Martinez, Margaritas and m*rder! (2025)

[bunniefuu]

m*rder is as old

as Cain and Abel.

Remember your Shakespeare?

Who does the guilty party

usually turn out to be?

Someone close to home.

Explain

your title to me.

What The Cat Saw.

Animals carry around

terrible secrets.

That's why the k*ller will

never see a trial.

The one sensational witness

has no scientific voice.

And the unsensational one?

The unsensational what?

There are

two eyewitnesses to the m*rder.

Inside that apartment.

Uh, how do you figure?

Your k*ller

is in the throes of madness.

It takes a level head

to stage a crime scene.

There has to be

a second person.

What makes you think

it was staged?

The coffee table.

There are three fresh rings

left by three margarita glasses.

I don't mention

that in my script.

No blood spatter

on the cat.

If the cat is as close

to the slaughter

as you say it is...

It would be covered in blood.

And brain matter.

The cat licked it off.

That much blood?

And guts?

The cat would have gotten sick.

Someone would have had

to wash the cat.

And the bloody

paw prints on the floor.

And the vomit.

The police

found no forensic.

Anything.

No matching shoes.

No clothes.

That brings us back

to the second person.

Sounds like a case

I worked five years ago.

That ended in a question mark.

Wouldn't it be funny

if your screenplay

was directly tied

to my question mark?

This is beginning to feel

like The Orient Express.

You following the butcher case?

The bedroom butcher?

Of course.

Weren't you involved

with the first victim?

Jeffrey Hillsborough.

For a while, but his priorities

lay elsewhere.

Where?

Bath houses.

Bathroom bars.

The steam room at the gym.

Nice guy.

He just couldn't

keep his zipper up.

That explains

the butcher unzipping him.

How did you meet him?

Victim number two, ironically.

Anderson Emmett.

A kindly Doctor Jekyll

until the bottle ran dry.

When Mr. Hyde

reared his ugly head.

Using Anderson's head

as a wine cellar.

Those two other friends

of yours fared a little better.

The real estate guys?

Halton and Jose.

Nice guys.

Bitchy workaholics, but not

a mean bone in their bodies.

That real estate sign

impaling them both

post mortem was a nice touch.

Jeez, Valentino.

What do you consider

light reading?

Autopsy reports?

And the butcher's

only female victim?

Joanna Paganini?

How did you know her?

She was a stylist.

I met her on set.

We hit it off and became BFFs.

I always teased her

about wanting to run barefoot

through her hair.

It was the best.

Butcher didn't think so.

He removed it.

Scalped her.

All these intimate details.

Aren't you supposed

to keep them under your hat?

As an actor,

you've worn some murderous hats.

Which one of those hats

did you relate to the most?

Victim or executioner?

If you're not careful,

you'll wind up in the chamber

of horrors exhibited

at Madame Tussaud's.

Their true crime section.

Your tone is more...

Addison DeWitt

than Hercule Poirot.

Monsieur Hercule Poirot

would ask:

It's been five years.

The criminally insane

don't get weekend passes.

Or an audience with police.

We all have

our weaknesses.

The keen observer zeroes

in on those weaknesses

and moves in for the k*ll.

Checkmate.

To the blindsided

Mr. Martinez...

the whistle-blowing

Margaritas...

And...

m*rder.

And we are live.

And here she is,

the star of our show.

Madame Bella, who knows where

all the bodies are buried.

Prepare to surrender

to the gods of ecstasy.

Bella Erica.

Bello Freddy.

Sit and praise.

Euphoria.

The Bedroom Butcher will retire

in turn in his blade

if he had you at his feet.

Bella.

That tickles

my scary bones, sweetie.

To think that I actually

was at the feet

of every one of his victims.

Poor boys.

Seven funerals in three months.

I don't think I could take

another one of my boys

getting slaughtered

by the Butcher.

Promoted to the FBI's

top ten today.

Relax.

Relax, Bella.

He exercises restraint.

The Butcher only strikes

late at night.

And...

This isn't a bedroom.

My poor Freddy.

All of them such good friends

of yours, too.

Did they pin you?

Pin?

What, tie you down?

When you're a finalist for

a role in a movie or TV show,

you are pinned.

And...

No.

Oh.

Well, you have more than a damn

pin to worry about.

Your a*s could be

the butcher's next, baby.

Or yours.

Hey.

You okay, handsome?

