By Rachael Robbins
© 1996 Transgender Forum & Rachael Robbins
Episode 3: Dawn Takes a Ride
The funeral of Johnnie Baker was held on a Thursday morning three days after his murder, at Washelli Cemetery in North Seattle. Television detectives always attend the funeral of the victim, in hopes of observing Suspicious Behavior from one or more of the perpetrators, who just can't resist gloating over their mis-deeds. This rarely happens in real life, but I'm a big believer in tradition. Besides, the funeral gave me a chance to wear my demure, yet sexy, black dress, in which I look stunning if I do say so myself. I was accompanied by Frenchy, who was anything but demure in a bright yellow halter top, white shorts, and boat shoes, an outfit that was appropriate for the beautiful weather, if not for a funeral.
Channel Eight had hired some beefy guards to discourage the hangers-on; even so, it was a circus. We could hardly make our way to graveside through all the big-haired, over-madeup reporters doing their standups. All in all, in was strange scene -- the stark monuments, emerald turf and brilliant sky combined with the frantic, sweaty press to give a slightly surreal, Kodachrome look to the proceedings. Salvadore Dali meets Edward Gorey, by way of Walt Disney.
After a few minutes, I saw David Baker standing quietly next to his sister, who was resignedly giving an interview to a blow-dried newsman. Thin and non-descript, Johnnie's brother looked nothing like the vibrant young woman of three days ago. His eyes, which had looked so luminous before, were ringed and bloodshot, and his shoes clashed with the dark, ill-fitting suit, a fashion faux pas I knew he'd never make as Ashley. Still, there was something indefinable in his manner, perhaps in the way he stood, that suggested that even in grief, he was still in control of the situation.
After the ceremony, I went up to them to offer my condolences, and arrange the meeting between David and myself. He took my hand in a soft grip, with an amused smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"So. My big sister hired you to investigate Johnnie's death. She always did know how to waste her money."
"Yes, well, I'd like to ask you a few questions. You know, sometime in a few days, when the shock has worn off . . ."
"I think I'll be sufficiently free from my . . . grief . . . by tomorrow afternoon," he said with a bitter laugh. "Johnnie and I weren't exactly close you know."
We made an appointment for the next afternoon, and Frenchy and I headed back to my red Opel Cadette, a car that had definitely seen better days. No sooner had we passed out of ear-shot than she offered an opinion as to the identity of the murderer.
"He did it," she said, with certainty.
"Who? David? What makes you think that?"
"C'mon, you saw it -- he looked about as broken up over dear brother's death as he'd be over a squashed bug."
"Frenchy," I said impatiently. "Disliking someone's not motive for murder . . ."
"Well how's this for motive. Johnnie was being blackmailed, right?"
"Right."
"And without the payments, David would've been exposed for the dirty little pervert he is, right?"
"Right . . . wait a minute! He's not a pervert!"
"Gotcha!" she said, grinning. "Anyway, how's this -- Johnnie tells David he's gonna quit paying the blackmail. David, in a fit of rage, offs big brother, and the world has one less sleaze-bag talk-show host."
We reached the car, and I slid behind the steering wheel, reaching over to unlock Frenchy's door. The old engine clattered to life after only minimal cranking.
"The problem with your theory is that the murder was coldly deliberate," I said. "It wasn't committed in the heat of the moment. Whoever did it had to buy the strychnine, wait until he could be alone with the Twinkies, then carefully inject them with the poison."
"OK, so it was deliberate, and with malice aforethought. Johnnie might have told David a day or two before the show. That would've given him plenty of time to get the poison."
"Well, my money's on the blackmailer. If we find him, or her, we'll find the killer."
I pulled the old car out onto Aurora Avenue, and headed South towards downtown. In truth, I'd given Frenchy's theory some thought, and I found the idea vaguely troubling, for no good reason. Glancing over at Frenchy, I could see her watching me shrewdly.
"Why're you so reluctant to consider David as the killer?" she asked. "Is it because he's one of your `sisters'?"
"Of course not. Crossdressers can be murderers, just like anybody else."
"Oh, I get it -- you're sweet on him."
"Sweet on him? Been reading Emily Bronte again, Frenchy?"
"Don't change the subject. I saw the smoldering looks between the two of you. Like it wasn't obvious."
"Look -- I don't know about Ashley's sexual orientation," I replied haughtily, "But mine precludes liaisons between individuals with similar genital equipment." Frenchy was baiting me, as usual. And, as usual, I coudn't resist.
"You oughta try it sometime," she said. "It's very liberating."
"I'm sure it is."
I wore a white miniskirt and a sleeveless blouse as I cruised down Bothell Way toward my meeting with David. The breeze through the open window ruffled my blonde wig, and felt cool on my bare legs. Lake Washington gleamed to my right, dotted with sailboats even on a weekday afternoon. At a stoplight in Kenmore, my nose was assaulted by the heady aroma from an espresso stand, and a large citizen in a pickup truck honked his horn and waved. I blew him a little kiss, which probably made his day.
