Jillian was alarmed, but tried to reassure her. "It must be the same fanatics that trashed the trailer. Don't worry, Midge ordered a security system, and it'll be installed soon. And a cop car is driving by several times a day."
She had to admit, Midge hadn't stinted on the system--it was top of the line, monitored 24 hours a day by a security company. There'd be a silent alarm to warn of a break-in and a panic button hidden under each desk, which they could trip if they were in danger. The resulting alert could get the police there in as little as three or four minutes.
With obvious reluctance, Astarte revealed, "This is the second letter, and I've had a couple of anonymous calls while I'm here alone. They all come from the Angel of Death. It's me they're after, and it's all my fault."
"Don't be ridiculous. You haven't done anything. It's just these wacko born-again Christians. It was your picture in the paper, so you were the one who got the letters." Just like a Leo to believe the whole world revolves around them.
"No, no, you don't understand. It's karma. I haven't been entirely honest about that lifetime when I was a Phoenician princess--remember?"
She sighed inwardly. "Yep. Sure do."
"Well, I wasn't really a priestess to the goddess Astarte. I was a prostitute in the temple--a sacred prostitute. There were lots of us, see, because she was a fertility goddess, and sex was part of the worship. It was supposed to ensure that the earth would be fertile. The money they paid for the sex went to keep up the temple. It's even in the bible, condemning those who served her."
"You were a sacred prostitute?" Boy, does that make sense.
"Can you believe it? Anyway, Lady Jane says that someone I know in this life was in love with me then. He couldn't have me to himself because of my vows, and he got to hate me for having sex with so many men. And in this life, he kind of remembers, so that's why he's persecuting me."
"This is NOT your fault. It's got to be that bunch of born-agains who think the hotline is the work of the devil."
"But it feels like someone is watching me at home at night. It's so creepy."
More alarmed now, Jillian considered another possibility. "What about Jimmy? Is he still calling?"
"No, thank heavens. I told him a couple of weeks ago that I didn't want to be with him. And he hasn't called since, so I think he's given up on getting me back."
"How do you know it isn't him? Maybe he's out here."
Astarte covered her face with her hands. "Oh, no, you might be right. Jimmy wouldn't give up that easy. And he does start in on the bible when he's drinking. What am I going to do?"
This child is a disaster waiting to happen, Jillian fretted. "Look, the security system is going in on Monday. DON'T open the door to anyone until then, just us. Call 911 right away if you hear any noise. And don't leave the trailer after work until the cab comes. But you shouldn't be in that mother-in-law by yourself. Tell Midge what's going on--she really ought to know anyway, since the hotline is hers. Maybe she'd let you stay in her guest room."
"I can't tell Midge or Gary about Jimmy. I'd be so ashamed, I'd never be able to face them again."
Try as she might, Jillian couldn't make her tell them. Reluctantly, she offered, "You could sleep on our couch for a while."
"But Robert would want to know why. I can't talk to him about it--he'd make a smutty joke out of the whole thing. Maybe we're blowing this out of proportion. It'll die down. And we're just guessing that Jimmy is here. Maybe he's in jail again--maybe he got drunk after I told him and got in a fight. That must be why he hasn't called. He wouldn't want me to know about that." She calmed down as she talked herself into accepting this scenario.
Jillian gave up for the time being. "Just be careful. And let me know if anything else happens. Dave--the guy I'm going out with--is a cop, so he'd know what to do."
"He's a cop? He must be big and strong. Oooh, tell me all about him! Is he good looking? Are you sleeping with him?"
"No, but I think we will soon."
She wondered, Why do I feel so shy and virginal? It's been a long time since I went out with anyone. If my celibacy went on any longer, I'd have to undergo hypnotic regression to remember what to do. I've never been involved with such a worthy man-honest about his feelings, a good, ethical, caring guy, sensitive to me and the world around him.
"Where has he taken you?"
