The Queen Con (The Golden Arrow Mysteries Book 2)

by Meghan Scott Molin

  “No, thanks,” I say.

  The guy shrugs, a clear “your loss” in his attitude, and moves off into the crowd. I have no doubt he’ll get rid of his wares. Indeed, some people are here just to party. Such is part of the drag scene. Rock stars and drag queens. I equate the love of partying with both groups of people. Some rock stars are clean and just love a good time. Some can’t have a good time without chemical assistance. The difference tonight is the ring of Muggles that surround the typical attendees of a drag show after-party. These poor folks clutch their small drinks tightly and peer into the darkness, hoping to see a real-life superhero.

  I join them.

  I’ve never been much of a partyer, and thankfully neither Lawrence nor Ryan like the pastime either. Not to say we don’t crash parties sometimes and hang out together, but it’s more about being together than it is the party. L is particularly prickly about drug use, given his background.

  So instead of making my way to the dance floor to look for any of L’s friends I know, I stay in the outer ring, eyes darting around. Would the Golden Arrow really show up? I’m probably one of the only people in this room who has ever seen footage of the vigilante, not to mention seeing the Golden Arrow in person as he hopped out a second-story window and vanished. I feel this should give me an advantage, but I end up watching every masked figure from the drag show as hard as the person next to me.

  Unless the GA stands up onstage and proclaims himself, which seems unlikely, I’m probably out of luck picking him out of the crowd.

  Cleopatra’s media stunt definitely worked, though; this place is packed. With resignation in my heart, I make my way to the tiny black bar in the back of the room. I order myself a whiskey and Coke, which comes in the tiniest plastic cup I’ve ever seen, and roll my eyes when my card is charged twelve dollars. Highway robbery all night long, and either the drinks are getting smaller or I’m getting larger. I suppose it’s the price of admission to this theme park, and a small dollar amount if our vigilante shows. Not only is my drink a tiny thing, but my cup must have been the first one in the stack. It still has the packaging sticker on the bottom, and I’m forced to peel it off—some gold foil thing—but at least I can rest assured this is one drink that wasn’t tampered with if the bartender just opened the sleeve of cups.

  Deciding to patrol the perimeter of the room, I turn around, clutching my tiny drink, and run smack into the person behind me. “Sorry,” I mutter before realizing I recognize the shoes I’m staring at. White, old-school Nikes so bright they could only belong to my roommate. I raise my eyes to meet Ryan’s half smile. Busted. Caught red-fisted, attending L’s nemesis’s party.

  The guilt must be written all over my face.

  “We were never here,” he agrees. “I told L that I was going over to Lelani’s.”

  “I told him I was going home.” We both laugh nervously. “Let’s hope L doesn’t show up and bust us.”

  “Nah, he wouldn’t. Principle of the thing.” Ryan orders a beer—an eight-dollar Coors Light—and we slide to the side of the bar, deeper into the shadows behind the strobe lights. My already-pounding head thanks me.

  “I almost didn’t come; I shouldn’t have come, I just . . . can’t help thinking, ‘What if,’” I admit as we stare into the sea of people.

  “What if the Golden Arrow shows, you mean?” Ryan’s voice is muffled, and I see him take a huge swig of his beer.

  “Yeah. I mean, Cleopatra is probably making up the story. But . . . what if . . . ? You’re curious too, or you wouldn’t be here.”

  He grunts and takes another swig of beer. I eye him closer. Ryan’s not usually a “down a bottle of beer in three gulps” kind of guy. His gaze turns from the dance floor and finds my critical one.

  He sighs. “More than a little curious.” He’s been through quite a bit with the Golden Arrow too. The chase through San Diego Comic-Con. The questioning, the hearings. He probably wants a glimpse at the person who turned his world upside down. “I’m sure she’s making it up, but like you said: What if . . . ? My guess is that someone is pretending to be the Golden Arrow, using Cleopatra to gain some star power and media attention.”

  “Or it’s the real Golden Arrow,” I argue, sipping at my own drink.

  He grunts again, though foregoing the beer this time.

  “Is this caveman hour?” I ask, poking his shoulder.

