The Queen Con (The Golden Arrow Mysteries Book 2)

by Meghan Scott Molin

  Two of Ryan’s gaming crew showed up, as well as Harrison, Daniel’s business partner in the dance studio. And more than several of Latifah’s queen gang are in attendance. We are a motley crew, to be sure.

  Paige has finished painting the pink of the figurehead’s dress bodice and starts attaching one of many feather boas that will provide an adequately ridiculous neckline for our masthead. She accepts my thanks for her attendance with her usual deadpan grace. “And miss all this? I wouldn’t dream of it. It’s the price I’m paying to look like a team player.”

  I laugh; I liken her to April from Parks and Recreation, only with much better makeup and hair. Prickly, but lovable once you understand she is mostly bark and probably only slightly prone to biting.

  A short Filipino guy approaches me with a huge stack of orange-and-black, shiny garlands. I recognize him as one of the performers whose drag persona was onstage with Latifah in the superhero lip-sync-off. “Where do you think this goes?”

  “That’s a good question.” I consult the sketch that I found in Lawrence’s stack of Halloween Party stuff on his desk. It’s woefully behind schedule, and I’m totally making it up when I tell him, “Ah, yeah, says here that it’s going to wrap around the wiring for the letters on the side. Let’s do ‘Love’ in the orange, and ‘Yourself’ in the black.”

  “Okay,” he agrees, then looks down at the stack. “Do you think there’s enough of it here?”

  “Definitely.” No idea.

  He walks off, and I look up to find Paige watching me. “Such BS.”

  “Shh.” It’s uncanny how good Paige is at reading people. I look around to make sure the guy hasn’t heard us. Luckily, he’s off, staring at the wires on the side of the flatbed trailer that makes up the base of the float. I’ll let him engineer how to get the garland on. Queens are nothing if not crafty and inventive, on balance. Far better as a breed than comic book writers, who definitely should not be put in charge of a house-size DIY craft.

  Other than a minor squabble about our working music, everything has gone much better than I worried, if I am being honest. It seemed like a recipe for disaster, probably involving some enthusiastic-but-underqualified drag queens and artists, one flatbed trailer, enough papier-mâché to cover the Ark, and copious glue fumes inside an industrial strip mall.

  Instead, the people who responded to my emergency email this week have been helpful, focused, and entirely concerned about Lawrence. I’ve told no less than fourteen people that no, we haven’t been allowed in for more than five minutes, and that each time I’ve been in, he’s been asleep. The doctors assure me he’s making progress, but it’s so terrifying, picturing this being it for Lawrence.

  The smell of pizza breaks through my thoughts, and Paige and I both sit up at the same moment.

  “I smell pizza,” she says appreciatively.

  “Me too. Who on earth thought to bring manna from heaven with them?” I was wrong when I thought my four boxes of Wheat Thins and sad veggie tray would be enough for the volunteers.

  “I’ve brought dinner, you shady bitches,” comes a singsong voice from around the largest stack of pizzas I’ve seen outside of a comic book. It’s seriously maybe eight boxes high, and it must weigh a pretty penny.

  My joy at seeing such a delicious and calorically dense vision is dampened only by my realization that I know that voice. It’s Cleopatra.

  A fairly curvy Latino man appears from behind the boxes, recognizable even out of character. His large eyes even still have lash extensions. He’s wearing a black mock turtleneck and black leggings, so I decide I’m looking at Cleopatra Lite. Cleo sets the pizzas on one of the folding tables in the middle of the room, moving bags of random float-making supplies to make way for dinner, and the float-makers fall on it like a pack of hyenas.

  Ryan surfaces from whatever mechanical endeavor he’s been working on in the interior of the float. I don’t even know what he’s working on—that’s our divvy. I take the exterior and the aesthetic stuff, Ryan is coordinating the vendors and necessities for the workings of the interior of the float where the people will actually . . . What does one do from inside a float? Preside? Exude pomp and circumstance? Princess-wave? In any case, Ryan is covered in dust and grease—I hope he’s planning on staying or at least changing at Lelani’s . . . I don’t want it in our upstairs shower.

