P'town Murders: A Bradford Fairfax Murder Mystery

by Jeffrey Round

  The unkempt garden was a rarity in property-proud Provincetown. The building seemed to be hiding in shame. The stain was peeling badly and the side windows were covered with heavy shutters. What he could see through a broken slat revealed little apart from an untidy living room lined with shelves of figurines. Brad knocked on the door and four huge German shepherds sprang to life, teeth bared, barking furiously through the picture window.

  Brad waited. The barking continued. He was about to give up when he heard a bolt slide to one side. The door opened a crack and the dogs disappeared from the window. They reappeared, ferocious and silent, behind the face staring up from waist level.

  "Hi, how are you today?" Brad said, feeling like an out-of-place Jehovah's Witness. "I was told I should talk to you, uh, about an upcoming party I'm planning?"

  Boy, that was pretty feeble, he thought.

  "Who told you I have anything to do with parties?" the face asked through the crack.

  "Cinder Lindquist," Brad said.

  "Ah, Cinny!"

  The door opened to reveal a man in a rumpled dressing gown seated in a wheelchair. Obviously, thought Brad, he couldn't have been running around shooting people the night before.

  "Come on in," the man said, wheeling his chair about.

  Powerful arms and shoulders propelled him through the room. Brad followed as the dogs whined and sniffed at his crotch.

  "Selma! Patty! Homer! Marge!" their owner called. Reluctantly, the dogs left Brad and went over to sit by the wheelchair.

  The man reached over to a side table and picked up a can of beer. He tilted it at Brad. "Don't mind me," he said with a wink. "I'm just finishing breakfast."

  Brad looked around the room. Rows of action heroes stared menacingly from knick-knack shelves. These were the figurines he'd seen through the windows, guarding the place from above almost as fearsomely as the dogs guarded it from below.

  "X-Men," the man said with a deep laugh. "Each one of them has special talents and abilities. Like me." He looked down at his wheelchair. "Anyway, they're good company. Almost as good as the dogs'."

  He wiped a hand across a graying beard, watching Brad with small black eyes. "Name's Fred," he said finally.

  "Pete," Brad said.

  "You a local boy, Pete?" Fred asked.

  "Just got in last night from Chicago."

  "City of Wind," Fred said with a guffaw, amused by what passed for wit in his mind.

  He indicated a lumpy armchair. "Have a sit, Pete."

  Brad sat on the edge of the cushion. The dogs watched him, drool-covered tongues hanging out of their mouths.

  "I keep the kids just a bit hungry," Fred explained. "It makes them eager."

  Fred reached over and stroked one of the dog's ears. As he did so, Brad glimpsed the handle of what looked like a Colt .45 tucked into a shoulder holster covered by his dressing gown. It vanished as he sat upright. Then again, Brad thought, he needn't have been running last night.

  "So, Pete, what can I do you for?"

  "I hear you've got the best fair-trade dope this side of the rain forests," Brad said.

  Fred smiled. "You've been talking to Big Ruby. No one else calls it that."

  Oops! thought Brad. That definitely was not cool! He smiled sheepishly. "You mean that short dyke at Coffee Joe's?"

  "That would be her."

  "Come to think of it, I did overhear her telling somebody you had the best stuff in town."

  Fred swelled with pride as he took another swig of beer. "Best stuff on the Cape!" he boasted.

  "You must be a major party supplier," Brad said.

  Fred nodded. "The biggest around."

  Small-time criminal, Brad thought. Thinks he's flying low enough under the radar that he can brag about it and not get tagged.

  "Do you supply that house up a-ways from here, the one with no name?"

  A scowl passed over Fred's face. "I never go near the place."

  Brad mustered a look of surprise. "I heard it was the wildest place to party on the Cape, bar none."

  Fred's eyes narrowed. His fingers gripped the arms of his chair. "Bastard ripped me off," he said. "I had a big shipment coming in about a year ago. He was the only one who knew about it. When I drove in, a cop was sitting waiting for me outside of Truro. Busted me up real good. That's why I'm sitting in this chair right now."

  "You saying a cop did that to you?"

  Fred nodded. "At least he was dressed like a cop. Big fellow—dark. Coulda been Chinese."

