by Dorien Grey
Elliott, as always, kept a running mental tab on what each repair would cost, and Ted, Arnie, and Sam took notes within their specific areas of expertise. On their return to Armitage, they gathered in Elliott’s office to go over them with him, including their rough estimate of the cost of their part of the job. The consensus was that the ratio of potential work involved to the profitability of the results was favorable. Elliott took note of the team’s individual and usually fairly accurate cost estimates to compare with his own, and spent the rest of the afternoon going over them.
He was also aware, throughout the day, that nothing was being done to resolve the question of who had killed Bruno.
*
Cessy called shortly after he got home and, after their usual chat, said Brad wanted to talk with him. Curious, since it was usually he who initiated talks with Brad, he said, “Sure,” and held the phone while she went to get her husband.
“Did you hear from Frank or George today, by any chance?”
“No. I was hoping to at some point but haven’t yet. I’ve been fighting the temptation to call them, but… What’s up?”
“Well, I assume they will be calling, but knowing your curiosity I thought I’d fill you in. I talked to them this morning, and it seems they’re zeroing in on the guru for Caesar’s murder. They talked to Bennie and subsequently contacted the NYPD to ask them to look into the stamp collector…Ferrell? It turns out he does have a set of four Inverted Jennys, but he insisted he’s had them for years. However, the certificate of ownership was a recent reissue. He claims the original was lost or destroyed, though he couldn’t be specific.
“The NYPD also checked into his finances and found that, while there’s no direct financial link between him and Blanton, Ferrell has a foundation that issues grants and which did, in fact, fund a ‘metaphysical retreat’ in Wisconsin and something called ‘Inner Peace Media.’
“Frank and George had checked your building’s surveillance tapes, and they show Blanton leaving shortly before one a.m. They figure he managed to get back in through the rear entrance, though at this point there’s no way to verify it because the cameras for that door weren’t working. They don’t have enough for an arrest yet, but they’re hoping to find a final link.”
“Thanks, Brad, I really appreciate it. And if I do hear from either Guerdon or Cabrera, I’ll let it all be a surprise.”
“Do that.”
*
Continuously pushing away thoughts of Bruno’s death and the investigation into it, he spent Monday night going over his notes on the six-unit and refining his calculations of projected costs against potential profit. He then came up with a purchase price he could live with. While he liked the building, it wasn’t one of his favorites. If the owners were willing to go along with his offer, fine. If not, he would keep looking.
He notified Larry Tuesday morning to approach the owners with an offer, then spent the rest of the day giving his crew their assignments, ordering supplies for the various jobs, waiting for the installation of his business phone, and general busywork.
When Steve got home, they had a quick drink before Elliott showered and put on the change of clothes he’d brought with him. They left for Jesse and Adam’s early enough so Steve could take a look at the new prospective property.
“Interesting. I like the leaded glass. Not much you can do with the outside, but with some creative landscaping and lighting…”
Elliott grinned. “Two great minds with but a single thought.”
*
Though Steve had never met Adam or Jesse, he seemed perfectly at ease, a trait that always impressed Elliott. While Adam saw to fixing drinks and Jesse asked Elliott’s advice on building a gazebo for the back yard, Ricky invited Steve to see his room.
When they returned, Elliott noticed Steve kept glancing at him as though he wanted to tell him something, but since there was no easy opportunity to do so, they just went on with the evening.
After Adam brought their drinks, Ricky excused himself to go to the kitchen to see about dinner.
As if anticipating the question, Jesse said, “When we hired Ricky we certainly didn’t intend for him to be a cook, too, but he volunteered, and we were delighted he did. It sure makes it easier on us. And he’s a hell of a lot better cook than Adam.”
“I’m really glad it’s working out for you,” Elliott said.
“We owe you for sending him to us,” Jesse said. “He’s been a huge asset.”
They left around ten o’clock, and as they headed for the car, Elliott said, “You looked like you wanted to tell me something when you came back from Ricky’s room. What was it?”
“Did you notice the drip candle on Ricky’s dresser?”
“The one in the champagne bottle? Yeah, why?”
“Did you get a look at the bottle?”
“Not really.”
“The label is almost covered, but I could still read the brand.”
“And?”
“Moët & Chandon. Sound familiar?”
It did.
Chapter 12
Wednesday morning, Elliott called Ricky as soon as Steve left for work.
“Hi, Elliott. You just missed Jesse and Adam.”
“That’s okay. It’s you I wanted to talk to.”
“Me? What’s up?”
“Can I come over? Now?”
There was an understandable hesitation before: “Uh, sure. Is something wrong?”
“No, I think something’s right. I’ll explain when I see you.”
Within less than fifteen minutes, he was ringing the doorbell. Ricky opened the door almost immediately, his expression a mixture of confusion and concern.
“Come on in,” he said. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“No, thanks. I didn’t mean to alarm you, but I wanted to talk to you as soon as I could. Can I see the candle in your bedroom?”
Ricky’s obvious confusion deepened. “Sure.”
He led Elliott to his room and unnecessarily pointed to the bottle and candle.
“Can I ask where you got it?”
