It wasn’t Tara’s professional success that bothered me, it was her annoying habits. Well, maybe I was a tad miffed that my book, Literal Clitoral, got remaindered after one season, while hers was still topping the lists. But what really got me was the way she would corner me after my conference lectures and give me corrections on material she undoubtedly never studied. Or helpful hints on dressing to hide those problem areas around my hips.
In any case, I was in no mood to pit myself against the long-legged beauty. I turned and headed for the playground where I’d seen Rochelle earlier.
“Hey, Saylor. Come have some watermelon.” Tara was too fast for me, as usual. And today she was a knockout in shorts and halter top. Probably a real ego trip for Eldridge around his friends from the gym.
I strolled their way and managed to force out a pleasant greeting. I felt like offering Eldridge my therapeutic analysis of men who like to tell themselves they aren’t in relationships while they continue to date the same woman week after week. But I suspected it wouldn’t go over too well.
Luckily, Tara was sticky from the melon, so I was spared one of her over-the-top embraces. Tilting her head, she popped the biggie. “What happened to your lip?”
Where was my brain? Did I think Tara’s scrutinizing eye would miss such a luscious opportunity? “I had a small accident with a…door.” Might as well be consistent.
She gave me the phoniest sympathetic smile this side of General Hospital. “Poor baby. Doors can be tricky. And you know what they say about the metabolism as you approach forty. You get a little slower.”
Oh please, Universe. Somewhere out in space there must be a small asteroid that needs a place to land. Should’ve splashed on my Jo Malone. A clinical trial showed that women wearing a grapefruit scent tend to appear several years younger.
Eldridge seemed to be studying me. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking. He had a face that was difficult to read. Didn’t show his feelings. Maybe that was his Mohawk side. Suddenly he said, “Excuse me, Tara. I need a couple minutes alone with Saylor. Do you mind?”
Was I hearing things? This was too good to be true. Tara’s expression went from surprise to a silent implosion. At one point it looked as if she might even have a seizure. Gee, this was better than the asteroid I’d prayed for.
Eldridge didn’t wait for her response. He gripped my upper arm and led me to a quiet area. I shot him a flirtatious smile. “Thanks for carrying me to Benita’s car on Wednesday night down in the Hook. Guess I drank a little too much.”
I expected a playful wisecrack but instead got a dose of stern parenting. “Tell me the truth. What kind of trouble are you mixed up in?”
Oh. I see. Tara was the hot babe, while I got the role of needy puppy. Sure, a part of me was dying to spill my whole story to Eldridge. To cry in his arms and ask him to go beat up the bullies for me. But he was only a boxer; no match for real killers.
And frankly, I’d never been comfortable in the helpless female role. Maybe I was a wimp who puked at violent movies, but I also spent my life troubleshooting other people’s problems, being the rescuer rather than the rescued. That’s just who I am. There’s no way I’d accept Eldridge playing big brother protector. I met his commanding eyes with a firm gaze of my own. “I told you. I ran into a door. You of all people ought to know what a klutz I can be.”
“Get real. You’d never admit to me that you’re clumsy. Which means you’re hiding something.”
“What do you care? You already have a girlfriend.” Oops.
He looked pleasantly stunned for a moment and was about to say something, when Tara shouted, “Ridge, get over here. Paulie said you’re washed up. I think he needs a beating.”
“You beat on him,” he said without taking his eyes off me. “I think he’d like that.” Eldridge stared at me so long I thought he was going to kiss me. I prevented my legs from turning to Jell-O by reminding myself he was probably just examining my split lip. Or maybe he was using some Mohawk technique to get me to tell my story.
Our little powwow was interrupted again by another call from Tara. Eldridge brushed his fingers down my arm. “Gotta go.”
Guess my two minutes were up. As he turned to leave, I couldn’t resist grumbling under my breath, “Yeah, hurry back to your flaming bitch.”
He paused mid-stride. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you?”
“Nothing.”
