Darkness Descending: A Mimi Patterson/Gianna Maglione Mystery (The Mimi Patterson/Gianna Maglione Mysteries)

by Penny Mickelbury

  “I still think it’s demeaning.” They were standing beside Carolyn’s desk and she had exchanged her editor hat for the feminist one and was reading Mimi chapter and verse on the illogic of a bar owned by women being called The Snatch and featuring nude dancers. “And they want respect? Gimme a break!”

  “They don’t deserve to be disrespected because of it. They’re providing good quality entertainment for their customers in a safe, attractive environment, which they have a right to do. These are law abiding, taxpaying citizens.”

  “Oh, stop defending them, Mimi! I can’t believe you!” Carolyn shoved a strand of strawberry blond hair out of her face, only to have it fall right back down.

  Mimi laughed. “What don’t you believe? That women shouldn’t have the right to own a nightclub featuring nude women dancers, that women shouldn’t be able to enjoy that kind of entertainment, or that I shouldn’t support those rights? I haven’t seen one sleazy, immoral or illegal thing associated with the club or its owners—”

  “Strippers are sleazy!”

  “— no drugs, no prostitution, no gambling—”

  “Murder is sleazy.”

  “Which occurred outside the club, and which had nothing to do with the club or its owners. Come on, Carolyn, that kind of petty bias and prejudice doesn’t become you. That’s the kind of talk I’d expect from the suits.”

  That did it for Carolyn. “Well, that’s how you score a bull’s eye, kiddo, consign me to the boys’ club.” She gave a self-deprecating laugh. “I guess I did sound a little like the Weasel.” She looked rueful. “And I guess I lead a pretty sheltered life, too, huh?” She sank down into the chair, leaned back, and put her feet on the desk. As tiny as she was, she looked like a little kid playing grown-up.

  “You’re not the only one. I’d never heard of that place until Natasha Hilliard was murdered, and in death she’s shed light on a way of life unknown to most people, including many in the lesbian and gay community.”

  “Maybe that’s not such a good thing, Mimi,” Carolyn said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because people who are that different are that vulnerable. Because people like O’Connell and Burgess and Bailey live to exploit that vulnerability.”

  “And people like me live to show the O’Connells and the Baileys and the Burgesses the error of the ways,” Mimi replied.

  Carolyn released a world-weary sigh. “Did you notice your odds as you spoke them, Patterson? Three against one. And look at their back-up: The police and the church.”

  “Not all police and not all religious organizations, and besides, what about my back-up? This newspaper is not exactly a powerless entity.”

  “This newspaper gets weaker and more spineless every day,” Carolyn said, dropping her feet to the floor. “I sometimes think that every media outlet in this country is owned by a cousin or brother of some other close relative of O’Connell or Burgess, and don’t tell me you don’t share that concern. No thoughtful, honest journalist could look at what passes for journalism these days and not be concerned. Scared, even.”

  She was right. Mimi knew she was right. But what was she supposed to do? What were any of them supposed to do, those who still operated under the banner of journalistic ethics and the notion of freedom of the press? Roll over, bow down, give the O’Connells and Burgesses and Baileys a free pass? “No, I’m not scared. Pissed off is more like it. I met some people tonight, some women, some decent human beings, who are ridiculed and reviled—and maybe even raped and murdered because of how they look, how they dress—”

  Carolyn raised her hands palms out forward in defeat. “OK, OK. You’re right and I’m wrong and I apologize. Now, I’m going to leave you alone so you can get to work because speaking now as your editor, you’ve got an hour to get me my story.”

  Mimi’s phone was ringing when she got to her desk. She fully expected Gianna. It was Marlene, sounding more subdued and sober than Mimi had ever heard her. “Thank you for what you did, for what you said about us being friends.”

  “We are friends, Marlene, and I’m proud to call you my friend.”

  Silence for a long moment on the other end, then, “Can you meet us, me and Terry, at that Chinese place, and bring your...bring the Lieutenant? Terry has something to tell her. It’s about...it’s something Terry thinks she wants to know.”

  Mimi hesitated for only a brief second. “When, Marlene?”

  “Terry’s off Tuesday and Wednesday, so any one of those days is OK.”

  “I’ll ask her tonight and let you know. Call me any time after eleven tomorrow morning.”

