I left the library just as they were closing. I wasn’t sure that what I’d learned put me any farther ahead. I had proof, if any was needed, that Randy Outray was seriously disturbed. I had confirmed, for what it was worth, that when the chips were down, his family would drop buckets of money on the table to clean up the mess. But I had already known that Randy was arrogant and willful and without conscience. What I still didn’t know was who had killed him, or why.
It seemed unlikely that any of the people involved with the King’s Sports or Granite College scandals had done it. The size of the payoffs would have diffused any lingering resentments, and the girls and women involved seemed to have been willing participants in the games and reluctant to lay any blame at all on Randy Outray.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Brent William’s apartment had undergone some major changes since my first visit. The ratty couch was gone, to be replaced by a sofa and chairs covered in some nubby material and flanked by low wooden tables. The computer system I had last seen perched on a box was now housed in a vast corner unit that combined bookshelves with workspace and left room for a printer. Area rugs in bold Indian print marked the room’s separate functions. Only the leafy green plant was still the same, though the gift card had at last been removed.
Brent shyly introduced me to the author of these changes.
“This is Rolph,” he said, and I got a bone-melting smile from a six-foot hunk dressed in form-fitting jeans, a sweatshirt, and an apron.
“I’m a chef,” he explained, dusting off a floury hand before shaking mine. “It’s my day off. I’m experimenting with some almond pastry in the kitchen.” He winked. “Sometimes it pays to make the mistakes at home, before taking the show on the road.”
“Whatever it is smells terrific,” I said, slipping out of my boots.
“If it works, you can test it later.” Rolph flashed me the smile again and disappeared back into the kitchen. It was probably the worst kind of sexism but I couldn’t repress the thought: what a waste.
Brent had things organized for us in the living room. He had drawn up a side chair for me at the desk. Paper and sharpened pencils were out. The computer was on.
“We’re all set,” he said. “Where do you want to go?”
I felt like a fraud. I had invited myself over on the pretext of wanting a first-hand demonstration of the kind of service he planned to offer his clients. I had brought his prospectus and my notes on it with me, and I fully intended to review them with him. But first I wanted to steer our course toward the seamier side of Kingsport life.
I said, “What can you tell me about The Clubbe?”
Brent shot me a look.
“The Kingsport Clubbe,” I said.
It was the only lead I had left. What had started as the kind of brandy and cigars club acceptable to the Protestant social ethic of its day, had lost something of its rarefied air over the years. Though preservation of the old-boy network was still a key factor, physical fitness now had the edge over purely social encounter. That some of the fitness instructors and massage therapists might offer services beyond those outlined in the Clubbe’s brochure, was tacitly understood. No doubt the wives objected, and judging by the rather desperate measures some of them adopted in remodeling themselves in a more nubile image, some of them at least felt seriously threatened.
Given what I had learned that morning about Randy Outray’s entrepreneurial assays, The Clubbe seemed an appropriate next stop.
Brent’s face was tight as he chased information across the computer screen. “Why do you want this stuff?” he asked suddenly. I glanced up sharply. He was blushing. It was on the tip of my tongue to ask why, when it hit me.
Brent already knew about The Clubbe. And since he would hardly qualify for membership on the basis of social standing, he must have been an employee. Clearly, it was a source of embarrassment. Equally clearly, he thought he was the reason for my questions.
I said, “I’m sorry, Brent, I didn’t realize you … ”
“No?” he said nastily. His voice was pitched higher than normal. “Then why are you asking about it? Are personal background checks a normal part of your business assessment service?”
Sensing trouble, Rolph had left the kitchen and come to stand behind Brent’s chair, his presence lending reassurance. “What’s going on?”
Two bright spots of anger burned in Brent’s pale cheeks. He looked very young.
I said again, quickly, “I’m sorry. I had no idea you’d ever worked at The Clubbe, Brent, honestly. That’s not why I was asking.”
I eyed them both hesitantly, then plunged. “Look. I’m trying to find out anything I can about Randy Outray that might explain why someone would kill him. The Clubbe is the only lead I have.”
If I expected astonishment, I was disappointed. After a brief silence, Rolph said only, “I thought the police suspected that guy, Forrester, the one whose wife and little girl were murdered. And his brother, what’s his name? Maitland.”
Brent looked startled. “Maitland? Wasn’t he … ?”
“Yes,” I said quickly. “He was. But they didn’t do it, either of them.”
Rolph smiled at my vehemence and I saw his hand tighten on Brent’s shoulder. He tilted his head in the direction of the living area. “Maybe we’d be more comfortable over there.”
I chose one of the nubby chairs, curling into it with my feet tucked underneath me. Rolph and Brent sat side by side on the couch. They weren’t touching, but the connection between them was palpable.
I cleared my throat while I thought about where to begin.
Brent recovered his poise faster than I did. “Why don’t you tell us what drew your attention to The Clubbe in the first place,” he suggested, “And we’ll go on from there.”
“Okay,” I said, “Here goes. You know what I do for a living, apart from the course at Metcalf?”
