Vanilla Beaned (8 page)

Tate wanted to drop off Mel and Angie at the Blue Hawaiian on his way to the hospital, but Mel insisted on staying with Holly, and Angie did, too. Because Holly had to report to work at the show, they went with her.

It was a tight squeeze in Holly's sports car, but Angie gamely took the backseat as she was the shortest. Aside from their love of Elvis, part of the reason Tate had booked them rooms at the Blue Hawaiian was that it housed the Casablanca Theater, where Holly performed in a showgirl revue every night except for Monday.

They had planned on catching one of her shows while they were staying at the hotel, but now Mel felt like it was imperative that they stay with her and hear every detail about this alleged stalker and find out who this Byro character with the gilded cage was. She hated to admit that she
was relieved that Holly had people in her life who might want to harm her, but there was no denying it made her feel better than thinking it was a bad guy who had followed them from Arizona.

They walked through the casino to the accompaniment of shouts, bells, laughter, cheers, the artificial noise of slot machine levers being pulled and change clanging. Most everything was electronic now but the old sounds prevailed.

Holly waved to the pit boss as they walked by the blackjack tables, and a few of the dealers called hello as the three of them passed by on their way to the theater.

The Casablanca was everything that was vintage Vegas in its heyday. The theater had been newly remodeled to showcase its midcentury modern features, and Mel felt as if she were stepping back in time when she walked through the Casablanca's huge revolving doors on the west side of the Blue Hawaiian's casino.

A buxom girl, wearing what looked like a form-fitting bellboy's outfit and the cutest little pillbox hat with two cherries attached at the stem and sporting a big leaf, met them as they stepped out of the doors.

“Cigars, cigarettes, chewing gum,” she said.

Mel gaped. Nowadays, she wondered if the girl sold more gum or smokes. Then again this was Vegas.

“What decade is this?” Angie asked.

“More like what century?” Mel asked.

“Hi, Gina,” Holly greeted the girl. She fished some money out of her bag and bought a pack of gum. “Do you two want anything?”

“Yes,” Mel said. “I want to know where you got the cute hat.”

Gina shrugged. “Wardrobe.”

Holly smiled. “They are specially made from a hat shop in London called Mim's Whims, very famous among milliners. They make a lot of our hats for the show.”

“Really? They order them all the way from London?” Mel asked.

“Well, the Casablanca has been doing this gig for fifty years so they can afford the best,” Holly said.

“Time for me to hit the floor and promote the show,” Gina said. “See ya, gals.”

“That's wild,” Angie said, gesturing at Gina with her head. “I feel like I'm on the set of
Mad Men
, the early years.”

“Has the Casablanca always had cigarette girls?” Mel asked. “I'd think with smoking losing popularity, there wouldn't be enough demand.”

“Vegas isn't called sin city for nothing,” Holly said. “All the vices come out to play when people are here. Mostly their job is to work the casino and advertise the show. I started out as a cigarette girl.”

“No, sir,” Angie said.

Holly laughed. It was the first time since the afternoon's upheaval and Mel was relieved to hear the sound.

“Yes, ma'am,” Holly said. “I spent a year trolling the casino, trying to break into the show.”

“And you did,” Mel said. “That must have taken a lot of perseverance.”

“My mother would say bullheadedness,” Holly said. “The surest way to get me to do something is to tell me that
I can't. So every time I blew an audition, I became more determined than ever to succeed.”

“You've got grit, kid.” Angie made a clicking sound with her tongue, closed one eye, and pointed at Holly like she was a gangster.

Again, Holly looked cheered.

“Come on,” Holly said. “I'll give you a tour of my home away from home.”

Holly never broke her stride. She unhooked the velvet rope that cordoned off the theater entrance and gestured for Mel and Angie to go on through.

A huge framed portrait of comedian Levi Cartwright stood on a pedestal and Angie stopped in her tracks.

“Oh my god, Levi Cartwright is here?” Her head swiveled around as if he'd appear behind a potted palm or faux alabaster pillar.

“He's been our headlining act for a while now,” Holly said.

Angie gasped. “Can I meet him?”

“Sure, I'll introduce you,” Holly said.

“Is he as funny in person as he is in his act?” Angie asked. “He just cracks me up.”

“Well . . .” Holly drew out the one word as if she didn't want to disappoint Angie but she didn't want to lie, either. “You can decide when you meet him.”

Angie turned to Mel with a grin so big, Mel couldn't help laughing. She looked as young as Sydney.

A big, burly man with biceps the size of Mel's head and a name tag that read
CARLOS
smiled at Holly as she led them up the short staircase to the main door.

“Bring me any cupcakes tonight, Holl?” he asked. Mel noticed that his muscles flexed below his short-sleeved polo shirt when he talked.

“Carlos, your sweet tooth is your weakness, you know that, right?”

“Sugar is what gives me my superpowers,” he countered. Then he posed in a Mr. Universe stance that made Mel's pupils contract.

The man looked as if he were carved out of granite. She had to curl her fingers into her palms just to keep from poking his muscles to see if they were as rock hard as they looked.

“Tomorrow,” she said. “I promise.”

“I'll hold you to that,” he said.

“These are my friends Mel and Angie,” Holly said. “They're going to be hanging out at the show tonight.”

Holly didn't ask permission and Mel realized it was a sign of how important Holly was that she could bring guests in without question.

“Welcome, ladies,” Carlos said. “If you need anything, don't hesitate to ask.”

“I don't know about you, but I am feeling very VIP,” Angie said.

