by David Stukas
She hung up the phone without looking at the handset, which missed the base and fell on the floor with a clatter of technology. She didn’t even look up, her hand struggling valiantly to keep up with her thoughts.
“Boy, did I get a bunch of information just now. I’ll be with you in a minute. I just have so much to write down. Could you be a darling and pick up the phone for me?”
I complied and poured myself another half cup of coffee while I waited for Monette to come down from the natural high she got when she was hot on the trail of a murderer.
“Whew! Okay, I’m done. Listen to what I’ve found out. The day of Rex’s murder, Vince and Rex went to the Red Party setup site in the same car. Rex takes the car and leaves for an hour, then returns. The briefcase he went to the Red Party site with wasn’t in the car when Rex came back to retrieve Vince.”
“I know,” I said.
“How do you know?” Monette asked. She couldn’t believe that I could be a step ahead of her.
“Because he came back to the house in the afternoon before Leo’s party, briefcase in hand. A larger-than-normal briefcase. He was trying to get into his office when I was snooping around.”
“You didn’t tell me that!” she whined.
“Because it didn’t seem abnormal at the time. Carrying a briefcase isn’t a federal crime, you know.”
“So he came back and caught you snooping?”
“No, the door was locked—I said I was changing.”
“And you let him in and he had a briefcase in his hand?”
“Yup, he put it in the corner.”
“God, just think, there was enough money in that briefcase for us to never work again, and it was just a few feet away!” Monette commented excitedly.
“Don’t remind me, Monette. Even I would probably kill someone if I could get out of writing advertising copy for feminine hygiene products.”
“I thought you weren’t on that account anymore,” she said.
“I was writing brochures for WorldCom, but you can imagine where that ended up.”
“In the crapper along with their worthless shares,” Monette replied.
“Exactly, so it’s back to vaginas.”
“That’s just where a gay man wants to be,” Monette said, smiling at the irony.
“Wait a minute, we were just talking about Rex’s office, and I remembered something that I want to show you—and Marc. I think it could really be important!”
I went to Marc’s bedroom, where he had just finished dressing. I retrieved the architectural drawing from my overnight bag and grabbed Marc by the hand and dragged him down the hall to the kitchen. I laid the drawing down, asking Monette and Marc what they thought about it.
“Not bad, Robert,” Monette replied, “but don’t give up your job writing about douches. It’s tough making a go of it in architecture.”
“Very funny, Monette. This is a drawing of something I found in Rex’s office. It was in a folder that had fallen behind his desk. See, it’s marked ‘A.D.’ After death. Get it? It’s some mystical tomb or something he wanted to be buried in.”
Monette’s eyebrows, which had been raised in raw disbelief, now furrowed as if to get a better look at the drawing.
“Marc,” she started, “does this mean anything to you? Butia? What’s a butia?” she wondered out loud.
“I have no idea,” Marc explained.
“Did Rex ever say anything about a tomb or a pyramid?”
“No, never,” he answered.
Monette clearly wanted to get to the bottom of this mystery. “And this doesn’t have anything to do with a project, past or future, that T-Rex did, or bid on?”
“No, I’ve never seen this before. I have no idea what it means.”
“Let me ask another question, Marc.”
“Go ahead.”
“Was Rex mystical in any way? I mean, did he believe in psychics or wear charms or believe in superstitions?”
“Now that you mention it, when he came back from a vacation about a year ago, he was wearing a chain around his neck.”
“A chain? What kind of chain?” Monette probed.
“A gold one, with an ankh on it.”
“The Egyptian symbol of life?”
“Yes, that one.”
“Was that unusual for him, Marc?”
“Monette, if you knew him, he would never wear jewelry. He never even wore a watch. It was like he just knew what time it was—like there was a clock built into his head.”
“What do you suppose it means, Monette?” I asked. “Maybe it was a talisman, perhaps to ward off wicked event planners.”
