Always Kiss the Corpse (34 page)

“In here.” Ms. McRae led her into a sitting room, floral chintz sofa and armchairs, a desk, entertainment center. Still not Kyra's style, but comfortable. “How can I help you?”

“We have reason to believe Mr. Vasiliadis' death may not have been an accident.”

“What do you mean?” Diana McRae sat.

“Could anyone have wanted to harm Sandro?”

“Harm? Why would anyone want to?”

Kyra took a chair. “Is it possible someone could prefer him dead?”

Ms. McRae took off her glasses and studied them. Her face took on a look Kyra recognized: What should I say? “I don't know, I can't imagine—”

“Everyone we've talked to agrees he wasn't a drug addict. Everyone agrees he was excited about his prospects. Did you know Sandro was undergoing a transgendering procedure?”

A small smile. “He told me. I was shocked then. But yes, it made sense. Especially of our marriage.” The woman replaced her glasses.

“Yes?”

“Would you like coffee?” she asked. “The pot's on.”

“That would be nice.” Kyra followed her into the kitchen. A sunny yellow room, modern fixtures, a green granite counter. “Black, please.”

They sat on stools at the breakfast island and sipped from mugs. “We had an uncomfortable marriage. I didn't know why. We got divorced. We both felt better. We became friends.” She smiled. “His family disapproved of both our marriage and the divorce.”

“They didn't know about his transgendering plans?”

“No. He wouldn't have told them.”

“What do you imagine their response would have been?”

“
Not
pleased. That's why he moved to Whidbey. That and the clinic, of course.”

“There's a cousin of Sandro's, Vasily—”

A grim smile from Diana. “An asshole. Whenever he found me alone he came on to me, like, paw!” Kyra nodded. “I didn't want strife. But finally I told Sandro and he had it out with Vasily. That was years ago. Carla was maybe a year old then.”

“They fought?”

“Probably not. Sandro was in his tough phase, but Vasily still would've won. Sandro was better with words. And tough as he sounded, he hated fighting. The others in the family were nice enough. Maria's always been good to me, though she and Kostas didn't like Sandro and me marrying. We were too young, they said, and she was mad I'd got pregnant. She's devoted to Carla, and Carla loves her grandmother. I never had much to do with Andrei. Sandro was a nice guy, he'd have made a nice girl. And we tried to figure out what to say to Carla one day. He gave me a copy of his will, everything in trust for her.”

We
tried to figure, Kyra filed. This was a terrific woman. They sipped their coffee as in silent memorial to Sandro. Outside, a robin practiced its spring song. They looked at each other, and smiled.

Diana said, “Sandro was happy about how it was all going.”

“Did he tell you much about the procedure? The hormones, the surgery?”

“Not in detail. He liked the doctors and the clinic. Mainly we talked about Carla.” Diana looked off into the distance, and frowned. “I've been trying to remember. About three days before he died he called. He was really mad about something. It wasn't like him, he's always been pretty even-tempered. Something had happened, he didn't tell me. He talked a lot about hormones, and hermaphrodites, and changing sex.”

“Was he upset?”

“Scared.” They listened to the robin's trill. She turned to face Kyra. “If you find out anything, will you let me know? One day, for Carla's sake.”

“Of course.” Kyra stood. “And Triple-I's numbers are on the card, if anything more occurs to you. Thank you.”

Diana stood too. She showed Kyra to the door. A new and different picture of Sandro.

NINETEEN

Could Diana and Sandra have become friends? What would Carla have thought of two mothers? Or would Sandra still have been her father? The glimpses into people's lives while looking for the pattern. This glimpse made Kyra sad. Or was she sad in a larger way, about the futility of marriage? Her own three, and Sandro's. One huge fact, that
he
wanted to be
she
, had screwed up his, and Diana's.

Check out the woman doctor. Hormones and hermaphrodites. Exactly what was WISDOM's research?

On the Mukilteo ferry, Kyra phoned Noel's cell. No answer. She phoned their business line. He picked up. “It's twelve-thirty. I thought you'd be on the road!”

“It's only an hour to there. Did you talk to the ex-wife?”

“Yeah. Really nice woman. She said Sandro was upset about something his last week, maybe his treatment. She has his will, everything left to their daughter. I'm on the ferry. At the clinic, ask to see their lab.”

“I'll see how it goes.” His tone was flat.

“Have we heard from the coroner?”

“Yep. Morphine killed him, definite.”

