Women on the Case

by Sara Paretsky

  “A cereal killer!” She practically shrieked. “Was that the point? I love it! A pun crime!”

  “Plus, Greg,” Marlys pointed out.

  Purl was a local boy who’d made good. He’d gone to Hollywood to make big-budget lowest-common-denominator movies. His latest was about—you guessed it—the serial killer of teenage girls.

  “Did the papers get it?” Georgia wondered. “Cereal killer, serial killer; his movie?”

  “They got the pun.” Marlys looked gratified. “They didn’t really go into his movies.”

  Marlys and Georgia were friends with Purl before he “sold out.” It always amazed me how superior they could feel, despite their obscurity and their day jobs. It’s not that easy to sell out, after all. Someone has to want to buy what you’ve got to pander.

  “Purl wasn’t hurt?” Once again, mine was the lone voice of practicality.

  “No, it happened at his house here. He’s down in Hollywood. Someone broke in and shot his cereal boxes,” Marlys explained. “According to the papers.”

  “How funny!” Georgia struck a pose. Give her a cigarette in a long ivory holder and she surely could be some thirties star. Or RuPaul. “Cereal killer. I’m just surprised the papers got it.”

  “We would have, even if they didn’t.” Marlys smiled.

  “Was his house damaged? Did they just fire into a cupboard or what?” I loathed his last movie’s relentless reliance on “sexy” violence. But that didn’t give anyone the right to shoot up his kitchen. “He must feel so … violated.”

  Georgia laughed till tears sprang to her eyes. “It’s almost like a Hollywood version of karma, isn’t it?”

  Marlys answered my question. “I guess the person took all his cereal outside and dumped it on his lawn before shooting it full of holes.” She was watching Georgia, still grinning. “I knew you’d like it!”

  “Well, I don’t think it’s funny,” I put in.

  Georgia cackled. “Ha! That’s not funny’—the PC lesbian mantra.”

  “You’re just too young to remember what it was like when everyone was politically incorrect! It was irritating and demeaning—”

  “Like political correctness,” Georgia countered.

  Moonjuice was going to drive me insane some day. Especially if performance artists kept embracing things we used to fight against, like pornography and the word “dyke.”

  “Fine, Georgia—don’t get it. There’s certainly plenty I don’t get—like the idea of a naked choir.” One of the proposed acts for our yearly fund-raiser was a naked twenty-person choir. Georgia and I had been bickering about it all afternoon. “They don’t even say what they’re going to sing. Like we’re prurient twelve-year-olds who’ll like them just because they’re naked.”

  “Well, why not?” Georgia asked. “Haven’t you ever wondered what choirgirls’ breasts look like when they sing loud?”

  “No!” I responded. “And I’m sure our sponsors haven’t either.”

  “Nan’s partly right,” Marlys said generously. “We should judge art by itself. If they can sing, let them sing naked. If they can’t, let them go streak through college campuses.”

  Georgia shot her an et tu look. “All right, all right; we’ll ask them for details. But not in a philistine way.”

  Georgia called me at the university the next day. “Nan, come down.” Down into town, where Moonjuice Gallery is.

  It’s a long ride to the dark little storefront full of folding chairs facing a creaky stage.

  “I have students coming in forty minutes.”

  “Then come right away.” Georgia hung up.

  Georgia wouldn’t be able to get away with acting like that if she looked like me. Or maybe if I had Georgia’s personality, I’d look more like her; I’d be skinny and daring with strange hair and long nails.

  But I didn’t need Georgia’s big clothing and makeup bills. I had car payments to keep up.

  When I got to Moonjuice, I was surprised to see cats fighting in the empty lot across the street. It seemed ominous, somehow. But I teach classics; things tend to look symbolic to me.

  When I walked into Moonjuice, I found Georgia onstage tearing through all the costumes. Feather boas were curled around her feet and spangled dresses were tossed over chairs. Some of the comedy costumes—a fast-food clerk, a secretary, a hockey player, a number 32 football jersey, a fireman—were strewn across the floor.

  “What are you doing?” I couldn’t keep exasperation out of my voice. Who knew when we’d be able to afford new costumes? She was trashing our assets.