  My feelings are at war with themselves. On one hand: hot pizza, starving body. On the other hand: Cleopatra. But maybe these are an olive branch. Surely eating free pizza isn’t like signing a contract with the devil, right?

  Paige suffers no such odds with her loyalty. She’s already got a slice of veggie and a slice of meat-lovers balanced in her lap.

  Hunger wins out, and I dive for the paper towel roll that serves as plates. While I’m picking up my two slices of Hawaiian—pineapple absolutely belongs on a pizza, and I will die on that hill—Cleopatra ambushes me from behind the stack of pizzas.

  “MG, hey, girl, how’s it going?”

  “Good,” I mouth around my first bite—the cheese is gooey and the perfect edible temperature without being cold. In short, it’s perfection, and I don’t want to waste my precious perfect-pizza-temperature time talking. “Thanks for bringing the pizza.” Which sounds an awful lot like thmm brng piz-hur because my mouth is full.

  “You’re welcome. I told my benefactor I was coming tonight—well, never mind. I didn’t want to win my little bet with Latifah this way. Consider this a peace offering from me, personally. When one in our community is hurt, we all feel it.” The words seem genuine. Plus, she lost one of her own drag family just a few weeks ago; maybe it’s made her more sensitive.

  I reach out a hand impulsively. “I’m sorry about Louis, and I’m sorry I didn’t reach out when it happened.”

  A cloud passes over Cleo’s face . . . a flash of bitterness, sorrow, and something else waits just beneath the sunny surface of her persona. “We’ve had a tough week. You tell Lateetee that we’re all living for her, okay?”

  Something about her bearing cracks, and I furrow my brows. She looks close to tears. Which is so unexpected, tears prick my own eyes before I realize what is happening. I clear my throat. “I, ah—I will.”

  There’s a long beat where Cleo looks like she’s about to say something to me. Her mouth opens, and she closes it again, so I wait. Finally, she seems to settle on, “How is she? Really?”

  All trace of Cleo’s normal character has vanished, and beneath the concealer and carefully applied bronzer, I swear she’s pale. And I think I can see circles under her eyes, artfully concealed with more stage makeup. This . . . realness throws me.

  “Latifah—Lawrence—is alive. He’ll recover, they think.” I keep it vague, but I do want to put her mind at ease.

  It seems to do just that, and her shoulders drop a little, though the tightness doesn’t leave her face. It looks like she’s trying so hard to keep her typical aloof countenance and failing. It’s eerie.

  She clears her throat. “I’m glad to hear that. Too many people have gotten hurt who shouldn’t have.”

  Again, I have the gut reaction that there’s more to her words than the surface. It’s almost as if . . . there’s ownership there. True, Louis was in her family, and it hits close to home. But is her ownership of Lawrence’s attack purely from a shared-community place? Surely she couldn’t have had anything to do with it. Drag queens may throw shade, but they generally prefer to slay on the stage. In the end, it’s a competitive community, but they love each other.

  Cleo seems nervous with my silence. “No one has come forward or anything? No one . . . knows . . . anything?”

  Again, my warning lights go off. This conversation is just . . . off. Beyond mere concern I can’t help but wonder if I’m hearing guilt. Maybe Cleo knows something about who attacked L and is afraid to share. I shake my head slowly. “No, no one has come forward claiming to know anything . . . do you know anyone who could help the police?”

  My outright ques
tion seems to shake Cleo to her pointy-toed boots. She hastily shakes her head. “I don’t. Certainly not. But, um”—she presses her lips together—“I’ll keep my ears open, okay? I don’t want anyone else to get hurt.”

  My truth meter pings this time. Cleo may be shifty, but she’s being truthful. She’s going to be looking out for the queens. I’m about to press further when Ryan settles in beside me, his plate heaped with pizza. He makes no excuse, just sits down with our shoulders touching, nods to Paige in greeting, and then starts shoveling food into his mouth like he’s been locked in some foodless dungeon for a year.

  I spare a glance for Ryan, wondering how much to say. “L’s doctors have been amazing; I don’t think we’re clear yet on his recovery. We’re going there tonight to visit; hopefully we’ll know more soon.”

  I expect Ryan’s appearance to scare Cleo off, but she seems to have regained some of her composure.

