by David Stukas
“Which it did. So what’s your point, Monette?”
She paused for a moment. “How the hell should I know? Do you think Hercule Poirot got it right the very first time? Let’s go look in the garden shed.”
“Vince said there wasn’t anything in there.”
“Yeah, and you believe everything he tells you?”
“More or less.”
“Good, when we crack this case, I’m going to reveal myself as the goddess Lakshmi, and you will worship me forevermore.”
“I already do,” I added, raising Monette’s hand to my lips, where I kissed it.
“Okay, let’s see what we find in the shed,” she said as she flung the door open and entered. “Ten bags of potting soil, one garden trowel, nothing else. Unless ... unless,” she reported, shoving her hand behind the potting soil bags, “ ... unless there happens to be a bow saw here!” she shouted in triumph.
There it was, a saw where there wasn’t supposed to be one. She examined it carefully, holding it in such a way that her fingerprints wouldn’t land anywhere someone would normally hold it.
“Don’t you see, Robert? There are small pieces of sawdust on the blade!”
“I guess that answers the question about what cut down the tree. Now we just have to find out who.”
“Easy for you to say. As you no doubt saw inside the house a minute ago, Vince just proved to me that he has a clear-cut motive for murder. He’s a suspect, but he’s far from the only one.”
“Yes, I saw that. Very clever.”
“Thank you. Like taking candy from a baby.”
“Well, now what?” I said.
“The sun is about to set behind Mt. San Jacinto, so there’s only one thing to do.”
“Give Jimmy Garboni the kiss of death?”
“No.”
“Break into Darlene Waldron’s house and put habanero pepper in her Monistat?”
“No, but it’s about as painful.”
“You’re not going to suggest ...”
“Yes, I am. I know you’d rather gouge your eyes out, but I think we need to pay a visit to Colorado Jackson. He’s one of the few higher-ups with T-Rex Productions we haven’t talked with yet.”
“Oh, God, Monette, do we really have to? All he’s going to do is sit there and snipe at us. My only hope is that someone tries to bump him off. In fact, why don’t we do the world a favor and kill him ourselves? We can strangle him with his seven-hundred-dollar drape tiebacks.”
Monette gave a small laugh. “Now, now, save it for your bridge game. I know you don’t like him—”
“The world doesn’t like him. Mother Theresa would spit on him if she were alive,” I blurted out.
“As I was saying, a good detective doesn’t let personal prejudices cloud his or her thinking. You have to keep an open mind and not condemn them just because they’re the human equivalent of the Ebola virus. Then, if you’re a good little boy and don’t kick Colorado in the stomach, we’ll stop at the grocery store and buy tequila and all the fixin’s for my famous five-alarm nachos. Then we’ll head over to Marc’s place and give him some company. I’m sure he could use some.”
“That sounds like a great way to spend an evening. I like nachos that make my gums and nose bleed! Let me go inside and invite Vince along.”
I went into the house and asked Vince if he wanted to join us. He declined, saying that he was going to spend the night at some friends’ house. I went into the office and called Marc. He welcomed our idea, suggesting that Monette and I stay the night. I was thrilled. This would be my second night at Marc’s, making it a record as far as dates are concerned—if you forgot the fact that I dated a German count last summer. Since Siegfried von Schmidt, I didn’t want to date much. And considering the freaks that exist out there, it isn’t surprising. As I was zipping up my overnight bag, I noticed a piece of paper under a pair of socks. I pulled it out and opened it up, revealing the folder bearing the architectural drawing of the strange pyramid-shaped building I had found behind Rex’s desk yesterday. I looked at the words on the drawing: Butia A.D. It made no sense, but I thought it might be of some help. I put the drawing back into my bag, determined to enter the rendering as exhibit A in the Case of the Dead Party Planners.
