Murder in Pastel

by Josh Lanyon

  Someone sat down beside me. I opened my eyes.

  “What’s wrong, Kyle?” Adam was inspecting me, his blue eyes kind.

  “Who me? Nothing.”

  “Bullshit.”

  A lot of things were wrong, so I picked the one I thought was safest to talk about. “I guess…all these years I took it for granted that when the Virgin showed up, I’d finally know what happened to him.”

  Adam put his hand on my shoulder. It took everything I had not to turn to him for comfort. His touch seemed coded into every cell of my body. How could a casual gesture affect anyone this way?

  “I know I’ve been saying it all along, but I guess it finally hit me that he really is dead. That we never are going to—” I couldn’t put it into words because I didn’t know myself what I felt.

  “Reach an understanding?”

  “I guess that’s it.” I laughed shortly. “Sad, huh?”

  “It is sad. He would have wanted that too.”

  “Oh come on, Adam. Cosmo? You don’t have to sugarcoat it for me.”

  “No, listen, Kyle.” He seemed dead serious. “He cared about you.”

  “In his own way?”

  “Yeah, in his own way. Like he did everything. He said to me that summer…when it looked like you might not make it…that the worst part was that you were just getting interesting.” Adam’s eyes tilted, and I had to laugh because that was so much my father.

  “What’s so funny?” Micky joined us on the other side of the settee. She was wearing a black lace vintage dress, the kind of thing she found at thrift shops and turned into high fashion.

  Adam gave my shoulder another of those casual squeezes, and departed.

  “I was telling Adam that it doesn’t make sense to me. If Cosmo didn’t take the painting with him, who did take it? And why would someone nail it in the back of an old dresser?”

  “To hide it?”

  Hide it from what, I wondered? “You couldn’t sell it on the open market. It’s too well known. It would have to go to a private collector.”

  We were both silent; I was remembering allegations that Sotheby’s Auction House had been selling stolen masterpieces to collectors overseas. Such things did happen.

  Except the Virgin hadn’t been sold in private auction. It had been sold for $10.00 with a chipped dresser at a local yard sale.

  I wondered if anyone had tried to track the history of the dresser.

  “Could it be a fake?” Micky wondered aloud.

  I studied the painting from across the room. Even at this distance the nude girl in the painting seemed warm and breathing, touchable, from the pink soles of her small feet to the glint of gold around her neck.

  I shook my head. “Gut feeling? No. I grew up staring at that painting. It looks real to me.” Of course, that was the point of a good forgery, wasn’t it?

  Micky’s face was sympathetic. “You know, legally you have a pretty strong claim on that painting.”

  I reached for my drink. “I’m not going to court with Vince.”

  “‘You’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din.’ It’s an awful lot of money.”

  Unbidden, the question sprang into my mind: how much was enough to kill for?

  “Did you know my grandfather has one of my father’s paintings?”

  “You’re joking.”

  I shook my head. “My mother gave it to him, which is the only reason he hung on to it. It used to hang in his workshop. Probably still does. Sunrise in the old cemetery; Drake Trent’s angel bathed in fiery light.”

  “I don’t remember that one.”

  “It’s probably worth a small fortune—and a lot easier to steal. A lot easier to market too.”

  I’m not sure what I was trying to say; I can’t claim that I was beginning to put two and two together. Hell, I didn’t even recognize the equation.

  “When the Cobbs had their painting appraised, it was worth close to a hundred thousand dollars.” Micky scratched her nose meditatively. “I bet a lot of people in Steeple Hill are kicking themselves now that they didn’t hang on to their own works by Cosmo.”

  “I always sort of assumed Cosmo took the Virgin with him.” I wiped the dampness from my forehead with the heel of my hand. “It’s weird to think I’ll never know what happened to him.”

  Micky started to answer but broke off as “Bebop in Pastel” dropped onto the turntable. In the center of the room Brett began to dance. He danced by himself, completely absorbed in his own perfect body and its response to the rhythm of the music.