  That’s assuming I talk to her again tonight, Mimi was thinking, when Baby dropped another surprise.

  “I’m gonna give you my phone number—our phone number—and you can call us, OK?”

  Mimi wrote down the number, told Baby to expect to hear something soon, and called Gianna at home, leaving Baby’s message and phone number. Then she called her office and left the same message. Baby wouldn’t have asked to see Gianna on Terry’s behalf if it weren’t important. It’s something she wants to know. But Mimi didn’t have time to wonder what it was; she had a story to write.

  Anna Maria’s was a throwback and therefore one of the most popular restaurants in D.C. After more than thirty years in business in the same location—a tight, congested side street off Connecticut Avenue—owners Anna Maria and Antonio Penza needed to keep a reservation book and they didn’t understand why. They still served the same Italian food and wine as always: Pasta, bread and sauce made daily; meat, fish, fowl and vegetables purchased fresh daily; menu established daily, based on what meat, fish, fowl and vegetables were available; wine from a private stock unavailable in any store; desserts to die for. So why, all of a sudden, the line to get in? Because the nouveau riche and the wanna be riche finally tired of paying outrageous prices for outrageous and unlikely culinary creations by celebrity chefs whose focus was on presentation instead of taste. All over town the pricey eateries were returning to basics and the basic eateries were doing booming business. Anna Maria and Antonio didn’t care about any of that. They cooked and served the best food they could and catered to those loyal customers who had sustained them over the years. Which is how Gianna, who’d been dining there since her training academy days, and Cassie, came to be ushered through the packed dining room to a choice, private corner table on a Sunday night when the line stretched down the street for most of the block.

  “Looks like The Snatch line,” Cassie had mused as they walked past the people and in the front door, where Anna Maria greeted Gianna with a big hug and kisses to both cheeks.

  “Gianinna, cara! Come sta?”

  “Buono serra, Anna.” Gianna returned the hug and kisses, asked after Antonio and their children, all of whom, except for the eldest boy, worked in the restaurant, and thanked her for the table on such short notice.

  “Dove Mimi?” Anna Maria asked, giving Cassie a wall-eyed look, causing Gianna to laugh out loud and explain not only where Mimi was, but who Cassie was. Placated, Anna Maria raised her hand and water, bread and a carafe of wine appeared, along with menus. Satisfied that Gianna was comfortable, Anna Maria bustled away, leaving them in the care of an elderly waiter who’d worked at the place since it opened. He bowed, wished them buono serra in a whispery, gravelly voice, poured their wine, and backed away. He’d waited on Gianna often enough to know that she’d signal when she was ready to order.

  “I already like this place and I haven’t tasted a bite,” Cassie said.

  “Then you’ll love it after you do.” Gianna perused the menu. It was a veal night: Parmigiana, scaloppini, pomodoro, and Antonio, which was a roasted and stewed shank with herbs, and one of Gianna’s favorites.

  Cassie covered her growing uneasiness by studying the menu for much longer than necessary. When she finally put it down, the waiter was there. They ordered, he poured more wine, and left them. There was nothing left but to deal with the issue at hand. “Are you mad
at me, Boss? Did I do something wrong?”

  Gianna shook her head. “Of course I’m not mad at you, Cassie, but I am concerned, and since it has nothing to do with your job performance, you have every right to tell me to butt out and mind my own business.”

  Cassie was left with her wine glass mid-air and her mouth open. Like she could ever tell the Boss to butt out. “Ah, then what is it?”

  “You’ve never been a night owl, a bar hopper, Cassie.” Gianna knew she had to tread carefully, that Cassie’s emotions still hung by precariously balanced and very thin threads. “And I stress that your job performance is, as always, excellent. I’m just wondering what’s changed that you seem to be spending so much time in bars.”

  Cassie put her glass down. “You don’t think I should have been at The Snatch that night? You don’t think I should go there?”

  “You can be any where you want to be, Cassie. Please, that’s not my point. I’m concerned that you seem to have cut Tim out of your life, you don’t seem to spend time with Bobby and Linda and Kenny any more, and you do seem to spend time in bars, here in D.C. and in Baltimore.”

