She glared at him. “You’re not the only person who knows how to use Google.”
Woody wasn’t swayed. “This isn’t a good idea. This is a rough place, Rhetta. We have no business being here.” She knew he was referring to the stories they’d heard about unsavory happenings at the Peacock. Tales of abundant drugs and hard-boiled mobsters, prostitution rings, and you-name-it made the news many times over the years. “That snappy red Viper probably belongs to a hit man out of Chicago,” he added.
She turned so he wouldn’t see her roll her eyes with impatience as she headed for the entrance. He threw open the car door. She was already striding toward the building. “Hold on, I’m coming, since you’re determined to go in and ask about her.” He loped toward her. When she saw he was following, she waited for him to catch up. He placed a hand on her arm. “Just what, exactly, are you going to say?”
“I don’t know yet. I’ll play this by ear.” Woody groaned and Rhetta shot him a withering look. At least she hoped it was. She felt like she was the one withering, standing in the heat arguing with him.
The Peacock was housed in a sixty-year old, flat-roofed concrete block building in a shade of yellowish green that hadn’t been popular in over forty years. An eight-foot peacock in chipped pink paint and trimmed in neon tubing adorned the front. At night, the lighted neon peacock strutted across the face of the building. By day, it merely looked worn out.
Rhetta cupped her hands around her eyes and peered through the frosted glass on the locked entry door. Although she couldn’t see anyone, lights glowed from inside. “Someone must be here. There are lights on,” she said as she banged on the door. The heat had already caused sweat droplets to pop out on her forehead, and made Woody’s head shine. Wiping his head with a handkerchief he’d pulled from his rear pants pocket, Woody stopped alongside her. She’d forgotten her sunglasses in the car, so she shielded her eyes as she swept them across the parking area. Unless there was additional parking in back, there were no other cars.
At the sound of her knocking, a shadow slid from behind the bar and made its way to the door. “Someone’s coming, but I can’t tell if it’s a man or a woman,” Rhetta whispered, just as the figure reached the door and unlocked it. A tall, slim brunette woman of indeterminate age greeted them.
“Yes?” she asked. Her voice sounded much older than her face appeared. Probably from the years of smoking as evidenced by the lit cigarette she carried, the smoke coiling toward the ceiling. She took a deep drag, then said, “What can I do for you? The bar doesn’t open until seven.” She turned her head and blew the smoke out of the side of her mouth.
“We’re not looking for the bar. I’m trying to find someone, and I wonder if she may have worked here at one time.”
“Maybe. Who wants to know? Are you guys cops?” She scrutinized them from top to bottom. “Or the IRS?”
“Us, IRS? No. Not cops, either. We’re bankers.” Rhetta glanced at Woody. He was staring at the redhead. His hand went to the top of his head.
The woman threw her head back and laughed. “That’s a new one. Bankers.” Her laughed turned to a choking cough. When she caught her breath, she said, “The last two nuts that showed up here were carrying Bibles. They were a husband and wife team from some little reform church over in Marble Hill. They stopped the girls on their way in. They did that for a couple of days, and finally gave up. Tried to get the girls to quit working here. Didn’t have another job for ’em, but wanted ’em to quit so they could get saved.” She took another long drag, then tossed the still burning cigarette out into the broken asphalt parking lot. “So, are you guys going to lend ’em money instead of trying to save ’em?” Her laugh turned to a rattle, and then she coughed again. After a wheezy breath, she folded her arms across her chest. “All right, who are you looking for?”
Rhetta shot Woody a glance, and he nodded.
“Mylene Allard,” he said. “Do you know her?”
The woman stepped to within inches of Rhetta. With hands on her narrow hips, she studied Rhetta from top to bottom, then performed a similar appraisal of Woody. When she was apparently satisfied, she stepped back and held the door open, gesturing for them to follow her. “Come in,” she said, jutting her chin toward the interior. Once inside, she closed and bolted the door. Rhetta spun around and stared at the locked door. At least she had Woody there for protection, although she wished she had her .38. The locked door made her decidedly nervous. More than one person had been shot at the Peacock. She glanced around the dim interior. The air was stale with cigarette smoke. Tables with chairs stacked on top were crowded together on the hardwood floor. Along one side of the huge open room was a long bar, with stools lined up close together, like soldiers awaiting orders. Across the opposite wall was a raised stage where Rhetta spotted several poles and a few cages on platforms. Cages? Were those handcuffs attached to the bars? She shuddered.
