by J. A. Jance
Of course, once Erin’s sister, Jennifer Lafflyn, had fallen to her death off the Magnolia Bridge, that incident had sparked another whole line of investigation. Since I had been directly involved in the confrontation, Kramer and I had both been excluded from that aspect of the investigation. Was Jennifer’s death where the crooked-cop angle came from? Much as I didn’t want to, I resigned myself to the distinct possibility of having to hold my nose and reach out to Paul Kramer to see if he could shed any light on the subject.
Right then, what would have helped the most would have been having access to the murder books on either one of those two cases—Marcia Kelsey’s and Jennifer Lafflyn’s. Had Ross Connors still been alive, he would have waved his magic wand and access would have been a done deal. But then again, so could someone else—another former partner of mine, Seattle PD’s current assistant chief of police, Ron Peters.
We hadn’t been partners for very long when, in the course of a high-speed chase, the van in which Ron had been riding had plunged off an unfinished off-ramp on I-90. The accident had left Ron a paraplegic. He had spent months in recovery, first in the hospital and later in rehab. It was no accident that one of his many nurses was now his wife, Amy. Come to think of it, maybe what was going on between Harry I. Ball and Margie Herndon wasn’t all that surprising, either.
But back to Amy Peters. Not only is she Ron’s wife, but she’s also the mother of my namesake, Jared Beaumont Peters.
When I dialed their home number, Amy answered the phone. “Hang on,” she said. “Let me go find him. He and Jared are having a father-and-son chat.”
That sounded ominous, but Jared’s a little kid. How bad could it be?
“Hey, Beau,” Ron said when Amy handed him the phone. “How’s it going?”
“Things are fine with me. What about on your end?”
Ron sighed. “We’re being hassled by Jared’s fifth-grade teacher. Jared wants to conduct a ballistics test for his science project. The teacher is objecting on the grounds that she won’t allow guns to be mentioned in her classroom.”
I wanted to whack my forehead with the phone. Jared’s father is a cop. Guns are the tools of his trade just as they are of mine. If a carpenter’s son wanted to do a science project related to hammers, for instance, would that cause a hue and cry? About that time, the other part of Ron’s stunning statement pierced my consciousness.
“Wait,” I said. “Jared’s already in the fifth grade? Are you kidding me?”
“Time flies,” Ron said with a chuckle. “Now what’s up?”
“You’ve heard about Maxwell Cole, I presume?”
“Yup,” Ron said. “No love lost there as far as I’m concerned.”
When Ron first came back to work, he had landed a job in the Public Information Office, or as that department is currently known, Media Relations. I suspected he hadn’t enjoyed dealing with Maxwell Cole any more than I had.
“He was working on a book, which evidently has something to do with a homicide Kramer and I worked years ago,” I said. “The murder of Marcia Kelsey.”
“Wait, you mean the school district murders?” Ron asked.
I always focus on Marcia’s death, because she had been Jennifer Lafflyn’s main target, but another person had been found dead at that same crime scene. Alvin Chambers, a lowly school district security guard who’d had the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. His death was always considered to be something of an afterthought.
“Yes,” I said, “exactly. Marcia’s foster daughter, Erin, has been close friends with Maxwell Cole all her life. She’s of the opinion that his death wasn’t accidental at all, and she’s asked me to look into it.”
“Beau,” Ron cautioned, “if you’re asking me to give you information on a current case . . .”
“I’m not,” I said quickly. “Obviously current investigations are off-limits.”
My fondest hope, of course, was that Al Thorne from the Arson Bomb Squad wouldn’t spill the beans as far as where we’d been earlier in the day. I doubted he would, if for no reason other than self-preservation. After all, Al was still on the job and, as a consequence, could still be fired. Because I’m approximately older than dirt, I’m already fired.
“I’m just trying to get a better idea of the direction Max’s book was taking,” I explained. “Having a chance to sit down and look through those murder books would be a huge help.”
