Aphrodisiac (10 page)

“Depends on who or what Raphael is.” Binnie drummed her fingers on the table. “Could be the Renaissance painter. Or the angel. Possibly some author or poet. Or a person we’re supposed to find here.”

I sipped my coffee, the excitement of closing in on Gwen’s mysterious tablet finally hitting me. A strange elation came over me despite the obstacles we faced. “Binnie, there are special moments in life when you just know you’re on the right track. Times when you sense that you’re in the right place at the right time, as if guided by some cosmic force.” I looked into her eyes. “Trust me, sweetie, serendipity is in play. We are on game.”

Hark. “Dance Of The Sugar Plum Fairy” rang out from my cell. I checked caller ID and picked up. “How ya doing, Darryl?”

“I’m getting by. Listen, if you’re still interested in looking over the rest of Gwen’s belongings, I’ll be free on Wednesday afternoon. You can come by at three.”

“Sounds good.” Best to keep all options open. We chatted briefly. I was careful to keep Darryl in the dark about our situation, as tempting as it was to tell him I was right about his sister’s so-called suicide.

Benita whispered from across the table, “Ask him about Raphael.”

“By the way, Darryl. Did Gwen ever mention anyone by the name of Raphael?”

He paused. “There was that artist from the Jewel.”

Bingo. I gave Binnie the thumbs up. We were definitely onto something. “Did you say an artist at the Jewel?”

“Yes. She was supposedly the queen bee of the place. Probably still working there.”

“Interesting. An artist working out of a motel. And in Mississippi.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Darryl heaved an exasperated sigh. “You get more bizarre every time I talk to you. Who said anything about a motel in Mississippi? I mean the Jewel bar on Pearl Street in Brooklyn. It’s right around the corner from where you’re living in DUMBO.”

Oops.

NINE

Because it was Sunday we couldn’t get a return flight until afternoon. Benita refused to speak to me all the way back to New York. It wasn’t until after we made it home to our loft and Benita had smoldered for a while that she finally broke her silence. “So much for your big moment and those cosmic forces of yours.”

“Try and see the positives,” I said, while polishing off some leftover cucumber salad and cold lentil soup I’d found in the fridge.

“Positives? Oh yes, Dr. Oz, I am so glad I compromised my professional reputation by ducking out of the conference early for that trip to Mississippi. So what if we were seventeen hundred miles off the mark?”

“But you liked the banana pecan waffles.”

Dead-eyed stare. “By the way, what happened to all your analytical talents, Doc?”

“What happened to yours, Ms. Financial Analyst?”

She turned away and began frying
rellenos de papa
when her cell phone played “You Sang To Me.” She checked it and flipped it open. “
Hola
. Rebecca. I was just thinking about you.”

My mother. She and Benita frequently enjoyed long phone chats covering a range of subjects from fashion and cooking to Hollywood gossip and the stock market. And oh, yes, their favorite topic—how to deal with Saylor.

“I’m concerned about her, too,” Benita said, resting the spatula on the counter. “Saylor does seem to be a little confused. Let me put you on speakerphone.”

My roommate liked to move around and keep busy while she was talking. No matter who was on the line, no matter how personal, she put all her calls on the speaker and turned up the volume. Conversations with her brother filled the loft with salsa music. The worst were the tearful discussions with her ex-husband. Did I want to hear this one? Did I have a choice?

My mother’s voice sounded scratchy and whiney. “
Jerome runs a very successful mold removal business. He’s The Mold Genie. Saylor met him last time she was here. Now I ask you, would it hurt her to go out with him once?
”

Not Jerome Markowitz again.

Benita slid her potato-and-meat dumplings onto a plate. “Your daughter would be very lucky to land a man like that for a husband. And Lord knows Saylor’s not getting any younger.”

“
I knew you’d agree
,” my mother said. “
And such a good boy. Jerome comes down here all the time. Unlike Saylor. Plays golf with his father, shops with his mother. Of course, he does that funny thing when he talks.”

Right. It’s called a lisp.

Benita aimed a sadistic smile in my direction. “Oh go on. Give him Saylor’s number.”

I flipped her the middle finger salute and retreated to my bedroom.

Funny how my best friend gets along better with my mother and I with hers. My thoughts drifted back to the time when I was seventeen. When my father ran off with the woman who owned the travel agency two doors down from The Foam Barn. Of course, my mother being the injured party, I took her side. During the divorce settlement, Dad had a fatal heart attack. The last words I’d ever spoken to him were “I finished the inventory on the mattress pads.”

The whole thing dismantled my mother’s already limited coping skills. I’ve been prodding her for years to open up, to talk, to feel, but she never fails to misconstrue my words. She prefers to keep things concrete and on the surface. Like Benita.

Five minutes later, my roommate knocked on my door. When I opened it she said, “Listen. While we were sitting on the plane, it dawned on me. The woman named Raphael that Darryl mentioned? We already met her.”

