Aphrodisiac (3 page)

Crossing to Benita’s door, I opened it a crack and was greeted with the latest one-liner from her pet mynah bird. “Fuckin’ bitch pussy! Fuckin’ bitch pussy!” This addition to his vocabulary arrived courtesy of those refined gentlemen who robbed our last apartment. Don’t thieves ever just plain whistle while they work? That isn’t to say that what Uncle Pete picked up listening to my roommate and me was Shakespeare. He just had a flair for dialogue that came straight from the crotch.

I dropped a handful of food pellets into his cage and stroked my fingers along his shiny black feathers, repeating the irresistible line, “I’m a pretty bird.” Ever the optimist, that’s me. I closed the door behind me.

“You’re so tense,” Lana said, studying me. Silver-streaked auburn hair tumbled to her waist, tan sloping shoulders peeking through. “Still grieving over your friend.”

“You want the truth? I think Gwen was murdered. And no one believes me. I just spent forty minutes with a cop who practically came out and called me a nutjob.”

“Don’t let that bother you, sweetie. Lots of people call me that. Take off your clothes and relax. I’ll make some tea, and you can tell me all about it.”

I knew those words meant I was about to have a therapy session with the woman who’d sparked my interest in psychology. Hippie, Earth Mother and Esalen devotee, Dr. Lana Klein was an endangered species. She still had a small private practice of clients who stayed amazingly loyal. In fact, she mainly came into the city to give her Love Your Body, Love Your Self workshops. Friday evening I’d be assisting.

It didn’t take much to get me talking, crying and ranting. Lana had always been my favorite shoulder to weep on. When I was growing up, my preoccupied and emotionally unavailable father never had a clue, and my mother usually got so hysterical I’d pretend to be fine just to calm
her
down.

My parents used to run The Foam Barn in White Plains.
Foam cut while you wait. Cushions. Mattresses. Open Wednesdays and Fridays till nine. Financing available
. I worked the register after school when I wasn’t babysitting my younger brother, Steven. To this day he can’t sleep without his egg crate mattress pad. I always envied Marilyn Gorman, whose dad was the local beverage distributor and brought home tons of orange and cherry soda. Meanwhile, my dad made sure I had all the foam a girl could ever dream of. Then again, Marilyn never had an insider’s view on the rise and fall of the Nerf ball.

During my high school years, Aunt Lana’s apartment in the Village became the place where I escaped. She took me to the Guggenheim and Lincoln Center, introduced me to Indian food, cappuccino and Jung. She showed me a world filled with people who didn’t all look, think or act the same. This afternoon she didn’t laugh or criticize or tell me not to be angry. And she offered me more than comfort. When we finished she suggested I hire a private detective and send her the bill.

***

After Lana left to have dinner with her latest boyfriend, I checked the phone I kept on the oak night table in my bedroom so it didn’t interfere with my clients’ sessions. It was my official, more public phone. A trusty landline relic with old school voice mail.

One flashing light. I hit the PLAY button. Who else? Walsh Plunkett. This marked his fourth call. Mr. Plunkett was the squeamish type when it came to actually scheduling his first appointment. Never met the gentleman, but on the phone he sounded rigid. There was a tightness in his voice, possibly indicative of a sexually repressive parent. I’d already given him all the assurance I could. There simply wasn’t anything left to say.

“
Doctor Oz, I enjoyed our conversation on Monday. I would like to take you out for lunch. Just to talk some more. Please call me at 908-333-2378
.”

Was he pulling the old sneakaroo? Conservative middle-aged man in need of sex therapy but too ashamed to sign up. Or did he want to fulfill the “score with a younger woman who’s a sex expert” fantasy? Maybe he got the wrong impression from my website. Think I’ll invite him to my next Do-Me-Good sex toy party and evaluate him safely in a crowd of twenty people.

While I jotted down his number, my phone rang. Caller ID broke the news. “Hi, Mom.”

Silence. Great. Whenever my mother started with a long pause, it meant she was composing herself before opening fire. “Saylor, I just got off the phone with your cousin Naomi. She saw you on one of those dirty cable shows. A program called
Sex 4 Real
. How
could
you?”

“Mom, it was a documentary.”

“Your cousin was too embarrassed to describe what she saw.”

Naomi? Right. A closet porn star. “It was about a retreat for couples with intimacy problems. Strictly educational.”

“Whoever heard of a sex therapist? I still don’t get it. My daughter, the smut peddler.”

Time to change subjects. I wasn’t about to worry her with my latest theory on Gwen or tell her about our adventure on Plymouth Street. And I didn’t dare suggest she listen to the Kahuna
Derrick Maui Sunrise Relaxation
CD that I gave her. Hmm. Maybe the weather. “It must be awfully hot in Miami now. Why don’t you come up to East Hampton and stay in Aunt Lana’s guest suite? She’s always inviting you. She’ll be in town for—”

“I didn’t call long-distance to blab about my big sister. That kook. I blame her for ruining you. I had such hopes. You could have been a respectable doctor. Straight A student, graduated at the top of your class.”

