Chocolate Quake by NANCY FAIRBANKS Page B

easels to the rear wearing a black T-shirt and a head of dusty dreadlocks. Since Martina L. King looked terrifying and seemed to make those around her nervous, I cravenly allowed myself to be urged away. Had she been here Thursday? I’d ask around, and if she had, I’d suggest that Dr. Tagalong talk to her, or her psychiatrist, if she had one.

17
    Canvassing the Attic
    Carolyn
     
    T he child-care and working women were stampeding down from the meeting as we took the stairs to the third floor. One asked Bruno if he was planning to change his sex, which he took amiss. For just one horrified moment, I thought they did the operations upstairs, but of course that was nonsense. They probably provided counseling. A wave of exhaustion washed over me. It had been a long day, and instead of more interviews, I’d rather have gone home for a nice, end-of-the-afternoon nap.
    Our first encounter was with Kara Meyerhof, a blonde in the Lesbian and Transsexual office. She was alone and typing industriously at a computer. When she noticed us, she saved her work and rose for a hearty introduction and handshake. My, she was tall. At least six feet. Bruno’s mouth dropped open.
    When I told her who we were, her whole face brightened. “Vera’s daughter-in-law. A fellow writer !”
    “Well, yes, but her writing is much more academic than mine. Not that I don’t try to add some history to my columns, but—”
    “No dear, I’m a fellow writer. Historical romances.”
    “Really,” I said weakly. Was she writing lesbian romances?
    “Yes indeed. I have at least twenty in print. I was just finishing a scene for my newest, Frontier Passion. ”
    Had there been lesbians on the frontier?
    “I’ve been winning awards for romance for years, ” she added proudly. “I just couldn’t attend the conferences to pick them up. It’s so much easier now that I’m a woman. Although the formal banquets can be a problem. I can’t seem to find an evening gown that looks good on me because of my wide shoulders.”
    Evidently she wasn’t a lesbian. “Maybe you could get some advice from Yasmin Atta,” I suggested. “She teaches classes here on makeup and clothing selection.”
    “I had no idea. Yasmin, the famous model and founder of Nightshades, Inc.? We never hear anything up here on three. And I can’t thank you enough for the suggestion. Yasmin would be perfect. She’s very tall, you know.”
    “Actually, I don’t, but I’m having lunch with her Wednesday.”
    “Isn’t that exciting !” Kara sat down and said, “Would you like to hear an excerpt from my chapter. It’s really hot, if I do say so myself. I’m sure the reviewers will put this book in the very sensual category. Isn’t that ironic? Women all over the country love my romances, and I can’t even get a date. Men just don’t want us to be really tall. Unless we look like Yasmin, of course.” She peered at her screen and began to read, “Parker rolled his muscular body over onto her slender—”
    Bruno sputtered and turned red. I quickly intervened, saying, “I’m afraid I wouldn’t be any help at all as a critic. I don’t read romances.”
    Kara giggled. “I should have known. Vera probably won’t let you. She gives me such a hard time about writing things that objectify women as sexual objects, instead of providing role models that will inspire them to overcome the prejudices of the patriarchy. I just tell her that I need a date more than I need a lecture. ”
    “Actually, I’m trying to find out who killed Denise Faulk,” I said.
    “Well, I certainly didn’t. Denise was always very nice to me. Not everybody here is. And Vera certainly didn’t kill Denise. The police should be ashamed of themselves, and I told them so. I said it was probably some dope addict trying to rob the business office. Of course, they did-n’t pay any attention to me, except for the black policewoman, who said, ‘Jesus, you’re tall. How tall are you?’ I hate