A Body to Dye For

by Grant Michaels

  He was right. The place where the safety line was attached to his belt was moving in small, almost invisible steps, I gulped. “Uh, okay, Jack. Just tell me what to do.”

  Jack measured his words. “I can’t see, dumbo! I can’t move. You gotta do it. Ya’re on ya own. Just grab my ankles. I’ll do the rest.’’

  “Sure, Jack. It’s going to be okay.” I’d never had a person’s life in my hands before—their reputation for fashion and style, perhaps, but never their life. But at that very moment, a perverse thought occurred: Jack hadn’t yet kept his part of the agreement we’d made earlier. He hadn’t told me about Roger and the slide. No time like the present, I thought.

  “Uh, Jack?” I said innocently.

  “What! What are ya waitin’ for?”

  “Jack, we never got to talk about Roger.”

  “What!” The rope slipped a half-inch. “Shit!” muttered Jack.

  “So I was wondering—”

  “Damn you! What are ya ramblin’ about?”

  “Jack, talk nice to me,” I said with the gentle persuasiveness of a toddler’s television host. “Tell me why that slide bothered Roger so much.”

  “What! You grab my ankles now!”

  The rope did a baby slip.

  “Jack, I want to help you, but first you have to help me.”

  “Grrrrraaaagh!” went Jack.

  Slip, slip went the rope on his belt.

  “Why did Roger go to Boston.”

  “Damn you! Damn! You!”

  “Jack?”

  Slip.

  “Okay! Okay!” he said. “Ya got me by the balls.”

  “Not quite, Jack.”

  “Take my ankles and I’ll tell ya.”

  “Say it first.”

  Slip, slip.

  “I hate ya!” he yelled. Then, a moment later, with a savage growl, he said, “Roger thought someone blew up them rocks on purpose!”

  “So! It wasn’t a natural slide?”

  “No!”

  “And that’s why Roger went to Boston?”

  “Damn, yes! That’s why!”

  “What’s in Boston?”

  “I don’t know, damn you, fucker! Grab my ankles!”

  “Okay, Jack.”

  I grabbed on to his ankles, and the instant I did, he curled himself up and grabbed on to the safety rope himself. Then he pulled himself up onto the ledge. He looked at me with a mean glare. “That wasn’t fair,” he said.

  “I had to know, Jack.”

  He stood up and refastened his jeans.

  I said, “Didn’t you at least enjoy the rush, the one you weren’t expecting?”

  He breathed heavily for a few moments, while he reattached the safety line and felt good old terra firma under him again. After a few minutes of quiet fuming, he looked at me, and to my surprise, he smiled. “Y’know, buddy, maybe ya right.” Then he put his arm around my neck and pulled me toward him. “I sure wasn’t expecting that kinda rush. And now that I’m up here safe and sound with ya, I confess it was real nice.”

  “Jack, I wasn’t really going to let you fall.” But I wondered how a person could be on the verge of death at one moment, and at the next be thanking you for the excitement of it. Was I unwittingly into heavy S/M?

  Getting down from the rocks was extremely easy since there was an alternate hiking route on the other side of the mountain. When we returned to the climbing school, Jack shook my hand and said, “Thanks again for the rush, buddy. Ya oughta try climbin’ more. Ya’re a natural.”

  “I’m still afraid of heights.”

  “Nah, ya get used to it. Come by anytime, take ya up again.” I’m sure you would, I thought.

  It was after two o’clock when I got in the car. I drove back out to the main road, and felt a burning soreness in my fingertips as I handled the steering wheel. Then it clicked, and I knew what had caused those strange calluses on Roger’s fingertips: the rocks.

  As I drove from the school, I looked around for Yudi. I wondered if he’d seen Jack and me in our Folies Bergère number up on the ledge. I assumed he’d be watching out for me along the road. He couldn’t miss spotting the big red clunker I was driving in that natural setting. I reached the main valley road without finding him, so I backtracked all the way to the climbing school again, but with no luck. I gave up and drove into the village, hoping to find him along the way, but it didn’t happen.

