Being The Steel Drummer Part 1

Being the Steel Drummer.

by Liz Bradbury.

The author wishes to acknowledge:.

Catherine M. Wilson for help in many ways, not the least of which is her full support with the creation of the Kindle files and her amazing editing abilities, Miriam Lavandier for Spanish translations, Vanessa Ferro for insight into police rank and duties, Gail Uhl for firearms insights, Jean Rubin for always being there when I have a grammar question, Hannah Mesouani for copy editing, Larry Storch for inspiration (see author's notes), Kate Mulgrew for inspiration, and all the extensive help from beta readers: Genevieve Goff, Gail Eric, Catherine M. Wilson, Gail Uhl, Sheryl Schulte, Hannah Mesouani, Don Kohn, Melinda Kohn, Gary Gaugler, Kelly Nansteel, Robin Riley-Casey, Anne Huey, Laura Gutierrez, Marc Freligh, and MaryEllen Elizabeth. And Patricia Sullivan who has supported and helped with the creation of every page and idea in this book and every moment of our wonderful life.

Chapter 1.

"I've heard that l.u.s.t is one of the gateways to h.e.l.l," said Kathryn in a low voice.

"Good, let's go there right now," I whispered back.

I'd just given Dr. Kathryn Anthony, the beautiful auburn-haired woman who'd been sharing my bed for the last two months, an amorous glance in the mirror above the old stone fireplace.

The Washington Mews Neighborhood a.s.sociation had gathered for our monthly meeting in our friend Amanda Knightbridge's small living room.

"People could be killed! I want you to investigate, Maggie. That's the long and the short of it; we need to send them packing!" Gabriel Carbondale said as he folded his arms and scowled like a five-year-old.

"Gabe, calm down," I said firmly. "Yes, there's vandalism in the cemetery, but it could just be a few kids with too little to do."

"It could be gangs!" shouted a woman from the back of the room.

"Who was that?" asked my best friend Farrel Case, twisting impatiently in her chair to peer through the crowd.

The meeting was unusually contentious this month. Fear was trying to overbalance art and I seemed to be the fulcrum.

My name is Mehitabel Arrabella Gale. I was named after a rich aunt who turned out not to be-rich that is. My creative mother, who died suddenly when I was eight, had saved me from endless schoolyard taunts by using my initials to begin a name a little easier to rock, Maggie.

I'm a former cop turned private detective with a college art school education. This might seem incongruous, but making art doesn't pay much and crime-solving benefits from creativity and also my incurably snoopy tendencies. I have light brown hair and green eyes, will turn thirty-six next Friday, and I'm an out and proud Lesbian. I live in Fenchester, Pennsylvania, a college city in the eastern part of the state. My office shares the second floor of a small converted factory building with Martinez and Strong, Attorneys at Law.

I happen to own the building, which I got in payment from a grateful client in exchange for nearly losing my life. I live in the third floor loft with my hot new...um...she might have been called my inamorata, in old time movies. I think Kathryn and I are beyond the girlfriend stage, but not quite up to more formal labeling. She's an English professor at Irwin College. The campus is just a few blocks west of Washington Mews.

Gabriel Carbondale strode to the center of the room again, taking a deep breath for another bellow.

"What an a.s.s," muttered Jessie Wiggins, seated at Farrel's right.

I whispered in Farrel's ear, "Jessie said a.s.s!" This rated a major headline. Farrel's beloved partner Jessie, who is ten years older and generally much more sedate than Farrel, rarely swears. a.s.s was a significant expletive. Farrel reached for Jessie's hand.

Gabe Carbondale went on triumphantly, "I have a plan! We have to cement up the fronts of the crypts! Gangs are using them as headquarters. We must cover the entire entrance of each one. And I'll pay for it!"

Carbondale lifted his hands as though the silent people in the room were trying to talk him out of it. "No, no, don't worry about the expense. Saying good riddance to these criminals is meat and drink to me. Coming home across the pond just a few weeks ago, I decided that I'd..."

"Gabriel, this is quite preposterous!" stated Amanda Knightbridge in a tone that halted Carbondale's rant. Amanda was the head of the Art History Department at Irwin. Her long white hair was pinned in a neat bun, her block-like body sat rigidly upright. She continued in her precise voice. "The Washington Mews neighborhood, including the Civil War Cemetery, is part of Fenchester's Historic District. We cannot destroy the historically significant sepulchers of over sixty Civil War veterans! After Gettysburg, this is the most significant cemetery in Pennsylvania. Don't be absurd," she said with finality.

