by Liz Bradbury
Farrel had an incredible memory for trivial details. Like Nero Wolfe’s Archie Goodwin, she could repeat a conversation, usually word for word, and she was always amazed when other people couldn’t do it. She looked around the room, but nobody acknowledged that they’d even heard of Devil Dogs, much less some repetitive commercial on TV thirty or forty years ago.
“It is kind of curious that they’re in a three pack. I wonder why?” said Doug shrugging.
Farrel, always loving a trivia quiz, questioned, “What else comes in three packs?”
“Um, I know... tennis balls,” I volunteered.
“Fleichman’s Yeast,” said Jessie, “and it’s silly too, because you never ever come across a recipe for three packages of yeast. They’re always for two. So then you always have the third pack left over.”
“Oh, oh,” said Doug, “condoms come in three packs now.”
“Why?” asked Cora and Judith in unison. Everyone laughed. Nobody knew the answer.
“Cafalatte comes in three packs,” said Kathryn joining in the game. “I think I’m the only one who drinks them at the College. Thank you so much for getting some for me, Jessie. How did you know?”
“You had one in Adamstown. When I called Jessie to say we were coming home,” explained Farrel, “I mentioned it to her.”
Typical of Jessie to run out minutes before a party just to pick up a special beverage for someone. I was touched that she’d gone to so much trouble for Kathryn. I thought about the leftover Cafalattes in Jessie and Farrell’s refrigerator for a long time.
The brunch was winding down. People were thanking Jessie and preparing to leave. Kathryn found her coat and began to gather up the bags and packages she’d brought home from the flea markets. I was impressed by the sheer number of them. I hugged Farrel and Jessie goodbye and so did Kathryn.
I carried half of Kathryn’s purchases as we made our careful way down the icy steps of Farrel and Jessie’s house and out into the cold gray December afternoon. When we got onto the sidewalk, I started up the street, but Kathryn hesitated. I turned to look at her. She stared into my eyes for a moment. I raised my eyebrows, wondering what was making her pause, then tossed my head in the direction of my loft and smiled. She smiled back and we began walking together.
Chapter 37
“I stopped at my office to pick up the faxed criminal check list from Daria’s party. In the loft, as I stored my gun in the safe, Kathryn was singing Who Knows Where or When in a beautiful voice.
“Don’t stop... that was lovely,” I said sincerely.
“I’m out of practice... I need a piano,” she said putting her packages on the long dining table and taking off her coat. The skirt of her suit must have been cut on the bias because it fell in graceful folds just below her knees. She still had on the high heels.
“Kathryn, you look lovely in that outfit, you have such terrific legs...”
“Do you think so?” She turned a little to the side and lifted her skirt to mid-thigh. Terrific had suddenly become a puny adjective.
“Stop,” I laughed fanning myself with my hand, “you’re giving me the vapors. And such a come hither look!” I put the rest of the packages on the table and took her in my arms, kissing her deeply.
With her palms on my shoulders, she pushed me back a little and peered intently into my face. I looked back, unsure of what she was thinking. She stroked my cheek with the back of her fingers.
Finally I said gently, “Show me the stuff you bought today. Did you get anything great?”
“That’s exactly what Farrel asked. ‘Did you get anything great?’ Is that what antique dealers always say?”
“Yup.”
“I want to wrap these so I can get them in the mail tomorrow. I have some wrapping paper.” She let go of me and faced the table.
“I’ll get you some tape and scissors. I even have left-handed ones.” I went to the tape and a pair of shears.
“Left-handed? Great, that will be a relief,” she said putting the shears on the table and sitting down.
“Speaking of relief, did you really walk around the markets for hours in those heels?”
“No, I meant it when I said I was a speed shopper. I had a pair of sneakers. They’re comfortable for walking but they didn’t go well with this outfit. I changed before I got to the Chapel,” she explained. I was glad I didn’t have to wear uncomfortable shoes for my job. I made some tea, then came to sit next to her.
She put all of her purchases on the table in a row while she told me whom they’d be for. There was an especially nice 19th century coin silver snuffbox with an ornate etched decoration of a log cabin. The date in the inscription was 1811. Kathryn was going to give it to her father as a pillbox.
She’d found many other beautiful things. She told me about each one. I was impressed by her taste and knowledge.
“Let’s see, what else... oh, look at this. She pulled a very small plastic switch-back pin out of a little bag. Switch-backs came in gum machines and candy boxes in the 50s and 60s and showed a picture of one thing when you held it at one angle, then the picture changed when you tilted it. This one, however, was unique.
“Where did you get this! Is this Christine Jorgensen? This must have cost a fortune!” I said looking at the switching male and female figure of Jorgensen, who was the first person in the world to have a “sex-change” operation.
“Yes, isn’t it amazing? My brother Kiernan has a collection of gay and transgender historical memorabilia. He has a display case full of significant artifacts in the lobby of his restaurant. Affectionate tin types, those old pictures from the 1880s of gay men holding hands, 1930s documents from the Hayes office, 1950s body building magazines, photographs from some of the first gay rights marches in the 60s. He even has part of a manuscript signed by Kinsey. He has a Life magazine article about Christine Jorgensen.”
