The Lillian Byrd Crime Series

by Elizabeth Sims

  “Who are you calling for?”

  I heard the sound of a mouth opening, or shifting, in surprise. A quick silence, then a click.

  “Ah,” I said into the receiver, “there’s no Alejandro here. I think you misdialed. Unh-unh. Bye.”

  “Who was that?”

  “Wrong number, sweetheart.”

  There was a long pause before she said, “Oh.”

  “Would you like more coffee?”

  “Oh, no, just the two cups. Thank you so much, Lillian. Darling. How did it go last night?”

  I squinted out the window at the postcard colors of the golf course, carved out by the desert light that exposes everything. I said, “I’m not going to burden you with a lot of trivia. All I’ll say is, Coco has no clue I’m keeping an eye on her.”

  She looked at me.

  “I’ve do have some covert operations experience,” I told her. I didn’t tell her how half-assed my experience was, but of course it didn’t matter. “And I know how to take care of myself,” I added. If I kept saying that, somehow I felt it would be true.

  Genie said, “Well, I’m not going to think about it anymore.”

  “You don’t have to think about it. There’s your car. Let me kiss you. That one’s for good luck. And that one’s for good measure.”

  “Oh, I do love you.”

  “And I love you.”

  _____

  As I slid into the Jaguar, a little bolt of Hey! shot into my head, and I scrounged around the driver’s seat. After a few minutes I came up with a crumpled piece of paper. It was a receipt from Randy’s Donuts, that place on the surface road by the L.A. airport with the giant doughnut. I kept digging and found the scrap I was looking for. Uncrumpling it, I read: “You can afford it.” It was written in blue pen in very even characters—very even and small. A careful, perhaps obsessive person. A neat person. I put the note, the one Genie had found on the windshield after the party in Bel Air, in my pocket.

  I rendezvoused with Truby at the practice range. Genie had teed off nicely and was gone, with Dewey O’Connor following her group.

  Truby sneaked up behind me while I was observing a rookie I’d never seen before work magic with wedge shots, and goosed me. My heart rammed into my throat, then I heard her laugh.

  Turning, I said, “God-damn, Starmate. You shouldn’t do that. Sober up now.”

  We found a patch of grass in some shade.

  “Man,” she said, chicken-winging her arms, “it’s hot enough to melt the tits off a brass monkey.” She looked good, as always. Cute outfit, just right: tailored shorts, sleeveless blue chambray blouse, bright white sneakers. Chunky silver bracelet, smooth black shades.

  “Did you highlight your hair?” I asked.

  “Uh-huh. What do you think?”

  “It looks really good.”

  “Thanks, I thought it’d make me look more outdoorsy.”

  “It does, it does.”

  She still hadn’t scored yet, I could tell. But she looked upbeat in an unforced way. I didn’t doubt she’d succeed. She was waiting.

  “All right,” I said, “the plot thickens. Somebody’s giving Genie a hard time, and it’s not who I thought it was. She knows who it is, but she won’t tell me. She thinks I think it’s a rival golfer.”

  “What’s the matter with her?”

  “I guess she just doesn’t want me to know, doesn’t trust me enough. It’s something she really wants to keep quiet.” I felt a kink in my back and stretched it. “My philosophy this week is, whatever Genie Maychild wants, Genie Maychild gets. She wants me to think the enemy is this golfer—fine, that’s what I act like. She also wants the problem to go away, that’s very clear. Well, I’m going to make that happen for her. I got a little bit of information this morning, sort of a—an opening. It’s given me an idea.”

  “What are you really up to here, Lillian?”

  “It’s just ridiculous, hon. Really. I mean, if I told you I was going to spend this afternoon looking at somebody’s charred old scrapbooks that I pulled out of a fire in the middle of the desert the other night, then fly to Chicago tonight to tie up a loose end of Genie’s life for her, thus preventing an ugly situation from unfolding, would you—”

  “You’re really going to fly to Chicago tonight?”

  “I might.”

