The Tease (The Darling Killer Trilogy) (7 page)

My eyes snapped open.
Hell. Four hours of sleep. I’ve done with less
. I threw my covers back again, put on my robe, and slipped my feet into my velvety black slippers. I returned to my tiny galley kitchen to brew some coffee, pausing briefly to shake my fist at Caprice, who chirped and rolled over for a belly rub.

The heat whispered on, and the sun hauled itself a little higher in the sky outside. I tugged at the cord to open the horrible Venetian blinds of the sliding glass doors that lead out to the balcony. I kept thinking that I wanted to replace them, especially when Caprice got jealous of the computer and rattled the plastic blinds to distract me, but I never quite got around to it. My third-story balcony had a charming view of some back yards and an alley in the drowsy Sauganash neighborhood of Chicago. I let the sunlight pour over me, turning the inside of my eyelids red, warming my skin and robe.

The living room gave the impression that I ran out of steam after my bedroom and studio. The walls were still a bland eggshell color, and the carpet was the shade of neutral not-quite-beige that residential landlords seem to favor universally. I liked the pale serenity of an undecorated space. If I wanted to watch a movie, I could just watch the movie. If I wanted to use my computer, I could just use my computer.

A large, walnut TV stand dominated the room, with a television that looked a few sizes too small on the center. A heavy, faux-verdigris Buddha statue sat patiently next to the television. My dad gave it to me as a housewarming gift, so I kept a small incense burner in front of it. I liked the irony of keeping the Buddha next to the television; it kept me grounded when movie characters did stupid things. Caprice’s carpeted cat tree was between the television stand and wall, so she could look out the glass doors and chatter at the birds and squirrels. A grey sofa faced the TV from the opposite wall. That sofa was the most comfortable piece of furniture I’d ever owned; it was perfect for flopping into at the end of a long day. A squat, walnut end table sat next to the arm of the sofa closest to the door; a heavy lamp decorated with Grecian dancing women peered from its surface. A black lacquer coffee table that I’d picked up from a secondhand shop sat about a foot-and-a-half in front of the sofa.

I picked up my coffee mug and turned to my tiny “office,” which was actually the dining nook next to the galley kitchen. Instead of a dining table, the alcove housed my computer desk and two crowded bookshelves on one wall. A large white board dominated the other wall. Notes scrawled in dry-erase marker reminded me of everything from research methods facts I kept flubbing on the practice tests to groceries I wanted in the coming week. I wiggled the mouse to wake up the computer and sat down in front of it. My dad had sent a yoga joke to my personal email, and there were two new ones in my Velvet Crush inbox. One was from Kevin, and the other from Lynne.

Hi Velvet,
Kevin wrote.

I enjoyed meeting you tonight. Would you like to join me for dinner or coffee? Perhaps this evening, or tomorrow?

Sincerely,

Kevin

I scowled. How could he possibly think I’d go on a date when my friend was just murdered?

Maybe he doesn’t know
. At least, that’s what I’d suggest to a client. I checked the time stamp. 12:18 am.
So either he’s a total sicko who emailed me from his phone in the theater lobby while the police gathered up witnesses, or he left immediately after we met
.

I deleted it. He was cute, but I didn’t want to think about it.

I opened the next email.

Dear Velvet,

I LOVED YOUR DANCING SO MUCH. Do you teach private lessons? I want to start right away, it looks so fun. Are you free at all this weekend? I’d like to get the “ball” rolling asap. LMK? My cell is 773-555-1798, and money’s no problem, whatever you charge is fine, I cant wait!

OXOXO

Lynne

At least she wasn’t asking me to teach her to write.

I closed the email and rubbed my eyes. I was a little put off by the jumping puppy thing, but I thought about my enormous pile of student loan bills, and I reconsidered. I’d planned to stay in all weekend and relax.
Probably not the best plan when I see a dead body every time I close my eyes
. I wrote back and suggested a time the next day.

I didn’t want to dance. I wanted go back to the kitchen and make fried potatoes with cheese and sausage and a Bloody Mary. The thing is, if I only practice when I want to, I’ll never actually practice. I learned a trick from my dad. If you start practicing and surrender to it, you’ll come around to enjoying it once you really get going.

