(chapter 1)
The Date

 

I hadn’t had sex in two years. But the winds of change were whipping around like a tornado on roller skates. I called him Jamie for the James P. Quinn printed on his business card. As I fumbled for my keys, his warm breath on my neck kicked my libido from recharge mode to fully operational. Now, if I could only get the blessed door open.

We both toiled for a daily out of Washington D.C., the District Dispatch. For the last year I had worked as a photojournalist for the Dispatch and before that as a crime reporter for the Metro Desk, but that’s another story for another time.

I jangled the key ring. “Found them.” It wouldn’t be long now.

Jamie, the new Sports Desk editor, had bought me coffee twice within the last month. This generosity, I figured, was his way of guaranteeing an extra photographer whenever he needed one. Haylee Macklin, my best friend, colleague, and partner in numerous unmentionable crimes saw the situation differently. She thought Jamie’s sandy hair, blue eyes, and soft jaw would mix well with my classic Celtic genes, creating highly photogenic offspring.

Jamie squeezed between me and the door, and then closer. His spicy smell, an enticing blend of nectars, drew me in. His embrace was sure. His lips, curious and playful, shattered any doubt about what was to come. I had never swooned, but two years was an awful long time.

When the second lock gave way, we stumbled over each other into the apartment, lip suction holding us together like Chinese handcuffs. My handbag crashed to the floor. I flung off my overcoat. We broke apart for Jamie to rip off his parka, and we were back in each other’s arms, groping and breathing heavily.

“What’s that noise?” he asked between nibbles.

All I heard was the snare drum beating of my heart, but I pushed back from his chest to see if I was missing something important. A low pulsing sound cut the room’s darkness. A soft red light flashed. My answering machine. I had turned off my cell phone during the concert and had forgotten to turn it back on.

“Oh, I better check.” I dropped my arms. “It might be the paper.”

“They can wait,” he said, pulling me back against him.

He tasted like the cigarette and coffee we’d shared at the concert hall. His lips tugged at me, but the beckoning machine held my concentration at bay. “Sorry.” I broke away. “Let me get this. Afterwards, I’m all yours. Promise.”

My fingers found a wall switch. Glaring light flooded the bare walls and Salvation Army sofa and ottoman. Jamie headed back to the door, and after withdrawing my keys and tossing them on the empty bookcase, he closed it and threw the top bolt. Oh, yeah.

A red number three lit the LED readout on the machine. Haylee’s voice fired fast. “Briana, call me.” Messages two and three were the same but with an added four-letter exclamation. I hit “Erase,” and sauntered to the worn sofa where Jamie slouched, one foot slung across his knee.

“She probably wants me to research something. She can wait. How about you? Can I get you a drink? Coffee? Water? I don’t have any alcohol.” I wished I did. I really, really, wished I did. I wasn’t sure that I’d ever had sex without floating on an alcoholic life preserver.

Two years. You can do this…sober.

Jamie crooked his index finger, summoning me. For an instant, I thought of playing coy. Yeah, right. Who was I fooling?

The phone rang.

“No,” Jamie said, giving my hand a gentle tug as my brain took over and I turned toward the sound.

Nice to be wanted. “No one but Haylee or the paper would call this late. Let me take care of her, then we can have some peace.”

I grabbed the handset ready with a clever remark, but Haylee never gave me the chance.

“I need you out here now.” Her voice squeezed passion into each monosyllable.

“Jamie’s here and we were about to test your theory. When can I call you back?”

“Get rid of him. This can’t wait.”

“Let me repeat myself or is this a bad connection?” I hung up.

Before my hand left the phone, the second ring came. Love that speed dial.

“Hang up on me again and I’ll have your cable cancelled.”

I shuffled to where my back faced Jamie. “If you call back in another hour, I might not need cable anymore.”

A burst of static came across the line, and then Haylee. “Hey sweetheart, I’m glad the glacier is thawing, but now is not the time. I need you out here, pronto.”

I glanced over my shoulder at Jamie. I lowered my voice. “Okay, I’ll forgo quality. Call back in thirty…no, twenty-five minutes.”

“No can do, Madame de Pompadour.”

Always with the comebacks. “Compassion, please. Back here, it’s after eleven.” Haylee was on the other side of the country where the sun still shone.