  “When would you come back?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe one day’ll be enough. I don’t know. Hon, I really don’t know. I don’t even have my own thoughts sorted out yet. I could be totally wrong. All I can say is, Genie is a good woman who needs help, and I love her. That’s it.”

  An oven-like breeze stirred the trees. I watched a plastic drink cup roll in a wide arc on the paved path near where we sat.

  Truby said, “Let me come with you.”

  “No, you’ve got your own show to run here. Besides, the stuff I’ll be doing isn’t dangerous, let me assure you. It’s scut work, you know? Like most investigative work is.”

  She looked at me steadily. I shifted on the grass.

  I said, “Come on, Truby, you know me.”

  “Yeah.”

  Now we both watched the cup as it skittered back and forth, making an annoying sound. I got up and picked it up and put it in a trash basket. The trash baskets were decorated with Nabisco’s logo, a modified woman symbol—ever notice that?

  “You might as well tell me how you’ve been doing,” I said, “I’m dying to know.”

  Running her fingers through her goldeny hair she said, “Well, I’ve been learning about this femme-butch thing.”

  “Ah.”

  “I’ve been to two parties now. There’s as much posing at those as there is at straight-people parties. More!”

  “This surprises you?”

  “It disappoints me.”

  “I see.”

  “Okay, so I know that you don’t have to be either a butch or a femme, you know, but my question is this: Can two femmes make it together?”

  “Certainly. Certainly they can. But you look confused.”

  “I thought I knew what a butch was and what a femme was, but I guess the real question is what the hell—I mean, everybody seems to know what butchy qualities are and what femmy qualities are. Everybody but me.”

  “Oh, no. Dear God, no. The opinions are endless, the arguments are endless, the permutations are endless. That I cannot sort out for you, because it’s un-sort-out-able. Maybe you haven’t heard the old, ‘Butch in the streets, femme in the sheets.’ Even within the same person things aren’t what they seem.”

  A dyke couple walked by looking as if they were on vacation from their jobs as bookkeepers in Grand Rapids, wearing identical new Tilley hats, along with their Nabisco Championship logo golf shirts. Truby dismissed them with a pitying tsch.

  Another couple strolled by, smoking cigarettes and wearing tight shorts.

  “What is it with that hairstyle?” Truby said. “I used to only see guys wear their hair like that back home. Like hockey players.”

  “Yeah, the mullet, that’s what it’s called. God knows why it’s called that, and God knows why anybody would wear their hair that way.”

  “Well, I guess it’s convenient to have it short in front so it doesn’t get in your eyes, then long in back to show you’re still a babe. Or if you’re a guy, to show you’re a rebel.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I find,” Truby said, “a certain swagger some butches have to be very appealing.”

  “Yeah? Tell me.”

  “Well, I was at this party over at the Wyndham, and this ultra-butchy type comes on to me very cutely! She had on this white linen suit and these shoes, so at first I was like, oh, right, Fantasy Island, but then, I don’t know. She looked like she’d just walked out of a barbershop. No mullet, needless to say. We started talking. There was really something about her. I was thinking hey, maybe this is it! But it turns out—” She dropped her eyes.

  “Yeah?”

  “I don’t want to tell you.
”

  I waited.

  She muttered, “She didn’t know who Colette was.”

  “Hon—”

  “Don’t say it, Lillian, all right? I know. But it’d be like you trying to make it with somebody who’d never heard of Chaucer.”

  “Oh, I’ve managed to do that.”

  “You give me so much grief.”

  “You give yourself so much more than I ever could.”

  “Look,” Truby said, “okay, so we didn’t work out, but like I say, there was something about her, and something about some of the other ones.”

  “That irresistible combination of female beauty and that sort of assertiveness.”

  She peered at me attentively over her sunglasses. “Yeah!”

  “I stop short of saying ‘aggressiveness.’ Because I find that whole stone-butch thing slightly repulsive. Well, it’s like the whole machismo thing. I understand it, I accept it, I even respect it, but—” I stopped.

