by David Stukas
“No, I’m afraid not, Robert. How are you doing?”
“I’m okay, I think. I don’t know what to do, really.”
“How about this? You and Marc have some breakfast, then call me and I’ll come over and maybe we can get this matter straightened out. How’s that sound?”
“Wonderful. I’ll have two eggs, toast, and three zombies—no ice.”
“Have a Bloody Mary and a helping of Marc and call me when you finish.”
“Monette,” I said, trying to set the record straight. “Nothing happened between Marc and me last night. You’d think that finding your business partner dead in your pool would make you hotter than Madonna in a room full of gay men, but he wasn’t in the mood. We just cuddled.”
“Aw, that sounds wonderful. Good for you. I cuddled with a pillow last night. That’s about as exciting as it got.”
I was about to hang up from Monette when Marc came into the bedroom, holding a piece of paper his hand. His jaw was open and he was as white as a sheet.
“Just a minute, Monette; hold on. Something’s happened,” I said, getting a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. “Marc? Marc? What is it? What’s wrong?”
Marc stood there, opening the piece of paper and dropping it in my hand without saying a single word. I opened the letter, and a pulse of adrenaline flooded through my body, my heart pounding so hard, I was sure it was going to shoot out of my chest and scuttle across the floor. I read the letter slowly, every word pushing up my pulse even higher. The message was simple and made of pasted letters cut out of a magazine:
YOU DiDN’t GeT tHe MessAGE?
YOU’rE NeXt!
I looked up at Marc, and he just stood there as if he had just been hit by lightning. I took a deep breath and picked up the phone.
“Monette?” I said. “I think you better come over here right away. And bring the police with you.”
Monette arrived a few minutes after the police. Marc was talking to the police out by the pool, so I let Monette into the living room, where she sat shaking her head.
“Well, isn’t that the damnest thing!” she said when I told her about the letter.
“What are we going to do?” I asked, fearing for Marc’s life. I was about to get the closest thing to a real, living, non-inflatable boyfriend that I had had in over a year, and now some fucking lunatic was trying to snuff him out, too. I thought this but didn’t say it.
“Let’s see,” Monette said, scratching her flaming-red head. “I guess that no matter what the police do, no one should leave Marc’s side—not even for a minute.”
“No problem there,” I replied.
“I said his side, not his backside. Now, did you get to see the letter before the police took it?”
“Yes.”
“What did it look like?”
“Like a piece of paper with words cut out of a magazine and pasted on the paper.”
“Robert, I could get an answer like that out of Michael. You’d think that having been through several murders already, you would have learned more from your training. You’re with the best, remember?”
Monette wasn’t far from the truth. In the past few years, I had become involved, through no choice of my own, in two murder cases, and she had solved both of them. Her uncanny ability to see the fire when everyone else was looking at the smoke came from her voracious reading of mystery novels. She claims to have read every mystery novel ever written, and one trip to her crowded apartment in Brooklyn would dispel all doubt to that claim. It was lined from floor to ceiling with shelves jammed with thousands of crime novels, from Agatha Christie to Umberto Eco. She also gives some credit to being raised Irish Catholic—she says it made her suspicious of everything and everyone. Hers was a talent wasted working as a graphic designer for the Endangered Herbs Society of America, but so was mine. I hoped that my talents would someday make me a great author or at least a halfway decent courtesan.
I looked at Monette, who was staring out toward the pool, as if the answer to Rex’s murder would slosh out and run over her. “So I’m sure you’ve got some suspects in mind already, right?”
“No, no, too early. Plus, I just don’t have enough information about possible suspects yet, and unless we blackmail someone in the police department to let us in on what they find, we might be nowhere.”
“Blackmail?” I asked.
“Yes, it worked twice before. On that guy in Provincetown and what’s-his-name in Berlin.”
“I forgot his name. It doesn’t matter; I get your point.”
Monette clapped her hands as if she were focusing her energy on picking up an engine block by herself. “Okay, now, did you find any signs that the body was dragged to the pool?”
“No. I checked around the pool. No heel marks or scratches from belt buckles or anything like that.”
“Very good, Robert. I wanted you to put your catastrophizing mind to good use and imagine the worst that could happen—which is where your mind naturally goes. You’re turning into a good little detective! Good. Now, what signs would you look for outside the gate, assuming there wasn’t a sidewalk there?”
“No, no sidewalk. I checked the grass to see if it had been flattened or showed signs of a heavy object being dragged across it.”
“Good. I’m sure if Rex was dragged to the pool from outside the backyard, the coroner would find grass in Rex’s belt or shoes—information that we need to know. What else can you tell me?”
“For one, the coroner tested the pool water to see if it was electrified.”
“Electrified?”
“Well not electrified, but with electric current running through it.”
“How did you know that?” Monette asked.
“He stuck his finger in the water real fast and then pulled it back. I couldn’t figure out at the time what he was doing, but when one of the cops showed Marc an extension cord and asked if it was his, I knew what they were after.”
“Was it a thick, appliance-duty-gauge cord.”
“Yes, orange and with three prongs—I could see water dripping out of the holes.”
