Death Wore a Smart Little Outfit

by Orland Outland

  DEATH WORE A SMART LITTLE OUTFIT

  Binky and Doan Mysteries #1

  By Orland Outland

  Copyright © 1997, Copyright renewed 2012 by Orland Outland

  All rights reserved

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Welcome to the world of Binky and Doan. My intrepid heroes have been out of print for some time, and I’m thrilled to be welcoming a new electronic audience to their adventures. It’s been fifteen years since they first appeared in print, and so much has changed in the city of San Francisco since then – the cityscape, the fashions, the Internet boom, bust and boom again. But like “Tales of the City,” the “Death Wore” books are about a slice of time, and in San Francisco, which has seen so many different lives and times, each slice is a place unto itself. So I’ve elected not to update the cultural or any other references (nouvelle cuisine, answering machines…) for this new edition. So get a box of gooey pastries, slip into something comfortable, pop the champagne, and slip into their world and enjoy!

  Orland

  CHAPTER ONE

  As it was supposed to, Binky’s alarm went off at 6 A.M.; as she was not supposed to, she turned it off and went back to sleep. She woke up several hours later, and, as usual, she debated whether or not to call in sick. Then she remembered that she was out of sick time, out of vacation time, and her boss was out of patience with her. Not to mention that her trust fund check for this quarter, which would have eased the financial pain of an unpaid day off on her next paycheck, had still failed to arrive. So she did get up, albeit grudgingly, and decided that since she was going to be late now anyway, she might as well be really late and enjoy the morning, as late was late, no matter how late, right? She searched desultorily for a robe and couldn’t find one, so she went down to the lobby of her building in the buff.

  Her paper wasn’t there. “Naturally,” she muttered. Her feet were freezing on the marble floor of the lobby. “I’ve caught pneumonia for nothing.” The clatter of dress shoes coming down the steps two at a time told her that her neighbor Jacob was leaving for work, which meant her clock was slow and she was even later than she thought.

  At the top of the stairs, Jacob saw her and stopped. “You’re going to catch your death of cold, running around in bare feet.”

  “My goddamn paper didn’t come!” she screamed.

  Jacob smoothed his suit and clattered down the stairs, his Cole Haans drowning out whatever sage advice he might have been giving her.

  “What?” she shouted over the din of his shoes.

  He stopped at the bottom of the stairs. “I said, are you sure you paid for it this month? You forgot last month, remember?”

  “Of course I did. I had the check in an envelope right by the door…underneath my keys,” she ended with a moan, realizing what was in the envelope she had looked at with such perturbation the night before, sensing that it had some vaguely important purpose.

  Jacob clucked and opened his briefcase. “Here, dear, take mine. And mail the check this morning, won’t you?”

  She kissed him on the cheek. “You’re an angel.”

  He went on his way, calling back over his shoulder.

  “And you’re a mess. Now don’t forget again!” And the door clicked shut behind him.

  Binky trudged up the stairs, cursing whoever had decided a quaint Victorian house chopped into apartments couldn’t have a nice unquaint practical convenience like an elevator. Reaching her third floor apartment, she turned on the electric stove, sat on the counter opposite, and waved her feet over the burner while pouring herself a cup of coffee. Miss Porter’s had not done what it had promised to do, which had been to prepare her for a glittering social marriage, but walking around with books on your head gave you a sense of balance that proved handy in apartments warmed only by stove heat.

  She took her coffee to the kitchen table, pulled up the blinds, and took in the city around her. She smiled, knowing that it was going to be a perfect day. The fog would last till ten, then the sun would come out and it would be bright and clear until around four.

  She damned the working life and opened the paper, read Art Mill’s column, “Dear Abby,” Liz Smith, and the comics, and that done, she had read all she ever read of the San Francisco Times. She showered, threw on a dress, combed her hair, and put on lipstick. She was as ready for work as she ever would be.

