by Dorien Grey
“Yeah, it is,” Elliott said. “It would bore most people cross-eyed, but I really enjoy it.”
“Steve said he did a painting of one of them.”
Elliott was aware Gil hadn’t taken his eyes off him since Steve had left, and didn’t really know what to make of it. He wondered what else Steve might have said about either the painting or the building.
“Yes, he did,” he verified. “As a matter of fact, he was the one who found my current project for me. Interesting how things work out.”
Gil gave him a small smile. “Isn’t it.”
Steve appeared in the doorway to the main part of the restaurant, a waitress directly behind him. Gesturing, he said “Our table’s ready,” and Elliott and Gil rose to follow them inside.
* * *
Giving a small wave as Steve’s car pulled back down the ramp to Sheridan Road, Elliott entered his building and headed for the elevators. It had been a pleasant evening, and he decided he liked Gil, despite his hesitation before they met.
During dinner, Steve had invited him to join them for a Saturday trip to the Art Institute. He had declined on the grounds of having some business paperwork to handle, though the real reason was that he felt the two friends needed some time to themselves. However, since Steve had raved to Gil about the view from Elliott’s condo and they had talked of Steve’s most recent painting, Elliott had countered the invitation with one of his own—for them to come by for drinks after the Art Institute.
As he was getting ready for bed, he reflected briefly that this would be the first weekend since they’d met that he and Steve hadn’t slept together at least one night.
* * *
Though he heard nothing directly from John during the night, he did dream of the Anvil and Button, and somebody he assumed to be Irv Wilson, which he took to be a sign that, despite his reservations, he should make another attempt to reach Wilson. He had no idea what he might learn but felt it was worth a try.
* * *
Cessy called Saturday afternoon to ask him over for an early Sunday dinner, and he readily accepted.
“Would you like to ask Steve?” she suggested.
“He has a friend in from out of town,” Elliott replied, without going further into detail. He didn’t know what Steve and Gil might have planned for Sunday, but he did not want them to feel obligated to invite him along. Cessy’s invitation provided a good excuse in case they did.
Saturday evening went well. Steve and Gil came by around five thirty and spent a couple of hours over drinks and some makeshift hors d’oeuvres. Gil seemed delighted with the condo, the view, and Steve’s painting. When Steve suggested they all go to dinner, Elliott was hesitant, but both men insisted he join them, so he agreed.
After dinner, they hit a couple of the quieter bars. “I’m not much of a bar person,” Gil had said. “Once you turn forty you start becoming invisible.” Steve dismissed the idea, but it was a subject that had always bothered Elliott as probably being true.
He made a point to mention he was having dinner at his sister’s Sunday—he didn’t specify the time—to forestall any possible invitations. Steve responded with, “Well, we’ll really have to get together again before Gil leaves.” Elliott offered to take them to dinner Tuesday night, the night before Gil’s departure.
* * *
Cessy had told him dinner would be at three, but that he should come by early to spend a little time with the kids.
“We hardly ever see you anymore,” she said, and he realized that, by her standards, she was probably right. He’d not been over for Dinner at the Priebes’ for a while, so on the way over he stopped to pick up some flowers as a peace offering.
He’d been a little surprised that dinner would be at three—a definite break in the family’s Sunday routine, which usually meant lunch around one after returning from church and dinner around seven. Brad and Cessy, he had learned, were going to a retirement party for Brad’s immediate superior in the Homicide Division at five o’clock, so Cessy wanted to make sure the kids had their main meal before she and Brad left for the affair.
He arrived shortly after two to find Brad and BJ in the garage working on a lawnmower, which apparently had given up the ghost halfway through mowing the yard. He exchanged greetings then headed into the house. He never knocked.
Cessy was nowhere to be seen, but Jenny was setting plates and silverware on the kitchen table. When she saw him, she stopped what she was doing to run over.
“Uncle Elliott!” she exclaimed, beaming, arms open wide. “Hi there, Ladybug.” He scooped her up and gave her an exaggerated bear hug.
