Always Kiss the Corpse (27 page)

“Probably some over the counter acetylsalicylic acid variant. People should throw those things away.”

“But you did prescribe the others.”

Trevelyan stared down at the deck. “I've spoken enough about Sandro. He's dead. Leave him his privacy.” He stepped through the wheelhouse down into a below-deck galley.

“Thanks for your time,” Kyra called.

≈  ≈  ≈

Four minutes later Richard glanced out. They were gone. Damn! Hipoperc just lying around at Sandro's house. How did she know? Damn!

Maybe it really was time to go to the cops. The State Patrol. Terry said she doubted the suicide was important enough for anyone outside Coupeville to care.

These detectives cared. And how did they find out about Sandro's swollen testes?

≈  ≈  ≈

As the Tracker drove down Route 525 from Coupeville to the Mukilteo ferry, the sky cleared. Whidbey looked very much like southern Vancouver Island, Noel thought. A rain-washed spring-harbinger morning on the West Coast—or the Pacific Northwest, depending on which country you were in—glimmered with the sparkle of innocence. Each tree branch stood in sharp outline against a near-touchable blue sky, fences glowed an unmarred white, and a pasture presented a knee-high wealth of green to a small herd of Herefords. Too often Noel took his environs for granted, but this morning he recalled the trip he and Brendan had made about this time of year to Montreal and Boston: slippery frozen slush in Canada, melting slush and the smell of a winter's worth of dogshit decongealing in the US. He said little, the occasional small smile on Kyra's lips telling him, as that deer scurried into the woods, or a few minutes ago an eagle swooped across a clover-thick field, that she too was taking a mental respite from the case. Even if she did drive too fast.

Their interview with Dr. Richard Trevelyan had been so brief they made it to the southern end of the island and the nine-thirty ferry with six minutes to spare. Speeding down, they had only one conversation:

Kyra said, “Sandro changed clothes between Trevelyan and dying. Why?”

“We've been thinking he'd want support for his genitals. Maybe he didn't want any contact and the sweats were roomier.”

“Than a skirt?”

Noel said, “That guy was lying. Or at least hiding something.”

“Yeah.”

On the ferry they spoke little: Want to get out, stand up front? Why not? Great morning. Yep. Noel used the men's room then got caught up in the ferry's bulletin board: by actual count, sixteen advertised concerts scheduled on Whidbey in the next week; house for sale, not cheap; transport needed for a hundred chickens from Coupeville to Orcas Island; two dozen young goats for sale; land clearing, firewood for sale, chimney sweeping.

Kyra and Noel agreed to meet at the Pike Place Market entry around one. “If it's going to be much later, I'll call. Or you can call me.”

They drove up the hill from the Mukilteo dock. Kyra brought them back to Sandro. “What'll you say to this Chelsea?”

A woman possibly transgendered from a man. For a moment Noel wished Kyra were talking to her instead of him. “See what she knows about Sandro. Follow up on what she says.”

“What did she sound like?”

“Like a man or like a woman?”

“Yeah, or whatever else.”

He thought, then shrugged. “Actually, I couldn't tell.”

“Hmm.” She passed a truck weighed down with rebar.

“I gave you the gist of her site last night. You want the agonizing or the titillating stuff, you can get on-line yourself.”

Kyra shot him a sharp glance, more concerned than angry.

“You okay?”

“Course I'm okay.”

She hesitated. “Are you?”

“Yeah. Just fine. Nothing like a case of possible murder to make me feel great.” And he'd handle this chat with Chelsea in his usual professional manner. It was only, he had to admit, that the idea of someone wanting to be transgendered reduced his sense of himself. Nothing, at least nothing sexual, had thrown him so much since he'd gone through the process of coming out. But this Sandro business was just another case of dealing with people who weren't like him, right? Just as most people weren't, right? No big thing, right? “Yeah, basically okay. But it's still
terra incognita
to me.”

“Me too.”

They left the I-5 near the city center, passed Pike Place Market, turned a couple of corners. Noel saw the street. “There.” Kyra stopped in front of an understated fashion boutique, though a little too naked steel and glass for Noel's taste. In the window, four attractive dresses.