Yeah.

Mani? Pedi?

Massage.

I got some,

uh, encouraging news today.

Decided to treat myself.

What's the news?

Promotion.

Kinda prestigious.

Cool!

Awesome sauce for days!

Congratulations.

Thank you.

William B. Henry.

But you can call me Billy.

Freddy.

Freddy Martinez.

Nice to meet you.

Yeah.

Well.

Enjoy your pedi.

Bella kills it with feet.

You be careful out there,

sweetie.

Yummy.

Oh my God!

To die for!

Right?

If looks were a crime,

he would be ripe for execution.

And so sweet, too, Billy.

And he's really smart.

Did you know he designs

crossword puzzles

for the Steak and Kidney

Society in London?

Oh. A steak and kidney society?

Yeah, it's this group

of aristocrats who get together

to concoct the perfect m*rder.

You could speak French

with some of them.

Oh. Oui, oui.

Oui, oui!

Enchante.

Billy is fine!

You should put him in your new

m*rder mystery movie.

If I ever get financing.

Hey, how's my Trent

doing today, huh?

My titillating Trent?

You ungrateful, plastic,

tofu-eating little b*tch.

You're lucky your apartment

is rent-controlled,

and I'm so fond of Freddy.

You're paying for this outfit.

Like hell I am.

You're not squeezing

one cent out of me.

Oh, that's right,

we can't dip

into your liposuction

stash now, can we?

-You little--

-You should write a D

for dry and estrogen

across your has-been,

old lady big t*ts

and your boutique moth-eating

science-fiction cooch!

And she was just rambling

on about her lost loves,

and I just casually mentioned

how they probably disappeared

under suspicious circumstances.

Did it ever occur to you

she might be lonely?

Or scared to death

like the rest of the city?

Her screams could wake

the dead like a banshee.

I don't know why she threw

such a hissy fit.

It's like no one's ever

compared her vag*na

to the Bermuda Triangle?

Something scary's

hiding in her wheelhouse.

A geriatric masquerade.

Forget Roswell.

Men from Mars should

be terrified of crashing

into the barren,

juiceless landscape

of that fossilized vajaja.

Mr. Owen could only come

to this island in one way.

It's perfectly clear.

Mr. Owen is one of us.

That's odd.

A presiding judge

calling you directly?

When is Brennan set

for release?

Any day now.

Brennan probably

charmed his way out.

I wouldn't put it past him.

He charmed his way in.

To your pants.

I'm sorry, baby, but Trent

and I warned you about Brennan.

I know, I know.

I was a little d*ck-matized

at the time.

But you didn't wind up

in a loony bin.

You didn't jam

a fireplace poker down

the throats of two friends.

What ever happened

to that restraining order?

The judge said no.

Brennan was a model patient

and reacted well

to treatment, he claims.

This whole story

is a game of the mind.

You should hide your script.

- What The Cat Saw?

- Yeah.

Why?

Because

it reads like a dossier

if you're two years

together.

If Brennan gets

his hands on that,

he is one crazy pill away

from jamming

a fireplace poker

through your eye, too.

What happens

when he doesn't take his meds?

At trial, I was the only

person he was crazy about

to call him on his crazy.

Maybe the judge is right.

I mean, besides,

the M.O. of the Bedroom Butcher

is completely different

than those two murders

that Brennan committed.

That, uh, got him committed.

Not to mention

what your cat saw.

I did, doctor, that proves

less than nothing.

God, there was

a time I wanted to run

like a naked schoolboy

through his hair.

I thought Trent's fantasies

were off the charts.

Raspberry puree.

You know, Brennan did have

a nice head of hair.

I'll give him that.

- Yeah.

- So does Billy.

Yes.

You can invite him

to my orgasmic.

Die with a smile on your face.

k*ller.

Serial k*ller.

Moonlight soire.

Yes.

Oh,

and the man who refuses

to reveal his secret

ingredient

in what he calls his k*ller

margaritas is invited too.

It's blood plasma.

From my victims.

Plasma changes colors.

And it disappears

into any margarita.

For that added boost.

His brain might snap.

Might want to be executioner.

-Cheers.

-Yummy.

Blood plasma.

Oh, crap. I gotta run.

A client is suing

her husband's estate.

He dropped dead

and left everything

to his mistress's p*ssy.

Her cat?

No.

Aw!

Oh, here, Raj.

