Death in a Wine Dark Sea

by Lisa King

  Jean felt dazed and disoriented from finding Zeppo and losing Peter in the space of a few hours. She needed to talk to Roman, and she was also anxious to tell him what had happened in Mendocino. Although he’d be concerned, he wouldn’t nag about going to the police—he distrusted them even more than most gay men did. The scar on his head was from a police baton.

  She picked up the phone and dialed. “Roman,” she said when he answered. “Are you busy? I need to see you.”

  “Is this another rescue operation?”

  “More like a counseling session. Can you come over? I’ll buy you dim sum.”

  Roman agreed, and in half an hour she let him in.

  He held her at arm’s length. “Well, don’t you look radiant,” he said. “Lips slightly bruised, eyes sleepy, body languid and relaxed. And there’s a little whisker burn on your chin, right here. That can only mean one thing. Who’s the new stud?”

  “You’ll never guess.”

  “I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

  “It’s Zeppo.”

  “Very interesting. Did you use . . .”

  “. . . a condom? Yes, Dad, don’t worry. Several, in fact.”

  “So he’s a young satyr?”

  “He was unexpectedly great. He has a lot of pent-up sexual energy and he’s been hot for me for months.”

  “How nice for you. But won’t he follow you around now like a whipped puppy?”

  “There’s a lot more to him than that. You met him—he’s no doormat.”

  “He didn’t seem to be, but that was before he had the total Jean Applequist experience. When did all this happen? In Mendocino?”

  “No, just last night.”

  “Did you screw his secret out of him?”

  “I figured it out before I went over to his place, and it’s a mind-blower. If it’s OK with Zeppo, I’ll tell you the whole story sometime.”

  “I look forward to it.” Roman sat on the red sofa. “You know, Jean, it’s time to let Peter go. He’s a good man, for a lawyer, but he’s not for you. You can’t keep doing this to him.”

  “That’s the bad news. He dumped me just now.”

  “Because of Zeppo?”

  “Because of everything. Zeppo was the last straw.”

  “I’m sorry. Or should I be?”

  “I’ll miss Peter, but in a way it’s a relief. He put a lot of pressure on me. He needs someone whose biological clock is ticking as loudly as his. I was born without one.”

  “So you say. I’ll check again in five years.” He stood. “Shall we go? I’m hungry.”

  Jean’s injuries ached and she took it easy going down the stairs. Roman, behind her, frowned with concern. “You’re hurt,” he said. “I’m assuming Zeppo’s not responsible.”

  “Oh please. I fell off my bike in Mendocino. Zeppo took good care of me.” At the Chinese restaurant on 24th Street they took a window table. As they sipped green tea and ate assorted dumplings, Jean told Roman all about the visit to Sputnik, the trip up north, and Hugh Rivenbark’s manuscript and Esther.

  “Fascinating about the great writer,” he said when she was done. “Won’t feminist critics love it? Well, I’m not going to lecture you about the danger you’re in because I know it won’t do any good. Just be careful.” He smiled at her. “I’m proud of you for punching Setrakian and getting away from the Jeep.”

  “I couldn’t have done either of those things without you, Roman. Thanks.”

  “I’m happy to have helped. If you persist in this investigation, it may be time to teach you some more serious forms of self-defense.”

  “I hope I won’t need them,” she said. “Our problem now is that the manuscript is long gone and there are no copies. Zeppo won’t go to the police, and he’s the only one who saw it.”

  “Zeppo’s secret sounds very intriguing.”

  “Stay away from it, Roman. I’ll tell you about it when I can.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  Jean paid for their meal and they walked slowly up the hill toward her apartment. As she always did after a night like last night, Jean felt the sun, the cool breeze, and the working of her muscles with exquisite clarity, as if all her nerve endings had become more sensitive. She gave a deep, satisfied sigh.

  “You’re a simple creature, Jean,” Roman said. “A good night with a new man and you’re positively blissful.”

  “It was more than a good night. It was one of those times where you let your body take over and neither of you can make a wrong move. And there’s no end to the desire, you know?”

