Have Your Cake and Kill Him Too by Nancy Martin

caused by the eye protection of a tanning booth.
    â€œLook at the color on that woman,” muttered Delilah. “She’s darker than me.”
    â€œDelilah!” barked ChaCha, her voice raspy from years of nicotine.
    â€œNo need to shout,” Delilah said. “ChaCha, this is Nora Blackbird from the Intelligencer. ”
    â€œOh yeah? A reporter?” Her accent definitely originated somewhere west of the Mississippi, but her sharp gaze bored into me with the intensity of a Wall Street trader.
    â€œShe writes the society column.”
    ChaCha gave a snort that made her sound like an asthmatic horse. “You look like you belong at a cotillion, all right. You’re here to work?”
    â€œWell, I—”
    â€œâ€™Cause we can use the ink. First you should jaw with a couple of the Cupcake Girls, then the chef. He’s straight from Austin and makes his own barbecue sauce. It’ll make your story about Cupcakes more, you know, classy.”
    If the queen of England walked in, she couldn’t bring any class to the sordid ambiance of Cupcakes. I said, “Miss Reynolds—”
    Under the table, Delilah gave my knee a silencing bump. “Nora probably wants to circulate a little first, ChaCha. Maybe she should talk with some of your VIP guests.”
    â€œDon’t waste too much time with that shit. The chef didn’t fall off no chuck wagon. He’s going to be one of our biggest draws. Meanwhile, Delilah, where the hell is my partner? Zell was supposed to be here hours ago.”
    â€œI—”
    â€œIf he’s got one of the Cupcakes in a hotel room somewhere, I’m gonna cut off his balls with a bowie knife and throw ’em in the nearest deep fryer.”
    â€œUhm—”
    There was no stopping ChaCha’s rant. “If Zell spent as much attention on business as he does on those rodeo queen wannabes, we wouldn’t have had so much trouble getting this dump opened.” She shoved her pen into her red wig and pointed at me. “Talk to the chef. I gotta put more toilet paper in the john.”
    With that, she marched off in the direction of the restrooms, a tiny figure so bowlegged she couldn’t have stopped a pig in an alley.
    â€œBoy,” said Delilah. “Somebody should warn Donald Trump about ChaCha. She’s a tycoon in the making.”
    â€œYou didn’t want her to know Zell’s dead?”
    â€œI was worried she might kill the messenger, and you don’t look so hot to begin with. Besides, his granddaughter’s here, and this isn’t the place to learn your grampa’s gone.”
    â€œYou mean Clover? Verbena’s daughter?” Astonished, I glanced around the crowded restaurant. “You’re kidding, right?”
    â€œNo joke, honey. Not only is his grandchild here. She’s working.”
    â€œWorking! How? Not—”
    â€œYep, she’s a Cupcake Girl. Zell hired her himself.”
    â€œNo!” Shocked, I said, “His own granddaughter? Good heavens, how old is Clover now?”
    â€œStill jailbait. Maybe sixteen?”
    I shook my head. “Even Zell couldn’t be such an idiot.”
    â€œSixteen is plenty old enough these days.” Delilah glanced around us and pointed. “And this one’s older than most. There she is. On top of the bar.”
    I spun my stool to get a better look at the show being performed on the long bar in the middle of the restaurant. Six young women wearing not much more than big smiles were prancing in clumsy unison. Arms around each other, they bent at the waist and waggled their bottoms, then formed a kick line and bounced together in a cowboy-booted imitation of Broad-way choreography. Gathered beneath them along the bar, men cheered and whistled.
    Though I hadn’t seen her in years, I spotted Clover easily. In the center of the line, she was the blond girl with long legs and the prodigious bounce beneath her