I shut up then and gave Ron a chance to think it over. “I don’t see why that would be an issue,” he said at last. “When would you like to do it?”
Slipping in and out of the Evidence Unit on a weekend day would be less obvious than visiting during the week, when my turning up might attract unwanted attention. “Tomorrow maybe?” I asked tentatively. “Early afternoon, maybe, say one or so?”
“Sure,” Ron agreed. “I’ll call down to the EU and let them know you’re coming.”
“Thanks, Ron,” I told him. “I really appreciate it.”
I set a reminder for the evidence room appointment on my phone and then turned my attention to the names on the reservation list Todd had sent me. It was easy to discount the guests whose expected arrivals came later than Mel’s and mine. Since we’d been ready for dessert as Max was leaving, I focused in on parties that were listed as having started an hour or so before we did.
Before placing the first call, I came up with a lamebrain cover story that had the advantage of being partially true. I tried it out for the first time on someone named Loretta Mason, who was listed as a four-top at 6:00 P.M.
“I ran into an old fraternity buddy of mine at El Gaucho last week,” I told her. “Unfortunately, I’ve misplaced Max’s phone number. I was wondering if maybe you could put me in touch.”
Obviously if the person knew Max’s last name or was aware that he had croaked out in the meantime, the story wouldn’t fly. Loretta, however, fell for it hook, line, and sinker. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I can’t help you. I don’t know anyone named Max.”
Despite Todd’s warning to the contrary, the phone numbers all worked. I expected people to hang up on me or demand to know how I had acquired their number, but they didn’t. They were all unfailingly polite and sorry about being unable to help. It wasn’t until call number ten or eleven, one placed to someone named Amelia R at 6:45, that I finally hit pay dirt.
The phone was answered with what sounded like a series of letters—“DQC” maybe? When I asked for Amelia, the phone was banged down on a counter. While I waited I wondered if the “DQ” in question stood for Dairy Queen perhaps, but the music playing in the background along with occasional bursts of laughter made me think that couldn’t be right.
Eventually a husky-voiced individual came on the line. “Amelia,” she said.
I launched off into my scripted story, but I never made it past the word “unfortunately” because Amelia stopped me cold. She not only knew who Max was, she knew who I was, too.
“You’re the guy who used to be the detective,” she said. “Max pointed you out to me when you first came into the restaurant the other night. It’s about time someone got in touch with me. I thought I would have heard from Seattle PD long before this.”
“Because?” I hinted.
“Because Max put on a good front—at least he tried to, but I could tell he was scared to death and with good reason, as it turns out. What is it they say? ‘You’re not being paranoid if someone really is out to get you.’”
“You don’t think the fire that killed him was an accident?”
“No,” Amelia said at once. “Do you?”
I started to say I was warming to the idea, but I stifled myself just in time. Indulging in gallows humor outside the walls of law enforcement establishments is not recommended.
“That’s a distinct possibility,” I hedged. “But if you thought there was more to his death than its being just an accident, you could have contacted Seattle PD on your own.”
She laughed aloud at that
one. “Sure,” she said, “someone like me calls the cops to argue that what they’re calling an accident is actually a homicide? Don’t be silly. A story like that is never going to get any traction.”
“That’s not true,” I said. “Private citizens call in to report crimes all the time.”
“Drag queens don’t,” she said pointedly. “Now, Friday nights are busy around here, and I’ve got a business to run, so how about you get off the dime and tell me the reason for your call.”
A drag queen? Had I stumbled into another aspect of Maxwell Cole’s secret life? Leaving that to be sorted later, I launched off into my explanation.
“As you said to begin with, I was a detective, but I’m not any longer. However, a woman named Erin Howard contacted me. She’s apparently of the same opinion you are—that Max’s death wasn’t an accident—and she wanted me to look into it.”
“Ah, Erin,” Amelia said, “my new partner.”
“Excuse me?”
