by Josh Lanyon
Paul didn’t strike me as someone who was overly serious about his art, but I could understand that he had probably wanted more for himself than guest appearances on ALF or Moonlighting.
January said, “Anyway, I think Langley was hugely relieved that Nina was involved with someone of her own age. Someone unmarried. Someone he thought highly of.”
“So what happened?” I suspected what had happened was Nina discovered the games Paul liked to play -- I assumed he played those games back then.
“Unfortunately, Langley drowned. Nina went off the rails and her relationship with Paul ended. Not amiably.”
“That seemed to be the gist of the Kirkland book.” This was the tricky part. I asked, “Do you think part of Nina’s problem might have been the way her father died?”
“Not sure what you mean.” There was a cautious note in January’s voice.
“Well, it was sudden. An accident, right?”
“Oh, right. Yes, I suppose part of Nina’s problem was the shock of Langley’s death.” He still sounded guarded. Which wasn’t unexpected, since he had been on the yacht that night along with Nina, Paul, Porter, and Porter’s first wife, Marla.
I said, “Was there any suggestion that Hawthorne’s death might not have been an accident?”
There was an abrupt pause.
“There was a full police investigation at the time,” January said. “Which was only to be expected. Langley was very wealthy, and his death was a stupid one.”
“He got drunk and fell overboard, is that what I read?”
“That’s about the size of it,” January said.
I changed tack. “Was Hawthorne married?”
“Widowed.”
“That would have made it harder on Nina, I guess.”
“It didn’t help.”
“Was Hawthorne a heavy drinker?” I asked.
“We were all heavy drinkers back then,” January said.
There were a number of questions I’d have liked to ask, but if I asked them, January would be contacting Paul Kane -- he might give Kane a ring as it stood now -- and I preferred to fly under the radar for as long as possible.
I said, “I’ve met Nina. She seems…like an interesting personality.”
“She’s all that,” January said, “but no way did Nina push Langley off that boat.”
“That’s what Paul said.” I added, “I guess I’ve been writing mysteries for too long.”
“Could be,” he said. “Might want to watch that.” Despite January’s easy tone, I had a feeling he meant it.
* * * * *
It took some doing, but I finally got hold of Marla Vicenza and managed to set up a meeting with her for the following day. After that, my sleuthing had to be placed on hold. It was Natalie’s day off and customers kept me jumping while they amused themselves pulling books off shelves and leaving them stacked around the store, abandoning their empty Starbucks cups on shelves, and informing me they’d changed their minds about books we’d special ordered for them.
Natalie was right about needing help. The way it stood now, any time she had a day off or I was out gallivanting, we were in trouble. Bathroom breaks, stockroom searches, even lengthy phone calls meant no one was available to help customers. And offsite lunches meant closing the shop for an hour or so. When I’d first opened Cloak and Dagger, that wasn’t a problem, but now we were busy enough that closing for an hour irritated customers and cost us in sales.
I resolved to write Angus in Mexico and find out if he was serious about coming home, and then I locked the place long enough to get myself a frozen yogurt from down the street. It was too hot to eat, even if I’d been hungry, but the boysenberry yogurt was something to tide me over.
Checking my messages, I saw there was one from Jake. I listened.
He said in that careful flat voice, “There’s been a development. It turns out that Nina Hawthorne has some kind of heart ailment for which she takes digoxin.” He hesitated, then added curtly, “Give me a call if you feel like talking.”
It occurred to me that I hadn’t seen or spoken to him since I’d walked off the Pirate’s Gambit. I thought about what Chan had said -- the fact that it mattered to Jake whether we stayed friends or not. I wanted to think that I was mature enough, sophisticated enough, to stay friends with him -- I told myself I didn’t blame him for making the choices he had made, that I saw him as a victim and a prisoner of his internalized homophobia -- and yet…
The truth was, even if I could put aside the past, he was too close to Paul Kane for me to confide in.
* * * * *
When I got back from taking Emma to her riding lessons on Wednesday evening, I found Natalie’s four-footed pal waiting for me beside the side door. The cat scampered away when I got out of the Forester, but then slunk back as I stood there unlocking the door.
It stood just out of range.
“Do I look like a cat person to you?” I asked it.
It meowed, showing all its little sharp teeth. It really was an unprepossessing creature. Its head was too big for its body -- sure, partly that was because it was so damned skinny -- its color a dirty dun.
“I don’t know what she sees in you,” I told it. “It must be your winning personality.”
He ignored me, waiting for the door to open. I used my foot to block him, and slipped inside, closing the door firmly behind me.
The shop was quiet and warm. I went upstairs to my flat, let myself in. It was too warm up there as well. And too quiet.
There were no messages on the answering machine.
I changed into a soft gray T-shirt and faded, comfortable Levi’s and tried to figure out what to eat. I knew I needed to eat something, but I couldn’t think of anything that sounded appetizing. I wasn’t sure there was anything in the cupboards; I’d got into the habit of relying on Guy to bring home takeout.
