Fire and Rain

by Katy Munger

  “Is your sister gay?”

  “She says she’s not.” Roxy sounded noncommittal.

  “What’s this girlfriend’s name?” I asked. “Where’s she live?”

  “Frieda,” Roxy said in a small voice. “Frieda Salem.”

  “Where does she live?” I asked again.

  Roxy stared at me.

  “Come on. Candy’s your sister. And you’re a nosy little bitch. So spill it.”

  “Anyone ever tell you that your interrogation techniques lack finesse?”

  “Just tell me,” I said. “I’m not going to tell your parents. You might want to call them, by the way. They’re probably pretty frantic. The cops will have contacted them by now. They’ll need to know that at least you’re okay.”

  She evaded my eyes. “Frieda lives in a house over in Durham off Duke Street.”

  Of course she did. We locals called that area “Lavender Heights.” Gay women called it “heaven.”

  I got the specific address out of Roxy and then stared at her until she broke. “What?” she asked defensively.

  “The cops are going to put you through the wringer,” I warned her. “If I were you, I’d refuse to talk to anyone but a detective named Bill Butler.”

  There: that would get me in good with Bill again. Call me crazy. Like a fox.

  “Bill Butler,” she repeated.

  “Yes, and only agree to talk to him if he gives you police protection. Tell him everything you know, don’t hold back. Except...” I hesitated.

  “Except what?”

  “Except don’t tell them about Frieda until the very end. I need a head start.”

  “Okay,” Roxy promised, without hesitation.

  For the first time ever, I actually liked her.

  ●

  Frieda lived in a bungalow on a street full of bungalows, which is what Southerners call old mill houses once they’ve had to pay more than $200k for them. At this time of year, the yard still bloomed with climbing flowers and foliage that wound up and down the network of trellises that led visitors to her front door. Frieda Salem had more statuary lurking on the lawn than a cemetery. There were gnomes, happy rabbits, birdbaths, and enough St. Francis of Assisi statues to open up a monastery. The house itself was painted a cheery yellow with white trim and the front door was a bright blue.

  I felt like I had been transported to Munchkinland, no pun intended.

  I should have invested in Kleenex when I had the chance: Frieda Salem opened the front door sobbing. She had short dark hair spiked on top and a stocky build. She was also gripping a huge wad of mangled tissues. Her eyes were swollen from heavy duty weeping. It had been a day full of tears. I wondered when my turn would come.

  “I’m Casey Jones. I’m a private investigator working for Roxy and Candy Tinajero,” I explained. “I was wondering when the last time you saw Candy was?”

  Instead of answering me or demanding to see my identification, like any sensible person would have, she grabbed my hand in a panicked vise and asked in a rush: “Have you seen Candy today? She was supposed to be here four hours ago. I made us lunch and everything.”

  Oh, shit. I’d misunderstood why she was crying. No one had told her that Candy was missing yet. Could the tears really be about Candy not showing up for lunch? Maybe Candy didn’t have romantic feelings for her, but this one definitely seemed to have the warm and fuzzies for Candy.

  I peered beyond Frieda, postponing the bad news, and saw a table set for two, with china that I guessed had been passed down from grandmother to mother to daughter. Cloth napkins and matching placemats added a touch of blue to the white tablecloth, matching the flowers in a vase anchoring the center. She had really gone all out for Candy. It was a lunch setting fit for the Washington Duke Inn, only without the $17 gin-and-tonics.

  I hated my job sometimes. I asked if I could come in and explained as best I could that Candy was missing. Before I could elaborate, Frieda had thrown herself on the couch and was sobbing even more loudly. But I had misinterpreted her priorities. Turns out she was crying from relief.

  “I knew she wouldn’t stand me up,” she said through her tears. “Candy would never do something like that. Not after she promised me it would never happen again.”

  Hoo boy. People, we needed to focus.

  “Frieda, get a grip.” I said loudly. She froze, perplexed at my hostility. “We have to find Candy. Did you know about the threatening letters?”