“Never mind,” she responded. “We’d probably be better off discussing all this in person rather than over the phone.”
“I’d be glad to drop by if that would be convenient,” I offered.
“Drop by here?” Amelia asked. “Exactly how straight are you, Mr. Beaumont?”
“Pretty,” I admitted.
“You do know what the initials ‘DQC’ stand for, don’t you?”
“Not the foggiest.”
“It’s Drag Queen Central,” she said. “We specialize in drag queen stand-up comedy. Things can get pretty raunchy around here later on in the evening, but if you think you’re tough enough, feel free to stop by.”
“Where are you exactly?”
“Up in Wallingford,” she said. “Right on the main drag in a storefront that used to house a movie theater.”
I glanced at my watch. It was only eight o’clock. “Okay,” I said. “See you soon.”
I got up and headed for the dining room, where Mel was still poring over her paperwork.
“Care to take a field trip?” I asked.
“Where to?”
“To see a friend of Maxwell Cole’s,” I answered. “Her name’s Amelia Rourke, and she runs a drag queen comedy joint up in Wallingford.”
Mel gave me a raised-eyebrow look. “Drag queen, really?”
I nodded.
“Best offer I’ve had all day,” she said, pushing back her chair. “Are we taking Lucy or leaving her here?”
“She’s with us,” I said. “Let’s go.”
CHAPTER 20
AMELIA ROURKE (MAN OR A WOMAN? I WASN’T SURE) HAD mentioned that DQC was located in what had once been a movie theater. Mel and I approached the place on foot, having had to park several blocks away. When we arrived, the establishment was awash in splashes of vivid neon signage, and it looked for all the world as though it still was a movie theater, albeit one from a much earlier era.
Under a sheltering overhang, a crowd of smokers—most of them outlandishly overdressed in ball gowns and tuxedos—milled around outside an old-fashioned ticketing booth, laughing and talking. Standing in line with Mel, I tried not to stare. Some of the folks were women dressed up in men’s clothing, and vice versa. Surprisingly enough, some of those faux females were actually drop-dead gorgeous. Let’s just say it was all very unsettling.
The young woman in the ticket booth, however, was clearly that—a young woman. A sign in the window said that the Friday night cover charge was fifty bucks. I was about to hand over the money when she glanced first at Mel and then back at me.
“Mr. Beaumont?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Your cover is covered,” she said. “Tell Jack I said so. Tell him to take you to see Auntie Em.”
“Who’s Jack?”
It turned out Jack was the bouncer—and a serious-looking one at that. I was sure that there was plenty of muscle hiding under his S-E-C-U-R-I-T-Y emblazoned windbreaker.
When we approached him, he gave a slight bow, opened the door, and gestured us inside. My first impression was that I had left Seattle far behind and wandered into some upscale casino in Vegas. The DQC was what Jim Hunt refers to as “all glitz and glam,” with an interior as lavishly overdone as some of the waiting customers we had seen outside. The back wall of the lobby, where popcorn and sodas had once held sway, was now a respectable bar, complete with a highly polished counter and a row of padded barstools. It came complete with what I recognized as a commendable collection of top-shelf booze.
“Right this way,” Jack said, holding aside a red velvet curtain. “You’ll find Miss Amelia’s table over there in the far corner of the room, all the way in the back.”
I stopped for a moment, taking it all in and remembering all those Busby Berkeley musicals that used to be on TV back in the fifties. Any surface that wasn’t covered with lush velvet curtains was covered with mirrors. The immense chandelier in the middle of the room would have been totally at home in any bus-and-truck show’s traveling production of the Phantom of the Opera. Yes, Jim Hunt definitely would have given the place an enthusiastic two thumbs up.
Long ago I’m sure a silver screen hung on the far wall of the slope-floored room. That was no longer the case. In its place was a small stage area backed by a layer of lavish red velvet curtains. The stage itself was empty except for two items—a microphone stand and a tall armed stool—both of them at the ready and awaiting the arrival of the evening’s first performer. In the background, behind the din of pleasant laughter and partying chitchat, Johnny Mathis’s recorded voice crooned “Misty” over what I deemed to be a respectable sound system.
