“Did your father-in-law ever tell you he was interned during the war?” I asked.

“What do you mean by interned?” Moonbeam stared blankly at the poster, uncomprehending. “I don't understand. What does this mean?”

“It means all Japanese Americans on the West Coast were put into camps for the duration of World War II.”

She gasped. “Dad's never said anything about it. I never heard of such a thing.”

“It's a shameful part of American history that isn't taught in schools, Moonbeam. “It's not something the ‘land of the free’ acknowledges with pride.”

“How come you know about it, then?”

“I didn't go to American schools.”

“Tell me what happened,” she begged.

“I don't know the details, Moonbeam. You should ask your father-in-law about it. I do know that more than a hundred thousand people were imprisoned, including small children, even babies.”

“But not if they were American citizens, right?”

“It didn't matter if they were American citizens or not. If they had even one drop of Japanese blood, the government looked at them as security risks.”

“I am shocked. I wish he'd talked to me about this. It's part of my daughter's heritage.”

I patted her hand gently. “I'm sure he was going to, Moonbeam. That's probably why the books are on the table.”

I stayed with Moonbeam until Gloria and Tamsin arrived. They were prepared to console her by holding a drumming session, so I quickly said good-bye and left.

CHAPTER 12

SATURDAY EVENING, AS I WAS WATCHING A FINE performance by Vincent Price in The Masque of the Red Death on television, Doctor God-love called to thank me for my work in looking into Mack Macmillan's death. “I'm quite satisfied with the results of the investigation. Luscious Miller told me you persuaded him to press manslaughter charges against Woody Woodruff. I'm very glad that nobody connected with the college or from Lickin Creek was associated with the unfortunate incident.”

I sputtered a couple of times before I got my voice under control. “But I never suggested Woody was responsible. I merely reminded Luscious that the guns didn't load themselves. He assumed I meant…”

Godlove interrupted me. “Of course, the college would like to express its appreciation for your efforts. We'll be sending a small check as a thank-you.”

“I don't want your check. And I'm not satisfied that Woody was to blame. I'm going to keep asking questions.”

There was a long pause. Then the college president said, “Please don't do any more investigating. That's an order.”

I hung up and counted to ten twice to let myself cool off. He had no business giving me orders. And in my mind and in my heart I was sure Woody would not have made such a terrible mistake. Not at something he took such pride in. Somehow, someone had gotten hold of the keys to that storeroom. And I was determined to find out who that someone was.

Every TV cop show and every movie I'd seen recently had a scene set in a strip joint. I'd always thought the scenes were superfluous, added only for viewer titil-lation, and yet that's exactly where my investigation was taking me-a porno shop called the Brick Shed House, which advertised nude dancers.

The sign over the door said OPEN 24 HOURS. There were no cars in the parking lot behind the stockade fence, only a disreputable pickup truck parked by the side door marked STAFF ONLY. That was good. There would be nobody here to recognize me. Even better, there would be nobody there for me to recognize. I knew I'd have a difficult time facing a man at a church social if I'd once come face-to-face with him in a porno shop.

To disguise myself, I'd stopped by Garnet's house on the way out of town and borrowed some of his old clothes from Greta. In them, I looked the way I thought most Lickin Creek men looked-country macho. A pair of Garnet's khakis were rolled up at the bottom, a very large red-plaid shirt concealed my too ample bosom, and a John Deere tractor hat covered my unruly curls. I'd even padded my feet with two pairs of wool socks and I wore his oldest hunting boots. With a pair of sunglasses on, I thought I could fool almost anybody into thinking I was a man, especially if the place was dark.

The sign on the door said CUM IN. I overcame my disgust, pulled the sleeve of my shirt down over my hand so my bare skin wouldn't come in contact with the door, and gingerly pushed it open. The interior of the Brick Shed House was lit by only one small red light bulb, hanging from the ceiling, and an EXIT sign over the side door. I blinked, and the room I was in slowly began to reveal itself. A glass counter to my right, shelves of videos straight ahead, magazine racks on my left, and a few plastic chairs were all I saw. An unfamiliar, unpleasant odor made me feel terribly unclean.

Remembering the way a lot of young Lickin Creek men walked, I tried to swagger slightly as I crossed over to the shelves. There, I pretended to browse for a minute, pulled a magazine out, and sat on one of the plastic chairs. While I feigned an interest in the well-worn magazine, I looked around for any sign of the person I'd come to see, Lillie White, Mack Macmillan's former girlfriend.

While I was so occupied, I didn't notice a man approaching, and I nearly fell off my seat when he said, “Do you want a booth?”

With my head down, I shook my head.

“Hot tub? Massage?”

“Nope.”

“Lap dance?”

I made my voice as low as it would go and said, “Lillie White here?” I knew she was because I'd called and asked only half an hour ago.

“Let's see your ID, son.”

Oh Lord, I hadn't thought of that. To him I must look like an underage teenager. “Don't have it with me,” I growled.

The man grabbed my chin and jerked my head up. He stared at me for a minute, then began to laugh.

“What's so funny?” I muttered as I pulled away from him.

“So you're one of them…”

“One of what?” Too late, I realized he knew I was a female and misunderstood my reason for being there.

“You people always try to dress like men,” he said.

I let my voice return to its normal register. Might as well go with it, I thought. “I'm here to talk to Lillie White.”

“Sure you are, honey. Well, you ain't gonna like it. Lillie don't swing your way.”

“I said I want to talk to her.”

His scornful smile showed what he thought of that statement. “Twenty-five bucks and she's all ears-for fifteen minutes.”

I dug in my pocket for my money. After counting the crumpled bills, I said, “All I've got is twelve dollars.”

He took it from my hand. “Close ’nuff. She's through that door in the back.” He walked over to the counter and pressed a button, which triggered a buzzing noise. “Go ahead. Can't keep my finger on this damn thing all day.”

The walls of the back room were covered with dark vinyl panels that some optimistic person must have thought looked like wood. Like the front room, its only light came from a dim red bulb. There were four Formica-covered tables with about half a dozen chairs squeezed around each one. All the way in the back was a small wooden platform, which couldn't have been more than four feet square, and behind that hung a red curtain.

I sat down at the table closest to the platform and waited. Nothing happened, so I called out, “Yoo-hoo. Anybody here?”

The curtain was pushed to one side and through the open doorway behind it came a young woman. She wore a shiny purplish-blue polyester kimono, too much makeup, and shoes with ankle straps and the highest heels I'd ever seen. Her hair was long, permed to the breaking point, and the color of the hay bundles in the fields of local farms.