  “Yeah,” Truby agreed. “But it’s like, who doesn’t want a partner that takes the lead during sex?”

  “Boy, have you nailed something. You know, lesbians who’ve been together for a while, some of them don’t have sex very often, and I think a lot of that’s about both of them wishing the other would initiate sex. Both are reluctant to do it.”

  A light dawned in her eyes. “That must be why gay guys have so much sex—you’ve got two guys initiating sex.”

  “Plus the hormones.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then again, Trube, there’s the attractiveness of that femme-role thing. Everybody wants a wife. Who doesn’t want a wife? Straight women want a wife. That part’s about support. Receptiveness.”

  “Right. Because I met another woman I really like who is totally different. She’s beautiful and soft but not simpering.”

  “Good! A CUPCAKE?”

  “I don’t need that crutch anymore.”

  “Good!”

  “She owns a gallery in Fort Worth. We didn’t leave together, but we’re getting together tonight.”

  “All right,” I said. “I’ll keep my fingers crossed.”

  We watched the people go by, lots of gay women chattering and laughing, happy to be on a holiday in the sun.

  “Lillian?” said Truby.

  “Mm?”

  “Don’t get into trouble?”

  I took her arm. “Truby. I swear to you.”

  “It’s going to happen. Don’t tell me, because I know.”

  “No. Look at me.”

  “You turn into an idiot when you’re in love. I know it, goddamn it.”

  “I know how to take care of myself.”

  17

  After finding Genie on the fifth hole and blowing her a discreet kiss, I slipped away and went back to the house.

  Again I dragged out the charred memorabilia, and this time examined it more thoroughly, making notes as I went along.

  Aside from the ominous-looking marks Coco Nash had drawn, only two things stood out to me:

  One was the fact that in none of the articles was there any information about Genie before she picked up a golf club at age fifteen and a half, other than the flat statement given by Genie in several interviews, “I had no home to speak of. Golf became my home.”

  The other was a spread from the Pearl Center Bugle about the retirement of Marian Handistock, a local gym teacher:

  What befits a legend most?

  When it comes to Marian Handistock, whose very name calls to mind gym and winning sports teams at Pearl Center Consolidated High School, it’s a city-wide day of recognition. Last Tuesday, under sunny skies that matched the mood of the crowd, Mayor Dick Coggins declared Marian Handistock Day in Pearl Center. The widely beloved Ms. Handistock, or “Handy,” as her students affectionately called her, retired from PCCHS after 25 years of service...

  The article noted her popularity, the records of the teams she coached, and featured a quote from Genie Maychild, who had flown back to her hometown to speak at the ceremony. The article went on:

  “Marian Handistock was the best thing that ever happened to me,” said the sprightly linkswoman, noting that it was Ms. Handistock who not only introduced her to golf, but coached her to her first junior championship trophy.

  Currently ranked the top female golfer in the world, Ms. Maychild stood before a crowd estimated by the PCPD at more than 300. She spoke at length about the kindness and wisdom of Ms. Handistock.

  “The Pearl Center Con girls’ golf team consisted of me alone,” said Ms. Maychild. “She drove me to the matches and back to Pearl Center at all hours. She was there for me. I remember her lending me her own golf shoes to play in before I could afford a pair. You couldn’t say the word ‘can’t’ in her hearing. There was always a way to make the shot you needed, always a way to learn. Always a way to win. I see some of the girls from softball and volleyball here. I’m sure they have their own special memories of Handy.”

  The old expression, “A good time was had by all,” certainly applies to last Tuesday’s festivities.

  The day was marred only by a brief incident during which a spectator, wearing a mask and a bedsheet spattered with a red substance, appeared in front of the platform as Ms. Maychild was speaking. Ms. Maychild appeared shaken by the sight and stopped speaking for a few moments before regaining her composure. The shrouded figure left the area a short time later.

  When asked to comment on the strange incident, Ms. Maychild said, “No comment.”

