by Beth Ciotta
Jean-Pierre shrugged. “Jake did not seem concerned.”
“He said he could handle it,” Rudy said, sipping his coffee.
“Cute muscles and a cocked weapon. All he needed was a cape and tights.” Jean-Pierre looked at Rudy, excitement dancing in his eyes. “Do you think Superdick will break the intruder’s legs or shoot him?”
Afia groaned.
“We have an idea for your benefit,” Rudy said, winking at his partner-in-crime and then leaning back in his chair.
She frowned. “You’re just trying to take my mind off of Jake and Joni.”
“Who is this Joni?” Jean-Pierre asked, stirring cream and sugar into his mug.
“Jake’s sister. She’s pregnant.”
He gave a disgusted snort.
Afia bristled. “You don’t like children?”
Rudy patted her hand. “He likes children. He’s just miffed because one of the dancers is pregnant and that entails some progressive alterations. The vice president asked the show’s producer to keep her on as long as possible.”
She perked up. “One of the dancers in the show is pregnant? Which one? Who’s the father?” Could this have anything with Rivelli devoting the weekend to Angela? Was it his baby? Was he going to break the news?
“Selena,” Jean-Pierre said with a sneer. “Her boyfriend lives in New York. I have never met him, but I do not like him.”
“Stop whining,” Rudy said. “So you have to get creative. Look at it as a challenge. I think it’s commendable that the casino’s going to keep her on.” He took another sip of coffee and then focused on Afia. “So about your benefit.”
Velma rubbed up against her leg and purred, quieting Afia’s nerves with her mere presence. She sighed, thinking fleetingly that cats must be psychic, and then placed her napkin in her lap and reached for the maple syrup. “All right. What’s your idea?” If Jake didn’t call her in the next half hour, she was calling the police.
“A drag show.”
“Excuse me?”
“The gay community will come out full force in support of the queens and the kids. Then there are the fag hags and stags, and that small circle of social elite who simply think it’s chic to support gay causes. Between ticket sales, a silent auction, and raffles, that playground equipment is as good as bought.”
All ears, Afia nodded while pouring syrup over her waffle. She’d been to several drag shows over the years. All of them well-attended. All of them wildly successful.
“Karl will probably let us use the club as the venue. I’ll talk to a few of the girls, but I know without even asking that we can count on Sucha Diva, Miss Trudy, Carmen Chameleon, and Sofonda Menn.”
“Think cabaret performance slash fashion show,” Jean-Pierre said. “I have some fabulous ideas for costuming.”
“Some fresh talent would be nice,” Rudy said. “Or a blast from the past. I wish we could get Iva Dream. She was hysterical and, honey, did she have some creative moves.” He nudged Afia. “You saw her perform once. The Flashdance parody. Remember?”
She smiled. “Flashpants … What a Feeling. I remember. Vaguely. Gosh, that was, what, six years ago?”
Jean-Pierre shoved his longish hair off of his face. “So contact her.”
Rudy shook his head. “Wouldn’t know where to find her. Haven’t seen or heard of her in years.”
“I love it,” Afia said, her mind spinning with ideas. The drag queens took their performances very seriously and would put heart, imagination, and passion into the show, making it unlike anything the SCC had organized in years. This project couldn’t lose. She dug into her waffle, energized and suddenly starving. “Let’s talk production costs.”
“This is your emergency?”
“Get rid of him, Jake. I can’t breathe. I can’t function with that horrid creature in my house.”
“It’s just a spider.”
“It’s a tarantula.” Pale and sweaty, Joni pressed deeper into the corner of her couch, staring wide-eyed at a king-sized arachnid sunning itself on her living room wall.
“They don’t have tarantulas in Jersey.” Hands on hips, he studied the garden spider that had paralyzed his tough-as-nails sister. “Although he is a hairy bugger.”
“Jake!”
Her terrified plea sent shivers up his spine. “Relax, honey. I’ll take care of it.” Thirty seconds later he’d released the spider into the woods, fetched a cool cloth, and now he sat beside Joni mopping her clammy brow. “I didn’t know you had arachnophobia.”
