Saturday Night Cleaver (A Barbara Marr Murder Mystery #4) (12 page)

“Barb, can you get me that water?” called Guy.

Right, the water.

As I passed by a man in a gray striped shirt, he asked, “You’re Barb? Did you bring the tequila?”

I frowned. “That’s Barbara Haynes. With a ‘y’ for spice.” I made the sign of a ‘y’ with my arms raised. “Look for a midget that can do the splits.” I shook my head, feeling bad for using that word. “I mean a vertically-challenged Southern drunk that can do the splits.”

In the kitchen, I interrupted two women talking enthusiastically about some guy named John. “Excuse me, where could I find a glass?” I asked them.

The two women shared she’s-so-dense sneers while pointing to the towel lined counter smack-dab in front of me loaded with clean hi-balls and wine glasses. The urge to stick out my tongue at them faded as my attention drew to a woman standing near a slightly opened pair of French doors that led outside. She was having a conversation with someone on the other side of the doors, but looking at me.

“That’s not Barb,” said the woman. “Barb’s in the other room.” She saw me zone-in on her conversation with the mystery person outside. “Hey!” she motioned me closer. “What’s your name?”

“Uh...” What was it again? Oh, that’s right. “Linda,” I said with less confidence than a politician claiming he won’t raise taxes.

“See, that’s Linda. I told you, Barb is in-”

The double French doors flew open and Peggy appeared between them, angrier than I’d ever seen her. I actually think the red hair on her head was flaming. Literally, not figuratively.

Peggy wasn’t the kind to get angry. When people flipped her off for driving too slow on the freeway, she felt bad for them because they weren’t stopping to smell the roses. When people cut in line at the movie theater, she smiled and offered them her extra coupon for half-off a bucket of popcorn, simultaneously advising them to forgo the fake butter—it was rancid last time she was there.

“Barb, can I speak to you out here,” she managed to spit through gritted teeth. “Please?”

I nodded, guilt-stricken, and followed her out as the irritated woman mumbled under her breath, “I wish people would either stick to the code names or drop the stupid game altogether.”

When I stepped out, the cold air bit me good. It had dropped a few degrees since Howard and I arrived. I hugged myself for warmth. “What are you doing here?”

“I was running an errand and saw your van parked on the street. Have you listened to any of my messages? I’ve been trying to reach you.”

If it had been anyone else, I would have been suspicious of the “running an errand” line, but late night jaunts were par for the Peggy’s course. And as for dropping in on a party uninvited—when Peggy had a mind to do something, nothing stopped her.

“Yeah, I know.” My gaze fell to the deck below our feet. “I’ve been busy—Colt’s missing and I’ve been worried sick about him. Howard and I are here trying to get some information from a woman we think hired him for his last job.”

Her face dropped. “That’s terrible!” She hugged me tight. “I’m
so
sorry! I’m a terrible friend for yelling at you just now. Can I do anything? I can-”

There she went, offering me that half-off coupon, when deep down I knew that I was the bad friend here and if I let her continue apologizing, I’d be the worst friend ever. Worse than Patrick Swayze’s embezzling bank buddy in
Ghost
. Although, I was really pretty sure I’d never hire a guy to kill Peggy and even if I did, I’d bet dollars to donuts that her ghost couldn’t get mad enough to kill me back.

“No,” I said, signaling her to stop. “I have a confession to make.” I took a deep, cold breath. “I’ve been avoiding your calls, and I haven’t listened to your messages, and it hasn’t been because of Colt.”

She looked as hurt as I thought she would. “He’s not missing?”

“No, he’s missing,” I said. “But I was mad at you before I knew anything was wrong.”

“The wine?”

I nodded. “And not just the wine. I’ve been jealous of Dandi Booker because...” I had a hard time saying the rest because it sounded so high-school petty.

Interestingly, Peggy finished the sentence for me. “Because she’s an itch with a B up front, that’s why. You were right about her. Not nice. Not nice at all.”

Peggy had just given me the ammunition I needed to launch into my Dandi Booker tirade. “She’s here and she’s using my name!”

“I thought I saw her car. You have to be kidding me.” She peeked back in through the doors. “Whose party is this anyway?”

It was getting far too cold to continue this gab fest outside. I pulled her into the house, closed the doors behind us and whispered, “This isn’t a party like most parties,” I said, thrilled to be sharing the darkly fun and dirty side of my evening. I grabbed two highballs from the counter, threw a few cubes from the ice bucket into them and handed her one. “Here, pretend like you’re drinking while we talk. This is gonna get good.”

