Dirty Harriet Rides Again Read online

  I shook myself and came back to the present. I was safe now in my remote cabin. I looked at the clock. It was six in the morning. And that noise? Oh, it was my phone.

  “Yeah,” I grumbled into the receiver.

  “Harriet, Laurence Williams here.”

  “Who?”

  “Cherise Jubilee.”

  “Oh, right. Sorry.”

  “No problem. Listen, the ladies and I would like you to meet with us at my office at nine this morning. We have an urgent proposal to discuss with you.”

  I rubbed my eyes.

  “Yeah, okay. I can do that. Where’s your office?”

  “The Smile Wide Dental Center.” He gave an address on Federal Highway in Boca.

  “What? You want me to go to a dental office? They’re torture chambers. I go for my cleanings every six months, and that’s it. Avoid them like the plague.”

  “Actually, it’s the plaque you want to avoid,” he said. “Nonetheless, Harriet, as I am a dentist, I am indeed located in a dental office. If it’s such a problem for you, I can give you a mild tranquilizer when you arrive. It’s standard procedure for my patients with dental anxiety.”

  Jeez, just how much of a wimp did he think I was?

  “As long as you stay away from my teeth that won’t be necessary. See you at nine.”

  I had my coffee, showered, dressed, and piloted the airboat to land. I pushed my hog off the ramp, suited up for the ride with the extra pair of leathers I kept at home, and took off. The hog, like my swamp dwelling, is part of my reincarnation from beat-up Boca Babe to unbeatable Brainy Broad. Dominating a five-hundred-pound dynamo gives you one hell of a head rush. Actually, a total body rush.

  I arrived at the dental office and was escorted to a back room, doing my best to ignore all the treatment rooms along the way, with their drills and pliers and other tools of torture.

  I was shown into a lavishly appointed conference room. The four Rollers were seated around a long, oval polished wood table. Today they were in their alternate guises as professional men and upstanding members of the community. They reintroduced themselves with their real names: Richard Johnson (Virginia Hamm), a short bald man who, I recalled from our initial meeting at the rehearsal dinner, was an accountant; Herbert Graham (Keisha LaReigne), a portly wine importer; James Carmichael (Lady Fingers), a thin prep-school teacher; and, of course, Laurence, the dentist, and a tall one at that. And at the head of the table sat none other than S. Lee Dailey, an imposing figure with a barrel chest, beefy hands, and a bulldog face.

  “We appreciate your coming, Harriet,” Laurence began. “As we’re all busy, I’ll get right to the point. We are completely outraged over the wrongful arrest of Trey. We know he was framed, and we want to hire you to find the real killer. Right now Trey is still in custody pending a bond hearing. Mr. Dailey here has agreed to represent Trey, and he is in full agreement with contracting your investigative services to assist the defense.”

  Dailey issued a grunt and a nod.

  “But gentlemen, uh, ladies, whatever, murder is not really my thing,” I protested. “There are plenty of other P.I.s in town that can handle this.”

  “None that will care like you, that will sink their teeth into it and not let go till the job is done,” Laurence said.

  Had he just compared me to a rabid dog? I wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or offended. But he continued.

  “You come highly recommended by the contessa, and that’s more than good enough for us.”

  “Well, thanks. But what makes you think Trey was framed?”

  “Think about it, Harriet,” Richard said. “Anytime there’s a crime committed and there are any black men within a five-mile radius, the police have no problem quickly apprehending a suspect, right?”

  “Well, yeah, you may have a point . . .”

  “Plus the fact that we are a bunch of queers does not incline the police to view us impartially,” Herbert added.

  “Yeah, okay, I can see how you’re in double jeopardy, being black and gay, not the most favored groups in our great society. But what about Trey’s bloody clothes that were found in the Dumpster?”

  “If you recall,” James said, “Trey is a prominent local criminal judge. Not that you could tell by the way he was running off at the mouth yesterday, but the poor dear was beside himself. But notwithstanding that brief lapse of judgment, would he really be so stupid as to commit a murder and leave the evidence so near the scene?”

  “Um, I suppose not. And the church was open during the ceremony, so anybody could have come in, put on Trey’s clothes, killed the reverend, and then dumped the clothes.”

  “Exactly,” Dailey finally spoke up.

  “Furthermore,” Laurence said, “the police have come up with the most ridiculous motive. All of us are out of the closet, except Trey. He’s always feared that his sexual orientation would jeopardize his judicial appointment. Mind you, he’s not on the down low, he’s just not out.”

  “Pardon?” I asked. “The down low?”

  What the hell was that? That stupid style where guys wore their pants’ waists down around their knees?

  “Girlfriend, don’t you watch the Bravo channel? Or Oprah?” Herbert asked.

  “Uh, no,” I didn’t bother informing them that I don’t own a TV.

  “The ‘down low’ refers to black men who are outwardly straight. They have wives or girlfriends but keep secret gay lovers on the side,” James, the teacher, lectured.

  “Right,” Herbert said. “So Trey is on the upand-up, not on the D.L. He’s not stepping out on some poor unsuspecting sister. He has a long-term male partner, he’s just not public about it.”