  She nodded, eyes wide. “Candy let me see some of them.”

  “This is the real thing. A man is dead. A friend of mine.”

  She paled and fell back against the cushions. “What man is dead?” she whispered.

  “The man who owned the club where they were dancing.”

  She looked relieved. Something was off. Then I got it. “Who did you think was dead?” I asked.

  Her right hand went to her throat and rested there, as if she needed the support just to get the words out. “I was afraid it might be my brother,” she whispered.

  “Your brother?”

  “Yes. Didn’t Roxy tell you about him?”

  “Tell me what?” I had a feeling that there was a lot that Roxy had failed to tell me.

  “Roxy goes out with my brother Rodney. I introduced them. I was afraid... I was afraid that, somehow, it might have been him who was killed.”

  “No, it was a friend of mine,” I said bitterly. “A good guy who worked hard and supported his entire family and who didn’t deserve to be shot in the stomach then left to bleed to death slowly, alone and in great pain.”

  She flinched at that, which gave me a little satisfaction.

  “But where is Candy?” Frieda asked. “She was supposed to come over today.”

  “That’s what I’m asking you,” I said sharply. “Do you know?” She was in shock. Or stupid. Or both.

  I went into the kitchen and got her a glass of water and watched while she drank it down. “Take some deep breaths,” I ordered and she obeyed. “The police will probably be here to talk to you soon,” I explained. “But I’m working on my own to find Candy as soon as possible and I need you to tell me everything you know.”

  “Like what?” she asked in a defeated voice.

  “Like who would want to kidnap Candy? If she didn't have something to do with killing my friend, and I'm not convinced yet that she didn’t, than somebody forced her to go with them after they killed him."

  Frieda shook her head. “Candy would never be involved in hurting someone and I can't think of anyone who would want to hurt her. She was really sweet. We’ve been friends forever and I never knew anyone not to like her, not after they got to know her. Kids made fun of her growing up, but that wasn’t a problem for long. She had me.”

  I looked at Candy Tinajero’s self-appointed guardian angel and wondered if the poor woman understood her own feelings for Candy. Was she in love with her, were they just old friends with a history no one else could match, or was Candy some sort of living doll that Frieda worshipped?

  The thought stopped me short. Frieda was definitely obsessed with their friendship. For all I knew, Candy was trussed up in this woman’s attic, being forced to perform private lap dances on demand for her captor.

  “How did Roxy meet your brother?” I asked, in part because I wanted to stall for time and get a better feel for Frieda, and her home, and in part because I thought it odd that Roxy had not mentioned Rodney when she told me about Frieda.

  “I invited him along to see Candy and Roxy dance one night. They were appearing here in Durham at Satin Dolls. I’d...” Her voice faltered. “I’d just broken up with my girlfriend. We’d been together since college. I’d been doing nothing except sitting in my house and crying for a month. I just had to get out and do something or I knew I’d go crazy. So Candy convinced me to come and see her dance and left me two passes at the door. I brought my brother along because I was a little scared. I’d never been to a place like that before. I didn’t really want to go, but Can
dy was so proud of her new show. I wanted to see it, but…” Frieda’s voice faltered. “I didn’t exactly feel at home there. I was the only woman in the audience.”

  “You asked your brother to go to a topless bar with you?” I said, perhaps skeptically, since Frieda sounded defensive when she answered.

  “I don’t have a lot of friends and my brother has always been there for me. Rodney is a good guy. He’s older than me but people were still talking about him by the time I got to high school. He was legendary. He once beat up three bullies who were picking on this autistic kid. He didn’t even get in trouble for it because the teachers found out why it had happened and they knew Rodney was a good guy. He’s just that way. People who are different don’t scare him. He likes different. What he doesn’t like are bullies.”

  “I imagine that came in handy for you when you were growing up?” I guessed. Being gay was no big deal in the university towns but it can’t have been easy in a small rural town in North Carolina where the fact that you were gay would be offered as an addendum every time people mentioned your name, the social equivalent of a PhD.

