Forty-five minutes later, Luke could feel her breath on his neck. She stood so close, he feared she might fall when he went in for a closer look. He braced himself in case he had to catch her, leaned forward, and sighed with relief when she didn’t lose her balance. He flushed again and watched the tank empty.
Mrs. Maxwell pointed an arthritic finger at the bowl. “Still didn’t go down.”
Luke folded his arms across his chest and stroked his chin as he studied the porcelain fixture. He’d done everything he could think of, but after two dozen flushes, most of the Toasted Oats he’d dropped in the toilet had gone nowhere.
“I’ve never been so embarrassed in all my life.” Mrs. Maxwell clucked several times. “My granddaughter couldn’t stop crying, bless her little heart.” She put her hand over her mouth, shook her head, and whispered, “Said she’d flushed and flushed.”
“Sorry.” Luke jiggled the floating device for the umpteenth time and peered inside the tank again. “Everything works the way it’s supposed to.” The cereal hugging the side of the bowl mocked him. “Obviously, something’s not right.”
“Can you fix it, or not?”
He placed the lid back on the tank and faced her. She obviously didn’t think he could. He had doubts as well. Admitting he had no idea what was wrong or how to fix it wouldn’t help. He smiled and nodded. “Yes, ma’am!”
She placed her hands on her hips and peered over her glasses at him. “When?”
Luke cleared his throat. “Um. Soon.”
Her arms dropped to her sides. “In the meantime, what am I supposed to do about that?” She gestured toward the Toasted Oats clinging to the side of the bowl.
“I’ll take care of it.” He reached down and, without gagging or retching even once, plucked the cereal from the toilet and dropped the soggy O’s into a frilly trashcan covered in the same flowery fabric as the shower curtain. He held up his wet hand and moved toward the sink. “Mind if I wash up?”
“Please do.” She pulled a worn hand towel from a vanity drawer and set it beside the basin. “Don’t leave soap in the sink, splash my mirror, or dirty up my good towels, you hear?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Her watchful look suggested she didn’t believe him—about keeping the bathroom tidy or fixing the toilet. Luke lathered up with all the care he could muster. He dried his hands, mopped up around the sink, and dropped the towel she’d provided onto the vanity. “I’ll fix it in the next day or two. I promise.”
“I sure hope so.” She studied Luke’s face for a moment. Her expression changed to one of concern. “Have you seen Ruby Dubonnet this morning?”
Luke furrowed his brow. “This morning?” Why would he have seen her this morning and why did she ask?
“Yes.” She nodded. “She lives in Apartment 2.”
“Ruby Dubonnet?”
Mrs. Maxwell nodded.
“No.” Luke shook his head, more confused than before. “Haven’t seen her.” If he had to guess, she was probably shacked up with the big tipper.
“We’d planned to take the bus over to Turfland Mall this morning to do a little shopping before having lunch at the Blue Boar cafeteria.” Mrs. Maxwell wrung her hands. “I’ve known her for years, and she’s never even been late without calling. I waited for thirty minutes after leaving her a message before knocking on her door, but she didn’t answer.”
Luke wasn’t sure what surprised him more. That Millicent Maxwell and Ruby Dubonnet were longtime friends or that Ruby lived in the apartment next door. He’d never seen her around, nor was her name on the list of tenants Mr. Sinclair had given him. “I’m sure she’ll turn up soon.”
Mrs. Maxwell nodded but didn’t seem convinced. “I hope you’re right.”
She closed the door before he could say more. Not that he had anything to add. He heard the deadbolt slide and the chain falling into place and knew she watched him through her peephole as he let himself into his apartment and closed the door behind him.
Chapter 3
LUKE CHECKED the clock. He had a bit more than an hour to get cleaned up, dressed, and to the Brougham House. But first, he rummaged through the mountain of old mail and other paper piled on the card table for the tenant list Buddy Sinclair had given him.
