Aphrodisiac

by Alicia Street

  “You’ve got him on his knees begging for another chance,” I said. “Why don’t you go out with him next time he calls?” Which was at least five times a week.

  “Yo. Whose side are you on here?”

  “His celebrity went to his head.”

  “And from there to his pinga.”

  “Time out.”

  “For what?”

  “My professional opinion.”

  “Do I have to take notes on this lecture?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then make it all in one sentence.”

  “Fine. Monogamy is deviant behavior in the animal world, affairs occur in most marriages, couples survive them, Fippy regrets his little ventures into pussyland, give him a break, the guy still loves you.” I set two plates of spaghetti on the island and passed Benita the cheese. “Your turn to grate the Parmesan.”

  She went quiet. Talking about Fippy did tend to have that effect on her. I only wished I’d meet a guy who touched me that way. Not that I wanted marriage and children as badly as Benita did. In fact, I wasn’t at all sure I was wife material. But I definitely wanted love. Not the pokey, practical kind I saw in so many couples. I wanted a tornado: hot, passionate, movie-drama love. Trouble is, I’ve always been a magnet for guys in need of a nursemaid to walk them through their personal crises. Female patients often complained to me about sexy guys whose primary mission in life seemed to be filling as many holes as possible. My boyfriends seldom cheated on me; they just turned into nonpaying clients. I wondered about Eldridge Mace. Thoughts of his muscular, sweat-slicked body and those clear blue eyes that burned into you like dry ice nearly sent me over the edge.

  Benita finally put down her fork and said, “I know I can be too hard sometimes.”

  “Hardheaded is more like it.”

  “I guess my marriage did have some good things. The sex was outrageous. And Fip could be so sweet. Like the way he bought Uncle Pete for me when I had mono and I couldn’t stand being home all day with nobody to talk to.” She glanced around. “¿Donde esta Tio Pedro?”

  “Lana banished him to your bedroom because of his foul tongue.” I pulled my copy of Gwen’s mysterious farewell note from my pocket. “I was studying the suicide poem earlier and found something I have to show you.” Spreading it out on the counter, I dragged my fingertip along the left side of the poem. “Check out the first letter of each line. Read it as a sentence.”

  My Final Good-bye

  This is my farewell, golden priestess of the sa-zi-ga.

  Heaven’s Daughter has brought the storm upon me, I meet my end.

  Embark for the Jewel in the center of Pearl. Behold the words of Raphael.

  You will meet the scribe, magician of a million creations.

  Garden of bells amid beech and oak, my heart sleeps here.

  Over her words, a crescent moon of lapis blue.

  The loyal sentry of my youth, this last crusade you must endure.

  My dream is now your dream, and you are its watchman.

  Eternity awaits.

  Gwen

  Benita read, “They got me.” She looked up with a smirk. “Don’t tell me you think Gwen did that on purpose.”

  “I’m certain of it.”

  “So, how come the police didn’t make anything out of it?”

  “I doubt they noticed it. Even if they did, all signs pointed to suicide. Plus, I think the secret meanings in the poem can only be understood by someone who really knows Gwen.”

  “Saylor, you don’t really believe she could pull this off?”

  “Look how she buzzed through our college calculus like it was a kiddie game. And how she learned to read and write hundreds of cuneiform marks in half the time it takes most scholars.

  Gwen could’ve gone to any university she chose, but she wanted to be my roommate at NYU. We are not talking about the average intelligent person here.”

  Binnie held a hand up to stop my tirade. “Gwen was no doubt the smartest person I’ve ever met. She had an encyclopedic mind. But are you forgetting she might have had a gun at her head at the time? Thinking you’re about to die isn’t exactly conducive to creativity.”

  “Wrong. If I had a killer ready to put me away and make it look like a suicide, I know I’d be damn determined to find a way to communicate that to someone. Wouldn’t you?”

  “Sure, I’d try. But composing an impromptu poem complete with clues and hidden messages and lines that begin with specific corresponding letters?”

