Lisa looked up at me with glazed eyes. It was apparent she’d told this story before, many times. It came out of her in an almost robotic fashion, in a deadpan narrative.
“The police located her car at the hospital in the employee parking lot. There was nothing remarkable about it. No sign of a struggle or anything like that.” She paused and took a deep breath. “Three days later, they found her body in the canyon.”
I love the way playing basketball affects Greg. He plays every other Sunday morning, and following the games he’s flushed and sweaty and glows with energy. It’s as if he’s been supercharged with superpowers. And I must admit, some of our best sex has been following this Sunday morning ritual.
Usually I go with him and cheer with the other wives and girlfriends from the sidelines. And sometimes following the game, we go out with some of the other players for brunch. Today, Greg came directly home, dying to know about my meeting with Lisa Luke.
“How’d it go?” he called to me as soon as he was through the door.
Before I could answer, Wainwright barked a couple of times and dashed down the short corridor towards the far side of the house. Greg had originally purchased a rundown one-story duplex with mirroring floor plans and converted them into a charming single-family home with a Spanish hacienda feel. The two bedrooms and bath on the left were remodeled into an extra-large master suite and super bath, and the two bedrooms and bath on the right were remodeled to accommodate his wheelchair. One bedroom served as his home office, the other as a guest room. The two small original living rooms and kitchens were combined into one huge living room, kitchen, and dining area, with the spaces flowing from one to the other without walls and barriers. Off the kitchen and dining area was a covered patio, and beyond that, an extra-large garage accessed from the alley. Every square foot was perfectly designed to assist Greg in living as effortlessly as possible. The home had even been featured in a magazine for the disabled.
It was in the direction of the guest room that the dog had beelined. Seamus, on the other hand, had earlier squished his big furry body under the low buffet in the dining room and was sulking. He looked out at the two of us, especially me, with a murderous eye so intense it was almost a solid death threat.
Greg’s knowing eye caught on Seamus, then followed Wainwright’s path. The dog let out a few yips and whines, and we could hear him pawing at a closed door.
“What’s going on?” Greg asked as he wheeled towards the hallway.
“We sort of have company.”
Greg cocked an eyebrow in my direction. “And the company is sort of shut up in the guest room?”
I nodded. “It’s of the four-legged variety.”
“Feline or canine?”
“Feline. Laurie Luke’s kitten.”
“Permanent or temporary?”
“Not sure yet.”
Greg started down the hall. “Let’s get a look at the little bugger.”
Before I left Lisa, she’d asked for a favor—if I’d take Muffin. She cited that it wasn’t fair to the poor creature to be shut up all the time, but she just couldn’t bear to be around the cat. It reminded her too much of her sister. I knew Greg wouldn’t mind, and I knew Wainwright would love the idea of another playmate. The only sourpuss at the Grey-Stevens homestead would be Seamus. That sealed it—three against one. But I took Muffin with the contingency that we were only fostering the animal until Lisa could get back on track. She was right, it wasn’t fair for Muffin to suffer because some monster had killed her owner, but in my heart I hoped that Lisa would, down the line, have giver’s remorse and want the cat back for the same reason she was giving it away—it reminded her of her sister. If that time came, we would return it to her.
Once Muffin got over the fright of seeing a big yellow dog loping after her, she settled right in and became part of the family. By that evening, she was curled up asleep in Greg’s lap while we watched a movie. The fact that the little animal bonded more with Greg seemed to mollify Seamus a bit. Although he didn’t come up on the sofa with us, he at least came out from under the buffet. Baby steps. Or in this case, kitty steps. It was the same when Wainwright and Greg came into my life.
“So, we’re still on to visit Gordon Harper tomorrow night?” Greg asked as we got ready for bed.
I paused mid-tooth brushing as I tried to remember who Gordon Harper was.
“Gordon Harper,” Greg reminded me. “Crystal Lee Harper’s ex-husband.”
Of course, victim number two. I spit. “Yes, sure.” I rinsed and spit again. “When and where? Do I need to leave work early?”
