Damsels in Distress

by Joan Hess

  “None of them ever mentioned Serengeti to me,” I said. “Maybe it was random. There hasn’t been an obit in the newspaper, but everybody in Farberville is aware of Salvador’s murder. He had an expensive house and car. Someone might have assumed the rich leave cash and jewelry scattered around like bread crumbs. Was the house locked?”

  “Jorgeson made sure it was locked when they left yesterday, but it was open when the officers went by this morning. We found the Galway woman’s fingerprints all over the house, and a lot of others. From what I’ve heard, he entertained both downstairs and in his bedroom. There’s no way we can identify the majority of the prints, unless he hosted meetings of Felons Anonymous.”

  “Not quite his social circle.”

  Peter’s eyes narrowed. “Corporal McTeer told me about your outing last night, or as much as she knew. Why on earth did you go to Edward’s apartment, and what does Julius Valens have to do with it?”

  I related the sorry story and showed him my scratches. Sympathy was not forthcoming, although he did wince when I mentioned that the telltale bra was under the coffee table when I left. “I was home before ten o’clock. I have no idea what happened after I left,” I added virtuously.

  “Edward told us that Benny had been there,” he said, “but he forgot to mention Fiona. I suppose I’d better hunt them down again. And you"—he jabbed his finger at me-”need to keep your nose out of it. Two people have been brutally killed in the last three days. Consider yourself grounded until I say otherwise. You’d better be here or at home. Don’t go to the beer garden with Luanne or to her apartment. She can visit you.”

  “Grounded?” I said, miffed. “Don’t be absurd. I shall go wherever I please.”

  “I can charge you with interfering with an investigation and keep you in custody for forty-eight hours.”

  “You wouldn’t dare!” I sputtered, now outraged.

  Peter glared at me. “Wouldn’t I?”

  “I am a card-carrying member of the ACLU. Do you want them to organize a protest at the PD? Better yet, at the mayor’s office? As reluctant as I am to become a cause célèbre, I will accept the burden to fight back against a totalitarian police state.”

  “You’re making absolutely no sense, but you’re quite sexy when your face turns pink and your eyes flash.”

  “My face is not pink.”

  “Is too.”

  “Is not!”

  Regrettably, Jorgeson came back inside in time to hear my schoolyard retort. “Tut, tut, children, play nice. Lieutenant, the captain’s waiting for you. From what I could hear, the office is packed with Japanese reporters and cameramen, all demanding a statement about their idol, Stark Reality. Because of their accents, it took the captain ten minutes to figure out who they meant. He tried to tell them that we didn’t know about any stalkers. It’s what you might call a madhouse.”

  “Don’t blame that on me,” I said, still sulking.

  They left without further ado. I grabbed the feather duster and attacked the poetry rack. Dust was billowing (poetry is not among my bestsellers) and I was sneezing convulsively when my science fiction hippie ambled in. If he found my behavior curious, he did not feel the need to make any comments regarding it, but instead hunched down in front of the fantasy paperbacks.

  I stowed my weapon under the counter and sat down, feeling somewhat calmer. “What do you know about this guy called Stark Reality?”

  He popped into view. “The guy who got killed at the Ren Fair? Man, that was gruesome. There was a scene in Zormurd in the Tomb of the Wizards where one of the zombie warriors attacked Zormurd with a battle-ax. Zormurd caught him in a death grip and ripped his head off. It exploded like a puff ball. Very cool.”

  “I’m sure it was. Did you know that Salvador Davis was the author?”

  The hippie sank out of view. “Yeah, I heard it a few years ago at a con in Omaha. These computer whiz kids can find out most anything. All this business about privacy is a farce. If one of the little smart-asses cared, he could get your Social Security number, SAT scores, all your tax returns, the location of your family burial plot, and your dog’s name. I had a dog, name of Rabelais. I don’t remember what happened to him.”

  I refused to be sidetracked. “Weren’t you curious about meeting the author?”

  He reappeared at the end of the rack. “Why would I be?”