Now that he’d met Mrs. Maxwell, Luke knew everyone who lived at the Sinclair Arms except the tenant in Apartment 2. Calvin Carter, the security guard directly above him in Apartment 5, introduced himself the day Luke moved in, thanking him in advance for keeping the noise down from nine to five when he slept. The other three tenants upstairs and Mr. Patrick, the elderly man in Apartment 4, had called at least once about problems Luke hadn’t been able to fix.
Garnet D. Bonnet lived in Apartment 2. The connection was obvious. Ruby Dubonnet was Luke’s next-door neighbor. How had he not known?
He turned his black-and-white television to MTV, and, as it was after five o’clock, dialed up the volume. Then he ran himself a rare bath and dumped the rest of a box of baking soda he’d found in the refrigerator into the tub to soothe his itching skin.
Unless he was in the living room, the layout of the building prevented Luke from hearing anyone entering or leaving the Sinclair Arms. Bedrooms were on the opposite end from the door to the shared hallway. Residents with odd-numbered addresses used the entrance and stairs to the second floor outside his door, with an identical setup on the other end being more convenient for the even-numbered units. Still, he should have run into Ruby in the hallway, at the mailboxes, or in the parking lot, or at the very least, heard something from the other side of the wall between his apartment and hers.
He stripped off his clothes and eased into the tub. After a moment to adjust to the temperature, he slid farther into the water, dunked his head to get his hair wet, and then lay back with only his face and knees above the surface.
Ruby’s baffling, long-standing friendship with Millicent Maxwell intrigued him. What did the elderly widow and the drag queen have in common? Did Mrs. Maxwell know Ruby made her living as a drag queen? Either way, she obviously knew Ruby Dubonnet much better than Luke did. He’d never even met her.
Mrs. Maxwell’s concern was troubling. Luke had no idea if Ruby slept around. He’d never seen her with anyone until the scene with the big tipper. To assume she’d run off with him for a night of debauchery was a big leap.
Maybe he should check her apartment before he left for dinner. Wouldn’t take five minutes. He chewed his lip for a moment. She’d been at the Gilded Lily the night before. He’d seen enough crime shows to know the police wouldn’t consider her missing until she’d been gone twenty-four hours. Why should he?
The baking soda wasn’t helping. He stood on his knees and leaned forward but saw no rash. When he ran his fingers over his itchy crotch, he encountered a little scab that he scraped off with a fingernail and left on the side of the tub. Then he found another, and another, and observed that those he’d removed earlier were moving. He leaned forward for a closer look and gasped. “Crabs?”
But how? Mr. Wrong had been his last sexual partner—weeks before he’d dumped Luke—and he’d been in Lexington for more than a month. A toilet seat was an unlikely source. He shuddered. Relieving himself at a urinal wasn’t a problem, but he’d explode before he took a dump in a public restroom.
Luke got out of the tub feeling dirtier than before his bath. How did he get rid of them? A pharmacist would know but running to the drugstore would make him late for dinner. He searched his apartment for possible remedies. Spraying his body with ant and roach killer seemed like the best option but might kill him as well. Rinsing his crotch with mouthwash, vinegar, cooking oil, and finally, Pine Sol made the itching worse but didn’t seem to faze the little buggers.
Finding a shirt clean enough to wear took a while and forced a change from black to khaki slacks. Black socks didn’t go with a blue shirt and brown shoes, but he’d been unable to find a matching pair in any other color. The pants were long enough maybe nobody would n
otice.
Luke spritzed on Halston Z-14 cologne, gargled some mouthwash, blow-dried his hair, and laminated every hair into place with hairspray. The result wasn’t quite the look he’d been going for but would have to do. Aunt Callie wouldn’t care, and he couldn’t be late again.
Barring a major disaster, she would get to the Brougham House at least fifteen minutes early, and, if not already there, was on her way. If he only hit green lights and traffic was light, he could still get there in time.
Maybe.
Torrential rain stopped him at the outside door. His umbrella was in the back seat of his car, parked closer to the other side of the building. He hurried down the hallway when, inches from making his escape, the door to Apartment 4 opened, and Mr. Patrick stepped into the hall.
“Hey, Tanner!”
