by Tinnean
He came in, closed the door on the curious bystanders, and examined the fruit basket and bottle of champagne on the coffee table in the sitting area of our suite.
“Any idea who it might be from?”
“This is something Mother might do, but she wouldn’t have waited so long. It would have been in the suite waiting for us when we arrived. And she would have made sure this was Dom Pérignon.” He took out a handkerchief and used it to pick up the bottle of champagne. “This isn’t something Mother would have sent.” He held it so I could see the label. Definitely not Dom Pérignon.
Quinn set down the bottle and used the handkerchief to gingerly remove the small white envelope that was attached to the handle of the basket.
“Is it sealed?”
“No.”
Well, we wouldn’t be able to get DNA from it.
Quinn teased open the envelope and tapped the bottom so the card inside came out. He caught it by a corner, read it, and frowned.
“What?”
“It’s from my publisher. At least, according to this card.”
I went to the house phone and called down to the front desk. “This is Vincent in Suite 604.”
“Yes, Mr. Vincent. What can I do for you?”
“Who brought the fruit basket and the champagne to my suite?”
“I don’t understand. You told us you didn’t want anyone entering your suite after five p.m. Are you saying something was delivered to you?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m very sorry, but I trust my staff implicitly, and I’m certain none of them did this.”
“Okay. I’m going to need a good-sized cardboard box and packing material.”
“Of course. I’ll send someone right up with it.”
“Thanks.” I hung up. “I don’t like this.”
“Neither do I. Are we being paranoid?” He held up a hand. “Never mind, it doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get us.”
“That’s my boy.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I want this tested ASAP.” I pulled out my cell phone and called one of my people. I might have been on my honeymoon, but I stayed on top of everything that happened at the WBIS.
Quinn nodded. “I’ll call my publisher and make sure he did send this.”
“Good idea.”
He stepped into the sitting area just as my agent answered the phone.
“Johnson.”
“It’s Vincent.”
“Congratulations, sir. I hope you’re enjoying your honeymoon.”
“It was good up until about twenty minutes ago.”
“Sucks. What can I do to help?” He was another agent who was shaping up to be a good operative.
“You’re still in New York?”
“I am.” He’d taken some vacation time to catch the Trinidad vs. Mayorga fight at Madison Square Garden. “I had to recuperate from Mayorga’s defeat. TKO in the eighth round, can you believe it?”
“I hope you didn’t lose more than you could spare.”
“Nah, I learned from my old man never to bet the rent.”
“Okay. Hold on a second.” Quinn had touched my arm. “What did he say?”
“It wasn’t him, and he was insulted that I would think his company would give such an inexpensive vintage to its authors.”
Shit.
Just then there was a knock on the door. “I’ll get it,” he said.
“Okay, Johnson, I need you to come to the Bonheur Hotel on Park Avenue.” I gave him the address.
“Got it, sir. And then?”
“I’ll have a box waiting for you at the registration desk. Get it back to Dr. Futé as fast as possible. I’ll make sure you have transportation.”
“Thanks.”
“And I’ll contact Max to make sure he’s waiting for you at the WBIS. Be careful of the contents. There’s a bottle of champagne and a fruit basket, and I don’t want either of them damaged.”
“Uh… okay. I’m on my way.”
“Thanks.” I hung up, then dialed Max’s number.
“Dr. Futé’s phone.”
“Where’s Max, Smitty?”
“Vince, is that you? I thought you were on your honeymoon.”
“I am. Something’s come up, and I need Max to run some tests on some fruit and champagne. Johnson will bring it down to the WBIS.”
“Okay. I’ll wake up Max and let him know. We should be there in about forty minutes.”
“Don’t rush. Johnson will probably arrive in about two or three hours.” Unless the Balm wasn’t available, in which case it might be longer while I arranged for a private jet. “I don’t want you getting killed.”
“Ah, Vince, that’s so sweet of you.”
“Asshole.”
