by Catie Rhodes
“No! That old horse-faced boyfriend of hers did her in.” A girl who had been quiet grinned at her cleverness. Trollish laughter greeted her statement.
“I don’t give a damn who did it,” said Cleopatra. “Rae always mean to me. She call me Bratwurst Girl, and I am not German. I am Russian.”
That explained the accent.
She looked down at me. “You don’t have my makeup?”
So this was Maybelline whose missing makeup got me into this alternate universe. I shook my head.
“Shit!” Cleopatra-Maybelline slammed back into the dressing room.
I knew these women could tell me a lot. “Why was the other woman angry with Rae?”
They ignored me, whispering among themselves.
“You want the stuff out of Rae’s locker?” Glitter Girl, who seemed to be the group’s leader, had her hands on her hips.
“If you could help me, that would be great.” I said.
“Two hundred dollars.” She tipped up her chin in challenge.
“I don’t have two hundred dollars.” And I didn’t. I had maybe another thirty.
“Well, then, Peri Mace,” the glitter girl tried out the name, “you are out of luck. I can’t open that locker for less than, say, hundred-fifty.”
“I don’t have that either.” This sucked. My gut said if I had the two hundred, I could get anything out of these girls.
“Then we can’t help you. This sounds like a po-lice matter, and you probably shouldn’t be snooping in it at all.”
The other girls murmured their agreement. They walked single file toward the pulsing music.
“Some of you have to have seen this guy.” I pulled the copy of Rae’s sketch from my pocket as the women pushed past me. None of them even looked at me. I tried again. “Maybe one of you knows where Dara lives?”
They kept walking. Great. All the way over here for nothing. The Nova gulped gas and cost a fortune to drive long distances. The dressing room door opened, and the Amazon who hated Rae peeped out.
“I give you tip. There’s nothing in that locker. Come. I show you.” She held open the door and motioned me inside.
***
The dressing room stank of sweat, hairspray, and desperation. The Amazon walked past a rolling clothes rack full of feathery outfits. Sure enough, a row of beat up lockers lined one wall. I cheered my luck.
“That Keesha is scammer. She sell me movie she filmed in movie theater with her phone. Ten dollars!”
“What’s your name?” I asked, realizing some of my mistake with Glitter Girl. I hadn’t made it personal. The Amazon smiled, revealing a mouth full of crooked, stained teeth. Not her best feature.
“Lloyd say my stage name is Maybelline. But my real name is Magdalene.”
“Nice to meet you.” We shook hands.
Magdalene swept her arm at the row of lockers. Only two had locks. I hoped Rae’s was one of the locked ones. If not, this bunch would have taken whatever she had the first night she didn’t show up to dance.
“If Rae had anything here is gone,” she said. “But I am sure she took whatever she had with her the last night she worked.”
“Why’s that?” Disappointment jabbed my grinding gut. My luck sucked.
“If you want to lock up your things, you bring your own lock. And you take it all home at the end of night or Lloyd cut off lock and take what’s inside.” Magdalene pinched her face into a scowl and lowered her voice to imitate a man. “You leave it; you lose it.”
So much for the locker idea. But now that I had Magdalene talking, she might answer the questions I’d hoped to ask Dara.
“Do you know anything about the woman Rae argued with or the boyfriend your co-workers mentioned?”
“Co-workers.” Magdalene laughed. “The woman I never saw. But the man…he used to take all the girls out after closing. He had money.”
I pulled the sketches out of my pocket again and unfolded them. “Do either of these look familiar to you?”
Magdalene took them. She frowned at the one I thought to be of Low_Ryder and shook her head. She giggled at the one of the naked man and handed both back to me. “I am sorry, but no.”
“Was the man who took all of you out young or old?”
“Neither. He was in middle. Homely. Big horse teeth. Rae call him BJ. But that not his name. Because she always had to call him twice before he answer.”
This was good stuff.
“What about the biker guy?” Madgalene just looked puzzled, so I flashed the picture again.
“Never saw anybody like him. Sure not same as BJ. This BJ wore cowboy clothes. Like somebody on TV.”
