Another Death in Kensington
JENEAN MCBREARTY
It seemed odd to the Kensington Corner Coffee Shop crowd that all of the inexplicable deaths there befell members of academe: A drive-by shooting by an at-large serial killer. An impalement. A poisoning. An electrocution. Why did the best and brightest suffer while those who lived under freeway overpasses and mumbled nonsense to each other seemed immune?
A Biona Ave resident quoted in the San Diego Tribune, a Sociology professor who had recently published another study of the vaginimus dentata myth, put it this way, “If I didn’t know better, I’d say killing off university faculty was the governor’s way of dealing with the pension crisis. Everybody knows the well-educated live long and expect to prosper until they die.”
But Susan Berkowitz was adamant that only her demise would come between her and her favorite no whip, low fat mocha. Almost sixty, she still wore cotton skirts, corduroy blazers, and Birkenstocks, and rode her bike to Whole Foods. She recycled.
“You know, Susan, if I didn’t know better than those who criticize the liberal arts disciplines, I’d say there was a vast wingnut conspiracy to deprive you of your relevancy,” her table companion said.
Susan turned to Chantal, the Nubian beauty Susan had fallen in love with two decades before. She had begun to call her Susan instead of Bertie. It was just one of many slights that aggravated her TMJ, but Susan dismissed her reaction as bourgeoisie jealousy and said nothing. She’d been the outside reader for a sociology thesis entitled “The Meaning of Names” and had to fight her obsession with relational praxis. Was Chantal, perhaps, symbolically discarding their partnership by discarding the nickname that symbolized their mutual affection?
“You’re not afraid of random public mishaps, are you?” Susan said. Perhaps a little too tersely, but last night had been a slog-fest with an article she was preparing about revolutionary resistance in everyday life; how even the most mundane acts are loaded with ideological purity that raises them to acts of reverence. St. Benedict for a post-industrial society, said her one size fits all query letter. Patronage of the Kensington Corner Coffee Shop community landmark, for instance, was an act of defiance of the normative. Four-fifty was not too high a price to pay to slap community convention in the face despite what her accountant said.
But part of the university’s mission was to provide support for the morally weak-willed as well as to enlighten the ignorant. Challenging Chantal was a way to confront the fear regime of the male patriarchy. As the girls’ basketball assistant coach, Chantal should understand better than most the ongoing struggle for equality. Hadn’t she reaped the benefits of Title IX?
Chantal brought her hand to her long, sepia throat, her fingers toying with a delicate gold chain from which hung a blue nacre ankh that matched her hoop earrings. “No, I’m not scared. Just pissed off.” With an intentionally exaggerated, exasperated sigh, she fished a copy of the Campus Krampus, the school’s latest incarnation of an underground newspaper, from her Louis Vitton briefcase, and slapped it on the table. “Right on page one—a hate filled satire called Caffeine Euthanasia, a detailed account of the deaths at a certain familiar faculty hangout. And on the back?” She turned the paper over. “A three-by-five-inch ad for emerald ring knock-offs. Buy one. Wear one. Show solidarity with our endangered guiding lights. Talk about commodifying misery! Forty bucks.”
Susan stared at the photo of the ring the perpetrator of the mortal crimes against the commercially viable around town was alleged to have worn. It was particularly unattractive piece of finger candy, albeit large enough to tempt the notice-me crowd. “I doubt they’ve sold any of those things. They’re ugly.”
“Well, my entire freshperson team bought one of those ugly things and wore them to practice this morning. The little shits. They did it on purpose.”
What purpose? Susan wanted to ask but didn’t. “Most incoming students are unaware of their role in the historical construction of meaning. Maybe they thought they were doing a good thing. Support the paper’s advertisers, and they support the paper. They still eat corporate pizza and drink corporate beer.” Her gaze shifted momentarily to the barren ring finger of her left hand. Was forty bucks too high a price to pay for solidarity? For freshpersons, maybe. “Are your student athletes forbidden to wear jewelry to practice?”
