Trevar's Team 1

by Kieran York

  “She usually does,” I joked. Then my smile converted to a frown. “I’ll represent her alone if need be. Now, I’m going for a walk on the beach.”

  “Beryl,” Rachel called after me.

  At the door, I turned back. “I need to be alone right now.” Tears prickled behind my eyelids. It had been a very long morning. I realized my partners would need to nail me to the floor to prevent me from representing Lilia Franco.

  Meanwhile, I wanted to jog across the shimmering plumes of sand. I wanted to squint as the bars of light flashed through palms. Mostly, I wanted to sort out the cryptic messages my heart was sending my mind.

  For three hours, I’d jogged, walked, and sat dreamily staring off into distant areas where I could consult my inside self. Nothing seemed to help. When my eyes shut, I’d touched Lilia’s soft lips. A dozen fantasies had presented themselves before I opened my eyes. The magnificent view of Lilia’s image emptied away into reality.

  Boarding The Radclyffe, I felt the possibility of love within the grasp of my imagination. That had never happened before. Perhaps I’d only been a vocational lesbian. I’d practiced sex but never participated in love.

  I glimpsed at the office clock and suddenly realized I was late for the scheduled consultation. I scurried to our conference room where Summer slumped in her chair, her arms drooped from the chair’s armrests. “Rachel’s gone to the galley for limeade,” she curtly announced.

  “Sounds yummy,” I replied. “Sorry I’m late. Only fifteen minutes, but we all know what a stickler I am for time. I was thinking about the murder.”

  “Stop blathering.” Summer’s arms suddenly lifted into a tight armlock across her breasts. Her jaw had clamped for several moments before she spoke again. “I happened to open an envelope delivered this afternoon. It was a retainer check made out to the firm. Signed by Lilia Franco.”

  “I hadn’t had her sign a contract yet. I was planning on dropping it by this evening. But yes, we’re officially representing her.”

  With searing sarcasm, Summer muttered, “Where do you get we’re representing her?”

  “I took it upon myself.”

  Summer’s body of taut cords flexed, yet she maintained a softness. Although her charm was unequaled, her pout was also legendary. “Trev, you arranged to represent her without discussing it with your partners!” Summer’s voice sliced. “How’d you like it if we did that?”

  “So you object to finding Sylvia Grant’s killer?”

  “Your motive is more than that. You’re hot for Lilia.”

  “Lilia is a wonderful person.”

  “Oh, please! You’re falling for a singer slash soap star.” Summer sighed deeply, and melodramatically. “You want to hook up with our, or actually, your client. And here’s me thinking I’m not good enough for you. But that gold-digging skank is good enough.”

  Silence intervened. Early on, Summer had made it known she was interested in me. She was a skeletal teen I’d bailed out of jail. She was young enough to be my daughter, had I been so inclined to have children at an early age. I attempted to help her clean up, and she had. Her body was now clean of drugs. It was now agile, with biceps rippling, and her tough-as-steel brawny stride. She walked proudly. Now her deep brown eyes glared with a glower of a buried love.

  “Let’s not refer to our client as a skank,” I scolded. “And you’re way good enough for me. You’re still way too young.”

  “Trev, I understand why you didn’t want me three years ago. I was a punk.”

  I smiled. “You were my pro bono bonanza. That’s why you had a crush on me. I continued to spring you from jail. A savior yearning—nothing more.”

  “It was more. I care about you.”

  “And we’re fine as long as I sit here alone on the yacht night after night. But if I have a serious feeling for someone, it doesn’t meet with your approval.”

  “I partially cleaned up for you.” Her lower lip scooped down into her pout. It was only one of her stock facial emotions. It only took a millisecond for that to shift to a taunting smile of arrogance. Then her head could dip with a shy humility. She’d learned the scales when it came to keeping people off guard. It was great for the PI business. Terrible for personal relationships, I considered. I never knew where I was with her.

  The one thing I did know was that Summer was honest, reliable, and owned an indomitable heart and spirit. “No, Summer. You cleaned up for you. Entirely.” I also knew her astringent cynicism scalded. I hoped not to get burned. “I’m proud of you for cleaning up.”

