The Old Deep and Dark (20 page)

“Jesus H—” He squeezed the back of his neck.

“Is that why Jordan was murdered? Someone wanted to make sure he stayed in the closet.” It was a stab in the dark, but she figured it was an educated stab.

He refused to comment until the second bourbon was set in front of him.

Jane hoped the booze would make him more talkative. She decided to take a more gentle tack, give the alcohol some time to work its way into his system. “Tell me, Tommy. How did you and Jordan meet?”

He rolled the glass between his palms, shook his head.

“Not a pleasant memory?”

“Hell.”

“Maybe you don't remember.”

“Oh, I remember.”

When the waitress stepped up to the table, Jane ordered a cheeseburger and an iced tea. Tommy finished the second bourbon in two quick gulps and asked her to bring him another, this time a double.

Settling in, oiled by the alcohol lubricating all his synapses, his voice grew more intimate. “I guess it wouldn't hurt to tell the story.” He appeared to debate for a moment, then continued. “I'd just turned thirty. I'd been a lawyer for six years, working for an arts law firm in Saint Paul. On weekends, I occasionally helped my dad at his jewelry store in downtown Minneapolis. I'd been working there on and off since high school. I'd taken over the books because my old man wasn't, shall we say, very detail oriented. One day, this hunky young guy with black hair, dark shades, and a crazy sexy smile saunters in looking for an engagement ring. My uncle was about to step over to help him, but I got there first.” Tommy looked down into his empty glass, smiled at the memory.

“Did you sell him a ring?”

“Not that day. He was a talkative sort of person, had a southern twang, so I asked him what he was doing in town. He explained that he was a country singer, that his uncle owned a bar and he was playing there on weekends. He told me I should come.”

“But you don't like country music.”

Raising an eyebrow, he said, “No, but Jordan impressed me, especially his looks.”

“And why would his looks be important to a straight man?”

He squirmed in his seat, then shifted backward, away from her. He forced a laugh. “I know this is going to feel like it's coming out of left field, but, as it happens, I'm gay. Now, that surprises you, doesn't it. I can tell you didn't expect it.”

If that was what he needed to think, it was fine with her.

“People, the few friends who knew about us, always told me I didn't look gay. Neither did Jordan.”

“What do you mean ‘look' gay?”

“You know. Limp wristed. Swishy.”

That comment reflected the kind of internalized homophobia Jane would have expected from someone who'd spent his life in the closet. And it struck her as not only sad, but tragic.

“This may sound ridiculous,” he continued, “but it was love at first sight—for both of us. Not just lust, although that was part of it. From that day on, we were together.”

“A committed couple?”

“Yes.”

“What about the engagement ring he'd come to your father's store to buy?”

“Right,” he said, looking up as the waitress set the double bourbon in front of him. “I understand why that would be your next question.” He forced another laugh. “That's the next part of the story.”

*   *   *

“The empress surveying her kingdom,” called Red Clemens.

Cordelia had been scrutinizing the stage from the balcony and was annoyed by her maintenance chief's sudden appearance. The last thing she wanted was to be interrupted, mid-swoon. The construction was almost complete. All the ceiling details had been regilded, the chandeliers refurbished and gleaming, and the sweeping carved plaster ornamentation on each side of the stage had been repainted with the lovely pastel colors of its former glory. The final part of the scene, the new theater curtain, would be delivered and installed on Thursday, two days from now. The theater, once covered in avant-garde black paint, decades of dust, and moldy carpet was beginning to emerge as the turn-of-the-century jewel it had once been. Even Gilbert and Hilda had quieted down, perhaps awed by the transformation.

“Cordelia, you need to come down,” insisted Red. “I have to show you something.”

“Can't it wait?”

He moved up the aisle to get a better look at her. “I suppose, technically, it could. But I think you should see this sooner rather than later.”

“Oh, horse hocky,” she said with a groan. Sailing down the side stairs, she met him at the bottom uttering one impatient word.
“What?”

