Murder in the Magnolia State

Episode 4: Dawn Gets Line-Dance Lessons

By Rachael Robbins

© 1996 Transgender Forum & Rachael Robbins



Episode 4: Dawn Gets Line-Dance Lessons 

  A Budweiser sign bathed us in a lurid glow as we walked up to the door of LeRoy's Country Inn. The afternoon's rain had left the air thick and steamy -- I could feel my wig getting frizzier by the minute. I wore the denim mini, fringed blouse and boots I'd bought that afternoon, and Frenchy looked smashing in her flowered sundress. It was the perfect southern-housewife-on-the-make outfit; when I'd complimented her earlier, she'd said it was her "breeder look."

   The bar looked like a shack on the outside, and its interior wasn't much better -- ratty, plastic-covered booths squatted to our left, and a dance floor ringed by rickety tables was on the right. A painting of a woman loomed behind the ancient bar, holding a rope and wearing nothing but boots and a cowboy hat. I was pretty sure this wasn't the local meeting place for the N.O.W.

   The bartender eyed us beadily and said "What'll you have?"

   "White wine, please," I had to shout to be heard over the roar of the jukebox, which was playing something whiny about a pick-up truck.

   "I'll have a gin and tonic," said Frenchy.

   "Don't got no tonic," said the bartender.

   "What kind of mixers do you have?" she said.

   "Well, we got 7-up . . ."

   "I'll have a beer."

   While the bartender poured our drinks, I turned around to survey the room. Lori, Merilee's sister, had described Bobby Ray Hobbes as having long, greasy hair and a scraggly beard, and I'd thought that would be enough to identify him. Now, however, I wasn't so sure -- the place was swimming with beards and greasy hair.

   "That'll be two seventy-five," the bartender said. I paid him and we took our drinks to a booth. Lori had given me one other identifying feature for Bobby Ray -- a silver belt-buckle with the initials "BRH" on it. As I sat down, a man got up to use the restroom, and I could see the buckle.

   When he came out, I caught his eye and smiled, and it stopped him dead in his tracks. His eyes flicked from side to side, as if to make sure that my smile was for him. When he didn't see anyone else, he hitched his pants up over his skinny butt and sauntered over.

   "Can I buy you ladies a drink?"

   "Why, thank you, honey," I said. " White wine, please."

   "You got any tonic?" asked Frenchy. He shook his head with a bewildered look.

   "Then I'll have another beer."

   When he went to get our drinks, Frenchy leaned over and whispered "You better tone down the Southern Belle routine."

   "Well, I am supposed to be from Georgia," I said.

   "Yeah, but not the one in Russia."

   Bobby Ray returned, and I favored him with another dazzling smile. "Please -- sit down." He looked almost pathetically grateful, like a dog being rewarded with a treat. This was going to be easy.

   He sat across from me, turned toward Frenchy, and stuck out his hand. "Bobby Ray Hobbes."

   "Mildred Pierce," replied Frenchy.

   "Nice to meet you, Miz Pierce." He turned back to me, and the canine look reappeared in his eyes. "And, what's your name, ma'am?"

   "Loretta Sutter. Pleased to meet you." I allowed his hand to remain in mine for just a little too long.

   "You know, you have the same name as my favorite singer."

   "Your favorite singer's named Sutter?"

   "Loretta." He pronounced it LOW-retta. "My favorite singer's Loretta Lynn. You're much purtier'n she is, though."

   I thanked him and blushed prettily, a skill I've cultivated over the years for situations just like this. Behind him I could see Frenchy roll her eyes.

   A long silence ensued, as if Bobby Ray's conversational prowess only extended to over-the-hill country singers. He certainly wasn't much to look at -- his face was pock-marked and his eyes were close-set under a beetling brow. A curious odor of dried sweat and dead fish emanated from his person. I found it hard not to gag.

   "We were starting to wonder if there was anything to do at night in New Jerusalem," I finally said. "Then we found this place. And open on Sunday, too."

   "It's in a dry county, but this here's right over the line," he said. This place really gets hoppin' on Friday nights -- they usually have a live band and all. They let me sit in sometimes, when their reg'lar bass player's sick."

   "Ooh," I said, eyes wide. "Are you a musician?"

   "Jest part time. I work days over to the gravel pit."

   "Do you get to drive those big ol' machines?"

   His chest puffed up and he seemed to get a couple of inches taller. "I reckon they're big enough. I run one that has tires as tall as this room."

   "I just love a man with a big machine," I said, and reached over to touch the back of his hand. Easy as shooting fish in a barrel. "I hear they had a murder around here couple of weeks ago."

   "Yeah, some faggot got hisself cut up. Came into town all dressed up like a girl -- like to made me sick."

   "Oh, my! Was he . . . was he a trans-, whatayou call it, a trans-bender? I saw one of those on Sally Jessy one time."

   "Claimed he was somethin' called a trans-sek-shul. Looked like nothin' more'n a queer to me." His eyes narrowed and took on a crafty light. "Where'd y'all say you were from?"

   "Georgia -- we're here on business." It was time to change the subject. "Say, do you want to dance?"

   "Sure -- you know how to line dance?"

   "Of course," I assured him. How hard could it be?

   He took my hand, and we joined several other couples already on the dance floor. To my amazement, Frenchy marched over to one of the tables and pulled one of the other guys up onto the floor. He didn't look materially different from Bobby Ray.

   The juke-box was playing something called "Boot Scootin' Boogie," sung by a duo who sounded like they'd just had their adenoids removed. Following Hobbes' lead, I draped my arm over his shoulder and that of the man to my right. The smell of beer and sweat was incredible -- I just knew  I'd have to burn my clothes when this was over.