  She nodded. “I had to hide it from my parents. They still don’t know. But I always had Rodney. And if anyone hassled me, he’d have a word with them and they’d stop.”

  “So when Rodney met Roxy, he didn’t care that she came up to his pecs?”

  Frieda nodded. “I took Rodney backstage after the show and Roxy started hitting on him and I told him he should go for it. I mean, Candy had always told me Roxy went for bad boys and I thought it might be nice for her to have a decent boyfriend for a change. My brother is a great guy.”

  “What’s this great guy do for a living?” I asked.

  “He was in the Marines for a while and now he works as a car mechanic at my uncle’s garage in Greensboro. Runs the place for him, really. But we lead different lives. I have a Master’s in biology and work as a researcher for a pharmaceutical firm. My friends are all gay women, his are all homophobic bikers. So we don’t get a lot of chances to see each other. That’s another reason why, when Candy asked me to come see her dance, I invited him. Okay by you?”

  “Okay. Sorry I asked.” Geez. People got so damn touchy about their families. It made me glad I barely had one.

  My stomach started to grumble and I realized I had not eaten a thing since my chicken biscuit breakfast hours earlier. It was now late afternoon. “Look, I don’t mean to be indelicate,” I said. “But since Candy didn’t show for lunch, you still have some food left, right?”

  She hopped up like a Stepford Wife with new batteries. “Of course. Have a seat. I’ll serve you.”

  “Good god, no. Just bring in the plate and step back so you don’t lose a hand. And thanks.” I smiled. She looked alarmed and dashed for the kitchen.

  ●

  She’d made chicken salad. Good chicken salad. The kind with apples and raisins and walnuts. I packed it away while I asked her more questions. She sat, not eating, wearing the same deer caught in the headlights look she’d been wearing since I first entered her house. I didn’t think for a moment she’d had anything to do with it, but she still seemed unable to quite grasp that Candy had been kidnapped and was in danger. She sure as shit didn’t get that my friend Rats was dead and I wanted to find out who had killed him. All of my questions seemed to befuddle her and she took a long time to process each one. Within half an hour of trying to pry information out of her, I needed a break. When I went to use her bathroom, and just happened to open her medicine chest to snoop around, I found out why she was so out of it—she was doped to the gills. And, apparently, searching for a cure for depression. The cabinet was crammed with half-used prescription pill bottles: Zoloft. Wellbutrin. Bottles of Effexor and Celexa behind some toiletries. Plus thyroid and migraine medications and a bunch of other stuff I didn’t recognize. Not that I was looking for painkillers or anything fun. No, not me. I examined the line-up of mood elevators more closely. Whichever of the antidepressants Frieda was currently on, she was living the emotional equivalent of being underwater.

  I resolved to speak just a little more slowly and clearly when I questioned her again. “Look, Frieda,” I explained as I helped her wash the dishes I had used, “When I first came in, you mentioned that Candy had a habit of standing you up?”

  She didn’t like my choice of words at all. “Candy did not ‘have a habit’ of standing me up,” Frieda said angrily. “She’s my best friend. She’s been my best friend since high school. It’s just that something came up that one time and she couldn’t get to a phone.”

  Okay, in this cell phone day and age, if people wanted to delude themselves that someone could not get to a phone—never mind that we have them grafted to our fingertips and walk around with calluses on our ears—then I was not going to be the one to disabuse them of their rationalizations. “When was this?” I asked.

  “Earlier this month,” Frieda said. She dabbed at her eyes. “I overreacted. It’s not like Candy is my girlfriend or anything. But that was how it had started when my old girlfriend Shelly lost interest in me. She started to show up late, and then not at all, so I freaked out a little. I’m a total loser in love, as it turns out, and while I’m used to losing girlfriends, I just couldn’t stand the thought of losing my best friend, too.”

  Apparently not. She was crying again. Even I was starting to feel depressed—and I’d just scarfed down a boatload of homemade chicken salad for lunch.

  “How did Candy take your reaction?” I asked.

  “She understood. Candy always understands me.”

