by Kieran York
When entrenched in a case, I saw romance as some emotional cage that included a flesh padlock. Women would be disruptive to my work. Mine was a dangerous profession. The three criminals from the Sea Fortune were deadly. The murderer of Donald Ogden, I presumed, was lethal and crazed.
I entered Darlin’ Lucy, I looked at the various tables. When I spotted Mandy, and Boyd, I also saw two empty seats. One chair would soon be filled with me. And the other chair might or might not be filled with some mystery woman. She probably didn’t like getting fixed up any more than I did.
Mandy’s personality was giant. She wore a garden-printed, draped tunic top. The crinkle texture was filled with brilliant pinks, violet, and yellow blooms. A backdrop was the lightest of leafy green. Her fitted Capri pants matched that delicate green.
As I sat, Boyd handed me a menu. “Glad you decided to take a chance,” he commented.
“Mandy and I go back a long way, and I don’t want to threaten our friendship.”
Mandy beamed. “Beryl dear, you look for ways not to fall in love. But this woman is exactly what you need. You’ll like this woman.”
“Mandy, I don’t have time for meeting a woman,” I emphasized.
Mandy grinned. “You two are perfect for one another. She said the same thing. She hasn’t time for romance. See, you two could understand time constraints.”
Iced-teas were delivered, and I had just taken a quick sip of the apricot flavored tea when I saw a woman entering. She was magnificent. Sublime. She must have been from the boulevard’s corner of gorgeous and adorable. I was hoping she would be ushered to our table. And when she was, I nearly spilled my tea.
Concentrating on her and hoping my attire had not sucked up too much of the Blue Sea Bar’s stench, I realized I hadn’t heard much of the introductions. “Sorry,” I bumbled, “I didn’t get your name.”
“I’m Clarissa Lamb, and you’re Beryl Trevar.” Her grin was gorgeous. She was fine with my sudden case of nerves. “I tried to tell Mandy and Boyd that you’re probably not interested in meeting me. You lead an exciting life, and I’m a boring bookseller.”
Clarissa Lamb appeared shy, yet not floundering. She seemed to be grazing on the atmosphere. Her lavish smile, pale peach lip gloss and bright white teeth, invited my return smile. Mid-length wavy hair was highlighted with chic wheat-colored streaks and coiffed perfectly. Jade-silver eyes glowed tenderly, yet timidly. Her outfit was a taupe jumpsuit, with floral trim along button closures and pockets. Relaxed, her moves seemed polished. Slim framed, she stood tall, about my five-eight height. She was confident and secure. Agility, and her sun-bronzed face, emitted softness, yet a strength. Her slight aloofness was by nature, rather than a designed forethought. She wasn’t flirty.
Yet her heavily lashed eyelids blinked and were disarming. This feeling, I admitted, was one I rarely felt about someone. Fluttering, stunned, and my mouth bobbled my thoughts around in my head.
“I’ll bet being a bookseller is far more exiting that ninety-percent of my life.” My grin was wobbly, and I attempted to swallow the dryness in my mouth. It felt as though I might be gulping down my excitement. “Have you lived here long?”
“Yes, most of my life. Seems like I’ve been selling books for many lifetimes.”
“Where do you work?” I questioned.
Mandy broke in, “Beryl, she owns the bookshop a couple blocks down. Pages Book Shop. Surely you’ve been in there?”
Of course, I knew of the predominately woman’s books store. Rachel was a regular customer. And when there was a book I wanted, I’d mention it to Rach, and she would pick me up the book. She would add my order to armloads of books.
“My partner buys books at Pages.”
Mandy explained. “Partner as in business partner. Beryl is single.”
That brought spurts of laughter from everyone at the table.
As we ordered, and ate, I realized I adored her laughter. And her voice. She was so knowledgeable about literature and life. And I wasn’t. Finishing up with lunch, we were still chatting. She invited me to see her shop, and I explained I needed to make a couple calls. And visiting her would be the first thing I did tomorrow morning.
Before leaving, she said, “How exciting, you’re investigating murder. Here in West Palm?”
