Trouble in Rooster Paradise

by T. W. Emory

  She took my brown fedora and ushered me in. The shiny parquetry floor of her living room was fully exposed. An Oriental rug sat rolled up over to one side.

  I quickly gave her a two-sentence report of what happened.

  “That’s dreadful,” she said with a small shudder. “How distressing for you.” Her voice practically reached out and hugged me.

  I stole Rikard Lundeen’s line. “It looks like a tiger’s getting beaten out of the brush.”

  “It truly does. It’s just horrible.”

  Britt daubed her face with a towel. Residual makeup and perfume fragrances were now blended with another scent, not at all unpleasing—the feral brininess of vigorous exertion.

  “I’ll want more details, of course. But let me get cleaned up first.” Then, feeling an apparent need to explain, she said, “My aunt got me interested in dancing when I was younger. I never pursued it, but I still keep up with the exercises to keep fit and limber. It also helps me to unwind. These tights are my aunt’s. I have several pair just like these. You’ll have to excuse my appearance. I must look frightful.”

  “Not at all,” I said, meaning every word. I told her she could model the other pairs for me anytime. She smiled.

  She looked phenomenal in this particular glassy outfit. The material gave a metallic polish to her figure. She resembled one of those curvaceous girls you see in Buck Rogers. Only this was no paper doll. Not by a long shot.

  I gawked. I tried not to, but Britt had her back to me now so it was an epic struggle. Her form-fitting tights showed off capital-looking legs—the sinewy but shapely kind possessed by female dancers and trapeze artists. They seemed to go on forever. But where they finally did leave off, the solid roundness of a gymnast’s rump took over. She seemed unaware of her sensuality, so frankly exhibited in the way she was standing—her full round hips tilting indifferently.

  “While you wait, please make yourself a drink. There’s wine, beer, and glasses in the kitchen. Or if you’d prefer,” she pointed to a small dining nook off the living room, “you’ll find something stronger in the credenza.”

  I brazenly ogled as she scurried off to her shower. If I were the delicate sort, I’d have fainted dead away from the experience. Luckily I was never so dainty.

  Before shutting the bathroom door she called back, “Be a dear and roll out the rug for me, will you?”

  I covered up Britt’s makeshift dance floor and pulled a couple of pieces of furniture back where they seemed to belong. With her no longer distracting me, I was able to take in the tasteful surroundings. It was cozy. The facing of the credenza was decorated with ornate marquetry. It was doubtless an heirloom, as probably were the dining room table and chairs. But the furnishings in the living room were all recent acquisitions. She owned a television set. A 16-inch Philco. One of those consolette ensembles I’d seen advertised in the paper. All in all, I’d say the head honcho lady seemed to be doing all right for herself.

  I could hear the shower was still going strong.

  I found ice cubes for my tumbler in the refrigerator freezer. The mouth-slavering aroma of roasting chicken wafted up at me from the oven. As I poured myself some Scotch from the credenza I heard the shower go off.

  I busied myself by finding plates and silverware. I set them on her small dining room table where she’d already spread a cloth. I couldn’t find the butter plate, but I put out salt and pepper shakers. I also discovered some decorative napkins in the top drawer of the credenza.

  Feeling pleased with myself, I took my drink back to the living room and planted my body in a club chair with big balloon cushions. It was the perfect spot for when she watched the television.

  I parked my drink on the coffee table in front of me. What looked like a small family gallery took up one corner. I picked up two of the pictures that particularly caught my eye.

  The first was of Blanche Arnot and a teenage version of Britt standing next to a woman maybe ten years Britt’s senior. This had to be the Aunt Alexis she’d told me about. She too was a looker. The other photo was one I’d seen at Blanche Arnot’s. It was a studio portrait of Aunt Alexis alone that had been oil-painted. She was fair-haired like her niece, but a strawberry blonde.

  “She was beautiful, don’t you think?” Britt asked from behind me.

  “Definitely,” I said.