  “Yeah. All that’s true I guess.” Cassie’s eyes filled and the tears swam in them before she dried them with her napkin. She gulped some wine. “Ever since...I don’t know where I fit in any more, Boss, you know? I never worried about that before because the job was the most important thing in my life, and it was OK for Tim to be my best friend because he had dates and I had dates and neither one of us was looking for anything permanent. But then, after the...after my eye...when I thought I was gonna lose the job...I wondered where I would fit in. I didn’t have any more dates. I guess because I had to wear that ugly eye patch for so long and nobody wants to go out with a pirate, right?” She gulped some more wine and got a moment of relief when the waiter brought their salads. He grated cheese and ground pepper and poured more wine, then evaporated.

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t more in tune with what you were feeling, Cassie. I was focused on getting you back to work, not on how you were getting back to life. I’m sorry,” Gianna said, and she was. She was so careful to keep on the right side of the line that separated the professional from the personal, yet she had personal feelings for all her team. Strong personal feelings that she never allowed herself to act on. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Yeah. You can tell me what woman would ever find a one-eyed woman attractive.” Cassie’s despair was almost too painful.

  “You’ve got two eyes, Cassie. One of them just doesn’t see a hundred percent, and unless you reveal that fact, nobody would know unless they got awfully close. And I’m guessing that if a woman gets that close to you, you’ve already got her interested in more than whether or not you have twenty-twenty vision in both eyes.”

  Cassie smiled slightly. “Maybe,” she said. “But then it seemed that all of a sudden women want you define yourself. I’ve never done a butch, femme thing, you know? I mean, I just was who I was and I was attracted to who I was attracted to. Different kinds of women at different times in my life, you know? And I liked women for how they were more than how they looked. Do you know what I mean?”

  “Yes, Cassie, I know what you mean, and I think that most people would agree that they respond that way if they’re honest with themselves.”

  “You really think so?”

  “Yes, I really think so. Whether we’re responding to friends or to lovers, I think most of us care more about how and who a person is than what a person looks like or does for a living. Certainly there always will be superficial people. But in truth, Cassie, would you want a woman who cares more about your eye than about your heart and your spirit? I promise you that some extremely fortunate woman will love you because of your damaged eye, damaged because you were protecting another human being. Against orders from your boss, I might add.”

  Their food arrived then, the scaloppini and the shanks, and they ate in companionable silence for quite a few minutes, Gianna hoping she hadn’t overstepped a boundary, Cassie so grateful for the concern of this woman she admired and respected that she couldn’t find the words to express it. Both Anna Maria and Antonio came to inquire about their meals, Antonio giving Cassie a sideways look as he asked that Mimi come see him soon.

  “What you said about who people are on the inside being more important than what they look like on the outside? I think I’m going to be friends with Darlene Phillips.”

  “From what I’ve seen, I think Darlene would make a good friend. Dee, too, for that matter, and I think you’d both be lucky to call the other friend.”

  Cassie ate and thought some more. “Somebody I met there, at The Snatch, told me she saw a guy driving a pick-up chase Tosh one night.”

  Gianna put down her fork. “Why am I just hearing about this?”

  “She just told me. At the demonstration. We’ve seen each other a few times, but she didn’t know until last weekend that I was a cop. That’s not something I tell just anybody. Anyway, I hadn’t seen or talked to her for a while until tonight.”

  “What did she say, exactly? When did this happen? Who is she?”

  Cassie’s friend’s name was Lisa and she remembered the incident because it occurred on July 4th. Dee and Darlene had sponsored a barbecue that day in Rock Creek Park. A couple hundred women, including Tosh and Lili, had attended. A soccer game was in progress in the field adjacent to the barbecue, and some of the men from the game, noticing a crowd of women, drifted over. Most of them, realizing that they weren’t exactly welcome, drifted immediately away; three, however, remained and became aggressive and hostile. They were largely ignored until one of them recognized Tosh and began heckling and harassing her, calling her names, among them, infidel.

  Alarm bells sounded. “This guy was a Muslim?”

  “I asked the same thing and Lisa said he looked and sounded like an American-born Black, not somebody from the Middle East, but he did have a beard and he wore a kufi.”

  Gianna thought back through the Hilliard file: Nothing that she could recall suggested any connection to Islam or Muslims. “OK, go on.”