“For God’s sake, Susan, someone who’s made a career out of fighting social control through social definitions ought to see they’re identifying with the perpetrator of violence, not the suffering of the victims. Don’t you get that?”
Condemnation combined with flattery and an eye-roll was tough to take at two in the afternoon even from a loved one. “Of course, I get it. I’m just trying to get why a whole team would be so insensitive and at the same time willing to spend their weekend pot money to display it. Unless they’re diabolical and rich as well as boorish.”
“It’s that Marcia Gale! She’s behind all of it,” Chantal hissed, and spilled the last of her latte -- on purpose, Susan realized, when Chantal said “Damn it!” and went inside to get napkins to sop up the milky mess. She’d need a few more for the tears welling in her eyes, Susan thought.
A Biona Ave resident quoted in the San Diego Tribune, a Sociology professor who had recently published another study of the vaginimus dentata myth, put it this way, “If I didn’t know better, I’d say killing off university faculty was the governor’s way of dealing with the pension crisis. Everybody knows the well-educated live long and expect to prosper until they die.”
But Susan Berkowitz was adamant that only her demise would come between her and her favorite no whip, low fat mocha. Almost sixty, she still wore cotton skirts, corduroy blazers, and Birkenstocks, and rode her bike to Whole Foods. She recycled.
“You know, Susan, if I didn’t know better than those who criticize the liberal arts disciplines, I’d say there was a vast wingnut conspiracy to deprive you of your relevancy,” her table companion said.
Susan turned to Chantal, the Nubian beauty Susan had fallen in love with two decades before. She had begun to call her Susan instead of Bertie. It was just one of many slights that aggravated her TMJ, but Susan dismissed her reaction as bourgeoisie jealousy and said nothing. She’d been the outside reader for a sociology thesis entitled “The Meaning of Names” and had to fight her obsession with relational praxis. Was Chantal, perhaps, symbolically discarding their partnership by discarding the nickname that symbolized their mutual affection?
“You’re not afraid of random public mishaps, are you?” Susan said. Perhaps a little too tersely, but last night had been a slog-fest with an article she was preparing about revolutionary resistance in everyday life; how even the most mundane acts are loaded with ideological purity that raises them to acts of reverence. St. Benedict for a post-industrial society, said her one size fits all query letter. Patronage of the Kensington Corner Coffee Shop community landmark, for instance, was an act of defiance of the normative. Four-fifty was not too high a price to pay to slap community convention in the face despite what her accountant said.
But part of the university’s mission was to provide support for the morally weak-willed as well as to enlighten the ignorant. Challenging Chantal was a way to confront the fear regime of the male patriarchy. As the girls’ basketball assistant coach, Chantal should understand better than most the ongoing struggle for equality. Hadn’t she reaped the benefits of Title IX?
Chantal brought her hand to her long, sepia throat, her fingers toying with a delicate gold chain from which hung a blue nacre ankh that matched her hoop earrings. “No, I’m not scared. Just pissed off.” With an intentionally exaggerated, exasperated sigh, she fished a copy of the Campus Krampus, the school’s latest incarnation of an underground newspaper, from her Louis Vitton briefcase, and slapped it on the table. “Right on page one—a hate filled satire called Caffeine Euthanasia, a detailed account of the deaths at a certain familiar faculty hangout. And on the back?” She turned the paper over. “A three-by-five-inch ad for emerald ring knock-offs. Buy one. Wear one. Show solidarity with our endangered guiding lights. Talk about commodifying misery! Forty bucks.”
Susan stared at the photo of the ring the perpetrator of the mortal crimes against the commercially viable around town was alleged to have worn. It was particularly unattractive piece of finger candy, albeit large enough to tempt the notice-me crowd. “I doubt they’ve sold any of those things. They’re ugly.”
“Well, my entire freshperson team bought one of those ugly things and wore them to practice this morning. The little shits. They did it on purpose.”