Lois Henshaw waved for a chance to speak. In her rather strange outfit of mismatched items she looked like a redheaded Pippy Longstocking. Lois said, "If you ask me, and I know you didn't, I think we should round up all the horses and pee on the campfire."

"Huh?" said Farrel.

The room fell silent. Lois turned beet colored and sat down.

"But the gangs!" shouted a woman in the back. Several people, including Kathryn, sighed in frustration. Farrel grunted like Marge Simpson.

Amanda Knightbridge was preparing to waylay another of Gabe Carbondale's monologues, but someone interrupted him even more effectively. A woman walked to the center of the room with hands raised and miraculously Gabe shut up.

She was about Kathryn's height and had shoulder length black hair, with a white lock brushed back from her hairline. Her skin was carefully made-up. She was wearing a designer suit. She looked fit and was showing it off.

"I'm Piper Staplehurst. Perhaps I can help. I'm doing a residency at the Fenchester Art Museum, cataloging the collections and working on funding and development. I have a possible grant that could pay for historically accurate wrought iron gates for the crypt's entrances to deter crime. Need has to be established by a licensed expert."

Piper Staplehurst smiled at me in a flirty way. "A report from a detective would certainly prove the case for the grant."

Kathryn cleared her throat. I caught another view of her in the gilt-framed mirror. She was wearing a hunter green turtleneck and a soft tweed blazer. Her jeans fit perfectly. I didn't consciously decide she was more attractive than Piper Staplehurst; I just felt it throughout every cell of my body.

Farrel whispered, "I read about this in the museum news. She arrived in late December to help them sell off some of their extra inventory."

Piper Staplehurst was saying, "The iron doors would be similar in design to the high 19th century fence that surrounds the cemetery. Of course, we'll have to be careful moving the heavy gates in, but I believe we can guard against any truck damage..."

As she unfolded her proposal most people were obviously pleased, but Gabriel Carbondale seemed annoyed.

"I don't know if that will solve the problem..." he began.

"We think it will," said one of the other neighbors. "Look, none of us wants to spoil the architectural features of the cemetery, but we have to fight vandalism. And if it's paid for by a grant... Let's let Maggie do her job and talk about this in the next meeting."

"I say we begin tonight!" thundered Carbondale, as though it was all his idea. He wheeled on me. "Maggie, I'll cover your rate out of my own pocket." That made everyone nod.

"Well, I suppose I could," I began.

Farrel said, "I'll help you."

"OK, Gabe," I said. "We'll stake it out tonight."

Kathryn whispered, "Rats."

I turned toward her. She smiled slightly and shook her head. Everyone stood up to leave. Both Farrel and Kathryn took a few moments to introduce themselves to Piper Staplehurst. Jessie and I carried plates into Amanda's kitchen.

Ten minutes later, Farrel, Jessie, Kathryn, and I stood outside Amanda's house on 10th Street, biting back the February cold.

"Gabe Carbondale gets more insufferable each day," said Jessie with surprising bile.

"He's always been that way. It just shows more since his wife Suzanne left and he got back from that lecture series he was doing in England," said Farrel looking at her watch. "Maggie, we should hit the specter's hector soon. "Kathryn," went on Farrel, "we're doing the antique markets in the morning, right? I'll pick you up at 6:00 a.m."

"Then we'll all have brunch. And I also wanted to ask you two to dinner tomorrow evening," said Jessie. "Did Farrel tell you we're cutting back on meat?"

Kathryn slipped her arm through mine. "I wish I didn't have to tell you this, but yesterday the new head of the English department came up with the brilliant idea to have a departmental retreat. It's all afternoon, through dinner. He even wants us to stay overnight on campus."

"When?" I asked, hoping against odds.

"Tomorrow afternoon," she said sadly.

"Why didn't she tell you about the retreat yesterday?" asked Farrel.

We were in my stake-out car. Medium sedan, nondescript, dark tinted windows, and right now, very cold. We'd been at the entrance of the Fenchester Civil War Cemetery for four hours. The wrought iron fence around the rest of the four-block graveyard was eighteen feet high and kept everyone but pole vaulters out. All visitors had to get in here by pa.s.sing through or climbing over the three-foot gate that was in place across the entrance to keep cars out.

"Kathryn wasn't sure about this tiresome retreat until she got an email during the meeting at Amanda's. Do you think Kathryn and I moved in together too soon?"

"Life a little rocky with your luscious new love?"

"No, actually she's indescribably delicious."

"Well yay! Let's talk about that!" said Farrel. "Maybe it'll warm it up in here."