“Yes. But not always exciting.” My head dipped, and I was certain my complexion was blushing bright red. “My next stop is at a dive called Sheeran’s Club.”
Her eyes opened widely. “Isn’t that a stripper club?”
The four of us giggled. Mandy pointed to Boyd. “Maybe you should send your cousin.”
Innocently, he threw up his hands. “Not me! I go for homespun women.”
“I’ll see you in the morning, Clarissa,” I commented. She leaned and kissed my cheek. As she left, walking across the street, I watched. Although Mandy and Boyd were standing next to me, I didn’t hear their conversation.
Mandy’s voice rose, “Beryl, aren’t you going to answer?”
“What?”
“I just wondered if you knew that you need to tip for lap dances. And pole dancers.”
She and Boyd were having a great deal of fun at my expense. I’d cut them some slack since they’d just introduced me to a marvelous goddess.
And then we parted, and I drove to a very seedy strip joint.
Sheeran’s Club was tawdry primitive. There were a few women wandering around. They gave me the once over. I pretended not to know. At the bar I asked a very scrawny man of about thirty if he knew Simon Wagoner. His first monotone words were curt. “He just got killed. You a cop or do you want a job application?”
I smiled at his humor. “I’m not a cop. In full discloser, I’m a private investigator.”
“From the rumors, there’s nothing to investigate. He was thieving some of the Sea Fortune bounty. He and some California guy were stealing the treasure, and the guy gunned him down. Got greedy and wanted the takings all to himself.”
“I heard that Simon hung out here. And he had a lady friend here.”
“Ravyn. They were together. He promised her he’d marry her. She wasn’t expecting anything. Lots of men promise her stuff. But he was special to her.” The bartender’s eyes rolled. “Neither of ‘em were too picky.”
“Is she here?”
“The cops were already here and talked with her. She don’t know nothing about it.”
“Is she here?” I repeated.
“You’ll find her through the hall there,” he said pointing. “Dressing room to right.”
Following the directions, I spotted the dark auburn-haired, huge eyed Ravyn. When I introduced myself, she began to cry. That had been a shocker. Her brown eyes were filled and flowing. There was surplus paint on her face, and her costume was barely there. Her breasts bloomed from the outfit’s top. Most importantly, I noticed a pronounced anger, along with some deeply buried sweetness. At one time, she’d been innocent to the sex trade.
I recalled my youth, and the instability. Luckily, chance had alerted me to the warning signs of drugs and prostitution. Perhaps that had grown the dubious fear of the trade. And for that reason, I hadn’t taken cases of all the modern slavers. The traffickers, with their debt bondage, exploitation, and violence eluded my detective agency.
There was a pang of shame. Had I purposely worked primarily with the luxury group. Fame, fortune, and society. They were my clients of choice. I’d done very little to assist in the demise one of woman’s greatest tragedies. Of course, I’d lobbied for SESTA, the Sex Trafficking Act. I’d contributed, and I’d worked for the shutting down of dark websites. It was like an epidemic. Scams, forcing women into sexual slavery, seemed to go unnoticed in the world. It was a lucrative business.
Ravyn and my chat was brief. I left my card with her. Her answers were vague, and emotional when Simon’s name was mentioned. I was costing her money.
Walking to my convertible, I considered the consequences of womanhood and desire. Who paid whom? I didn’t
have a clue. Hell has a million different flavors.
Chapter 6
The theme of the morning Team meeting seemed to be: No one should speak ill of the dead. No one is talking. I suggested we not only interrogate employees of Ross Architects, but also neighbors, clients, and any other contacts.
In our trade it is known as the knock and talk technique.
“Up to date on information about Donald Ogden.” Summer gazed down at her notes. “The guy’s ex-girlfriend was obviously shaken. As far as her being a suspect, she has no ill-will against Donald. And, she’s now engaged to the man of her dreams. She is, however, saddened by Donald’s death. She said he hadn’t wanted to marry until he found the exact wife for him. The woman he could spend the rest of his life loving.”
