A Party to Murder

by John Inman

  As soon as he was satisfied with his appearance, Jamie straightened the mirror, then spun around to survey the room.

  “Hmm,” he said with the tip of his index finger burrowing a hole in his chin. “It’s not the Hilton, is it? Now that I think of it, I’m pretty sure I saw this place in an old Marx Brothers movie. Margaret Dumont is probably in the bathroom washing cream pie off her face.”

  “Funny,” Derek muttered, slipping an arm around Jamie’s waist and pulling him near. Jamie returned the favor, snuggling close.

  Their cheeks touching, they stared at themselves in the same mirror. Derek Lee’s dark hair was zipped short, his five-o’clock shadow already darkening his jawline. Brown, soulful eyes peered out from beneath high eyebrows that always seemed to be in a state of surprise. Especially when he was around Jamie. He stood at an even six feet, with broad shoulders, lean hips, and almond skin. A spray of dark hair spilled across the back of his hands, which Jamie dearly loved to sweep his fingers over.

  Tearing his gaze from Derek long enough to study himself, Jamie Roma reaffirmed the fact that he was pretty much the polar opposite, standing four inches shorter than Derek. Unlike Derek’s, his own hair was blond and wavy. Side by side, they were a bit like night and day. One brash and sunshiny, the other quiet and dark and if not brooding, at least with the potential to be. On Jamie’s pale, golden face, a sprinkle of freckles danced across a delicately carved nose. Above those freckles, a pair of forest-green eyes were perpetually laughing, not only at the world around him, but at himself as well. He was thinner than Derek, and unlike his swarthy friend, his arms and legs were coated with golden hair.

  Jamie considered other respects in which they were alike and different. They were both in their late twenties and native San Diegans. But while Derek worked as an X-ray technician in a local hospital, Jamie styled hair in a snooty downtown salon. Lately, their lifelong friendship had somehow morphed into an ongoing sexual event, which astonished Jamie. The ferocity of their affair sometimes left him breathless.

  They had been close before. Now they were closer. Way closer.

  And having the time of their lives.

  Until tonight. Jamie pulled back far enough not to go cross-eyed studying Derek’s expression.

  “What the hell are we doing here?” Jamie asked.

  “You wanted a door prize,” Derek answered. “They are supposed to be heart-stopping, remember?”

  He gave his eyebrows a waggle. “I soitainly do.”

  Derek leaned around him and poked a finger into the mattress on the bed. The springs squeaked.

  “Looks like we’ll be keeping a few people awake tonight.”

  Jamie fisted the front of Derek’s shirt. He pulled him into a kiss with such force that their belt buckles clacked together.

  The kiss could have led to almost anything, and Jamie knew it, but for once in his life he had other priorities. He slipped out of Derek’s arms and pulled off his coat. Standing at a hinged, full-length mirror, this one along the opposite wall and looking like an honest-to-God antique, he adjusted his clothes.

  Meanwhile Derek dug through their overnight bag until he exclaimed “Aha!” and extracted a toothbrush.

  When Derek peeked around a doorway to scope out their private bath, Jamie’s chin was burrowing into his shoulder. Derek’s sigh of relief matched Jamie’s when they saw the bathroom was fairly clean. A stack of matching towels sat on a closed commode, and of the three light bulbs over the sink, only one was burned out. Could have been worse.

  Jamie flushed the toilet just for the hell of it. Thankfully it worked. Then he stuck his head around an opaque sliding glass door and checked out the tub and shower. He turned back to Derek and with a wicked glint in his eye started plucking at the buttons on Derek’s shirt. Thirty seconds later they were naked and soaping each other down under a spray of deliciously hot water.

  Once they were clean and thoroughly turned on, they made love on the squeaky Amish-quilted bed, lazily, as if they had all the time in the world. Later, as they were pulling on their clothes and making themselves presentable once again, a rumble of thunder rolled across the roof of the old house. It sounded like an avalanche of bowling balls tumbling down an escalator. Jamie sucked in his breath and cringed until the thunder ended. Then he cast a guilty glance at Derek and laughed at himself.

