Part 7 (1/2)
”I was at the Rubyfruit.”
”The bar where Tamara was killed?”
”Right. And so was every other leather d.y.k.e in town.” She laughed a rather pleased laugh.
”Why?”
”Because they were hosting the Ms. Colorado Leather contest. The prelims. You know, the girl from our state goes to the nationals.” Dominique seemed prepared to be scornful of her ignorance.
Hmm, she didn't know, but she could ask Stacy or Liz, and save herself from being laughed at. She started to ask about the bad cutting on Tamara's back that Becky had described, but the door bell rang, and from the front room someone called, ”Is anyone here?” With an air of relief Dominique moved to go. Alison caught her sleeve.
”Look,” she said quickly, ”I know you're not being totally straight with me. I know you don't like me, either. But think about it this way. I'm a d.y.k.e. You're a d.y.k.e. I'm not going to protect a murderer but I don't think that you're the one.” She lied without a qualm. ”I'll bend over backwards to make sure you don't get hara.s.sed for things that have nothing to do with the case, or for just plain being a d.y.k.e. Maybe the next cop who comes by won't feel that way. There's a lot of guys in uniform who don't like queers.” She felt a little guilty about trying to shake up the woman this way. Even if it were true, she hated to build onto that crooked and ignorant cop image, ready to arrest and punish the person of whom one did not approve. Maybe she was just messing up the chances of the legitimate detectives, good old Jorgenson and Jones, who would surely be visiting within the next couple of days. No, Dominique was not the type who would open up to a straight man. If she told anyone, it would be Alison.
She opened her wallet and took out another of the business cards her father had given her the Christmas before. Briefly, she thought that he would be pleased if he knew that one was really being given for business, instead of just to someone met at a party. Then she thought it was probably the second that would be thrown away in as many days. Dominique did not reach for it, so she laid it on the counter.
”Just remember,” she said. ”Call me if you change your mind.”
When Alison returned home she found Mich.e.l.le sitting on her front steps reading the local gay rag. She lifted her head and smiled as Alison approached. Alison could see that she had progressed from the aI'm-p.i.s.sed-because-you're-a-PI-idiot' stage to the 'Let's-talk-this-over-stage,' though the process was by no means irreversible. Fine, talking to Mich.e.l.le had always been a good way to put her thoughts in order.
”Where have you been?”
Alison dropped down beside her. ”Out pretending that I'm a detective.”
”Have you found out anything at all?”
”One thing. But it seems kind of thin by itself. They both went to the same counselor. They both dropped her and started seeing another woman. But it could be coincidence. You know, the community is small, a lot of us tend to see the same people and go to the same events without being connected in any other way.” Now that she was home, what Dominique had said seemed to make sense. She herself had changed dentists last year, and she wasn't always looking over her shoulder expecting him to leap out in revenge.
”Well, did either counselor keep any kind of notes? Anything that told what they talked about? Could it have been something they both knew or had seen?”
Oh, s.h.i.+t, she'd backed herself into a corner by trying to be discrete. ”Um, I don't think so. I mean, they weren't that kind....”
Mich.e.l.le looked at her with pursed lips. ”Yeah, that's what I thought about 'counselors'. Don't try to bulls.h.i.+t me. I knew Melanie, remember?”
”I wasn't trying to bulls.h.i.+t you. I was just trying....” What she had been trying to do was avoid a lecture. She changed the subject. ”I thought Melanie was really closeted.”
”She didn't used to be. I mean, she was always discreet about her specific s.e.x life. But other than that she was just like the test of us: 'Hi, I'm a young d.y.k.e, f.u.c.k you if you don't like it, stranger.' And it wasn't hard to figure out what she liked, in hindsight, anyway. The women she was seeing might have been low-key themselves back then, but a couple of them have become rather infamous around town since. In fact, here's a photo of one.”
She picked up the paper and pointed to a photograph on the front page of a lesbian newspaper which showed several women in leather standing in front of a row of motorcycles.
”What's this a picture of?”
Mich.e.l.le scanned the article. ”Blah-blah-blah, blah-blah-blah, at the Rubyfruit.. .blah....”
”Hey,” Alison s.n.a.t.c.hed the paper away from her. ”This is the local Ms. Leather Colorado contest, isn't it?”
”So?”
”This was the night and the place of the first murder.”
”And the murderer is going to be in the picture. Right, Delafield.”
Alison lowered the paper. ”Thank you for your support. No, you're right. Too much to hope for.” She jerked the paper back up to her face. ”But wait a minute-what's this in the background?”
