Murder Takes a Dare: The First Marisa Adair Mystery Adventure (Marisa Adair Mysteries Book 1) (8 page)

As Anton aggressively surged forward, Marisa held his arm.

“Well then, let’s call your mother. What’s her number? I’ll call her right now.” Marisa smiled and reached for her cell phone.

As the young man’s fantasy of busty young women and envious friends as his entourage faded from his dazzled eyes, his mouth dropped open. Reality caused him to rub a hand across his mouth. “Um, well, actually…”

Out of the corner of her eye, Marisa could see the strip club manager picking his way through the crowd. Over the years, she’d found him to be a strict disciplinarian, both with the male employees and the dancers, to the point of harshness.

A couple of years ago, soon after he was hired, Anton had heard one of the dancers telling customers about her sick child, a five-year-old girl in chemotherapy. Sympathetic spectators had showered her with currency during her dances. Anton had approached her and tried to give her all the money he had. Gently, the stripper had explained to Anton it was a gimmick, a come-on to get the patrons to part with their money. 

Marisa knew Anton appeared tough on the outside, yet on the inside he was soft and warm as puppy fur. She didn’t want the kind-hearted Anton to suffer the consequences of a bad outcome of the incident.

“Why don’t we just forget this ever happened?” Marisa suggested reasonably. She held the boy’s eyes directly with her own. “You don’t want to get caught here by the police. They’d have to contact your mom. Your name would be all over the internet, and not in a good way. How about calling it a night?”

His shoulders slumping in defeat, the young man turned. He stopped, and turned back to Marisa with a shy smile. “Hey, can I have your phone number? You know,” he continued hastily as Marisa started to shake her head, “in case anything comes out of this. Like people exchanging insurance information at a fender bender.”

Anton growled.

The boy threw up his hands in defeat. As he walked toward the exit, Marisa stooped to the floor to gather up her scattered money. She had learned the hard way:  No bending over in a room full of drunken men.

Marisa patted Anton gingerly, as if he was a not quite fully trained large dog. “Thanks, Anton, for looking out for me.”

His answering smile was his version of a tail wag.

Clutching her dollars, Marisa practically ran to stage five.

Marisa almost moaned in disappointment. The chairs were crammed around the stage, with no open spaces.

The dim light reflecting on a wheelchair at the stage caught her eye. The back of the head, with thinning, curly light hair, was very familiar.

She pushed her way over to the wheelchair. “Maupin!” She leaned over and kissed the top of his head.

“Marisa!” Appearing too small for the wheelchair, Maupin’s face lit up as he recognized her. As he realized he’d said her real name, his hand flew to his mouth in consternation. “Ah, I mean Trinity!”

Other than Diana, Maupin was the only person in the club who knew her real name. He also knew she’d gone through rehab, and was in twelve step programs for her addictions. Concerned, he said, “I’m surprised to see you here…”

Marisa felt a hand on her back, and stiffened, thinking her stalker was back. “Hey, you two,” Diana laughed as she wedged between them. “I have to get on stage for my next dance! Don’t either one of you dare leave without seeing me!”

As Diana sashayed away, two other dancers Marisa didn’t know stopped and kissed Maupin. As something of a mascot for the dancers, Maupin was very popular in the club. The women adored him. He was always extremely respectful toward them and he treated them as equals. Maupin also possessed a keen intellect and a wit so sharp it slashed the unwary like a rapier. The dancers loved his commentaries on their acts and on the other customers.

“It’s OK, Maupin, I promise. You still taking pictures?”

Maupin’s goal in life was to be a celebrity photographer. While his wheelchair limited his mobility, it could be an asset. Although he couldn’t climb balconies or hide in trees to take pictures, he knew most people would not expect a member of the paparazzi in a wheelchair.