The brunette whirled around.
“I’m Mylene Allard.”
Chapter 31
Woody, who’d been leading the way, stopped so suddenly that Rhetta bumped into him. She scrambled around him. The woman’s expression had hardened as she stood there facing them.
“Now that you know who I am, would you mind telling me who you two are?” Mylene stepped back and from somewhere that Rhetta couldn’t have guessed, she produced a pistol and took aim directly at Woody.
Oh, crap. Didn’t see that coming.
Rhetta held up her arms, palms out. Woody was quick to follow suit.
“Wait, that’s not necessary,” Rhetta said, directing her chin toward the weapon. “In fact, you’ve been trying to contact me. I’m Rhetta McCarter, and this is my associate, Woody Zelinski.” Woody nodded.
Mylene scrutinized them both for a long minute before tucking the pearl-handled .38 into her waistband at the small of her back. Her large chambray shirt, worn outside the denim capris had provided a perfect hiding place for the weapon.
When she did, Rhetta and Woody lowered their arms. Rhetta had a sudden urge to use the bathroom, but decided she could do that later. Her bladder was probably contracting from fear.
“Well, this is a surprise, Rhetta McCarter. How did you know to find me here?”
“How about if you tell me first, why you were trying to reach me?”
“Is this what’s called a standoff?” Mylene chuckled and reached in a breast pocket for a package of cigarettes.
As she went through the process of withdrawing one and lighting it, it was Rhetta’s turn to size up Mylene. Although the woman possessed a smoker’s voice, her pale facial skin, evidence of a life spent mostly indoors, was remarkably free from wrinkles. Aside from a few tiny crows' feet at the corner of her eyes, her face was smooth, and dotted with tiny freckles. A quick glance to her thick, shoulder length hair didn’t reveal any grey at the roots. Rhetta guessed they were about the same age.
Mylene stopped at a table sporting upside-down chairs and deftly grabbed one, turned it over and set it on the floor near the table. As she reached for another, Woody and Rhetta stepped up, grabbed one apiece, and joined the first chair. The three sat, and Rhetta glanced at Woody. His head was shiny.
Mylene began. “All right, Miss Rhetta, I’ll go first. I wanted to meet you out at the barn where you found Malcom Griffith. After I spoke to you, I decided that you might actually call the cops, so I decided not to go.” She paused and took a deep drag. Another coughing fit followed. Rhetta eyed the cigarette. Although she powerfully wanted to light up and join in, the coughing and raspy voice reminded her of why she needed to stay away from smoking. Was it already too late for Mylene? That didn’t do much to quell her nicotine craving, which got stronger when she was stressed. Like now.
Woody coughed and fanned the smoke away. He scooted his chair back.
“I’ll put this out, if it bothers you,” Mylene said, and ground the cigarette out on the concrete floor.
“Thanks,” Woody mumbled. He didn’t pull the chair back up.
>
“What on earth did you want to meet me for?” Rhetta continued. “Did you know Malcom Griffith?” Rhetta’s mind began racing with possibilities. Could Mylene be the missing pole dancer?
Mylene nodded slowly. “I knew him. I wanted to see where he died. I wanted to make sure he was dead. Your information was in the paper, where you worked, etc., so you were easy enough to find.”
“Were you the pole dancer?”
“I was a pole dancer. I manage this place, now.” When she saw Rhetta nod, she continued. “Which pole dancer were you referring to?” In spite of accommodating Woody earlier, she fired up another cigarette.
Rhetta decided she must be a chain smoker. The stale air and cigarette smoke began affecting her, too. She coughed and dared a look at Woody before answering. His head had been swiveling back and forth as the women spoke, as though watching a tennis match.
“I, uh, we, that is, we had heard that Malcom had made off with a lot of money and a pole dancer. Of course, that was before he was found murdered,” Rhetta said, squirming uncomfortably. She didn’t want Mylene getting angry and whipping that gun out again.