“Neither did I. Then again I’ve never seen a spider that big. I was afraid to move. What if I scared it, what if it ran … and hid? What if I opened a drawer or pulled back my bedspread and there it was!” She took the washcloth from him, pressed it to her cheeks and took a deep breath. “Maybe it’s hormones. This is so embarrassing. All I had to do was squash it with a shoe.”
Jake smiled and patted her leg. “Phobias don’t have to make any sense.” He thought about Giselle’s irrational fear of Friday the thirteenth. He thought about Afia. He’d called her on his cell while releasing the horrid creature into the wilds. She’d been ecstatic that he was safe and made him promise not to leave Joni until she’d calmed completely. Panic attacks, she’d said, are horrible. “How are you feeling?”
“Better.” She tucked her hair behind her ears. “Actually, I feel like an idiot. I’m sorry I called you over.”
“I’m not. I’m glad I could help. Do you expect Carson soon? I’d like to congratulate him on his new job.”
“He drove all the way to Hammonton to buy me a particular homemade pie that I’m fond of.” She grinned. “I had a craving.”
Jake rubbed the back of his neck. “He’s a good man.”
“Yes, he is.”
“You love each other rain or shine. You’re in this together, forever.”
Her smile faded. “What’s going on with you?”
He jammed a hand through his hair. His timing wasn’t the best, although, knowing how Joni felt about Afia’s track record with men, hell would freeze over before there would be a good time. He didn’t need his sister’s approval but, damn, a little support would be nice. Whereas he was a novice, she’d spent two years navigating the unpredictable waters of a serious relationship. “Are you sure you’re feeling better? I don’t want to upset you.”
She crossed her arms over her plump breasts. “Spill.”
He cleared his throat. “You know your concern regarding my getting romantically involved with Afia?”
Her face crumpled. “I knew it. You’re dating her.”
“I asked her to move in with me.”
“You’re insane!” She blinked at him, cocked her head and groaned. “It’s worse. You’re in love.” She threw up her hands. “Oh, Jake, of all people. Aside from the obvious, there are all kinds of possible complications. Have you thought this through? Of course you have. The great puzzle solver. You think you’ve got it all figured out.”
“Rain or shine,” he said, giving her knee a reassuring squeeze. “Right?”
She sighed, placed her hand over his and nodded. “Rain or shine.”
She was on fire. Rudy and Jean-Pierre’s suggestion had sparked an inferno of ideas regarding the benefit. After an hour of brainstorming, they’d said their goodbyes. She’d made a few business calls, washed the dishes, and then she’d sprinted upstairs to unpack her toiletries and some essential clothing, hoping to spruce up before Jake got home. She wanted to look her best when she confessed her feelings. She sang the hook of an old Donna Summer hit as she slipped her feet into a pair of pink brocade slippers. “I … love to love you, baby! I … love to love you, baby!”
Shimmying into a pink-silk camisole and a matching Prada skirt, she hustled out of the guest room and into the main bathroom to apply a touch of makeup. Spying a small radio on the corner of the vanity, she flipped it on and dialed up a classic disco channel. Abba’s Dancing Queen blared from the tiny speakers causing her to smile as she lined
her eyes with a muted brown shadow. Images of a strutting Miss Trudy wearing her lime green beehive, gold spandex pants and a glittering tube top floated through her head as Afia tapped her slippered feet in time with the music. Then the song ended and another began. Flashdance. Geesh. Talk about coincidence. She rooted through her makeup bag while envisioning Iva Dream and all her practiced moves. Those legs, those feet. So precise. Sequined legwarmers, black fishnets and an off-the-shoulder stretch velvet shirt …
She slicked pink gloss across her lips as a more recent memory intruded.
Oh, my God.
Gasping, she dropped the lip-gloss into the makeup bag, scrambled out of the bathroom and down the stairs, nearly plowing over Jake as he breezed in through the front door.
“Whoa,” he said, nabbing her by the shoulders. “Where’s the fire?”
“Rivelli’s apartment.”
His brow furrowed. “What?”
