Maura dropped onto a red vinyl upholstered seat at the bar in Cherry's. Aside from a pair of older women nursing Budweisers at the opposite end, she was the only customer. She sat patiently, hands folded on the polyurethane wood bar top as Olga or Volga, oblivious to her arrival, squatted behind the bar filling bottles with a yellow plastic funnel. She noted the same gallon jug of Georgi vodka was being used to top up smaller bottles of Absolut, Kettle One, and Stolichnaya. Maura cleared her throat and the bartender popped up, narrowly missing smashing the top of her grey head on the bar's edge.
"Oi, Doctora Eye-lez." Volga tossed the funnel aside, nudging the half empty jug of cheap vodka out of sight with one Croc-clad foot.
"Volga, I was hoping you would be here today." Though it niggled at her principles, she would never be rude enough to mention the deceitful practice she had witnessed. She smiled and continued. "I wanted to check on your finger. How is it healing?"
Volga thrust a meaty hand across the bar. "Is good. You take stitchings out now?"
"No, no." Maura turned the hand over and carefully examined a neat row of black stitches running up the pad of Volga's thumb. She nodded, some of her finest work. "It should barely leave a scar."
"Scar?" Volga laughed, her gold tooth flashing."My body is one big scar. Many years on Soviet gymnastic team."
The chubby Russian glanced nervously around the empty bar, her pale eyes darting from the neatly stacked audio equipment in the corner to the row of vacant picnic tables fronting the bay. One small motorboat bobbed on its tether in the green water, its owner stretched out across the back bench in a red bikini, tanned skin glistening with coconut oil.
Maura followed her gaze. Where other people may have seen a beautiful woman, Maura saw skin cancer; melanomas, basal and squamous cell carcinoma, dermatofibrosarcoma protuberans and keratoacanthoma. She pulled her eyes away from the sun worshiper, fighting the urge to get up and lecture the woman on the dangers of ultraviolet exposure. She looked instead at Volga, whose own melonocytic nervus clung to the tip of her nose like a fat raisin on one of those delicious scones that Angela served at the Division One Café. She bit her lip and shifted her gaze to the bartender's eyes, which were careworn and sad, the color of much-washed denim.
"Volga, is something bothering you?"
"Nyet." She shook her head and began wiping at the pristine bar top with a borscht stained tea towel. She grunted in effort as she rubbed at an old cigarette burn in the wood.
Maura was inclined to take people at their word, but a tear trembling on Volga's eyelash signaled a burden that the kind doctor was willing to share.
"Volga? You can speak to me frankly. I'm a physician; anything you tell me I am bound to keep in the strictest confidence."
The older woman sighed, her shoulders slumping. "Someone is stalking against me."
Maura narrowed her eyes. "You have a stalker? Is someone threatening your life?"
"Da."
Maura rested a hand on the woman's beefy forearm. "My partner, Jane, is a police detective. She can protect you, find the person before he or she harms you."
Volga's eyes shot open. "No politsia. There are dangerous people in my past, people who helped me and Olga when we defect. They do not like detectives."
Maura bit her lip and leaned in closer. "The mafia?"
Volga said nothing, but a muscle twitched in her cheek. "This is not mafia threat. This is…" She struggled for the word in English. "…personal."
"What does Olga say?"
"I do not tell Olga."
"Tell me." Maura held her gaze, unblinking for a full minute.
Finally Volga nodded. She strode across the bar to check on the two women who were still nursing the same warm beers and returned. From a cabinet in the bar well, she pulled out a bottle of Moya Dorogaya and a battered Dell laptop. She poured herself a generous shot, crossed herself in the Orthodox style, from right to left, and drank down the clear liquid.
"Do you know the Golden Girls?" She began.
"Yes! I do." Maura was proud of herself. Her ignorance of popular culture was profound, but thanks to Jane she was well versed in the situation comedy that revolved around three retired friends and the elderly mother of one who shared a house in Miami. Her mind wandered back six years to her first exposure to the show.
The doorbell rang and Maura groaned. "Go away." She managed to croak before burrowing her head back into the high stack of pillows. With a cough that tore through her chest like fire in a dry forest, she could only manage to sleep sitting up.
The doorbell rang again and she ignored it along with the two minutes of pounding that followed. It must be that irritating neighbor trying to get her to sign a petition. He was always advocating for something; forcing the residents of the block to use the same size and color garbage cans, getting the city to compel another neighbor to paint his peeling door, banning dogs from the park. What a completely bothersome human being.
Maura coughed again and reached for a tissue to blow her nose. She hadn't been this sick in years; sick enough that she prescribed herself a dose of augmentin, called in sick to work, and took to her bed.
The windowpane to her left rattled, and she turned her head. Jane Rizzoli's face appeared framed by a black lion's mane of hair, liberally sprinkled with downy snow. Maura thought she must be hallucinating. She ran a cool hand across her clammy forehead. She had a fever for sure. She closed her eyes. Sleep.
