“I should get going,” I said, with unfeigned regret. “Normally I’m not such an old lady, but I didn’t sleep much.”
“Of course,” he said. “I’ll get your coat.”
As he walked me to the door, he asked if I drove. “I took the train,” I said.
“May I drive you home?”
I hesitated. I didn’t want to say anything more embarrassing, and worse, I didn’t want to fall asleep in his car.
“I’m not trying to be pushy,” he said. “But I’d like to know you get home safely, because I’d like to see you again.”
Wow. When’s the last time a guy was actually gallant with me? “That would be great,” I said.
I sketched out the direction for him, and he drove me home. He was good at keeping an easy, natural stream of conversation going, which I kept up almost absently. I was worried about the kiss.
No matter how impassioned I was about women taking charge of their own sexuality, the first date always confounded me. He said he wanted to see me again, but did he mean he was really interested? Did he want a kiss? Did I want to start anything with Lisa’s ghost in my head? I resolved to give him a gentle peck on the cheek. I kind of looked forward to it.
“This is my place,” I said. He pulled up to the curb and put the car in park, but left the motor running.
“I’ll stay here and make sure you get in the door,” he said.
“Thank you.” I leaned in and kissed his cheek. “I had a great time.”
“I did too,” he said. He took my hand and kissed it. His lips were soft, not wet and slick, warm. When he looked up from my hand and met my eyes, lips still pressed to my knuckles, a jolt of electricity shot straight from my hand to my chest.
“I’ll um—” I couldn’t call him because he had only emailed me. “I’ll email you my phone number.”
“I’ll use it,” he said.
I nodded, grinning like a fool, and got out of the car. True to his promise, he waited by the curb until I was safely inside. I wished I could see his facial expression as I walked in. People give so much away when they think you can’t see them.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Lynne arrived a few minutes before noon and threw her skinny arms around me in a tight hug. The sickly-sweet smell of synthetic perfume designed for teenagers filled my nose. I held my breath and patted her back.
As much as I loved StudiOh La La, it made more sense for Lynne to take the private lessons at my home studio. La La was all the way in the West Loop, which would cost both of us half an hour in decent traffic, and also would cost an extra twenty dollars an hour to rent. It had better floors and mirrors, as well as more space, but I figured we could cross that bridge if Lynne truly fell in love with the art.
She stepped away, and I got a good look at her lime green leotard, black wrap skirt, black fishnet stockings, stiletto heels, and kelly green legwarmers. Her greying hair was pulled into a ponytail at the nape of her neck, and her thin lips were liberally coated with a shade of dark red that made them look smaller. She wore light glittery eye makeup around her large eyes that made them look bulgy and fishlike. Makeup can wait, I thought. I’m certain we’ll have bigger challenges in the first lesson.
“Thank you so much for working me in so soon!” she said. She walked into my apartment. “Wow, what a great space. Are you Buddhist?”
Her eyes had fallen on the Buddha statue.
“Not exactly,” I said.
“Wow, that’s nice, and – oh what a cute kitty!”
As Lynne’s voice careened into its upper registers, Caprice flattened her ears back, gave Lynne a look of disbelief mingled with alarm, and scurried into my bedroom.
“She’s a little skittish about strangers,” I lied.
“I had so much fun shopping for dance clothes,” she said. “There are just so many cute little outfits. Where do you get yours?”
I walked her into the studio. I was barefoot in black yoga pants and a tank top that said “DIVA” in rhinestones. “I got this top at Miss Exotic World—”
“Is that like a festival?”
“It is. It’s an annual event where—”
“Can anyone compete, or do you have to be picked? Is it like a pageant?”
“It’s better to perform at some local events and then some minor weekends first, so that people know who you are—”
“Are there a lot of events in Chicago? Like do you perform every weekend?”
“I’m going to suggest you take off your shoes for the warm-up,” I said firmly.
She complied. It didn’t seem to register that I’d ignored her last question.
