Adrien English Mysteries: A Dangerous Thing & Fatal Shadows (12 page)

“No.”

“So he didn’t feel threatened? Stalked?”

I stared at them.

“We’ll be in touch,” Riordan said.

68

Josh Lanyon

I couldn’t find anything to wear. Laundry had not been a major priority the last few days, and as I dug through the hamper seeking something I could iron into presentability I realized that Robert’s death had put my own life on hold. It was like being shot but waiting to hear the crack of the rifle before you fell down.

I hadn’t worked on my new book in over a week. In fact already the threads of plot seemed to be unraveling in my brain. I was afraid to look at the damn thing. And why had I ever thought of centering the plot around Titus Andronicus? I hate that play.

I had a stack of phone messages I hadn’t answered, and so many DOROTHYL digests in my e-mail it was a wonder I hadn’t crashed my computer. And, in case I wasn’t feeling harassed enough, Jean and Ted were hounding me about putting out the bookstore newsletter the group had been discussing for the past six months. My feeble excuses were brushed aside and I was being dragged over to the Finches with the bribe of dinner.

“I know you, Adrien,” Jean had said when she’d phoned a couple of hours earlier.

“You’re probably living on coffee and minute rice.”

Hey, if God had intended me to cook he wouldn’t have created Trader Joe’s.

“Jean, you’re confusing me with the helpless heterosexual male.”

Jean just laughed. She’s the most easygoing woman writer I’ve ever met.

Since my friends insisted on rallying round, the least I could do was wear a clean shirt.

In the end I had to settle for a white T-shirt under a black blazer and a pair of black jeans that I’d quit wearing because they made me feel I should be out waving down cars on Santa Monica Boulevard, except that they were too tight to walk in.

“Ooh, don’t you look handsome,” Jean chirped when Ted ushered me into their kitchen about forty-five minutes later.

Ted shoved a glass of red wine into my hand. “Good for the heart,” he said, and gave my shoulder a nudge with his own.

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I like Jean and Ted, don’t get me wrong, but a little bit does go a long way. In their manuscript, Murder He Mimed, they have a gay character, Avery Oxford. Avery is thirty-two, single, with black hair and blue eyes and my wardrobe right down to my BVDs, which, in point of fact, Jean quizzed me about: “Do Gay Men Prefer Boxers or Briefs?” Every time I give an opinion I can see Jean perking up, taking mental notes. I’m terrified some day some fool may actually publish their magnum opus and Avery Oxford will be let loose as the quintessential gay stereotype.

“How are you holding up?” Jean asked, turning the heat off on the stove.

“I’m holding up.” I sipped my wine, an unexpectedly smooth merlot.

Ted brought Jean a platter and she began spearing pork chops out of the pan. I was struck by their concord. I’ve never met any two people that seemed more truly two halves of one whole. The fact that they looked like fraternal twins heightened the effect.

“Gosh, it’s sad,” Jean said as Ted whisked the platter past me into the dining room alcove.

“Robert was such a vibrant person. So ... alive.”

“Yes.” I half-drained my wine glass. I really didn’t want to think about Rob for one evening. “I’m sorry about the police. I hear they’ve been asking more questions.”

Jean laughed. “Really, that’s been kind of helpful. Getting to watch detectives on the job.”

“What kinds of things did they ask you?”

Jean went over to the fridge. She sounded vague. “Oh, you know. The same kind of stuff they asked you, probably.”

“They asked about Claude,” Ted offered from the alcove. He was lighting candles on the dining room table.

“What’s that? Oh.” Jean took the salad out of the fridge. “Well, Claude. He is pretty emotional. Some of the things he says, you might think -- I mean, I know he wouldn’t hurt a fly, but if you don’t know him you might think he’s a violent person.”

“Can I do anything to help?”

Jean smiled, shook her head, cocking her ear for Ted’s next words. When none were forthcoming she called, “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Max?”

“Exactly.”

I asked, “What about Max?”

Jean shooed me off into the dining room with one hand. With the other she balanced the salad bowl, waitress style. “Don’t be shy, Adrien. Just sit anywhere.”

I stepped into the alcove. One wall was solid books; the entire top shelf of the bookcase was lined with How to Writes. This was one of those small Westwood apartments made functional and attractive with the help of the local Ikea and gallons of peach and coral paint.