  He wore tight white jeans and a crimson silk shirt that was unbuttoned to reveal a sculpted chest and washboard stomach sprinkled with golden down. Irene Cobb watched in a kind of titillated shock. Jack Cobb stood with his back to the room but I could see him watching Brett in the mirror over the bar.

  Everyone watched. For those few minutes Brett was the focus of the entire room, and how he loved it. The expression on his face was that of someone having a mind-blowing masturbatory experience—which was not far from what he was doing.

  I rose and walked out onto the verandah. The air was moist with the hint of rain. Brett and Adam had strung Chinese lanterns down its length. The lanterns bobbed in the wind, and in the trembling light I could see Jenny at the far end. She was staring out at the black velvet night, watching the lightning crackle over the ocean.

  “Hey,” I said, leaning next to her on the railing.

  “Hey.” She rubbed her cheek against my shoulder like a friendly kitten.

  There were shouts from inside the house. Cat calls.

  “The storm’s moving closer,” I commented.

  “Mmhmm.” We watched the lightning flash and fade. “Kyle, have you ever been with a woman?”

  I peered at her in surprise. “No.”

  “Never? Then how do you know—?”

  What I was missing? That I was really gay? What? “I’m not sexually attracted to women,” I said patiently.

  “But you’ve never been with one.”

  “Jen, that’s as silly as suggesting a heterosexual woman would have to sleep with another woman to know for sure that she’s really heterosexual.”

  “It’s not the same thing.”

  “Because one’s ‘normal’ and one isn’t?”

  “I wasn’t going to say that.”

  I knew this was really about Vince. Vince and his newly-confused sexual identity. I wished I had an answer for Jenny Wren, pat or otherwise.

  She said softly, “Maybe you’re subconsciously afraid of women.”

  “What? Like if I stick my penis inside a vagina it might fall off?”

  “Kyle!”

  “You started this conversation, Jen.”

  “Well, it would be a subconscious fear, not a rational thing.” She gestured broadly, just missing my nose, and I wondered how much she’d had to drink. Since I was answering her, I’d probably had enough myself. “Maybe because of your heart condition. You’re anxious about being the dominant sexual partner.”

  I wasn’t about to get into my sexual practices with Jen, but I said, still trying to be polite, “I didn’t have a heart condition until I was sixteen. I always knew I was different. I wasn’t sure how or why; I didn’t think about it a lot. But in high school I finally noticed what was different about me.”

  I hadn’t had a chance to do anything about it, assuming I’d had the nerve or opportunity to act on my inclination.

  She didn’t say anything. I couldn’t offer her any insight because I’d no idea what was going on in Vince’s head. They had always seemed happy to me, but I hadn’t experience at long-term relationships, homosexual or otherwise. Jenny continued to gaze up at me, her skin pale in the glow of the Chinese lanterns, her eyes huge and black as though she were on opium.

  “Kiss me, Kyle,” she whispered.

  I kissed her. Somehow it seemed easier than explaining why it wouldn’t solve anything. Jenny’s lips were soft and cool. She tasted like orange bitters and she smelled o
f rain and flowers. It was nice.

  “You son of a bitch! I thought you were supposed to be gay!” Vince’s indignant voice behind us broke the spell.

  I let go of Jen. She didn’t let go of me. “I am gay.” I tried to untangle my hands from Jenny’s. She clung.

  Brett, standing behind Vince in the French doors, exclaimed, “Adam, Kyle’s making out with Jenny Wren on the verandah!”

  The verandah spots came on like the lights in a police raid.

  “How could you do this to me!” Vince yelled at Jenny, starting toward her.

  She dived behind me. “You should talk!” she shot back from around my shoulder. “You’re fucking him!” She pointed to Brett.

  “Jenny!” gasped Vince. I think it was her language more than anything that struck him speechless. He glared at me, his hands clenching and unclenching.

  By now the verandah was full of people. The entire party seemed to have moved outdoors. A pitchfork of lightning flashed above the black ocean like old Poseidon himself waking up. It started to sprinkle.

  Adam maneuvered between the deliciously horror-stricken Cobbs, and put a hand on Vince’s arm speaking under-voiced.