Luke bit back a groan, stopped, and forced a smile. “Hello, Mr. Patrick. How are you?”
“Madder than a wet hen.” He put his hands on his hips and glared. “See what I’m wearing?”
A navy corduroy robe covered him to his knees. The green plaid pajama top visible at his throat clashed with the striped bottoms extending below the robe to worn leather slippers. Aside from the mismatched separates, Luke saw no reason for anger. “Looks fine to me.”
“You dimwit!” Mr. Patrick shook his head. “It’s after six o’clock and I’m still in my pajamas waiting for you to come and fix my bathtub like you said you would.”
Luke’s face grew hot. Mr. Patrick calling the day before as he was leaving for work had slipped his mind. “Sorry.”
“Sorry?” Mr. Patrick sputtered. “Is that all you’ve got to say? The tub still hasn’t emptied from the bath I took yesterday morning.”
Luke stared at the floor to avoid eye contact with the angry tenant.
Mr. Patrick folded his arms across his chest. “You going to fix it or not?”
Luke met his gaze. Confessing he was running late for dinner at Lexington’s swankiest restaurant was more likely to make things worse than to help. “I’ll take a look first thing tomorrow, okay?”
“No, it’s not okay.” Mr. Patrick harrumphed. “That’s what you said yesterday.”
“I’m really sorry,” Luke said. “The day got away from me.” True enough. Admitting he’d forgotten wouldn’t help his case. “If I haven’t come by noon, call, and I’ll come right over. We’ll get it fixed, I promise.” He just had to figure out how.
“Guess I don’t have much choice.” Mr. Patrick shook his head again, retreated into his apartment, and closed the door.
Luke added “something to unclog drains” to his mental shopping list for tomorrow’s trip to the drugstore and sprinted for his car through the downpour. He reached Bertha, the beat-up 1970 Chevrolet Impala he’d bought three weeks earlier, and his heart sank. The front right tire was flat.
He grabbed the umbrella from the back seat, popped it open, and stood in the pouring rain for a moment considering his options. The bus would require a two-block walk to the nearest stop with at least a fifteen-minute ride downtown to transfer to a second bus for the half-hour or longer trip to the Brougham House. Throw in waiting times for both buses, and he’d be lucky to get there before the place closed.
A cab wouldn’t be much quicker. Waiting times often approached an hour in good weather. No telling how long he’d have to wait in this rain.
Changing the tire was the obvious choice and something he’d done before. Once. Was replacing the flat even an option? He opened the trunk and let out a big breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding when he saw the fully-inflated spare.
Getting wetter was certain. The umbrella kept his head and shoulders somewhat dry, but holding on to it while changing the tire would make the job more difficult. He was already drenched, and, with nothing else to wear, would arrive at the restaurant dripping like the creature from the Black Lagoon.
He closed the trunk and ran back to his apartment. His shoes squished with every step, and he left a watery trail across the shared hallway, through his living room to the kitchen. He stripped down to his underwear, tossed his wet clothes into the dryer in the utility closet, and threw on a sweatshirt, jeans, and sneakers. Aunt Callie would be furious. He found the number for the Brougham House in the yellow pages, left a message with the hostess that he was running late, and hurried back outside to change the tire.
The rain slowed him down. Water rushed along the curb, knocking over the jack several times until the weight of the car held it in place. Hefting the spare into position took some doing, and a dropped lug nut almost got away from him in the swift current, but he made the switch, let the car down off the jack, checked to make sure the lug nuts were secured, and, after failing to reattach the hubcap, tossed it into the trunk with the flat, the jack, and the lug wrench. He’d put them back the right way tomorrow.
Back in his apartment, Luke threw his sopping sweatshirt and jeans into the bathtub, changed into dry underwear, and blow-dried his hair again with much better results. Then he pulled his still-damp clothes from the dryer, got dressed, grabbed the umbrella, and ran back to his car.
