Lawrence Frightengale Investigates
Aidee Ladnier & Debussy Ladnier
Copyright © 2017 by Boyling Point Press
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Cover art by Natasha Snow
2nd Edition
ISBN: 0692921044
ISBN-13: 978-0692921043
Previously published as “Lawrence Frightengale Investigates” in the Closet Capers Anthology by Dreamspinner Press, 2013
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
1:25 PM | A perfect day for a parade....
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ABOUT THE AUTHORS
1:25 PM
A perfect day for a parade....
“DARLING, YOU’RE STEALING my thunder,” Lawrence Frightengale murmured as he smiled, showing off his sharp canine inserts while dramatically bending his victim over his arm. The click of camera phones and DSLRs sliced through the conversation of the crowd in front of them.
Larry French was theatrically dapper in his Frightengale regalia, his dark hair slicked back from his widow’s peak, save for one perfect, nonchalant curl at his right temple. Makeup blanched his skin and darkened his eyes, creating an eerie quality belied by the ridiculous ebony cigarette holder protruding from his scarlet lips at a jaunty angle. The stylized makeup, combined with the slightly askew, pasted-on, pencil-thin moustache, gave him the look of a distant cousin of Basil Rathbone—if Basil’s cousin were a mildly effete vampire.
On his arm, the cabaret performer Myrna Boy, resplendent in a shimmering red evening gown, raised a tastefully gloved hand to shiny red lips in a mock scream and shook the blonde locks of her elegantly coiffed wig. Lawrence leered down into the mischievous blue eyes of his lover. Behind the glamorous ʼ40s Hollywood makeup of his alter ego Myrna, Nicholas Benson grinned back wickedly. Lawrence pulled Myrna upright, squeezing their bodies close before twirling her away.
“Sweetheart, your thunder is being stolen by this monstrosity of a car you insisted on borrowing for the parade.” Myrna laughed in a smooth contralto, leaned back against the side of the black Cadillac El Dorado convertible, and arched a perfectly drawn brow at him.
The poster set up beside the dancing pair showed Lawrence looming in his cravat and faux crushed-velvet smoking jacket, with the words:
See Lawrence Frightengale in person!
Come to the 16th annual Out & About parade, the original celebration benefiting out gay youth!
Meet Lawrence Frightengale,
horrifying host of Channel 11’s Terror Time
(Friday nights at 11:00 p.m.—“Be there and be scared!”)
See the amazing Frightmobile!
“I had to beg Ellington to let me borrow this car,” Lawrence said, bowing to kiss the air above Myrna’s gloved fingers as the cameras flashed around them. “Did Max tell you it has a history? When the original Terror Time was canceled back in ʼ77 after Count Creepula retired, Ellington Senior gave the Cadillac to his son as a birthday gift. Channel 11 bought the Caddy for Creepula’s public appearances. It was featured in the series’ weekly promos around the same time Ellington the younger was getting his feet wet at his dad’s station as a production assistant, and he fell in love with it.” Lawrence reached past Myrna to rub a spot on the car’s side door, looking guilty when he caught her knowing smirk.
“Looks like you have a soft spot for the old girl too,” she said with a grin.
Lawrence slid his arms around Myrna’s waist and pressed his body against the manly frame hidden beneath her red satin dress before leaning close to gaze into her eyes. “You’re the only girl for me, Myrna.” The catcalls from their audience quirked his lips up in a grin, and he left a kiss on the long line of Myrna’s neck where, predictably, his lipstick smudged. Lawrence rubbed the light red imprint off with a thumb and an apologetic smile.
“Mr. Frightengale, can we get one of you next to the hood ornament?” someone called out from the crowd. Lawrence pulled himself out of Myrna’s arms, then walked to the front of the car to lounge next to the giant metallic black widow perched on the hood. He shuffled sideways to keep from obscuring the ornamental spider-web grille.
“Myrna! Sit on the hood next to him!” another voice screamed.
