Murder in the Magnolia StateConclusion: Dawn Wears an Under-wire
By Rachael Robbins
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Conclusion: Dawn Wears an Under-wire
" Emergency boobs!" I cried triumphantly. Frenchy looked at me as if I were some exotic and possibly dangerous species of plant life.
"What did you say?" She inched back toward the bathroom of our hotel room.
"I'll use my emergency boobs," I said, holding up a foam-rubber falsie. "See, whenever I travel as Dawn, I carry along these cheap rubber tits just in case something happens to my silicon forms. Ever since Harper black-mailed me into wearing a wire, I've been trying to decide where to put it. These are perfect -- I'll hollow out a little hole in the left one for the receiver."
"What are you gonna tell Bobby Ray -- `talk into my left tit'?"
"Very funny," I said, and attacked the falsie with a nail file.
We arrived at the police station about six-thirty that evening. I was dressed more conservatively than the previous night, in a calf-length skirt, poplin blouse and navy-blue pumps. The modified breast forms nestled snuggly in my bra, and the curls of my dark wig bobbed around my shoulders. Frenchy was dressed all in black -- black turtleneck, black trousers, even black tennis shoes.
"You look like you're going on a commando raid," I told her.
"And you look like you're on your way to a PTA luncheon," she said.
Harper had the wire laid out on the table in the squad room. He looked me over critically as we came in.
"You'll do," he said, "You look a sight more high-class than anything Bobby Ray's ever had. You want some help with the wire?"
"I think I can handle it," I said. "I have done this before, you know." I took the equipment from the table and marched into the Ladies Room, where I removed my blouse and inserted the receiver in the hollowed-out boob. I reassembled myself, carefully checking my image in the mirror to make sure there were no tell-tale lumps. When I was satisfied, I touched up my lipstick and returned to the squad room.
Harper made me stand in front of him and turn around, which I did with a little pirouette of exaggerated femininity.
"Looks good," he said. "Where'd you put it?"
I smiled coyly. "Wouldn't you like to know, big boy?"
He grimaced. "Cut that out. I meant the gun -- are you packin'?"
"You don't think I'd go in there without a piece, do you?" I could match cop-talk with him all day.
"It's not in your purse, is it? They'll probably search your purse."
"It's . . . secreted on my person."
"Where on your person? They might even search your body."
"My," I said, twinkling. "You certainly are interested in my underthings all of a sudden. Well, if you insist . . ." I swept my right leg up onto a folding chair, and pulled my skirt back to reveal smoky black, thigh-high stockings. His eyes bulged out of his forehead.
"I've got it in a special `garter-belt holster' I had made for just these occasions. See how it rides along the inside of my thigh?" I stroked my leg from the knee up, past the lacy stocking-tops and onto bare flesh.
"Uh, yes, I, ah, see that," he said. "You know, you have great legs for a guy."
I placed my foot back onto the floor and demurely smoothed my skirt.
"Why, Chief Harper . . . are you making a pass at me?"
At ten minutes past eight, Bobby Ray walked into LeRoy's. When he saw me sitting at the bar, sipping a diet coke, he stopped and gave a low whistle of approval before taking a place beside me.
"Miss Loretta," he said, "You look mighty nice tonight. I can hardly wait to get you back to my place." I'll say this much for the big galoot -- he had class.
"You promised to take me to meet your . . . friends," I said, leaning in close and placing my hand on his chest. He smelled a little less foul tonight, like he might actually have used some soap.
"Okay, okay . . . don't get your panties in a wad. I told the boys we'd be over about a quarter to nine. That means we got a few minutes -- it ain't far. You sure you don't want to stop by my place on the way?" He made a clumsy grab for my right breast; I caught his hand and brought it up to my lips.
"After we meet your friends," I said, nipping playfully at his dirty knuckles. "Then, I'm all yours . . ."