  Ten seconds later they pranced down the staircase on legs still wobbly from sex. They were laughing quietly and holding hands. The other guests were in what could best be described as a formal parlor just off the main foyer. Each and every one of them looked as skittish as colts. Clearly, the storm was getting on everybody’s nerves.

  Thank God from whom all blessings flow, Jamie thought, their fellow guests had not gathered for high tea, since there wasn’t a teacup in sight. There was, however, a serve-yourself bar set up against the far wall, and not a hand could be seen that wasn’t cradling a big fat cocktail.

  Not bothering to look guilty about it, Jamie scuttled quickly toward an amber shimmer of smoky liquid that beckoned to him from among its multicolored brethren like a gleaming sunrise. Words, Jamie thought, that were appropriately poetic for a bottle of eighteen-year-old Glenfiddich scotch.

  Especially when it was free.

  Chapter Three

  THE PARLOR where everyone had gathered was large and a little run-down. There were a couple of stains on the brocaded wallpaper. The carpet was worn in spots, the furniture well used. Yet the room was warm and cozy thanks to a massive fire burning in the grate.

  While Jamie sloshed alcohol into two glasses in sufficient quantity to marinate a couple of cows, Derek began working the room, trying to get to know his fellow guests. Not because he wanted to, but because he felt he should. Plus, he was dying to learn why he and Jamie had been invited here to this run-down old house in the middle of nowhere. What was it that all these strangers had in common that they should be singled out for such an honor? That last thought engendered a silent, sarcastic chuckle, since so far the whole experience had been a little less than festive.

  He ignored Jamie shooting him a sexy wink from across the room and homed in on the elderly gentleman, Mr. Jupp, who was built like a 200-gallon drum of crude oil. The old man’s colorless hair was squared off in such a severe flattop that the crown of his head was shorn down to nothing. In that shiny patch of bald skin in the middle of his head, the reflection from the parlor’s chandelier twinkled and danced like Christmas lights. Mr. Jupp’s white eyebrows blended so perfectly against his pale forehead they all but disappeared entirely. Icy blue eyes, neither friendly nor unfriendly, were magnified by thick bifocals perched low on a bulbous, red nose. Derek figured if he could only borrow those spectacles for a couple of minutes, he might be able to take a gander into next week.

  After a perfunctory introduction, during which he reconfirmed the fact that Mr. Jupp was the housekeeper’s husband and therefore one of the serving staff, the first words out of Derek’s mouth set the tone for the rest of the evening. “Any idea who our host might be?”

  It seemed Derek’s voice had carried farther than he intended. The room fell silent but for the tinkle of ice as Jamie continued to construct cocktails at the bar, all the while humming a merry little tune, oblivious to everyone else. All eyes fell on Mr. Jupp. Even Mr. Jupp’s wife, who stood off to the side arranging tiny sandwiches on a sideboard, narrowed her eyes and glared at her husband, as if leery of what he was about to say.

  Mr. Jupp, for his part, didn’t appear to mind being the center of attention, although his gaze did settle guiltily on his wife for a moment before he finally answered.

  “As I believe my wife already told you, sir, we were contacted by mail after running an ad in the employment section of the San Diego Union-Tribune offering our services as household staff to anyone who needed help. Retirement doesn’t set well with my wife and me. We prefer to keep busy.”

  Derek gave Jamie an appreciative nod as he accepted the drink he offered, which was a tall
scotch and water, just as Jamie had poured for himself. Neither drink looked like they had been diluted much—which Derek suspected was a bad sign for the night ahead—but he took it anyway.

  Quickly turning back to Mr. Jupp, he tried to ignore all the eyes upon them. Except for the rumble of thunder outside and the continuous pounding of rain washing across the windowpanes behind the drapes, the room was so quiet one might have heard a pin drop.

  “In that first letter by mail, was there a return address?” Derek asked.

  Mr. Jupp did not appear surprised by the question. “Not per se. There was, however, a PO Box where we were instructed to send our response.”

  “Didn’t you think that was odd?”

  “Not particularly,” Mr. Jupp answered, his expression droll, like someone imparting secrets he really shouldn’t. “My wife and I have worked for several eccentrics in our years of service.”

  “But there must have been a way for you and your new employer to contact each other in person.”