The window rattled again.
"Maura! Open up! Are you dead?"
She wasn't dead and apparently she wasn't hallucinating. That crazy detective from homicide that she'd had drinks with a few times was really standing on her roof.
She kicked aside the blankets with effort and shambled to the window, unlatching it and pushing it up just enough to speak through. "I'm sick."
Jane opened it all the way and folded her long body through the opening. "I kinda figured that. You've been working with us for 6 months and you've never taken a day off. I've been calling your cell all day and I started to worry."
"You worried?"
"Sure. That's what friends do. Hold up. No, on second thought, go back to bed. I brought you some soup that my Ma made, but it's downstairs on your doorstep. I'll be right back."
She was gone for a while and Maura had begun to doze again.
"Hey. That microwave of yours is some piece of work. Was it designed by NASA? You must need a Ph.D. in engineering to operate it. Finally had to heat this up on the stove."
She thrust a steaming bowl of brownish broth under Maura's nose. The doctor couldn't smell anything, but the warm vapor rising from it was soothing in itself.
"What is it?"
"Soup. Stracciatella; it has egg drops and pastini and spinach, all good stuff. Do you want me to feed you?"
"Certainly not." Maura lifted the spoon and took in a tiny mouthful.
"Do you like it? Ma's an amazing cook. You have to come by for dinner soon, maybe even this Sunday if you're feeling better."
Maura swallowed another spoonful and then another. The warm salty liquid felt wonderful sliding down her scratchy throat. "You want me to have dinner with your family?"
"Yeah, why not?" Jane was blushing now, rocking on her heels with her hands jammed deep into the front pockets of her black jeans. "Is that weird?"
Maura tilted her head. "I don't know." She answered honestly. "I've never had dinner with anyone's family before; I've never been asked."
"Will you come? I mean, if you're better."
"Yes."
Jane let out her breath in a rush. "Good. My family is a little…loud, but they're harmless. Do you have a DVD player up here?"
Maura pointed to the flat screen mounted on the wall. "In the cabinet, under the television. Is there a case file you want my opinion on?"
"No!" Jane laughed. "You're not working today. This is purely for entertainment purposes. I brought you comfort food and comfort television."
Jane slid the DVD into the player and before the doctor could protest, she'd plopped herself onto the bed beside Maura.
Maura looked at her, bewildered.
"Oh, sorry." Jane jumped up and kicked off her boots then lifted the covers and slid in next to Maura.
"Golden Girls! My favorite." She smiled. "My brother Frankie, you met him at the Dirty Robber; he's the devastatingly handsome uniformed cop, looks like me in a male sort of way. He bought me the complete set for Christmas last year. I haven't watched them all yet, but when I'm feeling like shit, the girls always cheer me up. Love that old lady, Sophia. She's a pisser, reminds me of my nonna."
Maura set aside her soup and sat rigid next to Jane, who began singing along to the Golden Girls theme song in her raspy, out-of-tune alto. "Thank you for being a friend, traveled down the road and back again. Your heart is true; you're a pal and a confidant."
"Jane?"
"Yup."
"I may be contagious."
"S'okay. Jane Rizzoli has the constitution of a…gorilla."
Maura had never read that gorillas had particularly strong constitutions, but she let it pass.
Jane roared every time Sophia was on screen, poking the doctor in the ribs. "Good one, right, Maur?"
By the third episode, Maura began to relax. She enjoyed Rose's innocent stories about her hometown in Minnesota, Dorothy's sarcasm, and Blanche's over-the-top sensuality. She wondered at the strong friendship between the women. She looked over at Jane, splayed comfortably across her king-sized bed, her dark eyes reflecting the glow of the television, mouth relaxed in a loose smile.
Jane turned to her. "More soup? Tea?"
"I can get it."
"Nope. I'm at your service today and tomorrow if you need me and the day after. Whatever."
They watched all of the first season while Maura recuperated and the rest of the series, all seven seasons, over the course of the following year. Tuesday evenings was their pizza and television night at Maura's. The pair would snuggle under a blanket on the doctor's sofa, Maura often falling asleep with her head on Jane's shoulder. Friday nights became their Dirty Robber night; drinks with the guys and back to Maura's for a quick show. Sunday evenings found them in Jane's basement apartment in her parent's North End home, watching their show after Rizzoli family dinner. The course of the Golden Girls was the course of their deepening friendship and the seeds of their love.
"Doctora Eye-lez?" Volga's voice roused her from her reminiscing.
"I'm sorry, Volga. I was thinking about the Golden Girls and how my Jane introduced me to that particular show…please go on." Maura gave the bartender her full attention, hands folded neatly on top of the bar, back straight in her chair.