  Vince shook him off and lunged at me. But now Joel had his other arm. Vince wriggled to get free. Jenny made alarmed squeaking noises, clutching me.

  “Fisticuffs! I love it!” Brett was laughing so hard he had to hang on to the doorframe to keep upright. “Kyle, you slut.”

  “Shut up, Brett,” Adam snapped, struggling with Vince.

  That wiped the smile off Brett’s face. He let go of the doorframe and charged at Adam. Adam stood his ground, but had to let go of Vince who shoved Joel with all his strength. Joel was not cut out for the bouncer gig. He and Vince shuffled a few feet in an awkward foxtrot.

  “Now boys. Boys!” Norman Cobb expostulated, detaching himself from the other spectators. His leather dress shoes slid on the wet deck.

  Brett swung at Adam.

  It was at this point that the power went off.

  Chapter Seven

  Immediate chaos.

  It was like a scene in one of John Wayne’s early Republic flicks when someone throws a punch and then chairs start flying. Somebody slammed into me, and I staggered back knocking Jenny down. Jenny, her nerves raw, screamed. Loudly. There was scuffling and grunting over to my left. Adam and Brett?

  Someone else started forward and crashed into the patio furniture. The table scraped forward a couple of feet and Jenny screamed again. Someone inside the house, Irene, I think, screamed too. Possibly out of sympathy, I felt like screaming myself.

  “Jenny, would you shut up?” I requested, trying to get her back on her feet. She had decided to go in for the vapors or something and was a dead weight.

  “Folks, would everyone stay where they are?” Adam called out exasperatedly. “Brett, get some candles.”

  “Get them yourself,” Brett’s muffled voice reached us from inside the house where he had retreated.

  The heat of battle was over, but Vince was still seething.

  “Get your goddamned hands off her!” He bore down on us, nearly falling over Jenny as I stepped aside with unheroic haste.

  From inside the cottage came a crash and the sound of glass breaking. Irene quavered an inquiry as to whether Brett was all right. He snarled something back.

  Adam, standing near me, swore. “What the hell is the problem? Brett?”

  Micky appeared in the French windows holding a candelabrum. The candlelight wavered over our faces. “Adam, the power’s off. And Brett’s sick.”

  “I’m not surprised, the way he’s been hammering down drinks,” Adam retorted with uncharacteristic lack of sympathy.

  “I hate you!” Jenny told Vince on a sob as he helped her to her feet.

  “Jenny!” Vince was all injured innocence.

  She shook him off and stumbled toward the stairs at the far end of the verandah. Vince followed in a kind of sleepwalking shuffle. Like Mrs. Danvers’ sexy sister, Micky joined the parade, guiding them by the light of her candelabrum. The three of them squelched across the lawn to where several cars were parked. Other guests straggled behind. The party was over.

  Inside the house, points of light flared in the darkness as Joel went about lighting the hurricane lanterns and candles.

  “I think we should be going as well,” Norman Cobb told Adam. “The power’s probably gone for the night. What do you say, Irene?”

  “Once it’s out, it’s generally out for the duration,” Miss Irene agreed.

  “No, Sister.” The mayor strove for patience. “Are you and Jack ready to leave?”

  “Jack has gone, Norman. He left before the power went.”

  Nonplused, the mayor turned to Adam. “Well, an interest—enjoyable evening, Adam.” They shook hands.

  Adam walked the Cobbs out across the wet grass, and I found myself alone on the verandah. I picked up the knocked-over chairs and went back inside.

  “Another drink?” Joel offered, holding up one of the opalescent green glasses.

  “No thanks. I’m buzzed now.”

  Micky joined us. “Brett is as sick as a dog,” she announced. “How much did he have to drink?”

  “A lot,” I replied. “He finished off my third drink, and I know he’d had a few before that.”

  “Not that many,” Joel defended. “I only fixed him four. He’s got a pretty high tolerance.”

  “Adam says he was knocking them back.”

  Joel shook his head. “No.”

  Adam came back from seeing his guests off. He raked a hand through his damp hair. “It’s pouring out there.”

