Dawn Benedict — CD Private Eye: Sherry Pops a Fuse

Murder at the Lavender and Leather

By Rachael Robbins

[Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3]

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The city looked lovely from where I stood on Queen Anne Hill,what I could see of it through the drizzle, at any rate. The Sea-First building, that gargantuan ebony box, disappeared partway into the mist and Freeway Park was barely visible where it straddled Interstate 5 midway up Capitol Hill. Although it was not yet four o’clock, there was already a substantial number of cars streaming out of town in the daily exchange of sheet-metal between city and suburbia. In a matter of hours beautiful downtown Seattle would be yuppy-free, left to the pimps and hustlers and other denizens of the night. Given a choice, I’d take night denizens over yuppies every time.

The address Bernie had given me for Sherry Toller was on the side of Queen Anne that was reserved for lawyers, drug dealers and politicians on the take. There wasn’t a house on the street worth less than a half a million dollars,and the one I stood in front of looked to be closer to a million-five. Just down the street was the spot where countless post-card photos of the Seattle skyline had been taken over the years, most of them in much better weather than this.

A Porsche Turbo Carrera sat in the driveway, making me glad I’d parked theOpal down a ways on the street, and from inside I could hear the strains of Wagner as I rang the bell. After what seemed a long time, the door opened to reveal a dark-haired man who looked like he’d stepped out of The Saturday Evening Post — he wore a smoking jacket, and held a pipe in one hand and the Wall Street Journal in the other. I wondered if I’d come to the right place.

“Can I help you, Miss?” Not exactly a model of political correctness.

“Hi. I’m Elizabeth Johnson, from the National Organization for Women. We’re conducting a survey on women in the workplace. Is Sherry Toller in?”

“My wife’s still at the office, but I expect her any time. Won’t you come in?” Wife? Sherry Toller was married? Well, anything was possible. Her husband stood aside just far enough to let me squeeze by — I brushed his arm as I entered the foyer — and led me up a short flight of stairs and into the living room.

“Won’t you sit down?” He indicated a plush couch. “Can I get you a drink while you wait?”

“A little white wine would be nice.” Why not? After all, a P.I. didn’t have to worry about drinking on duty.

While he poured our drinks, I glanced around — the house was as impressive inside as it was on the outside. Its ceilings were tall and vaulted with massive timbers, and the decor was cream-colored with redwood accents. To my left, a photograph on the wall showed my host in nautical garb in front of an enormous sailboat, a cheesy smile on his face. The room was dominated by the picture window and its sweeping view of the city, which no doubt accounted for at least a quarter-million of the home’s worth.

Toller handed me a delicately fluted glass, then sat beside me on the couch, disturbingly close. I could feel his thigh touching mine.

“The National Organization for Women,” he said, grinning. “That’s a new one. But I like it.”

I smiled tentatively. Better humor him. “Well, we aim to please, Mr.Toller.”

“Please . . . call me Bert,” he said, and inched closer. I scooted further away along the couch.

“Let’s see,” he continued, settling back. “They’ve sent meter maids, policewomen, and even a someone who said she was an olympic gymnast. You should have seen the thighs on that woman . . .” His voice took on a dreamy tone, as if fondly remembering moments of athletic ardor. He placed a hand on the inside of my thigh.

Toller was good looking, in an old-fashioned way, but I’m one-hundred percent heterosexual, so I removed his hand from my leg and moved further away. Unfortunately, I was about out of couch.

“Hard to get. I like that, too.” He leaned close, breathing deeply. I felt like a deer caught in the headlights — I knew what was coming, but was powerless to stop it. He kissed me tenderly on the mouth — his lips were soft and supple, and tasted like fresh mint. When his tongue slithered into my mouth, I decided I’d had enough and took decisive action — I disengaged and fell off the end of the couch.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I screamed. At times of stress my voice tends to drop down into my male register; fortunately, that didn’t happen this time.