“From Bruno’s party, the night…the night he died.”
“Did he serve champagne at the party?”
“No. He deliberately didn’t order any champagne. I guess he wanted to make a point or something.”
“So, where did this one come from?”
Ricky paused, brows furrowed. “I don’t know. I went into the kitchen to get a couple of ice cubes, and it was sitting on the counter.”
“Right inside the door, by the sink?”
“Yeah. How did you know? I took it in to Bruno, and he asked me where it came from, and I said I didn’t know, and he said we should open it, and we did.”
Picking up the bottle, careful not to knock the candle off or break off any of the dripped wax, he saw Steve had been right—the label said “Moët & Chandon.” And he saw, as he tilted the bottle slightly, that it was not empty.
“There’s still a something in here!”
“Yes, I know. We each had two glasses, and there was a little left over, and then that’s about all I remember. The next day, when I started cleaning up from the party just to take my mind off what had happened, I found it and realized it was the last bottle of champagne Bruno had ever had or ever would have so I couldn’t just dump it out.
“I took it into our room and put a candle in it and lit it in memory of Bruno. I let a little wax run down so it wouldn’t just be a candle stuck in a bottle, and then I blew it out and I don’t think I’ll ever light it again. Now, every time I look at it, it’s almost like Bruno is still here.” He studied Elliott’s face as if he were looking for…something. “What is this all about?”
“Let me make a phone call, and I’ll tell you.”
*
Detectives Guerdon and Cabrera arrived about two hours later, looking more than a little put-upon and far less than happy to see Elliott.
“So?” Cabrera said as they entered, “what’s
so important you couldn’t tell us over the phone? What do you have?”
Elliott told them.
*
Two weeks passed. No visits from John. No scent of Old Spice. Not a word from Cabrera or Guerdon. Elliott had no idea what was going on with their investigation, or with Rudy or Cage or Blanton, and while he tried to convince himself it didn’t matter, his frustration continued to build.
He’d made an offer on the limestone six-unit, and it had been accepted after the usual dickering. Returning to his condo on a Saturday afternoon while Steve worked on his latest painting, he found a message from Brad on his machine and immediately returned the call. He’d talked with Brad a couple of times since his meeting with Cabrera and Guerdon, and was told they were waiting for the test results on the remaining contents of the bottle.
BJ answered the phone, and Elliott asked to speak to his dad.
“Just a second.”
The silence lasted far longer than a second, and Elliott realized how impatient he’d been lately.
Finally, “Hi, Elliott. I’ve got some news for you—a couple of things, actually. Walter Means has been arrested for Bruno Caesar’s murder, and his wife’s being charged as an accomplice. The lab results show definite traces of chloral hydrate in the champagne bottle.
“Means is denying everything, but it turns out he’s been living way over his head for years, and had been steadily losing clients. When the market tanked, he was on the brink of losing everything. He’d apparently been dipping into Caesar’s funds for quite a while. He believed Bruno was on to him and was going to report him. Caesar’s signatures on paperwork authorizing stock sales were forged…by Means’ wife.
“As for the murder, we figure that Means had easy access to the stairwells, and his chances of encountering anyone there at one thirty in the morning were next to nil. Bruno’s kitchen door was unlocked, so all Means had to do was open it just far enough to reach in, put the bottle on the edge of the sink and return to his unit. When he came back a while later and saw the bottle was gone, he took a chance on going in.
“Exactly how he got Caesar out onto the balcony and over the railing isn’t clear, and Means, of course, swears he’s innocent. But they’ve got enough against him to make a pretty airtight case.”
Elliott felt some of the emotional weight lifting off him.
“I still have a hard time imagining how Means could have been so stupid as to drug a bottle of champagne so obviously linked to him.”
“Well, I think you told me once you thought Means was an arrogant SOB. He probably assumed, correctly, that by the time the drugs were discovered in Bruno’s body, all the evidence would have been removed. And maybe he thinks everybody drinks Moët & Chandon champagne.”
“Yeah, but he didn’t count on Ricky’s keeping the bottle, and not emptying it out.”
“I just thought you’d like to know. I’m sorry George and Frank didn’t keep in touch with you, but…”
“I understand, and I really appreciate your keeping me posted like this.” He paused a moment. “You said there were a couple of things?”
“Oh, yeah. While the NYPD couldn’t find any direct money link to…damn, I can’t think of his name!”
“Clifford Blanton.”
“Right! Anyway, those stamps he claims are his are being held until the rightful owner can be determined.”
“That’s great! Again, Brad, I can’t thank you enough.”
After hanging up, Elliott resisted the temptation to call Steve and, instead, stood in front of the sliding doors to the balcony, looking out over the city and going over the conversation.
As to the ownership of the stamps, he had little doubt Cage, either on his own or with Rudy’s encouragement, would claim them. Elliott had heard nothing of or from either man in weeks, and was happy to keep it that way; but he decided that if anyone contested Ricky’s right to the stamps, he would turn the matter over to his own lawyers to handle on Ricky’s behalf.
His reverie was interrupted by the phone.
