One

Once the convenience store clerk stopped staring at my breasts, he recognized the man in the picture.

“Yeah, that’s Mr. Carter. I see him with Mr. Stanley lots of weekends. They come in for gas and stuff. They usually order pizza on Saturday nights. A large double pepperoni, double cheese with hot peppers and onions. Not from here. I deliver for Pizza Quick at night. They’re good tippers.”

“Did you deliver a pizza last Saturday?”

He pulled his eyes back from staring at my breasts again. He was young, so I tried to ignore it. It happens all the time.

“No, they didn’t call in an order. Didn’t see them at all last weekend.”

He gave me directions to Stanley’s house and I thanked him. He strained over the counter to get a last look as I got into my car. I understood his interest. Every adolescent male from nine to 90 stares at my breasts. A lot of women do too, but that’s a different story. I hate it, it’s my albatross and there’s little I can do about it—yet.

My breasts are huge. Double-H huge that stick out like the bullet bumpers on a fifties Buick. They’re a cause of distraction, but more than that they’re a pain: a pain in the neck and back just trying to stay upright, and a pain to the ego. It's automatically assumed that the bigger the breast the smaller the brain. But one of these days I’m getting them cut back to a pleasanter, more comfortable size: a C-cup at least, or, maybe a B. A girl has her dreams.

The mailbox was just as the clerk described, large and black with three blue reflectors on the post beneath it. I pulled into the dirt lane and stopped.

It rained heavily the past weekend washing the lane smooth. It didn’t look like anyone had been here since. There were no tire tracks. This was Wednesday. Morning light through the trees turned the lane green as it twisted and curved through the woods. I couldn’t see the house. I got out of the car and checked the mailbox. There were some letters and a magazine. One day’s delivery? Three? What time of day? I had no idea. Only one of the letters had a readable cancellation from last week. No help there. I left them. It's against the law to tamper with other people's mail. I try not to break the law—too often.

The rain-swept lane told me Jerome Carter probably wasn’t even here, or Kenneth Stanley either. Maybe they went fishing and hadn’t yet returned. Maybe they had an accident. But they weren't in any hospital that I knew of, nor had any unclaimed bodies shown up. This could be a wasted trip. Still, I couldn’t know for sure until I checked. Carter hadn’t come home Sunday night and this is where his trail led.

Why was I here? Because I was hired to find the guy and hand him some papers? Because it’s what I do for a living? Because I'm Rachel Cord, confidential investigator? Was that answer enough?

I didn’t want to be here. Certainly wasn’t welcome on this side of the river. I could have stayed in bed. Should have stayed in bed. Had plenty of reason to stay in bed and would be much happier there than here. I definitely didn’t want to go down a tree-lined lane to a house hidden in the woods. Nasty things happen in such places. Nasty things that rip you apart, maybe never to be whole again. Nasty memories that didn't need to be dredged up.

Life isn’t always hearts and flowers. Mostly it's pain and suffering. Muck and mire below the surface where the grubs and worms feed. It’s an end and it’s a beginning. It’s dirty little secrets. Secrets that it’s my job to discover, like it or not. My business cards even say so: "Life’s a bitch. So am I.”

Yeah, that's why I was here: to prove to myself I can still handle it; that I’m still tough enough, hard enough.

I started down the shimmering lane. Angled golden light pierced the green canopy sending up hazy mists that promised another hot, sticky, typical September start. The lane twisted around trees like a game trail instead of a driveway built by humans. The quiet crunch of tires on sand sent birds flittering and squirrels scurrying. The lane curved and as I crossed a short wooden bridge over a stream, I saw the log house at the crest of the hill across an open meadow. The meadow was wavy grasses and wildflower bursts of white and yellow, reds and blues. The colors extended up the hill toward the house, a modified A-frame with wings. A two-and-a-half story triangle of windows reflected blue sky.

The lane circled the meadow instead of cutting across straight to the house. There was a low place where the lane turned that still had water from the recent rains and looked pretty soft. No one had tried to drive through it or around it. I pulled to the left through the grasses to avoid getting stuck. Something scraped the undercarriage. The lane curved up the rise and I could see the side of the house, two towering trees shading the back yard, and a log garage. The weathered gray logs shone in the sunlight. Beyond was more meadow with an old red barn and then the tree line. I stopped near the back of the house. A dark blue car parked in front of the garage was a late model Cutlass and the license plate matched the information I had. I picked up the envelope of papers from the passenger seat and got out.

“Hello? Anyone home?”

A tawny tabby came out from beneath the deck to greet me. She meowed and rubbed herself against my leg. She leaned in hard as I rubbed her ears.

“You’re a friendly kitty. Where is everyone?” She looked at me with her deep amber eyes and meowed again.

I climbed the steps. An iron bell hung from a bracket beside the door. I rang it a couple of times. Its peal echoed across the meadow. The door was filled with glass panes. A cat door had replaced the bottom middle one. The room beyond was an enclosed porch with lots of windows. There were comfortable wicker chairs, a sofa and a table. An arrangement of wildflowers on the table needed to be replaced. I couldn’t see into the rest of the house. The door was locked. Across the room, by the inner door, was a pair of metal bowls on the floor. They looked empty. The cat rubbed against my leg.

“Hey, did they go off and forget to feed you?”

She looked at me and opened her mouth silently. I knocked on the glass.

“Anyone here?”

No answer. All I heard were birds in the trees and the lazy buzz of a fat carpenter bee as it looked for a hole in the porch roof beam.

I stepped off the deck and away from the house. I couldn’t see any open windows. The whir of a heat pump starting let me know that the electricity was still on and that it was probably a lot more comfortable in the house than out here. The air was already steamy from the hot sun sucking all the moisture out of the meadows. I wanted to get back into my air-conditioned car, get back to the city and my side of the river. This trip was a bust. I turned toward Carter’s car and the garage. The car looked freshly washed from the rains. There were no tracks, so it hadn’t been moved. The garage was built of the same weathered logs as the house. The two roll-up doors on the garage were closed. There was an open screened window on the side of the garage and a window set in the side door. I walked over to the door and put my face to the glass.

