Chapter 10 – The cook

When I reached the office Guy was already there, engaged on his new case. I was not unduly surprised to find that he had anticipated the course of action I’d planned for mine.

“By all means, interview the cook. I was about to suggest it myself” he responded when I told him what I intended. “In fact, to give you a lead, I’ve already called in another favour and requested searches. Some results have already come in, and I can tell you that there are three Flora Benson’s of about the right age who reside in this state. The closest one lives in a care home just over an hour away. I’d start with her.”

I gave him my thanks a little grudgingly. It needled me that the ex-government man was a jump ahead of me once again, but quashing my feelings of ingratitude, I lost no time in hitting the road. It was good to be out of town, cruising along the freeway in the sunshine and with a clear objective in view. A brief doubt occurred to mar my contentment. I was given to wondering whether Guy had taken an opportunity to send his inexperienced assistant out of harm’s way, but I soon dismissed the speculation as sour grapes. Here was a real chance to prove my worth.

It was mid-afternoon when I drew up outside the care home. I rang the bell and was admitted by a middle-aged bespectacled woman wearing a blue uniform. Her lapel badge bore the legend ‘Sister Marigold’, from which I assumed her to be the person in charge. I introduced myself and said who I wished to call on.

“You are here to see Flora, Miss Cartwright?” she beamed. “That’s a blessing. The poor dear hardly ever gets visitors. Time can drag so slowly for our residents, you know. While it makes little difference to some of our folk, whose days blend one with another, it is hard for those whose mental acuity is undiminished. Are you a relative?”

“I work for her former employer” I replied, hopeful that this threadbare explanation might suffice. “It would be good to chat about old times with her.”

The woman peered at me short-sightedly through her thick lenses. “Yes?” She hesitated. “Well, I feel sure your visit will make a welcome addition to her day.”

Sister Marigold led the way down a thickly carpeted corridor which opened into an extensive lounge. This large room was populated with a variety of armchairs in which a number of elderly individuals dozed. She halted in front of a frail-seeming woman who gazed endlessly through a window at the distant horizon. When she noticed us, she frowned at our approach.

“Flora, dear! Someone to visit you” the sister began.

The old lady tutted under her breath impatiently. “Thank-you Marigold. I can see that for myself.”

The woman looked uncomfortable and hesitated. “Er… yes… of course you can. Er… It’s a Miss Cartwright.”

“And hasn’t she a tongue in her head? We can manage quite well without you dithering there, thank you.”

“Well, I’ll leave you then, shall I?”

This suggestion was met by a steely glare.

With a closing “Visiting ends at 4pm” the woman walked away, an expression of relief on her face.

The old lady now gave her full attention to me. “What are you here for, Miss Carter, or whatever your name is? As you are well aware, I don’t know you from Eve. What’s your game? Speak up now!”

I decided there was only one viable course of action open to me. Tell the truth!

“My name is Jennifer Cartwright. I’m a private investigator in the employment of Mrs Gloria Simpson.”

At these words the look of recognition that fleeted across the woman’s face could not be mistaken. I’d got the right Flora Benson at the first attempt. I continued more confidently “As part of my inquiries, I need to find out something of her former life. I understand that you were the head cook at the ranch she and her husband owned, Glo…. I mean, Santa Teresa.”

“You are correct, young lady” she replied sharply “and what if I was?”

“It must have been quite a responsibility, with so many well-heeled patrons staying so often” I said, as casually as I could, but the woman bridled at the remark.

“It was nothing I couldn’t handle” she snapped. “What is that to you?”

“Well, to get a picture of the set-up there it’s essential that I talk to someone in the know. I figured you would understand better than anyone.”

She seemed a little mollified by my flattery. “That’s as maybe. I can certainly give you the low-down on that painted hussy you’re working for.” She tapped the side of her nose significantly. “If I decide I like you, that is.”

“Of course. What you tell me is entirely at your discretion. I believe Gloria only came on the scene well after you and Millie were established there. She was a relative newcomer as I understand it.”

“Too right!” Flora spluttered indignantly. “And what was she beforehand?”

“I can’t imagine.”

“Well, I’ll tell you. She was a dancer in a nightclub, if you can call it dancing. Poor Mr Arthur was besotted with her, though what he found to admire in her I can’t figure. What’s on the surface is all down to the surgeon’s knife. So many tucks and lifts she had over the years, I lost count.” The ex-cook leaned forward and mouthed “S E X” silently. “That was what the attraction was. In the end it killed him, or as good as. His heart couldn’t stand the strain and that was that.”

“I see. How shocking!”

“He should never have married her.”

“That’s what Millie believes too. She used to comfort him herself, she told me.”

“Comfort!” the woman scoffed. “I’ve never heard it called that before! Those two used to be like a pair of rabbits, and they thought no-one knew. Ha!”

I merely looked my surprise. Now Flora was in full flow, she needed no prompting from me.

“Then he brought Gloria home. Poor old Millie couldn’t compete. I thought she ought to have cleared out. That would have made Mr Arthur sit up and take notice. She was the one who was essential to the business. Finding clothes to fit the guests and showing them how to make themselves up. But she never moved away”

“Make-up?”

“Why yes. Hadn’t you realised? That was what the ranch was all about. ‘A safe haven for men to be their true selves’ or some such nonsense. Men who played at being women. I had nothing to do with that side of things. Some of them even brought their wives along. Can you believe it?”

I could, actually. It sounded nice, as I imagined the arrangement, not having to worry if anyone were to guess.