She took the pin from me and looked at it. “This really is a piece of history. What would it be like to have your life exploited to the point that your gender identity was emblazoned on a Cracker Jack prize? She must have been very brave...”
Kathryn showed me a bronze and sterling decorated box. The ornamentation was very Mission-Style. I picked it up for a closer look. “Nice...” I murmured inspecting it closely.
“That’s for my brother Ryan.”
She’d told me the night before that Ryan was three years older than she and her twin brother Kiernan. She’d confided that Ryan was the most difficult member of her family, other than her mother, whom she rarely saw. Ryan was the arguing kind. “It’s hard to know what Ryan thinks about my life,” she’d said frankly. “One minute he seems fine and says all the right things, the next minute he comes out with something totally negative.”
Kathryn was wrapping everything in red and black Art Deco patterned gift paper.
“Oh, here’s a present for you. Farrel said you’d like it, I hope she wasn’t teasing me. There was a booth in the field that had a pile of new art supplies.” She pulled out a bag and handed it to me. “Open it, I hope this isn’t too silly.” It was a huge set of little cans of bright colored plastic clay. There were twenty-four different colors.
“Wow, these are really neat,” I took each of the cans out of the bag, paying careful attention to each different hue. “Um... Kathryn? Did Farrel happen to mention that art supplies... turn me on?” I asked barely able to tear my eyes from all the colors.
“I thought she was kidding.”
“She wasn’t,” I said exhaling heat.
Kathryn snorted softly. She began fitting a few of the wrapped gifts into a larger mailing box as we talked about the brunch. She’d liked the people there. I was glad she’d enjoyed herself.
“And all that food. Do you get to eat at Jessie’s table often? What a treat!”
“Yeah, they’re very sweet to me. I spend Sundays and most holidays with them... Um, about this morning, did Farrel quiz you?”
“Didn’t she already make a full report in the C
hapel?” said Kathryn distractedly, fitting a small china figurine into a cardboard container.
“She said she likes you and she told me not to do anything to mess this up.”
“Good advice,” Kathryn said with amusement. “Farrel mentioned she was one of your professors when you were at Baltimore.”
“I took woodworking with her.”
“Did you have a crush on her?”
“Wouldn’t you have?”
Kathryn thought for a moment then chuckled, “When I was in college... you bet I would have.”
“Farrel was actually already with Jessie then. So I got over it pretty fast. We became friends. Jessie’s always been sweet to me. They were why I came to Fenchester. Did you often fall for your teachers?”
Kathryn continued wrapping. She said offhandedly, “I’ve been in two serious relationships. The last one was with a woman who had been one of my grad school professors.”
“Did it last a long time?”
“Five years.”
“That’s a long time... did you live together?”
“Now and then.”
“Would you rather not talk about this?” I asked seriously.
“Hm? Oh, no, it’s not that.” Kathryn stopped what she was doing and smiled. “We haven’t really spoken about the people in our past have we? Well, how can I put this... it was an important relationship to me. I wanted it to work out and I tried for a long time, but it was doomed from the start because we didn’t want the same things. I’d probably still be with her, if it had all mattered less to me. When I got this job at Irwin, I realized that my leaving really didn’t matter to her. As long as I came back to visit now and then, she was content. I didn’t want that kind of relationship.”
Kathryn held a small box delicately in her fingers, turning it end over end as she spoke, “And... she let me know she didn’t care whether I was faithful to her or not. Which bothered me most of all.” There was sadness in her voice. I was immediately angry that Kathryn had been hurt. How could anyone be such a fool as to be indifferent to this fascinating woman?
Kathryn shook her head a little, then said, “There was never any passion... I was so young when it started, I thought it was a normal way for relationships to be... passionless. Maybe it is for some people... but...” Kathryn gave me a searing look and lowered her voice, “I like passion.” She went back to working on the presents. She said, “Tell me about the women in your past.”
“I’ve had two serious relationships. One that began during graduate school that lasted about two years and another that ended several years ago.”
“Do you want to talk about them?”
“No, not really. Sometime, but not right now,” I smiled.
She looked at me curiously with her head to the side. After a long moment she said evenly, “I guess it’s time for me to go home.”
I felt the bottom fall out of my stomach, that sudden sinking feeling. “Why do you say that? Do you want to leave?”
“Maggie, I know you have a lot of work to do. You have this case to work on and you’re arguing with yourself about me being here. I can practically see the miniature angel on one shoulder and the devil on the other. Both are whispering in your ears.”
I laughed in relief, then said honestly, “I assure you that’s not at all what I’m arguing with myself about. My two little voices are both devils trying to figure out the best and fastest way to get you into bed. I do have the case, in fact I have two cases, but if you left, all I’d do is think about you. Don’t go... unless you have to.”
She turned her chair toward me and said, “What a flatterer you are.” She seemed pleased. She went on in a low voice with more than a hint of lust, “Is there anything I can do to help you... work?”
The scent of her made me ache. “What do you have in mind?” I whispered.
