Dead on Your Feet

by Grant Michaels

“But why not just stay here at home?”

  She gave me a condescending smile, as though only a great and venerable artist could understand why she had done it.

  “Maxi hurt me very much that night. He break my heart. He gives that role for The Phoenix to young girl Alissa. It should go to my dear Mireille. It is for her. So I am hurt and I am angry and I want to be far away from him. So I don’t stay at home.”

  An alibi that limp needed all the hairspray in Boston to hold it up. Yet I could almost empathize with her reasoning, with wanting suddenly to be far away from someone who has just hurt you. But my empathy stemmed from lover’s misunderstandings. What had been the real relationship between Max Harkey and Madame Rubinskaya? One thing was certain: For someone who claimed to dislike the stage so much, Madame sure put on a good show.

  I thanked her for her hospitality and prepared to leave. Verushka stirred and then roused herself for my departure. At the door, while I bade good night to Madame Rubinskaya, Verushka sniffed gently at my hand. I pulled away reflexively and the dog cowered at my sudden movement. Madame Rubinskaya laughed.

  “She will not hurt you. She is good girl.”

  Verushka looked up at me with big, sorry eyes.

  Maybe some dogs really don’t bite.

  Life on the domestic front offered an extra challenge that night. Once home I faced my other dearly beloved, Sugar Baby. Under veterinary advice I was to clean her teeth on a regular basis. I know it sounds simple, but have you ever tried to brush a cat’s teeth? Cats, for all their enigmatic charm, are basically jaws and claws. To brush the teeth of such a creature is pure folly. But I had a scheme to get my girl to cooperate with me, thus saving me many dollars and sparing her a round of prophylaxis under general anesthesia. Once I’d ensnared her, I was ready to administer the implement of torture: a kitty toothbrush dipped in crabmeat juice. It worked. Sugar Baby let me brush her teeth. In fact, she tried to help, as cats are wont to do when you least desire it. She licked her chops as soon as a drop of juice hit her tongue, then poked at me with her paw for more. It made brushing a bit more difficult, but I accomplished the entire procedure miraculously scratch-free. And I wondered about the market potential for other crab-scented cat-care products.

  I rewarded Sugar Baby’s courage with a leisurely comb-out afterwards. Hell, with Rafik absent that night any fur person would do. During the purr-filled session with my girl, I indulged in a generous martini—mogul martinis, I believe they’re called when they’re that big. And in my solitude I recalled some advice a businessman client had once given me: When in doubt, organize. If nothing else, I was certainly in doubt. So, to allay the doubt, I mentally organized the list of people I’d spoken to recently, the supposed suspects and their possible motives for killing Max Harkey.

  There was Marshall Zander, the wealthy nebbish who financed the Boston City Ballet. Since I couldn’t determine his motive, I invented one, the most obvious one to me: sexual jealousy. I imagined that Max Harkey had always rejected Marshall’s love on the grounds that he was straight. When Max Harkey fell in love with Toni di Natale, perhaps Marshall Zander killed him in an uncontrolled moment. I had no evidence for any of it, but I liked the melodrama.

  Scott Molloy, the defensive young dancer with the nice legs and haunches, might also have killed Max Harkey out of jealousy. Not only had his girlfriend been Max’s mistress, but there was also the rumor that Scott’s feelings for Max had gone beyond professional adulation. Unrequited love is always a decent motive for murder.

  As for Alissa Kortland, she might have been seeking professional revenge for the limitations Max was putting on her career despite her submission to his sexual demands.

  For another talented sex object, Toni di Natale, I could determine neither motive nor opportunity. Perhaps her entanglement with Rafik put her too close to see objectively.

  And where was her fiancé, Jason Sears? Where had he gone? Was he really on tour?

  My most recent exchange had been with Madame Rubinskaya, and she had certainly acted erratic and suspicious. But how could anyone who baked so well be a villain?

  And last but not least, dangerous only to the heart, was my errant lover, Rafik.

