by Kieran York
“Knock it off, Pluma,” Summer mumbled. She slid a grape through the bars. “Trev, she isn’t eating.”
“She will when she gets hungry enough.”
Summer glanced back at the cage. “I’m not very hungry either. Just something light for me, please,” she ordered.
This was always nice for me, since I could practically live on salads. I began dinner by planning one of my favorite toss-it-all-in recipes. Chilled beets, artichoke hearts, avocados, cherry tomatoes, hardboiled eggs, green onions, radishes, lettuce leaves, along with my yogurt, lemon oil and herbal dressing, would make a magnificent, healthy meal.
Summer sat on a stool at the counter watching as I sliced, diced, pounded, seasoned, and cooked. I told her everything I’d found out about Pixy. I would be checking on the mystery woman that bought the broken-down wreck of a boat that Pixy called home. And we discussed the police investigative reports from the case.
“Also, some young men – high school or college – bullied Pixy on various occasions. We need to check that. This woman, Evan Finch, said she’ll keep an eye out for them. She was very helpful.”
“You said she’s a marine biologist?”
“Professor of marine biology, I think. She lectures.”
“And she’s Sapphic?”
“I think so. But I didn’t ask her.”
“I would have asked her.”
“I know you would have.” I inhaled a deep breath. “Also, the cop I spoke with outside of Glitters took my card.”
Summer’s eyebrows bobbed. “Is she cute?’ she playfully inquired.
“Adorable. But I don’t even know if she’s Sapphic.”
“You’re a piss-poor investigator, Trev.”
When the salad was plated, I sat down across from Summer. “And your day?”
Summer reported, “I had a day of checking things out. I got hold of the owner of the rifle that killed Perrault in Miami. He repeated nearly verbatim what was on the police report. He and his family were in Kentucky. The gun was stolen from his garage, along with a few of his tools, and couple of jet skis. None of his neighbors saw the burglary go down. It was sometime between midnight and six in the morning.”
“And the rifle was then sold to the highest bidder. A hitman,” I issued my best guess.
“It is going to be tough tracing a sale on it.”
“We’ve got two difficult cases.” I munched the salad. “We need to figure the motive on the Perrault case. Pixy’s killer might not have had a motive. It might have been a random murder. She couldn’t have fought back against most people. Her balance was difficult, even when she walked. I wish we knew what kind of accident caused her face to have been smashed, and her brain injury. Maybe someone injured her, and then wanted her dead. To shut her up.”
“Her injury happened years ago. She’s in her mid to late twenties. So, it may have happened when she was a teenager. It may not even have involved another person. She could have been alone when it happened. If there were a perp, why would a perp wait so long?” Summer inquired.
“Why would a random person pick on her? Kill her?”
Summer’s eyes dimmed. “Why are there bullies in the world? She was small. A woman. That translates to her being easy prey. And bullies pick easy prey.”
We had all felt the hatred of bullies. Rachel had felt the marks of bullying because she was somewhat affluent, and her mother is a judge. Summer’s background of being a middle child in a middleclass home hadn’t helped her cause. She was bullied for her demeanor. She is not a stand-back person. Classmates knew she was different. She knew she was lesbian way before she’d named it – or someone called her a dyke. And in my own childhood, I was bullied for my poverty, my drunken parents, and my studious intent to succeed.
I would never forget the huge, pimply school boy that tormented me about my aspirations. He’d said: You nothin’ but a lowdown, poor girl right out of the South. You better throw away those learnin’ books and open up your legs.
At a young age, I had to become a lesbian behaviorist. That lowdown, poor girl kept her legs closed, and became a leading Florida attorney.
Summer did even better than that. She learned the art of punching. She went after bullies with the old one-two. And a third bash of Summer’s fist, and her rage, drove a bully away in a hurry.
My musings backward didn’t last long. We cleaned up the kitchen, and decided to make a trip to West Palm’s Purple Sand. It was the sports bar where Pixy often went to entertain. It was a gay and lesbian hangout, equipped with a volleyball sand pit. Muscles abounded. After talking with the bar’s owner, Lyle Wills, we knew he was being as helpful as he could. He just didn’t know anything relevant. He took my card, and as with everyone else, he promised to call if he heard or saw anything.