“That,” Rachel said with a grimace, “is what I call a nasty cutting loose of an ex. He’s saying that she didn’t make the cut. Mona Ogden thinks less highly of Donald, and she was what Donald considered the exact wife for him.”
“Did girlfriend have information about anyone she believes killed him?”
Summer perused her notes again. She’s of the opinion that it was a random act. That’s also the police consensus. Someone saw him, figured he had money on him. Probably, she surmised, a drug addict making a few bucks. I asked her about Mona. She said that Mona was constantly in and out of love. She no longer wanted Donald. Neither did girlfriend. Girlfriend said he was exhausting. She claimed only that Mona had once said Donald was infuriating. But that she probably wouldn’t have killed him.”
Rachel sighed. “Even though it was over-kill, and junkies sometimes go berserk, it sure looks like a personal vendetta to me.”
Opening her file, Jill read her notes, “Mona has already legally changed her name from Mona Ogden back to Mona Ross. She’s full steam ahead. When I mentioned the name change was rather quick, she stared across the room, and then shrugged. She told me she had his crap moved out of his room yesterday. She was staying at the luxury penthouse at the firm’s apartment complex. Only on rare occasions did she go to their imposing ocean side residence.”
Summer chuckled. “She’s one of the crassest widows we’ve come across. I knew she was cold when we were checking him out. I surmised that it was because he was cheating on her. But she hated everything about him.”
I quizzed, “And how about the workers at Ross Architects?”
Jill shook her head. “No one seems to know anything about it. They seem more interested in any company loss, but it’s almost as if they’re restricted from talking about it.” Jill frowned. “One of the men became gabby in defining Donald. He said that Donald was like one of those multi-personality disorder guys. Smooth as silk, then he became a completely different version. Like he put on a new mask.”
Summer remembered, “One of the draftspersons said that Donald was a surface person. He was pissed off about not doing something important with his life. Then the next day he would be narcissistic. He would role play this speech where he was talking to the nation, and he was president of the country. He said he could do it because he could lie, and an entire nation would follow him. He’d even grab his lapels and act out scenes. This draftsman asked him how he would pull it all off. Donald said he would continue his tumbling tricks of throwing lies up and then exchanging them. He aspired to be an impressionist of deceit.”
“That’s chilling,” I commented.
“He said that his soul’s nudity allowed him that personality exchange. Those were the words he used. He said he could dress his mind up just the way he wanted it. And he could sell that to the citizens.”
“A tad ambiguous,” Rachel observed. “In history there have been many pretenders. Some insane, and some with their own vilifying agenda.”
“In the same realm,” Summer remarked, “one of the architects said that he’d heard Mona calling him a bleeping chameleon. So, she must have recognized the personality changes.”
“Keep on it, you two. Something is going to unravel eventually.” I hoped. My sigh was dramatic. “I’m wallowing through some pretty gritty stuff in my background search on Simon Wagoner. His hangout, the Blue Sea Bar, was the first call, and that was unproductive. I talked with a guy named Ax. A frightening guy. He told me I wasn’t dumb enough to be a cop or a P.I.”
Summer leaned forward with a semi-grin. “Ax, a shaggy guy in his middle years? But those streets were hard-wearing on him. He looks twenty years older.”
“Yes,” I answered.
Summer shook her head, “He’s probably Ax Mendoza. Raul Mendoza.” Rachel pulled up an arrest records list. She pointed him out. Summer asked me, “Is that the little darling?”
I quickly ID'd him. “Must be an old photo. He’s scragglier than that now. But it’s him.” Frowning, I took another look. “Definitely. No one in the bar knew what happened to Simon. They did know the cops suspect Boyd. The cops were asking them about the man who was with Simon. They acted as if they also suspected Boyd had killed him.”
“Boyd could have killed him,” Rachel spoke without conviction. “I know we don’t want to believe he could be guilty. But it’s a possibility.”
Without acknowledging, I switch gears. “My next call was Sheeran’s Club.”
As I’d imagined Jill and Summer thought that was extraordinary funny. “Did you get a lap dance?” Jill asked.
Summer also asked, “Or a pole dance?”
“They just asked if I wanted to fill out an application.”
