Always Kiss the Corpse (15 page)

“Plan to come up while they're on the Island,” Noel was saying. “We can have a big meal. Or at the parents' in Qualicum.”

“Love to. Is Seth still working for the space program?”

“Yes. I've never figured out exactly what he does. Just Astrophysics, he says.”

“And Jan?”

“New job with autistic children.”

“Oooh. Hard.” Kyra pulled into the lane behind her condo and flicked her remote. She parked. They collected the groceries.

Upstairs, while Kyra put the groceries away, Noel opened his laptop and wrote up the Triple-I bill: 2.25 days @ $500/day X 2 = $2250. A short report: definitely Alessandro Vasiliadis in the coffin. Death certificate available upon request; requests from the family only.

“What do you think?” he yelled at Kyra. “Is Maria an
A
or a
B
?” He meant their categories for billings.
A
got the full bill,
B
some dispensation.

Kyra appeared in the doorway. “Her house would indicate
B
.”

“That's what I think. I'll half it.”

“But she said send the bill to Andrei.”

“Oh, right. He has a transport company, doesn't he. I won't half it then.” Noel turned on the printer and produced the report and the bill. He located Andrei Vasiliadis' fax number in his address book, and sent off the printout.

When he came out of the study, Kyra had made them each a grilled cheese sandwich. Then she buzzed about tidying, setting the table, cleaning the bathroom. Noel busied himself with lamb and apricots. Then nothing but waiting till six.

≈  ≈  ≈

The light was fading over the harbor beyond Kyra's window. A minute after six and the phone beeped: the downstairs entry. Kyra spoke, pressed nine, headed for the door, opened it.

“Your friends are on time.”

“Sarah the Prompt.”

Elevator door opening, footsteps muffled by hall carpet, appearance of a tall, thin, dark-haired woman holding a casserole dish before her and large petit-point bag over her shoulder. Kyra took the casserole, Sarah fished in her bag and produced a wine bottle. Greetings and introductions, and Noel Franklin met Sarah Millbank. Kyra took the casserole into the kitchen.

Noel said, “Like some of your wine?”

“Thanks.” Sarah reached into her bag again, “Indoor shoes,” produced one, the other.

Is she Canadian? To Kyra he shouted, “Coats in your bedroom?”

“Couch in the study, please!”

His bedroom. Oh well.

Sarah, re-shod, shrugged out of her coat. Noel carried it away. She advanced to the living room and looked around. “Oh, it's stunning.” She walked to the sliding glass door. “What a gorgeous view!”

“The couple of cubic feet right where you're standing? They're actually mine.” Kyra's smile contradicted her solemn tone. “The rest is the bank's.”

“But the bank lets you live here.”

“For a hefty monthly fee.” The phone beeped again. Kyra went to attend.

Noel filled a glass and handed it to Sarah. Reaching for it she moved like a willowy model. Then she slouched, and the willow became a stick. A commotion in the foyer. “Kyra tells me you're a recreation therapist.”

“Yes. And you're her detective partner.”

Several pots and three bags headed through to the kitchen. Noel caught flashes of two small blondes and a stocky man. Kyra and an armful of coats made their way to the couch. Chatter, dither, clatter. Noel glanced at Sarah, who smiled complicitly: let's stay out of there. Noel nodded.

“Recreation therapy sounds challenging,” he threw out.

“It can be. You get the body moving and things shift in the psyche.”

“Sounds complicated. How did you meet Kyra?”

“The juggling club.” Sarah slouched further and sipped wine. “A pretty informal group.” She smiled.

The kitchen area calmed into organization and instructions. Dishes clanked into oven or fridge. People emerged, shepherded by Kyra. He'd best open more wine. He liked his new corkscrew present disguised as a hollow rocket. Should've bought two.

Kyra introduced Sarah and Noel.

“Ah, the other detective,” the man said, sticking his hand out. “I'm Mike Ferris.”

Noel shook it. “Hello.” Kyra's lock-pick teacher. A red tinge to his close-cropped hair. His freckled face seemed relaxed and open. Forty-two, forty-five, around his own age.

“This is Margery.” Kyra touched the shoulder of the taller small blonde. Noel remembered: she ran the investigation department for Puget Sound Life and had brought Kyra into detecting. About his age also, Noel guessed, incipient plumpness held in check. She looked commonsensical.

