1st Impressions

by Kate Calloway

  “And?”

  She grinned, taking a swig of her beer. “And it turns out I’m damned good at it.”

  Then she told me her pen name and I about choked on my beer. “You’re Sheila Gay?” I asked incredulously.

  “Clever name, don’t you think?”

  “I can’t believe it! How many books have you written?” I was dumbfounded. Even though I didn’t read a lot of romance novels, I knew who Sheila Gay was.

  She laughed. “I’ve lost count, actually. I could grind out more, but I like to give it a break now and then. When I’m on a roll, I average three or four a year.”

  No wonder she wasn’t hurting for money. “And you’ve lived alone all this time?” I asked.

  She laughed again. “Not exactly. I’ll spare you the details of my youthful exploits. Let it suffice to say there is no shortage of opportunities for a young lesbian journalist working for Rolling Stone in San Francisco.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “But that grew old. I finally settled down about six years ago. Found the woman of my dreams. The real thing, you know?”

  I told her I did. “And where is this lucky lady?” I asked. I knew immediately that this was the wrong question to ask.

  “She passed away last year.”

  This was the first time I’d been on the asking end of that question, and I suddenly understood the awkwardness people must have felt when they asked me about Diane. I told her how sorry I was to hear it, and she lightly changed the subject.

  “So, it’s your turn,” she said. “And don’t skip the juicy details.”

  I told her about my growing up the typical tomboy, in love with horses, beating all the neighborhood boys in basketball, infuriated over the injustice of not being able to play football in high school. I admitted that it had never occurred to me that I was a lesbian. “I didn’t even know there was such a thing. I was so busy proving I could do everything better than everyone else, I didn’t have time to worry about the fact that I was never as interested in boys as all my friends were.”

  “When did you figure it out?” she asked, her eyes boring into mine.

  “I think it was Homecoming night. Believe it or not, I’d been elected Homecoming Queen, and so naturally I had to attend the big dance with Mike Singer, the big man on campus who’d been voted Homecoming King. I was supposed to feel all fluttery or something, but all I could think of was how silly I felt in this long, green dress and high heels. And while we were dancing, with everyone else standing around us like we were some kind of royalty, it occurred to me that I’d much rather be dancing with my best friend, P.J., who was standing there watching us. Unfortunately, what she was longing for was to be in my place, dancing with the Homecoming King.”

  “Did you ever act on your feelings?”

  “Not with P.J. I didn’t even let myself think about it. It wasn’t until college that I met Martha and a whole new world opened up to me. I went from not even knowing lesbians existed to suddenly seeing them everywhere.”

  “You and Martha were lovers?”

  “Just briefly. It was great while it lasted, but we found ourselves spending more time talking than making love. It was obvious that we made better friends than lovers.”

  I then told Erica about my long friendship with Martha, my teaching career, and finally I told her about Diane. At some point, my toe brushed against hers, and neither of us moved away. The heat from the spa had sapped all our strength, and our beer bottles were long empty. Still we stayed, hardly able to tear ourselves away from each other.

  When she stood up, reaching out to me, I found myself sliding effortlessly into her embrace. It was the most natural feeling in the world. Her lips were impossibly soft, her breasts pressing against mine as we swayed together, locked in a most tender and passionate dance. It took a new burst of rain to send us from the hot tub to my bedroom.

  Chapter Nine

  Sometimes when the gods smile upon you, it’s really just the prelude to a snicker. I had no sooner led Erica to my bedside than the gravelly voice of Sheriff Booker came booming through the window.

  “Cassidy? You in there?” The knocking had apparently been going on for some time, but with the jets and bubbles from the hot tub, we hadn’t heard a thing. Erica and I raced from the room, scampering into clothes as quickly as we could. By the time I got to the front door, Sheriff Booker and the charming Sergeant Grimes were already inside.

  “There you are,” the sheriff said. “I was beginning to think something bad had happened to you. Sorry to barge in on you.”

  “That’s okay,” I lied. “We were out back and didn’t hear you. I take it you got my message.”

