I stared down at him and wished him a peaceful eternity. My gaze came to rest on his paisley ascot, and I chuckled sadly. Such a dandy. It wouldn’t do for him to go with his neckwear askew, so I knelt and straightened it to show him to his best advantage. Satisfied he was ready for the police photographer, I rose to my feet. And that’s when I became aware of something sticking to my hand. It was a false eyelash.

  By the time the police showed up, d’Ossonville had vanished. No one had seen him go, but he was on the lam. The detective in charge, Sergeant Paulson, was furious that one of the attendees had run off. I tried to calm him with assurances I’d spoken to the AWOL witness. While giving him the information d’Ossonville had shared with me, I may have repeated a couple of times that he’d had scratches on his hand—perhaps evidence of a struggle—and owed money to the victim. Lucia volunteered the address of the hotel where d’Ossonville was staying, though Paulson figured the suspect was probably already on his way to Mexico. After taking statements from “the bunch of perverts,” he said we could all go home, but with a warning not to leave town. The police issued an A.P.B. for d’Ossonville.

  That left me with the lovely Lucia in my care. She had nowhere to go besides d’Ossonville’s hotel room. And she was too spooked to return there in case he showed up. He was a murderer, after all. I told her she was welcome to stay as long as she liked in my love nest in the Hollywood Hills. She cooed like a dove and took my arm.

  Dawn was approaching as we roared east on Sunset Boulevard. I glanced at the vision sitting to my right and asked if she realized how dangerously beautiful she was. That prompted a quizzical look. I realized I needed to start at the beginning. I explained that, despite unspoken etiquette, Muriel Bender had succumbed to simple bourgeois jealousy. In fact, I was convinced she’d sworn off swapping in recent months because she couldn’t bear the thought of loving anyone but Osgood. The phony knee injury was a ruse. He, of course, was free to share himself with others, but she? She was his prisoner.

  Lucia wanted to know what made me think that, and how her own dangerous beauty figured in the equation.

  I laid out my hunch. Muriel had been afraid Osgood might be so taken by the exquisite Lucia that he would abandon her, Muriel, again. This time for good. To prevent such an eventuality, she’d slipped some kind of emetic concoction into Lucia’s rum. She wanted to be sure there’d be no coupling between Osgood and Lucia. Peg Wallace ended up an unintended victim, as she’d found Lucia’s cocktail and downed the rest of it.

  Lucia agreed that my reasoning was quite clever, but she doubted Muriel had poisoned her. She was feeling perfectly fine now, ready to express her gratitude for my kindness, an intention she signaled by stroking my hand as it rested on the vibrating gearshift. Furthermore, how could Muriel possibly have known to come to “the hotel” prepared with—what—syrup of ipecac? And wasn’t that bitter? Lucia would have detected it.

  Gorgeous and smart. A cellist, too. Perhaps the vomiting had been coincidental. But the poisoning fit my larger theory of events. That Muriel had taken advantage of everyone’s distraction to slip into the bathroom and strangle her husband, just as if wringing a towel, as he prepared to step into the shower. To prevent him from leaving her again. To free herself from her prison. For she could never love anyone else, and she could no longer bear to see him in the arms of another.

  Yes, I am despicable. To serve my own ends, I let an innocent man take the blame for Osgood’s murder. In fairness, however, the police believed he made it to Mexico and was never apprehended. And I allowed a guilty woman, Muriel, to go free, because I wore the same shackles as she. I, too, was a prisoner of love. But, in my case, I was happy to wear my bonds.

  Lucia never left my home in the Hills. Thanks to a blessing I surely didn’t deserve or understand, she fell in love with me. Perhaps it was my money, my house, and my Hollywood connections, but I’m a romantic at heart and would rather think we were made for each other. We married a month later. No, I don’t mind sharing her for an hour or two from time to time with other playmates. It’s a pleasant diversion we both enjoy, safe in the knowledge that we belong to each other. Perhaps me more to her than she to me. I won’t quibble.

