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Its All in the Blood
Finding a dead body on the edge of the lake first thing in the morning wasn't my
idea of how to start a day.
Actually, it wasn't how I started my day. First, I had rolled out of bed, then I had a
glass of orange juice, and followed that with donning my jogging suit, the thickest pair of
socks I owned, my beat-up old tennies and my girl hat as my ex-boyfriend liked to call
my knit cap decorated with tassels and cute little flowers. I had opened the door of my
cottage prepared to brace myself against one of the coldest winter storms Lake Tahoe had
ever experienced because like it or not, I had to jog or I didn't function through the day
and had been shocked by the incredibly still air...until I closed the door and stepped
out, then wind gusted up and almost knocked me flat.
But finding a dead body, half in the lake, half out...seeing her hair splayed across
the pebbles, the snow piling up on her body, the back of her parka puffed up and floating
like a buoy, the murder weapon a blood-drenched rock, only inches away made the
orange juice rise to my throat and turn sour.
Help! Who in their right mind other than myself was out for a jog at six a.m.? It
was, after all, still so dark that the seagulls hadn't shown up for their breakfast of
minnows. Thank God. I'm not sure if I could've handled seeing a dozen birds scouring her
body for food.
Oh, Jessica. I wanted to touch her, to hold her, to bring her back to life. I'd only
known her two weeks. She had been the sweetest chair lift operator I'd ever encountered,
and I'd encountered a few over the past five years of living in Tahoe, few of them sweet.
See, I'm a lonely ex-soap opera writer gone astray. I'd moved to Lake Tahoe to
find myself, to find my inner voice ah, hell, to write a novel that to this day is nowhere
near finished. Thankfully, the bountiful goodness of my grandfather's inheritance to me in
his will has kept my cupboards filled with everything but beans and hot dogs, and I still
have enough money left over for my DeskJet ink.
I looked back at Jessica's swollen body and my stomach lurched. If I only had a
blanket. To keep her warm. To do something.
Help, someone!
Jessica had recently arrived in Lake Tahoe to find herself...it's like a recurring
nightmare for many of us up here. She had left her boyfriend of three years somewhere
back in the Bay Area, near one of the Silicon Valley pit stops. He was a techy, she had
told me, a computer nerd not unlike Bill Gates, though he hadn't quite made his billions
yet.
Hell, she was only twenty-two. Young enough to be my own kid, if I'd ever had
any. On an impulse, I leaned down next to her to say a quick prayer. That's when I saw a
partial track left in the almost-frozen mud by her head, the welts of hiking boots filling
with silt and lapping water. Evidence, I mumbled, wishing to God I had a camera so I
could record it before the near-freezing waters of Tahoe eroded it into nothing. Whoever
had done this hideous act had covered all his tracks except one. Did he know? Would he
be back?
Help, Damnit! I wasn't willing to run up to the road and leave her. She needed
me with her. I'd want someone with me if I
I covered my mouth in an effort to lock in the throw-up, and remembered how
when Jessica had gotten off early one day, we had taken a run down a black diamond
slope together kindred spirits, she had called us. I got all the low-down on her
boyfriend on our first meeting, not that it was that much information. In fact, I can be
rather chatty on the ski slopes, and I think Jessica may have gotten my entire life history in
that brief period instead of the vice versa. Obviously, I don't have a huge life history if it
only takes fifteen minutes, but hey. Anyway, I don't think I learned much more about her
except she and he had talked about marriage, but then had decided against it. I recalled
how Jessica had clammed up then. Said something like her mother wouldn't have
approved. We had made promises that we would ski together on her next day off, but
neither of us had followed up on the plan. So much for kindred spirits.
And now she laid before me...dead. Her brains bashed in. Her once-lovely face
purple. Her eyes wide open, staring at the sky in obvious shock that someone would take
her life. And I felt the tug of kindred spirits, like I was destined to help her and wouldn't
go to heaven myself if I didn't. Guilt can be quite a motivator.
Please, someone, can you hear me? I screamed at the top of my lungs, hoping to
heaven someone would answer. I didn't want to let her lie here, and I didn't dare move her.
I'd written episodes of murders in soap operas there had to be at least one a season for
ratings enough to know that you can't move a murder victim and screw up the crime
scene. There were always technical advisors on the set that filled us in on these little
details.
Who did this to you, Jessica? I whispered, as if speaking to her spirit on some
other plane. Pretty little Jessica, who always said, Have a good day, every time I got on
the chair lift, who smiled every time a child skied up. It didn't matter if it was one of those
kids with attitude on snowboards in baggy pants or a tiny tot with chapped lips, sunburned
red face and snot hanging out its nose, she smiled. She was the essence of purity and
innocence. Dead.
Somebody, help! I was getting angry. Why in the hell wasn't anyone up and
around to help? Where were the police?
What's going on? I heard a woman shout from the railing above.
Dead body, I yelled, as if every day there was a dead body. I couldn't believe
how calm my voice sounded.
The flare of a flashlight blazed a path down the freshly fallen snow, then I heard
the woman dashing down the hill, crunching the frozen ice beneath her feet, only to realize
it was Philipa Benshoof, the hottest looking cop in ski pants, the only friend I had in town
other than Jessica.
Philipa raised her beam to my face, then said in a hoarse whisper, Kimberley
Waldren, you look like crap.
I don't look as bad as Jessica.
You know her? Philipa asked, turning the light on the girl's body. She shuddered
sound, then gasped, a sound like all the air being let out of a tire.
Jessica Monarch. Ski lift operator at Alpine. I couldn't feel my fingers in my
gloves so I clapped my hands together. Moved here two weeks ago.
Philipa bent closer, examined the hair without touching it, then shut Jessica's eyes.