Kyra considered them. “I could wear that black and white one, no problem.”

Noel checked his watch. “Twenty minutes early.”

“Oh well. Poke around.”

“Yeah.” He got out, waved Kyra goodbye, and faced the boutique. The sign above the window read, in simple caps, CHELSEA. Beneath, modestly, it said: Seattle Portland San Francisco. He opened the door and went in.

A thin, tall young woman with long dark hair greeted him. “Hi there.” She smiled.

“Hello,” Noel answered quickly enough. But it took him a second to realize the pleasant baritone came from the red-dressed woman.

“I'm Charly. Can I help you?” The smile remained, muted red lips forming a narrow mouth. The face was pleasant, brow and ears mostly hidden under the rich hair, a thin nose, brown eyes with a hint of shadow, narrow chin.

From the way she said Charly, Noel could tell the name had a deleted
e
. “I have an appointment with Chelsea.” Noel heard his own voice a couple of notes higher than normal. “Noel Franklin.”

Charly nodded. “I'll see if she's free.”

Charly turned. Transgendered. Not so much the voice, but the profile. In his research he'd learned that most men have an obvious Adam's apple, most women don't. Sometimes the final step in transgendering is its surgical removal. Charly hadn't had this done. But from behind, Charly, skinny at first sight, walked willowy, with the cool grace of a high-fashion model.

He looked about. The boutique seemed little different from many he'd been in. Not that his experience was broad, but he'd been dragged along by women friends who wanted his opinion on clothing or shoes. The walls, eggshell beige, were draped with dresses and skirt-blouse combos. Three mannequins faced the entryway, one wearing a smart tight white dress, one a black silk suit with white blouse, one low-cut tight purple sateen pants, bare midriff, short purple top showing a lot of cleavage. Behind the mannequins stood racks of outerwear and underwear. At the center, a square of mirrors—the boutique, multiplying itself. It felt uncluttered, at the same time insisting: you'll find what you want, we have a little of everything, all the very best.

“Mr. Franklin.”

Noel turned. A solid woman of perhaps forty faced him, Charly's antithesis, and he guessed the two images were part of the boutique's marketing. “You're Chelsea?”

“That's right. Shall we talk in my office?”

“Good.”

She turned, Noel followed. For such a substantial person, she had a remarkably slender waist outlined by a narrow cord belt. She wore a three-quarter sleeve, straight, royal blue dress to just above her knees, her three-inch pumps supporting elegant legs. The cut of her hair, a glossy auburn, showed the lower half of a graceful neck, and elongated ears, each set off by one small diamond earring. Her broad shoulders reminded Noel of a picture he'd seen years ago of the young Raquel Welch in a bikini featuring Welch's back, her shoulders so powerful Noel would've been certain they belonged to a man if the caption hadn't noted that Raquel needed those shoulders to flaunt her impressive bosom.

They entered an office at the back of the boutique, Chelsea gesturing to a chair for Noel, closing the door, rounding the desk, sitting. “So good of you to come. And to call. To let me know. I hadn't heard.”

“His friends and family are very upset.” Noel realized Chelsea's eyes glittered. “Was Sandro a good friend to you as well?”

Chelsea sniffed a small laugh. “He was affable and intelligent. He knew what he was doing. He'd known he wanted to for a long time. I liked him, yes. A great deal.”

“How did you meet him?” Hmm. I'm calling him
him
and so is Chelsea.

She pointed toward the computer monitor on her desk. “The miracle machine.” The moving curve of Chelsea's arm displayed the delicacy of a ballerina. The low neck of her dress and the open brocade vest over it revealed the upper sides of full breasts.

Noel nodded. “It brings people together.”

“Yes.” Chelsea sighed. “Tell me what happened.”

Noel did, watching Chelsea as he spoke. The smooth skin of her forehead, delicate high cheekbones, together with full lips, framed a narrow yet finely rounded nose. She listened, her chin resting on her folded hands. Noel couldn't tell if she had an Adam's apple. “A friend hired us to find out if the whole story has been told.”

Chelsea's eyes closed slightly. “The whole story. In what way?”

Noel chose his words with care. “Our client finds it hard to believe that Sandro killed himself, either with intent or accidentally.”