  Every person on the list had had an opportunity to kill Max Harkey, and none of them had a good alibi for their whereabouts that night. But someone was missing. Someone’s face had not yet appeared in my catalog. Then, like random computer garbage, my brain suddenly recalled the musical score on Max Harkey’s piano, the score with the hand-painted cover. Perhaps it was seeing similar old scores on Madame Rubinskaya’s piano that had jogged that bit of information from my sluggish data bank. But I couldn’t remember seeing that score when I was at Max Harkey’s place on the morning of the murder. Then again, I had been quite loaded the night before, so my memory could easily have been supplanted by my imagination. But I knew who might have the answer, and he was also the missing name on my mental list.

  Tomorrow I would find Rico, Max Harkey’s devilishly cute houseboy.

  10

  She Could Have Danced All Night

  NEXT MORNING I WAS AT SNIPS catching up on the previous day’s neglected office work. It was a vague relief to be using the left side of my brain. The drudgery of paperwork seemed to put order in my life, unlike my fumbling murder investigation.

  Nicole breezed into the salon around ten o’clock. I heard her cheery good-mornings as she made her way through the shop to my office in back. She appeared in the open doorway at full attention, bosom lifted high and neckline drawn taut.

  “Good morning!” she exclaimed as though all was well with the world. She entered, poured herself a cup of coffee, and sat down comfortably in the new side chair.

  “Sex therapy is working, eh doll?” I said and focused myself on the paperwork.

  “Put that aside for a moment, darling. Let’s talk.”

  “You’re telling me to stop working?”

  “Just for a little while. Did you see the sky?”

  “The sky?”

  “It’s gorgeous this morning. The clouds are so white against that azure blue. It’s almost like the Mediterranean.”

  “You’re effluviating, doll.”

  “Oh, Stanley. Boston can be so beautiful!”

  That did it. I slammed the ledger closed and swiveled my chair to face her.

  “Who and how?” I asked.

  Nicole sipped her coffee demurely and batted her long eyelashes at me. “You know I never tell,” she said.

  “Do I know him?”

  “I should say so,” she replied with a unnatural giggle.

  “I need a clue.”

  “No, you don’t,” she said coyly.

  “Then it must be Branco,” I joked.

  But instead of refuting my guess, Nicole blushed.

  Amazed, I asked, “Did you bed Branco?”

  She said nothing and cast her eyes toward the open window.

  “Spill it,” I demanded.

  Nicole made no reply.

  “Does that mean there’s nothing to spill?” I went on.

  Silence and a cool stare were her answers.

  “Or maybe nothing got spilled, eh doll? Sometimes those younger men lack experience.”

  “The lieutenant is hardly a younger man,” Nicole replied bluntly.

  “He’s younger than you, doll, but then—”

  “Stanley, some experiences are too elevated for vulgar conversation.”

  “Look who’s getting ritzy.”

  “Don’t bare your claws, young man. You tend to your work. I’ll tend to the lieutenant.”

  “And how.”

  But I knew that Nikki had intended to provoke me. She and the lieutenant couldn’t have done it, could they? Really? Coupled? I knew she had a fairly active sex life, but Branco? Was such a thing possible? Given his machismo charismo, instantaneous lust was the typical human response to him. But performing mundane sexual acts with that Olympic god of the Mediterranean seemed improbable, too common—
too vulgar, as Nikki had said. Lieutenant Branco was the kind of person who appeared to be on reserve, waiting for his complement, the singular star-crossed partner, the matching goddess who could never materialize in an ordinary world, and certainly not in the embodiment of Nicole Albright. No, more likely their evening together had been a sexual bust, and Nikki was concealing her disappointment under the guise of secrecy.

  Suddenly, Ramon the shampoo boy stuck his head in the partly open doorway. “Walk-in request for Stanley,” he said, adding with a smug grin, “It’s a man.” Then he vanished.

  At this stage of my career, a walk-in request is nearly always a referral from one of my exclusive clients, so the new customer, though a stranger, is primed to be pleased and to pay.

  “Duty calls,” I said.

  “You mean money,” replied Nicole. “We’ll continue this later.”