  “Trev, just answer me one thing. Why her? Why a singing, sexpot soap actress?”

  “There’s more to her than that. I’m discovering she is remarkable. Not just lovely.”

  “Your Latina is a suspect in the murder of her lover.”

  “There’s an assortment of suspects,” I countered.

  Rachel entered with a tray of glasses. “Hope this will cool you two off. I heard you arguing down the hall,” she accused. “I get the feeling that this investigation is going to be lengthy. And complex.”

  At the top of our firm’s stationery, and inscribed on the center of our long oak conference table, is our motto— Vita Celebratio Est. Life is a fiesta. I wanted our meetings to be festive. This one was off on the wrong foot.

  “Well,” I attempted with my most jovial intonation, “let’s wind up our spyglasses and solve the Grant murder. To begin, please accept my apologies for taking the case without first consulting you both. Now the question is—do we wage battle as a team or am I on my own?”

  Rachel nodded her affirmation. “I’m in. But you do understand why we’re upset with you?”

  “I understand. You have my apology. Well, Summer, are you in or out?”

  “I’ve been out for years,” her lips curled with her words. There was a small skeptical smile. “I don’t want to miss the action. I’m in on this murder thing.”

  “Thanks, partners.” I repeated, “Thanks. To show how much I appreciate you both, I’ll prepare one of my extraordinary feasts tonight.”

  Summer shrugged toward Rachel. “Cholesterol alert,” she announced. “I’ll need to strap on weights for the remainder of my life.”

  I blew a kiss and scattered it with outstretched fingers. “Yes, my tender companions, tonight we’ll dine on something delicious, exotic, and calorically shameful.”

  A delicacy would be required to sweeten up our team. However, it would take hours in the gym to make amends. That was the cost. So be it.

  My thoughts again found their way to Lilia. My blush had to have given me away, but my partners allowed it. Maybe they loved me again after all.

  3

  MORNING CAME ALL too quickly. My dream began as a warm wrapper of love. Lilia was the star of my dream. I’m not certain where the detour might have been, but soon, I was chasing Sylvia Grant’s killer. First, there was hot pursuit, then terror-filled hot pursuit. I woke with a startling fear. An attempt at tricking my mind into returning to Lilia’s love proved too difficult. My alarm clock went off.

  The trio had divvied up assignments at the conclusion of last evening’s meeting. One could assume I didn’t hit the jackpot on the deal. I planned to pay a call to Sylvia’s ex, Jeremy Howell. On the way to his current address—a ratty motel in West Palm Beach, I thought over my approach to questioning him.

  One of my law class professors lectured on interrogatory techniques. She informed the class that it’s all a card game. Stay in the game and win every possible hand dealt. Pay attention to all things said and implied. When the time is right, go for the victory.

  Summer’s questioning style was pretty much street taught. She’d probe with biting sarcasm. Pure intimidation was her technique. They talk to protect themselves from the possible verbal venom. She was never patient with them. They knew she wasn’t going to be. But she was always effective. The interviewee sensed that choking to death on a lie was a possibility. And Summer would not stand for deception.

&n
bsp; Rachel’s interviewing was purely cop. Question and answer interrogation. All systematic and direct, she was. In a droll punctilious fashion, she gathered facts. Answers were neatly logged in a hand-sized notebook. Her tight block printing recorded every utterance.

  With my courtroom background, I first romanced the witness. Then I badgered them with their own answers. In a Gypsy’s blink, they felt the vice’s grip as its jaws bit down on their contradictions. I loved that.

  Although each member of our team’s technique appeared different, we had the commonality of usually getting what we were after. Sooner or later. I hoped for sooner when I pounded the motel’s door. I heard the chain rattling as Jeremy Howell fumbled to unfasten it.

  “Yeah?” he said. He glared at me through sunken grape-green eyes. Iodine-colored eyelids droopily squinted. Thick eyebrows curled like stray wires. His hewn hickory face was puffy and pasty-colored. The face was surrounded by straggling gray, tangled hair. Facial stubble circled his ribbed teeth. He was no vision. In his fifties, each of those years had made him more haggard. Booze and drugs had taken their toll.