“I’ve missed you!” she said as he set her back on the floor.
“Well, it’s only been three or four years. Have you started college yet?”
“You’re silly!”
“Where’s your Mom?”
“She’s upstairs changing Sandy. Do you want me to call her?”
“Nah,” he replied. “She’ll be down in a minute.” Seeing the stack of plates, he said, “You want me to help you set the table?”
“I can do it,” she said, and Elliott pulled out a chair and sat down. He listened with attentive bemusement as she enthusiastically told him of everything she’d done since she’d last talked to him.
Cessy came downstairs with the baby just as Elliott heard the lawnmower kick to life and move out into the yard.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were here?” she asked, putting Sandy in her playpen and coming over for a quick hug.
“I didn’t want to interrupt you. Besides, Jenny and I have been talking, right, Jen?”
The girl nodded happily.
Brad entered from the side door as the sound of mowing continued.
“All fixed?” Elliott asked.
Brad nodded, going to the sink to wash his hands. “I don’t know where that kid finds rocks to run over, but somehow he manages. I’m going to have to invest in cotter-pin stock if he keeps this up. Want a beer before dinner?”
“Sure.” Elliott glanced at Cessy. “There’s time?”
“There’s always time for a beer,” Brad answered for her, drying his hands on the towel looped through the refrigerator handle then pulling the door open and reaching inside for the bottles.
The two men moved into the living room, Elliott pausing to pick Sandy up from her playpen for a hug on the way.
They sat in silence for a few moments, drinking their beer, until Brad said, “So, you find out anything more on that Somers matter?”
Elliott shook his head. “Not much. I’ve talked to his business partner, and there’s somebody else I’m going to try to see, but other than that…” He looked up to find Brad staring at him.
“I’m still not convinced this is a very good idea,” Brad said. “Not that I can stop you. I just don’t want you to get into something you can’t get out of.”
Elliott took another swig of his beer. He understood Brad’s position. He knew Brad wasn’t convinced that Bill Somers’ death was a suicide but was unable to officially pursue the matter, so perhaps he wouldn’t really mind if someone else did.
“Don’t worry,” Elliott assured him. “All I’m trying to do is fill in some of the blanks. I’ll pass anything I find on to you. If I can learn anything that might lead you to reopen the case, it’s worth it.”
Brad shrugged. “Maybe.”
Elliott realized the sound of the lawnmower had ceased when BJ came in from the kitchen, heading for the stairs. They exchanged casually truncated greetings as Cessy called, “Dinner in ten minutes.”
Elliott and Brad finished their beers in silence. When BJ came back downstairs, they followed him into the kitchen. As they were approaching the doorway, Brad looked at Elliott and said, “Be careful.”
Oddly touched—and mildly puzzled—by his brother-in-law’s concern, Elliott merely nodded.
* * *
On his way home, his mind on nothing in particular, he suddenly thought of the Anvil and Irv Wilson. He
automatically made a quick check to see if he could detect John’s presence and, therefore, possible influence, but there was nothing, so the thought must have been his own.
The bartender had said Wilson usually came in on Sunday afternoons. Glancing at the dashboard clock he noted it was nearly five and decided to drive by. If there was a place to park, he’d stop in; if not, he’d just go on home.
As he turned onto Granville, he saw both sides of the street were, as usual, lined solid with cars, but as he got closer a car on his side pulled out. Though he really wasn’t that keen on going to the bar, he took it as a sign that he should, and therefore did.
There were more customers in the place than he expected, but he quickly noticed that the third seat from the end—the one he’d been told Irv Wilson always took—was empty. He was debating on whether to order a drink or just leave when he saw Button standing near the door, engaged in conversation with a very short, dark-haired, rather fragile-looking guy- in his late thirties or early forties with a round, smooth, wide-eyed face that didn’t seem to go with the rest of his body. He looked, Elliott thought, like a very old baby. Button himself, though not in a suit, was dressed as though he were awaiting a call from GQ.