“It's easier for me to show rather than explain.” He led the way up to the stage, then through the curtains that led to the backstage area. “It's good that the dressing rooms haven't been repaired yet.” He stopped at the last door. Turning to Cordelia, he said, “I thought, after discovering the body behind the wall downstairs, that I should look around, see what else I could find.”

“Meaning what?” She jutted out her hip. “You think we have more dead bodies stuffed behind our walls?”

“It seemed like, since I know this place better than anyone else, that I should at least look.” He entered a dressing room and flipped on the light.

As had been the case with the rest of the theater, the individual rooms were dusty and dilapidated, with scuffed wood floors and black walls. This particular dressing room had a single table and chair against one wall, a battered built-in shelf along another.

Red stepped up to the shelf. “Watch this.” He twisted a small, round knob and the shelf opened inward.

Cordelia's mouth dropped open.

“There's a hidden stairway and two small rooms on this end of the building. The original architect must have designed it that way.”

She approached the opening. “Why? Used for what?”

“That's anybody's guess. But I know what it was used for in the late sixties through the midnineties.” He cleared his throat, then whispered, “Assignations.”

“No,” said Cordelia, suppressing a grin. “You know that for a fact?”

“There are two access points. This one on the third floor and one in the janitor's closet on the second. Each access point allows you to connect to the stairway that hugs this end of the building, with one room, approximately six feet wide by ten feet long, on the second and third. And yes, I've seen actors, directors and all manner of theater staff and their friends go in and out. I even sat in the stairway once—I was pretty young—and watched a director, a real letch, entice an actress into one of the rooms. She held the candle while he carried the bottle of champagne and two glasses.”

“Who were they?” asked Cordelia.

“I shouldn't—”

“Tell me.”

“Jonathan Klaxon and Lana Webb.”

“Those sluts.” Cordelia had worked with both of them. “Will this theater never stop surprising me?”

“Like I said, I need to show you something.” Removing a flashlight from his back pocket, Red threaded his way sideways into the opening and waited for Cordelia to follow.

“This is like something out of a horror movie,” she said, wiping away cobwebs that seemed to attack from all sides. The stairs were built of dark, stained wood planks that creaked ominously under their weight as they moved slowly downward. The light from the flashlight cast long shadows along the brick wall. Cordelia looked down once, saw the outline of the stairs thrown against the wall, and decided to keep her eyes resolutely level. “Boy, you'd really have to be in the throes of passion to brave this.”

Coming to a stop in front of a door-sized opening, Red turned to Cordelia and said, “I thought I should check out the rooms. You know, see what was what.”

She didn't like the sound of that.

He pointed the beam inside.

Cordelia had fully expected a fantasy bedroom, an opulent four-poster bed—or at the very least, a Victorian couch—complete with silks and satins, pillows and comforters, candlesticks with tappers dripping wax. Instead, she found a bare space—more closet than room—pure Midwest Gothic, covered in the same rough wood as the stairway. A large, ancient-looking trunk had been shoved into the far corner.

“Not exactly the Ritz,” she mumbled.

Stepping over to the trunk, Red opened the top and held the flashlight so that Cordelia could see inside. “This is what I found.”

Peering inside, she felt a wave of nausea roll through her stomach. “Lord in heaven.” The gaping eyes and leering, chipped grin of a skeleton stared back at her.

“I thought you should see it right away,” said Red, almost apologetically. “You'll want to call the police.”

“Give me that,” she said, whipping the flashlight out of his hand.

Pointing the beam at the skeleton's forehead, she flinched when she found what she expected—and feared—would be there.

A small round hole.

*   *   *

“Name me three gay country music singers,” said Tommy, now on his second double bourbon. This time, he'd ordered a plate of French fries to go with it. “Or, let me rephrase that. Name me three
out
gay country music singers. There are plenty of closet cases.”

