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In her apartment, Robin mulled over the pieces of the puzzle so far uncovered. Felicia, Betsy, the three women, Jane Hugh. She wondered about these five who had been so close to Felicia the night of her death, as if they’d been appointed to the position. Was there some cosmic force that had brought them together this way? Even more important, was there some connection between them? Had they all conspired to murder? She remembered an Agatha Christy, Murder On the Orient Express, Poirot discovering this band of travelers had each sunk a knife into the old victim’s body. Was this the case here? Certainly these women might all have wanted her dead. But the wounds didn’t suggest multiple murderers. The knife wound was deliberate, deep and very steady, made by someone with a very clear motive.
Up until this time, Robin had thought about the murder in the abstract, not yet ready to think about the woman who had tied up Felicia Roman one night, only to stab her in the chest. Now the questions came freely, some answers clear, others as obvious as mud.
She thought if she could imagine it clearly enough in her head, the picture of the killer’s face might just miraculously appear. Had it been an impulse, or something carefully planned? Had a B&D scene gone awry? Was there a woman who placed Felicia in bondage only to have another stab her in the chest? Did one woman tie her up, another use a whip, while others watched? Or was it, as everyone assumed, the act of a solo assailant?
And what was Felicia thinking at the moment of her death? Did she even know that it was about to happen? Did she have any idea that there was a knife poised and ready to strike? Would her expression not have been more surprised at the moment of death? Would there not
have been more signs of struggle, more tugging against the bonds that held her? According to the police report, there were no signs of a struggle; she seemed as peaceful as a lamb in death.
How many times, Robin wondered to herself, had her own eyes been closed to the outside world when she traversed the inner realms in a moment of masochistic frenzy. She could never imagine opening her eyes at a moment when a whip struck, unless she was ordered to. Britta had done that before: made her look into her face as she wielded the whip. It was another kind of submission that was almost impossible for Robin to agree to. Too intimate, too fucking intimate! Maybe she needed to love someone for that. But she’d endured Britta’s demand, regardless; submissives do that.
Robin would rather be blindfolded during a scene, or remain with her eyes closed. She assumed that most submissives preferred that too, and how easy it would be to kill a bound submissive when their eyes were closed. The very fact that Felicia enjoyed the bondage and had likely asked for it was a surprise. Perhaps she was more of a bottom than anyone knew. Certainly it seemed she trusted someone more than she had a right to.
There was no way to paint a pretty picture of this ugly event. During all of her years of kinky sexuality, never had she known of a murder between a top and bottom – no matter how weird things got. A safe, sane, consensual lifestyle was the mantra players swore by. But for all the sane sounding suspects in this curious murder investigation, perhaps one was not so sane after all.
The three women were Robin’s concern now. It was clear that Remy and Martha were hiding their past, one that was obviously troubling. And Zelda—a wild card. There for murder? Or there by some fluke of circumstance? Robin didn’t know when she’d had a more fascinating set of suspects.
At least she had a place to start. She picked up the phone and dialed a friend at State U.
“Diane,” she said, hearing her friend’s voice answer.
“That you, Rob?”
The two exchanged greetings, then Robin got down to business.
“I need you to check on something for me, two students you had, say mid to late eighties.”
“What are the names?”
“Martha Quigley and Zelda Wing.”
“I’ll check in the morning.”
“And another possibility, Remy Thurston-Moore.”
“Got them. This a case?” Diane asked.
“Yeah, Felicia Roman’s murder.”
“My god I heard about it, isn’t it terrible? And you Rob, how are you doing with this? Investigating it too? Isn’t that kinda tough?” As usual Diane was rambling on, not letting Robin get in a word edgewise.
“I’m fine, just fine. It’s a little freaky, yes. Sure, Felicia made an impact on me ten years ago, certainly not one I’ll forget, but I can’t say I’ll actually mourn her death. It’s just a little weird digging into all this stuff now.”
“I think the murderer had to have had a really unique reason,” Diane said. “Not something you’d expect. That would fit Felicia, don’t you think?”
“That’s what I figure,” Robin said. “Every lover she ever had wanted her dead at one time or another, but no one would kill her for the way she loved them. She was obsessive about everyone. That was part of the magic.”
“Exactly. I’m kinda pissed I never had a chance at her,” Diane said.
“I bet you are,” Robin said, thinking of Diane’s kinkier side. She was not a bar scene woman, but the kind of woman that Felicia loved the most, the one-on-one kind that had fun with a good drama. Diane’s love affairs were always whirlwind romances that “would last forever”, always happily dying a week after they began.
“Listen, I have someone here,” Diane said, “I’ll get back to you tomorrow about these three. Anything particular you want me to look up?”
“Everything, when they were there, how they might have known each other, where they lived, if you have that. The classes they took. Anything.”
“I’ll see what I can find. You know I love this part of my job, all this investigative stuff. Just don’t be telling anyone what I’m up to. I don’t want to get in trouble.”
“I promise Di, now get back to your sex,” Robin replied.
