Dirty Harriet Rides Again

by Miriam Auerbach

  “Your time is up,” the mayor interrupted. “Thank you for your comments, sir.”

  Hollings sat down. Well, here was one hate-filled human being. Certainly a potential suspect in the reverend’s murder. I’d be having a little talk with him.

  As the next speaker came up, visions of golden fried chicken floated in my mind’s eye. Get a grip, I told myself. I had a job to do here. And daydreaming about chicken was not it.

  The next speaker introduced himself as the Reverend Thomas Orlansky, representing the Christians for Human Enlightenment and Equal Rights.

  Okay, another group name to remember. The acronym for this one was . . . CHEER.

  “Mr. Mayor, honorable council members,” he began, “with all due respect, Pastor Hollings has sadly and seriously misinterpreted biblical tenets. We cannot take the Bible as literal truth. It is an allegory open to interpretation as time evolves. If we took it literally, we would also be condoning ownership of women and children as property, capital punishment for petty theft, and many other outdated notions that civil society has rejected.

  “And let us not forget that the Bible also tells us to love our neighbor as ourselves. The gay and lesbian members of our community are our neighbors, and deserving of the same rights and privileges as everyone else. Furthermore, there is no evidence that gay unions contribute to moral decline. Thank you for allowing me to speak, ladies and gentlemen.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said the mayor.

  Okay, this guy was on the same side as the Reverend Botay, so probably not a suspect in her death. But who knew? I moved him to the bottom of my list but didn’t cross him off.

  Several other speakers followed, all expressing their support or opposition along the same lines as the first two. As I listened, my mind wandered to buttery soft biscuits, mashed potatoes, and spicy gravy. I added them all to my suspect list (the speakers, not the biscuits, potatoes, and gravy).

  When an hour was up, the mayor said, “Those are all the comments we can accept. Thank you all for your input. Our next step on this issue will be to obtain a recommendation from the council’s Citizens’ Ethics Advisory Committee. And in that vein, I ask for a moment of silence in memory of one of the Ethics Committee members, the Reverend LaVerne Botay, whose untimely passing has come as a shock to us all.”

  After the appointed moment, the mayor announced, “We will now move to our next agenda item, the renovation of the canal bridge. We are open to public comments. The same rules apply as for the previous speakers.”

  Howard rushed up to the microphone but didn’t make it before a short round woman in a lavender suit and sensible shoes, who introduced herself as Gertrude Klein, representing the citizens’ group I Wanna Iguana.

  I’d heard what I’d come for. I was outta there and on my way to catch a killer.

  But not before a stop at the nearest KFC.

  Chapter 6

  FOLLOWING A very satisfying, grease-filled lunch, I decided to pay a visit to Pastor Hollings, currently my prime suspect. I called information and got the address of the Church of the Serpentine Redeemer, then hopped on my hog and rode over.

  As the bike got into gear, so did my thinking. Riding always freed up my mind. I reflected on my newfound knowledge that the Reverend Botay was a member of the Citizens’ Ethics Advisory Committee, which was to make a recommendation on the same-sex marriage ordinance. Knowing that she would argue for the ordinance, potentially influencing the other committee members to make a recommendation in favor of it, strengthened the case for her having been killed by the antigay movement. I congratulated myself for being on the right track. Then I remembered that I hadn’t put myself on that track, the Holy Rollers had.

  I arrived at the church, which was located in a converted old supermarket. Inside, I was greeted by the ubiquitous Boca Babe wannabe receptionist. They inhabit every office in town, with their cheap fake hair, cheap fake nails, and not-so-cheap fake boobs. The wannabes are in search of husbands to magically transform them from Boca Babe imitations into the real thing. The Cinderella dream is alive and well in Boca. Apparently, even houses of worship aren’t exempt from the flesh peddling.

