Slash and Burn

by Valerie Bronwen

  I almost choked on my drink—which was much stronger than it had any right to be. I managed to get it down and replied, after taking a deep breath, “No. I met her at the airport in Atlanta yesterday—we were on the same flight here. I’d never even heard of her before that.” I gave a slight shrug. “I’m not really as up on things in queer publishing as maybe I should be.”

  “Well, you mostly write in the mainstream,” Marty replied. “And this little world is so incestuous and—well, it can be kind of a snake pit.”

  I nodded, but didn’t look at Aphrodite. “What was your experience with her?” I looked at Marty, whose face was flushed.

  “She’s gone after me a few times,” Marty admitted with a shake of her head. “But nothing ever really came of it. It’s not like anyone who read her blog or her website was likely to read anything I write anyway. They’re all about objectifying gay men.” She said the last with a sneer. “Because, you know, gay men are there for their pleasure. She sickened me. She was the worst of them.” She drummed her fingers on the table. “It’s at the very least cultural appropriation. Imagine if white people were writing highly sexualized novels about people of color. It’s the same thing.”

  “You’re generalizing,” Brenna pointed out. “You know some of the straight women who write this stuff actually do care about actual gay men—”

  “How is it any different than fucking Penthouse Letters?” Marty demanded. “Or those ridiculous porn movies where women fuck other women for the titillation of straight men? As both a lesbian and a feminist, that’s revolting. So how is it any different when straight women do the same thing to gay men?”

  “But gay porn is made for gay men,” Aphrodite interjected, “not for straight women.” She shrugged. “I personally watch gay porn. It’s really hot. Does that mean that I’m a bad feminist, or that I’m objectifying gay men? Does that mean as a feminist I’m a hypocrite?”

  “One could,” I said slowly, “make the argument that women have been objectified and sexualized and oppressed for millennia, so the objectification of men by women is simply a little payback?”

  “So two wrongs would make a right?” Marty asked.

  “I’m also not sure that it’s okay to tell someone they can’t write what they want to, what they are passionate about.” Brenna took a sip of her drink. “I don’t want anyone telling me what I can or cannot write, so how can I tell other writers they can’t write something?”

  “It’s kind of a slippery slope,” I said. “I haven’t really thought about any of this, honestly—I’d never heard of this ‘m / m’ stuff before this weekend, but I’m kind of with Brenna. Telling someone they can’t write about something seems an awful lot like censorship to me.” I shrugged. Under the table Marty’s knee brushed against mine, but I ignored it. It was probably accidental. “It seems like this is all a question of morality, a philosophical argument. If we believe in freedom of speech, and freedom of thought, then every writer is free to write about what they want to, whatever they’re passionate about. No writer, of course, has the right to be published, and no writer has a right to an audience.”

  “All well and good,” Aphrodite replied, “but then the question becomes, so does a straight woman have the right to set herself up as the definitive authority on what is or isn’t gay male fiction, what should and shouldn’t be written?”

  “I would say no.” I leaned across the table. “Unless someone has actually known the actual societal oppression that a gay man has faced—then she doesn’t have the right or authority to talk about what is or isn’t authentic.” I picked up my drink and stared at the melting ice before taking another drink. “Of course, she has every right to discuss whether or not the story works, whether the writing is good or if it isn’t—since all of that is subjective in the first place. But to determine whether it’s authentic, and pretend like you’re some kind of expert? She just needs to shut the fuck up. On the other hand, I do believe that a woman—any woman, regardless of her sexuality—can understand and relate to the oppression faced by gay men because women are historically an oppressed class.” I exhaled. “This is some pretty heavy discussion for cocktail hour!”

  They all laughed, and Marty’s knee brushed against mine again. I glanced at her, but she wasn’t looking at me. Calm down, I told myself. You’re sitting on the same side of the table. She’s not making a move on you. You’re getting a buzz from the liquor. You should slow it down.

  “Regardless of whatever our opinions may or may not be,” Aphrodite said finally, “I think we can all agree that Antinous was a terrible person. What she did to Leslie…” She shook her head. “It was really unforgivable, especially when you consider what a fucking phony she was herself.”

