Here is the first chapter of my current Al Pennyback mystery in progress, Drop Dead, Gorgeous, along with a rough sketch of a possible cover.
On Fridays, after I close up shop, all I
usually want to do is hang out on the couch with my feet up, listening to
classical music or jazz on National Public Radio. NPR has some of the best
programs going, and I don’t have to worry about keeping track of a music
collection.
When I lived by myself – which I did for
nearly a decade after my wife and son were killed in an auto accident – that
was my usual end of week routine. That changed a bit when I met Sandra. Sandra
Winter is a school teacher at one of Washington, DC’s inner city high schools,
and after a week of being cooped up in a classroom with some tough kids from
tough neighborhoods, she likes to join me on the couch sometimes, and at other
times she likes to go out and indulge herself in the adult pleasure of a fine
meal washed down with a glass or two of white wine. I don’t mind that myself,
except that I tend to wash my food down with a cold beer. When we do go out, we
usually end up back at my place, cuddling.
So why, I ask myself, on a Friday evening
in late-January, did I find myself sitting in a chilly room in Georgetown that
had once been a warehouse, now converted into an exhibition room and stage,
watching a parade of bulimic women parade back and forth on a narrow catwalk,
showing off clothing that no sane woman would wear, along with yards of flesh?
It had all started when I walked through
the door, slapping my upper arms against the chill outside, to find Sandra
standing in the middle of the living room with a strange smile on her face, and
mischief in her bright blue eyes.
“Al, darling,” she said. “You’re home
early for a change. I hope you’re up to going out tonight.”
Something in the tone of her voice, or
maybe it was the glint in her eyes, made me suspicious. Not that Sandra’s the
sneaky type, you understand – at least, not normally.
“I’d think after last weekend, you’d want
to stay home,” I said.
I was probing. The previous Saturday had
been Inauguration Day, and despite the fact that Sandra’s candidate had lost –
or in her words, the court had given the election to his opponent – she felt an
obligation to go and stand in the cold along Pennsylvania Avenue with the other
gawkers and watch the former Texas governor get sworn in as the 43d President
of the United States. She hadn’t gone because she liked that this had happened,
but told me she’d never missed an inauguration since coming to the DC area as a
college student, and besides, she was planning to join a large group who were
there to protest the whole thing.
During the Inaugural Parade, however,
someone in her group had pelted the president-elect’s limo with eggs, which had
spoiled it for her. She didn’t like the man or his party, but believed that
respect should still be shown the office. Quiet, non-violent protest was as far
as she was prepared to go.
She looked sideways at me, as if to see if
I was being serious. “I’d rather not be reminded of that,” she said finally.
“Some people just never know where the limits are. But, there’s little chance
of anything going wrong with what I have in mind.”
Now, it was my turn to look at her out of
the corner of my eye. “And, just what pray tell do you have in mind?”
“Well, I was thinking we could grab a bite
to eat at one of the restaurants in Georgetown -“
“Whoa, babe,” I cut her off. “You know I’m
not fond of the tony places in Georgetown. Too many tourists and students and
lousy parking – and they charge an arm and a leg for food that’s just mediocre.
Why in hell would you want to eat there?”
She blushed. She’s cute when she blushes.
Two little circles of red appeared on her cheeks. Sandra could never be a crook
– she has a conscience the size of Mount Rushmore, and simply cannot lie
convincingly. I can’t believe that I once, very briefly, suspected her of being
involved in a murder. When I first met her, I was investigating the shooting
death of one of her students, and her neighbor tried to convince me that she
was having inappropriate relations with the young man and might have had him
killed. What a load of crap that was, and I almost fell for it. But, I digress.
She was feeling guilty about something. I gave her a stern look, which only
made her blush more.
“Okay,” she said. “I do have a specific
reason for wanting to eat in Georgetown. Do you remember Calvin Rigg?”
The name didn’t register at first. I never
forget a face, but names slide off my brain like ducks on a frozen pond. It
took a few minutes of concentrated thought for me to remember.
“Oh yeah, the fashion designer who was
accused of killing his former partner – hey, you’re not talking about what I
think you’re talking about are you?”
Calvin Rigg’s partner Franklin Honeywell
had been found in his office with a pair of tailor’s shears in his chest. Rigg
had been accused of the killing, and had hired me to prove his innocence.
Turned out that Honeywell had been killed by his assistant, Albertina Wittmer.
I hadn’t heard from Rigg since that case, and hadn’t missed it. My introduction
to the world of fashion hadn’t impressed me – a bunch of self-absorbed egos
whose view of the world was as warped as plastic sheeting in the hot sun. Not
the kind of people I looked forward to spending time with.
Sandra’s answer dropped on me like a bag
of dog poop. “He’s having a showing of his spring line, and he’s inviting you
and me as VIP guests.”
“First you want me to eat in Georgetown.
You know I prefer real food to the
high-tone stuff they serve there. Then, you want me to spend the evening
watching a bunch of anorexic women flashing boob and thigh for a bunch of
people who ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ but who couldn’t possibly wear the rags these women
are showing off. That would guarantee to give me a bad case of indigestion.”
“Oh, come on, Al,” she said, pouting. “You
can’t tell me you wouldn’t enjoy an evening of ogling a bunch of beautiful
women.”
I stood there, looking at her with my
mouth open. The last thing I wanted was an argument. I don’t consider myself an
ogler – I do like the sight of beauty, but it depends on how you define it.
Models have a certain look about them, but it’s not what I think of as beauty.
Too gaunt, too aloof, too self-absorbed. Of course, I could spend the evening
looking at Sandra out of the corner of my eye. Now, she’s what I call beautiful.
“Okay, okay, if you insist, but could we
stop at the coffee shop in Potomac Village and get a light meal?”
“There’s that little Chinese place just
off River Road,” she said. “That would be preferable to a coffee shop, don’t you
think?”
Beautiful, smart, and really thoughtful –
that’s my Sandra.
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