He paid for my drink and escorted me out of the bar and into the warm twilight. Lightening bugs danced in the gloaming and the smell of new-mown lawn pervaded the air. The trill of cicadas was almost deafening. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the New Jerusalem surveillance vehicle (a 1968 Plymouth van borrowed from Harper's cousin) parked about a quarter of a mile away. Not exactly subtle, I thought, but Bobby Ray didn't seem to notice -- he was too busy trying to cop a feel.
We walked over to a battered Ford pickup, and when we were settled into front seat he turned apologetically to me and said "Sorry to have to do this, but the Grand Kleagle said to blindfold you."
"Grand Spiegel? What's a Grand Spiegel?"
"Grand Kleagle -- the leader of the Klan here abouts. Says we can't take any chances revealin' the holy meeting ground to somebody we don't know."
"But, Bobby Ray -- you know me." I stuck out my lower lip in what I hoped was a fetching pout. "And, later tonight you'll know me much better . . ."
"I'm sorry, honey," he said, pulling a filthy black rag from under the seat. "I won't let you get hurt . . ." I felt a moment of claustrophobia as he wrapped the cloth around my eyes, then had to fight back a gag reflex at the almost overpowering odor of motor oil.
"Not too tight, baby," I whined. "You'll mess my hair."
The engine coughed to life, and with a grinding of gears we lurched off into the night. I tried to keep track of the number of right and left-hand turns, but soon lost count. Once, I felt the distinctive rattle of a railroad crossing, and tried in vain to remember the location of the tracks around town. Finally, after what seemed hours, but was probably only minutes, the truck ground to a halt. I heard Hobbes come around to the passenger side.
"Just hold onto my arm, darlin'," he said. "It's not far."
My heels clicked loudly on pavement as we walked slowly up a slight incline. "There's a step up here," he said as I tripped and fell heavily against him.
"Why not try warning me about them ahead of time," I said irritably.
"Sorry."
We came to a halt, and I heard him knock at a door -- three times, followed by a pause, then two more in rapid succession. Great, I thought, a secret clubhouse -- maybe I'll get to learn a funny handshake as well.
I felt a breeze as the door opened silently inward, and could hear a murmuring coming from somewhere ahead. I was led over a threshold and toward the muffled conversation. After rounding a corner, we stopped, and so did the voices.
"You may remove the blindfold, Brother Hobbes," said a voice. It was coarse and whispery, as if it came from inside a paper bag, yet I got the feeling that I'd heard it before. Bobby Ray fumbled with the blindfold at the back of my head, and I felt a momentary panic -- what if he pulled off my wig? But the moment passed, and I stood squinting in the light, with Hobbes' arm draped protectively over my shoulder.
We were in a large living room containing a mantle on which sat a wind-up clock, which filled the silence with a metered ticking. Taking up almost the entire opposite wall was a lighted gun cabinet, its oiled-mahogany surfaces gleaming in the dim light. Facing me was a semi-circle of figures draped in dirty white robes, each with a blood-red cross on its chest. Their faces were hidden by pointed hoods that drooped to one side, reminding me incongruously of Woody Woodpecker. The blue haze of cigarette smoke hung in the air, and there was a pervasive odor of alcohol. The central figure spoke.
"Who comes before the Holy Order of the Knights of the Ku Klux Klan?" It was the same voice I'd heard before.
"Grand Kleagle," Bobby Ray said, "this here's Loretta Sutter. She's interested in joining up." He gave my shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
"Miss Sutter, is this true?"
I spoke up, trying to put an appropriately awe-inspired flutter in my voice. "It is, oh Grand Beagle."
"Grand Kleagle."
"Sorry . . . Grand Kleagle. Anyway, I have become increasingly appalled at the direction our great nation is taking. Family values are going down the tubes, and liberals and homosexuals are running the country. Why, there are even queers in the United States Congress."
The Kleagle's eyes glittered coldly from beneath the cowl. "Go on . . ."
"Well, I've always been a great admirer of y'all," I said, congratulating myself on the Southernism, "and when Bobby Ray said he knew of a local group, I begged him to introduce me . . ."
"That's very flattering, Miss Sutter, but we don't let just anybody become a member of the Knights . . ."