  “I can’t find anything!” She wore a black turtleneck, a tight black mini, and black stockings today. With her black nails, lips, and hair, she looked like a Parisian model for the vampire collection. “Where are the costumes from last year?”

  “What costumes? You mean the whips? The clothespins?”

  “The overalls, the ginghams. They’ve been stolen!”

  She couldn’t say this over the phone?

  “Of course they weren’t stolen,” I reassured her. “Who’d want to steal gingham dresses?” Overalls maybe. “They’re probably at someone’s house or in the attic where they’re supposed to be.”

  “Will you go up there and look?”

  “Now?”

  She nodded. “These were already down here, backstage. I can’t go up to the attic—it’s so dusty. My allergies.”

  “I’m supposed to be meeting students!”

  “They’ll wait.”

  Georgia worked nights as a cocktail waitress—but not that steadily. She always contrived to have a guest room to crash in if she couldn’t make rent. To her, jobs were trifles.

  She clattered down the stage steps. “Nan, please?” She linked her arm through mine. I loved the way her body felt. I know I’m not supposed to, but I get turned on by skinniness. And there just isn’t that much of it in our community.

  “Why do you need them?” If I relented and did this for her, I’d beat myself up over it all week. It wasn’t right to put myself out for someone gorgeous if I knew I wouldn’t do the same for a frumpy friend.

  “I was thinking the naked choir could start out wearing them and then strip them off.”

  “Why?”

  “I found out what they sing. They sing gospel.” To her that made sense.

  Don’t ask me how she talked me into it. I’d be embarrassed to analyze it.

  I dragged out attic boxes and searched through them. I never did find the overalls and ginghams. But I found the boxes the costumes on stage had come out of. Their paper wrappings were still scattered all around.

  By the time I got back downstairs, I was late for my appointment. I tore out of there with hardly a word for Georgia. Just as well. It wouldn’t have been a kind word.

  On the way out, I noticed cats were still fighting across the street. The funny thing was, they were different cats this time.

  When I got home from work, I showered first thing, still feeling grimy from my visit to the Moonjuice attic.

  Then I ate dinner in front of the TV. I always feel guilty when I see “Kill Your Television” bumper stickers in Moon-juice’s parking lot. But I work long days, deconstructing and analogizing, and dealing with students’ problems. Channel surfing is my big vice.

  Local news was on. “The pun-loving bandit has seemingly struck again!” The female anchor was a fluffy bit of a thing. She was my secret lust object.

  I shoveled pasta into my face while she explained: “A ransom note was sent to Ygdrasil Herbs today! To ransom its president, you ask? No, to ransom its … catnip. That’s right, catnip—that fragrantly psychedelic herb … psychedelic to cats, that is. Last night, someone broke into the Ygdrasil plant on Teenmore Avenue and stole their entire stock of catnip. Ygdrasil supplies over seventy percent of the catnip sold in this country, according to its spokesman. So better keep on kitty’s good side for a while!”

  The Ygdrasil spokesman came on the screen, explaining that the ransom not
e was signed “Catnip Kidnap.”

  The newscasters could hardly keep a straight face. “Catnip Kidnap,” the airhead newswoman giggled in closing.

  I thought about the cats fighting across the street from Moonjuice. It was a cat synchronicity, I guessed.

  But the next day, I wasn’t so sure it was a coincidence.

  The media had fallen in love with their Pun-loving Bandit, reporting every conceivable connection between the Cereal Killer and the Catnip Kidnap. But that was nothing. By evening, news people were delirious with soft-news joy: Someone had stolen every meat patty from the town’s most popular fast-food joint.

  The first words out of the newscaster’s mouth were “Burger Burglar!”

  I could hardly contain my agitation as the newscaster described the burglary. The meat had been stolen during the busiest part of the lunch rush. No one had noticed anything odd. But when they went to the freezer to replenish, the patties were gone. One manager thought he’d spotted a new employee, but turnover was such that he hadn’t been sure, and he’d been too busy to check.

  The fast-food place had once donated a costume to Moon-juice. I’d seen it just yesterday strewn with the rest of Georgia’s mess.

