Dead In Red

by L. L. Bartlett

  “You okay?” I asked.

  “Sure. It’s Richard who’s bummed. He’s making himself crazy over you.”

  “Me?”

  “He’s bored. Right now, you’re his only diversion. If something’s going on with you, couldn’t you share it with him?” Her voice was nonchalant and she didn’t bother to look at me. Meanwhile, all my muscles tightened.

  I’d been over my little adventure again and again in the last half hour. What had I actually seen in the seconds from the time the bike turned the corner to me landing on the concrete floor? A black motorcycle—manufacturer unknown; a biker clad in black leather and a black helmet. I hadn’t even thought to report it. I couldn’t give a better description and I’d bet the guy who also witnessed it couldn’t either. I might just be paranoid.

  I might.

  I tilted my bottle back for another swallow. “Nothing’s going on with me.”

  Brenda eyed me for a long moment. “If you say so.”

  She knew how to challenge me, but I wasn’t going to bite—not this time. And yet I felt an unreasonable anger toward my closest of kin. Okay, I was a member of Richard’s household, but I still deserved my privacy. I’d lost a lot since the mugging; my health, at least half my possessions, and a hell of a lot of my dignity. I didn’t feel the need to consult with him on everything I did or experienced. Especially with what I’d recently experienced.

  I didn’t need to hear “I told you so.”

  Footsteps foretold Richard’s arrival. He paused at the doorway. It didn’t take a psychic to feel the tension in that kitchen. “Supper almost ready?” he asked Brenda, like I’d turned into the invisible man.

  “Almost.”

  He crossed to the cabinet next to me, withdrew the Famous Grouse bottle, then grabbed a whiskey glass. “Ice.”

  “It’s in the freezer,” I said.

  “Yes.” He half-filled the glass with ice, then poured his scotch. He leaned against the counter, his elbow brushing mine, and sipped his drink. “Tough day at the salt mine?”

  “Just peachy.”

  He nodded.

  I knew what he was up to, invading my personal space, but I wasn’t going to be the first to move. I fixed my gaze on nothing, tipped my beer back and took another swig.

  Brenda shook her head and charged forward, pushing us away from the sink. “I need to get the vegetables going—so outta my way.”

  We retreated to our regular seats facing one another at the table.

  Richard stared at me.

  I stared back.

  “I need to borrow your camera.”

  “What for?”

  “To take a picture.”

  “Of what?”

  “Possibly a suspect.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t want to talk about that right now.”

  “Why not? Think Brenda or I will go blabbing about it to someone?”

  “No, I don’t. I just . . . don’t want to talk about it. Can I borrow your camera or not?”

  Richard took another sip of his drink and shrugged. “I guess. When?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Fine.”

  “Thanks.”

  Brenda whirled. “Will you two just stop it! I’m sick of it. You’re behaving like a couple of spoiled brats.”

  Richard turned his gaze to me, all wide-eyed innocence. “You know what she’s talking about?”

  I shook my head. “Nope.”

  “Neither do I.”

  Fists clenched at her side, Brenda exhaled a breath, her irritation palpable. “Men!”

  # # #

  CHAPTER 11

  There are distinct pleasures to being filthy rich—which Richard most certainly was. His top-of-the-line Nikon could probably be found at any newspaper around the country, and it was just what I needed to get candids of Cyn on her way into work. The problem was finding an inconspicuous place to take them from.

  I spent an enjoyable evening reading the entire manual and playing with the camera. Not that I hadn’t fooled with it before. Photography had long been a hobby of mine, and I still planned to set up a black-and-white darkroom in my new apartment. I loved digital, but there was something about good old-fashioned silver halide that kept me hankering for my old single lens reflex.

  By the time I turned out the light, I felt comfortable using the camera. Richard and I hadn’t sniped at one another while we went over the downloading procedure on his computer, either. Even Brenda’s ire had cooled when I presented her with a minutes-old shot of her most-charming smile.