Volga finished her tale, punctuated as it was with copious vodka and cries of "О, Боже, защити меня." Pleas for the lord to protect her.
When she was done, Maura patted her hand. "Don't worry, Volga. Jane and I will help you. You will be safe. I promise."
"Spasiba, Doctora."
"Please call me Maura. We're friends, and if it's not too much trouble, I could use a drink. I've had a narwhal of a morning."
Volga looked confused, but shrugged it off. "Vodka?"
"No, wine; perhaps a nice pinot noir."
"I think you mean you had a whale of a morning, Maura," a slightly accented voice replied.
Maura spun on her chair, her gaze reflected back to her in a pair of mirrored aviator glasses.
"Oh, is that the right term? I suppose I've mixed up my marine mammals. Narwhals are technically whales of the order Cetacea, but within the family of monodontidae, whereas most whales are either balaenidae or balaenopteridae."
"Are you a marine biologist as well as an expert in Czech opera?" Martina Navratilova grinned, showing off a row of large white teeth.
"No. I'm actually a forensic pathologist…for humans, not whales."
"Maura is town doctor." Volga looked as proud as if she herself had graduated summa cum laude from Harvard Medical School.
"Can I buy you that glass of Pinot Noir?" The tennis champion asked.
The doctor blushed, nodding once.
Volga reached behind her for an opened bottle of Jean Foillard Morgon Cote du Py.
"Could you open a new bottle, please?" Maura asked.
Volga waggled her finger and winked. "Very smart lady." She made a big show of uncorking the fresh bottle and presenting it to Maura.
"Very good, Volga, but let's let it breathe for a few minutes."
Martina had moved in closer, resting a casual arm on the back of Maura's chair. "So what happened this morning to make it such a large sea mammal for you? I, myself, had a whale of a night, cleaning up after Ming."
Maura grimaced. "Poor Millie-Joyce, she must be suffering tremendously with veisalgia today."
"Veisalgia?"
"Yes, the unpleasant aftereffects of copious alcohol consumption: cephalalgia, dispepsia, xerostomia…in common parlance, she has hung herself over."
Martina laughed. "Ah, a hangover. No, not Ming. She was up at six jogging on the beach and hitting on any woman who was unlucky enough to cross her path. Has your wine breathed enough? I would like to have a glass with you before the ferry arrives."
Maura checked her watch. "Not yet. Proper aeration will greatly improve the bouquet, but I know a trick from my intern days. After working a 30-hour shift, I wouldn't want to waste half an hour waiting for my wine to breathe. Time works best, but a blender will do in a pinch. Volga, can you do the honors?"
Volga emptied the bottle into her Blendtec and whirred the ruby liquid for thirty seconds before pouring it into two red plastic cups.
Maura frowned at the disposable drinkware.
"Oi, I did not know I was serving the Czarina herself. So sorry." Volga reached under the bar and pulled out a pair of stemmed wine glasses, quickly transferring the liquid into them.
"These are white wine glasses." Maura couldn't help herself.
"Is your girlfriend as…" The tennis champion searched for the right word. "…fastidious as you are?"
"No! Not at all." Maura laughed. "Jane drinks beer from the bottle."
"Yes." Volga added. "And she eated 44 frankenfuters at pool party."
Martina roared.
"It's true." Maura agreed. "We're very different, but I like to think that we complement one another."
Martina pushed her mirrored sunglasses onto her head and raised her glass. "Na zdraví."
"Na zdraví." The doctor repeated, clinking her glass against Martina's.
"No, no, Maura. You must look into my eyes when we toast. It's a Czech custom; if you don't do it right, you will be cursed with seven years of bad sex."
Maura looked into a pair of amused brown eyes. "Na zdraví." She intoned solemnly. "I certainly don't want to curse myself with bad sex. Jane and I are getting married."
She raised her left hand to display her engagement ring, but her hand was bare. She blanched.
"What is wrong, Maura? You lose ring?"
"Oh, I hope not, Volga. This is Prostate Cancer Awareness Day. I spent my morning performing 56 rectal exams."
Martina spit out her wine. "So your ring may be in some guy's ass?"
"No, it's not that bad. Thankfully I'm right handed, but I still need to search through 112 used exam gloves."
"Sounds like your whale of a morning is turning into a beluga of an afternoon." Martina raised her glass. "Hodně štěstí!"
"Thank you." Maura shot back her wine in one unladylike gulp. She slipped from her stool and headed for the exit. "I'll need all the luck I can get."
"Jane!" Maura burst through the door, sweating from her mad sprint from Cherry's.
"Up here, babe. I'm about to start work on the bed."
Maura flew up the stairs, taking them three at a time like…like a Rizzoli. "Jane, did you take out the garbage?"
"Yup and I washed the dishes and helped Faye and Kaye to the ferry. They're staying at a B&B in Bridgehampton tonight…just in case, so we have the house to ourselves." She winked.