  The old man sighed. “Why? As instructed, we responded to the PO Box. That was personal enough to get things rolling. In the next correspondence from our new employer, directions to the house were sent. Also our pay. In cash. As far as we were concerned, the deal was made. Is there anything else you’d like to know?”

  Those last words were not delivered kindly. Mr. Jupp had clearly begun to resent being cross-examined. Derek could see it in the way his back had stiffened. Also in the way he shot a trapped glance at his wife as she stood on the other side of the parlor, listening to every word, the platter of sandwiches forgotten in her hand.

  Finally Mr. Jupp refocused his attention on Derek’s face. Derek noticed he made a point of ignoring Jamie altogether. Maybe because Jamie was staring back at him as if he didn’t believe a word he had said, which secretly cracked Derek up. Jamie was always seeking mysteries where they didn’t exist. Of course, this time there really was a mystery, so Jamie was in hog heaven trying to piece it all together.

  Mr. Jupp heaved another sigh. This one came all the way up from the soles of his feet. “Like I said before, all arrangements were made via the PO Box. Our employer’s wishes were made clear. We had been paid a goodly amount to come here and open the house. The food and linens and wood for the fires were already here, as we were told they would be.” He glanced down at the drink in Derek’s hand. “Even the liquor had been stocked. All we were told to do was wait for all of you to arrive and to do what we could to make you comfortable.”

  “Did the employer say when he would be joining us?”

  “He did not. But one would assume….”

  “Did he say if he was coming at all?”

  Another sigh, but a small one. “No, sir, he did not.”

  Derek frowned. He wasn’t learning much. Even Jamie had lost interest. He was now staring over at the window and watching the wash of rain streaming sideways across the pane, carried by the gusting winds. Occasionally a flash of lightning would illuminate the storm-tossed trees in the distance. It was almost as if someone were running stock footage on the other side of the glass of every horror movie ever made.

  Derek turned back to Mr. Jupp and tried once again. “When do you think our host will arrive?”

  It was Mr. Jupp’s turn to frown. His frown was considerably grumpier than Derek’s had been.

  “If the bridge is now out as you and your friend implied, I’m afraid I don’t expect him to arrive at all. How can he? Unless he is hiding somewhere in the house, which is a preposterous notion, then I believe it is like everyone has already said. We are trapped. Perhaps once the storm has ended, we can try to decide what to do. Or perhaps our host will send help when he learns of the bridge’s collapse.”

  “Yes, I suppose that’s reasonable,” Derek said. He reached out and touched Mr. Jupp’s arm. Just a friendly, appreciative tap. “Thanks for answering my questions, sir. I won’t keep you any longer.”

  Mr. Jupp ducked his head and immediately stalked off. He headed straight for the french doors leading into the hallway and exited the room. A moment later, his wife followed him.

  Derek turned and studied Jamie. For lack of a better plan, he clinked their glasses together and took a long pull of scotch.

  “You’ll be happy to know that all is not lost,” Jamie announced, smacking his lips. “The bar is well stocked. Whatever horrors we’ll need to face, we won’t be facing them sober.”

  Derek snorted back a laugh. “Well, that is a relief!”

  He watched in wonder as Jamie poured the rest of his drink down his throat. So it was going to be one of those nights, then.

  Smiling gaily, Jamie rattled the ice in his empty glass. “Ready for seconds, honeybunch?”

  “DR. OLIVER Banyon. Pleased to meet you.”

  “Doctor of what?” Jamie asked.

  “History.”

  “So you’re a teacher.”

  A slight frown accompanied the good doctor’s response. “A professor. Yes.”

  “Cool.”

  Jamie, well into his second drink, was feeling congenial. Expensive scotch did so put him in a pleasant mood. He nestled close to Derek’s side while the tweed hottie with the leather patches on his elbows formally introduced himself. Jamie was struck again by how handsome the man was. While he didn’t have a British accent, he somehow looked British. Like he should be at Oxford, touting his doctorate every chance he got, lecturing on the Tudors with a brolly under his arm or passing out sonnets in a centuries-old classroom overlooking the Thames while high tea waited to be served down the hall and his Aston Martin idled at the curb.

  Jamie’s imagination tended to run wild when he was half-snockered.