“How do you keep fishnets from getting tangled on your toes?” she asked.
“You can wear little nylon footies underneath them,” I said. “Or they sell some kinds with a tighter weave around the toes. Are you going to be okay in those?”
“I’ll be fine,” she said.
The netting was caught on her toes, creating ugly patterns of white and pink. I sent her to the bathroom to change out of them, and she came back bare-legged save the legwarmers.
“When do we start, you know, taking things off?” she asked.
“First, I’m going to show you some basics in posture and movement,” I said. “Then we can start learning about different articles. I like to start with easy things like gloves and shoes, and then—”
“Do I have to wear something special, you know, like that zip skirt you wore for the performance?”
I inhaled deeply and subtly through the nose so my exasperation wouldn’t be obvious. “Usually I like form-fitting clothing like leggings and tank tops. We can put on bras and things over them – it’s sexy, I promise.”
She laughed. “So you have them over your clothes?”
“While you’re learning,” I said. “It’s hard enough to make it look graceful without being self-conscious.”
“Oh I don’t care,” she said. “I think the body is a beautiful thing, you know, I don’t know why people want to hide it.”
“It’s just easier,” I said. “Trust me.”
I walked her though some of the basics of posture and the warm-ups, and then through some basic routines she could practice at home. Keeping her on track was a struggle. I hoped some of her distraction would reduce as she learned more and focused. She had a nice figure and abundant enthusiasm; she attacked each move so hard I wondered if she might pop a vertebrae. I worked with her on keeping the movements more delicate, absently filing the symptoms of ADHD and Anxiety Disorder under None Of My Damn Business as she maintained her running commentary.
“Take your time,” I said. “It’s the art of the tease. You have to hold a little something back. Let them savor it and want more.”
“Like this?”
I adjusted her hips, and then her elbows. “Now burst your arms upward, and slowly… right, don’t rush the aahhhhh.… YES!” I jumped up and down, clapping. I get more excited than my students do when they get something.
Except Lynne. She squealed and hugged me. “I get it!” she said. “It’s like this is mine, and there’s power in it, but it can be kind of funny, and people are on the edge of their seat because they’re dying to know what you do next and you’re making them wait for it but really everyone has it! Like the joke is we all have the power and the hangups and the human body and we’re just putting it out there.”
“That’s right,” I said, hugging her back with real pride. “That’s exactly right.”
“I bet burlesque dancers have great sex lives,” she said.
I was a little relieved when our hour ended. I was exhausted.
“So I’ll come back next weekend?” she said, scribbling out a check.
“Sounds good,” I said.
“I’m having such a good time, I—” She checked her phone. “Good, Dan’s here – he’s so sweet, picking me up – I just hate to drive in heels.” I opened the door for her, and she squeezed me in an eyeball-popping hug. “Thank you again,” s
he said, backing out the door. “I – oh!”
She tripped and caught herself on the doorjamb. A bouquet of flowers in front of my door toppled over. Water spilled out of the clear vase over the cellophane.
“Goodness, I’m so sorry!” she said, righting it.
“Don’t worry about a thing,” I said. I picked them up. There were at least a dozen roses of different colors.
“From your boyfriend?” she asked.
“I don’t have one,” I said, but I smiled a little.
“Oh, you’re so pretty, that won’t last,” she said. She waved goodbye and stumbled down the hall, her ankles wobbling in the stilettos.
I brought the flowers into the kitchen. Caprice came in to investigate, and I shooed her away from the plastic wrap. I looked for a note and found a soggy little envelope. There was no message or card, though, just a delicate teardrop-shaped sapphire pendant with a tiny round diamond at the tip and two tiny rectangular diamonds along the edge. Kevin, I thought. He brought me here last night. How sweet. I blotted it dry with a kitchen towel and brought it over to my window. The stones looked real, which I sort of hoped they weren’t. I didn’t want someone spending that kind of money on me when we’d just started dating. I clasped it around my neck and checked it in the mirror. It sparkled against my pale skin like something out of a magazine.