  I turned and saw my hostess just come from a showdown with her dressing table and wardrobe. She was the clear victor. Summer hadn’t officially begun, but it had at Britt’s place. She’d put a bow in her hair and wore a bolero dress with a texture that resembled a waffle-iron mold. She was wearing a smart pair of toeless sandals with wedge heels, but no nylons. The whole getup from head to foot was the color of ripe peaches and gave me a powerful yen for peach cobbler.

  She headed for the kitchen.

  I got up and followed her.

  She poured herself a glass of wine and we talked while she prepared dinner. I finished my Scotch and replaced it with a bottle of Rainier Extra Pale.

  I said that I liked her apartment.

  “Do you? I’m glad. It was my aunt’s place originally. It’s been home since I came to Seattle. The rent has only been raised once. I’ve been lucky that way.”

  I told her in detail what had happened to Addison Darcy and me. I held back on my theories, but did tell her I was pretty confident that Len and his Packard weren’t the culprits.

  “That’s a relief,” she said, “although I was pretty sure that’s what you’d determine. Which reminds me. So far none of the girls know a man who drives a newer Packard. But it’s as you thought—they don’t know automobiles very well. However, Peggy did explain her comment from earlier. She said she believed Christine might have been seeing someone other than Dirk, but that it didn’t seem to be a serious relationship. One of the other girls had a similar feeling. I’ll keep at it.”

  I thanked her for her efforts.

  By the time we sat down to dinner I’d switched to wine. We ate roast game hen, stringed beans sautéed in butter, and leftover potato salad. It was excellent and I said so several times.

  I told her a bit about myself. My upbringing by my grandparents in a little whistle stop upstate called Conway. I talked about my old partner Lou and our work at the Bristol Agency. At Britt’s request, I made a few comments about the war. I stuck to humorous incidents. I usually revisited the horrific experiences only in my dreams. She told me a little about life growing up among the apple-growers of Wenatchee and her business schooling.

  “I have four older brothers. After Mom died my dad thought I needed some female influences. So he shunted me off to Seattle. I hated it at first. But Aunt Alexis turned that around in a hurry.”

  She talked mainly about her Aunt Alexis, and how she’d idolized her. Alexis had worked as a legal secretary, but her real passion had been for performing.

  “She could do it all. Act, sing, dance. Ask Blanche Arnot. She’ll tell you the same thing.”

  Britt told me more details about what she called the dark times, when a man Alexis was madly in love with had abruptly ended their relationship. Britt’s aunt had been devastated.

  “She had a nervous breakdown. After that she never shook a malaise that led to a deterioration of her spirit. She sought refuge in drink.”

  Britt explained again how she’d curtailed her own plans in order to take care of her failing aunt. Alexis’ alcoholic dementia worsened and led Britt to have her committed. After she’d died, Britt had taken the job as Len Pearson’s aide-de-camp.

  I helped her clear the table and put the dishes in the sink. She insisted on doing them the next morning. The wine bottle was a dead soldier, so I grabbed another beer. She didn’t. We went into the living room and sank together on a daveno that matched her club chair for comfort.

  We talked about poor Meredith. Britt said she’d called her when she got home from work, but there was no answer.

  “If I were her I’d be making lots of Zs,” I said.

  S
he smiled, agreed, and then said, “This morning you mentioned you had a feeling Meredith had more to say than she did when you talked. You said it was as if she was holding something back. What did you mean by that?”

  I told her of the telephone conversation Meredith had overheard—how she listened as Christine made plans to meet someone in Ballard, and had sounded hurt, like she’d been cheated. I added, “Meredith was pretty certain it wasn’t Dirk she was talking to on the phone. She thinks Christine was having an affair with one of her customers.”

  I saw a brief flash of comprehension in her eyes. “Ah, that’s the main reason why you wanted the list.”

  “Right.”

  “And so your suspicion springs from more than just a theory,” she said.

  “Right again. I also believe Meredith had more to say on the subject. I think she felt awkward talking about it at work. I’m going to call on her in the morning. I hope to get her to open up.”

  “Your line of work must be very exciting.”

  “It can be. It has been in the past twenty-four hours. More than I like.”

