Dawn Benedict, TV Detective — Murder at the Lavender and Leather

Prologue

Danielle had been in the bathroom nearly a half hour, and Sarah Carter was beginning to worry. What if her lover was sick? She’d looked a little pale all evening. So Sarah got up out of her booth, worked her way past the crowded dance floor, and made her way back to the hallway where the toilets were located. She checked the first one — no Danielle.

The second bathroom was dark, and Sarah had to fumble for the light switch beside the door. What she saw in the sudden, harsh glare made her lose her dinner of crab-cakes and wine all over the polished vinyl floor. Ten minutes later, they found her there, drained and weeping.

Chapter 1: A Case of Murder Most Foul

I looked out the window at a typical Seattle winter day. That is, it was gray, dreary and wet, the kind of day that made you want to stay home beside a fire with a glass of chianti in one hand and a lover in the other.

Unfortunately, it was a weekday and, like every other poor sap in the city, I was at work. Looking down from my window, I could see one of those saps now, scurrying down the sidewalk, umbrella extended like a talisman  against the endless Seattle rain. Further out, beyond the Space Needle, its massive legs jutting from the clouds, the Bremerton Ferry disappeared like a ghost in the mist.

That morning, I’d received a mysterious phone call from my associate, Frenchy. She’d said she would be in at nine, with a friend, and to make  sure I was dressed. Anyone else would have retorted “Of COURSE I’ll be dressed!”, or something equally indignant, but I knew exactly what she meant. So, that morning I was wearing a black miniskirt, sheer black panty hose, and two-inch pumps. I had on my favorite wig, an auburn shoulder-length number, and just enough makeup to hide what was left of my stubble. I’d never really had much of a beard, and what I’d had was blond, but I’d gotten tired of having to use too much foundation. So, about a year before, I’d begun electrolysis. Just a couple of more visits, and all the hair would be gone, and none too soon — I’d discovered I had a REALLY low tolerance to pain.

I turned and faced my domain: a small, musty office with a desk that looked like it had last seen service during the Roosevelt administration.In front of the desk were a couple of straight-backed chairs, and behind it was a deep, leather executive chair that I had gotten second-hand from a law firm. It was my only luxury. To my left, a small closet harbored a dress, two skirts, three blouses, assorted high-heeled pumps and sandals,and even some boy clothes, just in case.

Frenchy’s late, I thought, glancing at my watch. So what else is new?

The smell of fresh coffee lured me to the tiny anteroom; I poured a cup and sat behind Frenchy’s desk, legs crossed, reading a two-month old copy of Mademoiselle. I was half-way through an article about a guy who makes a quite respectable living working as a woman’s fashion model, wondering how much he makes and if I could get away with it, when the outer door opened, revealing a mousy looking woman. Close on her heels was Frenchy, wearing her standard jeans, tennis shoes and a tee-shirt that read “Men Suck.”

“Dawn,” she said, “I’d like you to meet Sarah Carter.”

I rose to my feet, smoothing my skirt. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Carter.” The other woman stared, mouth open, as I took her outstretched hand.

“And you, Ms., uh Mr. Benedict,” she said with understand able confusion.

“Please, call me Dawn. Why don’t we go into my office, where we can be a little more comfortable.”

I led the way into the office trailed by the two women, motioning to the two chairs in front of the desk, and eased myself down into the executive chair.

Mousy wasn’t quite the right word to describe Sarah, I decided — she was pretty in a nondescript way, her choice of clothing seemingly designed to enable her to fade into the background. Her loose-fitting business suit was a light gray, covering a plain white blouse, and she was shod in sensible, black flats. At the moment, she still watched me with a kind of slack-jawed astonishment. I often have that effect on people.

“What can I do for you, Ms. Carter?” I began.

She glanced nervously over at my associate, who nodded encouragingly.

“Well, I don’t know quite where to start. I frequent a . . . club called theLavender and Leather. Do you know it?”

“Yes, I know it,” I replied. “Lesbian hang-out down on sixth.”

“Right,” Sarah continued. “Well, two weeks ago, there was a shooting of a woman named Danielle Squires. Nobody saw anything, nobody heard anything, she was just found dead in the bathroom.”

“What did the police say?”

“The police? Oh, the police came, interviewed a few of the women, and then left. You know how it is — the Lavender is a lesbian bar, and the cops have better things to do than find the murderer of some dyke. I called homicide and got the old Seattle P.D. runaround. `We’re working on it, ma’am. We’ve got some leads, ma’am. We’ll let you know.’”

“Did you know the victim?”

“Danielle was my lover,” said Sarah Carter, a deep bitterness in her voice.

Frenchy reached across and took her hand, and there was silence for a few moments. Then, with a visible effort, Sarah pulled herself together.

“So. I want to hire you to find out who killed her. Frenchy says you’re the best, and you’ve got obvious advantages that other detectives don’t have. I actually believe that you could go into the Lavender and ask questions without anybody batting an eye.”

“I don’t know . . .” I began.

“I can pay you. I’ve got a good job.”

“It’s not that — it’s just that there MUST be better investigators for this one.

Like ones with the right plumbing, for example.”

