I turned the music up as loud as I could without making the downstairs neighbors complain, and attacked my yoga practice.
Some people like light, airy synthesizer music and nature sounds during yoga. Not me. I play rock, metal, or anything with good guitars and a driving beat. I like a heat-building practice with lots of warrior poses and long holds, sweat dripping into my eyes. A light, gentle stretching session allows too much space in my brain: space for the to-do list, the work stress, the single-and-not-quite-loving-it stress. A vigorous practice focused me on my breath and burning muscles. It crowded out the other noise.
Once my muscles burned pleasantly, I rolled up the mat, put on my battered practice heels, and started drilling some dance combinations. It’s one thing to dance and balance in heels when you’re just barely warmed up; it’s a whole different animal with fatigued muscles. I had to fight to maintain my balance, to spin into a drop, to keep my steps precise and my chest held high.
If I can nail choreography three times in a row when I’m exhausted, then I don’t have to worry about a thing when I hit the stage fresh.
The music overtook me. I let muscle memory and whim carry me through the drumbeats and guitar riffs. That accent I always meant to hit? Got it. I presented my side, downstage leg bent a little to accentuate the curve, waist twisted a little to make it tiny. I forgot about my generous butt and lower belly, forgot the case notes I had to complete, forgot the stack of delivery menus I stuffed into a cupboard in the kitchen.
I was fine until the music shuffled to “How to Strip for Your Husband.” I remembered where my left shoulder would touch Lisa’s right and shrug up and down together. I thought of her wink, of the smile that crinkled her nose, her red hair in tangled waves around her face, and stumbled. I put the thought away resolutely and changed the song… but the image kept coming back Lisa lying in an awkward sprawl on the floor he likes cold women he can’t stop thinking about it wonders if he loves them in his way he likes cold women cold floor cold skin so I switched to some of the hardest techniques I know. I layered a smooth chest circle over tight hip locks while slowly bending my knees until my butt was an inch off my heels, then rose back up without losing the hips. I went into the splits from standing as slowly as I could with my arms reaching for the ceiling without bunching at my shoulders. I spun faster. I hit the moves harder but made them smaller, more precise. I had it. I got it.
And then my phone rang in the other room.
I swore and ran to catch it. It could be Monica. It could be the police.
It was Jeff.
He never called on weekends. I was tempted to hit “ignore” and keep dancing, but thought O god what if my photo is in the news and he saw it and snatched up the phone.
“Hi Jeff,” I said, struggling to get enough air without actually gasping.
“Hiya,” he said. “I thought I’d get your voice mail. How are you doing?”
I’m nervous that the police called you, and I’m also a little traumatized. “I’m good, thanks,” I said. “You?”
“Good.” He paused. “Did you just run up a flight of stairs?”
“I was exercising,” I said, lamely. He wouldn’t sound so normal if he saw me in the news… right? “What’s up?”
“I’m doing some insurance catch-up, and I’m missing your notes from one of the Wednesday intakes.”
“I emailed that to you,” I reminded him. “I wasn’t sure about the diagnosis, so I sent you a write-up instead of putting it right into the system. I don’t know if this guy needs the Bipolar label following him for his entire life.”
“That’s right, I’m sorry,” he said. He paused briefly. “Ah. Got it. I’ll review it and get back to you.”
“Great,” I said.
“So how are you doing with Max?”
I almost dropped the phone. “Um… with… Max?”
“You seemed a little shaken yesterday, and that’s a lot to process. How are you feeling?”
Of course. Jeff wouldn’t bug me about work on the weekends, but he would make up an excuse to check on me.
I thought of Max leaning forward in his seat, his tousled hair in his eyes, looking so intently at me. “It’s fine,” I said. “I guess I’m lucky, that something – ended the attraction, and I didn’t have to struggle with it for a long time.”
“That’s a start,” he said. “Let’s meet Tuesday afternoon and see what’s coming up for you.”
“Sounds good,” I said.
“Don’t study too hard,” he reminded me.