  We talked some more about the attempts on my life and Addison Darcy’s. Then we shifted to nothing in particular. My beer was gone and our foreheads were maybe eight inches apart. We stared at each other for a while in silence—long enough for our breathing patterns to synchronize. We kissed. Her mouth was soft, her lips supple. We kissed several times.

  Britt got up and took my hand. I followed her across the room like a dazed bovine led to shelter in a squall.

  At work Britt was a little playful but she struck me as mainly officious, reserved, and genteel. I now met her alter ego. Bolero dress and undergarments hit the floor with a speed that would have horrified a veteran stripper like Mrs. Berger. I had no complaints. I was going to ask if she worked hot and did all the kicks, but I held my tongue. Sometimes you just don’t ask questions.

  At some point I drifted off to sleep. I dreamt Britt was talking on the phone. It was a dream made to seem real because I was awakened when she climbed back into bed.

  She snuggled up close to me. Her clock said 11:45.

  “I should probably be going,” I said.

  “So soon?” she purred, coaxing me with her kisses into a repeat performance. I was exhausted, but she was persuasive. And I was nothing if not persuadable.

  I stayed in Britt’s bed until almost 1:30 a.m. It was a welcome conclusion to the past couple of days of madness. I reluctantly pulled myself from the leg lock she had on me. As I dressed she got up and put on her bathrobe.

  At the front door we kissed. Unbelievably, she wanted me to stay for an extra inning. But just as unbelievably, I graciously declined. I was done in. Plus, as much as the idea appealed to me, it went against my sense of propriety. I was concerned what the neighbors might think. I didn’t want them to get the right impression.

  So instead, I courteously thanked her for a great dinner and an even greater evening.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow,” I said.

  “You mean you’ll call me today. And I’ll expect you to,” she replied. She then gave me a genuine goodbye kiss with cool lips and an elfin glance that disappeared coyly as she shut the door.

  I hopped down her porch steps with Fred Astaire’s light feet. Or so I liked to think.

  Britt on the job was alluring. Britt at home was downright ambrosial. I could see that an intelligent and determined woman like her probably needed to compartmentalize her life at work and her personal life. But what a delectable contrast.

  I was in love.

  Well, I’d scratched a mighty lascivious itch, anyway.

  I drove home slowly. The alcohol was long out of my bloodstream, but I had to fight nodding off. I wished that the Chevy could make its own way home like some faithful Cayuse with its frolic-sodden cowboy asleep in the saddle.

  When I got to Mrs. Berger’s, my light feet had grown heavy. I gave the street a reconnoitering scan before I went inside. No killer appeared to be lurking in the shadows. I didn’t utter a peep as I made for the stairs. I didn’t even glance at Mrs. Berger’s cheesecake photos.

  I went to brush my teeth and discovered vomit in the sink and on the floor. Poor Walter. He probably thought he’d hit his mark, but had been beguiled by the Black & White.

  It saddened me and took away some of my zest from earlier.

  The bathroom reeked of bile. I cleaned up the mess with fresh towels that I rinsed off in the tub before sending them down the laundry chute. I disinfected the area with Lysol and then showered.

  Since Walter, my sentinel, had taken the night off, I set my .38 on the nightstand and wedged a chair in front of the door. I balanced a water glass on the doorknob as an added precaution.

  It was 3:00 a.m. when I finally hit the sack.

  I didn’t go right to sleep. My clean-up duty had rekindled my feelings of guilt for abandoning Cissy and Walter in their time of need. I’d always intended to come up with a definite system of ethics for myself. I figured I’d use Benjamin Franklin’s moral algebra when I finally got around to it. I’d weigh all actions with pros and cons. I figured that way I wouldn’t be hounded by second guesses when these kinds of dilemmas occurred.

  I managed to shake off my guilt. I reasoned that sometimes a guy’s got to go his own way—look after himself. How else did he keep sane? I convinced myself that in a heartbeat Cissy and Walter would have done the same thing if they were wearing my ten-and-a-half Ds.

  That last thought allowed me to drift off to sleep feeling a little less critical of Gunnar the Self-Seeker.

  Chapter 11

  “Have you ever heard of Fletcherism, Kirsti?”

