Dating Can Be Deadly

I let out a snort from my place at the curb and Refrigerator Cop turned and narrowed his eyes at me. “Tell me again what brought you around the building to look in the Dumpster.”

“Hey, I didn’t look in there,” I protested. “I was just following her.” I indicated Lara with my chin.

“Yeah, and she wanted to check because you had a psychic vision or something,” Mustache Cop said sarcastically and he and his partner shared identical smirks.

I got to my feet and clapped my hands together. “Well, looks like you guys have everything under control, so I’m going to go home to bed.”

“We’ve got the crime lab guys on their way and they’ll check out the Dumpster to be sure,” said Mustache Cop. “And we’ve got your information, so we’ll be in touch if anything further comes up.”

The look on his face said that he didn’t believe anything further would come up. He believed the pentagram on the side of the Dumpster was teenage graffiti and that the gooey stuff in the Dumpster was not human blood. I slid my gaze to the Dumpster and fear made my nerves ping.

Lara caught her bus and I ran the rest of the way to my apartment. I spent the better part of the night not able to sleep because of an unending slide show of morbid snapshots that flashed behind my eyelids. It began with the poor mutilated kitty in the graveyard, then that picture faded and the image of a woman’s bloody torso took its place. In the final slide, I saw the inside of a dimly lit building where someone was lighting a large black candle. I could almost smell the wax at this point. That’s when I would wake up in a cold sweat. Needless to say, fighting the dreams meant that sleep eluded me until I finally helped it along at three-thirty in the morning with tequila—kept for medicinal use only.

Since my car was sick I’d set my alarm for 6:00 a.m. It was an hour earlier than usual, but it would give me plenty of time to catch a bus and get to the office promptly. However, tequila-induced sleep does what it’s supposed to do. I slammed my fist on the snooze button no less than a dozen times. When I finally did roll out of bed—groggily at that—it was after eight.

“Holy shit!” I yelped and stumbled into the shower.

My apartment was described in the ad as a cozy, metropolitan unit with a parklike view. Actually, it was a dumpy basement studio with narrow, dirty windows, one of which looked out onto the parking lot and some sparse shrubs. The pipes grumbled before spewing hot water for my five-minute shower, then I wrestled my eyelids to remain open long enough for me to impale them with contact lenses. I was hopping into pumps and running out the door a couple minutes later.

As usual, my neighbor, Mrs. Sumner, opened her door a crack and peered at me. Also, as usual, Mrs. Sumner, a stale fiftyish woman, had her hair in curlers, a cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth and sported a ratty pink housecoat. The only time I ever saw poor Mr. Sumner, a meek whipped form of a man, was when he was sneaking out the door and tiptoeing down the hall.

“Mornin’, Mrs. Sumner.” I nodded as I passed.

“If you’re gonna be comin’ in late and leavin’ early don’t always be slammin’ your door!” she shouted after me.

“Bye, Mrs. Sumner,” I shouted back and ran as fast as I could.

The prestigious law firm of McAuley and Malcolm practiced family and criminal law at its location on the twelfth floor of the Bay Tower. It blended with similar glass office buildings downtown that hugged the shores of Elliott Bay. The good news was that there was a bus stop directly in front of the gleaming office tower. The bad news was that I fell asleep on the bus and woke up six blocks past my stop and had to jog back.

In the elevator I attempted to compose myself. I smoothed down my frazzled hair, straightened my skirt and took deep calming breaths. At the twelfth floor, the elevator doors whooshed open onto the reception area. A large mahogany desk, in the shape of a horseshoe, stood front and center. It was my duty to sit behind it and answer telephones. Since I was now an hour late, Jenny was there instead. She looked up at me, her eyebrows raised in amusement.

“You look like shit,” she said, getting to her feet so that I could slip behind the desk.

“I also feel like shit.”

“First morning taking the bus didn’t go well?”

“I’ve discovered a fascinating fact about morning transit commuters,” I announced, depositing my purse into the bottom desk drawer. “Most people who take the bus do not bathe and those that do, choose to do so in loathsome perfumes.”

A call came in and I put on my office voice and sang, “Good morning, McAuley and Malcolm. How may I direct your call?” I managed to transfer the call without cutting the person off.

“I thought maybe you looked like shit because of the whole pentagram and bloody Dumpster thing,” Jenny put in.

