The Tease (The Darling Killer Trilogy)

by Pill, Nikki M.

  “I’ll get help,” Grant said, and ran down the hall.

  Help for who? I wondered. Her tangled red hair pooled around her face, false dark eyelashes curling against her white cheeks, sparkly red lipstick garish around the nylon stocking stuffed into her mouth. She wore only her red merrywidow, lace panties, bow necklace, and heels. Her clothes were folded neatly next to her awkwardly sprawled limbs, garter belt in a tidy roll on top of them. On her arm, in what looked like blue eyeliner, someone had written the word “DARLING.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I took her wrist in my hand, hunting for a pulse despite her sickly pallor and cold skin.

  Darling.

  Max was here tonight.

  My fingertips went ice-cold, almost as cold as Lisa’s.

  Most necrophiliacs aren’t violent.

  Most.

  That’s a lot of work for one little word.

  The last time I was in the room with the body of someone I knew, it was my mother, fourteen years before. The cancer had sucked all flesh from her brittle bones, and her mouth hung open. Her shaved head looked tiny on the white hospital pillow. My dad hunched over in his chair, hands folded, one tear trailing down his face. Lisa was so alive just a few hours before, crinkling her nose at me during our troupe number. She lay on the floor like a discarded doll, lurid magenta bruises around her neck above the black rhinestone bow.

  I took a deep breath, fighting the panicked feeling in my chest. The phantom arm encircled my waist again, and I pressed my hands to my stomach. It’s not happening again. It’s not happening all over again. This is Lisa. There has to be something I can do for Lisa.

  I stood up, turned away, and inhaled again, envisioning my breath moving down my spinal column, opening me, insulating me. I exhaled, turned around, and looked back at Lisa, searching for the whole picture.

  He arranges them so carefully, Max said in my mind. There was something artificial about the awkwardness in her pose, as if someone wanted her to look distorted, yet without marring her face.

  I read that stranglers do it that way to preserve their beauty.

  My purse was just where I’d left it, hanging on the coat rack by the door. All the makeup tables were tidy, all the chairs pushed in. Lisa’s bag sat on the bed, zippered as if ready to go. The dressing room looked better than it did when we usually arrived. How much of that was the killer? One thing was clear: this guy had everything under control. There was no sign of a struggle, no brutality. If someone tried strangling me, I’d fight him, and I’d probably get hurt in the process. I looked at Lisa’s perfectly manicured hands. I think she told me the shade is called Not Just A Waitress. I didn’t want to touch her and possibly mess things up for the police, so I crouched down next to her and peered at her hands and forearms. There were no cuts or bruises. Defensive wounds, I thought. Those would be defensive wounds. So either she knew the guy, or he was really fast and quiet. I didn’t see any bruising on her torso either. Just the nasty blotches already darkening towards purple around her throat.

  The bruises really bothered me.

  “They’ll be here in a few minutes,” Grant said.

  I jumped and turned to see him at the door.

  “We should probably wait outside,” he said. “To make sure no one comes in. They said not to touch anything.”

  I looked back down at Lisa. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’m sorry to leave you by yourself in here.” I stood, tears blurring my eyes, and headed out to the hall.

  Grant closed the door behind me and we leaned against the wall. We waited in silence until the police arrived. Tish turned up and almost had hysterics at the door; Grant had to restrain her from going in. “But he was in my theater,” she kept saying. “At my show.” The tears spilling down her face didn’t smudge her stage makeup.

  “You can’t do anything for her right now,” Grant said.

  The others turned up gradually. I don’t know who told them. They tiptoed into the narrow hall, eyes round, footfalls soft, like deer emerging from the trees in a meadow. Ronnie and Frenchie huddled together, arms about each other’s waists. Trixie sat against the wall. Sasha paced. Pip stared at the door, arms crossed in front of her.

  It was almost a relief when a police officer arrived. Someone could tell us where to go and what to do. He was only in the dressing room for about thirty seconds before I heard his voice saying: “This is Officer Emroll; I have a four thirty-two. I need a supervisor over here immediately. Yeah. Yeah. I think it fits the profile of case number—”

  “This is so bad,” Sasha whispered. “It’s so, so bad.”