   The entire line started shuffling back and forth, and Bobby Ray was doing a little heel-and-toe number with his boots. I carefully copied his movements, and was doing fine until the line suddenly did a right-face -- I failed to negotiate the turn and stomped squarely on Bobby Ray's toe. He let out a yelp, and continued manfully, albeit with a slight limp. I smiled helplessly and fluttered my eyelashes.

   It must have been the extended dance cut of "Boot-scootin' Boogie", because I thought it would never end. At one point, I glanced over and saw Frenchy tripping lightly along, her sundress swirling around her legs, a big grin on her face. She never ceased to amaze me.

   On what proved to be the last chorus, my foot caught in a crack in the boards and I fell backwards, groping madly in front of me for support. The entire line fell like a set of dominos and I dragged Bobby Ray down with me, where he landed between my spread-eagle legs. My skirt was hiked up around my waist, and both his hands rested on my bare thighs. He scrambled quickly to his feet while I pulled the skirt down to hide any incriminating evidence -- even though my tuck was good, I wasn't taking any chances. I took his outstretched hand, and he hauled me to my feet.

   "Darlin'," he said, "Maybe we'd better sit the next one out."

  

   He slid into the seat beside me when we returned to the booth, scrunching up so our hips and thighs touched. Frenchy had followed her beau back to his table, presumably so I could pump Bobby Ray for information. Or maybe she just thought we were made for each other.

   His stench was almost overpowering, and as we talked about boats and fishing he became more and more drunk. His arm was draped around my shoulder; his other hand kept straying to my thigh. He didn't seem to notice that I barely sipped my wine.

   "Tell me more about this killing," I said. "New Jerusalem seems to be an awful small town for that sort of thing."

   "Oh, it is. But we don't like faggots."

   "Do the police have any idea who did it?"

   "Naw . . . Jimmy Harper couldn't tell his ass from a hole in the ground, if you'll pardon the expression." He cackled, and the crafty look appeared once again in his eyes. "I got me a pretty fair idea of who did it, though . . . but I'll be damned if I tell ol' Jimmy."

   I turned toward him, lightly brushing my "breasts" on his arm, and placed my hand on the back of his neck and twirled his hair. Immediately, enough oil coated my fingers to grease a semi.

   "I'll bet it took a real man,"  I said, and kissed him lightly on the mouth.

   "They's a few real men left," he agreed. "And women, too." His breathing was getting heavier, and his eyes were beginning to glitter. I leaned in closer and began nibbling on his ear.

   "I sure would like to meet them," I whispered. "They sound like true American heroes."

   "Well, maybe that could be arranged, in return for . . . certain favors," he said. His hand began to inch its way up my thigh. I placed my own hand over it, arresting its progress. He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

   "Have you ever heard of the Klan?"

   I pulled back a bit. "The Klan? I thought the F.B.I. cleaned them out years ago."

   "They's still a few around, if you know where to look. And I know where to look."

   I leaned forward again, and pressed my lips against his. His breath smelled like beer and tobacco, with something rotten underneath. "I'd give anything to meet them, Bobby Ray."

   "Meet me here tomorrow night at eight and I'll take you to `em. Then, after, we can go on over to my place . . ."

   "Oh, Bobby Ray, that sounds wonderful." 

   Actually, it sounded like a good way to get killed.

  

   "The Klan?"  said Jimmy Harper the next morning. "Come on, Miss Benedict, there haven't been any Klan in these parts for twenty years. Fibbies cleaned `em out long time ago."

   "That's what I  thought," I said. "But Bobby Ray swore there were, and hinted they had something to do with Merilee's death." We were sitting in his office drinking coffee; the morning sun slanted through the venetian blinds behind him. Somewhere outside a car motor rumbled tentatively, as if it were having trouble waking up.

   "Probably just a bunch of good ol' boys, playin' dress up."

   I shifted uncomfortably at his choice of words. "Could be. But if they know something about Merilee's murder, we ought to take them seriously."

   "I guess." He sighed, then his eyes lit up and a nasty grin appeared on his face. "You ever wear a wire?"

   "Of course -- I did work undercover, you know. And no, I won't wear one tonight." I crossed my legs primly.

   "Look -- it's too dangerous without one. Even dealing with idiots like Bobby Ray can be hazardous to your health. Especially when they're drunk, like they are most of the time."

   "What's the matter, think the little lady can't handle herself?" I stuck out my lower lip. "Well I can."

   "Oh, I have no doubt you can . . . what I'm worried about is getting the goods on Bobby Ray and his band of merry morons. With a wire, we can record your conversation with `em., and if this thing ever goes to court, it won't just be some outsider's word against the local pillars of the community." He paused, then drew his eyebrows down into a stern frown. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to insist . . ."

   "And just how are you going to make me?" I said. "I'm not one of your little deputies, you know."

   "I won't hesitate to throw you in jail," he said. "It's pretty crowded, what with the Pig Fest last night. Lots of large, hung-over rednecks with names like `Vernon' and `Roy Dean'."

   "You're bluffing. You just can't throw a citizen in jail for doing something you don't like." I was starting to sweat. "Besides, even pissant jails like yours have separate cells for women . . ."

   "We do for women, Donald." He smiled evilly and laced his hands behind his head.

   I slumped back in my chair, knowing I was defeated. "How did you know?"

   "Peterson told me on the phone the other day."

   "Why didn't you say something then?"

   "Didn't have a reason to. How you dress makes no never mind to me. But," he added, "It'll probably matter to that truck driver we picked up last night. Does the word `Deliverance' mean anything to you?"

   "This is blackmail," I said.

   He leaned back in his chair, put his feet up on the desk, and smiled pleasantly.

   "Yup."

   Next: Conclusion -- Dawn Wears an Under-wire