  Which must have been why the phone rang at that very instant. Although all over town there were surely many young women Binky’s age who, eager to get to their power jobs, would have cursed and answered it abruptly, Binky herself was not one of them. Work was not a source of satisfaction for her, only of income. A ringing phone was an excuse to drop her purse, take off her shoes, and pour another cup of coffee. She prayed it was Doan, who would keep her on the horn for an obscenely long time, instead of a more perfunctory caller who would be less willing to help postpone her inevitable trudge to work.

  “Hello?”

  “Oh, you’re there!” It was Doan, of course.

  “Where else would I be?”

  “Well, work was the answer I had in mind. It’s not important, I’ll talk to you later, bye!”

  “Wait a minute, Doan,” she said darkly. “I know you better than that. You thought I was at work, so you called my machine, even though you have my work number. That means you were going to tell me something you didn’t want to tell me personally. Now spit it out.”

  He sighed. “I was calling to tell you that I wouldn’t be coming by to clean today. See, I’ve got to…”

  She cut him off. “Doan. I don’t care. I’ve got that big party to go to, and I couldn’t possibly drag a strange man home to a dirty apartment.”

  “Most people would object to the strange man part more than the dirty apartment part, don’t you think, dearie?”

  “Just get over here and do it,” she growled. “I’m not saying I won’t be your best friend anymore, but I am saying I won’t pay you to be my part - time maid anymore. What on earth could you possibly have to do that could be more important?”

  “Fired? Moi? God forbid. I’m sure I’d be thrown onto the dole without your generosity. All right, all right, I’ll just cancel my little date with one of San Francisco’s premiere socialites to clean your little love nest so you won’t offend some strange man whom you’ll never see again anyway.”

  “What socialite?” she asked. “No offense, m’dear, but I can’t imagine any of those old birds having much to do with a drag queen.”

  “I am not a drag queen,” Doan fumed. “I do not wear makeup, I do not pretend to be a woman. The fact that I wear women’s clothing has much more to do with comfort and style than it does with sex. In case you never noticed, it’s only very recently that men’s clothes have been anything but hideous, so many years ago...”

  “So many years ago you began wearing women’s clothes, etc., etc. We’ve had this conversation before. Who is so important that you have to leave me in filth?”

  She could hear him smiling. “Even you would never believe me.”

  It was true: Binky never would have believed him. Doan had known her since she’d moved to San Francisco six months before. As he enjoyed the rare luxury of riding in a chauffeur-driven limousine, he warmly recalled their meeting - the two of them reaching at the same time for the last bottle of Veuve Clicquot at the liquor store, and Doan smiling (while not letting go of the bottle) and saying, “I’m sorry, I believe that this is mine.”

  Binky (not letting go either) smiled back. “No, so sorry. Mine,” she said with fierce possessiveness.

  “I’d let you have it, except that I have a date tonight, and…”

  “So do I,” she countered.


  “I’m sure you do,” Doan said, his voice firming, “but my date is a man who will drink only the best...”

  “Mine is a chef...”

  “ ...and is absolutely no good in the sack unless he’s tipsy...”

  “ ...who can’t get excited unless I rub strawberries soaked in this shit all over his naked torso...”

  “...but if he is, he can have five orgasms in a night.”

  She shoved the bottle at him. “You win.”

  It wasn’t that she didn’t think him the believable sort, just that, as he cheerfully confessed, so far as she knew, Doan McCandler was an amusing person with no visible means of support; not a kept boy, just someone who always managed to live on other people’s good graces in perpetua.

  And while Doan was not a drag queen, she had, at first, been fairly certain that he was a woman. Doan wore his blondish hair long, his face and body were fairly hairless, and he wore loose dresses that didn’t give away his hips’ secrets. He had feline features; he wore no makeup, but had naturally bright cheeks and lips. When he’d had to practically hit her over the head with the truth, she hadn’t believed him at first. Nor would she have believed now that he was getting in a limo to see someone who, although richer than God, was not one of those many people whose generosity provided his means of existence.