Brent nodded.
“Well, because of the role I play in their lives, some of my clients talk to me, probably more than they should, about things that are going on in Kingsport and who is doing what to whom. You know the kind of thing I mean.”
Brent nodded again.
“Since Susan and Tracey Forrester were murdered, the Outrays, and Randy in particular, have come in for their more than their fair share of speculation and gossip. So this morning I thought I’d take a look at the news clipping service at the library and see if I could follow up on some of it.”
At this point in my recitation, Rolph got up and left the room. I heard water running in the kitchen, then the soft clink of china as he assembled a tea tray. I hoped he’d put some food out with it. The cranberry muffins seemed a long time ago.
“And could you?” said Brent.
“Yes. I found two quite recent incidents involving Randy Outray. Unfortunately, although he was the bad guy in both of them, the victims, if you’d call them that, refused to press charges and may even have benefited. Financially, I mean. The only solid thing I have to go on is that both incidents involved sex and videotapes. And I thought that since Randy, along with almost every other guy in town with half a million or more in the bank, is a member of The Clubbe, that that would make a good next step.”
Rolph came in with the tea things. I stopped talking and accepted some lemon tea, though I would have preferred a mug to the delicate china cup he handed me. I was always afraid I’m going to break off the little handles. As a chef, I gathered Rolph subscribed to the theory that tea always tastes better drunk out of porcelain.
He lifted a plate of pastries. “Willing to test my experiment?”
I imagined my body ballooning from indulgence, like rising dough, as I selected what looked like a miniature turnover from the plate and bit into it. Raspberry jam gushed over my chin. Rolph dashed to my rescue with a napkin.
“I’
ll have to make those smaller,” he said with a grin, “So you can eat them in a single bite.”
I laughed. “They are a little messy. But definitely worth it,” I added, as I popped the second half into my mouth.
A few minutes passed in silence as the three of us munched and sipped. Then Brent said, “So what is it you want to find out about The Clubbe? You know who the members are. I’m sure you have a pretty good idea of what goes on there. How does that help?”
I set my empty teacup back on the table and shook my head at Rolph’s offer of more. “I don’t know,” I said. “I’m not sure exactly what I thought I could uncover. Some incident that could lead to murder, I guess. A grudge? More videos?” I shrugged, palms up. “I don’t know. I suppose I hoped the Internet could produce a miracle for me.”
Brent shook his head. “If you could sneak in the back door, it might tell you who owes money, who pays extra for extra services. But I think what you’re looking for is the kind of thing no one in their right mind would ever commit to a computer.”
Rolph snorted. “Are you kidding me? You could probably find naked pictures of your grandma on the net if you looked hard enough. People put anything and everything out there. There’s no such thing as privacy any more. Or personal dignity, either. It’s blackmail heaven.”
Brent and I gaped at each other like goldfish.
The silence in the room was absolute.
“Well,” I finally managed. “There’s a thought. More than one blackmail victim has turned on his abuser before now. It would certainly give us a motive. But what sort of hold could Randy have had on anyone? It’s not as though what goes on at The Clubbe is exactly a secret, or even particularly blackmail-worthy, come to that. Not these days.”
“You’d be surprised,” Rolph said, “at what some people get up to. No pun intended.”
“Whips and chains?” I made a moue of distaste.
Rolph waved an airy hand. “That’s old hat. Actually, I was thinking more along the lines of erotic asphyxiation. You know — gaspers. That kind of thing can get out of hand pretty easily.”
I stared.
Rolph patted my knee. “Don’t worry. Most of the folks you know have fairly pedestrian tastes. Just not ones they like to advertise. What d’you think Brent was doing there? Does he look like a security guard to you?”
I bit my lip.
Brent interpreted my silence as disapproval. “You probably think it’s disgusting. My mother certainly did, but the money was good, and I already knew I was gay. So why not?”
His words were almost an echo of the girl Julie’s, of snuff film fame, and I felt the same sense of despair I had felt over her. How could a young man like Brent value himself so little?
Into the pause, Rolph said, “Then, there a few club members with a strong preference for the very young.”
Brent said, “That’s when I left, when I found that out. I hadn’t actually been working there very long and one night I saw this girl, maybe fifteen years old, waiting in the lounge. She was dressed in this short little pleated skirt and knee socks and I thought she was somebody’s kid, you know, in her school uniform or something. She told me she had a date with one of the ‘gentlemen’.”
I felt my gorge rise. Sex, even kinky sex, between consenting adults is one thing; this was something else. It took me a minute to ask, “Who was the ‘gentleman,’ do you know?”
Brent shook his head. “I never saw him. I never saw her again, either. But I left there just a few days later anyway, so that’s not surprising.”
I sighed. Anything else was too much to hope for, I supposed.
Rolph said, “I heard a few rumors.”
“You? Did you work there too?”
“Oh, no, I didn’t work there. I was a member.”
I made a conscious effort not to let my jaw drop.