But curiosity pricked the base of my brain; I’d be lying to say otherwise. I was familiar with the series she was working, had read her opening piece and some of the material she’d sent back to have fact checked. When it came to the old joke that said the world was tilted and all the fruits and nuts rolled to California, Marin County was the pine nut, the most expensive.

Ten days ago, Haylee had flown to Marin to write a series on the Belvedere Club and its affluent membership. She’d balked at the assignment, thought of it as a fluff piece, until now.

“Bring plenty of film. We’ll need visuals, proof. No one’s going to believe this without pictures,” she said before another blast of static came through the line.

Haylee was a scroll in an electronic-reader world. A Luddite in a business that was becoming more and more computer-centric.

I didn’t use film. I had a digital Nikon, a detail I kept to myself because Haylee was too idea-centric to care about the technical process. “Hey ace, can you hear me? Check the clock. I can’t get a flight before morning. Besides, I have to clear it with Terrance.”

Terrance was our editor and my current nemesis. He’d prefer to fire me, but I had too many contacts in too many places so the best he’d managed was to demote me.

Jamie had uncrossed his legs and was sitting up, listening like a pit bull on the offensive. Rebellion wrinkled his forehead, but his bravado was looking a bit shaky. I half hoped he would leap off the sofa, rip the phone away from me, and toss it out the window. Afterwards we’d ride into the moonlight, hand-in-hand.

“Terrance is a go and there’s a redeye from National leaving at twelve-ten with your name on the passenger list. Get moving. I can hear you, you’re not moving,” Haylee said.

I slumped against the side table. “The last time you did this to me, I spent the night in lockup.”

“We’ve never done a story like this. Trust me Briana, it’s big. It’s…Pulitzer.”

Pulitzer? That was our code word. It didn’t actually refer to winning the coveted prize (although one can hope). More likely, it was a story that would raise questions and cause chaos within the status quo. My favorite kind, and oddly, as rare as an honest newscaster.

Cradling the handset between my chin and shoulder, I unplugged my laptop and grabbed my camera bag all while jotting Haylee’s instructions on an electric bill envelope. My flight would arrive at San Francisco Airport around three something in the morning. I was to take a taxi directly to the Belvedere Club in Marin County where she would meet me. She said I should bring a flash. Ooooh, Haylee.

I hung up and turned to Jamie, who was on his feet and headed towards me. Palms out, I threw my hands up in surrender. “Sorry. The job. You know how it is.”

He wrapped his arms around my shoulders and the zipper of my dress started a cold path down my back. I ducked under his embrace and twisted away. “Now Ja—”

He slapped the top of his thighs, hard and loudly. A mixture of anger and frustration washed over his face. He was going to blow or pout, but I hadn’t the time to talk him out of either.

“There’s a plane at National. It’s not the end of the… We’ll hook up next week,” I said, my eyes on him, but my thoughts already shifting through clothes in my closet. Skirt set, pant set, what kind of weather?

Reminding me of my four-year-old nephew throwing a tantrum, Jamie stomped across the room, his dull rubber heels thumping the worn hardwood. “Next week my wif—” He plucked his parka from the floor.

Electricity singed my veins. Now, he had my attention. “You’re married?”

He glanced down, fingering the collar of the coat. He pulled a thread and let it drift to the floor. “I, uh, I told you.”

“Really? When exactly? Was it that time you joined me in the cafeteria and told me how you loved red-heads, or perhaps, when you asked me to go hear the jazz ensemble tonight? No, maybe you told Haylee, when you asked her if I was involved with anyone.”

“Come on, I’m not married, married. I’m here, she’s there. We have an understanding.” He took a few steps in my direction, the parka’s zipper dragging the floor. His pearly whites flashed through a killer smile and his lids drew down giving him that lazy, easy-going look that was hard to resist. Apparently, he thought that was all it took.

I clutched the answering machine, lifting it in the air. “Understand this, in about three seconds you’re going to be picking this out of your teeth. One…two…”

The door slammed shut.

(Chapter 2)
The Club

For ninety minutes, my plane sat on the tarmac at National while a snowstorm delayed our take off. I phoned Haylee to tell her the bad news, but reached her voicemail instead.

“Forgot to ask, should I bring a bathing suit? I’m delayed. Winter’s making one last pass, but I’m told by a steward with a Cheshire smile that we’ll be off the ground soon.”

I used the time to pull up Haylee’s initial article on my laptop.