  Or Mongolian, Brad realized with a flash.

  "Took my dope and tossed me out of his car halfway back to town. Left me lying in the road."

  That sounds familiar, Brad thought.

  "Doctors say I'll never walk again in this lifetime."

  One of the dogs whined as though at the memory. Another barked skittishly at the noise of the first.

  "It's okay, Patty," Fred said, patting her head. "Lucky for me I'm a Buddhist, so I know I'll get to walk again in my next life."

  Yet another Buddhist, Brad noted curiously.

  "But old Hayden Rosengarten's not gonna trouble us again."

  "How can you be so sure of that?" Brad asked.

  Fred smiled. "Because he ain't around anymore. They fished his sorry carcass out of the harbor this morning." "Really?"

  "Really, dude. He got what he had coming to him for a long time now."

  "Kind of a harsh punishment, don't you think?"

  Fred scowled and looked down at his chair. "Maybe you can't see things from where I sit."

  Touché, thought Brad, though it doesn't give you a license for murder. "I guess you'd like to have gotten even with him for what he did to you."

  "Even? I'd've liked to get more than even. I wish I'd had the chance to turn him into road kill, the kind that takes forever to die. He'd be chanting Om-mani-padme-hum. for years."

  "Any idea who got to him?"

  Fred brought his beer down onto the table with a crack. "Listen, dude. You're making me nervous with all these questions. Did you come for dope or town gossip?"

  The dogs were whining again. One of them came over to sniff Brad's leg, drooling on his shoes.

  "Dope," Brad said. "Sorry for making you nervous."

  "It's all right. It just gets my guys a little worried when they hear so much talk. Usually a customer comes and goes inside of sixty seconds."

  Fred turned his chair around with remarkable agility. It wouldn't be hard to believe he could get around almost as easily as a fully-abled man.

  "Tell you what," he continued, wheeling himself over to a desk. "I don't have much of a supply right now. Here's a joint—it's on the house. If you like it, come back in a few days and we'll talk."

  Bradford pocketed the joint and stood. "Thanks," he said. "I'm much obliged."

  23

  Quentin's business card was burning a hole in Brad's pocket. He took it out and looked at the address again. From the start, it had sounded familiar. It was time to discover why.

  He was sure the chatty houseboy had some connection to Ross's killer. Tom Nava's tip about Ross and the drowned boy sharing similar tattoos drew a line straight to the snake coiled on Quentin's chest, if not the one in his pants. There had to be something about the Ice House itself that related to those markings. If he could find out what, it might lead him to Ross's killer. It might also shed light on whoever had killed Hayden Rosengarten.

  He followed Shank Painter Road across Bradford Street and down to Commercial. From there he turned right and walked west. The properties here were dazzling. The address on Quentin's card lay just around the corner from Tremont Street. Brad recognized the place the moment it came into view.

  He was standing before one of Provincetown's ritziest guesthouses. He well remembered the antebellum mansion with its full-length veranda running along the ground floor and Juliet balconies above. It was among the most highly sought-after places on the Cape. As a young twink, Brad would never have dreamed of staying in such a pl
ace, but then again, Cinderella hadn't planned on meeting a prince, either.

  It was by accident that the house found a place in his personal history. One night, after hours of sweaty dancing beside a boy who looked like he'd come fresh from his own private Olympic trials, Brad was suddenly presented with the opportunity. It turned out that the boy, Trevor, worked there. Trevor brought Brad back to the legendary house at four in the morning with the promise of wild sex. True to his word, Trevor's capabilities were feral as well as gymnastic. Their escapades encompassed an outdoor pool, several veranda chairs, a hammock, three bar stools and a Japanese garden. Afterward, Brad looked up to see that they'd provided entertainment for the inhabitants of the rooms overlooking the common area. A half-dozen men clapped and cheered before closing their doors and returning to bed.

  By then it was nearly dawn. Trevor lit a joint and lay back at the edge of the pool.

  "Will you get in trouble for this?" Brad asked.

  Trevor laughed and nearly choked on the smoke. "Nah," he said. "But if I get a bonus, I'll treat you to lunch."