What purpose? Susan wanted to ask but didn’t. “Most incoming students are unaware of their role in the historical construction of meaning. Maybe they thought they were doing a good thing. Support the paper’s advertisers, and they support the paper. They still eat corporate pizza and drink corporate beer.” Her gaze shifted momentarily to the barren ring finger of her left hand. Was forty bucks too high a price to pay for solidarity? For freshpersons, maybe. “Are your student athletes forbidden to wear jewelry to practice?”
“For God’s sake, Susan, someone who’s made a career out of fighting social control through social definitions ought to see they’re identifying with the perpetrator of violence, not the suffering of the victims. Don’t you get that?”
Condemnation combined with flattery and an eye-roll was tough to take at two in the afternoon even from a loved one. “Of course, I get it. I’m just trying to get why a whole team would be so insensitive and at the same time willing to spend their weekend pot money to display it. Unless they’re diabolical and rich as well as boorish.”
“It’s that Marcia Gale! She’s behind all of it,” Chantal hissed, and spilled the last of her latte -- on purpose, Susan realized, when Chantal said “Damn it!” and went inside to get napkins to sop up the milky mess. She’d need a few more for the tears welling in her eyes, Susan thought.
*
So Marcia Gale was the name of Chantal’s infidelity. Susan grabbed her laptop and went to the faculty locator at the university website. She might as well get a look at her rival. Maybe it was Ernestine Walker, faculty advisor to the Black Student Union. She’d seen them talking in the West Commons. Hopefully, it was a younger version of herself. A sweet, middle-aged, unrequited crush would make the affair palatable. Everybody gets middle-aged angst when they turn forty. Why should Chantal be the exception? Wasn’t she entitled to a retro-romance?
But no Marcia Gale was listed in the faculty directory. She tried the grad student listing. Nada. Undergrad? Nothing.
Chantal returned, mopped up the spill, and threw the soggy wad into the trash can. “I’ve got to go, Susan.” She got her purse and her briefcase. “I’ll see you later.”
Susan heard herself say, “Alright,” because she couldn’t bear to say good-bye. She’d have to Google Gale; she had to be somewhere. She glanced at the Campus Krampus Chantal left behind. Where had she picked up that tasteless rag anyway? She read the offending article, with lackluster interest until the last paragraph.
Nicholas Sikorska, Chief of the SDPD’s Homicide Division.
admitted to this reporter there was no new information about the
elusive Andre. “He seems to blend into his surroundings, hiding
in plain sight,” Sikorska said. “Be aware and stay safe. Stranger
danger is real even for grown-ups.”
Susan’s eyes slowly panned the courtyard, examining the customers at each table. She knew the Tuesday crowd well. Dr. Edwards was reading a paperback. Sci-fi porn if the cover was an accurate indication of its contents. Dr. Stewart, who shared the table with Edwards, was squinting at his Kindle. Must be having trouble with his contact lenses again. Prof. and Mrs. Gordon were engrossed in The New York Times. Charlie Grossman, who made the move from psychology classrooms to Psychology Services, was sitting alone. Rumor had it he’d spent his sabbatical in a depression rehab clinic preparing for his mid-career transition. A library al fresco made sense. Readers needed somewhere to go where they could indulge their passion for the printed word and the coffee bean at the same time. Certainly, she would notice anyone who looked out of place. Someone suspicious. Nefarious.
She felt her heart begin to pound, saw her silk blouse bouncing up and down like a tarp in the wind. Charlie would say she was courting a panic attack. Breathe deeply, she told herself. Let yourself sweat. Let your heart race. No one ever died of a wet blouse.
“This week’s Krampus is pretty depressing, isn’t it?” she heard a female voice say and looked to her right. A plump woman wearing an eye-blinding purple and red flowered caftan and the largest straw hat she’d ever seen was taking off her sunglasses and settling in at the table next to Susan. She removed the hat and ran her fingers through three inches of red and purple striped hair.
