by M. C. Grant
Bill cracks up and wanders away, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.
With a smile, I turn to Frank. “So what do you think of Capone’s theory?”
“You never know,” Frank says seriously. “Maybe fat, old ghosts know more than fat, old cops.” He stares off into space for a moment. “After all, he’s in a better position to ask the guy.”
I pick up the Polaroid.
“I’ve seen this artist’s work mentioned on the international wires. He’s European, I think, and bigger than Diego. Most of his stuff sells in the fifty- to hundred-thousand range.”
“Dollars?”
“Euros.” I grin. “Art is big business.”
Frank snorts. “Who sticks fifty-plus grand under a mattress?”
“Could be a motive for murder,” I suggest.
Frank’s mouth twitches. “An art thief breaks into Chino’s place, goes to all the trouble of staging a suicide, and then forgets to take the painting?”
“Well, when you put it like that.”
“Best leave detecting to the professionals, Dix.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
I finish the tequila in one shot—the glass nearly colliding with my pouting lower lip—and chase it with a swallow from the bottle of ale.
“By the way.” I attempt to stifle a yawn. “What was that pink thing stuck in the shotgun’s trigger guard?”
“A toe. Kickback must have sliced it off.”
“Is the body missing one?”
Frank’s twitch blossoms into a grin.
“Yeah, Dix. It is.”
Four
The artist crawls across burgundy carpet to dip ghost-white fingers into a pool of shimmering blood. His fingers are searching. When his hand emerges, it clutches a flap of skin with no recognizable shape. Using both hands, the artist stretches the skin over the shotgun hole where his face had been.
Flesh mask in place, he tries to grin. A white rip opens where the mouth should be to reveal pink tongue and sharp, pearly whites. Clenched between his teeth is a silky sable brush.
Wake up, Dix.
The artist dips the brush into the empty socket of his left eye, coating the bristles with crimson sap.
Gross. Wake up!
He paints ruby lips around the torn slit of his mouth as a deep bass drum begins to beat. Its pulse grows stronger, pulling …
I open my eyes with a groan.
On the nightstand, the neon display shining through the worn seat of my tartan pajama bottoms—where I must have tossed them in frustration after being unable to untie the knotted drawstring—shows it is only 7 a.m.
I have been asleep barely five hours.
“Get the door, will you,” I croak to Bubbles who is merrily swimming around in her bowl despite an advanced age of ninety-three days.
She ignores me.
The incessant pounding continues.
“If I ask nicely?“
Bubbles turns her back and flicks her tail before I can finish my appeal.
“Hold on,” I call as I throw off covers and head into the bathroom.
There, I splash cold water on my face, gargle with mint Listerine, and take care of necessary business. I am pleased to note that I had the presence of mind to sleep in my favorite green football jersey. A gift from a college boyfriend whose name I am no longer sure about, the over-washed shirt falls to my knees, has more holes in it than episodic television, and sports a frayed collar stretched so wide it barely holds on to my shoulders. It’s like being wrapped in a hug.
I open the door to be greeted by …
“Ugh,” say the two women in unison.
“ ‘Ugh’? You wake me at seven for ‘ugh’?”
“No,” Kristy blurts. “It’s just that you … you look kind of—”
“Ugh?” I volunteer.
“Yeah.” Kristy’s smile brightens her already cherubically fresh face.
In a deliberate attempt to make me feel older than my years, Kristy is wearing her honey-blonde hair in a pink-bow ponytail and—though the sun has yet to burn off the morning fog—is dressed for a summer’s day. Even standing still, she gives the illusion of dancing in an ink black, pleated skirt that shows off shapely legs in multi-striped knee-high socks. She tops this with a translucent silk blouse that reveals a nipple-proud pink tank top to match her bow. If she were to walk by a junior high school, every boy would spontaneously combust into puberty—acne and awkward hair growth everywhere.
Kristy’s partner, Sam, goes casual in white sweatpants with the word BUM stenciled in soft gray across her seat, and an oversized T-shirt that reads, “Dip me in honey and feed me to the lesbians.”
She resembles Eighties Irish singer Sinéad O’Connor, only with a spiky black buzz cut, at least a half dozen piercings in each ear—one of which is a thin steel bar that cuts across the top of her left ear and contains five letter beads that she can rearrange at a whim. Today, it reads: BITCH. She is also fond of LEZBO, CRUEL, and FUCKU. A ruby stud sparkles in one nostril.
_____
Kristy and Sam share the apartment directly across the hall on the middle floor of our eclectic Painted Lady. Our other neighbors, Derek and Shahnaz (she writes cookbooks and has a perfume collection that attracts men faster than the incredible food she cooks), split the top floor with Ben and Saffron (no stranger to exotic scents himself), while Mr. French and his parakeet, Baccarat, have the misfortune to live beneath Kristy and her morning jazzercise. Mrs. Pennell and King William live below me.
“Did you at least bring coffee?” I ask.
“Um, no,” says Kristy with little hint of apology. “We like the way you make it in that bubbly pot.”
