A Body To Dye For (Stan Kraychik Book 1)

by Grant Michaels

  I spoke as calmly as I could. “Do you know Roger?”

  “I’m asking the questions!” He tightened my collar with his strong hands and I felt the trapped blood gathering in my scalp. So much for my defensive behavior theory.

  “Okay, okay,” I groaned, and he released me. “I met Roger last Wednesday, in Boston where I work.”

  “That’s a lie! You kidnapped him.” He grabbed at my neck again. “And now you’re here to get me!” He squeezed hard. A blunt pain in my throat prevented air from passing and my eyeballs pulsed hard. I shook my head frantically. He squeezed harder, then released the pressure just enough for me to breathe.

  I croaked, “Roger wasn’t kidnapped.”

  “Is he all right?”

  I shook my head no.

  “What happened?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “You’re lying!” he screamed, and slammed me back onto the floor. Then he got up and paced around the floor near me. Now I did hurt, but with his weight off me, at least I could breathe again. He hadn’t quite mastered the velvet-glove technique.

  When I got my breath, I said, “I’m not lying. That’s why I’m here.” My voice sounded appealingly mean and rough from having my throat wrenched. I kind of hoped it would stay that way.

  He said, “How did you find this place?”

  “You know a guy named Leonard?”

  “Oh, him! Ms. Leona,” he said, and he swayed his hips and held his wrist limply in front of him.

  I nodded. “He’s the kind that gives hairdressers a bad name.” (And the kind I have nightmares of becoming.)

  The young man looked astonished. “Are you a hairdresser?”

  I nodded again.

  He said, “You don’t act like one, the way you broke in here.”

  “I’m one of the new breed.” I wriggled the ropes clasping my hands and feet. “Can you untie me now?”

  “Not until you tell me why you’re here.”

  “I already told you, I want to find out why Roger went to Boston.”

  “Why?”

  “I think I know who killed him.” I pulled myself up to a sitting position. Those few sit-ups every morning finally came in handy. “And if I find out why Roger went to Boston, I can probably discover the killer’s motive. Then I can nail him.” It seemed I was giving the same tired explanation to everyone I met.

  He weighed my words. “I want to believe you, but I don’t dare.” He appraised me as a smart puppy would, testing his senses to see whether I was trustworthy. After a few moments his eyes became dark and glossy. He looked away, then spoke as if to himself. “They all make it sound so dirty.” Then he walked away from me.

  “What are you talking about?” I asked.

  He was at the window, looking out into the nearly extinguished sunlight. “There’s no secrets, not in this place. Yosemite’s small, and everyone thinks the same here. They think Roger and I were lovers.”

  “Were you?”

  “We were friends,” he answered quickly. “We did it together—a lot—but it didn’t mean anything.”

  I wondered how people could insert or accept each others body parts and then casually say it didn’t mean anything. He continued explaining, as though reading my mind. “We just did it, that’s all.” He shrugged.

  “How long were you together?”

  “About a year.”

  “So, why did Roger go to Boston?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You must know, if you were lovers.”

  “We were friends!”

  “All right, friends then!”

  He moved slowly toward the pile of ropes near the other window. He kicked at the ropes and said quietly, “It all started after the slide.”

  “What slide?”

  “Over here,” he said, looking out the window. He came back to me and helped me stand up. “I’ll show you.” He led me hopping to the west-side window. He pointed to a high cliff. “That’s Washington Column. See that patch of rock that’s clean and new at the top?” I peered carefully where his finger was aiming and nodded. He said, “That’s where the slide happened last month.”

  “Wow!” I said as I realized how much of the granite column had fallen.

  “Slides happen here all the time, but after this one Roger went crazy. Maybe because his view was ruined.”

  “Or maybe it was something else,” I said.

  The young man paused at my words. “Maybe.” Then he said, “Roger was usually calm, but after that he was tense all the time. He was always making phone calls and writing letters. We didn’t have much sex either, and when he did it, it was fast and rough. I could tell he was mad about something, but he wouldn’t talk about it. He said he didn’t want me to get involved.”