  I took a gulp of coffee and went out to the shop floor. Standing in the reception area was Marshall Zander, and he didn’t need a haircut.

  “I hope it’s not presumptuous to arrive without an appointment,” he said. “It was such a beautiful day that I went walking, and I thought I’d stop in.”

  “I have some time,” I said coolly.

  “How fortunate for me! I’d like a shampoo and condition and a trim,” he said. Then he laughed heartily and added, “The works.” His attempt at cleverness made me feel more like a utility-company employee than an exclusive stylist. But I can play the dutiful proletarian when necessary.

  I gave Marshall Zander a smock to protect his clothes. After he changed and came out of the dressing room, I noticed a faint but unpleasant odor about him, something like rotting fruit. Perhaps it was all the mood-lifting drugs he was taking.

  I led him to the shampoo sinks. Ramon, keeper of that fief, grinned broadly as if to say, “Mr. Bigshot still gets some pretty ugly walk-ins.” Dear Ramon didn’t recognize my opportunity to do some PI work. I knew perfectly well that Marshall Zander had come to Snips for something other than hair work. My simple challenge was to find out exactly what he wanted to know without telling him anything from my side of the styling chair.

  I applied a dollop of moisturizing shampoo to his coarse brown hair and worked up a creamy, sudsy mousse. As I massaged his scalp, he closed his eyes and moaned quietly in pleasure. That particular response to my able hands is not uncommon, but I wasn’t too eager to get so cozy with Marshall Zander. I nipped his moment of bliss with a not-so-accidental burst of icy water from the spray nozzle. He flinched but then smiled, and I saw that he had enjoyed the jolt of surprise, however uncomfortable.

  I said, “You seem to be holding up well with all this nasty business.”

  “It’s thanks to my pills,” he said. “I’ve been sleeping better too. How are you doing? Have you come up with anything new?”

  “Regarding what?”

  “You’ve been talking to people around the ballet company.”

  “Talk is cheap.”

  “Whom do you suspect?”

  I didn’t reply, though I was impressed with his grammar.

  He went on with a light tone. “Do you suspect me?”

  “I don’t really have the right to suspect anyone.”

  “Forget about your rights. What about your logic? At whom does your ratiocination point its accusing finger?”

  That was a big word from the man with the big bankroll.

  I was about to answer him when I felt the rustle of a familiar energy behind me. I turned around to see Rafik standing there with a gigantic floral bouquet in his arms. With what mixed emotion did my heartbeat accelerate?

  Rafik couldn’t see whose head was in the sink, and Marshall Zander couldn’t see Rafik behind me. My intuition told me it was better left that way. I sent Rafik a silent kiss shaped with my lips, then nodded my head toward the office in back where he and I could commune in privacy. First though, I squirted a massive dose of conditioner into Marshall Zander’s hair.

  “Don’t move,” I ordered.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” he said obediently.

  Fortunately Nikki had already left my office, so Rafik and I could be alone. Once inside he closed the door with his foot and then, suddenly, we were grappling at each other. The flowers fell to the floor. We swooned, we tripped over my chair and tumbled into it together, entangled in a passionate embrace. My guy.

  He spoke first. “Forgive me.”

  “For what?” I replied, as though there was nothing to forgive.

  Rafik spoke haltingly. “Last night. I was the jerque.”

  “No, beloved. ’Twas I in my jealous frenzy who was, is, and always will be le jerque.”

  Please sign here.

  “So you are not angry?” he said.

  “Dubious perhaps, but not angry.”

  More insistent hugs and kisses followed—two people too much in love.

  When we finally came up for air Rafik said, “Toni wants to talk to you.”

  That wasn’t exactly the sweet love line I was hoping to hear.

  I spotted the flowers lying on the floor. Now they seemed something more than a generous gift from my lover. They were a distraction from Rafik’s renewed infidelities. And with that observation I sensed we were at it again, dancing our schizophrenic tango.

  Forgive me.

  Trust me.

  Help me.

  Here are flowers.

  I love you.

  Go away.

  Da capo.

  “What does she want?” I said.