Bye, sweetie.

I love you.

Love you, too.

- Bye, doll.

- See you, Raj.

See you at the party.

You will.

I'm heading out, too.

-Get out?

-Yep.

Be careful, handsome.

I will.

See you Saturday.

Bye.

Love you.

Love you, too.

You're not getting cold feet,

are you?

Come on in.

Welcome to my palace.

I'll show you the rest

of the house later.

Where are you from?

I'm gonna show you

where the magic happens.

Hm?

Come on.

Don't be afraid.

What do you think?

You're gonna make me wait, huh?

Miss Brandt.

Miss Brandt!

It's no use,

Miss Clayborne.

She'll not answer.

It's perfectly true.

He was an innocent man

on trial for his life.

I had nothing against him.

I wanted to ruin the reputation

of his defending counsel

who lost the case

while his client...

lost his life.

Hey.

Take your pic..

Cheers.

There's definitely

some heat there.

Mm.

Maybe Billy is mister--

Ugh.

-Mr. Who?

-Right.

Mr. Right.

I don't know.

Would you trust him if you met

him in a dark alley?

Those brooding features.

His piercing eyes

and perfect cheekbones.

Scary thick lips

and prominent chin.

His face is almost

as symmetrical as mine.

No, there's something off

about Billy.

You really should get a safe.

Having that much money

lying around could...

really come to bite you

in the a*s someday.

Nothing wrong

with living life on the edge.

Yeah, I get

a few margaritas in you

and it's a serrated edge.

You really should

learn to sequester

your wagging tongue.

Senora Loose Lips.

You know, Freddy told me that

Brennan's getting out soon.

Yeah, he told me too.

Any day now.

Well, I told him that

he should hide his script.

If Brennan gets a hold

of it, he'll--

Slam a fireplace poker

through Freddy's eye?

You could

justify k*lling someone.

Especially if they deserved it.

That's what he said.

Who?

This detective I'm seeing.

What is it with you

and detectives?

Can't your junk meet

its quota with like a...

a plumber? Or a priest?

Ugh.

My junk loves the challenge.

My junk gets high

on the masquerade.

Hm. In court,

we call that junk science.

Oh.

First Detective

Valentino DeVore.

May he rest in peace.

Damn, he was a beautiful man.

Wasn't he Freddy's

go-to technical advisor

whenever he played cops?

'Twas beauty k*lled the beauty.

A pretty face really

was Valentino's weakness.

You're lucky your DNA isn't

in the police database.

Although maybe that's

why you boink detectives.

Find out what they know.

I don't look anything

like that police sketch.

Or any police sketch.

Digital composite.

And why are you going so

Sherlock Holmes-y all on Billy?

He seems like a really nice guy

who genuinely cares for Freddy.

Your trust issues are

almost as bad as Freddy's.

I mean, his are justified.

Yours are just born

out of suspicion.

Paranoia.

Suspicion and paranoia

are fabulous motivators.

As an attorney, you know that.

And no,

I can't put my finger on it,

but I am telling you.

There's a second person

lurking inside Billy.

So if I want to go all

Sherlock Holmes on his a*s,

then I will.

Well just make sure he doesn't

go all Sherlock Holmes

on your a*s.

Keep those bodies buried.

So, how does

an American get a job writing

crossword puzzles for a m*rder

mystery club in London?

And once you orchestrate

three perfect murders,

you become a knight.

But it only counts

if your victims

are detectives or judges.

sh*t.

Federico Santiago

Mago Martinez.

Boris Strange,

Special Crimes Division.

Have we met?

Now listen closely.

As you are no doubt aware,

we have a serial k*ller

on the loose.

The Bedroom Butcher

the papers dubbed him.

I gave my statement

to the police.

I know, I read it.

We have a suspect pool.

It is someone

in your circle of friends.

We just don't know who.

What does that have

to do with me?

You mean aside from the fact

that all the victims

have been your friends.

Doesn't that telegraph

something rather alarming

to you Federico Santiago?

You are in an ideal position.

The suspect is someone

in your circle.

Since they already trust you.

You are the perfect

candidate to bring them

into your confidence

about the murders.

If you succeed, your reward

will be one thousand of these.

That's in addition

to the FBI's reward.

Imagine having

a place of your own.

Plenty of privacy for you

and your weird margarita

worshipping friends.