  “That’s just it. When I saw ‘they got me’ I realized Gwen was using a game she’d made up when we were in junior high. I’d forgotten all about it until now. Remember I told you how the other kids in school bullied Gwen and me? Well, this was our way of sending each other notes that couldn’t possibly be read by the classmates who made fun of us.

  We called them Puzzle Poems. The verses would contain hidden meanings related to a subject that was spelled out by the first letter of each line. We wrote them to each other all the way through our teens. Gwen was much better at it than I. Could even do it verbally, like when we were around her nosy brother, Darryl. As a psychologist I can look back now and see that it wasn’t really a game, but a clever method for two friends to maintain secret contact in an unfriendly environment.” I picked up the suicide note. “This is definitely one of our Puzzle Poems.”

  Benita stared at me, her mouth open. “Maybe you ain’t gone wack on this after all.”

  “Gee, thanks. Does that mean you believe me now?”

  She gave me an apologetic nod. “I hate being pushed, okay? Truth is, I remember how she called you the sa-zi-ga priestess, and I did begin to wonder why Gwen would disguise your identity in what was supposedly her farewell letter. For some reason she didn’t want to reveal even your first name.”

  “Exactly. If she’d been alone when she decided to end it, she would’ve spelled my name straight out. The only logical explanation is that she wasn’t alone when she died. And she wasn’t safe. That’s why she created a Puzzle Poem.”

  “Unless the Puzzle Poem was Gwen’s attempt at dark humor before she did herself in.”

  “No, Binnie. A real suicide farewell would be addressed to family and friends, not just to me. She’s not just saying good-bye, she’s making a request.” I handed her the paper and pointed to the seventh line.

  She studied the poem. “You’re clearly the ‘loyal sentry of her youth.’ I’ve heard those stories about how you protected her back when. Hmmm. ‘This last crusade you must endure’?”

  “There’s something she wants me to do for her.”

  “Wow.” Benita sprang from her seat and began clearing away our plates. “Two heads are better than one…as long as they’re not on the same person. If you’re the one Gwen chose to fulfill her last request, we’ve got some work to do.”

  Talk about making a hundred-and-eighty-degree turn. Now she’s Miss Marple. I felt like belting her, except she was 14 and 0 in the ring. “Well, I’m going to hire a private detective.” I lugged the metropolitan yellow pages to the kitchen counter and began leafing through them.

  Benita placed her hand on top of the phone book. “Don’t do that.”

  “I suppose you have something against them, too?”

  “Trust me. We don’t want no fat-ass PI involved.”

  I pulled mugs out of the cupboard and started the coffee. “Something tells me this is all about your issue with authority figures.”

  “Private detectives have earned their nickname of dick.”

  “Well, my plan is for a female PI. Gwen would want it that way. I —”

  “Do you know how much they charge?” Benita interrupted as usual when she started talking a mile a second. “Why spend money for somebody to do a job you and I can do? When I was a little girl my papi always said, never go hiring some clown when you can do it yourself.”

  Tell me about it. She was the only woman I knew who had a shelf full of recorded episodes from the Do-It-Yourself Network inst
ead of Sex and the City. “Get real. People do not simply become private investigators overnight.”

  “So? We take a couple days.” She had that runaway train expression. “I know lots of websites on investigating and forensic stuff. Not to mention the Free Library.”

  My voice scaled about five octaves. “Wait a sec. Are you forgetting how dangerous this could be? If Gwen really was murdered, it was by a…well…a murderer. And they kill people.”

  “Never mind. We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

  “Terrific.”

  Benita took our coffee mugs to the open living room space and sank into a French club chair. When the thieves made rubbish stew out of the furniture in our Williamsburg apartment, we’d been left with the bare minimums. Lucky for us, we didn’t need much here. Lana’s place was tastefully decorated in a combination of art deco and modern. I parked my tush on a green leather ottoman and gave Benita a rundown of my conversation with Ti-Jean.

