"Yes, I'm afraid it might set the body-worship movement back a bit."

"How was your hot night with the s.e.x G.o.ddess?"

Alison kissed the tips of her fingers. "Great." Her c.u.n.t contracted with the memory. "Kinky. Mich.e.l.le would s.h.i.t."

"Look, promise me you won't tell her right now, will you? That's all I need, to have her more stirred up. Do you want to join me in doing something really self-indulgent and bad for your body?" She didn't wait for an answer, but went to the refrigerator and brought out a big china bowl. It was filled with chocolate chip cookie dough. She got two spoons out of the dish rack and handed one to Alison. "Dig in," she said.

For a moment there was silence as they both began eating out of the bowl. Alison knew that she would regret making this her first meal of the day, but cookie dough was a personal weakness. "Did you see this?" Janka spoke with some difficulty. Her tongue seemed to be stuck to the roof of her mouth. She pointed to a pile of newspaper.

"What?" Alison picked the paper up. "I think I've had enough."

"There." Janka hit a photo with her spoon. "Do you feel sick?"

"No."

"Then you haven't had enough."

Obediently Alison scooped out another spoonful of dough, her eyes on the article beneath the photo. Anti-gay group attacked read the headline. Preacher found nude said the subt.i.tle.

"Trudy!" she said, without looking up.

"I'd guess. Go ahead and read it. It's great." Janka was intent on emptying the bowl.

" aPolice blah-blah-blah Reverend Malcolm Eisenburg, well known in the city for his anti-gay crusade and his a.s.sistant, Jerry Armstrong...' They painted them orange and blue?" She was delighted.

"All over. And I have it from an inside source that it wasn't poster paint, either." Janka, finally looking sick herself, leaned back in her chair. "I don't know why I do this to myself."

Alison was still scanning the story. "'Found nude in front of the office of the Rocky Mountain News. ..bound together with their heads shaved and also painted... Eisenburg refuses to comment except to say that their a.s.sailants wore Ronald Reagan masks, but a statement fastened around his neck, a copy of which was delivered to the newspaper office, claims that the action was in retaliation for the fact that Eisenburg tapped into a lesbian hotline, and that he and other church members were picking up women who were expecting safe rides home from work and bars and forcing them to listen to an anti-gay lecture by Sharon Ringer, who admits that she was in a lesbian relationship before she 'saw the light'.'"

"From what Mich.e.l.le says it was more like she was into every relationship in town."

"Well, there's no saint like a reformed sinner, is there? 'Ringer, and Eisenburg's wife, Nina, were also found at the site, clothed and unshaven. The statement said that it held them to be p.a.w.ns of the men and that, because of the long history of abuse and exploitation of women's bodies, stripping and shaving them would not make the same statement of powerlessness as it had the men. Blah-blah-blah, blah-blah-blah'. The statement said that the shaved heads and paint would help to warn to other gays and lesbians, and also added that blue and orange had been used because they were the colors of the Denver Broncos and 'we like to support our team.'"

Alison looked at Janka. "Too much," she said. She noticed her queasy expression for the first time. "So why do you do that to yourself?"

"Because I'm totally p.i.s.sed at Mich.e.l.le, and like any well-trained woman, I turn my anger back on myself instead of just smacking the s.h.i.t out of her."

"Smack her," advised Alison with the a.s.surance of one who would never take her own advice. "What's her problem?"

"She's jealous of Seven Yellow Moons because we had such a good time talking and weaving and she felt left out. So now she's decided that I'm going to leave her and go live in a yurt, and, by G.o.d, if I'm going to do that then I deserved to be treated s.h.i.tty."

"There is something to be said for force," said Alison thoughtfully. "I know that it's PI, and how can we obtain world peace if we can't even settle our own problems without force, but Mich.e.l.le really does get her head up her a.s.s from time to time. We used to have fist fights regularly until my dad told me I was too old."

"Hmm." Janka sat without speaking, her hands folded over her stomach.

"Do you have a magnifying gla.s.s I can borrow?"

"Yeah." Janka rummaged in one of the baskets. "Here. Hey, I don't mean to be rude, but I've got to get back to work."

"No problem. Do you mind if I sit up here to do this? I don't want to view the petrified c.u.n.t show again."

"Be my guest."

Alison pulled the proofs from the envelope and scanned the sheet of photos again. This time she looked at all of them. She might as well; it had turned into an amus.e.m.e.nt rather than a clue search. Obrachta had called her firmly off the case, making sure she understood that her job was on the line. After she was through she had better call her Dad. No, she'd call the boys on the case herself and tell them everything that she knew. They could do their job, and on Monday she'd go back to patrolling a beat.