  “Yes, I know. That’s how it was with Chris. We just couldn’t get along the rest of the time.”

  Jean took his arm. “The best way to get over Chris is to find someone else.”

  “I don’t want to find someone else. It’s the same problem I’ve told you about before—sex and death have become inseparable to me.”

  Jean stopped walking and put her arms around him. He hugged her back, and they stood on the sidewalk in a tight embrace for several seconds. Jean thought they must look like a pair of happy lovers to passersby.

  Finally they pulled apart and resumed their walk. “How do you two get along when you’re not rutting like minks?” Roman asked.

  “Just fine. I really like him.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re falling for a boy who still wears braces.”

  Jean’s grin widened. “Too early to say, but I wouldn’t rule it out.”

  CHAPTER 28

  After Roman left, Jean oiled her sewing machine and pulled out the quilt top she was making for Diane, a double wedding ring pattern in yellow and white calico. Jean’s mother had tried to make her into good wife material by teaching her to cook, sew, iron, clean, and garden. Sewing was the only thing that stuck—not only did she find it relaxing, but it allowed her to dress much better than she could afford and wear clothes that fit her exaggerated figure.

  While she worked, Jean thought about Peter. As far as her “infidelities” were concerned, she thought he was being unreasonable. They were together six months, and there had only been three other men in all that time. Well, four if you counted René, the château owner on the trip to Bordeaux for her magazine, but Peter hadn’t found out about him. Since then she’d been like a saint—until last night.

  Jean finished the section she was working on and decided to do something useful for the investigation. She had a glass of red wine to put herself into flirtatious mode and called Simon Emory at Sputnik.

  “Hi, Simon,” she said when he came on the line. “It’s Jean Applequist.”

  “Jean, good of you to call. I’ve been thinking about you.”

  “Have you?”

  “As you know, I usually work nights. Are you free for lunch tomorrow?”

  “Sure,” Jean said. He was moving fast. “That would be nice.”

  “I’ll be out in the Avenues on business,” he said. “Do you like Greek food?”

  “Love it.”

  “Let’s meet at Aphrodite’s on Clement at one o’clock.”

  “I know it well. See you there.” She hung up. A love of good food was important to her in a man, and Simon was sounding better and better. She wondered briefly what he looked like naked, but pulled herself back to reality. Now was not the time to be juggling two new lovers.

  Jean got into bed early and thrashed around, her bruises bothering her. She almost phoned Zeppo, knowing he’d come over in a minute, but decided she should have the decency to mourn Peter for at least twenty-four hours. Besides, she really was sore in places that had nothing to do with her fall. That was the one drawback to oversexed men.

  Jean knew Zeppo was starved for emotional as well as physical intimacy, and that was the source of a lot of their fireworks. She realized how much she’d mean to him after all that had happened, but didn’t think he’d cramp her style as Peter had. Once he had a little more self-confidence, she hoped he’d be too busy having erotic adventures of his own to resent hers.

 
JEAN ATE a forkful of cold octopus in lemon and olive oil and washed it down with a crisp Pinot Grigio, taking care not to drip on her red cashmere sweater and black jeans. She’d put on a couple of pounds lately and had resolved to eat light. She smiled at Simon across the table. Today he wore gray slacks and a silk shirt; his only jewelry was a slim gold watch. He offered her a stuffed grape leaf, which she traded for a hunk of octopus. Even if he didn’t know a thing, this lunch was worth the trip. The tiny blue and white restaurant smelled of oregano and garlic.

  So far the conversation had been playful and lighthearted, and Jean realized he was very interested in her. She was used to that—all she had to do was sort out the men who were merely horny from those who had something to offer. In spite of what everyone thought, she did have standards. She found herself liking Simon—besides being physically attractive, he was intelligent and well traveled, with a dry sense of humor. On the downside, he was wound a little tight and was also vain—he had touched up his roots since she’d met him at Sputnik.

