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“You kinky little slut,” she accused.
“No nastier than you,” Leslie spit back. Rosalie withdrew her hand leaving Leslie’s cunt wide and empty, noticeably empty. Too quick, it was always too quick, Leslie thought
“How about I do the same for you?” Leslie suggested. They lay side by side with their breasts pressed together, their arms and legs intertwining, their tongues playing lazily as they both recovered.
“I should have done it in your naughty bitch ass,” Rosalie said. “Going out and getting yourself screwed by some dyke in a night club. Tell me, what they do to you?”
“Leta spanked my bottom – with a riding crop.”
“You like that?”
“I’m not sure. Do you?” Leslie wondered. She gave Rosalie a whack on the rear.
“Only long as you use your hand. I love hands. Your hands. You know I love being mauled by you.” Her voice disappeared into soft cooing moans and traces of unintelligible Spanish words. Leslie kissed her lover’s sensuous lips while her hand worked Rosalie’s soft furrow. She lightly pinched the delicate clitoris, then rubbed the tender fold and poked a finger inside the opening to find her ‘G’ spot. Leaning back, Rosalie let her cumming sounds ripple joyously through the air, as the small spasms of climax echoed through her undulating belly. She always came this subtly, seeming to blanket them both in the soft blanket of her pleasure.
How many more times they’d be together like this, Leslie wasn’t sure. In the past it had been Rosalie who played around, Leslie by choice remaining faithful to her sweet lover. It was just simpler and more convenient for Leslie to have one lover at a time, even though relationship commitment was not a concept that applied to Rosalie.
Now, thoughts of Robin and Jane held her fascination, and she suspected that her Latin lover wouldn’t be around much longer. Rosalie sensed things, and she’d be moving on by the end of fall, if not before, Leslie surmised—just because Rosalie wouldn’t stay around to any bitter end. The flirtatious woman would find someone else to catch her interest and be gone.
Leslie lay back relaxing, letting her mind drift for a time, coming back to the reality of the murder investigation, and its need for a solution.
Chapter Eight
“We’re going to look through Felicia’s room,” Robin announced, as she met Leslie on the steps of Roman Hill the next morning.
“Her room? What are you searching for? The police have probably taken everything of interest. Looks like they practically stripped the place. I know they confiscated all the pictures of Felicia with Betsy. Maybe they took ones of her with her other lovers.”
“I’m sure they found some, but Felicia used to hide stuff,” Robin explained. “She had little treasures planted all over the house. It’s my hope that the police didn’t know where to look. Plus, once they decided on Betsy, I don’t think they did much searching after they had the evidence they wanted.
“What are you looking for?” Leslie asked.
“In general, anything. Specifically, more pictures. It struck me last night, all this photography. That wasn’t something Felicia ever did with me. Must have been a new hobby. But she had a real obsessive side to her; once she started something like this, she wouldn’t quit. Like the way she used to tie a bow around my neck. It didn’t matter what kind of sex she wanted, it was always the same, Felicia signaling her intentions. She’d take a slip of ribbon and tie it around my neck, then she’d flash her eyes at me, and giggle in a very provocative way. Sometimes she’d wait for hours before she made the next move. She even performed her little ritual with people around. ‘Our little secret,’ she’d tell me.”
“Did she ever not make a move?” Leslie asked. “I mean after she put the ribbon around your neck?”
“No, but it did make things awfully suspenseful. I’m sure there was a similar sort of turn on with the photography. I can imagine her even now…”
From what Leslie knew of Felicia, she had to admire her sexual theatrics. No wonder she could string so many women along at once. “So you think the photography could be another fetish?”
“Yeah. Probably started with innocuously… an impulsive idea because she had an expensive new camera and wanted to try it out.”
“She did have quite an elaborate set up with the tripod and the delay timer,” Leslie added. “It would suggest that she really spent some time thinking about what she wanted to do – the final result, rather than just clicking off a bunch of quick digital shots.”
“It’s my hunch, that since she went to so much trouble to take these pictures with her lovers, there had to be more than just the ones with Betsy. The camera was at least five years old, and knowing Felicia, she had photographs of every one of her lovers during that time. One thing I know for certain, she’d never hide all her “evidence” in one place. She was never that organized. She stashed things all over the house. The police were probably lucky to find what pictures they did.”
There was no sign of life around the house as Leslie and Robin climbed the stairs. The morning was brisk for the time of year. There seemed to be a clarity in the air, a crystal clear quality to the sky, that even in this muted place of savage wildness, things stood out rather starkly. By afternoon, the air would muddy considerably.
“Wonder what will happen to this place?” Leslie said.
“After Felicia is buried today? I suppose they’ll read the will; that could be interesting.”
“You going to the funeral?” Leslie asked.
“My love, I wouldn’t miss it.”
According to Robin, funerals were the best source of clues. She prided herself on studying patterns of grief since it was so often associated with their investigations.
After waiting for several minutes at the front door, Leslie turned the knob and called into the musty air, “Anybody here?” Hearing no response, she and Robin stepped inside the hallway. They shut the door hearing a heavy click as the door latched tight. A moment later, the screen door banged against its frame. Amazing, with all the annoying sounds, no one answered.