  The receptionist was busy checking her makeup in a compact mirror, practicing to be a future Boca Babe. Mirror-gazing is a favorite pastime of theirs. In fact, suburban legend has it that the way a guy can tell if a Boca Babe has had an orgasm during sex is if she drops her compact.

  I asked the woman for Hollings. Looking aggrieved, she placed the compact in her desk drawer and wearily escorted me through a large open space filled with plastic chairs facing a podium. Marks left by the former supermarket aisles were still visible on the floor, and I swore a smell of fish still hung in the air.

  We reached the back of the building. Ms. Babe Wannabe knocked on a door. Upon hearing a yes from within, she pushed it open, allowing me to enter.

  Now, I’ve seen some shocking shit in my life, but what I saw here had to be near the top of the pile. The pastor sat behind his desk, with four live snakes crawling all over him. A fifth humongous one was curled up on top of the desk.

  I backed out of the doorway in revulsion.

  “Fear not, young lady,” Hollings said.

  Hey, what was he doing calling me young? He looked as if he’d just barely escaped adolescence.

  “I see you’re unfamiliar with our spiritual practices,” he said. “Let me fill you in. The Holy Book tells us that those who believe in Jesus Christ will not fear serpents nor be harmed by them. So handling these snakes is a worshipper’s demonstration of faith. These serpents are an integral part of our services.”

  “Oh,” I said. “I thought the reason they didn’t bite you was out of professional courtesy.”

  “Well, it’s obvious you are not one of the faithful,” he replied. “So I’ll put these away to ease your infidel discomfort.”

  He unwound the smaller ones.

  “Okay, Lucy, Ricardo, Fred, Ethel, come on. Time to rest for a bit.”

  He placed them into four large glass aquariums lined up along the wall behind him.

  “Now, Monty, you, too.”

  He picked up the big one off the desk and placed it in an aquarium of its own.

  “Don’t tell me,” I said. “Monty Python?”

  “Why, yes,” he replied.

  This guy watched way too much oldies TV.

  “Now, please come in, sit down,” Hollings said. “You are out of harm’s way. For the time being, anyway. Just remember, it’s your disconnection from the Lord that’s the cause of all your life’s miseries.”

  Oh, yeah, like I really came here for an admonishing sermon.

  I took one of the chairs in front of his desk. Now that the python was gone, I noticed two books lying there: Catholic Devotions for Dummies and Islamic Ideology for Idiots. Well, those appellations certainly seemed appropriate for him.

  He saw me gazing at the books and remarked, “In our holy war for righteousness, we must have knowledge of the enemy, right?”

  “Uh, yeah, right.” What would he read next? Jewish Law for Lamebrains? Maybe he could write his own: Fundamentalist Foundations for Fools.

  “Now, what can I do for you?” he asked.

  I introduced myself, explained that I was investigating the Reverend Botay’s murder, and that I wondered if he wouldn’t mind answering a few questions.

  “Why, certainly. What a dreadful tragedy. I heard it on the news yesterday. Although the reverend and I certainly didn’t see eye to eye on many matters of Christian orthodoxy, in the end one must put aside one’s differences and join in the spirit of fellowship, mustn’t one? I’m ashamed of not having done so before it was too late. Well, none of us is perfect. We are all sinners, aren’t we? But through our Lord Jesus Christ’s death and resurrection, we can all be saved.”

  Okay, e
nough already with the preaching. Jeez, would I be dogged by this dogmatism throughout this whole doggone investigation?

  “So exactly how can I help you?” he asked.

  “Well, Pastor, as you just said yourself, you and the reverend were on opposing sides of many issues. I know this same-sex marriage one has been particularly contentious. In fact, I’ve been told the reverend had received death threats over this. Would you know of anyone in. your camp who may have wished her harm?”

  “Most certainly not! As I said, indeed we are all sinners, but no one from the Christian Righteous Against Perverts would ever dream of committing murder. Of course, it’s prohibited by the Ten Commandments, and we take those with the utmost seriousness.”