“Perhaps,” Monette answered, never wanting to be prejudiced too much by any one theory. She liked to take everything in, then sift the clues endlessly, waiting for one theory to emerge. “These threats might have been going on a lot longer than any of us have thought. I think that today Robert and I need to pay a visit to Clifford and Grayson. As out-of-towners, there’s only so far Robert and I can get without a little inside help. Marc, could you phone ahead and find out a good time for us to stop by?”
“Sure,” said Marc, who was just about to pick up the phone when the instrument rang. “Maybe it’s Grayson—he’s supposed to be psychic.”
“Hello? Julie? Yes, uh-huh ... What? Really, what did they say? ... Well, we should thank our lucky stars that’s all they said.... They want to talk to me? ... Oh, that’s right . . . Rex and Leo would’ve handled that.... Okay, I’ll call them later. Just give me their number.... Uh-huh. Okay, just stay cool.... We’ll pull this one off.... Okay, call me if there are any other problems. Bye.”
From the conversation, I could tell that the newspaper or the local news people had gotten their mitts on the story.
Marc confirmed my hunch. “Well, the newspapers have a front-page story about Rex and Leo this morning. And now the local news team wants to talk to me. I guess by default, I’m the new president of T-Rex, and PR man as well.”
“Good, you handle the Red Party, and Robert and I will visit Clifford and Grayson; then we’ll go talk to Darlene and Brian and everyone else, since they obviously know by now what happened to Rex and Leo ... and Colorado—I almost forgot him. At least we can ask questions since everything’s out in the open. Do you mind if we have a quick breakfast, Marc?”
“How about cereal?” Marc replied. He went to the cupboard and grabbed a handful of cereal boxes, one being Monette’s favorite, Count Chocula. She ate three bowls, no doubt fortifying herself for a grueling day. After breakfast, Marc secured an audience with Clifford and Grayson at ten A.M. Monette and I left and drove over to the South Canyon Country Club area in South Palm Springs, where large and crazy 50s- and 60s-style houses sat nestled between the San Jacinto mountain range and the beginning of the Santa Rosas. As I looked at the mountains on either side of us, I thought that this was exactly our predicament right now: we were between a rock and a hard place.
Shortly after ruthless land-grabbers and developers had swindled the native Cahuilla Indians out of choice parcels of their own land and given them less-than-satisfactory parcels in the windy north end of Palm Springs, Palm Springs spent a brief bustling period that brought Spanish haciendas, mission revival and Italian villa-style buildings to what would soon become the city of Palm Springs. For a brief time the city grew, then fast-forwarded itself to become the mecca of mid-century modernism. The early modernist architects Richard Neutra and Rudolph Schindler were followed by others such as Albert Frey, John Porter Clark, and William F. Cody, who created houses that exemplified the modern idea that housing could be light, bright, sophisticated, and modern. At the very peak of their craft, they created some of the most enduring monuments of the modern style: the John Porter Clark house, the Kaufmann house, and the Raymond Loewy house, to name a few.
Clifford and Grayson’s house was not one of those monuments. True, it had been built in the true spirit of modernism and was probably quite daring in its day, but had been sadly rem
odeled at some point in its history, with mansard roofs, plaster half-columns topped by fruit baskets, and other French touches added to the mid-century modern frame. But the bad facelift that it had endured wasn’t the first thing that struck you about Clifford and Grayson’s home. What hit you immediately upon entering the driveway was the fact that it was pink on the outside, and that wasn’t the half of it. It was pink through and through—a fact that became clear once the door to the house opened and we were greeted by a man of about seventy who looked like he could be anyone’s grandfather. He was wearing a Hawaiian-style shirt covered not with parrots or palm trees, but numerous images of Michelangelo’s David. His gray hair was carefully coiffed in precise swirls, and was more than ample for a man his age. Maybe too ample. In total, he was as cute as a button, and his gentle mannerisms made you want to scoop him up and put him safely on a sofa like a precious doll.
“Clifford or Grayson?” Monette ventured. “Monette and Robert—I called earlier about asking your help in something important. Marc Baldwin sent us.”
“Clifford,” our host said, daintily shaking our hands and waving us inside. “Grayson, Monette and Robert are here!” he called out toward the back of the house.