That only included about a third of Texas.
“Rae said this BJ was her ace in hole. She said she always had a plan B and C and D. And even E.”
“Did she say what she hoped to achieve?”
Magdalene shrugged. “Something other than this, I guess.”
“Do you know if she owed anybody money? Maybe they were trying to force her to pay?”
“Everybody here owes somebody money. Why else would you do this?”
I took a long look at Madgalene’s getup. She had a point. Why would anybody subject herself to that for fun?
“What the blue blazes is going on here? Are you the girl who called earlier about an audition?” A bald-headed man with a perma-frown stomped into the dressing room. He wasn’t much taller than I was and wore pressed jeans and a t-shirt the color of brains. I knew this must be the owner of the “you leave it; you lose it” edict.
“No. I came here to see Dara.”
“I fired her.” Baldy pointed at Magdalene. “You get back to work, or you’re fired.”
The poor woman click-clacked down the long hallway, wobbling a bit on her impossibly high heels. Baldy watched her go with a half-smile on his face. He turned back to me and looked me up and down. His face pinched into a disgusted scowl.
“I don’t need to see you dance,” he said. “You can’t work here.”
“But I’m here for—“ I scrambled for an explanation, but Baldy grabbed the belt loop of my jeans in one hand and my arm in the other. He dragged me from the dressing room and back into the long hallway.
Only it was no longer empty. Dean Turgeau stood in it. He wore plain clothes but had his badge on his belt. As soon as he saw me, he began to laugh. His mirth stung, and I didn’t fight much as Baldy shoved me out the fire exit. Relief came when the door slammed, cutting off Dean’s guffaws.
What the hell was he doing there? I wondered if Sheriff Stick Up His Ass was down for a good time or on the same trail I was. Not that I cared about the first part. Oh, hell, who was I kidding? I was curious enough to get myself in trouble.
I drove home in silence. The radio would only pick up a scratchy recording of War’s “Low Rider.” Same song I kept hearing. Coincidence or interference from the spirit world? My mind sifted through the little I learned at The Chameleon.
The woman who threatened Rae had to be the same woman who showed up at Memaw’s demanding access to the trailer. Veronica. She never did give me her last name.
I couldn’t help comparing BJ to Benny Longstreet. Benny’s odd response to Rae’s sketchbook kept flitting around my mind. I wanted to fit him into the puzzle but had a hard time picturing him slumming with low rent strippers. Benny cultivated the image of a very religious man. He and his wife, both attendees of Michael Gage’s church, involved themselves in all church activities, especially the ones involving charity work.
I didn’t think all men cheated, but I thought anybody was capable of infidelity. And the churchgoers were no different than other folk. But if Benny were going to cheat on his wife, I wouldn’t have picked Rae as his choice. He liked identifying himself as a rich person too much. The idea of him slumming just didn’t work.
Wrapped up in my thoughts, I took no notice of the headlights hovering in my rearview mirror until the car moved in too close, flooding my car with blinding light. The road had narr
owed to a two-lane highway a few miles back, and I hadn’t passed another car for many miles. National forest bordered the road on both sides. I was alone with the jackass riding my bumper.
***
I considered and rejected the idea it might be Chase. He would have flashed his lights or honked to get my attention. Besides, the vehicle behind me was a car, not a truck. The other driver began a game of dropping back several feet and then racing forward to slam on his brakes right before he hit me. Maybe it was just a jerk who wanted to pass.
I let off the gas and slowed down, watching as the speedometer dropped to a ten-mile-per-hour crawl. The car, rather than blowing around me, simply stayed a few feet from my bumper. Fear fluttered in my belly and climbed up to my heart. My cheeks tingled with it.
I punched the gas, and my car surged forward. I leaned over the wheel as my speed picked up, glancing often into the rearview mirror. A sharp curve flew toward me. Maybe I could lose the car there. The yellow warning sign came into my vision and flashed past. I pushed hard on the accelerator. The car stayed right on my bumper.