“Mom, I—”

“Why didn’t you become a cardiologist? Or even a dermatologist like Felice Resnick’s daughter. She gives her mother free collagen injections. My daughter gives me heartburn.”

“There’s my call-waiting.” Saved. “Might be a client. I’ll buzz you later this weekend.”

It was Ti-Jean, a Haitian artist I’d met through Gwen. He was one of her neighbors in Red Hook. Ti-Jean made plaster casts of people’s belly buttons. He and I dated about a year ago. After four months, I thought we might actually be getting serious, until he told me our long, heartfelt discussions gave him the courage to admit he preferred men. Oh well. At least I can say my tummy was a hit at the Venice Biennale.

“You hear anything from Gwen’s brother about who might be moving into her old place?” he asked. Darryl Applebee was a friend of the building’s owner.

“I had no idea it was even rented yet.”

“For the past two nights I’ve seen carpenters working over there. At least I hope that’s who they are. Hate to think they could be the new tenants. Look like a bunch of macho lumberjacks. Scary looking. Straight out of
Deliverance
.”

Lumberjacks? That was all I needed to hear. My detective cap was on.

As soon as I hung up, I flipped through my Rolodex on the night table. My eyes locked onto a card next to Darryl Applebee’s—Gwen and Rob, 718-555-2791. A wave of sadness swept over me. Three years ago Gwen and her rock musician lover had moved into a giant warehouse in Red Hook, one of Brooklyn’s oldest waterfront neighborhoods, south of DUMBO and much bigger. When Rob walked out on her four months later, taking his band to Berlin, Gwen turned more and more to Benita and me, and the three of us started hanging together once again.

I called Darryl. No answer, so I left an urgent message for him to get back to me pronto. In the meantime I decided to have another look at Gwen’s so-called suicide note.

Something was definitely off here.

THREE

Being a vegetarian, pasta was one of my staples. I emptied a pack of linguine into boiling water and dumped a jar of marinara into a saucepan. A portable Sony TV sat on the kitchen counter. I turned it on so I wouldn’t wander off and burn the sauce. All too often smoke detectors acted as my kitchen timers.

“¿
Que pasa
?” Benita walked in wearing a sheath of soft turquoise. She looked more like she’d just stepped out of a Bloomingdale’s catalog than the York Street subway stop. Even after six rounds in the ring, she could go from gym rat to fashion model in a New York second. A talent I wish I had. She set her briefcase on the kitchen island and climbed onto a wooden stool.

I slid her a Pellegrino and leaned against the counter in my grubby shorts. “Forgive me for not asking how your day went. I’m in the middle of processing my anger.”

“In other words, you’re halfway through the Eskimo bars.”

“Not there yet.”

“Just save me a few.”

“The policeman I met with didn’t even blink at the information I gave him.”

Benita shook her head. “I told you the cops would blow you off. Where I grew up they’d shoot you thirty times just for going for your pocket comb. You think they want to start all over on a closed case involving some unemployed academic? You ought to watch
Law And Order
, then you’d understand these things.”

“But I’m certain Gwen was murdered,” I said, draining the pasta. “I can feel her spirit is not at rest. At this very moment she’s probably wandering the streets of Red Hook, singing a heartrending lament.”

“I hope you didn’t say that down at the precinct.”

I was about to bring up Ti-Jean’s phone call, but my roommate was no longer listening. She was glaring at the TV, watching her ex-husband describe a blast of much needed Canadian cool sweeping into the tristate area.

“
And by the middle of the week we can say farewell to the muggies
.”

Voted New York’s favorite weatherman, Fippy did look damn good standing there all proper and shiny with his radiant smile and just enough pinch in the brows to convey that professorial side all meteorologists pretend to have when pointing out frontal systems on the Doppler.

She grabbed the remote and switched off the TV. “I’m in no mood for Mr. Weintraub’s phony cheer.”

Back when Benita had completed her master’s in business, she’d landed a job at a major television network, where she met Phillip “Fippy” Weintraub, then a budding weatherman wannabe. They married while Gwen and I were still at Columbia University working on our doctorates— hers in archaeobotany, mine in psychology. My thesis was titled “The Unconscious Response To Sexual Objectification and Inferiority In The Female Organism.” In other words, do women with small breasts feel threatened when shopping for melons at the supermarket? Anyway, a year ago Benita’s marriage fell apart. Fippy had trouble controlling his addiction to breaking in the station’s twenty-one-year-old interns. Upon my advice, she’d refrained from using her boxing skills on his perfectly sculpted chin, and instead she took a new job as a financial analyst for a midtown securities firm, opted for a hefty alimony rather than their co-op apartment in Murray Hill, and moved in with me.

