“I’m going to run back into the kitchen in a minute,” Peggy told her. “The coffee and muffins should be ready. I just got up and I’m hungry. Hope you are, too.”
Gianna was, and spent the next hour eating orange bran muffins and listening to Peggy Carter talk about a way of life that existed only in the memories of people like herself. She was, she said, sixty years old and a classically trained pianist. Her parents, both physicians whom she described as “very proper Negroes of their day,” were heartbroken at her decision to pursue the life of a jazz musician. “But they were more devastated to learn that I was a lesbian. That simply was not an option for a girl like me, in that time and place.” She still looked and sounded sad, as if the confrontation with her parents had occurred just recently instead of, as best Gianna could tell, more than forty years ago.
“I had to admit they were right about life as a jazz musician. Not only was it no life for a woman, it was no life for a human being.” Her posture sagged a bit as she looked into another past—not the life of privilege that she lived with her parents, but the life on the road, never eating or sleeping properly or enough; never receiving the acclaim she sought. “Since I had degrees in music and since it was too late for that concert career, I started teaching music to support myself, and I’ve been doing that ever since.”
“How did you come to be at The Bayou?” Gianna had taken out her pen and notebook and the micro cassette tape recorder that she often used to record interviews.
“Through a friend, Jackie Marshall. She’s one of the new owners of the place up in Maryland, Happy Landings.”
“You mean Marianne and Renee’s old place?”
Peggy nodded. “Jackie was my first lover. I met her at a jazz club over near Howard University that’s long gone. God, we were young! We’ve remained friends over the years. She’s an heir to a Maryland tobacco plantation fortune and we had some good laughs over the unlikelihood of our union.”
“I’ll bet you did, though it couldn’t have been all laughs. It must have been painful, too.”
“Oh, it was that, for sure, but we kept each other from letting the pain get to be too bad. But you didn’t come here to listen to war stories, you want to talk about Sandy. What do you want to know? I only talked to her a few times but I think I got to know her pretty well.”
“A few times? More than once?”
“Yes. At least a dozen times, maybe more.”
“I was under the impression that Sandy had been into The Bayou just the one time, the night she was killed.”
Peggy was shaking her head. “I don’t know where you got that idea. Maybe nobody saw her the other times. She always came straight into the lounge. She came to see me.” She faltered on the words and tears welled in her eyes.
“Peggy, if there’s a beginning to this story, could you start there and tell it all to me? Please?”
On Sandy’s first visit to The Bayou she had rushed weeping into the lounge where Peggy, alone, was rehearsing. It was early afternoon and the club was closed to the public and both women were surprised at the presence of the other. Before Sandy could rush out Peggy caught her, consoled and comforted and quieted her, and learned that she’d just had a major argument with her lover. She also learned that Sandy, who had arrived in D.C. that very day, already was regretting the decision. It had become instantly clear that the new lover was, in Sandy’s words, a control freak with a violent temper. “She wanted Sandy to live out in the countryside somewhere, in Columbia or Reston. Sandy had lived in small, college towns all her life and even though the idea of living in a city like Washington terrified her, she was also excited. To keep the peace she had said she would live in Maryland, but she rented an apartment on Capitol Hill. She also was going to be teaching at Howard in January, not at Morgan State, as ordered,” Peggy said, not trying to hide the bitterness.
“You said ‘ordered?’”
“That’s right. She ordered, commanded, that Sandy do as she said. She claimed she wanted to protect her, to keep her safe. She even bought all of Sandy’s furniture and a whole new wardrobe! Can you imagine? She wanted Sandy to have all new clothes in her presence. That’s worse than a control freak, don’t you think, Lieutenant?”
Gianna didn’t know what to think. “So you and Sandy became...close?”
Peggy wiped her eyes again. “Not like that. We were never intimate, not physically, but we talked for hours on end, about everything. And I hoped...wished....allowed myself to believe that when Sandy finally worked through her problems with Trudi, she and I could build something together.”
“Trudi the bartender?”
“The very one.”
Peggy’s bitter words hung there between them while they watched the fire dance and crackle, while Gianna tried to remember every piece of information that existed in the files about Trudi. The only detail that would come to mind was that Trudi also had worked at Happy Landings and that she lived in Columbia. And that she’d never mentioned having known the murder victim.
“How did she meet Trudi, Peggy, do you know?
“On the internet, in one of those chat rooms, of all places. I know first hand how lonely life can be, but in a chat room! You don’t know who it is you’re talking to! I’ve got several friends, though, who swear it’s a great way to meet people.”
“And they’ve had good experiences?”
That seemed to brighten Peggy a bit. “Depends on what you mean by ‘good,’ doesn’t it? None of the chat dates have ever been who they said they were, but then, most of us aren’t who we say we are, you know? But what I do know about Sandy Mitchell is that she never said or wrote a single word that would let somebody believe that she could be ordered or commanded to do anything.”
“Let me get this straight: Sandy came to D.C. to be with Trudi, only Trudi thought that Sandy was going to live in Columbia? And teach in Baltimore? And when she learned the truth, she became angry? And what? Threatened Sandy?”
