Drop Dead

by Mark Richard Zubro

  Heyling shook his head. “No.”

  Veleshki said, “Over the years we saw him at numerous events. The three of us were cordial but distant. To be honest, I doubt if the affair had much effect on Cullom. He could have had sex with anyone he wanted.”

  “Did either of you go out on the balcony with Furyk before or after the brunch?”

  “No,” Veleshki said. “After the meal we had a private meeting with Munsen for a few minutes. The others from our company waited for us. Roger and I were in each other’s presence the whole time.”

  “Nobody went to the john?” Fenwick asked.

  “We were not out of each other’s presence,” Veleshki reiterated. After a few more minutes of questions that elicited nothing, the two of them left.

  “Their relationship gives new meaning to the concept of silent partner,” Turner commented.

  “I don’t like being double-teamed in a murder investigation,” Fenwick said, “but then again, I say about as much when I go to a party with Madge’s friends.”

  “They don’t have an appreciation for your finely honed wit like I do.”

  “Maybe it was an accident.”

  “Your wit?”

  Fenwick grumbled, “My wit can do without your comments, thank you. Maybe Clark Nemora was wrong. It is a hell of a long way up to see clearly.”

  The next six people they interviewed claimed to have eaten brunch, been in someone else’s presence the whole time, and been preparing to leave when the police made them wait.

  After the last one of this group left, Turner said, “Each person from GUINEVERE, except McBride, has claimed the guy was a charming sweetheart. And except for Veleshki and Heyling, the people from their company claim not to know him.”

  Fenwick said, “Sexual athlete, incredibly good-looking, immensely popular, totally sweet, and rich. What’s not to like? I’m ready to puke.”

  The twelfth person they talked with was Eliot Norwyn.

  Before he entered the room Turner said, “I know this guy, I think. Why do I know this guy?”

  “He’s the latest teenage heartthrob,” Fenwick said. “He’s on that new show set in Newton, Iowa. I think it’s called Farm Lust, or Farming First. Every Saturday night my daughters are glued to the television for an hour to watch this guy. I’ve never figured out what the damn show is supposed to be about.”

  “Teen Farm,” Turner said.

  “That’s it,” Fenwick said.

  The short, slender, young actor entered the room. He wore a pure wool two-button charcoal-stripe suit and a polka-dot silk-crepe tie. His blond hair was swept straight back from the front of his head. The swirls of his hairdo seemed to have been gelled into place.

  After introductions Turner asked, “Why were you at the party?”

  “I came with a friend. People could bring guests.”

  “Are you connected with the fashion industry?” Turner asked.

  “Both companies have approached me to do endorsements. I was willing to listen to both sides.”

  “I thought Furyk was the spokesperson for GUINEVERE,” Fenwick said.

  “Companies can have more than one spokesperson. Nike has more than just Michael Jordan.”

  “I knew that,” Fenwick said.

  “How well did you know Cullom Furyk?” Turner asked.

  Norwyn shifted uneasily in his seat. He became teary-eyed. “I’ve got to be careful. I’m straight, you understand. That’s important for my image, and it also happens to be true. There are all these rumors in Hollywood and on the set about me being sexually ambiguous, but I’m straight. People in the industry know I am, but letting fans think I’m bisexual or mysterious adds to my allure, or so my agent says.”

  “You don’t agree?” Turner asked.

  “I’m awful popular because of him. It’s worked so far.”

  “It was a good idea at the time,” Fenwick said.

  “Pardon?”

  “Nothing,” Fenwick said.

  Turner asked, “If being straight is important for your image, how does being mysteriously bisexual fit in with that?”

  “People can think I might fool around with both sexes, but I only appear in public with women. Straight guys can identify with me, gay guys can have fantasies, and women can see me as sensitive and masculine.”

  “Puke,” Fenwick muttered.

  “What did you say?” Norwyn asked.

  Fenwick gazed at him silently.