This curve jogged right and then broke to the left. I took it tires squealing and smelling the own sharp scent of my fear induced sweat. The other car never missed a trick and stayed right on my bumper.
I rolled to a stop. The other car did the same. My heart slammed in my chest as I waited for something to happen. Nothing did. I put the car in park and waited, my hand trembling on the gearshift.
Just as I’d hoped, the door on the car behind me opened with a groan. I waited until I could see the silhouette of a person getting out. I popped the clutch, slammed the car into gear, and took off.
My car’s engine screamed as I pushed it the last few miles to Memaw’s house. Headlights appeared in my rearview mirror. I didn’t dare try to fumble with my cellphone. The only thing I knew to do was get home and get inside. Once there, I could call Dean Turgeau. To hell with the humiliating scene at The Chameleon.
I barely slowed enough to make the sharp turn into Memaw’s driveway. Those few seconds allowed my tormentor to catch up. It blew past, never slowing. That’s when I recognized the black GTO. Dizziness numbed my lips, and I barely controlled the car enough to pull into the carport. I stood in the yard for a second, listening for the engine to turn around and come back. It simply faded into the distance.
I called Dean’s cellphone and got no answer. He couldn’t have done much anyway. I didn’t see the license plate or know who owned the car. Needing someone to know what happened, I called Chase. He didn’t answer either. I hung up without leaving a message.
TWELVE
SATURDAY came, and with it Rae’s memorial service. Housecleaning kept Memaw and me busy most of the morning. I dodged her questions about the previous night’s activities. She gave me a suspicious frown but didn’t press.
Around noon, ladies from church arrived with long tables and folding chairs. After they made it clear my help was not needed, I wandered outside to be alone with my cigarettes and my thoughts.
Rae’s death reminded me my life ought to mean more. In the seven years since my divorce and moving back in with Memaw, I filled my life with busywork. Now, I had a harder time ignoring the emptiness. Problem was, the right ingredient to fill the void kept escaping me.
The right ingredient didn’t seem to be a man. They were entertaining enough. Once that part was over, the uncomfortable silence descended and I always found a reason to cut things off. Children sounded great, but I didn’t want to do it alone. It was a vicious cycle.
I liked having my own business but didn’t consider what I did especially important. It paid a little money and suited me better than working for someone else.
Seeing the spirit world and feeling the emotions of its inhabitants crippled me. I hated the imposition of the dead. No matter where I went, they climbed all over me, wanting and needing. The expectation from the living that I keep it to myself pushed at me from the other side. Both sides trapped and tortured me. It ground away at my emotions until I wanted to scream. But I couldn’t because that might upset Memaw.
I lived as though in waiting for something. I made no commitments. I had nothing I couldn’t walk away from. Perhaps some unsung part of me hoped I’d get a do-over. With Rae dead, I knew I wouldn’t.
Gravel crunched and cut off my thoughts as a Burns County Sheriff’s cruiser rolled down the driveway and parked. Dean Turgeau slid out and stretched. Brittany Watson, the youngest member of the Burns County Sheriff’s Office, got out of the passenger side. She looked like a proud kid playing dress up in her uniform. I strode to Brittany, hugged her, and thanked her for coming.
Dean’s intense gaze followed my actions, but he didn’t speak or otherwise acknowledge me.
“Why didn’t you answer my call last night? I could have had an emergency.” I wasn’t about to let him get away with ignoring me. “And who the hell invited you to my cousin’s memorial service?”
Dean took a deep breath to speak, but Brittany broke in.
“We’re here to see who shows up. Dean says sometimes the murderer comes to the funeral.”
Dean shot her a death glare. The poor kid wilted. It pissed me off, and I had a bone to pick with Deputy Dean anyway.
“As for who invited me, your grandmother did.” Dean took in my black dress and high heels. His eyes lingered on my legs. “I didn’t answer your call last night because I was too sick of you meddling in my investigation to mess with you, and I figured you had sense enough to call 911 if you had a real emergency.”
His zinger heated my anger, but I didn’t have a good comeback. He was right. I should have just called 911, but the idea of Joey Holze knowing I had called for help had been too much for my pride.