  Had he told her that he couldn’t clean her apartment because he was going to see Eleanor Van Owens Ambermere, old and dear friend ... well, she would have made some smart comment and he would have been proud of her. Socialites at the level of La Ambermere did tend to associate with their own kind to the exclusion of almost everybody else in the universe save those who were financially dependent on their good graces. People like Doan were of no use to the rich, nor were the rich of enough use to Doan for him to feel it necessary to suck up to them. His relationship with Eleanor was strictly a friendship, a friendship he thought it best to keep to himself, at least for the time being.

  Many people in San Francisco lived in stately homes. Some even lived in mansions. The Ambermeres lived in what could only be described as a pile at the very height of Pacific Heights. Rich people always live in the heights, when they can help it; a speed bump on California Street was transformed into Laurel Heights for the benefit of its wealthy occupants.

  As for the house itself, suffice it to say it might have been better suited to Hollywood than San Francisco: Tudor whatnot in all directions, a turret here and a balcony there, peaked roofs capping a few of the towers, battlements topping others. Doan surmised there was probably about two square inches of backyard - but that was only a guess; he’d never gotten that far toward the back of the house without getting lost.

  Charles Ambermere’s trademark silver and black Rolls (license WHELRDELR) was not in the drive. Doan didn’t think it would be. Eleanor’s husband was not kindly disposed toward men in dresses and had made everyone well aware of that fact on many occasions. So Doan made it a strict policy to visit the Ambermere pile only when it was certain the master would be gone.

  Frannie opened the door for him. “Late,” was all she said as she walked away. Eleanor Ambermere’s “nurse” was not a woman of many words. Those who attempted to draw her out soon came to be grateful for this. She had been Eleanor’s companion, secretary, and social surrogate for decades now

  Today Doan ignored her criticism of his lack of punctuality and followed her up the stairs.

  “Frannie?” the raspy voice asked from the open door at the end of the third-floor landing. “Who was at the door?”

  “Queen of Sheba.”

  “Tell him he’s late.”

  “Did.”

  Doan entered her boudoir and went to the side of the huge bed and kissed the frail old lady on the cheek.

  “Well, don’t you look old and sick today.”

  She laughed, a sound somewhere between Lauren Bacall and incurable laryngitis.

  “You have no idea how good I feel,” she crowed.

  “Yes, I do. Divorce does wonders for the glands.”

  She lit a cigarette. “Oh, you heard?”

  “At the same time half a million people read it in the morning paper today,” he said accusingly.

  “Oh, that’s right. I forgot to tell you it was coming so soon. So,” she said, fluffing several pillows and propping herself up, “what do you think?” Doan wasn’t really angry, she knew, just put out about not being the first one to hear.

  He patted her arm. “Whatever makes you happy, dear.”

  “It makes me happy, believe me. When I think of all the years ...” her eyes misted over, and she reached out for Doan’s hand, which he quickly gave her

  All the years, Doan echoed to himself. He looked at the picture on the nightstand of the frail, beautiful young heiress, who had finally gotten married at the age of thirty-seven, already an old maid in most eyes. Charles Ambermere was poor, sexy, ambitious, twenty-one, and despised by her family. He went on to do marginally adequate things, all with her money, none of which ever generated a return. She had been grateful for his attentions, though they waned as she became wheelchair-bound in her forties and disappeared entirely when she became bedridden in her fifties. The unloving old gold digger had managed to have her ruled incompetent two years previously, and had been able to assume complete control of a sum so huge that even he could not squander it all.

  Doan’s introduction to her had come five years before, shortly after she had become what is known in nursing circles as “difficult,” meaning that she liked to call a cab, sneak out of the house, and ride to the top of Russian Hill, from which she would coast down the hill in her wheelchair toward the wharf, in scenes that far surpassed those in Bullitt. One such day, Doan had been engaged in watching a fisherman in tight, faded jeans as he bent, lifted boxes, stepped high over the edge of his trawler, and set them down on the dock, when the screams of the crowd and a hoarse shout of glee finally diverted his attention. Eleanor was barreling toward him at God knew how many miles per hour.