"I think it's about time the Aryan majority took our country back from the Jews and blacks. And faggots should be taken out and shot."
"Ain't she somethin'?" said Bobby Ray. "When I tol' her about that queer who got hisself cut up, and that I knew --"
"Shut up, you idiot!" the Kleagle hissed. The other figures stirred restlessly.
"Bobby Ray told me about y'all," I cut in, digging my fingernails into his arm, "And I thought, well, maybe I could be like kind of an messenger back to Atlanta. I know a whole lot of folks that think the way we do."
"You mean, start a local branch in Atlanta?"
"Oh, we could base it out of New Jerusalem. We'd need somebody with experience to head up the whole thing. Why, I bet --" Suddenly, I felt a little jolt of pain in my left chest, and my shoulder twitched upward in an involuntary spasm. The Kleagle cocked his head to one side and stared.
"Miss Sutter? Are you okay?"
"Uh, sure," I said, wondering if I were having a heart attack. Maybe all those years of tight lacing finally catching up with me. "As I was saying, I think you'd be perfect for the job -- you'd be kind of like an `Uber-Kleagle.'"
"A very interesting idea. I've long thought the time was ripe here in the South for a glorious revival of the Klan."
"Exactly!" I said. Why was his voice so familiar? "And you and this group'd be right at the very heart. Think of it -- a cross in every yard, midnight rides with sheets streaming in the wind . . ." Another jolt ripped through my chest, much stronger than the first, that sent me lurching back into the gun case. Its glass doors shattered, and Bobby Ray turned to help me out of the broken shards.
"Loretta, honey," he said. "What's wrong?"
"It's nothing," I said. "Just a touch of angina . . . a childhood heart murmur . . ." Now I knew what it was -- the goddamned wire was shorting out! "If you'll just get me my purse, I've got some pills . . ."
Hobbes turned toward the chair where I'd laid my purse. I brought my hand dramatically up to my left breast just as another shock tore through my chest -- this time, there was a bright blue flash under my blouse. Without thinking, I ripped at the offending area, tearing away blouse and falsie to expose my flat, bare chest; breast form and transmitter tumbled to the floor. Uh-oh, I thought, now I've torn it.
Bobby Ray turned back toward me, purse in hand, only to stop in mid stride, mouth opening and closing like a beached carp. The others were not similarly transfixed -- two Klansmen rushed over and grabbed my arms. The Kleagle himself strode over, and ripped the wig savagely from my head. He stood for a long moment, eyes boring into mine, and slowly raised the hem of his hood to spit in my face.
"Faggot," he hissed, and turned away. A peculiar coughing sound came from my right, and I turned to see Bobby Ray vomiting in the corner, no doubt remembering our little tét a tét of the night before. I often have that effect on my dates.
"And now, Mr. Sutter," the Kleagle said, turning back to me with a dramatic swirl of his robes, "We get the distinct pleasure of silencing yet another godless queer. Hobbes, if you're done makin' a mess on my carpet, you can get the .357 outta the gun case and shoot him." Oh great, I thought, he finally says something incriminating and the damned transmitter's broken.
"You'll never get away with it, Beagle," I said, sounding like a bad Dragnet episode. "Right now there are five policemen and ten sheriff's deputies surrounding this dump."
The Kleagle threw back his head and laughed. "I don't think so. Do you, Sheriff?" He turned to another of the hooded figures, which shook its head silently. Shit! Where were Frenchy and Harper?
Bobby Ray jammed a huge revolver into my stomach. "This is gonna be fun," he said with a leer. "Can I do it now?"
"Wait!" I said. "Will you at least let me see who's killing me?" It was a desperate ploy, and I was surprised that it worked. The Kleagle shrugged and reached up to grasp the top-knot of his hood. Evidently, Bobby Ray didn't know his identity either, because he craned his neck around to see. It was all the opening I needed -- I jammed my knee into his groin, and he made a little hiccuping noise and threw up again, this time all over my skirt. I twisted to the left, wrenching my arm out of one Klansman's grip and punching the other in his face. He fell back, blood streaming from beneath the hood. I unceremoniously hiked up my skirt and pulled my pistol from its garter as another Klansman slammed into my back. We went down in a tangled mess. I twisted around onto my back in time to see the Kleagle bring Bobby Ray's pistol up in a clumsy, two-handed grip.
