Murder in Pastel

by Josh Lanyon

  “Right. There’s something, I don’t know, sort of desolate about that painting.”

  “Disquieting.”

  “Yeah. That’s it. Of familiar things being…sinister.” I wasn’t explaining it well. The unconscious mind digests our experiences and translates them into dreams; that’s what I was trying to say.

  Maybe Adam understood. He softly quoted de Chirico, “And what shall I love if not enigma?”

  I sipped another mouthful of Ovaltine. The well-remembered malty taste was comforting, bringing back memories of childhood when life was simple. And safe.

  “You used to sleepwalk when you were little, did you know that?”

  “No.”

  His leg casually brushed mine as he shifted position. My body responded with an unchildlike awareness to his proximity. If I stretched out my hand I could stroke his hair; it looked black and shiny like seal fur in the muted light.

  “Cosmo mentioned it once. You stopped when you were about ten.”

  Mildly interesting though this was, I didn’t quite see the point. “So?”

  “Nothing. It only occurred to me. You had a vivid imagination. Still have. A writer’s imagination, I guess. I’m surprised you don’t dream of Indians and cowboys. You always had your nose stuck between the pages of some damn western when you were a kid.” His eyes tilted in that way I loved. “And they always had these salacious titles. Rawhide Justice. Queen of the Purple Sage.”

  I started laughing. Adam laughed too.

  “It’s a wonder you don’t have a thing for boots and spurs.”

  I stopped laughing. “How do you know?” I inquired silkily.

  He held my eyes for a long moment, then reached over to take the vintage Ovaltine and set it aside.

  * * * * *

  “You’re shaking.” His voice was soft.

  I laughed unsteadily, shook my head, although it was true. I was shaking.

  Warm hands on bare skin. I’d forgotten how good that felt. Adam’s long strong fingers caressed, smoothed, teased. I wrapped my arms around him, his body hard, thin, hot against my own, his cock pressing urgently into my inner thigh. Mine thrust blindly back. He gathered me closer still, his arms folding me tight. I rubbed my feverish face against his chest, inhaling that sexy sharp smell of male arousal. Mine, his, ours.

  “All right?” He was still tender, still ready to turn it into comfort if that’s what I was really after—and how funny was that?

  “God, yes.”

  How long had it been since someone had simply touched me like this, held me? Years. Years. Oh, God, it felt good. Skin on skin felt so incredibly good.

  Adam nudged my face with his, found my mouth, kissed me. A hot, sweet kiss that deepened. I moaned, opened for him, needing more. Craving more. His tongue thrust against mine. I responded with a hunger that probably startled the hell out of him. Our tongues met, dueled, parted.

  His hand had slipped between our bodies; he stroked the vulnerable skin between hip and thigh, slid down to capture the tight sac, tracing with his fingernails. I broke the kiss, panting. My lips felt swollen.

  “Adam…” I caught his hand with mine, shifting it to my cock, desperate for him to relieve that throbbing distended need.

  “Right here,” he whispered, and mercifully he was. His hand wrapped around me, working our slick, hot cocks together. His mouth covered my own again, wet and hungry. Frantic tension built inside me.

  I need to do something here, I thought dizzily. I’m being selfish. But all I seemed able to do was writhe and shiver. Nor was there time to sort it out because, to my astonishment, I was already coming. Hard. Liquid heat splashed over Adam’s hand, moistened the nestle of our bellies and thighs. Waves of relief so intense it was painful. Wet heat slipped out beneath my lashes too.

  Adam’s hips rocked against mine. Faster. Fiercer. The mattress springs groaned. His hands slid under, bunched into my ass, snugging me up hard against him. I ignored that painful stiffness jabbing into my belly; kissed his throat, the underside of his jaw, the hollow of his shoulder, his nipple; tasted salt and sweat.

  It’s real. I’m not dreaming. It felt better than any dream.

  Adam bit off an exclamation and arched his body against mine. Blood-hot release spread between us, easing the friction of skin on skin.

  The world steadied once more. Downstairs the clock was chiming a silvery hour.