“Oh, the paper. Yeah, dismal.” Find a distraction, Charlie had advised. Well, one found her.
“Mind if I see your copy? I’ve got to check my ads and I left mine in my office.” Susan yielded the paper to a hand heavy with rings on each finger. “Thanks. You’re a teacher, right?” she said without looking at Susan, and spread the paper out before her.
“I teach Women’s Studies.”
The woman looked up and gave her a wide smile. “Me too! Sort of. See that last door to the right?” She was pointing to the building next door’s upstairs row of office space, then dug out a silver and purple business card she handed to Susan. “It’s the new home of the Shimmering Goddess—that’s me—who teaches women to love themselves. To take care of themselves.”
“Really,” Susan said. “What a coincidence. What methodology do you use?”
“The wisdom of Wicca. The anti-negativity of Athena. The aphrodisiacs of Aphrodite. Let me give you one of my invitations to discovery.” She handed Susan a three-panel, folded brochure that featured full-color pictures of meditating people, mostly women, and a bullet list of services and products the Shimmering Goddess offered: life coaching, spiritual counseling, reincarnation exploration, cleansings, spell casting, Tarot readings, and séances. And to enhance one’s spiritual journey there was incense, essential oils, candles, bongs, burners, robes, runes, and amulets—all personally tailored and, if desired, monogrammed.
A woman of many esoteric talents, Susan thought, and suppressed a giggle as she read “Donation Required” next to an asterisk at the bottom of the last page. “What kind of cleansings do you do?” Susan asked, more to toy with the monkey than to satisfy an interest.
“All kinds. Chakra re-centering. Colonics. Douches. Ear-wax removal. Plaque—I’m a licensed dental hygienist. Manicures, pedicures, scalp massage, and, of course, suicide prevention.”
“That must come in handy… in case the cleansing doesn’t do the trick, I mean.”
“The world is full of desperate people. Life is a wonderful but often painful path. You assist people when they’re young and strong. I get them when they forget they’re strong and grown-up.”
“And hopefully very successful…” Susan said, and handed the brochure back to Ms. Goddess.
“Luckily, we both get paid for attending to the needs of others.” The woman reached for the brochure, this time with her other hand, and Susan saw it was equally well-adorned with finger jewelry.
“Where did you buy your emerald ring?” Susan said. Now, her interest was sincere.
The woman closed the paper and showed Susan the back page. “I didn’t. I sell them. My design has always been popular with the Dungeons and Demons gamers, but since all the unpleasantness… there’s a need here. See, here’s my ads.” Next to the solidarity invitation was a larger ad announcing the grand return of Goddess’ classic services. “Custom-made jewelry has been my hobby since the 80s.” She held up her age-spotted hand and admired her creation. “I wear the original. My emerald is real. I’ve been selling the imitations at the Open Market.”
Susan knew it well. It’d been a staple of community redevelopment for over twenty years when she was first hired, and she’d voted in favor of keeping the university space open to local artist vendors when the gentrification faction attempted to close it. As a compromise, Saturdays were reserved for the tables, tents, canopies and cabanas of vendors hawking their wares while musicians and performance artists hawked their talent. She called it the Peoples’ Renaissance, and the name stuck. What eluded her was any memory of Shimmering Goddess; her return was more a resurrection.
Chantal seemed to know her, however. “In one of your previous lives, were you Marcia Gale?”
The question was answered with a cold stare. Then Ms. Goddess clasped her hands together and raised her eyes to heaven. “She died many years ago. “
Some people assert there are no accidents. Of course, it isn’t true. We move through an objective universe that may or may not accommodate our free will. And it’s fraught with coincidences we cannot imagine. We can only prepare for the coincidences we can imagine. Susan could not imagine someone she was looking for finding her.
