Femme Faux Fatale

by Susan Laine

  “No, no, no… it can’t be true….” She covered her face with her hands and sobbed in earnest.

  The handgun fell from the woman’s grip as her hands shook. Then the rest of her started to quake uncontrollably. Cain moved on instinct. He grabbed the woman by the waist and led her to sit down on the couch to the right of the front door. She was a tall, somewhat lanky woman with a blonde pixie haircut. Classy if not as elegant as Riley’s female persona.

  With detachment Cain noted his surroundings. The spacious living room area had striped sofas and armchairs, art-deco-style brown wallpaper, dark beige curtains over floor-to-ceiling windows, creamy-white wall-to-wall carpeting, and brown wood furniture: a writing desk, coffee table, small cabinet, and a round dining table in the corner. A clean, streamlined interior.

  Cain stepped over to Riley, gripped his arm, and led him to the curved window to the side. “What the hell’s going on?”

  Riley yanked his arm free and glared. Then he blinked, his hard features softened, and he let out a long breath, slumping. “I’m sorry, Cain. I should have told you sooner. But I was sworn to secrecy.” His gaze landed on the sobbing woman, and love grew in his pained expression. “She….”

  “Who is she?” Cain demanded in a quieter tone.

  Conflicting emotions waged war on Riley’s lovely, ambivalent face. “Sheridan Astor.”

  Cain gasped. Shock didn’t even begin to describe how he felt at that moment. A muddled brain was certainly the end result. “What?”

  “That’s how I knew the man you found dead couldn’t be Sheridan Astor. He’s a she. We’re alike, she and I. We both dress in the garb of the opposite sex. We often behave as the opposite sex. We become them. Cross-dressing is only scratching the surface.”

  Cain’s mind raced to play catchup. “So who’s the dead guy?” He snatched his phone out of his front pocket, scrolled through his album, and showed Riley the picture Cain had snapped of the two bodies in secret. Thankfully this photo didn’t showcase their torn corpses, only their faces, as bloated as they were. “Please tell me you know him.”

  Eyes wide, Riley drew in a sharp breath, grasped the phone, and met Cain’s gaze head-on. “Oh my God. That’s William Woolrich, Sherry’s business partner.”

  Cain whistled low. Then he regarded the mourning display before him. “And Mirabel?” He had a feeling he already knew the answer.

  “Sherry and Mirabel were lovers. True lovers. Just not a straight couple. Lesbians.”

  “Uh-huh. And how does Woolrich fit into this? Other than him being the patsy set up to be killed and put on display like a bloodied mannequin to fool onlookers and cops that Sheridan is dead when he—she isn’t?”

  A memory of Camille refusing to state that Woolrich might have been the one to hide the Rodin statuette at the club came forth unbidden. Camille had suggested that the whereabouts of the missing statuette could lie in the club. That would put it in Woolrich’s purview. But did he steal it? Since the murder scene appeared to have been staged, then perhaps the implication that Woolrich stole the artwork was another frame job.

  Riley frowned, seemingly perplexed. “I don’t know. He’s never shown any interest in stuff beyond the running of the club. He’s all about accounts, ledgers, and spreadsheets.”

  “Even though he works at a burlesque club filled with hot half-naked girls?”

  Riley shrugged. “I always figured Woolrich was asexual or a really repressed virgin.”

  That didn’t explain much, Cain thought. “What about the Rodin piece? Did Sheridan take it with her when she came here? And just for the record, why did she come here?”

  “I can answer that.” Sheridan rose from the couch, wiping her red eyes and wet cheeks. It was easy to tell up close and personal that she was a woman. Had she worn male clothes instead of her current charcoal-hued capris and tight long-sleeved shirt that revealed her figure things could’ve become muddled. Her blonde hair was cut short in a style emulating masculinity, and her features held a certain ruggedness. Her blue eyes hid behind a pair of trendy gray-rimmed glasses she’d just put on. Maybe she was nearsighted?

  “If you’re feeling up to it,” Cain commented magnanimously, taking a seat in the armchair opposite the couch. Riley sat next to Sheridan and took her hand in his, a kind smile on his lips.