No cars in the garage. As I thought, Carter and Stanley must have left before the rains. Another window on the opposite wall also looked open. In the dim light I saw a workbench along one wall. Tools hung neatly from a pegboard. There was a sink and an old refrigerator. In the middle of the nearer car stall was a large dark mat on the floor. On it appeared to be a large beige lump that made me curious. I tried the door handle and it turned.

Despite the open windows, the room was stifling and reeked of fermenting shit and piss and stale sweat. My stomach flip-flopped and my breakfast threatened a return appearance. I fumbled for the light switch. My hand hit a button and then the switch. One of the garage doors began rising and the fluorescent lights flickered on. The dark mat turned an electric blue and the beige lump became a naked body curled in a fetal position with a brown leather ball for a head. Then I saw the chains.

(The chains bit into my arms and ankles stretching me, pulling my joints.) I couldn’t breathe. (The electric blue silicone dildo smacked my bare belly.) I stumbled backward out the door, gagging. (I was being ripped, torn apart.) Leaned against the rough gray logs. (A bead of sweat clung precipitously to the tip of a taut nipple.) Slid down the wall, folding into myself. (An oblivious dark eye disappeared in the muzzle blast of an exploding cannon.)

Two 

Two days earlier, I danced around the corner onto Cutter Avenue headed for Philadelphia’s Tavern & English Tearoom. The weekend rains had cleaned the air and the sky was brilliantly blue. The humidity was up, but I didn’t care. I was flying high. High, even though I was running late—which is something I hate. High for two reasons. First, and foremost, I was on my way to my first date in who knew how long. Second, I had just served papers to a guy who’d been making himself hard to catch. I scammed him using a tip from PI Magazine.

I had found where he’d been stashing his car, so I knew he was home. I walked up and knocked on the door of his condo. When he didn’t answer, I knocked harder and called out loudly, “Robert Lewis, I know you’re in there. You’re not in trouble. This is about that accident you witnessed.” I knocked again and nearly yelled, “Come on, Robert, open up.”

The neighbors had to hear me and I didn’t think the guy could tolerate that. Finally I heard movement and a voice called out from behind the door.

“Quiet down, will ya? There’s no Lewis here.”

Of course there was no Lewis. Robert Lewis was the previous owner of this condo as I had found out at the County Tax Assessor’s website.

“Look, Mr. Lewis, I know it was three years ago, but that accident you witnessed is finally going to trial, and the victim’s lawyers really need your testimony. Open up, please.”

He opened the door a crack. “I’m not Lewis, I tell ya. He moved. I bought this from him two years ago. Will you go away, now?”

I gave him my best I-don’t-believe-you look. “Mr. Lewis, please, these people desperately need your help.” I held up the blank subpoena that I’d typed Robert Lewis on for him to see.

“No, seriously. Lewis moved, but I still get his mail sometimes.”

“Okay, if you’re not Lewis, who are you? If you can prove it, I’ll leave.”

He opened the door. “My name is Morehouse. Daniel Morehouse. Look here.”

He pulled out a wallet and showed me his driver’s license. I took it and compared the picture to his face.

“Gee, you’re right, Mr. Morehouse. My apologies. This other subpoena must be for you.” I handed him the real one with his license and turned to leave. “You’ve been served. Have a nice day.”

He stepped into the hallway. “Hey, wait. What about Lewis?”

“Guess I’ll have to keep looking for him.”

So, here I was bouncing down Cutter Avenue on a hot sticky afternoon as happy as a lark and as nervous as a kitten amid a pack of Rottweilers. I danced into Phil’s.

The Tearoom was crowded for a Monday: late summer tourists the week before Labor Day, four couples waiting to be seated. The women were talking together and pointing with their gloved hands at the large oil portraits of Queen Elizabeth II over the hearth and Princess Diana in the back draped in black. The men were standing around looking foolish and probably wishing they were at the tavern next door. Two of the men were stuck with god-awful courtesy ties that didn’t match their short-sleeved shirts and shorts. At Philadelphia’s English Tearoom ladies wear gloves and gentlemen wear ties.

I ducked into the ladies room. My hair was a mess. I was letting it grow out, and it was at that awkward stage where there was little I could do with it. I liked the new color, a rich auburn, but stylish it wasn’t. I should have worn a wig. I have enough of them. I ran a quick brush through my mop—who was I kidding—and checked for any spots on my blouse or jacket and that there weren’t any sweat stains showing. There was little point in wasting more time or worrying about that now; I was already late.

I slipped on a pair of ivory 2-button shortie gloves as Elspeth returned from seating the party of eight.

“Rachel, it’s great to see you. You’ve not been here in a while.”

I liked the way her Highland burr rolled the R in my name. We hugged.

“Glad to see you too. I see the tourists are still flocking. I’m supposed to meet someone and I’m late. Do you know if she’s here?”

“Aye, the dark-haired beauty near the back by the windows. She asked for you when she arrived.” Elspeth looked at my hair. “Is this color new?”

“Yes. Do I look okay?”

“You look grand. Good luck to you.”

“Thanks. I’ll seat myself.”

Most of the 12 lace-covered tables, as well as the three sitting areas by the windows and hearth, were occupied. Two tables were waiting to be cleared. Through the tall French windows I saw that many of the patio tables were also full even in this heat. It was good that the building shaded the patio and garden in the afternoon. Beneath the black-draped portrait of Princess Di a string trio played quietly.

Besides the odd tourist males, there were a couple of butches and bulls—wearing ties, of course, not gloves—with their ladies, but most of the crowd were femmes and lipsticks. Did the tourists realize that the Tearoom was a lesbian hangout? Were we the attraction?

A couple of women gave me an inviting look and I smiled politely, but my concentration was on the “dark-haired beauty” as Elspeth called her.