Poor kid.
She's been murdered, Philipa.
I can see that. Philipa Benshoof's impatience was renown. Not once but three
times I had seen Philipa bust a door down with the heel of her boot she always wore
hiking boots in the winter, black ones, with thick soles and heavy laces, unless she was
skiing, and then they were streamlined white Nordicas, top of the line. She brushed a
strand of her thick black hair off her face, reached into her stylish black parka, pulled out a
walkie-talkie and switched it on.
Well, what do we do now? I asked.
We...do nothing. I call it in. Just out for your run?
I nodded.
Me, too. Good thing I came this way.
I nodded again, feeling like one of those Chinese dolls you find at the tourist
stores, where the head bounces up and down on a coil but never seems to find its bearings.
She'd just broken up with her boyfriend, I offered.
Philipa was busy licking her finger and wiping off a ketchup stain from her classy
black jacket. She looked up, grinned. I was a slob at breakfast. Then she covered the
mouthpiece of the walkie-talkie and said, Got a name?
Jessica
I meant for the boyfriend?
Dumbly, I shook my head. Jessica and I hadn't gotten around to fine-tuned
personal items.
After another three minutes, I heard the wail of sirens, followed by the skidding of
a team of boots down the icy stairway.
Keep a distance, fellas, Philipa barked.
The arrival of reinforcements seemed neatly timed with sun-up, but it wasn't until I
was asked to move to the side that I started to really take in the view. The storm had
moved on, and the crystal clear morning rose, enhanced by a perfect orb of blazing orange
peeking over the Nevada side of the lake's celebrated mountain ring. Gloriously the sun
was focusing its shimmering path of gold across the lake a deep blue like you've never
seen anywhere else in the world straight to Jessica's body, as if it was a pathway back
to heaven. I hoped that was where she was going to go. As I said, I didn't know her all
that well.
Nobody had asked me to leave, so I brushed the early morning snow off a huge
boulder and sat my cold ass down, surprised at the groan I made, more surprised at the
creak from my knees turning forty was hard and I watched as Philipa Benshoof
directed her subordinates to take notes, snap photographs, put up a yellow tape barring
onlookers.
Each movement seemed choreographed, even though the underlings were
unaccustomed to homicide in the serene town of Tahoe City where the norm included
picking up hitchhikers and good beer and talk of another fine ski day to be expected at all
the local bars. Serenity at its best. Of course, that wouldn't be the norm during summer,
but it was the middle of February, President's Day weekend, the height of the ski season,
and my mind can only cope with one season at a time.
Philipa crouched down to peer at Jessica's face, I cried out, Philipa, stop! A print.
There's a print in the water! What an idiot to forget so soon!
Philipa looked up, startled, her face a mixture of pain and loathing. What in the
hell? Then it dawned on me. I'd never seen Philipa on a morning run, and as I said, I ran
daily. I suddenly remembered making fun of her the day we met saying that she probably
fought like the butterfly Mohammed Ali had referred to in his poem. Fierce, but with
grace. But she claimed she never exercised.
I stared at Philipa, knowing the lines of worry must be cropping up all over my
sunburned face. How had I missed the obvious? The slightly turned up nose, the hard arch
of the brow, a devilish glint in Philipa's eye that looked mischievous in Jessica's. Philipa
Monarch Benshoof. Jessica's mother, the mother who wouldn't approve of Jessica's
boyfriend.
I blinked, trying to take the whole picture in. The smudge on her jacket not
catsup, but it sticky and red...like blood. The footprint the deep welts filling with icy
lake water, an exact match to Philipa's more than likely.
When I could see the tips of her boots a few inches from mine, I looked up. Her
breath stunk of bile. Her cheeks were flushed crimson.
What happened? was all I could croak.
I don't know. It was like a blind Philipa gulped in the cold air. I envisioned
the raging storm earlier, the way the wet wind cut sideways through the streets, Philipa
tossed and turned by frantic emotions.
I loved her, Kim. More than my own life. The creases around Philipa's eyes made
her look every day of her forty-eight years. She'd grabbed the rock. She swore she'd kill
me. I tore it away from her. Her hands clenched like claws. Then something evil crawled
inside me, every memory of my nightmare with her father, the way he beat me, the way
she watched with tears in her eyes while clutching her blankie. Philipa sighed deeply. He
beat her
Her father?
No, the boyfriend. Philipa sounded both exhausted and irritated. But she
wouldn't leave. I screamed and screamed at her to wake up see what would happen.
Then there was a blackness, and all I remember is seeing her lying in the water, her sweet
head bleeding. Philipa bent over her shoes and retched. I was going to get a blanket. I
had to leave her to get a blanket. Philipa started slapping her chest with her right palm,
harder, faster. What have I done?
I took Philipa's hands in mine, then drew her into my arms and rocked her,
knowing I could never remove the pain nor the guilt. When the racking sobs subsided, she
pushed away from me, wiped the tears from her face then smiled sadly, pulled her gun
from her holster and blew a hole in the side of her head.
It was all so fast. So unbelievable. A seagull screeched above. I looked up, but the
image was blurred by the moisture flooding my eyes.
****
It's weeks later, and I am still in the business of writing, but about what I can't understand.
I've written a few articles about the tourism and the snow conditions, which pays nothing
compared to what I used to make in good old Hollywood, where money is god and
writing ideas are stolen like apples off a tree...an unholy city where I had forgotten the
pure pleasure of writing. Hollywood the decadence from which I fled. Now, sitting on
the shore of Lake Tahoe, seeing only the ghost of her dead body floating on the crisp
white waves, I wondered, did I belong here? Would I ever return to Hollywood? Would I
ever forget Jessica or Philipa?
Word Count: 2399
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