Love You to Death Read online

  Laurett looked puzzled. “It’s money, Vannos. And if you want to find the one who is controlling things, you go after Mary Phinney. You always go after the woman.”

  Laurett had ranted about her before. But then, sometimes even the most biased opinions are founded on incontrovertible truths. Maybe Laurett sensed something that I was unaware of. Or maybe she was just trying to mislead me. Maybe it was time to pay another visit to Gladys Gardner myself. This time I’d assert myself with more focus, maybe even get my hands into the old dame’s chocolate recipes.

  Maybe, maybe, maybe.

  I left Laurett with some more comforting lies about her imminent release. Then she woke Tobias up and I took him back with me to the shop.

  15

  CHERCHEZ LA FEMME

  BACK AT SNIPS, NICOLE HAD BOUGHT Tobias another new toy, an exotic “spatial creativity” construction set from Sweden. It bore no resemblance to the toys of my youth, where construction sets were limited to piles of tiny plastic bricks, or miniature wooden logs, or dowels and multi-holed spools, though the butch boys and the tomboys did get to tinker with perforated metal strips and screws and gears. But what Nicole had found for Tobias was a container full of small plastic beads of infinite colors and of three basic styles: male, female, and hermaphroditic—kind of an updated version of the old Pop-It beads. The point, apparently, was to interconnect the beads and create mesh-like three-dimensional forms of any shape or size. Tobias’s creation that day? A large solid rod that fit snugly into a matching cylinder. When he’d completed his masterpiece, he pumped the rod in and out so that its beaded surface rubbed noisily against the bumpy lining of the cylinder. The little monster was taking great pleasure in annoying and embarrassing both patrons and workers in the salon. And I finally understood one of the so-called dangers of sex education: The playful and innocent fantasies of a young mind might be too disturbing to the calcified experiences of the cynical adult. To me, naive soul that I am, it was simply nature in action. How else was a multi-celled organism going to survive unless its genetic programming persisted with the tried-and-true rod-in-tunnel algorithm?

  Seeing his progressive aptitude with toys, I remarked to Nicole, “Perhaps it’s time to teach him how to read.”

  “Too late,” was her quick reply. “He’s already wormed his way through a few of my volumes.”

  “Picture books?”

  “Some.”

  “Can he actually read?”

  “He follows with his finger, but he doesn’t move his lips.”

  “Maybe he’s faking. Some people are pretty good pretenders.”

  “He struggles, darling, but he makes almost perfect sense when he reads aloud.”

  I wondered if Tobias’s intelligence should be guided and nurtured more carefully. “Maybe there’s a place for gifted children we can send him?”

  “Stanley, do you know what those places charge?”

  “Couldn’t he get a scholarship from the Snips Charitable Trust?”

  “Charity begins at home, Stanley, which for the time being is chez vous.”

  “Doll, can’t you at least use the familiar form, toi?”

  “Toi vous, then,” she said. “You have a customer.”

  I went to work on a familiar head of curly, dark brown hair. The young woman who owned it had spent years trying to chemically relax the natural curl. When that proved futile, she opted to keep it short, below the curl line. When she finally came to me, I offered another solution. Why fight nature? I suggested that she abstain from chemicals and let the hair grow out. A masterful, layered cut would use the hair’s own weight to help keep a style in the desired shape. An added bonus was the liveliness and springiness exuded by happy hair—hair that is pampered instead of chemically disciplined.

  During a free moment I checked the appointment book, which showed another short break in my schedule that afternoon, just what I wanted to see. I planned to slip out unseen by Nicole. In my absence, Ramon could handle any walk-ins. It would be good for him to learn to handle all contingencies, especially if he intended to usurp my position. So when Nicole took Tobias out for a late lunch, I followed them shortly after. My destination? Charlestown and the Gladys Gardner world chocolate headquarters.

