by JF Freedman
She wonders what time it is; it must be getting late. Pretty soon her coach will turn into a pumpkin and she’ll be back in her old rags again.
They subside into quietude again. Kate makes little waves with her fingertips, her eyes closing on their own. It would be so easy to fall asleep in here.
“Here.”
Miranda is standing next to her, the water below her breasts. She’s holding two glasses of cold water.
“Thanks.” Kate drinks the entire glass down in one long gulp.
“Come with me.”
Miranda climbs out of the tub and walks twenty yards along a narrow path to an outdoor shower. Kate follows. Miranda turns the tap on, the water coming out stinging cold. She turns under the showerhead, face and arms raised, the needles spraying her. Then she moves to the side, so Kate can do the same. Then they walk back to the tub and lie on their backs, on the platform.
It’s a clear night. The sky is black and full of stars. A slight wind blows across their damp bodies.
Miranda reclines on her side, leaning her head in one hand. She looks at Kate. With her free hand she reaches over and takes the closer of Kate’s hands, turning it over and holding it lightly, like a palm reader.
Goose bumps break out over Kate’s body as if she’s been touched with an electric prod. She wants to say or do something, she doesn’t know what—but she feels incapable, almost paralyzed.
“You have good hands,” Miranda says soothingly.
“Peasant hands.”
“Strong hands. Like mine.” She covers Kate’s hand with hers, palm to palm. Her fingers are longer, her nails short and even. “Mine got strong here, from riding horses. Until then they were weak.”
“I was born with mine,” Kate says, flustered. She’s always wished for beautiful hands, with long elegant fingers.
She lived in a dorm her freshman year in college. Sometimes a bunch of girls would crowd together in one room and have a late-night party. Talk about men, and their own desires. The women’s gym had a sauna, and once they went to it, late at night, half a dozen young women lying on the hot dry wood seats.
She hasn’t done anything like that for years; until tonight.
“Good hands,” Miranda repeats. “Honest hands.”
She pushes herself up onto her knees. Taking Kate’s hand in both of hers, she leans down and kisses the palm, her lips barely making contact, her tongue flickering across.
Kate shudders. “I don’t do this,” she protests, feeling weak; emotionally more than physically. She doesn’t know why exactly, but she feels compelled to be polite, not to hurt Miranda’s feelings. It has something to do with class, status: top dog/bottom dog. “I’m not anti- or anything, it’s not who I am, that’s all.”
“I’m not a lesbian.” Miranda, accurately gauging Kate’s fears, reassures her. “But I believe in experiencing life. How do you know what life is all about until you try it all?”
“I don’t think I have to try it all. I know myself, who I am.” She starts to get up.
“Lie down. Please.” Miranda’s voice is low, calm. “Let yourself go.”
Her hands are on Kate’s shoulders, pushing her down onto her back. Kate allows herself to be pushed down. It’s as if she feels bad about not doing her hostess’s bidding, after such a terrific dinner. Is that what this was all about, a prelude?
The wood is warm under her.
Let yourself go. Where will that lead?
Miranda is bent over her, softly kissing her right wrist, her mouth moving up Kate’s forearm, the crook of her elbow, the fleshiness of the inner part of her upper arm, Miranda’s hair hanging down, brushing the skin, a feather-touch titillation. Grazing the stubble of Kate’s armpit, moving down along her side, the edge of her breast, then tonguing the nipple, which stiffens.
Kate moans with pleasure.
Let yourself go, her inner voice tells her.
Miranda covers Kate’s body with her mouth: moving down to her belly, her abdomen, skirting the pussy, down her thigh, her calf, kissing the soles of her feet, each toe individually; then the moving mouth begins journeying up.
Kate gives herself over, abandoning her inhibitions. If sex with a woman is going to happen one time in her life, then this is that time.
Miranda’s mouth caresses her nipples, which have grown almost to the size of the top joint of her little finger, the tongue licking at the edge of the areolas, then the nipples again, sucking each in turn. She inserts a finger into Kate’s pussy, the digit sliding in and out, caressing the soft moist velvet inner lining.