Maura balled her fists in frustration. "The garbage, Jane. Where is it?"
"Probably on a barge back to the mainland. The cute little garbage scooter picked it up hours ago."
"Shit!"
"Ooooh. I love it when you curse."
Maura's face was red and pinched. Her shoulders sagged and she began to cry. Jane wrapped an arm around her shoulders, then both arms, pulling her close against her chest. She rested her lips against the doctor's flushed temple. "Shush, love, it's okay. I have your ring."
"You do?" Maura pulled back and swiped at her damp eyes with the back of her hand.
"D'Fwan found it in your medical waste container. Why he was going through a bag of used rectal exam gloves is a question I don't want to know the answer to."
She reached into her pocket and removed the ring. "Now I get to propose all over again." She dropped to the floor and looked up at Maura's wet eyes, shining sea green behind her tears. "My friend, my lover, my everything, spend the rest of your life with me?"
Maura nodded, new tears welling up in her eyes. She reached out her left hand and Jane slipped the ring onto it, where it belonged.
"Wash your face, baby. We have a V.U.L.V.A. meeting to attend."
Hold Her Liquor was a small, ramshackle cottage on the beach side of the island, a half block from the sandy trail leading into the Sunken Forest. A sagging deck overhung the entrance, laden with plants in terracotta pots and ropy vines of bindweed and greenbrier, woodbine and bittersweet, the latter laden with glossy red berries. Maura pointed out the various flora, giving both their common and scientific names.
Jane grunted. "Someone needs to invest in a set of pruning shears."
"I think it's charming."
"Sure, if you're the Unabomber."
Maura chuckled. She had her ring back and nothing could bother her today. The air was scented with the sea and greenery and something else. She pulled Jane to a stop, sniffing at the air. "I smell something."
"Vulvas?"
"No." She snorted, slapping at Jane's arm. "Animal scat."
They passed under the deck and were greeted by a pair of goats tethered on long lines to the posts supporting the porch. The animals were busy chewing on tufts of ragweed poking out between the wooden slats. Jane bent and scratched the closest animal between her floppy ears. She gave the detective a curious look and a half-hearted ma-a-a-a, then continued rooting between the boards for nourishment.
"She has your eyes, Maur."
Maura frowned, wrinkling her nose.
"I mean the color, like a golden green-gray." Jane amended. "Not the creepy horizontal pupils."
"Why would a lesbian separatist political group have goats in the middle of a vacation town? This is very strange, Jane. Do you remember the case in Alston last year?"
"The satanists? Yeah. You don't think?"
"I don't know what to think. Maybe we should go." Maura grasped her hand and pulled her back toward the walkway.
"No way. At the very least, we have to save these goats."
"Do you have your gun?"
Their whispered conversation was interrupted by the bright voice of Rosemary Clooney; Mambo Italiano trumpeted from the right hip pocket of Jane's denim shorts.
"My mother."
"I know. Are you going to answer it?"
"Should I? I haven't called her all week; she's going to be mad. Besides, we have a pair of goats to save."
"Answer the phone."
Jane swiped at the phone, jogging the twenty yards to the shaded entry to the Sunken Forest National Preserve. Maura followed, looking over her shoulder to where the goats peacefully chewed their cud, oblivious to whatever diabolical fate awaited them.
"Hey, Ma. Good to hear your voice."
"Bullshit. If you wanted to hear my voice, you would have called me. The Boston Police Department pays for unlimited texts and talk on that smarty phone of yours, but you haven't done either. You could be dead at the bottom of the ocean for all I'd know."
Jane pulled the phone away from her ear and grimaced. "She's really mad." She mouthed to Maura.
The doctor made a smoothing gesture with her hand.
"Smooth things over. Got it." Jane mouthed.
"I don't know why I didn't call. I've missed you so much."
"Really?"
"Absolutely. Maura and I are getting married. She said yes." Jane blurted, eager to distract Angela with a subject dear to her heart, the wedding of her only daughter.
Angela huffed on the line. "I know and I had to find out on the Facebook instead of from my own daughter."
"What?" Jane frowned at the phone. "I didn't put anything online and neither did Maura. Did you, babe?"
The doctor shook her head, confused.
"You girls were tagged in a photo at some bar by that weirdo tennis player, so I naturally examined it very carefully. I'm very interested in every little detail about my girls. Did you know that on the ipad you can make a picture bigger just by pulling at it with your fingers?"
Jane rolled her eyes. "Yeah, Ma, I knew that."
"I saw the ring on Maura's finger and I've been sitting by my phone ever since. Any minute my Janie's gonna call, I thought. But you didn't."
"I'm sorry, Ma. You shoulda been the first person we told. I suck."
Angela harrumphed across the miles. She wasn't yet satisfied with Jane's apology, some more groveling would be necessary.