“Okay. I think I’ll still wake up Max.” From his tone of voice, I had the feeling they might be awake, but they’d still be in bed.
“Tell Max I said thanks. And thank you too, Smitty.”
“Any time, Vince. A bientôt.”
“Jesus, don’t try speaking French.”
He’d been with Max for almost two years, and he still managed to mangle the language.
I hung up in the middle of his laugh and dialed the Balm. As it turned out, he was sleeping too. “Sorry to wake you, but I need something flown from New York City to headquarters. Are you available?”
“Sure.” He yawned.
“Good. Get to La Guardia as soon as you can. You’ll be meeting Johnson there.”
“I’m on it.”
“Thanks, Balm. I owe you.”
“And you can bet I intend to collect.”
“Let me guess. You want time off and use of the jet to take Weber on vacation.”
“Yeah. I want to introduce him to my relatives in Israel.”
“Good luck with that.”
“I’m not worried. They’ll love him. He speaks Hebrew.”
“I’ll clear it with The Boss. Get going.”
“Right, Mr. Vincent.”
I hung up and put my phone away.
Quinn had the cardboard box on the bed, and he placed the fruit basket inside it. I joined him, helping wrap the champagne bottle in bubble wrap and making sure the fruit was cushioned.
“Everything set up, Mark?”
“Yeah. Johnson will pick this up and fly it down to DC.”
“Are we flying down with him?”
“No. This is our honeymoon, and I’ll be damned if I let anyone cut it short.”
“I’m glad.” He leaned against me, and I wrapped my arms around him. “I’ll call my publisher first thing in the morning and see if there’s anything else they can tell us.”
“Sounds like a plan. All set?”
“Yes.”
I took out a package of gum, offered Quinn a stick, which he declined, so I began chewing it.
We picked up the box, stepped out of the suite, and closed the door behind us. Quinn balanced the box on his hip while I put a thread of gum from the door to the doorframe again, down where it would be out of sight.
“Okay, I’ll take this end.” I got a grip on the box.
“Mark?”
“Yeah, the elevator.”
~*~
THREE HOURS LATER, my cell phone rang, playing “L’amour est bleu.”
“Hello, Max. Sorry I’m keeping you up so late.”
“Bonjour, Monsieur Vincent. N’importante. I wanted you to know your package has arrived safely. What tests did you want me to run on it?”
“Check for mind-altering drugs. Check for poison.”
“I thought you might want something like that. It’s going to take some time.”
“Just get it done, Max.”
“Very well.”
“I’ll let you get started, then.”
“But of course.”
“Hold on a second, Vincent!” Smitty must have been listening in, and now he grabbed the phone from Max. “You do realize it’s three a.m.?”
He had a point.
Having it done fast would be good, but most importantly, I wanted it done right.
“Okay, go home and go to bed, but I want Max working on this first thing in the morning.”
“Thanks, Vince. You’re a good man.” He yawned. “’Night.”
“’Night, Smitty.”
Quinn rubbed my shoulder. “I think we should go to bed too. Tomorrow—”
“Don’t say it’s another day.”
He kissed my jaw. “I was going to say it will take care of itself.”
“Oh. Okay.” I brushed back the lock of hair that always fell in his eyes, then slid an arm around his shoulders and urged him toward the bed.
~*~
WEDNESDAY TURNED OUT TO be a lousy day. Quinn contacted his publisher again, only to be told no one named Finchley was on their payroll.
“The art department is working on the cover, and they’re certain I’ll be happy with it,” he added.
“We’ll see, but I’m not holding my breath.”
He made a noncommittal sound.
Later, when Max called, he told me that it was going to take a couple of weeks to get the results of the tests he’d started to run and planned to continue to run.
“However, preliminary results indicate it was a good thing you neither ate the fruit nor drank the champagne.”
“Thanks, Max.” I’d had that feeling.