"Get out of my way," he roared. The Klansman on top of me scrambled to the side.
I shot the Kleagle squarely in the chest and he sank to the floor, robes billowing prettily about. Seconds later, I heard the front door crash open and Frenchy's voice calling my name.
"In here," I yelled.
The Kleagle's cronies, knowing the jig was up, scuttled toward freedom, only to be met at the entrance by a fresh-faced New Jerusalem policeman armed with a shotgun. His jaw dropped when he saw me, but he managed to keep the gun trained on the boys in white, and I rewarded him with a wink and a winsome smile.
Harper appeared next in the doorway, followed closely by Frenchy. He strode over to the Kleagle, knelt beside him, and tore off the hood. The sightless eyes of Brother Floyd stared at the ceiling.
"Jesus," Frenchy said. "And I thought Baptists never had any fun."
The next day, about eleven in the morning, Frenchy and I went into the station to make a statement. I was looking like my old stunning self, wearing my short, blonde wig and a black minidress. Frenchy commented acidly on my costume as we walked through the squad-room.
"Don't you think you're just a tad overdressed?"
"Hey," I replied. "Its hot out there. This is the coolest outfit I had left."
"Sure Dawn -- whatever you say."
We were ushered into Harper's office by a deeply-disapproving Mary -- I could tell that the young policeman from the night before had been busy spreading the word about my biological sex. By afternoon the whole town would know.
"Good morning, ladies," Harper said briskly. "Dawn, I see you've recovered nicely from last night."
"Yes, thank you Chief." I sat down and crossed my legs demurely. "It was touch and go there, for a while. I was beginning to think that you guys weren't going to get there."
A sheepish look came over his face. "Well, uh, the van sorta, you know, broke down . . ."
I threw back my head and laughed. "Broke down? How'd you manage to find me at all?"
"Well, luckily one of the boys in a squad car spotted Bobby Ray's truck outside the house, and we just told the tow-truck driver --"
"Let me get this straight," I said. "You arrived in a tow truck?"
He looked down at his hands. "Yeah . . ."
I could only shake my head in disbelief. "Jesus Christ."
Harper called in the receptionist to act as stenographer while he took my statement. She sat as far away from me as possible, hunched over her machine with her eyes averted, her mouth pursed in disapproval.
"I see my reputation has gone before me," I said.
"Well, you gotta admit, last night you did look kind of --"
"Ridiculous," Frenchy cut in.
"Strange, was the word I was going for . . ."
"Assinine," said Frenchy.
"All right, all right," I said, holding up my hands. "I get the picture. Let's just get on with it."
An hour-and-a-half later, I signed the statement and we stood up to go. Harper said goodbye to Frenchy and, turning to me, took my hand.
"When's your plane?" he asked.
"Tomorrow at 8:30," I said. His hand was warm in mine.
"Of course you'll be back for the trial . . ."
"Wouldn't miss it." He still hadn't released my hand.
"Uh, Dawn . . ." he said. "Do you think we could, ah, have dinner this evening? I mean, if you have time before you leave?"
"Is this invitation for Dawn or Donald?"
"Why, Dawn of course -- I'm not gay. Besides, it's only a matter of time before you, uh, have the operation . . . isn't it?"
"Look, Jimmy," I said gently. "I didn't lie to you . . . I'm not a transsexual -- I just like wearing these little outfits. And you don't want to ruin your reputation -- you'd be the laughing stock of the whole county."
"I don't care about that . . ."
"You would, when I'm gone." I said, and reached up to kiss him softly on the cheek. "Bye, dear."
Frenchy and I walked back toward the hotel, and she turned to me, shaking her head.
"I can't wait to get back to Seattle," she said, "Where the people aren't so fucking weird."
Next: "The Three Krystals", a new Dawn Benedict adventure