"I asked her just the way you suggested. I tied the ring to Jo Friday's collar and told her that I saw a tick. When she bent to look, there it was."
"The tick?" Angela asked.
"No…the ring. I couldn't have come up with a better idea."
"I never said anything about a tick." Angela complained.
"But Jo Friday's collar was your idea, a great idea. You shoulda seen Maura's face. I wish I had taken a picture."
Angela exhaled through her nose. "Fine. I'll be there sometime tomorrow. We have to start making plans."
"There's no rush, Ma. You can make all the plans you like. I'll buy you one of those mother-of-the-bride books with the white lace trim and fancy calligraphy. You can write down all of your ideas and we'll discuss them in detail."
"I already have one, Jane. I've been taking notes since before you got your first period. The book is full, and I am ready to make a wedding."
Maura drew back from her position next to her fianceé. She had been listening with her ear pressed against the side of Jane's face. "Tomorrow?" She mouthed.
Jane shrugged, helpless. "Okay, Ma. Drive carefully."
"Tell her to pee in Connecticut." Maura added. "There are no rest stops on Long Island."
"Maura said to pee in Connecticut and could you bring me some clothes?"
Jane swiped the phone off and tucked it back into her pocket. She looked deflated; her shoulders drooped and her arms hung limply at her sides. She loved her mother, but they practically lived with her. The thought of spending the final week of her much anticipated gay vacation under the same roof with the elder Rizzoli was a letdown. No doubt Angela would pester them nonstop about wedding gowns and cakes, seating arrangements and song lists. She had a book of notes compiled over three decades that they would have to discuss and debate. There would be tears, hopefully only Angela's, and raised voices. It would be a nightmare.
"Sorry, babe. You know how she can be."
Maura rubbed up and down Jane's spine, her strong fingers finding the knots and releasing them, spreading the warm heat of comfort to tense muscles.
"No worries, love. Angela does not affect me the way she does you, and I look forward to planning our wedding."
Jane felt better. "I guess. You think she'll be okay with all of this?" Jane spread her arms, her gesture taking in the entire island and its eccentric inhabitants.
"Of course! We're talking about the woman who threw us a coming-out party replete with a unicorn that farted rainbows."
Jane nodded. "True. Ma deserves a week on the beach. Maybe this is for the best."
"It is. Let's go save those goats."
Maura took her hand, lacing their fingers together, comforted by the metal band of Jane's promise ring rubbing against her palm. They walked the short half block to the cottage with the carved wooden sign, Hold Her Liquor. When they arrived, the pair of goats were gone. The twin tethers remained, tied with a clove hitch to the support post, but the animals were nowhere to be seen.
"Fuck. I hope we're not too late."
Jane rapped three times on the closed front door then pushed her way into the house. A dozen women sat on an ancient corduroy sofa and in folding chairs, balancing paper plates of cheese and crackers on their knees. She scanned their surprised faces; everyone looked familiar, but the only name she knew was Ming.
"Jane! Maura!" The tennis legend sprung from her seat at the very center of the sofa and wrapped them in a bear hug.
"Ming, how did I know you'd be behind this?"
Millie-Joyce peered up at her, owl-like behind her large glasses. "I'm not behind anything, but any group that calls itself Vaginas United is a group for Ming. I'm all for uniting my vagina with any willing lady."
"Where are the goats?" Maura asked.
A chunky woman in cargo shorts stood. "Gertrude and Alice are in the yard. They ate all the grass out front. If I didn't move them, they'd start eating the deck." She stretched out her hand. "I'm Peppermint Patty."
Maura took her hand in both of her own, looking earnestly into her small brown eyes. "You're not going to sacrifice them to satan, are you?"
The woman roared. "Of course not. They're our pets; we make cheese and soap and body lotion from their milk. Have a seat. Help yourself to some cheese. There's also kale dip and quinoa pudding."
"Yummy." Maura introduced herself to the remaining women, a few she had already met during blood pressure screenings on her first day as town doctor, and headed straight for the refreshment table.
"So what exactly is this group about? Are you…activists?"
"Not really." Patty chuckled. "We're a chorus. Vaginas United: Lesbian Voices Arise. We thought it was a clever acronym. Our voices do rise, but not always in tune. Marcia is our choir director."
She waved over a small, timid woman with protruding teeth.
"She's also my partner of 17 years." She wrapped a possessive arm around Marcia's thin shoulders.
"Are you an alto or a soprano?" Marcia asked.
"Alto." Jane rasped. "But I'm not much of a singer."
"None of us are, but we sing anyway for the love of it."
Jane laughed. "Maura and I thought you were some sort of terrorist separatist group."
"Well." Patty rubbed her chin. "We are kind of upset about some of the things that have been happening around the Grove, but we're not strict separatists. There are no men in our chorus."