  Indeed. I returned to the country club. Before heading out on the course, I made a few calls from a public phone. I got hold of two people who were eager to see me, and was unsuccessful at getting hold of a few others, but I didn’t consider that a bad score. I bought a plane ticket for a hideous amount of money and reserved a car.

  I caught up with Genie on the fourteenth hole, where she was lining up a lengthy putt. Peaches was tending the pin, his handsome face a study in concentration. It was as if his will could guide the ball into the hole. Man, it was a beautiful stroke she made, just as solid and smooth as Foucault’s pendulum. The ball dived in, for her second birdie of the day.

  I’d been gone for almost three hours; after she holed the putt, she saw me and gave me a “What gives?” kind of look. I gave her back a warm, knowing, reassuring smile, and a thumbs-up. I’d picked up a pairings sheet and found that Coco’s tee time had been well ahead of hers.

  Genie had a good round that day, shooting two under. This is a tournament where plain old even par wins it some years.

  When we met up after the round I let her think I’d been looking after Coco, doing some scouting work, secret work—whatever.

  “I’m just not sure about her,” I said.

  “Let’s talk later,” said Genie, looking over her shoulder. She went into the clubhouse to shower and change.

  While cooking up a stir-fry for dinner I repeated what I’d said. “But the main thing,” I added, “is for you not to worry.”

  “What do you think is going on?”

  “I’m working on it. I know you were wondering what the hell I was doing out there today, but you know—” I stopped.

  “What?”

  “Well, this is going to sound drama queenish, but if you don’t know what I’m up to, you’ll be safer.”

  She looked at me uncertainly.

  “What I’m trying to say is, if I fuck up—I mean, really fuck something up really bad—well, if you have no knowledge, then you’ll be in the clear. No problem.”

  The quick gears of her mind went into hyper-drive and she went quiet. Sucking her cheek, she slowly asked, “Do you think you might have to—you know—do something to her?”

  I hadn’t expected her to latch right onto that. The way she said it made me go over a bump. I looked at her.

  “You mean, like, kill her?”

  “You said it, I didn’t.”

  The very thought made me laugh. She laughed, too, and after a minute I felt fine again.

&
nbsp; She leaned over and kissed me and said, “I’m a lucky girl.”

  “You sure are. The loyalty of Lillian Byrd is not to be taken lightly.”

  She smiled like the break of day.

  “Now,” I said, “I’m going to ask you for something.”

  “What is it?”

  “Just some understanding. Truby’s having a hard time. I mean, not in getting laid, which she seems to be heading inexorably for, but—well, see, she gets—see, she has a little trouble with panic attacks.”

  “Oh.”

  “And she’s asked me to spend the night with her. Not necessarily spend the night, but be there if she needs me to. You know? I’m good at getting her settled down from these—states she gets in. I’ve promised her I’d meet her for a drink, anyway.”

  “You know, I feel I could use a night alone,” Genie said. “Don’t be so apologetic. Hey. I need you. You’re my charm, my touchstone. But you’ve got a life, and if another friend needs you, I guess I can lend you out.”

  “Oh God, Genie, honey, thank you. Thank you for being understanding. All right. I’ll plan to see you on the course tomorrow. But you might not see me.”

  “Uh?”

  “Remember what I said: The less you know, the better.”

  “Would you—would you leave Todd with me?”

  “Oh, certainly! You know what to do; he’s easy. He’d love to play with you. He likes you.” He did, too.

  _____

  When I left the house that night, I stopped first at the Nash hacienda, where she and I had a quick little conference.

  “I need to go out of town tonight and tomorrow, and probably tomorrow night. I’m worried about her. Not terribly, but I am. And I was wondering—”

  “Listen. She has got Peaches to look after her on the course, and I have got some security I can direct her way.”

  “You do?” I thought about my barging in and our rasslin’ match in the living room.

  She laughed quietly. “Yes. They are discreet. She will be all right. She will not know a thing about it.”

  “You’re fantastic, Coco.”

  “I am beginning to think you are, too.”