Always Kiss the Corpse (17 page)

No shock or real sorrow there. What had Maria told him? “Yes. We're all upset.”

“And,” Father Peter's eyebrows tightened, “if I may ask, had Sandro been under treatment for a while?”

If yes, then why hadn't Andrei found help for Sandro? if no, then why now, why an overdose? “I don't know.”

Father Peter repeated: “You're certain his death wasn't suicide.”

Hadn't the man heard him? “No reason to assume so. No note was found and his friends report he had everything to live for.”

“Ahh.” A few seconds of silence. “Was there a new person in his life, then?”

“I believe, yes, you could say that.”

“Then my sadness goes out to her as well.”

Did the priest know? Was the man playing with him? “Thank you,” was all Andrei could say. He found himself standing. “Very much.” He reached for his coat.

“Thank you for confiding in me, Andrei. If there's anything else you'd like to speak about, you have my ear. You can count on me.” Father Peter stood.

He was wearing jeans, for god's sake!

“No, I think that's all. Thank you.” Coat in hand he backed toward the door, glancing over his shoulder for fear of creating an avalanche of files and books. Out the door, back to the car. A sense of safety. Unreal safety. Was that just young priest language, You can count on me, whatever you want to tell me?

He drove away. He had to speak with Vasily. Ten-fifteen. He drew out his cell and pressed Vasily's coded number. Answering service. Off with his Cynthia or whoever. Andrei left a message, Call when you get in. He tried Vasily's cellphone. No response.

The conversation with the priest wandered through Andrei's memory, and drew to an abrupt halt at the priest's words: Mostly from Maria. He had heard very little. Mostly from Maria. Who else had he heard from then? Andrei hadn't asked. He got home and slept badly.

He woke, and got out of bed. A gray 7:15
AM.
Vasily had never called last night. Hadn't gone home, hadn't checked for messages. Andrei reached for the phone.

≈  ≈  ≈

Kyra loaded the dishwasher. Noel scrubbed casseroles in the sink. She told him about Andrei Vasiliadis' call last night. “He particularly stressed he didn't want anyone in the family or the community to know about Sandro's transgendering.”

“Hmm.”

The phone rang. Kyra glanced at her watch: quarter past eight. She lifted the receiver. “Hello?”

“Hi, it's Margery. Thanks for the party. It was lovely, great food, fascinating talk.”

“Yeah, it was.”

“It would've been perfect except for—Kyra, I'm sorry. I'd only met Bettina once on the fly for about fifteen minutes. She's not really my sister's friend, I just phoned her, my sister, she was a neighbor, their husbands golfed together, she's never—”

“It's okay.” Kyra laughed. “Bettina added a certain spice. Suicide and sanctified cemeteries, how alliterative. She's, uh, unique. And what did you think of Jerome?”

“He's nice! And he stood up nobly under Bettina. She's a litmus test. Thanks for being understanding.”

“No prob.” She glanced at the slanting rain beyond the aspidistra. “Thanks again for the plant.”

Noel had started the dishwasher, which churned enthusiastically. Kyra poured more coffee, cut oranges into slices, made toast, brought everything to the table.

Noel sat back. Jerome was different from Sam, in physique and temperament. Different too from her other husbands, Vance the wife-beater, Simon who killed himself? He'd met neither.

The guests had started leaving about ten. Margery, pleading a headache, likely a ploy, took Bettina away. Sarah left soon after, then Mike. Jerome stayed for another Irish coffee. About eleven he recalled work the next morning.

Kyra and Jerome said goodbye at the condo door. They kissed lips lightly. “Thank you for the Mace.”

“I hope you never need it.”

≈  ≈  ≈

When he got home, Jerome had phoned Kyra. “Hi. I'm back. Thank you for tonight. Very nice party. I enjoyed your friends . . . I should've stayed, helped you clean up . . . I agree, more energy in the morning . . . Well, good night . . . I'll try.”