“Ell, hi. I know we were supposed to get together for dinner tonight, but I’m really getting close to finishing my painting, and I want to keep working on it until it’s done. Do you mind?”
Deciding not to bring up his conversation with Brad until they were face-to-face, he said, “No, that’s fine. You go ahead. I think I can survive a Saturday night alone. Let’s just not make it a habit.”
Steve laughed. “We won’t, believe me. Brunch tomorrow, for sure. Around eleven?”
“You got it.”
He planned on just spending the evening relaxing, but found himself going over the past few months and feeling a familiar, indescribable sense of discomfort. Sitting in front of the TV but not really paying attention to what was going on, he let his mind wandering further and further afield, until he just closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift off.
You’re doing it again.
What?
Exactly the same thing you did with me and with Aaron—going through your own version of postpartum depression.
Yeah, I suppose you’re right. It’s just…well, damn it, there should be more. It shouldn’t just fizzle out, like air out of punctured tire.
And so I ask you once again—what did you expect? A knockdown-drag-out fight? Swat teams? A car chase, with helicopters? An earthquake? That’s fine for movies and books, where ‘The End” is the end. But life just ain’t like that. It goes on after the crime has been solved and the bad guys get their just desserts. One of the reasons we read books and go to movies and watch TV shows is because at the end everything is tied up with neat little bows. Real life is one long loose end. Get used to it.
Elliott felt himself sigh.
So, tie up a couple loose ends for me now.
If I can.
Why absolutely nothing from either you or Bruno in two weeks? Does he even know what’s going on? I mean, we’ve spent months trying to find out who killed him and why, and when we do find out…nothing. Nada. Zip.
Again, I’m sorry. Really. I’ve tried to tell you how differently time works for us, but I can’t expect you to understand. Sometimes, it’s pretty much parallel, other times…it’s not. When you’re distracted or upset or there’s some big trauma, time still keeps moving for you at exactly the same pace. For us, it doesn’t.
Look, I wish I could explain things better, but…I’d say the best way to describe why you haven’t been aware of Bruno lately is that when he realized what had happened to him, time stopped. He’s adjusting.
And when he adjusts?
Well, then what happens is pretty much up to him. Since he’s found out what he’s been staying around to find out, I assume he’ll just go through the gate. I can’t imagine he’d feel any need to stick around.
So, that’s it?
Pretty much, I’m afraid.
Thanks. I feel a whole lot better. Anticlimaxes are always a lot of fun.
*
He awoke about two thirty, still in his chair. Feeling groggy and drugged, he turned off the TV and went to bed.
He was still in a foul mood when he woke up around eight, but several cups of coffee and a long shower helped. Plus, thinking back over his conversation with John, he realized John was right. Books are books, movies are movies, TV is TV, and life is life.
He called Steve before he left the condo to be sure brunch plans were still on. Being told they were, he headed on over.
“So, the painting finished?” he asked as Steve let him in.
“Yep. I think you’ll like it. Wanna see it?”
“Of course!”
With a courtly sweep of his arm, Steve said, “Right this way.”
Elliott followed him to the studio, where the painting stood on an easel facing the window. Walking around it, he saw it was a full-color oil version of the pastel Steve had made of his vision for the Armitage building before any work had been done on it. As with all of Steve’s work, Elliott was in awe of the detail and the sense of
nonphotographic reality it conveyed.
“This is beautiful! I don’t know how you do—” he began, and stopped short when he realized Steve had painted the suggestion of a male figure in the third-floor turret window. Steve almost never put people in his architectural paintings, and had done so only once before that Elliott knew of.
“Very deliberate this time,” Steve said, seeing Elliott’s reaction. “It’s Bruno in his old apartment. I figure I owed it to him. I know he was happy there, and if he hadn’t told you about this place, none of this…” He gestured around the room. “…would have happened.”
A slight scent of Old Spice came and went.
“You’re welcome,” Steve said.
End
About the Author
Dorien Grey started out as a pen name, nothing more, for a lifelong book and magazine editor who wanted to write his own novels as a bridge between the gay and straight communities. However, because he was living in a remote and time-warped area of the upper Midwest where gays still feel it necessary to keep a very low profile, he did not feel comfortable using his own name—a sad commentary on our society, he admits.
But as his first book, a detective novel, led to the second and then the third, he found Dorien slowly became much more than a pseudonym, evolving into an alter ego.
“It’s reached the point,” he said, “where all I have to do is sit down at the computer and let Dorien tell the story.”
Dorien’s “real person” had a not-uninteresting life. Two years into college, he left to join the Naval Aviation Cadet program. He washed out and spent the rest of his brief military career on an aircraft carrier in the Mediterranean. The journal he kept of his time in the military, in the form of letters home, honed his writing skills and provided him with a wealth of experiences to draw from in his future writing.
Returning to college after service, he graduated with a BA in English and embarked on a series of jobs that led him into the editing field. While working for a Los Angeles publishing house, he was instrumental in establishing a division exclusively for the publication of gay paperbacks and magazines, of which he became editor. He moved on to edit a leading L.A.-based international gay men’s magazine.