  “Well, actually, no. Sergeant Grimes has been trying to find Ms. Trinidad, and I told him I’d give him an escort out here. She’s still here, isn’t she?”

  Erica came around the corner and said hello to the two men.

  “Miss Trinidad, you’ll need to come with me.” Sergeant Grimes stepped toward her.

  “What for?” I asked. “Where to?”

  “Now, you just step back and don’t cause no problems and everything will be just fine,” he said to me. I turned to the sheriff, my eyes demanding answers.

  “Am I under arrest?” Erica asked, incredulous.

  “If I need to handcuff you, I will,” Grimes said. “If that’s the way you want it. If you choose to come on down to the station peaceably, that’s fine with me. Either way, I’m bringing you in for questioning.”

  Sheriff Booker spoke up. “Now, Hank, I don’t see any reason to handcuff the lady. She’s not exactly resisting arrest. Am I right, Ms. Trinidad?”

  Erica stood looking from Booker to Grimes and back again, her bright eyes smoldering.

  “It’ll be okay, Erica,” I said. “I’ll call Martha and let her know where you’re headed. If you have any problems at all, if anyone so much as puts one finger on you, there’ll be hell to pay.” I said this looking directly at Grimes, my own anger getting the better of me.

  “Sergeant Grimes just wants to question her, Cass. I’m sure Ms. Trinidad will be back in no time, no worse for the wear. Sometimes these things are better done downtown, that’s all.”

  I stood by and watched helplessly as the fat sergeant herded Erica down the walkway to the rental boat parked behind the sheriff. To her credit, Erica walked ahead of him, and he had to labor to keep up. When they’d pulled away, I turned to the sheriff accusingly.

  “Didn’t you tell him about the fire? And the boat?” I asked, my voice rising.

  “Cass, that stuff doesn’t prove anything and you know it. I really don’t believe for a second that your friend killed her uncle. But the sergeant there, he’s in charge of this investigation, not me. And certainly not you. As it turns out, Ms. Trinidad has been the subject of a murder investigation before, so he’s perfectly justified in wanting to question her further. Hopefully, she’ll agree to a polygraph and that’ll put an end to it. Personally I’d like to see him spend a little more time following other leads.”

  I heard his words, but my mind had suddenly gone numb. A previous murder investigation? This woman had just spent an hour telling me her life story and hadn’t mentioned a word about any such thing! I was beginning to worry that the anger I’d felt for Grimes may have been misplaced.

  Sheriff Booker walked me back up to the house, talking the whole while, but my mind refused to hear what he was saying. I caught bits here and there, about the footprints he’d uncovered and his theory about the missing sign. Finally, he stopped and turned to face me.

  “Are you listening to a word I’m saying? You look like you need to sit down.” He steered me over to the couch and then went to my refrigerator, bringing back two beers. He opened both, and handed one to me.“Hope you don’t mind my helping myself, but you look like you could use one, and seeing as how I’m not officially on duty, I believe I’ll join you.” He settled onto the couch opposite me, and took a long drink of his beer. “Tell me what’s on
your mind, Cass.”

  “I found out some things today that I want to share with you,” I said. “I’m going to tell you anyway, but I’d appreciate it if you’d tell me what you know about Erica being involved in another murder investigation.” I’d said it as calmly as I could, but my insides were in turmoil.

  “Cass, I swear to you, I don’t know any more than I told you. Grimes came barreling into town and damn near busted down my door. The man is not exactly my favorite specimen of a human being, but be that as it may, he is a cop and he wouldn’t just make something like that up. But keep in mind, being the subject of a murder investigation does not automatically mean she was guilty of murder. I hope you haven’t jumped to that conclusion.”

  “I haven’t, but obviously Grimes has.” I took a sip of beer and excused myself long enough to phone Martha. Miraculously, she was still in her office, and I told her of Erica’s predicament. Martha told me she’d look into it and not to worry. But I could tell from her tone she was less calm than her words implied.