Bothell is a bedroom community of Seattle, situated on the Sammamish Slough, a slow-moving canal linking Lakes Washington and Sammamish to the Southeast. Buccolic and yuppie, it is full of $200,000 homes and apartment buildings, where the less fortunate souls live. David's, the "Wind n' Fir", was an aging 9-unit structure overlooking Beardslee Boulevard and the bypass on the East side of town.
As I walked up the sidewalk to his apartment, I found myself wondering whether I would be confronted with David or the lovely woman I knew from the talk show. Unaccountably, I hoped for the latter, and was rewarded when Ashley answered my knock.
What I saw took my breath away -- she was quite simply stunning in her scoop-necked t-shirt, shorts and sneakers, with just enough makeup to accentuate her eyes and generous mouth. She exuded a healthy, fresh-scrubbed aura far removed from the cool ice-princess I'd met the day of the show.
"Hi," she said. "Listen, I'm boat-sitting for a friend who's out of the country, and it's been a week since I've taken it out . . ."
"Boat sitting?"
"Yeah, you know . . . like housesitting, only with a boat. My friend didn't want to take it out of the water, and the engines have to be run . . . Anyway, how about a boat ride?"
Now, despite living in Seattle, with the highest number of boats per-capita in the country, I'm not exactly Popeye, or even Olive Oyle. The smallest ships I feel comfortable on are the barge-like ferries that ply Puget Sound, and even then I have to know the location of every life-boat and emergency floatation device on board.
"Well," I replied, "I don't know . . ."
"Oh, come on. It'll be fun," she said, laying a slender hand on my arm. "We can talk on the water."
Giving in, I nodded. She squeezed my arm, and said "Great! Just let me get my purse . . ."
As we headed back down Bothell Way, I felt a sense of unease that was difficult to pin down, and it wasn't until we turned into Bud's Marina on Lake Washington that I realized what was bothering me. Ashley had left her apartment in drag, and in broad daylight. Moreover, she'd casually greeted several other residents of the building as we made our way to her black Miata. It just didn't fit with the furtive movements normally associated with closeted transvestites -- especially those being blackmailed.
At the marina, Ashley led the way out over the water on wooden planks, which were suspended between styrofoam floats that bobbed dangerously with every step. She moved with a lithe grace, seemingly as at home here as on dry land. Stopping in front of a rakish powerboat, she turned to watch as I picked my way carefully along the planks, an amused gleam in her eyes.
"Not much of a water person, are you?" she said as I came up.
"Not much," I replied.
"Well, don't worry -- I won't let you drown." She turned back to the boat. "She's a beauty, huh? Twenty-two foot Bayliner, twin inboard-outboard engines. Built for speed." It looked like it was built for nausea to me. The name stenciled on the stern read The Frances Renault, Kenmore, Washington. How fitting.
After backing the Frances out of its slip, we motored sedately to the end of the dock and the gas pumps, where we were waited on by a teenager with scraggly black hair and beard.
"Hi, Ashley," he said. "Who's your friend?"
"Harley, Dawn," she replied. "Dawn, Harley."
"Pleased to meet you, Dawn." I felt a crawling sensation up my spine as his eyes slowly travelled the length of my body, starting with my legs, hesitating at the crotch, and continuing up to rest on my face. A smile slowly appeared on his thin mouth, and I realized with a start that I'd been clocked.
Is there anyone who doesn't know Ashley's true sex? I wondered. (Of course it never crossed my mind that I was less than passable -- I knew that I was my usual, lovely self.) For someone being blackmailed, it certainly seemed that a lot of folks knew her deep, dark secret. As we puttered out of the marina, leaving the leering Harley in our wake, I resolved to ask her a few questions then and there.
"Ashley," I began, but didn't get any further, because she chose that moment to shove the throttle all the way forward. The Frances Renault lept out of the water, accelerating at a tremendous pace. I saw a buoy flash by that read "5 mph", along with two fishermen in a rowboat. They didn't look happy at the prospect of being swamped, but Ashley gave them a wave and a brilliant smile anyway. In moments, the bow of the Frances was slapping at the water, and my hamburger lunch was lurching alarmingly around in my stomach. Ashley looked around to where I sat huddled in the rear seat and flashed me a huge grin, but she must have seen that I looked a little green around the gills, because she throttled back until the bow settled down into the water, and we were moving at only a suicidal pace.
The roar of the twin Evinrudes drove any thought of a quiet interrogation from my mind. We cruised South down the lake, and past the Sandpoint Naval Air Station, that relic of the cold war. The Cascade Mountains were visible through the haze to our left, but it was Mount Rainier that dominated the scenery, seeming to rear out of the waters of the lake ahead. When Laurelhurst appeared to starboard, Ashley brought the Frances in close to shore, waving gaily at the sunbathers on the docks.
With the Evergreen Point bridge looming ahead, Ashley slowed the Frances Renault and veered West toward the Montlake Cut, a narrow, man-made channel emptying out into Lake Union to the West. In the relative quiet, I took the opportunity to ask her about the interview I'd been promised.