“You’ve got him on his knees begging for another chance,” I said. “Why don’t you go out with him next time he calls?” Which was at least five times a week.

“Yo. Whose side are you on here?”

“His celebrity went to his head.”

“And from there to his
pinga
.”

“Time out.”

“For what?”

“My professional opinion.”

“Do I have to take notes on this lecture?”

“Yes.”

“Then make it all in one sentence.”

“Fine. Monogamy is deviant behavior in the animal world, affairs occur in most marriages, couples survive them, Fippy regrets his little ventures into pussyland, give him a break, the guy still loves you.” I set two plates of spaghetti on the island and passed Benita the cheese. “Your turn to grate the Parmesan.”

She went quiet. Talking about Fippy did tend to have that effect on her. I only wished I’d meet a guy who touched me that way. Not that I wanted marriage and children as badly as Benita did. In fact, I wasn’t at all sure I was wife material. But I definitely wanted love. Not the pokey, practical kind I saw in so many couples. I wanted a tornado: hot, passionate, movie-drama love. Trouble is, I’ve always been a magnet for guys in need of a nursemaid to walk them through their personal crises. Female patients often complained to me about sexy guys whose primary mission in life seemed to be filling as many holes as possible. My boyfriends seldom cheated on me; they just turned into nonpaying clients. I wondered about Eldridge Mace. Thoughts of his muscular, sweat-slicked body and those clear blue eyes that burned into you like dry ice nearly sent me over the edge.

Benita finally put down her fork and said, “I know I can be too hard sometimes.”

“Hardheaded is more like it.”

“I guess my marriage did have some good things. The sex was outrageous. And Fip could be so sweet. Like the way he bought Uncle Pete for me when I had mono and I couldn’t stand being home all day with nobody to talk to.” She glanced around. “¿
Donde esta Tio Pedro
?”

“Lana banished him to your bedroom because of his foul tongue.” I pulled my copy of Gwen’s mysterious farewell note from my pocket. “I was studying the suicide poem earlier and found something I have to show you.” Spreading it out on the counter, I dragged my fingertip along the left side of the poem. “Check out the first letter of each line. Read it as a sentence.”

My Final Good-bye

This is my farewell, golden priestess of the sa-zi-ga.

Heaven’s Daughter has brought the storm upon me, I meet my end.

Embark for the Jewel in the center of Pearl. Behold the words of Raphael.

You will meet the scribe, magician of a million creations.

Garden of bells amid beech and oak, my heart sleeps here.

Over her words, a crescent moon of lapis blue.

The loyal sentry of my youth, this last crusade you must endure.

My dream is now your dream, and you are its watchman.

Eternity awaits.

Gwen

Benita read, “They got me.” She looked up with a smirk. “Don’t tell me you think Gwen did that on purpose.”

“I’m certain of it.”

“So, how come the police didn’t make anything out of it?”

“I doubt they noticed it. Even if they did, all signs pointed to suicide. Plus, I think the secret meanings in the poem can only be understood by someone who really knows Gwen.”

“Saylor, you don’t really believe she could pull this off?”

“Look how she buzzed through our college calculus like it was a kiddie game. And how she learned to read and write hundreds of cuneiform marks in half the time it takes most scholars.

Gwen could’ve gone to any university she chose, but she wanted to be my roommate at NYU. We are not talking about the average intelligent person here.”

Binnie held a hand up to stop my tirade. “Gwen was no doubt the smartest person I’ve ever met. She had an encyclopedic mind. But are you forgetting she might have had a gun at her head at the time? Thinking you’re about to die isn’t exactly conducive to creativity.”

“Wrong. If I had a killer ready to put me away and make it look like a suicide, I know I’d be damn determined to find a way to communicate that to someone. Wouldn’t you?”

“Sure, I’d try. But composing an impromptu poem complete with clues and hidden messages and lines that begin with specific corresponding letters?”

“That’s just it. When I saw ‘they got me’ I realized Gwen was using a game she’d made up when we were in junior high. I’d forgotten all about it until now. Remember I told you how the other kids in school bullied Gwen and me? Well, this was our way of sending each other notes that couldn’t possibly be read by the classmates who made fun of us.

We called them Puzzle Poems. The verses would contain hidden meanings related to a subject that was spelled out by the first letter of each line. We wrote them to each other all the way through our teens. Gwen was much better at it than I. Could even do it verbally, like when we were around her nosy brother, Darryl. As a psychologist I can look back now and see that it wasn’t really a game, but a clever method for two friends to maintain secret contact in an unfriendly environment.” I picked up the suicide note. “This is definitely one of our Puzzle Poems.”

Benita stared at me, her mouth open. “Maybe you ain’t gone wack on this after all.”

“Gee, thanks. Does that mean you believe me now?”