  With a long exhale, Sheridan fidgeted and stared down at the rug, though she probably didn’t even see it. “I’ll have to start from the beginning.”

  “Don’t go as far back as the Stone Age, and we’re good,” Cain deadpanned sardonically.

  A dry smile graced Sheridan’s lips briefly. “I’ll do my best to oblige.” Her expression grew serious and sad. “My family came into money during the rise of the film industry in this town. I’ve never not had fabulous wealth at my fingertips. But when you’re different from the so-called norm, money becomes a means of creating a better life.”

  “You’ve done a lot of good for so many,” Riley murmured at her side, squeezing her hand. Cain liked this show of selfless friendship. It implied that whatever secrets Riley still withheld from him, they might not matter in the grand scheme of things.

  Sheridan bussed Riley’s cheek. “You’re the best friend a dolt like me could ask for, Lily. I couldn’t have done any of this without your strength and bravery. You’re an inspiration to me.”

  Riley blushed and ducked his head. “Thanks.”

  “Anyway,” Sheridan continued, turning her gaze to Cain. “When I discovered I liked girls instead of boys, back in elementary school, things became hard. But one perseveres, as one does. Is there any other choice?” She shook her head in answer to her own question. “I stayed in the closet, though. I felt enormous pressure to conform from my parents and society. It’s difficult to pretend to be someone you’re not.”

  “I understand,” Cain said, because he did. Being gay wasn’t a choice but hiding it because of others sometimes was. Fear was a powerful motivator.

  Sheridan nodded. “Nine years ago I was at an auction in Paris, France. I left there with the Rodin statuette.”

  “The Inamorata in Sepia?”

  “Yes. It’s one of my greatest finds and most treasured pieces. I love it.” She frowned then, an angry grimace shading her open face. “Three years ago I met Camille in Florence, Italy. She was in tune with me. The rhythms of our lives, desires, passions, and interests seemed to fuse to create a harmonious symphony. I fell for her hard.”

  “Camille’s a lesbian?” Cain recalled vividly Camille’s attempts at seduction. Had they all been subterfuge? Possibly.

  Sheridan shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. My guess would be bisexual.”

  “You fell in love and got married.”

  “Yes. Camille could be very persuasive, you see.”

  “I know. I’ve met her.”

  Sheridan’s wry, lopsided smile spoke volumes. “She has a certain allure, that’s for sure. I was toast the second I laid eyes on her. We shared specific lifestyle interests and inclinations. When she proposed that we got married to maintain a public straight cover and a facade of respectability, it was all so tempting. Could I have my cake and eat it? Pretending to be a man wasn’t hard either. People see what they expect to see. And I enjoy the thrill of the guise.”

  “What are these inclinations you mentioned?” Cain only knew Camille’s version.

  “She’s into hard-core sex with all that entails—sadism and masochism. When I met her, I was still searching for my own niche, and she introduced me to cross-dressing. It was everything I’d wanted, the freedom to express myself the way I desired while showing a fake front to the world in an act of defiance. I presented them with a mask, and they embraced it. To the world I was a man who slept with beautiful women. It was the perfect illusion, one that served me well. The lesbian woman in me was buried, only to come out at night. I didn’t regret my decision.”

  “And now?”

  “I still feel no remorse. The world demanded I hide my true self. So
I hid in plain sight in mockery of them for their hatred, prejudice, shallowness, and small-mindedness.”

  Cain was at once impressed and pissed off. Sheridan had taken the trappings of a man for the purpose of being true to herself, only in camouflage. Not everyone had that option. It was both audacious and cowardly. At first glance it seemed like taking the easy way out. But Cain suspected it wasn’t. How long could one don the guise of another and still retain one’s self? On the other hand, sometimes people were born in the wrong bodies, their minds and bodies in total conflict. What could one do then? Society seemed to oppose any means chosen to ease the agony of that state.

  “You disapprove?” Sheridan’s tone remained neutral.

  Cain shrugged. “My opinion’s irrelevant. Go on with the story.”