  “Rain?” Micky sounded as alarmed as the Wicked Witch of the West caught without her umbrella. “Adam, I hate to leave you with this mess, but that road!”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Adam said. “Joel and Kyle will pitch in.”

  Joel and I tried to sound keen.

  Adam walked Micky, still apologizing for her defection, out to her car. Joel went to check on Brett. He came back a few moments later.

  “He’s got the bathroom door locked.”

  I thought this over. “Did he answer you?”

  “If you call groans and retching an answer.”

  “I call it a good reason to keep the door locked.”

  Joel looked unconvinced.

  “Adam,” he said as soon as Adam reappeared. “I think you should check on Brett.”

  Adam nodded, looking vastly weary. Joel began screwing caps on the bottles of vodka and gin and orange bitters. I went into the kitchen and ran water into the sink. Adam came in and started rattling through the drawers.

  “I need a screwdriver,” he said.

  I handed him a glass. He said impatiently, “A screwdriver, Kyle. A tool, not a drink. Brett’s not answering me.”

  I helped him hunt. He settled for a steak knife, and I followed him back to the bathroom, watching as he swiftly undid the screws in the ornate bronze plate. He removed the glass doorknob and pulled open the door.

  Brett lay face down on the floor. He was alive because I could see his shoulders heaving. The smell of vomit, urine and worse bounced off the aqua-and-indigo tiles.

  Adam turned to me. “Tell Joel to phone for the doctor.”

  I nodded, only too happy to depart.

  But when Joel tried to dial out, the line was dead. “The storm must have knocked the cable out again,” he muttered. It was a common problem in the winter along the coast. We frequently lost electricity, cable or phones for hours at a time. “I’ll drive into Steeple Hill and bring him back with me.” He thrust a flashlight into my hand. “Tell Adam.”

  Joel disappeared into the night and I returned to Adam. I knew he wouldn’t ask for my help, and I knew he needed it.

  Adam pulled off his shirt and tossed it aside. I propped the flashlight on the sink and together we got Brett stripped and into the shower, tiles edged with delicate shells and seaweed painted by Adam many years before.

&n
bsp; He turned the tap on full and I stepped back. I was impressed by his patience. And dismayed by the lack of my own.

  Brett came to under the warm spray, sobbing and hanging on to Adam, soaking him also.

  “Forgive me, Adam.”

  “I forgive you.”

  “Don’t hate me. Don’t…”

  “I don’t hate you.”

  “I love you so much.”

  “I know. I love you too.” There was more forbearance than love in Adam’s voice.

  I was glad we were in the dark. Glad my face couldn’t reveal my thoughts. The flashlight ray caught the glitter of shower spray and the glint of Adam’s eyes—watching me—over Brett’s bent head.

  The lights came back on as we hauled Brett out of the shower. We toweled him off, and Adam got Brett into his bed. He flopped back into the pillows, dead to the world.

  “I don’t understand why you put up with this.”

  I hadn’t meant to say it aloud, but there the words hung.

  The skin tightened over the fine bones in Adam’s face. “Don’t you?” His eyes looked black in the washed light. “No clue at all?”

  I couldn’t hold his gaze and I couldn’t seem to look away. “Sorry,” I said. “That was stupid.”

  To my relief, the harshness left his face. In another minute I’d have been like Brett, begging him to forgive me. “It was honest,” he said wearily. “Either way, this isn’t your problem.”

  Dismissal, no doubt about it.

  I nodded. But on my way past the bathroom I bundled Brett’s filthy clothes and the soiled towels, dumping them into the washing machine. I turned the washer on and returned to the bedroom.

  Soft light filtered through the pink-silk lampshade. Adam had changed out of his wet things. He sat beside Brett who appeared to have fallen into an uncomfortable doze. Perspiration sheened the tanned planes of Brett’s chest and chiseled face. With the white sheet draped across his waist he looked like a fallen gladiator or something equally poetic and preposterous. Adam held his hand, but stared out the window at the lightning flitting across the black night. He looked drained, emptied of all feeling.

  As though he felt my gaze, he raised his head. Our eyes locked.