She moved the gla.s.s off the photo of a banner that, magnified, read 'Lesbians for Lesbians,' and over to the picture of the three d.y.k.es in front of the Crusaders. Several signs were visible now, the largest being one held by Malcolm that started 'G.o.d hates the sin...' Well, how did G.o.d feel about orange and blue, Malcolm and did you kill those women? Sighing, she moved the gla.s.s over the picture. She moved on to the next photo, and then stopped and moved it back. She sat for a moment, and then got up.

"Do you mind if I take this with me?" she called to Janka, already opening the door. "I have something I need to go do."

She was in luck. She hadn't been staked out more than fifteen minutes before she saw a woman who had to be Stacy's upstairs neighbor hurrying down the street, holding a newspaper over her head to keep off the rain. Quickly Alison slipped out of the doorway, timing herself so that she was turning away from the front door just as the woman was arriving.

"Oh, hi," she said.

The woman gave her a quick once over, a.s.sessing the situation and deciding it was harmless, just another d.y.k.e in a mostly d.y.k.e house, before answering. "h.e.l.lo." But she didn't pull out her key.

"I just hate this," Alison said, trying to sound upset, but not as if she were the kind of person who would vent on a stranger. Or kill her. "Stacy told me she would be here at six and now she's not, and I'm all wet." She winced as she heard herself saying the last. She can see you're all wet, a.s.shole. The woman smiled, but still hesitated, so Alison played out her next line.

"Well, I'm not going to stand around all day in the rain. But I am going to give her h.e.l.l when I see her." She started to turn, and then looked back into the woman's face. "Haven't I met...no, I know where I've seen you. You sing with the Women's Chorus, right? I was at your winter concert, the one where you sang-oh what is it?" She sang a s.n.a.t.c.h of the song, "Foxglove woman, marigold child...."

The woman's face underwent a complete transformation, changing from cautious suspicion to a beaming smile. Obviously the chorus was to her as soccer was to Stacy, and Alison felt a stab of guilt for using it this way. She hadn't even been at the d.a.m.n concert, Stacy had, and had been singing that tune while she quilted till Alison thought she'd go crazy. Well, dammit, she was trying to catch a killer, and sometimes the end did justify the means.

Now she had almost missed the woman's response with her moral fussing. Luckily it was something that didn't require much more than a nod- about how the chorus was going to go and sing at the National March on Washington. It might have been exciting any other time, but she didn't want to stand in the rain talking about it.

"That's so great," she said. "But I guess Stacy's not coming, and I can't stand here any longer waiting for her. I wonder if you... you see, she was supposed to leave me a package, and she knew I needed it. Could you just look outside her door and see if she left it in the hall? Just yell down if it's there?" Let me in, lady, she thought, her fingers crossed in her pockets. Come on, we're about the same age, we probably worked on a flier together ten years ago. A sneeze, not forced, escaped her.

"Oh, come on in and look for yourself. By the way, my name is Pam Farnsworth."

"Alison." She did not give her last name, just in case Pam had seen the story about Carla in the paper.

"So we're having our Harvest Ball fundraiser next Sat.u.r.day...."

"Yeah, so I've heard. Do you have an extra flier?"

"Sure. It doesn't look like she left anything."

"Huh?" Oh, yeah, they were on the second floor now, and she was supposed to be getting a nonexistent package. She pretended to think, pulling at her lower lip. "Boy, this isn't like Stacy," she said, hoping that she was right in that. "I wonder if she got in a fender-bender or something." She hesitated half a second longer. "Well, I'm going to have to go. But can I run up and get that flier from you, first?"

As she had antic.i.p.ated, it was only a short step from that to being invited in for a cup of tea. She looked around curiously when Pam excused herself to change. It was a nice, single d.y.k.e's apartment. She had been right in guessing that they had come out at about the same time-she could tell it by the posters on the wall that hadn't been available in years. The ripped corners told her they had been stuck up with masking tape at first. Pam had become more upwardly mobile and now they were matted and under gla.s.s. There were also several watercolors and a long, rectangular wall-hanging of blue and grey corduroy that was definitely Stacy's work. On one wall were three black and white photos of Pam and a second woman chopping wood. They looked like Mark's style.

