Queen Bee (Lowcountry Tales #12)(86)

And she’s afraid of her own shadow. She’s never even had a parking ticket, much less a speeding ticket. The only people she’s really comfortable around are generally under five feet tall. Go figure that one out. Except for Archie.

And this stupid torch she’s been carrying for Archie? He’s not even that interesting, if you want my opinion, unless you are all hung up on the history of religion, which I am not. Although he was soon to be on the market again.

Sharon was dead? Found in our yard? It didn’t make sense. I’d call Holly as soon as I had a little time and see what the whole story was. But hey, ding-dong, the witch was dead. A cause for discreet celebration to be sure.

The bedroom door opened and Char stepped out into the living room.

“Wow!” I said. “Just wow!”

Celery green was definitely her color.

“You look like a movie star!” I said.

“Thanks!” Char said. “I love that it shimmers when I walk. Watch.”

Char sashayed through the living room to the front door and back to the bedroom.

“I hate to tell you this,” I said. “But this apartment is no longer worthy of your star power.”

“As soon as I have my own little club, we’ll move,” Char said. “Your mother is Christian Siriano!”

“I’m happy with it,” Momma said.

“You should be,” I said. “Wait until Suzanne sees this!”

I still could not believe that Katherine Jensen and Suzanne Velour, aka Buster Henry, USMC, Ret., were a number. Do you think the ladies of the Stella Maris Altar Society would understand? Approve? It was just such a long jump from lying in her bed, picking at Holly over every little thing, and satisfying her longings with catsuits. And by catsuits, I don’t mean the kind Lola Falana made famous representing Tigress perfume a thousand years ago. I mean the fleece variety with kittens all over them.

And now she was designing and making spectacular costumes for Char. Talk about a 180: she was simply not the same woman. I couldn’t see her ever living on Sullivan’s Island full-time again. Not after this. Side note? She was also the happiest I’d ever seen her. Maybe Suzanne was just so outrageous, which she was, that Momma couldn’t resist. Who knows? Anyway, I wasn’t about to suggest a return date to the Lowcountry for either one of us.

Momma seemed more tired than usual. She had purple circles under her eyes. Her spirits were high, but her energy seemed a little tapped out. But then, we were out every night, doing one crazy thing or another. We went to see a show called Le Rêve, which is this underwater tango that’s about true love versus dark passion—a hard choice if ever there was one. We’d been to the Burlesque Hall of Fame, we’d played miniature golf at a Kiss-inspired course and shot our golf balls through Gene Simmons’s head, and we’d had a tour of the Neon Boneyard. Pretty exciting stuff for a couple of home girls from the Lowcountry.

There had been a scout in the audience the night of Char’s showcase. And don’t you know, Char had been quickly picked up by the William Morris Endeavor agency. Now she had professional representation. Naturally, they had a huge legal team to go over contracts and a bookkeeping department to keep the clubs and casinos honest. Well, at least the clubs and casinos would be honest with Char. Suzanne predicted that soon Char would have a big-time manager and a choreographer who would help her shape a more professional and polished act, maybe give her a live backup band. As soon as the word hit the streets that there was a new talent in town, all these folks would be coming out of the woodwork. They would offer so much more than Suzanne could provide, more by a ridiculously wide margin. And Suzanne would conclude that she was just happy to have been a part of the launch.

“You know,” Char said yesterday, “having my own orchestra would be my dream come true.”

“With a horn section?”

“I was thinking xylophone and maybe strings?”

“A retro act, like Duke Ellington and Lionel Hampton?”

“Exactly!”

“Hmmm,” I said. “That’s something to work toward.”

All the shows and clubs we’d been to were so overenhanced with digital images and digital music and crazy lighting that it all looked and sounded a bit like the same electronic mix. Something retro might be new, if that made any sense.

His first gig was at Divas at the Linq.

“No point in starting small,” Suzanne said to Char.

We had seen the show one night and it was mind blowing. Frank Marino was the emcee of the best show of female impersonators in Las Vegas. Divas Las Vegas. He was a spectacularly handsome man but a wickedly funny and beautiful Joan Rivers. And he had the widest variety of the most talented impersonators in Las Vegas. What set Char apart was that she wasn’t trying to be Cher. Cher impersonators were a dime a dozen, like Elvis impersonators. Char’s fictitious life as Cher’s long-lost identical sister gave her a creative edge of authenticity over just a regulation female impersonator, if there was such a thing.

And as the day wore on, I couldn’t stop thinking about Holly. What if she was really in trouble? Momma was taking a nap, Char was in rehearsal, so I finally had some free time to call her.

“Holly? I can’t get you out of my mind. Are you okay?”

“Well, until they get the results of the autopsy back, it’s unclear. But it’s not my fault if my bees swarmed her. How could it be? I mean, it’s not like bees take orders.”