  “You actually saw her fall?” Brenna asked me.

  I shook my head and started to take another drink, but put the glass back down. Yes, I was starting to get a bit of a buzz, and the opening reception was starting in about another half hour—which meant more alcohol. I had long ago realized that I was, if not an alcoholic, a compulsive social drinker. I generally have a glass or two of wine at night before I go to bed—if even that. I never feel like I need to have a drink, or actively go out looking to get drunk. My problem is I have a bit of social anxiety, and at parties, I tend to start drinking and continue drinking until I get stumbling, falling-down drunk. This is kind of embarrassing—and I’ve been assured any number of times by enough different people for me to believe it’s true—that I never seem drunk or do or say something I shouldn’t.

  Hardly reassuring, though, when you wake up with your head feeling like someone’s buried a hatchet in the center of your forehead and the previous evening is nothing more than a blur.

  “No, I didn’t,” I replied, wondering how many times I was going to have to tell this story over the weekend. “I was sitting underneath the gallery. She landed in front of me. I didn’t see her go over the railing, or even if she was alone up there.”

  I saw someone go into her room, I heard Demi saying again in my head. I decided to find her at the opening party and ask her some pointed questions about what she’d seen.

  Surely she’d be there.

  “You think someone killed her?” This was from Marty, in a hushed voice, and I came out of my reverie to realize they were all staring at me.

  “Well, if she was trying to kill herself, it was a weird way to do it, don’t you think?” I countered. “And I doubt very seriously she went over the railing by accident.” And she had gone over the railing, I realized. Had she fallen through it, I would have heard the wood splinter and break, and there would have been pieces of the wooden railing scattered around her body.

  It was murder.

  I’d sort of witnessed a murder.

  Yeah, you’re a genius, aren’t you? You should write mysteries!

  I bit my lower lip as Aphrodite waved the waitress over and signed for the tab. There was some talk, discussion about going to the opening reception, and I heard myself agreeing to walk over with them.

  My mind was still wrapping itself around my realization that Antinous had been murdered. Why did it take me so long to figure this out? Did I just not want to accept it? Maybe it was just a delayed reaction?

  Hadn’t I told Jerry last night at dinner it had to be murder?

  But that had been more of an intellectual exercise, which must have been a way of pushing back against the reality.

  I followed them out of the hotel, and we walked up Royal Street. The opening reception was being held at a historic home on St. Peter Street, a few blocks away. As we walked, I was aware that the conversation was continuing around me, but my mind wasn’t in it. Aphrodite and Brenna were walking slightly ahead of Marty and me, but I wasn’t participating—I was trying to remember exactly the sequence of events. I had heard the door above me open, and then noises—the groaning of weakened wood as weight was put on it. I hadn’t heard footsteps, which was also odd—but if someone had tossed her body over
the railing, they could have walked away quickly and I wouldn’t have heard anything because I was too busy screaming.

  I saw him go into her room.

  I kept hearing Demi’s voice in my head and remembering the look on her face as she looked past me in the lobby of the Monteleone.

  It had been terror I’d seen on her face, hadn’t it? She’d seen someone or something that scared her out of talking to me, and she’d taken off like a bat out of hell.

  The envelope. She gave me an envelope.

  I shoved my hand into my pocket and felt it there. I’d just shoved it into my pocket and completely forgotten about it because I was so wrapped up in my goddamned Dani drama.

  This is why I am NOT Jessica Fletcher.

  I pulled the envelope out. There was something in it. I tore open the end and dumped whatever it was into my hand.

  It was a flash drive made to look like a small magnifying glass. I pulled the end off, and there was the thingy you’d stick into a USB port.

  But why would Demi give this to me?

  I put it back in my pocket. I definitely needed to find her at the party.

  I was feeling overheated—a combination of the alcohol and the humidity—by the time we reached the historic Gaspard Metoyer house. There was a volunteer with a name badge hanging around his neck standing in the entryway at the top of the stairs. “Welcome.” He smiled as he opened the front door and waved us inside. “There’s no smoking inside the house or on the grounds, and all food and drink has to remain outside in the courtyard. There are several bars set up, and the food buffet is on the far side of the courtyard. Enjoy yourselves.”