  Instead of searching any longer, I drove to the Ohlone Hotel to keep my luncheon interrogation with Mr. Leonard. Now that I was armed with more information, I wanted to find out just how much he knew. Yudi would have to understand that I didn’t have time for hide and seek.

  13

  LUNCH WITH THE SWELLS

  WHEN I RETURNED TO THE OHLONE, I went directly to Mr. Leonard’s salon on the mezzanine. Instead of politely using the doorbell, though, I acted like a cop and banged loudly on the door. Then I tried to open it without waiting for an answer, figuring I’d barge in like a he-man. Of course, the door was locked, and my act was ruined.

  I started pressing the doorbell repeatedly until I heard footsteps on the other side of the door. Moments later, the door latch buzzed and I went inside. Mr. Leonard was lounging by the window in a billowing caftan of turquoise and cobalt-colored raw silk. The fabric was strangely gathered at the bustline to create an illusion that his chest measurement was bigger than his waistline. In the sunlight, his dyed hair glowed like an orange shag rug. The enormous rose-tinted lenses of his glasses were beveled and shaped like lotus petals. He was giving himself a manicure, and his technique was abominable. He sawed at his nails with the file instead of pulling it gently across the edge of each nail in one direction only. He looked up nonchalantly and said, “You’ve come back.”

  I just stared at him.

  “Did you find Roger’s cabin?”

  I nodded.

  “And was it exactly where I told you?”

  I nodded again.

  He removed his glasses. “So you owe me a favor,” he said smugly.

  I stared without saying a word.

  “When can I exact payment?”

  “Now,” I said finally. “Lunch.”

  “Well! I like a man who clears his debts.” Mr. Leonard picked up the phone and punched in three numbers. “Donald? Leonard. I’d like my table set now. Yes, I know the dining room is closed, but I have a guest whose schedule is somewhat, er, inflexible. Yes, Donald, I understand. Thank you, Donald.” He hung up, then cocked his head toward me and raised one eyebrow. I think he was trying to be sexy. “Why don’t you go down to the dining room and wait for me there. Donald, the maitre d’hotel, will seat you and select the wine. I’ll join you shortly.”

  I left him and went downstairs to the main lobby, but I had no intention of sitting and waiting for him. Instead I returned to the cocktail lounge where I’d got my first lead on Mr. Leonard yesterday. I wanted to thank the barmaid who’d helped me, but she wasn’t on duty. So, instead, I wandered through the Ohlone’s lobby. I found the main parlor, a gigantic hall designed for serious lounging. At each end of the room was a colossal stone fireplace large enough to walk into. The fieldstones reached right up to the ceiling, as did the tall windows running along either side of the huge rectangular room. The top four feet of the windows were fitted with panels of geometrically shaped stained glass in shades of red, orange, gold, blue, and green. The multicolored glass filtered and scattered the sunlight into dazzling rainbows.

  When I was sure I was late and Mr. Leonard would be waiting for me, I strolled casually into the cavernous dining room. The place was empty except for his lone body, seated at a table tucked into an alcove of bay windows at the far end of the dining room. I told the headwaiter, who must have been Donald, that I was Mr. Leonard’s guest. He nodded obligingly and led me to the table. The dining room windows also stretched from the floor to the ceiling thirty feet above. Instead of stained glass on top, they offered a vast panorama of the valley walls outside. Seated beneath this grande
ur was my host. He’d changed from his control-top muumuu to tan slacks and a blouson overshirt of hunter green linen. He did not seem pleased to see me.

  “I expected you to be here for me!” He’d recently doused himself with sweet floral cologne, which instantly irritated my sinuses.

  “I was looking around the hotel,’’ I answered coolly. “Guess I lost track of the time. Sorry.”

  He fluttered his eyes coyly. “You’re forgiven.”

  Donald poured red wine for me, and I asked him for a menu.

  Mr. Leonard interrupted. “I’ve already ordered for us.”

  “How do you know what I like?”

  “Dear boy, you must trust me. I never allow the menu to limit me. The kitchen staff understands my taste.”

  I’ll bet they do, I thought. “I’m not a boy,” I said.

  “Darling, it was a compliment to your youthfulness.”

  I sipped at the wine and found it agreeably dry and fruity. Points for Donald and the California vintner.

