Poison at the Bake Sale

by Hollis Shiloh

  Monday, he woke feeling refreshed. As well, there was the happy feeling of being in tune with Gregory, of being just right for each other. Despite all the tests on their relationship that the bake sale had brought—meeting the unpleasant neighbors as a couple, running into Lenard and the way Abe had fled—they'd ended up more perfectly in tune than ever. That was a good feeling, to know that a little stress wasn't going to destroy their relationship. To think he'd been having such dour thoughts after that debacle of a cruise. But once again, all seemed right in the world of their relationship—and that made the world seem like a brighter place altogether.

  Then there was the pleasant knowledge that he'd started to draw again. Nothing serious and important, but somehow all the more satisfying for that. It didn't have to mean anything; it could just be diverting and a pleasure. Perhaps he didn't have to suffer for his art, as he'd thought when he was young...

  Anyway, it's not art, it's just sketching, he told himself firmly, so he wouldn't get intimidated again. Perhaps it didn't need to be important and deep and world-changingly meaningful at this point in his life. Perhaps it was enough to make something soft, something pretty...

  He got his sketchbook out and set it on the kitchen table for Gregory to discover and ask him about over breakfast, then set about making pancakes. He was feeling particularly happy with Gregory this morning, and pancakes were his favorite. Gregory was bound to talk about maple syrup and whether it would ever be possible to make his own, but really, Abe rather enjoyed that conversation as well.

  The sun shone through his kitchen windows like something from a beautiful painting focused on light, and everything felt as wholesome as a cozy mystery in the "before" scenes. Before anything awful happened to disturb the peace of the tranquil village. He hummed as he worked, and thought about art and why he'd been so intimidated by sketching. Then his mind wandered to the day's tasks ahead—consultation work, some emails to answer, various chores—as he flipped a perfectly browned pancake.

  "Abe, you wonder," said Gregory, coming into the kitchen and inhaling deeply. He was wearing pajama trousers but was gorgeously shirtless, showing off all those muscles from his hard work.

  "Mm, that smells so good." He wrapped his arms round Abe's waist and pushed his face into his hair, breathing deep.

  Abe preened a bit. "The coffee's fresh," he announced, feeling like a perky 1950s housewife. Except very much not that.

  "And you in your cute little apron." Gregory undid the apron's ties behind him, and Abe giggled. It was awfully early to be so flirtatious. Gregory hadn't even had his coffee yet. Abe didn't mind a bit; it was very flattering.

  There was a knock at the door. "I'll get that," said Abe. "If you'll just watch the pancakes for a minute. I'm dressed, and you're not."

  "No, I will—I don't want to burn them." He moved past Abe with a little swat on the butt as a promise for more flirting—and intimacy—later. Abe listened with half an ear, smiling, as he worked.

  And then he stopped smiling when Gregory said, "Uh, yes, officers, of course."

  Gregory backed in, holding the door open. "Uh...let me just get a shirt on."

  Abe stared in shock at the solemn-looking police officers who were entering their kitchen—and before breakfast, as well! "What's happened?" he asked shakily. The sunny, tranquil kitchen suddenly began to feel a great deal like a nightmare—or the "after" scene in a murder mystery.

  Feeling oddly outside of his own body, Abe switched off the pan and took off his apron with trembling fingers. "May I get you some coffee?" he asked in the calmest voice he could manage.

  He had the feeling he needed to sit down soon so he wouldn't fall down. Someone's died, haven't they? Oh, no... And somehow, he or Gregory was going to be a suspect...yet again.

  Chapter eight

  The awful thing was, they weren't even here for Abe. They didn't seem to suspect him at all. They wanted to know what Gregory had been up to for the last two days. He had been seen to argue publicly with a man now dead under suspicious circumstances.

  The police would not say what those circumstances were, which drove Abe wild with anxiety and curiosity. He imagined all sorts of horrible ways his ex might have died, and it terrified him that one of them was probably true.