"Oh, he has this neat boat, so we've been out on that a couple of times. We've been hiking in the Olympics, to Lake Crescent--that's a glacial lake in the mountains, so beautiful! I wish I had a day off, so we could go over to Victoria, BC, or drive out to the ocean. We can only get together about once a week, because our schedules just don't mesh. Would you mind trading with me some time?"
Astarte happily agreed, and they settled in for some girl talk. The rest of the afternoon went swiftly, with plenty of calls.
HOTLINE TO HEAVEN Chapter Seven
The wind was high at the beach, relentlessly slamming into her and making it impossible to walk straight. Jillian didn't care--in her state of mind, being buffeted by the
elements felt just right. The waves were rough, churning up seaweed and debris from the bottom. It was cold-she couldn't believe how cold--but the locals said late summer was often like that.
She'd come right after her shift, stopping at home only long enough to drop off the car for Robert to drive to work and to pick up her bicycle. She hadn't even gone inside, didn't feel up to making witty conversation. She wasn't ready to tell Robert that Dave had broken up with her last night, after six weeks of dating--and after they'd finally made love.
She'd only been able to see Dave once a week, as their schedules only meshed on Friday nights. The sexual tension--and attraction--had built and built between them, and then last Friday night, they'd slept together at last.
After an excellent dinner at an Italian restaurant up on the bluff, they'd gone to Jillian's. She'd never been to his place, as he said it was too untidy...a bachelor studio in a hotel downtown near the station. She'd made espresso for him, as they sat in her living room and talked, each about their work.
Drawing her into the circle of his arms, Dave said finally, "I can't wait any longer. I think about you every night, Jillian--dreaming how it would be to make love to you."
"Me too," she said, turning and kissing him to forestall any further discussion.
He kissed her endlessly, softly and then more and more urgently, until she got to her feet and pulled him into the bedroom after her. He slowly unbuttoned the satiny teal blouse she'd chosen for its sensuousness, unhooked her lacy bra, and moaned as he cupped her breasts in his hands. Having yearned so long for his touch, she felt her nipples harden and a creamy wetness begin in her lower regions. What a mixture he was--a football hero and a cop, but a tender and attentive lover as well. After an initial nervousness and shyness at having someone touch her in such an intimate way, she had responded eagerly and warmly.
They'd made love three times, with long, luscious intervals of sinuous entwining and slow mutual explorations. The third time seemed endless and eternal, as he was finally sated enough bring her to orgasm several times before a last intense crest of thrusts brought them both off together. Afterwards he held her tenderly, kissing her eyelids without saying a word. However, he traced something on her back with his fingertip. She couldn't see what it was, of course, but it felt for all the world like, I love you.
He'd stayed over, and the next morning he'd gotten up very early to get ready for his shift. He seemed preoccupied--even haunted--and barely said a word, but she put it down to worries about the job. He'd been distracted and distant when he'd called this past week, getting off the phone as quickly as possible. She hadn't thought anything of it, buying his excuses about being shorthanded because some of the men were off at a training seminar at the capitol. When he'd picked her up last night for their usual Friday date, he said he wanted to go to the beach to watch the sunset before dinner.
start a family!" They were sitting in his Saturn at the time, right here at North Beach. The sun was plummeting into the water, a
breathtaking orange sunset in progress. Dave had sighed and rested his forehead on the steering wheel. "I don't know how to tell you this, Jillian, because I don't want to hurt you. It feels like we've been moving too fast. I need to bail out."
"But I haven't pressured you for a commitment. I need to move slowly myself. And, for sure, I haven't been after you to
"I know that. It's me that's moving too fast. And the more I open up to you, the more I start to feel the grief over my marriage and over Bill. I guess I shut that off too fast, because I was so angry about what happened, and anger was easier to handle. Now I'm feeling the pain, and it makes me afraid that if I loved you, I might lose you too. I couldn't stand that, not twice. I need to back off. At least for now, until it stops hurting so much."
"But I would be there for you. Why do you think you have to go through this alone?"
"I can't let you in, Jillian. I have to do this myself. Get out on the boat for a few days all alone, camp on one of the islands, think, let the hurt come up. I'll call you when I can."
