Murder at the Cabaret Page 3

  “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I’d like to welcome you to The Clever Bulldog Cabaret.” Georgie studied the man’s face and features and thought he resembled a Chihuahua. With a deep, seductive voice, he told the audience to grab their drinks, relax, and enjoy the show. She couldn’t believe the costumes. The women had their waists cinched so tight Georgie didn’t know how they could breathe, let alone sing. The heels they wore had to be at least four inches high.

  Before long Georgie had reached the bottom of her piña colada and was happily eating the chunk of pineapple and a maraschino cherry. The umbrella got tucked into her purse to bring home as a souvenir. “They’re so glamorous,” she said in Andrew’s ear.

  “Wait until you see Madame Bray,” he replied. “She’s the main act.”

  Georgie nodded her head as her eyes bounced back to the stage. After an amazing display of dancers wearing garters and feather boas left the stage, a comedian entertained until the curtains fell, and it was time to see what all the hubbub was about. The Master of Ceremonies sauntered out onto the stage.

  “Ladies and gentlemen. The moment you’ve all been awaiting,” he bellowed. “Please give your warmest welcome to The Glamorous Girly-Girl, The French Femme Fatale, The Wanton Woman of Watseka!” Everyone chuckled at that last title. “The one and only—Madame Bray!” The music kicked up in a boisterous salute. The spotlight focused a red sphere of light on the curtains. Everyone clapped, hooted, and whistled. Nothing happened. The Master of Ceremonies cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, folks. The Madame is probably just wrapping up an intimate interview in her dressing room. Now, I present to you in vibrant Technicolor, Madame Bray!” Again, there were whoops and hollers but no Madame Bray.

  “I’m sorry ladies and gentlemen. This delay seems more like it may be the result of a wardrobe malfunction,” the MC tittered nervously. The room had become quiet with the exception of tinkling glasses and quiet murmurs of people enjoying themselves.

  “Is this part of the show?” Georgie asked Andrew. He shook his head no and shrugged.

  The Master of Ceremonies grimaced and ground his teeth. Taking two steps to the center of the stage he motioned for the curtain to come up. When it did, he stopped and stared at the stage in disbelief before screaming in a falsetto voice like a young girl. Georgie stood up and looked. What had happened on stage was hard to miss. The body of a robustly figured woman lay on the stage with her eyes bulging from their sockets as obscenely as her cleavage bulged from her corset. Immediately, Georgie saw the dark marks around her neck. Marks that were obviously not part of her makeup.

  “Close the curtain!” The Master of Ceremonies’ voice cracked as he screamed out the command to the stagehands. Georgie quickly got up from her seat, feeling a bit more brazen than usual and leaned on the stage to get a closer look at the body.

  “She’s dead, Andrew,” Georgie informed her son matter-of-factly.

  He and J.R. remained in their seats—shocked.

  Chapter 4

  Within seconds of the curtain going up, the entire ballroom had erupted into chaos. Women were screaming as they dashed ahead of their dates to the exits. The members of the cabaret troupe seemed stunned. Some looked close to tears; others just stared at the stage as color drained from their faces. The bartenders and waitresses froze where they were, unsure if they should pour any more drinks or leave with the crowd of patrons.

  "Maybe we should get out of here," J.R. suggested, fidgeting in his seat.

  “Are you kidding?” Georgie patted his hand gently. “Just relax. The police will be here any minute. You boys paid for a show. I’m staying to see the show.”

  “Georgie Kaye.” Andrew looked seriously at his mother. “I know you have a knack for helping with this sort of situation, but are you sure you want to stay? Maybe it’s the rum talking.”

  “Andrew, dear, your mother learned long ago that there are no coincidences. Everything happens for a reason. We are at this show because the Great Creator knew we’d be needed. So, sit back until the police arrive. They’ll want a statement from us, I’m sure.” Georgie sat back in her seat and folded her arms. “Trust me, boys, it will be fun.”