Marcia laid a hand on her arm. "But they'd be welcome to join. They just never have. Anyone who loves to sing can be a V.U.L.V.A."
"I love to sing." Ming piped in.
"Yes, we heard your Macho Man at Cherry's last night. It's why we invited you to join."
"Damn. I thought I was coming to an orgy."
Maura joined them, her plate laden with goat cheese and kale. "This is delicious, Patty."
"Thank you."
"You're not a political action group?"
"No, but we did erupt into a spontaneous sing-in for you on Monday night when you were refused entrance to the Belvedere to treat your patient."
Jane remembered the small group of people singing "We Shall Overcome" and holding lighted candles outside of the men only hotel.
"And…" Marcia added. "Mercedes swiped the Hot Dog Trophy for you and left it on your doorstep. You should have won that contest."
"Peace out, sista!" A voice called from the end of the sofa. Maura recognized the burly EMT with the Marine Corps tattoo.
"Let's all get naked and raid the Belvedere!" Ming screamed. "A panty raid!"
"Who the hell wants mens' panties?" someone asked.
"I do." Ming was bouncing on her heels as if in anticipation of a serve on the tennis court. "They're much more comfortable, especially when I'm packing."
"That's the truth." Mercedes agreed. "Gimme some tighty whities with an access panel and I'm good to go."
"C'mon, ladies." Ming had already shrugged out of her polo shirt and was unbuttoning her chinos when Maura laid a restraining hand on her arm.
"Why don't we sing a song? Does anyone know the 'Coro di zingari' from Il Trovatore? It's perfect for a large group."
Her suggestion was met with silence.
She thought a moment. "How about 'Уж как на небе солнцу красному слава' from Boris Godunov?"
More silence.
Marcia cleared her throat. "We've been working on 'Michael Row Your Boat Ashore,' but we substitute Michelle for Michael."
"That's perfect, babe." Peppermint Patty kissed her partner on the cheek. "Ladies, join hands."
Everyone rose and formed a circle around the small refreshment table. Marcia blew a note on a harmonica. "That was a C, or maybe it was a D. Anyway, try to start in the key of C, but it's okay if you can't." She blew the harmonica again and it sounded completely different. "Sopranos begin and altos, you come in after the first line."
"Am I an alto or a soprano?" Maura asked.
"Soprano." Jane squeezed her hand.
"No, I think I'm an alto."
"If you're an alto, then I'm a baritone."
"You may very well be, but I'm singing alto since I'm standing next to you. Please sing in my ear, Jane, to keep me in tune."
They began to sing, fourteen women of all ages and races, holding hands around a simple card table. Some women closed their eyes and swayed gently, others looked around the circle offering encouraging nods to faltering friends. Maura squeezed Jane's hand and the hand of Ming, who stood to her left. She felt part of something and she liked the feeling. Jane liked it too, though she wouldn't have admitted it. She was the first to call for an encore of "Puff the Magic Dragon," and she gladly accepted the solo part in "California Dreamin."
"I like those Earth dykes," she conceded on their walk back to Belly Acres.
"I do too. Maybe we could go to the Michigan Womyn's Music Festival next year."
"Don't push it, Maur."
"We have to bring Faye and Kaye to the next meeting. Those two have V.U.L.V.A. written all over them. Terrorist group! Jeez, I'm always looking for trouble."
Maura rested her head on Jane's shoulder. "No, you're always looking to stop trouble; there's a difference."
Jane pulled her closer. "This feels like a pizza night. Wanna check out the Cherry Grove Pizza shop, see how it measures up to Boston's finest?"
"Sure. Millie-Joyce invited us for fondue, but I suppose we could pass."
"Let's. I'm sure fondue with Ming involves nudity and dripping chocolate, neither of which I mind so long as it's just us."
Maura chuckled. "I'm sure you're right. So pizza and some Netflix?"
"It's a date. What do you want to watch?"
"How about The Golden Girls?"
Jane wrapped a fluffy white towel around her wet hair and padded into the bedroom. Maura was propped up against the headboard, staring at her Macbook. Her reading glasses slipped down her nose and she absentmindedly pushed them back up. The snifter of cognac she had brought upstairs with her sat untouched on the bedside table.
"Whatcha reading, Maur? A treatise on stomach parasites in decomposing elephant vaginas?"
"No…and that makes no sense, Jane. Stomach parasites would not be found in the vagina of any mammal."
The detective flopped onto the bed and bounced twice. "I fixed the frame. No more squeaking."
"Very good, Jane."
"Do I get a prize?" She waggled her eyebrows, but Maura never looked at her, her eyes remained focused on the laptop resting on her knees.
Jane loosened her towel, allowing one dark nipple to peep above the white terrycloth. She angled her body toward the doctor, certain that her breast was in Maura's peripheral vision.
"Wow, it's a little nipply in here. Maybe I should turn up the heat."
