Dawn Benedict — TV Private Eye: Chapter 3: A Suspect, of Sorts

| Nov 17, 2014
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Murder at the Lavender and Leather

By Rachael Robbins

[Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] [Chapter 4]

magnifyEverything was murky and out of focus, like a photo shot through a filter to hide an aging actress’ wrinkles. Frenchy and I laughed and drank in the vinyl booth, shouting to be heard above the music, and on the seat beside her Lise the bartender smiled broadly, flirting with me and everything else in skirts. I’ve gotta go pee-pee, I said in a little girl’s sing-song. My companions thought that was outrageously funny.

I stood before the bathroom mirror and fine-tuned my makeup. The door behind me opened slowly, and in the mirror I could see Lise’s smiling features, but when I turned around her face changed before my eyes and bled into a hideous mask of death. The stench of decay filled the room and a large pistol appeared in her hand; it was pointed at my breasts. I saw, somehow, both the gun — knuckles tightened on the trigger — and her idiot grin. A spout of flame leapt from the pistol’s muzzle, and thunder bellowed in my ears.

I awoke sweating, nightgown plastered to my body and sheets binding my legs, and sat shaking on the bedside. The alarm howled shrilly; I reached out and swept the thing off the nightstand. Only three hours since I’d gotten to bed . . . it felt like I hadn’t slept at all.

I stripped the nightgown from my body and shuffled over to the bathroom, stopping before the mirror. Christ, what a mess — bags under the eyes, stubble on the legs, a few extra pounds around the middle; it’d take a miracle before I’d look like a prom queen again.

After a shower, which helped only marginally, I donned a robe and plopped down on the sofa in my tiny living room, a mug of coffee in hand. My siamese, Coccinelle, sat on the other end of the couch eyeing me fishily, no doubt disappointed that I wasn’t wearing pantyhose he could shred. I stared back at him as I thought about the debacle of the evening before.

Frenchy had found me staring stupidly at Lise’s body, where it was draped across the toilet in the tiny bathroom at the Lavender and Leather. She escorted me through the phalanx of angry women, fending them off by the force of her glare, and by the time homicide arrived I was huddled in one of the booths with a stiff drink. I looked up into the gaunt face of my old partner, Bernie Peterson.

“Hi, Donnie. Kinda surprised to see you here . . . this doesn’t seem like your kind of joint.”

“I have a client who is interested in seeing these murders solved. Unlike, apparently, Seattle P.D.” I could see by the stricken look on my old friend’s face that my jibe had struck home, but I couldn’t stop myself. “I’m a little surprised this is your case, Bern. I mean, it’s not being handled with your usual speed and efficiency. What’s the matter . . . victims not hetero enough for you?” I could hear angry muttering among the onlooking women; Frenchy watched impassively.

“C’mon, Don, give me a break,” said Peterson, eyeing the crowd warily. “We got other cases, you know . . .”

“Yeah, I know,” I replied, disgusted.

And I did. I knew about the “other cases,” the ones involving more . . . mainstream . . . members of Seattle society. Cases that pushed the murders of innocent women onto the back burner, women whose only crime was that they didn’t represent a big enough voting block. Well, I thought to myself as I sat there listening to Bernie’s excuses, I would make sure that Danielle and Lise got justice, that their murders would not go unavenged.

Now, I sat listening to a garbage truck whine outside and thought . . . right. Dawn Benedict, protector in panties, defender in a dress. The night before was a wonderful start — I’d gotten myself outed, nearly killed, and screwed up my only line of inquiry. And another murder had occurred right under my powdered nose. Fine P.I. I made.

Coccinelle yowled at me from where he sat on the end of the couch. “Shut up, furball,” I told him. “If I want to wallow in self-pity, I will.”

The cat glared at me for another second, then jumped gracefully off the couch and stalked toward the kitchen, tail flicking in annoyance. Christ, I thought, told off by a cat. Well, he was right — no sense in moping about. I heaved myself up and went back to the bedroom to get dressed.

I thought I’d better get dressed up, although I didn’t feel like it: maybe I could nose around some of the other lesbian hang-outs in the city — if the story of my previous night’s adventure hadn’t already made the rounds, that is. Anyway, I could change my appearance enough that, hopefully, nobody would recognize me. Last night I was a blonde; today, I’d be a brunette. Rooting around in my closet, I found a pantsuit, camisole and a dark wig, and got dressed. (I took great care with my tuck, because I didn’t want to repeat my gaffe of the night before.)