“Okay, Robert. We can assume a few things. So far it looks like Rex came here—or was lured here—by someone who wanted to kill him quietly and without a lot of witnesses. It’s quiet up here in the Cove—the perfect place to do it. Our suspect probably wasn’t a strong person, either.”
“And how, pray tell, did you come to that conclusion, madame?”
“Mademoiselle.”
“Have it your way. How do you know that?”
“ ‘Mademoiselle’ is used for a younger woman.”
“No, not that, Monette. How do you know that the murderer is a ninety-pound weakling?”
“Funny you should use that term, because one possible suspect is Darlene Waldron—among others. Take Rex first. The guy was big and had some very decent muscles on him. Very few people are going to be able to overpower Rex.”
“How about Leo?” I asked.
“That’s possible, too. I’m not sure what the motive would be, but you’d be surprised at how often the reason to commit murder isn’t obvious—to the untrained mind. I’ll tell you what I think happened, but this could all change when more facts and motives are uncovered.”
“Shoot—er, continue.”
“All righty. I think that Rex came here of his own will, or rather, that he was going to meet someone here—someone that he knew. He may have come to talk, but my guess is that he came here to pay off the person who was threatening him. He pays the person off, and that man or woman pushes him into the pool and takes an extension cord plugged in ahead of time and tosses the free end into the pool. Even with a circuit breaker, Rex gets enough electricity to knock him out, where he soon drowns. The killer turns the pool lights on now so that Marc sees the body when he comes home.”
“So you think that Rex was trying to pay off this person—persons?” I grilled Monette.
“If I were a partner in T-Rex Productions, I would look into
their checking account right away, because I think Rex made a big withdrawal recently—and the killer made a withdrawal from Rex.”
“So you think he gave in and tried to pay someone off so the Red Party could go on?”
“I’d lay money on it. C’mon, I don’t care how tough Rex tried to come off, but it all went out the window when someone cut a tree down on his bedroom and blew up his outdoor grill.”
“And tried to drop a boulder on him. Don’t forget that.”
“Yes, the rock, too. Three attempts on his life, all planned to scare the shit out of him, yet none intended to kill him. After all, why kill the goose that lays the golden eggs?”
“That’s exactly what Sergeant Big Arms said the other day.”
“Sergeant Big Arms?” Monette said, almost laughing.
“Let me guess: a cop with big biceps—something Michael would find irresistible. And let me make one more guess: Michael’s all over him like a redneck on a six-pack? By the way, where is Michael?”
“You told me he didn’t come home last night, remember?”
“Do you think he’s with Sergeant Big Arms?”
“It’s very possible.”
Marc finished talking with the police and joined us.
“So what are the police going to do?” Monette asked.
“They advised me to stay home and they’d assign an officer to protect me twenty-four hours a day. Plus, they agreed to keep the matter of Rex’s murder quiet for right now. After all, we can’t afford a stampede of ticket cancellations—we owe too much to vendors, suppliers, everyone. I guess I can handle some of the Red Party setup by phone. If the setup crew runs into problems, they can call me ... or Leo. By the way, I didn’t have a chance to thank Leo much at the party last night. In fact, now that I think of it, I didn’t see much of him at all.”
Monette and I looked at each other, thinking the same thing. Hmm, an interesting observation.
Marc continued innocently on. “So do you have any suspects in mind, Monette?”
“I’ll try not to make this sound like a mystery novel cliché, but those at the top of the list are those who stand to gain the most from Rex’s death. Darlene Waldron, Brian Keeper, Kip Savage, and Martin Stevers would be up near the top. Vince, perhaps.”
“Vince? I just can’t imagine that.”
“If he stands to inherit a substantial amount from Rex’s estate, then he’s a suspect. Not a suspect as much as Kip Savage and the rest of the White Party people are.”
“Robert says that you’ve solved two mysteries before, so do I take it that you’re going to solve this one?”
Monette turned to me and saw me holding my hands together in prayer and giving her sad face number 43.
“Yes, I’ll help. After all, I’ll do anything to help Robert and any friend of his.”
I gave a hug to Monette, then one to Marc while I whispered in his ear that he’d be okay now. Marc suggested that we sit down and have breakfast, since it was probably a good idea that he remain in the police-protected privacy of his house as much as possible. Among the three of us, we cooked quite an impressive brunch and talked about the particulars of this case. I remembered seeing Rex get two cell phone calls at the party last night, and described in detail the range of emotions that crossed Rex’s face as he got the calls.
“So you’re saying that he seemed really happy until he got the first call?” Monette asked. She was already piecing the facts together.
“Yes. Everything’s hunky-dory until he gets the call; then wham! Face goes down like a deflated beach ball. Then he looks like he’s kind of getting his strength together and heading off to meet the bad guys with a smile on his face. Then, second call and down goes the face, and he turns whiter than Michael Jackson.”
“Interesting. You know what this could mean?”
Marc and I looked at each other. Nothing.
“What it could mean,” Monette explained, “is that anyone who was at the party couldn’t have been the murderer, because they couldn’t call Rex, since they were at the party.”
“What about calling from another cell phone?” I suggested. “I saw Jimmy Garboni talking on a cell phone. I think that Martin Stevers was, too.”
