“No, but I believe you knew his cousin: Walt Kaplan.”
Her spine stiffened and her gaze traveled from my offered hand to my face. “I’m afraid I don’t. You must have me mixed up with someone else.”
I pulled back my hand and withdrew a picture of her and Walt from my pocket, placed it on the bar, shoved it in front of her. “Did you know this man?”
Veronica feigned indifference. “I don’t think so.”
She’d missed that my question was asked in the past tense.
“This is you in the picture, isn’t it?”
She smiled. “Sure. Although it couldn’t have been one of my better days.”
“So you knew him?”
“I have my picture taken with lots of the customers.” She picked up her drink, took a small sip.
I studied her long fingers; the nails looked phony—removable, but there was strength in the hand that held the stemmed glass. Long sleeves covered her arms. No way to see if the hair on her forearms was thick and black. “Let me refresh your memory. His name was Walt Kaplan. He was found dead two weeks ago behind the Old Red Mill in Williamsville.”
“The poor man. Heart attack?”
“Stabbed. Forty-six times.”
Veronica simpered. “Oh dear.”
“So you didn’t know him?”
“Not that I remember.”
“That’s funny. I have quite a collection of pictures of the two of you together.”
She pouted. “I find that hard to believe.”
“Believe it.”
“Just what are you getting at, mister?”
“I’ve been wondering who might find these photographs of particular interest.”
“I can’t imagine.”
“Perhaps the police. Especially since Mr. Kaplan’s death wasn’t an accident.”
“So you say.” Veronica picked up her sequined clutch purse and slid off her barstool. “Excuse me, but I’m meeting someone.” She took a step away from the bar, then turned back, snagged her drink and, hips swaying, sashayed off in her black high heels.
Richard eyed me. “That didn’t do much except tip her off that you’re interested in her. Is this where we start watching our backs twenty-four/seven?”
“I asked you to back off.”
“Yeah, like that’s an option.” He downed a mouthful of beer.
“I wish she’d left her drink. Who knows what I might’ve gotten from touching that glass.”
“Excuse me,” said a low, soft voice from behind us. “But I couldn’t help but overhear parts of your conversation with Miss Veronica.”
I looked behind me to see what appeared to be quite a beautiful black woman in a form-fitting, chartreuse sequined gown with a plunging neckline, blonde wig and sparkling silver heels. “And you are?” I asked.
She offered her hand. “Margarita Ville.” Her voice held just the hint of a Southern lilt.
I took her fingers in mine and gave a gentle squeeze. She simpered coyly, batting her false eyelashes. Under her serene veneer lurked a panther ready to spring. “Won’t you join us?” I asked.
“Why, thank you.” She settled herself on the stool next to Richard, smiled sweetly at him, smoothing down her hair, her gaze lingering on the remnants of his black eye, raising her eyebrow in approval before turning back to me.
I signaled the bartender, and gestured toward Margarita. “The usual?” he asked.
She nodded. A minute later, he presented her with what had to be her signature drink, a margarita. She took a dainty sip, setting the glass back down on the cocktail napkin. “Now I know this will sound utterly catty of me,” she told me, confidentially, “but Miss Veronica Lakes’ life is totally based on a lie—including most of what she just told you.”
“Oh?” I asked.
“Well, it can be said that all the ‘girls’ here have based their lives on a lie. We are, after all, not women. But Lord don’t we look and act more like ladies than half the gals you’ve ever met?”
“Uh . . . yes.” I didn’t know what else to say. “What can you tell me about Veronica?”
Margarita tossed her synthetic mane. “A person of good repute does not accept monies from gentlemen she beds.”
“She turn regular tricks?”
Margarita shook her head. “Veronica doesn’t go in for that. Like me, she’s an artiste, not a prostitute. That said, she does hook her gentleman friends for the long haul. She has a goal.”
“Which is?” Richard asked.