“She had a dancing, dancing bear,” Ms. Goddess continued. “Who could pirouette so prettily, and lumber on all fours, then sit and beg the crowd for the silver coins that they cast on a painted plate. He could wear many faces, but the bear was his best imitation. Until he grew tall and began to hear the voices and do strange things. He left the gypsy caravan to explore the world; silly dancing bear.” She put on her hat.
“Wait,” Susan said. “I want to make an appointment.”
“What for? Go, and teach others.”
But no Marcia Gale was listed in the faculty directory. She tried the grad student listing. Nada. Undergrad? Nothing.
Chantal returned, mopped up the spill, and threw the soggy wad into the trash can. “I’ve got to go, Susan.” She got her purse and her briefcase. “I’ll see you later.”
Susan heard herself say, “Alright,” because she couldn’t bear to say good-bye. She’d have to Google Gale; she had to be somewhere. She glanced at the Campus Krampus Chantal left behind. Where had she picked up that tasteless rag anyway? She read the offending article, with lackluster interest until the last paragraph.
Nicholas Sikorska, Chief of the SDPD’s Homicide Division.
admitted to this reporter there was no new information about the
elusive Andre. “He seems to blend into his surroundings, hiding
in plain sight,” Sikorska said. “Be aware and stay safe. Stranger
danger is real even for grown-ups.”
Susan’s eyes slowly panned the courtyard, examining the customers at each table. She knew the Tuesday crowd well. Dr. Edwards was reading a paperback. Sci-fi porn if the cover was an accurate indication of its contents. Dr. Stewart, who shared the table with Edwards, was squinting at his Kindle. Must be having trouble with his contact lenses again. Prof. and Mrs. Gordon were engrossed in The New York Times. Charlie Grossman, who made the move from psychology classrooms to Psychology Services, was sitting alone. Rumor had it he’d spent his sabbatical in a depression rehab clinic preparing for his mid-career transition. A library al fresco made sense. Readers needed somewhere to go where they could indulge their passion for the printed word and the coffee bean at the same time. Certainly, she would notice anyone who looked out of place. Someone suspicious. Nefarious.
She felt her heart begin to pound, saw her silk blouse bouncing up and down like a tarp in the wind. Charlie would say she was courting a panic attack. Breathe deeply, she told herself. Let yourself sweat. Let your heart race. No one ever died of a wet blouse.
“This week’s Krampus is pretty depressing, isn’t it?” she heard a female voice say and looked to her right. A plump woman wearing an eye-blinding purple and red flowered caftan and the largest straw hat she’d ever seen was taking off her sunglasses and settling in at the table next to Susan. She removed the hat and ran her fingers through three inches of red and purple striped hair.
“Oh, the paper. Yeah, dismal.” Find a distraction, Charlie had advised. Well, one found her.
“Mind if I see your copy? I’ve got to check my ads and I left mine in my office.” Susan yielded the paper to a hand heavy with rings on each finger. “Thanks. You’re a teacher, right?” she said without looking at Susan, and spread the paper out before her.
“I teach Women’s Studies.”
The woman looked up and gave her a wide smile. “Me too! Sort of. See that last door to the right?” She was pointing to the building next door’s upstairs row of office space, then dug out a silver and purple business card she handed to Susan. “It’s the new home of the Shimmering Goddess—that’s me—who teaches women to love themselves. To take care of themselves.”
“Really,” Susan said. “What a coincidence. What methodology do you use?”
“The wisdom of Wicca. The anti-negativity of Athena. The aphrodisiacs of Aphrodite. Let me give you one of my invitations to discovery.” She handed Susan a three-panel, folded brochure that featured full-color pictures of meditating people, mostly women, and a bullet list of services and products the Shimmering Goddess offered: life coaching, spiritual counseling, reincarnation exploration, cleansings, spell casting, Tarot readings, and séances. And to enhance one’s spiritual journey there was incense, essential oils, candles, bongs, burners, robes, runes, and amulets—all personally tailored and, if desired, monogrammed.