It was Frenchy who answered. “Not that I know of. There aren’t a whole lot of female P.I.s out there, Dawn. Kinsey Milhone and V.I. Warshawski are FICTIONAL. And besides, I trust you.” There was a pleading tone to her voice.

I had reservations about the whole thing, but I never could turn Frenchy down. “All right,” I said, “I get two hundred a day plus expenses, five hundred up front.”

After Sarah Carter left, Frenchy and I had lunch at our favorite bistro,Marcelle’s. We’d been coming to the place for several years, and the owner, Jacques, knew me in both of my alter-egos. He met us at the entrance.

“Ah, Mademoiselle Benedict,” he said, eyes twinkling. “Today, you are as lovely as the flowers that bloom in the Spring. And, what is that perfume? It makes my head swim with delight . . .”

I wore the same perfume as always, but I was flattered anyway. He took my hand and, bowing low over it, kissed it noisily. My face colored prettily — there’s nothing like a Frenchman to make a girl feel desirable.

Jacques gave a perfunctory nod in Frenchy’s direction, which infuriated her as usual, then led us to our table by the fireplace. Along the way, I received admiring stares from the men in the room, accompanied by frowns of annoyance from their female companions. As usual, I imagined that I looked better than all of the genetic females in the place. When we sat down, Frenchy, restored to good humor, gave me an amused look.

“For someone who so loudly protests his heterosexuality, you certainly enjoy Jacques’ attentions,” she said. “He’s gay, you know.”

“Jacques? Gay? I hardly think so . . . he just enjoys playing games.We’re some of his favorite customers.”

“Gay,” she repeated. “I can tell.”

Now it was my turn to be amused. “YOU can tell? Talk about your stereotyping — you announce your sexual orientation on tee-shirts, for God’s sake.”

“At least I don’t pretend to be something I’m not. You appropriate our looks, our power, and can retreat back to your own sex whenever it’s convenient. All the benefits, none of the drawbacks. No period, no PMS, no auto mechanics trying to screw you, none of the SHIT that real women have to put up with everyday.”

We’d had this conversation before, and it continued along now pretty much on auto-pilot. We were like a married couple, bickering away on our favorite argument, content in our comfortable mode of communication. I’d known Frenchy for years, since my days on Seattle P.D., when a misguided neighbor had called the cops to investigate some “lesbos” that had moved in next door to him. A patrolman at the time, I had answered the call and, after explaining that no, there weren’t any laws against that sort of thing in Seattle, and that the department had no real interest in what two consenting adults did in their own home, was invited in by Frenchy and her lover for coffee. A couple of weeks after that, I’d been promoted to plain clothes and assigned to vice, marking the beginning of the end of my service to the City of Seattle.

We ordered our lunches — salad for me and a cheeseburger and fries for Frenchy — while I flirted outrageously with the waiter, my companion looking sourly on. When our meals came, our conversation turned serious,to the problem of Sarah Carter and her murdered lover.

“How well do you know Sarah?” I asked, chasing a slippery tomato around the plate with my fork. “I mean, do you believe her when she says that her lover wasn’t involved with anything shady?”

Frenchy chewed thoughtfully on her cheeseburger, thinking the question over. I knew that murders didn’t usually happen at random, especially in joints like the Lavender and Leather. They usually were committed by someone the victim knew, either through association with something not altogether on the up-and-up, or through the bedroom, by a current or former lover.

“Well, I’ve never been intimate with Sarah, if that’s what you mean, but we’ve known each other for some time, and I think she’s telling the truth.” She paused, then frowned. “At least what SHE thinks is the truth.”

“That may make things easier,” I said. “But then again, maybe not. Sarah didn’t seem to know much about her lover’s life before they met, nor did she appear to care.” I took a delicate sip of wine. “What do you know about the club?”

“The Lavender? It’s a pretty upscale place. Not exactly a leather dyke bar, although there is that element. I guess it’s a kind of a catch-all,where everyone from secretaries to truck-drivers to corporate executives go to relax and be with their lovers.”

“Males aren’t particularly welcome in that place, are they?” When she shook her head, I related the experience of one of my more adventurous sisters, who ventured into the bar after a particularly inspirational support-group meeting and barely made it out alive. She thought she passed quite well, until being chased out and down the block by four large, leather-clad women. So much for passability.

Frenchy almost choked on her fries laughing. “Yes, I can imagine her problem. The patrons of the Lavender don’t take kindly to imitation women.”

I let the obvious slur pass — not wanting to be drawn back into our old argument — and said “Well, I think our first step is to interview some of the women at the bar. Maybe they’ll tell you or me what they wouldn’t tell the cops. That is, if you think they won’t discover my true sex . . .”

She looked me over in a mock-critical fashion. “Dawn, of all the men I know, you can probably pull it off.”

“Thanks, sweetie,” I replied, pleased by the compliment for which I’d so obviously fished.

“Pick you up at seven?”

“Could you make it eight, in front of the church? I’ve got a meeting at six.”

After we paid the check, with Jacques practically slobbering over me  in his ardor, we stepped out into the soggy Northwest afternoon. I waselated at being on a case and ready for anything. At the time, I didn’t know how wrong I was.

Next: The Investigation Begins

Tags: crossdressing, Dawn Benedict, featured, fiction, Rachael Robbins

Category: Fiction