We followed Vince’s directions through Rancho Myass to Palm Desert, where, (surprise, surprise) Colorado lived in a snooty gated community. (Why do they call it a community when people have no contact with each other once they’re inside?) His house was a tract mansion with a soaring roofline and inane references to Georgian architecture: fan windows, columns, and a curved stairway that looked more at home in Virginia than the California desert. We rang the doorbell, which Monette and I could hear ringing the tune “We’re in the Money.” Tacky, tacky, tacky.
The door opened and there stood Colorado, dressed to the nines in trendy microfibers and square-toed shoes with huge buckles.
“Yes?” he asked, convincing himself that we were gardeners having the consummate impudence of rapping our dirty knuckles on his pristine front door. Never mind the fact that Vince had called him up and explained that we wanted to talk to him pronto.
“It’s Monette and Robert. Vince called about us seeing you,” she said, explaining a fact that was already well known. But Colorado continued to play dumb for a second. Bitch.
“Oh, oh, yes, come on in—and wipe your feet; the carpet’s very expensive.”
Colorado led us into his home office, a gaudy place done up like a sultan’s tent, the walls covered in expensive silk fabric. Every available surface was covered with piles of fabric sample books, bolts of fabric, design magazines, carpet samples, and books of wallpapers. Since there were few places to sit, Monette had aimed her ass at a settee when Colorado screamed like a banshee.
“FOR GOD’S SAKE, DON’T SIT DOWN!” he shrieked, pulling Monette away from the Louis de Hooey sofa. “It’s covered in Scalamandre silk! There’s over twenty-five thousand dollars in fabric on that piece alone.”
Monette stood there in a state of shock, wondering why someone would get so excited over a sofa that looked like a prostitute.
Colorado rummaged through a drawer and emerged with a roll of yellow ribbon, which he unfurled and tied between the two arms of the settee, prohibiting any future asses from parking themselves there.
Monette watched Colorado fuss over the settee, coming to the same conclusion as mine: that while the fabric may be expensive, the upholstery job was mediocre. And even then, a sofa was just a place to sit—not reign.
“Sorry about the sofa,” Monette said, stifling a snigger.
Colorado, seeing Monette smirking at him, looked at her with daggers in his eyes. “It’s a SETTEE.... Don’t they teach you anything in Arkansas?” Colorado fired back.
“I’m from Boston,” Monette replied with all the grace and decorum of Queen Elizabeth.
I didn’t like the sound of this. Monette just sitting there (well, trying to), taking all this bile from this pretentious puff adder. She was being way too nice, too cool about it. Any moment now, her hand would dart out and crack his neck as if she were twisting the cap off a bottle of Gatorade. She did, however, manage to contain herself. Pity.
Colorado motioned toward two ottomans for us to sit on, and we did as commanded. He asked if we wanted to join him for cocktails, and we agreed. If you end up having to throw a drink in someone’s face, it’s so much handier if you’re holding one at the time.
“I’m very busy right now, so could you make this brief? I’m supposed to be draping two miles of scrims at the Red Party, and the goddamn stuff hasn’t even arrived yet in Palm Springs.”
“I’ll do my best to be brief,” Monette promised. She gathered up her thoughts, summarizing them in her head in order to get the most mileage out of our audience with Her Highness.
“I suppose by now you know that Rex was found dead in Marc’s pool last night—and that Leo died today, most likely by poison.”
“Yes, yes, Marc called me a
few hours ago and told me. He also said to keep this information confidential for the time being. Like I’m going to go blabbing all this so the Red Party will flop and I won’t get paid for my services. Sometimes I think that Marc should put a little Vaseline behind each ear so he can pull his head out of his ass.”
I promised myself then and there that I would get Colorado back for that comment.
“Idaho—I mean, Colorado, do you remember what time it was when you left Leo’s party last night?”
“I don’t know. Around midnight.”
“And you came straight home?”
“No, I went to The Zone—it’s a dance bar over on Your anus.”
“Uranus?”
“Your Anus Street.” Colorado let out an exasperated sigh, flustered that we weren’t getting the joke. “It’s supposed to be Arenas—the gay street—but all the locals call it ‘Your anus.”’