“What kind of party is it?” she whispered back.

“It’s a
sex
party.”

Her eyes widened and she lowered the glass unconsciously.

“Glass back up. You’re drinking, remember,” I said, whispering over my own highball disguise, which, when I really thought about it, was a bad disguise since it was just a glass of ice.

She raised the fake drink back to her lips. “I don’t see anyone having sex,” she whispered.

“It happens downstairs. That’s where people get freaky, if you know what I mean. This is a meeting place for swingers.”

“No!” She was appropriately shocked. Her eyes scanned the room. “But why is Dandi here? She’s divorced. I thought swinging was for married couples.”

Hmm. I hadn’t thought of that. She was right.

“And look,” her eyes pointed behind me. “That’s Rick, our soccer coach from last year. He’s a widower.” Her eyes landed on someone else. “And that’s Nancy Whittier, I know she’s single. Her husband left her two years ago for a hermaphrodite.”

Suddenly, music was blaring in our ears and the room broke into cheers. Someone yelled, “The sound system is finally operational folks, and the dance floor is open!”

Peggy looked up at one of the speakers just above our heads. “That music is familiar,” she said.

I nodded. “’Disco Inferno’ from
Saturday Night Fever
.” A shiver ran down my spine. “Are they going to orgy to Disco music? This is worse than I thought.”

Peggy was doubtful. “I think they’re just going to dance, Barb.”

The house lights dimmed and little lights began to flicker on the walls and ceiling all around us.

“Oh look!” she pointed at the ceiling. “Little disco balls! How fun.”

“Dancing is just a code word, Peggy. They have code names too. Dandi’s code name is Barbara Haynes.”

She wrinkled her nose and imitated a brilliant southern drawl. “Like the undies but with a “y” for spice?” She poked her finger mouth like was inducing a vomit.

“How did you know?”

“It’s her maiden name.” Her hand curled into a fist. “She screwed me good, that one.” She pointed behind me again. “There’s Howard.”

He’d spotted us and was trying to make his way through the flow of depraved sex addicts dashing for the basement. Just behind him were Clarence, Guy, and Shin-Cathy, who looked very annoyed.

Howard gave Peggy a nod of acknowledgement along with a raised eyebrow. I’m sure he wondered how she found me. He didn’t vocalize his curiosity though. “I caught up with Martin and Lewis questioning Shin Lee. This isn’t a swingers’ club,” he said. “It’s a dance club.”

“Told you,” said Peggy.

“Then why all the code names and invites and secrecy?”

Guy spoke up, “She can tell you that.” He gave Shin a little push and she threw him a dirty look.

“It’s just part of the fun. We like to pretend it’s something a little racy. You know, for the thrill of it. Plus, it’s Disco. Some of us have reputations to uphold, you know?”

I set my chilled glass on the counter beside me. “But what about the discussion boards?”

She shook her head. “I’ve seen those, but they’re getting us confused with a group out in Ashburn Heights. Now from what I hear, they
are
swingers.”

Clarence laughed. “You guys should switch to Eighties music. Everyone thinks New Wave and Punk is cool.”

Shin smirked. “That’s Burning Down the House. They meet on Fridays in Oakton Park.”

“Anyway,” said Howard, slightly annoyed. “Shin did hire Colt to spy on her husband, who isn’t here tonight.”

She nodded, looking pained. “He said he’d be late. Again. You know, this is very personal. Do we need to be sharing it with the world?”

He continued, “Because she thinks he’s having an affair with a club member named Rita Ash.”

“Wait,” said Peggy. “How long has Colt been missing?”

“The last time anyone saw him was yesterday afternoon,” I said.

She crossed her arms. “That’s weird. Really weird.”

“Why?” I asked, starting tire of the flickering lights from the disco balls.

“I just remembered that I talked to him yesterday afternoon. I saw him walking on the sidewalk when I was dropping one of the boys at a friend’s house on Nectarine Drive. You know the kid, Barb. He’s in Bethany’s class. Nathan John or John Nathan and I have no idea which because my Daniel just calls him “Buddy,” so I’m never sure if the mother’s name is Jennifer John or Jennifer Nathan. Do you know which it is?”

“No.” I gritted my teeth. “Anything else about Colt?”

“Oh. Right. He asked if I knew Rita Ash.”