  But that morning, as the new year dawned over Los Angeles, I poured Lucia a glass of brandy and lit a fire in the hearth. She was already naked on the divan, waiting for me. I called out that I’d be right there and, as I stoked the blaze, dropped a single false eyelash into the flame.

  Back to TOC

  Hot Pants: No Way Back

  Lise McClendon

  Ella checked the back of her skirt and straightened the zipper. It wasn’t too tight, was it? The navy gabardine didn’t stretch across her ass. It lay smooth, the subtle chalk stripe straight down and around her buttocks in elegant lines. She pulled on the matching jacket. It would cover much of her, anyway. It was boxy and mannish, with old-school shoulder pads, just as she hoped.

  In the bathroom mirror, she pondered the cream high-necked shell she wore underneath the jacket. It clung to her chest a little too much. She didn’t have an alternative though. It had been decades since she wore a blouse that went above her collarbone.

  Her fingers shook as she applied her new lipstick, a coquettish blush. Also, a new look. Everything was new, and it freaked her out, as much as she wanted it. She took a deep breath and told herself to relax.

  “You got this, Ella Brown,” she whispered to her reflection and giving herself a wide, fake grin. “You totally got this.”

  The last six months had been rough. She’d felt alone, unable to tell anyone about her change of profession, her change of heart. She couldn’t take the chance. The city wasn’t that big. Someone could easily recognize her, even with all her attempts to change her appearance. New hair color, a dull brown dye in a severe bob at chin level; dyed eyebrows, also dark brown; plain, straight nails; tinted contacts to disguise her sky-blue eyes—she’d even gained a few pounds to fatten up her face. It hadn’t really worked, but it was nice to eat ice cream again.

  One of the only perks of the last months, that ice cream. She’d had to continue working, she had no choice. Just like she’d had few options when she first took the job at the strip club. Ten long years—a lifetime of cigarettes, booze, men, and pole dancing.

  But now she was out. “Out,” she whispered. “Free.”

  She’d moved to a respectable, if not luxurious, apartment building in a better part of town just last week. She was superstitious. She didn’t want to jinx her chances on the real estate exam, so she waited to move until she’d passed the test and been taken on as a novice agent by one of the biggest firms in town. That interview nearly broke her, she was so nervous. But no one recognized her. No one put it together that Ella Brown, matronly twenty-something, was once Princess Hot Pants at the Scuttlebutt Strip Club down by the harbor.

  Her hot pants had been burned, all sixteen pairs of them. The blue satin tap pants, the red striped clown pants, the sailor pants (much loved by the Navy), the cowgirl pants with real leather fringe, the high-cut, cheeky ones, the ones so tight they split up the back, the ones so loose the view from below created a surge to the rail. Pink, purple, flowered, black, silk, satin, denim: every pair was now ashes.

  She grabbed her notebook and her purse, slipped in the can of mace that Gretchen recommended, and walked down the stairs of the building and out into the sunshine of her new life.

  The open house she was babysitting for Gretchen was on the other side of downtown, in a middle-class leafy neighborhood with kids riding bicycles on the sidewalks and tulips in gardens. Ella parked her old Buick around the corner. She definitely needed a better car if she was going to make it in real estate but it had to wait. She needed to know she could make it. That she would like it. It was so different from stripping. You actually had to talk to people. You had to seem like you knew what you were talking about, use your brain. Be charming and friendly and approachable. It was alien to her.

  For years, her body had been all there was to her. It fed her, clothed her, made her money. It was a good body, with long legs, big breasts, tight ass, and a slender neck. Topped with her long blonde hair and cupid lips, this body could do no wrong, at least in a strip club. Men swooned when she swung her locks around like Godiva, when she wiggled her hot pants in their faces. It was a joke among the girls, how stupefied men got when she danced for them. But her brain had checked out. She thought about the ocean, cool blue waves, floating away, sun on her back, dreaming of far away, anywhere but here as she ground her hips on the stage.