  Turner stepped in. “You’re telling us all this because …”

  “It’s best you hear this from me, so you won’t think I’m lying or trying to hide anything. I had a brief fling with Cullom. The first year of my television show. I met him through some friends in Malibu. We spent the better part of a week partying at a friend’s beach house. That’s all it was, one week. We had separate lives. We never got together after that. I’ve never touched another guy.”

  “It just ended?” Turner asked. “You weren’t angry about that?”

  “It was a mutual ending, really. I had to get back to work. My agent gave me a big talking-to. He said Cullom was a big whore and just took advantage of everyone. I’m straight, but he was such a hot guy and really sweet.”

  “Where did you go after brunch today?”

  “Cullom left just as they served dessert and didn’t come back. The others were discussing business so I left the room. I wandered around the penthouse.” He sighed and shifted again. “I don’t want to be involved in this. I’m straight.”

  “What happened?”

  “I heard a fight going on out on the west terrace. Someone was arguing with Cullom. I could see Cullom, but not the person he was talking to. I couldn’t hear the words, but Cullom was pointing with his finger and shaking his fist.”

  “Man or a woman?” Turner asked.

  “I’m pretty sure it was a man.”

  “Could you tell anything at all about the other person?” Fenwick asked. “An outline, a shadow?”

  “No. I didn’t hang around. I don’t like it when people argue. About five minutes later I heard one of the terrace doors thunk shut. I didn’t pay much attention to it at the time. Thinking back, I guess it could have been Cullom or more likely his killer, because just a few minutes later I began to hear sirens.”

  “Did you go out on the terrace?” Turner asked.

  “No. Never. Not for a minute.”

  “You didn’t see who it was who came in?”

  “No. Sorry.”

  He knew no more and left.

  Fenwick said, “If Eliot Norwyn has had sex with only one guy, then I’m a drag queen.”

  “And more sensitive.”

  “A one-night stand, I understand,” Fenwick said. “You shack up with somebody for a week, you’ve moved past a phase.”

  “Or an ‘Oops, I was drunk.’”

  “They must have had truth serum for brunch,” Fenwick said. “All these people telling us things before anyone else can is kind of weird.”

  “Maybe they’re scared,” Turner suggested.

  “They all lie,” Fenwick said. He was repeating one of the great cop truisms about the people they dealt with—both the guilty and the not guilty.

  Turner asked, “Did he get misty-eyed because Furyk is dead, or because we might think he was gay, or because he was worried about his career?”

  “I’d vote for the last,” Fenwick replied.

  The next four people, including Evan Abarak, cleared interviewing easily. The second to the last was Sean Kindel.

  After introductions Fenwick asked, “Why were you at the party?”

  Kindel burst into tears.

  The detectives glanced at each other.

  “You were close to Mr. Furyk?” Turner asked.

  Through his sobs Kindel said, “We were lovers.” He took out a silk handkerchief and wept into it. He wore a gray-white microcheck shirt, a gray silk wave-striped tie, and patch-pocket cotton-denim painter’s jeans. He was five feet eight, in his mid-to-late forties,
and weighed maybe one hundred fifty.

  When he finally controlled himself Turner asked, “How long have you known Mr. Furyk?”

  “We’ve met at circuit parties off and on for a number of years. We’d been lovers only the past month. I was with him for part of the time on his vacation in Greece.”

  “What’s a circuit party?” Fenwick asked.

  “Parties around the country that the beautiful people in the gay world go to.”

  “Did he bring you as his guest to today’s brunch?” Turner asked.

  “No. I was here covering the event for the Gay Tribune, the city’s gay and lesbian newspaper. I’m the gossip and fashion columnist.”

  “Did you know he was going to be here?” Turner asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Why didn’t you come together?” Turner asked.

  “I had to go to work. He had a photo shoot.”

  “You were living together?” Turner asked.

  “He stayed at my place sometimes.”

  “The impression we have is that he was fairly fickle in his relationships,” Turner said. “He ever call you or did you just call him?”