  “Three o’clock and all’s well,” I whispered.

  Adam turned his face to me, kissed my cheek. His head jerked up.

  “Are those tears?”

  I dragged my arm across my wet face. “The good kind.”

  “Hey…” He slid an arm beneath my shoulders, cradled me against him. “Tell me.”

  There was no way I could put it into words.

  Shakily, I said, “You had to be there.” I started laughing and then, crazily, I was crying again. Adam just held me, petting me, whispering endearments, and after a few minutes I quieted.

  I could imagine what Brett would have had to say about that little performance.

  And on that wry thought, I fell asleep.

  * * * * *

  Waking up has never been easy for me. I ascend in stages like a diver suffering the bends. My college roommate used to swear he held coherent, if not intelligent, conversations with me for several minutes before I actually came to.

  That morning I came gradually, peacefully back to an awareness of rain on window panes and a warm body resting against my own. I twitched my nose, tried to unglue my eyelids, swallowed a couple of times.

  Lips brushed mine lightly, once, twice. A butterfly of a kiss at the corner of my mouth. I made a supreme effort and opened my eyes. Tried to focus.

  Adam leaned over me, smiling. “It’s alive,” he murmured.

  I mumbled something, holding the sheet up.

  Adam pulled the sheet down. “What was that? Oil can?”

  I felt at a disadvantage. Even in my less than eagle-eyed state I discerned that Adam had been up, showered, shaved, brushed his teeth. He looked good. He smelled good. He tasted minty-fresh as his mouth insisted on prizing open my own.

  After a shy second or two I gave myself over to the unfamiliar pleasure of someone’s tongue in my mouth before breakfast.

  The warm seductive taste of him, the teasing push of his tongue against mine. I felt overwhelmed. Overwhelmed by the memory of the night before—and what it meant in the cold light of day. I felt horribly, vulnerably naked.

  “Oh God, it’s true,” I mumbled at last when he let me up for air. “You are a morning person.”

  His eyes tilted. “Baby, morning was officially over fifteen minutes ago.”

  I sprang into sitting position. “Shit! I was supposed to see the sheriff.”

  “Yeah, he called.” Maddeningly, he continued to sit there, calm, cool and collected.

  “He called! Why didn’t you wake me?”

  “Because you needed to sleep.”

  I goggled at him. He brushed the hair out of my eyes.

  “Adam,” I managed at last, “I don’t think you get this: we’re suspects. The sheriff thinks one of us, or both of us maybe, could have killed Brett. Your spending the night here last night probably makes us look more guilty.”

  “I didn’t invite myself.” His gaze was level. Meeting it, I flushed, recollecting the intimate exploration of his hands—my adolescent response to him—his patience.

  “I’m not talking fault. I’m talking you should have woke me up. You shouldn’t have let the sheriff know you were here last night.”

  Adam’s eyebrows shot up. “Now there’s a guilty reaction. You think we should lie to the police?”

  “Not lie.” I kicked out of the tangle of sheets and blankets, groping for my Levi’s. Adam sat on the bed, watching me ransack the room.

  “What are you panicking for? You didn’t kill Brett, did you?”

  “That’s not funny!”

  “Calm down, Kyle.”

  He had
a point. I stopped, took a couple of careful, deep breaths. Adam came up behind me, slipped his arms around me, pulled me back against him.

  “Okay, baby?”

  “Yeah.” I closed my eyes, surrendering to the feel of him down the length of my body, surrendering to the memory of last night. But only for a moment. It took effort, but I pulled out of his arms.

  “Adam, listen, I think we should—” I couldn’t say it. After a moment Adam said it for me.

  “Cool it?”

  He said it gently, but there was something in his eyes. I realized he was angry with me. A first. It didn’t feel too good.

  “I’m thinking about how this will look to the sheriff. To anybody paying attention. Brett’s not even buried.”

  His expression grew sardonic. “Brett was right. Appearances do count with you, don’t they?”

  I could feel myself getting red. It wasn’t myself I was worried about. It was Adam, who I believed was Rankin’s favorite suspect. How did I explain that without making it sound like I suspected Adam?