  Georgia. She was all panache, all show. If something had style, that was enough for her. It didn’t have to make sense or be wise or look good to people who mattered.

  I was sure Georgia was doing it. Performance art just wasn’t enough anymore. Now she’d taken to performance crime, damn her.

  I wanted to strangle her. Didn’t she realize these childish tricks were felonies? That she could go to prison? That Moonjuice would sink under the scandal?

  I wouldn’t let it happen. I drove immediately to a mall pet store. They had very little catnip, most of it from Ygdrasil. I left it there, instead buying a small box of the other brand.

  I had to go all the way across town to find another pet store open. It too had mostly Ygdrasil catnip. I bought the other brand.

  Then I drove to Moonjuice.

  I felt like an idiot scattering the catnip in the vacant lot. Then I hurried across to Moonjuice, letting myself in with my key.

  I was in the “kitchen” area—a sink, a coffee urn, a paint-splotched table, a garbage can. I dumped the empty catnip boxes into the garbage. If anyone else had noticed the cats across the street, if anyone connected catnip to Moonjuice, I would point to these empties. I would make up some story. I didn’t quite know what, but the main thing was to disassociate from Ygdrasil.

  As soon as I dumped the boxes, I dashed through rows of folding chairs and ran up the stage steps.

  The costumes were wildly tossed about, just as they’d been yesterday. But I couldn’t find the fast-food worker uniform. I was afraid I knew why: because Georgia hadn’t returned it to Moonjuice.

  She must have gotten the Burger Burglar idea from seeing the uniform. Foolish!

  “What’s up?” Marlys had entered the room. She wore slacks and a mannish shirt and jacket—the uniform of her office day job.

  I nearly screamed. “Oh, God, you scared me!”

  “I noticed.” She tossed her backpack down. “What happened here? Cyclone Georgia?”

  “Yes.”

  She climbed the stage stairs. “It would never occur to her to clean up, that’s for sure.” Her tone was fond, not frazzled.

  She started picking up dresses, putting them on hangers. She shook her head when the rough floor pulled a spangle off one.

  “I’m surprised so many costumes are down here,” she mused. “Shouldn’t some of these be up in the attic? We’re not using them this year are we?” She glanced at me. “I get a little sick of the hoo-haw dresses and boas. What next?” She struck a pose. “Joan Crawford and Judy Garland?”

  “Right orientation, wrong gender,” I commented.

  I forced myself to calm down. I helped Marlys fold costumes and hang dresses. We talked about this year’s show. She agreed with Georgia about the naked choir, which surprised me. She’s usually pretty levelheaded.

  I didn’t want to bring up the Burger Burglar or Cereal Killer or Catnip Kidnap, but I wished she would. I was looking for an excuse to let off steam, talk about it before the pressure blew my socks off. I even considered voicing my worry about Georgia. Marlys was both her friend and a reasonable person. She could counsel me, help me. She’d see the need to protect Georgia from her own excesses. And, as important, to protect Moonjuice from more scandal.

  Marlys, work clothes and all, schlepped most of the costumes to the attic. I went into the tiny office area and switched on our most valuable resource, a laptop computer we’d purchased last year before our sponsors jumped ship.

  I didn’t have any work to do on it, but Marlys wouldn’t know that. I wanted to stay longer than her. I wanted to search for evidence.

  Marlys came down. She saw me at the laptop. “Bookkeeping, poor baby?”

  “Yes,” I lied. I saw with annoyance that the computer battery was low. The adapter kept the juice on, but it wasn’t recharging the battery. Either that or another board member had been using it.

  “You have to do that now? I was thinking a mixed drink would taste good.”

  “No thanks.” I was tempted, but I had something I wanted to do here. Alone. “Call Georgia?” I suggested.

  “I’ve been trying her all afternoon. She’s not home.” She walked to the phone and dialed. A moment later, she smiled. Georgia had an outrageously campy telephone tape. “It’s Marlys again, calling to see if you want dinner.” She hung up, looking disappointed.

  To me, she said, “You’re sure you won’t go play, Nan?”

  “Sorry.”

