Love Notes

by Penny Mickelbury

  “I am,” Mimi said.

  “I’ve probably read every story you’ve written and I can’t believe you’d write the kind of thing Phyllis just told us about. That’s not even close to the kind of stuff you do. That doesn’t sound like your kind of story.”

  “It’s not,” Mimi said, and she explained with more detail, the story she wanted to write.

  “Who do you think wants to read anything about women over fifty?” Dot asked. “Since you already know how we’re perceived and treated, who’s going to read your articles?”

  “If only women over fifty read the stories that would be more than half the population. But I think women my age will be interested because I think they’ll feel the same way I did when I understood what peri-menopause meant. It gives me the night sweats just to think about it, and it’s the middle of the afternoon.”

  “You know about night sweats?” Dot asked.

  “More than I care to,” Mimi said, “and more than my fifty-something friends got around to mentioning to me.”

  June grinned and Evie’s face relaxed out of its scowl.

  “You don’t know anybody over fifty, remember?” Phyllis was still angry.

  “Actually, I do, but they live in Florida. Made a killing in the tech market before it crashed, quit their government jobs, and moved to the land of permanent sun.”

  “I took a beating in the tech market and will have to keep my government job for at least another eight years, until I’m sixty-two,” Evie said, looking for the moment as sorrowful as she sounded.

  “But if you got to know us, you’d be friends with us?” There was challenge in Phyllis’s voice

  “Of course,” Mimi replied, “assuming we had enough things in common to warrant building a friendship.”

  “I’m a lawyer at the Justice Department,” said June, “and I know lots of secrets. Is that basis for a friendship?”

  Mimi shook her head. “I’d never have a source as a friend or use a friend as a source.”

  “But you want to put us in your story,” Phyllis wailed.

  Mimi reached out to the woman and put an arm around her shoulders. Phyllis collapsed into her and Mimi was overwhelmed at the pain she could feel transmitted, pain born of shame, the shame due only to the fact of lost youth. “I won’t use any of your names, if that’s what you wish, but I need the benefit of your knowledge, of your thoughts and feelings and experiences. Everything that comes with having reached a certain age. And I need to hear those things from some women who don’t feel as if something terrible happened on their fiftieth birthday. There must be women who are happy and thriving and looking forward to every birthday the way we did when were thirteen and twenty-three and thirty-three. And I need to know whether more open and public and frank and honest talk about what menopause is and does would have made a difference in your lives and how you feel about yourselves.”

  The four women exchanged glances, then studied Mimi for several seconds.

  “I think she’s got potential,” Dot said. “Shall we invite her?”

  June nodded, and waited for the others to follow suit. Phyllis reluctantly added her assent, and it was she who explained that this was their game night. More than twenty of them—women who’d been friends since college, some straight, some gay—gathered one Saturday night a month to play card games and board games and to laugh and talk and enjoy the freedom to be silly. “But you can’t interrogate people,” Phyllis said. “You can’t make them uncomfortable.”

  “And bring your girlfriend,” Evie said. “You do have one, don’t you?”

  Mimi nodded. “I’ll bring her if she’s not working. But she knew Gianna would be working. Whatever had ‘developed’ between last night and this afternoon wouldn’t be resolved by seven o’clock tonight. Then Mimi had another thought. “Can I bring my friends Beverly and Sylvia? I think you’d like them and I think they’d like you and Bev is brilliant at board games.”