I got my phone, took a photo of the flowers, and texted it to Monica with the exclamation
ZOMG LOOKEE WHAT I GOT!
Then I stared at my phone and hesitated. Should I call? I was a little too exhausted to actually talk, and those first few phone calls could be so awkward.
I settled on a text message and stared at the screen for a few minutes.
Thank you for the beautiful flowers and necklace, I typed. And for a great date last night.
What did you mean when you said— Josh’s voice murmured in my ear.
His eyes were always so earnest. That’s what made it so believable. When you said that, I felt so pressured; I don’t know what you expect from me— and then the next day was a colorless slog with a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. I kept poring over every text and email, hunting for the insinuations and motives he found. I know I love you, Anna, I just can’t remember why.
The worst part was when I started to buy it. When I started believing that I really was this horrible, overbearing bully he kept describing.
No, I thought. I left. I left a long time ago. There’s nothing to be afraid of. I sat down on my soft grey sofa, breathing in deeply and exhaling slowly until the panicked feeling went away. There’s no need to panic about losing him. He lost me. It’s over.
I hesitated again and deleted most of the message.
Thank you, I texted Kevin.
I set the phone down on my desk and headed into my kitchen to make dinner. The phone chimed as I pulled chicken and broccoli out of my fridge. I returned to my phone and saw his response.
You’re welcome, it said. I had a good time. I’d like to see you again. Maybe Friday?
A dopey grin spread across my face. Yes, I texted.
Great, he texted. I’ll call you later this week to plan.
Easy, I thought. This feels so easy. Like it should.
I sniffed the roses again, and then thought of the flowers we were sending to Lisa’s funeral. All the girls had agreed to chip in.
A wave of sadness crashed over me, and I was ashamed of worrying about a text message when Lisa would never feel that first-date excitement again.
I turned to the murder board, which I had set on the floor with its back to the room. I hadn’t wanted to alarm Lynne, and with her tendency to chatter about everything she saw, I was glad.
I hung it up again and took a step back. Five women. Five lives reduced to columns of dry-erase scrawl. A sixth column of words and question marks. Occupation? Flexible hours. SES? Organized/planner. Type? All age 25-35. No assault… autoerotic? No struggle? Overpowers them. Fit. Charming. Well-dressed or uniform. Motive?
My notes on Max were in a password-locked file in my computer called “Knitting Tips.” A personal note file was only personal if no one knew you had it. I didn’t have to call it up; I remembered every word of it. He was fit. He played soccer. He was attractive and charming. But if there was no sign of assault on the bodies, and he was fixated on sex with dead bodies, could it really be him? Maybe he was just a confused guy struggling with urges. Maybe he was deeply, profoundly lonely and scared.
Maybe it’s a persona, I thought. He smiled when he talked about the kills. Maybe he wanted a place to relive it. To savor your reaction. Maybe he made it all up.
I tapped the dry-erase marker against my lip and stopped, holding it out. I hadn’t realized I had picked it up. I’m overreacting.
I had an appointment with Max later in the week. I should mention his fascination with the Darling Killer again and see if he said anything.
I have to ask him about being at the theater. I have to.
My stomach twisted. I could lose my job.
Or someone else could die.
I put the marker down and strode into the kitchen, where I dumped the broccoli in the colander.
I love cooking. Making a meal has a start point and an end point. The rules of temperature and flavor don’t change. A client might be in therapy for months or even years. It could take a week to learn a minute of choreography. It could take weeks to sew a costume. I could make a meal in an hour – or a day, depending on what and for whom – and it was complete. Sitting down to something I’d cooked gave me an uncomplicated sense of satisfaction.
People are complicated. Food doesn’t talk back.
I chopped, sautéed, and fed tidbits to Caprice as my mind continued to churn the data. Cori Victoria Krista Darcy Lisa. And maybe Max. You and me and the devil makes three. Maybe Max. Maybe a stranger. 68 percent.