  “My name is Beryl Trevar,” I announced while flashing my PI credentials. “I’m a private investigator. I’ve got a few questions I’d like to ask you about the death of Sylvia Grant.”

  “You aren’t a cop. I don’t have to talk with you,” he grunted with breath that was sour from last night’s liquor.

  In an attempt to inch my way into his room, I agreed. “That’s right. But it could benefit you. To the cops, you are a suspect. I want to hear your side,” I rambled as he suspiciously surveyed my face. “I want your story from your vantage point.” I took another stutter-step inside.

  “You want to hear my side?”

  “Yes.” In my monotone, lullaby-the-jury voice, I added, “It might work to your advantage. Maybe you can give me information about one of the other suspects that will free you from suspicion. And if you’re innocent, you can’t possibly object to giving me your rendition of events.”

  “I got no use for cops or private eyes.” He gave a snort.

  “Most people don’t really like us.” I kept my tone conversational—absolutely chatty. Spying a half-drained quart of bourbon on his end table, I suggested a buddy drink. That, I had found, was the combination to most alcoholic’s heart and vocal chords.

  He moved from the doorway, allowing me passage in. His bay sports shirt was badly wrinkled. It had been hastily thrown over his undershirt. I deduced that from the fact his buttons were out of whack. And he was sockless, so he must have just stepped into his unlaced shoes.

  With a limp chortle, accompanied by rattling lungs, he muttered, “Never seen a private eye like you. Christ, you’re great looking. A real doll.”

  “You too, Jeremy,” I replied with heavy irony.

  He laughed. “Yeah, in my day, I was a smoothy.”

  “Maverick booze-ghosts got even over the years, huh?”

  “Ex-wives got even,” he explained with a simulated 1940s charm. He tore the paper from a motel glass. Wadding the paper tightly, he threw it in the trash. He poured drinks. “Let’s us drink to the capture of Syl’s killer.”

  I lifted my glass and took a quick sip. Scanning the room for clues yielded little more than a blizzard of dirty clothing and junk. Sloppiness wasn’t an incriminating act. Cigarette butts were mountains in each ashtray. The wastebasket was jammed high. Necks of empty bottles rose above the trash. Homicide detectives would have already checked clothing for bloodstains, as well as turned drawers for a murder weapon.

  “So, Jeremy, who do you think might have killed Sylvia?”

  “Not me. Hell, we had our ups and downs. We had us some good times when we were out on the road. Christ, we did us some real partying.” He sucked down another slug of booze.

  “I guess it was sort of a marriage of mutual destruction. You were her manager, and she was your star.” I paused. “Rumor has it that Sylvia was about to tear up your contract. Put you out of her action. After all those years as her manager, I guess that was tantamount to putting you out to pasture. That would piss off a saint. Ever been angry enough to threaten her?”

  He knew that was a test question. “Yeah. Hell, I lost my temper more than once. Her, too. She threatened to pitch me away like rubbish.”

  “I hear you also threatened to expose her sexual orientation.”

  “Yeah. Hell, I married Syl to cover for her. It was fine as long as Syl was chasing skirts out on the road. But when that Franco bitch got her hooks into Syl, it changed.” He gulped his glass empty. “Syl was always easily swayed. Franco accused me of dipping into the funds. Lilia Franco fancies herself a businesswoman. Thought I was falsifying concert expenses.”

  “Any truth to the allegation?” Looking around, I figured he wasn’t spending his loot on accommodations. “Well?”

  “Naw. Hell, I was good to Syl. And Syl knew it. Her girlfriend poisoned her against me. Well, Franco may have accused me of fiddling with the books, but she never came up with the goods on me. It did damage Syl’s trust, though.”

  “So you threatened to tell the world about Sylvia and Lilia? Out them.”

  “I might have said something in the heat of anger. But like I say, I was good to Sylvia.”

  Leaning toward him, my stare anchored his. “You seem to have an elastic memory on that one, pal. Reports say you bashed her a few times.”

  “Those were in our drinking days. But, hey, I didn’t snuff her.”

  “Okay. So that leaves her channel, Helene Earnest, her daughter, Debra, or someone else. Sylvia angered everyone the night she was murdered.” E pluribus umum, I considered. One out of many suspects. “There were all kinds of motives. But who was the killer?”