  What Brad had yet to learn was that in P'Town, the houseboys ran the show. And in a house like this, reservations were often made a year or more in advance because no one—absolutely no one—wanted to risk being left out in the cold come summer. And yet! No matter how high your hair or how deep your pockets, and regardless of how capable your secretary was at booking in advance, you could still find yourself left without. For sometimes even wealth, personal connections, and early booking arrangements were no match for fame and sex, as one Money Gay discovered.

  Like the Wise Queen, every professional houseboy knows that in the inevitable Hierarchy of Gay, Fame comes first, then Sex, followed by Money. As Trevor told it, Money Gay had booked months in advance, laying out his conspicuously impressive VISA Super-Plutonium Plus card to stay in the best-of-the-best, as Money Gays always insist on doing. At the last minute, however, he arrived in P'Town to discover to his complete horror that overnight his much-anticipated harbor-view suite had been downgraded to a mere 'town view.'

  Thinking of the loss in prestige it would entail, he threw his bags down on the imported marble tile floor of the lobby. "What do you mean I've been moved?" he raved. "I made these reservations last fall!"

  The weight of Money Gay's social standing loomed over him. He owned a Mercedes, a Jaguar, and a yacht, as well as a house in Palm Springs, a cottage in the Hamptons, and a pied-à-terre in Manhattan. He was CEO of an internationally acclaimed fabric manufacturer that catered to the crème-de-la-crème of interior designers. Revered celebrities like the Olsen twins and powerful fashion mavens around the world were dependent on choices made by his company. He held degrees in business management, interior decorating, and law from universities noted for the pre-eminence of their graduates. He had his hair cut regularly in Beverly Hills and his fingers manicured in Boston. He was even a very thorough magazine reader. And all of this, he reasoned, did not count for nothing.

  "I'm sorry, sir," the houseboy informed him without the slightest hint of a cringe, for the houseboy was wise in the ways of the world and used to dealing with Every Sort. Moreover, he had great power in that he knew the one truth: Money respects only what it can't buy, and hence this tale.

  "If you like, sir, I can offer you an alternate suite one floor below. It's got access to the pool and the gym and..."

  "I don't care! I booked the top floor and I want it!"

  Money always insists on having what it wants, despite reason or logic to the contrary. And in this case the only logic seemed to lie in the hands of what was, all things considered, an absolutely Spectacular Houseboy.

  Houseboy spectacularity notwithstanding, Money Gay demanded his chosen suite. Things went on in this vein till Money Gay decided to take matters into his own hands. Ignoring the houseboy's protestations, Money Gay tore up the stairs and pounded on the door of the very room he'd been denied.

  "Open up!" he screamed. "This is my room!"

  Where Wise Queens see beauty and Spectacular Houseboys see power, Money Gays see only ownership. For this reason, they miss the best of what life has to offer. But that's another story.

  Inside, a voice called out politely. "Who is it?"

  "Open this door!" screamed Money Gay. "Whoever you are, you can't possibly be able to afford this room any more than I can."

  The door opened. Calvin Klein stood before him. "I'm sorry. Is there a problem?" he asked.

  Money Gay was faced withecht Fame. He backed off, one step at a time, and allowed himself to be led quietly back downstairs by the Spectacular Houseboy who made sure not to gloat when Money Gay eventually accepted the second floor—and second-best—suite. And for that, the houseboy also made a handsome tip later that evening by assuaging Money Gay's deflated ego and other particulars of his being.

  As with any fairy tale, endings must be just. And so, Fame got what it wanted: the top floor of a guesthouse renowned for its spectacular view of the town and its harbor. Money got what it could afford: in this case, being on the second-floor suite just below Fame. And Sex got what it deserved: both money and respect, without losing any of its power.

  Why then, one might well ask, is Money lesser than the other two absolutes of Fame and Sex? Because, as Trevor and all houseboys know, Fame and Sex are power. Both can walk naked across a crowded beach and turn heads. But ask a mere Money Gay to walk naked across those self-same sands, and chances are he would run away in shame.

  And that, as they say, was the end of that.