“Right. And how long did you stay there?”
“About an hour. Maybe a little more. Then I went home.”
“So you said you went to a dance bar when you have all this work to do?”
“I told you,” Colorado puffed, “all the shit I’ve got to hang didn’t arrive yet. There’s not much I can do until then, and I’m not about to sit around on my hands when there are so many gorgeous boys in town.”
“I see,” Monette uttered. “Do you have any idea who would’ve hated Rex enough to kill him—and attempt to destroy the Red Party?”
“I thought you said you’d make this quick. It could take all day to list Rex’s enemies.”
“So you think he had a lot, eh?”
“Honey, Rex trampled on a lot of people to get where he is today. Martin Stevers could have done it. He lost a lot of money fighting Rex in court. He’s still fuming about the whole matter. Kip Savage hates him, too.”
I begged to differ on this observation. “Colorado, I saw Rex with Kip and Brian at Leo’s party last night, and they couldn’t have been nicer and chummier to each other.”
“That’s just an act! Kip likes to keep his nose clean in public, and Brian is in PR. That says it all. He keeps a smile on for the public, but he’ll knife you in the back when no one’s looking.”
I wasn’t about to let this one go. “If Kip hates Rex so much, then why did he offer to help the Red Party out?”
“As I said before, it’s all public relations. Look at Darlene Waldron. Don’t let the smile fool you. Appearances can be deceiving. These people can be vicious.”
The Limoges just called the plate porcelain.
Monette listened to the two of us, composing her next question. “So far, you’ve named several people associated with the White Party. Why are you so sure these people could have done it?”
“Because they don’t know that Rex and Leo are dead,” Colorado answered. “More importantly, they don’t know the bank account for T-Rex Productions was cleaned out a few days ago by Rex himself.”
Monette and I were shocked by Colorado’s knowledge. “And how do you know all this?” I asked.
“Because Marc told me everything on the phone a few hours ago. He called the bank and found out. And because Rex and Leo are gone, he doesn’t know who to turn to, since there’s almost no one left from the partnership.”
“You’re not part of T-Rex Productions in any way?” Monette asked.
“No, unless you count that I get paid for my services—a fact that looks tenuous now.”
“Huh,” Monette grunted. “But you didn’t answer my question, Colorado. Why does it point the finger of suspicion toward Kip and the rest because they don’t know the money is gone?”
“Because ...” Colorado explained to us as if we were four-year-old children, “if they knew the money had disappeared, they wouldn’t be mailing extortion letters like this to people like me. There’s nothing to extort—it’s gone already, to God knows where.”
Colorado extended his hand toward us, his hand bearing a letter with the same words cut out of a magazine. Monette and I looked at each other. I was amazed by this killer’s speed.
“But . . .” Monette began, “ ... the killer has no idea that you’re not a partner in T-Rex.”
“I suppose they think that I’m either a partner or that I have some kind of sway with Rex—had, sorry.”
Monette looked at the letter closely. “Have you called the police about this letter?”
Colorado finished his gimlet like a child gulping down the last vestiges of a Cherry Coke. “Why bother? I know I’m not liked in this town, and I don’t give a shit. But I don’t think anyone is out to kill me. I mean, why?”
Monette straightened herself on her ottoman and held the letter out in Colorado’s face. “The last two people who got a letter like this are now dead. Marc Baldwin is the only recipient of this letter—besides you—who is still alive.”
“See, the killing’s stopped,” Colorado replied with insanely faulty logic.
“And Marc is still alive only because he’s under twenty-four-hour security.”
“Honey, I still don’t understand why someone would want to kill me.”
I thought to myself, This is too easy. But I let the opportunity pass.
“Because they’re operating under the mistaken notion you’re either a partner in T-Rex or that by threatening anyone associated with it, that they can stop the Red Party from ever happening,” Monette surmised.