  Georgie was right. The police did want a statement from the patrons who stayed. The only difference between what Georgie saw and what the folks at the back of the theater saw was the fact Georgie had seen Madame Bray’s neck with a purple ring around it. A young uniformed police officer kept looking at Georgie as he listened to a distraught young lady describing what she’d seen, all the while tugging nervously on the hem of her shirt.

  “Mama, do you know that police officer?” Andrew asked nodding casually in the officer’s direction.

  “I don’t think so. Why?”

  “He keeps looking at you like he knows you.”

  “Oh, honey, I’ve got admirers all over town.”

  J.R. chuckled.

  “He keeps looking at you like he knows you. That’s all I’m saying,” Andrew replied. “Seems he does know you; here he comes.” The uniformed officer folded up his notepad and stuffed it into his pocket as he approached Georgie’s table.

  “Excuse me, ma’am. Are you Georgie Kaye?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “I thought so. My name is Officer Randall Berd. I’ve seen you visiting Detective Toon. He talks about you a lot around the precinct.”

  Georgie stood up and extended her hand to the officer.

  "Thank you, Officer. Detective Toon is my ex-husband, but we're still very good friends. Hey," she whispered and waved the officer closer, “since I’ve got your attention. What’s the deal over there?” She jerked her thumb toward the stage that was now covered with police. A purple sheet that looked like it belonged to Harry Houdini had been placed over the body.

  “Madame Bray died of strangulation—not pretty.”

  “I should say not.” Georgie rubbed her chin. “How many people are in this performance? I swear there had to be at least twenty that I saw on stage. That’s a lot of interviews.”

  “You’re right about that, Ms. Kaye. So far no one is admitting to seeing anything. Most of the dancers were in the dressing room. The comics were in the prop area. There are only three stagehands, and the props that were already on stage blocked their vision of the murder—a real whodunit.”

  “Sounds that way.” Georgie was thoughtful, her investigating senses on high alert.

  “I better get back to work. I have the feeling I’m going to be here for a while.” He shook hands with Andrew and J.R. before patting Georgie gently on the shoulder. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”

  “You, too, Officer Berd. I’ll tell Stan you said hello.”

  As Georgie was talking with Officer Berd, she saw just past him in her line of vision one of the dancers from the previous routines. Her skin had been powdered to be exceptionally pale, but Georgie could see her face had gone white underneath her pancake makeup. As a result, her red lips look gruesomely garish.

  “You boys wait here. I’ll be right back.”

  Carefully she approached the woman. As she got closer she could see the dancer couldn’t have been much over twenty years old. The poor thing was trembling, but Georgie wasn’t sure if it was because of her costume being so revealing or because of what she had witnessed. “Are you all right, honey?” Georgie asked kindly. “Can I get you a glass of water or something?”

  “No, thank you,” the woman squeaked. “I’m afraid if I put anything in my stomach I’ll puke.”

  “Yes, I can understand. Did you work with Madame Bray long?”

  “Long enough to know she was amazing.” The girl sniffled and wiped her nose with the back of her gloved hand; then, without thinking, she extended her hand to Georgie. “Forgive my bad manners. I’m Dee Lite. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” Georgie accepted the girl’s hand. After raising three children germs were the last thing she ever worried about.

  “Georgie Kaye.”

  “What a lovely name. You sound like a cabar
et star yourself,” Dee tittered nervously.

  "Thank you," Georgie replied.

  "I've been with the show for the past seven months," Dee spoke in fits and starts while glancing nervously at various parts of the stage. Georgie could tell she wanted to look at the body but was too afraid. “Madame Bray told me that with a little hard work I could definitely be a headliner someday. I don’t know if that’s true or not. All I know is she was just a wonderful person. I’m only speaking for myself here, but I can’t believe something like this could happen, especially when she only had a little time left.”

  “A little time left?” Georgie’s mind pounced on those words. Was Madame Bray dying? That would be very ironic.

  “She was planning on retiring. This was going to be her last show. She was going to make her announcement tonight and officially pass the torch.”