“Judging from what I saw last night, I’m guessing they didn’t hire you for your cousin’s old job.”
“I bet I found out more than you did.” I wanted to add an insult but didn’t.
“I doubt that,” he said. “Stay out of my case. Or I’ll think of some reason to arrest you.”
“I’ve got a question for you, Deputy Turgeau.”
“Why not ask your crystal ball? Isn’t that what psychics do? Or do they just scam people and lie to them?” He crossed his arms. I couldn’t help but notice how his biceps flexed and his pecs bunched underneath the khaki uniform shirt. Where was the man who kept me from falling down at the sheriff’s office?
Brittany winced and gave me a sympathetic glance. I shrugged and shook my head to let her know it was okay. Turgeau wanted to play hot and cold. Fine. I could do it, too. We’d either have some really hot sex or get into a public fistfight. Either one was fine with me.
Dean tried to stare me down. When that didn’t work, he developed a sudden interest in his highly polished shoes. “Go on and ask.”
“What the hell did I ever do to you?”
“You tell the truth when it suits you. You lie when it suits you.” Dean ticked off his points on his fingers. “You go around doing whatever you please without caring it could derail my investigation and jeopardize my job. And I suspect you lie about having psychic abilities to get attention.”
So, he wanted to throw down, did he? “Your public relations skills suck, Deputy Dean. A bug in this red dirt out here has more detective skills than you.” The man’s face went slack with shock. “No wonder they ran your sour ass out of South Louisiana. Too bad we ended up with you.”
Brittany gasped, and I winked at her. Turgeau’s mouth moved, but no sound came out.
“Y’all take care, now, and thanks for coming.” I walked to the house without a backward glance. Had I turned, Dean would have seen my smile. Two could play at this game.
***
A quiet corner of the living room provided a hiding place where I could observe and not be easily noticed. Turgeau wasn’t the only one who had a responsibility to Rae. I wanted to find her killer, too. Speaking of the devil, Rae hadn’t made her appearance yet. No doubt she would, most likely at the wron
g moment.
Guests trickled in, and I put Rae out of my mind. We set the inexpensive urn holding Rae’s ashes and a recent, framed snapshot of her on an accent table near the door. Even with the hard lines already forming around her eyes, she’d been stunning in a platinum bombshell way. Most of our guests stopped and took a good, long look at the guest of honor. I watched them with interest. Most of them had never even spoken to Rae.
Our little living room filled quickly. The church ladies had moved Memaw’s well-worn furniture to the room’s edges and set out metal folding chairs with “Gaslight City First Baptist” written in black marker on their backs. Those chairs were all taken. Even more people lined the walls.
Either a lot of people wanted to pay their last respects to Rae, or they didn’t want to miss a good show. When most folks had a plate of finger food and a plastic cup filled with a soft drink or iced tea, Memaw stood and rang a little bell to get their attention. She spoke in her schoolteacher voice. “Pastor Michael Gage will say a few words.”
Gage took center stage near Rae’s urn. Despite the casual setting, he wore a three-piece suit. It looked expensive and fell just so on his neat, wiry frame. His olive skin glowed with good health, and his salt and pepper hair was neatly clipped.
He gave me a quick glance. The fury that scared me the day I cleaned Mace House was gone. Only his usual interest remained. I inclined my head to him. I had checked the phony email account that morning. No response from Jerry Bower. Maybe he decided to ignore me.
Despite his lack of romantic appeal, Gage knew how to speak to a crowd. Everyone listened in rapt silence as he talked about how none of us knew when the end was coming. He claimed the only defense was to have our spiritual houses in order. I watched the guests while Gage talked, thinking about what Brittany Watson said. Was a murderer in our midst?
Darren and Jolene Fischer stood close together. Chase’s absence tore at my emotions. He should have been there saying goodbye to Rae, even though he hadn’t loved her. A steady stream of tears flowed down Jolene’s cheeks. Darren kept his eyes straight ahead and his arm around his wife.