  She shrugged, patting me on the shoulder before she left. I watched through the window as she tossed her pack into her old Honda, then drove away.

  I ran up to the attic. A little guiltily, I reopened boxes Marlys had just neatly packed with costumes. I tried not to unfold any as I looked through.

  I finally found the fast-food uniform at the bottom of a box in the corner. It wasn’t one of the newly repacked boxes toward the front.

  Georgia must have noticed the costume during yesterday’s mess-spree, then thought of a clever way to use it. She must have brought it back sometime today and packed it away. It would, of course, never have occurred to her to put away the other costumes. That’s what she had me and Marlys and a dozen other women with crushes on her for.

  It was irritating. But I couldn’t risk what she was willing to risk. I wouldn’t feel safe until the uniform was no longer here to incriminate her. I carried it back downstairs with me.

  If anyone noticed the cats out back and checked for catnip, they’d find my empty boxes of non-Ygdrasil brand. I’d say I’d noticed cats fighting and sprinkled catnip to pacify them.

  And no one would find the fast-food uniform at Moon-juice. I’d see to that right now.

  I turned off the laptop, turned out the lights, and carried the uniform away under my jacket. I drove to a beach cliff. I bundled the uniform into a tight ball, tying it with its own sleeves and pant legs. Then I dropped it off the cliff and went home.

  I was watching the eleven o’clock news and eating ice cream when I learned disaster had struck anew.

  A local computer company, the anchor informed me, a major manufacturer of laptop computers, had reported a break-in. Someone sneaked in and poured salt, pounds of regular table salt, all over the laptop battery assembly area. Thousands of dollars’ worth of batteries had been ruined.

  I waited for the anchor’s inevitable statement. I was shocked when it didn’t come. Maybe this one was too subtle for the folks at Channel 6. But someone would get it before tomorrow’s paper rolled off the presses.

  I would most certainly wake up to the headline SALT ON BATTERIES.

  It was close enough to “assault and battery” to be Georgia’s kind of pun. Georgia had struck again.

  I guess performance art gets boring after a while. I guess it takes a criminal component to give
art its edge.

  I hardly slept at all that night.

  I was a wreck the next day at work, barely following the convoluted ditziness of my students, barely jittering through a staff meeting, barely keeping my temper when the library accused me of damaging a book.

  As soon as I could, I rushed to Moonjuice. Most of the other board members were there. Georgia waved at me. She and two others were going through some papers. Georgia was laughing, saying, “Yes yes yes,” as a woman named Marie insisted, “We can’t put that into an ad!” Another woman, Heidi, was gushing, “Oh, Georgia’s right! Let’s shake them up.”

  I didn’t even want to know what kind of pornography Georgia was trying to sneak into a Moonjuice ad. She wore a lavender bodysuit with a silver sarong. The outfit had looked better on her when she was a blonde, but it was still eye-popping.

  I went into the kitchen to pour myself some coffee before going in to join the wrangle.

  Someone knocked at the back door. Usually people come in through the front.

  I opened the door, alarmed to see a policeman.

  “Hello.” He smiled warily. This town has baggage about its treatment of lesbians and gays. The police have been trying to project a kinder, gentler image.

  He carried a brown paper bag.

  “What—? Who do you—? Hi.” I had to calm down. He looked way too interested in my nervousness.

  He showed me his ID. Then he waited, as if for me to blurt out some incrimination.

  I knew, at that moment, that something had gone wrong. That he was here to question Georgia. That she’d been linked to the crimes. I wanted to box her ears for being so stupid.

  “Do you mind if I come in?” the cop asked politely, as if I’d forget the Police Department’s recent homophobia.

  “No. What do you … ? Is there something?”

  “Yes. I was hoping to speak to someone here? Anyone in charge?”

  I didn’t want him speaking to Georgia, that was for sure. But there was something I very much needed to do right now, before he did any more snooping.

  “I’ll get Marlys,” I said. “She’s in charge. Kind of.”

  I dashed out of the kitchen, going straight into the office. I’d fetch Marlys in a minute. First, I was going to hide the laptop. I wanted no association in the cop’s mind between Moonjuice and the salt on batteries.