I patted my mouth dry with a towel, then applied moisturizer to my face and cream to my hands. By the time I climbed into bed, the revised family unit was jostling for position. Greg was sitting up, a book propped in his lap. Wainwright was curled on the scatter rug at the foot of the bed. Seamus, unhappy with Muffin’s presence, was standing guard at the end of the bed, trying to keep the newest addition out of his territory. After receiving a few well-placed bats and hisses, Muffin curled up on the outside edge of the bed, against my knees. It was a good thing we had a king-size bed.
“Probably not.” Greg looked up from his book. “Gordon said he can’t meet us until nine, so why don’t you come home and relax a bit? If you don’t want to cook, let me know, and I’ll pick something up on my way home.”
I smiled at him as I picked up my own book from the nightstand. “Sounds good.”
I started to read but couldn’t keep my mind on the page.
“Greg.” He turned to look at me. “If Laurie Luke was someone who didn’t chat online, how do you think the Blond Bomber found her?” I put my book back on the nightstand and turned to face him.
Greg put his book face down on his chest. “I can think of several possibilities.”
“Me, too. But you first.”
He chuckled. “Okay. First, maybe Lisa didn’t know her sister chatted online. After all, they didn’t spend all their time together, and didn’t Lisa work days and Laurie nights?”
“Very true.”
“And maybe the fact that those other victims were online a lot is just a coincidence. After all, most adults under sixty are online these days.”
I thought about it. “I honestly don’t think Laurie Luke came across him online. That just doesn’t add up in her case. But the coincidence thing could be just the ticket. I’m thinking maybe the Blond Bomber finds his victims another way. We have to find out what else these women had in common.”
Greg put his book on the nightstand and turned off his light. “Or, the Blond Bomber just picks his women at random.” He scooted down until he was flat and turned towards me.
I turned off my light and did the same. “Another thought I had is maybe he sees them somewhere, fixates on them, and stalks them until he gets them alone.” This theory was one that gave me hope that Lil’s theory about Brian was wrong. “But if that’s the case, then Brian Eddy can’t be the Blond Bomber. A busy surgeon wouldn’t have time to stalk anyone.”
“Good point. Hopefully, more pieces of the puzzle will fall into place tomorrow.” Greg kissed me soundly. I turned around, and we fell asleep in the spoon position.
A short time later, I was awakened by a furry tail tickling my nose. Muffin had found her sweet spot—directly under my chin. I fell back to sleep hoping Lisa Luke could find the same peace.
Monday morning I was in the middle of organizing boxes of documents when I received a surprise visitor. It was Zenobia Washington, my oldest and dearest friend, better known as Zee. I first met Zee a billion years ago right here at Woobie. She hasn’t worked here in more than fifteen years, but she still knows a lot of the people. Sometimes, I wish she didn’t—like now.
This wasn’t the first time Zee had popped in to say hello, though usually she calls first to make sure I’m available. But one look at her told me this was not a social call, nor had she dropped by to coax me out to an early lunch or a friendly cup of coffee. The scowl
on her cocoa-bean face was set as firmly as the faces on Mount Rushmore and was not nearly as warm. Adding to that was her stance. In spite of her church-going, sweet-potato-pie nature, Zee has this imposing stance that can stop a hardened criminal in his tracks and make him want to call his momma.
Zee and I are about the same size and height, meaning we’re both as wide as we are tall. At just past ten thirty, Zee stood in my office doorway dressed in a very stylish copper-colored pantsuit with perfect hair and makeup. An expensive designer handbag dangled from one hand. The other hand was clenched and positioned on one bulky hip. Her pump-clad feet were slightly apart.
If I knew where my momma was, I’d probably pick up the phone.
I thought about lightening up the moment by sticking my tongue out at her, but I was afraid she’d bite it off. I hadn’t seen her this angry in a long time, and it worried me.
“Geez, Zee, you look like you’re about to go postal.” I moved to clear my visitor’s chair of files. “Come on in and sit down.”