I opened doors, examined shelves, but I just couldn’t work up enthusiasm for ramen or oatmeal -- and the cornflakes were stale. I could run out and get something, but I didn’t have energy for that either.
Giving it up, I went into the front room and poured a brandy. I sat down in one of the comfortable overstuffed chairs and…suddenly I couldn’t think of anything I wanted to do.
Ever again.
I closed my eyes. Everything seemed like too much effort. The silence seemed complete and final. I could just about hear the dust settling around me. What did I used to do before Guy?
Sit around wishing Jake would call?
No. Because it was Wednesday, and Mondays and Wednesdays had been “our” nights together. Work and his straight life permitting, Jake had turned up like clockwork on my doorstep and in my bed. In fact, by the end he was turning up more and more frequently and less scheduled, and ironically I had thought that was a good sign, that we were moving closer to each other.
What the hell was the matter with me? Sitting here feeling sorry for myself, drinking brandy -- which was definitely a no-no for now. I’d been fine. For two years I’d been perfectly fine. This was silly. This was sad.
I got up and spilled the brandy down the kitchen sink, opened a can of salmon, and dumped it on a plate.
I took a couple of bites. There had to be something creative you could do with salmon, but I decided the most creative thing I could do was feed my neighbor in the alley. I carried the plate downstairs, set it outside the door.
“Yo, Top Cat,” I called.
With an alacrity that indicated Natalie was probably feeding him on a regular basis, the thing slunk out of the nest of cardboard boxes against the cinder block wall. He trotted across the alley, keeping a wary eye on me, and delicately sniffed the plate.
“Yep, you should be worried about poison,” I told it. “And cars. And rats bigger than you -- which would be any rat in town.”
He took little bites of the salmon, giving his flea-bitten head a tiny shake every so often.
Ear mites…fleas…bubonic plague. I shuddered and closed the door on
him.
The phone was ringing as I reached the top landing. I paused in the doorway, stared at it, then crossed to pick it up.
Dial tone.
Well, I could always spend my evening doing what I used to do when I didn’t have anyone, and kill way too much time poking into other people’s lives.
I had a niggling feeling about that fatal accident of Langley Hawthorne’s. Maybe he hadn’t had a problem with his daughter’s relationship with Paul Kane -- there had still been an awful lot of money at stake. And that was an awfully convenient accident -- not that it couldn’t happen. Alcohol and boating were a bad mix. Everyone knew that.
A knock on the door to the flat sent me jumping out of my skin. Had I locked the side door? But yeah, I had. So that brisk tattoo could only be Guy -- and he was feeling uncomfortable enough to knock rather than use his key, which was probably not a good sign.
But it was a relief that he was back. Right?
I opened the door and halted.
Jake stood on the landing.
For the life of me I couldn’t think of anything to say.
“Can I come in?” he asked.
“Uh…sure.”
I backed up and he walked inside the flat.
“You kept your key,” I observed brilliantly. Either that or we were experiencing some kind of space-time shift. What year was this?
He stared down as though wondering how that key had got on his ring. Then he raised his light gaze to mine and said tersely, “You should have changed the locks.”
I folded my arms, leaned against the entryway wall. “Yeah, I guess I should have.”
He didn’t say anything and even a moment of silence was more than I could take right then.
“But if you can’t trust a cop, who can you trust?” My heart was thudding hard -- too hard probably -- but I didn’t feel angry as much as excited. Like someone had reset a breaker and dormant systems were suddenly coming back to life, lights blinking on, transmitters pulsing, receivers crackling in anticipation. I added, “Anyway, I was pretty sure I didn’t have to worry about you walking in on me unannounced -- and here you are, trumpets blaring.”
It was like we had both newly completed one of those Berlitz foreign language courses. Every comment was followed by a pause for translation. It shouldn’t have been that hard because we’d been talking to each other fine for about a week now.
“I…didn’t want to drag you downstairs to answer the door,” he said. “You looked like hell the other night.”
And suddenly it was easy again.
“Still the same silver-tongued devil I remember so well,” I said. “What happens next, we relive our greatest moments and you throw me across the room?”
The flush in his face died away. He said quietly, “If you think I’m not ashamed of that, you really don't know me.”
“That’s a safe assumption.” I turned and headed for the kitchen. “You want a beer?” I sure as hell did.
He didn’t answer. I glanced back and he was just standing there staring down the hallway as though he expected to see me still lying on the floor, as though he could still hear the echo of smashing glass and our furious voices.
I kept walking toward the kitchen. I didn’t want to relive one minute of that memory. Or any of them, if I was wise.
“I…” I couldn’t catch the rest of it. His voice was unexpectedly husky.
I cut across in falsetto, “Love means never having to say you’re sorry.”
Something in his silence made me wish I’d shut up.
“Nice to know all the defense mechanisms still work,” he said mildly at last.
“Better late than never.”
Another loaded silence.
I stopped and faced him. “Shit. Sorry.”
I didn’t want to hear it. What was the point? What could he tell me that I didn’t actually know?
But I waited. He didn’t say anything. And then just as my self-control gave out and I was about to speak, he said flatly, “You’re going to find this funny. I had no idea how much I would miss you.”