“Listen, I’m a vicious queen and I know it. I had to be. I’ve faced bigger enemies than this—my stepmother, for instance. That’s why I have this huge house, nice cars, clothes, et cetera, et cetera. I was a kid and I had to fight her for my inheritance. And I won. I’ve learned early on that this is a shitty little world and that you don’t get anywhere in this life unless you’re prepared to fight for it.”
Monette looked exasperated but gave in to Colorado’s request. “Fine, if you wind up dead, don’t come running to me.”
“Monette, darling, you haven’t been listening. I don’t run from anybody. Don’t you and Robert worry your pretty little heads over me. I’ll be around to torment the world for a long time, and nobody is going to put a stop to it if I have anything to say about it.”
We got up to go. Colorado followed us to the door, then swung it open for us. As we were walking down the sidewalk to the street, Monette turned to Colorado, who was standing in the doorway.
“Colorado, I did my best to warn you. If you go out, be careful.”
“Ha-ha-ha!” came the reply. “That’s a good one. Someone caring for me!” he shouted, and threw the door closed with a slam. Not a hard one—that would indicate that we had got the better of him. But it was a slam nonetheless.
“I could kill that fucking bastard myself. Maybe it would put him out of his misery,” Monette said, her anger finally boiling over after being contained so much.
I took her trembling hand in mine and looked her straight in the eye. “Let’s hope that someone beats you to it. Red hair looks awful with those orange prison uniforms.”
We rode over to retrieve Monette’s things in Rancho Myass, stopped at the grocery store for supplies, and then headed up the hill toward Marc’s house. As Monette jabbered on and on about the potential wives she had seen at the Dinah Shore Classic, I thought about how my life could best be described as “keep your head and arms inside the moving vehicle at all times.” While other children were watching their hands dip and soar outside the windows of the bus we rode to grade school, I kept mine securely inside the vehicle, not wanting to have my hand torn off by a semi or a telephone post and ending up with a hook or a mechanical arm. I wanted to participate, to break free, but the horrific alternative kept rearing its ugly head in my mind. “That’s what you get,” I could hear my mother saying, chastising me for sticking my hand out the window to let it flutter in the wind and feeling the flood of freedom. “Now, how are you going to throw a football with a mechanical arm like that?” I could see my mother with her hands on her hips, cigarette dangling from he
r lip, playing the role that parents relish more than life itself: the I-told-you-so parent. “And what is the pope going to think when he sees you cross yourself with that arm? I’ll tell you! Another child who didn’t listen to his parents!”
I came out of my daydream when we roared up to Marc’s house, the hood of the Metro stopping a menacing two inches from Marc’s garage door.
“I think I’m going to turn into a gay man and marry Marc and live up here in a desert paradise forever—that is, if you don’t marry him first.”
I smiled. Even my best friend was confirming that a relationship was quickly forming between Marc and me. But I, the hopeless romanticist, was way ahead of Monette. In my mind, I had already moved in with Marc. I was a famous writer of offbeat comedies of my upbringing in the Midwest, which were the toast of the world, and Marc had quit his job since he and I could comfortably live off just my income. As we sat by the fireplace in his living room on a crisp winter morning, I could see myself throwing stacks of hundred-dollar bills into the fire to keep it roaring. We traveled around the world, where we collected hands of Buddha statues, drank exotic cocktails made from local herbs, and did anything we damn well pleased. I was about to partake of a delicious cereal made mostly of thin twenty-four-karat gold leaves when a door hit me in the head.
“Watch out for the door,” Monette cautioned, a little too late to stave off the knot that would undoubtedly rise on my forehead. A lump is never as sexy as a fencing scar, but I intended to milk it for all it was worth.
“Thanks for the advance warning about the door, Monette.”
“I couldn’t help it. The wind caught it and it just flew out of my hand. Anyway, if you were watching where you were going, this wouldn’t have happened. You looked like you were somewhere else.”
“Somewhere in Thailand, if you must know.”
“Well, come back to Cathedral City for a little while, if you don’t mind. We’re going to have a little fun.”
“And a little gossip, you mean.”