  “And this all happened after the slide?”

  He nodded. “Then he went to Boston last Tuesday. The next thing, the rangers were all over here, then the state police from Sacramento came, and now you show up.” He stopped suddenly with a look of fright. I’m talking too much.” He went quickly to the cabin door and opened it. “I’ll be back,” he said.

  “You’re not going to leave me tied up here?”

  But he was already out of the cabin. I heard him lock the door behind him. He clearly intended to keep me hostage, but he forgot one thing. I was still standing and able to hop around. All I had to do was get the ropes off and I’d be free.

  First, I tried to slide my hands down behind my rump, figuring I could get them to the front of my legs and use my fingers to untie the rope that bound my feet. But I couldn’t get my wrists past my butt. Longer apelike arms would have helped. Then I figured, even with the rope off my feet, my hands would still be tied. So I concentrated on getting my hands free.

  I looked around the cabin for a helper, something common and useful like a sharp knife locked upright in a vise. But the only thing I saw was the stove. Did I dare expose my bound hands—the only source of my worldly income—to an open flame? No way.

  Then I remembered them. Scissors. There were some ordinary paper shears in the top drawer of the writing desk. And if there’s one tool I can adapt to any situation, it’s scissors. These would never cut through the thick nylon rope that bound me, but they would do just fine to loosen the fat knot around my wrists. I used my ten free fingers to get the scissors out of the drawer. Then I slid them, handle down, into one of my back pants pockets. It wasn’t easy. My hands were, after all, bound together behind me. I had to do everything kind of sidesaddle, just like a lady. Once I finally got the scissors into the pocket though, they wobbled too much, so I had to pull them out again to try another plan. That’s exactly when they jumped from my hands onto the floor. (I never drop scissors.) They didn’t go far, though. I lowered myself carefully to my knees, and crept to where the scissors lay. I got them in my fingers again, but this time I wedged the blades under my belt first to stabilize them in an upright position. Then I slid the handle into my pocket again. Once the scissors were steady, I had to rest for a few seconds. I hadn’t done that much torso-twisting since the one time I tried the video workout with you know who.

  I studied the knots my young captor had used around my feet, and assumed he’d used the same kind on my wrists. Then I maneuvered my bound hands over the point of the scissors until the blade tips penetrated the big bumpy knot. After ten minutes of careful prodding, one of the loops loosened a bit. I wriggled my wrists and managed to get my clever left-hand fingers into the knot. After that it was a piece of cake. Two minutes later I was free—and sore.

  I left the cabin and quickly pedaled back to the village center. It was after eight o’clock and very dark. I knew there was no telephone in my cabin, so I called Nicole at home from a pay phone. I told her about Leonard and what had just happened in Roger’s cabin.

  “You get on the next plane and get back here right now!’’

  “But, Nikki—”

  “No ‘but Nikki.’ This is the second time you’ve been assaulted. Now s
top this nonsense and come home!”

  “Nikki, I was trespassing. I broke into the place.”

  “I don’t care. You’re in danger. I’m calling Lieutenant Branco. This is ridiculous!” Then she was silent. I could hear her lighting a cigarette.

  I breathed impatiently into the receiver, waited a few seconds, then asked, “Are you done?”

  “I’m never done. I’m just resting.” She exhaled and I could almost see the smoke swirling about her.

  “Nikki, people up here knew Roger. Someone will know why he went to Boston.”

  “Then get them to tell you, then come straight home.”

  “But they’re not telling me. That’s just the point. The two people I met today are both hiding something.”

  “Stanley, does it ever occur to you that sometimes people aren’t hiding something, that they really don’t know these big secrets you’ve concocted, that what they’re telling you is the truth?”

  After a suitable dramatic pause, I said, “Never.”

  “I’m calling Lieutenant Branco right now.”

  I said, “Don’t, Nikki, not yet.”