I finished my coffee, filled my water bottle, and changed into yoga pants and a tank top. Then I headed into the studio, the main reason I picked this apartment. It wasn’t a huge room, probably ten by twelve feet, but it was plenty for me. I’d painted the walls and baseboards a rich shade of red, and then gone over the red trim with gold leaf paint. Curtains of gold brocade – okay, fake brocade, because I’m on a therapist’s budget – completed the room. Accordion closet doors, also painted gold over red, took up most of the west side of the room. Long mirrors I’d picked up on sale covered the north wall. In one corner, a TV and iPod dock sat on a TV stand that housed my dance DVDs.

I turned the music up as loud as I could without making the downstairs neighbors complain, and attacked my yoga practice.

Some people like light, airy synthesizer music and nature sounds during yoga. Not me. I play rock, metal, or anything with good guitars and a driving beat. I like a heat-building practice with lots of warrior poses and long holds, sweat dripping into my eyes. A light, gentle stretching session allows too much space in my brain: space for the to-do list, the work stress, the single-and-not-quite-loving-it stress. A vigorous practice focused me on my breath and burning muscles. It crowded out the other noise.

Once my muscles burned pleasantly, I rolled up the mat, put on my battered practice heels, and started drilling some dance combinations. It’s one thing to dance and balance in heels when you’re just barely warmed up; it’s a whole different animal with fatigued muscles. I had to fight to maintain my balance, to spin into a drop, to keep my steps precise and my chest held high.

If I can nail choreography three times in a row when I’m exhausted, then I don’t have to worry about a thing when I hit the stage fresh.

The music overtook me. I let muscle memory and whim carry me through the drumbeats and guitar riffs. That accent I always meant to hit? Got it. I presented my side, downstage leg bent a little to accentuate the curve, waist twisted a little to make it tiny. I forgot about my generous butt and lower belly, forgot the case notes I had to complete, forgot the stack of delivery menus I stuffed into a cupboard in the kitchen.

I was fine until the music shuffled to “How to Strip for Your Husband.” I remembered where my left shoulder would touch Lisa’s right and shrug up and down together. I thought of her wink, of the smile that crinkled her nose, her red hair in tangled waves around her face, and stumbled. I put the thought away resolutely and changed the song… but the image kept coming back
Lisa lying in an awkward sprawl on the floor he likes cold women he can’t stop thinking about it wonders if he loves them in his way he likes cold women cold floor cold skin
so I switched to some of the hardest techniques I know. I layered a smooth chest circle over tight hip locks while slowly bending my knees until my butt was an inch off my heels, then rose back up without losing the hips. I went into the splits from standing as slowly as I could with my arms reaching for the ceiling without bunching at my shoulders. I spun faster. I hit the moves harder but made them smaller, more precise. I had it. I got it.

And then my phone rang in the other room.

I swore and ran to catch it. It could be Monica. It could be the police.

It was Jeff.

He never called on weekends. I was tempted to hit “ignore” and keep dancing, but thought
O god what if my photo is in the news and he saw it
and snatched up the phone.

“Hi Jeff,” I said, struggling to get enough air without actually gasping.

“Hiya,” he said. “I thought I’d get your voice mail. How are you doing?”

I’m nervous that the police called you, and I’m also a little traumatized.
“I’m good, thanks,” I said. “You?”

“Good.” He paused. “Did you just run up a flight of stairs?”

“I was exercising,” I said, lamely. He wouldn’t sound so normal if he saw me in the news… right? “What’s up?”

“I’m doing some insurance catch-up, and I’m missing your notes from one of the Wednesday intakes.”

“I emailed that to you,” I reminded him. “I wasn’t sure about the diagnosis, so I sent you a write-up instead of putting it right into the system. I don’t know if this guy needs the Bipolar label following him for his entire life.”

“That’s right, I’m sorry,” he said. He paused briefly. “Ah. Got it. I’ll review it and get back to you.”

“Great,” I said.

“So how are you doing with Max?”

I almost dropped the phone. “Um… with…
Max
?”

“You seemed a little shaken yesterday, and that’s a lot to process. How are you feeling?”