“Where there’s smoke, there’s fire. The proof you need, I’m betting it’s in his apartment. Can you get us in?”
He pushed his aviator sunglasses up on top of his head. “You want me to break into Rivelli’s apartment?”
“Can you do it?”
He raised an eyebrow as if to say “how can you doubt me?” and then said, “Just out of curiosity why would I want to take the risk?”
“I think I know who the other woman is.”
“Who?”
“Iva Dream.”
Getting burned for B&E wasn’t Jake’s idea of fun, so he’d convinced Afia to change out of her sexy little dress and into a subtle disguise. They stepped out of the high-rise’s elevator wearing black jeans, black baseball caps and forest green T-shirts reading “Fresh As A Daisy Cleaning Service.” He’d pulled this ruse more than once. Toting buckets of cleaning supplies, he and Afia had breezed through the apartment building’s lobby without raising an eyebrow.
Next step: getting inside Rivelli’s condominium.
Piece of cake.
Especially when he had a key.
He nudged Afia inside, closed the door behind him, punched the access code into the security keypad and set his bucket on the floor.
Afia blinked at him. “Where did you get that key? How did you know his code?”
“Angela overnighted a package. It came this morning while you were upstairs. With all that happened today, I didn’t get a chance to tell you.”
She set her bucket beside his. “You could have told me on the ride over here.”
“I couldn’t get a word in edgewise.” She’d spent the entire twenty minutes explaining the difference between transvestites, transsexuals, cross-dressers, and drag artists. Even though he knew the basics, he’d let her ramble on because her overall theory, though a stretch, was damned intriguing. His mouth twitched into a smile. “You’re disappointed, aren’t you? Thought I was going to pick the lock.”
She tugged at the brim of her cap and shrugged. “It’s so exciting in the movies.”
“It’s not as easy as they make it look.”
“Could you have done it?”
“Sure. It’s a standard pin tumbler lock. The security system, however, would have posed a problem.”
She grinned. “I bet you would have figured out something.”
“Maybe.” He chuckled. “That turns you on doesn’t it? You’ve got a streak of daredevil in you, baby.”
She blushed. “I guess I take after my dad. He was a thrill seeker.”
And look what it got him, Jake thought. A rhino horn through the back. If they searched Rivelli’s apartment without getting burned, at least it would help to put her jinxed stigma to rest. He pulled two pairs of latex gloves out of the bucket and handed her a pair. “Put these on. If you move anything, be sure to put it back where you found it. Understand?”
She nodded. “Why did Angela send you the means to break in?”
“She’s hoping I’ll find an address book, a note, pictures, something that will ID the other woman. Figured since she had Rivelli over the weekend, now was the perfect time for me to search this place. Obviously, she’s desperate to know his secret.”
Afia sighed as she snapped on the gloves. “And he’s desperate to keep his secret. Now that we’re here, I’m feeling guilty.”
“Too late for that.” He jerked his head toward the hall. “You take the bathroom. I’ll take the bedroom. Touch as little as possible and don’t make any loud noises to alert the neighbors.”
She gave a cocky salute and tiptoed ahead of him, disappearing into a room on the right.
Jake gave the entire place a once over before beginning his search. Rivelli’s apartment was as clean and structured as his apparent life. Everything in its place. It took him fifteen minutes to find what he was looking for, and he didn’t find it in the bedroom. The man had stashed his goods behind an ingenious bookshelf that doubled as a closet.
Sequined gowns, velvet jumpsuits, corsets, and body stockings. Feather boas and rhinestone jewelry. Wigs. A supply of bust enhancers and hosiery, including fishnet pantyhose.
Afia came into the room carrying a fishing tackle box. “Bingo,” she said. “Eye shadow, false eyelashes, lipstick, nail tips, rouge … beard concealer.”
Jake jerked his head to the secret closet. “Six-inch platform shoes and thigh high boots, size fifteen. You were right,” he said with a proud smile. “Rivelli is the other woman.”
Chapter Twenty
“You can’t tell Angela.”
