Dead on Your Feet

by Grant Michaels

  Marshall Zander averted his gaze and looked downward—ironically, at his crotch.

  “I wouldn’t mind if it turned out that way with you,” he said.

  I pulled my arm away from him and muttered, “In all my days at the styling chair I’ve never been propositioned like this.”

  “But I do like you.”

  “If you say anything often enough, you’ll believe it.”

  “But it’s true. It’s not just sex,” he said earnestly. “I think a lot of you. Why don’t you talk it over with Rafik? It’s not a chance everyone gets every day. Surely you both want his career to advance. This would be a major achievement for him.”

  But at whose expense?

  “I’ll tell him, all right,” I said. I got out of the car and closed the door. “Thanks for the lift.”

  Marshall Zander sat in his car and watched me hurry toward the front door of Rafik’s apartment building. Fortunately we both have keys to each other’s places, so even if Rafik wasn’t home, I’d be able to get inside, away from Marshall Zander, and be with my beloved feline. I rang the doorbell, and hallelujah! My man’s voice came sailing over the intercom.

  ‘J’écoute. ”

  “Open up,” I said urgently. Then well out of earshot of Marshall Zander I added, “There’s a big troll chasing me.”

  Rafik buzzed me in. I turned and waved good-bye to Marshall Zander who then raced the big German engine and drove off in a loud squeal of rubber. Was it something I didn’t say?

  I bounded up the stairs two at a time. Rafik had left his apartment door ajar. When I entered I found him down on the floor playing with Sugar Baby on the rug near his bed. I got down too, then rolled onto my side and mewed and purred for attention. Sugar Baby stretched herself out to touch me with her front paws. I stretched myself out to touch Rafik the same way.

  “I forgot to bring your gift,” I said.

  “Chocolate?”

  “How did you know?”

  Rafik smiled. “You always give me what you want yourself.”

  Like now, I thought.

  Ten minutes later we were laughing noisily on the rug after a quick and sticky round of “hello.”

  “Welcome home,” said Rafik. “Nicole has called me many times. I told her I was missing your calls too. I am sorry.”

  “Rehearsals again?”

  “Soon you will understand why I am working so hard.”

  “Never,” I said.

  I told Rafik about my meeting with Mireille Rubinskaya and what she’d told me about Max Harkey’s diary.

  “Were there any words about me?” he asked.

  “I forgot to ask.”

  Rafik snarled playfully. “Two things you forget. Soon you will forget who I am.”

  “How can I forget you?” I said. “You are my life. Of course, I can never remember you the way Max Harkey did—with his big, long, shiny Bösendorfer.”

  “It is a beautiful piano.”

  “So what more could he have said in his diary to show how he felt about you?”

  Rafik answered, “He could say I was the best person to direct the ballet company after him.”

  Even though Rafik knew that decision lay with the board of directors, he had given me the perfect lead-in to tell him about Marshall Zander’s bizarre proposition. I related his offer with the calculated coolness of a brain surgeon explaining the lousy odds of recovery to a patient, all in the hope that Rafik’s instinct would rise victorious and he would declare resoundingly, “C’est fou!”

  But instead Rafik pondered Marshall Zander’s proposal seriously, as though he might actually consider the offer. Was it possible? I felt the skin around my nipples prickle. What would happen if Rafik agreed? Could I sacrifice myself to become Marshall Zander’s consort and provide my lover the artistic opportunity of his life? Or would Rafik’s “yes” mark the end of “us” just like that? Easy sex on the rug, a good laugh, and then never to be together again because of his absurd response to an absurd proposal.

  Rafik delivered his verdict.

  “I will answer him myself. If I am the director of the Boston City Ballet, I will earn it myself, from my respect for art and my love for the dancers.”

  That’s my man.

  He invited me to stay the night with him. What would you have done?