  “Pardon me?”

  She looked a little flushed in the face. I’d broken into her thoughts. Despite her modern views of sex and her claim that she was no prig, I think my escapade with Britt caused her prudish slip to show.

  “Fletcherism. Ever heard of it?”

  “No.”

  “Well, Mrs. Berger was a fanatical proponent of Fletcherism. The namesake of this practice was Horace Fletcher. He believed a person should eat only when he was hungry and that he should chew his food hundreds of times.”

  “Sounds radical.”

  “Very. Fanatically so. The practice was popularized but later rejected by John Harvey Kellogg, staff physician at that famous Battle Creek Sanitarium.”

  “The Cornflakes Kellogg?”

  “The very same. I’m surprised you’ve heard of him.”

  “Oh, I get around. Why’d Kellogg later reject this Fletcherism stuff?”

  “Something to do with too much chewing breaking down fibers.”

  “Sorry I asked.”

  “Uh-huh. Mrs. Berger had learned about Fletcherism years before from a dentist who’d wined and dined her when she was new to burlesque. He called her his ‘greenhorn ecdysiast.’ ”

  “His what?”

  “Ecdysiast. It’s a pompous way of saying stripper.”

  “Oh.”

  “According to Mrs. Berger, the dentist had encouraged her to become a star. She loved to tell the story of how he kept insisting that practice was the key. Of course, each time he took her out, he wanted her to do some practicing for him and give him a private performance when the evening was through.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “In the words of Mrs. Berger: ‘He was a damn good burlesque coach but had some funny ways when it came to the baser needs department.’ She said she didn’t love him. She knew she never could. As soon as he’d finished an overhaul on her teeth and helped her perfect her hitch kick, she broke it off.”

  “A real tragedy, I’m sure,” Kirsti said, far from enthused.

  “Mrs. Berger was a devoted Fletcherite ever after. I must have heard the dentist story a hundred times. She even had Walter weave it into the play they worked on. You see, her fictional heroine was a devoted Fletcherite.”

  “Oookay ….” Kirsti said in a slow hollow tone as she goggled at me.
/>   “I mention Fletcherism and Mrs. Berger’s play because as frequently happened, both came up in conversation at the breakfast that followed my return from Britt’s.”

  I’d planned to call on Meredith Lane between 8:30 and 9:00 Saturday morning, but I didn’t exit Dreamtown till 8:45.

  I dreamt that Walter and I were in a pet store. We were buying a small cage. I insisted we needed one with a wheel. We argued. The next thing I knew we came home and walked in on Mrs. Berger teaching Britt Anderson and Len Pearson how to work her prized Sittenberg fans. Both were fully clothed—but Pearson was in drag. Mrs. Berger told Walter and me, “Strip down to your BVDs, boys, and join us.”

  I woke feeling disturbed by the dream and grateful it was over.

  Mrs. Berger didn’t serve a formal breakfast on the weekends. Still, we all hit the kitchen about the same time, which was a shocker, considering the shape we were in.

  “Gunnar, were you ever in an opium den?” Mrs. Berger asked as I came in the kitchen.

  I nodded.

  “What was it like? Did they lurk? Was it like the ocean? You know, like moving waves of doped-up heads splashing into one another? Oh … I like that one, Walter. Try to remember it.”

  “I was running at the time,” I said. “I didn’t notice any waves or splashing heads.”

  Sten was busy at the stove. Sten was a hollow-legged leader in the art of downing schooners. He was scrambling eggs with the slow and calculating moves of a deluxe hangover. He had the pan on a back burner, safe from the ash-droppings from his cigarette.

  I sidled up next to Sten and poured myself a cup of coffee and then stood leaning against the drain board.

  Mrs. Berger sat at the table, chewing and re-chewing a mouthful of buttered toast as she read the Post-Intelligencer. Her struggle with nail-biting wasn’t going well. Only the tips of her thumbs, pinkies, and one index finger wore tattered Band-Aid remains. She was wearing sun goggles, which meant she either had a migraine or a hangover. Whichever, it didn’t stop her from jabbering.