  “Okay, so what’s this got to do with a motive?”

  “Get this,” said Laurence. “You know the Boca City Council is voting on a proposed same-sex marriage ordinance in the next few weeks.”

  “Yeah, I’ve read about it.” I’d also seen the protesters in the streets. The public battle had been getting increasingly nasty.

  “LaVerne was a very public proponent for the ordinance,” Richard said. “She was a major target of the opposition. She’d received death threats.”

  “Now here’s what the police are saying,” Laurence continued. “They claim that LaVerne threatened to out Trey in order to promote her own pro-gay agenda, the idea being that if the public found out that such a prominent and respected member of the community was gay, they’d be more inclined to support the ordinance. So, the police say, Trey killed her to prevent his outing.

  “Now that is such a load of horse pucky,” he went on. “LaVerne would never have outed anyone. That would be totally incompatible with her beliefs. So we think the antigay protesters murdered her and framed Trey. If Trey gets the death penalty, then they’ll have killed two birds, an uppity black woman and a gay black judge, with one stone, er, organ pipe. Could there be a more perfect setup?”

  Without waiting for a reply, he went on. “So, will you take the case?”

  “Let me think about it,” I said.

  I thought for about half a second, then said, “Yes, I will.”

  After all, despite my numerous protests about not being a homicide heavyweight, I’d already embarked on my unofficial investigation. This case was personal. I’d liked and admired the reverend and everything she stood for. I had found her body. My best friends’ ceremony had been ruined. And, above all, the Rollers had now raised my ire over the world’s gross injustices.

  My inner vigilante was tapped and set for takeoff.

  Chapter 4

  “GREAT!” LAURENCE said. “Here’s where we think you should start.”

  Now, I generally don’t take well to being told what I should do, but I let that pass for now.

  “The Boca City Council is holding a public hearing
on the same-sex marriage ordinance tomorrow,” Laurence went on. “We think you should attend and check out the key players.”

  “Sounds reasonable,” I said. Then I couldn’t help myself and went on, “But I think I’ll look into some other angles in the meantime. And I’ll bring a contract for you to sign tomorrow morning.”

  “Okay,” he agreed. “Thank you all for coming. Now let’s all get back to our jobs.”

  We shook hands all around, which seemed more fitting in this setting, as opposed to the theatrical hugs we’d all exchanged yesterday. Then we departed.

  Outside, I put on my helmet and rode my hog to my office. It’s located just outside the Boca city limits, along a seamy stretch of Highway 441. It’s a one-room deal with grated windows in a strip mall right between Tony’s Tattoos and Carl’s Checks R Us. Far from Boca glam, but just right for my upscale clients desperate for discretion about being scammed.

  I went inside and sat down at my desk. I propped my feet up and proceeded to think. I felt that I needed to keep my mind open to all possibilities and not pursue the antigay angle single-mindedly. The Rollers might well be right about that, but I couldn’t let that bias me at this early stage of the investigation.

  Any murder investigation needs to begin by looking into the life of the victim. So I decided to start by interviewing the Reverend Botay’s parishioners to find out more about her.

  I called Lupe, who I knew was on the church’s board of directors. She and I had been developing a friendship over the past couple months. Although this was threatening to my loner sensibilities, another part of me was drawn to our connection. So instead of launching right into business, as is my usual MO, I did the friendship thing by asking how she was doing.

  “I’m very distraught,” she said. “I’ve got this huge hole in my heart where LaVerne used to be. I miss her so much.” She burst into tears.

  Oh, boy. Now I had to play the role of comforter? Scary. I wasn’t sure I had that skill. As a Boca Babe, friendship had meant one-upmanship. Or rather, up-womanship. It was all about who had the best clothes, the best house, and the best (read: richest) husband.

  But I wasn’t a Boca Babe anymore. I realized that part of my recovery meant forging real relationships instead of faux friendships. So I plunged in.

  “How about getting together for lunch?” I ventured. “It might help you to talk about your grief.”

  Wow, I surprised myself with that one.

  “Oh, that would be really nice,” she replied. “Thanks so much, Harriet. You’re a true friend.”

  Who, me? Was I really worthy of the honor? I took a deep breath. Yes, I could do it. Dirty Harriet was up to any challenge.

  We agreed to meet at one at a restaurant on the Intracoastal. Actually, the place referred to itself not as a restaurant, but a dining concept. Give me a break. But it was the location I was going for. Gazing at Florida’s gorgeous blue-green waterways always had a calming effect on me, and I figured it might for Lupe, too.

  I spent the next couple hours wrapping up a scam investigation for a health insurance company. The claims processors had suspected that several local doctors were doing medical up-coding, meaning giving patients diagnostic codes that were for worse conditions than they actually had, thereby squeezing higher reimbursements out of the patients’ health insurance. The bust had been pretty simple. I’d gone into all the doctors’ offices with a tape recorder in my purse, complaining of flu symptoms. The diagnoses of my condition variously came back to the insurance company as pneumonia, asthma, pulmonary fibrosis and so on. Now, those old boys were facing criminal indictments.