The Club That Moxie Built
By Haylee Macklin, District Dispatch Staff Writer
March 25

MARIN, Ca—High above San Francisco Bay, with a magnificent panorama, The Belvedere Club holds court. This exclusive women’s club makes Augusta National Golf Club look like a community center. That isn’t to say men aren’t allowed; plenty of men worked the kitchen.

Belvedere Island, once considered the summer playground of affluent San Franciscans, boasts some of the oldest and most expensive real estate in Marin County, the century-old club included. Designed by William Caldecott, the Belvedere Club’s unique architecture was inspired by a popular comic book drawing. Caldecott adapted the design to the precipitous piece of land owned by Amanda Weathersby, creating the first modern architecture on the island. Mrs. Weathersby, San Francisco’s famed philanthropist who single-handedly revived high society after the 1906 earthquake, ignored objections by homeowners who were less than pleased with her vision.

The Belvedere Club opened its doors May 10, 1904 to a membership of nineteen women. Mrs. Weathersby held the office of President. Their first order of business was to create the bylaws, which banned male memberships and created a policy for the female lineage.

Immediately, the Belvedere Club went to war with the newly created Homeowners Association, the Belvedere City Council, and many of the members’ husbands who objected to the “women only” regulation. Back before women won the vote, before women won the right to their own bodies, these women won the right to assemble in a club of their own creation.

For over a hundred years the women of the Belvedere Club have been giving back to their community through the charities they support, the events they organize, and the politicians they believe in. All this, they have done without male membership, yet once again, the battle lines are drawn. Their bylaws are under attack from the Politically Correct movement that has pervaded our society. Groups within the state such as the National Organization for Women are pushing for legislation that would ban clubs from refusing membership based on sex.

“We’re not worried,” said Charlotte Warren, the Belvedere Club’s acting president. “We’re descendants of warriors.” Many of the Belvedere Club’s members mirror her sentiment.

We, in Washington, can only wait and see what California voters will do if such legislation reaches the ballot this November. Next week’s column will visit inside the exclusive Belvedere Club and its current elite group of women.

 

The article included a black-and-white photo of the club, shot from below emphasizing the word Belvedere—a rooftop pavilion, offering an excellent view. Built into a hillside, a huge compass window of ten tall panes jutted forward adding a wagon wheel effect to the otherwise rectangular building. The roof, a simple A-frame, looked tacked on like an afterthought, most likely an addition to the original design.

Nothing in the article hinted as to why Haylee needed a photographer or why she needed one tonight.

By two-twenty, we were airborne and by six-thirty, from the rear of a taxi, I watched the sun debut over the San Francisco Bay, one of the Seven Wonders of the World. The temperature was pushing seventy-five degrees and I was sweating like a wrestler in my cashmere overcoat.

Belvedere Island, attached to Tiburon by two two-lane roads, was blooming with crabapples and dogwoods, with emerald lawns and budding gardenia hedges. The dew-drenched flora surrounded me like a comforting embrace.

The scent of lavender and jasmine wafted through the taxi, sweet spring blossoms perfuming the dawn and leaving me about as peaceful as one can be without sex. And I should know.

Over the bay, the sun streaked its magic into gentle waves of turquoise and yellow-gold. Paradise. I realized that I was happy to be away from the city, the snow, and sports editors who needed their jockstraps tightened.

As if to rebel against my newly found tranquility, the taxi’s engine downshifted into second, halting nature’s music with a dull painful grind while jerking me forward in my seat. I couldn’t wait to tell Haylee about Jamie’s wife. She’d help me devise the perfect revenge. My schemes leaned toward the painful, but Haylee was more of a psychological warrior.

I dug into my camera case and pulled out a pack of Silva Thins. After placing one between my lips, I reached for my lighter.

The Asian driver wagged a bony index finger in my direction. “No smoking, not here.” He pointed over my shoulder.

At first I didn’t see anything, but when I leaned back, there, glued to the side window, were the words “No Smoking” in white letters. Transparent white on transparent glass, it might as well have been Braille. I threw the Silva and lighter back in my camera case.

“This California. No smoking in California,” the driver said with a heavy accent.

“Outside.”

“No. Not outside.” He shook his finger at me again. “Not in California.”

I didn’t argue, but as far as I knew, the great outdoors had yet to be regulated (I would soon learn otherwise). Within a block, the scenery changed. The road grew steeper, darker, and the air more fragrant with an odor I remembered from childhood. Vicks Vaporub.