  Bradford smiled, remembering his long-ago tryst with Trevor as he stood looking up at the house. He climbed the stairs and rang the buzzer. In the lobby, he asked to see Quentin. The desk clerk's eyes widened noticeably.

  "Are you a cop?" the man asked.

  Brad shook his head. It seemed strange to be asked that question twice in one afternoon, but he let it pass. After all, he was calling on the massage equivalent of a prostitute. Even in Provincetown, the law had to be considered sometime.

  The man jerked his head toward the back of the house. "Back there," he said. "Room 24."

  Brad followed a path till he came to a red door. He had raised his fist to knock, when he saw that the door was ajar. He pushed it open. There stood Tom Nava.

  "Looking for me?" the cop asked from behind his mirrored glasses.

  "Actually..."

  "Don't tell me—you just dropped by for a massage."

  "Well..." Brad's mouth gaped.

  "I don't think you're going to get one," Nava said, indicating the unoccupied room. "Your masseur has flown the coop. And in quite a hurry, from the looks of things."

  The bed was unmade. Clothes lay strewn around the floor. The room looked as though it had been host to its own minor Hurricane Isabel. Brad looked back at Nava.

  "Care to tell me what you're doing here?" the cop said.

  Brad swallowed. "Actually, I wanted to ask him about his tattoo."

  Nava grunted. "That so?"

  Brad couldn't tell if Nava was being sarcastic. He licked his lower lip. "You see, I have this theory..." he began.

  "Go on."

  "It's, uh... those snake tattoos. Ross had one. And James Shephard. So did Quentin..." he looked at the card in his hand. "Morrow. Quentin Morrow."

  "Were you a friend of Mr. Morrow's?"

  Brad smiled nervously. "I met him at the Ice House. A couple of nights ago."

  "The Ice House?" Nava pulled out his pad. He shook his head and began jotting down what Bradford said. "There was a murder there last night. I suppose you know nothing about that, either."

  "Just what I heard locally."

  Nava looked up from his notes.

  "You sure are one for being in the thick of things, aren't you, Mr. Fairfax?"

  "What happened to Quentin?" Brad said.

  The cop took off his glasses and looked around the room as though hoping it would speak for itself. Then he turned his unwavering gaze on Brad.

  "I don
't know what happened to him," he said, "but I intend to find out."

  24

  Brad wasn't surprised by the houseboy's disappearance. He had no way of knowing what had happened to Quentin after he was knocked unconscious, but obviously he'd been witness to the attack. Perhaps that was why he'd fled. Or did Quentin have something to do with Rosengarten's death? He hadn't seemed the murderous sort. Then again, most murderers didn't, until viewed in hindsight.

  As far as Brad was concerned, there was already a sizeable cast of suspects. He could simply add Quentin to the list. On the other hand, attractive young men—especially those bearing snake tattoos—seemed to be on P'Town's endangered species list lately. Something drastic might have happened to the boy, but for the moment Brad didn't know what, if anything, he could do about it.

  At three o'clock he made his way to the Gifford House. It was still early, which meant it was a good time to have a conversation with a certain bartender of extraordinary sexual appeal. He reached the imposing guesthouse and walked across the outer deck, his footsteps echoing behind him. The circuit-party boys from the previous day were gone. In their place, as if time had simply jumped a few decades, sat a gathering of older men in stuffy shirts and cravats, drinking mint juleps and bearing the optimism of a bygone era. They reminded Brad of Amanda Wingfield and her hordes of gentlemen callers, He nodded to them as he passed.

  He tried to organize his thoughts as he headed down the steps to Purgatory. He hoped Perry would talk to him this afternoon. That is, if the hunky bartender was even working today. He wasn't sure what he'd do if Perry refused. He could hardly force him to talk. Despite his claims, Perry was clearly connected with Hayden Rosengarten and the Ice House.

  On the bottom step, Brad froze and pulled back abruptly inito the shadows. There, talking intently with Perry, was Zach.

  They knew each other!

  Brad heard Zach laugh and saw Perry flash his smile in return. For one paranoid instant, he imagined they might be talking about him. Paranoia gave way to jealousy. So this was what Zach did with his free time! It was a slap in the face. Suddenly he felt a surge of fear. Did the boy know Perry was infected?