“Oh, wonderful,” came a voice that was followed by a short, elderly man carrying a potted orchid. He was dressed completely in yellow, including yellow half-moon eyeglasses with yellow-tinted lenses hanging on a chain around his neck. “Clifford?” he said to his partner. “Could you take this plant and put it back in the greenhouse with the other chocolate orchids? I think she’s pregnant and ready to start showing any day now.”
As Clifford circled behind Monette and me to retrieve the orchid, I suddenly let out a tiny but unexpected yelp. I tried to excuse my sudden exclamation as nerves, but there was no doubt about it. Clifford had pinched me. Once I got over the suddenness of Clifford’s attack, I was actually touched that in this violent and emotionally distant world, there was still someone left who engaged in something as tame as pinching. Clifford was living proof that while there was snow on his roof, there was a roaring fire in the oven down below.
Clifford complied and ferried the delicate orchid away, its leaves shuddering as he took tiny, measured steps in the direction of the back of the house. Before he turned a corner and disappeared, he flashed me a look that said, “How’s about tonight, baby?”
It was just too cute.
“Come in and sit down.” Grayson motioned to Monette and me, choosing for himself a large chair with elaborate carvings and several throw pillows, which, true to their name, Grayson took and carelessly tossed onto the floor. “You’re in search of information that might lead to the arrest of whoever killed Rex Gifford and Leo Thomas,” he pronounced like a fortune teller. Indeed, he certainly looked the part. His neck was adorned with what seemed like a dozen gold chains, each containing either a crucifix, a horn, or some other talisman. “I’m not sure I can be of much help, but try me.”
Monette started. “We need your help in opening some doors in Palm Springs, because it could be a matter of life and death.”
Clifford came back into the room and sat down in a Chippendale armchair—just the sort of furniture you’d need in a mid-century modern house.
“Clifford and I are all ears,” Grayson said majestically.
Monette proceeded to tell our dynastic duo as much as she knew about Rex, Leo, the Red Party, and everyone connected with it. When she finished, Grayson sat back in his chair as if he needed to digest the facts. Clifford sat there motionless, holding his hand over his mouth like he was trying desperately to stifle a scream.
Grayson was the first to speak. “From what you’ve told me, the people associated with the White Party are your number one suspects—they have the most to lose. Fortunately, there are three things working in your favor. One, I do know quite a few of the people you’ve mentioned who work with the White Party. And two, Clifford and I have solved more than a few incidents in our time. And three, I never give up.”
“We appreciate your kind offer, Grayson—and Clifford—but I must warn you that one of these people is a murderer—a killer who has struck twice and botched a third attempt at murder,” I said, jumping in.
Grayson smiled coyly. “I’m not worried about anything, honey. I’ve worn dresses right down Market Street in San Francisco in the forties—long before you were born.”
I didn’t see how wearing a dress in San Francisco provided the fortitude needed to face up to a cold-blooded killer, but I once met a drag queen dressed like a nun who swore that a Chanel handbag had saved her life. Female readers and drag queens everywhere, take note.
“Robert and I and a lot of people are very thankful for your help,” Monette said. “It’s just that in the past, we’ve been able to coerce people into giving us information. But Palm Springs is all new territory for us. I’m afraid that we don’t know anyone here.”
Grayson shifted in his seat, pulling himself to the edge of the chair as if he were about to share privileged information with us.
“Monette, darling ... you and Robert may not be able to resort to blackmail to find things out, but I can. How do you think I know what’s going on in this town? Sometimes you don’t even have to do that: people just love to talk in Palm Springs—it makes for excitement. Let me ask this: have the police been any help yet?”
“Not really, Sergeant Big Arms doesn’t trust us.”
“Who is Sergeant Big Arms?” Grayson asked, his eyes getting bigger than saucepans.
“That’s what one of our friends named him, and the name stuck.”
“But you don’t remember his name?” Grayson asked.
“No, we’ve been calling him Big Arms so long,” Monette confessed.
