Saturday Night Cleaver (A Barbara Marr Murder Mystery #4) by Karen Cantwell Page A

complexion had gone from red to green.
    “Thought it would make a great story,” stammered Guy whose eyes darted around. “But I’m starting to have second thoughts.”
    Clarence was beaming. “We’re their first gay couple.”
    “Except you’re not gay,” I reminded him.
    He shrugged. “It’s still nice that they don’t discriminate.”
    Pointing toward the far corner, I barked an order. “This way.”
    Across from the baby grand piano were two chairs. I motioned for them to sit and handed my phone to Clarence. “Here—look at your dad’s last text and try to decipher. I’m getting Guy a glass of water.” I snapped my fingers in front of Guy’s face. “Stay with us. I’m getting you something cool to drink.” He smiled weakly, taking the hat off his head and nervously fiddling with its brim.
    Half way to the kitchen I bumped into Dandi Booker. I bumped into her hard, and I’ll admit, I did it on purpose.
    “Hey there, girl!” she chirped all Southern-like. She wrapped her hand around my arm and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Imagine finding a nice girl like you in a place like this.”
    “Why are you using my name?”
    “What?”
    “They called you, Barb. Your name isn’t Barb. My name is Barb.”
    “Shh, girl, shh. Didn’t anyone tell you the rules?”
    When my face didn’t register understanding, she sighed a deep Scarlett O’Hara sigh. “We don’t use our real names here, for cripes sake. Everyone picks a name—you know a plainish name like Mary, or Sue, or Jane. Only those were already taken, so I took Barbara. Around here, I’m Barbara Haynes. Like the undies, but with a ‘y’ for spice.” She put on a conspiratorial face. “I have to shake it up a teensy bit. It’s just not in me to be all the way plain, you know? You should pick one quick-like. How about...Linda?”
    “Barbara isn’t a plainish name,” I countered.
    She patted me on the hand. “Oh, Sweetie, it works on you. Don’t worry. How about Linda Miller?”
    “Yeah, yeah, that’ll do. Listen, I’m looking for the woman who I think lives here—Shin Lee?”
    “You just don’t catch on, do you? Club names, Linda, club names.”
    “Let’s put it this way, anyone around that looks like her name could be Shin Lee? Who lives here?”
    “That’s Cathy Black, only I haven’t seen her pretty little head yet tonight. She might be downstairs.” She passed me a wink. “Some like to get started early, you know.”
    I winced as my mind darted toward images her comment conjured. Downstairs was probably where the “dancing” occurred. I couldn’t even watch movies on Cinemax, aka, Skin-amax, so I sure as heck didn’t want to catch the live show. But the fact of the matter was, Colt was in trouble and Shin Lee could be the answer. I asked Dandi-Barb where the stairs were. She pointed to a door off the hallway just past the far end of the kitchen.
    More people had arrived, and even the mini-palace was starting to feel crowded. I scooched around and squeezed through small groups of chatty members until I reached the door. Above it was a lit blue and white neon sign that read, Saturday Night Fever . Beneath the words hung a pair of kissing lips, just like the business card logo. Man, these people were organized.
    Pulling the door open revealed a nice surprise. Shin Lee the crazy Asian lady stood barefoot on the plushy carpeted stairs that did not go straight down, but rather made a bend half-way. She seemed to be talking to someone around the corner, obscured by the wall. Her silky blue and white dress fell just above the knee, but the neckline plunged nearly to her navel.
    “You can do it, I know you can,” she cooed in a gentle, very American-sounding voice. “You’re the Master, baby, you’re the Master.”
    So, she spoke English after all, that little faker.

Chapter Ten

    M y first impulse was to run for the hills, fearful I was about to witness a raunchy moment between two thrill-seeking suburbanites. However,