Click here to go to it on amazon.com: "Eula May and the Easter Kandy Killer"
CHAPTER ONE
My boss, Sal Minitini, decided we
needed to hold a brain stormin' session over Easter weekend in Palm
Springs. Good gravy. I'd just got to Hollywood from a tiny Kentucky
town as a wanna be dancin' star, and even I knew that wasn't the best
time or place to hold a serious meetin'.
Who wanted to discuss TV plots at a
California oasis callin' itself the Playground of the Stars? Half
the college population of the West Coast and their grandparents were
there to sit next to Lucille Ball on her iron bench, rub Sonny Bono's
bronze knee, and cavort down Bob Hope and Frank Sinatra boulevards.
But Sal's bearded and bald yoga guru had persuaded him relaxation was
the key to gettin' creative juices flowin'.
So there I was, the most junior staff
person, workin' since seven on a coolish Friday morning. I was pool
side of our fifties Retro Motel guardin' lounges for the rest of
Sal's staff. I'd strewn green and white towels over five of the
chaises and pulled them into a half circle facing the bright blue
water. I was nervous and kept rearrangin' the chairs. I'd made no
friends since I moved from Karnak, the tiny town I'd lived in all my
life. I was hoping the three co-workers on this trip would turn into
more than colleagues. I was getting' a little lonely.
And of course I wanted to make a good
impression on Sal. Although he was only a middle-aged, overweight TV
producer with few successes, I counted on him to make good on his
promises.
He'd told me if I
did a bang-up job as a go-fer, he'd get me an introduction to the
producer of 'Dancing with the Stars'. Right, as if that was ever
goin' to happen, but I was an optimist. After five discouragin'
months in Hollywood, I still had high hopes that somethin' excitin'
was on its way. It was but not in the way I anticipated. Who
anticipates murder?
I'd put on my best casual outfit--dark
green cotton pants, green and white striped shirt and white flip
flops. With red hair and green eyes, I wore a lot of green. I
hoped I looked like a serious Shirley MacLaine and not a Christmas
tree.
I'd gotten two pitchers of orange juice
in ice buckets and a coffee urn waiting for the nine a.m. meeting.
Would Sal and his people actually make it down at that hour? Only
time would tell.
He'd told me to make sure he was up
after the motel's wake up call at eight or else. He was a heavy
sleeper and might go back to dreamland. My bright pink, Hello Kitty,
watch read eight-fifteen. It was time to show I was a bang-up go-fer
and check on him. I gave his fake wood paneled door a timid knock.
It was unlatched and swung open. My stomach clenched as I wondered,
'What does a new employee, who wants to keep her job, do now?'
I stuck my head in and whispered, “Mr.
Minitini? Are you up?” It was quiet. I listened for sounds of
breathing or bed clothes rustling. Nothing. I stepped in, the
bathroom looked dark. I didn't think he was there. I repeated a
little louder, “Mr. Minitini. Are you here? It's me, Eula May.”
I hoped he wasn't goin' to grab me as I walked over to the rumpled
bed. I'd heard horror stories of some TV producers. Most were all
business, all the time, but some were...well, you know.
The bed looked empty. But as my eyes
scanned the room, I saw a pile of clothes lying by the bathroom door.
I gasped. “Oh, lawdy. Mr. Minitini! Are you OK?” I flipped on
the starburst overhead light. He was curled up like a shrimp and his
eyes stared at nothing. I could see he'd been sick.
I pulled out my cell phone. I told
myself I would not scream. My mother was a funeral director. I'd
seen dead bodies before. But still my fingers trembled as I punched
in 911 and babbled, “I think he's dead. I think he's dead.” As
I answered the dispatcher's calm questions, my eyes roamed the room,
anywhere but on the body. On the stand next to the bed, was a large
chocolate rabbit with one ear missing. I had one just like it in my
room, but it had both ears.
***
Sal's
three staff members stumbled out and down to the pool area when they
heard the sirens. They wore shirts and shorts or jeans. Either they
slept that way, or they'd stopped to pull on clothes before they
escaped a possible fire. We sat in the lounge chairs I'd saved for
the meetin'. When the first police officer had arrived, after
checkin' my ID, he'd let me go and I'd scrambled to keep the seats we
no longer needed.
Other motel residents rushed out of
their rooms, also thinkin' it was a fire. The desk clerk flapped his
hands at them. “No fire, no fire. Go back to beds. Everythin'
OK.” When they saw no fire engines or handsome, hunky firemen they
went back to finish their sleep or whatever else they'd been doin' in
the Retro Motel on Easter weekend.
I felt a strange, fierce desire to talk
and never stop. My co-workers looked stunned as I blurted what I'd
seen and done in Sal's room. I didn't mention the chocolate Easter
rabbit. For all I knew it was perfectly innocent, just like me.
Jennifer, Sal's thirtyish personal
assistant, burst out crying when I told them Sal was dead. Last
night's mascara leaked around her eyes making her look like one of
the undead. The two writers, Mark and Bruce, were slurpin' down OJ.