Men have given her this pleasure. But this is a woman doing it—that’s the difference. The touch of someone with your body, who knows what everything is supposed to feel like.
The pleasure-giving mouth moves to her pussy. It sucks Kate’s clitoris.
Kate is humping like a machine, her hips grinding against Miranda’s face, her behind pushing up against the hot wooden platform.
She comes half a dozen times, wave upon overwhelming wave. Moaning with abandon, her voice resounding in her ears, the sensations as intense as sex with a man, any man, has ever been.
“Enough.” She feels like she’s drowning. “Stop.” She grabs Miranda’s head with both hands and pushes her away, expending the last of her energy. She can’t move, she’s so wiped out.
Miranda straddles her. “Now you do me.” She lowers herself down until her bush is on Kate’s face.
Kate grabs her by the ass and buries her face in Miranda’s wetness, tasting the salty fishiness she’s only known from sniffing her own underpants after she’s been aroused by a man.
Miranda climaxes almost immediately, her hands gripping Kate’s head, fiercely pulling the hair, thrusting her pelvis into Kate’s face. Side by side they lie, completely spent.
“This evening’s gone beyond your expectations, I suspect.”
“You could say that.”
“I didn’t plan it. Things happen.”
Don’t ruin it, lady. “I guess,” Kate responds noncommittally.
They’re sitting in the living room, fully dressed again, drinking strong coffee. Kate, feeling about as animated as a warm pudding, is in the process of recovery.
“You’re good company,” Miranda says. “I appreciate that. I spend a lot of my time alone.” She shifts in her chair, tucking her legs under her. “Do you like it up here? What you’ve seen so far?”
“What’s not to like?”
“You’d be surprised.”
“I guess so,” Kate repeats herself, wondering, At what?
“Frederick—my husband—doesn’t like the ranch,” Miranda explains. “Never has. He has a circle of artistic friends he goes around with; frankly, they leave me cold. Too hip for me. Laura’s an urban creature, someday she’ll move to a city, San Francisco, some place like that.” She pauses, sipping her coffee. “I’m different. I love the ranch life, I love to ride, to go out with the cowboys during their work. I love the space, the emptiness of it, getting lost in it.” She sights Kate over the rim of her mug. “I have to confess something.”
“What’s that?”
“I’ve done some research on you,” Miranda confides.
Confused: “You have?”
“You’re checking up on me. I had to.”
“I’m not ‘checking up’ on you,” Kate says, concurrently feeling a sudden panic-fueled anger and a fast resurgence of energy. What the fuck is this? First the seduction, then the betrayal? “Where did you ever get that?”
“The matter you’re looking into that my daughter hired you for.”
“That has nothing to do with you,” Kate tells her. She’s hot, truly pissed off. “Where the hell do you come off? You wine me, you dine me, you—” she starts to say “fuck.” She tries to rise up. The blood rushes from her head, momentarily causing her to feel dizzy, to fall back into the old leathery chair.
“Listen to me for a minute, will you?” Miranda implores. “Just hear me out.”
> “Let me explain something to you,” Kate says, fighting to stay calm. Don’t get angry, she cautions herself, don’t lose control. You’re in the presence of a control freak, don’t let her suck you in. “People hire me to do things for them. If I can, I do. It’s all legal and aboveboard. And one thing about my work is, I only answer to whoever hires me. No one else—period. Not Jesus, not Moses, not the President of the United States. I answer to my client.”
“As well you should,” Miranda comes back evenly. “I’m not disputing that.”
“Then what are you saying?”
“As I told you earlier, I have to be concerned for my family’s welfare. I run our businesses, which are profound and complex. It’s my responsibility to see that they do well, and I take my responsibilities seriously. I have to—because no one else in my family can.” She pauses. “I’m going to tell you a few things about us that aren’t public knowledge. I trust you’ll keep them to yourself.”