Confusion replaced lust on Toller’s face. “Aren’t you from Lady Sheila’s?”

“I told you . . . I’m from N-O-W.” I emphasized the letters.

“I, uh . . . I’m terribly sorry, I’m afraid I’ve mistaken you for someone else. My wife’ll be home about six . . . maybe you could come back then.” Heheld out his hand to help me from the floor, his face a bright crimson.”Listen, Miss. . . ”

“Ms. Johnson.”

“Ms. Johnson. Can’t this just be our little secret? I can make it worth your while . . .”

“Mister Toller! This is just the kind of thing that we’re trying to combat.” I was actually enjoying this, in a perverse kind of way, and did my best to appear outraged. Finally, I sighed. “However, I am conducting a survey, and cannot bias it in any way, so when I interview your wife, I’ll not mention it.”

He was almost pathetically grateful, prancing around me like a puppy as he showed me out. In the open doorway, I turned back toward him, intending to make sure of the time his wife was expected.

“I really appreciate this, Ms. Johnson,” he began. Then his eyes looked beyond me and widened in surprise. “Sweetheart — I didn’t expect you so early. T-this is Ms. Johnson, from the National . . .”

As I began to turn around, I heard what sounded like an axe hitting a ripe melon. Everything began to grow dark, and lights began to dance before my eyes, and I remember thinking Oh . . . that wasn’t a melon, that was my head.

Pain. Throbbing, jolting, epiphanous pain. Pain was my universe, the landscape of my mind. I opened my eyes briefly, and there was pain.

And Madonna.

Madonna? Curiosity got the better of me, so I opened my eyes again.Yep, that’s Madonna, all right. What’s she doing here? I shifted my eyes to the right, and there was Anita Bryant. God! Madonna and Anita, in the same place? Alert the media! I wrenched my eyes back to the Material Girl. She glared down at me with a sneer, her boobs all metallic and pointy. My tits are better . . . so there! I flicked my eyes to the left, and saw Jesus, Our Lord and Savior, standing in his robes, with a beatific smile on his face. NOW you’re gonna get it, Madonna . . . Jesus is here, and he hates your boobs too . . . Darkness again.

When consciousness returned, the throbbing in my head had diminished a fraction. Cautiously I opened my eyes, and sure enough, there was Jesus again. Oh, shit . . . I’m dead. I hope He doesn’t hold a little thing like makeup or mini skirts against me . . . wait . . . I squinted at the Lord, who hadn’t moved a muscle, and relief flooded over me — it was just a cardboard cutout. I looked over, and saw that the same was true of Madonna and Anita. What the hell kind of place IS this, anyway?

Then I became aware of a burning sensation in my wrists; when I looked down I saw they were bound tightly together — my legs were tied together as well –and I was secured to a wooden chair in a basement. The walls were adorned with the strangest assortment of posters I’d ever seen. Directly opposite me was a larger-than-life image of Michael Keaton as Batman (not that upstart Kilmer, I was glad to see), who seemed to be sneering at the back of Madonna’s head. Next to him was a Boris Vallejo print of a voluptuous warrior maiden, complete with sword, leather harness and a caption that read “Sheenara, Queen of Zamora.” And, presiding over the whole set-up was a huge poster of the original Madonna, aka the Virgin Mary, hand raised in benediction and gently smiling.

As I sat contemplating the bizarre imagery, I heard a door open behind me and the clicking of heels descending unseen stairs. A small woman — Sherry Toller, from Frieda’s description — came into my field of vision wearing a maroon choir robe, carrying a crossbow in one hand and my bloody wig in the other. Things began to get really surreal at that point.

She ignored me and placed my wig on the cardboard Madonna’s head, lovingly arranging the curls and humming “Shall We Gather at the River” under her breath. Stepping back, she surveyed her handiwork for a moment, then turned to the effigy of Jesus and placed the crossbow into a crook of his arm, carefully aiming at the Material Girl.