  “He called me. I have my pride.”

  “You loved each other,” Turner said.

  “Very, very much.” He sniffed and dabbed at his eyes.

  “Was he staying at your place during this visit?”

  “Part of the time.”

  “Where was he the rest of the time?”

  “Here, in the penthouse with the rest of the guests of the company. He really didn’t have one place to stay. He had to be in so many cities for so many events. He traveled extensively for the company. He may not have modeled for the other fashion houses, but he was in great demand. The company wanted him to keep a high profile. He would wear their clothes in city after city at parties, events, fund-raisers, talk shows, any place their agent could get him even a few minutes’ exposure to the public.”

  “How can you not have a place to live,” Fenwick asked, “a place to put your stuff?”

  “They can keep a lot of the clothes they model, but he gave a lot of them away to charities’ benefit auctions. He was incredibly generous with his time for a good cause. One time, a pair of his briefs sold for over five thousand dollars.”

  “How could they prove he ever wore them?” Turner asked.

  “The deal included watching him take them off.”

  “All this and heaven too,” Fenwick said.

  Turner said, “According to Mr. Munsen he was not staying here.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Turner and Fenwick gazed at him.

  “I … That’s what he told me. Are you sure?”

  “The people we talked to from GUINEVERE, Incorporated confirmed what Munsen told us. Where would he have been?”

  “I don’t know.” Kindel looked forlorn and lost.

  “What happened in the past month that made you lovers?” Turner asked.

  “He told me he wanted to settle down. He wanted more of a normal life.”

  “Anybody else know you were lovers?”

  “A few of my close friends. No one else.”

  “Did you and he talk at the brunch?”

  “Not.”

  “You’re lovers and you didn’t talk?”

  “Our relationship was not common knowledge in the industry.”

  “Did you leave the room at any time?”

  “No.”

  “Did you see anyone follow him?”

  “The penthouse is immense. People were moving around. Some wanted to go to each tower to see the view. People were talking in different groups. Keeping track of everyone would have been impossible.”

  “Where’d you go after brunch?” Fenwick asked.

  “I was interviewing people for my column.”

  He knew nothing more.

  The last person was Jolanda Bokaru. She wore the kind of outfit you thought existed only on the runways of outré fashion shows. A clutch of thin spaghetti straps held up an acetate, viscose, and organza dress crammed with pressed orchids. Her six-inch heels helped emphasize her tall, slender frame.

  “Why were you at the party?” Fenwick asked.

  “I am the owner and editor of Gorgeous magazine.”

  “Never heard of it,” Fenwick said.

  “I’m supposed to care about that?” she snapped.

  She and Fenwick glared at each other.

  Turner asked, “How well did you know Cullom Furyk?”

  “When I permitted him to be on the cover of the magazine three years ago, we printed an extra hundred thousand copies. We sold out completely. We still get requests for that issue. Alas, there are none to be had on the planet.”

  “What was so special about the cover?” Turner asked.

  “Cullom is a star in his own right and sells whatever he touches, mostly GUINEVERE fashions. For that issue he was in a pair of leather pants, motorcycle boots, a chain harness, and a cap pulled slightly over one eyebrow. We also had a special section featuring him wearing some of GUINEVERE’s male fashions that season. That vulnerable smile and those puppy-dog eyes drove people wild. Even I was moved.”

  “How so?” Fenwick asked.

  “He and I screwed after the photo session.”

  “You had an affair?” Fenwick asked.

  “Please. It wasn’t even a one-night stand. He was an inept lover. More of a boy. Someone needed to teach him the ways to please a woman.

  “We understood he was gay.”

  “I did not and do not care about his sexuality. Being a lousy lover or a terrific one does not depend on your sexual orientation. He was interesting to me for a moment. Then he wasn’t.”

  “Where did you go after brunch?”