  He came out into the hallway, made it clear that no one was to leave, and started asking questions. Within about half an hour, two more officers showed up and herded us down to the auditorium where there was more room. Some official-looking officers followed shortly thereafter; I thought I heard someone call the second one to question me “sargeant.” I asked if I could have my purse. He said that the evidence technician was still taking photographs.

  I heard the purposeful clack of boot-heels, and looked up to see the feeble light illuminating a female face with high cheekbones, a slightly aquiline nose, and heavy-lidded eyes. She wore slacks, a sweater, and a dark vest rather than a uniform so I assumed she must be a detective. The glint of gold near her hip caught my eye. A badge on her belt. A gun on the other hip. A taller man in a suit with dark hair and dark eyes stepped into the light next. Both of them carried clipboards.

  “I’m Detective Brack,” the woman said. “And this is Detective Santiago. Could we get some lights on back here?”

  I started, realizing that we were still in the blue-black backstage lighting.

  “I’ll get it,” Grant said, absently steering Tish to sob on Pip and Sasha. Detective Santiago exchanged glances with Detective Brack and followed Grant.

  Detective Brack surveyed us, and her eyes stopped on me. “Are you Xanadu Zendel?” she asked. She even pronounced it correctly.

  “Yes,” I said. “I go by Anna.”

  She strode over to me. The lights flooded on. Princess Farhana said that pink and amber gels make you look warm and alive. The color did relieve her austere features and reveal the burnt honey color of her hair. “Let’s talk over here, Miss Zendel,” she said, pointing me to a corner of the stage.

  I obliged, and she got the basics from me: occupation, relationship, reason for being at the theater and backstage, and a rundown of the day. It was the third time I’d given that information in as many hours, but I kept my face polite and open. No one comes to therapy because their lives are going well; her job worked the same way.

  “You’re sure you didn’t see anyone suspicious hanging around,” the detective said. She didn’t quite look at me like I was scum, but something close to it. Maybe mildew.

  “I’m sure.”

  “And you don’t know if she was seeing anyone?”

  “No, I don’t,” I said.

  “Walk me through it,” she said.

  I explained again about forgetting my purse, Grant helping me carry my things to the dressing room, and seeing Lisa’s body. “I could tell she wasn’t breathing, so I picked up her hand to check her pulse.”

  “Did you lean down to listen to her breath?” she asked.

  I shook my head. “Her chest wasn’t rising and falling,” I said. “I didn’t see any defensive wounds on her arms, just the bruising around her throat and the word Darling. The killer posed her, folded her clothes neatly next to her, and then made sure the room was neat. It looked very organized; better than it does most nights when we arrive.”

  She raised one eyebrow. “That’s a lot of detail for you to notice.”

  I sighed and fought the urge to rub my eyes. “I’ve been doing yoga since I could walk,” I said. “And I’m a dancer. So I notice breath. And I’m a therapist, so I notice how things are, and I conceptualize why that might be.”

  “So you weren’t close.”

  I squared my shoulders.
“She was one of us,” I said icily. “We weren’t best friends, but we were friends, and I liked her. And this sucks. So I decided not to fall apart. I stood up to think, and it was like a switch clicked, and I could just – see everything in the room. I’m not sorry I can compartmentalize.”

  Most people would quail from my frosty tone, but her steady gaze never wavered. “We’re going to need you to come to the station,” she said. Her voice was no colder than it had been during the interview.

  She’s been eyeing me with contempt since she got here, I realized. Her voice wouldn’t get colder. Polite, professional, but utterly without sympathy. She gestured to a one of the uniformed officers. As she talked to him, Tish approached me.

  “Oh, Velvet,” Tish said, throwing her arms around my neck and bursting into tears. “It’s so awful.”

  I clenched my teeth, set my rolling bag upright, and patted her back. “I know,” I said.

  She stepped back. Even with tears pouring down her face, her makeup didn’t budge, and crying didn’t turn her nose red. “I just – the last thing I said to her was so snippy,” she said.