Margarita dabbed a finger on her tongue and pressed it against the salt on the rim of her glass—then licked it. “Miss Veronica needs several hundred thousand dollars to pay for gender reassignment surgery. I believe she plans to go to one of those former eastern block countries.”
“Why doesn’t she have the surgery here?” Richard asked.
“One must pass a number of psychological examinations. The requirements aren’t quite so strict elsewhere.”
“She wouldn’t pass?” Richard asked.
“I am definitely not an expert on the subject—but apparently I am not the only one who believes that Miss Veronica has more than just one screw loose.”
“Doesn’t sound like you approve of sex-change operations,” I said.
“Look, dear, beneath all the sham, you’re still who you were born. I may look like an enticing, beautiful woman—” She paused, gave me a pointed, expectant look.
“Oh, you are,” I agreed.
“But the fact is, that under the makeup, wigs and beautiful clothes—” She smoothed her hands over her hourglass figure. “I’m still just a gay man in drag. And most days, that’s pretty damn all right—despite what my father may have told me to the contrary.”
Richard gripped his beer bottle, taking a healthy swallow before leaning back in his seat.
“And Miss Veronica?” I prompted.
“Amputating her penis and adding silicone breasts won’t make her any more a woman than you are. I mean—let’s face it, chromosomes don’t lie, no matter what the outside package looks like.”
I couldn’t contradict her there.
“So Veronica wants a sugar daddy to pay for her surgery?”
She sipped her drink. “Daddies,” Margarita emphasized. “She takes them for all they’re worth. Eventually they get tired of her. I mean—she’s not the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree.”
I withdrew the photo of Walt and Veronica from my pocket. “Ever see this guy?”
Margarita scrutinized the photo. “That would be Mr. Walt. Ever such a nice man. Kept a select few of us entertained with tall tales of money and excess. It’s a pity he was always attracted to trash.”
“He had other ‘friends’ besides Veronica?” Richard asked.
Margarita nodded, tucking a blonde lock behind her multipierced ear. “Those friendships were rather transitory. But Miss Veronica—well, she has very sharp claws and an attraction to fat wallets. Once she hooks a Sugar Daddy, she squeezes the life out of him.”
Squeezes, or stabs?
“Did you know Walt Kaplan was stabbed to death?” I asked.
Margarita blinked several times, her gaze riveted on mine. “I do believe I read that in the paper.”
“Do you think Veronica was capable of—?” I let the sentence hang.
“I wouldn’t want to accuse anybody of anything,” Margarita said, watching herself in the mirror on the backbar, batting at the curls around her face. “But it’s common knowledge that Miss Veronica is quite handy with a knife. She always carries one. One never knows how violent a gentleman caller may become. Some of the girls feel they need to be prepared with hardware. I do not happen to be one with that mindset.”
“Let me guess. You’re well acquainted with the martial arts?” The way she spoke was positively contagious.
Margarita smiled. “Just something I picked up along the way.” She sipped her drink, her gaze straying once again to the mirror in front of her.
“Veronica thought Wal
t had a lot of money?”
“Mr. Walt was very generous to those he liked. He was part of the Kaplan Jewelry empire, you know. I always admired that diamond ring he wore on his right hand. A gift from his father, if I’m not mistaken.” Margarita raised a heavily penciled eyebrow. “I wonder if it went missing. Miss Veronica seems to have come into some money of late.”
Since Gene had the ring, it was more likely Veronica had sold Walt’s car.
“If someone wanted to contact Miss Veronica at her home, where would they find her?” I asked.
“One would merely have to look in the phone book. The name would be M. Bessler.” She spelled it for me, then gave a little shudder. “The M stands for Myron.”
“Any idea how Myron makes a living?”
“By day he stands behind a counter and hands out keys for rent-a-cars—not much brain power required. By night Veronica has delusions of being a diva.” She rolled her eyes. Richard’s mustache twitched over a smile.
Margarita gathered her purse and carefully eased off her barstool. I stood as well. “It’s been very nice speaking with you, gentlemen. I do hope you’ll come back tomorrow to see my show.” She offered me her hand.
