Murder Goes On Tour

ONE Vivian turned away from the woman beside her and slipped out of bed. It was 6am in the city of San Francisco, and she had just spent the night with the famous Joanna Rorke. A whirlwind of drinks, desire and two women n***d in each other’s arms in a penthouse suite on the top floor of the Hyatt Regency. Well, that was different, Vivian thought, the taste of Joanna still on her tongue. So different from being with a man. She glanced at Joanna, who was still asleep. The comforter had fallen away from her breasts, which glowed in the morning light filtering through the blinds. It occurred to Vivian that it might be fun to do it all again sometime. She fumbled in the dark for her clothes and cosmetics, which were in a pile on the floor along with Joanna’s things, then went into the bathroom to get dressed. She was an inked brunette in her late 20s, with an oval face, smoky green eyes and a lizard tattoo that snaked down her thigh. Vivian glanced at herself n***d in the mirror, and a sinful smile spread across her face. She’d had her share of hookups with men she hardly knew, but this was the first time she’d ever done it with a woman. And not just any woman, but a woman who was 20 years older and a bestselling author. Vivian thought authors rocked. She followed her favorites like groupies trailed pop stars. It wasn’t enough for her to read an author’s books – those were just words on a page. She wanted the thrill that came from seeing them live and hearing their voices. She lived for the moment when they locked eyes as the author signed an autograph that began “To Vivian…,” as if the book had been written just for her. But she’d never wound up in bed with an author, even though she’d fantasized about it if the author happened to be a hunk. She had also wondered from time to time what it would be like to touch a woman’s body, to feel a woman touching her. And then, when it finally happened, Vivian was surprised to discover that she could just as easily lose herself with a woman as with a man. She finished dressing and turned off the light, then walked barefoot to the door with her shoes in her hand. “Leaving so soon, Vivian?” Vivian looked at Joanna. She had turned back the comforter, revealing her n***d body. She was in her late 40s or early 50s, Vivian guessed, with full breasts, dark eyes and glossy black hair that tumbled to her shoulders and was streaked with gray. She was smiling seductively at Vivian, reminding her of a nude she’d seen once painted by some Spanish artist whose name she couldn't remember. Vivian felt something stir, but knew she had to go. “I didn’t want to wake you,” Vivian said. “I have to go to work.” “That’s no fun,” Joanna said. “Wouldn't you rather stay and play with me?” Vivian smiled. “Yeah, totally. It was hot.” “Your first time?” Vivian blushed. “Yeah, it was. Why, did it show?” “Not at all. I never would’ve known. You sure you have to go?” “Yeah, I am.” “A kiss goodbye, then?” Vivian walked over to where Joanna lay. She sat up and pulled Vivian into her arms and gave her a deep, lingering kiss. Vivian let her hand wander across Joanna’s breasts and then down between her thighs. She was wet and suddenly Vivian wanted to taste her again. But there was no time – not if she wanted to keep her job. “You like that?” Joanna asked. “Yeah, I do.” “So stay.” “I wish I could.” “I’m going to be in town for a few more days…” “Yeah, I know. You’re reading at another stop on the murder tour.” “Perhaps we can get together again before I leave?” “Yeah, sure,” Vivian said. “That would be excellent. You want my number?” Joanna smiled. “Of course I do.” Vivian jotted down her number on the notepad on the nightstand. “Until next time then,” Joanna said smiling, pulling the comforter up around her. Vivian smiled. “Can’t wait.” Vivian was still buzzing from the heat of the night as she waited for the cable car that would take her up California Street to her apartment atop Nob Hill. A cellphone text alert beeped from inside her purse. The sound puzzled her, as she had her cellphone in her hand. Vivian reached into her purse and was surprised to discover another cellphone buried underneath her cosmetics. She pulled it out and, in the moment before the screen went dark, she read a text from a woman named Laura Neville: “See you soon, my famous friend. Breakfast is on me.” Suddenly, Vivian realized that in her rush to get dressed she had inadvertently taken Joanna’s cellphone. She flushed with embarrassment. What a dumb move. She decided to return it immediately with her apologies. She wondered if Joanna would be amused – perhaps even think that Vivian had done it on purpose, just so she could see her again. The thought brought a smile to her face as she walked across the street to the Hyatt Regency and went up to Joanna’s room. She knocked on the door and, as she did so, the door swung open. “Joanna…?” Vivian said, stepping into the room. Then she saw her. Joanna was still in bed, but half her face was gone and she was swimming in a sea of blood. Blood spatter smeared the walls and windows. The TV was on, tuned to a morning talk show, but the faces on the screen were speckled with blood. Vivian froze in horror, unable to look away. She wanted to run but could not move. Her stomach turned and she vomited on the carpet. Then she heard a knock on the door. “Señora…” a woman said. Vivian turned and saw a Latina maid in the doorway. Just as the maid saw the blood. Saw Joanna. And screamed.