Aphrodisiac (26 page)

TWENTY-FOUR

I raced to keep up with my high-speed roommate, but DUMBO’s lumpy cobblestone streets turned my habit of wearing four-inch heels into an Olympic event. Tonight I wore lime green MaryJanes with a green and blue striped dress, strapless with a short flared skirt. Benita dressed in a denim skirt and purplish madras blouse. I refused to let her wear her sneakers, although she insisted we might have to run or climb somewhere during our spy mission at Schumacher’s meeting. After a minor squabble, she compromised on ballerina flats. Yet another reason she was mad at me.

Benita always got mad when she was frightened. And finding that I’d gone for a walk with my “boyfriend,” who happened to resemble a star from the WWE, sent her over the top. Her nerves were already on overload, between the rush to solve our case and Fippy’s latest antics.

“No more disappearing acts,” she said. “And if we miss Lady Vivian, it’s your fault.”

Benita and I were late for Raffy’s opening at the Sappho Gallery on Washington Street. Named after the Greek poet, the gallery showcased lesbian artists from the New York area.

“Like I had a choice,” I snapped. “What was I suppose to I do? Tell Bardarson, ‘Sorry, but I’m late for an opening’? Oh, I’m sure he would have understood.”

Stopped in her tracks, Benita gazed down at the sidewalk, her words coming slowly this time. “You’re right. Forgive me. I’m on overload same as you. And frankly, I’ve just about had it. And while I may act like I’m getting off on all this detective stuff, deep down I’m scared as hell. I just hate to admit it.”

“I know, sweetie.” We gave each other a hug and a kiss. “As far as the art opening,” I said, “I bet Lady Viv isn’t even there yet. Have you switched on your recorder?”

“I’ll do that as soon as we go in the door.” She’d hidden it in her Louis Vuitton bag, same as usual.

“Dance Of The Sugar Plum Fairy” went off inside my striped cloth purse that hung to my hip from a long shoulder strap. I fished it out. “Dr. Oz.”

“Walsh Plunkett here. Excuse me for calling you on your cell, but you didn’t answer the message I left at the other number.”

“I’m very sorry, Walsh. I’ve been busy. And once again you’ve caught me at a bad time.”

“Of course. I understand. Perhaps we could…”

“I’m racing to get to an opening for this artist I know.”

“Opening? Where?”

“Here in DUMBO at the Sappho Gallery on Washington Street. Why don’t you come see her work? You might find it interesting.”

“That’s very kind of you to invite me. Maybe following the show we could—”

“I have to rush out with my roommate afterward, but it’ll be nice to see you.” I said good-bye and turned to Benita with a shrug.

“I heard,” she said. “Something about that Plunkett guy bothers me. Gotta watch out for little people with big feet. Like Napoleon. They’ll walk all over you.”

“Really, Bin. As if you have any idea how big Napoleon’s feet were. I just feel sorry for him and was being polite. He seems lonely. I doubt he’ll actually make it to the show.”

She shrugged. “Hey, Fippy just wheedled out of me where I’d be this afternoon. Let’s hope he doesn’t pull a cameo.”

“You talked to Fippy?”

“Yeah, I broke down and gave him a call. Wanted him to stop proposing to me during his nightly weather spot. That fool is going to lose his job. Besides, people are more interested in hearing about the next break in the stinking humidity.”

“Apparently not, Binnie.”

A green looping neon sign in the shape of the letter S hung above Sappho’s door. From the street we could hear rock music and see clusters of people through the gallery’s full-length windows. They were milling about, wine in hand, yapping that artsy yap people do at openings. We made our way inside the industrial-sized space. Its walls were painted the standard art gallery white. The old wood floor had been sanded and urethaned. Spotlights suspended from a track system overhead threw a wash of light over Raffy’s freestanding sculptures.

Three muscular women in leotards circled the floor on unicycles passing out tiny cheese wheels from a basket. Ti-Jean, the Haitian artist I used to date, until he decided he was gay, blew me a kiss from across the floor. I smiled and waved back.

“Is that dude with the beer gut his new boyfriend?” Benita asked.

“Yup. And I’d been so worried about my pudge when Ti-Jean was making that cast of my belly button.”

Benita stared up at a ten-foot sculpture of Raffy’s. Another one of her signature works composed of living plants peeking through nooks and crannies of mangled automobile hoods and doors. Raffy spent her time prowling Brooklyn’s auto graveyards in search of just the right pieces. Her aesthetics were based on a somewhat morbid premise. Gwen once quoted her as saying, “The worse the accident, the choicer the cuts.”

