near the kitchen, and the man by the sideboard. And then the last shot took out the guy who’d almost made it out the front door, but not quite. Four fast shots. Four old guys, dead.

  Mary went into the kitchen, stepped carefully over the body.

  Nothing there but a wide pool of dark blood. And there truly was nothing else. No soap by the sink. No salt and pepper shakers, grocery lists, food on the counter. It was as barren as North Dakota.

  Mary went upstairs and found the same thing. Rooms with just a few pieces of furniture but no evidence that anyone lived there.

  She went back downstairs into the living room and thought it through a little more. Mary studied what was left of the faces of the dead men and quickly realized that she recognized all of them.

  Prescott. The tall one.

  Mark something.

  Frank or maybe Franklin. A chubby little bowling ball of a guy.

  And the white-haired guy. His last name was Castro.

  The last time she’d seen them, they’d all been snickering in Aunt Alice’s living room about Mary. Making bad jokes and lewd suggestions.

  Well, they were still putting on a show, just not the kind they would have liked.

  Talk about escalation of violence. All four of these guys, and then Mitchell.

  Christ, there was no one left.

  The phone rang and Mary traced it to the kitchen. It was hung on the wall and had a built-in answering machine.

  Mary waited, wanting to get the hell out of the kill zone, but she desperately wanted to hear who was calling.

  There was no answering message, just a beep.

  And then a voice came on.

  It was a voice Mary recognized.

  “Mary, please…”

  There was a crash and then the call disconnected. But Mary didn’t hear it because she was already out the door halfway to her car.

  She had to get there fast.

  Or Alice would die.

  Seventy-Four

  She drove like Stevie Wonder on crystal meth.

  On the sidewalk when necessary, running red lights, blasting the horn nonstop. She managed to take out a couple of city waste containers, a bike, and a newspaper kiosk.

  When she got to Alice’s house, Mary was pouring sweat and her car’s tires were smoking. But it didn’t matter, because she pulled off of the street and drove straight into the yard, at an angle. She hit the front door with the corner of her bumper and it crashed inward. Mary’s car shook with the impact, and then she was out of the car, gun in hand, sliding across the hood into the living room.

  Later, Mary was never able to quite figure out what Whitney Braggs’ plan had been. Because she was already raising her gun when he stepped out from behind Aunt Alice, who was trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey, held upright by Braggs. Had he planned to negotiate with Mary, using Alice as a human shield?

  She never knew.

  Because she shot him.

  It wasn’t that difficult. With Alice tied up, Mary knew she wasn’t going to make any sudden moves. So it wasn’t so much that she aimed at Braggs, she simply aimed up and over from Alice. If Braggs was there, great. If not, she’d try again.

  But Braggs didn’t move. He only moved when the .45 slug ripped out his throat. He staggered back, his grip on Alice loosened and she sagged to the ground. The gun in his hand fired, and Mary felt a hammer blow to her left leg. It spun her sideways, but now she poured the bullets at Braggs in a tight pattern, high. She shredded his upper chest and he crashed into the wall, sliding down to the ground. His gun dropped at his feet.

  Mary limped over to Aunt Alice and freed her. She sat up, rubbed her wrists, and surveyed the destruction in her living room. “I knew I should’ve gotten Scotchgard for the carpet.”

  Mary went to Braggs and knelt beside him, her left leg screaming in pain, her sock and shoe filling with blood.

  She put the smoking barrel of the .45 against his temple.

  “Tell me where she is,” Mary said. “Where is she?”

  Braggs tried to answer, but blood gurgled in his mouth and then his throat made a horrible sound. Mary saw the damage her first shot had done.

  She reached out and wrapped her hand around his throat and squeezed slightly, to compress what was left of the vocal cords.

  “Where is she?” she asked.

  He made another garbling sound but this time, she understood.

  “The house.”

  Seventy-Five

  She should have known. Really, she couldn’t let herself off the hook for this one. Mary could have guessed that Marie Stevens would take up residence at the house where she’d been violated.

  Because that’s what had happened, Mary was sure of it. It just wasn’t the typical form of violation most people experienced. It was the kind that could drive a person insane, and plant the seeds of revenge that would take on a life of their own.

  The house was a ramshackle structure just off of PCH, north of Malibu. ‘Ramshackle’ being the operative word in this region of overpriced real estate. The sprawling, dilapidated ranch style beach house was still worth millions, despite its condition. And despite the Porsche parked in the driveway.