She fought back tears and whispered, "I thought for sure this was it. I thought we were right for each other."
He looked on the verge of crying himself. "I wouldn't have led you on deliberately. I thought I could do this. I had no question that you were right for me and I was right for you. But I wasn't counting on this pain."
"I don't get it," she said. "I've tried to do everything right. I haven't tried to change you or your life in any way. I haven't tried to fix you, because I don't think you're broke. I haven't called you at work--I let you make the calls. We don't fight. I don't talk too much about my ex, and I let you talk about yours all you need to. I haven't let you spend too much on our dates or on presents for me. I haven't been too clinging, nor have I been too self-reliant. I haven't belittled you, nor have I played up to you too much. You've been getting the benefit of every stupid mistake I ever made in a relationship."
"I know. You've been perfect. And that's what's wrong. Perfect is scary. Perfect could lead somewhere."
He was right. Perfect could have led somewhere, and that had been scary to her, too. She was part heartbroken, part relieved. But mostly heartbroken, she confessed to herself now, watching the wildness of the waves. You don't have to pretend you're tough, you can let yourself feel it. Damn, it hurts too much even to cry.
She wouldn't know what to do with her sexual self either, so long dormant and now richly awake through their lovemaking. He'd also opened her up to the world of nature, here in what he called God's Country. The nature, at least, I get to keep, she told herself.
She felt an immense tearing in her chest, like a stiletto plunging deep. She told herself, This is called heartache, and you remember heartache. Yes, I do, herself answered, and that's why I shut down years ago, so I'd never have to feel this again. Can I just shut down again? What choice do I have? Surely I'm not going to meet anyone like Dave again.
Chewing over past relationships, she concluded, It's always six. The guy always breaks up with me after six weeks. Or, if the relationship is really promising and we get past that, then he splits at six months. With Gary, it was going on six years. Maybe it's because my Venus is six degrees from an exact aspect to Saturn. They say our souls chose our charts before we're born--and I tend to believe it. But if that's so, when I chose that Venus/Saturn aspect, what was I thinking?
She distracted herself by worrying about Astarte, usually a successful strategy. One of her many charms is that she always gives me something to stew about. I know things aren't right with her. She swears up and down that the threatening phone calls and letters have stopped. But she jumps sometimes when the phone rings and cringes when she goes through the mail, like she's expecting something bad. She claims she hasn't heard from Jimmy in weeks, either. But no matter how many times I beg her to talk to Midge or to let me tell Dave, she won't hear of it. She's just not her usual aggravating self, and she has blue circles under her eyes, so I know she's not sleeping well.
I do have to admit, she WAS great in the commercial for the line. She was beautiful, she was sweet, and she looked exactly like an angel who had compassion for everybody's troubles. However much I resented it beforehand, it was good. Gary's ad brokers placed it on cable shows all over the region, and business is booming. We've all paid off the loans to Midge, and we're making good money now. True, Astarte and Robert are doing better than I am because theirs are the peak hours for callers, but I'm doing pretty well myself. Better than New York, for sure, with a lower cost of living and no Mafia-connected landlady to worry about.
All the same, it worries me that Astarte's still having stomach trouble. She hardly eats anything but those ghastly rice cakes to kill the nausea. It's the stress, perhaps, but I also wonder if she isn't screwing up her metabolism with that vegetarian diet. You have to be careful how you mix and match foods to make up for the protein, and I don't see her boiling any brown rice.
Robert says there's nothing wrong with her that a couple of big, juicy hamburgers a week wouldn't fix, but I think it's more than that. And the ninny WON'T go to a doctor. Says she had enough doctors poking and prodding and cutting on her when she was a child, with all those operations on her legs, so she's not seeing another doctor again in life.
In her direst moments, Jillian even worried that Astarte might have AIDS, as sexual as she was. Astarte's chart looked terrible--Pluto was traveling through her house of sex AND death, the eighth house. It was crossing over that self-same Moon/Neptune pairing in Scorpio that made her such a fool about men and sex. Putting all those factors together, Jillian felt AIDS was not outside the realm of possibilities.