  “This is my friend Tommy Stevens,” Banyon added, stepping obsequiously aside to let his young, leather-clad paramour have his three seconds in the spotlight. While Banyon was perhaps ten years older than his “friend,” Jamie thought he had the logistics of their relationship neatly hammered out already.

  Friend my ass, he decided on the spot. Tommy was probably one of the doctor’s students. A simple matter of cradle robbing. And he had to admit the kid was damn sexy in those tight jeans with the prominent bulge in the crotch, not to mention his snugly fitted Marlon Brando leather jacket. Hell, he even had the collar flipped up at the back of his neck like a proper juvenile delinquent from the fifties. After quick and careful consideration, Jamie decided it was probably a smart move for Mr. Rob-the-Cradle Banyon to let the kid have center stage for a while. He would undoubtedly be well rewarded for it later in the sack.

  What bothered Jamie about young Tommy Stevens was the sheen of his oily hair, which had been meticulously combed back on either side with a damp curl left dangling over his forehead like a disjointed body part. It begged the question: Has he found a hidden trove of Brylcreem in a time capsule somewhere, or do they actually still sell that shit? And does his mother still wear a beehive? Derek did his socially polite bit, first shaking hands with Banyon, then with Tommy. And was it Jamie’s imagination, or did the young Brando wannabe drag an alluring fingertip over Derek’s palm as if he thought nobody would notice?

  Jamie, never a slave to shyness when it came to protecting what was his, leaned in close to the kid’s face and whispered, “Hands off, Rent Boy. This one is mine.”

  Tommy Stevens laughed, not even bothering to look embarrassed. Jamie was pleased to see two bright splotches of anger appear on each of Banyon’s clean-shaven cheeks, however. Perhaps this wasn’t the first time his young trick had put the moves on someone smack in front of his daddy’s face. And suddenly Jamie honestly did wonder if Master Stevens really was a rent boy being paid for his services, which Jamie suspected would be quite intimate and most certainly enjoyable as hell.

  If one was into young, hot guys and that sort of thing.

  With his ten-second snit of jealousy, self-righteous anger, and downright nosiness out of the way, Jamie shot a glance at Derek, who was smiling broadly. He was clearly amused by Jamie’s
fit of pique. Not particularly shy about protecting his possessions either, Derek leaned in close and dragged his lips over Jamie’s ear, whispering, “Don’t worry, he’s not my type.”

  “Liar,” Jamie huffed back, turning away from the two men in front of them and whispering softly so they couldn’t hear. “Little Tommy is everybody’s type.” His gaze slid away from Derek and back to Tommy Stevens, whom he nailed with a pointed glare that might have been shot from a nail gun for all the warmth it offered. He molded a totally artificial smile over his front teeth like he was stretching a glob of Play-Doh across his face. “So nice to meet you both. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to the bar. These free drinks don’t make themselves, you know.” Aiming his words directly at Tommy, he sweetly cooed, “I trust you’ll keep your tongue out of my boyfriend’s ass while I’m gone.”

  With that he did an about-face and flitted merrily off, leaving Derek to clean up the conversational mess he’d left behind, which was considerable.

  “DEREK LEE,” Derek offered, extending a hand in greeting.

  Reluctantly, the woman with fried blonde hair extended her fingers, but pulled her hand back before actually making contact with Derek’s hand. “Cleeta-Gayle Jones,” she said, shooting a puff of air upward from the corner of her mouth to blow her bangs out of her eyes. She had removed her coat and now wore a sleeveless cotton shift with simple, straight lines. Nothing stylish about it. Her bare arms and what little Derek could see of her legs below the knees, were thin and freckled. He suspected that under her horribly bleached hair, her tresses had once been red. Red would have been a vast improvement over what she had now. He wondered why she’d changed it.

  “That’s a name I’ve never heard before,” Derek commented, pulling himself out of his thoughts. He tried to be friendly since the woman still appeared terrified by the storm. He felt sorry for her and hoped he could help alleviate the shimmer of panic that still lingered in her eyes. “It’s lovely, really,” he said, casually stepping to the side to put himself between her and the window she kept eyeing with such dreadful fascination. “Your name, I mean.”