  The next morning we set off together with Sugar Baby nestled in the cat carrier. I accompanied Rafik to the ballet studio, where I planned to initiate a scheme I’d dreamed up last night—literally dreamed up—while sleeping secure in his arms. I was conducting a group interrogation with all the people who knew Max Harkey, the kind of ensemble scene popular in British manor-house mysteries. Like a stage director I was setting all the players at cross-purposes, so that the truth eventually rose up from the chaos and conflict. The only problem was, in real life I had no manor house in which to act out my dream. And then I realized that, thanks to Rico, I did hold the key to a fabulous pied-à-terre: Max Harkey’s own apartment. And every character from my dream could be found at the studios of the Boston City Ballet.

  Inside the lobby of the ballet studios Rafik said good-bye to me before he went to teach class.

  “After class I will tell Marshall about my decision,” he said. “Do not say anything to him.”

  “Mum’s the word, love. He’s all yours. Shall I come to the rehearsal tonight?”

  “No,” he said shortly. “Please be patient, Stani. Soon you will know why.”

  It was just as well that Rafik didn’t want me at rehearsal to see his secret work yet. For my part I hadn’t told him about my dream or how I was planning to make it a reality that evening. Rafik went into the teacher’s room and I set to work on my mischief. I intended to snag my potential party guests with the irresistible bait of exclusivity, the same ploy that market researchers use to con people into attending their focus groups: You and only you can solve our predicament. Demographic superiority would compel them all to attend my soiree, for every one of them at some point had been a contender for Max Harkey’s love.

  Alissa Kortland and Scott Molloy were stretching their long limbs on the carpeted floor. I knelt down near them and spoke quietly.

  “It’s good to see you both together again.”

  Scott glared at me and said, “What do you want now? Last time I talked to you, all I got was trouble.”

  “I thought we had a good talk.”

  “I’m sorry I told you anything. It was too personal.”

  I’d seen it happen often enough, where the trust that encourages intimacy gets twisted into resentment.

  “We’re both still the same people, Scott. Actually, I’m having a little party this evening and I’d like you both to come.”

  The two dancers looked at me blankly.

  “Whatever for?” asked Alissa.

  “I’m playing the faculty wife to Rafik,” I replied.

  Scott scowled at me and said, “Whose idea was that?”

  “Mine,” I answered. “I’ve just returned from London, where I met Mireille Rubinskaya.”

  That caused no visible response from either dancer.

  I murmured seductively, “She gave me Max Harkey’s diary.”

  Both heads turned quickly to face me.

  I went on, “I think you’d both find it interesting.”

  “Where is this party?” said Alissa.

  “At Max Harkey’s place.”

  Their startled faces caused me to shush them before they spoke out.

  “It’s all right,” I said.

  “What time?” they asked in unison.

  “Six o’clock.”

  “Will there be food?” asked Scott. “We have a big rehearsal tonight. We’ll have to eat sometime.”

  “There’ll be food,” I said reluctantly. “See you then. And don’t tell anyone.”

  “Why not?” said Alissa.

  “I’m not supposed to have the diary.”

  As I rose to go, Alissa said, “Is that your cat?”

>   “Yes,” I said, and proudly turned the cat carrier to display Sugar Baby to them.

  “She’s beautiful.”

  “Of course she is,” I said. “She’s a princess.”

  Scott Molloy smirked and said, “The daughter of a queen.”

  Alissa slapped him lightly on shoulder.

  Rafik passed by and went into the studio, a cue to all the lounging dancers to file in quickly after him. They took their places at the barre, Rafik commanded them into first position, and class began. I watched his virile form while I waited around for another of my potential party guests to appear. According to Rafik, she was at the studios that morning making final arrangements for the big rehearsal that evening. Patience, I thought. Like the best hair work, sleuthing took time and patience. The payoff would follow. And follow it did.

  Toni di Natale entered the lobby with her usual bustle of lively energy. She saw me waiting there and came by.

  “Isn’t he handsome?” she said, referring to Rafik.

  “I’d have to agree,” I replied.