  “I just . . . people are good actors, MG.” The look he gives me is surprisingly frank, and serious, especially while we’re just shooting the breeze. “You don’t know what some people will do for fame. Or money. Or to get even.” Another swig, and I see that the beer is almost gone.

  It makes me think of the crime scene Matteo just told me about, and I shake my head back and forth. “True. But . . . maybe someone is out there, imposter or . . . not.”

  Ryan shrugs, looking back at the dance floor. “It’s a possibility, I suppose. Either way, whoever is here tonight, I get the sense it’s the former. Cleopatra probably wouldn’t have gone on television with something completely made up. She probably even believes it. The question is, why someone would go to the trouble of convincing her they’re the real one?”

  I can’t help myself. “Or it’s the real one.”

  “Why would the real Golden Arrow come here?” He waves his hand around. “Be involved with Cleopatra?”

  “I . . . I don’t know,” I say honestly. My eye catches on a few of the dancers at the center of the dance floor. A young queen, wig totally askew, stumbles around. If possible, these people are getting more drunk. My bet is on friends supplying them with drinks; I haven’t seen any of them wading through to the bar in the last ten minutes. Or they’re on something else, and the alcohol is exaggerating the effects. I note the man in the top hat still mixing with the dance crowd, and I briefly wonder how he’s keeping it on with all these people around. This party does seem a little out of taste from what I know about the GA. “The Golden Arrow stole a journal from Lawrence; maybe he likes queens,” I point out.

  “Lawrence and Cleopatra are not the same,” Ryan says as if he’s the authority on the matter. “Lawrence is directly related to the case, remember? The Golden Arrow is interested in something more than these parties, I’m sure of it.”

  He’s so certain about it, something strums a chord deep inside of me. A ripple of suspicion threatens to break the surface of my mind. Ryan has a solid alibi; he’s been questioned by the police, but . . . could he know something about the Golden Arrow I don’t? Harbor a suspicion he’s not sharing? Could he be an accomplice? Lightning strikes my imagination, and for a moment I ponder the possibility that the Golden Arrow could have been gathering information from multiple inside sources, including my very own roommate. Which is so ludicrous I decide to shove that thought away entirely. Well, almost entirely. I have a feeling I’ll have a hard time forgetting the pebble that caused the ripple in the first place.

  Ryan doesn’t seem to notice my imagination spinning out of control. “Let’s just take a look around and then, want to share an Uber home? It’s late.”

  I stifle a yawn at the mention of the word “late,” and I feel my brain coming back online and into the present. My default setting seems to waffle between tired and tired-er these days, so I nod. “Sounds good. This is probably a waste of time anyhow. Though they’re making a killing on concessions while everyone waits,” I add in grudging admiration of the sheer extortionary power.

  Ryan pulls out his phone, presumably to order us a car. A flash of light and the squeal of a microphone interrupt him. Our heads snap to attention as the room brightens from the glow on the dance floor. Every spotlight centers on the middle of the space, where Cleopatra basks like a fallen angel in red sequins. Her red wig must be four feet tall, shaped in an elaborate updo, reminiscent of Marie Antoinette.

  My heartbeat accelerates, and I exchange glances with Ryan.

  “Hello all,” Cleopatra says, waving into the crowd. “Thank you for joining me for my first p
arty.” There is some mixed cheering and whistling, then a hush falls over the crowd, and Cleopatra smiles broadly.

  “I know you’re not just all here for lil’ ole me, but I do throw a good party, am I right?” More cheering, though it drops off quicker this time. Everyone, like me, is wondering if the impossible is about to happen.

  Cleopatra’s lips fall into a dramatic pout. “Unfortunately, though our friend was here for a brief time, he decided that a more intimate gathering would be his preference . . .” A mutter so loud arises from the crowd, Cleopatra’s voice is drowned out momentarily. After a few moments I hear the microphone levels boosted up again and Cleopatra saying, “I know, I know, I know, my darlings. I can assure you, though, he was here. You probably brushed sleeves with him and didn’t even know.”