She sat back in her chair, aware that her closeness was fueling my desire. “Maybe we should try positive reinforcement. I’ll tell you what, how about I offer a little reward? You work on the case and get things sorted out, and when you get some of your work done, I’ll...”
“Reward me?”
“Mmm, yes, exactly.”
“All I have to do is sort things out and I get a prize for that? What if I figure out something important? What if I solve it? Are there various levels of compensation?”
“There now, you’re warming to the idea already. I’d like to watch you work. Do you just sit back and think, like English detectives in murder mysteries, or do you have a different technique? Will my being here cramp your style?”
“I have a non-traditional way of working and I think you watching me will enhance my style, but we’re getting away from your incentive program. You should tell me what the reward would be. Don’t you think it would fuel my efforts to know what’s... at the end of the rainbow?”
She smiled her most devilish half smile and leaned closer. “Turn your head,” she murmured, stroking my jaw lightly as I looked away from her. “Hold still.”
She used both hands to hold my head steady, one cupping my chin and one at the back of my neck. She brought her lips very close to my ear. I thought she was going to whisper some suggestive method or technique, but she surprised me. She breathed warm air into my ear, then gently bit the lobe, sliding her tongue very lightly up to the outer shell. She nibbled, the silkiness of her tongue continuing to tease the surface, then kissed just behind my ear.
“Oh,” I moaned involuntarily, breathing in deeply, feeling an electric charge from head to toe. The sensation was so sweet I froze in place, hoping she’d go on and on.
But she pulled back, lightly trailing her fingers down my throat, whispering, “Get to work, you know I’ll make it worth your while. I’ll spend the whole time planning erotic thrills for you.”
“This is supposed to help me concentrate on the case?” I groaned. I turned to her, lifting my hand to touch her face. “I want you even more now.”
“Well, my dear, you can’t have me now... but if you get some of your work done, I’ll make you very glad you did. I have an extensive imagination, I’ll think up something very special for you.”
Now I was making the purring noise. “Is this the way you get your students to get their work done?”
“No, no. For students, I’m the Ice Queen, remember? Only you are eligible for this reward.” I could see a smile twitch at the corners of her mouth, but the look in her eyes was firm. I wasn’t going to get any more attention from her until I did my duty. So I took several deep breaths and began to concentrate.
Kathryn moved to the other side of the table and went back to wrapping her presents. I pulled my laptop from my bag and booted it up. I fished out the two checklists of the people from Daria’s party and put them on the table in front of me. Finally, I took out the drawings I’d done of the baskets with the suspect eggs and looked them over carefully.
Kathryn watched me, then asked, “If we talk, will it bother you?
“No. When I was on the police force, we’d always talk cases over with our partners. I miss that.”
“What are those?” asked Kathryn glancing at the lists. “Did you say you were working on two cases?”
“I’m also working on the Daria Webster murder. Sara and Emma are the defense counselors. Did you read about it?”
“Daria Webster? That young woman who was assaulted and murdered? It was all over the papers, but the way the police presented it, it sounded as though they had the murderer and the case was closed.”
“It’s not. Mickey Murphy, the guy they have in custody, is innocent...” I explained some of the situation to Kathryn. “The reporters should have mentioned that the D.A.’s case is built on a confession pressured out of a man with the mental capacity of a child of 8 and the fear quotient and quirky memory of a child of 4,” I said emphatically. “He lives in a landscape of pinball machines, peopled with cartoon characters. I think he confessed because he feels guilty for not protecting Daria. He didn’t kill her.”
“What a terrible thing. That poor young man. He’s lucky he has you and Sara and Emma as friends... but the police said he was covered with defense bruises.”
“They didn’t know Mickey,” I explained to Kathryn that playing pinball is a contact sport.
“Do you think Mickey actually saw the murderer? Maybe that was why he was so afraid when the police found him. What does he say about that night?” she asked.
“Very little. Mostly he says, ‘I can’t remember’.” I thought back to that day at the jail. “He said something about Batman, Robin, Chief O’Hara, Spiderman, the Sandman and the rest of the people.” I began to explain about the cartoon character names as I added shading to the egg basket sketch. Kathryn couldn’t help but be amused.
“Storm because your name is Gale? Makes sense,” said Kathryn cutting a sheet of wrapping paper. “What are some of the other nicknames?”
I put the sketch aside and started a new one on a fresh piece of paper. It was of the conference room table. As I told Kathryn about She-ra and Wonder Woman, I opened some of the little cans of plastic clay Kathryn had just given me and began to make a series of different colored figures, each representing someone who got a drink in the conference room before the bomb went off. “The names can be very hard to figure out. Mickey calls Farrel Case Fur Ball.”
Kathryn paused, looking up at the ceiling considering, then smiled, “I’ve got it! Furball was that feral cat on that Tiny Toons show, wasn’t he?”
I thought about it, “Yes, yes, of course, very good Kathryn! Ha! I can’t wait to tell Farrel.” I shook my head. “It’s astounding that Mickey even understands what the word feral means, but then, he has that Rainman-Savant kind of thing going on...”