  Sheridan accepted this with a curt nod. “It took Camille and me over a year to tie the knot. I had doubts, you see. She had none. She even encouraged me to open club Iris to keep us in the public eye and in the comfortable lifestyle we’ve both become accustomed to. I know she didn’t marry me for money as she has plenty of her own. Setting up the club the way we wanted it took us a while. To this day we’ve been married for three years.”

  “Camille implied the marriage has been happy, if unconventional.”

  “That’s true to a degree, I suppose.” She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, gaze aimed past the coffee table. A deep frown appeared above her eyes. “One day I learned what she’d been hiding from me. And that was when things began to spiral out of control.”

  Cain held his breath. Finally they were coming to crux of the case.

  Sheridan met his gaze steadfastly. “I found out Camille has a Rodin statuette too.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  CAIN stared, dumbfounded. “Come again?”

  Sheridan spoke slowly, perhaps to give Cain the time to acclimatize. “You see, Mr. Noble, there are not one but two Auguste Rodin statuettes: the Inamorata in Sepia, a female figurine… and the Inamorato in Sienna, its companion male figurine. They’re both made of wood, merely different types of wood, with slight variations in color.”

  Cain’s head spun. He felt feverish and dizzy. The case had suddenly transformed into an endless bog of false leads, gruesome murders, and individuals wearing masks and costumes as if the world were their own never-ending masquerade ball, a playground for mimics. And Cain had only this soggy swamp beneath his feet.

  “I’m terribly sorry to muddy the waters like this,” Sheridan murmured apologetically, as if reading Cain’s mind. “I’m sure you can imagine my surprise at learning this about my wife.”

  “Wait. Let me get this straight, pardon the pun. Are you saying Camille married you ’cause of these Rodin statuettes?”

  Sheridan straightened up with conviction and nodded firmly. “Yes, I believe so. I made the mistake of confronting her about the other statuette she had.”

  “Where’d she get hers?”

  “Camille told me it was an old family heirloom from Germany. Through her contacts, she’d heard about another statuette but missed its sale in France.”

  “And she tracked you down?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t Camille simply make off with your statuette during the early days of you two dating? Why marry you?”

  Sheridan grinned then, a cocky gesture after all the brooding. “Because I’d hidden it long ago. She couldn’t and can’t find it. It’s not at the mansion, which I bought with Camille.”

  “Camille said it was, that you kept it by your nightstand.” Cain glanced at Riley. “Actually he told me that, while he was acting the role of Camille.”

  Sheridan chuckled drearily. “Yes, I had a hunch. Riley’s smart. He saw through Camille’s disguise the first time he met her and warned me not to trust her.”

  “Did he now?” Cain studied Riley more carefully. Having slept with the man twice wasn’t enough of a character reference.

  Riley glowered at him. “When Sherry went missing, I came to you because I suspected that the Rodin piece had something to do with it. I’d heard through the grapevine that Camille was making inquiries about it but not about Sherry’s whereabouts.”

  “When did you learn she was hiding in this hotel?” Cain asked through gritted teeth.

  Riley worried his bottom lip. “Before you came to meet me at the club, before I went onstage. Honoré told me. Sherry had confided in him, concerned that if she contacted me directly, I would accidentally betray her location to anyone searching for her.”

  Whether Riley was being honest this time, Cain hesitated to take his word for it. Too many lies had been spoken, too many hours spent in disguise, too many mysteries withheld. He said nothing out loud, though. No point.

  The last bit made sense, though. Cain suspected they were all being watched. It had been prudent of Sheridan to take precautions to shield her secret placement.

  Sheridan went on. “I admit to my infinite shame that it took me far too long to see Camille for who she was. But when I met her, it was as if she knew me, heart and soul. We had so much in common…. I’m afraid I don’t know what motivates Camille’s actions, but I do know she’s playing the long game. It’s taken her three years to reach this point. Why? I haven’t a clue.”

  Cain had every reason to doubt Sheridan’s word. He smelled something fishy; he prayed it wasn’t a red herring. “You’ve had the female piece for the better part of nine years. You must have some idea. What’s so special about these statuettes? Are they secretly made of gold or something?”