  Doan had never been what anyone might call butch, but he knew what to do in a crisis. He gauged her trajectory, got a running start beside the chair, grabbed the handles as she passed him, and ran with it to slow rather than stop it, as trying to stop it would have resulted in dislocated shoulders for him and a projectile passenger. Only inches from the water, the man in the tight faded jeans grabbed the arms of the much-slowed chair and brought it to a complete halt, thus bringing to Doan Eleanor’s friendship, mild notoriety, and a three-month liaison with tight, faded jeans, ended only by his strange and unfathomable (to Doan) desire to rejoin the Merchant Marines and see what parts of the world he hadn’t already seen.

  Eleanor was, in her dottiness, the perfect companion for Doan. Her madness had a method, there was no doubt of that. She would come up with the most outrageous whims – one day, the third day of nonstop rain, she had decided that she wanted to see Tahiti - immediately. And she had the means to fulfill those whims: not wanting to transfer planes in Hawaii, she’d ordered her solicitors to purchase an airplane – immediately – and have it ready for her – immediately. She asked nothing of Doan, and he nothing of her, other than mutual companionship and amusement. He went along with her on everything because being in on her massive-scale frivolities was, he surmised, as close to heaven as he’d ever get

  When Charles wrested away control over her money, it was the end of all those festivities. She became cranky, hypochondriac, shrill, whiny - in short, old. Doan felt it was his duty to make her retain some links with the world she had not begun to enjoy until so late in life, the world she had been able to view the way a child does - the whole thing one big toy for her to play with. Even in her darkest days, he would come to see her and make her laugh. It was not out of charity; Doan did not possess the do- gooding soul of a candy striper. He had come to love Eleanor, and while he believed the doctors when they said she’d never be her fun-loving self again, he stuck with her through the dark times as she’d stuck with him through her g
ood times.

  And then, several months ago, it had started to happen.

  Frannie, no spring chicken herself, almost had a coronary at the sight: Eleanor Van Owens Ambermere, walking, yes, walking into the kitchen and making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. “Well?” she had asked in the husky voice that had always seemed so out of place in the senile little old lady. “You got a problem with this?” she had demanded as she waved the sandwich around the room.

  Such lucid moments became more and more frequent, as did her trips out of bed. Charles Ambermere, finally concerned about his wife's health, ordered up a fleet of doctors. Three of them had concluded that, as doctors will, they could make no conclusions without further tests. That was when Eleanor had raised her voice to the decibel level suitable to Biblical jeremiads and ordered them out of the house.

  And now that Eleanor was awake and alert nearly all of the time, healthy as an ox for the first time in her life (in bed today only due to a slight cold), and had just been certified sane and competent to manage her own affairs by five psychiatrists, she had filed for divorce. And she had every intention of making sure Charles Ambermere didn’t get a cent beyond the kajillions he’d already blown.

  “Well,” Doan said, “those days are all over now. And all things considered, they weren’t all bad.”

  “Yeah,” she agreed, lighting another cigarette. She was regenerating so completely and quickly, she was afraid of losing her raspy voice (which she felt gave her character), so she had started smoking, arguing forcefully that now that she was so indecently healthy, she had a right to at least one vice. “I remember how I met you. It was in Paris during the war. You were with the Resistance...or were you a Nazi...” She leaned back in the bed and frowned, trying to remember.

  Doan smiled and waited patiently, knowing this was one of her more and more infrequent trips and that it would be over quickly. She sat up, blinking furiously.

  “No. It was at the wharf. People ran to get out of my way, you ran after me in those Manolo Blahnik shoes you never would loan me, and I ran smack into that gorgeous fisherman. No wonder I went back to la-la land for a minute; the truth is so goddamn surreal, the Nazi story was more likely.” She was, Doan noted approvingly, no longer infuriated by her lapses, knowing as he did that they would soon be completely a thing of the past. “Whatever happened to him?”