She was looking out the window with her back to me. Her nearly black hair hung halfway down the back of her ice blue jacket. When was mine last that long? Light from the window added bright highlights and a few single threads of silver glimmered.

“Hi. Sorry I’m late.”

I pulled out the chair by the window and began to sit. A face suddenly illuminated the shadows across the room. A haunting, beautiful, Japanese face. Karen? It was for just an instant; then the illusion burst. A busboy with a buzz cut stepped through the shadowed archway and went to the tables that needed clearing. He was slightly built and Karen’s height, but there the similarity ended.

“Rachel? Rachel. Earth to Rachel; come in, please.”

“What?”

“You were completely spaced out. Did you see a ghost?”

She turned to look at where I was staring. She turned back with a quizzical look. Her green eyes sparkled. I felt myself blushing, half-standing/half-sitting, awkwardly holding the back of the chair. I finished sitting.

“I’m sorry. No, I’ve never seen him before. For just a moment, I thought that... I’m sorry.”

This was so embarrassing. I’d been here less than thirty seconds and had said, “I’m sorry,” three times already. I had been distracted. How rude. My hair was a mess. I was hot and sticky. What else could go wrong? And she was so beautiful. So cool and crisp looking. She reached over and her gloved hand touched mine for just a moment. Wow!

“Relax.”

The waitress came and took our lunch order. I sipped some water and took several slow deep breaths. Why had I thought of Karen just now? I thought I finally stopped hoping for her. I looked to where the busboy had been, but he was gone. And Karen’s gone. Long gone. Long over. Wendy’s here.

Wendy watched the waitress walk away. Wendy. Wendy Devlin, banker, age 42. Older woman to my 33. Hot stuff! Was I in lust of a Wendy? Oh, yeah! She looked at me and touched my hand again. I could die this moment and be in heaven.

“Thank you for asking me to lunch. I’ve never been here. It’s lovely. So are you.”

My cheeks burned again. “Thanks. My hair’s a mess. This is my favorite place. I’m glad you came.” I’ve waited weeks to ask you out.

“How could I not come? You’re mother’s hero.”

“Me?”

“Really. She talks of you all the time. Whenever the memories of her rape get to be too much, she says she thinks of what happened to you. How you were able, as she puts it, ‘to kill the fucking bastards.’”

I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t like to think about what had happened to me. Clare, Wendy’s mother, had been raped three years ago and left in a field to die. Her attackers have never been caught. She and I were sister survivors. We met regularly with others to share our stories, our fears, how we live day-to-day with the horrors within us. Clare was a sweet 70-year-old widow who refused to die or be beaten by her trauma. My memories were still fresh and raw, and I thought of Clare and the others as my heroes, my support.

Our tea arrived. Orange pekoe spiced with clove. I poured for each of us.

“Are most of the workers here from England?”

“Pretty much, I think. All the women are from the British Isles, anyway. That busboy must be from the tavern next door helping with the crowd. Phil, Philadelphia Long, the owner, is an Anglophile. She goes to London each year and finds college women willing to come here for a one-year work/study program through Cramer College and hires them for atmosphere. Most go home at the end of their year, but a few, like Elspeth, today’s hostess, stay on.”

“What a charming idea. What about the cameos? I notice that some wear them and others don’t, but the meaning escapes me.”

“Availability. The staff knows that most of the women who come here are bent the right way as we like to say.” You’re bent the right way, aren’t you? “For those in the know, the cameo says that the wearer is also and wouldn’t be offended by being asked out. It prevents awkward moments.” Like this one: not sure which way you’re bent—but hoping.

“How nice. Do you date any of them?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I haven’t dated in a really long time.” Until now.

“Lost love?”

“Something like that.” But I’m hoping for a new one.

My cell phone rang. Damn! Why now? Why hadn’t I shut it off? This always happens. That’s why I hate leaving it on. It was my lawyer.

“I’m sorry.” There I go again. “This will just take a moment. This is Rachel.”

“Hi, Carmen here. I have another job for you.”

“I’m busy at the moment. May I call you back?”

“That’s okay. Be at my office tomorrow at nine. This one pays.”

“Ten would be better.”

“Ten’s fine. See you in the morning.”

I turned the phone off. I didn’t want any more interruptions. Our lunch arrived. The conversation shifted. Wendy talked about the bank where she worked, and I described my adventure scamming Daniel Morehouse. Safe, inconsequential subjects. Nothing that told me she liked me nor told her how much I wanted to hold her, kiss her, or that I had been longing to be with her ever since Clare introduced us.

She asked me to share a slice of “decadent” chocolate cake for dessert.

“I couldn’t possibly eat the whole thing myself.”

Did she know she was driving me crazy? I watched the last bite of chocolate disappear between her luscious lips. Mmmmmmmmmmmm.

She smiled. “I’ve taken the afternoon off. You promised to show me your Munch.”

Wendy stood casually at the bookcase in the living room with her back to me looking at my collection of fantasy and science fiction. She was naked. Her long hair, mussed from our recent lovemaking, streamed down her back. I walked up, put my hands on her hips, slid them around to her belly and pulled her against me, felt her flesh against mine. I buried my face in her hair breathing deeply the faint scent of lavender. She set the book she held on a shelf and pressed her hands over mine. Her hands. Her wonderful hands. Hands that had touched me, teased me, caressed me; pleased me in many, many wonderful ways. I could hardly believe my fortune.

“Is this your gallery of conquests?”

I looked over her shoulder at the two, framed photos. “Not exactly. ‘Lost loves,’ as you said earlier. On the left is Karen Tanaka; we were lovers before she left me a year ago.”

I stared at Karen smiling impishly back at me. I thought of mistakenly seeing her at Phil’s. Karen, if you’re not coming back, please don’t haunt me.

“The other one is Sarah Hastings. She worked briefly at Phil’s Tearoom.”

“I thought you didn’t date the staff?”