Towering, like giants from another galaxy, Eucalyptus trees bowed over us—their massive trunks stately, their fingerlike leaves fluttering—shutting off the morning light and sheltering extravagant homes behind high-gated drives. Every so often, an architectural marvel, hidden within the hillside, peeked into view.

At one time or another, Marin County had been home to some of the nation’s most famous: Carlos Santana, Barbara Boxer, Robin Williams, Isabel Allende, and to some of the most infamous: John Walker Lindh, Charles Manson, and more recently, Scott Peterson. Here, multi-million dollar homes shared breathtaking views of the San Francisco skyline to the south, and to the north, the more sobering view of San Quentin prison.

Where the road peaked, the taxi pulled right into a narrow parking lot overhanging a straight drop into the glassy bay below. The driver pointed left to the other side of the street and the asphalt drive that inclined up to the Belvedere Club. Two Sheriff’s cars, green and white, blocked the entrance in an inverted “V” behind which, lining the drive, was a Belvedere police car, two black-and-white highway patrol cars, a Tiburon paramedics van, an ambulance, and a gray evidence van.

Oh no! I’d missed the action. Haylee, and subsequently, Terrance, were going to be furious. I might just get fired this time.

“Stop here,” I said and threw four twenties over the front seat. I snatched my camera bag and knapsack and hit the pavement sprinting.

A female deputy, wearing dark green slacks and a taupe shirt with the Marin County insignia sewn on the left sleeve, snatched me by the elbow and swung me to a stop. “Where do you think you’re going?”

I slammed my bags to the pavement, slung off the cashmere coat, and wrestled the camera strap over my head. My press pass was somewhere among the jumble, but I had no idea where and I was in no mood to search for it.

“I’m meeting Haylee Macklin. Where is she? She broke the story and she’s waiting for me.” I tore free from the woman’s grasp, but as soon as I did, she clutched my other arm.

“I need to see Haylee. She’ll tell you who I am.”

“I’m afraid—” The deputy tightened her grip, bruising the muscle beneath, while waiting for me to stop struggling.

I held up a palm. “I’m good.”

She released me. “Thanks,” she said without the slightest sign of gratitude. “Now, I need a little more information. Your name again?”

Her inane calm was irritating. “Briana Kaleigh, District Dispatch, Washington, D.C. Here to see Haylee Macklin, colleague.”

She pointed at me with her left hand while removing a walky-talky from her belt with her right. “Let me call up and see if you have clearance.”

“Of course, I do. I just flew three thousand—”

The pointed hand went rigid.

“Get Haylee, she’ll tell you. And make it quick. Please.” I reached for my camera, showing her I planned to obey.

She repeated my name into the walky-talky as I snapped her picture using the emergency vehicles as backdrop. Through the lens, I caught a shift in the deputy’s demeanor. She stiffened and cut her gaze to me, listening to whoever was giving her orders. She stared at me without moving. Was Haylee putting her in her place for keeping me waiting? Good. Haylee wasn’t afraid of anyone, least of all cops. She’d wrangled statements from the worst D.C. had to offer: politicians, police commissioners, lobbyists—lowdown scoundrels all.

The deputy nodded toward the club, “Okay, go on up.”

I hoofed up the drive too fast and had to stop near the top to catch my breath. As I bent to wheeze in some oxygen, two attendants wheeled out a stretcher with a body bag on top. Nikon in hand, I zoomed the lens and started shooting. Never lose an opportunity. A body. The story had veered in a direction I’d never imagined. Haylee was good. Although most people dusted her off as another pretty face, she was amazing. She always found the story beneath the story. Her talents were wasted at the Dispatch; she deserved a bigger venue, a daily like the Washington Post.

Farther up, I shot several more photos of the front of the Belvedere Club. Until I knew what angle Haylee was writing from, she’d want me to record as much as possible.

The club certainly lived up to its namesake. The foundation, or perhaps basement, was built into the hillside and painted a moss green to blend with surrounding shrubbery. A flagstone, jonquil-lined path snaked around to the right, leading to the main level’s side entrance. This level stretched horizontally across the hillside, sporting the impressive compass window. A rectangular balcony for sunning or outdoor dining was built on the far side. Inside or out guaranteed a San Francisco Bay view. Gray stones covered the façade of the main level with plate-glass windows trimmed in red—Williamsburg Red as we call it on the East Coast. I’ve often wondered if the rest of the country called it Rotten Tomato Red.