Of course.
Jeff wouldn’t bug me about work on the weekends, but he would make up an excuse to check on me.

I thought of Max leaning forward in his seat, his tousled hair in his eyes, looking so intently at me. “It’s fine,” I said. “I guess I’m lucky, that something – ended the attraction, and I didn’t have to struggle with it for a long time.”

“That’s a start,” he said. “Let’s meet Tuesday afternoon and see what’s coming up for you.”

“Sounds good,” I said.

“Don’t study too hard,” he reminded me.

We got off the phone, and I fought the urge to run straight to check the news websites. I headed back into the studio, kicked off my heels, and did a deep stretching cooldown. My mind whirled the entire time. What did Max think? Did I see him in the lobby after the show, but not process it? Was he devouring the news right now? Was the body violated? Would they fingerprint the door money? Did he even have a record? He had some job in insurance claims, so I didn’t think he’d need fingerprints for a license like high finance or law enforcement types did.

Finally I walked to my computer to check the local news sites. A boldface new email from Tish appeared in my inbox. I opened it. She had sent it to the troupe distribution list.

Hi Ladies,
she wrote.

Rehearsal for Monday is cancelled. We’re also going to take Friday off from performing as a time of mourning. I’ll let you know when I hear about the funeral arrangements.

Take care of yourselves and each other.

Tish

Nicely done
, I thought. I dashed a quick “Got it” note to her and checked the news sites.

Several mentioned the murder, but all the photos were outside the theater and showed the crime scene tape. There was a brief interview with a teary-eyed Tish. I got to the
Sun-Times
and almost threw up. I was partially visible in one of the photos. I recognized my leopard-print suitcase and dress. My face was turned away, and my hair was in a ponytail. My boss and clients only ever saw me in business attire, so maybe they wouldn’t recognize me. Someone would have to really know my jaw and overcoat.

The overcoat I’ve been wearing to work all autumn.

The photo wasn’t in color, so the plum shade looked dark grey, but the tailored cut and waistband looked very distinctive to me. I scrutinized the photo for what felt like an hour, and a new mail notification popped up. I switched to my email.

There was a new note from Kevin. I sighed deeply.

Hi Velvet,
he wrote.

I’m writing because I just saw the news about your troupe member. I’m sorry, you must think I’m such a cad for asking you out with this going on. I had no idea. Please accept my sincere condolences on your loss.

Kevin

I leaned back, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes. He was nice, and he seemed sincere. It was pretty clear I wasn’t going to be able to think straight or relax. Maybe getting out of my head for a while would be a good thing. I didn’t get the flutter in my heart from him that I had gotten from Max and Grant…. Which might be a good sign, all things considered. I didn’t exactly have the perfect track record.

Hi Kevin,
I wrote before I could change my mind.

You are very thoughtful; thank you for the condolences. Lisa was a wonderful person. I just can’t think about it too much right now so getting out would be nice. If you are still free tonight, I would enjoy meeting for drinks or coffee.

Sincerely,

Velvet

Look at me, Not Dwelling On It.
Of course, I still saw her every time I blinked, and I still had that tight surreal feeling in my body of shock warring with sleep deprivation, but Katie made it and I had a date.

Small comforts are still comforts.

B
y the time I arrived at the Violet Hour, I was wired enough on caffeine and nerves that I could probably power a small continent. At the same time, I was tired enough to take the train instead of drive. I wore headphones blaring music on the train as the details from my murder board cycled through my brain.
Cori Victoria Krista Darcy Lisa.

After accepting Kevin’s invitation, I had erased the notes on my dry-erase board and started a murder board. I dug up all the news articles I could find on the Darling Killer, taped a photo of every known victim on the board, and jotted notes under each one. My sloppy, half-cursive scrolled before my eyes as I surveyed the restaurant.

The Violet Hour’s French salon-inspired décor involved lavender and cream, high-backed chairs, and intimate alcoves meant for hushed conversation. Curtained partitions framed the bartenders against their mirrored bar back cabinets. I half-expected to see gentlemen in frock coats sipping absinthe rather than the handful of people who had obviously dressed to be seen in a way that aspired to look effortless.