  “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy” played, and I grabbed my cell. It was Darryl Applebee returning my call. He sounded less than enthused. I knew I was on sensitive ground, but I had no choice if I was to get started in my search for the truth about Gwen’s death. “Darryl, I need to ask a favor of you. Could I please get a flash copy of Gwen’s computer files?”

  “Odd request.”

  “I’ll explain.”

  “Save it. Because there was no hard drive in her computer.”

  “You mean the hard drive is missing?” I looked at Benita who gave me a just-as-I-thought nod.

  “So?” he said. “You know how she was. So secretive. Probably has it hidden.”

  “Or else it was taken.”

  “Taken? Are you starting up with that ridiculous fanny pack thing again?”

  “Darryl, I realize this may come as a shock, but Gwen may have been the victim of a violent crime. The police haven’t been much help, so Benita and I are doing a little bit of legwork on our own. You see, Gwen’s poem is riddled with clues —”

  “The only thing riddled is your brain. Not only is your idea far-fetched, Saylor, but I’m disappointed in you. Here I am struggling to cope with my sister’s suicide, and you come along and want to turn the picture into a sordid murder story.”

  Guess my approach was a little abrupt. I apologized, telling Darryl I was here for him any time, and I once again recommended a colleague who specialized in grief counseling. As usual, he rebuffed my gestures of friendship as well as my professional advice. What did I expect from Mr. Ultimate Authority? Ever since we were kids he seemed to relish snubbing my ideas.

  Still, I needed some answers. I owed it to Gwen. This time I practiced a little more artistry. Since Darryl’s friend owned the warehouse that Gwen had lived in down in Red Hook, I had to at least find out if those men Ti-Jean saw could be hired workmen or new tenants. Gradually switching subjects, I asked about it in a casual tone. Had it been rented? Was it being fixed up? The answer was “no” to both. That lit a fire under my butt. I ended the call.

  Benita shook her head. “I can’t believe how much you just revealed to Darryl, Ms. Motormouth.”

  “Ms. Motormouth? That’s your nickname not mine.”

  “It’s one thing to pump him for info, but it’s another to go blabbing about our investigation.”

  “So what if Darryl knows what we’re up to? He’s Gwen’s brother.”

  “Saylor, you just don’t have a criminal mind.”

  “Is that a compliment or an insult?”

  She tilted her head, giving me a narrow-eyed look. “You really think the hard drive was missing from her computer? Maybe there’s stuff on that computer he doesn’t want anybody to see. For all we know, Darryl was the one who snuffed Gwen.”

  “Gimme a break. Why would Darryl want to kill his own sister?”

  “Oh, come on, you’re the psychologist. When it comes to sibling rivalry, twins are the worst. Competition starts right in the birth canal with who’s gonna squeeze their way out first.”

  “So much for all those biogenetic studies that suggest just the opposite.”

  Benita kicked off her shoes. “Actually, Rob’s the one I’d like to bring in for questioning. He was Gwen’s last live-in beau.”

  “Really, Binnie, just because the name of his rock group was Bullet 4U doesn’t mean he’d act out. Besides, I ran into the group’s drummer last month, and he told me Rob’s living in Germany with a French lighting designer. And what about the guys Ti-Jean saw in Gwen’s loft?”

  “There are always vandals and crackheads breaking into empty warehouses.”

  “Except his description of them made me think of the men who chased us.”

  “All this talk,” Benita said. “Time to go real. What say we head over to Gwen’s loft tonight and see what’s up?”

  “Let’s do it.”

  FOUR

  The July night carried stagnant remnants of week-old humidity. A full moon hung, lethargic, above the rooftops like an oversized dinner plate. Our Camry sailed down Columbia Street on our way to “the Back,” Red Hook’s desolate west side; a timeless place where at four a.m. the ghost of Marlon Brando’s Terry Malloy might be seen, jacket slung over his shoulder, ambling slowly toward those once famous Brooklyn docks.