We got off the phone, and I fought the urge to run straight to check the news websites. I headed back into the studio, kicked off my heels, and did a deep stretching cooldown. My mind whirled the entire time. What did Max think? Did I see him in the lobby after the show, but not process it? Was he devouring the news right now? Was the body violated? Would they fingerprint the door money? Did he even have a record? He had some job in insurance claims, so I didn’t think he’d need fingerprints for a license like high finance or law enforcement types did.
Finally I walked to my computer to check the local news sites. A boldface new email from Tish appeared in my inbox. I opened it. She had sent it to the troupe distribution list.
Hi Ladies, she wrote.
Rehearsal for Monday is cancelled. We’re also going to take Friday off from performing as a time of mourning. I’ll let you know when I hear about the funeral arrangements.
Take care of yourselves and each other.
Tish
Nicely done, I thought. I dashed a quick “Got it” note to her and checked the news sites.
Several mentioned the murder, but all the photos were outside the theater and showed the crime scene tape. There was a brief interview with a teary-eyed Tish. I got to the Sun-Times and almost threw up. I was partially visible in one of the photos. I recognized my leopard-print suitcase and dress. My face was turned away, and my hair was in a ponytail. My boss and clients only ever saw me in business attire, so maybe they wouldn’t recognize me. Someone would have to really know my jaw and overcoat.
The overcoat I’ve been wearing to work all autumn.
The photo wasn’t in color, so the plum shade looked dark grey, but the tailored cut and waistband looked very distinctive to me. I scrutinized the photo for what felt like an hour, and a new mail notification popped up. I switched to my email.
There was a new note from Kevin. I sighed deeply.
Hi Velvet, he wrote.
I’m writing because I just saw the news about your troupe member. I’m sorry, you must think I’m such a cad for asking you out with this going on. I had no idea. Please accept my sincere condolences on your loss.
Kevin
I leaned back, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes. He was nice, and he seemed sincere. It was pretty clear I wasn’t going to be able to think straight or relax. Maybe getting out of my head for a while would be a good thing. I didn’t get the flutter in my heart from him that I had gotten from Max and Grant…. Which might be a good sign, all things considered. I didn’t exactly have the perfect track record.
Hi Kevin, I wrote before I could change my mind.
You are very thoughtful; thank you for the condolences. Lisa was a wonderful person. I just can’t think about it too much right now so getting out would be nice. If you are still free tonight, I would enjoy meeting for drinks or coffee.
Sincerely,
Velvet
Look at me, Not Dwelling On It. Of course, I still saw her every time I blinked, and I still had that tight surreal feeling in my body of shock warring with sleep deprivation, but Katie made it and I had a date.
Small comforts are still comforts.
CHAPTER SIX
By the time I arrived at the Violet Hour, I was wired enough on caffeine and nerves that I could probably power a small continent. At the same time, I was tired enough to take the train instead of drive. I wore headphones blaring music on the train as the details from my murder board cycled t
hrough my brain. Cori Victoria Krista Darcy Lisa.
After accepting Kevin’s invitation, I had erased the notes on my dry-erase board and started a murder board. I dug up all the news articles I could find on the Darling Killer, taped a photo of every known victim on the board, and jotted notes under each one. My sloppy, half-cursive scrolled before my eyes as I surveyed the restaurant.
The Violet Hour’s French salon-inspired décor involved lavender and cream, high-backed chairs, and intimate alcoves meant for hushed conversation. Curtained partitions framed the bartenders against their mirrored bar back cabinets. I half-expected to see gentlemen in frock coats sipping absinthe rather than the handful of people who had obviously dressed to be seen in a way that aspired to look effortless.
I was glad I’d selected a dress. I opted for a close-fitting burgundy dress with cap sleeves and a wide black belt. Black patent leather peep-toe heels and a matching purse completed the ensemble. I hadn’t had time to curl my hair, so I had brushed it and pulled it back with a sparkly headband.
I jumped a little when Kevin stood up from the seat by the door. He sat with such stillness that I hadn’t seen him. He wore all black, including a black trench coat, which made his blonde hair and pale skin more startling. He smiled, all perfect white teeth and chiseled cheekbones. “Hi, Velvet.”