I buried my face in Wendy’s hair. “We were going to meet for our first date. She and two men were attacked outside of a nightclub back in May. Sarah was killed. You may have read about it?”

“I remember. I’m sorry. Didn’t they catch who did it?”

“Yes, but the trials are still pending. One of the killers is in Ohio awaiting extradition, and the bastard, our ex-Deputy Mayor Vincent Barrow, who set it all up, is out on bail.”

“Is her death why you haven’t dated?”

I couldn’t say anything. Sarah had been the first person I was interested in since Karen left, and she died before we even had a chance to kiss. And now Wendy… would anything happen…

She twisted around in my arms and held me. Fed me her warmth. We kissed. The tips of our tongues teased one another. Tentative fears disappeared.

Wendy suddenly pulled away. Held me at arm’s length with one hand. The sparkle in her green eyes gleamed. She put the back of her other hand to her forehead, turned her face away, and melodramatically sighed.

“You lured me here; seduced me; had your way with me; but, you haven’t—haven’t shown me the Munch.”

I laughed. “Follow me.”

I led her to the second master bedroom.

“Linoleum in a bedroom?”

“This was Karen’s studio. Linoleum’s easier to clean than carpet. There’s Edvard Munch’s Madonna.”

I turned on lights and pointed across the bare room to a frameless canvas set on a studio easel in the corner. A spotlight illuminated the painting.

Wendy moved closer. “Oh, my God. It’s beautiful.”

The painting was the nude torso of a young woman done primarily in browns, ochre and yellow. The curve of a vermilion halo arced behind her flowing black tresses. Her left arm disappeared behind her body as her right one did behind her head. White highlighted chin, nose, cheek, pulling the eye to her face. Her expression was calm repose; waking or falling asleep, her nearly closed eyes invited. Diaphanous blue swirls surrounded her in an air of mystery. Red lips, nipples and navel reflected the color and curve of the halo.

Wendy turned. “When you told Mother and me about the painting, I was expecting a poster, not this. It’s wonderful. It’s... This can’t possibly be—”

“No, it’s not the one that was stolen last week. It’s a copy. Karen painted it years ago at the Munch Museum.”

“And she didn’t take it when she left you?”

“No. She left in a hurry while I was out of town on a job. She left a lot of stuff behind. Except for these paintings and some furniture, everything’s boxed and stored in the closet. I just don’t know what to do with it all.” In some ways keep hoping she’ll come back for it. For me.

Wendy studied the paintings hung on the white walls. I opened the drapes covering the sliding glass doors to the balcony, and those over the north windows, flooding the room with natural light. Wendy moved with a casual confidence in her nudity. She was as tall as me, five-nine, and athletically trim. Her breasts were a wonderfully sized B cup. A ragged appendectomy scar added to her beauty instead of detracting. Karen would have loved painting— Stop it! Stop right now! I don’t need another ménage. I took a deep breath and leaned against the wall.

Wendy stood before a small seascape not much larger than a sheet of paper of a dark open sailboat pulling strongly through the waves, aimed at the moon. Sky and sea shimmered through thick paint and multiple glazes; so different from the thin washes of the Madonna.

“I think I remember this, from art history, years ago.”

“Another copy Karen painted: Toilers of the Sea by Albert Pinkham Ryder. The rest are originals.”

“This is unbelievable. It’s like a gallery, a museum.”

There were seven of Karen’s original paintings, all of them large; maybe that was why she left them behind. She was fascinated by Munch and Ryder; often called them expressionistic visionaries and described her own work as a fusion of the two. It was easy, even for a non-artist like me, to see their influence. Wendy came and looked at the large figure painting beside me. She looked back at the Madonna. The pose and free-flowing style were quite similar—even to the halo—while Ryder-like thick, shimmering glazes dominated.

“This is you.”

“’Fraid so.”

“Your hair was long and blonde then. Why did you cut it?”

“Pissed at Karen for leaving. She liked it long. Dumb reason. Now I’m growing it back.”

Wendy reached out and ran her fingers through my hair. “I like the color.” She pulled my face to hers.

At 3:00 am, I lay curled in bed sipping a glass of Glenfiddich. I pulled a pillow to me. It faintly held Wendy’s scent from the afternoon. The thought of our second lovemaking on the cool linoleum in Karen’s studio made me quiver. I wished again that Wendy had stayed, that she were here now curled next to me. What happened between us was more than sudden lust; it had to be.

I put my glass on the nightstand; my cell phone lay there, tempting me. I reached for it and stopped.

You can’t be serious?

I rolled over and stared at the ceiling. Why not?

Because today was real, not a fantasy. That’s why not. Why spoil it?

I looked at the phone. That’s real too.

That’s an obsession. It’s nutty.

So is lying here arguing with myself.

What would Wendy say?

I don’t know. How do I explain obsession?

I picked up the phone and speed-dialed. Margo Lane answered on the second ring. There was no preamble, no greeting. I didn’t need to speak. I never speak. He knew who it was. We both knew why we continued to play this bizarre game: him speaking, me listening. In so many ways, we were incompatible. He was a transvestite who prefers men. I prefer women. This, this was ours alone. No touching, but a deeper sensation than anything either of us ever knew.

It started when we first met at Miss Kitty’s Kathouse Kabaret. Margo was the club manager and I was investigating the attacks on the club’s gay performers. Inadvertently, we discovered his voice could drop to a deep pitch that somehow aroused me beyond belief. I needed to know at the time if it were only a fluke—a one-time thing—and called him late that first night to hear it again, to see if it were real. It was. It became my obsession and has gotten me through many rough times and nights. When he discovered the power his voice had over a single human being—even if it were a woman, and for some reason it only affects me—it became his obsession as well.

Margo’s voice dropped to that wonderfully deep low rumble, the vibes drilling into the center of my being. It’s so difficult to explain, to understand. A sound system set for maximum bass, maximum vibration, multiplied a hundred thousand times comes close.

