by David Stukas
“Not particularly. Why, Mr. Stark?”
“If you’re juicing, your balls shrink. His were so small I could easily get them both in my mouth.”
The sergeant coughed uncomfortably as if someone were squeezing his. He stared intently at his notebook, then flipped the pages furiously back and forth. I could tell he wasn’t looking for any fact in particular—he was looking for some excuse to change the line of questioning. “Now, tell me, after your bout of all-night lovemaking, what exactly did you do after you went to sleep?”
“I woke up,” Michael answered.
(I could just hear the thoughts running through Michael’s mind: “Boy, is this cop dumb. What would any person do after they sleep? Sheesh!”)
“No, after you woke up. Did you eat, or go out for a run or something like that?”
“Oh, I didn’t think Leo would be doing a lot of running after last night. In fact, I’d be surprised if he could walk,” Michael said proudly. “Let’s see, we got up and had a light breakfast.”
Sergeant Big Arms: “Could you tell me what that breakfast consisted of?”
“An egg-white omelet, two slices of cantaloupe, and a potato with fat-free sour cream.”
“Good,” the sergeant continued. “Then what?”
“We fucked some more,” came the reply.
“Yes ... then?”
“He said he had to go to the gym in two hours. So he had a protein shake, and he wanted to get fucked again. That’s the way these bodybuilders are—they act all tough in the gym, but get ‘em home and they’ve got their legs up in the air faster than you can say ‘Take it, boy!”’
Another uncomfortable clearing of the throat. “You just said Mr. Thomas had a protein shake, but you did not. Did you have one of these protein shakes?”
“No.”
“But you two had the same things for breakfast. Is that correct?”
“Well, not exactly. He had his own plate and I had mine.”
“That’s not exactly what I meant, Mr. Stark. What I meant to say was, did you both eat the same thing?”
“No, I told you that we had separate plates!” Michael replied, getting a little irritated, undeservedly so.
The sergeant stopped to gather his breath and his patience. “What I meant was, did you both have ...” he said, checking in his notebook for the facts, “an egg-white omelet, two slices of cantaloupe, and a potato?”
“Three slices of cantaloupe,” Michael replied. “Leo had two.”
As Monette and I almost bit our tongues in half, the sergeant looked out the living room windows to the pool, probably wondering why he didn’t listen to his father and go into real estate instead. Rescuing hostages from a bank robbery was one thing, but trying to coax facts out of a self-absorbed Megaslut who could be outwitted by a tossed salad was another.
“Mr. Stark, could you show me the ingredients Mr. Thomas used to make this protein shake?”
Michael opened a tall cupboard that was cram-packed with bodybuilding supplements, and pointed to a ten-gallon container of whey protein powder.
“Thank you, Mr. Stark. That will be all.”
Michael gave us both a quick hello wave, then sat down across from us.
Monette was off and running. “The sergeant suspects poison,” she remarked, leaning toward the two of us. “I would too. It would be so easy. The house was full of people last night, and anyone could have waltzed into the kitchen, opened the cupboard, and dumped poison into his protein powder.”
“Wait a minute!” I exclaimed. “Remember last night, when I was asking Leo about his workout and eating routines? He remarked that someone had asked him the same thing!”
“He didn’t say who it was, did he?” Monette queried.
“No, no, he didn’t,” I said.
“Shit! I guess we’ll never know now, will we? Damn!” Monette stared off into space; then her face lit up. “Robert, you didn’t see him talking to anyone last night?”
“I didn’t even see him until he came up to us and threw his arms around us. No, I don’t remember anyone in particular.”
Monette was crestfallen.
“So what do we do now?” I asked.
Michael spoke up. “I don’t know about you two, but I’m taking a shower ASAP. I gotta get that dead guy’s smell off of me!”
“Michael, it’s just so touching when you get sentimental like that,” I said, wiping away an imaginary tear with my hand.