We were gathering lots of eyes and ears.
Early days, but I was feeling dejected. I suggested to Summer that we head toward Palm Beach and check out the swank, upscale lesbian bar in Palm’s center. I wasn’t certain if Pixy had entertained in the romantic, exclusive restaurant. But it was worth a try to check out Orchids.
Summer and I were dressed in our casual street clothing, and we weren’t even admitted. We did get an audience with the proprietor in her chic office. She disclosed that Pixy had not been allowed to enter and do her busking. She had, from time to time, stood on the street outside and sold roses.
When the owner spoke of Pixy, she said she’d been denied passage inside because of a policy. As she said Pixy’s name, it was with the arrogance of smelling something very disagreeable. I caught the flicker of anger on Summer’s face. I quickly got her out of there. Hers has always been a combustible, sharp, and unforgiving temper.
From time to time I’d taken women to Orchids to wine and dine them. That wasn’t happening again, I vowed. Then I heard the owner call us as we began to leave. She mentioned that she’d seen Pixy at the Palm’s Oyster Bistro. We thanked her for the tip, and felt just a tad less hostile toward her.
Knowledge that Pixy frequented the Palm’s Oyster Bistro was new information. It was Palm Beach’s touristy grill and restaurant near the town square. It hadn’t been on my radar screen because it was primarily a straight place. Many gay and lesbians went there for the seafood, and the fact that the owners were lesbians.
It had seemed that Pixy gravitated to gay and lesbian bars. She felt safer there, I assumed. Everyone watched after her, protected her. We all knew her. Or we attempted to know what we could about her.
Summer suggested since our dinner had been light, that we share a platter of coconut shrimp at the bistro.
“Best coconut shrimp and oysters on the planet,” Summer praised.
We found a quiet booth. We sat, then ordered the shrimp, some herb flavored garlic bread, and cappuccinos. Because it was nearly ten at night, the place was clearing out. That, I thought, would make interrogation easier.
When delivered, I took a sip of the excellent coffee. “Just what I need.” I toasted the server. “Great”
She grinned, “I think we have the best coffee in Florida.”
“You could be right,” Summer said as she flirted with a grin.
I glanced at the woman’s nametag, “Mia, we’re investigating the homicide of Pixy. I was told that she frequented the bistro. Did you know her?”
“We all did.” Mia sat on the edge of the booth, and Summer quickly moved over for her.
“Is there anyone you can think of that might have had a problem with her?” I questioned.
“Naw,” she answered. “We feel just terrible about her being killed. We’re all really upset about it.”
Summer asked, “Did you ever see anyone bully her or anything like that?”
“You know, she did come in once in a state. We could tell she was crying. She sort of indicated someone took her money. She appeared roughed up, and before she finished her story, she was definitely sobbing. She just kept saying ‘they take money’ and she made a fist.”
“No o
ne saw what happened to her outside?”
“No, we got her some pink lemonade. That’s her favorite. Barb, the owner, took her into her office and sat her down. Her eye was puffy, so I think Barb put a compress on it.”
“Is Barb around?”
Mia stood. “She’s in the kitchen. I’ll send her out.”
It was quick blink of time before Barb arrived. “How can I help you?”
After introductions, I told her we were after information about Pixy. “Have you ever noticed anyone bothering her? You know, giving her a rough time?” I asked.
“I saw her right after some young men were bothering her. I patched her up. It looked as though she’d been hit. Damn, as if she didn’t have enough to contend with.”
Summer questioned, “Did she say ‘men’ had done it?”
“I think so,” Barb frowned. “Oh, I remember now. A customer was just coming in, and she said she saw some guys shoving her. They took off in a small red convertible.”
“Was the customer a regular? Someone we can talk with?”
“No, she was a tourist. She’d yelled at the two men. Told them to leave Pixy alone. The driver hung out of the car and screamed back that they were only pranking on her, and they called her a freak.”