“Oh, that. I guess Lara told you.”

Jenny grinned. “She woke me out of a dead sleep to tell me every detail.” She leaned in. “Do you really think somebody was killed and tossed in that Dumpster?”

Before I could reply, the elevator doors opened and Clay Sanderson stepped out along with senior partner Ted McAuley. They appeared to be engrossed in a serious discussion as they passed through the reception area with barely a nod in my direction, but suddenly Clay stopped.

“Do you smell that?” he asked.

Old Ted McAuley sniffed loudly. “Huh? What? I don’t smell anything.”

Clay shrugged. “Odd. For a second I was sure I smelled popcorn.” He glanced over at me, behind Ted’s back, and winked before they continued on their way.

“Oh, my God,” Jenny breathed. “He actually winked at you!”

“Yeah. Every time he points his baby blues in my direction I almost have an orgasm.”

Jenny laughed. “Lara told me he saw you working the theater last night but he agreed to keep it a secret.”

“I guess I’m pretty lucky. If word got around the firm that I was dishing up popcorn at night I’d be a laughingstock and I’d never be considered worthy of anything above receptionist.”

The day trudged on as it usually did. I answered calls, transferred most, lost some and muscled the word processor into producing a couple of interoffice memos. Jenny and I went to the deli next door for lunch where she interrogated me further on Lara’s Dumpster diving and I filled her in on the details of my nightmares.

The day picked up speed after lunch and the staff made their usual dash for the elevator at five.

Jenny paused while she slipped her arms inside her coat. “How come you didn’t sneak out with the FedEx guy?”

I shook my head. “Can’t today. I don’t have enough time to go home before I need to be at the Megaplex. I might as well hang around here for a half hour. Maybe I’ll get caught up on my typing.”

Jenny blinked at me and frowned. “Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”

I assured her I was, even though bobbing aimlessly inside my head were bleary images of a bloodstained Dumpster and a woman’s mutilated remains. If I had my way those images would be forcibly tucked away into the furthest reaches of my gray matter.

“Okay,” she said, eyeing me skeptically. “But if you need to talk just call me on my cell. I’m having dinner with Jed.”

“Jed? Is he the guy from last week, the one from the meat packing plant?”

“No that was Ed. Jed’s the guy from that doughnut shop in North Queen Anne.”

“I thought that was Fred.”

She shook her head. “Fred was the guy I faked orgasms with. The one who was into scented candles.”

“Oh.” Between the butcher, the baker and the candle-sex-faker it was getting harder and harder to distinguish Jenny’s dates from one another.

After Jenny left, the partners began filing out of their offices. Clay Sanderson was the last to appear. He pushed the call button for the elevator then sauntered casually back to my desk and stood smiling rakishly.

Feeling as though I should say something, I blurted, “Thanks for last night.” I nibbled my lower lip. “I mean, thanks for not saying anything about seeing me last night, working at the Megaplex.”

His eyes sparked and he leaned a hip against my desk then reached over and playfully tugged at a strand of my hair. “Lucky for you I have a weakness for a woman who smells of melted butter.”

Oh, boy.

Clay picked up his briefcase and strode back toward the elevator, which was taking an eternity to arrive. Suddenly, the doors did open and out stepped a stocky middle-aged man with skin the color of espresso. He wore a rumpled overcoat, a worn tweed suit and a dour expression.

The sight of him triggered another premonition, and fear tripped up my spine like a lover’s knowing touch.

Chapter Two

“T abitha Emery?” the man asked, his feet eating up the floor between the elevator and my desk.

“Yes?” I gulped.

Reaching into a pocket he pulled out his identification. “Detective Jackson.” He tilted his head. “Is there something wrong with your eyes?”

“No.” I tried to control the flutter of my eyelids that came with a premonition, stress or after eating bad clams. My fluttering eyes noted that Clay Sanderson’s hand was holding the elevator door open, but he had yet to step inside.

“I’d like to talk to you about last night,” Detective Jackson announced.

“Yeah, well, I’m kinda busy right now.”

He frowned at his Timex. “You only work until five and it’s presently five-o-three. I think you can spare me a few minutes.”

Clay gave up on the elevator and let it leave without him. He walked directly toward me.

“Is there something that I can help you with, officer?”

Detective Jackson flicked a gaze in Clay’s direction. “And you are…?”