  “One of the others killed her.”

  “Your best bet, Jeremy. You think Helene Earnest has the heart for murder?”

  “She mighta killed Syl. Why not?”

  “And might have Debra killed her mother?”

  “Maybe she had it set up. She has some dangerous buddies.” Jeremy’s face turned to a full sneer. His eyes flashed. “But my best bet is Lilia Franco did it.”

  “That isn’t my best bet.” My glance bore into his.

  His eyebrows drew together like a steel wool line. “Did that bitch hire you to come after me?”

  “My firm is representing Lilia Franco. Our objective is to find the killer.”

  “She must be payin’ you off in kind.” His scowl became a leer. “She puttin’ out for you, sister? That’s why you’re defending her?”

  “The remuneration to my firm is confidential. But wipe the dirt off your face. It’s purely business. And although I’m retained by Lilia, my job is to find the killer.”

  “You wanna find the killer, check your client. Or one of them other dykes,” he grumbled.

  “Jeremy, I’m asking you. My partners are questioning the other suspects.”

  “I got nothing to say to you, sis.”

  “I am not your sister. And should your memory or your manners, return, give me a call.” I handed him my card.

  He read the card aloud. “Trevar Investigators. Must mean that you’re the boss. Since you’re after me, you must think I’m the guilty one.”

  “I drew the shortest straw.”

  “Look, they’ll all come into bucks. I didn’t have anything to gain.”

  “Gain! Avarice is such an ugly trait.”

  “So take a look at that greedy broad you’re working for.” His eyes raged. “She was the cause of Sylvia dumping me. If that bitch knows what’s good for her, she’ll catch the next banana boat back to Argentina. Hell, if I were gonna kill anyone, I’d a killed her first.”

  “You’re in way over your head when it comes to threats, Howell. Anything happens to Lilia Franco and you go to the top of my suspect list. Not a healthy place to be, pal.” I stood and with deliberation, my stare hammered him. “You do understand what I’m telling you?”

  “Don’t get tough with me, s
ister!” his words challenged. He sprang to his feet. His stubby, leather-colored index finger reached toward me. “I was bustin’ heads before you were born.”

  “Don’t even think of touching me with your nicotine-stained finger.”

  His finger poked against my collarbone. Exploding, my palms gave an automatic thrust upward against his shoulders. He pitched backward. His legs hit the chair behind him as he fell onto his blockish butt. His utterance was an indistinguishable curse word or two.

  I issued an additional warning, “And while you’re down there on your ass, remember one thing—you don’t touch me. Not ever.” My words were like cap guns snapping and the detonation and admonition stunned him. He had found my soft spot.

  Anger lurked behind his eyes. “I’m not impressed.”

  I made my way to the door. Turning back, I enunciated with precision, “When I want to impress you, you’ll know you’ve been impressed. And Jeremy, don’t touch anyone I know either.”

  “You wanna touch Lilia yourself. You’re falling for that tramp.”

  “We’ve got early days in the investigation, pal. Don’t make the mistake of ever calling her that again in my presence.”

  My drive to The Breakers was as if I had a race away from the desperation dumpster. I was pleased that my next stop was to see Lilia and have her sign a contract with Trevar Investigators.

  Lilia Franco’s greeting was flavored with a perfect smile. She invited me into her luxury suite. I sat beside her on the sofa, and our mutual glance was one of the appraising strangers. Those who were to be friends, or perhaps more. I reported the altercation with Jeremy Howell. I also mentioned my concern for her safety.

  “You are kind to worry about my safety.” Her lilting accent accompanied a quick touch of her fingers against my folded hands. “I don’t believe Jeremy will harm me. I am usually well-protected with many people surrounding me.”

  “He battered Sylvia when they were married. And he may have killed her.”

  “I shall carry a small revolver. It belonged to Sylvia.”

  “She packed a gun?”

  “Although it was hers, I carried it for her. I took care of many of her small items. If not, she would have forgotten them. I dispensed her pills, cosmetics, and even carried her weapon for her. I attempted to care for the small things so that she might better concentrate on her performances. I’d forgotten I had the gun in my handbag until now. With Jeremy’s threat, I’m happy I’ve kept it.”