  Okay, how was it that we were all sinners, but some sins were worse than others? Why was being gay a greater sin than calling someone a pervert?

  This was pissing me off. I wasn’t going to sit here and take this CRAP. I went on the offensive.

  “Pastor, where were you on Sunday afternoon around two o’clock?” I asked.

  “Why, right here. Our services ended around noon, then I mingled with my flock, and after they all left I came here into my office to unwind myself and the snakes.”

  “Is there anyone who can verify your whereabouts?”

  “No one but the serpents.” He nodded toward the beasts behind him.

  Well, hell. There was no incriminating information here. The guy didn’t have a confirmable alibi, but by the same token, there was nothing pointing to his involvement.

  “Well, thanks for your time,” I said and rose to leave.

  “Just remember, young lady, we are here to spread the Good News. All you need do is turn your life over to the Lord Jesus, repent your sins, and receive eternal salvation and serpentine redemption.”

  “Yeah, I’ll consider that,” I said. As if. I’d rather be with Satan than with those vipers.

  Chapter 7

  THE NEXT MORNING I had to go to the grocery store to buy something for the potluck that would follow the reverend’s funeral that afternoon. I fretted about what to bring. As a former Boca Babe, my cooking skills didn’t amount to a hill of beans. Cooking just wasn’t part of the job description, and my recovery process hadn’t yet led me to change my ways on that. So I figured I’d just grab something at the deli counter.

  Since I was going into town early, I also decided to go work out at Lior’s Krav Maga studio before going on to the funeral. One good thing was I wouldn’t have to change from my street clothes, which were always all black, into funeral attire. As a woman in black, I was always prepared for the worst. That way the worst would never get the best of me.

  I rode my dual modes of transportation into town. I managed to park the hog in the Publix grocery parking lot without incident. This is always a minor miracle because South Florida parking lots are literally jammed with disoriented seniors who seriously should not be behind the wheel of a lethal weapon.

  Inside the store, I grabbed a large container of coleslaw and considered my duty fulfilled. I headed straight for the express checkout, deftly sidestepping the usual multitude of oblivious customers who blocked the aisles with their carts, moved at the speed of Arctic glaciers, and made sudden turns or backups without warning. I seriously think that Publix should have one-way aisles with traffic lights and crossing guards. I decided to take that up with the management in the near future.

  The Drag Angel cashier was on duty at the cash register. I call her that in my mind because her extreme makeup makes her look like a drag queen, and her unfailing words of kindness to customers make her an angel. Today her bouffant blond hair ballooned out a good eight inches from her head, her plucked-out eyebrows were carefully drawn on with brown pencil, and her sky-blue eye shadow sparkled with flecks of silver.

  “Sweetie, you look lovely today,” she said to me.

  See what I mean? I looked the same as every other day, but she had something nice to say nonetheless.

  “Thank you,” I said. “How are you doing?”

  “Grateful to be alive. You know, sweetie, I’m at the age now where all my friends are depressed, demented, or dead. But I’m happy, I’ve still got my mind, and I’m still kicking. So I got no complaints.”

  “With that attitude, I’m sure you’ll be around for a good long time,” I said.

  I paid for my coleslaw and headed for the door. When I stepped outside, I saw a bunch of seniors gazing up at the sky.

  “What the heck is that?” one asked.

  “Looks like he’s writing something,” another one said.

  I looked up. A skywriter was flying overhead. The pilot had spelled out the letters LOV with the plane’s contrails.

  I’d seen this plane fly over Boca many times. The pilot always wrote the same message: JESUS LOVES YOU. The trouble was, by the time he got to the second word, the first one had faded out, and when he got to the third, the second one was gone. So anyone who happened to look up at any one time would always see only part of the message, never the whole thing. Either you had to have a lot of patience to watch it all from beginning to end, or you needed to catch it in different stages at different times, as I had. I quickly explained this to the gathered seniors, who rapidly dispersed, grumbling, inasmuch as this part of town was heavily populated with Jewish residents.