“No! There will be no sitting on the car!” Max McDowall strode in front of them, blocking the audience from the performers and the Cadillac. The authority in his voice was undermined by the yipping of the tiny short-trimmed Maltese nestled in his arms.
Max was a friend and Larry’s closest colleague at Channel 11. The unflappable producer of Terror Time, he was an island of tranquility amid even the most grueling of production schedules. But once each year he volunteered to help organize the Out & About event, and every year the ensuing chaos made him blow his trademark cool. With more than two hours to go before the parade, the cracks in his façade were manifesting early this year.
“I mean, it’s time for autographs, everyone! We have a table set up right over here for you to meet and greet Mr. Frightengale.”
Lawrence was watching Myrna retrieve the wriggling dog, Bootsy, from Max, when the wolf-howl ringtone of his cell phone sounded from his pocket. Fishing it from the depths of his smoking jacket, he flipped the device open to greet the caller with a cheerful “Lawrence here.”
In response, his ear was blasted by a deafening rendition of his own show’s theme music, accompanied by howls of laughter. He swore, digging a finger into his ear as he dropped the phone onto the white- clothed table.
Myrna glanced at him, concerned, still trying to calm the little dog in her arms. Lawrence’s smile was brittle as he took his seat at the autograph table with a negative shake of his head. “Another fan of Terror Time.” He glanced up at the skinny twentysomething at the head of the line holding out one of the miniposters from the Out & About event. “Thanks for coming out today.”
“Mr. Frightengale, I’ve seen the reruns of Terror Time, and you’re the best host.” The young man’s words gushed as if they had been waiting on the tip of his tongue to spill out.
Lawrence grinned, flashing his sharpened canines as his marker flew across the tiny printed version of himself. “Thanks. I grew up watching Terror Time, and it’s been my pleasure to continue the tradition.” He handed it back to the young man, who stepped aside.
“I met one of the original hosts once. The Death Lily. Did you like her, Dr. X. A. Cutioner, or Count Creepula the best?”
Lawrence sat back in his chair to regard the stocky woman who had stepped in front of him. “My favorite was the very first host—Harry Ghoulini, the morbid magician. Did you ever see any of his shows?” She shook her head and handed him another miniposter to sign. “I’m not surprised. The station rarely runs anything before 197
0. They purged most of the older stuff years ago. A real shame. But I’m trying to get them to run one of the three remaining Ghoulini tapes sometime next month for Halloween.”
“Cool! Thanks!” The woman took her signed poster and stepped out of line. A handsome young man with artfully messy hair stepped up and leaned against the table into Lawrence’s face.
“Can you make it out to Robert?” He held out a bulging forearm and flexed it, waiting for Lawrence to sign his bicep. “I’d love to show you what a real man is like in bed.”
Lawrence’s smile froze. “Myrna, darling, this young man wants to speak to you.”
Myrna, who had put Bootsy down and was chatting with Max, turned and laid a proprietary hand on Lawrence’s shoulder. “Oh, don’t worry about the forward little tart, dear. He’ll never be half the man his mother was.” And with that, she sat in Lawrence’s lap and wound her arms around his neck. Lawrence smiled into his lover’s eyes as those plush, familiar lips met his own in a playful biting kiss. “This one is taken, little boy.” Myrna’s voice was hushed and intimate before she jumped back out of Lawrence’s lap to stand beside him.
Lawrence couldn’t suppress a quick grin in her direction. Long before Lawrence Frightengale invaded the airwaves of Channel 11, Myrna had made a name for herself as a singer and cabaret performer, and her current run in the Falsehoods revue played to packed houses. He loved to watch her perform, especially her tribute to the silver screen sirens of the 1930s, whom she so loved—Jean Harlow, Claudette Colbert, Carole Lombard, and, of course, Myrna Loy. She was grace, elegance, and glamour—the equal of any starlet from Hollywood’s heyday—with a little something extra. Certainly, no strutting young musclehead could hold a candle to her.