“She hit her.”
“Trudi hit Sandy? When?”
“That first day when she came into the lounge crying.”
“Peggy, does Trudi or anybody else here know about the relationship between you and Sandra?”
Peggy shook her head vehemently. “No! We didn’t want that, either of us, because it would just get the dirt flying. That’s why there was no relationship. There was the beginning of a good friendship and as far as anybody knew she came into the lounge because she liked the music. But we didn’t give any reason for gossip. Except for that first time, all of our conversations took place on the telephone or at the American Cafe on Capitol Hill, near where Sandy lived. We never talked when she came here. In fact, as soon as I played my signature song, she’d leave.”
“What song was that?”
“Love Letters. You remember the Ketty Lester hit...no, you don’t, do you? You’re too young for that,” she said, getting up and walking over to the piano. She sat down and lifted the cover and touched the keys and the dark, rich, sweet sound spilled out of the instrument. Six chords. Then Peggy’s voice, darker, richer, sweeter than the notes from the piano. Love letters straight from your heart.
Gianna had heard the song, though as an adult; and now, listening to it, wished she had been young and in love the first time she’d heard it. She could easily imagine shy, reserved Sandy, disillusioned and saddened by her experience with Trudi, falling in love with the elegant, talented Peggy as she sang that song.
Too much was happening in Gianna’s head at once, too many questions, too many images, too many unconnected bits and pieces of information, too many possibilities. She slowed down her brain activity as Peggy resumed her seat in front of the fire and poured more coffee.
“Did Marianne and Renee know about Trudi and Sandy?”
“No indeed, Trudi wouldn’t have that. That’s why she didn’t want Sandy to come in the bar, why she wanted her to live and work out in the ‘burbs. She’s supposed to be Madam Stud, you know, women swooning at th
e sight of her and falling at her feet. It wouldn’t do for her to have a girlfriend, especially an old one.” And finally Peggy broke. She didn’t try to stop or conceal the tears. She let them fall freely and they made dark spots like blood on her shirt front. “I thought I had been given one last chance at love. That’s what Sandy said. She was a wonderful woman, Lieutenant, smart and funny and beautiful and loving and giving....her mother! Have you talked to her mother?”
“I haven’t personally but one of our investigators has.” The investigator whose report should be on her desk within the next few hours. “Why do you ask?”
“Would you do something for me, Lieutenant? Would you please make sure that Sandy’s mother gets the necklace back?”
Gianna called up Sandra Mitchell’s autopsy report in her memory. There was no mention of a necklace. No mention of jewelry of any kind, she told Peggy.
“Then something’s very wrong. She never took off that necklace. It was a gold Star of David on a chain. I asked her why a Black woman was wearing a Star of David. She told me that her parents worked for the same people for thirty years—her father as chauffeur, her mother as housekeeper—and when they retired after all those years, raising the children and cooking the meals, that was the family’s gift to them. Instead of being angry or bitter, Sandy wore it as a reminder of her parents’ gift to her. She was the first college graduate in her family. On the salaries of a chauffeur and a housekeeper she went to college and graduate school. That’s why she wore that necklace and that’s why she never took it off and if it wasn’t on her, then whoever killed her took it. You find that necklace, you’ll find Sandy’s killer.”
“What do you mean Trudi’s not here today?” Gianna’s anger was unbridled and Marianne flinched and backed up a step. “I made the appointment to talk to her and the other staff through you on Thursday afternoon. It is now Saturday afternoon, less than forty-eight hours later, and you’re telling me she’s off this weekend? When exactly did that come about, Marianne, and why didn’t you tell me about it?”
“Since when do I have to tell you about my staffing decisions? This is my private property.
“This is the last place a murder victim was seen alive, a murder victim who had been here a half dozen times, not just the one time, as I’ve been led to believe. I want her personnel file and I want it now and I want to talk to the rest of the staff. Unless they’re all off, too.”
Marianne was shocked and frightened and Gianna didn’t give the tiniest damn about her feelings as she watched her scurry off. She was furious with herself for not having scheduled the interviews with the club staff sooner, furious with the chief at having had her waste so much time and effort and personnel chasing down the Irish nationals and their guns. For as much as she sympathized with his dilemma, she hadn’t liked the feeling of being a pawn in some City Hall chess game while a possible serial killer slipped through her fingers, and she stilled the voice of reason inside herself warning that she had no proof, nothing to back up her suspicion that Trudi the bartender was a serial killer.
Taking her cell phone from her purse and thankful that it still held a charge despite her failure to charge it overnight, she called the Think Tank, unsure who would be there, and gratified to hear Alice Long on the other end. She told Alice what she needed, ended the call, punched in Eric’s number, spoke briefly, and clicked off the phone. No use taxing what was left of the battery, and no use being annoyed at having to wait for Trudi’s personnel file from Marianne and for Alice to arrive. She closed her eyes and replayed her conversation with Peggy. The woman had told her a lot. She had no way of knowing how much of it could have any bearing on the case, but she intended to follow up on every name of every person and place Peggy had mentioned. She dropped down into a chair at one of the tables and winced at the effort. Her mind had been so otherwise occupied that she’d forgotten how stiff and sore she was from last night’s middle-of-the-street tussle with the Irish gangster. The stiff soreness would only get worse as the day wore on, which was why she’d agreed to meet Mimi at the gym later for a sauna and a massage. An appointment she would not be able to keep.