“And this is Bettina—”

“Lawrence,” Bettina offered quickly. “Bettina Lawrence.”

“She's just moved to Bellingham.”

“This week.”

“Where from?” Sarah asked.

“Spokane. I wanted the coast, but not Seattle.” The descriptor that came to Noel was:
pert
. No taller than five-one. Margery, beside her, looked huge at maybe five-four.

“My sister's neighbor,” Margery explained to all.

“Wine, everyone?” Noel asked.

“Indeed.” Pert Bettina directed a conspiratorial smile directly at Noel. Her nose turned up slightly at the tip. She stepped forward, picked up a glass, held it out. Blonde hair, professionally streaked. Noel poured.

“We're missing Jerome.” Kyra glanced at the clock. Twenty past six. Maybe something horrendous had happened to Nelson the Dog. She should be so lucky.

Kyra set crackers, cream cheese, smoked salmon on the buffet. Sarah took the plate and passed it around. Kyra left, returned with oyster-stuffed artichokes, a baked brie, Melba toast. Noel the sommelier relaxed—all glasses were filled.

“Margery says you're detectives,” chirped Bettina. “Tell us about your cases!”

Noel looked at Kyra, Kyra at Noel. Both knew the other's reaction
: Oh fuck
. But Bettina had voiced what all wanted to know and the group was primed.

Noel became responsible. “After a case, we respect our client's privacy.”

“Oh, sure.” Bettina laughed. “Margery said you specialize in islands. Which island was your last one on? I'm really looking forward to visiting all the islands!”

“At Puget Sound,” Margery cut in, “we never name names or locations. But maybe Kyra can mention some details.”

Kyra cocked her head, shrugged, and said slowly, “We recently had a case that involved transgendering.”

Damn, Noel thought. Come on, Kyra, act professionally and keep quiet.

“Oh, which way?” Bettina sipped, giving him her full attention.

She shouldn't have started on this. Sidestep. “Male to female is the most common.”

“Most common,” repeated Bettina. “But the power imbalance goes the other way.”

“Huh?” Mike grunted.

“Like tomboys?” Sarah looked at Kyra. “Girls and women have less power so they're freer to ape male roles. In rec therapy I get a lot of tomboys.”

“Well,” Mike acceded, “maybe some lucky girls get to be tomboys. But what about the boy who dresses up in his mother's dress and high heels and she scolds him. Or he needs to cry and he's told little men don't cry.”

“Hah.” Noel leaned back. Shift. Now. “We had an interesting case a few weeks ago. Everybody on that island has a generator, and a saboteur was messing with them—”

“I think,” Bettina sat forward on the sofa. “It's wrong to surgically alter your body. You only have to alter your mind. If you go in deep you'll find your true inner sexual self.”

They looked at her. Three people drained their glasses.

Margery passed hummus, pita, olives. Kyra glanced at Noel. Where was Jerome? She'd figured him for greater punctuality.

Kyra excused herself. In the kitchen she checked the progress of food warming and chilling.

“The thing about the generators—”

Margery broke in: “Had your client had the surgery?”

One more answer, then
Enough
. “No, still at the hormone stage.” And clearly enough about generators. Noel got up, brought out and opened bottles of white and red, and set them on the table. “Serve yourselves.” The transgendering talk lived on.

Bettina cut a chunk of brie, slabbed it on a cracker, and took off on another tack. “I'm going to change careers, I'm tired of aesthetics.” She spoke directly to Noel. “Did I say I'm in the middle of getting divorced?”

“No,” said Noel.

“And I'm going into grief counseling.”

“I see.”

She smiled sweetly. “So if you have any bereaved clients—?”

“That too has to be confidential.” Noel spoke firmly.

“I've been researching and can tell them where their loved one can be buried.”

Sarah said, “Doesn't a funeral director do that?”

“Did you know,” Bettina said, “that suicides can't be buried in sanctified cemeteries? That's the way I can help people. I'll get some cards made and you can give them to people who hire you.”

“I don't think that'd be appropriate,” said Kyra. But
sanctified cemeteries
was good.