  Then she noticed Sugar Baby and said, “What a pretty cat!” She knelt down and ran her fingers lightly along the door of the carrier. “Who is the prettiest girl in all Back Bay?” she said, inflecting her voice with typical kitty foolishness. Sugar Baby bestowed a blasé flick of her tongue on Toni’s fingertips.

  I said, “I’d like you to come to a small reception I’ve planned for this evening.”

  “Bad timing, I’m afraid. We have a big rehearsal tonight.”

  “Then you should eat something beforehand, and I’ll have food.”

  “What time?” she said.

  “Six o’clock.”

  “Well, I suppose that leaves enough time before rehearsal. Tonight is the first run-through with full orchestra, and that’s always a thrill. What’s the occasion?”

  “You probably know that I’ve just returned from London.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Rafik didn’t tell you, then?”

  “I haven’t talked to him except in rehearsals,” she said as she kneaded the soft fur under Sugar Baby’s chin. “There’s so much to do, and opening night is just days away. What were you doing in London?”

  “I saw Mireille Rubinskaya.”

  “Oh,” said Toni absently.

  Brum-brum-brum, went Sugar Baby.

  “She gave me Max Harkey’s diary,” I said.

  “Did she?” Toni was trying hard to appear unaffected by me, but like Sugar Baby, was responding in spite of herself. “How indiscreet of her,” she added.

  “Not really,” I said. “She wanted to help me find Max’s killer.”

  “And have you?” she asked slyly.

  “I’m very close now.”

  “Where is this reception?”

  “At Max’s place.”

  Toni blanched. “How did you—?”

  “It’s a secret. It’s against police orders.”

  “Then why are you doing it?”

  “I had a visitation.”

  “You’re mad,” she said with a big laugh. “No wonder Rafik loves you. Well, I’m game for your mysterious party.” She stood up and faced me. “See you at six, then.”

  “Remember, it’s a secret,” I said again.

  “A secret,” she repeated, as though humoring an idiot.

  Just moments after she left me standing in the lobby, Jason Sears entered from the main corridor, along with Marshall Zander. When Marshall saw me, he turned back and vanished into the corridor. That was lucky, because I certainly didn’t want him to know I had his key to Max Harkey’s place. It would only prove that I had conspired with Rico to get it.

  I intercepted Jason Sears on his way out.

  “Are you free this evening?” I said.

  “What?” he said, vexed by my question. “Who are you?’

  “You met me at Max Harkey’s place the night he was killed. I was with Rafik.”

  Jason Sears studied me impatiently, like a trick question on a chemistry exam.

  “The hairdresser,” he said finally.

  “That’s right.”

  “So what do you want?”

  I whispered, “Can you come to Max Harkey’s apartment at six o’clock?”

  “What is this secrecy? Max Harkey is dead!”

  “Shhhhh!”

  “I’ve heard you like to play cloak and dagger. But I’ve no time for it. I’ve just made special arrangements to use the piano in the performance hall. I’m on my way there now. It’s the only chance I’ll get to play the instrument before tonight’s rehearsal. So to put it bluntly, I cannot attend your Nancy Drew colloquium this evening.”

  I retorted, “Don’t you use her name in vain.”

  Jason Sears stormed out of the lobby. I imagined his piano playing would be quite a performance too.

  Sugar Baby pressed her nose against the wire door of the carrier. I grazed it lightly with the side of my finger. “We don’t need him anyway,” I said to her, then quickly scanned the lobby to see if anyone had caught me talking to my cat in public like a dotty old lady.

  One more person remained on my guest list. I went to the teacher’s room and knocked on the door. Moments later it swung open to reveal the small stocky form of Madame Rubinskaya. The room behind her was veiled with smoke.

  “Rafik is in class,” she said curtly.

  “I know. I came to talk to you.”

  She noticed Sugar Baby in the carrier. “You have cat?”

  “Yes.”

  “My Verushka is afraid of cats. They scratch her nose.”

  “Madame,” I said. “Can you come to Max Harkey’s apartment tonight?”