The high point of Maupin’s career had occurred at the Kentucky Derby two years before. He’d been trolling around, looking like a disabled tourist with his camera. Because of his harmless appearance, he was generally dismissed as a non-threatening disabled person. His eyes sharply trained on the horse race spectators, Maupin had seen two people slip through a door to a stairwell. Their actions were those of people who did not want to be noticed. He was almost positive the man was a personal trainer who had married a world-famous rock star. Although the trainer was ostensibly in the midst of a very public reconciliation with his rich wife, he’d slipped away with a dewy-fresh young woman, her midriff and back bare. Maupin knew the woman was not his wife, who was neither dewy nor fresh.

In the dim stairwell, however, he had not been able to get his wheelchair up the metal steps. Not to be deterred, Maupin had slipped from his wheelchair. Using his strong arms, he had managed to drag his immobile lower body up the stairs after the low, murmuring voices. Camera in one hand, Maupin managed to squirm through the slightly open door, and catch the couple in mid-clutch.

With those pictures to his credit, he’d been sure he’d be hired on as a photographer, with a steady paycheck, employer, and an expense account. However, although the major online gossip magazines forked over money for the pictures, they were not inclined to take a risk on a photographer in a wheelchair. As a freelance photographer, he continued to take pictures, but he didn’t have the resources to travel.

“Of course I’m still taking pictures! It’s great to see you.” He grinned at her, as if they were conspirators. “Do you remember our big plan?”

Before her time in rehab, when she’d been a club regular, she’d seen Maupin here at least once a week. Although he was in a wheelchair, Maupin had been married before. He wanted a relationship and all it entailed. He wanted to pursue a relationship with Marisa.

Drawn by his wit and humor, Marisa had dated him for a short time. While Marisa liked and respected Maupin, she didn’t feel anything deeper. With an uncomfortable squirm, she suspected she’d given more time for a romance to develop because he was disabled. Finally, she’d offered him her friendship, and Maupin accepted it.

Maupin had joked since now they were just friends, Marisa could help him hunt women. His plan was to “accidentally” run over a beautiful woman with his wheelchair. Marisa would throw up her hands in shock and surprise, and run to help the young lady. She would just happen to have adhesive bandages and ointment in her purse. Then, as Marisa soothingly patched up Maupin’s quarry, he’d nonchalantly converse with the woman. Honing the master plan had offered them both a diffuser for the situation, and was a source of hilarity.

Marisa slid an arm around his thin shoulders and hugged him. “What have you been up to?” She noticed he seemed to have lost some weight. Maupin had told her his disability had struck him when he was a small boy. He had simply stopped growing and his legs had ceased to work. While on the inside he had matured to a man, his body was the size of a sixth grader.

He drew on his cigarette and blew the smoke away from her face. “You should come by and see my recent pictures. With new dancers coming and going, and most of them wanting to be models and needing portfolios, I have a constant stream of subjects.”

Marisa had been to Maupin’s comfortable condo, with its small scale furniture and photography equipment. He’d shown her many pictures on his computer. Among the photos she’d recognized most of the strippers from the club. Some of the pictures were soft core pornography, while others could have safely appeared in a religious tract.

“Do you remember the dancer who dressed like a Goth Girl? She was in all black, and she used a tombstone on stage as part of her act.”

Maupin frowned. “Oh yes, her stage name was Vamparina. She also used fake fangs. I think her real name was Chloe or something like that. She and Zia were good friends, but I’ve not seen the Goth Girl here dancing in some time. What about her?”

Shouts around the stage drew Marisa’s attention back to the dancer. She grabbed a chair from a nearby table, and squeezed it in between Maupin and the man sitting next to him.

A young, very petite product of the Philippines, Zia had glossy, straight black hair that fell to her pert, round ass. At the small of her dark back, nearly impossible to see in the dim light but Marisa had seen it before, up close, was the tattoo “Made in the Philippines.” Zia’s black eyes were sparkling as she started her dance and looked around the stage to make eye contact with the customers. When her eyes fell on Marisa, she whooped with joy. “Trinity!”

On her six-inch spike-heeled orange knee boots, Zia danced over toward Marisa. “I haven’t seen you in ages!” She put her hands on her hips in mock anger, and jiggled her body. “You promised next time you’d wear piggy tails!”