  Abe felt entirely conflicted about Lenard being dead. Aside from the circumstances (whatever they were) and the horror of having Gregory be suspected of involvement in them, he simply had mixed feelings about Lenard being dead. Part of him was relieved—there was no denying that. He would never have to face the man again, never be ambushed by that superior voice, those mocking eyes, that hard stare. He'd worked so hard to be strong and independent and not focus on that time in his life anymore, but sometimes he still felt like he had to look over his shoulder, guard what he said, hold his breath and hope he'd be okay, that Lenard wouldn't find another way to hurt him.

  He thought of the Dolly Parton collection, of raised hands and angry words, of flinching, of guilt trips and the hateful, awful words that still echoed inside him sometimes. Lenard had hurt him worse than all the homophobes in his life. Lenard, who was gay, who'd been his husband, who'd loved him once, or said he did.

  Abe still didn't know where love, hate, and obsession had intersected in their marriage, only that it wasn't something he ever wanted to experience again. Had Lenard loved him? He'd never truly know. It wasn't the sort of love that left much of the loved object if it had been.

  And maybe that had been the defining phrase: loved object. Abe had been something to own for him, something to mold into what he wanted and punish if Abe couldn't live up to his impossible standards.

  He needed to stop thinking about this.

  But as horrifying as it was to be relieved by Lenard's death, part of him was also extremely disappointed. There would be no real reconciliation now. Lenard wouldn't come to him someday and apologize. They'd never sit down over coffee and come to a decent understanding as Lenard moved on to being a better, wiser person, and they became not friends exactly, but something better than they'd been to each other. He couldn't deny some part of him still wanted that, even if he'd stopped believing and hoping for it. He'd wanted it to happen, a Hallmark moment, a coda of completion on what had been a confusing and awful part of his life.

  He hadn't wanted Lenard to die. Sometimes he'd never wanted to see the man again. Sometimes he'd wanted Lenard to find someone who was as awful to him as he'd been to Abe towards the end, so he'd know what it felt like. But he'd never wished him dead, not really.

  Although, once, during a fight, tears streaming down his face, he'd screamed just that at his then-husband, his face puffy from a punch and about to take another. It still made his blood run cold, remembering how powerless he'd felt, how afraid. The intent behind the blows had hurt almost more than anything physical that Lenard had done to him. And towards the end, he hadn't been sorry afterwards.

  He'd never been sorry, not really. He'd only ever said that things got out of hand, or he'd had a bad day, or Abe really shouldn't push his buttons so. But sometimes everything pushed his buttons, and—

  Abe had to stop or he'd be hyperventilating, and he hadn't done that in some time. Awful the way it all flowed back, so immediate and intense. He'd really thought he'd moved past it—a shadowy darkness in his memory, but not something he thought about or regularly revisited. He was strong; he'd moved on. Well, somewhat strong, if a bit jumpy.

  Now Lenard was dead, and Gregory was being spoken to by the police. It was awful in every way. He'd almost wish they were questioning him instead. Gregory shouldn't have to go through this...

  THE OFFICER WANTED Gregory to recount the conflict and where he'd been for the last forty-eight hours. Abe was not allowed to interject. And Gregory didn't want him to listen to all of it; he got that from the uncomfortable glances. He removed himself and called a lawyer for Gregory, just in case.

  Gregory would be asked down to the station later, perhaps...and if any of his movements weren't acc
ounted for and the police could fit him up for it... Abe shuddered. He didn't know how Lenard had died, and the police were being closed-mouthed about it.

  He tried to think; Gregory hadn't truly been alone much since then, had he? Abe would be able to vouch for that. He hadn't really been away from Abe much since the bake sale. Of course, Gregory had briefly gone out to grab a few groceries on Sunday, and no doubt the employees would remember him, if only because he sometimes made a nuisance of himself asking if there was any discarded produce that he could take home to compost and "reduce the waste stream." Gregory would have been memorable anyway (because he was so good-looking), but when he went around doing things like that, without the least bit of self-consciousness, he would be difficult to forget.

  What is this going to mean for us, though? Another murder, my ex this time, and the cloud of suspicion over us both? Can we survive it? He had half a mind to flee this awful neighborhood. He'd nearly convinced himself that the superstitious side of himself was completely silly, but now, after another death...