Frowning, I muttered, “I wish I could find that woman.”
“She was from Cambridge, Massachusetts. I remember that because she said she recognized the shirt of one of the guys. He had on a t-shirt with the Harvard logo. She commented that she lived in that area. Harvard.”
Summer sighed. “That doesn’t narrow it down. You can buy Ivy League imprinted clothing anywhere. On line, anywhere.”
“Status symbol, I guess,” Barb said. “We see millions of college imprinted clothes. Anyway, I was more interested in patching Pixy. So, I didn’t pay attention to her.”
“If the woman charged her bill, would you have a record of it?”
“I can check back. It was over a month ago,” Barb answered. “I’ll send you over a coffee spiked with a little Irish for you, while I check.”
True to her word, Barb indeed sent an Irish coffee to us.
Summer and I sipped slowly until Barb returned. She disclosed that the credit card was held by a woman named Tess Norris. No area, but Barb had already supplied us with the probable area. We thanked Barb profusely for her help, and for the drink. She said she thought she’d recognized us as having solved one of Palm Beach’s biggest murder cases. Also, we’d come in to her establishment a few times. However, she mentioned, she doesn’t always see customers when she’s in her office or in the kitchen.
We promised to come in oftener.
Driving back to the marina, I listed more things to add to our inquiry calls. We had discussed returning to the hospital to see how Rachel was doing. With a chuckle, we agreed that Rachel was in good hands. Hanna would keep us apprised, and call if she needed help.
Summer agreed to check out the woman named Tess Norris. Then in the morning we could contact her to see if she had any information, or could I.D. a suspect – if and when we found a suspect. If he was driving a red sports car, he probably wasn’t hiding his light under a damned basket.
Walking toward the yacht’s gym, Summer said she would be exercising. Her ripped musculature frame would not be ignored. And her mind would undoubtedly be reconstructing information she’d gathered. Win-win.
I felt restless. I decided to run by Mandy Jewel’s apartment. Naturally, I called first to make certain she didn’t have a party going on. Then I drove to her place, and was greeted with a crazy frosted glass of her ‘signature’ cocktail. Luscious fruit filled the goblet. The chilled glass was bigger than my head. Mandy dubbed the drink her peach pleasure. Mandy’s Peach Supreme.
In her smooth, honey-dripping voice, Mandy told me that she had put her feelers out to the high-toned socialites of Palm Beach. To very little avail, but she did give me the theories of the many underworld former gangsters that she’d spoken with on my behalf.
Palm Beach caprices and curiosities were of interest to the insiders. The pleasured wealthy had opinions on most things.
“No one knows a thing about Perrault’s killer,” she said with a hearty swallow of her bedecked drink.
I swirled my drink, sipped, and sighed. “We aren’t getting many breaks. But I knew this was going to be arduous. Contract killings require knowing motive.”
“Oh, dear, that’s the one thing everyone said. It wasn’t a contract killing,” she informed me.
Pausing, I looked back into her face. “How can they be so sure? I mean it was a very polished, sophisticated homicide. Precision gunman, just the right time, quick exit. This person or persons knew what to do.”
“I would have thought it was gun for hire. Offing a multimillionaire is serious business. Lots of security.” Her rushed speech added, “Mean security.”
“Did anyone say why they didn’t think it was for hire? A professional hit?”
“There haven’t been any major hit men in the area.”
“They know this how?” I quizzed.
“One of the Palm Beach bon mots is that life is not only unfair; it is untidy. But old money knows how to keep death fairly tidy. This homicide was made to look like it was professional. And it does. But it isn’t. That will keep investigators busy. The rich folks know that trick. Use that trick.”
Uncertain about her sources. I asked, “How about the newly minted rich?”
“Those with nouveaux credentials don’t really give a fuck about anyone else getting wacked. As long as they are okay.” Her lip lifted.
“You’re in touch with your former women. Anything they might have said?”