And you can finally finance

that m*rder mystery script

you wrote.

What is the title?

Who the p*ssy Licked.

What the Cat Saw.

How do you know about that?

Here's a surveillance kit.

Start using it.

Everything will be recorded.

I'm not a monster hunter.

Give me one good reason

why I should risk my life.

I'll give you three.

To prevent further murders.

And to bring justice

to the victims.

Is that so complicated?

And the third reason?

What about DNA?

-The crime scenes.

-No DNA.

No prints.

It's a very cunning k*ller.

The butcher also knows the law.

Can't you do one of those

psychological profiles

the FBI does?

Do you know who he is?

A guy I started seeing.

A nice guy.

You think it's him?

That would put you

in bed with a m*rder*r.

It's best if we keep

you in the dark.

Otherwise you might arouse

the k*ller's suspicion.

And blow your cover.

You want me to go all cloak

and dagger on someone I love?

Maybe even send them to prison

for the rest of their lives?

And I don't get

to know who it is?

Leave that

to the professionals.

So the butcher

can get their emolument.

Emolument?

It's a good word,

isn't it?

It means just desserts.

Agatha Christie used it.

So have we?

Met before?

Your voice is so familiar.

Hi, Freddy.

Brennan.

How did you get in?

Your back door.

It was unlocked.

You're surprised?

No.

I knew you were

being discharged.

You are hereby judge restored

to sanity and order released.

And here I am.

And why here?

To let you know that I'm okay.

That I'm better.

Much better.

Since when do you wear glasses?

Um, since hitting

my mid-thirties.

Not everything works

as well as it used to.

Oh.

But the important things do,

I'm sure.

What are you doing for work?

Hm. Hm.

Massage.

This is what k*lling

your friends gets you.

Multiple medications,

weekly visits with

a counselor,

and monthly drug tests.

All on the watchful

eye of the court.

Last time

I saw you was in court.

You didn't look at me.

It was just too painful.

Well...

It was nice seeing you.

You look gorgeous.

How about a massage?

For old time's sake.

A real massage.

-Really?

-Yeah.

I used to love massages.

"What The Cat Saw."

You wrote a script.

I'm still working on it.

Hmm.

Turn.

So?

What did the cat see?

He witnesses a m*rder.

You never visited me at

the cage of crazy ladies.

It was a rocky breakup.

-And you were acting really...

-Crazy?

I never said that word.

Not even on the witness stand.

I never stopped

thinking about you.

That was part of the problem.

The phone calls,

text messages,

breaking into my place and

waiting on my bed, naked.

It was too much.

You were smothering me.

The meds that I'm on are...

Pretty... powerful.

They keep things from...

Unfastening.

Hey. Hey. Hey. Hey. Hey.

Hey--

Hey.

Come on,.

Hey. Hey.

Hey.

I was already

tried and sentenced.

And now you're

trying to execute me.

Huh?

Three years

together and you forgot.

My heart condition.

Hmm.

Agatha Christie

would have loved it.

What?

The perfect m*rder.

What is it?

What do you want to show me?

"Spend the night in

a room where the Bedroom

-Butcher filleted his victims?"

-Yeah.

We've applied for

the license and permit

to open the bed and breakfast.

It's the most notorious

of the butcher's crime scenes.

And it has a pool.

How did they approve

such a c*ck business?

The license permit guys.

I slept with them.

Have you no moral

compass?

Ah, compass, schmompus.

Okay, Ellery Queen.

Who done it?

Who's the Bedroom Butcher?

Someone who understands

crime scenes.

And police protocol.

An actor who's

grilled detectives.

Or a model

who boinks detectives.

Or a bartender

who extracts information from

detectives

via his margaritas and

their secretly

seductive ingredient.

Or a sassy

esquire who dates convicts.

Or a former detective

with a bitter axe to grind.

Ooh.

Oh, that axe is bitter,

all right.

Stealing evidence

from crime scenes and

selling it to

the highest bidder?

Until his superiors found out?

So he turned his bitterness

into a fruitful bottom line.

pretty boy.

You wish.

That's right,

start driving.

All right, whatever.

You just call me pretty boy.

Oh my God, this street

is as long as my d*ck.

- Not as wide, though.

- Shut up.

cake? No.

And who is this?

A tenant who didn't

pay his rent on time?

Or your last

escort who took one look at

you and ran

into the night screaming?

May I help you?