  “Someone else was going to take her place?”

  “Someone, but Madame Bray never said who. She didn’t want there to be any distractions during our performance. Who could have done this?” Dee shook her head and burst into tears. The black mascara dripped down her pale cheeks like ink.

  “It’ll be all right, honey,” Georgie tried to console the girl. She pulled a hanky from her purse and handed it to her. It had a lighthouse embroidered in the corner.

  “How sweet.” The girl hiccupped as she tried to hold her tears back. “Thank you.” Before Georgie could say anything else, the girl stood up and ran backstage. Georgie was pretty sure she was going to throw up.

  “Thank you, Dee.” She said quietly to herself.

  Georgie looked at all the characters milling around stage right and stage left, in the wings, and on the overhead scaffolds. The few sentences she exchanged with Dee turned out to be quite a bit of information. As she drove home with Andrew and J.R., she told them what she learned. “Now, Andrew, J.R., you boys said you saw this show in San Francisco. When you met Tammy and her husband did they mention any kinds of rivalries or infighting going on with the cast? I found when I spent some time on that movie set a while ago that show business of any kind has the tendency to bring out the worst in some people.”

  "I can't remember anything like that," J.R. stated. "They just thought we'd love the show, and they were so much fun to be around. I didn't get the impression that the cabaret was anything less than a really fun job. Did you, Andrew?"

  “Nope. I’d have to agree.”

  “Neither one of you heard anyone mention Madame Bray retiring?”

  "No," Andrew answered as J.R. shook his head, "and that is the real bummer because you would have loved Madame Bray. She was sassy and glamorous and a lot like you, Mama."

  “Well, I wouldn’t say I was glamorous, but thank you, Sweetheart. She must have really been something to behold.”

  "Sorry the evening didn't turn out, Georgie," J.R. sighed. "We really wanted to show you a good time tonight."

  “J.R., you act like you don’t even know me. After all these years you’ve been friends with Andrew, you’re practically my third son.” She reached behind and tapped him on the knee that was forcing its way into Pablo’s front seats. “You dropped me right in the middle of a mystery. Wait until I tell Jonathan and Catherine that you boys got me a mystery when you came to visit. I wonder how they’ll try and top that?”

  “Mama, are you sure you want to get involved in this?” Andrew worried. He was the middle child and youngest boy of Georgie’s kids and had always been the most sensitive. “I saw how you and Dad were acting yesterday. Maybe you should concentrate on dealing with him and forget about this.”

  “Honey, you don’t think your Dad and I are getting back together just because we had a good time over pizza last night, do you?”

  “Hey, never say never, right?”

  “Andrew, I care about your father, but if he and I were to live together again, you can bet within the first thirty days there would be another body on the floor. Trust me, I can promise you it wouldn’t be mine.” Andrew chuckled sadly and shook his head at that.

  “We are better as friends. That’s just how it is. Don’t think for one second that has anything to do with you or your brother and sister. It doesn’t. That’s one thing your father has always made perfectly clear. He loves you guys more than life itself.”

  “But, he keeps trying to get back with you, and you keep telling him no. Why?”

  “Maybe it’s because I haven’t totally forgiven him for leaving the way he did.” Georgie looked out the window. “Maybe I’ve learned to like being on my own too much, too. That could be it.” She took a deep breath.

  “I think you still love him and that’s why you won’t give him a second chance.” Andrew’s voice took on the tone of a know-it-all teenager.

  Georgie laughed, “What? How does that make any sense?”

  “It makes perfect sense. You’d have to admit that he’s been right all this time, that you do still love him. You can’t accept it,” Andrew smirked. “Dad can’t be right.”

  “Well, I think it is a little more complicated than that," Georgie smirked back.

  “Are you going to tell Stan about Madame Bray?” J.R. asked from the backseat.