  When Sheridan jerked at that, Cain knew he’d been right to assume she was hiding things. In that she and her friend Riley were a lot alike. He narrowed his eyes and stared her down. Sheridan went pale and swallowed hard.

  Finally she slumped. “I can tell you. But I don’t think you’ll believe me.”

  “Spit it out anyway, darling.”

  “The statuettes belong together,” Sheridan explained. “You see, when I acquired mine nine years ago, I studied the piece at length. And I discovered a curious detail. A secret compartment in the base.”

  Cain resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Artwork with treasures hidden inside? Seemed like a plot bunny for pulp fiction, not real life. He should know; he loved old-fashioned pulp fiction, his favorite literary genre. Coincidences happened, serendipity was possible, and chance did favor the bold, all in the real waking world. But it still seemed surreal and ridiculous.

  “The base works like a puzzle box. It’s an intricately carved mechanism.”

  “Rodin had a fascination with riddles?” Cain hadn’t known that. Then again, he knew next to nothing about the man himself. His works had outlived him. The rest wasn’t common knowledge to anyone but art enthusiasts, he figured.

  Sheridan shrugged. “I have no idea. But the base of that statuette is a puzzle box.”

  “You got it open then?”

  “I managed to unlock the mechanism, yes.” She hesitated but only briefly. “Inside I found a… a key.”

  Cain frowned. “What kind of key?”

  “An old one, a sturdy iron key. But I found no lock to use it on.”

  An epiphany rocked Cain’s awareness, and he snapped his fingers. “You think information about what the key unlocks is inside the other statuette, the Inamorato in Sienna?”

  Sheridan pursed her lips. “Could be. But I’m willing to bet it’s what Camille thinks. Or knows, if she’s been able to open hers, which I have no idea. Why else should she pursue my statuette so relentlessly and invest so much time and effort to retrieve it? It’s an obsession for her.”

  Leaning back in his chair, Cain went over what he’d learned. So much of it was hearsay or rumors or mere guesswork. Not enough to formulate a valid hypothesis. Camille could be behind all this… or not.

  As far as the possible treasure was concerned, Cain dismissed it as an old wives’ tale.

  Instead his mind worked on another theory. If the male statuette had indeed been Camille’s family
heirloom, then perhaps the female figurine had been too. Of course, then the question of what the art pieces entailed came back on the table, mysterious and unanswerable.

  Cain sighed inwardly. None of that mattered in the end. What did, however, was that an as of yet unidentified person or persons coveted Sheridan’s statuette to the point they were willing to commit murder to get it.

  “Why did you go underground?” Cain asked.

  Sheridan offered a tired smile. “The brakes on my car were sabotaged. You see, I maintain my vehicles at peak performance. Had I not been able to swerve onto a ramp by the roadside, I’d be dead. I can’t say for certain that the culprit is Camille, but the incident happened immediately after I confronted her about the other statuette. Seemed awfully coincidental.”

  Skeptical and sarcastic though Cain was, he wasn’t stupid. Camille had an uncanny ability to pop up all over the map at the most inopportune moments. If she wasn’t the guilty party, she was involved somehow. Riley had said as much. But that boy lied till his teeth fell off.

  “If Camille is responsible, she’d have to have an accomplice. You knew she was having an affair?”

  “Numerous times. Then again, so did I. At least I did before Mirabel. Having separate lives was my arrangement with Camille, once it became clear that whatever love or lust had once blazed between us had burned to ashes. I didn’t mind her less-than-secret assignations and one-night stands because I was guilty of the same vice.”

  “Do you know the name of her recent plushy boy toy?”

  “No, I’m afraid not. They are usually similar, though. The rough and tumble types, not the smartest but the most ruthless. Not to mention devoted to her.”

  “The bouncer at the club, Honoré?”

  Sheridan and Riley both chuckled. “No. Honoré’s gay as a unicorn riding on a rainbow and pooping glitter.”

  “Your driver, Dirk Renner?”

  Sheridan opened her mouth but stopped, giving a remarkable impression of a fish caught on dry land. “It’s… possible.”