What are those?

On your face?

Is that any of your business?

Maybe not.

It does,

however, give me pause.

Paws?

Like on a cat?

No dear, pause.

P-A-U-- Never mind.

Why?

What do you think these are?

Your latest

STD clawing its way out?

You didn't have those yesterday.

My friend has a cat.

And I just...

blew a raspberry

into his tummy and he...

freaked out.

And when you say cat...

Is that code for... trick?

And I did have my own

catering business, Freddy,

for 20 years back east.

Oh, did the terms of

your parole require you to

relocate to the west coast?

Why are you being such a b*tch?

No.

It was a crazy

successful business.

I sold it for a small fortune.

That's how I bought this

building and the six others.

There was even a local musical

written about my company.

- Hmm!

- Oh, and what was that called?

"Constipation Cabaret?"

"Salmonella, the Musical?"

"The Flatulence Follies?"

"Disco Diarrhea?"

Or-- Or was

it "The Phantom of the...

...Opera?"

Seven high-end buildings

from a catering sale?

No.

You stuck your sister in

an asylum where she croaked.

And you inherited her millions.

How did you know?

A detective I dated.

Valentino.

I had him do some

digging into your past

before the butcher got him.

Maybe...

Maybe you're the one who

buried that claw trowel in him.

Hello?

It's my agent!

Yes. Yes!

I-- I think

she wants to sign me!

Yeah. Yes!

And? Do you follow up?

I used to. All the time.

But I stopped.

Why?

Because I sh*t

a lot of agents and

their assistants

sh**t me new assholes.

Do you really think we're

going to take the time to look

through thousands of

unsolicited headshots just to

tell an Antonio Banderas

wannabe who's probably going to

give up after a year and go

back to whatever-town, USA?

"Yes, dear. We received

your photo. Bye-bye."

-Click.

-Well!

With that many

rear entrances available

into the let-me-screw-you

-for-a-break-in-this-industry,

I'm sure you're

well lubricated with offers.

I want to get pinned.

But not from behind.

-Not like that.

-Why not?

I can park your brown

a*s on at least a dozen

casting

couches this month alone.

What's going on with

that m*rder script you told

me about on the phone?

Uh, what was its name?

"What My p*ssy Sniffed?"

"What The Cat Saw."

I'm still working on it.

I might have the money soon.

Yeah, right.

Give me three

words that best describe you.

Something I can give

to producers.

Hardworking.

-Hypocritical.

-Professional.

-Pompous.

-Experienced.

sl*t.

Just when do you expect

to bust your wad?

-What?

-Do you have a blue checkmark

-on your social media pages?

-No.

Dirty comments

on your reel views?

-No.

-A profile on Cameo?

-No.

-Raya?

-No.

-Wikifeet?

No.

All right.

Let's see what

stuff you're made of.

Unless, of course, the Bedroom

Butcher gets you first.

[upbeat intriguing music

Ready Freddy?

Two years.

Why'd you stay with them?

Was he blackmailing you?

"Leave me and, uh, I'll spill

the beans about the m*rder*r."

What the cat saw.

What's this?

The Steak and Kidney Society.

Three tally marks.

Just an implant.

Or...

Does each tally mark

represent something?

Like what?

A m*rder.

Which means new cards will have

to be printed after each m*rder.

Like you said,

a record of a k*ller's skills.

Hiding in plain sight.

Now who's going on Miss Marple?

Oh, God. Stop.

-Stop. Stop.

-Ah!

Stop. Stop.

And we are live.

Erika's orgasmic, die-with

-a-smile-on-your-face k*ller.

Serial k*ller Moonlight Soiree

in the Hills!

Huh?

Is that what you're saying?

Uh-huh! Woo!

I am so excited to be here.

I cannot wait

to m*rder this party.

It's going to be k*ller.

Oh, did you

remember your glasses?

I did.

Because now you look like

Dora if you don't wear them.

Say hello to Andrew Cunanan.

Yes.

Let's go.

Sucks for a Valentino,

but yes.

People's morbid sense

of curiosity is going to

make us a bundle, Rog.

Don't you think it's

in poor taste, Stevie boy?

You and your hubby

buying a m*rder house and

then selling

tickets to sick looky-loos?

And you've never spent

a night in a m*rder house?

With your love of

Agatha Christie, huh?

We used to.

Every Halloween.

My late boyfriend and I.