When she had approached the girl about safe sex--as tactfully as she was capable of--Astarte cut her off. "Oh, I never allow the idea of catching AIDS into my consciousness, so I KNOW I'm not going to manifest anything like that!"
Recalling the conversation, Jillian thought, maybe I should apply for a grant to study that as a possible way to prevent AIDS--call it the Bury Your Head in the Sand method. Name yourself after a fertility goddess, go nuts over anything in pants, and then pooh-pooh the idea that you might catch something. In this, Our Year of the Plague?
Resuming her prowl of the beach, Jillian felt the surge of exasperation Astarte so often evoked. She's so DUMB and so young. I don't know why I feel responsible for her. I'm sure Lady Jane would have an answer for that! 'It's KARRRRMAAA, my dear. You've known each other before.'
Jillian paced for hours along the
shore, the wind shoving her around, the
icy dampness settling into her bones. She
alternately raged and grieved about the
breakup and the lifelong losses it evoked.
She told herself, Dave's not a bad guy, He
didn't hurt you deliberately, he's just one of
the walking wounded, like yourself. And
who knows, maybe he'll get through his
pain after a while and come back.
Ten minutes later, she'd be cursing
herself for being vulnerable to the hurt.
You know it doesn't work. Whenever you
start to open up to a man, he always
leaves you, so why even try? Oh, but
Robert and Astarte both said we'd marry, her self ventured. Right! That's what you get for listening to these woowoo fortunetellers.
She finally got home at 7:00 PM, chilled to the core. The answering machine, its red light flashing, had 15 messages. It's Dave, she thought, relieved. He's come to his senses and wants to make up.
Before she could play the messages back, the phone rang. It was Robert. "Jillie, thank God, you're home. I've been calling for hours. Please come down here right away! Get a cab!"
Her heart clenched like a fist. "What's wrong? Are you all right, Robert? What's going on?"
"Please, please hurry! The police are here. I have to go. Astarte is dead!" HOTLINE TO HEAVEN Chapter Eight
Predictably, THE cab--the single cab on duty at night--was on a run to the nearby town of Sequim and wouldn't be back for an hour. Shocked by Robert's news, Jillian jumped on her bike and raced to the marina. It was all downhill, and she was frantic, so she got there in minutes. There were two navy blue police cars at the scene, an ambulance, Midge's Cadillac and several other vehicles. Dave's Saturn, thankfully, wasn't among them. A variety of people she didn't know, all looking official, milled outside. Spotting her, Robert ran over and flung himself into her arms. She engulfed his tiny form and held him tight, feeling him shake.
"Oh, Jillie, it's just so awful! I'll never be able to put it out of my mind! When I got to work, she didn't answer the buzzer, so I let myself in and found her on the floor. I shook her, thinking she'd passed out or something, but her body was limp. She's dead. Astarte is DEAD! I can't take it in."
"What happened? How did she die?"
"She was strangled! With her scarf--the scarves she always wore? Her color was terrible, and her tongue was sticking out. You know how big her eyes were, but they were bigger than ever. They were clouded over, staring into space. I'll see them in my dreams. I won't sleep for a week."
Rocked to the core, Jillian gasped. "Astarte was MURDERED? Oh, dear God. I've been so worried about her, but I never thought of anything like this. Who on earth would do such a thing?"
"They don't know. It wasn't a break in, so whoever it was, she let them in. And she didn't trip the alarm, so it was someone she trusted."
He shuddered and sobbed convulsively in her arms. "I feel bad about the way we teased her and ran her down. She was a pain in the neck, but she didn't deserve to be killed. Oh, and Jill-Jill, you know how she always kept her legs covered. Well, her skirt was up to her waist, and there were those pathetic scars. She'd have HATED everyone seeing her like that."
He paused to catch his breath, then went on. "And, oh, I can't bear to say it, but she didn't have any--uhm--panties on." As risqué as he was always pretending to be, he'd probably never been with a woman in his life.
"How horrible! Robert, I'm sorry you had to go through all that. It's so hard to believe. Murder is on the news all the time and in mystery stories, but you never think of anyone you actually know winding up like that. Not Astarte."