  Alas, my field trip was interrupted at the outset. Waiting outside the shop on Newbury Street, straddling a big red motorcycle, was Rafik. He was dressed in high leather—boots, jeans, jacket, gauntlets, and cap—all shiny black in the silvery afternoon light of an overcast winter sky. He waved to me and beckoned me with a leather-gloved hand. Naturally, I went.

  He was grinning. “When I will see you again?”

  “You see me now.”

  “I mean together, like last night.”

  “You were so eager to leave—”

  “Is not true. See how I feel?” He laid his big black-gloved hand on the inside of his thigh, where the leather was indiscreetly being stretched from underneath.

  “Not here, Rafik,” I said, but I was pleased that his love barometer indicated fair weather ahead. Still, I wasn’t ready for a round of boy-toy jousting in front of the shop in the midday light.

  “Rafik, what happened with Danny?”

  He started the motorcycle. “Get on.”

  “Tell me.”

  He shook his head. “Get on.”

  What’s a fella to do? I got on.

  “Where you are going now?” he asked.

  “Charlestown, the chocolate factory.”

  “I take you,” he said. “Hold here.” He placed my arms around his waist and pressed them firmly into his belly. He turned his head back to me, winked, and added. “Comme ça.” Then without another word he pulled the big red machine out into traffic and hauled us off toward Charlestown. Just before we turned onto Storrow Drive, at the stoplight, he moved my arms lower down, so that I was holding onto him below the belt line. The whole experience—the powerful engine roaring beneath us, the breathtaking speed at which he drove, the firm strength of his body in my arms, the scent of his leather garments, the memory of him in bed—it was all, simply, sex.

  At the factory, he let me off outside the parking lot, on the street. “Why don’t you drive in?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Maybe they tell the police. Maybe they say I kill Dunny.”

  “Did you?”

  “No.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “If I tell you, you will hate me.”

  “What I hate are lies, Rafik.”

  He stared at me. He looked down. He looked back at me. He looked away. Back to me. Opened his lips. Smiled.

  “I tell you, Stani. I trust you.”

  Ah, the dark-eyed charmer!

  He hesitated another moment, then got off the bike. He stood before me, faced me directly and said, “I make love with Dunny before they kill him.”

  Did I have the right to ask why? Does anyone?

  “I want to show him I still care, even if he hate me.”

  The original kiss-of-death.

  “Then you must know who killed him, Rafik.”

  “No. We were alone. Mr. Kingsley was running.”

  “You didn’t see anyone?”

  “No. I leave him after we make love.”

  “Like with me.”

  He paused, weighing how much he should say. “No,” he said. “Not like you.” Then he almost snarled. “Dunny say I rape him.”

  “Did you?” I was sounding like Nicole now.

  “I don’t rape him. C’est fini!”

  “C’est dead, Rafik.”

  He pulled me close to him and thrust his hips hard against mine, right there, out on the street in Charlestown, where the daylight and the sounds around us were eclipsed by our closeness, our warmth, our breath, our mouths, and the scent and texture of black leather. All that remained from the other world was the wind in our ears.

  When he pulled away and broke the spell, he said, “I am sorry for him.”

  “So am I.”

 
; As I let go of him, I felt a hard, heavy object under his jacket just below his shoulder. With a shudder I realized it was a gun.

  “Why do you have that?” I asked.

  “To protect us.”

  “From what?”

  “If they kill Dunny, mebbee they kill me, or you.”

  “Are you sure you didn’t use it yourself recently?” I asked, as if he would tell me the truth.

  “Ah, non,” he said with that trademark smile of his. “I protect you, Stani.”

  Then he zoomed away on his red metal steed.

  I zigzagged unsteadily through the parking lot toward the factory, swooning slightly from all that had just happened. On the way I spotted John Lough getting into his car. I snapped myself back to alertness and ran towards him, calling out. He turned, looked my way, squinted, frowned, then got into his car. Maybe he didn’t remember me, but that wasn’t about to stop me from talking to him. I got to his car just as he’d settled in and had fastened his seat belt. I knocked on the window. He looked back through the tinted glass with frightened eyes.

  “It’s important,” I said.