"I thought we'd stop in at the Salmon House for an early dinner," she said. "My treat. We can talk there . . . "
While I wasn't altogether sure my stomach could stand a fish dinner after our tumultuous ride, I readily assented -- at that point, dry land sounded awful good.
As we passed under the Freeway Bridge and onto Lake Union, I could see our destination to starboard. Ashley expertly pulled the Frances up to the restaurant's dock, and as I shakily made the bow-line fast, a curly-haired young man lept up from his waterside table. Lean and muscular, he wore a tight t-shirt, shorts and jogging shoes. I watched in amusement as he extended his hand to help Ashley off the boat, and she contrived to lean against him as if for support. She hesitated just a little longer than necessary and looked up into his eyes, thanking him breathily. The little minx.
Ivar's Salmon House, a Seattle institution, is fashioned after an Indian long house, with native-wood construction and walls lined with old pictures. Due to the early hour, the restaurant wasn't too crowded, and we were shown to a choice seat by the large picture windows.
It always amazes me how much better service I get as Dawn than when I'm in male drab, and our waiter (who insisted on telling us his name was Charles) upheld the tradition. He fawned over us, almost drooling, and we flirted outrageously. Moments after he left with our drink orders, what seemed to be the entire male staff -- waiters, busboys and even the cashier -- discovered urgent business in our section of the restaurant. They fumbled around, mopping clean tables and conferring in grave tones, and tried hard not to seem as if they were staring at us. Men are so transparent.
Finally, when we were settled in with a bottle of California Zinfandel between us, I made my suave, opening gambit.
"So. Do you like Bothell?"
"You know, I do? It's got the charm of a small town, but it's close enough to the city that I can go in whenever I want."
"But, isn't it kind of conservative. I mean, for girls like us?"
She took a delicate sip of her wine while she considered. "No . . . not really. Maybe it once was like that, but it's really come along in the last couple of years. It's even got a gay bar. An upscale, yuppie gay bar -- none of those nasty old drag queens -- but a gay bar nevertheless."
"You sure are open with your neighbors . . . it must be hard maintaining separate identities. How do you do it . . . a P.O. Box for David?"
Her pretty face was creased by a puzzled frown. "Separate identities? What do you mean -- I'm completely out of the closet."
Now it was my turn to be puzzled. "But Cassie told me Johnnie was being blackmailed to keep your crossdressing a secret . . . she thinks that had something to do with his murder."
"Blackmail? How could Johnnie be blackmailed to keep a secret that doesn't exist?"
I was starting to wonder the same thing. "But, doesn't your . . . hobby . . . cause a problem at the high school?"
"Well, I manage to keep my crossdressing separate from my teaching. I'm not overtly feminine at school, and I don't run around propositioning the high school boys. I'm a good teacher, and they don't want to lose me."
Just then, our waiter returned to take our dinner order, and we were silent. Somebody was lying . . . either Johnnie, Cassie or Ashley. I didn `t think it was my dinner companion, because I'd seen the evidence with my own eyes -- her dual life seemed common knowledge around the North End, and those who knew about it didn't seem to give a damn.
Ashley's revelation eliminated a major line of questioning, so after the waiter left, I asked my few remaining, lame questions.
"Did Johnnie owe anybody a lot of money? Someone shady?"
"You mean like a bookie, or a loan shark?"
"Something like that, yes."
"I just don't know . . . we didn't spend a lot of time together, you know."
One question down, one to go. "Did Johnnie have any enemies?"
She made a wry face. "Johnnie? Did you ever see his show? He made enemies five days a week, fifty-two weeks a year." Great, I thought, That really narrows things down. And from what I overheard before the taping, at least several on his staff weren't too fond of him, either.
The waiter brought our dinners. We'd both ordered the specialty of the house, salmon grilled over an alder fire, and I discovered that I had an appetite after all. The rest of the meal was spent pleasantly chatting about everything from rock musicians to the lastest Paris fashions, and how real, everyday women wouldn't be caught dead in them. I can't remember whether the irony was lost on us or not, because Ashley kept ordering wine and I kept drinking it. At one point, I could feel her leg against mine under the table, and I wasn't particularly inclined to move.
"Madam," I asked, "Are you trying to get me drunk?"
"Yes," she said simply, and covered my hand with hers.
We docked the Frances Renault in the mellow twilight. Much of my fuzzy-headedness had been blown away by the breezes of our swift run up the lake. After a companionably silent drive back into Bothell, Ashley pulled into her drive and turned off the key. She looked at me, huge eyes luminous in the dark.
"Would you like to come in?"
"No," I replied, "I don't think that would be a good idea."
She leaned close, her scent washing over me, and I didn't pull away. Her lips met mine, soft and sweet, and suddenly I wanted her as badly as I'd ever wanted anyone before. Yet, something inside made me pull away.
"What's wrong?" she asked, puzzled.
"I-I'm afraid I'm not gay."
A slow smile appeared on her face. "Neither am I, Dawn. Neither am I." And with that, she opened the car door, and walked unhurriedly to her apartment.
To be continued . . .