“If you’re paying me I’ll have to,” Kate answers. “Isn’t that what you said over the phone?”
“Yes,” Miranda confirms. “I am paying you for whatever time we spend together this evening.”
“Then anything you tell me is confidential,” Kate says. “Just like it was with your daughter,” she adds pointedly.
Miranda pauses momentarily. “My husband is a sweet man but he’s a bust at business,” she confides. “When it comes to the world of commerce he couldn’t find his ass with both hands and a Geiger counter. We have a lot of irons in the fire right now,” she continues. “We are trying to develop some enormous projects. Much of our fortune is on the line. What happened with Frank Bascomb hurt us. We are in the spotlight because of him, and we don’t like that. We don’t like that one bit.”
“Then Laura shouldn’t have written that article, if you don’t want publicity.”
“I know that. So does she, now. It was a mistake. Fortunately, that won’t happen again.”
The poor kid, Kate thinks. She’s been scared of you every day of her life, and for damn good reason.
“I don’t care how Frank Bascomb died,” Miranda says. “All I care about is that whatever happened, it’s over. No more snooping around, no more bad publicity: no publicity. That’s why I invited you here tonight. To ask you to lay off.” She pauses. “I’m willing to compensate you for that.”
The guys in Ventura offered twenty thousand. What will Miranda Sparks offer? Kate wonders; and then it hits her, like a safe falling on her head: Miranda could have been the money behind their offer. She turned them down, so now Miranda moves on to Plan B.
“How much?” she asks. “What are you prepared to pay me? Hypothetically, of course, I don’t take bribes, it’s unethical and illegal, too. But let’s say we’re two white chicks sitting around bullshitting—what kind of money are we talking here?”
“I think ten thousand dollars would be fair.”
Okay—so she was wrong about connecting Miranda with the boys. Quick idea, shot down faster. They offered twice that; Miranda isn’t going to come back low. Or is this the beginning of a negotiation? Ply the in-over-her-head detective with wine, seduce her, guilt-trip her, and buy her cheap? She can’t shut her brain down, which would be the smart thing to do. “We’re just pretending now, right?” Without waiting for Miranda to answer: “Ten wouldn’t cut it.”
“I’m surprised.”
“Oh? Why?”
“Considering your position in your chosen line of work, ten thousand is substantial. More than you normally make on a case.”
“Says who?” Kate answers, stung.
Miranda walks to a small desk in the corner. She picks up a manila envelope, opens it, and takes out some sheets of paper.
“‘Katherine Theresa Blanchard,’” she reads. “‘Private investigator, single practitioner. Less than two years experience. Assumed Carl Flaherty’s business, but has lost several of his accounts. Before that a member of the Oakland police force. Forced out under pressure. Divorced, two children, both girls. Girls living with sister, by court order. Ex-husband also a former police officer, same force, also resigned under pressure. Borderline psychotic, is capable of committing great bodily harm to subject. Subject has restraining order against ex, but lives in fear of him.’” She pauses. “Shall I go on?”
“Sure,” Kate says, boiling with rage. “Show me all your cards. And I’m not afraid of Eric,” she adds defiantly.
“‘Currently having an affair with a married man who is a ranking officer of the Santa Barbara County Sheriffs Department.’” She looks at Kate. “That’s pretty stupid. You could get him into trouble.”
Kate feels a chill. This woman does not pussyfoot around. “He’s a grown-up. He can make his own decisions,” she manages to answer. She’s drowning now, she can’t let this go on.
“If a woman wants a man, he usually isn’t capable of thinking clearly,” Miranda corrects her. “Not a woman of your charms.”
“Cut the shit.”
“I mean that. I know what it is to be a desirable woman, and I know it when I see it in another woman.”
“Anything else?”
“You’re also sleeping with Cecil Shugrue, my neighbor next ranch over. Although I didn’t need a private investigator to find that out for me,” she says parenthetically, “I knew it as soon as I saw the two of you together.”
For some reason, that stings more than anything else. “So what?” she says, feeling like a kid in the schoolyard.