  As I rode over to Lior’s fitness studio, I started thinking about that skywriter and my case. Just as with that message in the sky, if I was to make sense of this case I’d need to see the whole picture, not just the pieces. And I hoped that the investigative trails I followed, unlike the contrails of that plane, wouldn’t disappear into thin air, leaving me without a clue.

  When arrived at the studio for a twelve o’clock class, no other participants were in sight. The place was empty.

  “Hello?” I called.

  Lior stepped out of a back room. His six-foot-three, broad-shouldered frame nearly took up the doorway. He wore a pair of faded jeans and a blue silk shirt unbuttoned at the collar. A lock of black hair hung down over one of his dark eyes. He grinned as he pushed it off his face.

  Damn, he looked good. I felt a stir between my legs. Stop it, I commanded myself. I’d come to work out, not make out.

  “Well, what a pleasant surprise,” he said in his slightly accented (and yes, sexy) voice. “You dropped in just to see me?”

  What an ego! This guy was so cocksure of himself. And was sure I wanted his co—Stop it, stop it, I repeated to myself. Get a grip.

  No,” I snapped. “I didn’t come to see you. I’m here for the twelve o’clock class. Where is everybody?”

  “Didn’t you get the monthly newsletter? That class is now on Tuesdays and Fridays, not Mondays and Wednesdays.”

  Well, shit. I had gotten a little behind on opening my personal mail.

  “Okay, I guess I’ll come back tomorrow,” I said.

  “Wait. It would be a shame for you to have come all the way over here for nothing. Why don’t we have a one-on-one?”

  “Excuse me? We’ve gotten together twice—don’t you even dare call those dates—and you expect me to jump your bones? You can take that idea and—”

  “Don’t flatter yourself, Horowitz,” he said. But there was a gleam in his eyes. “I wasn’t talking about doing it. I’m talking about doing combat. You know, what you came here for?”

  “Oh. Yeah, sure. I’ll go one-on-one with you. Anytime, anyplace.” Man, why did I have to make such a fool of myself?

  “Here and now,” he said. “Go change.”

  I went into the women’s locker room and put on my scrappy old gym clothes. I emerged ready for major battle.

  Lior had changed, too, into black sweats. We took our places on the mat, facing each other. Lior took the role of attacker and I, the defender. He started with a kick aimed at my solar
plexus. I caught his foot in my hands and pushed it upward, flipping him onto his back. Before I could release his foot he grabbed my arms, pulling me down on top of him.

  We were face-to-face, chest-to-chest, hip-to-hip. He felt hard . . . all over. Keeping his eyes on mine, he hooked his right leg over my left and simultaneously pushed my right shoulder, flipping me over so he was now on top.

  “I think I liked it better the other way,” he said.

  “Glad you enjoyed it, because it’s not gonna happen again.”

  He had my arms pinned down with his hands, and his body weight had me immobilized. Now, Krav Maga has no rules. Anything goes in the interest of self-defense. Having been a practitioner for several years, this principle was deeply ingrained in me, so I had no misgivings about doing whatever it took to restore my dominance in the situation.

  You’re supposed to use whatever resources you have at hand. And in this case, one of my resources was the knowledge that Lior had the hots for me. So I raised my head and kissed him. His lips were soft and responsive. I almost forgot why I’d made this move. Self-defense, I reminded myself. That’s all this is about. As the kiss lingered, his grip loosened. I slid my arms down until I intertwined my fingers with his, then I snapped back his wrists in one quick move. He groaned in pain and rolled off me.

  We went on like this for a half hour until we were both breathing hard and dripping with sweat. We lay down next to each other on our backs, in the recovery phase.

  A few minutes later, when our breathing had slowed, Lior said, “That was great.” He squeezed my hand, then rolled over and got up. I watched him go to the restroom and shut the door. Shortly thereafter I heard the toilet flush. Damn if this whole thing wasn’t identical to a postcoital scenario.