She gave me an apologetic nod. “I hate being pushed, okay? Truth is, I remember how she called you the
sa-zi-ga
priestess, and I did begin to wonder why Gwen would disguise your identity in what was supposedly her farewell letter. For some reason she didn’t want to reveal even your first name.”

“Exactly. If she’d been alone when she decided to end it, she would’ve spelled my name straight out. The only logical explanation is that she wasn’t alone when she died. And she wasn’t safe. That’s why she created a Puzzle Poem.”

“Unless the Puzzle Poem was Gwen’s attempt at dark humor before she did herself in.”

“No, Binnie. A real suicide farewell would be addressed to family and friends, not just to me. She’s not just saying good-bye, she’s making a request.” I handed her the paper and pointed to the seventh line.

She studied the poem. “You’re clearly the ‘loyal sentry of her youth.’ I’ve heard those stories about how you protected her back when. Hmmm. ‘This last crusade you must endure’?”

“There’s something she wants me to do for her.”

“Wow.” Benita sprang from her seat and began clearing away our plates. “Two heads are better than one…as long as they’re not on the same person. If you’re the one Gwen chose to fulfill her last request, we’ve got some work to do.”

Talk about making a hundred-and-eighty-degree turn. Now she’s Miss Marple. I felt like belting her, except she was 14 and 0 in the ring. “Well, I’m going to hire a private detective.” I lugged the metropolitan yellow pages to the kitchen counter and began leafing through them.

Benita placed her hand on top of the phone book. “Don’t do that.”

“I suppose you have something against them, too?”

“Trust me. We don’t want no fat-ass PI involved.”

I pulled mugs out of the cupboard and started the coffee. “Something tells me this is all about your issue with authority figures.”

“Private detectives have earned their nickname of dick.”

“Well, my plan is for a female PI. Gwen would want it that way. I —”

“Do you know how much they charge?” Benita interrupted as usual when she started talking a mile a second. “Why spend money for somebody to do a job you and I can do? When I was a little girl my
papi
always said, never go hiring some clown when you can do it yourself.”

Tell me about it. She was the only woman I knew who had a shelf full of recorded episodes from the Do-It-Yourself Network instead of
Sex and the City
. “Get real. People do not simply become private investigators overnight.”

“So? We take a couple days.” She had that runaway train expression. “I know lots of websites on investigating and forensic stuff. Not to mention the Free Library.”

My voice scaled about five octaves. “Wait a sec. Are you forgetting how dangerous this could be? If Gwen really was murdered, it was by a…well…a murderer. And they
kill
people.”

“Never mind. We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

“Terrific.”

Benita took our coffee mugs to the open living room space and sank into a French club chair. When the thieves made rubbish stew out of the furniture in our Williamsburg apartment, we’d been left with the bare minimums. Lucky for us, we didn’t need much here. Lana’s place was tastefully decorated in a combination of art deco and modern. I parked my tush on a green leather ottoman and gave Benita a rundown of my conversation with Ti-Jean.

“Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy” played, and I grabbed my cell. It was Darryl Applebee returning my call. He sounded less than enthused. I knew I was on sensitive ground, but I had no choice if I was to get started in my search for the truth about Gwen’s death. “Darryl, I need to ask a favor of you. Could I please get a flash copy of Gwen’s computer files?”

“Odd request.”

“I’ll explain.”

“Save it. Because there was no hard drive in her computer.”

“You mean the hard drive is missing?” I looked at Benita who gave me a just-as-I-thought nod.

“So?” he said. “You know how she was. So secretive. Probably has it hidden.”

“Or else it was taken.”

“Taken? Are you starting up with that ridiculous fanny pack thing again?”

“Darryl, I realize this may come as a shock, but Gwen may have been the victim of a violent crime. The police haven’t been much help, so Benita and I are doing a little bit of legwork on our own. You see, Gwen’s poem is riddled with clues —”

“The only thing riddled is your brain. Not only is your idea far-fetched, Saylor, but I’m disappointed in you. Here I am struggling to cope with my sister’s suicide, and you come along and want to turn the picture into a sordid murder story.”

Guess my approach was a little abrupt. I apologized, telling Darryl I was here for him any time, and I once again recommended a colleague who specialized in grief counseling. As usual, he rebuffed my gestures of friendship as well as my professional advice. What did I expect from Mr. Ultimate Authority? Ever since we were kids he seemed to relish snubbing my ideas.

Still, I needed some answers. I owed it to Gwen. This time I practiced a little more artistry. Since Darryl’s friend owned the warehouse that Gwen had lived in down in Red Hook, I had to at least find out if those men Ti-Jean saw could be hired workmen or new tenants. Gradually switching subjects, I asked about it in a casual tone. Had it been rented? Was it being fixed up? The answer was “no” to both. That lit a fire under my butt. I ended the call.