Marianne returned with a lavender file folder which she held out to Gianna. “Just for the record, I didn’t know that the dead...that Sandra Mitchell had been here more than the one time. For God’s sake, Gianna, I’d never have kept that from you, and you should know that.”
“Why did Trudi come to work here? If she still lives in Columbia, why didn’t she stay at Happy Landings?
“She doesn’t get along with Erin and Jackie, the new owners. She asked if she could come here and I said sure. She’s good at her job and she’d make much more in tips here because she’s so popular with the women. Listen, Gianna—”
“When did you find out that Trudi wouldn’t be here today?”
Marianne gave Gianna a long, cold look before she replied that Trudi had called at seven that morning to say she’d slipped on the ice last night and twisted her ankle, which was sore and swollen, and she needed a couple of days to rest it. She’d be back in time for the Monday staff meeting. Gianna cursed. Another forty-eight hours without access to her prime suspect and not a single shred of evidence to justify requesting surveillance or a search warrant. All other evidence notwithstanding, a lie was not evidence; it was proof of nothing. She cursed again and Marianne shrugged and walked away and Gianna thought it was just as well that her friend was angry with her. It was a good place to start since from anger, the only place left to go was into rage.
Gianna called her name and Marianne turned around. Gianna walked over to her. “I need to know everything you know about Trudi. How long you’ve known her, what you know about her family and her friends and her lovers, everything, Marianne, no matter how insignificant you think it might be.”
“You think she had something to do with the murder?”
“What I think matters less than what I know, and what I know is that Trudi worked at Happy Landings and now she works here, and that three of the victims are known to have frequented both places. Both places owned by you and both places where Trudi worked. That’s what I know. What I don’t know is where the connection is, but believe me I will know before I leave here today and you, Marianne, will either be part of the problem or part of the solution. The choice is yours.”
“You’re a cold one, Gianna.”
Gianna nodded. It wasn’t the first time she’d heard that assessment of herself and it probably wouldn’t be the last.
CHAPTER TEN
Mimi was into her fourth mile on the treadmill and sweating profusely when the gym’s manager came to tell her that Gianna wouldn’t be joining her, that “there had been a development.” She nodded her thanks and pressed the buttons to slow the machine to a brisk walk while she wondered what the ‘development’ was. They had had a very frank and open talk the previous night after Gianna had recovered from the fact that Mimi knew about Ellie Litton and Mimi had explained how. Had the talk been open and frank enough that Gianna would tell her what the development was?
The treadmill stopped and she stepped off, deep in thought. Gianna said that when she could, she’d tell Mimi how and why Millie and Ellie had died. Mimi had said she was interested in the other victim only to the extent that their deaths, too, were related to their ages. With that information Mimi thought she could build a hell of a series on how society’s treatment of women in general and older women in particular, fostered a dangerous self-destruction within the largest segment of the population. All she needed for the story were real women, some who were still alive and who would talk openly about how they felt about being at this turning point in their lives.
“What are you thinking about so intensely?”
Mimi turned to see Phyllis smiling at her. “As a matter of fact I was thinking about you,” she said, returning the smile. “How’s the workout? And where’s the rest of your crew?”
She followed Phyllis’s glance across the room and Evie, June and Dot waved a
t her. Then Phyllis turned back to Mimi. “That was either a very nice thing to say or a very cruel one.”
“I meant no cruelty, Phyllis, and I was thinking of you—the four of you—and wishing I knew how to contact you.” And she explained why.
“You want to put us in the paper so the world can laugh at us by name instead of just some old, fat women?”
Mimi was annoyed with Phyllis and let her know it. “How is it, why is it, that you heard the exact opposite of what I said to you? And this is why I want to do the story, to dispel the negative images, including those you yourself hold, and to embrace all that’s good and positive about you.”
Phyllis snorted. “When was the last time you embraced a fifty-something year old woman? And the fact that you were wondering how to find us means you don’t even know any, ‘cause if you did, you’d ask them.”
And she stalked off, leaving Mimi feeling bad in a new and different way. Because, she realized, Phyllis was right. Aside from Kate and Sue and their friends whom she’d met in Florida, she didn’t know, as friends, any women older than herself. Why was that? Could it be because, like the culture at large, she held older women in lower esteem? Then she brightened as she realized that with the exception of Gianna, Beverly and Sylvia, and Freddie and Cedric, she didn’t have any other close friends of any age. She looked across the room at the four women who were looking back at her. She took a deep breath and headed for them.
“I told you to leave us alone,” Phyllis hissed.
“Are you M. Montgomery Patterson?” Evie asked
Love Notes Page 15