  I returned to the living room and managed to calm myself enough to tell Booker what I’d found that morning. I told him about Tommy Green admitting to being out on the lake the night of the fire, and about the vandalism at the school. I showed him the green cloth and the cigarette butts and, though I hated to do it, I mentioned that Tommy happened to smoke the same brand. I told him about the frogs and the missing formaldehyde. When I told him why I thought the formaldehyde had been taken, his eyes narrowed but he didn’t say a word. I told him about Mollie’s claim that her sister Mary had been harassed by a boy named Alan Pinkerton who had made a number of crank calls, and I reminded him that Erica herself had received two crank calls. And finally, swearing a silent apology to Lizzie, I told him that Walter Trinidad may have been having an affair with Betty Beechcomb, the postmaster’s wife. When at last I’d finished, he sat back and calmly drained his beer.

  “You really think someone has Trinidad’s privates floating in a jar of formaldehyde?” It was not really a question. “You see, the funny thing is,” he said, “when Mrs. Henderson told me about someone lifting their sign, the first thing I thought was that the arsonists might have taken it as a souvenir. There’s a lot of messed up people in the world, Cass. You figure a few of ’em had to land in Cedar Hills. But now you tell me that the person who took Trinidad’s penis might’ve saved it. Like a souvenir, in a sick kind of way. And the thing is, I just can’t see there being two separate souvenir-taking sickos loose at the same time in Cedar Hills. Somehow these cases have to be related. But I’m damned if I know how.”

  “What do you think the odds would be of two sickos working together?” I asked. “Or more than two.”

  He thought about that, pulling at his moustache. “You mind if I help myself to another one of your Heinekens? This kind of stuff has a tendency to make me thirsty.”

  When he came back, he stood at the window, looking out at the pristine lake.

  “I only had one case in my life where someone was what I’d call a hundred percent bad. This was back when I was working in Portland, and I caught this guy breaking into a house in the middle of the night. It was pure luck, me catching him at all. The truth was, I was looking for a place to pull over and eat my dinner, and I turned down this residential street and there he was, his rear end disappearing into an upstairs window. Anyway, it turns out it was the same guy we’d been searching for for years. He was wanted for over a dozen vicious attacks on women, ranging from rape to murder. The victims who’d managed to fight back, he’d disfigured horribly, but none of them could give us much to go on. And then I stumbled on him accidentally and we were finally able to put the bastard away.

  “The thing is, even though he was a lone wolf, once he got to prison, he had himself a little following. I think that part bothered me as much as the crimes themselves. The fact that other felons looked up to this guy, emulated the way he walked and talked—that really got to me. Still does. I guess what I’m telling you is, I don’t think it’s completely beyond the realm of possibility that there could be more than one person committing these crimes. I suppose if there were a couple of bad apples out there, and they found each other, it’s possible they could band together.” He turned back to the window, rubbing his temples. “This is all pretty wild speculation,though. Aside from your little green cloth, and a couple of cigarette butts at the school which is a hell of a long shot from being related to anything, we’ve got diddly squat.”

  “What about Mrs. Beechcomb?” I asked. “Where do you see her fitting in?”

  He stroked his silvery moustache, frowning at me. “Maybe not at all, Cass. Or maybe she hired someone to snuff Trinidad. Or maybe she did it herself. Hell, I don’t even know which case I’m working on half the time. One thing’s for sure. I’m gonna want to talk to my little buddy, Tommy. And as much as I hate to do it, I’m gonna have to drop in on Mrs. Beechcomb. But I believe I’ll start by having a little chat with that Pinkerton boy. As long as Grimes is busy barking up the wrong tree, there’s no harm in me checking out some other avenues. I’d like to see who in town has a green jacket with a little hole torn out of it, too.

  “Even if there’s no connection at all to this other stuff, I’d like to know who’s vandalizing the school and at the very least get their parents to pay for the damages. I especially don’t like the notion that some punk is doodling swastikas in my town.”

  “What about finding out the blood type from saliva on the cigarette butts? Can’t someone do that?” I asked.