“Then what's left? Except murder?”

“It's what we're beginning to think.”

“My god.” She quivered. “Someone actually killed him? Who? Why?”

“And that's what we're trying to find out.”

“Well, of course, I'll help as much as I can, but—I mean, what can I tell you?” Chelsea suddenly looked flustered.

“Tell me about Sandro's life, the part you played.” Noel saw Chelsea nod, perhaps as much to compose her face as in agreement. Her hands dropped to her lap and she sat up straight, like a good pupil ready to recite. No, no Adam's apple. “Whatever you can.”

“As I said, we met on the Internet. My site, have you seen it?” Noel nodded. “Then you know I use it partly to advertise new styles, and partly to reach out to women-in-progress. It's something I feel I have to do. When I was outwardly becoming the woman I was inside, over fifteen years ago, there were a few people who helped me. Not many. People who'd been in my own situation. I hoped and guessed I had a lot of sisters out there. But it was hard to find them. Those who helped were wonderful. Well, some weren't so great, but I didn't have lots of trannies to talk with, I had to take whoever I found. But with the great machine,” she smiled softly, once more collected, “people of all sorts can find me from wherever their homes are. And Sandro e-mailed me.”

“And that was—?”

She thought back. “About two years ago. He wanted to know from a real person what was involved in making the change. He'd read a lot, but he said he wasn't ready yet. People have to move at their own pace, you know. But I could tell from his e-mails, he was already a woman-in-progress.” She smiled, curiously gentle. “That's my phrase. I think a lot of men who are nearly ready find it soothing. I wrote back. He said he found what I said helpful.”

“Did he say why he wasn't ready?”

“Money, in part. It's pricey, you know. But he inherited some and he found a great team of doctors. He liked them, and they were good to him.” Noel nodded. “But those hormones cost like crazy. And then the surgery, that's not cheap either.”

“I guess not.”

“But he would've had enough.” She suddenly giggled, and stroked her cheek. “You like my nose?”

Noel half-smiled. “Very elegant.” This, talking with Chelsea, wasn't that hard.

“Damn well should be. Cost me as much as the surgery down below. That doctor I couldn't stand. But she did a good job.”

“Very.”

Chelsea grew serious again. “But I need it. This face. In the business. And,” she shrugged, “it helps to be an attractive role model.”

“How do you mean?”

“To a woman-in-progress like Sandro.” Chelsea looked away suddenly. “I can't believe he's dead.”

“I know.”

“He was so happy. So pleased with his developing breasts. And the beard he'd always hated—his skin had gone smooth and lovely.” Her little laugh returned. “The first time he came here— Oh, I was saying, my having to be attractive— I have teas here four times a year. On Sundays. We cover the windows with curtains so we're very private, and we push the racks to walls. I've got folding tables downstairs.”

“Your teas are—?”

Chelsea leaned forward, her arms on the desk helping to support her breasts. “They're for the about-to-bes. To meet each other and some of the new women, and there's support for the women-in-progress. I'd invited Sandro.”

“Were they men or women?” Noel asked. “I mean, were they dressed as such? I mean, are they?” Out of his depth, for sure.

Chelsea smiled and Noel thought: my lifestyle is maybe as foreign to her as hers is to me. He relaxed a bit.

Chelsea said, “People come in male clothing or unisex stuff, but more in women's clothing. If a woman-in-progress can't wear her frills here, where can she?”

“Right.”

“Back to Sandro. That night I saw a man outside wearing a plaid shirt and jeans. He came to the door but didn't open it. I wondered if he was trouble. But no, only a tranny wannabe could know when and where we meet. I opened the door and invited him in. We'd exchanged a few e-mails by then so when we introduced ourselves we had a little hug. He was so gentle, my heart went right out to him. And he'd been cursed by the face of a macho man. Such a heavy beard, terrible.”

“Yes.” The beard. Suddenly it was Chelsea's context that brought Sandro's mother's shock and horror home to Noel. “Go on.”

“He thanked me for inviting him. And then he said almost nothing else. Shy. But he stayed till the end, till only Charly and I were left. We talked for a couple of hours and he told me about himself. You know, there're some communities it's easier to come out of, and some a lot harder.”