When I was done, I stood before one of my three full-length mirrors and examined myself critically. I’d certainly achieved the desired effect: standing before me was a lovely woman in secretary drag. Just a hint of cleavage peeked from the camisole’s lacy top, courtesy of a well-placed strip of moleskin, and delicate wire-framed glasses replaced my usual contact lenses. Doting on my image in the mirror, I reflected on the fact that after all these years I still felt the old, erotic charge upon seeing myself transformed into an attractive young woman.

OK, so maybe I’m a little vain.

I left my apartment ready to face the world (and in much better humor) and rang for the elevator at the end of the hall. As the door opened, I could see the landlord, Mrs. Jenkins, squatting like a malevolent toad in the compartment. She was one of those people whose mission in life is to know the business of everyone in the building; she marked the comings and goings of her tenants with lizard-like intensity. Now, she looked me up and down with her beady little eyes, her hands fidgeting with rosary beads that festooned her neck.

“Good morning, Don,” she said.

“Morning, Mrs. Jenkins.”

“On a case today, dear?”

We maintained the polite fiction that I only dressed like a woman when I was undercover. If she ever wondered why I did it so frequently, or why I never went undercover as a mailman or dock worker, she never asked. After all, this was Capitol Hill.

I nodded in the affirmative as the elevator mercifully lurched to a halt on the ground floor. Waving goodbye, I walked out the front door and peered around for my car in the rain. The latest front had hit Seattle with a thud in the night; all the colors were somber and subdued, like someone had turned down the color on a TV set. I saw my ancient Opal Cadette about a block away across the street and made a run for it.

The car rattled to life after only minimal cranking, and I saw the light turn yellow up ahead at the corner of Broadway. So I gunned the motor and screeched around the corner as it turned red, swearing in an unladylike manner as flashing blue lights appeared in the rear-view mirror. I pulled over and assumed my most beguiling smile as I rolled down the window.

The cop was good-looking in a teutonic, boy-next-door kind of way, and he stood politely by my door trying to look down the top of my camisole as I fumbled in my purse. Although I knew a few cooperative forgers from my old days on the force who could have provided me with any number of phony driver’s licenses, one thing I’d learned was never to screw around with the DMV. Not if you wanted to keep driving, that is. So, the card I handed the patrolman proclaimed my true name and sex — I hoped he only looked like a Nazi.

His eyes flicked between the picture on the license and my face. Here it comes, I thought, bracing for the worst.

But all he said was “This your current address, Miss?

When I nodded, he turned and sauntered back to his black-and-white, seemingly immune to the steadily falling rain, before returning after what seemed ages to hand my license in through the window.

“I’m gonna let you off with a warning this time. But next time, don’t try to beat the yellow. A few minutes one way or the other won’t make that big a difference.”

“Thank you, officer,” I said with a brilliant smile. “I’ll remember.”

He tore a pink slip off of his clipboard, and as he gave it to me he looked me directly in the eyes; I could feel the warmth of his hand that lingered in mine for just a little too long. I pulled sedately away from the curb, a pretty blush coloring my face, and noticed a second scrap of paper underneath the warning slip. On it I recognized a local phone number. Sometimes I thought there was hope yet for the Seattle P.D.

The stench of cigarette smoke assaulted me as I arrived at the office, and I could hear muffled voices behind my office door; I thought that Frenchy was entertaining one of her buddies. So I pushed open the door and stopped dead in my tracks at the threshold. Frieda — my tormentor from the night before — was leaning against my associate’s desk, gesticulating with her half-empty coffee cup, which sloshed all over the floor. As she looked in my direction, a scowl creased her face, and my fight-or-flight response took over.

The flight portion of that response is much better-developed than the fight part, so I turned on my heel and scuttled back out the door. Thank God for flats, I thought as I raced down the hall. Behind me, I heard the door to my office slam back on it’s hinges, and the flop-flopping of oversized army boots getting closer and closer. Just as I reached the door to the stairwell, there was an iron grip on my shoulder. Jesus, that woman could move! I twisted around, and caught sight of my panicked reflection in Frieda’s horned-rim glasses, but what surprised me was the ironic grin on her face.

“Don’t worry . . . I ain’t gonna hurt you,” she said, barely winded. “Christ. For a P.I., you sure are a chicken-shit.”