  The Gaspard Metoyer house was one of the oldest houses in the French Quarter. I’d always been aware it existed but had never actually been inside before. A young woman introduced herself and offered to give us a tour of the house, should we want one. I smiled at her as I declined, glad she was dressed like a professional businesswoman and not in period drag. Period drag always annoyed me, reminding me that when people dressed like that they also owned slaves, which they often glossed over in the overdone Southern belle accents as they played Scarlett O’Hara and tried to make it seem like the antebellum South was this wonderful land of gentlemen and ladies. Aphrodite, Brenna, and Marty, however, opted for a tour and followed the young woman down a side hallway as I made my way toward the back gallery, where I could hear the hubbub of a party.

  The gallery was completely enclosed in glass, and the beauty of the courtyard made me catch my breath. The house extended back on either side of the courtyard, giving the house a large U shape. There was a tall stone fence at the rear of the courtyard, and I could see the back of another house on its other side. The two back wings had upper galleries, but on the courtyard level there weren’t doors—just enormous openings into big rooms that I could tell were where the slaves had done their laboring for their Metoyer masters in times past. The courtyard itself was huge. There were two gigantic fountains with brass statues of nymphs at the front, and I could see two others at the far end. The courtyard itself was divided into three separate walkways past the fountains, with two long hedges trimmed to about three feet tall serving as dividers. I could see bars set up in several different places with small groups in front of each, as well as other groups talking and milling about scattered throughout the place. At the very end of the center path were several enormous tables sagging under the weight of the food piled high on top of them. Waitpersons wearing black bowties, black slacks, and white shirts circulated amongst the groups of people carrying silver trays with hors d’oeuvres on them. I slowly made my way to the bottom of the back steps and noticed Demi’s friends standing off to one side—but Demi wasn’t with them.

  “Hi,” I said, walking up to them and giving them my friendliest smile. They were all holding paper plates in one hand and there were clear, full plastic cups on the flagstones at their feet. “How’s the food?”

  Mike finished chewing something and swallowed. “The bacon-wrapped shrimp is amazing. I also like the remoulade.”

  “I’m not sure what kind of spread this is,” Pat gestured to some crackers on her plate piled high with some orange-colored paste, “and it looks nasty, but it is fucking delicious. I could make a meal out of it.”

  “It’s all pretty good,” Travis chimed in. “I’d stay away from the red wine, though. It’s almost vinegar.”

  “Great, I’ll keep that in mind,” I replied. “Where’s your friend? Demi?”

  Pat shrugged. “You were the last to see her.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, she left the bar with you and that was the last we saw of her.” Mike replied before popping another bacon-wrapped shrimp in his mouth. “Did she say anything to you? We knocked on her room door before we came to the party, but there was no answer.”

  “She was supposed to come here with us.” Pat sounded more than a little annoyed. “But she’s not answering her phone or responding to texts. We have reservations at Bayona for eight, so hopefully she’ll just show up there.”

  “Has she been acting weird?” I asked, trying to keep my tone casual.

  “She has seemed a little quiet.” Mike knelt down and took a drink from his cup. “Since yesterday.”

  “Yeah.” Pat nodded. “Ever since, well, you know.” She made a face. “Demi hated that woman just as much as the rest of us, though. I don’t know why it would upset her. I just figured she was tired or something.”

  “Are you all staying at the Maintenon?”

  They all nodded, and Travis said, “Yeah, we’re all on upper floors. I have a little balcony on Dauphine Street, so I don’t have to go anywhere to smoke.” He sighed. “The last time I was in New Orleans, you could pretty much smoke anywhere.”

  “You need to just quit,” Mike replied, getting a scowl in response.

  They started bickering about smoking, but I asked Pat where exactly Demi’s room was.

  “She’s at the end of the third floor.” Pat frowned at me. “She has a little balcony that looks down on the pool. Why do you ask?”