  Dana, the mill’s baker, had said Cyn usually strolled in around nine. I wasn’t going to take a chance of missing her, so at eight-thirty I’d already parked my car two blocks away on Main Street and hoofed it down the side street to case out a hiding place.

  The sun was already blazing and I was grateful to duck into the shadow of a Dumpster near the Hawk’s Nest restaurant. Sweat beaded along my temples as I considered Cyn’s reasons for legal action should she see me: harassment, stalking. If she was friendly with the restaurant’s owner she might even get me picked up for trespassing. And who was I going to show the photo to anyway? The whole idea was beginning to seem absurd when Cyn’s black Mercedes with New Mexico plates parked across the way.

  I really was out of practice doing this kind of work. My hands were shaking and I had to steady the camera against the Dumpster to take the shots. Bing, bing, bing. She never suspected a thing. I waited for her to get inside the mill before I dared move out of the shadows. Still, I couldn’t wait to see the pictures and punched them up. They looked pretty good on the camera’s tiny screen. Only an enlargement would tell me how good.

  “Hey!” A skinny, T-shirt-and-jeans-clad kid stood on the deck at the back of the restaurant, unlit cigarette in his hand, staring down at me. “What the fuck you doin’ down there?”

  Shielding the camera, I took off, jogging west, away from the mill and the guy’s heated shouts. Cold sweat poured off me as I circled round to the front of the building, easing into a brisk walk—not looking left or right—until I got to my car. I jumped in and burned rubber hightailing it out of there.

  The bar didn’t open for another two hours, so I had plenty of time to go home and download the shots, but reconsidered. I wasn’t yet ready to let Richard know my suspicions about his former friend and instead made for a professional photo shop.

  Two of the shots weren’t up to my usual standard, but then Cyn wasn’t nearly as photogenic as Brenda—or maybe it was just because I didn’t like her that the thought occurred to me. The third picture was good enough to show around.

  I could’ve gone home, returned Richard’s camera and still had plenty of time to get back to the bar before opening. Instead, I purged the camera of the morning’s pictures, packed it in the trunk, and headed straight for work.

  I wasn’t ready to face Richard’s inevitable questions.

  Tom was already at the bar when I got there, nearly forty-five minutes early. “Don’t you ever sleep?” I asked as I tied an apron around my waist.

  “Ya never sleep when you run a business like this,” he said, looking over his reading glasses from behind the desk in his office.

  I withdrew Cyn’s photo from the envelope I’d brought in with me. “You ever see this woman before?”

  Tom studied the picture, shook his head.

  “She didn’t show up at Walt’s funeral?”

  Tom looked annoyed. “There were five of us there. I think I would’ve noticed.”

  I took the picture back. “It’s the woman I told you about—Cynthia Lennox.”

  He studied my face. “You think she had something to do with Walt’s death?”

  “I don’t know. I know he was in her place of business sometime before he died. I just don’t know why.”

  Tom’s eyes narrowed. “Where’d you learn that?”

  I turned away, unwilling to look him in the eye. “Around.”

  The Molson truck had made
its weekly stop and another thirty cases of beer awaited me. Loading the cooler had to be the worst part of the job. I hauled out the dolly and loaded it with beer. Before I had a chance to move it, though, Tom emerged from his office and headed into the men’s room with a squirt bottle of Lysol and a roll of paper towels. It was then I decided I’d rather load the cooler.

  Our first customer showed up at 11:02. Construction hadn’t been kind to the orange-shirted worker with a heavily lined face, a halo of salt-and-pepper hair and a five o’clock shadow, who took the stool closest to the taps. He rested his arms on the bar, looking up at the blank TV.

  “It’s too damned quiet in here,” he bellowed across the dead-silent room. I found the remote, switched on the set and cranked up the sound two clicks.

  “What’ll you have?”

  The older guy stared up at me. “Who the hell are you?”

  I turned from the beer taps to face him. He had to be on the high end of fifty. His voice sounded like gravel—the cigarette pack folded into the upturned sleeve of his T-shirt gave away the reason for that. He didn’t seem angry, more . . . depressed. I cut him some slack.