  Booker laughed. “Right now, Cass, those cigarettes don’t mean a thing. You’re probably right that the punks who broke in were the ones who left the butts. Hell, you could even be right that they wanted the formaldehyde for the crazy notion you mentioned. But unless we can prove any of that, we’ve got nothing. I can’t exactly ask the D.A.’s office to run an expensive DNA test on a vandalism case. We’re going to have to wait until we have more evidence.”

  The sheriff’s beeper went off, and he asked to use my phone. When he came out, his face looked haggard.

  “Looks like the Pinkerton kid will have to wait,” he said. “There’s been a boating accident out on Willow Cove. Some fool water skier got run over by his own boat. Lucky he didn’t chop an arm off. I gotta run.”

  I hurried to keep up as the sheriff headed for his boat.

  “Listen, Tom. I think I’ll have a chat with the Pinkerton kid myself. Just to get a feel for him. Maybe he’ll be less on guard with me than with you, your being the sheriff and all. What do you think?”

  He seemed to mull this over as he untied from the dock. I didn’t need his permission and he knew it, but it would be nice to feel we weren’t stepping on each other’s toes.

  Settling behind the steering wheel, he nodded his agreement. “But don’t show your hand, Cass. Let him think you’re looking into the crank calls. See what he was doing the night of the fire. Just be casual, like you’re gathering information from all sorts of people. Let him know you’re working the Trinidad case too, just as an aside. It might be interesting to see his reaction. Later we can compare notes.”

  I watched the sheriff’s boat pull away, the red and white lights flashing as he sped across the lake. The sky had begun to clear, and it was turning into a very nice afternoon, but my mind was a jumble of confusion. Feelings I hadn’t felt in years, maybe ever, had opened up inside me like a fist unclenching. After living so long without allowing myself to feel anything close to passion, I now found myself humming with desire. And just as I was about to let that passion engulf me, I discovered that the object of my desire had not only lied to me but had been the subject of a murder investigation. Not knowing what to think, I preferred not to think about it at all.

  I decided the best way to get Erica out of my mind was to throw myself into action, so I hopped into my Sea Swirl and headed for the county dock.

  Chapter Ten

  The telephone book listed the Pinkertons on Medley Drive, a few
blocks east of the center of town. I routinely passed it on my daily walk through Cedar Hills, and it only took me a few minutes to find the house. I’d decided against calling ahead, figuring the element of surprise was worth the possibility of a wasted trip in the event no one was home. My luck held out. My knock was answered by a middle-aged woman in a yellow and orange shift. Her fleshy cheeks were flushed pink from heat, and I could smell something baking in the kitchen which smelled suspiciously like brownies.

  “Mrs. Pinkerton?” I asked.

  “Yes?” She held the door open wide while she fanned herself. The smell of brownies was nearly overpowered by the stale sweat that emanated from her.

  “I’m Cassidy James, a private investigator. I wonder if I might have a word with your son, Alan.” I handed her a business card, which she studied, her eyes narrowing.

  “He in some kind of trouble?” she asked. Her glance toward the back of the house told me the boy was home.

  “Oh, no. Nothing like that. I’m just looking into several cases that have occurred in town recently, and I’m trying to gather as much information from as many different people as I can. Your son happened to date one of the girls involved in one of the cases, so naturally he’s on my list of people who might be able to help us out.” I saw in her face she was trying to assimilate this information. She might have been considered a pretty woman, but her eyes had the vague, watery look of someone whose IQ hovered in the double digits.

  She stepped back from the door and hollered toward the back of the house, “Alan, it’s for you!” and then to me, “He’ll be out in a minute.” Having discharged her motherly duties, she returned to the kitchen, leaving me standing in the doorway. I took this opportunity to ease my way into the living room, which was crowded with overstuffed furniture, a blaring television set and assorted clutter. Diet Coke cans, open potato chip bags and candy bar wrappers littered the surface of nearly every table, and a fat bulldog lay snoring in the corner, oblivious to my presence. I jumped when I heard Alan Pinkerton come up behind me.