  The other girls didn’t talk about leaving. The money they made stripping, the tips tucked into their g-strings, the occasional bonuses from their not-terrible boss: it made leaving hard. Norma Severino owned the strip club. Known as a battle-axe—or worse—to customers who didn’t obey her rules, she protected her girls like a mother hen, keeping them safe from handsy guys, perverts, and drunks. On any given night, she threw out ten customers for trying to grab a girl or over-imbibing. Norma was the best really, Ella thought, as she walked around the corner to the house. She hadn’t blinked when Ella told her she was quitting. Ten years was six more than any of the other girls. Ella was getting old and sick of it. It must have shown on her face. Norma gave her two hundred dollars and wished her well.

  “You aren’t getting into the life, are you?” Norma asked. “Escort service?”

  Ella shook her head. “Going straight, mama. Don’t worry about me.”

  She missed Norma. The old bitch had been as close to a mother as anyone in her life, someone who cared if you were sick or hurt or pregnant or drunk or high or broke or getting roughed up. Now Ella was on her own two feet. No safety net, no Norma.

  It was time.

  Norma had helped her when she was kicked out of the house by her stepfather when she was seventeen. Helped her find a room, gave her a job, gave her skills. It was Norma who thought up the hot pants angle and gave her the name. It suited Ella when she was young and too shy to wear a g-string. Ella had helped Norma too, she knew, as Princess Hot Pants became one of the premier draws, her act the highlight of Saturday nights, bringing in customers big and small, putting the Scuttlebutt on the map. But there were other hot young dancers now, like the three named for Bond girls: Pussy Galore, Holly Goodhead, and Honey Rider. None was even twenty yet.

  At the house, the first obstacle was negotiating the app on her phone that unlocked the lock box. It took a few tries, but she took out the key and unlocked the house. It was a sweet place, a bungalow with blue clapboard siding and white trim, a handkerchief front lawn, a small porch with wicker chairs. She let the front door stay open, airing out a stagnant smell, and checked the kitchen garbage can. Someone had left their burger wrappers. She took out the trash, swept the porch, and checked herself again in the mirror. Her new look was so washed out and dull and, best of all, sexless. She loved it.

  The little house had been on the market for a month. Gretchen didn’t think they’d get many looky-loos, the casually curious. The whole neighborhood had tramped through already. “Maybe some real customers,” Gretchen said, crossing her fingers. “Call me if anyone wants to talk.”

  In the three weeks that Ella had been in the office, taking cold calls, routing messages, answering questions, Gretchen had taken her under her wing, which was so nice. She was at least forty, cheery and brusque. She had two young boys, so she hated to sit on a dull open house on a nice Sunday afternoon in May. She’d paid Ella forty dollars upfront for the three hours and promised a cut if someone made a real offer.

  The first hour was very quiet. Not a soul. Ella walked out to the street to check on the open house sign, pulling it up and staking it down in a different spot. She paused on the sidewalk and looked up and down the street. What would it be like to live here, to have a real home? She took a moment to catch her breath.

  The first potential buyers finally arrived, young marrieds. Perfect for this house, Ella thought, offering them the fact sheet. The second couple came a half hour later, a young woman and an older man. Her father? Sugar daddy? Ella watched the way the man put his hand around the woman’s back as they walked up the steps, not in a fatherly way.

  She turned to pick up a sheet and straighten her jacket. She put on her business smile—cool and calculating because she hadn’t perfected approachable—and spun to greet them. The young woman, maybe twenty, was fresh-faced and blonde, with shapely legs and a slender waist. The man glowered sourly. Ella tried to speak. She blinked hard and forced the words out: “Welcome. Have a look around and ask me anything.”

  He hadn’t recognized her. She tried to slow her heartbeat. He was a frequent customer at the Scuttlebutt. What had she expected? Male customers would be all over town. Even at her very own open house.

  She didn’t know him, really. Didn’t know his name. She rarely spoke to customers off the stage. Norma was good about that, with two big bouncers protecting the dressing rooms. But Ella recognized his ruddy cheeks and dark blond hair, the bald spot. His greedy brown eyes, constantly searching, up and down your body. Somewhere over forty, the years hadn’t been kind. A Saturday night regular. A fifty-dollar tipper, hard to forget.