A woman of many esoteric talents, Susan thought, and suppressed a giggle as she read “Donation Required” next to an asterisk at the bottom of the last page. “What kind of cleansings do you do?” Susan asked, more to toy with the monkey than to satisfy an interest.
“All kinds. Chakra re-centering. Colonics. Douches. Ear-wax removal. Plaque—I’m a licensed dental hygienist. Manicures, pedicures, scalp massage, and, of course, suicide prevention.”
“That must come in handy… in case the cleansing doesn’t do the trick, I mean.”
“The world is full of desperate people. Life is a wonderful but often painful path. You assist people when they’re young and strong. I get them when they forget they’re strong and grown-up.”
“And hopefully very successful…” Susan said, and handed the brochure back to Ms. Goddess.
“Luckily, we both get paid for attending to the needs of others.” The woman reached for the brochure, this time with her other hand, and Susan saw it was equally well-adorned with finger jewelry.
“Where did you buy your emerald ring?” Susan said. Now, her interest was sincere.
The woman closed the paper and showed Susan the back page. “I didn’t. I sell them. My design has always been popular with the Dungeons and Demons gamers, but since all the unpleasantness… there’s a need here. See, here’s my ads.” Next to the solidarity invitation was a larger ad announcing the grand return of Goddess’ classic services. “Custom-made jewelry has been my hobby since the 80s.” She held up her age-spotted hand and admired her creation. “I wear the original. My emerald is real. I’ve been selling the imitations at the Open Market.”
Susan knew it well. It’d been a staple of community redevelopment for over twenty years when she was first hired, and she’d voted in favor of keeping the university space open to local artist vendors when the gentrification faction attempted to close it. As a compromise, Saturdays were reserved for the tables, tents, canopies and cabanas of vendors hawking their wares while musicians and performance artists hawked their talent. She called it the Peoples’ Renaissance, and the name stuck. What eluded her was any memory of Shimmering Goddess; her return was more a resurrection.
Chantal seemed to know her, however. “In one of your previous lives, were you Marcia Gale?”
The question was answered with a cold stare. Then Ms. Goddess clasped her hands together and raised her eyes to heaven. “She died many years ago. “
Some people assert there are no accidents. Of course, it isn’t true. We move through an objective universe that may or may not accommodate our free will. And it’s fraught with coincidences we cannot imagine. We can only prepare for the coincidences we can imagine. Susan could not imagine someone she was looking for finding her.
“She had a dancing, dancing bear,” Ms. Goddess continued. “Who could pirouette so prettily, and lumber on all fours, then sit and beg the crowd for the silver coins that they cast on a painted plate. He could wear many faces, but the bear was his best imitation. Until he grew tall and began to hear the voices and do strange things. He left the gypsy caravan to explore the world; silly dancing bear.” She put on her hat.
“Wait,” Susan said. “I want to make an appointment.”
“What for? Go, and teach others.”
*
Long after she’d gone, Susan sat alone. The regulars had exited abruptly, never acknowledging each other or saying farewell. The evening barista had started her shift and was wiping down the tables for the students and non-faculty residents of Kensington. “You’re staying late,” she said to Susan.
“I’m waiting for someone.”
“Aren’t we all? The new owner is coming in to size up his night clientele. He wants to serve sandwiches and salads. If he does, I’m quitting. This ain’t a family kinda place.”
She moved on as a dark green car rolled to a stop and a man in a gray suit searched the courtyard before walking towards her. He offered her his card as he sat down. “Sorry I couldn’t make it sooner. You weren’t the only person who called about the article. We got more responses than we bargained for.”
She turned over the Goddess’ business card. “Like I told you on the phone, the Shimmering Goddess is an alias. She’s a woman named Marcia Gale, and she’s just loopy enough to spawn a serial killer who grew up performing as a dancing bear. What an outrageous violation…”
“Have you ever been poor, Ms. Berkowitz? People do what they have to do.” He pointed to Goddess’ ads. “This ring thing made her rich, you know. She went from starving artist to jewelry designer to the stars. Then she moved on to clothing for everyone--from beach bums to high end fashion.”