I saw big-boned, square-shouldered Rochelle on the boardwalk and joined her at the guardrail. We exchanged a peck on the cheek. Standing beside her, I gazed out at the East River pretending I wasn’t about to have a complete and total emotional breakdown. Barely sixty seconds into our conversation I asked her for the details concerning the legal consultation Gwen had requested.
Rochelle’s hand perched on her hip. “You want me to disclose on a client? Would you do that to one of yours?”
This do-it-yourself detective work definitely took a toll on my social and professional etiquette. Rochelle had me dead to rights. But that was better than being just plain dead. I pressed on. “You know I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t extremely important. Please.”
She cocked her head, then shrugged. “There’s really nothing to tell. Gwen wasn’t actually a client yet. We only spoke on the phone for a couple minutes. She wanted me to sit in on a contract meeting and negotiate for her. Sounded like she was trying to market her aromatic oils to some big company. I didn’t get much further than that. We were supposed to have lunch and get down to details, but she never called me back.”
This jived with what Gwen said that day when she was all excited over the possibility of selling her latest perfume. Could her little home business selling aromatic oils and fragrances to boutiques and friends have anything to do with her death? She’d used a perfume name in her poem. But it was an ancient artifact that Curtis wanted. An artifact I had seven days to find.
Rochelle studied me a moment, then zoomed in for a close-up. “What’s going on with your lip?”
Did I tell myself this party was going to be therapeutic?
***
Benita and I met at the Jackson airport around nine p.m. We rented a Taurus sedan, drove through Pearl and saw hotels that were postcard perfect with manicured lawns and sparkling pools. But none were the Jewel. Our computer-generated directions took us down one road after the next and finally onto a long, lonely stretch of highway.
I checked my voice mail. Nothing. “Gee, the management at the Jewel never confirmed my phone reservations.”
“Must be one great place if the guy at the car rental agency had never even heard of it.”
“We aren’t here for the luxury, Bin. I just hope they have rooms for us when we get there.”
“If we get there,” she said. “Think we missed our turn?”
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe we should go ask at that diner we just passed. Aren’t you hungry?” It was ten o’clock, and we hadn’t yet eaten dinner.
We pulled in next to a tractor-trailer and made our way across the paved lot. The primarily male clientele gaped at us as we walked in. Benita had come straight from the conference in Atlanta, and her navy silk pants suit seemed a bit upscale for this glorified truck stop. The jersey knit dress I wore clung to my skin in the muggy Mississippi night. A trucker’s bloodshot eyes fixed on my breasts. At least he wasn’t staring at my split lip. I brushed my wrist across my cheek, balancing myself with my Angel perfume’s chocolate-vanilla scent, and slid across the cool vinyl seat of the booth.
Benita perked up when she saw banana pecan waffles on the menu. She ordered them with eggs and sausage. My appetite was still on hold, so I stuck with a garden salad.
By the time our food arrived I’d filled her in on the info Rochelle gave me about Gwen. I nibbled sparingly at my salad and planned our strategy for the next day. “When we get to our rooms at the Jewel we should go over the material Schumacher’s assistant faxed me. That’ll tell us which archaeological dig sites to hit.”
“Too bad you couldn’t get a hold of the professor himself, since he was down here with Gwen. Tomorrow is day two out of seven, and we don’t even know exactly what we’re looking for.”
“Whatever it is, it could be in any one of those rooms at the Jewel. Why else would Gwen specify the motor lodge in her poem?”
Benita reached for the syrup. “We should make a complete search of the place.”
“Which is why I brought some extra money.”
“Good idea. Pay the guy off. How else are we gonna get into all those rooms.”
When our friendly waitress returned, I told her we were trying to find the Jewel Motor Lodge.
“Why does that ring a bell?” She paused then turned to the waitress at the counter. “Hey, Molly. Jewel Motor Lodge. That the place they shut down last year?”
“Shut down?” I said.
Molly nodded.
“Board of Health,” our waitress added.
“I been told they reopened,” Molly said while wiping down the counter with her bus rag. “Let’s hope those things don’t come back.”
Benita put down her fork. “Things?”