  Mr. Leonard jabbered for a while about his past, how his talent was never appreciated in New York or Los Angeles, so he set himself up at the Ohlone and catered to rich tourists. When I asked him where he’d learned his color technique, he snarled, “With my eyes! They are the only true instruments of my art.” I wondered when he’d last had a spectroscopic examination.

  Then he said, “So you found Roger’s place exactly where I said?”

  I nodded. “I already told you that.”

  “And there was nothing there, as I predicted, right?”

  I swirled my wineglass gently for a dramatic pause. “Wrong,” I said. Then I faced him squarely. “There were lots of things.”

  Mr. Leonard drank some wine. “Really?” He tried to sound indifferent, but I could tell he was dying to know what I’d found in Roger’s cabin. “Tell me,” he said.

  “Roger was an avid rock climber.”

  He shuddered slightly. “Oh, that nonsense! I already told you he was always crawling around up there, trying to prove what a man he was.” Mr. Leonard’s words recalled my own similar opinion about the sport, and I decided to change my attitude immediately.

  I continued, “I also found out that Roger was really upset by the recent rock slide on Washington Column.”

  Mr. Leonard’s eyes narrowed. “Who told you that?”

  “Someone I ran into there.”

  “Ah yes,” he said with relief. “Yudi.” His eyelids relaxed. “Roger’s little dog. I warned you about him.”

  “He’s more like a puppy, actually.”

  “Then he hasn’t bitten you yet.”

  “Don’t assume too much,” I said.

  Mr. Leonard arched an eyebrow. “Care to elaborate?”

  I shook my head. “You don’t seem to like him, though.”

  “Darling, I dislike any rival. He, like you, got to enjoy Roger’s flesh, a privilege I was never allowed.”

  “There are no rules with objects of desire.” Nikki’s philosophy seemed appropriate at the moment.

  “Does that include me and you?” he asked. He indicated the two of us with a limp gesture of his hand, while the diamonds on his watch glittered in the sunlight.

  “No,” I said. “Desire does not apply to us.”

  Mr. Leonard bristled. “Well, that Yudi’s a rotten little liar, anyway. Don’t believe a word he says.”

  Our lunch arrived. Cubes of fresh salmon had been marinated, skewered, and grilled, then dressed with a sauce lightly flavored with tarragon and balsamic vinegar. Two vegetables accompanied the fish: broccoli flowerets sprinkled with olive oil and fresh lemon juice, and a gratin of pumpkin spiced with cardamom.

  Donald removed Mr. Leonard’s unfinished glass of red wine and replaced it with a clean smaller glass into which he poured a crackling cool white wine. He was about to do the same for me, but I discreetly touched the base of my glass. “I’ll stay with red, thanks.” Mr. Leonard shrieked, “Not with the fish!”

  I calmly answered, “Where I come from, anything goes.”

  He glared at me, shook his head, then popped a big chunk of salmon into his soft mouth. He chewed sloppily, leaving his lips open as he maneuvered the food within. “Mmmmm,” he said. “Superb, as usual.”

  I started with a broccoli bud. The olive oil was vintage stuff, definitely cold-pressed from fine green olives. Despite my feelings about Mr. Leonard, he was right about one thing: The food was simple and superb.

  I said casually, “Roger thought the rocks were blown up.”

  Mr. Leonard’s eye popped open. “Who told you that?”

  I smiled enigmatically.

  “Damn little Filipino, I bet!” he snapped.

  “Why does everyone think that? Yudi’s from Bali.”

  Mr. Leonard shrugged. “Same thing. So he told you?”

  I shook my head. “No. It was a guy named Jack.”

  “Jack who!” Mr. Leonard’s fork plopped quietly into his pumpkin gratin.

  “Runs a climbing school around here.”

  He quickly composed himself. “You do get around, darling.” He picked up his fork and ate the pumpkin adhering to it, as though he’d intended to pick it up that way in the first place.

  I took my first piece of salmon. It was delicately glazed and crusty from the grill, yet the flesh inside was moist with flavorful marinade. Someone in that kitchen knew what they were doing, and I was enjoying the results.

  I asked, “Did Roger ever talk to you about the slide not being an accident, that someone had purposely caused it?”