Rachel gave a couple breast jiggles. “The app would be the only thing you could fill out. Those women have enormous boobs.”
I shook my head. “I feel really sorry for the women working at that place. The objectification of women is never good. The stripper I talked with was Simon’s girlfriend. She was grieving. And she was nice enough. Her name is Ravyn. Some of those women become sex slaves because of men who domineered them. It’s so damned sad.”
Jill continued, “Beryl’s right. I recall seeing some of the sex trade treatment in Miami. We used to talk about it and wonder. Some of the women are moms, and they need to make money. They make more than a police officer.”
Summer nodded. “And the hours were better. That seems to be one area of crime that will never be eliminated. Drugs are the cause of a lot of it.” She paused. “Trev, do you think Mandy ever considers that? Feels badly about participating in it?”
“I’m sure that on some level it bothers her. But she did run a ritzy establishment. She took many of the women off the streets. But, no, I don’t think it’s something she’s proud of.” I defended as best I could, “And I know that now she promotes women’s causes. She funds women’s shelters.” I paused.
Maybe I was feeling guilty that as an attorney, I sprung the women so that they could return to their illegal profession. But then, I also felt guilt for springing dope dealers and other criminals. Same thing. Mandy was making amends with her funding. And I was making my own amends by collecting the scum-balls and returning them to prison.
“Okay,” Rachel said as she stood, “everyone be safe. Find out what you can, and let’s get these cases solved.” When she reached the doorway, she turned to gaze at me. “And Beryl, enjoy your time perusing the book shelves.”
A cascade of laughter filled the room. I covered my eyes. “I’m just going to drop by and see the owner of Pages Book Shop.”
Summer was doubling over as she gulped air. “What’s she like?”
“Nice,” I answered. Rachel had been talking with Mandy earlier, and I was pretty sure Mandy squealed.
“Nice!” Rachel exclaimed. “She’s perfection.”
“Do you consider her out of Trev’s league?” Summer asked.
“It would be marrying up for Beryl,” Jill contributed.
“Okay, everyone. Meetings over.” I watched Jill and Summer snickering as they left. I turned to glare at Rachel. “Thanks, Rach.”
Rachel pulled a list from her pocket. “In case you want to buy me a birthday gift, I’d lov
e these books.”
Taking the list, I scanned the book titles. “What do you think of Clarissa?”
“I fell in love with her the first time I saw her,” Rachel confessed. “But I thought she was straight. By the time I found out she’s one of us, we were friends and she was dating someone.” Rachel took my arm. “Beryl, you’re both special women. I’d love to see you with someone genuine like she is. She’s special.”
“I’m just stopping by.”
“Enjoy the scenery,” Rachel teased.
“Scenery is a wonderful rest for my brain. A timeout from overthinking. And you like Clarissa?”
“She’s quality. A good heart. Well-read. I would have introduced you to her, but I wasn’t certain you knew who Virginia Woolf is.”
I inspected her expression. I hoped she wasn’t being serious. “I’ll pick up your books. Early birthday gift. Thanks for confirming what I thought about her. I know it probably can’t happen. I’m so busy, and it’s dangerous to be preoccupied when you wear a Beretta.”
“Clarissa is not only special. I think she could be special for you.”
I gave Rachel a hug. I hoped she was correct about a woman I barely knew, but hoped was a good woman.
As I passed by Pluma’s cylindrical cage, I asked, “And Pluma, what is your take on all this?”
I really shouldn’t have asked. Pluma ruffled her feathers and squawked, “Cabron. Pendejo. Hussy. Joder!”
I grinned. “Well, no one is having a perfect day, Pluma. Roll with the flow.”
After a quick, nearly drive-by, chat with Chief Powers, I wondered if he might be holding some information. He was still firmly convinced it was Boyd who killed Simon. Killed him, pitched the gun in the big drink that is the Atlantic Ocean. I thought otherwise, but it didn’t matter because Tom didn’t have proof it was Boyd, and I didn’t have proof it wasn’t. Tom also accused me of being only relatively sure that Boyd was innocent.
