“Would you have his home phone number?”
“You think Marcus killed Denise?”
“Since he was here that night, maybe he saw something.”
“Being a policeman, he’d have reported it if he saw something.”
“Still, I’d like to talk to him.”
“I don’t give out the home numbers of our volunteers.”
“She’s-a no gonna help,” said Bruno. “We try the second floor. Maybe murderer there.”
Old houses certainly have their drawbacks, foremost among them the high ceilings, which make for steep stairs. If Dr. Tagalong could have seen me puffing up those stairs, she’d have wanted to put me in an exercise class.
16
Canvassing on Two
Carolyn
T
he Working Women
and Child-Care Referral offices were closed for a meeting upstairs. In the B section, Legal Services was closed, but Penny Widdister, a slender, jittery, cocoa-colored woman, was manning the Battered Women’s Advocacy. A lush philodendron decorated her bay window and an array of delicate glass figures, some broken and glued back together, adorned her desk. When we knocked, she jumped nervously and eyed Bruno as if he meant her harm.
After introductions, I explained our mission. She said, “Thank God, I wasn’t here that night. I hate violence.” The poor woman blinked back tears. “In fact, I’d never have let the director talk me into this job, even on an interim basis, if I hadn’t thought Myra would be well sooner so Denise could come back. Now Denise is dead, Myra is still sick, and I’m terrified. I’ll just have to find some other volunteer activity to satisfy N.A.P.C.P. requirements.”
P.C.P.? Wasn’t that a dangerous chemical? I’d have to ask Jason.
“. . . Association for the Protection of Colored People, all ladies of good family and strong church affiliation. Unfortunately, many women of color, not our members of course, are abused by men. It’s very sad. But I don’t care. I’m not doing this anymore.”
“I can understand that the plight of the clients must break your heart,” I said sympathetically.
“Well, yes, but it’s the men. They come in here and threaten me because I’m not allowed to tell them where we’ve housed their wives for safekeeping and their poor little children.”
“And you weren’t here last Thursday?”
“No, Kebra was. And I wish I hadn’t been here Wednesday, either. That’s the night a man named Piñon came in and screamed at me. I told him to go away or I’d call the police. I had my hand on the telephone. He said he’d kill me if I called the police. I—I panicked and threw the telephone at him.”
“Good for you,” said Bruno. “Is a smart move.”
“No, it wasn’t. Denise was irritated because I broke the phone, and I was terrified because I had to run by him while he was cursing and staggering around with his head bleeding, and Margaret said we might get sued because I injured him, and I locked myself in the bathroom until he went away, but by the time the police arrived, he was gone, and the director was peeved because she said the police and sirens made the center look like a dangerous place.” Penny then burst into tears. “And he broke four of my glass figurines before he left.”
I asked gently, “Would you have a name or address for Freddie Piñon?” Why hadn’t Timatovich told me Piñon had been here Wednesday night? Maybe Piñon had slipped in twice.
“Do you think he killed Denise?” Penny asked. “I hope he goes to jail forever. It’s so silly to think the professor killed her. Old ladies don’t kill people.” She rummaged through a drawer and pulled out the file on Frederico and Graciella Piñon. “Denise got Gracie into a shelter the first time, but he found her and went to jail because he hit the director of the shelter. Then Gracie went to another shelter; I don’t even know which one. That information is in the safe. When he got paroled, he came right back here. I consider him very dangerous.”
I agreed and wrote down the telephone number and address of the evil Freddie’s mother, the name of his halfway house, at which he would no longer be residing, and the name and number of his parole officer. Obviously he had to be investigated, but I didn’t want to do it. “Do you have a home number for Kebra Zenawi? Since she was here Thursday, I’d like to talk to her.”
“Oh, Kebra wouldn’t have killed Denise. She adored her. Denise is the reason Kebra volunteers here.”
“Yes, but she might have seen someone suspicious.”
“Of course. What a good idea! It’s so frightening to think a murderer may still be lurking around. Waiting to kill someone else.” She started to tremble.
I patted her hand and told her she was a very brave woman, a little white lie, but it seemed to make her feel better. When she’d calmed down, I went next door to the Women of Color office, and Bruno stayed to talk philodendron care with Penny. Bertha Harley, a sturdy black woman, possibly fifty or so, greeted me. She was going gray, but her skin was completely unwrinkled. Twin children sat on her floor playing jacks and giggling.
