Burn, Baby, Burn

Shandalier wiped a deliciously gooey dribble from the corner of her mouth as she approached her front door. She stopped at the wall mirror to check her lipstick and picked up the emergency one she always left there (the Shiseido Autumn-in-Kyoto red semi-gloss that went so fabulously with her new ruby grapefruit cocktail frock she nabbed up at No Ho Zone on Greville Street) and executed an expert repair job. As a second knock re-announced her visitors, she swung open the door in dramatic, Joan Crawford style and found, standing there in front of her like a couple of Roman gods, two enormous policemen with bouncing bulges sculpted in all the right places. If only they had arrived here ten minutes ago…

“Thank god you’re here,” she told them. They exchanged a quick, puzzling look but Shandy dismissed it. “Come in, come in,” she bade them.

The two tightly-uniformed men hesitated, then walked into Shandy’s foyer and she closed the door. “You were expecting us?” the taller one with square jaw and buzz-cut blonde hair asked.

“Why of course,” Shandalier replied, drinking in the guy's impressive biceps that swelled so deliciously under his shirt sleeves.

The second policeman, all jet black hair and smoldering Heathcliff eyes, frowned. “So you’re ready to confess?”

Shandy’s hands flew to her throat. “Confess? Are you both insane?” As well as insanely handsome, she thought. “I was out here when that tacky little drag queen got her throat slashed.” She pointed to the bathroom. “And I have a witness. Now, would we please do something about the body? It’s bleeding all over my sea-foam green Milano tiles and you have no idea how much it’s going to set me back to get them all re-grouted. Wait till you see them. They’re such a startling shade of green, quite unlike—”

“There is a dead body in your bathroom?” Blondey asked.

Something was very wrong here and Shandalier didn’t at all like the feeling that started to envelope her like a cheap and scratchy, acrylic shawl. “I’m sorry but why else would you two gentlemen be here?”

Blondey puffed out his substantial chest. “Ma’am, we are here to arrest you for burning down the Thai Me Up nightclub.”

“WHAT?” Shandalier gasped. “That’s ridiculous. I—I—I was nowhere near—”

“Hello Thorne.”

All three of them turned to find Franklyn standing in the doorway of the bathroom, his legs spread apart and his thick, bulging arms crossed against his own substantial chest.

“Franklyn!” the blond policemen blurted out.

“You know my director of security?” Shandalier asked. Well now, this was a delightfully handy turn of events that Shandalier could see might have to come in useful.

Franklyn and Blondey exchanged a searing look. “What are you doing here?” Blondey asked.

Frankly crossed the room and stood by Shandy’s side. “You have my word,” he said, “that Miss Shandalier was nowhere near Thai Me Up this evening. She was with me.”

“I’m sorry Franklyn, but we have evidence linking her to the arson attack.”

“Then it was fabricated!” Shandy broke in. “Clearly there’s no possible way that—”

“Ms. Wilson,” the dark policeman interrupted her with a force that get a girl going. “Your fingerprints were found on the watering can that was used to douse the club with petrol.”

“Watering can? What watering can? I don’t even have a watering can!" Shandalier was losing all patience now and she jammed her hands on her enviably slim hips. " Oh, this is all becoming such a laughable farce. Really, you don't understand. There is a plane to Boca Raton with my name on it and I really must insist...oh...oh, dear...”

Suddenly it came back to her. Imelda appeared one day last week at Shandalier’s dressing room door with two watering cans in hand. “Prease Miss Shandalrear,” she’d begged, “which one you rike? I buy plesent for fliend but me no decide.” Into Shandalier’s left hand she shoved an ornately decorated watering can of gold and burned sienna, and in the other a tacky plastic green one. Why that little witch! Now her fingerprints were all over both of those revolting cans.

“This watering can,” she said, “was it all gold and burned sienna, with little carvings of angels and demons on the side...?”

Blondey and Heathcliff exchanged another look. Blondey took out his handcuffs, and not the fluffy pink ones that Shandalier usually preferred. “Miss Shandalier Wilson, I am placing you under arrest for arson. And,” he added, "suspected murder." Shandalier felt the cold metal of the hand cuffs grip her delicate wrists. Really, these things weren’t nearly as comfy as the ones in her bedside table.

“Stop, Thorne. You’re making a huge mistake,” Franklyn told Blondey.

“Can you swear that you were with this woman all night?” Thorne demanded. “Can you Franklyn? Have you been by her side every single minute of this entire evening?”

Franklyn’s sky blue eyes widened. “I…er…I…”