Scarlett Women

A Mickey Brennan Mystery Novel

Story and Book Cover by Mike Poppe

Copyright Mike Poppe 2013

Smashwords Edition

Scarlett Women is a work of fiction.

August 30, 2013

Table of Contents

Prelude To Murder

Off Stage

Murder

01 Eleven Months Later

02 A Dinosaur

03 Gwen

04 Hell Hath No Fury

05 Tammy

06 Darlene

07 Ann

08 Janet

09 Victims of A Daughter

10 A Broken Hands

11 Gwen Pleads Her Case

12 Payoff

13 SNAFU

14 Guil

15 Good News

16 Amy

17 A Cold Body

18 Asked And Answered

19 Blindsided

20 Waiting To Die

21 Fate Closes The Door

22 A Closer Look

Prelude To Murder

Opryland, Nashville, Tennessee

Outside the building, the vehicles in the huge Opryland parking lot were being assaulted by the most violent hail storm Nashville had seen in the last ten years. Inside the building, The Grand Ole Opry was in session.

Scarlett Stone, the latest new country music female sensation, was responding to a standing ovation from the audience. She flashed her artificial smile, as she counted the seconds until she could get off the stage, never knowing that at that very same moment, her soon to be murderer, was counting the hours until she would be dead.

Off Stage

Scarlett let out a sigh of relief, as her band started into her musical exit number, and she ran off the stage waving enthusiastically as she disappeared to the audience's left. Once offstage, and safely out of view of the audience, a young girl rushed to Scarlett and quickly toweled her face dry, then handed her a water bottle. As Scarlett lifted the water bottle to her lips, several of the performers, and musicians standing nearby, exchanged knowing smiles. That Scarlett Stone's water bottle was filled with Jack Daniels, was the worst kept secret in Nashville.

As Scarlett listened to the fans continuing to applaud and yell in hopes of persuading her to do an encore, her eyes were focused on the clock. When, after the normal amount of time for her to return to the stage had elapsed, and Scarlett still had not shown any inclination of moving, Tom Allen, her manager, rushed to her side.

Scarlett, you're late for your encore. If the fans think you're not coming out, they will quit applauding, and it will be on the internet in a flash. It would be pretty embarrassing, and not very good for your career.

With her eyes still locked on the clock, she answered.

Tom, my sales are ten times better than any of these other performers. Those hillbillies out there in the audience are not going to quit applauding. They are not about to let me get away without giving them an encore. You think they are going to go back home and have to tell people that they couldn't make me come back out? Not hardly. I'll make them wait twice as long as they do for anybody else, and I'll get away with it.

She nodded her head in the direction of the other artists standing off to her right. Look at them. They know what I'm doing, and it's eating them up with jealousy. None of them has ever had my level of success. This little demonstration is just my way of reminding them who sits at the top of the ladder.

Tom threw up his hands in frustration and walked away. Scarlett was only twenty three years old, but when she got in one of these moods, there was no talking with her.

At exactly twice the normal amount of time for an encore, the applause was getting even louder than before. Scarlett flashed her stage smile and slowly ambled back on stage, reminding everyone in the building that she was only coming out as a favor to them. She did a shortened version of her latest hit, then waved to the audience and left the stage without looking back.

When Tom Allen rushed to her side and began telling her how well she had performed tonight, she shut him up with a wave of her hand.

Yeah, yeah. What else is new? Look, I want you to get with the management of this place and make damn sure that the next time I come back, they have somebody competent to run the spotlight. When I move, I expect that spotlight to stay with me, not chase me around the goddamn stage!

Tom nodded and said, I knew there might be a problem, but I didn't find out about it until you had already started your set. The guy running the light tonight, was Gary Blaine. He's the regular guy, but he was supposed to be at home. He's been down with a really bad case of the flu. His replacement had a car wreck on the way to work, and they had to call Gary in, because they had nobody else. The poor guy was doing his best, but he was struggling just to keep from passing out.

So, send him a get well card. I'm not interested in excuses. Maybe they better fire him, and hire somebody that doesn't get sick. You can tell them that if this ever happens again, I'll walk right off the stage.

Yes Scarlett, he replied in a voice filled with frustration. He then made up an excuse, and quickly walked away, in order to escape any more of her tantrums.