For a moment, she just glared at me, then she stepped inside and sat down. The scowl was still intact, but at least sitting she couldn’t keep up the full effect of the stance.
“I need to talk to you, Odelia.” The words were said through clenched teeth.
Just as I made a move to shut the door, Steele barged in. “Do you know where Jill is?”
I shook my head. “No, sorry. She’s probably making copies or something.”
I looked at Zee. Her glare was still fixed on my face. Steele caught it also.
“Damn, Zee, you look like you just caught your husband with a Laker girl.”
Zee turned her frosty stare in Steele’s direction. “Mr. Steele, you will cease your vulgar comments and leave. And please shut the door behind you. I need to speak with Odelia alone.” She turned her piercing eyes back to me.
Steele hesitated, not sure whether he should leave or call security. I picked up my phone and called Jill’s desk. When I got no answer, I called the front desk and asked our receptionist to page her to Steele’s phone number.
“I’m sure Jill will get right back to you, Steele. Why don’t you just mosey along so Zee and I can chat?”
He looked at the work piled on my desk and started to say something, but one glance in Zee’s direction and he wisely held his tongue. Quickly, I covered the two steps to the door and attempted to herd him out.
Steele leaned towards me just as I started to shut the door. “I’ll bet you one of those disgusting apple fritters you love that your home girl’s heard what you’re up to.”
In a blinding flash, I knew Steele was probably right. Somehow, Zee had found out about the Blond Bomber. I stole a glance in her direction. Yep, that could be it. My involvement in yet another potentially dangerous undertaking would drive her nuts. Then again, Steele could be wrong. It happened. Not often, but it did once-in-a-blue-moon happen.
I sat down and looked Zee straight in the face, sure I’d never see that apple fritter.
“So Zee’s pretty pissed off at you right now, huh?” Greg asked the question while we were heading north on the 405 Freeway. We were on our way to our meeting with Gordon Harper.
“Not me, darling hubby, us. Zee is pissed off at us.” I smiled to myself. As much as it killed me to see Zee so upset, it was rather funny to see her face when I told her that Greg and I had teamed up for this mission. “She was sure you’d lost your mind. The verdict was in about my mind a long time ago.”
It seems that Lisa Luke took my advice and decided the day after our meeting to get involved with Reality Check.
Me and my big mouth.
At six am on Monday, she’d showed up at the Back Bay to join the Reality Check walkers. And being the charming hostess that she is, Zee took Lisa under her wing and chatted with her during the entire walk. And Lisa, not realizing my past history with dead bodies, talked about our meeting and my questions about her sister and the Blond Bomber. It was all Zee needed to fuel the disbelief and outrage that brought her to my office a few hours later. The fact that I wasn’t looking for the Blond Bomber but was looking for proof that someone wasn’t the Blond Bomber didn’t comfort her one whit. She left an hour later, threatening to lock both me and Greg up in a mental institution and throw away the key, but at least I had extracted a promise from her not to get involved or to call Dev Frye about it.
Greg chuckled. “Did you tell her that I was along for the ride to protect you?”
“I did, and it didn’t matter. I’m sure Seth will be calling and yelling at you tomorrow about it.”
Greg started to say something but hesitated.
“What?” I turned in my seat to look at him.
He kept his eyes on the road when he answered. “He called the office today, just after lunch.”
“And?”
“He asked if we needed a lawyer. Said he’d be willing to put us on retainer.”
Gordon Harper lived in a luxury high-rise condominium in Marina Del Rey. The view from his living room included the marina, complete with boats and slips. His condo was spacious, elegant, and had the almost too-perfect look of being professionally decorated. It also included a very impressive but small collection of artwork and sculpture. In spite of how well-behaved Wainwright is, I was glad we’d left him home to referee the cats. The Harper residence did not look pet-friendly.
Greg and I sat in Gordon’s living room while Gordon retrieved drinks for us—a soda for me, a beer for Greg, and a Scotch for himself—from a nearby wet bar. The drinks were served in crystal barware, including the beer, which was poured into a matching pilsner.