When she was a regular customer, Marisa had worn her hair in long, wavy pigtails most of the time. It gave her a different look to reduce her risk of being recognized. In addition, she thought the tails were cute and fun.

Zia loved to grab Marisa’s pig tails, and use them to pull Marisa’s face close to hers during her dances. Marisa enjoyed it, Zia got a kick out of it, and the men and women customers loved it.

Zia twirled away to prance around the stage, warming up her audience with her trick of putting her finger in her mouth and smiling innocently while provocatively shaking her small-scale curves.

Maupin started the chant:  “Zia! Zia! Zia!”

The dancer shed her orange vinyl hot pants and the orange vinyl vest over her small, obviously natural bare breasts, leaving her naked except for an orange g-string hugging her slight hips.

As one of the most athletic dancers at the club, Zia’s performance always reminded Marisa of Olympic-level gymnastics. With her high energy level and flexibility, not to mention her fit, nearly naked body, Zia impressed her audiences. As Marisa watched, the dancer executed a dazzling series of back flips across the stage, her long hair streaming behind her. She landed with her ankles on a customer’s shoulders, and her crotch up in his face.

Everyone clapped and hooted wildly.

Bills of all denominations blanketed the stage.

With a wink and a blown kiss for Marisa, Zia deftly scooped up her money and stuffed it into a shiny orange clutch purse.

Marisa leaned over and hugged Maupin.

“You’re leaving?” He asked in surprise. He knew whenever she came to the club, she stayed until closing.

“No way!” Marisa laughed. “I need to ask Zia something!”

Carefully, she picked her way through the press of drunken, yelling bodies surrounding Zia.

When she caught the woodsy scent, she immediately looked around. As she craned her neck, the same ankle she’d hurt in the graveyard twisted, and she stumbled. She cursed her twisted ankle as she regained her feet, then felt an arm clasp her tightly against the overly aromatic male she’d smelled earlier. The woodsy scent choked her. She found herself being led through the crowded club. When she tried to protest, he held her tighter against him. When she tried to elbow him in his pudgy mid-section, her elbow sank, as if into a spongy cushion. Holding her close to his side as she struggled, he practically dragged her through the press of moving, drunken, laughing bodies to the front of the bar.

When he dumped her in a seat at the corner table, well away from the stages and bars, Marisa drew in her breath to blast him for man-handling her.

The short hair next to the scalp, the thick glasses, and the bowed body were familiar. “Mr. Meeks! You keep turning up in odd places!”

Russell dropped into the chair next to her. “I could say the same thing. Last time I saw you, you were running away from a crime scene.”

“And the last time I saw you, you’d just followed me to the crime scene. What were you doing out in the woods, anyway?” Marisa looked around for Anton.

“I was leaving work when I saw you head into the woods. I wondered what you were up to and I followed you.”

“What if you were already in the woods? You could have just pretended to follow me through the woods. Which sounds very creepy, by the way! Maybe you were already in the graveyard because you had killed her.”

“Stop it. I saw you touch her, and you tried to move her arm. You had to know she’d been dead for some time.”

Marisa fumed. “I am not a crime scene technician. Anyway, that doesn’t explain what you’re doing here. I would have thought the police would have kept you there, asking you questions. Yet, here you are.”

“I called the police on my cell as I followed you out of the woods. I saw you jump into your car.” He shrugged. “Since you’d been involved with two dead bodies in one day, I decided to follow you home to make sure you were safe. Instead of leading me to a house or apartment, you landed here. In a strip joint.” He stared at her through the thick lenses, his eyes speculative. “I have to ask why.”

Marisa clenched her fists. “I have to say it’s none of your beeswax.”

Her long dark hair pulled back from her striking face in a ponytail and her curvy body covered by tight black leather pants and a white shirt unbuttoned to reveal her magnificent cleavage, Diana slid in the chair next to Marisa, and kissed her cheek. “Maupin told me you were asking him about our resident Goth Girl stripper.”