Always Kiss the Corpse (33 page)

So when she arrived at Jerome's at two-thirty, still shaken, Kyra made herself park half a block away, sit still for five full minutes, get out and walk ten houses in the wrong direction.

She had slammed the guy. He threw up his arm to protect himself. Well, that was normal. He had slammed Noel. Right side of Noel's face. With his left hand. Noel said the guy was a lefty. Like Sandro. She headed back to the car, sat down, needed to run her experiment, already knew what she'd learn. From her purse she took a pen. If a pen were a syringe— She held the pen between the index and middle finger of her right hand and brought the point to the inside of her left elbow. She pressed the top with her thumb and let the pen slide between her fingers. Okay, that worked. She shifted the pen to her left hand, and repeated the gesture. Well, she could do it, she supposed, but being a righty she had far greater control with her right hand. Would a lefty use his right hand to inject himself in his dominant arm? Not likely.

She drove forward and pulled over to the curb. Her Tracker was the sole car on the street so Jerome would have thought it weird her parking so far away.

Jerome's home, a two-storey yellow-shingled house built in the thirties, was the largest on this side of the street. She rang the bell and heard Nelson pounding to the door, his bark preceding. What did Jerome see in that animal? Just because it had been Bev's, given her by their son when she first got sick. Kyra understood why Jerome needed to keep it. But.

Jerome and Nelson opened the door, the man by turning the handle and the dog by forcing nose, then body, through the opening. Nelson glanced up and barked again. “Nelson! Quiet!” Remarkably, the barking stopped. To Kyra, Jerome said, “Sorry. Hello.” He grabbed Nelson's collar, pulled him back from the door, and opened. “Come in.”

“Hi.” Kyra stepped into the hall. She had known one thing about the house before arriving: that Jerome had moved here five months ago because he couldn't continue to live in the house Bev had died in. And knew, as soon as she glanced to the living room, it needed lots of work. A solid stairwell and handsome banister led to the next floor, though the dull yellow was all wrong. Seemed like good bones, but shabby. Walls and wainscoting painted and rechipped too many times, ceilings graying, carpet worn. Painting wouldn't help till Jerome stripped the woodwork and tore up the carpeting. Right, a new carpet for Nelson.

“Your coat?”

Coat off, hung up. He led the way to the living room. The furniture was okay—large chair in a dark floral pattern with matching sofa, leather-teak lounger from the sixties with its own footstool, dark green leatherette armchair. Nelson, quarter German shepherd, quarter English setter, the other half a symphony of the streets, stood between her and Jerome and glared at her.

“Do sit down.”

Kyra did, on the leatherette chair. “Comfortable.”

“Thanks.” He studied her face. “But you're not sure about the house, are you?”

“What do you mean?” Was she that transparent?

“It needs work, I know that.” He smiled, a weariness around his eyes. “But when I think of what lies ahead—”

If he thinks painting isn't what it needs, why am I here? Hmm.

As if in answer, Nelson growled at her.

“Nelson! Stop it!”

Nelson barked twice.

“Okay, that's it.” Jerome pulled Nelson toward the kitchen. A door opened, closed. Jerome came back. “I don't know what gets into him sometimes.”

A mixture of German and English blood had gotten into Nelson, that's what. Forever warring in his veins. “So. Paint colors? Or larger changeover?”

“What do you think?”

Kyra stood, ran her hand along a door frame, rubbed her shoe over some badly worn carpet. “The place has great potential.” Except it was closing in on her. “But it's going to cost. Hey! Maybe you'll win the lottery.” The sense of reduced space shifted to sudden claustrophobia. “Why don't we head out and buy you a ticket. There's a bit of sun. We'll go for a walk.”

“Nelson would like that.” Jerome opened the kitchen door and the dog barreled in. He skidded to a stop when he saw Kyra was still there, and barked. “Nelson, stop!”

Why had she suggested this?

Nelson tugged Jerome along. Kyra walked fast, with some running steps, to keep up. At a corner store Kyra bought a lottery ticket while Jerome, outside, tried to prevent Nelson from tangling his leash around the lamp pole. Yes, she'd come here wondering about sex but felt very little draw from Jerome. She'd not had sex in months. You're being careful, right?

They walked back. They passed a small lounge. “Would you like a coffee? Some tea?”