  “Well,” I said, floundering, “he wrote these graphic novels you seem to enjoy. He was a luminary in the genre.”

  “We are all luminaries in our own genres. You know, I think I’ll go look for that dog. He could be around somewhere.”

  I cut him off at the door and held out my hand. He gave me a paperback, shrugged, and wandered out the door and up the street. He probably had another one tucked away somewhere, but I let it go. Instead, I called Luanne and explained that I was weak from hunger but not allowed to leave the premises under threat of incarceration. She agreed to show up with taco salads within the hour.

  Between customers, I pondered the idea that had occurred to me. Serengeti had said something even more peculiar than usual. However, speculation without proof was pointless, as well as annoying. I went so far as to clean out the top desk drawer in my minute office, but I was too distracted to do more than toss out pens that had quit working years ago and gather up loose paper clips. I had several utility knives that I used to open boxes of books. They had modified razor blades that were wickedly sharp. It would require little effort to grab someone from behind and make a fatal incision. Weight or height would not be a factor—only surprise.

  I could not bring myself to envision the scene between Serengeti and the intruder.

  A random act of unplanned violence—or a premeditated murder? I wondered if the ARSE members were aware of her occasional presence. She’d been in the living room the night of the cocktail party, but Luanne and I had not seen her when we arrived. Or hadn’t noticed her, anyway. Black on black.

  When the phone rang, I stared at it. If it proved to be Peter, checking on me, I might feel obliged to respond with justifiable hostility. If it was Luanne, wanting to know if I preferred hot or mild sauce, I didn’t care. I finally picked up the receiver.

  “Mother,” Caron said, “can I keep the car for the rest of the day? Emily, Carrie, Inez, and I want to go to the lake, even though we’ll have to sit on the rocky beach instead of going out on a party barge. It’s so boring around here that Inez’s mother offered to teach us how to knit, and I almost agreed.”

  “I suppose so,” I said, then stopped to think. “Here’s the deal, dear. In the briefcase in the living room is a photo of a woman. Before you go to the lake, I want you to get the photo and hunt down any one of the fairies who went to the dance class. It doesn’t have to be Rhonda Maguire, who’s likely to be too busy booking a Mediterranean cruise on a private yacht. Find out if the woman in the photo taught the dance class. If she’d didn’t, get a description of the woman who did. Then call me.”

  “That could take hours,” she groaned. “It’s peak tanning time right now.”

  “Knit one, purl two.”

  “You are Totally Insufferable. Emily’s mother is making us sandwiches and brownies. Inez is putting ice in a cooler.”

  “Then you need to hurry,” I said. “And don’t dare leave the city limits until you’ve called me, or I’ll apprentice you to Sally Fromberger until you’re eighteen.”

  “I cannot believe this!”

  She hung up, as did 1.1 had the glimmer of another idea, hardly substantial but worthy of investigation. If Rosie Neely had taught the dance class, then I was wrong—but I would have bet a taco salad that I wasn’t.

  Luanne arrived with both hot and mild sauce. After we’d settled down to eat at my desk, I told her about Serengeti.

  “That pitiful creature?” she said as she popped an olive in her mouth.

  “I think she had less than benevolent reasons for posturing as she did. She told me she was an old girlfriend who was out for revenge. S
he wore the makeup so Salvador wouldn’t recognize her.”

  “Okay,” Luanne said, “but from what you’ve said, she was one of many.”

  “She’s also the one who happened to show up just when Salvador’s life was about to take a hit from a missile. Don’t you think that’s too much of a coincidence?”

  “Coincidences happen. Read Jung if you don’t believe me.”

  “I know they do, but this one’s glaring. I don’t know how to follow up on my idea, though. Do you know any computer hackers?”

  Luanne wiped sauce off her chin. “Yeah, but it’ll cost you. Remember that guy I was dating last year?”

  “The rich man, the poor man, the beggar man, or the thief? How on earth could I keep track of all the men you date?”