  “Just curious.” I shrugged. “You don’t think she saw what happened to Antinous, do you?”

  “She would have said something to me.” Pat dismissed it with a wave of her free hand.

  “Okay, well, can you tell her that I’m looking for her?” I gave her a false smile. “I was really enjoying our conversation, but it got cut off and I’d like to talk to her some more.”

  Pat nodded, and I moved down the center path to the back where the food tables were. I didn’t recognize any of the people milling about filling plates, so I grabbed one and loaded up with the bacon-wrapped shrimp and some shrimp remoulade. I added some pasta salad, made my way to a secluded corner of the courtyard, and sat down.

  No sooner had I popped one of the bacon-wrapped shrimp in my mouth (and Mike was right—it was delicious and the shrimp practically melted on my tongue) than Jerry plopped down beside me and offered me a plastic cup of fizzy white wine. I took it from him and had a sip to wash the food down.

  “Prosecco?” I said once I’d swallowed. “You’re serving prosecco?”

  “Bitch, please.” He waived his hand, crossing his legs at the ankle and leaning back in the chair. “I brought that for me—everyone else can have the shit wine I got donated.” He grinned at me. “I’ve heard great things about your workshop.”

  “Thanks,” I replied. The prosecco was delicious—I might have known Jerry wouldn’t drink anything cheap. “This food is good.”

  He nodded. “Thanks. It was a bitch getting it donated.” He sighed. “I’ll be so glad when this fucking weekend is over—I just finished talking to that detective, Randisi, again. Why they couldn’t have assigned someone not homophobic to the case is a mystery for the ages.” He rubbed his forehead. “She was definitely murdered, you were right about that.”

  “Did he tell you anything else?”

  “She was hit over the head with a blunt instrument—blunt force
trauma. Then whoever killed her tossed her over the railing, I guess in an attempt to make it look like suicide.” He rolled his eyes. “Obviously an amateur—you figured it out last night yourself.”

  I frowned. “But really, that doesn’t make any sense, Jerry. She was heavy. It wouldn’t have been easy for someone to lift all that dead weight over the railing.”

  He flexed his biceps. “I could have done it, I guess—that’s what Randisi was implying, at any rate.” He scowled. “I didn’t like her either—but I wasn’t about to kill her.”

  “Why did you invite her?” I finished the prosecco and felt my buzz coming back again. “Given everything you said about her, and everything I’ve heard about her, why on earth would you include her in the program?”

  “It was mean,” Jerry replied, having the decency to color slightly. “She had no idea how much I hated her, of course—for some reason she got it in her head that I liked her, if you can believe that, because one time I posted on a message board somewhere that writers could write whatever they wanted.” He scowled again. “For some reason, that made her think that I was a hundred percent behind her. I wasn’t. I hated her. I hated what she did on her blog and her website. And then when she was exposed…” He inhaled. “I sent her an invitation. I didn’t think she’d actually have the nerve to show up, but she did. I couldn’t believe she accepted…so as soon as she did, I of course invited Anne Howard and Leslie MacKenzie.” He sighed. “I seriously didn’t think anyone would kill her…I just feel bad for Anne and Leslie. They’re staying at the Maintenon, too, you know. It doesn’t look good for either one of them.”

  “Are they here?”

  “That’s Leslie at the food table.” He nodded in that direction. “You want to meet her?”

  I nodded and followed him over to the table.

  Leslie MacKenzie was small—that was the first thing I noticed about her, and whenever I’d thought of her since then all I could think about was how small she was. She couldn’t have been taller than five feet, and she couldn’t have weighed more than ninety pounds on a fat day. She had salt-and-pepper hair cut very short. She was wearing a pair of khaki shorts that she was swimming in, and a black T-shirt with I Love My Gay Son written across the front in gold glitter. The most dominant feature in her face was her eyes—they were enormous and a vibrant, warm dark brown. She wasn’t wearing much makeup, and there were wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and mouth. She could have been any age from thirty-five to sixty. “It’s lovely to meet you,” she said once Jerry had introduced us. “This is my son, Lance.”