Flora seemed to have finally run out of steam. “I’ve said enough for now. You get the picture” she muttered. “Come back soon and I’ll tell you the rest. I’m tired.” She lay back in her armchair and closed her eyes. I expected her to rouse herself shortly and continue but instead her breathing became more and more regular. She had fallen asleep. It was time for me to leave.

On the way out I met Sister Marigold again. “Going, are you?”

“Yes. I thought it better. She seems to tire quickly.”

“Well, she isn’t strong, but your visit will have done her the world of good. Don’t leave it too long before you come again.”

On my return drive I had plenty of food for thought. What I had learned confirmed that I had been correct in my earlier surmise. Gloria had clearly been born a male. The feminine curves which set off her well-muscled body were doubtless no more the result of nature than were my own. Whereas my swelling bust and womanly hips and thighs had largely resulted from intensive and continuing hormone therapy, hers had been achieved at the hands of a cosmetic surgeon, supplemented, as I guessed from her physique, by rigorous exercise. I was aware of the effectiveness of the latter as it had formed part of my own feminising regimen.

Back in my apartment I felt exhausted. I gazed into the mirror as I undressed. Before I went into witness protection, I had contemplated surgery but that was to transform my body back to total masculinity, but that would never now take place. I had to accept that I would remain female in appearance for the foreseeable future, if not for life. My imagination conjured up an image of Gloria beside my own reflection. Our bodily shapes were by no means the same. Her body was shapely but sinewy and her breasts were small. They lacked the heaviness of mine, as did her bottom end. We had apparently taken different routes to the attainment of a womanly shape.

Also, it was likely that my client was free from much of my emotional baggage. The prolonged intake of hormones that I’d been fed had doubtless been responsible for the complicated nature my sexual orientation. If asked, I would have answered that I was entirely a male heterosexual and certainly I found women attractive. Occasionally, however, I found myself turned on by a man. There was no denying it and one result was that Gloria attracted me in both ways. The combination within this beautiful woman’s body was proving to be highly erotic.

I allowed myself to dwell on such thoughts as I readied myself for bed but then a cross-current disturbed the flow of these musings. A pang of guilt swept over me. I thought of my dear Rachel. I longed to be with her again, but how could I do so without putting her life at risk, not to mention that of my daughter. Reluctantly I came to the conclusion that my lustful feelings for Gloria could be tolerated in the short term. It was why Rachel and I had agreed we could see other people during our separation.

When I stepped into the office the following morning, I was just as confused, even after so many wakeful hours the preceding night trying to disentangle the complexities of my emotions. I had no intention of unburdening myself to Guy. That would have been an undertaking too close to home! How to unravel the mystery that now involved a murder which had been committed under my very nose, was what should have been concentrating my thoughts. I was finding that matter equally perplexing and that was where I would seek his aid. I had to own to myself that I needed my boss’s guidance urgently!

I was to be disappointed, however. The man wasn’t there. I could tell that the former agent had been in before me from the half-consumed cup of coffee on the side, but of my hoped-for mentor there was no sign save a laconic message on the desk. “See you later!”

Later when? Today, this week, next month? His customary vagueness jarred on my frayed nerves. He was impossible!

Left to my own devices, I reviewed the facts available and tried to formulate what seemed to be the important questions. Firstly, how had Gloria’s gun come to be found at the crime scene and was it actually used in the shooting? Why had this Ray been tailing my client whenever she drove downtown and how had he known at what times she would be travelling? Who had hired him? Why had he been killed? There were far too many unknowns to admit of any theory which would provide a tenable solution.

The only course of action seemed to be to keep on digging in the vain hope that something might turn up, something that made sense. Uncovering more of Gloria’s past was likely to be the most fruitful place to devote my efforts. It would certainly bear clarification in the light of Flora Benson’s revelations. The other source of information about the history of the Simpson household was of course the maid, Millie. I felt sure that she had more to tell and I resolved to look for an early opportunity to interview her again.

I picked up the instrument and telephoned my client. She could see me late in the afternoon. I felt better immediately. I’d made a start.

The weather was hot and humid, prompting a trickle of sweat down my back as I sat and stewed. The lack of air-conditioning in the antiquated office, adding to my discomfort, was less than amusing. Time passed slowly by. The telephone rang three or four times. I hoped each time it would be Guy but no such luck. There were some admin matters, a wrong number and a couple of marriages in trouble. I wondered how hard it would be to amend the answerphone message to include the line ‘…and no, we don’t handle divorce cases.’

Eventually the time came around for me to set off for my visit. I was wearing the briefest of denim shorts, imaginatively termed ‘hot pants’, underneath a cropped top. It was quite effective as a means of coping with the temperature and such a combination was the height of young fashion just then. I toyed with the idea of changing into something less informal but rejected it. Trying to remain cool was more important and my visit would be purely professional in nature, or at least that was my avowed intent, even if my heart was beating a little faster than normal when I rang the doorbell.

Millie answered and ushered me into the hall. The maid eyed me up and down and up again, looking somewhat askance at the sight of my tiny shorts. Her stare was sobering and I had to admit to myself that perhaps my butt was a little large these days for me to be sporting such a youthful style.

“Mrs Simpson is expecting you. She is just changing for dinner and wondered whether you would like to join her for the meal.”

I gladly assented, though I then began to wish I had chosen to wear a different set of clothes, more appropriate for such an occasion.

The maid seemed to share my view. “If you will excuse my saying, miss, this invitation was unexpected by yourself. I feel sure Mrs Simpson would be happy to lend you something to wear which is more appropriate for an evening engagement. Please allow me to help.”

I could only acquiesce.