  He poured her more wine. “So Jean, are you seeing anyone?”

  “My situation’s in flux,” she said. “I just broke up with my boyfriend. What about you?”

  “Right now there’s no one.”

  “But you work with a lot of good-looking women.”

  “I do, but most of them are very young and uneducated. I prefer someone I can talk to in the morning. I meet very few women like that in my line of work.” He gave Jean an inviting look; she decided his eyes were beige.

  The waiter delivered Simon’s roast lamb, and Jean cut to the chase. “I know someone who works for you,” she said. “Oksana.”

  “Oh?” he said, concentrating on his lunch. “How do you know her?”

  “She goes to my gym. Is she on vacation or something? I haven’t seen her in a few weeks.” Jean had decided to keep the lie simple.

  “That would be Spider’s gym.”

  “Yeah. Rhino Fitness. Spider works for you, too, right?”

  “He used to. They both quit around the same time. Caused some staffing problems.”

  “I’d like to get hold of her. Do you know where she is?”

  He sighed and set his utensils down. “Yes, I know. I’m going to break one of my rules and tell you something. Many of my employees are illegals, mostly from Eastern Europe. They’re brought in by scumbag traffickers to work the lowliest jobs—in sweatshops, as laborers, even as prostitutes—to pay off their travel costs. You wouldn’t believe how brutal some of these traffickers are, especially to women. They use threats, intimidation, beatings, rape, whatever keeps the girls in line.”

  “Yes, I’ve read about them.”

  “I help these kids get a start by paying off their debts to the traffickers on the condition that they work in one of my nightclubs, in a safe environment, until they’ve paid me back and saved a bit above that. Then they’re free to go wherever.”

  “How do you keep them from running away before they’ve paid you off?”

  “A little psychological manipulation. I tell them I have a file on each of them, and if they run off, I’ll make an anonymous call to Immigration. There really are no files and they could easily disappear if they wanted to, but most of them are so terrified of being deported that they believe it. Besides, I offer them a good situation, so they don’t leave me in the lurch very often.”

  “You’re a philanthropist.”

  He smiled. “Not at all. I get an energetic, reliable workforce and make money on the deal. They pay a reasonable interest rate on their debts.”

  “What about Oksana?”

  “As I’m sure you know, Oksana is a very beautiful, very intelligent girl. You may not know that she was lured here from Kiev with the promise of a modeling job, but was forced into prostitution. Another girl I’d helped sent her to me. Most of the time it takes more than a year to work off the debt, but Oksana is ambitious. She waitressed at Sputnik for only a few months. She came to me a few weeks ago and paid off her balance. I haven’t seen her since.”

  “How’d she get the cash so quickly?”

  “Apparently she found a boyfriend with money.”

  “Spider?”

  “Someone else. She didn’t say who.”

  “Where did she go?”

  “Hollywood. Where else? Maybe we’ll see her in the movies someday.” Simon took a sip of wine. “Poor Spider came looking for her and I told him what I’ve told you. He was very upset.”

  They chatted about other things as they finished their meals. Finally Simon glanced at his watch. “I’m sorry to say I have an appointment. I’m checking out an antique mahogany bar at a bankrupt restaurant near here.”

  “Don’t you have managers to do that sort of thing for you?”

  “I don’t believe in delegating the important stuff.” He smiled at her. “Can I call you?”

  Jean gave Simon her number, and he kissed her cheek as they parted on the sidewalk. There was that nice cologne again. She didn’t believe in faking a show of interest in a man for ulterior motives, but in this case she thought her interest might be genuine. She shook off another image of Simon naked.

  JEAN VISITED Diane around four o’clock. A different security guard patrolled the front yard, an older man who looked like an ex-cop.

  Although Diane’s clothes were still loose on her, she looked calm and healthy. In the living room a silver teapot and a plate of little sandwiches and cookies were arrayed on the coffee table.

  “What’s all this?” Jean asked.

  “I’m having tea. It’s Celia’s idea. She thinks if she throws in an extra meal every day at four o’clock, I’ll eat more.” She sat and patted the sofa next to her. “Come and join me.”