“Now, don’t go painting me as some kind of insensitive clod. We Starks just don’t wear our hearts on our sleeves.”
“No, because you’ve got a round of ammunition strapped there. Michael, if you had it your way, you’d shoot Leo’s corpse out of a cannon to get rid of it quickly, just so you could pop open the champagne and get on with the party.”
“That is not true, Robert, and you know that. Just because my mother threw a big party two days after she buried my father, people assume the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
I was aghast. “Your mother threw a party two days after your father’s funeral? You never told me that!”
“Well, I’m sorry that I told you now. Besides, she and my father didn’t exactly get along,” Michael added, trying to justify away family behavior that put the Medicis to shame. “She’s not the ice queen that you make her out to be, Robert. She was very emotional over my father’s death. In fact, she went into hysterics at the graveside, laughing so hard, I had to pull her off the grave myself and lead her back to the car.”
I didn’t know what to say. Neither did Monette, who sat there with her mouth open, halfway between being stunned and exploding in laughter herself.
I decided to make amends. “I’m sorry that I ever doubted you mother’s intentions, and I will completely forget the fact that she made two attempts on my life the one and only time I stayed at your ancestral home in Newport, Rhode Island.”
“Can I help it if you’re not used to walking on marble?” Michael fired back.
“I was pushed down the staircase by your mother, Michael—plain and simple.”
“She said she saw you slipping and she reached out to grab you and keep you from falling.”
“Then I suppose that when she tried to bean me with a four-hundred-pound painting of herself, it was an accident?”
“It’s an old house, Robert. Things just give out sometimes,” Michael reasoned.
“For fucking crying out loud,” Monette interjected. “You sound like two lesbians on the first day of a Rainbow whale cruise of the Blowholes of Alaska.”
“He started it,” I said, pointing at Michael.
“I did not!” Michael cried.
“Okay, we’ll behave, Monette,” I promised. “As long as he keeps his hands on his side of the sofa,” I said, drawing an imaginary line down the middle of the cushion. Michael’s hand darted over on my side, testing our treaty to the limits. I hit at his hand, pushing it back into his own territory while Monette tried her damnedest not to laugh. What are friends for if you can’t act juvenile once in a while?
“I can’t believe this,” Monette said, chuckling. “Two people are dead and we’re sitting here laughing and having a gay old time. Life is just too absurd sometimes.”
“What do you mean sometimes?” I commented. “I think we need to release a little tension. There’s an honest-to-goodness murderer in our midst, and we can’t seem to figure out where he or she will strike next. It’s frustrating.”
“I think it’s high time we found out who’s behind all of this. C’mon, you two; let’s go.”
“Where?” I asked.
“Back to the casa grande. If anyone knew Rex, it was Vince. I think he could shed a lot of light on this whole mess. Or ...” Monette said, her voice pausing long enough for me to ask the obligatory question.
“Or what?” I asked.
“Or have him confirm the fact that he’s a number one suspect,” she said.
9
Let the Games Begin!
/> When we arrived back at Rex’s house, we found Vince sitting on the porch overlooking the pool, martini in hand, staring off into the distance and doing something that I wouldn’t think a close friend of a dead person would be doing: smiling. Because I only saw him in a state of perpetual motion, his smiling but motionless body seemed dead, and for a fraction of a second, I thought that this might be true—the killer had struck again. But as Monette and I approached him and I laid my hand on his, I saw him blink. He was alive.
“Vince, is there anything we can do for you?”
“No. I’ve taken care of everything. I’m having Rex cremated, and the memorial service will be next month—after the Red Party goes down as the biggest sensation in gay history.”
“How are you handling Rex’s ... thing?” I asked gently.
“Fine, fine. Rex is on a different plane now.”
“American Airlines?” I asked, not quite getting what Vince was talking about.
“No, the plane of the next world. That’s where Rex’s soul is.”