He was the Agatha Christie fan.

Where'd you get these?

It looks like you took

these with your phone.

The police photographer.

I slept with him.

Of course you did.

Again, who are you

supposed to be?

Ted Bundy.

Dark locks, k*ller charisma,

murderously handsome.

Give it.

-Shall we, Mr. Bundy?

-We shall

Why not?

The secession alone is either

titillating or torturous.

But could

that really k*ll someone?

You'd be getting off scot-free.

Not just getting off.

I guess there

are worse ways to go.

Like gagging

your cheating boyfriend

to death on

your fat love muscle?

"Gross negligence manslaughter?"

That's just a polite

way of saying m*rder.

Plus, look.

It's not even his real name.

He changed it.

And the judge

that sentenced him?

He died.

Under mysterious circumstances.

To be fair,

there wasn't a shred of

evidence tying him

to that death, but...

I'm really sorry, Freddy.

I-- I know this isn't

what you wanted to hear.

Got you.

Billy.

Don't I get a kiss?

Yeah.

That's great.

That's great.

The 'Night Stalker,' right?

Yeah.

What's that?

It-- It's size for an audition.

Awesome, let me see--

It's confidential.

I'm not allowed.

You still don't trust me, huh?

Let's get you a margarita.

W-T-F are you doing here?

Is that any way to

greet an old friend?

Mhm. I'm hurt.

Well, you're gonna be

really hurt

if you don't

hightail it out of here.

Well. Look at this.

Who sent you that?

I don't recognize the number.

Must be divine intervention.

Mad as a hatter.

As you always said.

So, tell me, Counsel.

What do you

stand in the position of?

Madness.

Bird.

Backyard bird.

You are always

a goldmine of information.

Especially when you drink.

- Blow me, pretty boy.

- Oh!

Ugh. Raspberry.

Is it serious?

If you don't

wanna fight it alone,

I'm gonna cut off your ba*ls

and shove them down your throat.

Just like that.

How the hell did you

get in here?

This is not the forum

for a beggars purse mentality.

Sometime after 11 o'clock,

the guilty party is

going to show up here.

-How do you know?

-A note I left.

The guilty party

thinks it's from you.

What am I supposed to do?

Get the Butcher to confess.

How the hell

am I going to do that?

Well, you're an actor.

You've played detectives.

Act the part of

a seasoned homicide inspector.

A father confessor.

Why don't you do it?

Because, Mr. Martinez,

as was previously established,

the k*ller does

not have my confidence.

You are my secret weapon.

Don't you want the Butcher

to get the just desserts?

But why now?

Why tonight?

It has to be tonight.

It stands to reason, that you...

Or one of your friends...

Is next.

And you are telling me now?

What if I mess up?

What if I say the wrong

thing and he goes berserk?

How many more friends do

I have to lose to this madness

in such a disgusting manner?

It is your friends

you're doing this for.

To safeguard their well-being.

How are you going to protect me?

The surveillance equipment.

Where the wi-- the glass is.

How do you know he won't

pull a rusty chainsaw on me?

Or a big, scary,

razor-sharp machete?

Because, Mr. Martinez,

we are not in Texas.

And tonight isn't Friday.

Or the 13th.

Can you just please tell me?

Is it Billy?

I see the dilemma

of losing your

heart to a suspect

in a m*rder investigation

has gotten under your skin.

I've already told you who it is.

The guilty party.

What the hell are you doing?

Gotcha!

Necrophilia Nancy!

Bullseye!

Food porn!

Raspberry puree!

This is for

my audition tomorrow!

Hope it's a horror flick!

Oh!

Stop!

Lombard!

Blore! What are you

doing down there alone?

I think I know

where the doctor is.

- Where?

- Well, I'm not sure yet.

And I'll wait for you.

All right, we shan't be long.

Oh, we should sequester

you anytime.

Screw you.

Raspberry puree.

Mmm, so what?

If the star witness

of the prosecution

disappear under

sinister circumstances

the night before,

who's going to testify

against my client?

Mmm, so what?

If that star witness ended up

in my backyard?

Six feet under.

Girl's gotta do what a girl's

gotta do.

Oh. I don't think

black is your color.

Mmm.

You haven't earned it.

And you definitely haven't

earned fighting, girl.

Girl.

I get it.

Raspberry puree!

The F is he doing

at Valentino's house?