  Jean sat down and took a cup of tea. It smelled lovely—Earl Grey.

  Diane gave her a serious look. “Peter was here this morning. He told me you broke up. I’m so sorry. What happened?”

  “Didn’t he tell you?”

  “He said I’d have to ask you.”

  “Take a wild guess.”

  “Oh Jean, not again. Did one of your old lovers show up?”

  “No, it’s Zeppo.”

  Diane looked at her uncertainly. “Are you joking?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, that’s one I never thought I’d hear. No wonder Peter was furious.”

  “I think Zeppo’s really great. I’ve gotten to know him working on this thing.”

  “Martin liked him, too,” she said. “I guess you two did have something in common after all. I’ve never seen his appeal. He must have hidden talents.”

  “You have no idea,” Jean said with a salacious grin.

  Diane shook her head. “After all these years I still don’t understand you, Jean. I know you love sex above all things, but it seems so stupid to lose Peter just for a one-night stand.”

  “It’s more complicated than that. I can’t explain it now. But you know Peter and you know me. It never could have lasted.”

  “That’s such a pity—I had high hopes for the two of you. Zeppo must think he’s died and gone to heaven. You should see the way he stares at you when you’re not looking. Martin used to tease him about being sweet on you.”

  “Zeppo really misses Martin.”

  “So do I.” Diane sipped her tea. “Well, moving on, what did you find out about Hugh?”

  “He had a really strong motive to kill Martin, but we can’t go to the police with it yet.”

  “What motive?”

  Jean explained about the handwriting on the manuscript and the card, and their suspicions about Esther’s death.

  Diane looked more and more uncomfortable as Jean spoke. “So you’re basing all this on what Zeppo told you about the manuscript? What if he’s wrong, or lying?”

  “He’s too smart to make a mistake like that, and why would he lie? He wants to find Martin’s killer as much as you do.”

  “I’ve always wondered if he made copies of the material from the blue box.
You only have his word that he didn’t.”

  “Oh come on, Diane. He wouldn’t do a thing like that. He’s very honorable.” Jean was starting to worry about the direction of the conversation.

  “Jean, I love and trust you, but I also know you. I’ve seen you blinded by good sex before. If Zeppo is giving you multiple orgasms, I don’t think you can be a reliable judge of his character.”

  “Goddammit, I’ve only spent one night with him. He told me about the manuscript days ago.”

  “But he’s been after you for months. Don’t you think this could all be a way to manipulate you into bed?”

  Jean put her teacup down sharply. “Look, working with him was your idea. I can’t help it if you don’t like the results I’m getting. I just followed where things led.”

  “Where Zeppo led, you mean. I know Martin wouldn’t have been interested in evidence about one of his friends. The blue box was only for business.”

  “In case you haven’t figured it out yet, Martin would have kept dirt about his own grandmother if he thought he might need it someday.”

  “How dare you attack Martin,” Diane said indignantly. “He wasn’t like that at all. You’re being very irresponsible. First you expose Setrakian without consulting me, and now you accuse my good friend of attempted murder.”

  Jean was trying hard to keep her temper. “There is one other minor point. Your friend Hugh not only tried to kill Martin, he tried to kill Zeppo and me, too.”

  “I think that must have been Armand Setrakian. He sounds like a terrible man. Or maybe that nightclub owner is hiding something.”

  “OK, forget about that. Why is this so difficult for you to grasp? Hugh was the only one on the boat with a motive to hurt Martin. Can’t you even consider that he could have done it?”

  “No, I can’t, because he’s a good person. I’ve spent time with him, been a guest in his house. He never treated us with anything but kindness and friendship.”

  “Aren’t you listening? That’s because he didn’t know until right before the wedding that Martin had the fucking manuscript.”

  “You’re asking me to believe that one of my husband’s closest friends tried to kill him and probably killed his own wife based on the word of some marginal character who happens to be making you happy in bed.”