  Mary pulled in behind it and went to the door. It opened before she could knock. The sight of the woman shocked Mary. Not because of any unsightly appearance or violent apparition, it was simply because Mary had met her.

  “Hello, honey,” Marie Stevens said.

  “Hello, Janet,” Mary said. Mary had reloaded the .45 and tied a makeshift bandage around her leg with a kitchen towel from Alice’s. It hurt like hell and Mary didn’t know how much blood she’d lost, but her head felt funny.

  “How’s my favorite talent agent?” Mary said. So stupid. Janet Venuta had been the nasty talent agent in the comedy club. The same comedy club where Mary had been looking for the witness who’d had a crush on a female comic known for her leather pants. The old lady had acted half in the bag, but her wit had been razor sharp.

  “Come in, Mary, I promise I won’t bite,” the old w
oman said.

  Mary recognized the face in the picture with the one now in front of her. In the comedy club, it had been dark and smoky. Now, in the unforgiving light, Marie Stevens actually looked better. Beneath the wrinkles and yellowed skin and eyes that spoke of a road filled with nasty crashes, were the bones of a very beautiful woman. Mary could see why her uncle and his cronies would have liked to have her around.

  Mary slipped her hand inside her coat and it came out with the .45 resting in its grip.

  “The lack of trust is hurtful, dear,” the old woman said. “Very hurtful.”

  The place was just as uncared for inside as out. There was trash scattered here and there, as well as empty beer cans, cigarette butts, and fast food wrappers.

  The only place that seemed cared for was a dining room table with a computer humming quietly away, its bright screen the only source of light other than the sun through the windows.

  “Nice little place you got here,” Mary said. “Love what you’ve done with it.”

  “It’s as if Brent Cooper had appeared in the guise of a lovely young woman,” Marie Stevens said.

  “I assume you bought it with Harvey Mitchell’s money?”

  Marie Stevens sat down at her computer and swung her chair around to face Mary.

  Mary sat down in the chair opposite her and put her .45 on the table between them.

  “What kind of woman do you think I am?” the old lady said.

  “In order to answer that I would have to know what they did to you way back when, in this house.”

  “What makes you think they did something to me?” The old woman smiled, the teeth were her own, straight and yellowed from cigarettes.

  “Why else would Mitchell pay you blackmail, hire another p.i. to try to keep tabs on me and kill me?” Mary said. “And why else would Whitney Braggs try to kill me and everyone else? Obviously, you had them all by the balls.”

  The old woman sighed. She turned and looked out toward the windows, out at the gently rolling Pacific.

  “They raped me,” she said, still turned away from Mary. “Both literally and comedically.”

  “Comedically?” Mary said.

  She nodded. “They supplied the booze, the drugs, the sex, and I supplied the one-liners, the skits, the acts, and they took it all.” The old woman’s voice was thick and raspy. She waved a wrinkled hand in the air. Mary could smell the woman’s perfume.

  “They took it all and made great careers out of it,” Marie Stevens said. “And then when I wore out, they had me tossed into an institution while they all got rich off my work.”

  The sound of a car speeding by on PCH reached Mary’s ears.

  “So that’s where you were all these years?” Mary said. “An institution?”

  The old woman nodded. “Under a different name,” she said. “I got out awhile back and began exacting my revenge. I had quite a long time to plan it. Give or take a lifetime.”

  “Some people take up gardening,” Mary said.

  “Some people needed to die,” the old woman countered.

  Mary sighed. “So who actually killed Brent?”

  “Braggs,” the old woman said. “He did the dirty work. I was the brains. But Braggs is psychotic. I kept you alive because I knew in the end, I would need you to take him out. I didn’t think I could do it.”

  Mary nodded. She was angry. Angry about the whole thing. That this woman had murdered her uncle. That her uncle had played a part in destroying this woman’s life for some money that didn’t last, and jokes that had long since been forgotten.

  “But you shouldn’t have hard feelings toward Braggs,” Marie Stevens said. “I had him shoot that McAllister jerk to keep you alive. Just before Braggs shot Harvey, the asshole.”

  “That was very nice of Braggs,” Mary said. “I think I’ll send him a pick-me-up bouquet from FTD.”

  The old woman looked at Mary. “Whatever Braggs was doing at Alice’s house, that was his own plan. I guess to tie up loose ends on his part.”