  Mr. Leonard was trying hard to appear blasé. “Anything that touched Roger’s sacred valley upset him, but the idea of someone purposely blowing up Washington Column is nonsense, of course.” He took some wine into his mouth and sloshed it around for a while. I thought he might even gargle with it. Finally, after he swallowed it, he said, “Its true that Roger dearest did carry on a bit, writing letters, calling people, trying to be the hero of the land, and all that.”

  “Letters to whom?”

  “Eh?” A nasty eye peered over the rim of his wineglass and a ruby blazed in the ring on his pinky finger.

  “Whom did he write to?”

  “Well, I’m sure I don’t know. That was his little obsession.”

  “But if he wrote so many letters, where are they now?”

  Mr. Leonard stared at me, trying to maintain a poker face, but the effort gave him away. “I imagine the police confiscated everything,” he said.

  “Why should they? Roger was a victim, not a suspect.”

  In response Mr. Leonard cocked his head coquettishly and shrugged one shoulder. “Darling, I really don’t know.”

  We ate quietly for a while, but through it all I could sense him scrutinizing me and brooding about something. It was all I could do to keep cool with his eyes boring through my clothes and into me. Finally, he slammed his fork down and said, “What are you really doing here? What do you want? You must be after something. Everybody is.”

  I continued eating and answered him flippantly. “I told you before, I want to find out why Roger went to Boston.”

  “What good will that do?”

  “Let’s just say I’m settling a personal matter.” I paused to savor a morsel of fish, then continued, “I already know who killed him.”

  “You do?” His mouth dropped and I witnessed a rather unattractive mélange of broccoli, pumpkin, salmon, and wine inside.

  I nodded. “I just need some hard evidence to convince the police.”

  Mr. Leonard returned to his food, but then suddenly looked at his watch. “You’ll have to excuse me,” he said, and motioned for Donald. “I’ve just remembered, I have an appointment now. Please finish without me.”

  “I’ve had enough, thanks.” Actually, during lunch I’d realized what I had to do next, and there was no more time to waste sitting around with this guy. I’d already found what I wanted to know anyway. By his responses, I knew Leonard was involved somehow with Roger�
��s trip to Boston, and he was lying badly about it.

  Donald arrived at our table and politely offered coffee and dessert. I said, “Just the bill, please.”

  Donald smiled back graciously. “Its already been taken care of.”

  Mr. Leonard interjected, “Its a peace offering for my being so testy, Stan. You don’t mind if I call you Stan, do you?” he asked with a leer.

  How could I ever explain how much I minded?

  “Thanks,” I said, “but I don’t want any favors.”

  He continued, “But, Stan, I told you before, I get so little opportunity for stimulating company up here. I’m afraid I’ve forgotten all my social graces. So please accept this lunch as my personal gratitude for your presence.”

  I stood up. “Fine. Thanks, Lenny,” I chirped.

  He tried to muffle a belch.

  I said, “I gotta go now, too … lots to do.” I extended my hand reluctantly. It seemed the least I could do, since he’d probably dropped over seventy bucks for lunch. But when Mr. Leonard grabbed my hand, I regretted it. His paw was clammy. He clenched my hand hard and yanked me toward him, pulling my face close to his.

  “Come to my penthouse tonight,” he said with breathless desperation. “Please!”

  It was all I could do to keep my voice calm, with my hand clenched uncomfortably in his. I spoke distinctly, with a cool even tone. “Thank you for lunch. I have things to do.” I tried to pull away, but he drew me even closer. His sweet cologne mingled with the smell of grilled fish on his breath—not exactly an aphrodisiac. I placed my free hand on his bare forearm as if to confirm the handshake. Then in one deliberate motion, I dug my fingernails into his skin and yanked my other hand free.

  As I hurried away from the table, I heard him hiss at me, “Bitch!”

  14

  TREES BEARING FRUIT

  THE FOUR O’CLOCK SUN CAST MAUVE, pink, and yellow streaks across a pale blue sky. Nature seemed beautiful and serene in Yosemite, yet the people I was meeting there seemed unbalanced and bizarre. (And country folk think city folk are strange!)