“Enlighten me.”

“This past January. We went to an opening at the Dumbo Arts Center. Gwen had collaborated on an installation using plants and fragrances with that artist who made sculpture out of auto parts and flowers. Her name was Raffy. Gotta be short for Raphael.”

The clouds parted. “Raffy DiNardo. And she worked at a lesbian bar! Has to be the Jewel.”

We Googled lesbian bars in Brooklyn. No website, but it showed up on a listing. The Jewel. And it was on Pearl Street. I gave Binnie an appreciative shot in the arm. “Ace detective work. Why didn’t I think of that?”

She shrugged. “We only saw her a couple times. Gwen got so secretive whenever she was having a romance with a woman.”

“Guess she was afraid to accept the fact that she didn’t really like men. I just made a point not to pry.”

“Maybe if we had, we’d know what this was all about.” She carried her plate to the dishwasher. “Crime of passion between lovers?”

“No way. Gwen would never have put the killer’s name in the poem. It’s clear someone was watching her write it. She had to disguise her instructions. And she was banking on our remembering Raffy. ”

“So, you’re saying the perp had to be someone who didn’t know anything about the artist named Raffy. Assuming she is our Raphael.”

“Right. And ‘Behold the words’ must equal ‘this woman has something to tell us.’ ” I checked my watch. “It’s only eight o’clock. The listing said the Jewel was open Sundays until two a.m. Why don’t we head over there now?”

***

The Jewel bar was an easy to miss hole-in-the-wall next to an upholstery warehouse on Pearl Street. We took three steps up to an old loading dock covered in graffiti and swung open a battered metal door stenciled with the fading number eighty-three. Benita and I were greeted by a huge painting of a nude woman with her legs spread. A flowerlike jewel formed her vagina. Janet Jackson’s “Nasty” added a touch of slinky to the ambience.

This was to be classic undercover work. In jeans and T-shirts, we swaggered into a long, skinny room with no windows. Talk about monochrome. Walls, tables, bar, everything in black and gray. The only accent of color came by way of the blue pendant lamps spotting the bar.

I’d splashed on Paloma Picasso’s men’s fragrance, Minotaure, to bring out some of my male side. Lavender, bergamot, geranium. Although I counted several lesbians among my friends and clients and had done my share of experimenting in my twenties, I seldom went to girl bars, and our mission here made me feel a shade nervous.

At least we picked a good night to see Raffy. Even in New York City, things ran a notch slower early in the week, and especially in Brooklyn on a Sunday in July. A handful of women were gathered at the far end of the bar. The tables were almost empty.

I recognized Raffy immediately. She looked like a female version of Tony Soprano, except she wore an earring and had a little more hair. Hers was short brown and combed straight back. She wore a short-sleeved, pin-striped button-down shirt. Scorpion tattoo on her forearm.

Benita and I exchanged a conspiratorial glance and sat at the bar directly in front of Raffy. She gave us a casual once-over and said, “What’ll it be, girls?”

“Two Coronas. With a wedge of lemon,” Benita said.

I made eye contact with the bartender and added, “You’re Raffy, the artist, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Isn’t Raffy short for Raphael?”

“Uh-huh.” She set two glasses on the bar and poured our beers. If Raffy remembered us, she didn’t show it, but the confirmation of her full name was a good sign.

“I’m Saylor and this is Benita. We met you through Gwen Applebee.”

“Uh-huh.” She took my twenty and turned to the register. A friendly sort. Not.

“Sad what happened to Gwen,” Benita said.

“Yeah, it is.” Raffy sounded flat and void of emotion. Or holding it back.

I sensed she suspected something.
Could
she be the murderer? Could Gwen have written the poem after her killer left? Then why did she disguise everything else, including my name? And how did Gwen’s body end up in the basin? My guess was Raffy could tell we were focused on her. Time to be up front. I’ve always found people respond more favorably when you’re direct and to the point. When she faced us again, I said, “We’d like to ask you a few questions concerning Gwen.”

“Get the fuck outta here!”

Behold the words of Raphael.

My roommate shot up from her stool. “Make my day. Come around the bar and say that to me.”

“Easy, Binnie. Easy.” I touched her arm, but she shook me off.

Before I knew it, Raffy hopped the bar. She ate two punches, her head snapping back, and still she managed to throw my friend to the floor in a ferocious tackle. I’d guess Raffy weighed at least fifty pounds more than Binnie. Never mess with a woman who welds sculpture from auto parts—even if she sprays them with fragrance.

I perched on top of Raffy, trying to pry her off Benita, who was cursing in force and wriggling wildly beneath her. I felt like I was riding a mechanical bull. Help arrived by way of two formidable ladies with killer biceps. Steroid specials in racer-back tank tops. Bouncer-lady number one tapped me on the shoulder. No argument, I got off. She and bouncer-lady number two teamed up to separate the pair of crazed warriors.