“He's sure? Even with embalming fluid in there?”

“That's what he said. Diluted, but morphine. No way to tell how much, our coroner friend said, but it must've killed him since he's dead.”

“A real scientist, that feller.”

“Yep.”

“Did he confirm which arm?”

“Left.”

Kyra sighed out a long breath. Left arm, and not a street drug. “Phone me when you're through with the interview.”

“Mmrph.”

She disconnected. She didn't envy Noel.

The ferry docked, cars drove off onto Whidbey Island, finally she did too. Hungry. Nearly one, no wonder. Highway 525 began, or ended depending on your direction, at the Clinton ferry wharf. She followed the cars and shortly spied a Mexican restaurant. She wheeled into the lot. The place had takeout service. Chimichanga in napkin, many napkins over her sweater, pants and Gore-Tex, limeade in the coffee holder, and she started forth again. Pretty good. Better if she'd loaded on more green salsa. Another place worth filing under Emergency.

She drove past the turn-off to Sandro's house. In the last week Sandro had shifted from a corpse to someone she might've known, even liked. Chelsea had brought him alive for Noel, and through Noel to her. Diana cemented the connection. Unfair when a life ends abruptly. But then she and Noel got to be the snoops.

Why do you do it? she asked.

Because I love it, she answered.

Does it make a better world?

A tiny bit, maybe. I sure as hell hope so.

≈  ≈  ≈

Noel had no desire to be driving down the road to Coupeville. Nor any desire to walk through the door to WISDOM.

≈  ≈  ≈

One-forty-five. Noel would be here soon. Kyra sat for a minute in WISDOM's parking lot looking wistfully at the building, then got out of her car. WISDOM looked only one storey, but from this angle, the side, the ground sloped down to the back. A whole other floor. She'd like to know what was in the basement: walk around, a quick twist of her lock picks— Except it's broad daylight, Kyra, lots of windows. Explain she was here to fix the furnace? Right.

Inside, a cheery Dawn Deane glanced up from her computer. Kyra gave her her toothiest smile. “I'd like to see Dr. Lorna Albright, please.”

Dawn Deane seemed devastated. “I'm so sorry, Dr. Albright doesn't see patients on Mondays. In fact, on Mondays she isn't here.” Her look said she hoped Kyra wouldn't faint at this message of doom. She held out a hopeful solution: “Would you like an appointment? You could see her a week Thursday.”

“Where does she work on Mondays?”

“At the Mary Teeseborough House.”

“Maybe I could see her there.”

“I doubt it.” More bad news. She lowered her voice and looked around the empty waiting room. “The clinic deals with women's issues. It's heavily guarded.”

Abortion clinic. “Do you know her hours? If I could catch her leaving—”

Dawn looked dubious. “I'm not sure, probably nine to five.”

“Where is it?”

“Oak Harbor. I can't remember the street.”

Poor woman, so much regretful news to deliver. “Thank you. If I don't have any luck, I'll take your appointment.” Kyra's smile reassured Dawn Deane her news wasn't a four molar extraction, only a minor cavity.

Kyra drove to the nearest gas station, filled the Tracker. Two cents a gallon more than Bellingham. In the junk food store she paid and asked for the phone book: Mary Teeseborough House, S.E. Fourth in Oak Harbor; Albright, an L.B. on Summit Loop.

Back in the car again, she checked her map. Fourth Ave was close to Skagit Valley College. Summit Loop looped off N.E. Pennington Loop which looped off Pennington Loop. Loopy.

Two-thirty-two. Noel would be at the interview. Go for it, Noel! Now find Albright.

≈  ≈  ≈

Damn paperwork. Terry sat back. She should be home with Richard, should have called in sick. Lorna would've understood well enough. Terry'd called him twice in the morning and he hadn't been able to talk till just before noon, the Coast Guard was still with him. They'd answered a good Samaritan SOS call and pulled him from the water, now were back. And she'd talked with him after lunch—not that she'd had lunch, all appetite gone. She glanced at her watch: 2:35. She'd phone in twenty minutes, leave right after.

In fairness, Richard seemed controlled. Or was it a superficial coolness he'd put on this morning, like a clean shirt? Lorna had said it sounded like she, Terry, was the upset one. Lorna had talked to Richard; he'd seemed fine despite the shock. Just a boat, he'd said, and Lorna said, You can always buy a new boat. He'd told Lorna staying home had turned into a good idea except for how much time he had to spend with the Coast Guard guys, every detail over and over again; but he probably would put in his time in the evening at the hospice. Her phone rang. “Hello?”