  “The one who stood me up on Valentine’s because his fourteen- year-old son found a way to hack into the Department of Defense’s top secret documents. They were having so much fun that he didn’t call me for three weeks. I dumped him for an accountant who was indicted for tax fraud a month later. It was a bleak winter.”

  “How much will it cost me?”

  Luanne giggled. “A six-pack of Mountain Dew and several bags of Doritos. Do you want me to call him?”

  “Please do,” I said. “Can you drive? Caron and her friends are going to the lake, so I won’t have the car until at least seven.”

  She refused to agree until I told her what I had in mind, as improbable as it was. She called the kid, who agreed to see us at four o’clock. After we’d finished eating and she left, I pulled out the ledger and immersed myself in cash flow. Even Moses might not have been able to part my red sea, I thought glumly. When the phone rang, I lunged for the receiver. “Caron?”

  “Yes, Mother,” she said in the plaintive voice of a martyr. “I finally caught up with Martha Ellen at her hairdresser’s. She goes to this guy named Riccardo, who was offended that I interrupted him in the midst of his delicate artistry. It was a haircut, for pity’s sake, not the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.”

  “Did you show Martha Ellen the photo?”

  “Riccardo made me wait fifteen minutes while he trimmed her ends. I was ready to attack him with his hair dryer when he finally stepped back to admire his work. Martha Ellen said it wasn’t the woman who taught the dance class. Her description of the woman who did was lame, but Martha Ellen can’t tie her shoes in the dark. She had to spend her sophomore year abroad. She told everybody she went to boarding school in France, but nobody believed her. Can we go to the lake now?”

  “What did Martha Ellen say?”

  “That the woman looked like a transvestite clown. A dreadful yellow wig that swallowed her face, bright red lipstick, blotches of rouge. She wore a swirly robe with orange and pink flowers, and jabbed them with an umbrella whenever they missed a cue or tripped. Martha Ellen said when she got home, she had bruises on her butt. She and several others wanted to quit, but Rhonda convinced them not to because of that preposterous midterm paper. Now they’re all worried that Miss Thackery will make them write it anyway. Martha Ellen doesn’t know a footnote from a footprint.”

  “Remember to take sunscreen to the lake,” I said, “and be home before dark.”

  I was relieved that none of the ARSE members dropped by the store to confide in me during the next three hours. At ten till four, I locked the store and sat by the back door to wait for Luanne. Neither Peter nor Corporal McTeer had peeked around the corner when Luanne drove up. Resisting the urge to dive into her backseat and throw a blanket over myself, I took the more decorous approach and got in next to her.

  “I hope we aren’t being followed,” I said as I adjusted the rearview mirror so I could watch the traffic behind us.

  “There’s a purple wig in the backseat on the floor. I wore it for Mardi Gras. Shake the spiders out of it before you put it on.”

  “I do not need a disguise. I am not an escapee from detention.”

  Luanne moved the rearview mirror back into place. “Fine, then stop squirming around and staring over your shoulder. The kid’s name is Max. I already picked up the chips and soda, and you owe me six dollars and change. And if I’m arrested for aiding and abetting a fugitive, I expect to be reimbursed for bail money. Every penny of it.”

  “Just drive,” I muttered.

  Luanne’s ex-suitor lived in the historic district. As we walked to the front door, I glanced up the street for patrol cars. It seemed I had made good my escape, at least for the time being. The teenager who answered the door did not fit the stereotypic geek role, although he was short and wore wire-rimmed glasses. His hair was clean, his skin clear, and he was dressed in shorts and a T-shirt extolling the prowess of some band.

  “Thank you so much, Max,” Luanne said as she handed over a sack from the grocery store. “I’ve been telling my friend how clever you are. She’s very impressed. Anything new at the DOD?”

  “You sure she’s okay?” he asked nervously.

  “She’s a bleeding-heart liberal, a bookseller, and a stalwart defender of freedom of information.”

  “I can show you my ACLU card,” I offered.

  “No, that’s all right,” said Max. “Follow me.”