70

Josh Lanyon

Jean called it the “Southwest Look,” and stuck cactus plants in every corner. I nearly backed into one as I made room for her to set the salad on the table.

“What do you think, Adrien?” Ted inquired as I sat.

I shook out an apricot colored napkin. “About what?”

“Max’s homophobia. Do you think he could have killed Robert?”

It was clearly an academic question to them. I found that a bit scary. As scary as the notion that someone might want to kill me because of whom I’d slept with.

“Is Max a homophobe?”

“Of course,” Jean stated unequivocally. She hopped up and disappeared into the tiny kitchen. “He hated Robert. Hated him.”

“Well,” Ted hedged. “Maybe homophobe is too strong. He doesn’t hate you.”

“He just thinks you’re seriously screwed up,” Jean volunteered.

I wished I hadn’t come to dinner.

“You’re not eating,” Ted said and passed the platter of chops my way.

Jean set a bowl of mashed potatoes before us and lit once more. She cocked her head like a friendly robin. “It does sound like a hate crime from what the papers say.”

“All murder is a hate crime.”

“No. Not really. Sometimes people are just in the way.”

“Whoops! You’re dry,” Ted said and refilled my wine glass.

I drank up. Lowered my glass. “So what did the police ask you about me?”

Jean flew up again and dimmed the overhead light. In the moody candlelight they looked unnervingly like a pair of the Bobbsey Twins.

“Do you think he could have killed Robert?” they quoted together. Then they looked at each other and laughed merrily.

I opened my mouth, but Jean cut in, “We know you didn’t.”

“How do you know?”

“You just -- you’re not the type. You’re too civilized.”

“Doesn’t that make me the prime suspect? By all the laws of mystery fiction? The least likely character?”

“That’s fiction, Adrien,” Jean explained kindly.

“Mostly English mysteries,” Ted put in. “In those Golden Age classics it’s always some smart-ass, over-refined chap. I guess half of them were probably supposed to be gay. Doesn’t matter,” he had to stop to chew and swallow. “Doesn’t matter. Bad heart.” He thumped his own chest for emphasis.

Not bad; just misguided, I wanted to say. I was still smarting over those smart-ass, over-refined, probably gay villains. As I trimmed the fat from my chop I became aware that Jean Fatal Shadows

71

was watching attentively. She smiled, meeting my gaze. No doubt Avery Oxford would start exhibiting the “Continental” method of fork wielding. I couldn’t wait for them to kill him off, but they couldn’t ever seem to get beyond Chapter Three.

“If you don’t mind my asking, what else did the police want to know?”

Jean and Ted exchanged a silent look.

She said off-handedly, “Oh, you know, they were asking about Claude and you. If you were an item. And if you needed money. And who you ... well, you know, dated. We told them about the thing with Max.”

For a minute I wondered if they thought I’d had a thing with Max. Exactly what were people telling the police?

“They didn’t seem to find it very interesting,” Ted opined. “Very close minded.”

“We told them you couldn’t have done it,” Jean reassured me once more. “Claude is a different matter. He’s homicidal if you argue cooking fats.”

“I thought you didn’t think Claude killed Robert?”

Jean looked up surprised. “Well, you never really know anyone, Adrien.”

It was late when I left the Finches. I’d had several cups of coffee on top of half a bottle of wine; so I was driving more defensively than usual through Westwood. As ever the streets were crowded with college kids, the shop doors open and ablaze, theater lines wrapped around corners. On the radio Sarah McLachlan was singing “Building a Mystery,” which seemed, in my alcohol-tempered state, significant.

I pulled up at a light, singing along under my breath. Two girls in fringed jackets walked arm in arm through the crosswalk. Sweet. Maybe the times were a-changin’. I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel, glanced at the jammed sidewalk outside a cinema.

Did a double take.

There in the queue for Scary Movie stood Detective Riordan, larger than life. Yes, it was definitely him. All six foot three of prime USDA beef in a leather bomber jacket. He had his arm around a red-haired girl and he was laughing down at her. Thanks to the music on the radio, it was like a scene out of a music video, with the shifting crowd cutting them off from view every couple of beats.

It struck me as more than coincidence. More like fate. Like when you’ve been thinking about someone so hard you seem to conjure him.