  According to Lisa, the hecklers were asked to leave and when they refused, several of the women surrounded them, blows were exchanged, and the guys took off, the one who knew Tosh shouting threats at her. That night, as Lisa was walking to the club from the Metro, Tosh passed by in her Benz. Lisa recognized her because she was driving slowly, looking for a parking space. Suddenly a pick-up pulled up beside her. The guy from earlier was driving. He blocked Tosh’s car, got out, and began screaming at her, calling her an embarrassment, disgusting, a dyke and an infidel. The way he parked his truck, Tosh couldn’t get out of her car, but she put down her window and squirted pepper spray at him. He cursed her some more, got back in his truck, and drove away. Lisa gave no more thought to the matter until Tosh was killed, and hesitated to tell the police what she’d seen until she learned that Cassie was a cop.

  “At this picnic, this barbecue, this guy specifically singled out Natasha Hilliard for his verbal attack?”

  “That’s what Lisa said. That he walked up to her, got in her face.”

  “Get her in for a statement, find out who else was at that barbecue and get them in, and Cassie? Good work.”

  “Thanks, Boss.”

  “Not just the job, Cass, but in your life. Not many of us ever have to contend with what you have, and you’ve done a remarkable job of keeping body and soul together. And sometimes, Cassie, it takes true love an awfully long time to find out where we live ring our doorbells, so don’t worry if it hasn’t happened yet. Your eye has nothing to do with it.”

  The Bayou boasted a respectable crowd for a Sunday night, though most were in the restaurant or in the piano bar. Mimi wandered around looking for one of the owners, Marianne or Renee. She didn’t really expect to find them both on a Sunday, but she knew that one of them always was present. In the spacious main room, a few couples were on the dance floor, half a dozen people were at
the bar that could seat five times that number, and perhaps another ten were at the tables that flanked the dance floor. The restaurant was packed. About half the patrons enjoying a late supper of authentic New Orleans Creole and Cajun food were straight and a third were male—the restaurant’s reputation had spread far beyond the lesbian community. Inside the cozy piano bar it was mostly women, a few men, and it was all about Peggy Brown, chanteuse extraordinaire. Sixty-something, gorgeous, sexy, sassy Peggy Brown who played the piano and sang four nights a week. When Mimi slid in the door, trying for unobtrusive, Peggy, playing and singing If the Moon Turns Green, slid in a quick bar of “start spreading the news,” so quickly that nobody but Marianne noticed. She came from behind the bar to give Mimi a hug. “You here on a Sunday night? Gianna must be working.”

  Gianna and Marianne had been good friends for many years and now Mimi considered her a friend, too. “She’s not the only one,” Mimi said, keeping her voice low as Marianne had done.

  “Come back to the office after the set, say hello to Renee.”

  “You’re both working tonight?”

  Marianne rolled her eyes heavenward. “Don’t ask me why,” she said, and returned to her duties behind the bar while Mimi found a seat at it. She hesitated when Marianne held up a wine glass with a questioning look, then nodded. She’d eat before she left, and she definitely felt the need of a glass of wine. She turned to face Peggy and watch the crowd. It was overwhelmingly if not totally homosexual, mostly couples, ninety percent white, and everyone of them what Terry called “acceptable looking.” She sipped her wine and thought about Terry, about Darlene, about Kelly. What about them was unacceptable? They were pleasant, attractive, intelligent women who dressed like men. That’s what was unacceptable to the people who made the rules. And what about the rest of us, those of us who just follow the rules? Do we think they’re unacceptable, too?

  Peggy finished her set and, as expected, the clapping and whistling and cheering went on for a while until she re-seated herself at the piano and launched into her encore set: A Tisket, A Tasket, Ain’t Nobody’s Bizness, Swing Down, Chariot, and, finally her signature piece, Love Letters. When she finished this time, everybody knew she was finished. She accepted her ovation, blew kisses to the audience and stepped down off the bandstand, working her way through the crowd, shaking hands, receiving hugs. Mimi enjoyed watching her. She’d gotten to know Peggy under unusual and unpleasant circumstances the previous year. A trio of killers who lured wealthy older lesbians to D.C. had taken a woman Peggy cared for very much as one of their victims. Gianna was working the murders as hate crimes and Mimi had stumbled upon the case accidentally. Her investigation had put her in harm’s way, but it also led to her meeting Peggy.