He put the phone down and stared at it. Nelson came to stand beside him, head raised as for a pat. Jerome scratched the back of his neck. A kind of certainty to a dog, you know what he wants, what he can give. But about Kyra, no certainty. Only questions. He liked her well enough. How much? Hard to say. Did he want to get emotionally involved with her? He wasn't sure. Did she appeal to him, did she arouse him? Pretty sure that right now he himself was keeping that from happening. She was tough and smart. Could he handle that? And, well, what would Bev say? He had often not known what to think about people and situations till he had talked it through with his wife. Too late.

He wanted to go to bed. He still needed to take Nelson out for his evening walk.

≈  ≈  ≈

Kyra's sofa bed was lumpy on the right side. Noel had fallen asleep thinking about Kyra and Jerome, the kiss between them that wasn't much of a kiss; but a kiss it was. He slept badly and awoke with a sore hip. He got up, washed, started breakfast for the two of them. Kyra joined him. They drank coffee, munched toast. Noel said, “How long have you known your beau?”

“Come on, Jerome's hardly my beau. He feels more like an older cousin than a possible lover.”

“Kissing cousin?”

She mused. “The sort of cousin I'd think twice about getting involved with.”

“Thinking twice is always good. Anyway, he's not your type. Your physical type, I mean.”

“True, he doesn't look like solid Sam.”

“How about like Vance? Or Simon?”

“Nope.”

“But it is, after all, possible to enjoy both vanilla and pistachio ice cream.”

“Depends on—” The business line rang. “Who now?” She got up. “Islands Investigations International.”

“Hi, this is Ursula Bunche on Whidbey, Sandro's friend. Is this Kyra?”

“Yes, hi.”

“Listen, Brady and I've been talking, and we're upset that people might think Sandra could have killed herself.” Ursula spewed the words, as if she'd rehearsed the speech. “She just wouldn't, she was so looking forward to life, trying out ideas. Open a flower shop or a lingerie store, ideas like that.” Ursula sounded both troubled and fervent.

“You think it was an accident?”

“If so, an extreme fluke. Sandra taking heroin doesn't compute, not even an experiment. She didn't even drink by herself.” Ursula faltered, then went on. “See, Brady and I sometimes have a joint in the evening but Sandra wouldn't join us, she didn't like the effect. She drank maybe a glass of wine, a couple of beers, no hard liquor, she liked to control her head. We can't believe she'd try heroin.”

“Something else?”

Ursula hesitated. “Unlikely. But she was having an extreme reaction. See, just before she died— Look, it's kind of hard to tell you this.”

Kyra said, “A bit at a time is easiest.”

“Okay. Her—well his—testes had become all swollen. She didn't know what was wrong.”

“What do you mean, swollen?”

“Three or four times in diameter from what they'd been, Sandra said. Swollen with semen. It hurt like hell.”

Kyra winced. “What did he do?”

Silence on the line. Then, “The only thing she could think of. She masturbated.”

“And that helped?”

“For a while. But a couple of hours later they filled up again.” Ursula sighed. “She couldn't sleep, and it hurt like hell to walk.”

“For how long?”

“Just a few days before she died. The last time we talked she was in real despair. She said something like, This is what I get for going the other way.”

“Oh god,” said Kyra. Noel turned to her, a silent What? on his lips, but she ignored him. “Had she maybe gotten some painkiller? And had that reaction?”

“I don't know.” Ursula sounded weary.

“Do you know who was in charge of her medically? The specific doctor?”

“She said all the physicians dealt with all the patients.” Ursula paused. “Dr. Jones was at the viewing.”

“So.” Kyra waited a moment. “What are you thinking?”

A longer pause. “In the light of day I think it must have been a weird accident.” A self-deprecating laugh. “In the depths of night, I wonder if someone could've done Sandra in.”

“I see.” Kyra waited.

“Either she died by accident, thinking she could control the pain, or she—”

“By shooting herself full of heroin?”

“I know, I know. But if the pain was so great she had to end it?”

“That'd be a lot like an accident.”

“Yeah, none of this makes much sense. So we're thinking, is it possible maybe somebody killed her?”

“Any ideas?”

“Not a one. Nobody close to her that—at least I can't imagine that.”

“Then?”

“It probably was an accident. But we'd like to be sure. Could you and Noel think about this while you're investigating?”