“Perfect.” I don’t mean for it to sound as bitchy as it does, but lack of sleep will do that to anyone.
I head for the kitchen. There’s no point inviting them in; they’ll enter anyway.
Kristy and Sam close the door behind them and head for the mismatched couch and loveseat that take up most of the room. The only other furniture is a wooden rolltop desk stuck in the corner by the window.
The desk—a former resident of the post office and rescued from a yard sale for $20—doubles as my dining-room table and home office. It houses a widescreen iMac computer with TV tuner and an ancient printer whose only saving grace is that it consumes cheap, generic ink.
There are two pieces of art on the walls. Both are original mixed-media works, worthless and signed by the artist: me. Like all journalists, I often claim to be writing a novel. But when you spend every day working with words, it can be the last thing you want to do in your spare time.
Painting helps me relax. I’m just not much good at it.
As Kristy and Sam sit, I pull three oatmeal-chocolate-chip muffins from a box in the freezer and pop them in the microwave.
As soon as the soothing gurgle of the stovetop percolator begins, I return to the bedroom and slip into pajama bottoms and Godzilla slippers that, if the batteries haven’t worn out, roar when I walk. I also manage to pull a stiff brush through my hair to offer the illusion there is a possibility that I give a bit of a damn.
Back in the kitchen, I place the warm muffins on individual plates and add a slice of aged white cheddar on the side.
“I was out late,” I call from behind the waist-high island that divides the galley kitchen from the adjoining room. “A friend was killed. An artist.”
“Oh, my goodness,” says Kristy “Are you OK?”
I shrug. “Yeah. We weren’t close anymore, but still.”
“That’s awful.”
“Anyone we know?” Sam asks.
“Diego Chino? He used to live upstairs.”
“Before our time. Not a friend of Dorothy, then?”
“No. He was straight.�
�� I pause. “At least he was when I knew him.”
“We meet lots of artists at the charity events and gay fundraisers that Sam drags me to,” says Kristy.
“I don’t drag you,” Sam protests. “You love an excuse to get dressed up.”
Kristy giggles.
“Of course she loves it.” I re-enter the room laden with muffins. “It’s just difficult to be the center of attention with all that competition.”
Kristy opens her mouth in protest. “I don’t need to be the center of attention.”
Sam and I exchange glances.
“I don’t!” Kristy squeals. “It’s just depressing sometimes when the most glamorous women in the room all have Adam’s apples.”
I chuckle as I hand out muffins and return to get the coffee.
I pour each of us a large mug of No Sweat Peruvian brew with cream and no sugar and carry them into the living room.
The women used to take their coffee different ways, but my mind was always too scattered in the morning to remember. Now, they drink it the same way I do. It makes life easier.
“So why the wake-up call?” I lift the mug to my lips and swallow a large, fully caffeinated mouthful. It tastes all the better for knowing I’m not exploiting Third World bean pickers.
“Two things,” Kristy says. “One good, one bad.”
“Give me the good. I’m feeling delicate.”
Kristy beams. “Sam and I have come to a very important decision about our future.”
“Let me guess. You’re moving to Montana and becoming gay cowboys?”
“No!” Kristy’s eyes flash with irritation. “We’re going to have a baby.”
Muffin-coffee goop sprays from my mouth, making Kristy shriek as she dodges the shrapnel.
“Dixie!”
“Sorry, sorry. It’s just … OK, which one of you has been hiding the penis?”
Sam snorts and has to cover her mouth.
“There’s no penis.” Kristy blots her splattered blouse with a tissue.
“Ahh, immaculate conception. Good choice. All the best people do it.”
“Be serious, Dix,” Kristy warns, her strawberry lips begin to swell into a pout.
“OK, I’m sorry,” I say gently. “Who’s the father?”
“We don’t know.”
I furrow my brow. “You didn’t catch his name?”
“No. We haven’t chosen anyone yet.”
“Ah.” The morning fog clears from my brain. “You’re not actually pregnant.”
“Well, not yet,” admits Kristy. “But once we find the right man, we will be.”
“So congratulations here would be a touch premature.”
Sam snickers but stops quickly under Kristy’s stormy glare.
“This is an important decision.” Kristy pouts and folds her arms across her pert bosom. Nothing wrong with her décolletage gene, and if I didn’t love her so much, I might even be jealous.
I place my coffee mug and muffin plate on the carpet and cross to the couch.
“You’re absolutely right.” I wrap my arms around her neck to offer a hug. “It’s a very important decision, and I am thrilled for you guys.”
“Really?” Kristy asks.
“Really. I couldn’t be happier.”
“Thanks, Dix. I knew you’d understand.”
I return to my chair and pick up my coffee.
“So who are the candidates?”
“We thought you could help us there,” Sam says.
“Sorry, I left my penis in my other pants.”
“No, I mean you have way more experience with men than we do. There’s always someone coming or go—”
“Let me stop you there,” I interrupt, trying not to show my discomfort. “While I certainly know some horny bastards, I’ve yet to find Mr. Right, or as I like to think of him, Sir Right.”