“Stuff’s gotta weigh a ton,” Benita said, putting her hand on the metal surface of what was once the hood of an old Cadillac.

I surveyed the scene. There was no one resembling the description of Lady Vivian. And no sign of Eldridge. My heart sank. Maybe he decided hanging out at the beach with Tara was more fun than dodging bullets for me. But I had no time to think about Mr. Mace. Tonight I’d be face-to-face with Gwen’s killers for a final meet-up. That thought shot adrenaline through my veins. Should I give in and call the police? Ask them to put the bust on Curtis? Would they? So far all I had to nail him on was a sexual harassment complaint. And try making that stick. Who do I have as witnesses? Gump-Gone-Bad and the rest of those Boy Scouts from the Hummer? As to the DVD evidence Benita and I had on Capricia and the professor, it proved nothing. Then add in the big what-ifs—like Curtis getting released on bail, or all charges dropped thanks to his lawyer, or his posse moving in on my family— and there was no way out of this thing.

We had no choice but to follow this to the end. I just hope it would be the end of Gwen’s killer and not of us.

The crowd was the standard New York mix of ages, colors, incomes and styles. Manhattan corporate chic, rockers with multiple piercings, a Park Avenue blue hair, a Latina woman in a trucker cap with a tattoo of a leopard above her butt. I recognized the tall African-American supermodel Ninuah in a yellow beaded mini and dreads down to her butt. She was chatting it up with hip-hop entrepreneur Swoop E.Tine, who had just recently moved his recording company to DUMBO. A couple of female lovebirds in buzz cuts and janitor suits hung with a world-renowned painter wearing his trademark gold silk pajamas and carpet slippers. I couldn’t remember his name. Then there was the artist’s next of kin. A small contingent of Raffy’s Italian family.

We walked over to Raffy, who was decked out in a tux. She was talking with three older women whose Chanel suits, Gucci handbags and Park Avenue inflections told me they were collectors. But when she saw us approach, Raffy said, “Excuse for me a minute.” She pointed with her chin to a quiet corner, and we followed her.

“Great turnout for a one-woman show,” I said.

Benita handed her the yoni bracelet. “Thanks for your help.”

The artist smiled. “How’d it go?”

“Not here,” Benita said. “Tell ya later. How’s Tim doing?”

“Still laid up. But the doctors say he’ll be out in a couple weeks.”

“Any sign of the deranged bully boys lurking around you?” I asked.

Raffy slumped against the wall, hands in pockets. “Nope. And I ain’t worried. I’m shacked up over in Bensonhurst at my aunt’s. She runs a nail salon. Plus my uncle ordered a couple, uh, cousins to hang around me for the time being.”

Two guys in dark glasses and heavy on the gold jewelry hovered in a corner drinking wine. The pair looked out of place for an art opening. Still, the possibility that there were a couple of goodfellas here to keep an eye by way of her Uncle Paulie felt pretty good right now.

“No sign of the Lady Viv,” Benita said. “Has she been here yet?”

“Trust me,” Raffy said. “You’ll know when she arrives. But check this out. Your fans are working the liquor table.” She pointed to a far end of the gallery next to a wall piece made from the grill of an ill-fated Mack Truck. In their Harley Davidson tees, the two bouncers from the Jewel were passing out the drinks. “Uh-oh. Gotta go,” Raffy said. “I’m getting the wave from my dealer. There’s someone she wants me to meet.” As she left she turned to Benita. “Notice I didn’t say a word about that unfortunate picture of you in the
Post
.” She patted her on the shoulder. “Give me points for being a nice guy.”

Benita growled under her breath.

We ambled to the liquor table and were greeted by the two women. They pounded fists with Benita and asked what we were drinking.

“Just seltzer today.” Benita looked at me and added, “For both of us.”

“You don’t have to be so parental,” I murmured.

“We are on duty. I’m not the one who stayed out and partied last night.”

Suddenly, the longest, pinkest limousine I had ever seen appeared outside the window.

Benita’s jaw dropped. “That is the longest, pinkest limo I have ever seen.”

No argument there.

It pulled up in front of the gallery and stopped. The driver hopped out, quickly went to the passenger side and opened the door.

A voice in the gallery said, “She’s here.” People hurried to stand by the window. We elbowed our way in for a better view.

At first, all that was visible were small feet in pink rubber flip-flops dangling over the edge of the back seat.