  In the kitchen they murmured about appliances. Ella squeezed her eyes shut and tried to erase the image of dancing on stage, looking down at him week after week. His greasy forehead and dry tongue, the fat fingers creasing the bill. Grant, the girls called him for the general on his favorite tip.

  She shivered. That was in the past. No more Scuttlebutt, no more Hot Pants. Was it possible to put it all behind her? Apparently not. But damn, she had to try.

  She straightened, pulling herself together as they came downstairs from examining the bedrooms upstairs. “What do you think?” she asked brightly.

  The girl said, “I love it,” at the same time the man growled, “Dated. Cramped. Boring.” The young woman blinked, staring at him, mouth agape. He frowned at her, daring her to contradict him.

  She flushed. “We’re just looking.”

  In a moment, they were gone. Down the wooden porch steps, out to the sidewalk. The young woman’s head was lowered, arms stiff, hands fisted. She trailed Grant, who clomped ahead, making for a blue sedan. He pushed her in and slammed the door.

  Ella breathed. She hadn’t realized she’d been holding it in, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for him to place her, to undress her with his beady, cold eyes. She shook out her hands and groaned. How was she going to do this? Who else might show up?

  At the window she watched them, sitting in the car. Grant talked on his phone. The girl’s face was hidden by a curtain of hair. He glanced up at the house once, talked some more, and started the engine.

  Ella sat down in a sprung armchair and cradled the mace she’d stuck between the cushions earlier. She needed a better spot for it, easier to reach. She glanced around the living room. Behind the silver coffee server? She tucked the canister under a cloth napkin and reminded herself to take it when she left.

  Her phone rang. It was Gretchen, asking about foot traffic. They chatted for a moment until one of the kids got loud. “Make sure you lock all the doors when you leave,” she said. “And thanks again.”

  The rest of the afternoon was quiet. Three small groups of lookers, two couples and a single man. Not someone she knew. Ella was relieved. Too young and well-dressed, anyway. The type of man who went to the club was older and sadder, as if he’d struck out on life. Grant was a bit of an outlier, really, a man with creepy appetites and lots of money. Most of the men were train wrecks.

  Why did it have to be Grant? Couldn’t she have run into one of the other creeps? But it made sense. He was buying a house for his girlfriend or his wife or his daughter. He had money for things like that.

  At four o’clock, Ella retrieved the mace from the tray and the sign from the sidewalk, locked the house, and returned the key to the lockbox. She carried the sign to her car around the corner and put it in the trunk. She felt like a real professional now. She’d done her first open house. Her suit stayed pressed, and she’d spoken politely and enthusiastically to everyone. She’d watched a few of the salespeople on training runs and they said you often had to just go through the motions, get people through the door, until the property clicked with somebody. Maybe nobody today would click. That wasn’t her problem.

  She sat behind the wheel, savoring the moment. She had done it. She’d made the leap from pole dancing to real estate. One creep, that was it. The chances of another showing up were low. She closed her eyes and pictured greasy Grant again. She shook her head. No, he would not ruin this for her.

  As she turned the key in the ignition, she saw a woman sitting in a car at the corner. She sat with her hands gripping the steering wheel of a black SUV, knuckles white. Her jaw was tight, sunglasses covering her eyes. Ella glanced in the direction the woman looked but there was no one there. Was she the owner of the house? Ella eased her car into the street and drove toward home.

  Two days later, Ella sat at her desk in the utilitarian office pool and answered the phone that rarely rang. It was a thankless job assigned to new agents. She flicked through the houses on her laptop screen as if she was looking for something besides a way to not look bored.

  Gretchen stood up across the open office, her phone at her ear. She looked at Ella questioningly. “Yes, yes, of course. If you want, we can make that happen. My pleasure.” She muttered through her fake smile and hung up. “Ella!” She snapped her fingers and waved her over. “Big news.”

  For so-called ‘big news,’ Gretchen didn’t look excited. Annoyed was more like it. Her black hair tucked behind her ears, pearls in place, still her blue eyes flashed a warning. Ella skipped over. “Yes?”

  “Do you remember a Mister Raymond? From Sunday’s open house?”