“Miss Emery’s attorney, if she needs one.”

My eyelids popped wide open. Aw geez! I did not need Clay Sanderson wading right into the cesspool section of my life.

“It’s okay!” I announced to Clay with a smile before turning to the detective. “I’ll answer your questions, but I don’t have lots of time because I have to get to my other job.”

Clay put his briefcase down and his eyes leveled with mine. “Tabitha, if you’re having a discussion with the police, don’t you think it would be helpful to have an attorney present?”

“I don’t need a lawyer. This is nothing.”

The detective merely shrugged. “I wouldn’t exactly call murder nothing.”

“Murder?” Clay and I chorused.

Clay’s voice was hard and clipped. “My office. Now.”

Clay Sanderson’s office had a large rectangular desk in golden oak and I’d often visualized him tossing files to the floor and taking me next to his inbox. There was also a large window that had a stunning view of Elliot Bay. A row of pigeons sat glaring at me from the ledge like feathered jurors. In the corner of the office there was a small round glass table circled by four chairs where Clay headed and parked his rather fine ass. The detective, who definitely did not have a fine ass, followed and sat across from Clay, and I took the chair between the two.

“What’s this about? From the beginning,” Clay barked.

“Well, after we finished work at the movie theater,” I began.

“I want to hear it from him,” Clay snapped.

I rolled my eyes.

“And don’t roll your eyes,” he added.

Sheesh!

“Well, sir—” Detective Jackson leaned back in his chair and pulled a small notebook from his pocket “—shortly after midnight Miss Emery called in a situation and—”

“I did not call it in, Lara did,” I corrected and received an icy glare from Clay.

“Fine. I just won’t say anything,” I sulked.

“That would be best,” Clay said, sounding too professional for my liking. It was getting so that I was having a hard time maintaining visuals of sex in his office.

“What situation was called in?” Clay asked.

“There’s an old boarded-up building at the corner of 156th Avenue and Eighth Street,” Jackson began.

“Across from the Movie Megaplex,” Clay added.

“That’s right. Last night Miss Emery and—” he glanced down at his notes then up again “—her friend, Lara Caruth, had a sudden desire to go Dumpster diving and—”

“We did not Dumpster dive!” I shouted.

The detective smothered a chuckle and cleared his throat. “Apparently the ladies felt a sudden calling—” he sneered “—to investigate the Dumpster behind the building. Then they called in the fact that there appeared to be blood inside said Dumpster.”

“Blood?” Clay questioned. “I thought you said this was about murder. Was there a body found?”

“No, sir, there was not. That is what brings me here to discuss the matter with Miss Emery.” The detective swiveled his chair to focus granite black eyes on mine. “Somebody spray-painted a pentagram on the Dumpster and the crime lab confirmed today that it was human blood found. There was enough blood to suggest that whoever lost it, did not walk away.”

“That poor woman,” I murmured.

Detective Jackson quickly stated, “I never mentioned that the blood was from a woman.”

It was Clay’s turn for an eye roll. “I’d say she had a fifty-fifty chance of getting that one right.”

Jackson lowered his voice. “All right then, perhaps you’d like to clarify what you and your friend were doing in the rear parking lot of an abandoned building after midnight, peering into a Dumpster?”

“You don’t have to answer that,” Clay stated firmly.

“It’s no big deal.” I shrugged. “Lara’s bus stops right in front of the building.”

“That still doesn’t explain what you were doing behind the building.”

I offered the detective a pissed-off glare. “I didn’t want to go behind the building. I had a real bad feeling about it, but Lara insisted because…” Again I shrugged. “Well, just because she was curious and thought it might be like the mutilated cat and—”

“Cat?” both men chimed in unison. Uh-oh.

“Um.” I pinched the bridge of my nose with my fingers. “Yesterday after work I had my purse snatched and the guy ran through a cemetery. I had a bad feeling at the cemetery.”

“Most people have bad feelings in a cemetery.” Jackson snorted.

“This bad feeling led me to a mutilated cat lying inside a pentagram.”

Clay sucked in air through his perfect white teeth.

Detective Jackson’s gaze narrowed. “And it didn’t occur to you to mention this little tidbit of information to the officers on the scene last night?” He flipped open his notebook and demanded details. I offered him what few there were.