Yet, as the reality sunk in, she could believe it. The threats from Jimmy, the vandalism of the trailer, the anonymous letters and phone calls--all leading up to this, July 27
even though they'd both tried to shrug them off. Why didn't I tell Midge, she asked herself--or, why didn't I insist on talking to Dave? It's all my fault. If I'd done something, this wouldn't have happened. Astarte was too young and dumb to know how serious it was. But, me, I should have made her tell them.
I should have insisted she move in with us--not that we really have room. What a sorry excuse for a human being I am! Basically, I didn't want to stick my neck out or be bothered with her problems. You moral coward, you just earned yourself a heap of bad karma.
They wheeled the body out then, sending Robert into hyperventilation. The black bag on the stretcher--how many times have I seen that scene on the news, she asked herself unbelievingly. I never thought that some day it might be somebody I knew. That's Astarte in the body bag. I know her. I saw her earlier today. She was rattling on about her spirit guides and her past lives, like always. And now THIS is her past life! She bit the inside of her cheek to find out whether this was a dream--something her dad had taught her when she had nightmares as a child. It hurt, so she must be awake. She thought, I know this is happening. I know it's not a dream, but I refuse to believe it. It can't be real. I'm so shut down from this thing with Dave, I can't even cry, but I feel terrible. Astarte was aggravating, but there was no harm in her, and in my own way, I did grow fond of her. Who could possibly have done this?
A uniformed policeman came up to her then, a brawny, red-faced man with streaks of gray in his dark-brown hair. "Are you Miss Malone? I'm Officer Lyons. Could I ask you a few questions?" He took her aside, and they sat in the back of a police car. There was nowhere else to go, the trailer being full of investigators. "I understand you were the last to see her alive."
Shock was beginning to set in, so she felt numb and spaced out. "The last one to see her alive? Oh, God, that's heavy! There was the mailman, Ralph Lofton--no, but he'd been there and gone while I was still around. And we weren't expecting Midge or Gary today, the owners--or any workmen."
"So, maybe I was the last to see her alive," she said dully. "Well, no, of course not! Whoever did this saw her alive. There, you see, I wasn't the last person!" It seemed important, in this foggy state, not to have been the last one there before Astarte died. It lessened her guilt, somehow, for neglecting her.
"Ma'am, please pull yourself together. I meant that you were the last one to see her alive before the killer. What time did you leave?"
"My shift ends at 2:00, and I never hang around. When did she die?"
"Your roommate discovered the body at 6:00, and there was no rigor mortis at that time. Rigor almost always begins within two hours, so we figure it had to be between 4:00 and 5:00 PM. Do you happen to know when she had her last meal? That would help establish the time of death when they do the autopsy."
She shivered. Rigor mortis? Autopsy? That happened on t.v., not here. "She was having stomach trouble, nausea, that sort of thing, so she wasn't eating much except rice cakes. I didn't even see her eat any of those today."
Lyons told her, "That helps. We also need to know what state of mind she was in and what was going on with her. You worked with her every day, so we're hoping you can give us some information."
She came clean, then, about everything--the trouble with Jimmy, the vandalism that had been reported, and the letters and phone calls from the Angel of Death that had not. "I'm the only one who knows about them, because she refused to tell anyone else--she was too ashamed."
He pursed his lips and blew air out, shaking his head in disbelief. "You've been very foolish, ma'am--you and the victim both. It's not always safe down here at night. You should have reported it."
She hung her head. "You're right. It's my fault she's dead. Why didn't I tell someone? Maybe I could have saved her." Her stomach churned with selfcondemnation.
"I know it's hard, but I have to ask some other questions. Do you happen to know if the deceased was in the habit of wearing underpants? They were missing."
She thought about it. "We drove across the country together, but she always dressed in the bathroom because she was self-conscious about her legs. So I couldn't say for certain, but surely she wore underpants! She wore a bra. Wouldn't you think that a person who didn't wear underpants wouldn't wear a bra, either? I mean, she was kind of..." Slutty, she thought, but didn't want to say. "Well, uhm, she was...."
