1 Target of Death (9 page)

“Claims?” Dixie roared in laughter. “I
swear you think she might really be a stripper.”

“Stripper? In this town? We don’t have any
place like that in town.”

I lifted a finger in the air. “That’s not
completely true. Word has it that Hank’s Hotspot opens its back room for a
stripper show after six.”

Margarita’s face whitened. “Oh, my. I can’t
imagine what would happen if word got out about that one.”

“Back to Nancy. She made a strange
comment.”

“Like what?” Margarita asked, all ears.

“That if Clayton was Nancy’s husband, she’d
have taken him out.”

“Like to dinner?”

“No, like to the undertaker,” I said.

“Oh, my. I’m sure she didn’t mean anything
by that. You know how women can talk sometimes.”

“It got me to thinking about Marilyn. Do
you think she’d have done anything rash to her husband?”

“We haven’t been all that close, but I can’t
imagine her harming a flea. You girls are on the wrong track.”

“How about a bow. Does she know how to use
one?”

Margarita shook her head. “Nope, I won’t
believe that Marilyn would harm her husband. Is that all you have to go on?”

“So far, but we’ll have to nose around at
Hank’s Hotspot.”

“Great. I’ll go with you girls. You know,
for backup, just in case the coppers show up.”

I smiled widely. I’m so glad I had learned
years ago not to roll my eyes, lest I get a slap upside my head from my Granny
LaLaurie. She was as prim and proper as they come, and a lady to the core, but
she didn’t back down from anyone ever. She always told me that a woman needs to
have a backbone and should never back down from a fight, but neither should she
start one. Granny was quite well-to-do and owned a slew of antique shops
throughout Louisiana, although some considered her bat-shit crazy. Somehow my
entire family was able to bury the fact that we’re related to the notorious
Madame LaLaurie, who was reputed to have tortured her slaves, although she was
able to escape Louisiana somehow. It was something we were brought up not to
talk about.
 

Margarita closed the restaurant at eight
o’clock and appeared ten minutes later, dressed in a blue pantsuit. She patted
her gray hair and asked me, “Is that what you’re wearing?”

I glanced down at my jeans and lacy top and
shrugged. “What’s wrong with how I’m dressed?”

“Well, your girls are showing.”

Okay, so I was showing a little cleavage,
but I didn’t see that as a big deal. Dixie wore a button-up silver shirt with
black slacks, and her hair was teased to the max.

“Seriously? I thought I had left the Bible
belt.”

“Sorry, I just didn’t want anyone to think
we’re going there for a job, that’s all.”

I led the way to the SUV, not bothering to
say a word. I just didn’t see her point. Who in their right mind would think I
was stripper material? So, I might have more than an ample bosom, but these
days most strippers were more on the small-busted side, unless they had
enhancement surgery.

Once we settled inside, I drove to Hank’s
Hotspot. The lot was packed and I had to circle the block before I found a spot
on the opposite curb. We exited the SUV and slipped and slid our way across the
icy, snow-covered street.

When we strode through the door, we were
stopped almost immediately by a woman seated in the corner. “Sorry, we’re
closed,” she said.

I stretched up to my full height. “We were
told that there’s a party in the back room.”

The woman stood and made her way over to
us. She stared us up and down. “If you want to call it that, but unless you’re
here for a job, I can’t see you girls going inside.”

Margarita laughed. “That’s it. Tammy here
needs a good job. As you can see, she’s stacked for it.”

I grimaced. “Don’t mind Grandma, she’s got
it all wrong. We’re here for the entertainment, unless it’s a crime for females
to watch strippers dance.”

“Not at all. I just wasn’t sure Grandma
would be into something like that.”

“Obviously, you don’t know me very well,”
Margarita said with a sly smile.

The woman opened the back door and we
shuffled inside, not knowing what to expect. Inside, the room was dimly lit
with tables as red as the stage in the front of the room and chairs and the bar
in black. Ceiling fans spun from above, swaying the red fabric curtains that
covered the walls. Sexy music blared from speakers near the stage, where a
woman gyrated. The crowd varied. Men were packed tightly near the stage at
small tables, while couples sat further away, observing.