  “Where was I when the murder was committed?” She leaned her head back and laughed. “I shall dine out on this moment for many years.” She laughed some more, then said, “I finished my dessert. Munsen had the most inferior food served. I then stepped out to have a cigarette on the east terrace. When I reentered I saw Cullom with his tongue down the throat of one of the caterers.”

  “Can you identify him?”

  “Cullom? Gorgeous, really, in a mid-twenties way. Oh, of course, you mean the catering person, don’t you? Well, it was a male Caucasian in those black pants and white shirts they all wore. No distinguishing moles or tattoos. Color of hair, dark, although I couldn’t say if it was black or brown.”

  “Where was this?”

  “I happened to pass an open door to one of the bedroom suites.”

  “Was anyone else around?”

  “I didn’t see anyone. I let myself give them an intrusive look. If they’d been paying attention, they might have tried to be more discreet, or maybe not. After several moments, I moved on.”

  “Did you know he was lovers with Sean Kindel?”

  “Who?”

  “The fashion reporter for the Gay Tribune?”

  “Nobody takes that newspaper seriously.”

  “You didn’t meet at the party today?”

  “If I did, I don’t remember.”

  Turner took out the floor plan. “In which bedroom was the make-out session?”

  She examined the map for a moment then pointed to a room in the southeast corner. “There,” she said.

  “Did you see Furyk or the caterer after that?”

  “No. Veleshki and Heyling were trying to get me to do a major spread on them. They’re such nice boys, but, really, their products just are not up to standard. I believe they are going broke.”

  “How do you know?” Turner asked.

  “Inside industry gossip. I could never tell you precisely who told me. Everyone just knows.”

  “Is it true?” Fenwick asked.

  “I wouldn’t know. Gossip is ever so much more fun than reality.”

  “Why would they be going broke?”

  “The blindly optimistic and least self-aware claim they are too far ahead of their time. A realisti
c assessment might be that they made poor choices and stupid decisions. Which do you think they announce to the public?”

  She left moments later, unable to give them any further information.

  Turner turned to Fenwick and said, “Furyk was lying to Kindel about where he was staying. I wonder if Kindel saw or heard Furyk and the hired help being friendly.” Turner told the uniform at the door to send Kindel back in.

  “When you were done with them, we let them go,” the uniform said. “They were getting real anxious to leave and nobody said to keep them here.”

  Turner nodded. “Find out where Sean Kindel lives and send somebody to pick him up.”

  When Turner resumed his seat Fenwick said, “I don’t like these people.”

  “Except for an occasional snarl, you’ve managed to hide that pretty well.”

  “I’m more sensitive now, remember?”

  Next they interviewed four hotel guests found by the uniforms. These were connected to the fashion industry and staying in the hotel but not part of the brunch. They gave them no useful information. After that, Turner and Fenwick hunted for Munsen. He was in the penthouse foyer.

  Turner unfolded the floor plan of the penthouse. He pointed to the bedroom Bokaru had identified. “Who was staying in this room?”

  “No one,” Munsen answered. “We kept all the rooms, but used only about three quarters of them.”

  Fenwick said, “We need to talk to the catering staff.”

  “They left before you came up. Why did you send someone to pick up Sean Kindel? Did he push Cullom off the balcony?”

  “How can the catering staff be gone?” Fenwick asked. “Didn’t we tell the uniforms to keep everyone up here?”

  “Is Kindel the killer?” Munsen asked.

  “Thank you for your help,” Fenwick said—an obvious dismissal and refusal to answer his question.

  Turner and Fenwick stopped in the bedroom in question. The slightly rumpled bedspread looked as if someone might have lain on top of it but there was no other evidence of any activity, sexual or otherwise. They put up the crime scene tape.

  Fenwick went to call the caterer for the addresses of the staff from the party and to hunt for the beat cops. As he walked away, Fenwick said, “I’m gonna shoot one of them.”

  Turner said nothing. He was as annoyed as Fenwick at the slip-up, permitting the caterers to leave. While Fenwick went to bawl out beat cops, Turner returned to the terrace from which Cullom had fallen.