“And she cleans teeth…”
Sikorska grinned back at her. “They tell you to diversify your assets if you want to stay rich.”
“So, this killer Andre could have bought his ring anywhere and could be anywhere at this point. Right?”
“Right. And Andre’s not her kid. “
“I feel stupid. I thought I’d solved the case.”
“It’s good to know we have good citizens like you. Whatcha drinking?”
“Decaf. It’s after five.”
He went inside, giving Susan time to wipe symbolic egg off her face. Maybe her fears about Chantal were as delusional as her crime-solving skills. She tried to imagine Chantal sitting in a dentist’s chair, with sitar music accompanying a purple-robed Goddess chipping away at her plaque. She’d have to tell Charlie his self-talk suggestion worked. She’d have to ask him what she could tell Chantal about her goofy students, too.
Sikorska brought two venti decafs and sat down. “You don’t mind if I sit a spell, do you? I’ve had quite a day. I come here sometimes just to convince myself we’ll catch this guy Andre, eventually.”
“I picked up on your doubts from the article. You’re not the only one pissed off with this whole mess.” She added another creamer to her coffee. “It sure got to Chantal…” she said to herself out loud, and saw concern spread across his face.
“You know a woman named Chantal…Chantal Duvall?”
“More to the point, do you know her? She’s my live-in partner, what is she to you?” The panic was back. Betrayal with a man would be infinitely worse than a fling with crazy Shimmering Goddess.
“I know she’s dead. She jumped out of a window on campus. The Social Science building—a half a mile drop is about as resolute as it gets. It’s been all over the news…”
Panic was supposed to manifest as an uncontrollable urge to run, but Susan couldn’t move. Chantal often came to her office and sat by the window, waiting for her, looking out across the parking lot a fifteen-hundred-feet below. Susan looked out too, and up to the second story of the building next door. Inside was a woman who touted herself an expert in suicide prevention.
“While I sat here believing I was doing my civic duty. That damn bitch! Shimmering Goddess my ass. Why didn’t she refer Chantal to a qualified therapist instead of filling her head with New Age mumbo-jumbo voodoo bullshit? I see Charlie, why not Chantal? Can’t you arrest her for negligence?”
“Ms. Berkowitz, Marcia Gale is Chantal’s mother.”
“That’s a lie.”
Sikorska was wearing his official professional distance condolence face. “You didn’t know she was a transsexual, either, did you? It’s true. When Gale hit the designing big time, she and her son both got they wanted. Almost. Chantal never…”
“Don’t you sit there and tell me Chantal regretted her choice. She was a woman!”
“Of course, she was. To everyone except her mother. Surgeons can make great vaginas, but they can’t mend a heart broken in childhood.” He stood to go and tossed his coffee into the trash. “You were right about it being a violation. Being your mother’s dancing bear is a humiliation no one escapes from. Chantal must have loved you very much. Too much to have you learn her mother never loved her at all. I’m sorry for your loss. She’s at the morgue.”
Susan watched him walk away. Slowly. One wounded animal leaving another to die. Why had she pushed him away when Chantal’s death obviously affected him deeply? They might have comforted each other as only strangers can.
Maybe Charlie could explain it to her.
“I’m waiting for someone.”
“Aren’t we all? The new owner is coming in to size up his night clientele. He wants to serve sandwiches and salads. If he does, I’m quitting. This ain’t a family kinda place.”
She moved on as a dark green car rolled to a stop and a man in a gray suit searched the courtyard before walking towards her. He offered her his card as he sat down. “Sorry I couldn’t make it sooner. You weren’t the only person who called about the article. We got more responses than we bargained for.”