“So I know things about you. Things you don’t want people to know.” She puts the papers back in the envelope. “All this is confidential, for my eyes only. No one else is ever going to see this.”
“Damn decent of you,” Kate manages to reply.
Miranda ignores the sarcasm. “I didn’t check on you to blackmail you. I needed to know who you are. You can understand that.”
Goddamnit, Kate thinks, this is bullshit. She can’t sit here and passively take this without fighting back. “I know some things about you, too,” she tells Miranda.
“Oh? What do you know about me?” Miranda asks nonchalantly.
“You have lovers of your own. You see them right here, on your ranch.”
“And?”
“I’m sure your husband would be interested in knowing that. Not that I have any interest in blackmailing you, either,” she hastily adds.
“He already does,” Miranda responds in a calm voice. “I’m curious, though. How do you know?”
“That’s my job.”
Miranda looks at her. She smiles. “What else do you know about me that you think could be hurtful to me?”
“That’s for me to know …”
“And me to find out?”
Kate gets to her feet. “I’m out of here. Thanks for the great dinner and the other stuff. I’ll cherish the memories always.”
“The pleasure was mine.” Miranda smiles. “And yours, too, you can’t deny it. Here,” she says, handing Kate the envelope. “I don’t want this in my possession anymore.”
Kate doesn’t take the envelope. “It’s a nice gesture, but they have me on their computer—whoever ‘they’ are.”
“I’ll have them expunge you from their records.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Fair enough. But I promise you, no one is ever going to know about this; and I won’t have you investigated any further.”
“That’s a relief,” Kate answers sarcastically.
Miranda tears the envelope with the pages inside in half, then in half again. “This never existed,” she says. “That’s a promise.”
And if you believe that one …One thing’s for sure—she’s going to have to watch her ass. Being the prey instead of the hunter is not to her liking. Until this moment in time she’s never understood how much fear and anger that can engender.
“My daughter thinks she’s sophisticated, but we both know she’s naive,” Miranda says as they walk outside onto the porch. “She set things in mo
tion she shouldn’t have. She could have hurt her family. She didn’t, and now it’s over.” She pauses. “Isn’t it?”
“That’s Laura’s decision.”
“Then it’s over,” Miranda responds firmly.
Kate nods. This case is already over for her, but she isn’t going to tell Miranda that. She won’t give her that satisfaction, not after this. Let her dangle, she thinks, like she’s kept me dangling all night long.
As she’s about to get into her car Miranda has one last word. “Cecil was a lover of mine, too,” she says from her perch on the top porch step. “He’s a sweet man, isn’t he? Say hello for me the next time you see him.”
She goes in, closing the door behind her.
Kate sags against her car.
Miranda’s last cut is a fitting end to the evening. She feels guilty and dirty about it, the whole thing, especially the seduction; not that she made love to a woman, she’s glad she had that experience—but that she was used. The way, she realizes, she used Juan Herrera to help her.
She makes a vow to herself: no more sexual manipulation; and use more discrimination. She doesn’t want to think of herself as being in the same space as Miranda Sparks.
What she does want—now—is to get out of here as fast as she can and be alone, until she can figure things out.
Chill out, girl, she says to herself. Chill out.
She is on the highway, heading back towards Santa Barbara. Her mind is racing. What was that all about up there? Miranda Sparks didn’t need to extravagantly wine and dine and then lay her just to try and talk her out of pursuing Frank Bascomb’s death. What is her agenda, and does it connect to the other events in her recent history? What is underlying all this, anyway?
Carl and Herrera had cautioned her to give it up. She had agreed to; she had severed her contract with her client. Now this.
False notes and looping trails. Miranda tells her that she and Laura keep nothing from each other. Yet Miranda doesn’t know she’s told Laura she’s off this. So that part of it is bullshit, definitely. If that part is a lie, then is there any truth to any of it?
Give it up, goddamnit. You are an impartial observer, a gatherer of facts.