Love You to Death Page 20

  Mary Phinney gazed over her bifocals with a lizard-like stillness. Part of me wanted to scream at her, even hit her. But then I’d be sinking to her level, wouldn’t I? I shook my head sadly.

  “You’re wrong,” I said.

  “No, you’re wrong. That little pansy wormed his way into the family and connived to get some of the money when Mr. Kingsley died. That money should go where it rightfully belongs—to John Lough, Mr. Kingsley’s brother.”

  “Half brother,” I corrected.

  “They had the same father. That makes them brothers.”

  “Still, Prentiss Kingsley has a right to divide his estate however he wants.”

  “Not if his mind is unsound. Don’t you know the first words of a will? Being of sound mind. You have to be of sound mind when you write your will. And that means you don’t leave your company to a conniving young gigolo.”

  “Gigolo isn’t—”

  “Why do you think we’ve been talking with the lawyers all this time? There was no way we’d let that happen. That boy was evil, I tell you, evil. You all are.”

  “We are not evil.”

  “You are, and you deserve everything you get.” Mary Phinney got up from her chair. “You get out of here before I have you thrown out. I don’t want you in this place again. You poison the air just by being here.”

  “You should talk about poison, with that sloppy job you did on the truffles last Sunday.”

  “I’ll get a restraining order on you. You and your equal rights. I’m fed up with it. You’ll all burn in hell, believe me. I pray for it.”

  I can tell when I’m not welcome, so I left her office. I headed back to the shop, but the ride back on the MTA’s Orange Line only got me more depressed. Mary Phinney’s irrational words and hatred echoed the horrible rantings and abuses of my youth. I thought I’d finally emerged from that dark, doubtful period of my life—somewhat scarred, to be sure, but free of all the guilt that had been electroplated onto me by church and state. Now, though, someone was again accusing me of crimes against Nature and God, and all the old fires were being stoked again. I said my mantra, but it had little effect. All I wanted to do was throw my so-called crimes and perversions directly into Mary Phinney’s face. It’s no wonder that the art produced by a repressed culture is often so angry.

  And I was still left with the same questions I’d started out with: Who killed Dan Doherty? Was Trek Delorean’s death at the reception really meant for Dan, or for Prentiss Kingsley? Why did the killer switch from poison to a gun? Could John Lough kill a person the way Danny had been killed? Could anyone? Would he have done something like that just to reinstate his claim to the Kingsley estate? It didn’t seem a sufficient motive for that kind of killing. Mary Phinney’s religious vehemence almost seemed a more believable one, at least for the moment, while I was still hot for revenge.

  16

  MY HEART BELONGS TO DADDY

  WHEN I GOT BACK TO THE SHOP, Nicole and Tobias had long since returned from lunch.

  “Where were you?” she asked, slightly vexed.

  “I took a break, doll.”

  “You had a visitor, a very sexy Mediterranean.”

  “Branco?”

  “No, the other one—Lance Leather, with his big red machine.”

  “You mean Rafik?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “He’s not Mediterranean. He’s Armenian.”

  “Aren’t they the same thing?”

  “No, doll, but you’d still approve. His family owns an export business in Paris. It’s your kind of stuff, too—caviar, foie gras, pâté, truffles.”

  “Then marry him, Stanley. He sounds delicious.” Nicole smiled lasciviously. “And to think he’s a world-class lover to boot.”

  “Boots? We haven’t tried that scene yet.”

  “You will. I can feel it under my fingernails.”

  “Is that where a woman’s intuition is?”

  Nicole’s response was an enigmatic smile.

  I wondered why Rafik had returned to the shop though, since he’d seen me earlier.

  “Did he leave a message, doll?”

  “He asked if you were involved with anyone.”

  “And you said?”

  Nicole cocked her head slightly and replied, “I told him that you and the lieutenant were an item.”

  As if on cue, Branco’s familiar tall, dark, and handsome figure entered through the shop’s front door. He gave Nicole a warm hello, but when he greeted me, it was cold air.

  “I just received copies of the police reports from Abigail. The bullets that killed Dan Doherty match the ones we pried out of the walls at the Kingsley house in Chestnut Hill.”

  “So it was the same gun.”

  Branco smirked. “You’ve seen too much TV. We know it’s the same type of weapon, but we haven’t been able to narrow it down to exactly the same gun.”