We moved together as one to the bar. I
elbowed Margarita and Dixie away, and we sat on the swivel barstools. Dixie
waved over the bartender, who wore skinny jeans and a white shirt opened to the
waist and had a military-style hairstyle.

“Hello, ladies. What can I get you?” he
asked.

“Besides your number, you mean?” Margarita questioned
with a wink.

I had to smile. “Yes, give her your
number.”

He laughed. “The management frowns on that,
but I’d be happy to fetch you drinks.”

Margarita frowned. “Aww. Well, I suppose
that will have to suffice. Bring us all margaritas.”

I nodded. “Oh, why not.”

The bartender left and I nudged Margarita.
“Calm down. We’re here to investigate.”

Margarita’s shoulders slumped. “Aww. It’s
been years since I’ve seen any man that looked like that. I really need to
figure out a way to draw in the younger crowd.”

“You don’t need to do it this way. Today
was successful,” I insisted.

“Yes, it sure was. If only I could do that
everyday, but I need to be realistic. I’ll be lucky if I can keep open another
year.”

I patted Margarita’s hand affectionately.
“Don’t worry. I’m sure things with come around.”

“And if they don’t?”

“You could always move south,” Dixie
suggested.

“I hardly have funds to do that, and I
don’t know anyone who lives in the south.”

“You know us,” I volunteered.

Just then, the bartender returned with the
drinks. “Tell me what you think?”

I took a sip and it was surprisingly good.
“Wow, I’m impressed.”

“Let’s just say I spent some time in
Mexico.”

“Oh, you don’t look Mexican,” Margarita
said.

“Hispanic, you mean,” I corrected her.

She waved a hand. “All this political
correctness gives me gas.”

I knew she spoke the truth. The older
generation had been around long enough that they lived through civil rights,
war demonstrations, and economic woes. Sure, some of them had their backwards
views, but they were still to be respected. If I could do anything to help
Margarita out, I would. She deserved the best after all she’d been though with
her ex-husband and their financial issues. I had to meet this man first-hand or
my name wasn’t Tammy Rodrigue— or Louisiana Sassy, which most people (even
Dixie) called me these days.

The bartender moved to leave, but I stopped
him. “I was wondering if Clayton Percy came in here regularly?”

“You talking about the dead guy?” he asked,
eyeballing me.

“Yes. We’re investigating his murder—independently
from the sheriff’s department.”

“Why?”

Margarita slapped the bar. “Now, listen
here young man. I’m a citizen of Bear Paw and I don’t like the idea of some
killer running around. Do you?”

“Well, no, but Clayton wasn’t exactly the
most liked man in town.”

“How’s that?” I asked.

“He cheated on his wife for one, and it
wasn’t like he tried to hide the fact.”

“That hardly makes him unlikable. People
don’t care about that sort of thing these days.”

“Not unless he happened to sleep with your
girl,” he said with a straight face.

“Oh, really? Was he some kind of hot guy?”

Margarita punched Dixie in the arm,
laughing. “Hardly. He had a comb-over and a beer gut.”

“I happen to love a man with a beer belly,”
Dixie said, rubbing the arm Margarita just punched.

I sighed. “So how does a man with a comb-over
sleep with your girl?”

He leaned over the bar and choked out, “He
has money, is how, and my Cindy got all hot for it.”

I almost fell of the barstool at this
revelation. “I see. Where did he meet up with your girl?”

“Here. She’s a stripper.” He motioned to
the stage. “There she is.”

We whirled and stared wide-eyed at the
beautiful blonde who swayed on the stage. Cindy slid near the stripper pole and
showed her athletic abilities as she swung around it with a series of twists
and leg splits. I covered Margarita’s eyes. “You shouldn’t look.”

She swatted my hand away. “Speak for
yourself. This is better than watching Demi Moore in that Striptease movie.”

I about lost it and wanted to drag
Margarita away, but she genuinely seemed to be having a good time. I turned
back to the bartender, but he had moved away. It figures. I had more questions
that I wanted to ask him, but no sense in worrying. I’d have to question the
stripper instead. Since she knew Clayton intimately, she might just have some
useful information. I hoped, anyway.

Ten minutes later, I caught Cindy as she
left the stage and I asked her for a lap dance. She eyed me up and agreed. I
sat in the chair with Dixie and Margarita close by. As the stripper sat on my
lap, I said, “I heard through the grapevine that you knew Clayton Percy
personally.”