“Oh.” I began to wonder what plane Vince was on right now. Maybe he was not on a plane at all but had instead gotten on a bus years ago and ridden it to the end of the line, which ended up in a cornfield.
“I’m not worried that Rex has passed on. In fact, I am glad for him. I’m sure he’s much happier now.”
I looked at Monette and shrugged my shoulders. What were we supposed to do? Throw a bucket of cold water on him?
“Vince, Monette and I are here to make sure that the Red Party is a success and that we catch whoever it is who did this to Rex. We’d like to ask you some questions, if you don’t mind.” As I said this, I reminded myself that Vince was indeed a suspect, and a very good one at that. Our line of questioning would either absolve him of that title or merely cement it. But you had to start somewhere.
“Go ahead,” Vince said, still smiling with the gods in the next dimension.
I looked over at Monette, waiting for her to start. Once she did, I would jump in where necessary.
“Vince, is there anyone in your mind that stands out as the kind of person who would murder Rex?” she asked.
“Plenty of people. Darlene Waldron for one. I hear she’s got money trouble, and I’m sure she wouldn’t hesitate to eliminate any competitors.”
“Who told you that Darlene has money problems?”
“Rex. He heard it through the party production grapevine that Clothes Circuit was outselling her, plus some Internet sales thing of hers went bust.”
“That’s very interesting, Vince. That could help a lot. Who else?”
“Jimmy Garboni, because Rex wouldn’t deal with him. He said that you have to grease too many palms when you work with Jimmy, and it costs too much to throw a party. He also said that once you give in and work with him, you’re hooked. Then if Jimmy doesn’t like you using some other supplier, his workers can purposely slow stuff down just when you need things fast. Jimmy’s threatened Rex before, too. Plenty of times. But Rex always called his bluff.”
“Interesting. Anyone else?”
“This could take all night. Martin Stevers is one person who comes to mind.” More smiling.
“Why is that, Vince?”
“Rex and Martin go way back. A few years ago, Rex got a bill from Martin that was way out of line. Thousands of dollars. Martin said there were all kinds of last-minute changes. Rex paid up even though it wasn’t the way he did business. Then, next time they work together, Rex gets a bill that’s hundreds of thousands over the original estimate. Same story again. Martin points to all kinds of last-minute changes, additions—stuff like that. So Rex refused to pay and Martin sued him—and lost. That incident caused a lot of bad blood between them. I wouldn’t put it past Martin to extort money out of Rex and put the Red Party in the red, then kill Rex just to even the score. It would be quite a coup for Martin, the lousy maggot.”
“Vince,” Monette said, “you haven’t mentioned Kip or Brian. Why is that?”
“Because they wouldn’t stoop to anything like that. I know Kip Savage and Brian Keeper.”
“But how do you know for sure?” I asked.
“Because they helped us the whole way. In fact, when word got out that Rex was planning to throw the Red Party, they telephoned and said that if we needed any help, all we had to do was give them a call.”
Monette felt the need to explain my position. “Robert has a point. Of all the people, the White Party has the most to lose if the Red Party takes off.”
“I refuse to believe it. Rex told me once that there was some discussion that the two parties should merge—you know, become the biggest party on the planet.”
“I see. Anyone else that stands out, Vince?”
“No, that’s my list of suspects,” Vince said with a great deal of satisfaction and a great big smile.
“Just a few more questions, Vince.”
“Fine—it’s not like I have a lot of other things to do.”
“I’m sorry, Vince. But anything you tell us could solve everything.”
“You have my undivided attention,” Vince said, still smiling and looking across the pool and into the mountains beyond.
“So Rex never mentioned these threats until they began to hit home, here ... so to speak?”
“The first time I heard about the boulder incident was when the police came, after the palm tree fell on the house. He never mentioned it to me before that.”
“Was that normal? I mean, did Rex tell you everything that happened to him and his business?”