"Say what you mean, Miss. This is a homicide investigation."
She sighed and admitted, "Astarte was pretty sexual. But, still, you'd think she'd wear underpants. Is it that important?"
"Yes. If the pants are missing and we find the pants, we find the killer. Chances are, if he--we're guessing it's a he--kept them as a souvenir, he'll hang onto them. We won't know until we get the autopsy report, but from the looks of the body, we're thinking it's a sex crime. And he spray painted WHORE OF SATAN inside the trailer, just like the notes you saw. Must be the same weirdo."
They called Lyons to come into the trailer. "That's all for now, Miss Malone. I'm sure we'll need more information from you later." They got out of the car, and he went inside.
She overheard another cop at the door of the trailer, talking to the ambulance attendant. "What a rummy bunch this is--trouble waiting to happen. Can you believe they’re fortunetellers? A 900 hotline right here in Port Townsend?"
The attendant asked, "A fortune teller? If she was so damned psychic, why didn't she see this coming?" They hooted with laughter.
The young cop went on, "So, this faggot discovers the body, and his roommate--looks to be straight, but you never know--is the last one to see her alive. Why don't trash like that stay where they came from? We don't need them around here."
She wanted to scratch their eyes out--better that than feel the shame of knowing that some of the townspeople actually thought of them that way. She went to Robert and put her arm around him, as he was still trembling. "We'll go home soon. I'll fix you steamed milk with honey so you can sleep."
Midge came flying out of the trailer and faced her down. "What's this I hear? You KNEW someone was threatening her, and you didn't say a word? I thought you had your head screwed on straight! I even suspected you had Capricorn Rising, you seemed so responsible--but that's a real laugh! You're at fault for this!"
Her heart sank even lower. "I know I was wrong, Midge. You couldn't blame me any more than I blame myself. I tried and tried to get her to talk to you and Gary, but she wouldn't hear of it. I thought the new security system would keep us safe. I told her never to let anyone in that she didn't know, and she promised she wouldn't."
Midge lit a cigarette, her hands shaking. "I won't forget this, Malone. I was crazy about that kid--she was something special! They're saying we can go now. We'll meet at your house tomorrow morning at 10:00. They won't let us back into the trailer to work for a while, and we have to figure out what to do. Gary should be back from Seattle by then, at least I hope so. I've got to get hold of him--and her folks, too. I'm dreading that, knowing how they doted on her. I just can't believe this could happen to an angel like Astarte."
They went home then, Jillian driving because Robert was still too shaken. They went over and over the scene until after midnight, still asking themselves who could have done it. She filled Robert in on what had been going on with Astarte. He finally stumbled off to bed, but she was wide-awake until dawn, worms of remorse gnawing on her gut.
HOTLINE TO HEAVEN Chapter Nine
Midge showed up for the meeting, looking as worn and frayed as they did. "Astarte's parents are flying in from L.A. tonight. They're half-crazed with grief. It killed me to break the news. I couldn't track Gary down, but I've left messages for him to call here. He's going to be beside himself. He was fond of her, too, you know."
They sat down at the newel table. Silent and subdued, Robert served coffee and some carrot muffins he'd made the previous day, before all this had happened. Suddenly, the doorbell rang long and hard, someone leaning on it.
Jillian ran downstairs, expecting it to be the police or Gary. She opened the door to find a dark, unshaven young man in rumpled clothes that reeked of yesterday's sweat and several days’ worth of alcohol. "Who are you?"
He demanded, "Wha' happen to 'Starte? I went
to the trailer she worked at, but the cops were there,
so I cut out."
A new conquest, she guessed. Boy, could
Astarte pick 'em! Good looking enough, in a sullen
way, if he were cleaned up and sober. "But who are
you?"
"Jimmy, god dammit! Her boyfriend from N'
Yawk. Now, what the hell's goin' on?"
Oh, God, he IS out here, she thought. Maybe
he killed her in a blackout and doesn't remember.