Silence for a moment, then a voice said, “Terry?”

“Yes?” More silence. “Hello?”

“Hi. It's Gary.”

“Oh. Hi.” His voice came through so low she hadn't recognized it. “What's up?”

“Just calling to see how Richard is.”

“Fine, I think. I haven't seen him all day.”

“I didn't want to call the house.”

“He's sounding pretty okay.”

A pause on Gary's end. “That's good.”

Terry waited, but Gary said nothing more. “He'd be glad to talk to you. He'll be alone now.”

“Alone?”

“The Coast Guard were there this morning, asking questions about the
Panacea
.”

A second before Gary said, “Oh.”

“But go ahead, phone.”

“Yeah. Okay.” Another pause. “Will he be at the clinic tomorrow?”

“I'm pretty sure.” Gary sounded strange, somehow more worried—about what?—than Richard. “He's going to the hospice tonight, carrying on as usual.”

“Good. That's good.”

“Gary? You okay?”

“Yeah. Fine.”

“I was about to leave”

“Sure. See you. Take care.”

The phone clicked dead before Terry could say goodbye. She scooped up a file of printouts relating to the anemone that hosted the black percula clownfish. She stuffed the package into her case, picked up the phone and pressed Automatic, then 1. The home line was busy. Likely Richard talking to Gary.

≈  ≈  ≈

Behind a counter sat a blonde woman about Kyra's age, a bright smile for Noel as the door closed behind him. “Hello. You must be Mr. Ferguson.” A nameplate made her out to be Dawn Deane.

“Yes. Neil Ferguson.” The name tasted strange.

“Dr. Haines will be with you shortly.” She slid a clipboard holding a form across the counter. “Please fill this out while you're waiting. And we did tell you there'll be a one-hundred-dollar fee for the consultation, payable beforehand?”

“Yes.” From his wallet—no credit card or check for this, Neil Ferguson had neither—he produced two fifty-dollar bills.

“I'll get you a receipt.”

He took the clipboard and sat down in a tan armchair. In fact, despite the upcoming interview, the whole space made him feel relaxed. Kyra had commented on this. He glanced at the form. Contact details, some vital stats, and an explanation of their fee scale. He had to sign to say he understood it though signing didn't commit him to paying, not right now. Basic fee, genital surgery only, $10,000. Additional skin grafting could cost between $1,000 and $2,000, dependent on how much was necessary. Skin grafting? Yeaghgh . . . Preliminary psychiatric evaluations, according to fees charged. Final psychiatric evaluation at WISDOM, $600. Half a dozen items that he didn't understand. Good, he couldn't sign the document because he'd not understood it.

“Mr. Ferguson? This way.”

Noel stood, took the receipt from her, handed her the clipboard, let her lead him along a hallway to the left. She knocked on a door with Dr. G. Haines stenciled on the wood, opened it and stepped in. Noel followed.

Gary Haines' office felt chilly, its white walls draining any softness from the air. A water cooler stood in the corner. A curious light, sweet smell in here. Haines remained seated behind his desk, a man not much older than Noel, hair gone gray at the temples, a good sharp face. His shirt was pearl gray, his necktie brightly red-flowered, his braces black. “Thank you, Ms. Deane. Mr. Ferguson, please have a seat.”

Noel did, in a leather easy chair. Also very comfortable. If you pay enough for a chair, is it always easy? “Thanks.” Dawn Deane had disappeared.

“So. We have half an hour. First, why don't you tell me about yourself. And then I'll tell you about WISDOM.”

Noel did, as he and Kyra had agreed—stick as close to the truth as possible; except for recent truths. He explained to Haines how he'd thought when he reached puberty that he was gay, except when he tried out the gay world, it didn't fit him. He'd become a journalist, worked nearly twelve years for several newspapers, resigned a few years ago to write a book. In the meantime he'd been struggling over his sexuality. Increasingly he knew he felt like how a woman must sense herself to be. It was an agony, being captured in the wrong body, the woman—maybe Nelly—inside him. And so on. Without Sandro, Noel would have nothing to tell this doctor; even a week ago he couldn't have talked like this. He'd done a lot of reading, he told Haines, books and the Internet. He'd met a couple of transgendered people, he figured he knew the route he needed to take and had finally worked up the courage to make this preliminary appointment at WISDOM.