The teakettle shrilled, and Alison called quickly, "I'll get it," glad of an excuse to case out the kitchen. She wasn't like those cops in the movies who could search a house while their hostess was in the bathroom, find exactly what they needed without disturbing anything else and then be back in their chairs before she emerged. She would get caught. And what she was really only looking for was a way to start the conversation she needed. She found it in the kitchen.

The photo was on the refrigerator. As she moved closer she wondered briefly why it was that two things, pictures and children's art, consistently showed up on people's refrigerators. Had it become a cultural norm? Pam's were in better shape than the ones on her own refrigerator, which had been taped up, and then taped again when they had curled and fallen down. These were in neat plastic covers with magnets on the back, so they couldn't be dated by wear and tear. But there was Pam herself in one of them, ten or twelve years younger. Alison had never thought she'd get so good at reading subtle lines around the eyes and neck until they'd started showing in her own mirror. There were three other women in the photo but it wasn't them whom she studied first. It was the little boy who was sitting at the picnic table with them. He was blond but she could not be sure it was Mark. He was about eight in the picture and Alison mentally adjusted Pam's age, giving her another five years over her own. The picture was unposed and only two of the women were looking straight into the camera. The third had been caught moving her head, so that her face was slightly blurry, and the fourth was looking at something the little boy was holding. From her expression Alison guessed that it was something not only startling, but possibly alive.

"Did you find what you needed?" Pam asked. She had changed out of her work clothes into a pair of overalls, another indication of her age. As near as Alison could tell young d.y.k.es didn't wear Osh Kosh overalls anymore.

"I did if you like Red Zinger tea."

"That's fine. That's the flier." She pointed to a lavender sheet of paper with the outline of a crowd of women across the top. It had been done by the same woman who had drawn the WAV AW poster.

"Can I have this one?" Alison took it from beneath the magnet when Pam nodded, thinking that now she'd probably have to be at the d.a.m.n thing.

"Would you like an orange?"

"Please." She was going to lose the moment to ask naturally if she didn't get to it. "Is this your son?" Maybe not the most graceful lead-in, but she doubted Pam would catch it, especially since she had just noticed there was another, older photo of the boy alone on the other side of the refrigerator. In this one he was in his teens, holding an oboe.

"Yeah." There was that smile again. Almost. Maybe Alison wouldn't have noticed if she hadn't been looking, or maybe she was seeing things that weren't there. But wasn't there a little reserve to the smile this time, as if there was something in Pam's mind that wasn't quite right about the answer?

"Do you have any other kids?"

"No. Actually, Mark isn't my birth child. I helped co-parent him for a number of years. With these women." She pointed to the first photo.

"Really? Is this his biological mother?" Alison pointed randomly, though the woman did have roughly the same shade of hair.

"No." Pam answered shortly. Alison said nothing, and after a moment she added reluctantly, "His mother didn't live here. We took care of him ourselves." Her mouth was pursed up as though she was tasting something nasty, and Alison knew instinctively not to pursue that line, that any more questions would simply close her up altogether.

"I've wondered about co-parenting," she said casually, "Did you like it?" It wasn't a hard lie to tell, because she had wondered. She listened intently to the answer, which was about what she expected, just about what other women had told her. Some parts of it-not having to devote your whole life-were good, and others, notably dealing with other adults who had different ideas in child raising, were a pain in the a.s.s. She broke in as soon as it seemed reasonable.

"Tell me, what did he think about having a different family when he got a little older? Like when he was in high school?" Again, it was something which she had genuinely wondered.

"He didn't live with us in high school. He went to live with his mother." Up until that point the atmosphere in kitchen had been warm and friendly. Suddenly, that changed, and Alison felt herself shiver. It wasn't one thing that she could put her finger on, like the look on Pam's face, or the tone of her voice. It was more an air she put off that told Alison that she didn't just dislike the unnamed mother, that she wasn't just angry with her for whatever she had done, but that she actually, actively hated her.

Pam stood up. Quickly, Alison squeezed in one last question.

"What's this woman's name?" Again she pointed randomly, this time to a woman with short curly hair who was sitting on the table behind Pam. Her arms were around her, and her chin was resting on her shoulder. "I think I've met her."

Pam shook her head. "Not unless it was a while back. She was killed in a car accident about three years ago. Teresa is dead, and Sue doesn't live here anymore." Her voice had taken on such a sadness that Alison knew that there was no way to get around that faux pas to inquire about the others. For a moment she forgot that she was investigating a horrible crime. She saw only another woman who had lost someone she loved. Gently she took Pam's elbow and led her into the other room.