  “She has the idea who killed Max Harkey.”

  “She should tell the police.”

  “No, Stani. They do not believe her.”

  I stared into Rafik’s eyes. His were not the kind of eyes to be refused easily, if at all. I already knew I was going to do what he wanted. I was going to chase down Toni di Natale and talk to her solely because she had asked it of my lover. But this time I intended to extract something in return, something to equalize the deal with Rafik. I already knew what that was, and in the most nonchalant tone I could manage, I asked for it.

  “Do you know where I can find Rico?”

  Rafik’s eyes flared in sudden anger.

  “Why?”

  “Because he is the one person at that dinner party I haven’t spoken to yet.”

  “That is all you want from him?”

  “I want from him what you want from Toni di Natale.”

  He narrowed his eyes, but the fire still came through.

  “You do not know who I am with her.”

  “I’m trying to make you understand how I feel.”

  He turned his head away as though my feelings were the most repulsive things in the universe. I suppose sometimes they were.

  “If you want Rico,” he said angrily, “you should ask Marshall Zander. Rico lives with him now.”

  Max Harkey’s former houseboy seemed to be moving faster than ever.

  “I only want to question him, Rafik. And in return I’ll talk with Toni. Fair is fair. Where is she now?”

  Rafik’s eyes burned. “She is staying with me.”

  Silence again. Now I was the flowers on the floor, something innocent that had been used to perpetrate a lie. I’d thought we were different, Rafik and I, stronger, truer, above this kind of mawkish scene. The more fool I. Oh, I know I’d set it up from the beginning, pitting my provincial love against the sophistication of Toni di Natale. But now Rafik had made his choice. And it was an odd surprise, the quietness of it, that he would choose her over me. I should have been generous and thanked him for the thrill of novelty, of being left for a woman. But I could say nothing.

  He turned quietly and left me alone.

  Maybe we could still be friends.

  And maybe someday I’d be married with children.

  A few minutes later I regained my bearings, or so I thought, and returned to the shop floor. Marshall Zander was still at the shampoo sink where I’d left him with a load of conditioner in his hair. With that stuff pe
netrating his hair shafts all that time, Mr. Zander was going to be extremely fluffy when he left Snips Salon today. No extra charge.

  As I rinsed his hair he asked, “Is everything all right?”

  He sounded so earnest that I almost burst into tears, even though his concern for me resembled the witless devotion of a big stupid dog.

  “Nothing time won’t fix,” I said ruefully.

  I wrapped a towel around his head and led him to my station.

  Once he settled in there he reminded me, “Just a trim.”

  “Only the tips,” I said and began my work. It was more combing than anything else. He didn’t need cutting at all, and once again I wondered why he’d come to see me. Well, he could keep his secret for all I cared. I just wanted to get to Rico, who was now staying with him.

  “You live in town, don’t you?” I asked.

  He raised an eyebrow. “I have a place here, yes.”

  “Close by?”

  He made a small frown.

  I added quickly, “I thought you might want to be on my mailing list.”

  “That’s not necessary. I know where you are.”

  I shrugged. “Sometimes we have special offers for our better customers, and we let them know by mail.”

  He wouldn’t even nibble. How was I going to break through this guy’s defensive torpor and get his address? By the time I finished faking his trim, the disgusting answer came to me in a flash of voluptuous glory: Use sex. Hell, it wasn’t working as an expression of love, so why not use it as a bargaining chip?

  I caressed Marshall Zander’s scalp extra tenderly and leaned toward him, putting my head near his and murmuring into his ear.

  “If you live close by, well … I might drop in sometime.”

  Of course I’d never do it, even though I was technically a free agent as of ten minutes ago.

  Marshall Zander turned his head toward me.

  “Do you mean that?” he said.

  “Why not?” I replied.

  His eyes were swampy with desire. “I keep a suite at the Copley Palace. Just give my name to the concierge.”

  He winked and my stomach turned. Sure, I’d got the information I wanted, but I was horrified at how easily it had come once I’d found the key. Even worse, I realized that this was probably how a lot of people were getting what they wanted from each other.