To me, it never matters what he says; only that he keep speaking. This isn’t phone sex in the usual sense; no pornographic detail of what goes where, who does what, no heavy breathing. The timbre of his voice, not the words, excites me. Yet he strives to fill me with exotic words. Tonight, his words...

“My sweetest Lesbia, let us live and love, and though the sager sort our deeds reprove...”

Three

Tuesday morning I bounced into the law offices of Andrews and Pfeiffer at five of ten. Jon, the receptionist, returned my buoyant smile.

“You’re looking unusually chipper. I’ll let Ms. Andrews know you’re here.”

Just then, my lawyer, Carmen Andrews, came down the hall. “Hi, Rachel. Prompt as usual. You look happy.”

“Why not? It’s a beautiful morning. And you said that you had a job that paid. I hope that means money in my pocket, not just paying back what I still owe you.”

“Your bill’s dwindling; don’t worry about it.”

“I have to worry. These past three months have been tight. My reserves are down and the ‘boob fund’ is zilch. Process serving and background checks don’t pay enough.”

“Whose fault is that?”

“You sound like my doctor.”

“Well, this involves serving papers, but first you have to find the guy. So this is a full-pay gig. My client finally filed for divorce yesterday, but her husband is missing. She’s in my office now, if you think you’re ready to handle it. Jon, no disturbances until we’re through.”

Carmen and my psychiatrist, Dr. Natalie Howard, were right. I was avoiding real work, anything beyond the safe predictable pale. I lost a potential lover; I was tortured and raped; I killed people. I lost a lot of myself and the healing was taking longer than I thought or hoped. But now I had Wendy. Wendy, Wendy, Wendy.

The woman standing at the window held the curtain back and stared out. The view from Carmen’s office is not that exciting. It looks out on an alley and dumpsters for a Chinese restaurant.

“Louise,” Carmen said, “this is Rachel Cord, the investigator we talked about. Rachel, this is Louise Carter.”

“How do you do?”

Louise Carter gave me a tight smile and nodded. Her eyes were red. She held her black purse tight to her body. She was overweight, but attractive, about 30. Her short dark hair was styled. She wore a black jacket and skirt with a gray blouse. Too drab and dark for the weather. She looked more like a recent widow than a woman seeking a divorce.

Carmen sat at her desk; Louise Carter and I sat in the leather bound chairs facing it.

“Louise’s husband left Friday night for a weekend with a friend of his. He does this too often, which is one of myriad reasons for the divorce. This was the first time though he didn’t come home Sunday evening. Louise called me and said she had had enough. I filed the papers for her first thing yesterday. We spoke again in the early afternoon; Jerry hadn’t returned, and he missed two scheduled business appointments. He never misses appointments. That’s when I called you. He’s still missing.”

“Ms. Carter, do you know this friend of his?”

“Call me Louise, please. Yes, Stan is an old friend of Jerry’s. He was best man at our wedding. They grew up together. When Jerry didn’t come home on time, I called his cell phone but all I got was voicemail. Then I called Stan. No one answered there either. I left a message, but no one called back. That’s when I called Carmen. I was angry. When Jerry missed his appointments, I began to worry. I tried calling him and Stan again, but still no answers.”

“What does your husband do?”

“He’s a computer programmer and design consultant. He has his own business. He works from home.”

“Has he done anything like this before?”

“Never.”

“Have you called the hospitals? There may have been an accident.”

“No. I was afraid to.”

“How about the police? Have you reported him missing?”

“No. Jerry wouldn’t like that.”

This was strange. I looked at Carmen. Carmen leaned forward.

“Louise and her husband are very private people. We’d like you to look into this first. If it becomes necessary to contact the authorities, that’s something to discuss later.”

Something was rotten and this wasn’t Denmark. “Louise, how long have you been married?”

“Four years.”

“Children?”

“Three. Two boys, one girl. The youngest is eight months.”

I hoped the boys were twins. That’s a lot of time being pregnant. I glanced at her feet. Sensible shoes, black flats. She wasn’t barefoot.

“How old is your husband?”

“Twenty-seven.”

“What’s his full name?

“Jerome Albert Carter.”

“And his friend Stan?”

“Kenneth Wayne Stanley.”

The name gave me pause. I didn’t know him and had never heard his name before. It was the “Wayne” middle name that got to me. I had read recently one of those oddities in life features in the newspaper. It was a list of half-a-dozen or more people whose middle name was Wayne and who had been arrested and charged with or convicted of murder this summer; and that’s just recently. They brought back memories of the biggest hoodoo of my youth, John Wayne Gacy.

It was Christmas time, when I was six or seven, and I watched news reports that my parents didn’t know I was seeing of all those bodies being taken from that home near Chicago—which even that young I knew was only a few hours drive from our home—and the pictures of the Clown Man who was responsible for all of the deaths. It didn’t register, or matter, that all of those dead people were young men; I thought the Clown Man was going to come get me too. He gave me nightmares for years; the mere sight of a clown could make me pee my pants; I even stopped watching Bozo on TV. Years later, that TV movie with Brian Dennehy didn’t help either. My fear of clowns isn’t that bad any longer, but I don’t go to circuses or McDonalds. What was I getting myself into?

“Where does Mr. Stanley live?”

“Across the river. Just outside of town.”

Across the river. I looked again at Carmen. She had on her neutral court face. Didn’t say anything. Just handed me a check that lay on the desk. It was Louise’s and made out to me for $1,000. It wouldn’t fill the bank, but it would make the first-of-the-month bills easier to pay. For $1,000, Louise could buy 10 hours of my time and either resolution or a progress report. She’d have to decide then if she wanted me to continue.

I used to average three cases a month at $100 an hour, which includes most expenses, with a nonrefundable grand up front. Sometimes I’d get lucky and close a case in less than 10 hours; most take longer. My average was 34 hours. These were not contiguous hours, of course. Most investigation involves an hour or two of action and a lot of waiting for information to come back. The in-between you fill with other work. Process serving and background checks at a set fee help fill in the gaps. I wasn’t getting rich—seems like two-thirds goes to expenses and taxes, and my condo mortgage isn’t small—but I was getting ahead and my boob reduction fund had been filling nicely.