  “It’s still good news though, since it proves Laurett wasn’t involved in either shooting.”

  Reluctantly he conceded. “You’re right about that.”

  “So when are you releasing her?”

  “Within the hour.”

  “You finally saw the light.”

  Branco’s face didn’t move. “No. We completed our investigation on her, and given the recent evidence, the original charges have been dropped. She’s been advised to remain in town.”

  “What finally convinced you to let her go?” I was hopeful that I, and not Charles, had ultimately been responsible for Laurett’s release.

  “Look, Kraychik, I don’t have to tell you any of this. I thought you’d want to know so you can tell her boy, since you’re taking care of him.”

  Nicole interjected, “Why don’t you tell him yourself, Lieutenant? He’s playing in the waiting area.”

  “It’s this way,” I said, and led Branco to where Tobias was playing—only he’d fallen asleep on one of the big, comfortable chairs. “He’s all yours, Lieutenant,” I said coyly. I doubted that relating the news to a young boy about his mother’s incarceration was part of Branco’s civil-code repertoire. I glanced at Nicole and caught her switching her attention between me and the cop as he approached Tobias.

  “Son,” Branco said softly, and I felt my throat tighten. Then he knelt down and put his big hand gently on Tobias’s shoulder. “Tobias, wake up, boy. It’s good news.” Tobias stirred and opened his sleepy eyes. Branco said, “It’s about your mother. She’s coming home today.”

  Tobias rubbed his eyes, then threw his arms around Branco’s neck. I expected Branco to be embarrassed and awkward about it, but instead he picked the boy up and held him close in a sustained embrace.

  Standing beside me, Nicole sighed deeply and murmured, “Quite a scene.”

  I muttered back, “Damn lucky little shit.”

  “Jealous?”

  “Yes.”

  Branco put Tobias down, then stood up and faced Nicole and me. “If you want, I’ll take him back with me. It’ll probably be easier for his mother that way.”

  “That’s fine, Lieutenant,” I replied, my own voice a little raspy with inexpressible emotion.

  Branco nodded and said, “Good.” Then, seeing that the shop’s customers had been watching the touching moment between him and Tobias, he asked, “Is there a place we can talk privately?”

  “Sure, Lieutenant. There’s the notorious back room.”

  As I led him away, he turned to Nicole. “I’d like you to come along too, Miss Albright.”

  “Gladly, Lieutenant,” she said, and stepped briskly up alongside him. I wondered, Does Branco want a witness? Or a chaperone?

  Once in the quiet confines of the storage room, he asked us, “Either one of you seen Rafik Panossian today?”

  Simultaneously Nikki and I replied, “When today?”

  Branco aimed at me. “Since you and him spent the night together.”

  “Well, yes….” I stalled. Make ’em beg for the awful truth, especially when their grammar’s faulty.
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br />   “Where?”

  “Here, at the shop. Out front, on the street. In fact, if you’d been here, Lieutenant, you could have arrested us in flagrante.”

  “When was that?” exclaimed Nicole.

  “Just after you took Tobias out for lunch.”

  “So you were out with Rafik?” she demanded.

  “No, doll. He just gave me a ride. I went alone to the chocolate factory.” But her look implied doubt. I turned to Branco. “Lieutenant, I still think you’re going after the wrong person.”

  “Just tell me where I can find Panossian.”

  I was tempted to suggest the Epicure Shop at Neiman-Marcus, where Rafik’s family name appeared on the most exclusive imported items. Instead, I said, “I honestly don’t know, but it doesn’t matter, Lieutenant. He’s not the one. You’d do better to question those two people from the Gladys Gardner factory, John Lough and Mary Phinney.”

  “On what grounds?”

  “On the grounds that they were both relieved that Dan Doherty was dead and, if I may quote them, ‘out of the way.’ Those are the words both of them used.” I knew they hadn’t said it exactly like that, but I had to convince Branco to go after them.

  Branco said, “Thanks for the tip, but we have our suspect, and he’s the man you insist on protecting. I hope I don’t have to haul you in too, for withholding evidence or for aiding and abetting a criminal.”

  “Are you using a script, Lieutenant?”

  With Rafik I’d finally found someone who was vaguely compatible, someone I might be able to spend a romantic Valentine’s Day with, and now it turned out he was wanted by the police. Oh, I know I was suspecting him too, at first. But it’s one thing to imagine your new-found love-thing harboring a dark, secret life during your time apart, but it’s another thing to have the cops after his butt, and yours, as an accomplice. Was I so lonely that I’d date a felon? As the French say, I was in deep honey.