  “When should I call him? When your body is found in a snowdrift?”

  “That could happen in Boston, too.”

  “Then come back and satisfy your death wish here!”

  “Not until I’ve got something to bring back with me.”

  Nicole huffed. “Then find it quick! Call me tomorrow.” She hung up. Sometimes a conversation with Nikki was truly satisfying.

  I drove back to my room at the campsite. When I got in, I turned on the shower to heat it up. I’d just got my clothes off when someone knocked at my door. I called through the door, “Who is it?”

  “It’s me,” said the door-muffled voice.

  “Who?”

  “From Roger’s place.”

  I pulled back the window curtain and looked out. It was the young man who’d knocked me out at Roger’s cabin. He was carrying a large white paper bag.

  “What do you want!” I yelled.

  “I brought you supper.”

  He held the bag up like bounty, and I thought of the Trojan horse. I would be a fool to open my door and let him in. But then, this guy probably knew more about Roger than anyone else I’d meet in Yosemite, and I’d be a fool not to wring some facts out of him. Also, without the disadvantage of surprise, I could probably hold my own with him. Besides, I was starving. And besides that, he was kind of cute.

  I turned off the shower and put on my light robe, the one I’d packed for the tropical California weather, wherever that was. I opened the door and stuck out my head but kept my body hidden behind it.

  He said. “I went back to the cabin and you were gone.”

  “I had a date. And I don’t do bondage.”

  His eyes looked eager and happy for some reason. “I wanted to make sure you’d be there when I got back. That’s why I left you tied up. Now everything is cold.”

  “There are easier ways to have dinner with me.”

  “I didn’t think you’d trust me after I put you out like that.”

  “Who says I trust you now?”

  “You opened the door, didn’t you?”

  He was right. “You might as well come in,” I said.

  He walked into the small cabin, then turned around and faced me as I closed and locked the door.

  “Nice legs,” he said after a quick appraisal of me in my robe.

  “Thanks. And if we’re going to be on such friendly terms, you might tell me your name.”

  He smiled as though he hoped I’d ask. “It’s Yudi.”

  “Judy?”

  “Yudi!”

  “What kind of name is that?”

  “I’m from Bali.”

  “I’m Stan.”

  “I know. Remember? I went through your pockets.”

  “Yeah, right. How did you find my cabin?”

  “I saw you driving out of the village center. There aren’t any other cars like yours in the valley. How did you untie yourself, anyway?”

  “Cub Scout training.”

  Then he asked seriously, “Do you really have a date?”

  I shook my head. “No. Why?”

  “Just wondering …’’ He then pulled two takeout containers from the bag and put them on the bureau. “It’s supposed to be barbecued chicken with rice and salad,” he said, “but everything’s all run together and cold now.”

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s still food.”

  The bag also contained two icy-cold bottles of beer, which I opened for us. I sat on the bed while we ate, with my robe demurely concealing the Czech family jewels. Yudi sat on a chair facing me. He had a curious grin on his face. My intuition told me what that grin meant, but I didn’t want to pursue it, not now at least.

  He asked, “Is the food all right?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Not exactly the all-natural wilderness diet I’d expect up here, but it’s fine.”

  I could see my words register with Yudi. He responded, “Roger liked health food, too.”

  I said, “How did you meet Roger?”

  He ate vigorously while he talked. “He was on vacation in Bali last summer.”

  I chewed and swallowed the tepid chicken, thinking there’s nothing like food when you’re hungry. “Your summer or our summer?” I asked, recalling Bali is south of the equator.

  Yudi thought a moment, then nodded. “That’s right … our summer, your winter. We met on the beach near the Sanur.” Yudi shrugged. “Roger liked me, and he asked me to come back with him. He thought I’d have a better life here, maybe go to school, so I said yes. I had nothing holding me there. My family’s all gone. Anyway, I was tired of carving wooden fish and painting frogs on tourists’ sneakers. And Roger was my first American.” Yudi’s eyes became glazed, and I sensed that he was remembering with fondness all the meaningless sex he had enjoyed with Roger. I imagined his firm brown body lying on the warm beach sand, and I began to understand Roger’s response to him.

