Deaths of Jocasta (13 page)

If I didn’t figure out some way to keep occupied, I knew I would convolute myself into a knot trying to guess what she wanted. And by Monday afternoon have landed on every possibility, but the right one.

I could do bills and other boring detective stuff, but that’s never been my ideal way to spend the day. I did manage to get part of the expense report for my last job completed. But something more distracting than routine paper work was required.

Books. I made the long, arduous trek to the library, trusting in divine faith that my card wasn’t expired. I picked up an assortment of Dorothy Sayers. Some of her Lord Peter Wimsey books, not so much for detective ideas, but for dating tips. How did Lord Peter get Harriet Vane to marry him? Also, to the amazement of the librarian, the Sayers translation of Dante’s
Divine Comedy.
Hell, the fun one. I wanted to keep all parts of my mind occupied.

By late afternoon, I had ascertained via Lord Peter that the method for making a woman fall in love with an offbeat detective was to save her from the gallows by proving her innocent. Somehow that didn’t seem to have much bearing on Cordelia and myself.

I gave up on reading, not feeling much wiser.

The phone rang. I grabbed it.

“I’m coming over in around twenty minutes. I have information for you,” the voice on the other end said. It took me a second or two to recognize it over the traffic noises in the background. Joanne. And her information could only be about the woman in the woods.

“I’ll be here,” I replied.

“Good,” was her only response.

Thirty minutes later, the phone rang again.

“I’m held up,” Joanne said, again not waiting for my greeting. “I don’t know when I’ll get away.”

“I’ll be here. Come over if you’re not too tired.” I didn’t think I could stand waiting for too many more things. Even bad news about dead people.

“Don’t wait up.” She hung up.

When 9:30 arrived and Joanne still hadn’t shown up, I gave up on her. I called her number, just to check, but there was no answer. Probably still working.

It was my bath time. Mornings I take showers; in the evening, I allow myself the luxury of stretching out in the bathtub when I have the time. Which I certainly had now. I have one of those old Victorian models, complete with paws, large enough for me to stretch out in.

I undressed and ambled into the bathroom, running water to fill the tub. I used to, on long nights like this one, sit in the tub for perhaps an hour, sipping Scotch.

Maybe now that I’m not drinking, I can afford to run the air conditioner more often, I thought brightly as I stepped into the tub. The water felt good as it coolly soaked away the day’s sweat and grime. Everyone deserves a bathtub they can stretch out their legs in.

I finally stopped my soaping and splashing, letting my body sink and relax in the water.

In the silence, I heard the sound of footsteps. Inside my apartment. I’ve always wondered if it would be difficult to kick a burglar while clutching a towel around your body. But it was not something I had particularly wanted to put to the test.

“Who the fuck is it?” I yelled, hoping the ominous tone of my voice would scare away any burglars. That and the fact that there was nothing to steal.

“There you are,” my burglar answered. Joanne. I breathed a sigh of relief. She did have a key for occasional cat feedings.

“You scared the shit out of me,” I retorted.

She opened the door and looked at me.

“Funny, the water doesn’t look brown,” she said, but her voice still had the tight quality I had heard earlier. “Do you know how that girl died?” she continued.

“No, but I guess you’re going to tell me.” She came into the bathroom, pacing back and forth, in and out of my sightline. “I don’t gather it was very pleasant,” I said. She seemed oblivious to my sitting naked in the bathtub.

“A botched abortion,” she said, abruptly ceasing her pacing, but still not appearing to be really aware of me.

“What?” I questioned. Botched abortions were a thing of the past, I thought, now that they are legal.

“If she had been taken to a hospital, instead of dumped in the woods, she would still be alive,” Joanne said, the tightness slipping, the anger coming through.

“Why?” I was still trying to comprehend how someone died from botched abortions in this day and age.

“Any number of reasons. No ID of the doctor, no malpractice, no license check, none of them worth shit.”

She started pacing again.