Mm-hmm? Okay.

Trent?

Hello?

Trent?

I got your text.

And no,

I don't think we should

provide raspberry-flavored

condoms to the guests.

How'd you get in?

Only the owner has the key,

and that's this sexy beast.

You're not going to

steal my thunder, girl.

Only one sausage factory's jizz

is going to buttfuck

this hood by storm,

and that's

this ten inches.

I counted on everyone's

confusion in the dark.

And I counted on Armstrong, who

played his part to the hit.

I knew no one would challenge

The doctor's authority

when he would say,

"He has been shot

through the head."

After that, I had to

play my part.

And what a part it was.

No one would suspect me,

least of all the dear doctor,

who thought that I was about to

discover the unknown m*rder,

and was waiting for me

on the beach,

and worrying about the success

of our plan.

A few minutes later, he had

nothing more to worry about.

Justice had triumphed

once again.

Too late, he had learned

That drinking, when it gets

out of hand,

can be fatal.

So you see? The whole thing--

Why did you k*ll

that guy in London?

He m*rder*d my boyfriend.

I walked in the crime scene.

Robbery gone bad.

A-and the next thing

I-- I knew,

My hands were around his throat.

Or your boyfriend

and that other guy

were cheating on you.

You walked in on them,

flew into a rage,

and m*rder*d them both.

Jasper c*ck.

Can't even blame me

for changing my name.

Why are you here?

I forgot my keys,

and my phone is missing.

I thought you were

out for the evening!

My detective flaked.

-Fine.

-Why?

I'm working with the police.

They know who

the Bedroom Butcher is.

Who do they think it is?

They won't say.

I have to get a confession.

You?

Valentino was going

to arrest you.

For the Butcher murders?

No, for the m*rder

you wrote about

In What the Cat Saw.

-Idiot.

-I didn't

k*ll him. It was--

-Oh my god!

-Hide, hide!

By the way, I got your note.

Brennan?

How did you get in?

The back door.

There was no answer

out the front.

But the back door was locked.

Where's Billy?

We split.

Oh, I'm sorry.

Really?

I thought you'd be pleased.

What happened?

He wasn't who

I thought he was.

Who was he?

He wasn't you.

I got your note.

And the script was very clever.

Your, um...leading character.

The struggling actor?

He doesn't want to move

in with his boyfriend,

because he's afraid of him.

Because he thinks he's...

What's the word he used?

Unbalanced.

Because deep down, he just knows

his life is in danger.

Because he knows too much.

Because...

Because... he witnessed

a m*rder.

The testimony was powerful.

It convinced the jury.

And the judge.

They didn't throw you

in prison, Brennan.

They recognized you needed help

If you would have visited me...

You would have seen

the sort of help

you paved the way for.

I'm sorry.

Mm-hmm.

Would you still be apologizing

If you weren't cuffed

to Billy and Freddy's love nest

by the bedroom butcher?

But the judge said that you

were released three days ago.

A few days ago. Hmm.

That crack pot should retire.

It's been over three months.

How did you choose

your victims?

I followed you.

To their mini mansions,

their condos.

Their townhouses.

Their beach homes.

How did you get in?

They let me in.

-Just like that.

Beauty is a very effective

blinding agent.

I knew some of those dudes

had crushes on me.

I just flirted my way

through their doors.

Some I'd lure

into their bedrooms

with the promise of sex.

Others fought back.

That I enjoy. The back

and forth. The struggle.

How did you learn about crime

scenes to cover your tracks?

Through you.

The times you

invited me to set.

When you play cops.

You always made a point

To talk to the technical advisor

That pretty flat foot,

Valentino DeVore.

I was never too far away

You know, violent deaths

are highly underrated.

Those armchair critics don't

give enough credit

For their pizzazz

and panache.

Is that why you m*rder him?

I didn't k*ll Valentino.

Oh, come on. The lead detective

on the Butcher case?

Your jealousy?

I didn't.

Or his replacement.

That Aaron Christian.

I told you,

my M.O. is different.

In the meantime, lover,

You and I can explore

that sinister side Of love,

As you were always so curious

as a cat--

Brennan Moreno.

Reprehensible m*rder,

kidnapping and conspiracy

to commit m*rder.

My lord, I was sure

my intestines

were going to be

window treatments.

You're the masochistic skunk?

Mm-hmm. Beauty is a very

effective blinding agent.