  “And she swore it would never happen again?” I said.

  Frieda nodded. “She kept her word. At least until today.”

  “Where is your brother Rodney right now?” I asked abruptly, changing directions to keep her off balance.

  She looked puzzled. “With Roxy, I guess. They usually spend Saturdays together. That’s about the only time they have together because, you know, the girls travel a lot and work nights and he usually has to ride pretty far to see her.”

  I damn sure knew her brother was not with Roxy, because I had just left her in Bobby D.’s car and she’d made no mention whatsoever of Frieda even having a brother, much less having been with him. Which, on reflection, was interesting in and of itself.

  “When was the last time you heard from Candy?”

  “About four days ago.” Frieda’s voice was apologetic. “She’s been busy.”

  “With what?”

  “I don’t know. She’s just been really busy. I haven’t seen her much this month.”

  “What did she say when you last talked to her? Did she sound normal?”

  “Sure. She said she’d see me for lunch around 1:00 PM today, because she had to do something first, and I told her I was really looking forward to it and that was it.”

  I looked at her and she looked at me. The silence built. “Would you like a piece of chocolate cake?” she finally asked. “I made it myself.”

  Things were looking up.

  I was on my second piece—I swear to god that cake was baked from scratch—when I saw a silver car pull up in front of Frieda’s house.

  “Uh, oh,“ I said, hastily wiping my mouth. “State boys are here. I’ve gotta go.”

  “Who’s here?” she asked blankly.

  “The State Bureau of Investigation. They’re here about Candy’s disappearance. Tell them everything you told me. Only tell them very slowly. They tend to view my attempts to help them as less than helpful. I need time to get away.”

  The back door was unlocked. I was out it and into the backyard before poor Frieda could even grasp what was happening. As doped up as she was, I wondered if she’d decide my entire visit had been a hallucination.

  ●

  Stan the Man Humphries, a career patrolman who embraced his fate with marginal competence, was sitting in a chair outside of Roxy’s hotel room. He was reading the latest issue of Esquire and looked bored. “Hi, Casey,” he said. �
�Butler said to humor you, so go right in.”

  “Humor me?” I stopped to glare but my effort was wasted. He was too busy looking at a photo of a male model wearing pants that were too tight and too short for actual human beings to wear. We used to call them Li’l Abner britches in the patch of Florida poverty I’d grown up in. Now they were all the rage with hipsters, at least until eating pork belly caught up with them and they had to switch to sweatpants.

  “That would be a good look on you,” I suggested as I grabbed the door handle.

  “I’d rather be a nudist,” he said without even bothering to look up.

  Roxy was lying across her bed in a semi-catatonic state, her mascara running down her face in ugly rivulets. Very Alice Cooper.

  Bobby D. was being very Barry White. He had a room service cart pulled up in front of him, a white napkin tucked fastidiously under his chin, and a giant porterhouse steak sizzling on a platter in the middle of the cart.

  “You still hanging around?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said, gnawing on a piece of meat. “Where she goes, I go, from here on out.” Which meant he felt responsible for this mess, too.

  Roxy did not look impressed to see me nor did she seem inclined to burst into song at the thought of always loving her bodyguard. In fact, she refused to acknowledge our existence.

  “What’s with her?” I asked Bobby.

  He shrugged. “Maybe she’s concerned about her sister?”

  I doubted that. I located a tiny bottle of tequila in the mini-bar and unscrewed the top before handing it to Roxy. “Chug this,” I said. “Don’t argue.”

  She sat up, grabbed the bottle, and tipped it back, slurping the tequila down obediently.

  “Need another?” I asked.

  She shook her head and wiped her mouth with the back of her arm.

  I eyed the table of food parked in front of Bobby. “Any of that for you?” I asked.

  Roxy nodded.

  “Start eating,” I ordered her. “You’re going to need your strength.”

  She didn’t argue. I handed her a plate of grilled chicken with Caesar salad and she began to nibble at the lettuce. I grabbed the desk chair and sat across it backwards so I could look her straight in the eye.