  When I finished my final report and invoice for that case, I rode back to the east (read: desirable) side of town to meet Lupe.

  She was already waiting for me at the restaurant. I could see she really was in bad shape. Her face was drawn and pale. She didn’t have on her usual Frida Kahlo-style makeup, hairstyle, and jewelry, and she wore jeans and a T-shirt instead of her traditional Mexican attire.

  “You’ve got to eat,” I commanded.

  Now where the hell did that come from? I had no maternal instincts or nurturing behaviors. Or did I?

  We took a table right by the water and ordered some Bahamian conch chowder and a couple grouper sandwiches.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” I began. “I didn’t really know the reverend personally, but I sure liked what I did know about her. Do you want to tell me about her?”

  “Sure,” Lupe said. “She had a huge heart. Her whole congregation was her family. And she loved to feed people. She really followed Jesus’s teachings. You know how he said something about ‘when you feed the least among you, you feed me’?”

  No, I didn’t know, but I nodded, not wanting to interrupt her.

  “She just loved to have people over to her house for soul food. And it really was exactly that. Feeding the body with ham hocks, greens, black-eyed peas, and okra, but feeding the soul at the same time with her love. Or maybe, Jesus’s love coming through her.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said, trying not to sound skeptical. This religious stuff really wasn’t my bag. But now that I was in this investigation, I’d have to tolerate it.

  “She just radiated peace and joy,” Lupe went on. “And, you know, she didn’t have an easy life. Imagine growing up black in the segregated South, just when the civil rights movement was happening, with all its lynchings, school bombings, and so on. Then becoming a woman preacher, then becoming outspoken and breaking away to form her own nonconformist church. You can imagine all that didn’t sit well with a lot of people. I would think she must have felt very alone at times, but I guess not. I guess she had the faith that God was always with her. Her inner peace in the face of such trials was an inspiration to so many, me included.”

  “But I thought you were a witch,” I said. “How come you were also a member of her church?”

  “Witchcraft doesn’t exclude any other religions. It’s about nature and harmony, not about doctrine. And, of course, LaVerne was inclusive of everyone, as well.”

  A tear slid down Lupe’s cheek.

  “I loved her. I miss her. I’ll never forget her.”

  “Neither will I,” I said. “I will find her killer. I won’t let her death, and her life, slip away into oblivion.”

  “What do you mean?” Lupe asked. “Are you investigating the case?”

  I explained about the Holy Rollers hiring me.

  “Oh, I’m so glad,” Lupe said. “What can I do to help?”

  Her eyes lit up, and I could see that she immediately felt better at the prospect of taking action.

  “You already have, by telling me about her,” I replied. “So tell me more. You said the congregation was her family. But was there anyone else—husband, partner, children?”

  “No, she really didn’t seem to have a personal life. Her work was her whole life.”

  “Did she talk about any problems, concerns, or fears in the days before her murder?”

  “Not to me. As a matter of fact, she was ecstatic about a major donation that the church received recently. She announced it to the congregation last Sunday, the one before yesterday. Dennis Pearlman donated $250,000 to the battered women’s counseling program that the church runs.”

  I knew the name. Pearlman was one of Boca’s obscenely wealthy residents, the owner of a vitamin manufacturing company. He was well known for his charitable and highly publicized contributions to the community, so this didn’t seem like anything unusual.

  “Okay. Anything else you can think of?”

  “No. I wish I could.”

  “Can you give me the names of some other members of the congregation who might know something?”

  “Absolutely,” she said. She pulled out her BlackBerry, looked up some names and phone numbers, jotted them down, and ha
nded them to me.

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” she said. “We, the board, that is, have made arrangements to have LaVerne’s funeral on Wednesday. We don’t have the time yet, but I’ll let you know as soon as we do. It’ll be at Mort’s. And we’ll be having a potluck gathering at my house afterward, so please come.”

  I knew Mort’s well. Mort was my late stepfather, and his Mort’s Mortuary and Crematorium was the biggest operation in town.

  “Of course, I’ll come. But I’m surprised the police are releasing her body so soon,” I said.

  “I guess they’ve done everything they need to do,” she replied.

  “Okay, I’ll go call the congregation members now,” I said.

  “Thanks, Harriet. I really do feel better already.”

  “I’m glad,” I said.

  I paid the lunch bill, refusing her insistence on splitting it. Then we shared a hug and departed.

  I went back to the office and called the people on the list. Unfortunately, none of them could provide any further information beyond what Lupe already had.

  By then it was getting late, and it seemed as if there was no more I could accomplish that day. So I headed home to mull things over with Lana the Gator.

  As always, she was an attentive listener as I sat there on my porch with my Hennessy and recounted the day’s events.

  “So what’d you think, that you’d find the killer in one day?” she snapped.

  “Well, of course not. Okay, maybe,” I admitted.

  “Persevere,” she ordered as she floated off into the sunset.

  “Thanks for the support,” I muttered.

  Then, since I’d been in such a friendly, supportive state all day, I dialed Mom to see how she was doing.