Beauty is a very effective

blinding agent.

Fred, I had no choice.

He was going to make me out to

be Jack the Ripper's mistress,

And I--

My business was failing.

My mortgage was screaming,

and welfare?

Oh. I-- I just couldn't.

Oh. So you hopped on the

sororicide bus down Easy Street.

A-list model?

A-list Henchman.

Did you screw that star witness

before you deposited his body

six feet under?

Gracias, Senora Loose Lips!

Maude.

Maude. He's a police officer.

I'm not with the police.

Who...

Who What the hell are you?

Founder of Just Desserts.

We independently assess

a m*rder*r's chances

of second release

after being re-committed.

The Bedroom Butcher

scored off the charts.

Why the hell

didn't you tell me?

I couldn't take that risk.

I needed a Salieri.

You were too much of a Mozart

That's why I called you

and the institution,

Pretending to be the judge who

presided over Brennan's trial,

Why the institution?

To keep them quiet

about your release.

And I had to make you think

That Brennan had

not yet been discharged.

It was imperative you keep that

restraining order inactive.

And to get him back into your

good graces,

I texted the party invitation

to Brennan, too.

But why?

To find an in

for the perfect m*rder.

The perfect m*rder?

I needed an equally savvy

partner to assist me.

A perfect accomplice.

He also wanted

to safeguard your well-being.

Ta-da!

I was aching to tell you.

But that

would have ruined the show.

I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry.

What the hell

are you doing here?

His margaritas.

I had very little choice, after

your Technicolor-laced threats.

You've got the

bones for one hell

Of a crossword puzzle,

Jasper c*ck.

You Nancy Drews

don't have anything on me.

No footprints, no fingerprints,

No eyewitnesses.

No blood. No DNA.

That's perfectly true.

But alas, forensics

doesn't play a part

In our third and final act,

my friend.

Your Witching hour visits

were a welcome diversion.

And the raspberries

were a lovely touch.

Are we still on for Saturday?

Right after

my Golden Girls marathon,

My little henchman.

Eww!

It is your detective?

You b*tches set me up.

If Michelin stars were awarded

for grotesque smorgasbords,

you'd have my vote.

I've never been a fan of

composed murders.

You can't do this.

I have my rights.

I-- I want my-- my lawyer

and my doctors here

before you take me in.

I'm not taking you in.

Why are you all here?

Brennan's not a member of

the exclusive club, sweetie.

What was the promotion

you mentioned at the spa?

The knighthood.

In the Steak

and Kidney Society. Hm?

Once you...

Once you orchestrate

three perfect murders,

You become a knight.

But it only counts

if your victims

are detectives or judges.

Just desserts

of a different confection.

You tricked me. I didn't know

catching a k*ller

meant executing him.

You were already looking at

up to three years

in a federal penitentiary.

as*h*le. You promised me.

Prison time for what?

Accessory. To a m*rder.

How did you write In such

forensic detail

about what the cat saw,

If you hadn't

witnessed it yourself?

The cat is you is it not?

It sure is.

Shut up!

You can't do that

Oh, yes, I can.

And considering what I know

about your back story,

if I were you,

I'd worry about

keeping me happy.

All the guilty parties'

back stories.

How exactly does

murdering a m*rder*r

Justify any of this?

Maybe they

can answer that.

I understand!

But I can't have

any damage to the body.

What's in the photos?

All right.

Immobilization topography.

Defiance insurance.

Muzzle.

Last rites.

Blow it out your a*s.

- Amen.

- Amen.

Amen.

Weaponry?

Gentlemen, and lady.

Just desserts!

Blood plasma from my victims

disappears into any margarita

for that magical boost.

Valentino Was going to

arrest Freddy.

As Brennan's accomplice.

The true crime you wrote about

in your screenplay.

He shared his suspicions with

his detective partner,

Aaron Christian.

That's why he cozied up

to Trent,

To extract information

about our Freddy.

The k*ller didn't want

their money.

He wanted their silence.

To protect you.

That would fit.

He probably followed him

to a bar,

Seduced Valentino and,

like Brennan said,

Beauty is a very effective

blinding agent.

Valentino fell for it, and paid

for it. So did Aaron Christian.

If he hadn't, I would have done

the job myself.

What are you

going to do with the money?

Meow!

To What the Cat Saw.

And to the art

of the perfect m*rder.