  “I’m glad you asked, J.R. No, I’m not.” Georgie bounced a little in her seat as if she had just received an A on a homework assignment. “If I was back with Andrew’s father, do you really think one of the best detectives in the city of Chicago would let his wife go snooping around crime scenes and talking to suspects and all that jazz? Just the thought of him trying to cramp my style gives me heart palpitations.”

  “I get your point. I just thought I’d ask. So, you aren’t going to tell him about this?”

  “Not yet.” Georgie smoothed out the front of her blouse. “There is nothing to know right now; besides, he wasn’t at the scene. It probably won’t even be his case.”

  “Make sure you are careful,” Andrew paused. “Since J.R. and I don’t have any real plans while we’re in town, maybe we could tag along with you.”

  "Right, because that's what two handsome young men like yourselves want to do while you're visiting the Windy City—hang out with your mom. Please." Georgie looked out the window. "Make plans. Go out. Visit your friends. I just like having you sleeping under the same roof as me. For a little while, I don't have to worry where you are."

  "You don't have to worry about us, Mama. We're grown men, for goodness sake."

  “A mother never stops worrying. No matter how old her children get.” She ran her hand over Andrew’s head and patted him gently. For a moment in the light of the street lamps, Georgie saw Andrew as that quiet, pensive boy who loved Thomas the Tank Engine and followed his big brother everywhere he went. As if it were yesterday, Georgie’s little boy suddenly was all grown up, moved out, and building his own life. That was the way it was supposed to be.

  Chapter 5

  The next morning, Georgie headed over to Aleta’s house for coffee and the morning paper as usual, but something was very different.

  “My gosh, Georgie. Are you ill?”

  "You won't believe this," Georgie mumbled as she shuffled into the kitchen, still in her robe and slippers. Bodhi was behind her as always. "I had one piña colada last night."

  “Here we go.” Aleta threw up her hands.

  “I’m serious.”

  “Georgie, you know you can’t handle alcohol unless it is combined with several layers of chocolate. What were you thinking?”

  “I was having so much fun with the boys and the glamour and the music. I got caught up in the moment. Everyone else looked so elegant in their finery and clinking their champagne and martini glasses.”

  “How bad is it?”

  “I think it’s a two—maybe a three.”

  “A three-aspirin headache from one piña colada?” Aleta shook her head dramatically. “Mom would be spinning in her grave if she knew what a lush you’d become.” She pulled a bottle of aspirin from her junk drawer in the kitchen and shook out two little pills. �
�If this doesn’t do the trick, I’ll give you another one in an hour. Do you want to go lie down?”

  “No, I’d like a warm up on my coffee.”

  Aleta grabbed the pot and topped off Georgie’s mug before they both took a seat at the kitchen table. “When was the last time you drank anything alcoholic?” Aleta asked.

  “I think it was at one of Stan’s Christmas parties at work.” Georgie looked up into the air. “That had to be more than twenty something years ago.”

  “Oh, yeah. There was something in the punch, right?”

  “I don’t know. I still think Stan slipped me a mickey.”

  “Stan? No.”

  “Stan? Yes.” Georgie’s eyes bugged. “After I realized I was too far gone to turn back, I vaguely remember that Stan was pretty insistent on walking me to the door then asking to come in for a cup of coffee.”

  “That was me, Georgie,” Aleta hooted. “You were using your key to try and get into my house. I walked you home and asked if you wanted some coffee.”

  “Are you sure?” Georgie scratched her head.

  “I’m positive. From now on, Georgie, stay away from the firewater. It’s no good for you.”

  “I don’t know if I believe that story you just told," Georgie muttered as she grabbed the paper that Aleta had on the table. "Have you read this yet?"

  "No," Aleta said as she stood and went to the fridge to pull out an aluminum tray filled with double chocolate brownies. "Maybe this will help your hangover."

  “Can’t hurt.” Georgie grabbed herself a gooey square and unfolded the newspaper. There it was.

  “Yes, then there was this, too.” Georgie turned the paper around to show her sister the headline: “Cabaret Madame Murdered.”