by David Stukas
Grayson asked the question that all of us wanted answered next. “So where is the money? You have Colorado’s confession, but without the money, the affair isn’t resolved.”
Monette tapped her head, indicating that her little gray cells had sniffed out the hiding place.
“It was almost under my ass!”
This comment produced puzzled looks from most of the table, except Michael, who twisted his mouth in disgust.
“The money was hidden in a sofa—sorry, a S-E-T-T-E-E— in Colorado’s home office. In fact, the day we went to question him—that was before his staged accident—I almost sat down on it. He threw a hissy fit, not because of the expensive fabric on it, but because I might have discovered that a twenty-five-thousand-dollar settee wouldn’t have been that lumpy.”
“But how do you know this, Monette?” I asked.
“Because I figured it out as we apprehended Colorado in Marc’s kitchen. When I stepped on Colorado’s hand and relieved him of his gun, I thought to myself that I was getting revenge for when he snapped at me about his goddamn settee. Right then, I knew.”
“Ah, yes, my dear,” Grayson intoned, “but did you get revenge?”
“Of course I did,” Monette answered. “When I figured where the money was hidden, I had Sergeant Gorski call his men who were searching Colorado’s house. I had him relay the information that the money was in a sofa in the living room, and to slit open all the furniture to find it. When they didn’t find it, I told them to do the same in the bedroom. And so on. Then, miraculously, I remembered that it was the settee in his office with the ribbon on it. I’m sure by the time they finished, Colorado’s house must have looked like he kept three hundred cats in there.” Monette smiled the smile of a triumphant victor.
“And what about you, dear boy?” Grayson said, turning to Marc. “You were so brave, staring, right down the barrel of a gun, at death.”
“Aw shucks, t’weren’t nothing,” he replied.
I loved this guy more and more by the minute.
“Grayson,” I said, “if you think he was good then, you should have heard him on the phone earlier this evening, when he was threatening to blackmail Colorado. He talked like a pro, baiting him with every cussword I could imagine. He said things like ‘You’re not so smart, shit-head,’ ‘I figured you out, dick-wipe,’” I said, changing my voice in imitation of Marc’s. “Baited him like a pro.”
Marc, who was silent for most of the evening, spoke up. “That wasn’t baiting him. I just can’t stand the evil queen.”
Epilogue
I Love a Man in Uniform
And that, as they say, is that. Colorado was arrested for first-degree murder, and the Red Party went on. It was spectacular from the opening ceremony to its closing party. We danced, we partied, and we had fun. Even better, hordes of men bought tickets to both parties, filling the coffers of both production companies. Marc donated a substantial portion of the proceeds to AIDS organizations.
The Red Party was billed as a “once-in-a-lifetime event,” and the tag was prophetic because Marc said he would not continue it the following year. His reasons were simple. First, he had proved to himself that he could carry it off in the absence of Rex and Leo. In fact, he dedicated the party to the memory of Rex and Leo. But his second reason was even more touching: he said that it took him away from time spent with me.
Monette had a great time, she said. Of course, how could she not? Djuna spent as much time with Monette as she could during the party, dancing and talking and sharing a beer or two. She even wore the T-shirt Marc and I had quickly made up for her—the one that said, I can’t tell the difference between a sofa and a settee. I did, however, confront her on one item that needed to be addressed.
“I may not have guessed the identities of the people involved in this case, but I did guess one thing,” I said.
“Oh, yeah? And what might that be?” Monette responded.
“I figured that you were the one who threw the rock through the window of Marc’s bedroom that night I was staying there.”
“And how did you deduce that?”
“I said it at the time. It was too out of character for the killer. I mean, a rock through a window? It didn’t have the same signature, the same cunning and planning as the murders. But I know you did it for a noble reason. Your motives were that if this case wasn’t solved, Marc would be in danger because he was too close for Colorado’s own comfort—which was exactly what you said before he agreed to be bait in your trap for Colorado.”
“I guess there’s not much more to say,” she answered.
“I have something to say: thank you. Since Marc made that decision to catch Colorado, he’s been . . . well, heroic. I think it’s been good for his ego, and I’ve learned a lot from it, too. Thanks,” I said, giving her a hug and spurting out a tear or two.
Michael, well, was Michael. He cavorted and seduced and toyed as usual. He did, however, spend an inordinate amount of time with a strangely handsome man who, upon later inspection at a hotel room, turned out to be a woman. How could Monette and I resist? We hadn’t played one prank on each other the entire trip, because we were so busy. So why shouldn’t Michael end up the recipient of one of our jokes? We had help, however. If you’re reading this right now, dear and helpful Grayson, thanks for the male impersonator. She did a splendid job. We didn’t stop there. There was one more score to settle. To David McLeish, we sent one plastic fire hydrant to the publicity department at the studio where he films his soap opera, with a note attached: Here, David. Now you’ll never have to run down the hall to pee again.
By Monday morning we had packed up, and Monette, Djuna, Marc, Michael, and I sat waiting in the Palm Springs International Airport. I was fighting back tears because I didn’t want to leave Marc. I wanted to stay in this gay paradise, to wake up and see the mountains every morning with Marc, to look up at the endless carpet of stars overhead every night, and to have him lying close to me every night and to be there every morning when I got up.
As the flashing monitor signaled that our plane was now boarding, I got up, wiping back a flood of tears that welled up in my eyes and burst over the dam. I reached under my seat and pulled out the present I was obviously saving for Marc for last.
“Here’s the gift that you couldn’t keep your eyes off, Marc. Go ahead; open it,” I commanded him.
I handed the beautifully wrapped gift to Marc, and he opened it as carefully as I would, untying ribbons and pulling off the wrapping paper as delicately as a surgeon. He opened the box.
Inside lay a police uniform with honest-to-goodness Palm Springs Police Department arm patches (thank you, Sergeant Gorski), complete with a shiny name badge with Marc’s last name engraved on it.
Marc closed the box, put it down on a chair, and hugged me so tightly and lovingly that I thought he would come out the other side of me. We hugged for what seemed like an eternity (perhaps it was); then we released each other. We had our own worlds to go back to ... for the time being. I turned, took one last look and fought back a tear that I promised I wouldn’t let escape, and headed down the corridor to the plane that would take me back to New York City. But just before I was out of earshot, I turned back to Marc and yelled, “Don’t forget to pack that when you come visit me in New York, Sergeant Baldwin.”
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
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Copyright © 2003 by David Stukas
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