Turning to go, Elliott hoped he could do so unobtrusively, having decided the whole trip-to-the-bar idea hadn’t been a very good one and he just wanted to go home. However, Button spotted him before he made it to the door.
“Elliott! How good to see you,” greeting him as though they were old friends. He did a half-turn to his companion and said, “This is my friend Paul. I was telling you about him the last time you were in.”
Elliott extended his hand, and was rather surprised by the little man’s firm handshake.
“Nice to meet you,” Paul said in an unexpectedly deep, rich bass, and Elliott immediately thought the guy could make a fortune on a gay porn phone line.
“I think I mentioned that Paul was a friend of Bill Somers and his partner, Aaron. I thought maybe you might like to meet him.”
“Indeed,” Elliott said. “Let me go grab a drink. Can I get you anything?”
“I never turn down a drink offer,” Button said with a wide smile. “Tanqueray rocks, if you don’t mind.”
Elliott looked to Paul. “Paul?”
Paul indicated his glass, which was a little less than half full. “Thanks, but no. I really have to be getting home after this one.”
Excusing himself, Elliott headed for the bar. He was suddenly not in so great a hurry to get home.
* * *
Returning with the drinks, he didn’t waste any time in getting to the point.
“So, you knew both Bill and Aaron,” he said to Paul.
“Bill and I go way, way back,” Paul replied with a smile. “Did you know him?”
“I’m afraid not,” Elliott admitted. “But I’m doing some work on the building he and Aaron were living in when they died, and when I heard their story from another tenant, I was kind of fascinated.”
Paul took a sip of his drink, then sighed. “Like a Greek tragedy,” he said. “They don’t come much sadder. They were both wonderful people, and I was so happy when they found each other. It was the best thing that ever happened to either of them.”
“How’s that?” Elliott asked.
“Well, as I say, I knew Bill much longer than I knew Aaron, but they both had a rough life. Bill’s parents died within a year of one another, so he was on his own from the time he was eighteen. He worked his way through college and really made something of himself.
“As for Aaron, he’d always been in fragile health, and after his parents also died he was saddled with looking after his younger brother Bruce, who from what I could gather was and probably still is a real shit. He loathes gays and treated Aaron with total contempt except when he wanted something. Other than that, they almost never spoke.
“How Aaron put up with it, I’ll never know. He worked his tail off, but no matter how much he did for Bruce, it was never enough. Bruce had big visions of being the next Norman Rockwell, and Aaron put him through art school and then when Bruce couldn’t make it on his own, got him a job working for an ad agency. Aaron paid for Bruce’s wedding and even helped set his wife up in business, then ‘loaned’ them the money for a house—though I’ll bet he never saw a penny of it in repayment. But Aaron never complained. The only way I knew any of this was from what Bill told me.”
Button, who had been standing silently listening, shook his head. “Just goes to show how little you know about people you think you know,” he said. “I honestly never even knew Aaron had a brother. Makes me appreciate being an only child.”
The conversation moved on to other subjects, and they talked for another few minutes until Paul drained his glass and said, “Well, it’s been very nice talking with you, but I’ve really got to be getting on home. I hope we’ll see one another again.” Setting his glass on an empty table, he extended his hand to Elliott and, after the handshake, turned to hug Button. “See you soon.” And with a small wave, he left the bar.
“Nice guy,” Elliott said as the door closed behind Paul.
“They don’t come much nicer,” Button replied. “He was truly devastated when he heard that Bill had died. From the minute Aaron called him to say Bill had disappeared—he called me, too, of course, and everyone else who knew Bill—Paul said he knew Bill was dead, though he never told Aaron. And then when Aaron died, too…”
“Paul knew Bill was dead before he was found?”
Button nodded, taking another sip of his drink. “He didn’t know, of course, but he was sure it was the only explanation for his disappearance. He did his best to console Aaron, but of course, he couldn’t.”
They were quiet for a moment until Button said, “So, what brings you in this evening?”