  I was in no mood to validate, but I did anyway. “She knew you liked her,” I said. “It’s better to be authentic in the moment than to live with an artificial kindness just in case something happens to someone.”

  “Do you really think so?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  The officer approached. “Ma’am,” he said. “Please come with me.”

  Tish’s eyes got round. “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “I have to go,” I said.

  “But—” She looked from the officer to me. “It’s my troupe. Don’t I need to come to the station?”

  “Maybe, ma’am,” the officer said. “The detectives will talk to you.”

  I followed him out of the auditorium, pressing my hand to my stomach as we walked past the seat where I had seen Max just a few hours earlier.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  A piteous meow woke me around seven in the morning.

  I opened one bleary eye. Caprice sat on the floor next to my bed, holding up one paw as if it were tender from trekking the entire city in search of food. She tipped her head down, which made her eyes look bigger and her face look leaner, and made another pitiful sound. Normally I was glad she was only half-Siamese and didn’t have the two-pack-a-day rasp most purebreds did, but it made her Starving Orphan Kitty shtick pretty damn effective.

  “Scram,” I said. “You just had dinner.”

  She pawed at the mattress and mewed as if it took the last ounce of her strength.

  Apparently a late breakfast after a late dinner added insult to injury.

  I sighed, flung the covers back, and reached for my robe. The black faux satin whispered around my bare shoulders as I pulled it closed over my lacy pink negligee.

  It’s not supreme dedication to my art. It just made me feel good to wear delicate, feminine things even if no one but me saw them. I’ve always been that way. I don’t think it sets Women’s’ Lib back twenty years if I want to wear garters and lace.

  The heat hadn’t kicked on yet, so I hurried down the hall, shoulders hunched against the chilly morning air. Caprice trotted ahead of me to the kitchen, mewing encouragement, her long tail quirked like a question mark. Once she crouched before her food dish, occasionally giving her kibble the kill-shake it deserved, I headed back to my room.

  I loved that bedroom. It was my island of girlish indulgence. I had painted the walls hot pink and stenciled a black curlicue chair rail. My curtains were black with tiny, white polka dots; large, hot pink bows tied them open. I had a wrought iron headboard and matching nightstands. (Plural. Who am I kidding? I only used the one. But there was one on the other side of the bed. A girl could hope.) A framed black and white poster of the Parisian skyline hung above my bed. I dropped my robe next to the bed and dove back under my covers: pink jersey sheets and a comforter with a black lace pattern.

  The image of Lisa’s sprawled body flooded back to me, her glittery red lips around black stockings, the bruises mottled around her neck.

  I inhaled deeply and started focusing on my breath.

  The image of Max on my sofa, leaning forward, face earnest, filled my mind. Those murders in the news. The Darling Killer. I can’t stop thinking about them.

  I groaned and pulled a pillow over my head. Stop it. Katie made it. I started reciting one of Walter’s litanies in my head to lull myself to sleep. I had answered the same questions at the police station until two in the morning, with shock, exhaustion, and boredom wracking my body like a horrible cocktail. I had felt that I would tremble with the surreal chill-in-the-bones feeling of a fever if my body wasn’t too dull and heavy to allow it. The pillow felt soft and welcoming against my face. I started relaxing my muscles from my feet up through the crown of my head, and I was about to drift off when my mind flashed back to Lisa’s lifeless body.

  My eyes snapped open. Hell. Four hours of sleep. I’ve done with less. I threw my covers back again, put on my robe, and slipped my feet into my velvety black slippers. I returned to my tiny galley kitchen to brew some coffee, pausing briefly to shake my fist at Caprice, who chirped and rolled over for a belly rub.

  The heat whispered on, and the sun hauled itself a little higher in the sky outside. I tugged at the cord to open the horrible Venetian blinds of the sliding glass doors that lead out to the balcony. I kept thinking that I wanted to replace them, especially when Caprice got jealous of the computer and rattled the plastic blinds to distract me, but I never quite got around to it. My third-story balcony had a charming view of some back yards and an alley in the drowsy Sauganash neighborhood of Chicago. I let the sunlight pour over me, turning the inside of my eyelids red, warming my skin and robe.