  Mary felt blood trickle down her leg. There were now two Marie Stevenses in front of her.

  “I’m done,” the old lady said.

  “Done?”

  “I’ve done what I needed to do. I want to go back now. Call your boyfriend. Jake. That’s his name?”

  “Go back where?”

  “To the hospital,” Marie Stevens said. “I don’t like it out here. Besides, with this,” she said, and pointed at her laptop. “I can send my stuff out. Leno used one of my jokes a couple weeks ago. Under a false name, of course.”

  Mary put away the .45. She felt funny, almost sleepy. Her foot was soaked in blood and now it felt cold.

  “I want to hear it,” she said.

  “Hear what?” Marie Stevens said.

  “The joke.”

  Seventy-Six

  Jake and the Shark arrived minutes later with a whole contingent of LAPD’s finest. They entered the room with guns drawn.

  “Hate to interrupt you two,” the Shark said. “But one of you is under arrest for murder.”

  “I didn’t know reptiles could become homicide detectives,” Marie Stevens said, and looked Davies up and down. “Or is this some kind of diversity mandate?”

  Mary, still feeling lightheaded and like she was going to pass out at any moment said, “Yeah, she has to sit out in the sun to raise her body temperature.”

  Davies took out a pair of handcuffs.

  “Don’t worry,” Mary said to Marie Stevens. “Those are for Jake. They have his and hers.”

  “He went from you to her?” Marie said. “And I thought my judgment was questionable.”

  “That’s enough,” Jake said. “Come on in guys.” A team of paramedics came through the door and Jake directed them to Mary. He followed them over and held Mary’s hand as the paramedics began to set up the stretcher and examine her leg.

  The Shark put Marie in handcuffs.

  “Bet you’d love a conjugal visit,” the old lady said to Davies. “Well, forget it, even if I get 20 years, I wouldn’t be that desperate.”

  Davies shoved her toward the door where two uniforms escorted the lady to a patrol car. Davies turned to Jake, saw him holding Mary’s hand, and turned and followed the old lady out into the sunshine.

  Jake smiled at Mary as the paramedics lifted her onto the stretcher. He still held her hand and stroked her hair.

  “That old lady’s kinda funny,” he said. “For a murderer.”

  In response, Mary passed out.

  Seventy-Seven

  “This is downright painful,” Mary said, taking a long pull of her beer.

  “Brutal,” Alice said.

  They were seated at a table inside the Funny Factory, a small and sparsely attended comedy club in Santa Monica. Uncle Kurt Cooper was on stage.

  “I think he’s funny,” Jake said.

  Mary and Alice both looked at Jake.

  “That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard tonight,” Alice said.

  Jake quickly changed the subject. “So they shipped Marie Stevens back to the mental institution today. Unfit for trial.”

  Mary idly wondered if letting Marie Stevens live had been the right thing to do. She could have taken her out at the house in Malibu. Instead, she had called Jake while she was en route, shot and bleeding.

  “Those guys didn’t just take her material,” Mary said. “They took her soul and her sanity.”

  “Lots of people got ripped off back then,” Alice pointed out. “If people got shot out here for stealing material, Hollywood would have a population of maybe ten or twenty people.”

  Mary nodded and looked at the stage. “Speaking of material,” she said.

  They all looked at Kurt Cooper on stage.

  “I think his stuff is safe,” Alice said.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Mary watched Jake take a drink from his beer. God, he looked so handsome. And he’d been so good helping her recover from the gunshot to her leg. Luckily, there’d been no n
erve damage. But Jake had jumped right in to help, buying her groceries, cooking for her, visiting Alice, too.

  Now, Jake turned and saw her looking at him.

  “What?” he said.

  She reached across and held his hand. Squeezed it gently.

  “Jake. I…”

  He waited. “You what?”

  “I…” she said.

  He leaned toward her, as if she were going to whisper.

  She started to say something, then stopped.

  Instead, Mary pulled Jake to her and kissed him.

  THE END

  About the Author

  Dani Amore is a bestselling crime novelist living in Los Angeles, California.

  She is the winner of the winner of the 2011 Independent Book Award for Crime Fiction.

  Find her on Facebook:

  http://www.facebook.com/DaniAmoreEbooks

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  Miami Mummies

  Barbara Silkstone

  Miami Mummies

  Copyright ©2014 Barbara Silkstone

  ISBN: 978-0-9859955-6-0

  All rights reserved.

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and respectfully. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.