“Check the footwear.”

“I thought she’d at least be in pair of Jimmy Choos.”

Next came the rotund figure of a woman with chin-length brown hair with red highlights. She wore a dress that looked appropriate for a little girl’s birthday party. Pink, with a mid-thigh hemline and short, puffy sleeves. Even her pink handbag looked like a party favor. Lady Vivian Hatch-Oliver had arrived.

Dah-lings and double air-kisses all round. Two photographers from out of nowhere began snapping her picture. Listening to the chatter, I managed to hear that Lady Viv’s husband was out on his yacht. A twenty-something boy in paint-smattered jeans and a black sports jacket over a naked chest accompanied her. He was an up-and-coming American artist. And was not her main toy-boy. That role was designated to a Columbian sculptor. Hmmm.

Benita nudged my arm. “Somebody else is here.”

“Good day, ladies.” Mr. Plunkett stood as if he were at attention. Black-framed glasses on his expressionless face. Same ill-fitting business suit and, speaking of footwear, red loafers the color and size of Mars.

“Walsh. I see you made it.”

The three of us toured the gallery floor together paying our respects to Raffy’s work. We pondered over a piece entitled
Up Yours, Right Wing Fascist Asshole
. There was a shiny Texas license plate covered with drips of rich red paint mounted on raw auto graveyard scraps in the shape of an oil well. At the top was a mangled hood ornament that formed a hand giving the finger.

“Not very ladylike,” Walsh said.

We went on to the next, a romantic little ditty in steel and flowers called simply,
Fuck You.
Benita crossed her arms, tilting her head. “This one’s got more lyricism than
Go To Hell, Bitch
or
You Suck
.

Okay, so maybe Raffy could use a little anger management.

“Saylor.” My roommate’s tone changed. “Here it is.”

At the far end of the gallery, set aside from the bulk of the show’s work, was the joint creation Raffy and Gwen had made together. It was clearly a piece from a mellower period. A statement in flowers, auto parts and floral scents.
The Bliss Of Inanna
.

When I stepped closer, I recognized the smell of Heaven’s Daughter. But wait. It wasn’t on a woman, so it couldn’t have any effect. And fortunately no liquid perfume appeared to be used in the work itself. The scent was coming from oilcloths that must have been sprayed or dipped in the perfume, then wound tightly around vines to form a kind of rope that curved through the metal structure.

Walsh noticed my reaction. “Is something wrong?”

“The collaborator on this one was a close friend of mine.”

“Was?” he asked.

“Please, I can’t talk about it,” I said.

A tap on my shoulder. “She’s right behind us,” Benita whispered in my ear. “Time to make our move.”

“Pardon me, Walsh, but I have to speak to Lady Vivian Hatch-Oliver about something.”

He gave me a gentlemanly bow.

Benita and I eased our way into the fringes of her little entourage.

I smiled at her. “Surprised to see us, Lady Viv?”

“Do I know you?” She spoke with an upper class British accent.

I moved in closer. “Maybe this will refresh you memory. Want to buy a Kwan Yin figurine?”

“Kwan Yin?” Vivian grinned. “I just bought one.”

“Bought? Or stole?” Benita asked.

She raised an eyebrow. “Call it what you please. I just like to make sure I have more of whatever it is I want than anyone else.” She laughed, and her American toy-boy artist and two other sycophants joined in.

My fellow sleuth popped the big question. “I heard you’re an obsessive collector. Does that mean if someone refused to sell you something you wanted badly, you’d kill them to get it?”

A coy shrug from the Lady. “Probably.” More laughter from all.

“Even someone like Gwendolyn Applebee?” I asked.

Fingers to her lips. “Poor Gwen. We all miss her so.” Her face went to instant downcast. Fake as a three-dollar bill. “Taking her own life. What a sad waste.”

“Maybe she was murdered,” I said.

Lady Vivian froze. Her impish smile tightened into a frown. Had we poked the hornet’s nest a bit too hard? Wasn’t that our goal? Her hand reached out and touched my arm. “Such morbidity. Such cynicism.”

I couldn’t read her response. So, I went for broke. “That’s because we were her best friends. Don’t you recognize us? This is Benita Morales. And I’m Saylor Oz.”

Sudden recognition. “Dr. Saylor Oz?” I was ready for her to hiss out some threatening reminder, telling us that our time was almost up and that she was through playing games. “You’re the one who gave a little talk at Honey Webster’s Cuddle Night.”