  Instead of leaving, she grabs some pizza, skirts the table, and settles herself next to Ryan. Which goes over about as well as the reboot where Supes and Lois Lane aren’t an item. Ryan tosses me a panicked “Help!” look and commences inching closer to me. I get it. This is L’s nemesis. But there’s something different about her tonight, something I’m not quite ready to write off so quickly as a game.

  “Do they know what happened? Everyone’s speculating wildly.”

  Ah. She’s apparently after gossip. But . . . speculating wildly? Wouldn’t a car accident or something be more plausible? I ask what craziness people have come up with, and purposefully shut my mouth to let her inner Gossip Girl go.

  “Oh, you know queens, they love to talk. Someone said that Latifah went after the Golden Arrow to get the reward offered by police.”

  That’s so uncomfortably close to the truth, I choke on my pizza.

  Ryan gives me an alarmed warning look and schools his own features. He claps me on the back, and gives a big laugh like he’s joining me in a joke. “Oh man, I agree, that’s ridiculous.”

  I gain control of my esophagus. “People are just too inventive. It’s much more mundane than that, I promise.” Ryan and I haven’t invented a cover story because our goal is to just not talk about it. “But I’ll send along your well wishes.”

  Paige’s eyebrows shoot up, and she studies me. I fear her BS meter has picked up on my falsehoods. Even more of a reason to move this conversation along.

  I turn to Ryan as casually as I can. “So, how’s the inside of the float coming?”

  Thankfully following my train of thought, Ryan latches on to the change in conversation. “Pretty good, I think. I got the platform for the fountain secured and the lines in place to cycle the water.”

  “Fountain, what now? This thing has a fountain?” L had settled on the idea of a cruise ship—sort of a nod to Princess Cruises, where there’s a prow of a boat, a wood-lined exterior, and all things nautical—navy-themed dancers, water-inspired costumes, everything.

  Ryan tosses me a quizzical look. “Yeah, we have that fountain thing designed by one of the sponsors. There’s that on one end, and then the fake catwalk at the other end with the railing so that we can have everyone who wears a tiara and a sash just stand and wave. The catwalk is provided by another sponsor, and the hair and makeup for everyone on the float is done the morning of by several sponsors. That’s why we need all that room for signs on the exterior.”

  At my alarmed look, Ryan rolls his eyes. “You are leaving room for the sponsor signs on the side that doesn’t have the words, right?”

  No. “Of course.” I make a mental note to go unstaple the garland that I’d started putting up earlier. I’d wondered why one side of the float was completely blank.

  “You all have a lot of work to do in a week,” Cleopatra observes, watching Ry and me like we’re some sort of tennis match.

  “Yeah, well, we’ll figure it all out,” I say, pasting a smile on my face.

  “How is the actual event planning going? I mean, assuming you get to that part.” She looks pointedly at the piles of unused float decoration and the half-finished interior of the boat.

  “Fine Totally fine.” Waves of anxiety batter the walls I’ve put in place in my head to keep me sane. One step at a time. Losing both the people responsible for this event the week it goes off isn’t exactly fine timing, and I feel like Ryan and I deserve a damn medal for not just canceling it.

  At this lie, Paige just outright snorts. She covers it with a small cough and says something about going to throw away the trash, then rolls to the big trash can in the corner of the space.

  “Yeah, okay, we’re a little behind,” I admit.

  Cleopatra presses her lips together, oddly hesitant. She’s dropped a lot of her regained bravado; her persona thins again, where I can glimpse the human beneath the character. “I thought that might be the case. It was always the plan, but I’d like to help out. For Lateetee. For myself.”

  I blink. Help us out? “Help, like how?” And what the hell does she mean, it was always the plan? There’s no way to check right now, but I have a hard time picturing Latifah graciously accepting Cleo’s help. And yet . . . I know almost nothing about this event; I suppose it could be possible. The event is all about presenting a united front for queendom kind.

  “I’d like to take over planning the event portion for you, given the circumstances. You already know I throw a wicked party, and you know I’m the only queen who could pull this off.”