To me she said, “Wrong color, honey.” To the children, she said, “Stop with the gigglin’, babies. We got us some company.” The children stopped giggling, looked at me, round-eyed, and then went back to their game.
Very well behaved,
I thought,
especially for preschoolers.
I repeated my standard introduction and statement of purpose, then smiled down at the little ones. “Your twins?” I asked.
“Lord no, honey. My grandbabies. My no-good daughter got herself hooked on crack cocaine. I beat up her dealer, but she jus’ went out an’ got herself another one, so I took the babies to raise. No baby should hafta live with a crackhead mother. Sounds like you’re related to Vera, so I’ll jus’ tell you up front, no way Vera Blue killed poor ole Denise. Vera is good folks. ’Fore she went off to jail, she was helpin’ with our protest against the Timberlite people. Knows a lot about protestin’, she does. Also knows a lot about gettin’ the goods on no-good exploiters of poor women in need of cheap housin’. That Mr. Eric Timberlite, he gonna end up in jail himself if Vera still on his case.”
“I see.” My lord, what if Denise was killed and Vera framed to get them off the land developer’s back. No wonder his wife had tried to keep me from investigating. “Was Denise involved in the protest movement as well?”
“Lord no, honey. Wouldn’t even cough up money for picket signs, but I got ’em made in the neighborhood, so we’re in good shape for the demonstration. Hope you can get Vera out in time to march with us.”
“Yes, I hope so too. Were you here the night of the murder, Mrs. Harley?”
“God bless you, no, chile. Got choir practice at the church on Thursday nights. My clients know not to come then. Doubt there was a woman a color in the house.”
She was wrong about that. “Do you know of anyone who disliked Denise?”
“Sure do. Denise was a real penny pincher, jus’ sayin’ no to everybody need money, but none of ’em be killin’ her. I give it some thought, and I figgered maybe Bad Girl. Denise tole Doctor Rosie that puttin’ a psycho in the art class like to raise the insurance rates an’ scare off clients. That Bad Girl is some mean chile, an’ she hear what Denise say ’bout her an’ come out screamin’ words no Christian woman would use, but then likely the closest that one git to God be one fallen angel name Satan.”
“What’s her real name?”
“Don’ know that. She live in a shelter over in the Haight, or sometime on the street. Gets her pills from a free clinic. Doctor Rosie say she fine if she take them meds, but I swear she don’ take ’em much. Bad Girl prob’ly be over there paintin’ murals in C buildin’ right this minute. Part of therapy, tha’s Doctor Rosie’s dumb idea. Bad Girl, she like to scare poor ole Fiona half to death, but maybe they know her real name over there. You could try.”
I thanked Mrs. Harley, who called after me, “Jus’ look for the T-shirt. It say
Bad Girl
front an’ back, an’ she wear it everyday.” Then I collected Bruno and made my way, reluctantly, down the stairs to 2-C, another large room like the kitchen. What a sight it was! On the far side by the bay window stood a huge grand piano, badly scarred and so heavy it caused the floor to sag. The rest of the room had large plasterboard wall sections used for mural painting, tables, easels, music stands, boxes of supplies, and a lady wearing a pink shirtwaist dress trying to encourage a group of black and Hispanic women in the art of flower painting on dishes.
I introduced myself and Bruno in a furtive whisper while I glanced around. Several of the painters looked scary. “Do you have a student called Bad Girl?” I asked. “Mrs. Harley in Women of Color mentioned her.”
Fiona Morell sighed. “She’s the one painting knives on a teacup.”
“Knives?”
“Yes, she simply has no interest in flowers or any other
nice
subject. Even the mural painters, who aren’t usually that fussy, become irritated when she paints knives into the hands of their figures. Those who don’t think they’re twenty-first-century Diego Riveras want to emulate gang graffiti artists. It’s very distressing to me, I must say.”
“Perhaps you could tell me her real name.”