Mylene threw her head back and laughed.
Rhetta and Woody exchanged glances. This was funny?
“Did you go out to the barn anyway, Saturday night?” Rhetta asked. Woody coughed suddenly, and glared at Rhetta.
Ignoring him, she went on. “Did you happen to run into Jeremy Spears while you were there?”
“Let’s go, Rhetta.” Woody said, jumping up and grabbing her elbow. “The smoke is really bothering me.”
She jerked her elbow back, and glared at him. “I’m just asking a question here, Woody.”
“I didn’t go to the barn. And I certainly didn’t kill Jeremy Spears, if that’s where you’re going,” Mylene answered softly. “Although I couldn’t stand the little creep.”
Woody sat, and put his hands up in surrender. “I give up. I don’t know why she’s asking you this.”
Rhetta glared again at Woody, hoping that he’d just keep his mouth shut if he couldn’t contribute anything worthwhile.
“The Cape Girardeau Sheriff’s Department has your phone number, so if we were able to find you, I’m sure they can, too,” Rhetta said, hoping to imply that the cops would know where to come looking for them, should they not return home.
“What do you mean, we?” Woody asked.
Rhetta ignored him, and leveled her gaze at Mylene. “I think you killed Jeremy Spears and Malcom Griffith.”
Woody groaned and buried his head on his arms.
Mylene took another drag, this time without coughing. She blew a long spiral upward, then followed that with little round puffs that morphed into smoke rings.
“My father taught me how to blow smoke rings,” she said, almost wistfully. “He and I used to sneak out to the barn and smoke together. Probably not the best thing for a father to teach a thirteen-year-old. I guess I can thank him for the emphysema I have now.” She ground the cigarette out in the same spot on the old floor where she’d extinguished the other.
Rhetta glanced around. Now that her eyes had adjusted to the dim interior, she observed several other dead cigarettes scattered around the floor. She decided that cleanliness wasn’t a top priority in the Pink Peacock.
Mylene shook her head. “No, my dear, while I give you credit for finding me, your investigation is totally on the wrong tangent. I didn’t kill either one of them.” She stood and ambled to the bar where she poured herself a tall drink of deep amber liquid from a decanter on a glass shelf. She reached for two more glasses. “Can I offer you a drink? On the house, of course.”
Rhetta and Woody shook their heads.
She carried her drink back to the table and sat. “I didn’t kill Jeremy, although I hated him. And I didn’t kill Malcom, because I loved him.” She tilted her head back and downed most of the beverage.
Of course, she’s the pole dancer! Even though she hadn’t run away with Malcom, she really was his missing lover! Rhetta’s stomach quivered in excitement. She couldn’t wait to tell Randolph.
Mylene smiled. “You see, Malcom was my father. Jeremy Spears was my bastard brother.”
Chapter 32
“I could use that drink now,” Rhetta said. Mylene smiled and headed for the bar. Rhetta wasn’t that surprised to hear that Jeremy Spears was Malcom Griffith’s son, especially after finding the love letter in Anjanette Spears’ desk. She hadn’t told Woody about her find, so he looked completely ambushed.
“You want one, too?” Mylene asked Woody, raising a glass. He shook his head.
She returned with a heavy whiskey tumbler and handed it to Rhetta. Rhetta sipped, swallowed, and coughed. Straight, strong rye whiskey. Maybe she needed a cigarette instead.
Just as she was working up the nerve to ask Mylene for one in front of Woody, whom she had tried to convince that she had quit, a loud thumping on the door interrupted them. She badly needed to bolster herself with nicotine so that she could question Mylene’s story.
“We don’t open until seven,” Mylene said, as she made her way through the tables to see who was assaulting the door. Rhetta was sure that whoever was there was pounding so loudly they couldn’t have heard her.
Rhetta peered at the frosted glass door, seeing only general shapes of the group assembled there. A small cluster, determined to enter, if the knocking was any indication. As soon as Mylene opened the door, five men dressed in black stormed through.
Rhetta wasn’t sure who they were, but the weapons in their hands captured her full attention.