When Scarlett reached her dressing room, she found Ron Jenkins, a prominent Disc Jockey, from an area radio station, standing in front of the door. He smiled, and said that he thought she put on a good show. Scarlett smiled in return and reached for the door, when she heard Ron's voice again.

Did you hear the Darlene Thomas interview with Grand American Country? I heard that she said that you are not a real country artist. What's your reaction to that?

Fighting off the urge to push by Jenkins and into the safety of the dressing room, Scarlett stopped and slowly turned around. Darlene Thomas had been one of the most prominent female country artists for at least ten years. Like most of the traditional country artists, her album sales, and radio airplay was steadily dropping, but her voice still carried a lot of weight in this town. Such a criticism by Darlene, was not something that any artist could just ignore. She would have to respond. She took a minute to compose her thoughts, then she gave Ron her answer.

Darlene Thomas has been a great artist for a long time. However, nobody can ignore the fact that her career is fading away, while my own has broken through to new levels, with no sign of slowing down. With all the respect in the world, I have to say that Darlene would not be human if she didn't feel some resentment toward my success.

When the Disc Jockey started to ask another question, Scarlett held up her hand. Look, I know I'm not what many people call a traditional country artist. My music is different from what Tammy, Loretta, and Darlene have done for so many years. I've never attempted to hide that. However, if we are going to look at who is country and who is not, let's look at who devotes more time appearing at the soul of country music, the Grand Old Opry. For the past couple of years, Darlene has barely made the minimum ten appearances required to maintain membership in the Opry. On the other hand, despite my unparallelled success and busy schedule, I've played here at least fifteen times each of the last three years.

Satisfied that she had turned the table on Darlene, Scarlett smiled at Ron Jenkins, then stepped past him into her dressing room, closed the door, and laughed out loud at how easily she found it to manipulate people in this business.

Murder

Two days after Scarlett Stone's Grand Old Opry appearance, Cindy Rogers, Scarlett's evening maid, walked slowly down the stairs. Her pride was still stinging from what she considered to be an undeserved tongue lashing given to her earlier in the evening from her volatile and sometime irrational employer. It had all been about a minor mistake that had actually been made by someone other than Cindy. Rather than sell out the guilty party, Cindy had taken the full weight of Scarlett's wrath.

Intent on refusing to let Scarlett see even a glimpse of how much her tantrum had hurt her, Cindy was headed downstairs to get her boss's permission before going home for the night.

When Cindy walked into the living room, she found Scarlett in the living room, lying in a pool of blood. Standing over her, holding a knife dripping with blood, was a woman that she knew she had seen before, but whose name she couldn't recall.

Cindy froze in place for several seconds, her mind unable to accept what her eyes were delivering to her brain. Then, she threw up, and ran out of the house, and down the street, screaming for help at the top of her lungs.

01 Eleven Months Later

My name is Mickey Brennan. I'm a Private Investigator. After serving a four year hitch in the Marines, I spent another four years on the Nashville police force. Eventually, putting up with the bureaucracy and political meddling got to be too big a pain in the ass for me to put up with so, I quit and opened up my own business. It doesn't pay a lot, but my boss and I get along a lot better.

On this particular morning, I had slept in as part of a celebration for having closed out a lucrative case at a time when my bank account needed it. An angry woman named Celia Bennett, hired me to locate her ex-husband. It seemed that he had managed to get his hands on her entire savings, then disappeared without saying a word.

It took three weeks, but I finally found him hiding out in a camping trailer on the shores of Kentucky Lake. His wife got most of her savings back, and I got my fee, plus a very nice bonus from a very grateful Mrs. Bennett, who had pretty much given up on the idea of ever seeing her money again.

So, I called up a couple of old buddies, both of whom still worked on the police force, and invited them to celebrate with me. It had been a long night, most of which I didn't remember.

Judging by the intensity of my hangover, we must have had a terrific time. My face didn't hurt, my ribs weren't sore, and my knuckles weren't swollen, so it appeared that this celebration had been a peaceful one.

In deference to my hangover, I decided to skip my usual morning run. Instead, I fried up an egg and sausage sandwich and washed it down with a couple of mugs of coffee, as I caught up on the news via the internet. Then, after a shower and shave, I dressed and headed for the office. I really didn't figure I'd accomplish much, but at least I could go through my mail, and check for any messages.