“I’ve been twenty years on the force, Miss Emery, and I’ve learned not to believe in coincidences.” Jackson snapped his notebook shut and buried it inside his coat. “Now would be a good time for you to tell me anything else you may be withholding.”

Clay stood abruptly. “This interview is over. Miss Emery has been more than cooperative.”

Detective Jackson left but not before uttering, “I’ll be back,” like an Arnold Schwartzenegger wanna-be.

After the detective left I realized I’d better hit the road, too, if I was going to make it to the Movie Megaplex by six.

“I appreciate that you stayed on my account, Mr. Sanderson but—” I began.

“Call me Clay and tell me about this bad feeling stuff you were mentioning.”

“There’s not much to tell. I’m not some weirdo psychic carrying a crystal ball. I just get a feeling for things sometimes, that’s all.” I shuddered and didn’t mention that this time bad dreams and foggy apparitions of a woman in a pool of blood were also included.

“Do you want to tell me about this so-called premonition?”

I shook my head. “Nothing really to tell, it was just a bad feeling I had.”

He smiled. “My grandmother used to claim to have second sight.”

“Did she make predictions?”

Chuckling, he said, “Well, her second sight was usually assisted by her love for vodka.”

Clay held the door to his office open and I walked through. When he followed behind me I couldn’t help but clench my butt muscles, just in case he happened to be watching that part of my anatomy. It was a habit.

At the reception area I pressed the call button for the elevator.

“I’m sorry you had to waste your time like this.”

“I never consider spending time with a beautiful woman—or a new client—to be a waste of time.”

“Um, I’m an employee, not a client. Just because I answered some questions from Detective Jackson doesn’t mean I’ll be needing to lawyer up.” As for the beautiful part, well I’d just savor that while I cuddled with my pillow tonight.

“Look, Tabitha, I don’t want you to take this lightly. This is a murder investigation and so far it sounds as though the only leads they’ve had were provided by you.”

I didn’t reply and we rode the elevator in silence except for the Muzak version of an Olivia Newton John song playing overhead.

I survived another shift at the Movie Megaplex even though Friday was even busier than Thursday. Afterward I discovered that my bra had increased a full cup size thanks to the amount of popcorn that had found its way down my shirt.

“You coming to Jimbo’s?” Lara asked while slipping from her yellow Movie Megaplex shirt into a sheer black blouse. Jimbo’s was our usual watering hole on Friday nights. I was usually there sitting with Jenny and a few others trashing old boyfriends and halfway drunk by the time Lara showed up after her shift at the theater.

“I don’t think so. I’m trounced,” I said, inwardly admitting to a new respect for Lara who’d never missed our Friday skunking even with a brassiere filled with popcorn.

I told Lara about my visit from Detective Jackson and Clay Sanderson’s unexpected rising to my defense.

“The man of your wet dreams finally spoke to you for longer than it takes to ask for his phone messages? All the more reason for you to come out and celebrate,” Lara argued. “No.”

“You’ll change your mind,” Lara remarked pushing her glasses up her nose. “Jenny told me that Cathy is bringing her roommate.”

“Oh, my God, not that insufferable nerd, Jeff! He’s a disgrace to gay men everywhere, as dull as my aunt Ruth and less hairy.” I straightened the drab black skirt and white blouse that I’d worn nine to five at McAuley and Malcolm. “Why on earth did you think I’d change my mind knowing that Jeff would be there?”

“Because, you dolt,” Lara breathed while peering into the small mirror in the employee lounge and layering new mascara over old, “Jeff still works at that New Age shop, the Crying Room.”

“The Scrying Room,” I corrected and let out a bubble of laughter. “Don’t you know the difference between scrying and crying?”

“No, I don’t. But you do.” Lara turned and raised her eyebrows at me. “That’s why I’m sure you’ll come tonight. After Jeff’s had a couple martinis you can pump him for information.”

“Oh, really? What kind of information would I be pumping from Jeff? How to bore Seattle’s entire homosexual population into becoming straight?”

“No.”

By the hand, Lara tugged me out the rear entrance of the theater and into an icy West Coast shower. “Everything you’ve always wanted to know about pentagrams but were afraid to ask.”