  He stared at me for a moment. Then, reluctantly, he lowered the window. Only then did his face soften. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t recognize you. One can’t be too careful in this neighborhood. You never know who might accost you.”

  “I’d like to talk to you.”

  He seemed to be in a hurry. “I hope it’s not about that incident the other day.”

  “It depends on which incident you’re referring to.”

  “You and your nephew. I apologized to both of you, and as far as I’m concerned, the matter is settled.”

  “That’s not why I’m here, Mr. Lough.”

  “Then what do you want? I don’t have much time.”

  “Do you have time for murder?”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Dan Doherty was killed out at your brother’s place in Abigail yesterday. I thought you might know something about it.”

  “I most certainly do not. Young man, I don’t even believe you. If such a thing did happen, Prentiss would have notified me.”

  “It did happen, Mr. Lough, and the mechanic in Abigail said he saw you in town yesterday.”

  He started the car and raced the engine. Then he put it in gear too soon, causing the big car to jolt sharply against the parking brake. It stalled.

  I said, “You didn’t care much for Danny, did you?”

  “I don’t have time for this,” he muttered, and started the car again.

  As he backed the car out of its stall, I followed along, still trying to provoke some facts out of him.

  “Why did you hate Danny? Were you jealous of Prentiss?”

  He jammed the brake on. “What did you say?”

  “Maybe you were jealous of your brother’s friendship with Dan Doherty.”

  John Lough set the parking brake again, then got out of the car and came toward me. “If you insist on insulting me, you’ll pay the consequences.”

  “Are you going to kill me too?”

  “Stop saying that. I didn’t kill anybody.”

  “Then why are you acting so guilty?”

  “I am not acting guilty. That young devil was creating a problem.”

  “What kind of problem?”

  “You know what I’m talking about.”

  “Refresh my memory.’’

  “He was trying to destroy Prentiss. He was going about it methodically and persistently. It’s no wonder that Prentiss was losing his senses.”

  “Dan Doherty and your brother were friends, that’s all.”

  “Don’t try to protect him. I know what kinds of things he made Prentiss do out there at the summer house. It’s an abomination.”

  “Did you see them?”

  “Yes, I saw them.”

  “Where?”

  “Everywhere. The way they’d hold onto each other, the way that young man would … would play up to Prentiss. It was … he actually flirted with him … like a woman! It was disgusting. He knew Prentiss was a confused man, and he preyed on him. It’s no wonder Prentiss finally gave in to the pressure. If the young man is dead now, at least that problem is solved. Things can return to normal.”

  Whatever that means, I thought. “One thing isn’t solved though. Dan Doherty is dead, and the killer is free. Sounds to me like you’ve got a good motive.”

  “And you have a big mouth.” He opened the car door to get back inside, but I grabbed his arm and stopped him.

  “Mr. Lough, I talked with the police this morning.”

  He turned and faced me. “So?”

  “They think Dan Doherty’s death was psychologically motivated, that it was a crime of passion. So maybe you did it because you secretly wanted Danny for yourself.”

  “If you don’t keep quiet, I’ll …” But he didn’t finish his threat. Instead, he braced himself and pulled his arm back, ready to slug me.

  I backed away, just out of his reach.

  “You really should confess, Mr. Lough. They give you extra points if you do. And the way I figure it, by killing Danny the way you did, you can probably claim insanity. Then you can serve your sentence in a mental institution instead of a nasty prison, and you wouldn’t like prison. You know what can happen there, don’t you? You could end up as somebody’s love blossom.”

  “Young man, you’ll be hearing from my lawyer shortly. You’re the one who should be put away, talking like that.” He got into his car and drove away.

  Meanwhile, I was feeling pretty smug, believing I was already in the homestretch toward nabbing Danny’s killer and freeing Laurett. Why, then, hadn’t I felt any danger? Logically, if John Lough had killed Danny, I should have felt some kind of dreadful energy around him. But there was none. Are killers that deceptive? I headed toward the factory feeling confused. Had I just let Danny’s killer go? Or was he just some bystander who was implicated because of his family connections?