Mich.e.l.le, who had been resisting gla.s.ses, squinted. ”Someone with a sign?
”Yeah. A picketer. And look, by this woman's foot, a leaflet. I've seen one of those f.u.c.kers before.” She put the paper down. ”Are you busy?” she asked, ”or would you like to play detective with me?”
In the end it was Janka whom they sent in to see the Crusaders. Not just because, as even Mich.e.l.le herself admitted, she was less likely to get excited and blow her cover. There was also her 'begging for money' outfit in her favor, a grey suit she wore only to the bank and to see her father. She pointed out the finer points of the ensemble to them before they got into the car.
”Grey pumps,” she said, lifting one foot. ”Matching purse.”
”Take off your labrys and your earcuff,” advised Mich.e.l.le. Hastily Janka stored them in the purse which was empty except for the pamphlet Alison had picked up at the bar.
”What's your name?” Alison asked nervously as she pulled away from the curb. ”Are you sure they're open?”
”They said they were open when I called,” said Mich.e.l.le. ”Jesus, how many times do I have to tell you? They're not going to close in the middle of the day when they have a customer coming.”
”My name is Norma White.” Janka spoke nasally. In her own voice she asked, ”Are you sure they'd be clued in to my real name? Surely there are straight girls named Janka Weaversong? Okay, okay, Norma it is, and I live in Wheatridge. I just found out the awful and ugly truth about my baby sister. She left her husband-such a good man!-and it's even worse because there are two children involved. I'm sure it's just a phase, in fact I'm absolutely sure that she would snap right out of it if I could just get her away horn the wicked s.l.u.t she's been seeing.”
”Don't say s.l.u.t,” Alison said. ”In fact, if you can avoid it, don't say lesbian or gay. Stick to h.o.m.os.e.xual, and hem and haw a lot. Be horrified and totally embarra.s.sed that you've been driven to this.”
”Isn't this a little far-fetched?” asked Mich.e.l.le. ”I mean, do you really think that they're going to say, 'Hey, don't worry, we can knock that d.y.k.e right off, no problem?”'
”No, I don't think that, Mich.e.l.le. But it would be real interesting to find out what those people are doing. Like, are they involved in kidnapping or hara.s.sing or reprogramming? And exactly how devoted are their followers? Remember when Anita Bryant went on the rampage, and every so often a f.a.ggot would turn up beaten up with a sign on him that said, 'This is for you, Anita?' That's pretty d.a.m.n close to killing. You know we've been murdered in the name of religion before. Don't say d.y.k.e.”
”Yeah, yeah,” muttered Mich.e.l.le, ”cops and robbers.”
”Oh, you're just p.i.s.sed because the pumps wouldn't fit you,” said Janka.
The Crusaders' organization was located in a little store front that was across the street from both a bakery and a laundromat, so after parking around the corner and giving Janka a five minute head start, they slipped first into one and then the other.
”The perfect stake-out,” said Mich.e.l.le, cramming a maple bar into her mouth. ”I just wish I'd brought a load of towels.” Alison, sitting on an orange plastic chair that was bolted to the floor, glanced nervously over her shoulder. ”So, Alison, what are we looking for, anyway? You think that they're going to expose old Norma, conk her on the head and carry her out feet first in a rolled up carpet?”
”I just think we should keep an eye out,” said Alison vaguely. She didn't really feel as if Stacy's story were hers to share. ”Get away from the window.”
”Hey, they don't know me,” answered Mich.e.l.le, sucking cream filling from her fingers. ”For all they know I'm just another d.y.k.e spinning a load of khaki pants and flannel s.h.i.+rts. Grab a paper. It'll calm you down.”
Alison began to comply, but suddenly Mich.e.l.le grabbed her by the shoulder. ”Oh, I can't believe this...this is just too f.u.c.king weird!” She pressed her face up against the window and then jerked back. ”Jesus, I'm glad she didn't look! This is so bizarre!”
”What?”
”No, no, don't look. For all I know you may know her, too. Okay, face me like you're talking to me and look over my shoulder. See the woman who's standing in front of the building talking to the guy in the suit?”
”That's one of the guys who grabbed me the other night!” She gaped, recognizing Red Tie.
”Okay, don't get freaked. Even if he sees you that doesn't mean he's going to clue into anything other than the fact that you don't have a washer and dryer. Look at the woman. I know that woman. That woman used to be a d.y.k.e. A big time stomping d.y.k.e! That woman published poetry that contained phrases like 'Castrate now'.”