Chapter 4
TRAFFIC WAS both lighter and slower than he’d expected. Honking the horn made him feel like he was doing something but had no impact on the slow-moving cars in front of him. Valet parking Bertha was too embarrassing and expensive. Circling the spacious lot in search of an open space consumed still more time. He found one at the back of the lot, maneuvered the big Chevrolet into the narrow space, and then dashed through the pouring rain to an awning extending from the door of the Brougham House to the curb of a circular drive.
He finger-combed his sticky wet hair and attempted to smooth the wrinkles from his soggy shirt and pants before opening the door and making his way through the crowded waiting area to an attractive, middle-aged woman at the hostess stand. She looked up from the ledger before her and, with a quick glance, checked him out.
“Do you have a reservation?” Her polite smile didn’t conceal her disdain.
“Yes,” he replied. “Callie Combs is the name. I believe she’s already here.”
She studied the ledger for a second and her expression changed. “Of course! You must be Mr. Tanner. We’ve been expecting you.” She gave him a warm smile. “Welcome to the Brougham House.” She led him through the dining room to the table where his Aunt Callie waited. “Enjoy your dinner!”
“Sorry I’m late.” Luke kissed his aunt on the cheek and then sat down across from her. “It’s been one of those days.”
She looked over her glasses at him and scowled. “Mercy. Do you need money for a haircut and maybe some new clothes?”
Luke’s cheeks grew hot. “No.” He forced his mouth into a grin. “I’ve just been too busy to see a barber or do laundry.”
“I see.” She opened her menu. “You’re making enough at that place to live on?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“You think so?” She closed the menu and set it on the table. “You’ve had the job nearly a month. I’d think by now you’d know.”
“Half that time I was in training and only got paid minimum wage.” He paused. No point getting defensive. She’d paid for the right to worry. “I only work three nights a week, but if the money is this good every week, I’ll be fine.”
“Excuse me.” A tuxedoed waiter stood a polite distance from the table. “I don’t mean to interrupt.”
“No problem.” Luke smiled without having to force it. Relief from the inquisition was only partially responsible. Although younger than Luke preferred, the waiter—Jon, according to his name tag—was very easy on the eyes. As he described the soup, appetizer, and entrée specials, Luke stared at him and nodded his approval after each tantalizing description.
“It’s your birthday, Luke.” Aunt Callie smiled. “Go ahead. Order whatever you want.”
“Your birthday?” Jon made a note on his pad. “We’re honored you chose to celebrate here at the Brougham House.”
; Aunt Callie ordered the fish special with a mélange of seasonal vegetables and a mixed green salad. Luke opted for beef Wellington, duchess potatoes, and a carrot soufflé for dinner with the deep-fried veggie appetizer.
Jon left, and Luke decided to steer the conversation in a different direction. “How’s work?”
“Never a dull moment,” she said, nodding. “That’s what I love about working at the paper.”
She’d been employed at the Herald-Leader for as long as Luke could remember and had worked her way up from proofreader to copy editor and was now editor of the society page.
“Other than work,” Luke said. “What have you been up to?”
“Besides worrying about you?” She studied his face. “Nothing out of the ordinary. Sounds like things are looking up.” She reached across the table and held his hand. “I just don’t want to see you working at that place for the rest of your life. You’re better than that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t get defensive,” she chided. “I mean bartending—at any kind of bar. How’s your book coming along?”
“Uh.” Luke paused. So far, typing Chapter One on the top of the page was all the progress he’d made. “Slow, but I’ve got a good start on it.”
“Good.” She nodded. “I can’t wait to read it. Thought any more about going back to school?”
“Not really.” Luke squirmed in his chair, and it wasn’t just the crabs. He’d survived high school, but college had been a bust. More interesting things competed for his attention, like discovering he was gay, coming out, reaching legal drinking age, losing his virginity, and falling in love with Donald “Mr. Wrong” Sullivan.
“Callie Combs! Is that you?” A blonde, darkly tanned woman in a stylish green dress approached the table.
“Amber Preston!” Aunt Callie stood.
Luke rose from his chair too. The woman looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place her.
The Case of the Missing Drag Queen Page 2