  Gianna sat in the back seat of her unmarked re-reading the field reports of the Missing Persons investigators who had done the home town checks on Sandra Mitchell, Millicent Cartcher, Ellie Litton and Mabel Gunther. Kenny drove and Linda rode shotgun, walking the Boss through the reports which she’d already read and digested and dissected, directing Gianna’s attention to the most salient points, including the fact that every body who’d ever known the victims described them as intelligent, good, kind, decent women, without exception. They were known to be hard-working, accomplished, even. And with the exception of Millie Cartcher, not a single friend or family member of any of the victims had had any notion that the women were lesbians. Sandra Mitchell’s mother had suspected but she hadn’t known for certain. The other families had had no clue. And if the women had ever had intimate relations with anyone in their hometowns, either nobody knew it or those who knew weren’t telling, even in death. And there was another point of agreement: Each of the victims wore a piece of jewelry her family said she never removed. Sandy Mitchell had her Star of David. Ellie Litton wore her brother Elvis’s high school class ring on the baby finger of her left hand. Millie Cartcher affixed to every outfit a brooch that had belonged to the great-grandmother for whom she was named. Mabel Gunther wore a toe ring on her left foot, a gift from a woman she called sister who lived in Nigeria. None of these pieces of jewelry was mentioned in the police report or in the autopsy report.

  Gianna’s stomach growled and she looked at her watch; all she’d had to eat that day were Peggy Carter’s orange bran muffins. Peggy Carter, whose voice still resonated in her ears. You find that necklace, you’ll find Sandy’s killer. A last chance at love. Somebody else had said that. Who was it? She replayed the phrase in her memory and heard, along with Peggy’s voice, Alice Long’s. It’s what Alice said that Mabel had said. A last chance at love.

  It was almost dark and even within the car with the heater blasting Gianna could feel the frigid air that had descended upon the region earlier in the day, the kind of cold that would linger a few days, and that would penetrate. She was glad she’d put on the silk tights and long sleeve undershirt beneath her lined wool slacks and wool-blend sweater. She was glad she’d worn boots with inch thick soles instead of regular street shoes. She was glad she’d allowed Kenny and Linda to pick her up from The Bayou. She’d gotten all she was going to get from the people there. If there was anything else to get, Alice could get it. She wasn’t hated. Yet. And perhaps by the time a killer was caught, Gianna wouldn’t be, either.

  “Why are we stopping, Kenny?”

  “Dinner, Boss.”

  “Oh. Right. Do you need money?”

  “Detective Ashby gave me money.”

  Gianna looked out the window and was surprised to find they were in Chinatown, just blocks from the office, in front of the restaurant that was their favorite. Their arrival was expected because before Kenny could open the car door, two white-jacketed delivery guys were running down the steps, their arms full of brown bags. Linda reached behind her and opened the back door and the men piled the food in. “Eric must really be hungry,” she said when Kenny had paid for the food and they’d driven away.

  “He said you’d really be hungry.”

  “Yeah,” she said, “he’s right, I am, but this is an awful lot of food.”

  And an hour later it all was gone and the eight of them—Gianna, Eric, Tim, Kenny, Linda, Cassie, Bobby and Alice—were elbow deep in case files, autopsy reports, field reports, and evidence check-off forms, the Hate Crimes Team’s own private evidence assessment sheet. They’d all had a hand in devising the form to help them keep up with the myriad bits and pieces of information that accumulate during investigations of serial murders, of which they’d had two prior to the current one.

  That the current murders were the work of the same killer, there could be no doubt. That the victims were all lesbians also was practically accepted as fact. Every victim was between the ages of fifty and sixty, and thanks to the missing person investigators they had exact birth dates
for all the women they had identified. There still were two Jane Does, dead the longest, and who, without help from the killer, were likely to remain so. A good reason by itself for nailing this perp.

  All of the victims had been dressed in new clothing, head to toe and underwear to top coat. None of the victims wore any jewelry. All of the women were from small towns, and all died within several months of moving to the Washington area. And with the exception of Sandra Mitchell, all of the women would be considered plain, if not homely.

  “I think that’s significant,” Cassie Ali said. “That and the fact that she was here only a few weeks instead of a few months. I think those two things are related.”

  “Me, too,” echoed Tim McCreedy, “though I’m not sure why.”

  “Because they’re the only two differences among all the similarities,” Linda Lopez said, and looked toward Gianna. “Right, Boss?”