  A red light nabbed us at the corner of Dwight and Verona. On the sidewalk to our right stood an unshaven elderly man in an undershirt and baggie pants with a crotch that practically hung to his knees. He was a sad sight and could have failed the Breathalyzer from a hundred yards. Benita and I made the mistake of allowing brief eye contact with him. Now he stumbled his way toward the car while unzipping his fly. Oh no. Not tonight. Good thing we had the air conditioner running so the golden arch of urine merely pattered against my closed window.

  My verbally gifted roommate opened the car door and jumped out. “¡Huelebicho!” That meant dick smeller. “¡Me cago en tu madre!” I shit on your mother.

  “Binnie.” Time for therapeutic intervention. “Remember, it’s not personal. Get back in the car. The light is green.”

  She reclaimed her seat and slammed the door shut in disgust. We left the human carwash tottering in the street, still wagging his droopy dog.

  As we rounded Van Brunt and made our way up Beard we saw a light coming from inside Gwen’s place. JMC Heating and Cooling occupied the first floor of the three-story red brick warehouse.

  “Let’s park up the street, so we don’t look obvious.” Benita pulled the Camry to the curb a healthy distance away from Gwen’s building. We got out and walked the length of the block. Beard Street had turned into an endless construction site, leaving parts of it torn up and covered with planks, piles of debris and broken cobblestones. Streetlamps made us easily visible. We decided to hide behind the hulking red Dumpster diagonally across from Gwen’s door.

  Crouched and huddled together, we watched for activity on the third floor. After twenty minutes of staring at blank windows, I whispered, “How long do we have to stay all bent up like this? Or are we aiming for the Beavis and Butt-Head award?”

  “This is surveillance. You gotta be patient."

  “Well, I’m getting a cramp in my thigh.”

  Benita glanced at me. “You white chicks are so stiff. Get into a deep squat.”

  “Can’t. My jeans are too tight.”

  “Why didn’t you wear running pants like me?”

  “I hate running pants. They make me look chunky.”

  “So, unsnap your jeans, piggy.”

  I gave it ten more agonizing minutes. “I bet nobody’s there, and they just left the light on. I say we call it a night. Tomorrow I hire a pro.”

  “No way. We’re going inside. I’ve got my camcorder.”

  “Great. And if we run into these gonzos we just say, ‘Don’t mind us. We’re making a documentary on lowlife scum.’ ”

  “No. We shoot and run with the evidence.”

  “You call that evidence? We can’t just…” My words trailed off. Benita was alrea
dy making her way across the street. I confess, my cowardly first impulse was to let her be the scout while I held down the fort, so to speak, here in the shadows of the Dumpster. But my keys to Gwen’s place were inside my handbag.

  I scuttled after Benita, my eyes glued to the window just in case there was someone in there who could look out and see us. At the door I was half hoping they’d changed the locks. I slid the key in the tumbler. It clicked open.

  We bypassed the gray steel freight elevator. The stairwell was lit by one feeble bulb and stank of mold. I winced with every creak our feet made on the old wooden steps. We reached the second-floor landing and stood with our ears pressed against the door to Gwen’s loft.

  “Nada,” Binnie said.

  I turned the key. “In we go.” As soon as I opened the door I was struck by the barrage of scents still present from the fragrances Gwen made here. And by the undeniable reality that something was wrong. Several floorboards had been torn up all across the room. Sheetrock that covered the brick walls had been busted and torn, leaving large holes and craters.

  “Somebody’s looking for buried treasure,” Benita said.

  Whoever the pirates were, they had defiled sacred ground. For years this had been a very special place to me. Half shutting my eyes, I could still see Gwen’s jammed but neatly organized workspace. A series of cluttered tables and shelves. Beakers and flasks of perfumes being made in her home laboratory. Fossils, shards and other artifacts were usually scattered about. A microscope used to mark the table where she analyzed ancient plant remains.