I swallowed hard. “Funny. Yeah.”
“I wanted to do the right thing. I wanted to have a real marriage. I knew things would have to change between us. I just…didn’t expect to lose everything. I didn’t intend to lose your friendship. Maybe that seems pretty dense.”
On a scale of one to ten with ten being solid bone from the eyes up? Yep, a ten.
I said, “You know what I think? I think you needed -- wanted -- to make a complete break.” I was able to say it without emotion maybe because I’d said it to him so many times in my imagination. “You hated yourself for being queer. I think you probably hate me too. Or did -- when I was part of what you hated about yourself.”
He was shaking his head. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You were the only part of it that ever made it seem…okay. Sane.”
It. It?
“Which tells you how crazy we both were. And even if you had wanted to stay friends -- which you didn’t, whatever you tell yourself now -- how the hell long do you think we would have lasted as platonic pals? How the hell long did it take you to dig out the whips and chains? Or did you ever put ’em away? Maybe I don’t understand your idea of real marriage.”
He said angrily, “You’re such an expert on commitment?”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” My heart tripped and started that goddamned staggering three-legged run. I ignored it.
“What we had together was about a lot more than fucking. We had a friendship. For chrissake, you were the only person in the world I could be honest with.”
“You weren’t any more honest with me than you were with anyone else.” I had no idea what we were actually arguing about at this point, but I was still hoping to draw blood.
“Bullshit,” Jake snarled. “You’re the one trying to pretend it was nothing more than sex --”
“You’ve been telling lies to other people for so long that you’ve started telling them to yourself --” I had to stop to catch my breath.
The anger went from him just like that. “Are you okay?” he asked.
“Fucking A. Jake, there’s no point…” I had to stop again. “Let’s stick to talking murder.” I turned, rested my hand briefly on the wall. “Get yourself a beer. I need to use the john.”
In the bathroom I got my pills out of the cabinet, scooped them down with a handful of water from the sink. Not a problem, I told myself. I was a little late taking my meds and I shouldn’t have had the brandy. I shouldn’t have let myself get so mad. I splashed more water on my face. Sat down on the side of the tub and gave myself a few moments. Pneumonia takes a while to get over. That’s all. I wasn’t seventeen anymore.
Jake was in the kitchen staring out the window over the sink. Two bottles of beer sat on the counter. He turned at the sound of my footsteps.
“Are you okay?” he asked again, scanning my face.
“I’m fine. Why do people keep asking me that?”
He said dryly, “Maybe they need reassurance.”
“Maybe they should mind their own business.”
He raised his brows, watching in silence as I got a tumbler out of the cupboard, poured myself a glass of water, and sat down at the table.
“I came to tell you the DA has given us the go-ahead to arrest Nina Hawthorne.”
I swallowed a mouthful of water. “That seems premature. Do you have enough to make it stick?” I asked.
“She had means, motive, and opportunity.”
“What motive did she have?”
“You should know that.”
Revenge for a dead child. It seemed kind of melodramatic this afternoon.
“Have you figured out how she got the poison into Porter’s glass?”
“Not yet.”
I studied his face. “And you’re not convinced she’s guilty.”
“I don’t know that she’s not guilty.”
That sounded as convoluted a
s the French justice system. “So why --?”
He sighed. “Because the mayor’s office is demanding an arrest, and the DA thinks we’ve got enough to move forward.”
“And arrest the wrong woman?”
“One of those two is up to her neck in it. It was either the Hawthorne woman or Ally Beaton-Jones, and we haven’t been able to connect Jones’s wife to digoxin.”
“But it doesn’t make sense to rush into this, does it? Especially if your gut instinct is telling you something else.”
“I can’t take my gut instinct to the DA,” he said. “Anyway, it’s not my job to convict them. That’s why we have the courts. If Hawthorne isn’t guilty --” He must have read my expression correctly, because he grimaced and admitted, “And because it’s Alonzo’s case and I’ve already roadblocked his first two lines of investigation.”
Me and Paul Kane.
“Ah.” I said. “And you don’t want him looking too closely at why.”
His mouth tightened. “I didn’t want him wasting time and taxpayer dollars, no.”
I smiled. “Right. And you didn’t want him looking too closely at why you were so sure Paul Kane -- or I -- hadn’t committed murder.”
He gave me that long, dark look I remembered so well and then turned his profile to me, staring out the window.
I tilted my head, considering him. “Do you honest to God not see the compromises you’re having to make?”
“Adult life is a series of compromises, Adrien.”
“Yeah, only you’re negotiating with the Devil.”
Still not looking at me, he growled, “Oh, go to hell.”
I raised my water in a toast. “Sure. I’ll follow the trail of bread crumbs you’re scattering.”
He turned to face me again, and shook his head like he could not understand why he was making the effort. Which made two of us.
“You came to me, Jake. And I’m still wondering why. You didn’t have to drop by in person to tell me Nina was going to be arrested. It’s not like I’m really a colleague.”
Or a friend.
And weirdly, as though he had read my mind, he said, “I would like us to be friends again.”