Lara and I split a fifteen-dollar cab ride to Jimbo’s. Even though the clock was halfway to 1:00 a.m. when we entered, I felt rejuvenated by the dim lighting, noxious aroma of stale smoke and beer and the vibration of heavy base from the sound system. Our comrades, Jenny, Cathy and Jeff were engrossed in a conversation of earth-shattering magnitude, namely, whether or not tongue piercing really could provide an advantage during oral sex.

Lara and I tugged two more chairs over to the scarred pine table that was the one preferred by our group due to its equal proximity to the self-serve bar and the toilets. I noticed that Jenny had swept up her red hair and wore jeans and a V-neck black sweater. The sweater hid her tummy roll while the low cut of her top enhanced what she considered to be her two best features. Cathy, at the other end of the table, waved bloodred fingernails and mouthed hello. She wore black as well but had no fat to hide and her hair had been the same blond, spiked Rod Stewart style since we were in high school. Jeff, who sat on my right, wore brown corduroy pants, a brown cable sweater and nearly succeeded in camouflaging himself into the brown chair he was sitting in. His hair, what little he had, was fine and pale against an equally pallid complexion. He offered us a nearly imperceptible nod as a greeting.

“What’s tonight’s poison?” Lara asked, pushing glasses up her nose and bottom into the chair on my left.

We were informed that tonight they were debating the merits of butterscotch schnapps. It was our group’s mission to set a booze theme to coincide with our weekly imbibing.

“I’m drinking a Buttery Nipple,” Jenny announced holding up a nearly empty shot glass. “It’s made with butterscotch schnapps and Baileys.”

“And Cathy is consuming a Poopy Puppy,” Jeff said, failing to even crack a grin at the ridiculous drink name. “Ingredients are a blend of amaretto, Kahlúa, Baileys and the butterscotch schnapps with a splash of Coke.”

Cathy licked her red lipsticked mouth. “It’s really quite yummy in a sickening sweet kinda way.”

“I see you’re being your usual stick-in-the-mud self and just drinking a martini,” I commented to Jeff.

He peered at me with a serious expression. “If one has to consume alcohol, this is the purest choice.” He downed what was left in his glass.

Lara was already on her feet, anxious to make her way to the self-serve bar. I handed her a five and told her to surprise me. The one thing our bunch had in common was the fact that we could hold our liquor. There wasn’t a puker amongst us, save the time last summer when we tried to combine crème de menthe night with tequila night.

When Lara returned she had a Poopy Puppy for herself and a Buttery Nipple for me. I downed the Nipple in one smooth move while Lara brought the gathering up to speed on my horrific twenty-four hours ending with my office visit from Detective Jackson. Jenny congratulated me on attracting the attention of Clay, but reprimanded me for not taking advantage of our shared elevator ride and trying to seduce Clay using a thank-you kiss as an excuse.

“Discussing murder does not exactly put me in a romantic mood,” I replied dryly.

“Who’s talking romance?” Jenny laughed. “I was talking hot jungle sex in an elevator.”

“Speaking of jungle sex, how was your date?” I asked.

Jenny shrugged. “A dud.” But didn’t elaborate and for the millionth time I admired her for her tenacity in pursuing the opposite sex.

“Anyway,” Lara piped up, “I was figuring Jeff could probably help Tabitha out.”

Everyone turned their attention to Jeff who squirmed in his seat.

“Wh-wh-what can I do?” In addition to Jeff’s many charms, he tended to stutter when he was uncomfortable.

“You’re the one who has the spiritual or Wiccan connection. For starters, you can fill us in on this pentagram stuff.”

“Sure, Jeff,” Cathy encouraged. “You looove that junk, it’s right up your alley.”

Jeff blinked and cleared his throat before beginning his dissertation. “Well, Medieval Christians attributed the pentagram to the five wounds of Christ. To the Gnostics, the pentagram was the Blazing Star and it wasn’t until the 1960s that it became a Wiccan symbol.”

We all stared at him openmouthed.

“W-w-well, it’s kinda my job,” he said, embarrassed. When he recovered he twisted toward me. “You should come down to the shop and I can show you around. You can look at some books on the subject or I can show you our variety of pentagrams. I’m working tomorrow, if you’re interested.”

“No, thanks, I’m busy. I still have to work at the movie theater.”

Jeff cleared his throat and headed for the self-serve bar.

“That’s not until six-thirty,” Lara pointed out. “It might be fun to check out the Scrying Room. I’ve always been kind of curious about that place.”