"Indescribably means I can't describe it," I explained patiently. "Why is Jessie cutting out meat? It's probably much healthier and then there's the ethical implications..."

"No, no, don't change the subject. I want graphic details. Kathryn must be h.e.l.l on wheels in bed."

"Given this a lot of thought, have you?" I asked laughing.

"If you don't mind me saying, Kathryn is very easy on the eyes, once you get by that academic seriousness that scares students away."

"I doubt it scares all her students away," I mused.

"She has that great voice, too. Maggie, you've slept in the same bed since the night of your first kiss. She gave up her apartment four weeks ago... Um... What was the question again?"

"You're worse than Gabe Carbondale." I paused to remember. "I'm just wondering if other people think we've kind of rushed into this."

"You've never given a Swedish fish for what other people thought. What do you think? Is there a problem? Did something happen when you were away with her in January at the beach?"

"We had a wonderful time. She's challenging and sympathetic. We talk about everything. I even met her mother, which was kind of dicey."

"Have you found something out about Kathryn that scares you? Religious right? Social Conservative? Gets her news from Fox?"

I snorted. "No, she's more liberal than I am, if that's possible."

"Has she turned out to be less sharp than the stiletto she seems to be?"

"No, she's really brilliant, funny, savvy. Did you know she's written like fifteen books? Everything is different with her, better, more interesting."

"s.e.x OK? Is that Ice Queen monicker that the grad students call her true, or is she... What was it that Alfred Hitchc.o.c.k called Grace Kelly? 'A snow covered volcano'?"

"Oh baby, I'm with Hitch."

"I thought so. I've heard her laugh."

"Laugh?"

"I have this theory that women who occasionally laugh with reckless abandon have a special appreciation of the bedroom."

I thought back to my first date with Kathryn and the unbridled way she'd laughed at a malfunctioning computer program. Until that point she'd been so controlled. I became lost in an interesting fantasy and then realized Farrel was talking again.

"So she's flawless, yet you're worried?"

"OK, there's one thing. She drives like a bat out of h.e.l.l, set on fire, being chased by a T-Rex. You know that Steve McQueen movie Bullit?"

Farrel snorted. "Well maybe it's her Mini Cooper. You didn't take that to Florida did you?"

"No, we took the mini-van, but right before we left, one of the other college profs gave her two tickets to the Cezanne show in Philly. She drove... Um, let me put it this way. It's sixty miles and we got there in forty-five minutes. Including parking."

Farrel whistled in awe, then asked more seriously, "That's all it is? The driving?"

"No," I considered, "the driving doesn't matter. It's just... Since we got back from the vacation we've both been so busy, we haven't had much time to connect. But that isn't it. I think she wants me to figure out something, but I'm not sure what it is."

"Jessie says good relationships are a combination of luck, hard work, and a lot of compromise. Look, Kathryn's a good match for you. You just have some residual fear from that quirky break-up with Carrie," said Farrel in her college prof lecturing voice.

"From Carrie? That was years ago!"

"Have you and Kathryn used the "L" word?"

"Lesbian?"

"Lesbian! I think that's already been established," Farrel said sarcastically. "No, love you idiot! Have you said, I love you, to her?"

"Not quite there yet," I mumbled.

"You want it to work out with Kathryn, don't you?"

"Yes, I really do." I laughed at my own intensity. "I certainly don't want to mess this up. For one thing, she's made the bathroom smell so nice. Did you know a little bottle of Chanel costs like, a hundred dollars?"

"Tell me about meeting her mother."

"OK, I..." Something caught my eye in the darkness. "Look over there!" I'd heard a faint noise and seen a pinpoint of light under the cold February moon. I slipped out the driver's side and vaulted over the low decorative gate with one hand on metal so cold I felt the shock through my glove. I sped into the darkness as Farrel climbed over the gate more slowly.

I wove my way through the field of stones halfway into the cemetery. There was no snow on the paths, only a few small patches of ice under the trees. The stiff brown gra.s.s was frost-tipped; the dirt underneath was as hard as concrete. I didn't want Farrel to trip over a gravestone onto the unforgiving ground. Jessie had calmly explained to me years before that she would kill me if Farrel ever got hurt helping me on one of these little anti-crime escapades. We were careful. We even wore bulletproof vests, but we didn't tell Jessie about that. It was too foreboding.

When Farrel caught up to me, we paused to still our breathing and listen. A dry cold breeze rustled pine needles and swayed bare branches. Farrel zipped her jacket higher. The chill seeped like an icy liquid through the seams of my clothes.