  “Name’s Jeff. Tom hired me last week. What can I get you?”

  He hunkered down on the barstool. “A Molson and a shot.”

  I poured him the beer and gave him a shot of well whiskey. He lifted the shot glass in salute. “To poor Walt. He didn’t deserve to go like that.”

  I watched him down it in a single gulp, then slam the glass onto the bar top. I reached under the bar to grab a bowl of pretzels, plunked them in front of the old guy to grease the wheels of conversation. “I never met Walt. What was he like?”

  “A good guy.” He nodded, staring off into space, sadness making his mouth droop.

  I forced myself to be patient.

  The man took a sip of his beer, set it down and stared into its foamy head. “We worked together for over twenty years with Belfry Construction before he got hurt.” He shook his head. “Damn shame.”

  I waited for him to continue.

  “Cable snapped on one of the cranes. Crushed him under a slab of concrete.” The old guy shuddered and took another gulp of beer. “Never really was the same after that. Hell, who would be?”

  “Yeah,” I agreed lamely, and thought of the mugging that had forever changed me.

  “Walt didn’t have a lotta friends, ya know. Not real ones. Maybe just me.” Then he laughed. “And a course his fancy women.” He laughed again, a greasy, smarmy kind of giggle.

  “Sorry?”

  The old guy leaned closer, lowered his voice. “He liked to buy ’em pretty things. God knows why. They didn’t do anything for him, if you know what I mean.”

  “No, I—”

  “Can I get some service?” came a voice from the other end of the bar. I looked away from the old geezer. An overweight man whose sour expression conveyed his outlook on life sat at the far barstool. He punched the bar with a clenched fist. “Gimme a Bud light.”

  “Excuse me,” I told the geezer and poured sourpuss his beer. He gave me a five and I rang up the sale, handing him the change, which he promptly pocketed. By the time I turned back, the old geezer had gone. A five and two ones sat under his glass.

  Damn. I hadn’t even had a chance to show him Cyn’s picture, let alone ask him about Veronica.

  Fancy women. That accounted for the sequined shoe. And that Walt got nothing in return from these women bore out my theory that he might’ve visited strip clubs. Still, it didn’t feel right.

  I picked up the geezer’s glass, hoping he’d left behind some of his aura. No such luck. Like Richard, he didn’t leave a trace I could tap into, and I had a feeling he wouldn’t return to the bar now that his friend was gone.

  But where the hell would I find Walt’s fancy women? There was only one person I could ask.

  Sourpuss was on his second beer and a couple of the regulars had arrived by the time Tom emerged from his office. Neither of us had done the fruit garnishes and he took a lemon and a lime from the little fridge under the bar and started cutting.

  Time to risk it all. I sidled closer. “Tom, what do you know about Walt’s fancy women?”

  Tom’s head snapped up, his mouth dropped open, his eyes wide. He grabbed me by the arm, dragged me out of sourpuss’s earshot. “Who the hell told you about that?” He licked his lips nervously and glanced over my shoulder, giving the regulars a once-over.

  “Tom, you had to know once you asked me to look into Walt’s death that I’d discover his secrets.”

  “Nobody knew about that stuff. Nobody.”

  “An old work buddy of his did—he was in a little while ago and mentioned it. So who were these women? Strippers?”

  “Not exactly. He only told me about it once. I didn’t want to hear, so he never mentioned it again.”

  “Hear what?”

  Tom ducked his head, whispered: “Drag queens.”

  This time it was my mouth that dropped open. How had my insight missed that little nugget?

  “After his accident, Walt couldn’t— he wasn’t able to . . .” Tom sighed, groping for an explanation. “He couldn’t do ‘it’ anymore. And I’m not sure he really missed it. He was never what you’d call a ladies’ man. I think he was afraid of them. But he liked sexy stuff. And he told me he thought the drag queens were more . . . I dunno, more feminine than the kinds of women he was used to meeting. On the weekends he’d go to some place downtown—around Pearl Street. Just to watch, he said. But that can’t have anything to do with his death.”