“Yes and no. Look, Rex wasn’t going to tell me how many crates of calla lilies he ordered or stuff like that. Not the itty-bitty details. But the big stuff—the big jobs, the gossip —that he told me. All the shit with Darlene and Martin—I heard that stuff. He seemed to really hate Martin, probably because of the lawsuit.”
“So it came as a surprise that someone made an attempt on his life by trying to flatten him with a boulder?”
Vince shook his head. “It came as a surprise that he was out hiking. But he’s been doing a lot of strange things lately.”
“What?” Monette asked. “He didn’t usually go hiking?”
“No, that sort of thing just isn’t—wasn’t Rex. He was in great shape because he went to the gym every day, but he wasn’t an outdoorsy kind of guy. In fact, the only way I can picture him outdoors is in the pool here or at a restaurant with an outdoor garden.”
“You were saying that his behavior was strange lately. What do you mean by that? Could you give me an example?” Monette asked.
“I don’t know. It seemed that he was lost in thought all the time. Daydreaming, when he was usually very focused on his work. Stuff like that. Oh, and he took two vacations last year and he didn’t tell me where he was going. He said he didn’t want anyone to be able to contact him—that he wanted peace and quiet for a change. No phones ringing. No TVs blaring. Oh, yeah; he said that he needed to recharge his batteries, so I assumed it was that New Age resort up in Big Sur that he sometimes visited.”
“One last request.”
“Whatever you want, Monette.”
“Can Robert show me all around the house, both inside and out, so I can see where the palm tree fell on the house? Also, can I look inside your garden shed—if you have one?”
“There’s a garden shed out behind the house, but there’s nothing in it besides a dozen bags of potting soil and a hand trowel. We have gardeners who take care of everything, and they bring their own tools. I just pot some plants once in a while.”
Monette and I got up to leave, but something stopped Monette in her tracks. She pivoted on her heels to face Vince again.
“Are you sure you’re going to be okay staying here?” she asked.
“Yes, yes, I’ll be fine,” Vince replied.
“No, I mean, you’re not going to be—how do I put this?—out of house and home now that Rex is gone?”
I smiled at Monette’s brilliance.
&
nbsp; “Rex made sure I was well taken care of if he died.”
The emphasis on the word well told us all we needed to know: Vince had apparently inherited a bundle from Rex. No wonder he was smiling.
“Oh, that’s good, Vince,” Monette replied, showing her sympathy with his position. We both thanked Vince and told him that if he thought of anything that might be useful, to tell me or call Monette if I was out. I got the feeling that in the next few days, if you could find Monette, you’d find me there, too.
We stepped outside the house, and I took Monette to the spot where the tree had made its palmus interruptus on Michael and Rex. There were plastic tarps and plywood sheets covering the gaping hole.
“I have no idea what it is I’m looking for,” Monette confessed. “I guess when one tree falls on a house, it looks just like any other. Wait a frickin’ minute!”
“Wait a frickin’ minute” is Monette’s stock phrase that signals that she is on to something. “What is it?” I asked.
“You said the wind was blowing hard that night. Which way was it blowing?”
“I don’t know. What do I look like, a weathervane?”
“Shame, shame, Robert. Use your head; reason it out.”
“Monette, dear, the number one problem I have in life is that I’m too cerebral.”
“I’m asking you to figure the wind direction out, not to raise your consciousness.”
I looked over at the dining room widows and put my little gray cells to work. “It was really windy that night. And ... I remember a palm frond hitting the window in the dining room that night. Scared the shit out of all of us. The frond hit the window that way,” I said, tracing the possible flight pattern with my arm. “So the wind must have been coming from that direction.”
“From the northwest.”
“How do you know that direction is northwest?” I asked.
“Trust me, my sense of direction is infallible.”
“Unlike your driving,” I added.
“You try being almost six and a half feet tall and I’d like to see you drive a Metro. Now, can we stay on the subject at hand here? If the wind was coming from the northwest, the palm tree would fall right on the house.”