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Robin could almost smell Felicia still, as if her Tea Rose perfume was making its way down to her on a breeze, beckoning her back inside. The two years she’d spent in this house seemed as if it was yesterday, when she was much too young to be playing around with the likes of Felicia Roman. Felicia was younger then too, though it always seemed as if she was ageless, born at a certain plateau of enlightenment, never to go beyond that point, but never to be less than she was, and never to fall into disrepair the way old ladies sometimes do. Thinking back, Robin figured that she must have been well over forty when she died.
Felicia always seemed so fully intelligent and poised on first meeting. She had a way of putting people at ease with her gentle ways, her bright eyes, and affectionate smile. But after a time, like everyone else that knew her, Robin came to believe that Felicia was either crazy or too complex to be handled with any real understanding.
Though it had been years since Robin had been up the hill, the grounds about the estate looked the same as they’d always looked. Felicia kept it sensuously wild, letting the gardens become overgrown, the vines intertwining erotically mimicking the lovers in the grand old house. The whole place was one pulsing breathing organ of vegetation, each plant dependent on the others for survival, a little like the very jungle of Felicia’s thoughts, and the intimate jungle of the world that surrounded her. It was a haven away, a lesbian enclave. In the center of a city that had treated her ruthlessly, she triumphed because Felicia spat in the face of the people who mocked her.
The remarkable woman was a capricious charmer with an innocent face; she was a dark eyed bitch with rope and whip, a 1940’s movie queen in platform shoes and satin dress, a dominatrix, a femme fatale, a withering lily, a fairy, a fox and a monster. She was a natural born blonde, but it wasn’t a pretty blonde, so she changed the color of her hair with the seasons and her mood. She changed her manner of dress as easily; and she changed her heart a dozen times a day.
That she was indescribable made her intriguing, and ultimately dangerous.
Dead now, how sad, all that charm lost forever. It was an empty wasted feeling looking at the mansion through the eyes of a survivor. Robin half expected the place to fall into the ground, swallowed up by the earth, taken back by the elements, since what gave it life had vanished.
“You been inside yet?”
Robin turned hearing Leslie’s voice. She watched her partner approach.
“No, just remembering back.” They stared up at the house together. It was the kind of house that led the eye to the top, to the turret and steep gabled roof, the widow’s walk around one side and all the intricate filigree that decorated it. Part of it was freshly painted, in other places the paint was peeling away from the wood siding.
A remarkable structure for a remarkable woman.
“Good memories?” Leslie asked.
“Bittersweet at best,” Robin replied.
Leslie gave her a friendly hug, then pulled away, though remaining close enough to keep Robin surrounded by one arm. Leslie thought she had to show some affection, some regard for her, what her partner must be feeling.
“I’m okay really, much better than last night.”
“I thought you were going to have a problem looking at those pictures of her yesterday.”
“Well I managed.”
“I suppose it was a cleaner a murder than it should have been—considering how Felicia lived her life.”
“Got her right where it mattered,” Robin agreed.
“Not some crazy person, I’d say they were in control of themselves. Likely not as much passion of the moment, as deliberate intent.”
“The ropes would tell you that, too,” Robin offered.
“You know a lot about bondage?” Leslie asked, knowing that Robin knew much more than she did about the subject.
“Some.”
“Felicia really into that scene?”
“It’s not so strange,” Robin replied. “S&M was part of Felicia’s many fetishes.”
“Like what else?” Leslie asked.
“Anything really, leather, manacles, rope, enemas, spanking, role-playing.”
“Did you ever tie her up?” Leslie asked.
“No. I’m afraid it was the other way around.”
“Oh,” Leslie replied. She’d known for years that Robin had these inclinations. They’d considered the whole S&M scene at one time; but with Leslie not interested in pursuing this kinkier sex, it became one of those touchy relationship issues that they mutually agreed not to discuss.
“I’m not unlike Betsy, if you think about it. That’s why I’m so sure she didn’t kill her.”