I returned the smile as he took my hand and pressed it gently between both of his. “Anna,” I said. “If we’re out on a date, you don’t need to use my stage name.”
“Anna,” he said. “I like that.”
He didn’t contradict me about the word “date.” My pulse sped up a little. Maybe it’s the coffee, my mind chattered. Cori Victoria Krista Darcy Lisa.
The waiter ushered us to an out-of-the-way booth. A candle-lit hush pervaded the restaurant. I felt like I should speak softly and have perfect hair. The menu was an array of rich appetizers and tempting drinks. I wanted one sip of every beverage: the August Revolution, the Oldest Living Confederate Widow, Thick as Thieves, the Rathbone. My macabre sense of humor and I settled on a gin drink called In The Pines which involved Death’s Door, Cocchi American and Douglas Fir Eau de Vie. Kevin selected a Dark & Stormy, which included Brugal Anejo, Lime, Cruzan Black Strap, and Ginger Syrup.
“You mentioned you have a day job,” he said as we awaited our drinks.
“I’m a therapist,” I said. “Unless I’m sitting next to someone on an airplane. Then I’m an accountant.”
He chuckled. I noticed that, despite his lean face, he had a dimple near the right corner of his mouth when he smiled. “Do you work in a hospital?”
“It’s a private practice,” I said. “I see a lot of clients with depression or anxiety, trauma, addictions, that sort of thing.” They don’t all have the same hair color. Is he collecting? Cori light brown, Victoria brunette, Krista strawberry blonde, Darcy blonde, Lisa red. “My passion is domestic violence.”
“That takes a lot of strength,” he said.
I shrugged. He has a type. They always have a type. It only has to make sense to him. “It’s just what I’ve always been able to do. How about you?”
“I carve miniatures.”
“Like, figurines?” Cori was a prostitute, found at a hotel in Lakeview, time of death roughly four in the afternoon. Victoria was an escort, found dead in an alley around ten at night. Krista was also murdered at night on her boat on Lake Michigan; it was set up for a date. That was a jump in socioeconomic status; wonder what lead to that. Darcy was a waitress murdered in her home in Wrigleyville around three in the afternoon. And then Lisa at the theater. From high-risk lifestyles to low-risk. Was he practicing?
“Yes,” he said. “Mainly for gaming companies, but I occasionally do work for décor or film projects.”
Our drinks arrived and I noticed how long his slender fingers were. “You carve them by hand?” All strangled. No prints at the crime scenes. All posed awkwardly, except Darcy. All—
He nodded. “I make a block of Epoxy and then carve the miniature out of that.”
—had stockings stuffed in their mouths. All found in their lingerie, clothes folded neatly next to them. All had the word “Darling” written on their bodies. For God’s sake, answer him, don’t open your mouth and say something about necrophilia. I mentally catalogued the traits necessary for carving figures: creativity, patience, an eye for detail, dexterity. Stop thinking about his hands. Say something. Say something. 90% of known necrophiles are male. 68% crave a nonresistant and non-rejecting partner. Say something else. Say anything else. “So how often do you get headaches?” I asked.
He started. “How do you know that?”
I sighed and winced. “Sorry. My filter disappears when I’m sleep-deprived.”
“It’s okay,” he said. “But seriously, how did you know that?”
I rubbed my temples. “Because your ears aren’t aligned with the center line of your shoulders, and every inch forward is an extra ten pounds of pressure on your spine. Your shoulders also round forward a little. If you hunch over your work all day, your pec minors get tight and your lats get overstretched, and you probably bunch up the muscles around your neck, which results in sore shoulders and headaches.” Great. My first date in over a year, and I’m pointing out the few miniscule physical imperfections he has. Maybe it’s a defense so I don’t end up with another – and I hurriedly pushed the thought away. I felt my face flushing and hoped the dim lights hid it. “Which isn’t to say there’s anything wrong with you, I mean, you’re very attractive—” I stopped again and felt my face get hotter.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Everyone’s a little out of alignment,” I said. “I have a slight rotation in my left shoulder so I lean fractionally to the right. It comes from an old injury.” Great. Make yourself sound like a freak now.