Then I got hurt. Badly. Now the in-between was all I was doing and it was barely paying the bills, and the boob money went for medical bills my insurance didn’t cover instead of the breast reduction I craved. I was also doing little jobs gratis for Carmen, to pay off legal work she had done for me. I didn’t want to do this—especially going across the river again. It was another state and I wasn’t licensed there. Bad things happened across the river. Carmen knew this but didn’t say anything. I wanted to yell at her. Scream, “No way! Not again!” But I didn’t. I needed the money.

Louise answered more questions. We arranged to meet later at her house so I could get a picture of her husband and a look at his office.

I left Carmen’s feeling uneasy and still a bit angry. I wanted to go back in and say I couldn’t do it. Give the check back. I wasn’t sure if my uneasiness was because of the case itself or just nervousness about getting back to real work. Or the thought of going back across the river.

Three months ago I went across the river looking for a runaway teenager. I had no official standing over there: my state doesn’t license PIs and I wasn’t licensed there either, but that didn’t stop me then. I found the girl, Linda Miller, drugged and imprisoned. Before I could free her, I was brutally beaten, raped and nearly killed by Gwen Archer and her accomplice Calvin Tierney. They were running a child pornography and prostitution racket, and I was interfering. As Wendy’s mother said, I “killed the fucking bastards.” Even so, flashbacks could still make me pee myself.

A state attorney over there had wanted me charged with murder. Luckily, when publicity about the takedown of the porno ring got out, and bodies of lost teens were found buried on Tierney’s land, charges against me were eventually dropped; even the ones for practicing without a license. But it was made abundantly clear that my presence was strictly persona non grata. I haven’t been back; didn’t want to go back; but for $1,000, I was.

The memory was stifling. I needed some positive energy. I called Wendy at her bank. Thinking of her gave me a thrill.

“Hi, this is Rachel. I’m downtown. Are you free for lunch?” Please. Please.

“I’d love to, but sorry, not today. Too many meetings.”

“Darn. I wanted to see you.”

“How about dinner?”

Yes! “I’d like that. When and where?”

“How about I pick you up at seven? Dress casual. Do you like spicy?”

I like you. “Spicy, but not necessarily hot, if you know what I mean.”

“I understand. Good. This will give me a chance to thank you for yesterday’s lunch.”

“You thanked me quite nicely already.”

“That was pleasure, not thanks.”

“It was wonderful.”

“I would hope so. You were on top. My butt is still cold from that linoleum.”

My cheeks burned. She chuckled. Could anyone at the bank overhear what she was saying?

“It was wonderful,” she agreed. “I’m glad you want to see me again, because I want to see you too. Got to get back to work. See you tonight.”

See me tonight! Hal-le-lu-jah! Hal-le-lu-jah! Hallelujah, Hallelujah. Haaaa-le-luu-jaaah! Hal—

A lady sitting at the bus stop across the street stared at me. She wasn’t disapproving or smiling. Maybe she was nearsighted, but I stopped dancing about. Behind her was Uni-Cuts offering haircuts for $6. Maybe a light trim and shaping would control my mop; my do-it-yourself methods weren’t working. Next door was Peaches Beauty Therapy offering Brazilian wax specials. I smiled as I crossed the street and thought of a bit of a surprise for Wendy.

Leaving Peaches, where Barb the owner did an awesome job on my surprise, I went home, straightened the condo and changed the sheets; spent an hour picking something casual to wear for dinner; then drove to my office to run a computer check on Jerome Carter and Kenneth Wayne Stanley before going to the Carter house. For $50 a month and a dollar a report, you can find out nearly anything on anyone.

Neither had any arrests or convictions. Both were born and raised across the river and attended Cramer College here. Carter had a BS and an MS in computer science. Stanley had a BS in political science. Stanley still lived across the river at a rural box number address. Carter had the typical half dozen credit cards and several store revolving accounts. Most were nearly maxed out, but payments were current. Curiously, Stanley had no credit history. I also called area hospitals on both sides of the river. No help there.

At 3:55, I parked in front of the Carter house in Northside Village. It was a typical ranch-style with a converted two-car garage. There was a gray Buick Park Avenue in the driveway.

A heavyset Hispanic woman answered the door. She led me to the kitchen where Louise and a three-year-old boy were attempting handmade tortillas. There was a stack of them on a plate next to a flatiron hot griddle. Something was simmering on the stove in cast-iron pots. The smells of cumin, cilantro and cinnamon made my mouth water. Louise cleaned her hands on her apron as I entered.

“I forgot you were coming. Stan, this is Miss Cord. This is our eldest, Kenneth Stanley Carter. He’s named after Jerry’s friend. Juanita, would you watch him, please? Miss Cord and I have some business to discuss.”

“Si, Senora.”

“Do you know where my daddy is?” Stan looked right at me. He had flour on his cheek.

“No, I don’t. But I will try to find him.”

“Tell him we made tortillas.”

“Okay. I will.”

Louise led me back through the house. She seemed more relaxed and in control in her home. In a playpen I had missed on the way in, a little girl was absorbed with her stuffed animals.

“That’s Felicia.” Louise said quietly. “Wayne is asleep in the nursery.”

We went into what had been the garage. It had been divided into a laundry/work/storage area and an office.

“The children aren’t allowed in here.” Louise whispered and hesitated before unlocking the office door. Maybe the children weren’t the only ones not allowed in there.

“I still haven’t heard anything from Jerry or Stan.”

“I checked area hospitals. They aren’t there either, and there have been no John Does admitted. You said earlier that Jerry and Stanley grew up together. Does Jerry still have family in the area?”