“Hands on your heads!” barked the leader of the contingent, a square-built man of average height, wearing a black, bulletproof vest over black T-shirt and cargo pants. A black ball cap pulled low over his eyes completed the ensemble and a badge hung from a belt at his waist. All Rhetta could tell of his face was that he wore a thick black mustache. As soon as Rhetta and Woody stood, Woody placed both of his hands on top of his head. Mylene had already obeyed.
“Rhetta, put your hands on your head,” Woody said in a very loud whisper.
“But, we haven’t done—”
“Do as I tell you ma’am. I won’t be telling you again,” the mustache said as he sidled up alongside her. She made out the letters “ACSD” on his cap.
“Okay, okay, but what’s going on?” No one answered her.
Mr. Mustache took both of Rhetta’s wrists and in one swift move, wrenched them behind her back and snapped shut a pair of handcuffs.
“Look here,” she protested, “what do you think you’re doing?”
Again, he didn’t answer her, but turned and shouted orders to the remaining lawmen. “Make sure you look everywhere, including the damn toilet this time.” They fanned out. One disappeared into the washroom area.
Woody and Mylene were also cuffed. Mylene snickered. “It’s Alexander County’s finest, screwing up my life again.”
Mustache walked by and fairly hissed at her. “You’re going down this time, Mylene, and I don’t mean with a customer.” He laughed at his own joke, and pushed her forward. He began chanting, “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney, and to have an attorney present during any questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be provided for you at government expense.” He shook her. Rather roughly and unnecessarily, Rhetta thought, before adding, “Do you understand?”
Mylene didn’t answer. He shook her again. “Yeah. I understand. By the way, Dick Tracy, you forgot to remove the .38 at my back.” He stopped at the door, and relieved her of the weapon, stuffing it into his own belt.
“This time, I want my gun back, understand? You guys got enough weapons from me now to outfit the whole force of six. By the way, who’s not here?” She glanced over her shoulder. “Oh, yeah, Mr. Big Cheese, the duly elected sheriff isn’t here this time. Is he too busy playing golf?” She laughed. The deputy gripped h
er arm and led her out of the building.
Rhetta and Woody remained standing while the other lawmen ransacked the area, overturning chairs, stools, and dumping out the contents of nearly every open liquor bottle—and not into the sink. A dark stain from the alcohol mixture pooling on the floor spread to the side of the bar. The officers emptied the bowls of chips into the mix and ground it in with their boots, laughing as they created a huge mess.
The stench of liquor wafted across the room, filling Rhetta’s nostrils and making her stomach queasy.
As though finally remembering they had two people in handcuffs, a young deputy strode over, pulled out a laminated card from his shirt pocket and began reading, “You have the right to remain silent….” Rhetta realized with absolute clarity that the place was being raided, and they were being arrested.
The deputy shoved her in the small of her back, urging her out the door and toward a waiting police vehicle—a black and white four-door sedan with Alexander County Sheriff Department splashed along the side, and red and blue lights swirling overhead. She stole a glance at Woody. His face was ashen and his head shiny with perspiration. As they marched, she remembered her purse was still inside the club. Her phone was in her purse. She stopped walking, turning to face her captor. “Officer, please have someone get my purse.”
He ignored her request, and urged her forward. He pushed her hard enough that she stumbled. “Get into the car, ma’am.” He opened the door, placed a hand on her head, and began to force her to sit.
She resisted. “I’d just hate to have my husband and lawyer, Judge Randolph McCarter, have to bring theft charges against you.”
He shoved her all the way into the car, locked the door, and went around to the driver’s side. Punching a radio on his shoulder, he said, “Jack, bring my prisoner’s purse, will you? I’m trembling with fear out here. Her husband is a judge.”
He said the word Judge like it had two syllables, ju-udge.
Not a good sign.
Chapter 33
Woody made the trip home in silence until they had crossed the Emerson Bridge and were once again on Missouri soil. A deputy had deposited them in the Pink Peacock parking lot next to Rhetta’s unlocked SUV. She was amazed Streak was still there. The dark parking lot was empty except for her car. The Viper was gone. Either someone had made a choice between stealing a Viper or a Trailblazer, and the Trailblazer lost, or the Viper belonged to Mylene, and she had driven it home. Evidently the raid had been bad for business. The bar was closed.