I figured what the hell, and brushed my lips against her fingers. “Thank you.”
Margarita took one more appraising glance at herself in the mirror and turned. “Until we meet again.” She gave us a little wave and wandered off into the darkness.
“My weren’t we gallant?” Richard commented.
I climbed back onto my stool. “There’s something about the way she talks. It rubs off.” My gaze flickered across the mirror behind the backbar, looking for Veronica. That I didn’t see her didn’t mean she hadn’t been watching during our conversation with Margarita. She could’ve changed clothes, and personas, and I probably wouldn’t recognize her—him.
Richard drained the last of his beer. “You get anything else out of her?”
“Margarita had an ulterior motive for ratting on Veronica. Until this week, she was the headliner. With Veronica out of the picture—”
Richard eyed our surroundings with disdain. “Talk about a big fish in a small pond. What’s our next move?”
“Sleep on it. I don’t know about you, but I’m tired. Maybe tomorrow I’ll come up with an idea.”
I pushed back my stool and stood again, taking in the bar and its patrons. Still no sign of Veronica.
I followed Richard out and we walked back to the car. I kept looking over my shoulder, but the darkness swallowed details. Anyone could’ve watched us leave, could’ve followed.
We got in the car and Richard started it, pulled away from the curb. I nearly broke my neck straining to see if anyone had pulled out behind us. If they did, I didn’t see their headlights—didn’t hear the roar of a motorcycle. All the way home I kept checking the side mirror, kept looking over my shoulder. Richard noticed, but didn’t say anything. He parked the car in the garage, and we walked in silence into the house.
“See you in the morning,” Richard said, and headed out of the kitchen and into the hall for the stairs.
I locked up and waited for his footfalls to disappear. Richard had been right. Now that Veronica knew I was onto her I’d have to watch my back, and Richard’s, twenty-four/seven.
I slipped off my shoes and retraced his steps, diverting to the darkened living room. Peering through the leaded windows, I surveyed the quiet street in front of the house. No sign of a car or a motorcycle. No sign of movement. No sign of anything.
Veronica was out there somewhere, and within days she’d attempt, and probably succeed in killing Gene Higgins.
Find the truth.
I’d found it. Now to figure out how to use it.
# # #
CHAPTER 23
It took hours for me to fall asleep. I woke up late the next morning feeling marginal again. I wasn’t sure if it was because of an impending migraine or the growing uneasiness inside me. Time was running out and I had no idea how to nail Walt Kaplan’s killer.
I let my new routine rule; I took my meds with a cup of coffee, ate a bowl of cereal, and headed off for work.
“We missed you,” Tom called when I came in the back door. The bags under his eyes told me he’d probably had to man the bar alone the day before.
“Dave work last night?” I asked.
“Nope.”
Major guilt. Especially since I’d spent the day either in bed or dozing.
“I’m assuming you’ve made some progress?” Tom asked. He didn’t have to specify what he meant.
“I’m getting close.”
He didn’t ask any more questions.
I usually liked the daily tasks necessary to gear up for the day’s customers, but not that day. The words find the truth kept eating into my brain, along with a new refrain: cover your ass. Covering my ass meant talking to someone about Walt’s death. My first choice wasn’t the Amherst Police.
The lunch crowd was just beginning to leave when Sam Nielsen strolled into the bar. Again, he sat down at the farthest stool from the taps, setting a steno notepad down in front of him as he waited for me to finish up with a customer. I grabbed a beer from the cooler, cracked it open, and snagged a clean glass before heading down to see him.
“You ought to serve sandwiches,” he said as he focused on our one remaining customer. “Might be a boon for business.”
I handed him the beer. “It’s on the back burner. Thanks for stopping in.”
“So who’s your murderer?”
“A drag queen named Veronica Lakes.”
Sam raised an eyebrow, then poured his beer. “Oh he, or she, of the custom-made shoes?”