“No. Jerry never knew his father. He died when Jerry was an infant. Felicia, Jerry’s mom, never remarried. She moved to Florida when Jerry was in college.”

Three computers were set up along one wall on a continuous countertop. One was running, but the screen was blank. Along a second wall were bookcases filled with various computer books and dozens of black binders. Several old computers were displayed like artifacts. There was an original Macintosh and one I had never heard of, a LISA. There was also a VIC-10. One of my brothers had had one. You used a TV as your monitor. What Wally really wanted back then was a Commador-64 that had color.

Carter’s desk looked out over the driveway, a four-drawer filing cabinet filled one corner, and there were several chairs. A wastebasket with a shredder mounted on top was empty beside the desk. The office had its own exit.

Lined up on the desk like a squad of soldiers were a telephone; a photograph of two men smiling and holding freshly caught fish; a desk calendar opened to Monday, August 30; and studio photographs of each child. There was no photograph of Louise. The desk blotter was clean, no stains, no doodles. There were no pens or pencils or notepad or paperclips or stickies or anything else. There was barely a layer of dust on the mahogany surface from four days’ nonuse. It was beyond neat.

I looked around the room again. Everything was “Dress Right, Dress” as we would have said in the Army, squared up and face forward. Ready for inspection. The only things casual in the whole room were the two men in the photograph on the desk. Did someone actually work here?

“Louise, do you come in here often?”

“No. Jerry likes his privacy. I only came in yesterday because of the clients who showed up when Jerry wasn’t here.”

“Does the housekeeper clean in here?”

“No. Jerry does it. As I said, he likes his privacy.”

“Did you change the calendar?”

“No. It was like that.”

Carter must have done it before he left on Friday. He knew he had appointments. Louise must be as frustrated as I was when Karen left.

“Who pays the bills?”

I tried the central drawer on the desk. It was locked.

“Jerry does.”

“Any financial problems?”

The other drawers were also locked although there were no visible keyholes.

“Not that I’m aware of. Our joint account is fine. I’m sure that Jerry’s business account is also. We never receive late notices. Jerry would never allow that to happen. He pays everything promptly.”

I’ll bet he does. The filing cabinet was locked, also. I walked over to the running computer and pressed the “Return” key. The screen lit and a message read, “Enter password.” On a whim, I typed in S-T-A-N and pressed “Return.”

“Access denied. Enter password.”

I looked around the room trying to think of what Carter might use as a password. I looked at the old computers. I typed in L-I-S-A.

“Access denied. Enter password.”

I’m not a computer geek, nor a psychologist. I had no idea what would open Carter’s computer. I tried O-P-E-N, L-O-U-I-S-E, F-E-L-I-C-I-A and J-U-N-I-O-R. As a last attempt, I entered S-E-S-A-M-E. That didn’t work either.

“I don’t suppose you know his password?”

“No. Jerry—”

“Wouldn’t like that, I know.”

I turned to face her. Her eyes were watering as she tightly pressed her lips together.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. Your husband is missing and you’re worried. I had no reason to be flip.”

“Jerry is very...orderly. He likes things...neat. We...”

Tears began rolling down her cheeks. I put my arms around her and held her. She buried her face in my bosom and cried. There was a bit of flour in her hair. What does Jerry think of his not so orderly family?

Louise moved away. “I’m sorry. I love my husband, but things have really gotten out of hand. That’s why the divorce. And now this. It’s so unlike Jerry. He’s always so methodical and organized. He is never late. I’m really worried. I don’t want to scare the children. I just don’t know what to do.”

Louise slumped into one of the chairs. She almost bounced right up again, afraid to be sitting in Jerry’s domain. She settled.

“The first thing to do is see if we can find him. Does he keep the checkbook and bills in the desk?”

“Yes. He gives me the bills to mail when they’re ready to go out.”

“This desk is beautiful. I’d hate to ruin it. You wouldn’t know where he keeps the key, would you?”

She turned pale. “Jerry wouldn’t…” She stopped, took a deep breath. “It may be in his dresser. He doesn’t take anything he doesn’t need with him when he goes out.”

“Let’s go see.”

Her eyes widened; then she nodded.

Good for you. There’s hope for you yet.

The bedroom was just as neat as Carter’s office. The tops of both dressers were cleared except for a family portrait on Louise’s. The king-sized bed had a solid blue bedspread pulled smoothly. I could picture tight hospital corners on the sheets and blanket. Would my old drill sergeant be able to bounce a quarter off the spread? Carter had been gone four days and Louise still made the bed to his liking. Did these two really make babies in this bed?

The key to Carter’s desk was in the top drawer of the dresser along with cufflinks and tie clasps. I quickly rifled through the other drawers to see if there were anything hidden. There wasn’t. Except that he rolled his socks and undershorts—my drill sergeant would have been so proud—and everything was too neat, I didn’t find anything of interest. Louise seemed agitated by my looking but didn’t say anything.

We went back to the office. The center desk drawer contained a notepad, a Cross fountain pen and mechanical pencil. The top page of the pad was blank. Even holding it to the light revealed no impressions from previous pages. Carter must tear off each page before using it. I didn’t think he was the type to waste extra pages. Apparently he shredded everything.

Opening the center drawer released the other locks. I found the checkbooks and file folders for each credit card and bill. The checkbooks had healthy balances and the registers were filled in meticulously. There didn’t seem to be any unusual withdrawals. The file folders were thick. There was several years’ worth of statements. My accountant would be ecstatic. I have two credit cards: one for business, one personal. Sometimes I mix them up. I toss all of my receipts together into a shoebox.

A quick scan told me which credit card Carter used on his weekend jaunts. It was used every Sunday for most of the past year and a half at the same convenience store across the river. Before that, it was used at the same spot once or twice a month.

“I don’t mean to be personal, but when did you start thinking your marriage was falling apart?”

“While I was pregnant with Wayne. Jerry began spending every weekend with Stan. The past few months he’s been neglecting the children as well as me. Which wasn’t like him. He’s a good father. I told Carmen about it back in March. She told me then to get a divorce. Carmen and I have been friends since high school.”