Mel smiled. There was a certain cachet to getting to go where no one else was allowed. The theater was a big one with rows upon rows of movie theater–type seating behind fifty or so tables decked out with tablecloths and cushy chairs. The tables were definitely the prime seating.

“We have to get to the green room from backstage,”
Holly said. She led them down a side aisle and up onto the stage, where they cut across the shiny black floor and slipped behind the heavy velvet curtains.

A man with a tool belt was working on a set of lights and he glanced up when they entered.

“Hey, Holly,” he said. He was an older man with puffs of white hair sticking out over his ears but nowhere else on his bare head.

“How's tricks, Benjy?” Holly asked and winked at him.

“Fancy is on the warpath,” he said. His voice was just above a whisper. “Be careful.”

“Thanks for the heads-up,” she said. She gestured for Mel and Angie to hurry after her.

“Who's Fancy?” Angie asked.

“Fancy Leroux, she's our stage manager, production manager, you name it,” Holly said. “She was one of the original Casablanca girls back in 1959 when the Casablanca first opened.”

“Wow, so she's really old,” Mel said.

“And really mean,” Holly said. “But I still love her.”

Mel must have looked as confused as she felt because Holly said, “Fancy was the one who discovered me as a cigarette girl. She took me aside and taught me what I needed to know to pass my audition. After that, she groomed me to take the lead, which I've had since just after Sydney was born.”

“Are you sure you want to give all of this up?” Mel asked.

“Yes.” Holly didn't even hesitate. She led them to a side door, which she pulled open.

“Um, I don't want to pry,” Angie said. “But I couldn't help but hear your ex-husband say you have a stalker.”

Holly's chin dropped to her chest. She let the door close as she crossed her arms over her chest and stared at the floor.

“Hey, we're sorry,” Mel said. “We didn't mean to get into your business. We just want to know what's going on so we can help you.”

“What ‘we'?” Angie asked. “I'm the buttinsky. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything. I'm just worried.”

“It's a deal breaker, isn't it?” Holly asked.

“What do you mean?” Mel asked.

“My stalker,” Holly said. “I didn't want to tell you all because I was afraid you would decide I was too much of a risk to buy a franchise. Clearly, if today's incident was my stalker, I was wrong not to tell you and I am so sorry.”

She looked like she was going to cry. Mel reached out and patted her shoulder.

“Hey, it's all right. It's not a deal breaker.”

Holly's head snapped up. “How can you say that? You could have been killed twice. If the person destroying the bakeries is my stalker, this is all my fault.”

“No!” Angie said. “It is not your fault if someone has a weird fixation on you and is acting out. It's their actions causing the harm, not you. You can't give up on what you want because of someone else.”

“Angie's right,” Mel said. “We can't let them win.”

Holly gave her a tentative smile. “It's just maddening. I don't know who they are or where they are or how they
know me. They've never done anything violent before, so I don't know why it's happening now. I'm sorry to have dragged you into this mess.”

Mel looked at Angie, and Angie nodded. It was time to come clean.

“It might not be your stalker,” Mel said. “You say they've never been violent but have they ever threatened violence?”

“No,” Holly said. “Mostly, they send me letters and presents, but lately, they've started calling the theater asking for me, and when the person who answers the phone tries to get their name or number, they hang up. Billy's been worried that the behavior is escalating.”

“Still, calling the theater is a far cry from driving a car through a window,” Angie said. “That seems like something a real hard-core criminal would do.”

Holly tipped her head to study them. One eyebrow rose, and she asked, “Do you have something to tell me?”

Holly Hartzmark was one smart cookie.

“Possibly, the explosion and the car thing were aimed at us,” Mel said.

“Really?” Holly's whole face lit up and she clapped her hands. “Oh, wait, I shouldn't look happy about that, should I?”

“It is a bit bad form,” Angie said but she was smiling.

Holly forced her features to look duly serious and then said, “It looks like maybe we have more in common than a love of baking cupcakes.”

“Quite possibly,” Mel said. “The short version is that Angie's brother Joe—”

“Who also happens to be Mel's ex-fiancé,” Angie chimed in.

“Is currently prosecuting a mobster, who is known for murdering the loved ones of anyone who opposes him,” Mel said.

Holly was quiet for a moment while she absorbed this information.

“I think I'll keep my stalker,” she said. “Wow, do you really think it's him doing this to get to you?”

Mel and Angie both shrugged.

“There's also this rival baker,” Angie began but Mel interrupted.

“But we have no proof that it's her,” Mel said.

“Yet,” Angie added.

“I think maybe we all need to stick close together until we know exactly what is going on,” Holly said.

“Agreed,” Mel said.

“Why don't the three of you stay with me at the house?” Holly asked. “It's got eight bedrooms. We could all stay there and we wouldn't even have to see each other.”

“It did feel safe, what with the security guard at the gate and all,” Angie said. “I'll text Tate and tell him the plan.”

“Great, now follow me,” Holly said. She glanced at her phone. “I have to get moving if I'm going to be in costume in time to get back up here.”

“Back up?” Mel asked. “Where exactly is your dressing room?”

Holly widened her eyes and opened the side door again. “Welcome to the catacombs, ladies.”

They followed Holly down three flights of stairs into a
brightly lit basement that looked as if a flock of sparkly ostriches had come to die. Racks upon racks of glittery, feathered, sequined gowns filled the space while up on shelves above the gowns were huge elaborate feathered headdresses, some as high as four feet tall.

“Wow,” Mel said.

“And how,” Angie added.

“It is awesome, isn't it?” Holly asked.

A gaggle of girls in high heels and not much else were shimmying into their dresses.