  We still don't know where he died, or how.

  His mind flitted to Ollie, and he made another call. "Abe, why, hello!" Ollie sounded friendly and relaxed, willing to settle in for a chat.

  "No time," said Abe breathlessly—perhaps a bit dramatically. "Are you still dating that policeman? Oh, what was his name...?"

  "Daniel Jeffries?" Ollie gave a small, hard laugh. "Good gracious, that was a year ago. Do keep up, Abe!"

  "Oh. Did you part on bad terms?" He wouldn't want to answer any questions from Ollie if so, or probably from Abe. He'd been on friendly enough terms with Abe and Gregory when they'd last seen him, but that had been when he was dating Ollie and was quite relaxed, in a non-professional setting—and speaking about a case that was wrapping up satisfactorily. He'd filled them in on a couple of details they'd been curious about, and the murder had made more sense after that.

  "I'm hardly one to hold a grudge," said Ollie stiffly.

  "Oh, dear. I suppose he is."

  "What's this about?" Ollie demanded. "Why do you suddenly care about Daniel?"

  "Lenard's dead," said Abe, breathless and tearful.

  "Don't be silly. Of course he isn't! Why, we just saw him the other day."

  "The police are here," insisted Abe. "The cops are here talking to Gregory—as though he could have done anything! And they won't say how Lenard died, or when, only they want to know Gregory's whereabouts. Oh, dear. I thought Jeffries might be willing to tell you something."

  "Well, you know he wouldn't, or you would if you'd stop and think for a second. Only consider what his job would be worth if he answered those sorts of questions before the police are sharing information. Even if we were still seeing one another. Is Len really dead?"

  "Sir," said one of the police officers, and Abe jumped, dropping his cell phone. She watched him with the suspicious cop gaze that made him feel guilty even when he hadn't done anything. "If you'd just answer a few questions."

  "Am I a person of interest?" His voice shook a little as he fumbled, picked up his phone, and hung up on Ollie.

  "Just a few questions, sir," she said.

  THE WHOLE DAY FELT vaguely like a nightmare. He was breathless and forgetful, stammering as he spoke to the cops, probably looking far guiltier than he ever had about anything in his life. He hated talking about Lenard. He sounded vague, couldn't remember details, and probably seemed more neurotic than ever.

  It wasn't fair; he should be able to hold it together for this! But he couldn't, and when the lawyer arrived, he nearly broke down and wept. The questions didn't last long, and none of them were actually particularly accusatory, but just being asked about Lenard, about everything, hurt a great deal.

  He couldn't bring himself to mention anything about Lenard's worst tendencies, and simply said it had been "a divorce," and they weren't really friends now and didn't stay in touch. He couldn't say that Lenard had hit him. Not only would those things have given him a motive, but most of all...he was just too ashamed. Maybe it would make him look more likely to have a motive if they came out later...but either way, whatever the case, it was impossible to mention.

  Abe felt diminished, small and uncertain of everything, on very uneven ground, when he'd thought he was finding his feet again and doing so much better. Another murder...and Lenard this time. He didn't know how to bear it, or what to think. Mostly, he could barely think at all, his mind swirling but his thoughts making no sense at all. It hurt so.

  When the police and lawyer finally left, Gregory came and found him sitting on the couch and looked at him a moment, then stepped forward and opened his arms. Abe got up and moved into them gratefully. He felt so fragile and brittle. Gregory held him gently and didn't ask any questions.

  They went about the rest of their day by rote. Abe answered some emails, though it took several times as long as normal, and did some of his consulting tasks somewhat ineffectively. He kept finding himself confused and forgetful, taken up with other things...reeling, and feeling as if he was in shock.

  He drank a great deal of coffee and didn't respond when Ollie called him. He couldn't bear to speak about it anymore.

  Gregory gardened a bit, rather ferociously, really putting his back into it, his face hard and sweaty, grumpy-looking, and then he went off to work. It was silly, but Abe felt fragile and vulnerable here without him close by. Again, the neighborhood seemed to close in.