“A horny bastard is OK,” says Kristy brightly. “So long as he has good teeth and a clean medical record.”
“Why horny?” Sam asks. “You’re not sleeping with him.”
“I know.” Kristy rolls her eyes. “But with hands like mine, I could get a donation lickety-split.”
Sam shudders and I must admit I feel a little queasy myself.
“What about finding someone who would be excited about being a father?” I ask.
Sam shakes her head. “We don’t want a man involved beyond the donation.”
“We certainly don’t need one,” Kristy agrees. “Sam has a good job with the trolleys—”
“Cable cars,” interjects Sam.
“And I do most of my research from home—”
“Which reminds me,” I interrupt, recalling a strange incident from two nights before. “Who are you researching those awful chastity belts for?”
“You know I can’t disclose that. Author-researcher confidentiality.”
“It was Janet Evanovich, right?”
“Not even close.”
“Robert Crais?”
“Quit it.”
“Karin Slaughter? Sean Black? Tess Gerritsen? Matt Hilton? Lee Child? Come on, give me a hint?”
Kristy giggles. “We’re changing the topic.”
“To what?”
“The bad news.”
“You might not know this about me, Kristy, but I’m not a fan of bad news.”
“Then you’re really not going to like this.”
I sigh. “Hit me.”
“Mrs. Pennell received a threatening letter this morning.”
“She what?” I blurt. “From who?”
“We don’t know, but she seemed quite upset. Sam met her in the lobby when she was getting the mail.”
“Post,” Sam interrupts. “We’re not calling it mail anymore, remember? Mail, male.”
“I’ll pop in and see her after my shower,” I say. “Threaten one of us and you threaten us all.”
Kristy beams and leaps to her feet to give me a big hug. She smells like fresh daisies in the rain.
Five
Half an hour later, I knock on Mrs. Pennell’s door.
When she opens it, her eyes are puffy and red, while her creased and pallid complexion is a feeble complement to her professionally coiffed platinum hair.
“The girls told me about the note,” I say.
She opens the door wider.
“Cup of tea?” she asks.
“Lovely.”
I step inside and close the door. Instantly, King William brushes against the back of my legs and begins to walk figure eights around my feet. It is the same shape as handcuffs and just as effective. When I bend to pet him, he plops onto his side and rolls over to expose a furry and very generous stomach.
I scratch belly and chest, working my way up to ears and chin as his appreciative purr shakes the walls.
“Oh, come now, William,” Mrs. Pennell scolds affectionately. “At least let our guest in the door.”
King William winks, rolls back onto his feet, and pads down the hallway. I follow.
In the kitchen, Mrs. Pennell pours boiling water into a large brown teapot. Her shoulders are slumped within a flower-patterned housecoat that has large white buttons dotting the front. Indoors, you rarely see her without the housecoat over her clothes, and from the amount of cat dander I find coating my hand, I understand why.
I wash my hands in the sink and ask, “Can I see it? The note.”
Mrs. Pennell produces a small envelope—the size one normally associates with thank-you cards and invitations—from her pocket and hands it over.
The paper feels old, as though it has been sitting in a drawer for a long time without being used. I open the envelope and read the note. The handwriting is neat, but overly cu
rsive and decidedly feminine.
It reads:
I know it was you.
Do not believe for a moment you can simply walk away from your responsibility in this matter.
—Pearl
I return the note to the envelope.
“Who’s Pearl?”
Mrs. Pennell shrugs. “I have been trying to think, but I do not believe I know anyone with that name.”
“Someone in your past?”
“Not that I can recall.”
“Is there a responsibility you’ve been neglecting? Something that would spark—”
She shakes her head dismissively. “I’m sure it is just nonsense.”
“If it was, you wouldn’t look so worried.”
She sighs. “I have lived a quiet, genteel life for more than a quarter century now. Apart from taking a broom to an occasional creepy crawly, I don’t believe I have done anything to warrant such attention. It is obviously a case of mistaken identity.”
I start to respond, to ask what type of life she lived prior to her quarter-century mark of gentility, but she holds up a firm hand.
“Now, would you like a cookie with your tea?”
I have to admire her.
“Sure,” I say softly, “that would be nice.”
Mrs. Pennell places a small plate of cookies on a tray, adds a sugar bowl and tiny jug of cream, two china cups on saucers, and the brown teapot.
“Let me carry that,” I say, lifting the tray and following her into the living room. I place the tray on a coffee table in front of the television set. The TV is broadcasting a morning talk show with the volume turned low.
“Would you like me to look into it?” I ask, pouring the strong brew into the delicate cups. “Just to clear up any misunderstanding?”
Mrs. Pennell raises her shoulders very slightly in a noncommittal gesture.
“If I don’t,” I continue, “I’m afraid Kristy may drag Sam down here to sleep on your doorstep.”
Mrs. Pennell flashes a lipless smile as she accepts the tea and a chocolate-coated finger cookie.
“Do you remember the artist, Diego?” she asks, changing the subject. “The gentleman who lived above you before Derek and Shahnaz.”