  Beside me, Ryan snorts. I share his derision. Media stunt, through and through. I make a move to the door, and Ryan follows.

  “To prove to you that he was indeed here, I have a special offer from our masked friend.”

  “Buy seventeen drinks, and the eighteenth is free?” I ask Ryan. He laughs as we join the herd of people headed toward the small door at the front of the house.

  “Our illustrious friend has extended several secret invitations to people in attendance right now,” Cleopatra goes on. She knows she’s losing her crowd. “And I assure you if you find one of the invitations and attend the special party just for those with invites, you will meet our masked friend. The delightful thing is, it’s all up to chance who gets to meet him, and the invitations are already distributed. You may have one and not even know it.” She cackles and claps, her fingernail polish and bangled bracelets catching in the light of all the spots.

  That stops me in my tracks, and I turn toward the stage, along with fifty or sixty of my closest lemming pals. We start looking around—at the floor, at the walls, at each other—trying to discern if this is indeed true information.

  “Because we appreciate so much your support of our hosts tonight, we’ve decided to reward those of you who have enjoyed our refreshments. Several of the flasks, several of the glasses and cups, and several of the plates have secret seals on the bottom of them. Simply check your drinks and food, detach the seal, and keep it. There are a limited number out there, and I know for certain they’ve all been given out. Our bartender has been told specifically to flag any that were returned and redistribute, so they’re all out in the wild right now. Have fun, darlings. Watch my website for more information!”

  Her last words are drowned out by the sheer volume of one hundred people diving for the plates closest to them. I catch Ryan’s alarmed gaze as we’re forced apart when someone dives between us to get at the stack of plates left for a waitress on the tall table directly behind us.

  “Holy hell,” I yell over the din. Ryan and I manage to get near enough to the front of the panicked crowd that we’re not at as much at risk of being carried off.

  From over my shoulder, I hear a crow of victory. “I found one!” Some woman is our first victor. Veruca Salt, ladies and gentlemen. The scream is met by, if possible, an increase in the volume as people ransack the basket of flasks by the front door.

  “So, it’s real, then,” I say to Ryan.

  His face is unreadable. “I guess some part of it. I’d like to know what game she’s playing.” He perfunctorily lifts his beer bottle and glances at the bottom, then shrugs. “Guess I’ll never know. You?”

  My heart races inside my chest, having nothing to do with the fervor of the crowd behind us—several fistfights have already broken out from the sounds of it. I resist the urge to stick my hand in my pocket to feel for the gold sticker I’d removed from my cup earlier. I can’t tell if I’m glad or physically ill I didn’t throw it away. How do I keep ending up in these situations? Something stops me from showing Ryan. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m secretly already planning to go to this party and see if the GA really materializes, and I know Ryan won’t approve. Maybe it’s that telling Ryan would essentially be admitting to Lawrence that I went to his rival’s party. And maybe it’s because now just a sliver of me isn’t sure Ryan is telling the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help him Thor. I make a show of lifting my small plastic cup and finding it empty.

  “No one would reward such a girly, small drink,” I joke.

  Ryan laughs, though my joke wasn’t that funny. We push toward the door and break through into the slight chill of the California evening. A hint of fall is on the air, and I cross my arms over myself, goose bumps breaking out after the mad, hot crush of the nightclub.

  Ryan glances at me. “Don’t worry. I’ll ask around; maybe Lawrence can find out what’s really going on.” His phone dings in his pocket, probably an alert that the car will soon arrive.

  “But you don’t think it’s the Golden Arrow?”

  Ryan hesitates a moment and then shakes his head.

  A small sedan pulls up, and Ryan opens my door for me before crossing around the back of the car. I slide in, and I can’t help singing, “I’ve got a golden ticket,” to myself quietly. The question is . . . where exactly does this ticket take me, if not farther down the rabbit hole?

  CHAPTER 4

  “All right, L. Your call.” I look Lawrence in the eye over my red Solo cup and squint, channeling every ounce of my Cumberbatch Sherlock mind meld. “Death, or boobies?”