  There had been another murder. His superstitions seemed all too real now, and the suburbs that he sometimes found intimidating and a bit frightening seemed downright dangerous—even evil. He was surrounded by empty homes, people who didn't know one another or care to. Someone could jimmy a window, slip in, and slit his throat, and no one would ever hear him scream.

  These unproductive thoughts kept him occupied far too well. He was glad when Gregory got home. Still, they barely talked. Gregory got cleaned up. They shared a meal and sat down to try to watch some television. He felt so numb.

  Finally, Gregory switched off the TV with a sigh and began to rub Abe's back. "I can't concentrate on that," he said as an explanation.

  "Me neither." Were they going to talk about it? He hoped they wouldn't...but perhaps they had to. They had to move forward somehow. Without knowing what had happened but feeling the trauma of it anyway, echoing so strangely around this place and between them.

  When he finally did speak, Abe felt as if he'd known what was coming, but still hadn't the least idea of how to answer. Gregory was rubbing his back with practiced, soothing strokes when he spoke, his voice low and serious. "Do you want to investigate?"

  Abe knew what he was saying, on so many levels. Abe, curious about the death, scared about one or both of them being suspected, and most of all wanting to know what had happened and that whoever had done this was removed from being able to do it again, would naturally want to investigate. Normally, it wouldn't even be a question. But this was his ex, and everything about him seemed to bring up pain for Abe—and Gregory knew that.

  "I don't know." He sighed, leaning against Gregory. "I just don't know."

  "That's okay." Gregory continued to stroke his back, so soothing and reassuring, so comforting, so real. It was not at all the sort of thing Lenard would do. "Maybe it's better if we don't. There's no saying we'd discover what happened. We might just get in the way. And I don't want you to start having nightmares again."

  The first few times he'd stayed over, Abe had been jumpy, and he'd had some bad dreams a few times. He'd forced himself to tell Gregory enough that Gregory would know it really wasn't about him.

  Abe sagged. "I'm so tired. I'm so tired of him having his claws in my life, even now, even when he's—" He broke off, voice cracking.

  "Some part of you still loves him," suggested Gregory, sounding sad and resigned.

  "No. I don't know. But I-I wish he wasn't dead. Not like this."

  "We still don't know how."

  "Yes, but if it wasn't murder—or somet
hing that looks like murder—they wouldn't have bothered coming round."

  "I wonder if it was some gruesome and weird way to die, that they were so cagey," said Gregory, not sounding nearly so broken up at the idea.

  Abe shuddered. "Don't."

  "Sorry." Gregory squeezed his arms gently around Abe, pulling him into a hug that felt wonderfully safe and reassuring. He sighed. "We'll get through this. We got through the last one, didn't we? And that cruise."

  So he thought of the cruise as negatively as Abe did. They never really talked about it anymore, after those rather brittle few days afterwards of being home, recovering from its effects, barely speaking to one another, sleeping in their own homes and staying apart.

  "Let's not decide anything tonight," said Abe. "I'm so tired I could vomit."

  "Please don't," said Gregory, sounding aggrieved. He certainly did remember the cruise.

  Chapter nine

  In the morning, Abe felt more clear-headed and not quite so appalled at the thought of investigating. It would surely be better to know than not to know.

  He had coffee and coffeecake waiting for Gregory, and his speech more or less cobbled together. "I do think we should investigate," he said, twisting his hands together.

  Gregory only nodded, not looking altogether surprised. He ate doggedly as Abe continued speaking.

  "Anyway, it's better to know than not to know. If we can do anything to help...well, we'll always wonder if we should have, if we don't. We did help a bit with the last one—awful as that was. And of course we'll be careful. Very careful. But you know, I won't really feel safe if we don't find out what happened." He sank down disconsolately and pinched off a piece of the coffee cake and ate it. He thought he could have profitably added a little more cinnamon, and would next time. He'd only made it because he knew Gregory really liked it, but it wasn't getting much of a reaction. He sighed. "Hopefully, the police will get there first, and it won't matter what we do."