“Some kind of weird-looking insects growing out of his cesspit. Getting in people’s beds at night. Left some pretty nasty bites on folks’ ankles and legs.” She read our concern. “But don’t you worry. He had the place fumigated. Far as I know the Jewel is good to go.”
Benita gave me that pre-knockout look of hers.
“It’s only for a couple of nights,” I said.
She leaned forward. “I refuse to shack up in some dive hole with bugs that come out of a poop pit.”
I held my ground. “If the Jewel is where Gwen hid the tablet or left a clue that’ll lead us to it, then that is where we belong.”
She wiped her mouth with a napkin and pushed away her plate. “Okay, here’s the deal. We are going back to the airport to find ourselves a hotel. From there we can drive out to the Jewel in the morning to investigate. But no checking in.”
“Agreed,” I said, keeping the peace.
The coffee here was really good, and after several refills we were both feeling a much needed caffeine rush. I took the poem out of my bag and quietly read the whole line that brought us here. “ ‘Embark for the Jewel in the center of Pearl. Behold the words of Raphael.’ Do you think the part that says ‘the words of Raphael,’ is related to the ‘Jewel’ part? There’s a period after Pearl, but it’s all on the same line.”
“Depends on who or what Raphael is.” Binnie drummed her fingers on the table. “Could be the Renaissance painter. Or the angel. Possibly some author or poet. Or a person we’re supposed to find here.”
I sipped my coffee, the excitement of closing in on Gwen’s mysterious tablet finally hitting me. A strange elation came over me despite the obstacles we faced. “Binnie, there are special moments in life when you just know you’re on the right track. Times when you sense that you’re in the right place at the right time, as if guided by some cosmic force.” I looked into her eyes. “Trust me, sweetie, serendipity is in play. We are on game.”
Hark. “Dance Of The Sugar Plum Fairy” rang out from my cell. I checked caller ID and picked up. “How ya doing, Darryl?”
“I’m getting by. Listen, if you’re still interested in looking over the rest of Gwen’s belongings, I’ll be free on Wednesday afternoon. You can come by at three.”
“Sounds good.” Best to keep all options open. We chatted briefly. I was careful to keep Darryl in the dark about our situation, as tempting as it was to tell him I was right about his sister’s so-called suicide.
Benita whispered from across the table, “Ask him about Raphael.”
“By the way, Darryl. Did Gwen ever mention anyone by the name of Raphael?”
He paused. “There was that artist from the Jewel.”
Bingo. I gave Binnie the thumbs up. We were definitely onto something. “Did you say an artist at the Jewel?”
“Yes. She was supposedly the queen bee of the place. Probably still working there.”
“Interesting. An artist working out of a motel. And in Mississippi.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Darryl heaved an exasperated sigh. “You get more bizarre every time I talk to you. Who said anything about a motel in Mississippi? I mean the Jewel bar on Pearl Street in Brooklyn. It’s right around the corner from where you’re living in DUMBO.”
Oops.
NINE
Because it was Sunday we couldn’t get a return flight until afternoon. Benita refused to speak to me all the way back to New York. It wasn’t until after we made it home to our loft and Benita had smoldered for a while that she finally broke her silence. “So much for your big moment and those cosmic forces of yours.”
“Try and see the positives,” I said, while polishing off some leftover cucumber salad and cold lentil soup I’d found in the fridge.
“Positives? Oh yes, Dr. Oz, I am so glad I compromised my professional reputation by ducking out of the conference early for that trip to Mississippi. So what if we were seventeen hundred miles off the mark?”
“But you liked the banana pecan waffles.”
Dead-eyed stare. “By the way, what happened to all your analytical talents, Doc?”
“What happened to yours, Ms. Financial Analyst?”
She turned away and began frying rellenos de papa when her cell phone played “You Sang To Me.” She checked it and flipped it open. “Hola. Rebecca. I was just thinking about you.”
My mother. She and Benita frequently enjoyed long phone chats covering a range of subjects from fashion and cooking to Hollywood gossip and the stock market. And oh, yes, their favorite topic—how to deal with Saylor.