Maura snorted. "You're incorrigible."
"If that's a fancy word for horny, then yes, I am."
"It isn't. It's from the Latin corrigere, to correct. It means…"
"I know what it means. I went to Catholic school for 12 years and got a 1480 on my SATs."
"You did?" Maura took off her glasses. "That's very high. That score would put you in the top 5 percentile of all high school seniors. You could have gone to any university."
Jane shrugged. "I wanted to go to the police academy."
"You could have gone to the academy after college."
"I am a proud graduate of Bunker Hill Community College." Jane doffed an imaginary hat, her other nipple popping free with the gesture. "Besides, my parents still had two kids in Catholic school. I couldn't ask them to pay for my ass for another four years."
Maura bent over and kissed her cheek. "You're a good person, Jane, selfless. That's one of the many reasons I love you."
Jane smiled, her dimples deepening. "So…about that prize? I did fix the bed just like you asked."
"I think you fixed the bed because your mother is coming tomorrow and you'd be embarrassed if she heard us."
Jane groaned. "Ugh, my mother."
"I hope she remembers to bring you some clothes."
"She will."
"I'll email her a copy of the list I prepared for you; the list you completely disregarded when you packed."
Maura minimized her browser and tapped a few keys, before opening it again. She readjusted her glasses and continued reading.
"Wah wah." Jane's voiced descended in the classic tones of epic failure. "I guess I'll go rub one out in the bathroom."
Maura chuckled. "Really, Jane, I think you're spending too much time with Millie-Joyce."
"No way! Do I really sound like Ming?"
"A little bit." Maura softened the blow with a gentle squeeze of her fianceé's bare knee and a nuzzle of her long neck. "You smell like an herb garden."
"Yeah, I bought a bar of soap from the goat dykes. It's made from Alice and Gertie's milk and some crap they collect in the Sunken Forest; pine needles and ferns. It cost me 20 bucks."
"Hmm. The revolution does not come cheap. Goat's milk is high in alpha hydroxy acids and selenium. It's wonderful for your skin."
Maura returned to her reading, holding one finger up to forestall further interruption. Finishing her paragraph, she closed the Macbook and took off her glasses.
"I do have a prize for you after all. It's something from your list of favorite things."
"Cunnilingus?"
"No. Guess again."
"Is it my family? My mother is coming; is she bringing my brothers?"
"No."
"Red Sox tickets?"
"No."
"I get to watch you sleep?"
"No. Police work, Jane. We have a bona fide mystery to solve. You get to do your gumshoe thing."
Jane raised a questioning eyebrow. "You're not taking Ming up on her idea to raid the Belvedere, are you? We know Dennis left that shit on our deck. I don't feel the need to search his room for a jar of strawberry jam and a package of tofu dogs."
"No. That's hardly a mystery."
Maura reopened the Macbook and scrolled to the top of the page she had been reading. She passed it to Jane.
"Volga writes fan fiction."
"About what? Boris and Natasha?"
Maura tilted her head in confusion. "Who?"
"An old cartoon, not important. Do you want me to read this? Will I go mad and rip out my own eyes from all the grammatical mistakes?"
"Her written English isn't nearly as halting as her spoken. She's quite eloquent in certain passages."
Jane squinted at the screen. "'Love on the Lanai' by BlorothyLuvr." She read. "What is this, babe?"
"Well…" Maura raised then lowered her lecture finger. The workings of femmeslash hardly warranted a professorial stance. "Fan fiction is a genre in which devotees of various existent media elaborate on their chosen…"
"I know what fan fiction is, Maur. I read just about every Cagney and Lacey story written while I was in the academy. Back then they were printed on xeroxed sheets and traded through the mail from the fan club. I never ordered them myself, but they were always lying around the women's locker room. When I got my hands on a new story, I'd rush home and devour it."
Maura smirked. "Did you read them in your twin bed under your Leather Tuscadero poster?"
"Yeah. I know…closet case."
"And these stories featured a romantic pairing between the two female protagonists?"
Jane blushed, remembering her twenty year old self weeping over Christine Cagney finally declaring her love for Marybeth. "Um, yeah, mostly, but some of them had Chris hook up with that douche Isbecki."
Maura reached for her cognac and took a small sip, running her pink tongue across her lips, catlike, to catch an errant drop. Jane watched, entranced. She placed the snifter on the table and turned back to Jane.
"Volga writes Golden Girls fan fiction. Her chosen pairing is Dorothy and Blanche, hence her nom-de-plume, Blorothyluvr."
Jane covered her face and groaned. "I don't want to read that. Is it erotic?"
"Very."
Jane moaned again. "How is this a mystery?"
"Well…" Maura took another sip of cognac. "She is being tormented by another writer."
"There are two Blorothy advocates?"
"No. This other writer firmly believes that Dorothy does not belong with Blanche, but with Rose."