She tumbled to the floor and scrambled to
her feet. “W-Who told you that?”

“I can’t really say. What does it matter?”

“Oh? So the bartender didn’t tell you?”

“No,” I lied. No sense in getting her mad
at him since the bartender was so broken up over his girl and Clayton getting
it on.

“Funny, because Troy’s the only one who
thought that. He was my boyfriend, but we broke up over his accusations.”

“And yet you were all over Clayton here?”

She flicked her hair over her shoulders.
“It wasn’t like that.”

“Oh? What was it like, then?”

“He just came in quite often and I danced
for him. That’s all. He had more money than brains, I guess.”

“Why is that?”

“He acted like something was really going
to happen between us outside of here.”

I gripped my legs as I leaned forward. “Are
you saying that you never slept with the man?”

Cindy bit her lip before she said, “That’s
right. I suppose you think just because I’m a stripper that means I’m some kind
of slut.”

“No, but I suppose that’s how it looked to
the other customers.”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass how it looked to
anyone. I’m just a stripper. It’s what I do for a living. We’re encouraged to
do lap dances. It’s good money and Clayton was never in short supply of money.
He was a regular and I could pay my rent with the money he spent on lap
dances.”

“Surprising, since he worked at Hank’s Tool
and Die, don’t you think?”

“Hey, I don’t care how a man gets money as
long as he does.”

“Are you talking about your customers here
or something else?”

“I meant here.”

“I heard Clayton gave you a diamond
necklace. Is there any truth to that rumor?”

She sighed. “Oh, he gave me one all right,
but I refused to accept the gift.”

“I see. So what happened with your
boyfriend? Was he angry enough to want to harm Clayton?”

“No, Troy isn’t like that. He’s a gentle
soul. I just wished he had believed me when I told him nothing happened between
Clayton and me.”

“Can you think of anyone who’d want Clayton
dead?”

“Like I said before, I only danced for
him.”

I put a finger alongside my chin. “But surely
the man had to have said something. I bet men get mighty chatty.”

“He talked mostly how he just came into a large
sum of money. He said he planned to leave his wife soon.”

“Did he give you any details?” Margarita
asked.

“No. Sorry that I can’t help you more. I
feel just awful that someone lured him into the woods like that.”

“What makes you think that?”
 
I asked. “You just said that you didn’t
know him outside of here.”

“I don’t, but the girls at Curls and Cuts
seemed to know more details about Clayton’s death earlier today when I had my
hair appointment.”

“Like what?” I asked, squeezing Margarita’s
hand, hoping she’d let me handle the questioning.

“Someone called Clayton and asked him to
meet them in the woods. Whoever it was must have killed him. I can’t believe
someone shot him with an arrow like that, but with an archery competition so
close, I can see how that might happen.”

I tried not to take that personally. “What
in the world does that have to do with it?”

“Just that those archery nut jobs are
probably out there practicing.”

“From my knowledge, there are plenty of bow
hunters in Michigan. That hardly makes them loons. Archery is a sport like any
other.”

“Except that they shoot a deadly weapon,”
Dixie clarified.

“Anyone could have lured him out there. I
bet whoever did the deed isn’t even an avid bow hunter or on the competition
circuit. Do you know anyone else who might be of any help to us?”

“Yes,” Margarita began. “Did Clayton get
lap dances from any other strippers?”

“For the most part it was only me, but go
ahead and question the other strippers.” With that she strutted away, heading
for the bar. The bartender who Cindy identified began whispering in Cindy’s
ear. I had no idea what they might be talking about, but it didn’t appear to be
hostile. We questioned the other strippers, but none of them remembered much
about Clayton besides that Cindy danced for him. None of them were vocal about
the possibility of Cindy spending time with Clayton outside of Hank’s Hotspot,
but they did supply us with the bartender’s full name, Troy Akins.

We left and headed back to the restaurant
soon after. We wobbled inside and went our separate ways. I was too tired to
even come up with a game plan for tomorrow. I snuggled into my pillow, lulled
to sleep by the sounds of Dixie’s heavy breathing. It sounded like whistling as
she slept.