“Not exactly. But that’s what got me started on her trail.”
Sam sipped his beer and listened, occasionally making a note but not interrupting, for the next ten minutes as I gave him an abbreviated version of what I’d been pursuing for the previous two weeks.
“And your plan now?” he asked at last.
“I don’t know. Something’s going to break soon. But until Gene makes up his mind to tell the cops what he knows, he’s in real danger from Veronica. She’s going to have to do something to protect herself, and it’s gonna happen before Saturday.”
“Another one of your insights?”
I nodded.
“What do you want me to do?”
“One of the other drag queens said Veronica had squeezed her other sugar daddies. Can you find out if any other gay men have been stabbed to death?”
“The answer’s no. There were two other homicides of gay men in the past three years, but neither fit this MO, both solved. One was a robbery gone wrong, the other was a domestic dispute.”
“Then the good news is our murderer isn’t a serial killer. But where does that leave us?”
“I’ll do some digging on your drag queen. Past history, arrests, the usual. I’ll also dangle a carrot in front of my source at Amherst PD, see what kind of reception I get.” He got up from his stool. “I’ll give you a call this evening, let you know what I’ve found out. Maybe we should go together to see Veronica’s debut tonight.”
Excellent. Then I wouldn’t have to involve Richard. He could stay home, nice and safe.
“Thanks.” Again Sam reached for his wallet but I waved him off. “On the house.”
Sam smiled. “You’re never going to get your cell phone if you keep buying drinks for the general public.”
“Get out of here and start your digging.”
He gave me a salute as he exited through the bar’s side entrance.
Time dragged for the rest of the afternoon, while the tension within me mounted. I poured beer, washed glasses, and tried not to think about Gene sitting alone up at the Holiday Valley house, and how easy it would be for Veronica to pick him off if she found out he was staying there.
It was almost three and I’d been polishing the taps with such vigor they glowed, when Tom called to me. “Phone.”
Tossing
aside the rag, I dipped into Tom’s office and picked up the phone on his desk. “Jeff here.”
“It’s Richard. I just heard from a frantic Cyn. She said she got a call from a man saying Gene had been in an accident and was critical. She wanted me to meet her over at the ECMC Emergency Room. I tried to tell her Gene was in Holiday Valley, but she hung up on me. I called Dana Watkins, and she said Cyn had just flown out the door.”
The vision of the bloody hands exploded across my mind.
He continued. “I asked how Cyn had found out about Gene’s so-called accident. Dana said the call came in on the café’s voice mail, which Cyn had had forwarded to her cell phone.”
“When did Cyn leave?”
“Less than five minutes ago. Dana said she tried to tell Cyn the call could be phony, but Cyn said she couldn’t take the chance it wasn’t.”
This was happening much too fast.
“Look, I’ve got to go. I hope I can get to Cyn before Veronica does.”
“I want to talk to Dana, then I’ll meet you there.”
“See ya.” Richard hung up the phone.
I borrowed Tom’s phone book once again, called Dana’s number. “Cyn?” she answered, breathless.
“No, it’s Jeff Resnick. Tell me what happened.”
She did, in an amazingly calm voice, despite the evident worry within it. “And then she jumped on Black Beauty and was outta here,” Dana finished.
“Black Beauty?” I asked.
“Her motorcycle.”
It all made sense. Cyn hadn’t wanted me to prove Craig Buchanan didn’t kill Walt. That would mean the cops would start asking harder questions—questions she didn’t want answered, about Walt’s lifestyle, about his relationship with Gene. Maybe she hadn’t believed Gene was innocent, but she didn’t want to see him go to jail. She’d followed me to the Backstreet Playhouse, and maybe other places, and called me with the voice-altering device. She’d managed to crank up my paranoia, but not high enough to stop me.
“I thought Cyn was angry with Gene. That she wanted nothing more to do with him.”
“You don’t abandon your child when he’s in trouble,” Dana said.
Dead In Red Page 21