Mark had emptied a flask into one of the pitchers and I didn't think
it was an energy additive. Although I felt numb from findin' Sal, my
heart beat up a little when I looked at Mark's remarkable abs,
peeking out of the unbuttoned shirt he'd thrown on. He was one of
the reasons I'd been so excited to be invited on this trip. As I
mentioned, I'd been getting' a little lonely.
“Crap. Everything happens to me.”
Mark complained, runnin' his hands through his black curly hair. I
stared at him. He explained, “Well, doesn't it? Bruce and I are
here to finish writing the pilot for Sal's new series, 'Gals and
Guns.' And now it's gone with the wind.”
Bruce perked up. “Hey, I like that.
Gone with the wind. Write that down.”
I blinked. These were writers? “You
do know that's the title of one of the most famous movies in the
world?”
“Before my time. Probably just an
oldie.” Bruce scoffed.
Although stunned by Sal's death, my
blood was gettin' hot, and not from the early sun. I was especially
upset with Mark. He was, I'd thought, one of the nicest guys I'd met
in Hollywood. He didn't treat me like a hick from the sticks and he
had the cutest dimples when he smiled. I also liked the tight faded
jeans he wore that cupped his bottom nicely.
He saw the outraged expression on my
face and backtracked, “Eula May, I am sorry Sal's dead. He
wasn't just a meal ticket to me. He was my friend. But his death is
also the death of the dreams I've had since I was a kid in Idaho.
You should understand that.”
Now he did sound like a writer, a bad
one, but still a writer.
“Yeah, I know what it's like to have
dreams that never see the light of day. But you're still alive, you
can try again. Sal is dead! Any dream he ever had is dead. He can
never try again!” I cringed inside 'cause now I was soundin' like
an inspirational 'you can do it' book. I guess sudden death brought
out the cliches.
Mark reached over to pat my hand. “I
know, I'm sorry.”
A
tall angular man who looked forty in spite of graying hair ambled
toward us. He pulled a leather billfold from a back pocket and
flipped it open to a silver and gold police badge. “Detective
Steele. I understand you all knew the late Mr. Minitini.”
We gaped at him from our cushioned
lounge chairs. Jennifer's blue eyes grew bigger, if possible. “Yes,
yes, I knew him. He was my boss.” She wiped her eyes with a
scented tissue from the pocket of her light blue shorts.
Detective Steele pulled over a chair
from a patio table, its legs scraping on the concrete so bad it set
my teeth on edge.. “I need to ask a few questions,” he said with
a hint of a drawl. He sat and gestured toward a stooped, bald headed
man who sat behind him and pulled out a notebook. “George here
will take your statements. Please be sure to speak clearly and always
face George. He's hearing impaired but he's the fastest lip reader
in the country.”
I gave George a little smile and waggled
my fingers, hoping I wasn't saying something bad in sign language.
Detective Steele cleared his throat and
said. “I'm sure this must come as a shock to you all.”
“Of course not,” I stammered. “I
have a good friend in Karnak who can't hear, either.”
“I was referring to the death of Sal
Minitini.”
“Oh, yes, right.” My face was so
hot, I thought it would melt.
“Sal never did look after himself,”
Mark said. “Lived life to the full and loved the ladies. Still I
could scarcely believe Eula May here, when she told us how she found
him.”
Bruce jumped in. “Did he have a heart
attack? What happened? Did he have Ebola? Or what about measles, I
hear that's goin' around right now. Are we at risk?”
George's eyes widened at Bruce's wild
comments. He was a speed lip reader if he kept up with
Bruce's breakneck gushing.
Steele squinted at Bruce. “We don't
know what caused Mr. Minitini's death. But we're treating it as a
suspicious death 'cause he wasn't under a doctor's care, as far as we
know. Do you know?”
“He always said he was healthy as a
horse, and would live forever.” Bruce could sure spout cliches. I
wondered if his bedtime readin' included classic overused phrases.
Mark rubbed his chin. “I think he had
an annual physical a while back and everything was fine...unless of
course he didn't want us to know he was sick.”
“Why wouldn't he want you to know
that?” Steele stared at Mark.
“Sharks!” Bruce cried. “Sharks
are always circling in Hollywood. If they see weakness they eat you
alive.” He made biting gestures with his fingers.
We looked at him. He pursed his lips
and draped a pool towel over his wispy shoulders. “Well you know
it's true.”
The detective slid his hazel colored
eyes to me. They weren't hooded like a snake's. But they were cold
and tired looking. “And you...Ms. Sweet? Eula May Sweet? Is that
your real name or a stage name?”
He scared me, but his words were
insulting. By stage name did he mean like a stripper? I tried to
keep my voice as steady and cold as his. “It's my real name. I'm
from Kentucky.” And then I blew it by blurting out, “You know
where we all marry our cousins.”
Jennifer gasped, Bruce snorted with
laughter, Mark's mouth fell open, but Steele just raised an eyebrow.
Just one. He was cool. I wondered if he had a heart beating inside
that robot like exterior....
I hope you enjoyed reading this excerpt.