  The living room gave the impression that I ran out of steam after my bedroom and studio. The walls were still a bland eggshell color, and the carpet was the shade of neutral not-quite-beige that residential landlords seem to favor universally. I liked the pale serenity of an undecorated space. If I wanted to watch a movie, I could just watch the movie. If I wanted to use my computer, I could just use my computer.

  A large, walnut TV stand dominated the room, with a television that looked a few sizes too small on the center. A heavy, faux-verdigris Buddha statue sat patiently next to the television. My dad gave it to me as a housewarming gift, so I kept a small incense burner in front of it. I liked the irony of keeping the Buddha next to the television; it kept me grounded when movie characters did stupid things. Caprice’s carpeted cat tree was between the television stand and wall, so she could look out the glass doors and chatter at the birds and squirrels. A grey sofa faced the TV from the opposite wall. That sofa was the most comfortable piece of furniture I’d ever owned; it was perfect for flopping into at the end of a long day. A squat, walnut end table sat next to the arm of the sofa closest to the door; a heavy lamp decorated with Grecian dancing women peered from its surface. A black lacquer coffee table that I’d picked up from a secondhand shop sat about a foot-and-a-half in front of the sofa.

  I picked up my coffee mug and turned to my tiny “office,” which was actually the dining nook next to the galley kitchen. Instead of a dining table, the alcove housed my computer desk and two crowded bookshelves on one wall. A large white board dominated the other wall. Notes scrawled in dry-erase marker reminded me of everything from research methods facts I kept flubbing on the practice tests to groceries I wanted in the coming week. I wiggled the mouse to wake up the computer and sat down in front of it. My dad had sent a yoga joke to my personal email, and there were two new ones in my Velvet Crush inbox. One was from Kevin, and the other from Lynne.

  Hi Velvet, Kevin wrote.

  I enjoyed meeting you tonight. Would you like to join me for dinner or coffee? Perhaps this evening, or tomorrow?

  Sincerely,

  Kevin

  I scowled. How could he possibly think I’d go on a date when my friend was just murdere
d?

  Maybe he doesn’t know. At least, that’s what I’d suggest to a client. I checked the time stamp. 12:18 am. So either he’s a total sicko who emailed me from his phone in the theater lobby while the police gathered up witnesses, or he left immediately after we met.

  I deleted it. He was cute, but I didn’t want to think about it.

  I opened the next email.

  Dear Velvet,

  I LOVED YOUR DANCING SO MUCH. Do you teach private lessons? I want to start right away, it looks so fun. Are you free at all this weekend? I’d like to get the “ball” rolling asap. LMK? My cell is 773-555-1798, and money’s no problem, whatever you charge is fine, I cant wait!

  OXOXO

  Lynne

  At least she wasn’t asking me to teach her to write.

  I closed the email and rubbed my eyes. I was a little put off by the jumping puppy thing, but I thought about my enormous pile of student loan bills, and I reconsidered. I’d planned to stay in all weekend and relax. Probably not the best plan when I see a dead body every time I close my eyes. I wrote back and suggested a time the next day.

  I didn’t want to dance. I wanted go back to the kitchen and make fried potatoes with cheese and sausage and a Bloody Mary. The thing is, if I only practice when I want to, I’ll never actually practice. I learned a trick from my dad. If you start practicing and surrender to it, you’ll come around to enjoying it once you really get going.

  I finished my coffee, filled my water bottle, and changed into yoga pants and a tank top. Then I headed into the studio, the main reason I picked this apartment. It wasn’t a huge room, probably ten by twelve feet, but it was plenty for me. I’d painted the walls and baseboards a rich shade of red, and then gone over the red trim with gold leaf paint. Curtains of gold brocade – okay, fake brocade, because I’m on a therapist’s budget – completed the room. Accordion closet doors, also painted gold over red, took up most of the west side of the room. Long mirrors I’d picked up on sale covered the north wall. In one corner, a TV and iPod dock sat on a TV stand that housed my dance DVDs.