  “Lieutenant, I’m telling you everything I know. If you want, I can make up some stuff that you’d rather hear me say.”

  Branco grumbled, “Never mind.” He turned to leave.

  “Wait,” I said. “There’s something else, something that might finally convince you to look in another direction.”

  Branco’s eyes glittered angrily, which only encouraged me to continue my Nancy Drew shtick. If Branco wasn’t going to treat me like an equal—like a man—I was perfectly willing to take on another role.

  I continued, “I know it’s irregular, but is there any way to get a look at Prentiss Kingsley’s will?”

  Branco shook his head and pulled his lips tight. “We’re not the FBI.”

  “Aren’t you kissing cousins?”

  “We can’t violate peoples’ privacy like that.”

  “Not even with a court order?”

  “You don’t get a court order just because you’re curious about something. You have to convince a judge. You need a good reason for that.”

  “There is a good reason. I think the key to this whole case lies in Prentiss Kingsley’s will, something to do with including Dan Doherty as an heir. Even John Lough and Mary Phinney knew about it.”

  Branco said, “You’ve been reading too many mysteries.”

  “Not so,” I replied. “I am my own special creation.”

  Branco grunted, then walked out of the back room and returned to the shop.

  Nicole clucked her tongue at me. “You’ll never win his heart that way, Stani.”

  “Who cares about his heart? It’s probably as hard and black as coal anyway.”

  “Then with time and the right kind of pressure, it could become a diamond.”

  “Doll, you’re going to make me spit up.”

  But having seen Branco’s earlier scene with Tobias, part of me wanted to believe Nicole’s prediction. My optimistic, romantic, trousseau-ridden self thought maybe, just maybe…. Then I snapped myself back to cynical sobriety. “Let’s go say good-bye to Tobias.”

  We went back into the shop to find Lieutenant Branco helping Tobias into his overcoat and boots. Sproing! went my heart again. Branco stood up, then in one strong swift motion, he lifted Tobias and perched him on his shoulders, straddling the boy’s legs around his strong neck. Daddy! He turned to Nicole and me and gave a slight upward jerk with his head. That was Branco’s version of a fond farewell. Meanwhile, Tobias giggled and waved happily from his high vantage point. Glorious steed and young knight departed the shop through the front door as customers waved them off. Calm sea and prosperous voyage, I thought. Tobias’s little voice yelled, “Bye, Uncle Stan. Bye, Uncle Nick.”

  Nikki gave me a cross-eyed look. “Uncle Nick?”

  “He’s democratic about gender.”

  “Then why not Auntie Stan?” she asked, then nudged me. “Back to work.”

  The rest of the afternoon flew by, and I was busy every minute. My friend Francesca, who manages Chez-Chez, a local cabaret, dropped by to invite me out with a gaggle of gabbers to a special Valentine’s season show that night. I hesitated, then realized I was no longer a foster parent. I was free again. I would celebrate. I would even shed the guise of Rafik’s forlorn lover and Branco’s misunderstood, self-appointed deputy. I would have my own good time.

  After we closed the shop, Nicole and I settled in the back room for a quick drink and a cigarette. A cigarette for her, that is. I’d already tried in vain to smoke. No matter the glamorous image it was supposed to project, it was too much trouble getting used to it all—the coughing, the dizziness, and the yucky afterbreath.

  Nicole lit a slender, rose-colored cigarette and drew the smoke in deeply. I did envy that first drag, the obvious pleasure it gave her. As she let the smoke slip from her lips, she said, “Now that Laurett and her son are back together, you don’t have to be involved with the case anymore, right?”

  “You bet, doll. It’s back to work and play for me. That, and the dependable love and affection of a Burmese cat. Back to the simple life.”

  “What about shopping?”

  “Are you giving me a raise?”

  Nicole ignored that. “What about Rafik? Aren’t you going to try to save him now?”

  I paused. “Nope.”

  “Doesn’t love call you?”

  I shook my head no. “It was just one of those things.”

  “But he’s in trouble.”

  “He got himself into the mess.”

  Another drag of cigarette, a sip of cognac, and Nicole continued. “So no more trying to prove to the lieutenant that you’re right and he’s wrong?”