  “Neatness counts. Appearances can be deceiving.” I wasn’t trying to be flippant, but it sounded that way. “Look, Adam, give me a break here. I’m making it up as I go, okay?”

  After a moment he gave an odd smile and shrugged. “Sure. Whatever. When you think it’s safe to come out of the woods, send a smoke signal or something.”

  He turned and went downstairs. I heard the front door bang shut behind him.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Deliver us, O Lord, and all thy faithful in that day of terror, when the sun and moon shall be darkened, and the stars fall down from heaven.”

  The lonely cry of a red-tailed hawk cut across the minister’s reading. I looked up from the empty grave to the empty blue sky. I looked across to Adam. In its controlled sorrow, his face was as unrevealing as any on the stone busts around us.

  The evening before he had called and we spoke briefly.

  “When you were clearing out the bathroom did you find Brett’s anklet?”

  “No.” I was glad he had called, but I didn’t want to talk about Brett. This however, was all Adam seemed interested in.

  “The funeral home can’t find it. They say it’s not on the morgue’s list of Brett’s effects.”

  “Maybe he wasn’t wearing it.”

  “Then it should be here somewhere. It’s not. I’ve looked.”

  “Maybe he lost it on the beach. The clasp was weak.”

  Adam said finally, unconvinced, “Maybe.”

  His thoughts had not been with me then; they were not with me now.

  The minister droned on in the breathless heat of the afternoon. I looked at Joel. He was white and perspiring in the humidity. He looked ill. Micky, next to him, appeared to be a million miles away. Back in the studio? Back in the cornfields of Kansas she had left behind forty years ago?

  Brett’s mourners were few. The Berkowitzes and the Cobbs, including Jack, completed the circle. Irene looked like a scarecrow in shapeless black. Jack, as they say, cleaned up real good. He kept tugging at the tie Irene must have insisted he wear.

  That would have amused Brett. This would all have amused Brett. For a moment I could almost feel him standing at my side, hear a ghostly mocking, Hey, Kylie, want to go fuck behind the chapel? Adam always liked that…

  I risked another glance at Adam. He looked unbearably handsome and remote in a dark suit. His lashes veiled his eyes; he could have been standing here alone. In a way he was. Only he had really loved Brett—still loved him.

  “…Vouchsafe to us, who are yet alive, and still have opportunity of reconciliation with Thee, the grace so as to watch over all our actions…”

  Mayor Cobb cleared his throat noisily. The minister paused, his eyes leaving the page briefly, and then his voice flowed on, consigning Brett to dust and ashes and memory.

  When the service was over we walked back to Adam’s for a buffet of cold cuts and noodle casseroles. The baked funeral meats came courtesy of Irene who seemed to be working from the hypothesis that full stomachs left little room for grief. But no one ate much. Murder has that effect. The knowledge that one of us might have put an end to Brett cast its own pall.

  The mayor gave an impromptu speech about the overall safety of life in a small town, and then popped open a beer. Miss Irene circulated a tray of homemade cookies, urging us all to eat up.

  After I choked down a ham sandwich, I joined Jack Cobb out on the verandah. He was staring moodily out toward the treeline.

  “Hey, Jack.”

  He barely turned his head. “Kyle.”

  “It was good of you to come to Brett’s funeral.”

  “The old man insisted.”

  “You didn’t really even know Brett did you?”

  “No.”

  “And you didn’t like him.”

  Jack gave me a direct stare like the glare of oncoming headlights. “No.” After a pause he said deliberately, “Fucking faggot.”

  I already had it figured, but the hair on the back of my neck stood up all the same. I reached in my wallet and pulled out the battered note I’d found in Brett’s bathroom drawer.

  “I recognized the writing from the bill for firewood pinned on Adam’s refrigerator door.”

  Jack stared at the note as though it were in hieroglyphics. Then he snatched at it.

  I yanked my hand back, shoving the note in my pocket as I stepped out of his reach. “I don’t think so,” I said like somebody in a book I would never write.

  “Give me that note or I’ll kick your ass.”