“Could your husband be having an affair and using his friend as a cover?”

“I…I don’t know. I don’t think so. Wouldn’t a wife know?”

“Not necessarily.”

“Oh. Is that what happened, do you think? He’s run off with another woman?”

“I won’t know until I find him. Do you work?”

“Not since I first got pregnant. The children are too young for me to be away, I think. Once they’re all in school, I’ll find work.”

Good luck. I looked again at the photograph of the two fishermen. They were unshaven with windblown hair and wearing checked flannel shirts. They had an arm around each other and held their catches high with their other hands. It was a casual, carefree moment that didn’t square with what I perceived as a controlling, uptight individual.

“The men in this picture, is this your husband and his friend?”

“Yes. Jerry’s on the left. That was taken in the fall shortly before Jerry and I married.”

“May I take it?”

“I have a more recent photo for you.”

“That will be fine.”

Four

Wendy snuggled against me in bed, her thigh pressed between my legs, her head on my breast, my arms around her. Her hair smelled erotically of curry and other spices from the small Indian restaurant where we had dinner. It had been a wonderful evening of fascinating tastes and piquant learning of each other.

Between the samosas and dal, the channa masala and aloo poshto, Goanese vegetable curry, several breads, and sweet mango lassi for dessert, we talked.

Wendy told me about her marriage to a grad student her last semester of college. It lasted three turbulent years. “Luckily, there were no children; it was still a messy divorce. I reverted to my maiden name afterwards.”

There were brief relationships with other men, but nothing permanent. At 29, Wendy met her life partner, Nancy Witford. “She was my first—and only—true love. She talked me into applying to Wharton and getting my MBA and PhD.” Nancy died five years ago from aggressive pancreatic cancer. When Clare was raped, Wendy moved home. Since Nancy’s death, she dated some but had not had another sexual relationship, until now.

I told her about growing up in small-town Iowa with three older brothers; my first lesbian experience at 15 with my best friend, Betty Jean Cooper; how difficult it was to keep that relationship, and a couple later ones, hidden from disapproving family and neighbors in such a small community; how I ran away at 18 and joined the Army.

“I had to keep what I was hidden there too, but it got me out of Iowa and gave me a lot of freedom. Actually, there were a lot of us who served, and are serving, in our country’s uniforms.”

I told her more about Karen: how we met, fell in love; how Karen talked me into buying such a large condo; how hurt I was when she left without a word, and sent my letters back unopened when I’d traced her to Florida.

We returned to my condo and I gave Wendy a more complete tour than her previous visit.

“There are three bedrooms, three baths, kitchen with breakfast bar opening to the living room that I also use for dining; a separate dining room that was Karen’s office; the furniture’s still there, but I’ve boxed her stuff; and a balcony that goes the whole width looking out over the river.”

“It’s much larger than I thought. I think I’d get lost living here alone.”

“It’s lonely sometimes.”

“It must have been expensive.”

“More than I wanted to spend, but Karen convinced me I could handle it with her paying half.” Now is another question.

“Is she half-owner?”

“No. I got a VA loan for it, so it’s only in my name. Karen insisted. Maybe she knew then that she was leaving someday.”

“She was a fool for leaving you. It must be difficult without her paying a share any longer.”

“I’m managing.” So far.

“You could re-finance. Rates are way down. That would lower your payments. I could look into that, if you’d like.”

“Thanks. That’s a good idea.”

We ended up back in the studio. Wendy again admired the Madonna, and the portrait of me.

“I like this one better.”

Wendy glanced down at the floor, then at me. She smiled mischievously and waggled her eyebrows in what I thought of as a Groucho Marx leer. I blushed, but that didn’t stop us from pulling each other’s clothes off and making love—again—on the linoleum. She claimed dibs for being on top. God! It was cold on the butt.

We lay comfortably later curled in bed. I breathed in Wendy’s scents. Held her closer. She rubbed her face against my breast and caressed my other one.

“Your breasts are like pillows.”

I tensed.

She raised her head. “What’s wrong? What did I say?”

I hugged her. “Nothing. Karen used to say something like that. Called me her ‘makura makura,’ her ‘pillow pillow’ girl.”

“Sorry.”

“No need to be.”

But will you like my breasts when they’re smaller? Will you still like me? I certainly hope so.

Wendy rose up, brought her lips to mine, then slid down the bed throwing the covers off. A fingernail traced my newly modified and heart-shaped pubic patch sending shivers through me.

“This was a sweet surprise.”

A surprise to me too considering the last time my pubic hair was removed was by Gwen Archer with a pair of pliers. Maybe I was finally healing.

“I’m glad you like it.”

“I do. It’s sweet and so red. And to think, Valentine’s Day is still six months away.”

Wendy nuzzled me to show just how sweet she thought it was. Oh, boy!

I woke later and the space beside me was empty. Wendy’s clothes still hung on hangars from the closet door. The bathroom door was open but the room dark. Through the open bedroom door reflected light from somewhere lit the living room.

I found Wendy sitting in Karen’s studio. She had brought a chair in from the balcony. All of the lights were on. She was wrapped in my white terry robe. She held the photograph of Karen from the bookcase.

“What are you doing in here?”

“Trying to understand why she left you?”

I leaned against the doorway. “Lots of luck. I never figured it out. I’ve finally just accepted it.”

Wendy looked at the photo. “Did you take this picture?”

“Yes. We had a day on the river and were having a very good time. She was always an imp, and I thought that picture captured it.”

Wendy got up and walked around the room studying the paintings. “There’s a deep passion in her paintings. And in her expression in this photo, so full of fun.” She turned toward me. “I can’t believe this woman just up and left you.”

“Me either. But she did. If she hadn’t, you probably wouldn’t be here.”

“True.” Wendy came and put her arms around me. “Maybe I’m afraid that she’ll come back.”

Me too.

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