Free Booby Trap by Sue Ann Jaffarian Page A

pet-friendly.
    Greg and I sat in Gordon’s living room while Gordon retrieved drinks for us—a soda for me, a beer for Greg, and a Scotch for himself—from a nearby wet bar. The drinks were served in crystal barware, including the beer, which was poured into a matching pilsner.
    “So, you’re here about Crystal Lee?” Gordon Harper’s voice was high and squeaky, reminding me of a Kewpie doll, if a Kewpie doll could talk. He dropped himself into a leather chair the color of wet sand. I sat on the accompanying sofa with Greg positioned between us.
    Gordon Harper was in his late sixties, powerfully built and a bit portly, but not uncomfortably so. He had a large, bulbous nose and slightly loose jowls. His pate was bald and his face clean-shaven. He wore an expensive white silk shirt, probably Italian. Around his thick neck hung a substantial gold chain, also probably Italian. He looked like he’d be more comfortable taking meetings in a half-moon leather booth in the back of a dark restaurant instead of a lovely condo with a water view.
    To be blunt, Gordon Harper looked like a bulldog who’d done well for himself after escaping the pound. Too bad he sounded like Fifi the wonder poodle.
    “Yes, we are,” I responded. “We’d like to ask you some questions about her, if you don’t mind.”
    “May I ask why?” His yippy, high voice was distracting coming from such a powerful body. He focused on Greg. “All you told me on the phone was that it might prevent another death. I’m all for that, naturally, but the police haven’t been able to find the guy. What makes you two so special?”
    I cleared my throat—something I usually do before telling a fib. “I’m friends with the sister of the last victim. I … we … my husband and I want to look into anything that might be common to the victims. My friend is quite anxious to know what might have led the killer to her sister.”
    “Besides the obvious physical attributes?”
    “Yes. It would help her a great deal to know how this happened.”
    Greg chimed in. “And it might also prevent another killing if we knew how the creep picked his victims.”
    Gordon nodded. “True, but I’m sure the police are looking into that as well.”
    I put my soda down on the glass coffee table and got down to business. “But we’d like to know, and the police aren’t likely to share anything with us about the case.”
    Gordon chuckled as if I’d just told a joke that only he understood. He studied us each in turn before speaking. “Okay, what’s the harm? What would you like to know?”
    Greg and I shared a look of relief. It’s not easy prying into people’s business, and something told me Gordon Harper had a lot of things worth prying into. Supposedly, he was retired from the insurance business, but no amount of research could turn up what kind of insurance or any company. I would have liked to put a background check request out to my pal Willie about him, but I didn’t have the time or the contact. After my marriage to Greg, Willie, better known as William Proctor, on-the-run white collar criminal extraordinaire, had disappeared from my life as easily as he had appeared.
    Greg threw out the first question. “Was Crystal Lee active on the Internet just before she died?”
    “Absolutely.” Gordon smiled as he spoke, his fleshy lips parting in pride. “That’s how she made her money. She hawked memorabilia from her days as a stripper. She also made custom erotic costumes, mostly inspired by vintage burlesque queens such as Betty Rowland and Lois de Fee.” He laughed; it came out as a high- pitched giggle. “She did most of her advertising on the web. Most of her clients were drag queens, closet and otherwise.”
    The information Greg had gathered mentioned that Crystal Lee Harper had been a specialty costume maker, but it hadn’t said anything about vintage burlesque or drag queens. “Did the police check out her clients?”
    “Every last one of them that I