“I’m just amazed you could tell that,” he said.
“I notice things for a living,” I said. “And my dad’s a yoga teacher, so I grew up in his studio.” I took a tiny sip of my drink. The bittersweet spicy flavor flooded my tongue. I’d have to drink slowly to prevent further filter deterioration.
“Huh,” he said. “So then you know stretches that fix it?”
“Fix is a big word,” I said. I placed my palm on the grey linen tablecloth, noticing the texture under my hand, letting it anchor me to the present moment. The killer can wait. The killer can wait. Be here. “But yes, I could show you some stretches to open up the chest and shoulders so you’ll get fewer headaches.”
“That’d be great,” he said, still grinning.
Good. He’s attractive, but not stuck on himself. That’s good.
The waiter brought our appetizers: a smoked trout and bacon dip with grilled bread, and a tomato tart with ricotta and marinated cherry tomatoes. I could have eaten a bucket of the trout and bacon dip. Every bite of the rich salt-and-cream flavor on the smoky, crusty bread was worth the extra exercise I’d do the next day.
I took tiny bites, slow and careful. I wanted enough fat in my stomach to absorb the alcohol, but I didn’t want to inhale both plates without giving him a morsel.
“I did really enjoy the show last night,” he said. “It wasn’t what I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Did you do your own choreography?”
“Tish choreographs the group numbers,” I said. “I do my solo material.”
“It’s an intriguing contrast,” he said. “A therapist who does burlesque.”
I prodded a cherry tomato with the tines of my fork. “Unfortunately, it is,” I said, and smiled a little.
“Unfortunately?”
I nodded. “In my idealized little world,” I said, “it wouldn’t be a big deal. I think burlesque is so empowering, and so fun, and it does so much to overcome hangups and barriers – I would love to see all women experience it. This radical notion that I’m in charge of my own sexuality, that sex isn’t some big dirty secret that also gets splashed all over TV
and movies. I like bringing fun and irony and social satire to the forefront of every show, so women aren’t so overwhelmed with their own fears and insecurities that they spend thousands and thousands of dollars on weight loss and beauty products and – sorry.” I stopped, prodding the tomato again. “I get kind of riled up about that.”
He smiled. “There was an element of tongue-in-cheek humor in the pieces I liked best. Like yours, even though your costume and music were modern, I had sort of an old-fashioned impression about it.”
“I do like the campy 40’s style,” I said. “And really, burlesque without irony is just a titty parade, and who hasn’t seen that?” Good Lord, did I really just use that phrase?
He laughed. “Do you mainly perform with the Chicago Cabaret?”
“Mostly,” I said. “I keep a low profile. I wouldn’t want a client to see my face in a magazine and be uncomfortable.” I thought of Max – No sign of assault on the bodies, would he be able to help himself? – and resolutely shoved the thought away.
He nodded.
“Also,” I said, “one of the requirements for getting the clinical license is having exemplary moral character.” I frowned. “You never know what kind of ideas an ethics committee has about burlesque – like if they confuse it with working in a strip club or – you know, a different kind of talent. I love doing therapy, I love the work. But I also think it’s immoral to deprive women of the kind of joy and empowerment they could feel if they just let themselves. So I hope to do some research, write some papers, change as many minds as possible.”
I stopped myself and took another sip of the drink. He smiled, staring intently at me with his dark eyes. I focused again on the texture of the tablecloth, because I had a wild impulse to run the backs of my fingers over the planes of his face. He looked like someone had drawn his features with the sweeping elegance of a cathedral ceiling. “You’re more than meets the eye,” he said.
I blushed. He’s flirting with me. He’s actually flirting with me.
We finished our appetizers, and then our drinks, and then switched to coffee. Before I knew it, it was eleven p.m. I realized that my blinks were getting microseconds longer, and I was seeing Lisa behind my eyelids again.
The Tease (The Darling Killer Trilogy) Page 6