  “None of them left money in their hometown banks,” Gianna said, her mind following a train of thought. “And their bank accounts here were cleaned out within days of their deaths.” Something Mimi said the previous night re-kindled a thought she’d toyed with. Greed as a motive. Mimi told her that when she first learned of Millicent Cartcher’s murder, her instinct had been to follow the money. That was Gianna’s current instinct. All the new things the victims possessed—houses, clothes, furniture, cars—and the missing jewelry and the looted bank accounts and the secrecy. It all pointed to greed as a motive, and to a narcissistic personality.

  “Who’s got Millie?” Gianna asked.

  “Me,” said Bobby, pulling the pages of his file together in front of him.

  “And who’s got Marianne?”

  Kenny gathered his file and looked expectantly at Gianna.

  “Millie’s at Happy Landings on the first warm, spring day.” She stopped and waited for Bobby and Kenny to find that fact in their files.

  “She’s sitting outside in the garden.”

  “And Marianne says she took her drink to her.”

  “Then,” Gianna said, “Millie was left outside alone.”

  Bobby turned some pages. “For about an hour.”

  “And Marianne said she went back out to check on her.” Gianna leaned back in her chair, put her feet on the desk, crossed her ankles, and closed her eyes. “And found her kissing a woman she didn’t know, someone she’d never seen before. Tall, curly dark hair, glasses.”

  There was no sound in the room, no movement. Six pairs of eyes sought Gianna’s, which remained closed. They shared glances with each other; wary, confused glances. Then, gradually, looks of surprise and something like dismay.

  “Fuck a duck,” Bobby whispered.

  “Unless she’s lying, unless Marianne is flat-out lying to us about what the woman looked like,” said Tim, and it was a question, not a statement.

  “It wasn’t Trudi Millie was kissing,” said Linda.

  “Oh, shit,” Cassie said.

  “Then there’s two of ‘em? Is that what this means?”

  “Either there’s two of ‘em or Trudi’s not in it at all.”

  “Fuck a duck,” Bobby said again.

  Gianna opened her eyes, dropped her chair to the floor, stood up, and took off her jacket. She stretched her back, did a deep knee bend, and sat back down at the table. “Let’s take it from the top, people,” she said.

  Mimi awoke much too early Sunday morning but since staying in bed alone was no fun, she got up and made coffee and read the paper, and went back to bed. She got up again at noon, drank more coffee, ate oatmeal and toast, and was contemplating spending the rest of the day in bed when the phone rang. She snatched it up, hoping it was Gianna. She’d worked all night and maybe she finally was home. It was Beverly calling to say that she and Sylvia had had a great time the previous night and she thanked Mimi for inviting them.

  Mimi herself had had a great time with Phyllis and Dot and June and Evie and their friends. If any of the twenty-six women there ever experienced any loneliness or sadness or resentment at the fact of their ages, none of it was present last night. They had laughed and giggled, danced and played, talked and sung, like having fun was the most important thing they did with their lives. They were raucous and raunchy and funny. And they were caring and loving and generous. They were all shapes and sizes and colors and as far as Mimi was concerned, not a single one of them should ever have to worry about being loved. The phone rang again and it was Phyllis. She thanked Mimi for bringing Beverly and Sylvia to the party and hinted that she might be willing to give Mimi a chance at friendship after all.

  Mimi hung up feeling refreshed and energized and no longer wanting to spend the rest of the day in bed. The wind howled outside, rattling the windows and momentarily halting any desire to go out. Her annual cord of firewood hadn’t been delivered yet but she had a few sticks of kindling and several fake logs left. So, instead of spending the day in bed, she could spend it in front of the fireplace...at Happy Landings.

  Erin’s welcome was somewhat less than warm but she was willing to hear and accept Mimi’s apology for the other day. Until Mimi more fully identified herself and her reason for being there. “Of all the nerve!” Erin’s exclamation was loud enough that every head in the bar turned toward them and a woman whom Mimi surmised was Erin’s mother rushed in from the kitchen, concern etched in her face.