“So, you’re here about Crystal Lee?” Gordon Harper’s voice was high and squeaky, reminding me of a Kewpie doll, if a Kewpie doll could talk. He dropped himself into a leather chair the color of wet sand. I sat on the accompanying sofa with Greg positioned between us.
Gordon Harper was in his late sixties, powerfully built and a bit portly, but not uncomfortably so. He had a large, bulbous nose and slightly loose jowls. His pate was bald and his face clean-shaven. He wore an expensive white silk shirt, probably Italian. Around his thick neck hung a substantial gold chain, also probably Italian. He looked like he’d be more comfortable taking meetings in a half-moon leather booth in the back of a dark restaurant instead of a lovely condo with a water view.
To be blunt, Gordon Harper looked like a bulldog who’d done well for himself after escaping the pound. Too bad he sounded like Fifi the wonder poodle.
“Yes, we are,” I responded. “We’d like to ask you some questions about her, if you don’t mind.”
“May I ask why?” His yippy, high voice was distracting coming from such a powerful body. He focused on Greg. “All you told me on the phone was that it might prevent another death. I’m all for that, naturally, but the police haven’t been able to find the guy. What makes you two so special?”
I cleared my throat—something I usually do before telling a fib. “I’m friends with the sister of the last victim. I … we … my husband and I want to look into anything that might be common to the victims. My friend is quite anxious to know what might have led the killer to her sister.”
“Besides the obvious physical attributes?”
“Yes. It would help her a great deal to know how this happened.”
Greg chimed in. “And it might also prevent another killing if we knew how the creep picked his victims.”
Gordon nodded. “True, but I’m sure the police are looking into that as well.”
I put my soda down on the glass coffee table and got down to business. “But we’d like to know, and the police aren’t likely to share anything with us about the case.”
Gordon chuckled as if I’d just told a joke that only he understood. He studied us each in turn before speaking. “Okay, what’s the harm? What would you like to know?”
Greg and I shared a look of relief. It’s not easy prying into people’s business, and something told me Gordon Harper had a lot of thing
s worth prying into. Supposedly, he was retired from the insurance business, but no amount of research could turn up what kind of insurance or any company. I would have liked to put a background check request out to my pal Willie about him, but I didn’t have the time or the contact. After my marriage to Greg, Willie, better known as William Proctor, on-the-run white collar criminal extraordinaire, had disappeared from my life as easily as he had appeared.
Greg threw out the first question. “Was Crystal Lee active on the Internet just before she died?”
“Absolutely.” Gordon smiled as he spoke, his fleshy lips parting in pride. “That’s how she made her money. She hawked memorabilia from her days as a stripper. She also made custom erotic costumes, mostly inspired by vintage burlesque queens such as Betty Rowland and Lois de Fee.” He laughed; it came out as a high-pitched giggle. “She did most of her advertising on the web. Most of her clients were drag queens, closet and otherwise.”
The information Greg had gathered mentioned that Crystal Lee Harper had been a specialty costume maker, but it hadn’t said anything about vintage burlesque or drag queens. “Did the police check out her clients?”
“Every last one of them that I know of. After her murder, they went through all her sales and order records.” He took a hit from his Scotch. “It was very sad. She was killed just as her business hit its stride.” His voice was filled with obvious pride.
“What happened to the business and her clients?” I watched him closely when he paused before answering.
“Seventh Veil Costuming is still thriving. I was a silent partner and decided after she was gone to keep it open.”
“A silent partner?” I glanced at Greg as he asked the question. His mind was going exactly where mine was headed. “So you provided the start-up cash? Were you two already divorced by then?”
Gordon gave Greg a closed-lip smile. “Yes, we were. We’d been married only a few years, and the prenup allowed for a cash settlement for future living expenses and financial and business advice to start a new business. Crystal Lee wasn’t a stupid woman. She knew I’d never allow her to grab my personal assets in a divorce, and she knew she’d be too old to go back to the pole if we split up.” He laughed his high-pitched squeal. “Who knew that putting gauze and sequins on fags would be so lucrative?”
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