“I think I read about one just recently,” said Jane, finishing up her cheeseburger. She'd been happy enough to let Tommy talk. In his alcohol-infused condition, he was proving to be a wealth of information. It seemed to her that he'd been holding so much inside for so long, that he couldn't help himself. Thoughts just tumbled out. “It was a man. Can't remember his name.”

“Okay, one guy. Also, there's a show on TV right now called
Nashville.
On that show is a gay country singer storyline. And guess what? The man is deep in the closet because, if he wasn't, it would tank his career. Maybe by the end of the series, he'll be a successful out gay country singer. I wouldn't bet on it, but let's say it's the way it plays out. But this is 2014. It wasn't like that thirty years ago when Jordan was just starting out.”

“You're saying he needed a beard.”

He shrugged, dragged a French fry through a pool of ketchup.

“And Kit became that beard. But I don't get it. He was nobody back then. Why take a chance like that, give up the hope of finding someone she could really love and make a life with?”

“You'd have to ask her.”

“You don't know?”

Chewing the French fry thoughtfully, he considered it. “Well, first: If you heard Jordan sing back then, you knew. He had it—whatever ‘it' is. Star quality, I suppose. The songs he was writing, even way back, were outstanding—I could see it, and remember, I don't even like country songs. This guy was going places. It was just a matter of time before he caught a break and hit it big. And then, beyond that, Jordan did sleep with the occasional woman back then. I think Kit simply fell in love with him. It was easy to do. Later on, after they had kids and he was a big name, she decided to stay with him, even though, by then, she knew the truth. I mean, why not stay? He didn't care who she slept with. She had complete freedom, plenty of money, was making a success of her own acting career by then. And being connected to a big name like Jordan didn't hurt her career, let me tell you.”

“Are Chloe and Booker his kids?”

“Oh, absolutely. Never any doubt about that.”

“Did Jordan ask for paternity tests?”

“Sure. He wasn't stupid.”

“So, did Kit know about your relationship with Jordan?”

“Not the first few years, of course, but later, yeah. Back when Jordan was first starting out, it occurred to me that he could use a manager. My interest and experience dovetailed perfectly with his needs. Well, I mean, there were things I had to learn, but I was free and dedicated. You can't beat that. I started calling around, trying to find him gigs. I suggested we produce a few songs, make multiple tapes, also take some promotional photographs. The gigs I found for him got him started professionally and it all took off from there. For two years, we were like this big, crazy family. Jordan and Kit, little Chloe, and then me, Kit's best friend, Beverly, and their friend, Archibald. Archibald had responsibilities in Minnesota, so he couldn't travel with us all the time. But he was around. The rest of us did everything together. Traveled together. Ate together. Laughed and cried together. Looking back, I'd say it was the happiest time of my life. Jordan loved me and I loved him. We were building something together. But I could also see how much he loved Kit and Chloe. I never minded. I loved them, too. I wasn't even surprised when Booker came along. It just seemed right, you know?”

“So they were still sleeping together?”

“No, but Jordan told me they wanted another kid, so they started trying.”

“That bother you?”

“Not in the slightest.”

“And you and Jordan were together through it all, the entire time.”

He stared down at the half-eaten plate of fries, folded his hand around his drink. “Until recently, yeah. People always say what a great guy Jordan was. I don't deny that. But he had a lot of bitterness in him, too. And he could be cruel. It was all there, under the surface. Not what he showed to the world. But to me, yeah, and to some extent, to Kit, although I have to say I bore the brunt of it because he was often angry about some contract detail, or a tour, or what the label was, or more often, wasn't doing. I knew he slept around some, but a few years ago, he started cutting me out of his life—never any time for Tommy anymore. His excuse was that he didn't like my drinking. But, hell, I drank because I was unhappy.
He
made me unhappy. It snowballed from there. I made a few business mistakes, at which point he withdrew even more. And then, this summer, I started to wonder if there wasn't another man—someone he was serious about.”

“Was there?”