I paused as it came to mind. “It may also be that Miss Harper was assisting with Beryl’s book, giving her background information about the Harper family.”
Marino was staring out his side window.
He said, “You want my opinion, I think the two ladies was closet lesbians.”
I saw the driver’s curious eyes in the rearview mirror.
“I think they loved each other,” I said simply.
“So maybe the two of them was having a little affair, getting together every two months here in Baltimore where nobody knew ’em or paid ’em any mind.
“You know,” Marino persisted, “maybe that’s why Beryl decided to run to Key West. She was a fag-ette, would’ve felt at home there.”
‘Tour homophobia really is rabid, not to mention tiresome, Marino. You should be careful. People might wonder about you.”
“Yeah, right,” he said, not the least bit amused. I was silent.
He went on, “Point is, maybe Beryl found herself a little girlfriend while she was down there.”
“Maybe you ought to check into that.”
“No way, Jose. No way I’m getting bit by no goddamn mosquito in the AIDS capital of America.
And talking to a bunch of queers ain’t my idea of a good time.”
“Have you gotten the Florida police to check out her contacts down there?” I asked seriously.
“A couple of them said they poked around. Talk about a sorry assignment. They was afraid to eat anything, drink the water. One of the queerbaits from the restaurant she wrote about in her letters is dying of AIDS even as we speak. The cops had to wear gloves the entire time.”
“During the interviews?”
“Oh, yeah. Surgical masks, too–at least when they was talking to the guy dying. Didn’t come up with nothing helpful, none of the information worth a damn.”
“I guess not,” I commented. “You treat people like lepers and they’re not likely to open up to you.”
“You ask me, they ought to saw off that part of Florida and send it drifting out to sea.”
“Well, fortunately,” I said, “nobody asked you.”
There were numerous messages waiting on my answering machine when I returned home midevening.
I hoped one would be from Mark. I sat on the edge of my bed drinking a glass of wine and half-heartedly listening to the voices drifting out of the machine.
Bertha, my housekeeper, had the flu and announced she would not be able to come the next day.
The attorney general wanted to meet me for breakfast tomorrow morning and went on to report that Beryl Madison’s estate was suing over the missing manuscript. Three reporters had called demanding comment, and my mother wanted to know if I would prefer turkey or ham for Christmas– her not-so-subtle way of finding out if she could count on me for at least one holiday this year.
I did not recognize the breathy voice that followed.
“… You have such pretty blond hair. Is it real or do you bleach it, Kay?”
I rewound the tape. I frantically opened the drawer of my bedside table.
“… Is it real or do you bleach it, Kay? I left a little gift for you on your back porch.”
Stunned and with Ruger in hand, I rewound the tape one more time. The voice was almost a whisper, very quiet and deliberate. A white male. I could determine no accent, sense no emotion in the tone. The sound of my feet on the stairs unnerved me, and I turned on the lights in each room I passed through. The back porch was off the kitchen, and my heart was pounding as I stepped to one side of the picture window overlooking the bird feeder and barely parted the curtains, the revolver held high, barrel pointed at the ceiling.
Light seeped from the porch, pushing back the darkness from the lawn and etching the shapes of trees in the wooded blackness at the edge of my property. The brick stoop was bare. I saw nothing
on it or the steps. I curled my fingers around the doorknob and stood very still, my heart hammering as I unfastened the dead bolt.
A scraping against the wooden exterior of the door was barely perceptible as it opened, and when I saw what was looped over the outer knob I slammed the door so hard the windows shook.