“Well, she
says
it’s Martina L. King, but that’s just a lie. Dr. King believed in the peaceful principles of Ma hatma Ghandi. If you want to speak to her, I can call her over, but that’s not a guarantee she’ll come. I don’t think she likes other white people. Even when she’s taking her medication.”
“We gotta go upstairs,” said Bruno, who had been listening to the conversation and looking from Mrs. Morell to a white girl three easels to the rear wearing a black T-shirt and a head of dusty dreadlocks. Since Martina L. King looked terrifying and seemed to make those around her nervous, I cravenly allowed myself to be urged away. Had she been here Thursday? I’d ask around, and if she had, I’d suggest that Dr. Tagalong talk to her, or her psychiatrist, if she had one.
17
Canvassing the Attic
Carolyn
T
he child-care
and working women were stampeding down from the meeting as we took the stairs to the third floor. One asked Bruno if he was planning to change his sex, which he took amiss. For just one horrified moment, I thought they did the operations upstairs, but of course that was nonsense. They probably provided counseling. A wave of exhaustion washed over me. It had been a long day, and instead of more interviews, I’d rather have gone home for a nice, end-of-the-afternoon nap.
Our first encounter was with Kara Meyerhof, a blonde in the Lesbian and Transsexual office. She was alone and typing industriously at a computer. When she noticed us, she saved her work and rose for a hearty introduction and handshake. My, she was tall. At least six feet. Bruno’s mouth dropped open.
When I told her who we were, her whole face brightened. “Vera’s daughter-in-law. A fellow
writer
!”
“Well, yes, but her writing is much more academic than mine. Not that I don’t try to add some history to my columns, but—”
“No dear,
I’m
a fellow writer. Historical romances.”
“Really,” I said weakly. Was she writing lesbian romances?
“Yes indeed. I have at least
twenty
in print. I was just finishing a scene for my newest,
Frontier Passion.
”
Had there been lesbians on the frontier?
“I’ve been winning awards for romance for
years,
” she added proudly. “I just couldn’t attend the conferences to pick them up. It’s so much
easier
now that I’m a woman. Although the formal banquets
can
be a problem. I can’t seem to find an evening gown that looks good on me because of my wide shoulders.”
Evidently she wasn’t a lesbian. “Maybe you could get some advice from Yasmin Atta,” I suggested. “She teaches classes here on makeup and clothing selection.”
“I had no
idea.
Yasmin, the famous model and founder of Nightshades, Inc.? We never hear
anything
up here on three. And I can’t
thank
you enough for the suggestion. Yasmin would be
perfect.
She’s
very
tall, you know.”
“Actually, I don’t, but I’m having lunch with her Wednesday.”
“Isn’t that
exciting
!” Kara sat down and said, “Would you like to hear an excerpt from my chapter. It’s really
hot,
if I do say so myself. I’m sure the reviewers will put this book in the
very sensual
category. Isn’t that ironic? Women all over the country love my romances, and I can’t even get a
date.
Men just don’t want us to be
really
tall. Unless we look like Yasmin, of course.” She peered at her screen and began to read, “Parker rolled his muscular body over onto her slender—”
Bruno sputtered and turned red. I quickly intervened, saying, “I’m afraid I wouldn’t be any help at all as a critic. I don’t read romances.”
Kara giggled. “I should have known.
Vera
probably won’t let you. She gives me
such
a hard time about writing things that objectify women as sexual objects, instead of providing role models that will inspire them to overcome the prejudices of the patriarchy. I just tell her that I need a
date
more than I need a
lecture.
”
“Actually, I’m trying to find out who killed Denise Faulk,” I said.
“Well,
I
certainly didn’t. Denise was always
very
nice to me. Not everybody here is. And
Vera
certainly didn’t kill Denise. The police should be ashamed of themselves, and I told them so. I said it was probably some
dope addict
trying to rob the business office. Of course, they did-n’t pay any attention to
me,
except for the black policewoman, who said, ‘Jesus, you’re tall. How tall are you?’ I
hate
that.”
“Did the center keep money in the business office?” I asked hopefully.
“I have
no
idea, but it’s a good theory, don’t you think? It makes more sense than blaming Vera. I
tried
to visit her over the weekend, but you have to have an appointment, and I didn’t get there in time. They
did
let me leave the cookies I baked for her. Does she like cookies?”