CHAPTER EIGHT
In my limited experience with funerals, I usually wear a simple black dress with a strand of pearls. Pearls symbolize tears, and they’re more muted and subdued than the flashy jewelry I usually like. I would understate my makeup, pull my hair back, and stay mostly unadorned. I knew Lisa would want us to look fabulous, though, so I did.
I selected a black velvet dress with a plunging neckline and slim fit about the waist and hips. The fishtail hem ended in a black flounce just below my knees in front and bottom of my calves in back. I wore dark heels and black stockings with rhinestones up the back. I curled my black hair and pinned it up, applied dark Marilyn Monroe-style eyeliner, and finished the look with poppy-red lipstick. Instead of pearls, I wore dangling, faux diamond earrings, a matching rhinestone necklace, and a thick rhinestone tennis bracelet. I even wore a purple spangled G-string that Lisa had particularly liked when I used it in a costume.
The service was at a funeral home in Hoffman Estates, the suburb where her parents lived. I left early because Route 90 is almost always the opposite of what you need. Weekdays without Cubs games tend to be quiet between rush hours, so I did fly out to the suburbs, accompanied by Walter’s reassuring statistics. I got to the funeral home twenty minutes early and waited in the parking lot, fussing with my compact and feeling guilty about taking the day off.
Jeff was very understanding about me needing the day for a funeral. He offered his condolences, and he didn’t press when I answered his polite inquiries with “They haven’t released cause of death yet.” Still, I felt awful about taking a day off when I was already scheduled to take the next Tuesday off for my exam.
When two o’clock finally rolled around, I got out of the car and headed in to the church. I signed in the memorial book and walked slowly in to the visitation room.
Lisa lay in a white coffin, her hair in soft red waves over her shoulders. The makeup artist had covered the bruising on her neck, even though he missed her natural complexion for a ghastly shade of peaches and sour milk. Her lips were bubblegum pink, a shade she never wore. A conservative, navy b
louse completed the impression of a stranger falling just slightly short of impersonating Lisa well.
I wanted to say something to her, even though the Lisa I knew was gone. Her eyes were closed, the corners of her mouth turned up slightly in a smile meant to look peaceful. I had seen those stockings crammed into her mouth, though. I knew her last moments alive were full of terror and violation.
I wanted to be angry. I wanted it to fuel me like a luminous avenging angel. Instead, I just felt terribly sad that she had suffered.
“Godspeed, Polly Wanna,” I whispered to her, blinking furiously. “You’re gonna knock ‘em dead.”
A large poster board and photo array dominated one corner of the room, so I wandered over to look at it. I saw a lot of bubble-writing and glitter. Someone young had done several of them. A handful of photos displayed Lisa at varying ages with a girl at least five years her junior. They had the same nose.
An image of my murder board surfaced in grisly contrast. 11 pm, the latest time thus far. Dancer and personal trainer. Cute, but not classically pretty. The other women were classically pretty; wonder if that’s a fluke. He used her blue eyeliner to write “Darling.” Maybe this was an impulse. But he’s a planner. He’s picking riskier locations. Hotel room, dark alley, victim’s boat, victim’s home, and then a dressing room at a crowded theater—
A flash of red caught my eye. I looked up and saw Tish in a tight, crimson dress with a rhinestone diamond cinching the right side of the waistline, a black pillbox hat with black netting cutting diagonally across her face, and black opera gloves. Her short, brown hair was curled around her face like a noir fatale’s. She wore the glittery red lipstick she usually wore on stage.
Lisa would have loved it.
Tish nodded to me and walked over to the coffin. I didn’t want to intrude, so I continued studying the photos, but I looked up at the snapping sound of her clutch purse. Then I saw her pull a red velvet hair scrunchie out of her purse and tuck it into the coffin with Lisa, just out of sight. She kissed the air a few inches away from Lisa’s cheek.
The Tease (The Darling Killer Trilogy) Page 7