A lot of love—and greenbacks—had gone into the design of the various gardens scattered down the hillside. By the entrance, bamboo palms and calla lilies in white and pink framed a terraced garden with tulips and butterfly bush. Filled with various police and medical personnel, the patch had abandoned its feminine charm to the testosterone-toting crowd. I scanned the group for Haylee, usually the center of such attention.

With each flagstone step I climbed, the masculine group drew together, forming a voluntary barrier across the entrance. The wisecracks and laughter died away, leaving me feeling as I was supposed to—like an outsider. I snapped a shot of the boys in uniform, which back East might have gotten me smacked, or at the very least, a beautiful exposure of someone’s hand. But these guys struck a pose and smiled into the lens. In California, everyone’s a star.

The tallest man broke from the others and hiked down the last remaining steps to greet me. Dressed in jeans and a Forty-Niners’ tee shirt, he wore open-toed sandals with leather straps twisted around his ankles. His clean shaven scalp was beginning to re-sprout blond roots and a Glock was mounted on his right hip. Imagine my surprise when he introduced himself as Lieutenant Arkansas from the Marin County Sheriff’s Office. Where I came from, sheriffs wore uniforms.

“You’re the one with the District Dispatch?” He shifted the beige windbreaker draped over his right arm to his left and held out his hand. “Have we met before?”

We shook. “No, we haven’t.”

“You look very familiar. I’m sure I’ve seen you somewhere before.”

“I get that all the time, it’s the hair.” I whipped a few copper strands over my shoulder. But if another person told me I look like Julianne Moore, I might have to shave my head as close as his. No one noticed that my hair was longer, almost to my waist.

“I know, you look like that actress, what’s-her-name.” He studied me like I was a rare blossom. “It’s uncanny. Has anyone told you that before?”

“Not really. My nose is sharper and…” I pointed to my chin. “I have a dimple.”

“She doesn’t have a dimple?”

“Not that I know of.” My butt was bigger too, but I saw no need to announce the obvious. “Can I go up? Haylee’s waiting and she’s one lady who doesn’t like to wait.”

Lieutenant Arkansas shuffled around, his gaze finding the entrance. Without answering, he headed for the side door. I trotted after him, hoping Haylee wasn’t too pissed.

The other officers watched us approach, but something was off. This was all too easy. I’d never had an officer lead me into a crime scene; they were always so silly about forensic evidence. But hey, you know what they say about California. Mellow Yellow.

When we reached the doorway, the uniforms broke apart, clearing our way. All eyes were locked on me as if I were purple with four arms and six eyes. My fingers tightened around the Nikon—my security blanket.

Inside, the floors were polished rosewood. Sunlight, streaming in from the circular windows, made the floorboards shine. To the right was a coat check area, empty hangers evenly spaced against a cedar backdrop. To the left, a faux-marble painted wall partially blocked our view of the main room. Framed photographs hung on the wall, photographs of the Belvedere Club’s past presidents, dating back to Mrs. Weathersby, the founder. All hard-jawed women with a striking resemblance except for the last one, Charlotte Warren, who was listed as acting president by a brass plate beneath her picture. Her face was puffy and round, but with the same piercing regard as the other women.

We continued along the wall until a sun-filled dining room opened to the left. Linen-clad tables circled a larger rectangular table, the focal point of the room. Between the larger table and where we stood were chalk markers delineating a human form. The body was gone, but a rust colored stain radiated from an area between the shoulders and head defining the upper torso. I’d seen such markers many times, even full outlines drawn on concrete, but something compelled me forward. I stopped at the stain.

From the width of the shoulders, I could tell the person had been slight, a woman or teenager. The height, somewhere between five-six and five-nine. About the same as…

I turned to the lieutenant. “Where’s Haylee?”

For an instant, our eyes locked, during which time all sound ceased. He glanced downward.

I tried to swallow, but my throat, my whole body seemed to be collapsing in on itself. I dropped to my knees. My camera thudded against the floorboards. My hand reached for what would have been her head had she been before me, hovering over what would have been her corpse. “What happened?”

“The chef found her, this morning.”

“I need to call Terrance,” I heard myself say, but my mind was numb, my heart dead. “Has anyone…um…called her parents?”

“What are you doing?” Lieutenant Arkansas asked. “What are you doing!”

His shadow fell over me as I curled up inside the chalk markers and closed my eyes.

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