“Lord Jesus,” she said, in a mellifluous voice, “I await thy will.” She leaned toward the Savior and cupped her ears. “What was that? Oh, yes — I quite agree . . . time for that slutto go to her reward.”

She triggered the crossbow in one swift movement, sending the bolt flying intoMadonna with a loud thwack. The cutout sailed backwards until it crashed into Mary and clattered face-down onto the floor, my wig still affixed to its head.

“Straight into the arms of the blessed Virgin,” Toller said, nodding in satisfaction. She produced another arrow from under her robe, re-armed Our Redeemer, and carefully aimed him at me. I started to shiver uncontrollably.

“Well, now, aren’t you the prettiest little thing? I saw you at that den of vipers, you and your little lesbo girlfriend, and I thought you were a woman, but now I see you’re just a dirty little faggot.” Her eyes were bulging now,and a sheen of sweat beaded her forehead. “Jesus hates faggots. Don’t you, Jesus?”

She stopped talking and again cupped her hand over her ear.”What was that, Anita? You hate fairies too? I know you do, dear . . . you fought the good fight, but there’s still a lot of them around, aren’t there?” Her hands began to writhe in front of her like a nest of snakes.

“Mrs. Toller,” I said, my voice a hoarse croak. “I-I’m not a homosexual, I’m just . . . undercover on a case . . .”

“Silence!” she thundered, taking a step towards me. “`The woman shall not wear that which pertaineth unto a man, neither shall a man put on a women’s garments for all that do so are abomination unto the Lord thy God.'” She took another step closer, hands raised toward the heavens.

It was clear that the fate of the faux Madonna would soon be mine, and that I had only one chance. I needed her to come just a little closer for it to work.

Cocking my head to one side, I said “Jesus? What was that you said? You think I’m beautiful? Why thank you, Lord.”

For just a second, Toller looked puzzled, but her expression quickly turned to outrage. She screamed “Blasphemer!” and took another step toward me. I leaned forward in the chair and convulsively straightened my legs, driving my head into her stomach. We rocketed backwards across the room and clattered into the cardboard Jesus.I heard a muffled click, accompanied by a chunk, and Sherry’s body shuddered spasmodically where it lay underneath me. Then, all was still,and I felt a spreading warmth as her blood soaked my clothing.

Struggling to my knees, the chair digging into my back, I found myself staring down into Sherry Toller’s wide-eyed, sightless face. Blood seeped out of a hole in her chest where tip of the arrow protruded — it had gone almost all the way through her body. Peering around her shoulder was benevolent smile of the Lamb of God.

“Thank you, Jesus,” I whispered, before I passed out.

Epilogue

Frenchy held my hand in the back of the ambulance all the way to Sacred Heart. Preliminary indications were a severe concussion and a possible fractured skull, but the medics had pumped me full of morphine, and I was feeling no pain. Strangely, though, I was still awake.

“Didja see Jesus?” I asked Frenchy brightly.

“Yeah, I saw him.”

“Did he look pissed off?”

“You really ought to get some rest . . .”

“Have y’ever thought about how strange love is? I mean, Bert Toller was a womanizing slime-bucket and everything, but he still loved that loony-tune.” I giggled. “After all, he knewshe was going around offing lesbians and all, but he stood by his woman . . . Hey! Wasn’t that a song title?”

“That was Stand by Your Man, Dawn. Something women seem to be a lot better at than you men.” She paused. “Anyway, as far as I’m concerned, love is just a mess of hormones that inflate some things up and deflate others.”

I peered owlishly up at her. “Well, I love you, Frenchy . . .”

She sighed, and leaned over to kiss me on the cheek. “I love you, too.”

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Dawn Benedict in Murder at the Lavender and Leather was written by Rachael Robbins and originally ran on TGForum in the 1990s.

Tags: crossdressing, Dawn Benedict, detective fiction, featured, Rachael Robbins

Category: Fiction, Transgender Fun & Entertainment