“Joanne…” I said, but she was out of my sight. I stopped, trying to form questions.

“Victoria Edith Williams. Vicky. Eighteen,” Joanne said, her voice still angry. “Graduated from high school last week. The youngest of four children.” She was back in my view again. “Wanted to be an airline stewardess, so she could see the world,” Joanne continued, still walking. “Maybe not the loftiest ambition, but, damn, it was hers. Besides, we’d all be in trouble if we were judged on our ambitions at eighteen.”

“Joanne,” I repeated, trying again to slow her down. “Why are you so angry?” I blurted out.

“Because,” she said, and she stopped to look right at me, “she doesn’t get any second chances. Some incompetent quack takes a few belts or hits or whatever and his hand slips. He dumps her in the woods to die, rather than risk her telling someone in some ER that he smelled like gin or something. Fucking bastard.” Her voice was loud and harsh, a cold fury lurking beneath the words. She started her pacing again, trying to relieve the anger with motion, it seemed.

“Joanne…I’m sorry.” It was all I could think to say, because I was thinking about other things. My walk in the woods just before the party. Why didn’t I go back and look?

“No, I’m sorry,” Joanne replied. “Barging in like this, foul tempered.” Her pacing slowed, but didn’t stop.

“I…Something was there,” I said. “I was there, in the woods around eight.”

“What?” Joanne stopped to look at me.

“I…I’m not sure. I felt I was being watched.”

“Did you see something? Anything at all?”

“No…nothing.” I picked at my memory, trying to see what it was, a shape, a color, but nothing showed. “I don’t know. Maybe a sound, something at the edge of perception.”

“Really just a feeling?” she questioned.

“Yeah…I guess. I should have gone back to check it out.”

“Don’t you start,” Joanne said brusquely.

“Start what?” I retorted.

“If only—why didn’t I—the standard crap.”

“If I’d followed my instincts, maybe Vicky Williams would be alive today,” I shouted at her, stung by her harshness. “If—”

“Not likely,” she cut me off. “Pardon my interrupting with reality. She was from Marrero. Probably had the abortion done in the city. That fucking shithead managed to hit the uterine artery. She probably went into shock within a few minutes. If she was lucky. And she probably died in the trunk of a car somewhere on the Lake Pontchartrain Causeway.”

“Then what the hell was in the woods?” I was still shouting. Joanne, was in all likelihood, right. My anger was now at my helplessness. That this young woman had died needlessly and that there was nothing I could have done to prevent it.

“Probably a squirrel,” Joanne answered and resumed her pacing.

“Too big,” I retorted.

“Yeah, right,” she said from out of my vision. “You planning to turn into a pickled P.I., or are you going to get out of that tub anytime soon?” She was still out of sight.

“I didn’t have a chance to finish scrubbing when you barged in.”

“Should I wait outside while you finish?”

“No,” I replied. “Here, be useful. Scrub my back.” I tossed a washrag in the direction of her voice.

“Bend forward,” she said.

I obeyed.

“Wash, not flay. I need that layer of skin.”

“Sorry. Just trying to get the dirt off.”

But her washing was gentler when she resumed. I became aware of her touch, how close she was. Where her breath hit the damp spots on the back of my neck. The abrupt appearance of desire shook me.

I had lied to Alex. No, to myself. The first time, in the woods, had been for comfort, friendship. Not now, not this time. This time counted. Desire flared. I became acutely aware of my nakedness, the water lapping at my nipples, making them hard. Joanne had to notice.

I felt the washrag slide into the tub behind me, but the pressure of her hand remained on my back. I wondered vaguely what I would say to Alex the next time I saw her. But here, with the insistent press of Joanne’s hand on my back, it didn’t seem important.

Her hand moved to my shoulder.

I turned to face her.

There was nothing to say. Her arms went around me, holding me roughly, and we kissed. I didn’t know if I should hold her, get her wet with my damp arms, but her kisses demanded more response than I could give with only my tongue and mouth.