They talked about the chorus, and the upcoming march and how close the vote on Amendment Two would be.

"Do you mind if I put the kettle on again?"

"Let me." Pam started to rise.

"No, you look beat. I didn't work today." Pam gave in without argument. She did look tired. If it had been an innocent visit Alison would have excused herself. Instead she went back into the kitchen and replaced the kettle. She stared again at the photo of the boy and the four women. There was something bothering her, something which she couldn't quite put her finger on. Something familiar about it, as if she really had met one of the women before. But all she could see were four d.y.k.es and a child, one of the former mostly hidden by a long curtain of hair as she looked into the boy's hands.

Pam came in as she was pouring the hot water into her cup.

"You know," Alison said casually, not looking at her, "I think I've met your...son? Isn't he Stacy's friend? The photographer?"

Pam smiled. "Yes, that's Mark."

"He seems very nice." Alison lied without compulsion. He is.

"Does he live with you now?"

"No, he has his own place. But he comes and visits me a lot. We've always been very fond of one another." Pam turned. "I hate to rush you," she said apologetically, "but if I don't get to the store I'm not going to have anything for dinner."

Alison apologized for intruding. As she hurried down the stairs b.u.t.toning her jacket she thought that for all her prying, she didn't really know much more about Mark other than what Lawrence and Stacy had already told her. She should have plunged right in and asked questions about what he was doing now, rather than listening to stories about people who were long dead. Which reminded her, was Mark's mother dead? Everyone talked about her as if she were.

And she also wondered, as she let herself out the front door, why it had been so essential for Pam to get to the store when her refrigerator was crammed full.

"There," said Lydia, as she stepped back into the foyer of the MCC, where the dance was being held. "That's it!"

"Thank-f.u.c.king-G.o.d," Alison murmured beneath her breath. She gingerly climbed off the table and stood back to look at the display. It looked okay considering the merchandise. Still, how had she gotten herself in the position of pounder and go-fer? Janka was right; she had to take a.s.sertiveness training or something. Well, at least it had given her something to do besides fussing about the forbidden mystery. Although, even as Lydia had been confronting the organizer about their allotted s.p.a.ce, Alison had managed to scribble a little chart on a piece of paper, something like a family tree where she tried to fit everyone in and show how they related to one another. It was busy with lines that went from Stacy to Dominique to Melanie to Malcolm, with a few-Mark and Candy and Pam-that wouldn't have been there that morning. But there was no way to hide the fact that Carla was still stuck out all by herself, connected to no one but Malcolm. If she was still trying to solve the case she would question Carla closely about her lovers and friends, try to see if one of them might fit the outline Stacy had suggested; the girl was still worth saving. But...she'd shrugged, and then penciled out Mark and all connections to him. There was nothing to connect him but the photograph from the Outfront, the one of him in the background with the Crusaders who were picketing the Rubyfruit, and when she'd looked at it a second time with the magnifying gla.s.s she was not nearly as certain that it was him in the crowd. It was just an excuse not to think about the check. She still had it, folded in her purse, so that she, too, was guilty of withholding evidence. She didn't know if she had just decided that Stacy was right, it was unimportant and would cause hara.s.sment, or if she was afraid of what she might find out if she pursued it.

"What do you think?" Lydia turned to Seven Yellow Moons.

"Beautiful." She was leaning against a wall eating cottage cheese out of a carton. Something had been bothering her all afternoon, and her conversation had been short and terse.

"I don't know," Lydia said critically, reluctant to let go of her role as boss.

"I've got to go home before they start letting people in, Lydia," said Alison. "I'd like to change clothes."

"Lavender!" said Lydia peevishly.

"Chill out," advised Seven Yellow Moons. "I've still got friends who call me by my other name, and I haven't gone by it for almost ten years." As Alison waved good-bye, Lydia looked as if she would rather die than chill out.

Alison could hear Janka and Mich.e.l.le thumping around in their bedroom as she entered her apartment. Just the sounds told her that they were still on ill terms. Wonderful, and she was giving them a ride. Well, she had weathered their storms before. She slipped the black dress that she had picked up at the Vintage clothing store, over her head and eyed it critically. Even she had to admit that it looked wonderful, transforming her into a sultry, foreign spy type. But was it going to be too dressy? Fretting, she climbed the stairs.

As she had promised earlier, Janka had dug out a black lace shawl and an evening bag, (presents from a hopeful mother and never used before) from the back of her closet. Great accessories, especially the purse, because she wasn't about to leave her revolver at home, but even she had realized that a holster would spoil the line of her bodice. There was also a pair of black heels that she ignored completely. No way.