The light changed. The car behind me honked. I pulled away, my eyes glued to the rearview mirror till Riordan was lost to sight. No kidding; the guy had a life outside of being a cop. So much for Claude’s leatherman scenario.

Right?

Unless the chick was a beard.

72

Josh Lanyon

What the hell did I care? Unless there was some truth to Claude’s theory about Riordan knowing Robert. About Riordan having some involvement in Robert’s death.

Otherwise I had zero interest.

Riordan was not remotely my type. Even without the whips and canes and butt plugs. I don’t understand the wish -- let alone the need -- to be dominated, controlled. Not presuming to judge, just not something I wanted for myself.

And yet.

And yet there was something about his strength, his arrogance, his sheer size that got under my skin. He probably didn’t couldn’t even spell vanilla. He was probably selfish in the sack. Probably selfish and greedy and ... unsophisticated. And hung like a horse.

When I got home there was a message on my machine.

“Adrien? It’s Bruce. I was hoping maybe I’d hear from you.” Silence. Giving me a chance to pick up. “Call me some time.”

I hit rewind, listened to the message again. He had a nice voice. Maybe he sang in the shower. Would that be a plus or a minus? Was he a morning person or a night person? Did I have a preference?

I undressed, lay on the couch in my white boxer briefs balancing the phone on my stomach, and called Bruce.

“Well, hello there, stranger,” he greeted me with pleasure. My heart warmed. Nice to be appreciated.

Bruce had just come in and wanted to talk. It went pretty well. No awkward pauses. We made plans for dinner the following night.

I spent Thursday morning letting my fingers do the walking through rows and rows of

“Chins” in the White Pages. Two or three calls into it, my lame story about an alumni newsletter was coming more glibly, but I still wasn’t having any luck locating Andy Chin. I didn’t even know if he still lived in the state.

This, of course, is what comes of ignoring all those invitations to high school reunions.

“Darling, are the police after you?” my mother inquired when I picked up the phone that afternoon.

“No more so than usual. Why?”

“Because I had two police detectives to lunch yesterday --”

“Lunch? You fed them lunch?”

“Well, it was noon, darling. I couldn’t very well eat in front of them.”

“What did you serve them? Never mind. What did they ask about?”

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“Grilled baby salmon, wild rice and asparagus with that luscious cream sauce that Maria makes,” Lisa rattled off cheerfully. “They were quite civilized. For the most part. They asked about your friends. About Robert. When did Robert become gay, Adrien?"”

Through dry lips, I asked, “What else did they ask about?”

“Your inheritance.”

“My what?”

“Your finances. That led to your inheritance. I told them about Mother Anna and that insane will. Splitting the money that way. I don’t care what dear little Mr. Gracen says, the woman was gaga. Giving a boy your age that much money.”

I waited for the pause and then got in, “Lisa, what did you tell them exactly?”

She said plaintively, “Darling, I’ve just told you. I explained you got half your money when you turned twenty-one, and shortly after squandered it on that grubby little shop.”

I could feel sweat popping out over my forehead. “Lisa, I make a perfectly decent living.”

My mother made a sound that from a lesser woman would have been a snort.

“What else did you tell them that was none of their damn business?”

“Don’t start cursing, Adrien. They were rather nice. Very polite. Not at all what I expected.”

I bet that worked both ways.

“And I did warn them darling that you were simply not up to being badgered. I told them what the specialist said -- the first one, not that horrid quack from the Cleveland Clinic Heart Center. I think I made it very clear that if you were harassed any further I would set Mr. Gracen on them.”

“Set Mr. Gracen ...” I hadn’t the strength to finish it. Set loose the dogs of war in the form of “dear little Mr. Gracen” who was seventy if he was a day and could barely manage to dodder around the golf course? “Lisa, no one is badgering me. It’s just routine.”

“Say what you like, Adrien, but you looked very white and strained when you were here the other day. I really think you should consider coming home for a while.”

Here we go again. “Lisa, I am home. Remember? I’m a big boy now. Don’t start fussing.”

“I never fuss.” She grew lachrymose as another wrong occurred to her. “Did you know that Inspector Chan wants to write mysteries too? He was asking where you get all your ideas from. And you know, Adrien, I simply didn’t know. I’m rather hurt that you’ve never let me read your book.”