  “Tom, it could have everything to do with his death,” I said, thinking about the damned red-sequined high heel and the evil little pillow emblazoned “Veronica.”

  Tom shook his head, definitely in denial.

  “There’s more,” I said. “Walt rented a storage unit on Transit Road. I checked it out the other night and it’s full of porn—specifically, foot-fetish stuff.”

  Tom’s head sagged. He looked like he wanted to puke. “I don’t want you digging into this anymore, Jeff. Please, just drop it.”

  “I can’t. The cops arrested the wrong person for his murder.”

  “So? What’s that to you?”

  “It means an innocent man will probably go to jail for the rest of his life.”

  “The guy’s crazy. He’s a career criminal. He’s—”

  “That still leaves the person who killed Walt running around loose, and free to kill again. Do you want that on your conscience? Because I sure don’t.”

  Tom sighed, guilt and despair twisting his features. “No, I guess I don’t either. But if this stuff about Walt becomes public, it’ll kill my aunt. Damn it, Jeff, she’s eighty-seven. I don’t want her to know how low her son sank.”

  “It’s bound to come out. But she doesn’t have to know you were ever involved.”

  He held out his hands. “I’m not. I’m out of this as of right now.”

  Exactly what I’d expected. Now to voice my bigger fear. “You want me out of here, too?”

  Tom let out a shuddering breath. “If I thought it would keep you from poking around in this whole mess, I’d shitcan you right now.” He wiped a trembling hand over his mouth. “You’re a damn good bartender, much better than Walt was, and the guys seem to like you. But don’t talk about Walt to the customers. Not now—not ever. In this bar, Walt’s memory is respected. You got that?”

  “Got it.”

  Tom nailed me with a glare. “Okay. But let’s not talk about this anymore. No matter what you find out.”

  I didn’t answer because I couldn’t promise I wouldn’t need more information from him later.

  “You girls about done with your chitchat?” I looked over my shoulder at sourpuss who held up his almost-empty glass.

  Tom turned away. I straightened, hardened my features, and faced the jerk. “That was a Bud light, right?”

  “Damn straight.”

  Sourpuss picked up the glass, raised it in salute, tipped
it back and took a big gulp.

  And may you never lose someone you care about to murder, I wished him. Because whatever else I’d find out about Walt Kaplan, I had a feeling the worst was yet to come. Tom didn’t hate me now; how would he feel when whatever else there was to discover came to light?

  # # #

  CHAPTER 12

  Upon my return to Buffalo, I hadn’t been in any shape to investigate the local nightlife, so I knew nothing about it and even less about its drag clubs. The phone book was the first stop in my quest for knowledge. Nothing under bars. Taverns took up an entire page, and nightclubs a mere five inches of type. None of them had display ads. So much for the phone book. Next stop, the Internet.

  Since arriving home, I’d successfully avoided Richard, and even found his computer unoccupied. I slipped into the big leather chair in his study and powered up the machine. I needed my own PC, but that wouldn’t happen until I got my finances back under control. My palms were damp as I logged onto the Internet, fighting the urge to keep looking over my shoulder for Big Brother.

  A Google search later, I had a list of URLs for Buffalo gay bars and drag shows. I clicked on the first one: Club Monticello. White type on a black background gave way to color pictures of the featured acts. Queen Camilla, Libby Lips, Tammy Ten Toes—that sounded like a possibility for Walt—and a trio billed as the Divine Divas. No Veronica.

  I clicked on one of the pictures and a bio and several other professional photographs appeared. Tammy Ten Toes, a buxom pseudo-wench, wore a silver lamé cat suit, one hip thrust forward toward the camera, with her best foot forward—encased in a glittering silver platform heel, her silver-painted toenails sparkling.

  Walt had been titillated by this kind of stuff; I wasn’t. Instead, my thoughts wandered back to Maggie, and the fact that it had been a long time since I got laid.

  “Now what are you up to?”

  I jerked in the chair—my heart racing. Richard appeared behind me, looking surly.

  “Do I have to ask your permission every time I want to look something up online?”