“What about Nelson?”

“Oh. Right.” He brightened. “We can have something at my place.”

How could he forget about the dog? His arm must be practically out of its socket.

In the house, Nelson trotted into the living room and came back with a green tennis ball, which he dropped in front of Jerome, giving Kyra an excellent view of his backside.

“No, Nelson.” And to Kyra, “What can I offer? Coffee, tea? I have several.” He smiled.

She needed more than tea. “How about a vodka martini?” She returned the smile.

From the kitchen she heard the rattle of ice cubes. Jerome returned, a tray, a shaker, two glasses, two toothpicked olives. Nelson with ball padded behind. Jerome poured, added olives. “Cheers.”

They sat on the couch and sipped, looking at each other. A new charged energy between them. Let's see what happens.

He put his glass down. So did she. He put his hand on her upper arm. “Kyra.” He bent to kiss her. She closed her eyes. Searching lips, mouths open, tongues flicked—

A growl, a flash of pain in her calf. “Yow!” She pulled away and opened her eyes. Nelson barked, ready to strike again. She kicked out at him. He flattened his ears.

Jerome grabbed his collar and dragged him to the door. “Out! Bad!” He returned. “He's never done that before. I'll take you to Emergency.”

“No.” She hiked her pant leg up. “Just get some antiseptic, please.” She stanched the blood with a tissue. Jerome came back with a wad of cotton batten and a brown bottle. He knelt by her leg but she took the bottle from him. “His rabies shots are up-to-date?”

“Yes. I'm sorry—”

“So much trouble getting family approval.” Dog as family, hmmm. The bite was shallow but she saw two distinct tooth-holes.

“I think we should go to Emergency.”

“Dogs' mouths have fewer bacteria than humans'. It's not serious.” Better to take the dog to be put down than take me to Emergency. “If you have a couple of Band-Aids?”

He returned with them. She pasted herself together, lowered her pant leg, picked up her martini glass and leaned back. The earlier mood had traveled far away.

Jerome sat on his sofa. “I'm sorry.”

“Have you considered doggy boarding school?”

“He flunked obedience class.”

“Forget it.” Kyra's leg throbbed. She raised her glass. “Cheers, again.”

≈  ≈  ≈

Noel let the phone ring. If it was Kyra, he'd hear her voice and pick up. He waited.

“Hi beautiful, it's me, your one-time beloved. I was thinking, maybe we could have supper, just talk. We don't have to be completely apart, right? Call me, okay?”

Definitely not Kyra.

≈  ≈  ≈

Kyra unlocked her front door and paused in the doorway. Noel was watching a grainy black and white movie. The sound was appalling.

“Hi.” Noel clicked the remote and the TV went blank.

“You can watch.”

“I know how it comes out. Have you eaten?”

“No.”

Noel picked up his empty glass and raised an inquiring eyebrow. “Vodka tonic?”

“Sure.” She hung up her jacket, slipped off her shoes and flopped onto the sofa.

Noel poured them both vodka tonics. “There's a message for you. Your private line.”

Not very private. She sipped and listened to Sam's voice. She erased the message and returned to the living room.

“I was going to have your frozen chow mein.”

“Let's order pizza.” She handed him a takeout menu. “Choose intelligently.”

He smiled to himself. In her request he heard her pleasant domestic bossiness taking all their years together as a given, shared, never spoken. He grabbed a pen and checked peppers, salami, mushrooms and anchovies.

She stared at him in fascination. “Noel, give me that pen.”

“What? I chose brilliantly.”

She took the pen from him. “Watch.” She repeated her experiment from earlier, using her left hand and the pen as a syringe. “See how clumsy I am using my non-dominant hand?”

“Sandro the lefty, injecting himself in his left arm. Maybe not.” He laughed. “Clever, Kyra. But so what?”

“File the notion for now.”

“Okay.” He sipped and told her about his driving to Coupeville. “How did you get on? Other than your syringe experiment?”

She explained Maria's sense of the family's probable reaction to Sandro, or Sandra. “She wouldn't tell me who the young tough was but I found out anyway. Vasily Constantinides. I smacked him with my purse.”

“You did what?”

“Paid him back for bashing you.” Pride in her voice.

“And he didn't slug you back?”