Quinn and I went back to 1964 Brown to make further inquiries, but that was another dead end. As far as they were concerned, Schutt was just a name they’d been given. They had no idea who he was, and before the previous night, they’d never seen Finchley.
We stayed for an early dinner, then returned to the Bonheur to shower and change. That night we were going to see Chicago.
~*~
IN SPITE OF THAT disturbing Tuesday night and worrisome Wednesday, we spent the rest of the week doing all the touristy things we’d planned to do, saw the other plays Quinn had gotten us tickets for, then visited Alyona’s family and rented a car to drive out to the cemetery on Long Island to place a bouquet of flowers shaped like a dragonfly on her grave. That Saturday evening, we had dinner with them, traditional roast pork with dumplings and sauerkraut. Quinn told me that was one of Alyona’s specialties, something she’d make especially for his father, since he had a weakness for it.
And on Sunday morning, we flew into Dulles, where instead of Portia and Novotny waiting to pick us up, I was surprised to see Paul and Spike.
Chapter 11: October 10, 2004
I
PAUL THREW HIMSELF into my arms, hugged me hard, and planted a kiss on my cheek.
“What are you doing here?” I demanded as I returned his hug.
“Oh! Oh! You’ve hurt my feelings, Vince,” Paul said, trying to sound innocent.
“Dope.” I growled at him. “You know what I meant.”
He laughed. “I know.” He let me go, stepped back, and offered his hand to Quinn. “It’s good to see you again.”
“Same here.” Quinn took Paul’s hand and shook it. “Is Mother all right?” he asked, concerned.
“Mrs. Mann is fine. She and Gregor had some things to do, so they asked me if I’d mind picking you up.” He turned to grin at Spike. “And you know I don’t go anywhere without my cutie.”
Spike beamed at Paul and started to reach for his hand, when there was a muffled shriek.
“Spike! It’s Spike!” Two teenaged girls, one a blonde, the other a redhead, rushed up to him. “Uh… You are Spike, aren’t you?”
He blushed and nodded.
“I told you!” the redhead said to the blonde. “We loved you in In the Dark of the Night!” They looked too young to have been admitted to an R-rated movie, but it wasn’t my business to wonder what their parents had been thinking.
“Thank you.” He blushed even harder.
Quinn leaned close to me. “He looks adorable.”
Paul overheard him and did a little beaming of his own. “He does.”
Yeah. He’d probably become the next teen heartthrob.
“Are you really gay?” the blonde asked.
“Geez, Suze.” The redhead poked her. “I can’t take you anywhere.” She gave Spike a rueful smile. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. As it happens, I really am gay.” He took Paul’s hand and pulled him close. “This is Paul, my boyfriend.”
“Oh! You’re so cute! And so lucky!”
“Thank you.” This time Paul blushed.
“I don’t have any paper, but… Would you sign this?” Suze pointed to a spot on her shirt over her heart.
“Sure. Uh… Vince, do you have a pen?”
“No, sorry, but that wouldn’t do the trick anyway. The ink wouldn’t make much of an impression.”
“Wait! Use my lipstick!” She took it from her cross-body cat purse and handed it to him.
“And your name is Suze?”
“Yeah. Yes.” She spelled it out.
“Okay.” He uncapped the lipstick, screwed out a length of deep purple, and began to write. “To Suze. Thanks for giving me such a warm welcome. Spike.”
“Me, now! Please, me! My name is Maggie.” The redhead jumped up and down and pointed to the same spot on her shirt.
“Sure.” And he scrawled pretty much the same thing on Maggie’s shirt.
“What’s your next movie going to be?” Suze asked.
“The Food of Love.”
“That sounds so romantic,” she gushed. “Are you going to play another gay character?”
“As a matter of fact, I am. And I’m excited to be acting opposite Brad Cartwright and Delinda Kelly.”
“She’s so pretty.”
“She is.”
“He’s kind of old, though, isn’t he?”