“We're off the case. The family's satisfied that the body was Sandro's.”

“Oh.” Ursula paused, then, “Brady and I don't have much money but we could hire you for a bit.”

Sounded like Ursula would be a
B
category client. “Three hundred a day plus expenses.” Noel at the door looked at her quizzically.

“Yeah, we can afford that. For a couple of days. Want to meet up and talk? I'm going down to Sandra's today to pick up the cats.”

Kyra was writing Ursula Bunche on the pad. Noel glanced at it and nodded.

“Can you wait? We'll join you and check out her place again.”

“I was heading down this morning. I do a half-shift today, twelve to four.”

“See you at the hospital at four.” Kyra set the phone down. “We're re-hired,” she informed Noel. “To find out if maybe Sandro's death wasn't an accident.” She reported Ursula's hypothesis, the swollen testes, the need to masturbate.

“Poor son of a bitch.” Noel shuddered. “At least I haven't headed home.”

“Ursula wondered if maybe somebody disliked Sandro enough to kill him.”

“Are they scaring themselves? Or—?”

Kyra shrugged.

Noel said, “And you ran a mental means test?”

“I made a flying leap and cut our fee for hard-working nurses and receptionists.”

“Individual decision forgiven. But you're playing havoc with our consultative model.”

“Sorry.” She paused. “But we're still curious, aren't we?”

For a moment Noel said nothing. He felt only a curious discomfort. “Kyra, sometimes you're too macho for me.”

“But we're going to work on this, aren't we. Each of us with our own expertise.”

“Expertise? Last night showed me how little I know about transgendering. Would a newly made woman menstruate? Now I'd say, only if ovaries and uterus were implanted, so no.”

“So maybe silly Bettina's question wasn't so dumb. So we have to figure out these things. And that's what you're so good at. Like, why would anyone want a sex-change in the first place? Why not just cross-dress?”

“How would I know? It's not a topic I'd considered until the day before yesterday.”

“I need a shower. Can you get on-line, see what's there about sex changes? And whatever you can find about that WISDOM clinic.”

“How long a shower are you going to have?”

“And let's take overnight bags, in case we stay on Whidbey.”

Noel thought. “You know, if it might be a question of foul play, we'll need to meet up with our sheriff friend.”

“Your turn.”

“What happened to our joint interviews?”

“I just don't want to see that guy again.”

“Kyra, I don't like this.”

“You want to go to the clinic?”

Noel shook his head. “You can.”

“Fine.” She headed off to ablute. In the shower the thought hit her that Jerome and Noel were alike in some ways: precise, methodical, quiet, good senses of humor. And in some ways not at all similar.

Noel called Brady at Sheriff Vanderhoek's office. “Hello Boss, can I get an appointment with your boss?”

By the time Kyra returned, he had saved thumbnail bios of the WISDOM doctors, of the clinic itself, and a couple of dozen other pages. She read the bios while he packed his bag, removing his memory stick and putting it in his pocket.

The Whidbey Island Sexual Definition Management clinic and its work with the sexually uncomfortable of all sorts, impotent men, dysorgasmic women, the sexually conflicted due to childhood problems, those who had been abused, the oversexed—The site did go to great length to assure people there is no such thing as oversexed, there were only mismatched partners or medical conditions WISDOM could treat.

WISDOM held a contract with Bendwell Pharmaceuticals and a grant to pursue an unspecified project. Four physicians, links to their own websites, and hundreds of entries about their work:

Lorna Albright, M.D. Harvard 1972, residency in gynecology at McGill and the Jewish General, Montreal, until 1976. The search engine showed numerous papers, most recent ones on hormones of hermaphrodites.

“I read a couple of the abstracts but couldn't understand a word,” said Noel when he saw where she was.

Gary Haines, M.D. UC San Diego 1987, psychiatric residency, UCLA. Mainly articles in his field, reports of conferences. Surrounding entries, his papers, shrink-speak easier to grasp than bio-speak. Wait, something different, a hit on a newspaper article, Seattle
Post-Intelligencer
, June 1997, a patient upset, too much in the way of hands-on, he made her have intercourse.

“What's this, Noel?”