“He offered to buy me coffee.” She giggled. “I turned him down.”

“Bashing him? Really stupid, Kyra.”

“That's what I thought. But only afterwards.” She handed her glass and his pen to Noel. “Toppings chosen?” She took the menu to the phone, ordered, put the phone down. “Another, please.”

He took their glasses to the kitchen. “How'd it go with Jerome?”

“The dog bit my leg. It's better than a chastity belt.”

Noel smiled. “How was the paint choosing?”

“Didn't get there. The place needs updating. Jerome offered me dinner. I said we needed to get organized for tomorrow.”

Noel made a face. “I'm not looking forward to this trans masquerade.”

“You'll see—no problem. Meanwhile I'll track down Sandro's ex-wife in Seattle.”

“You know where she lives?”

“You've got her phone number, find her address on-line.”

“What's she going to tell you?”

“Maybe an outside opinion on the Vasiliadis family? I could meet up with you in Coupeville. In fact, while we're there we should check out the doctor who runs the lab. If we knew where the lab was.”

“Why?” Noel's tone was suspicious.

Kyra frowned. “No, the real question is, why do they need a lab in the first place? Do they have to conduct experiments in transgendering? And how would you experiment anyway? On whom? Did they experiment on Sandro and the experiment went wrong?”

The downstairs entry phone beeped. A voice said, “Pizza.”

“Really fast.” She got up to buzz it in.

I hope it really is pizza, thought Noel.

≈  ≈  ≈

“Goodnight!” Kyra closed her bedroom door. Too much pizza. She opened the window and breathed in damp night air. It tasted good. She should have gone for a walk, she needed to move. She still could. No. She took her juggling balls from the closet. Her best exercise, physical and mental. Two balls. Jerome number one and— Oh dear, Sam number two. She threw Jerome into the air, caught him with the same hand. Sam likewise. Why Sam? Jerome up, Sam up, Jerome in hand, pass over, up again as Sam came down. She reached for a third ball, fumbled.

Kyra didn't feel like juggling Sam—or any men—any more.

≈  ≈  ≈

“You said more men have sex changes than women. Of course it has to be you.” She stood with her arms crossed, but her heart melted for him.

Noel sighed, and picked up the phone. He asked for an appointment for Neil Ferguson, who was the right sex in the wrong body. Two-thirty? Okay. He hung up. “Wasn't I lucky. Ordinarily appointments must be made weeks in advance but she'd just had a cancellation.” His best wry-but-soulful glance.

“Don't brood all day. I'm heading off. Leave your phone on. I'll call before two-thirty. When I'm finished with Diana.”

“What time are you seeing her?”

“No appointment.” She collected her jacket and shoes, and her purse.

“She might not be there.” Noel sat slumped on the edge of the den pullout bed.

“I'll track her down. With a kid in school she won't be far.” Noel had found McRae, on King Terrace. In the car she consulted the Seattle street map. King was in the northeast sector; good, she didn't have to drive through the city. She organized a selection of CDs and headed off.

Increasing sun, greening grass, early flowers. Only ten days till equinox, then spring. When this case was over she'd go to Vancouver, check in on her parents, maybe go across and visit Noel's parents in Qualicum. She'd always been fond of them. With Jerome? He needed some time off, Kyra decided. Put Nelson in a kennel.

Jerome. What did she want with him? Before they committed themselves to a trip they'd better go to bed. Didn't want to be cooped up in a car all those days with a non-compatible man. Pachelbel's
Canon
swelled out of the speakers.

Diana McRae's house, pseudo-colonial, stood on a street of other mildly stately houses. A maroon BMW was parked in the driveway. The boulevard trees showed a young gangliness. Kyra stopped under one, crossed the sidewalk and followed a curved path of interlocking paving stones to the front door. She rang the bell. The door opened. A pretty woman, thirtyish, short dark hair, glasses, beige shirt and pullover, tight-cut jeans. “Ms. McRae?”

“Yes?”

Kyra handed her a Triple-I card. “I understand you used to be married to Sandro Vasiliadis. I'm looking into his death. May I ask you some questions, please?”

Diana McRae opened the door farther. Kyra entered a marble-tiled foyer, living room to the right. Its cathedral ceiling revealed a railed corridor across the second floor. A design Kyra loathed.