he hits her?”
I don’t know what I would have done in that instance if I thought another woman was in trouble. I like to think I would have announced my presence by opening the door and acting as a peacemaker—maybe shame the feuding couple by being a witness before one of them landed the first punch.
That’s not what Nikki Bingham did. She balanced precariously on the edges of the toilet seat and braced herself in a half crouch against the walls of the stall praying she wouldn’t be seen or heard while the row outside escalated.
“The woman said their plan was working and the man should just shut up and execute it. Especially tonight. He’d been dumb enough to bring a kid into their arrangement—and that other poor bastard who worked here—and once again she’d had to clean up after him.”
“She called him a loser and he called her a bitch.”
“Must be love,” I said.
“I couldn’t see,” Nikki said, “but it sounded as if one of them pushed the other up against the wall or the edge of the sink. They both grunted, and instead of shouting they spit their words at each other. That was scarier. The woman said she’d gotten very good at manufacturing things and could manufacture an accident if he didn’t watch his step. She even laughed and said they’d attribute it to the Javits Curse.
“They struggled. Something fell and spilled onto the floor. I saw a lipstick rolling under the door into the stall where I was hiding. I was petrified they’d find me there. Then the lights went out.”
It was pitch-black. Nikki heard the others run out and, as she tried to get down, her foot slid off the rim and into the toilet. She twisted her ankle in the bowl, fell over, and cracked her head—first on the lock, then on the tile floor, a trickle of blood sinking into the grout.
“They don’t know how long I was out, but no one found me until well after the lights came back on, so what was that, twenty-five minutes?”
“Man,” Rolanda said, shaking her head. “I will never say another bad word about those cat and dog people.”
“The woman in the lounge said, ‘once again.’ Do you think the people who were arguing were married or a couple?” I asked.
“If they were, they’re headed for divorce court,” Nikki said.
“I don’t suppose you recognized any voices.”
She hadn’t. The absence of slang or a hipster vernacular made Nikki think they were aged thirty to fifty with no particular accents or speech patterns to help identify them. Nikki closed her eyes, trying to re-create the experience.
“The woman was wearing heels. I could hear them when she moved from the carpeted lounge area to the tile floor of the restroom. While they were arguing I heard something unzip.
“At first, I worried that it was—you know—his pants, but it must have been the makeup case. That was probably what drove the guy crazy—the fact that he was going apeshit and she was touching up her makeup.”
The hospital had kept Nikki overnight and released her early Saturday morning, when she came directly to the show.
“Did I tell you Russ came to pick me up? Wasn’t that thoughtful? He brought me clothing and this darling hat.”
“That’s a little bitty thing,” Rolanda said, looking it over. “There were some serious hats at Otis’s service this morning. Hats that would need their own cars if they were going on to the cemetery.”
“Anyway, they gave me my belongings in a white plastic bag.”
Included among her possessions were the stained black sheath, Lucy’s now-flattened silk flower, one pair of high heels (right one broken and still soggy), and two makeup bags—only one belonging to Nikki Bingham. She was aching to show us the other, but it didn’t seem wise to whip it out right on the show floor. Nikki went to her booth and came back with an English-style trug filled with scented drawer sachets. She placed the basket on the floor of my booth and bent down ostensibly to look for something. Instead she fished out a plastic bag from underneath the fragrant packets and shoved it under the table in Primo’s booth.
“I don’t want some crazy lady coming after me looking for her lip gloss. I can’t think when I’ve heard a woman sound so driven—and so violent.” Nikki, Rolanda, and I agreed to meet later at El Quixote to search the bag for clues.
Was Garland Bleimeister “the kid” and Otis Randolph the “poor bastard” who’d stumbled into something? Or was this just another happily married couple having the kind of knock-down, drag-out fight most people are fortunate enough not to witness except on daytime television?
If I was right that the intended recipient of Garland’s note was someone listed on one of the dog-eared pages, I’d met or heard about most of them, most recently Cindy Gustafson, Connie Anzalone, and Lauryn Peete and her high school students. I had about an hour before we were all ejected; maybe it was time to visit the others.
But what was I looking for? An emasculated man? A woman needing to freshen her makeup? I didn’t know what I hoped to learn, but my instincts had served me well in the past and I was willing to give it a shot—for Garland and Otis, and for Jamal—but also if someone had broken into Lucy’s apartment looking for that damn bag and scaring the crap out of me and J. C., I wanted them to pay. No greed, no lust, but maybe a little revenge. As J. C. had advised, I’d watch my back.
Forty-three
I’d forgotten that I’d already met the Bagua Lady. She’d been the one lingering on the show floor the other night, loading up on handouts at the information booth. It was hardly the stuff of CSI, but all the spiritual merchandise on her shelves made me think she wasn’t the type to bitch slap a guy who had followed her into the ladies’ room. Then there were the Birkenstocks. Also inconclusive, but I gave her points because of them, although it was certainly possibly to own old-fashioned, hippie shoes
I’d already spent almost sixty dollars on honey, so I was not inclined to drop any more dough on chimes or lucky Chinese coins strung together with red twine just to get a few answers. I took the simple approach.
“How’s the show been for you?” I asked. It was the standard, innocuous trade show or convention exchange. You never wanted to hear it was fabulous—especially if it wasn’t going well for you—but occasionally it opened the door for other, more practical information like, “Way better than Poughkeepsie.” Or “Not as good as Poughkeepsie.”
“Oh, you know,” Terry said. “It’s more expensive than the flea markets or craft shows but there’s less driving and not as much fun.” I took that to mean she hadn’t run into any old flames—probably a good thing, given her track record. “I’d rather be outdoors than in all this reconditioned air. Last night was good.” Then she shared the details of every sale over fifty dollars. I was sorry I asked and struggled to keep the glazed-over look out of my eyes. I could only assume today had been slow and I was the first person she’d spoken to for any length of time. The more she talked, the less I saw her as Garland’s contact. People with something to hide didn’t volunteer much, and Terry Ward was the opposite, even drifting off into a personal sidebar about her route selection to the convention center (“I started with MapQuest, but you can never trust them and the GPS told me to turn left but I knew the GW would be crowded…”). It was mind-numbing. I needed to change the subject.
“Good idea wearing those shoes. It’s brutal standing on these concrete floors all day.” That I knew from personal experience. I still had the shin splints from my first Consumer Electronics Show in Las Vegas to prove it.
“You’re so right. I even wore them last night for the reception instead of heels. Who could see under a long black skirt? Besides, I’m not here to look sexy. I’m past that. It’s all about the sales. And most of the attendees and buyers are women, anyway. We don’t need to dress up for each other.”
Hers was a philosophy I didn’t totally agree with. Was she a killer? Only if you could bore someone to death. It was unlikely Terry Ward was the woman in clacking heels who had preened and reapplied war paint while verbally abusing some poor schlub in the ladies’ room. I put Terry Ward on the Probably Not list, then I took pity on her and sprung for two sets of lucky Chinese coins.