“Next!” Lawrence announced cheerfully as Myrna stepped back from the table and the man behind the sputtering Robert pushed his way forward. Myrna watched her would-be competitor stalk away.
“Um, excuse me? Uh, could I have your autograph?”
Myrna glanced up to see a blushing, bespectacled young man being jostled to the front of a small group of nervous teenagers. His face was nearly as red as the hair on his head, and his glasses were askew on his face, as if he’d been fending off his comrades.
“Why certainly, dear.” She pasted on her stage smile as the boy handed over a two-year-old publicity picture of Myrna from the Falsehoods cabaret show. She continued to smile as she picked up a pen, masking how much she hated the campy pose and the two-bit photographer who’d taken it.
“What’s your name, dear?”
“J-Justin.” The boy’s stammer was adorable. Myrna wrote To Justin, hugs and kisses, Myrna.
“Thank you, sir... I mean, ma’am.” The boy blushed so hard even his ears were crimson.
“Oh, I bet your coming-out party wasn’t all that long ago, was it, dear?” Myrna smiled at him as the boy nodded shyly. “Remember, when you address someone dressed like me”—she made a grand sweeping gesture from her curly blonde head to her red rhinestone heels—“the dress makes the woman.” Myrna’s soft, light voice dropped an octave as she said the word woman, and the boy blushed even harder. Myrna patted his cheek gently. “Ma’am will do,” she said, the lightness back in her tone as if it had never left.
The sudden roar of the Cadillac being cranked behind them startled Myrna and drew testosterone-fueled hoots from the teenagers. She sighed. “What idiot thought putting a glasspack muffler on that monstrosity was a good idea?” She watched as the noisy car was driven out of the parking lot to be put in line for the parade.
“Thanks!” Justin said, pulling the signed photo from her hastily and joining his friends again. The group ambled away, congratulating their bashful compatriot.
Myrna sauntered back over to the table where Larry was massaging his hand between autographs, but still gamely greeting each person who stepped forward.
“What a cute little boy that was,” she said to Max, who was alternately looking at his watch and counting the number of fans still in line. “Do you suppose he recognized me as the Scream Queen on Terror Time last month, or do you think he caught my show at Falsehoods?”
“He didn’t try to get Lawrence’s autograph, so he was probably a fan from your cabaret show.” Max checked his watch again.
“Hmmm?” Lawrence said, only half-listening as he signed another publicity photo. “Sorry, darling. I didn’t see him.”
“You’re the Scream Queen?” the dark-haired teenager at the table lisped through his piercings.
“What?” Lawrence looked up. “Oh yes. No one else could possibly be my leading lady,” he said, grabbing her gloved fingers for a squeeze and a fond look as he passed the photo back to the kid.
“Sorry, folks, but we have to wind this up for now,” Max announced, holding up his hands to the moaning crowd, Bootsy’s pink leash still around his wrist. The little Maltese jumped up on his hind legs, excited by the noise. “The autograph session was only scheduled for thirty minutes. Mr. Frightengale has other things on his schedule today.”
Murmurs of disappointment traveled through the restive crowd. Fans were reluctant to leave without an autograph. One irritated voice bellowed, “Terror Time sucks!”
“Hey, hey, hey.” Max struggled for control of the situation. “That’s not true.”
The group fell quiet as Lawrence stood up from the table, all eyes drawn to him like charismatic magic.
“Well, our movies may suck,” he conceded with a disarming chuckle, “but Terror Time has a long history with this community. The original series ran for nearly twenty years. Channel 11 revived it last year because people like Max and I loved it when we were kids and fought to bring it back. Okay, so some of our movies have been pretty rotten recently.” The crowd rippled with laughter. “But that’s part of the fun of the show. Channel 11 lost its network affiliation last year, and it’s because we’re an independent that we can be a little risky, a little edgy, and have unique shows like the new Terror Time. We appreciate each and every viewer.”