Several bags of Mich.e.l.le's photos were sitting beside the shoes. She opened one bag with a smile, ignoring the slamming in the bedroom. There she was, squatting by the fire. There was Mich.e.l.le with Melanie and Sharon Aldrich. Now she was beginning to see just a little of the young d.y.k.e in the stern woman who had become a Crusader. The sharp line of her nose more than anything. Alison stared at the picture with the strange feeling that she had seen something like it earlier, another photo of Sharon Aldrich, older than this, but still very much a d.y.k.e; it eluded her for a moment. Then, suddenly, she remembered the picture on Pam's refrigerator. Pam, Teresa, the woman who had died, the woman with the long hair, and the other woman who had been facing front, slightly blurred. Sharon Aldrich. She had been one of the mothers! That was why she'd had the feeling of deja vu.

It was a startling piece of information, but after a moment, Alison shrugged. It explained why, if it had been him, Mark had been in the photo of the Crusaders at the bar. He had kept contact with one of the women, why not two? He had been there because of Sharon. But where did she go with it? Where did she go with any of it now that she had been bluntly told not to interfere, that even her information was not wanted?

Alison looked at her watch. She barely had time to get to the florist's to pick up the corsage she had ordered for Stacy. She tucked the bag under her arm and threw the shawl over her shoulder.

There was already a crowd of women when Alison, Janka and Mich.e.l.le arrived at the Ball.

For a few minutes Alison was content just to stand by the door, watching the women stream in. As Stacy had told her, it was a sight not to be missed at any cost. She had never seen such an array of finery. It was more than just the basic costumes she had grown to expect at every d.y.k.e event: the woman in the tux, the woman in the man's suit and, more increasingly, the woman in the short black leather skirt, who tonight was also wearing lacy little anklets with a pair of black pumps. The women entering the hall were seriously decked out in a much wider variety of chic fashions. Alison did not look at all out of place as she had feared. Even the black evening bag and shawl were not too much.

While she watched the women arriving, excited, laughing, Alison thought again of the d.y.k.es of her youth, who would never have turned out for an affair such as this. At their dances-women's music only-dressing up had been Frye boots and vests and jackets. No makeup, and if a woman did occasionally wear a skirt it was batiked and worn with Earthshoes bought at a rummage sale. Now those same women were here, some of them tottering on spikes that would be discarded within the next half hour, and she and Mich.e.l.le were the only ones she knew who still didn't shave their legs. Well, there was topic for a dissertation if someone could pull it together.

She drew the black shawl tighter around her shoulders and wished for a cigarette. For the first time the nip in the air seemed to promise that, yes, winter really was coming. Summer had gone well into October-what more could anyone want? She would be chilled soon.

There was really no reason to wait for Stacy outside, since she didn't know when she was coming. Still p.i.s.sed her off! They had planned the G.o.dd.a.m.n thing as a real date. Only, when she had arrived home from the florist's there had been a message on the machine changing plans. Stacy saying, in a rather distracted way, that something had come up and that she'd meet her at the hall.

At first Alison couldn't believe it. There she was, standing with an orchid in one hand, and here was this message that didn't even give a f.u.c.king explanation! In fact, she had been so astounded that she had rewound the tape and played it again, just in case she had missed something. That had p.i.s.sed her off even more, because the second time, with the sound turned up, she had caught something that had slipped by her at first, though it was definitely not what she had been hoping to hear. After the message there were b.u.mping and rustling sounds, and it had become obvious that the phone had not been hung up properly and was still recording. She'd heard Stacy's voice, pacifying, and then one that was male. Mark. He had sounded petulant, and it had not taken Alison more than a moment to jump to the conclusion that this was the reason their date had been rearranged. Mark was choosing to have a crisis and Stacy, acting out of guilt for a bad childhood at which she had not even been present, was going to sacrifice Alison's needs for his. She had tried to put it into a more reasonable perspective, after all, Stacy was going to meet up her at the dance, she wasn't cancelling, for G.o.d's sake, but Alison was consumed with a jealousy she did not know she possessed.

"What a crowd, huh?" Mich.e.l.le leaned back across the rails beside her. She was wearing a long tailed suit that Janka had made. The fabric had been hand-painted in shades of lavender and blue with a great deal of white showing through. The transformation from Mikey the bicycle mechanic was amazing, and showed by the way women in the ticket line looked at her.