  “That defeats the purpose of getting the note back, doesn’t it?” Not a swerve of his single-track mind. I hooked a thumb over my shoulder pointing toward the house. I clarified, “They’ll ask why we’re fighting.”

  Jack’s face twitched in pain like Frankenstein at the first volt of electricity.

  “Why did you want Brett to meet you?”

  “To kick his ass.” Duh!

  “Why?”

  “He needed it.”

  It’s hard to escape that kind of logic. I said, “That was me in the cemetery.”

  “Yeah. I noticed.” He nodded his head in the direction of my cottage, by which I gathered he had deduced the rabbit’s identity by the hole it bolted into.

  “What did I ever do to you?”

  “I don’t care about you. I wanted to kick his ass.”

  I scrutinized Jack. He was twenty-seven (my age), unmarried, no steady girlfriend that I knew of, and had a fixation on Brett’s ass.

  “What did Brett ever do to you?”

  “Came on to me.”

  “Ever heard of Just Say No?”

  “He didn’t take no for an answer.”

  “So you killed him?”

  He seemed to find this funny. “Me?”

  The screen door opened and Miss Irene stepped out on the verandah. “Did you boys want some pie?”

  “I do, Auntie,” Jack said. He gave me a sort of smirk and followed her back into the house.

  After a bit I went back inside and shook hands with Adam.

  “Thank you for coming, Kyle,” he said politely, as to a stranger.

  A truly improper thought went through my unruly brain. I said automatically, “Call me if there’s anything I can do.”

  For a moment there was a gleam of irony in his baby-blues. “I’ll do that.”

  * * * * *

  My much-postponed doctor’s appointment was at three. I went home, changed and headed into town.

  The yellow sun blazed overhead, like a Van Gogh star. Pewter-edged clouds shape-shifted across empty blue canvas. The grassy hills rippled beneath the undulating strokes of an invisible paintbrush. The day shimmered with life and energy, and it was hard to accept that Brett was gone forever. That Brett was now just a memory.

  There were living people who were less disruptive than Brett’s memory.

  Twenty minutes later I lay on the examining table, staring at the two pencil sketches on th
e wall while Dr. Hicks moved the cold cap of the stethoscope over my ribs.

  “Inhale.”

  I sucked in. One of the sketches was of Main Street. Main Street a quarter of a century ago. Beneath a drooping American flag, old men sat outside the VFW on benches. The other sketch was of the park. More old men on benches. Interesting theme going there.

  “Exhale.”

  I exhaled. “Who did those sketches?”

  “Hmm?” Dr. Hicks glanced at me over his glasses and then looked behind himself as though to refresh his memory. “Your mother.”

  “My mother?” I stared at those sketches as though for the first time, as though I hadn’t lain here hiding from Dr. Hicks’ x-ray (literally) vision in those penciled streets for much of my life. “I didn’t know my mother could draw.”

  “Sure she could. Kyria was a good little artist.”

  “Was she?” How come I never knew? “When did she do those?”

  “When she was in college. She used to work here in my office on Saturdays.”

  There was something funny in Doctor Hicks’ voice. Something neutral. Too neutral.

  “You can get dressed,” he told me briskly, turning away.

  I unstuck myself from the tissue and leather and hopped down, reaching for my shirt. “You must have known my mother pretty well,” I said, watching Dr. Hicks note something on my chart.

  “Hmm? Yes. She was a nice girl. Very nice girl.”

  Again, too neutral. Too careful. Either Hicks hadn’t liked my mother—or he’d liked her a lot. He’d kept her sketches. I thought he must have liked her a lot.

  “How long did she work for you?”

  Silence. A pen scratching away and then Dr. Hicks said, “Off and on, about eight years. Then Cosmo came home from New York. They got married.” He shrugged, still not looking at me.

  Eight years? Ma had not gone to college for eight years; something told me she had put in more than four Saturdays a month for the good doctor. Well, she had to do something during the fourteen years my old man had been sowing his wild oats. Was this one of those Turner Classic Movie moments? I sussed Hicks still found it hard to talk about her nearly thirty years later. He had never married either.