Jane grimaced. "That may be even worse…Betty White in a strap-on."
"Dorothy always wears the strap-on." Maura corrected. "I imagine Jane Rizzoli being very much like Dorothy in 25 years. You're both tall and Italian with deep voices and forceful personalities. You both have overbearing Italian mothers. You're both fond of polyester pant suits…Shall I go on?"
"No." Jane pulled the towel up over her exposed breasts. "Babe, if I was a guy, my dick would have gone soft at that thought."
Maura poked her in the ribs. "Dorothy Petrillo Zbornak was a very sexy woman. I imagine Blanche and Rose would fight each other for a place in her bed."
Jane rubbed at her eyes with the heels of her hands. "O…kay. So what's the mystery again?'
"Volga's nemesis…"
"Is she called Rosothyluvr?"
"Yes! Rosothyluvr69, in fact."
"Eww. Go on."
"Rosothyluvr69 posts nasty reviews to Volga's stories and Volga in turn posts nasty reviews to her rival's stories. They were…enemends. Is that the right word? Enemies, but friendly?"
"Frenemies."
"Yes, frenemies. But this past month, Volga began a new story in which Rose dies and Blanche and Dorothy come to realize their love as they mourn their friend. Rosothyluvr69 became enraged by this and has been sending death threats."
Jane closed the Macbook. "Big deal, so some freak on the internet is trolling her. The woman probably lives on the other side of the world. She's not actually going to kill Volga."
"Ah, but she doesn't." Maura reopened the laptop. "Rosothyluvr69 posted a new story last week. It's called 'Love on the Run.' In this story, Rose accidentally kills Blanche by feeding her poisoned cheesecake on her birthday…"
"That doesn't sound like an accident."
"Read the story. Rose isn't very bright; she mistakes arsenic for almond extract. It's written as an accident. Instead of calling the police, Dorothy declares her love for Rose and they flee under assumed names, to Cherry Grove."
Jane shrugged, unconvinced. "Cherry Grove is well-known as a gay destination. It doesn't mean anything."
Maura sighed. "There's more. Volga pointed out a dozen instances where Rosothyluvr69 wrote about something that she could only have known if she was here. Volga had breakfast at Island Breeze on Tuesday. She ordered two poached eggs and a pork chop with pickles and a side of pumpkin pancakes. Rose orders the same breakfast in chapter 3 of Rosothyluvr's story."
"Blech. That's repulsive, but it could be a coincidence. Is that particular meal on the menu?"
"No, it isn't. In chapter four, Dorothy sliced her thumb open cutting vegetables and had to get seven stitches from the town doctor, who is described as a busty redhead with an earnest demeanor."
Jane snickered. "You're not really a redhead, more of a strawberry blonde, I'd say."
"I stitched up Volga's thumb this week."
"Seven stitches?"
"Yes."
Jane sat up, pulling the Macbook closer. "What else?"
"The painting hanging over Rose and Dorothy's bed is the same one that hangs in Volga's kitchen—a frog in a clown suit holding three red balloons."
"So Rosothyluvr may have broken into her house?"
"Yes. Dorothy's bathing suit is the same one that Volga owns, the contents of their refrigerators are the same, they use the same face cream…"
"This is starting to sound creepy."
"I know." Maura ran her fingers across the trackpad, bringing up most the recent chapter of 'Love on the Run'. "Volga confided that she had a sexual encounter last night…"
"With Ming?" Jane interrupted.
"She didn't say. But, this morning Rosothyluvr posted a new chapter describing that act in vivid detail. Volga is certain that she was watched. She thinks her nemesis has set up a blind in the dunes with a pair of binoculars and perhaps a sniper rifle. She's terrified."
"I don't blame her. Does Olga know?"
"No, not yet. She doesn't want to frighten her. She's hoping we can find this person before she has to tell her."
"Okay. I'll call Frost first thing tomorrow and get him to do his magic with the website's servers. Maybe we can get a name or at least an email address for Rosothyluvr. I'll shadow her tomorrow; see if anyone is paying too much attention or looks suspicious."
Maura nodded. "The 69 could be a reference to mutual simultaneous cunnilingus, but it could also be a clue to the author's identity. Perhaps she was born in 1969."
"Good thinking, Maur. That would make her mid-forties. I'll keep that in mind when I 'do my gumshoe thing.'"
Jane closed the Macbook. "Speaking of mutual simultaneous cunnilingus…"
Maura opened the laptop. "Read the stories, Jane."
"Do I have to?"
"Would you investigate any other crime without reading the case files?"
"No." She sighed and began reading. "Dorothy Sbornak purchased two large tubes of K-Y jelly at the Seven-Eleven in downtown Miami…"
Maura finished her cognac and reached for the battered copy of 50 Shades of Gray. "Besides, we didn't like 69. It's theoretically sound, but incommodious in practice."