Spike bit back a laugh. “Not really,” he said, and I wasn’t really surprised at his diplomacy. According to Quinn, Cartwright had been his usually sleazy self and tried to sabotage Spike’s acting. I’d have flown out and had a talk with him, but Quinn told me to stay out of it, because Spike had dealt with the situation with aplomb.
“When will it be out?”
“The studio is aiming for some time after the New Year, I believe. If you give my manager—”
Wait a second. Why was he pointing toward me?
“—your contact information, I’ll see you get tickets when it opens in your area.”
They squealed again, and this time both of them jumped up and down.
Quinn chuckled, took out a notepad, and handed it to me. I gave him a look, but wrote down the girls’ information.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” they chorused. “You’re the best!”
“You’re very welcome, Suze and Maggie. Thank you both for being such loyal fans.” He kissed their cheeks and handed Suze back her lipstick.
She clutched it to her chest. “I’ll save this forever.”
“We have to go now. You take care, okay?”
We headed for baggage claim, leaving the two star-struck girls behind.
“I have a feeling you’re gonna have to start wearing sunglasses,” I told Spike.
“Why?”
“To avoid scenes like that.”
“That had to be a fluke. I’ll never be that famous.”
“Oh yeah? Famous last words.”
“Huh?”
“Never mind.” His modesty was refreshing, but I knew one day he’d make it big. Huge, even.
We arrived at baggage claim and waited for our luggage to make an appearance. Usually we lucked out, and it came down the carousel quickly, but not just yet this time.
“How would you feel if, one day, a woman asked me to sign her shirt?” Quinn asked so quietly I was the only one who heard him.
“I’d be proud you’d made it to the big time.”
“You wouldn’t be jealous?”
“No. This hypothetical woman might have your name on an article of clothing, but I’ve got it on a marriage license.”
He reached down, twined his f
ingers with mine, and squeezed lightly. “You know something, Mark? You make me very happy.”
“Back atcha, babe.”
Finally our luggage showed up, and we each grabbed a suitcase and hauled it off the belt, but it took a while for the garment bags that held out tuxes to show up.
Finally, they arrived as well, and Paul and Spike each seized one. “Come on, you two,” Paul sang out. “If you don’t hurry, we’re going to be late.”
I checked my wristwatch. It was almost noon, and dinner at Raphael’s was set for six. “Do you have any idea what’s going on?” I asked Quinn.
He shrugged. “I just want to get home, get the laundry started, and lie down for an hour or so.”
“Come on,” Paul ordered. “Oh, and Spike’s already called shotgun. You’re sitting in the backseat.”
Quinn and I exchanged glances. It had been years since Paul had acted so squirrely, and I shook my head. Quinn smiled wryly, and we followed Paul and Spike out to the short-term parking lot.
II
AS IT TURNED OUT, Paul didn’t drive us to Aspen Reach. Instead, he drove us to Mann Manor.
“Paul?”
“Welcome home.” He pulled into the circular drive and parked in front of the veranda.
The exterior had a fresh coat of pale yellow paint, while the shutters at each window were a rich brown that matched the front door. The foundation of the veranda was hidden by a mass of shrubs, and the result was the veranda almost looked like it was floating on air.
Paul shifted so he could look at us both. “Mrs. Mann and Theo worked their—” He met my gaze and cleared his throat. “They worked really hard to have it ready for when you got home.”
Obviously the work had been farther along than they’d let on.
“All your clothes are here, and Sam’s waiting for you. They… uh… weren’t sure where you’d want to put him.”
Sam was the bronze statue of the dog Quinn had given me to replace the ceramic one that had been destroyed when that shit Sperling broke into my apartment in Forest Heights a couple of years before. Bob Greenley, who I’d called UB and who was one of my old lady’s men, had given Sam to me before I left Fall River for the military academy on Long Island, although he’d kept the big statue until I had my own place. It had been… comforting… to know Sam was waiting for me.