Monette shook her head, dismissing that theory completely. “No, too risky, because it would leave a record, one cell phone to another. No, I think it was either someone else we don’t know about yet, or someone had an accomplice helping. Two people, or there could be more. There’s so much that I don’t know. So many people, so many connections. I’m just worried about getting my hands on information that might be difficult to get. After all, you can’t always depend on blackmail to find things out.”
Marc’s face lit up. “I’ve got just the person to help you, Monette. Actually, two people: Clifford and Grayson.”
“Clifford and Grayson?” Monette repeated. “Don’t tell me there are parents out there mean enough to give two kids names like those?”
“I suppose so,” Marc answered. “I don’t think they were named Jim and Mike and purposely changed them to Clifford and Grayson.”
“Good point,” Monette conceded.
“Clifford and Grayson know everyone in town. Nothing goes on in this town without them knowing about it first. They can get doors to open all over town for you. Plus, Grayson is the empress dowager of the Most Imperial and Hierarchical Order of Almost-Vestal Virgins.”
“Oh, in that case, it would be tasteless to say no to the grand duchess of . . .” Monette mocked.
“The empress dowager of the Most Imperial and Hierarchical Order of Almost-Vestal Virgins. It’s the closest thing to a royalty there is in the world of drag.”
Monette still didn’t believe Marc, and to be honest, I wasn’t quite ready to buy his story, either.
“Is this some kind of practical joke?” Monette asked, looking around for a hidden camera.
Marc knitted his eyebrows. “I don’t quite understand. A practical joke? Grayson?”
“Robert and I play these practical jokes on each other. I don’t know when it started, but from that moment on, it’s just escalated out of control. It’s just that neither of us know when the other one is going to spring something, so we’re always on guard, and this sounds like I’m being set up.”
“No, I don’t know what you’re talking about. There really is a Clifford and Grayson, and Grayson is the empress dowager of the Most Imperial and Hierarchical Order of Almost-Vestal Virgins. I’ll give him a call and see if they can talk to you today.”
Monette looked disappointed that she hadn’t spoiled one of my nefarious plots. “Okay, we’ll go see him if you can get us an audience with His Highness.”
“You’ll like him. He’s a real hoot. So is his lover, Clifford. They live in an all-pink house.”
Monette stared into her empty glass of champagne and said, “This is turning out to be the weirdest vacation I’ve ever been on. Even stranger than the Festival of Womyn, in the woods of Michigan, where my tentmate was a woman who swore she was the reincarnation of Sylvia Plath—I guess that’s why whenever I fired up the camp stove; she was always trying to put her head in it.”
By the time we finished our brunch and cleared the table, it was twelve-thirty. As Marc was loading the dishwasher, he asked Monette if she really thought it was possible that a T-Rex partner could have done Rex in.
“It’s certainly possible,” she remarked. “You, Leo, anyone. Or Vince, even.”
“I really can’t see Leo doing such a thing, but he’d have a right to. Not to speak ill of the dead, but Rex would really rip into Leo, treating him like he was a dumb-shit because he was a bodybuilder. I guess that could give him some motivation—that and a few million dollars.”
The phone rang. It could be the killer making a telephone threat, so I took the call to protect Marc. Monette and Marc were still discussing the possibility of Leo being Rex’s murderer when I put my hand over the mouthpiece of the phone and said they could rule out Leo as a suspe
ct.
“Why is that?” Monette asked.
“Because he’s dead. And get this: Michael Stark said he killed him.”
8
I Shot Him with My Love Gun
Monette and I rushed over to Leo’s, but the paramedics had beaten us to the punch. They had conducted their investigation and were wheeling Leo the Late out to their truck when we drove up to the house. Michael was inside and was telling the police everything he knew—and then some. Monette and I sat back, listening quietly and biting our tongues.
“... so I was fucking him and his eyes rolled back and his tongue shot out and he died. Let me tell you, it’s not the first time, either—I’m trying to be humble here, but I’m good,” Michael confessed in earnest. “Ask any good-looking gay man in the capitals of the world. They’ll tell you.”
“I see,” Sergeant Big Arms said, scribbling furiously into a small notebook. “The best in the world.”
“Well, I wouldn’t say that, but I’m pretty much up there with the best.”
“So you say that this has happened before, Mr. Stark?”
“Oh, yes, quite a few times. They just get too excited and poof, their heart gives out. Of course, some of them were doing poppers like they were aromatherapy.”
“Poppers?” the Sergeant asked.
“Amyl nitrite. Or butyl nitrite. You sniff them and your head goes flying.”
“I understand what they are and what they do, Mr. Stark. Was either of you doing amyl during the course of your lovemaking?”
“No, I never use illegal substances,” Michael said, lying through his teeth and causing Monette and me to cough violently. “No, neither of us were doing amyl. Leo was pretty natural, if you didn’t count the steroids he does—did.”
“How can you be sure Mr. Thomas took steroids?”
“C’mon, Sergeant. Look at the muscles the guy had. You don’t look like that unless you’re juicing. I should know. Plus, did you look at his balls, Sergeant?”