“Actually, I just stopped in to see if Irv Wilson might be here.” Indicating the vacant third stool from the end with a nod of his head, he added, “I gather he’s not.”
“You just missed him!” Button replied. “He left not more than ten minutes before you walked in. Consider yourself lucky.”
“Now you’ve got me curious,” Elliott said.
“Well, don’t get too curious, or you’ll regret it. I heard of one guy who used to come in here who moved out of town to get away from him.”
“That bad?” Elliott asked.
Button nodded. “Yep.” Laying a hand lightly on Elliott’s arm, he said, “If you don’t mind my asking, why in the world would you want to meet Irv? You have no idea what you might be letting yourself in for.”
Smiling, Elliott said, “Well, I’ve heard enough not to become a fly caught in his web. I just want to size him up for myself.”
Withdrawing his hand, Button took a sip of his drink. “Well, you’re a big boy. Just be careful.”
“I will. So, tell me, I gather from what you said that you didn’t know Aaron all that well.”
“Not nearly as well as I knew Bill, I’m afraid. But he seemed like a really good person. And to have both him and Bill dead…” His voice trailed off, and he was silent for a moment before continuing. “You know, though he and Bill were very happy, I could always sense sadness in the back of Aaron’s eyes. Of course, after listening to Paul, if I had a brother like Aaron’s, I can certainly see why. Maybe that was part of the sadness. But, strange as it sounds, I always got the impression that Aaron knew he was going to die soon.” He sighed deeply. “Too soon, alas.”
Deciding a subject change might be in order, Elliott asked, “Do you know if Irv ever gets physical with the guys he fixates on?”
“Not that I know of. But you don’t have to be beaten up to be afraid you might be. Irv’s a stalker, and it’s only a matter of time before he does something—if he hasn’t already. Let’s just say I wouldn’t want to put him in my will.”
Elliott took the last swallow of his drink, and put the empty glass on the table next to Paul’s.
“Sure you don’t want another?” But
ton asked.
“Thanks, but no, I’d better get going. It was nice seeing you again, Button,” he said, extending his hand, “and I appreciate the information.”
“Well, don’t be a stranger,” Button said with a smile. It was exactly what he’d said the last time.
“I won’t,” Elliott replied, rather hoping he was lying, but afraid he wasn’t. Picking up both empty glasses, he carried them over to set them on the bar, nodded again to Button, and left.
For some reason, as he drove toward home, Button’s mention of wills made him think of John’s observation that Aaron hadn’t had one.
CHAPTER 7
I checked with Aaron.
About what?
About his not having a will. I asked him—though we still don’t actually converse the way you and I do—after you thought about it on the way home.
There you go reading my thoughts again!
I know, I know. Sorry. I phrased that wrong. I’m not with you every waking minute, and when I am, I don’t spend all my time in here just wandering around your mind waiting to pounce on your every thought. It’s just that I can sense some of them without seeking them out. I can’t really explain it, but trust me on this.
Do I have much choice? So, what did he say?
Asking Aaron a question is still a lot like looking for one specific button in a button jar. I have to do a lot of sifting through feelings and emotions to get to what he’s saying. But it’s becoming easier, and he seems to be learning how to separate things and focus a bit. Anyway, what I got was that he and Bill had an appointment with a lawyer, but they never kept it.
I don’t suppose he said why?
I asked, but the emotions…mostly frustration and sadness…came rushing in and swept away the words. I’d guess that Bill disappeared before they could keep the appointment. I can try for a more specific response again later, when he’s calmed down.
I’m still not sure what this will thing is all about. I assume Aaron’s brother got everything.
Yes, and Aaron wasn’t very happy about that. I think that may have been one reason he’d never made a will before—he didn’t want to just hand over everything to his brother. He’d been doing that all his life. Without a will everything would have had to go through the hassles of the probate process. A small sign of rebellion, but to Aaron a significant one. He wanted to leave everything to Bill, of course, but…