After making one stop along the way, it was almost noon when I pulled into the parking lot. I parked my Chevy Silverado, retrieved the bag I bought along the way, locked the doors, and walked around to the front door of the building.

Yeah, I know. None of the television private detectives drive pickup trucks. Well, I hate to bust your bubble, but what you see on tv, is not always the same as reality. I spend a lot of time in my vehicle, either driving, or sitting for hours on end, observing suspects. Comfort becomes important, and my Silverado provides it. Besides, one of the reasons I quit the force and started my own business, was to be able to do things the way I wanted.

With my hangover almost gone, I decided to take the stairs to the third floor, where my office was located. After unlocking my office door, I tossed my keys on my desk, then turned and walked over to the office of Gray and Associates. Actually, there were no associates. Ned Gray was the sole owner of his real estate development business. Adding the Associates tag made for good advertising, and made prospective customers feel more secure about turning over their cash to Ned.

Awhile back, some irate customer, who, against Ned's advice, invested his life savings, ended up going broke, and stormed into Ned's office with the intent of killing him with a WWII vintage .45 caliber pistol. Fortunately, I was returning from lunch, and heard the yelling going on in Ned's office. When I walked in, Gwen, Ned's gorgeous redheaded secretary, pointed at Ned's personal office. I pulled my weapon, quietly eased the door open just a little, and saw that the maniac had Ned pushed up against the wall with his pistol pressed against Ned's temple, as he delivered a rambling and incoherent tirade.

I motioned for Gwen to come to the door, and whispered that I needed her to distract the attacker's attention. She didn't ask questions, just nodded and stepped into Ned's private office. When the attacker turned at the sound of her high heels, she lifted one leg and placed one foot on a chair, pulling an already short skirt even shorter.

The guy may have been out of his mind, but not even a nut case could ignore Gwen's legs. His ranting stopped, and because he was distracted for just a second or two, I was able to put three rounds into his chest before he could pull the trigger and kill Ned.

Since that day, Ned has never stopped thanking me for saving his life. When I wouldn't take any money for what I'd done, Ned came up with the idea of having Gwen act as my answering service and part time secretary during working hours. After hours, the calls would just go to my answering machine. Ned said that he didn't really have enough work to keep her busy, and the number of calls I normally received wouldn't interfere with his operation at all, so that's the way it's been ever since.

On this day, when I was coming in late after a night of celebrating, I stopped in to see Gwen before going to my office. When she heard me come in, she looked up and smiled.

Hi Mickey. Late night case?

Nah, actually Mrs. Bennett paid off with a nice bonus, and I did a little late night celebrating.

Gwen gave me a pouting look and said, And you didn't call me?

I laughed and winked. I had two old buddies along, and I wasn't about to share you with them.

She took a sip of coffee, then pushed away from the desk and turned so that I got a good look at her impressive profile, and her equally impressive legs. Her voice took on a sensuous tone as she said, Next time, don't be so selfish. Didn't your momma teach you to share?

Pretending I didn't hear the question, I tossed the bag I was carrying, onto her desk.

Here. These should get me off the hook.

It only took one look for her eyes to begin to sparkle.

Mickey! You devil. You know how much I love these chocolate covered peanut clusters. She ripped open the package and bit into one of the clusters. As I started to turn and go back to my office, she called out to me.

You always seem to know what I like Mickey. I've never been able to figure out what it is that you really like. Tell me something.

Turning my head just enough so that she could see me wink, I answered.

I'll let you know kid.

Back inside my office, I checked my answering machine. There were only three messages and all were from telemarketers. I had just begun to go through my mail, when Gwen walked in, placed a cup of coffee down in front of me, then sat on the edge of my desk.

Just wanted to tell you that you didn't have any calls yesterday, or this morning.

Thanks, I appreciate it.

She said, Well, I better get back to work, as she slid off my desk and stood up. Thanks again for the peanut clusters. How about I buy you a beer or two after work?

I liked that idea a lot, but my body was running on fumes after the long night of celebrating. I suspected that a beer or two with Gwen would turn into a long night with her, and if and when that day came, my body was going to need to be in better shape than it was this day. So, I told her that I'd have to see how the day went.

For just a second, she was on the verge of voicing her frustration at the number of times her invitations to me had been declined. Then, she thought better of it, and walked back to her office, leaving me feeling pretty stupid and every bit as frustrated as she was.

When