When the three of them—please note it took all three—began roughly escorting Benita to the door, I transformed into the munchkin from hell. Stomping my way to the entrance, I blocked their path and glared up into Raffy’s face. “Listen to me, you rude piece of shit. Binnie and I know Gwen was
murdered
. And anybody involved is going to pay. Now, maybe you’re trying to hide something, so unless you feel like seeing the inside of New York State’s biggest bed-and- breakfast, you will call off the muscle and make nice with us. Do you hear me?”

The corners of her mouth twitched in a half smile. “Hold off,” she said, releasing her own grip on Binnie. Her warm, fuzzy colleagues dropped their hands to their sides. Raffy made a curt gesture toward a table at the back of the room and moseyed in that direction. “Cover the bar for me. This is private.”

“Binnie comes, too,” I said.

One of the bouncers did a double take. “Wait a second, are you Binnie “The Bitch” Morales?”

Binnie’s temper was still smoldering. “Yeah. Need a little proof? One at a time outside.”

Words of love to the ears of her Klingon admirers. They began fawning around her, pouring out the adulation. “I thought you looked familiar. I saw every one of your fights. Never forget that night you took it away from Lakisha Brewster. What a comeback. You’re having a drink on us.”

“I’ll get the beers,” the other bouncer said. “You can’t leave, Champ. Not till you sign the backs of our T-shirts.”

Benita looked at me. “Go on,” I said, relieved. “I’m pretty good at individual sessions.”

She headed to the bar with her fans. Raffy and I stopped at the wait station along the room’s side wall. Tearing off a paper towel, she dabbed a trickle of blood from the corner of her mouth. “Gwen never told me her friend was a boxer.” Judging by her tone she remained unimpressed. I accepted her offer for coffee and watched as she fueled her cup with six bags of sugar. Yikes. Now there’s an insulin rush. She placed my cup on a table. “Grab a seat.”

I took the chair across the table from her. “How come you’re so pissed at us?”

Raffy fixed her eyes on me with a challenging look. “How come nobody invited me to Gwen’s memorial service up in White Plains? Afraid people might find out she had a lesbian lover?”

“I had no idea you weren’t told.” That explained her attitude. “When I offered to help her brother Darryl, he said he’d handle everything. I should never have left it all to him. I’m so sorry. Listen, Gwen never made a will, but her brother gave me some of her personal things. Feel free to come over and choose a keepsake.”

After I apologized three more times, she put out her hand. We shook. “So, how come you think Gwen was murdered? The police ruled it a suicide. They must’ve had good reason.”

I took a deep breath. “At first it was just a hunch. But Gwen’s suicide note convinced me. It was written as a poem filled with symbols and hidden meanings. In the first line she disguises my name as if she’s addressing me. The third line reads, “Embark for the Jewel in the center of Pearl. Behold the words of Raphael.” Sounds like she wanted us to talk to you.”

Raffy shifted uneasily. “Always hated the name Raphael. I didn’t let nobody but Gwen call me that. Actually it’s even worse¬—Raphaela.” She took a sip of coffee and peered over the rim of her cup. “Gwen wrote lots of mystical poems. It’s no surprise that she’d write one as a good-bye to her friends before killing herself. Doesn’t mean she was murdered. Let her go in peace, already.”

I leaned forward and lowered my voice. “What I’m going to say now is classified. If it

leaks to the wrong people, I’m the next one dead. Literally. Okay?”

Her eyes widened. “I’m listening.”

“That hunch of mine was confirmed by a messenger working for a person who wants something Gwen had. They’re probably the ones who made it look like a suicide. I think they forced her to write the good-bye note before taking her life.”

“That’s a pretty bold theory.”

“Did you ever see her wear a fanny pack? She didn’t like them—didn’t even own one, yet she was pulled out of the river wearing one with all her ID in it. Convenient. And that’s only the beginning. Somebody wanted something Gwen wouldn’t give over. Binnie and I don’t know why it’s so valuable, but we do know they’re willing to kill for it. Because our lives are now on the line if we don’t find it. And the only map we have is her final poem.”

Looking doubtful, she rocked back in her chair, tipping it onto its hind legs. “You should be telling all this shit to the cops instead of me.”

“I tried at first, but the police weren’t too impressed by my genius. And now I can’t.” I gave her a brief rundown of my experience in the Hummer. Shudder. “These scumbags-on-wheels presented me with an ultimatum. I have one week to find some kind of tablet for them, otherwise I’m toast. They told me they’d know if we run to the cops. Promised to hurt Benita and my family. And swore to find us before the police find them. Scary warning, and I’m not about to test it. Not yet anyway. Not until we have some real hard evidence. The kind detectives at the Seventy-fourth Precinct would take seriously. The kind that will get them moving and send these guys Up North.”

Raffy tilted her head, brows knit. “You said something about a tablet.”