Then abruptly, and it was all beginning to feel too abrupt, too rapid for my emotions to ride, she broke away, standing up and stepping back, partly out of my sight.

As there had been no words for the start, there were none now. I wondered what I had done, then wondered if it had anything to do with me, as angry and upset as Joanne had been a few minutes ago.

“Let the water out,” she said.

I twisted around to look at her. She had taken off her shirt. I kicked out the stopper with my foot, not wanting to turn from her. She moved back toward me, closer, inviting me to watch her. She kicked off her shoes with a rough impatience, then slowly unzipped her pants. Coming even closer, so I could touch if I wanted, she took them off.

“Don’t forget your watch,” I said.

As she started to undo the band, I leaned forward, keeping my hands on the rim of the bathtub. I kissed her on the V of her underwear, pressing against the mound hidden by white cotton. I left a wet mark.

Joanne quickly pulled off her underwear. She stepped into the tub, first one foot, then the other, placing them both between my legs. She stood over me for a moment, letting the tension build.

I looked at her above me. She still wore her glasses, keeping me uncertain about what was in her eyes.

Bracing her hands on the tub, she lowered herself, slowly, making me watch her. Her strong shoulders, her small breasts, erect and firm. Her knees pressed on the inside of my thighs, opening my legs.

The water was dangerously close to the rim of the tub, prompting a thought about my irregular schedule of drain cleaning. Then Joanne put a hand on my breast and drains became monumentally unimportant.

Her palm pressed into my flesh, then both hands pushed my breasts together. I gasped. She pushed harder.

This would be no gentle, lacy lovemaking. I’d hardly expected that of Joanne. And I realized, as I thrust my breasts back at her pressing hands, I wanted the coarseness, the full physical brunt of sex. A few bruises in the morning wouldn’t be out of place.

I put my hands on her hips, pulling her toward me, not even bothering to wonder if the tub would overflow. She let her weight tip and be carried on the hands pressing into my breasts. Just when the pressure was almost too much, when I would have had to pull away, she released me, letting her body lie across mine. Only now did she remove her glasses. We kissed again, making every part of our bodies touch. I ran my hand down her back, feeling the scar under her shoulder. My hands moved, until I was cupping her ass with both my hands. Then I started to slide one hand between her cheeks, exploring, searching for the opening to her vagina. But she shook her head no, not letting me in, giving me no control.

She took her mouth away from mine, moving it to my breasts, sucking hard on one nipple, twisting the other between her fingers. Then her hand moved to my thighs, forcing my legs to spread. Water still covered my bush. I expected her fingers to enter me, but she didn’t. She took a breath and her tongue was suddenly between my legs, insistently prying me to even greater openness. Several long strokes left me gasping, then she came up for air. A quick breath, then she was between my legs again.

The water drained slowly. She had to lift her head for a breath again. The insistent warmth of her tongue was on me again, forcing me to thrash in the ebbing water. Her arms wrapped around my thighs, holding me in place. The water finally drained out, all but a few puddles sucking wetly beneath me as I moved. I could watch Joanne now, her mouth covering me, her hair undone, fanning out over my thighs. Her tongue, her lips, either or both, I was no longer sure, pressed into me, sucking and stroking, until I couldn’t know whether to pull away or push to her. No matter, her arms held me where I was, stronger than the spasms that shook my body. She had my legs spread as wide as they could be in the confines of the bathtub.

I heard myself let out a long moan and I knew I had no control. I’m usually aware of how my body responds, the noise I make, but not tonight. This was too intense for me to do anything but gasp and jerk and wonder for a brief second how much more I could take.

“Joanne,” I cried, oblivious to anything but her touch.

Then wave after wave of sensation rocked through my body. My orgasm blotted out sight and sound. Joanne had been between my legs, eating me, then she was next to me, holding me, gently kissing my cheek, my forehead, my mouth. I couldn’t recall her moving.