“I’m concerned about her, too,” Benita said, resting the spatula on the counter. “Saylor does seem to be a little confused. Let me put you on speakerphone.”
My roommate liked to move around and keep busy while she was talking. No matter who was on the line, no matter how personal, she put all her calls on the speaker and turned up the volume. Conversations with her brother filled the loft with salsa music. The worst were the tearful discussions with her ex-husband. Did I want to hear this one? Did I have a choice?
My mother’s voice sounded scratchy and whiney. “Jerome runs a very successful mold removal business. He’s The Mold Genie. Saylor met him last time she was here. Now I ask you, would it hurt her to go out with him once?”
Not Jerome Markowitz again.
Benita slid her potato-and-meat dumplings onto a plate. “Your daughter would be very lucky to land a man like that for a husband. And Lord knows Saylor’s not getting any younger.”
“I knew you’d agree,” my mother said. “And such a good boy. Jerome comes down here all the time. Unlike Saylor. Plays golf with his father, shops with his mother. Of course, he does that funny thing when he talks.”
Right. It’s called a lisp.
Benita aimed a sadistic smile in my direction. “Oh go on. Give him Saylor’s number.”
I flipped her the middle finger salute and retreated to my bedroom.
Funny how my best friend gets along better with my mother and I with hers. My thoughts drifted back to the time when I was seventeen. When my father ran off with the woman who owned the travel agency two doors down from The Foam Barn. Of course, my mother being the injured party, I took her side. During the divorce settlement, Dad had a fatal heart attack. The last words I’d ever spoken to him were “I finished the inventory on the mattress pads.”
The whole thing dismantled my mother’s already limited coping skills. I’ve been prodding her for years to open up, to talk, to feel, but she never fails to misconstrue my words. She prefers to keep things concrete and on the surface. Like Benita.
Five minutes later, my roommate knocked on my door. When I opened it she said, “Listen. While we were sitting on the plane, it dawned on me. The woman named Raphael that Darryl mentioned? We already met her.”
“Enlighten me.
”
“This past January. We went to an opening at the Dumbo Arts Center. Gwen had collaborated on an installation using plants and fragrances with that artist who made sculpture out of auto parts and flowers. Her name was Raffy. Gotta be short for Raphael.”
The clouds parted. “Raffy DiNardo. And she worked at a lesbian bar! Has to be the Jewel.”
We Googled lesbian bars in Brooklyn. No website, but it showed up on a listing. The Jewel. And it was on Pearl Street. I gave Binnie an appreciative shot in the arm. “Ace detective work. Why didn’t I think of that?”
She shrugged. “We only saw her a couple times. Gwen got so secretive whenever she was having a romance with a woman.”
“Guess she was afraid to accept the fact that she didn’t really like men. I just made a point not to pry.”
“Maybe if we had, we’d know what this was all about.” She carried her plate to the dishwasher. “Crime of passion between lovers?”
“No way. Gwen would never have put the killer’s name in the poem. It’s clear someone was watching her write it. She had to disguise her instructions. And she was banking on our remembering Raffy. ”
“So, you’re saying the perp had to be someone who didn’t know anything about the artist named Raffy. Assuming she is our Raphael.”
“Right. And ‘Behold the words’ must equal ‘this woman has something to tell us.’ ” I checked my watch. “It’s only eight o’clock. The listing said the Jewel was open Sundays until two a.m. Why don’t we head over there now?”
***
The Jewel bar was an easy to miss hole-in-the-wall next to an upholstery warehouse on Pearl Street. We took three steps up to an old loading dock covered in graffiti and swung open a battered metal door stenciled with the fading number eighty-three. Benita and I were greeted by a huge painting of a nude woman with her legs spread. A flowerlike jewel formed her vagina. Janet Jackson’s “Nasty” added a touch of slinky to the ambience.
This was to be classic undercover work. In jeans and T-shirts, we swaggered into a long, skinny room with no windows. Talk about monochrome. Walls, tables, bar, everything in black and gray. The only accent of color came by way of the blue pendant lamps spotting the bar.
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