  It’s true that her last party was epic. But her last party also was where I was thrown out and L thought he narrowly avoided getting beaten up. I decide against mentioning it. This has all the feel of a Scooby-Doo trap, but Cleopatra has a point. She can plan a mean party, and I am completely overwhelmed, putting together the float, much less getting the venue decorated and volunteers organized. And there’s this . . . uncomfortable realness behind the offer. Perhaps Cleopatra is really shaken up and wants to reach out. I can’t truly turn away someone’s honest attempt at righting a wrong, can I?

  Ryan is already shaking his head, and I can see the word “no” forming on his lips. He’d missed our previous conversation and probably one hundred percent suspects Cleo’s motives to be questionable. Truth be told, I should too, but here I am, cutting off Ryan’s answer with one of my own.

  “We do need the help, and you do know how to plan a party.”

  Ryan throws me a look that suggests he thinks my brains have been eaten by the walking dead.

  I look back, trying my best to communicate, No, dude, we really need the help. “Ah, Cleopatra says this was the plan all along, Ry.”

  Cleo looks decidedly uncomfortable, and the moment stretches into silence while Ryan and I have an eye duel. I win with a silent, This is Lawrence’s thing; let’s not mess up his plans. And Ryan throws up his hands like I’ve dealt the killing blow. “Fine.”

  “We’d appreciate your help, is what Ryan means.” I hold up a finger and look around, finally locating my messenger bag over near the float. Within a minute I have produced one of my business cards and hold it out to Cleopatra. “Here’s my contact information; can you email me how to get ahold of you and provide me with a list of questions you have? I’ll forward everything I have on the event and venue.”

  Her smile falters but finally settles on genuinely pleased. “Sounds perfect. I have so many ideas.”

  God help me, but I believe her. And at the very least, this counts as “keep your enemies closer,” I guess. “So, are you here to help beyond bringing food?”

  Cleopatra gives a husky smoker’s laugh that says she thinks I’m amusing. The old Cleopatra is back. “Oh, honey, I don’t do manual labor.” She eyes Ryan appreciatively. “Although maybe I should hang out and supervise.”

  “If you’re here, I’ll put you to work,” Ryan says, pushing to his feet.

  Cleopatra is there for the punch line. “Oh, I’d love for you to put me to work, honey—”

  “O-kay.” I interrupt Cleopatra before she can elaborate
by clapping my hands and standing up. “Dinnertime is over. Let’s all pile up our garbage so we can clean up.”

  Ryan picks up the stack of sketches for whatever monstrosity he’s working on in the back of the trailer. Now that I catch sight of it, the shape of the fountain seems familiar to me. I snatch it out of his hand and study it, turning it this way and that. If I squint my left eye . . . It hits me. This sketch looks like that axonometric sketch in Casey’s journal.

  Ryan’s gaze is questioning, but I just sit right back down to think, head in my hands, nail tapping my teeth. Why would a sketch of this be in Casey’s journal?

  “MG? Are you okay?”

  Ryan’s voice interrupts my thoughts.

  Crumbs scatter onto the floor as I brush my hands off and turn to Cleopatra. “I think there’s a dumpster out back; I don’t think the dance studio will care.”

  One well-drawn eyebrow raises sardonically. “I do not do dishes or pick up garbage.” She glances at her phone again, her brow furrowing. If I had to label her swing in demeanor, I’d say she was nervous about the message that just came through. “Actually, I have to run; I have to go talk to someone.” She wiggles her fingers distractedly and heads for the door.

  Well, okay then. I roll my eyes at her. I’m left no option but to call after her retreating figure, “We’ll talk soon!”

  “I’ll help you with these,” Ryan says, reappearing at my side. The look he’s giving Cleopatra isn’t a nice one. “I think we need to be careful about getting into bed with that one, if you don’t mind the metaphor.”

  “Not my type,” I say automatically. “But yeah, I know what you mean. Something’s up, but I think she’s really upset about L.”

  Ryan hesitates, then shakes his head. He reaches out and hands me several empty pizza boxes. “I’ll take the rest; let’s get these outside.”

  I grasp the pizza boxes, keeping them as far away from my graphic tee as possible, and follow Ry out the back door of the building and into the dark parking lot beyond. It’s sketchy for sure, one flickering streetlight for three businesses illuminates an almost-empty expanse, with broken pavement and black puddles from the recent rain.