  Once inside the factory, I told the security guard I wanted to see Mary Phinney. “Mary Phinney?” he asked incredulously. I nodded. He seemed surprised that anyone would call on her personally. Having already met her, I’d have to agree with him. Mary Phinney wouldn’t win any popularity contests among grandmothers or candymakers.

  She appeared promptly at the guard’s station with her gnarled face. “Who is it?” she asked the guard, who pointed to me. Mary Phinney turned and recognized me immediately. Then she marched toward me with her heavy, thumping tread. I still wondered how such a small person could make so much noise.

  “What do you want?” she barked.

  I adopted her blunt style. “Dan Doherty was killed yesterday.”

  “Who?”

  “You know who I mean. The designer for Le Jardin.”

  “What’s it to me?” She turned to walk away, but I hadn’t even begun with her. I had to hook her and get her back, and I had to do it fast.

  I said, “I was just talking to your boyfriend.”

  Mary Phinney paused in her steps.

  “I mean Mr. Lough,” I said in mock apology. “He admitted he knew all about Danny’s death.”

  Mary Phinney looked to see if the guard had overheard me. Then she said, “We’d better talk inside.” She led me through the mechanized assembly lines, which were cheerfully producing hundreds of bunnies and chicks and eggs from an insidious brown sludge that resembled industrial waste more than chocolate.

  She took me to John Lough’s office, the glass-enclosed cubicle that overlooked most of the production floor from all four sides. Through the panes of chocolate-speckled glass I could see machinery outside whirling and twirling and wrapping masses of brown Easter creatures that would eventually melt and stain and sicken many unsuspecting buyers.

  In the relative quiet of the office she asked, “When did you talk to John?”

  “Just now, out in the parking lot. He sure looked guilty when he saw me.”

  “Maybe the sight of yo
u made him sick.”

  “Why are you both pretending not to know about Dan Doherty’s death? Are you in on it together?”

  “That’s a good one. Some queer boy gets killed and you try to blame me? Who sent you here?”

  “Who else?” I shrugged. “The police.”

  “What?”

  I continued the lie. “Sure. I’m a deputy detective for the Boston Police. They put me on special assignment for this case.”

  “You?”

  “Sure. To use your word, A queer gets killed, they figure maybe a queer can help find the killer. We queers come in handy for that kind of thing.”

  Through my queer harangue Mary Phinney was stealthily opening one of the drawers in the desk. Then she reached deep inside, snaking her hand furtively around for something familiar. But her search was futile and it vexed her. “Where the hell is it?” she said. She crouched down and peered into the far, dark reaches of the big drawer. Then she jammed her small arm into the drawer, past the elbow, almost to the shoulder. Still nothing When she sat up again, she opened another drawer and pulled out a crumpled old pack of unfiltered cigarettes. She lit one and puffed nervously—which quickly filled the air with an acrid, yellowish cloud.

  “You know,” she said through the smoke screen she’d created around herself, “with people like you and that Doherty boy, it’s really no loss. Oh, I know the liberals all make a fuss, saying what they think they’re supposed to, all trying to sound like they accept it all. But everybody knows in their hearts that the world’s a better place without you and your kind.”

  “That’s not a very Christian attitude, Miss Phinney.”

  “It’s Mrs. Phinney. I told you, my husband’s dead.”

  My sympathy went out to him, since to my mind no mortal could have long survived the Mary Phinney conjugal experience.

  I said, “But can’t you see how Dan Doherty helped the whole company, including you, with all the work he did for Le Jardin?” Was I actually defending a dead fairy for his design talents?

  “Don’t you talk to me about the company. I’ve been here all my life, ever since Helen Kingsley ran it herself, the way it should have been run. I know what’s good for this place, and it isn’t some artiste coming in here and changing the way everything looks. What’s so good about it? What was wrong with the way things were? I never got what I was entitled to, and now you people all come in and try to take over. Well we don’t need any more niggers and fairies here, so get out.”