Margery said, “Puget Life had a policy holder, this heavy guy who drove an excavator, and one day on a steep slope the machine rolled down the hill. Well, the company didn't want to pay the claim because we'd insured him as a woman. Which he'd been. It was all quite startling. In the end, though, we did have to pay.”

“Didn't she tell the company she'd switched?” asked Bettina.

Margery shrugged. “No.”

“It'd be more interesting if he'd stayed an excavator woman,” said Sarah.

“Society has to tolerate a greater variety of behavior,” Bettina advanced. “Everybody should stay what they are and not have to switch. Or not break up marriages just 'cause you want variety. My husband left me after twenty-two years for a twenty-year-old bimbo.”

Assorted mutters of sympathy.

“You seem to be doing pretty well,” Margery observed of Bettina.

“I'm going to make it hard for her. And him.”

“You have children?” Mike inquired.

“No.” Bettina paused. “I did. She had cystic fibrosis. She died at eleven.”

Intakes of breath. “How sad,” said Sarah. “I'm sorry.”

Bettina inclined her head. “It was dreadful.”

“God, to lose a child—” Mike said.

Margery nodded. “You have children, Mike?”

He laughed. “Not that I know of.”

Simpatico, Noel thought. Not gay.

“You married?” Bettina smiled innocently.

“Nope.” Mike turned to Margery. “Nearly, a couple of times.”

Nice shifting away from Bettina, Noel thought.

But the woman persisted. “What do you do, Mike?”

Now he gave her his full attention. “Recently I spent some time in a male institution.”

“Oh? A boys' school? I don't approve of segregated education.”

“A different kind of academy. Courtesy of the State of Washington.” He winked, and Noel laughed. “Of course I was wrongly convicted.”

“Oh?” inquired Sarah, just as Bettina pronounced: “Prison.” She paused for a single breath. “If a man has a sex change, would they put him in a men's or women's prison?”

Kyra headed for the office phone. She picked it up and dialed Jerome's number.

“Maybe it depends how far along you are.” Mike slid away from Bettina's question. “All I know is male prison. But some inmates get turned into chickens.”

“Aha!” Bettina so near to physically lunged that Mike backed up in his chair. “That upholds my theory of bisexuality. Men with men are homosexual, but once out they choose women! And besides—”

“I think it's more complicated than that,” Noel interrupted. Sarah nodded.

Kyra listened to Jerome's phone ring ten times. She set hers down. Where was he? A sharp ring, she jumped, then picked it up. A dial tone. Ring! The other phone, the business line. Should she answer? Ring!

≈  ≈  ≈

Of course there'd be no answer at seven in the evening, Andrei thought after the third ring.

Then someone picked up. “Islands Investigations International.”

“Yes. Ms. Rachel or Mr. Franklin, please.”

“This is Kyra Rachel.”

“Ah. Ms. Rachel. This is Andrei Vasiliadis, Maria Vasiliadis' brother-in-law. I believe she hired you regarding my nephew Sandro.”

“Yes.”

“And you reported to her that the body in the coffin was indeed Sandro. It's quite terrible and Maria is in considerable despair.”

“I'm sorry, but we were taken on to—”

“I understand. But, and correct me if I'm misstating this, she did not hire you to discover that Sandro was transgendering his body.”

“No, but—”

“It's unfortunate you passed on this information to her, Ms. Rachel.”

“In our line of work we decide what someone who hires us needs to know. Given the circumstances, we figured Mrs. Vasiliadis needed this information.”

“We in the family feel you've made a grave mistake.”

“Sorry about that, but you in the family didn't hire Triple-I.”

Okay, it didn't sound like he could guilt her. Andrei sighed, audibly. “In a real sense, Ms. Rachel, I did, since I'm paying your fee. But never mind. May I speak with you in confidence?”

“If you speak quickly. I'm in the middle of a meeting.”

“Our great concern now is to bury Sandro in the correct fashion, according to his community and his religion. With as little distraction as possible. We are letting the community and the family know he died accidentally of a drug reaction. Some might learn heroin was involved. But no one must discover that Sandro was transforming himself. The shame to the family, and especially to poor Maria, would be overwhelming. So I urge you, Ms. Rachel, in the strongest possible manner, to seal your file about Sandro. And, if I may add, your lips as well.”