She turned over the Goddess’ business card. “Like I told you on the phone, the Shimmering Goddess is an alias. She’s a woman named Marcia Gale, and she’s just loopy enough to spawn a serial killer who grew up performing as a dancing bear. What an outrageous violation…”
“Have you ever been poor, Ms. Berkowitz? People do what they have to do.” He pointed to Goddess’ ads. “This ring thing made her rich, you know. She went from starving artist to jewelry designer to the stars. Then she moved on to clothing for everyone--from beach bums to high end fashion.”
“And she cleans teeth…”
Sikorska grinned back at her. “They tell you to diversify your assets if you want to stay rich.”
“So, this killer Andre could have bought his ring anywhere and could be anywhere at this point. Right?”
“Right. And Andre’s not her kid. “
“I feel stupid. I thought I’d solved the case.”
“It’s good to know we have good citizens like you. Whatcha drinking?”
“Decaf. It’s after five.”
He went inside, giving Susan time to wipe symbolic egg off her face. Maybe her fears about Chantal were as delusional as her crime-solving skills. She tried to imagine Chantal sitting in a dentist’s chair, with sitar music accompanying a purple-robed Goddess chipping away at her plaque. She’d have to tell Charlie his self-talk suggestion worked. She’d have to ask him what she could tell Chantal about her goofy students, too.
Sikorska brought two venti decafs and sat down. “You don’t mind if I sit a spell, do you? I’ve had quite a day. I come here sometimes just to convince myself we’ll catch this guy Andre, eventually.”
“I picked up on your doubts from the article. You’re not the only one pissed off with this whole mess.” She added another creamer to her coffee. “It sure got to Chantal…” she said to herself out loud, and saw concern spread across his face.
“You know a woman named Chantal…Chantal Duvall?”
“More to the point, do you know her? She’s my live-in partner, what is she to you?” The panic was back. Betrayal with a man would be infinitely worse than a fling with crazy Shimmering Goddess.
“I know she’s dead. She jumped out of a window on campus. The Social Science building—a half a mile drop is about as resolute as it gets. It’s been all over the news…”
Panic was supposed to manifest as an uncontrollable urge to run, but Susan couldn’t move. Chantal often came to her office and sat by the window, waiting for her, looking out across the parking lot a fifteen-hundred-feet below. Susan looked out too, and up to the second story of the building next door. Inside was a woman who touted herself an expert in suicide prevention.
“While I sat here believing I was doing my civic duty. That damn bitch! Shimmering Goddess my ass. Why didn’t she refer Chantal to a qualified therapist instead of filling her head with New Age mumbo-jumbo voodoo bullshit? I see Charlie, why not Chantal? Can’t you arrest her for negligence?”
“Ms. Berkowitz, Marcia Gale is Chantal’s mother.”
“That’s a lie.”
Sikorska was wearing his official professional distance condolence face. “You didn’t know she was a transsexual, either, did you? It’s true. When Gale hit the designing big time, she and her son both got they wanted. Almost. Chantal never…”
“Don’t you sit there and tell me Chantal regretted her choice. She was a woman!”
“Of course, she was. To everyone except her mother. Surgeons can make great vaginas, but they can’t mend a heart broken in childhood.” He stood to go and tossed his coffee into the trash. “You were right about it being a violation. Being your mother’s dancing bear is a humiliation no one escapes from. Chantal must have loved you very much. Too much to have you learn her mother never loved her at all. I’m sorry for your loss. She’s at the morgue.”
Susan watched him walk away. Slowly. One wounded animal leaving another to die. Why had she pushed him away when Chantal’s death obviously affected him deeply? They might have comforted each other as only strangers can.
Maybe Charlie could explain it to her.
Jenean McBrearty is a graduate of San Diego State University, who taught Political Science and Sociology. Her fiction, poetry, and photographs have been published in over two-hundred print and on-line journals. Her how-to book, Writing Beyond the Self; How to Write Creative Non-fiction that Gets Published was published by Vine Leaves Press in 2018. She won the Eastern Kentucky English Department Award for Graduate Creative Non-fiction in 2011, and a Silver Pen Award in 2015 for her noir short story: Red’s Not Your Color.