  We went into his bedroom, or what I supposed was his bedroom, since the bed was hidden under a mound of dirty clothes and magazines. He had more electronics equipment than a discount store. Some of it was vaguely familiar, but the majority could have been almost anything, including a communications center for an alien race.

  “Sit anywhere,” he said as he perched on a stool in front of a computer.

  Luanne and I looked around, then I said, “We’ll stand, if you don’t mind. I’m interested in an adoption that took place about fifteen years ago or so. Since it involves a minor, the records may be sealed.”

  Max flipped some switches. “Details.”

  “The child’s name is Edward, and he was adopted by a man named Cobbinwood. I don’t know where, but my best guess is California. I’m sorry I don’t know the year, but...”

  Max was already attacking the keyboard, his fingers moving like those of a concert pianist. Screens flashed onto the monitor for nanoseconds, then were replaced by others. I thought I caught a glimpse of the word “California,” but it vanished. After no more than a minute, he rolled back the stool and said, “You want to read it yourself?”

  “Uh, yes,” I said. “The records weren’t sealed?”

  “Does it matter?” he asked. “This was hardly worth the time. Now if you want to see the CIA reports on terrorist cells in Saudi Arabia, that’ll take a little while. I’m going to get something to eat.” He was opening a can of Mountain Dew as he left the room.

  I sat down on the stool. “The adoption took place in Oakland sixteen years ago. The petitioner was Charles Stewart Cobbinwood. Edward’s biological father was listed as unknown, and therefore without parental rights. His mother’s name was Michelle Antoinette Galway.”

  “Who called herself Serengeti,” said Luanne. “Good guess.”

  “It wasn’t a guess. I just didn’t know her name until Peter told me yesterday. Coincidence, my foot. Edward told me that she moved away while he was at Berkeley, and that he hasn’t had any contact with her since then. I think it’s more likely that eventually she came to Farberville because Salvador Davis was living here. My science fiction hippie told me earlier today that Stark Reality’s real name was practically common knowledge. If you knew one, you could find the other. Either Edward told her, or she found someone like Max who could produce the information between sips of soda.”

  “Did she come here to kill him?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted, “and I don’t know that she did. She must have found out from one of her old friends that Edward had been accepted at the college. She got here first and managed to weasel her way into her ex-lover’s life. Who knows what she planned to do when Salvador was forced to acknowledge paternity? Humiliate him, for one thing. Peddle her pathetic story to a tabloid. Better yet, dema
nd twenty-one years of back child support. That could make for a nice sum, considering Salvador’s financial situation.”

  “No kidding,” Luanne murmured. “He was making scads of money from the Stark Reality comic books.”

  “Graphic novels,” I corrected her. “When I was talking to her yesterday before we were so rudely interrupted, she said something about how ‘we’ could sell his early work. That could only make sense if she expected to have influence over the estate.”

  Max came back in the room with a handful of chips and a jar of peanut butter. “Are you done? I need to get back to work.”

  Luanne gave him a suspicious look. “Work, Max?”

  “Yeah, I intercept e-mails from brokerage firms, politicians, and celebrities, and sell them to interested parties. I’m saving up for a Carrera GT when I turn sixteen. I falsified my birth certificate, but my father still won’t let me get a driver’s license.”

  “Can you print this out?” I asked. “I don’t want to get you in trouble, but I need a copy of it.”

  “No problem. I used my Turkish account, so no one can trace it back to me.” He started the printer. “Hey, Luanne, you still mad at my father?”

  “I’m afraid so, Max,” she said. “I expected roses and jewelry on Valentine’s Day. It may take me years to recover from the trauma.”

  He raised his eyebrows, but remained silent while he took a page from the printer and gave it to me. “You single?”

  “Engaged, with a wedding date in two months. Thanks for your help, Max.”

  He was already back at the keyboard, typing at the speed of light. Luanne and I let ourselves out and retreated to her car. Neither of us spoke until we were on Thurber Street.

  “What next?” Luanne asked.