  “What’s the trouble?” she exclaimed, looking worriedly from Erin to Mimi. She was a gorgeous woman— five-six or seven, hair completely silver and cut close, eyes clear and hazel like Gianna’s and, like Gianna, had a way of claiming attention with a gaze. So Mimi gazed and upon closer inspection, realized there was no resemblance whatever to Erin. They possessed different kinds of beauty.

  “It seems that almost everything I say upsets Erin and I’m really sorry about that. It’s not my intention. I’m Montgomery Patterson,” she said extending her hand.

  “M. Montgomery Patterson, the reporter?” The woman shook Mimi’s hand.

  “The one who was in here the other day, the one I told you about. And I told you she was lying.”

  “I didn’t lie to you,” Mimi said. “I never got around to telling you I was a reporter because I never could seem to say anything that didn’t piss you off. But I never once lied to you.”

  The color was high in Erin’s face. “You said you weren’t straight.”

  “And I’m not.”

  “You said you didn’t know that other woman.”

  “And I didn’t. Had never seen her in my life until she walked in your door.”

  Erin looked at the woman standing next to her, then back at Mimi, then she turned and stalked away.

  “I’m Jackie Marshall. Erin’s my partner in life, love and business. Her hot head is one of her many endearing qualities.”

  “I’m truly sorry to have offended her,” Mimi said, hoping she had covered her surprise at Jackie’s revelation. “It’s not my policy to mislead people about who I am and what I’m doing.”

  “And what are you doing?”

  Mimi told her.

  Jackie laughed. “I could easily have killed a few people when I was in the throes of menopause but I think I was too mean and nasty to have stood still long enough for anybody to have gotten close enough to kill me.” She fixed Mimi in her hazel gaze. “Surely they’re going to let you do a story on menopause?”

  Mimi tried again to explain. “It’s not on menopause so much as it’s about why something so completely normal and natural is misunderstood to the point of having been demonized.” She sighed dejectedly. “I’m really not doing such a good job of explaining this, am I? Maybe there’s no story there.”

  “I think the fact that it is so difficult to explain something so ancient and so pervasive and so natural and normal means there’s a hell of a story there,” Jackie said. Then she became still and silent and when she spoke again it was at length about how she came to be with Erin and, ultimately, the co-owner of a bar. “She didn’t have any real idea how much work
was involved. When she worked for her Dad, the men did all the heavy, dirty work and Erin mixed and served drinks and charmed the customers. Even when she worked here she couldn’t see all the work Marianne and Renee put in—they practically lived here, just as they’re doing with that new place. And now Erin’s thinking maybe she made a big mistake. This really is too much for one person.”

  “But you’re here.”

  “I’m here today but this is rare. I have my own business to run.” Jackie raised her eyes from Mimi’s, scanned the room, and then lowered her voice. “Erin’s afraid, Miss Patterson, that somebody she knows well has something to do with those murdered women.”

  “Who is this somebody?” Mimi asked, feeling almost angry that the focus of her story had just shifted and that she’d probably never get it back. She was about to learn the identity of a murderer.

  “Her name’s Trudi Thompson and she used to be the bartender here.”

  “And she works at The Bayou now, right?” Mimi asked, remembering the play Trudi made for Gianna.

  Jackie shook her head. “Not any more. She was at our house early this morning saying that Marianne had fired her and begging Erin for a job reference. She said she’s leaving the area, going to Texas.”

  “Did you call the police?”

  “For what?” Jackie exclaimed.

  Mimi willed herself to remain calm. “You said you think Trudi knows something about the murders of Millicent Cartcher and Ellie Litton. You also said she’s planning to leave town.”

  “But I don’t really know anything. I just suspect.”

  “And if your suspicions are unfounded the police will leave Trudi in peace, but they need the chance to make that decision, Miss Marshall. Six women are dead.”

  “Six! My God! You said two, you said the Cartcher woman and Ellie Litton!”

  “Those are the ones I know about for a fact. The others a police source told me about off the record which means that’s information I technically cannot use. But I’m telling you, Miss Marshall, that six women are dead, all killed the same way, and if you think Trudi had anything to do with that, you need to tell the police.”