“Well, not only did he help me with my luggage at the airport two years ago, but I know who he is. His name is Mike Gorski and he used to be a trainer at the local gym before he became a police officer—I know, because I trained with him for a while, but it didn’t do much good,” Grayson reported, pinching a roll on his waistline. “He’s married now, but I think a phone call from me will loosen his tongue. Give us a few minutes and we’ll be ready to start our investigation. We’ll take our car,” Grayson said.
11
Now Begone, Before Someone Drops a Convention Center on You!
Exactly thirty minutes later, we were ready to go. I can’t imagine what took Clifford and Grayson thirty minutes to get ready, but I didn’t question it. Clifford had changed from his Hawaiian shirt to a white Izod polo shirt and white polyester pants so sheer that you could see his pants pockets and 2xist underwear—bikini—clearly from Mars. Grayson kept on his yellow outfit. We clambered into their vintage 1970s Rolls Royce, the cracked leather upholstery creaking under our shorts as we sat down in the backseat.
Clifford drove, which gave new meaning to the word terror and put Monette’s driving skills to shame. It’s not that Clifford was reckless. It was hard to call twenty miles per hour reckless, but Clifford meandered along so slowly that at times I felt that we weren’t moving at all. People in pickups would whip around us aggressively, some of them flipping us the bird because we were going so slowly. Yes, I was fascinated by the fact that, like in the advertisement, the only thing you could hear was the sound of the clock ticking as you drove, but that was about the only excitement we experienced. Although the car was probably capable of doing 300 miles per hour, I wasn’t sure that I wanted Clifford pushing the car to that limit. He could mow down a crowd of nuns and wipe out a gaggle of circuit boys by the time his brain registered that he had run a red light back on Vista Chino. Better to lumber along at twenty miles an hour.
If you didn’t count Grayson’s shouting directions to Clifford constantly and Clifford’s becoming flustered on several occasions and missing the convention center—which was almost a block long—my first ride in a Rolls Royce was uneventful.
We pulled up to the Palm Springs Convention Center and disembarked. We figured that it would be
a great place since we could talk to all of our primary suspects at one time, since they would all likely be there setting up. Our party reassembled at the center and headed toward Circuit Toys for Party Boys.
The first person we encountered was Darlene Waldron, gritting her teeth over some slipup. When she saw us, she broke into a forced smile that reminded me of Laura Bush, her crocodile grin reminding me not to venture too near the water’s edge. Crocodiles can move faster than you give them credit for.
“Darlene, we’re investigating Rex’s death in a sort of unofficial way, so we’re wondering if you’d mind answering a few questions for us,” Grayson politely asked.
“Unofficial!” She snorted. “I’ve already been questioned by the police. I’m really busy, so if you’d keep this short . . .”
“Fine,” Grayson stated. “So the word is out that your business is in heap-o trouble and you need every sale you can get to keep your henna-ed little head above water.”
Jesus! This guy didn’t fool around. A quick two-by-four blow to the head and it was done. I was used to Monette’s cat-and-mouse way of playing with the perpetrator, coaxing him—or her—out of their lair to strike at the bait. Monette and I stood back, waiting for the reaction, which came swiftly and caustically like a beaker of tossed acid. She turned away from us, pretending to be involved in something, which made her response all the more startling. We had been warned, but it still didn’t prepare us for the controlled explosion that burst from her mouth like a thousand shrieking bats.
“Listen, I don’t know who the hell you are, but whoever told you such a crock of horseshit is sadly misinformed, and if I discover who said such a thing, I will be talking to my lawyer if she or he doesn’t watch it. Besides, my business is none of yours, so I would advise you to keep your nose out of places where it doesn’t fuckin’ belong.”
The four of us stood there, shocked at the storm surge that issued from Miss Waldron’s potty mouth. It was as if she were ready at any moment to detonate and blow her enemy to bits. Since Grayson started this “dialogue” with Darlene, the rest of us seemed more than willing to let him stand in the line of fire. What Darlene didn’t realize was that Grayson was no newcomer to the world of caustic comebacks.