“They asked me to leave when I overstepped the bounds of propriety and told everyone right out loud that I was gay.” His tone was self-mocking. “Not only gay, but a cook. Imagine the shame for my poor papa. Lucky for me, the Lynden millions were all neatly tied up in trusts or I would have been cut off without the proverbial cent.”
“You’re Rolph Lynden?”
“The skeleton in the closet, himself.” He grinned. “Only I came out.”
I remembered the uproar. It was all Sonja Reid had talked about for weeks.
“But I don’t get it. From what you guys have said, I gather that some of the other Clubbe members are, if not gay, then at least bisexual. So why kick you out?”
“Tsk, tsk. You’re showing your class. The upper strata always preserve appearances. In fact, in our rarified circles, appearance matters more than reality.”
“I see,” I said. “It’s one thing to be different and something else to acknowledge it. No wonder psychiatrists do such good business.”
Brent was stacking the dirty cups back on the tray. I liked the way these two divvied up the household chores like an old married couple. I wondered how long they had been together.
Brent said, “So which ones did go for the kids?”
“It’s only rumor,” Rolph cautioned.
I understood his hesitation. This was not a finger to point casually.
“I did hear the girl was there for a date with a lawyer. This was a really smart guy, with a great sense of humor — very popular with the ladies, and I never had the least suspicion before that there was anything wrong with him. Anyway, I’m sure you’ve heard of him. It was Mel Deloitte.”
I felt the color drain from my face.
I scarcely heard the details of what Rolph said after that, something about Deloitte’s marriage and how bitter the divorce had been.
Mel Deloitte? It wasn’t possible. He was Kingsport’s most eligible man, women panted after him. Why would he hit on little girls? My stomach roiled at the thought. Hard behind it, came the realization that it was almost too perfect a scenario. Who better for Randy to put the screws to than a family friend whose career would be toast if his special interest came to light? The ladies of Kingsport, and the police, might turn a blind eye to most of what went on at The Clubbe, but there was no way they would ignore this. I had a sudden, vivid recollection of Simone Outray’s bitter statement at the Reid’s party. “I know what kind of ‘working out’ they do there. They think I don’t, but I do.” I wondered if someone had told her about the children. And who more likely to have done it than her brother?
If it was true, Randy Outray must have been a fool to put himself so completely in the hands of his blackmail victim. On the other hand, what choice had he had? Mel Deloitte had been the Outray’s lawyer for twenty-five years. How could Randy possibly explain wanting someone else to represent him, without exposing his criminal sideline to his parents? Rolph had been right about that. In those circles, you could do anything you wanted, as long as you didn’t get caught. Maybe an end to the blackmail was to be Mel’s payment for getting Randy off on the murder charge.
Another question nagged like a persistent fly that wouldn’t be swatted. How much did Kerrin know of this?
I became aware of Brent, hovering anxiously by my chair. “Are you all right, Nina? Do you want a glass of water or a drink or something?”
I grabbed at the fraying edges of my composure.
“Tell me something, Brent. Did you know Mel Deloitte at The Clubbe at all? Is that how you came to be on the mock jury?”
“No,” said Brent. “I never met him. It was Kerrin Adams who asked me to be on the jury. A friend of a friend recommended me when she was installing her new computer and I customized some software for her. She asked if I’d be interested in working on a trial run of a case sometime and I said sure. When she called me up, I didn’t know it was going to be the Outray case, or I probably would have backed out. I didn’t know the guy personally
, but I knew of him, you know what I mean?”
I didn’t question my willing suspension of disbelief at the flimsy evidence of Mel Deloitte’s guilt. Anything, it seemed, no matter how bizarre, that pointed the finger of accusation away from David, was fair game.
By now, Brent and Rolph had fully entered into the spirit of the thing.
“What about a weapon?” Brent was asking. “We have a victim, and we have a motive. We still need the other two, what are they, opportunity and means. Does Deloitte own a gun? What was Randy shot with, anyway, a .22?”
“You watch too much television,” Rolph said fondly. “I had the radio on in the kitchen and according to the latest news report, it was a derringer.”
“Isn’t that kind of an old-fashioned gun?” Brent asked.
“Yeah, I don’t know if they’re made any more, but there are some around, family heirloom type things. I think it was a derringer that Booth used to shoot Lincoln.”
Still with the feeling of watching actors on a stage, I saw Brent get up and go over to the computer. “It’s pretty convenient, having a computerized encyclopedia,” he said, as the printer whirred. A minute later, he handed me two sheets of paper. One gave me the history of the derringer pistol. The other showed me what it looked like.
What it looked like was a toy. Small enough to fit easily into a pocket, it held only two shots. One had been used on Randy Outray. I wondered if Mel had plans for the other one.
I stared at the picture numbly.
Rolph said, “Have you ever seen a gun at Deloitte’s house, Nina? He doesn’t keep a little pistol like that,” he pointed to the paper in my hand, “In his desk drawer by any chance?”
“He doesn’t need to,” I said, my voice sounding hollow. “The walls of his study are practically papered with the damn things. He’s a collector.”
Trial Run Page 13