  “Yudi, where did Roger used to climb rocks in the valley?”

  “Usually he goes, I mean went with Jack. Jack runs the climbing school.”

  “That near here?”

  “Sort of, but don’t go there.”

  “Why not?”

  “Jack is crazy.”

  We said no more, but watched each other eat until all the food was gone. Suddenly Yudi stood up. “I’d better go now.” He leaned toward me and kissed me on the cheek.

  “What’s that for?” I asked.

  “I think you’re nice.” His eyes were warm and inviting. “And before, when I was tying you up, I did find something I liked in your pockets.”

  I sensed a rustle among the crown jewels. “Don’t worry,” I said, testing the sincerity of his sudden enthusiasm, “it doesn’t mean anything.” To my surprise, he looked disappointed, then quickly ran out.

  When I finished my shower, it was after 10 p.m. I lay down to rest and plan my next move, but instead, exhausted by travel and adventure, I fell asleep.

  12

  HOW HIGH THE MOON

  SUNDAY MORNING I WAS AWAKENED by a gentle tapping on my cabin door. I got up and spread the plaid curtains slightly to look outside. Yudi’s face was pressed hard against the window. He used his lips, nose, and tongue to make writhing pink shapes on the frost-coated glass. It looked like a bad “artistic” moment from a porn film. I opened the door and said sharply, “What do you want?”

  “I thought I’d take you to Jacks climbing school.”

  “Who says I want to go there?”

  “I could tell what you wanted last night,” he said, his brown eyes lively even at that hour.

  “Yudi, I’ll find what I need on my own, thanks.”

  “Then I’ll come along for the ride.”

  Yudi’s tan skin glowed and his black hair glistened in the early-morning sun. I knew he was flirting, and I was vaguely irritated at myself for responding so easily.

 
I said, “Don’t you have anything else to do?”

  “Now that Roger’s gone, I don’t have a job.”

  “Why not?”

  “I used to help him.”

  “With what?”

  “Just … doing things.”

  That sure sounded like houseboy duties to me.

  Yudi went on, “And school doesn’t start until next January.”

  I surrendered. “Come back in half an hour,” I said. “I have to shower and get dressed.”

  “Want some help?”

  I smiled. “Maybe another time.”

  “You still don’t trust me, do you?”

  “You tie a mean knot, Yudi.”

  “I told you I was sorry. I didn’t know what else to do.” His eyes looked sad for a moment, then brightened quickly. “I’ll come back in thirty minutes.”

  When he left, it was seven-thirty, and true to his word, as the second hand completed its thirtieth tour on the face of my trusty Timex, Yudi was at my door again. This time he had a bag of food with him. “Let’s have breakfast in your car,” he said. “I know a good place on the way.”

  The place Yudi knew about had a spectacular view of the famous El Capitan. I pulled the car off the road near the base of the awesome pale granite monolith. Yudi had brought two completely different breakfasts: for himself, a gorgeous glazed Danish pastry, all buttery and flaky, filled with apricots and raspberries and almonds; and for me, one very beige, bland granola bar.

  “Why?” I asked plaintively. “Why not just two Danish?”

  Yudi answered, “From what you said last night, I thought you wanted health food, like Roger.”

  “No!” I wailed. “I thought you ate health food with him.”

  “I did, but I hated it. I’d always sneak off to get the stuff I really liked. Now I don’t have to do that.”

  Oatmeal for me it was, then. I tried to enjoy it, for Roger’s sake at least.

  We set off for the climbing school, the one owned and operated by Roger’s buddy Jack. Yudi knew the way and guided me easily. On and off we talked about life on Bali and life in Boston. From what Yudi said, people in Bali seemed to embrace Nature, to love it and cooperate with it. I thought glumly of life in Boston, where we seemed in constant contest with it.