  “No. I don’t care anymore. I helped Laurett this time. That’s enough.” I gulped at my bourbon. “I did help her, didn’t I?” I was trying to recall what, if anything, I’d done to help get her released. I came up with a blank.

  Nikki shrugged. “Does it matter?”

  “Not tonight. I just want everything back to normal. No more cops, no more killers, no more babies. Just fun for me and the moment.”

  Nicole gave a knowing look. “Well, you should have fun tonight, out with the boys.”

  “Or the girls.”

  “Drag?”

  “Only for the performers. They’re doing scenes from The Boyfriend, with an all-male cast for the Valentine’s gala. Speaking of which, I’d better get going.”

  “Have fun, darling. See you in the morning.”

  We kissed and I left the shop.

  It was almost eight p.m. when I got home. As I climbed the stairs, I smelled dinner through my neighbor’s door. My stomach grumbled and my head spun from the aroma of fresh garlic being sauteed in olive oil. I was famished, and tonight I’d have time only for some leftover pizza from Tobias’s recent encampment. So much for the diet again. And I had yet to undo the ravages of work. It’s not the same as, say, a trucker who’s been on the road overnight, but chemically speaking, a hair stylist’s body can be pretty ripe after a day of bookings and sleuthing.

  I opened the door and whistled. “Honey, I’m home!”
Sugar Baby greeted me with a wary look, as if expecting more torment from Tobias. “Not to worry, baby,” I said. “We’re alone again. The place is all yours.”

  I picked her up, and she licked my cheek with long, rasping strokes. I carried her on my shoulder while I listened to the answering machine. Francesca had called with some vague reason why the theater-party group was running late, which was fine with me. That gave me some extra time to unwind, even heat up the pizza. I put the cold, obtuse slab in the oven—my nuker is broken—and turned on some hot tango music. With Sugar Baby on my lap, I opened my mail: VISA had upped my credit a thousand dollars (the joke’s on them); my college gay alumni club was planning a luxury winter cruise (maybe next time, guys); a psychiatrist with whom I’d once worked in a community clinic and with whom I’d shared a brief, supersexed affair was announcing the arrival of his second child with his wife in upstate New York; and a yellow slip identified a package from New Jersey waiting for me at the Back Bay Postal Annex. It was probably an extra Valentine’s Day surprise from my mother, the one dependable sweetheart in my life.

  My body needed a long, hot shower. First I fed Sugar, then I went into the bathroom, which is off the bedroom, and turned on the water to get it hot. On the top floor, that can sometimes mean a five-minute wait, and with the spicy tangos putting me in a better mood, I got the urge to do something silly, something to purge myself of the past few days. With each gutsy phrase of music I asked myself another question. Who needs Valentine’s Day anyway? Who needs romance? Who needs Rafik? Who needs Branco? Who needs parenthood? Who needs clients? Who needs corpses? Who needs anyone? So I put on a little show for myself in front of the large mirror on the bedroom closet door.

  Shoes and socks came off first, with seductive grace and timing—a prelude for what was about to happen. I unbuttoned my shirt and twisted my torso so that the front edges of the starched cotton rubbed against my nipples. That was good for quite a while, about one full chorus of music. Then I slid the shirt off my shoulders one sleeve at a time until it was hanging from my waist. I unfastened my pants and let gravity pull them down my legs along with the shirt, while I bumped my hips to the music. I stepped out of the rumpled pile and danced around the bedroom. Sugar Baby watched with a wide-eyed, bewildered look that said, “What’s going on in here?” My strip show was weird enough even to pull her attention from her food bowl in the kitchen. It was time for the big moment—the briefs. I teased myself, pulling each side down and up to expose a hip or cheek, then covering it again. Finally I turned my back to the mirror and literally leaped out of my undies. I flung them high and did a pirouette to finish facing the mirror. My stocky body looked okay, even with the extra “winter” pounds it seemed determined to carry throughout the year. The smooth pink skin showed the faintest hint of last summer’s tan line. Though not cultivated, the muscles have good tone and definition. I do extra things throughout the day, like holding in my belly whenever I shampoo a client. That helps keep it flat. The legs are good—my best feature, actually—though they’re inherited, so I can’t really take credit. They’re real Slavic limbs with meaty, well-shaped calves springing up from highly arched feet. The thighs are full, and curved and sculpted like a dancer’s, not sinewy like a runner’s.