Back in my office, I managed to keep my distance from Frieda by always ensuring that there was a large piece of furniture between us. Frenchy looked on in open amusement at my maneuvers, and I suppose it was pretty funny . . . Frieda would walk over to the coffee pot, I’d retreat around the desk. She’d settle into the visitor’s chair, I’d scurry over to the coffee pot. As the conversation continued, however, I became more at ease, as I realized that the large woman was not there to rip off one of my arms.

“I admit I was pretty pissed off at you last night, trickin’ me the way you did,” she began. “It shocked me to feel your dick down there underneath that skirt you were wearin’. In case you didn’t know, we don’t like fake women in the Lavender.” It seemed to me that I’d heard that statement before — to give Frenchy credit, she didn’t say “I told you so.”

“Anyway,” Frieda continued, “Frenchy tells me I blew your cover, and since you were only tryin’ to find out who killed Danielle . . . well, I’m sorry about that.”

Safely installed in the Frenchy’s chair, a desk between us, I waved my hand expansively. No sweat, what’s done is done.

Frieda was silent for a moment. Then: “Did you mean what you said to that cop? I mean about bein’ pissed off at their half-assed attitude about solving this case?”

“With all my heart,” I replied. “Look — I’m a guy who likes to dress up like a woman, Okay? In my years in the police department I saw all kinds of shit leveled at people like me — cops using a bit more force than necessary while shaking down TVs for no apparent reason, with a little friendly blackmail thrown in from time to time. Tell you the truth, that’s the main reason I left the force. I couldn’t take it any more.”

“Well, look — after you and Frenchy left last night, and after that cop finished with his interviews, me and some of the others got together. What you said, the way you stood up for us, impressed us, ya know? So anyway, we put our heads together to try and see if we could figure out anything that’d help find Danielle and Lise’s killer. And, we didn’t come up with much, except . . .”

“Except what?” I prodded.

“Jesus, Benedict — this is tough. It’s like ratting on family.” She took a deep breath, and continued. “There’s this woman, she’s been comin’ to the bar only a couple of months. Name’s Sherry. She kinda keeps to herself, doesn’t say much to anybody, doesn’t really seem to fit in, you know?”

“Well, not fitting in isn’t a motive for murder, Frieda. Take it from me . . . I’m the queen of not fitting in.” That’s for sure, I heard Frenchy mutter under her breath.

“Yeah, well, the only ones Sherry ever had much to do with were Danielle and Sarah. After Danielle was killed, Sherry started cozying up to Lise. You know — hangin’ around the bar, almost flirting with her. I think Lise was flattered.”

“I don’t remember interviewing a Sherry,” I said, and started rummaging around in Frenchy’s desk, where I knew my notes from last night would be awaiting Frenchy’s typewriter. Frenchy was a miserable typist, and constantly complained that an “associate” didn’t do secretarial work.

“She didn’t come into the bar until late last night,” Frieda said. “I first noticed her about the time you and I started our little . . . fling.”

I sat back in the chair and thought about it. On the one hand, it certainly wasn’t much to go on . . . almost everybody in the Lavender and Leather had known Danielle and her lover, and certainly everyone had chatted Lise up at one time or another. After all, bartenders are magnets for people and their troubles. And the murderer didn’t have to be a regular at the bar — she (or, conceivably, he) could have been in the place only twice, once on each night of the killings.

On the other hand, I knew that murders are not generally committed by strangers — they usually are intimately bound with their victims, either by love or money. Sarah Carter claimed that Danielle had had eyes only for her, and everyone we’d interviewed in the bar agreed. That seemed to rule out love as a motive, which left money. If Frieda’s memory was accurate, Sherry first appeared at the Lavender shortly before the first murder and spent a lot of time with the first victim, before moving on to the second.

At this point, two lines of inquiry presented themselves. First, I could set about trying to find out what Sarah and Lise had in common; if Sherry (or somebody else) cropped up in both of their stories, we’d have a real suspect. This was the official, Detective School-approved method, and it was tedious, time-consuming, and not at all fun. It would involve much pouring through records, showing of identifications, and I’d have to do it dressed as a man. The second, and far easier, course would be to take the bull by the horns and jump on our only suspect with both high-heeled feet.

Lazy bitch that I am, I chose the latter, and decided to pay this Sherry woman a little visit. At the time, I had no idea that my aversion to work would get me into so much trouble.

Next: Sherry Pops a Fuse

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