Jake gripped the steering wheel and clenched his jaw. “That’s the third time you’ve said that, Afia. We’ve been through this. Angela Brannigan is my client. She hired me to find out if her fiancé is cheating on her. I have to report my findings.”
She wasn’t sure if he was irritated with her or the heavy Saturday evening traffic, but he sounded as cranky as she felt. The thrill of solving a mystery had been short-lived. Now she felt like a traitor. “Can’t you just tell her, no, he’s not seeing another woman? That wouldn’t be lying.”
“She wouldn’t believe me. She’s like a dog with a bone. She’d just hire another investigator.”
Sighing, she swept off her cap and brushed her bangs off of her forehead. “Do you have to show her the pictures? The wigs? The bust enhancers?” She’d nearly died when he’d whipped out a camera and started clicking away.
“She wanted visual proof. It’s not the kind she’s expecting, but it will put her mind at rest. She’s engaged to this guy. Don’t you think she has a right to know what she’s getting into?”
“But it’s so personal, Jake.” She clasped her hands in her lap, her body surging with indignation. “It should come from Rivelli, not from you. He’s not gay. He might not even be bi-sexual. There’s an entire faction of transvestites who are heterosexual, married with kids. You investigated him. Anthony Rivelli is an upstanding, hard working man.”
“Who likes to dress up in women’s clothes.”
She glanced sideways, miffed because she couldn’t see his eyes. Was he mocking Rivelli, or merely stating a fact? How could he be so unfeeling about this? “He’s an entertainer at heart,” she said with conviction. “Role reversal dates back to Shakespearian times. Milton Berle was a drag queen, for goodness sake. It’s a form of expression, a kind of escape. I bet the only reason Rivelli keeps it a secret is because the bulk of society doesn’t approve. Do you think he’d be the vice president of a casino if his peers knew that he likes to perform in drag?”
Jake scraped his hand along his jaw and massaged the back of his neck. “Afia, I’m not judging the guy.”
“But you’re prepared to ruin his life?”
“For Christ’s—”
“I’m just saying that he should at least be given the opportunity to come clean with Angela. Can’t you talk to him first? Give him a heads up?”
“And betray Angela’s confidence by letting him know that she hired me to investigate him? That she mailed me a key to his apartment so that I could snoop in his closets? Ye
ah, that’ll give their relationship a shot in the arm.”
“Oh.” Feeling a little foolish, she thunked her head back against the seat as he turned onto a side street. “Hmm.”
“You have to consider all of the angles. You’re not giving Angela any credit. She’s going to be damned relieved that her fiancé isn’t cheating on her. Will she be shocked that he’s a cross-dresser? Probably. Will she desert him because of it? Maybe, maybe not. What if she approaches Rivelli with an open mind and heart? What if she wants to understand and to work things out? Maybe he’ll be able to come out of the closet, so to speak, at least with her. Wouldn’t that be a relief for Rivelli?
“I’m sure it would.” She massaged her temples. “This is very confusing.”
He reached over and squeezed her thigh as he swung the car into his driveway. “Listen, we can’t do anything about it until Angela contacts me and that won’t be until Monday. Let the matter rest for now. Case solved. As soon as we walk through that front door we’re done talking business. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” she said, suddenly exhausted.
He smiled, took off his sunglasses and tossed them on the dash and then climbed out and rounded the car to open her door.
Afia groaned as she stepped out into his arms. This had been an emotionally charged day, and it wasn’t over. She’d yet to tell him her news. Maybe she should wait until tomorrow. “I’m tired. Are you tired?”
“I’m hungry.” He whipped around his baseball cap so that it sat backwards and dropped his forehead to hers. “How about if I make us something to eat, and we curl up on the sofa and watch an old movie?”
She couldn’t think of anything she’d rather do. Except … “Can I take a bubble bath first?”
He smiled. “Have I told you my number one fantasy?”
Jake relaxed against the back of the claw-footed tub and soaped up Afia’s long hair with her jasmine shampoo. She sat with her back to him, cradled between his legs, sipping champagne amongst a cloud of sudsy bath bubbles. “I like the smell of your shampoo,” he said.