Yellow Mama E zine

Murder in the Boudoir

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by M.G. Phillips

 

          The dame on the cover of Dangerous Liaisons was Vesper Quinn, a real tomato who could make a granite statue sweat. But in the dive bars and back alleys of this town they just called her "The Feline." And brother, she lived up to the billing. She had a reputation for landing on her feet while the men around her landed in the morgue.

          When my office door opened, she didn't just walk in, she posed. She was wearing a trench coat, but she let it hang open just enough to show she was still in costume from her shoot. Black lace, low-cut bodice, high-waisted briefs, and fishnets that looked like they were designed to trap a man's soul. She even had the cat ears on, perched in her dark curls. A prop tail coiled against her leg like a venomous snake. On anyone else it would have looked ridiculous. On Vesper it looked like a warning.

          "I need you, Mitch," she purred, her voice low and husky like crushed velvet dragged over gravel. "Someone’s trying to frame me."

          I leaned back. My chair groaned under the weight of a long week. "Spill it, sister. Who’s the unlucky stiff?"

          "My husband. Horatio Grootwan." She blinked and a single perfect tear rolled down her cheek. It looked expensive. "I found him in the bedroom. Someone put a bullet in him."

          I took the case. Maybe it was the fee. Or maybe it was the legs. We drove to the Grootwan estate. A mausoleum of a house where the drapes were too heavy and the air was too thin. The bedroom smelled of gardenias and copper. Perfume and blood.

          Horatio was sprawled across the silk sheets. His face frozen in a look of final, stupid surprise. I walked the room and kept my hands in my pockets. I didn't need a magnifying glass to see the setup. There was a smudge of lipstick on a brandy snifter that didn't match Vesper’s shade and the lingering scent of Turkish tobacco. It was all a little too perfect. A little too staged. It smelled fishier than a tuna trawler in August.

          Vesper sidled up to me, that tail twitching playfully as she moved. "You believe me, don't you, Mitch? I didn't do this. I'm innocent as a newborn kitten. "

          She reached for my lapel, but I caught her wrist. I didn't squeeze hard. Just enough to let her know I knew the game was rigged.

          "Drop the act, dollface. You're about as innocent as an alley cat who ate a canary. You ventilated Horatio, didn't you? Then you planted the lipstick and the tobacco to make it look like a lover's quarrel. You’re wearing the costume to play the role, but you forgot one thing."

          Her eyes narrowed, the emerald green flashing with cold, sharp fury. "And what's that?"

          "Horatio didn't drink brandy," I said. "He was a teetotaler. Everyone knew that but you."

          She hissed. A feral sound. Then raked her nails at my eyes. I caught her arm and spun her around, pinning her against the vanity. "Save the scratching for the prison guards, Vesper. You're going up river, and you're taking the kitty ears with you."

          By the time the boys in blue hauled her away, mascara was running down her face in black streaks. She spat at me as they shoved her into the squad car. The final gesture of a woman who realized her nine lives were up.

          I lit a cigarette and watched the smoke drift toward the ceiling of the stagnant boudoir. It was just another Tuesday in a city that ran on bad intentions. The Feline had been declawed. But in this town, there was always another stray waiting in the alley.

 

         M.G. Phillips writes dark fiction from the shadows of the San Francisco Bay Area. His work explores the gritty underbelly of human nature and has previously appeared in Thriller Magazine, Twisted Pulp, and The Dark Vigil Anthology. When not charting the paths of desperate characters, he can be found reading vintage pulp or listening to his vinyl collection. He released his first novella, Smoke and Bourbon, in June. Look for it on Amazon. 

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KJ Hannah Greenberg is eclectic. She’s played oboe, participated in martial arts, learned basket weaving, and studied Middle Eastern dancing. What’s more, she’s a certified herbalist, and an AP College Board-authorized teacher of calculus. 

Her creative efforts have been nominated once for The Best of the Net in poetry, once for The Best of the Net in art, three times for the Pushcart Prize in Literature for poetry, once for the Pushcart Prize in Literature for fiction, once for the Million Writers Award for fiction, and once for the PEN/Diamonstein-Spielvogel Award for the Art of the Essay. To boot, Hannah’s had more than forty-five books published and has served as an editor for several literary journals.

Check out her latest short fiction collection, An Orbit of Chairs:

https://www.amazon.com/Orbit-Chairs-KJ-Hannah-Greenberg/dp/B0CWMMM73T

 Within its pages are two tales originally published at Yellow Mama: "Alive Another Day" and "Light Notes."

Channie's new art book, Life's Colors, https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FGCTHJ6Z, just launched (hit "read sample" button). It contains images originally published by Yellow Mama.