  L’s face doesn’t change, even with the swell of the orchestra below us. Truthfully, we should be focused on the gorgeous music, the beautiful amphitheater, and the magic of experiencing live orchestration to Game of Thrones, but in true “us” style, we’ve decided to nerd out—in the form of a drinking game.

  L’s eyes flick to the large screen, then back to me. “Both.” Totally deadpan.

  Ryan sighs and squishes his cup, making a crinkling noise. “Both isn’t an answer. It’s either death or boobies.”

  It’s the only drinking game I’ll play these days. Tonight we’re playing the version where the person in charge guesses whether we’ll see death or boobs first in the scene. If the person is right, the others drink; if they’re wrong, they drink twice. “Look, you have like three seconds before—”

  We all turn at the sound of gore and screaming, and my eyebrows shoot up. “Well, I’ll be damned.” I turn to L, who has yet to crack a smile but is wearing a smug air. “They killed the freaking prostitute! L, you are a stinking genius. It’s totally both.”

  Ryan sets his nineteen-bazillion-dollar beer, Thank you, public-LA-venue prices, down on the ledge of the stadium-style seat in front of us, and throws up his hands. “It is not both! Boobs clearly came before death!”

  I hold up a hand, pointing at the scene, which is just about over. “No, it showed her from behind, right before . . .” I mime getting stuck through the chest with an arrow.

  “We need parameters. A time frame. It didn’t happen right at the exact same time.”

  “Drink up, loser.” The beer has loosened my mind and my tongue, and I gulp down another sip of Coors Light. This stuff is awful, but I’m not about to spend the money for craft stuff here. “L, are you sure you haven’t seen Game of Thrones more than once? You’re awfully good at this.”

  I narrow my eyes again, suspicious. “Ah-ha!” I declare, swiping his phone from beneath his thigh on the seat. “I bet you’ve been looking it up on wiki!”

  L rolls his eyes. “I’m not cheating. I just have a good sense for the dramatic.” His eyes flick over my shoulder. “Like how right now would be an appropriate moment to make a dramatic entrance.”

  I frown. “What—”

  “Hot-Lanta! How’s it?” L cuts me off, waving.

  I spin around to find my “sexy as hell, even in a rumpled work shirt” boyfriend climbing over the laps of people to get to the empty seat next to me.

  “I thought you weren’t going to make it!” I say, delighted he’s here. My spirits lift with the promise of an evening in his company. “They only just started!” I salute the screen with
my cup, sloshing beer over the side.

  Matteo gives L a fist bump. “Any more late-night TV gigs?”

  “Nah, just Jimmy Fallon’s show last week, and Kimmel the week before. I’m collecting Jimmys. What I really want is a call from James Corden for the trifecta . . . Guess I might need an agent to accomplish that, though.” He laughs off his own remark.

  It’s been an interesting few months after our SDCC escapade, what with L getting recognition from the lieutenant governor for heroic service to LA. He has a gold key to the city and everything—I’ve seen it, mounted up on the wall in his little cramped office at the salon.

  “L is a proper celebrity,” I drawl. And he is. While I’ve gotten a few interviews and Matteo’s division received an award from the station, Lawrence and his stage persona, Latifah, are the media darlings—Drag Queen Catches Killer and all that. I get why they’re all the rage. L makes a sparkling, witty, and entertaining guest, perfectly at home on the late-night circuit couches.

  Matteo eyes me. “Are you drunk?”

  “Nooooo,” I draw out the word, rolling my eyes. “Not drunk. Happy to see you, and happy to share Death and Boobies with you as a rite of passage.”

  Matteo blinks his hazel eyes at me as he sinks into the folding seat. “Uh . . . in public?” He runs a hand through his dark hair. Seven Gods, his hair looks so good. I want to put my fingers in it and give it a tug.

  I lean in, smacking my lips in what I hope is an entirely coquettish way. “Right here. Right now.” And before he can say anything else, I shove a red cup of beer right under his nose. “Now.” I sit back, prop my feet up on the seat in front of me, and motion to the screen. “The point of this game is simple. You guess which you see first in a scene. Death. Or boobies. If you’re right, we have to drink, but if you’re wrong—”