  “How you can ask me such a thing?”

  “I’ve located his diary, and I want to share it with the people who knew him. But it’s strictly confidential. Don’t tell anyone else.”

  Her eyes were mistrustful. “I think you are making bad joke.”

  “I’m serious. I haven’t even told the police about it.”

  “Why don’t you let Maxi rest in peace. You have no respect for death.”

  “I’m going to find his killer.”

  She set her eyes on me while the smoke from her cigarette wafted up between us. She shook her head disdainfully.

  “Again I see you are just ridiculous boy.”

  “Please come tonight,” I said. “Six o’clock.”

  Without another word, but staring intently into my eyes, she pushed the door slowly closed in my face.

  I left the studios and set out for home with Sugar Baby in the carrier. On the way I stopped in at Snips to say hello to Nicole. She was genuinely pleased and relieved to see me, but seconds later was scolding me for running off to London on a whim, calling me irresponsible and all that.

  “Wait’ll you hear what I’m doing tonight, doll.”

  I told her about my planned event at Max Harkey’s place.

  “Does Lieutenant Branco know about this?”

  “No way, doll.”

  “How are you going to get in there?”

  “I have a key. By the way, has Branco made any progress on the case?”

  “He certainly hasn’t had time to run off to London.”

  “Too busy at home, eh?”

  “You never mind about that,” she said sharply.

  “Just don’t tell him about tonight. There’s no danger, no heroics. I’m just playing a little psychological parlor game to get all the facts out and organized. If Branco had cooperated and let me see the police reports, I probably wouldn’t be driven to such drastic measures.”

  Nicole said, “You always find a reason to do what you want, Stanley, so don’t blame the lieutenant for this absurd scheme of yours.”

  “Promise you won’t tell him.”

  She smiled. “I couldn’t keep a straight face.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, doll.” I kissed her and headed toward the door.

  “Don’t forget the cat,” she said.

  Oo
ps.

  I took Sugar Baby home and played a lengthy round of mouse with her. Then I finally unpacked my bag from London. Then I showered again and put on fresh clothes. At 4:30 I set out for Max Harkey’s place. In one hand I carried a small wrapped parcel from London, and in the other a bag of cheese and crackers for my party guests. Then, as I was passing a trendy charcuterie, I considered getting something more substantial for my guests. After all, I had promised them they’d be fed. And though hospitality wasn’t critical to the success of my venture, Scott Molloy and Alissa Kortland were dancers, and dancers needed fuel. Besides, if food could show love, perhaps it could also persuade.

  So, laden with two large bagfuls of expensive and aromatic savories—I’d purposely chosen a lot of rich fatty items that my bodyconscious guests were likely to avoid and leave for me—I stopped in at Station D for another round of mouse, this time with Lieutenant Branco.

  “Something smells good,” he greeted me.

  “Hungry?” I asked.

  “And thirsty,” he said. “But I’m having dinner in a little while. Don’t want to spoil my appetite. I hear you were in London.”

  “True,” I said. “And I brought you something.”

  I gave him the small wrapped parcel from London.

  “For me?” he said.

  “No other.”

  “Max Harkey’s diary?” he said with great hope.

  “Two more guesses, Lieutenant.”

  Branco opened my gift and examined the bottle inside. It was the balsam cologne I’d found at Maitland’s. He let out a small approving whistle.

  “This one is hard to find,” he said.

  “Not for a member of the jet set,” I replied.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  I shrugged, but I also felt my neck redden.

  Branco said, “On a more serious matter, I got the lab report on your friend’s motor scooter. Turns out the brake cables had been nicked. They were rigged to fail at the worst possible time, under heavy pressure.”

  “Like coming to a stoplight at the bottom of Beacon Hill.”

  Branco nodded solemnly.

  I asked, “Are you any closer to an answer?”

  “There’s one piece of evidence that still hasn’t materialized.”

  “Max Harkey’s diary,” I said.

  Branco nodded.