Her head reeled backward as she howled laughter. “Those women aren’t interested. They are mostly affluent. They understand camisoles, serpentine bracelets, and preening.” She paused, then remembered, “I’ve met so many interesting characters in my time. Celebrating the days of youth makes me happy.” She barked a quick laugh.
My lips pursed. “Me too,” I joked. My sun-powered smile burst into a chain of giggles. “Mandy, I enjoy talking with you. You lift my spirits.”
“Well, kid, I may not be a brand-new model, and my greyhound thinness is a thing of the past, but I sure as hell have rich memories. I was leggy, stunning, and I provided the extras.”
We continued chatting for another half hour of uproarious laughter. She did that for people. I finished my drink, and just before we said our goodbyes, I asked. “One more question.”
“Yes?”
“Do you have any more bon mots to share?”
“Beware of social larva – not quite a moth, and certainly not a butterfly.” Her enormous smile brightened.
“Would you consider Glenda Perrault a social larva? And do you think she could have murdered her husband?”
“Beryl, you’re a smart woman. That’s why you were my attorney. If not Glenda Perrault, perhaps someone like her. Ambitious, and impatient.”
“But the shooter’s first two shots were direct hits on Wendell. The next shot probably would have been a direct hit on Glenda. If Rachel wouldn’t have interceded and taken the shot. I wouldn’t let any sharpshooter aim and fire in my direction if I were paying them to off my hubby.”
“So, you’re down to someone like Glenda.” She laughed. “I have another old Palm Beach saying. Beware of escorts with sweet souls and limpid brown eyes whose neuroreceptors are in high gear.”
“You made that up,” I accused with a chuckle.
“No. If I were going to make up a story, it would be gritty and very, very sexual.”
I chuckled as I left her apartment. I heard her door shut. Someone wanted both Wendell and Glenda dead. Unless Rachel only interceded in time to break apart an errant bullet meant to go astray. That could easily have been Mandy’s inference to look inside. She didn’t believe it was an outside hit.
My return drive to The Radclyffe was slow, and purposeful. I was thinking about what Mandy had said. When I
’d parked my convertible, I stayed seated for many minutes. Glancing out at the ocean, I watched a meter of life passing. The circlet of blonde shores fenced in the lifting blue of the sea. Ashore, wavelets created bobbing lights.
There were hints of maroon flashing in the waters.
Chapter 6
Waking early, I had sensed that the morning had a strong summer mugginess. I slipped into shorts and a t-shirt for my morning jog. It occurred to me as I ran across the sands of my favorite beach, that the sweet woman known only as Pixy, would not be cheerfully following behind me. Never again would I look over my shoulder and watch her run.
I redirected my thoughts. Two cases – and no one was excluded. Case #1 was the Perrault case. It was the murder of a corporate billionaire with a butt-load of enemies. Case #2 was the Pixy case. It was the homicide of a young disabled street busker with no known enemies.
My brain attempted to streamline the sequencing of these crimes.
What I had committed to memory was that the fact that clues were scattered all over the place. Spouse is first to be looked at in any case. Perrault’s wife was also nearly a victim. The top candidate was not on my radar. Hints that she was entangled in a romance with one of her employees had been eliminated. Glenda and Ross were not involved in a romance. Still high on the guilty list was Dr. Curtis Rhodes, partner. He despised Wendell for what he considered cheating him out of his proper share of the company. And another motive - another strong candidate was Olga Carleton. She was a customer that had sued the company and lost the suit. She hated both Perraults. And there were other disgruntled employees, unhappy clients, and maybe a mob hit. Any one of them could have offed Wendell.
Other dissatisfied candidates were being called by Summer and Rachel. These people had all either resolved the problem, or forgotten about it.
Now I was conflicted about Mandy Jewel’s words. Had Rachel interrupted the shooter from a fake shot that had been taken with the idea of missing? Was that only an alleged errant slug gone amiss into my partner’s lung? Just enough to take suspicion from Glenda? Yet Glenda was in direct line of fire when Rachel was shot. No wiggle room. Also, why did Glenda then hire the Team to investigate the crime?