I had no doubt that the place had once been filled with row upon row of auditorium-style seating. Those had now been replaced by risers holding small cocktail tables and upholstered banquet chairs. Most of the tables were already occupied, with scantily clad cocktail waitresses darting back and forth among them. Were they or weren’t they? Who knows and probably best not to ask. Let’s just say that none of this glitzy operation looked like the butt-sprung, down-at-the-heels version of Wallingford I had expected.
As for the blonde holding court in the far corner of the room? I recognized Amelia Rourke at once as the person who had left Maxwell Cole’s funeral immediately after the service ended, following hard on John Madsen’s heels. From a distance she looked like one of those glamorous movie stars from the forties. Up close and personal I realized Amelia was definitely one of the drag queens in question. She stood to greet me, offering a bejeweled hand along with a surprisingly firm handshake.
“Mr. Beaumont, I presume?”
I nodded. “Yes,” I said, “and this is my wife, Mel Soames.”
Amelia gave Mel an appraising once-over. “Are you an investigator, too?”
Mel responded with one of her most dazzling smiles. “Don’t pay any attention to me,” she said. “I’m just here as backup.”
Amelia actually hooted with laughter at that. “Welcome then, both of you,” she said. “Have a seat. The first set starts at ten. Once that happens, having an actual conversation won’t be possible. Would either of you care for something to drink? I gave up drinking years ago, so I’m having Earl Grey, but you’re welcome to whatever.”
So Amelia Rourke, a man dressed in women’s clothing who also had sobriety issues, was running an upscale bar? How much stranger could it get?
“Earl Grey works for me,” Mel told her while I took a pass.
Once Amelia had given Mel’s order to a passing waitress, she turned back to me. “Now,” she said, “how can I help?”
“On the phone earlier, you mentioned something to the effect that Erin Howard is now your new partner. What’s that all about?”
“When I came up with the idea for Drag Queen Central, one of the first stumbling blocks—a major one at that—was landing a liquor license. Max and I had been friends for years. Decades even. He knew people who knew people, and he put me in touch with someone who was able to help me obtain what I needed. It turn
ed out to be a frightfully costly undertaking. When I came up short in terms of funding, there weren’t any banks back then who were willing to step up, so Max did. He advanced me the shortfall in exchange for a ten percent ownership of the business—a silent partnership, mind you. That agreement remains in effect to this day, and he’s been receiving a ten percent share in the profits for as long as there have been profits.”
Mel’s tea was delivered. As she stirred in sweetener and lemon, I glanced around the crowded room, realizing as I did so that profitability clearly wasn’t one of DQC’s problems.
“In fact, that was one of the things Max and I were discussing at dinner at El Gaucho last week,” Amelia continued. “My buying out his interest in the business. We even established a price point—one hundred and forty thousand dollars. He told me that night that he’d meet with his attorney the following week—this week—and have her draw up the paperwork.”
“That would be Delia Rojas?” I asked.
“Yes,” Amelia answered, “I believe that’s her name. His hope was to have the deal finalized within a matter of days.”
“Paying out that much money all at once wouldn’t have been an issue for you?” Mel inquired.
Amelia smiled as she answered. “DQC is a going concern, Ms. Soames, and these days banks are far more understanding than they used to be when it comes to financing alternative kinds of establishments. Since the sale never went through, however, I’m now stuck with a silent partner who doesn’t know the first thing about me or my business. If she’s straight, there’s a good chance that she won’t approve of either one. That’s the whole reason Max wanted us to do the buyout sooner rather than later—so I wouldn’t end up being encumbered with a business partner I didn’t know and also because, truth be told, if something bad did happen to him, he’d be able to keep a lid on that as far as Erin is concerned.”