Lawrence looked over at Myrna, who was smiling at him, hands demurely behind her back. “If I missed the opportunity to meet any of you today, I’ll be at the Out & About Drag Show and Cabaret tonight, headlined by the lovely Myrna Boy of Falsehoods.” Lawrence gestured and bowed to Myrna, who did a deep curtsy in response. “If you didn’t get an autograph today, I’ll be glad to sign one for you tonight.”
The crowd cheered and applauded, then started to break up and disperse.
“Way to save my bacon,” Max whispered to Lawrence, handing Bootsy’s lead back to Myrna.
“Hey, these are our fans. I’m happy to do it.” The familiar wolf howl sounded again, sending Lawrence’s phone vibrating across the table. Flipping it open, he looked at the caller ID and sighed. The Terror Time theme blasted from the tiny speakers.
The sight of his friend’s distress caused Max to give a long- suffering roll of his eyes.
“Ritchey again?” he asked.
“Who else could it be?” Lawrence grimaced. “I can’t prove it’s him, but you know he’s had it in for me since we first went on the air.” Retrieving his phone, he showed them the number of the incoming call. “That’s the extension at my desk back at the station. Ten to one, if I call back, George will have three people swear he’s been in a meeting all afternoon and nowhere near my phone.”
“Heavens! Is that brute still holding a grudge?” Myrna asked, pulling back on Bootsy’s lead as the dog tried to wander away.
On one of the happiest days of Lawrence’s life—the day Channel 11 bought his pitch for the revival of Terror Time—Lawrence had also made a lifelong enemy. The late-night Friday time slot given to his project came at the expense of another show—a low-rated wrestling program that had been the brainchild of veteran producer George Ritchey. Ritchey had not taken the cancellation well and blamed Lawrence personally for the demise of his pet project. In the year since taking to the airwaves, Lawrence had endured gibes, jeers, and outright aggression in
the office. In public, Ritchey hid his spite behind a brittle mask of “good-natured rivalry,” but privately he had sworn to get rid of “Frightengale and his freak show” one way or another.
“The harassing calls have been coming for about a month now,” Lawrence confided, “but deafening me with my own theme music is a twist that started just this week.” Anger flushed his cheeks beneath the dead white makeup.
“Larry, why don’t you let me go to Ellington about this crap?” Max asked. “There are laws about creating hostile work environments, you know.”
“Because there’s no proof it’s him,” the weary TV host responded. “Ritchey has been at the station practically forever, and he has a lot of friends. Unless you can go to Ellington with an airtight case, the only thing it will accomplish is to make us look like we have an ax to grind. No, Max, I won’t let you stick your neck out for me when it won’t achieve anything.”
“If that’s the way you want it,” Max conceded. “Anyway, at least Ellington didn’t buy into the crap George was peddling last winter.”
Myrna’s hawk eyes caught the anxious look of warning Lawrence shot his producer.
“What’s he talking about, Lawrence?” Lawrence. Not Larry. Never a good sign. “You didn’t tell her?” Max asked.
“Myrna, honey, I didn’t want you to worry,” Lawrence explained, trying to calm the flash of pique in his boyfriend’s eyes. “There was nothing to it, and that’s exactly what it turned out to be—nothing.”
“What sort of nothing didn’t you want me to worry about?” Myrna crossed her arms, the determined set of her red lips dangerous. Bootsy, sensing the tension, barked, his little claws clicking on the asphalt.
Max stepped in to rescue his friend. “Last winter some equipment went missing from the office—a flat-screen TV from the breakroom, some computer equipment, that sort of thing.”
“What does that have to do with Larry?” Myrna pushed.
“George Ritchey spread the rumor that I stole them,” Lawrence answered in a tight, quiet voice that didn’t hide his lingering anger. “Of course, I can’t prove George started it any more than he can prove I was the thief, but I know it was him. Anyway, I didn’t think anyone took him seriously until I was called in for an ‘informal review’ a few days later. Thankfully, the review cleared me, but for a couple of days my job was on thin ice. At the time, I didn’t take any of it seriously, and I didn’t want to worry you needlessly. I knew it wasn’t going to amount to anything.”
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