Chapter Eleven

H
oward’s face tightened with that
bit of news and then his cell phone rang. He excused himself to take the call outside on the deck.

Shin Lee narrowed her eyes at the mention of Rita Ash. “Listen, I’m sorry I didn’t help you earlier. Been in a mood lately. But I’m the hostess here. I need to get downstairs and make sure everyone is having a good time.”

I looked to Clarence and Guy. “Did she give us what we need?”

Guy held up his note pad. “It’s all here. She doesn’t seem to know much. Howard could tell you better, but my hunch is we really need to talk to the husband.”

I shrugged my shoulders at her and she scooted away. At the basement door, she turned back briefly. “I hope Colt is okay,” she shouted above the music. “He’s a good guy.”

“Sounds like we really need to talk to Rita Ash too.” I turned my attention back to Peggy. “Do you know her?”

She shook her head. “Nope.”

That was unusual for Peggy. She usually knows everybody or at least knows someone who knows someone.

“But my cousin Aidan knows Rick,” she added.

There you go.

“He owns those sports bars, Big Score Bar and Grill. There’s one on Rustic Woods Parkway over on the North Side.”

“Never been there,” I said.

“Aidan’s in the beverage supply business and says Rick Ash is probably going under soon. He dumped a bunch of money to open a second one somewhere in Western Fairfax, near the river, but I’ve heard that’s not going very well. He’s so far behind in his bills to Aidan that he’ll have to cut him off soon.”

Guy spoke up. “Do you mind if I ask a question?”

“Go for it,” I said, chewing on the Rick and Rita Ash connection.

He cocked his head toward Peggy. “Who is
this
woman?”

“Guy, this is my friend Peggy. Peggy, Guy Mertz, true crime reporter.”

She shook his hand. “I watch your news channel every night just hoping you’ll have a new story to report. I love the dramatic flair you add. Did you study theater?”

He removed his hat, placed it over his waist, and took a bow. “Why yes, I did. Thank you for noticing.” Returning the hat to his head, he asked. “And since curiosity is what brought me to news reporting, I must ask, why, exactly are you here?”

Peggy might have answered if Howard hadn’t interrupted by opening the door into her. “Sorry Peg,” he said. “Let’s go, Barb. Erik sent a patrol car to the Ashes’s, but no one answered the door. We’re meeting him at a restaurant in North Rustic.”

“Big Score Bar and Grill?” I asked.

He raised an eyebrow. “How did you know?”

“Simon is probably wondering where I am with that gallon of milk,” said Peggy. “You could follow me to my house, I’ll drop off the milk, then ride with you guys.”

“We’ll follow, Clarence will drive,” said Guy. “I’m a man of the District. Bright lights, big city. The suburbs make me dizzy. It’s so dark out here, I don’t know how anyone finds their way around.”

Guy did have a flair for the dramatic. Washington, D.C. was hardly a strobing metropolis like New York City. Although it
was
better lit than Rustic Woods.

Clarence snorted. It was his signature quirk. He had a lot of quirks, but his snort-laugh trumped them all. “Huh, yeah, I’ll drive.” He snorted again. “Like, it’s my car.” He leaned over and handed me my phone. “Take this before I drive off with it.”

Howard’s forehead had nearly collapsed on itself from frowning so deeply. He took my arm and pulled me into the dining room. “Can you call off your entourage?”

“Your voice has that testy quality to it again. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I just want to get moving, minus Huey, Duey, and Screwy.”

“Hey, she’s my friend, watch what you call her.”

He rolled his eyes. “Barb, come on. This isn’t a game.” His hand moved toward his knee, but stopped.

I narrowed my eyes at him. “How badly is your leg bothering you right now?”

“It’s not that bad, now let’s go.”

He was fibbing. I can smell a fib a mile away since I try so hard not to commit them myself. “Maybe I should take you home and I’ll meet Erik.”

Right. As soon as the words hit air I knew that plan wasn’t going to work. He cocked an eyebrow at me that said as much. I dug a bottle of Advil out of my purse. We went everywhere with Advil these days. It worked best when the pain set in. I told him to take two and showed him where the glasses and sink were.

As for “my entourage,” as Howard referred to them, Clarence was too worried about his father so I wasn’t going to send him home; Guy had nowhere to go without Clarence and his car; and I certainly wasn’t going to say “no” to Peggy after I’d just apologized for being so dismissive of her.