“No jivin’ homefry, you be legit.” Tommy didn’t follow the slang, but he loved it when Dennis laid it on thick because it made him feel included.
“Heck, it took me years before I admitted to Riley that sometimes I came late to work because nightmares kept me from sleeping,” Larry said, pouring the rest of Tommy’s bottled Coke into his glass. “I lied and told him I had a broken alarm clock or my car wouldn’t start. Anything but the truth because I thought I wasn’t normal. But you’re the real deal, Tommy. I wish I was honest like you.”
“And I wish we could dig into those desserts,” Anna said, folding her napkin and starting to clear the plates. Everyone pitched in and within minutes the table was graced with three Porter cakes—named for the essential ingredient: Irish stout. Nobody seems to know the difference between a porter and a stout (at the pub, Brian simply asserts, “Six o’ one, half a dozen of the other”), but it’s called Porter cake and my mother decided to conduct a culinary experiment making one with Murphy’s stout, one with Beamish stout, and one with Guinness. We all had a modest piece of each and voted—the winner was Murphy’s, which Tommy declared as being, “better than donuts for breakfast, like Riley and Nina and I had this morning!”
“I guess honesty has its downsides, eh?” I offered weakly.
“Riley, don’t take me for a stook,” my mother scolded. “I know you’re out acting the maggot with your brother on Saturdays.” Translation: she was no fool, but I was.
“The cakes are delicious,” Carol said, in a valiant attempt to redirect the conversation away from my shortcomings.
“Thank you, dear. The secret is freshly grated nutmeg. And I use currants and dates, rather than raisins, to keep the cake from being too moist.”
“Raisins are what’s normal in cake,” Tommy said and then chattered along in the excited way that invariably ends up in some unexpected place. “But sometimes normal isn’t so good, right Carol? Riley, insects are normal aren’t they? I read a library book about how some of them make babies in ways that are really strange. But that’s natural, so it’s okay, right?”
“Well pal, I’m not sure that’s great dinnertime conversation,” I said.
“But Riley, remember that time we saw the girl mantis eating the head of the boy mantis while they were mating? That’s what you told me they were doing, and you said the boy mantis was feeding the girl so she’d have more eggs. Isn’t that right?”
“That’s right. And there’s an assassin bug that glues dead ants to its body for camouflage and a kind of spider where the babies eat the mother. Nature does some strange things,” I said, trying to direct the conversation away from sex. No luck.
“Remember those bugs with their butts stuck together? You said they were so-scary bugs and they could mate for more than a week. That’s a really long time, isn’t it Riley?”
Nina was covering a smile with her napkin, while Larry and Dennis were nodding appreciatively. Carol and Anna were just shaking their heads. “Those were soapberry bugs, pal.”
I figured that Tommy was next going to tell everyone, as he’d excitedly shared with me a couple weeks ago, how he’d learned from an entomology book that a drone bee, in his words, “gets his penis stuck in a girl bee and it rips out his guts” which is technically correct but not ideal dinner conversation. But fortunately, Carol stepped in.
“Yes, a week is a long time. And speaking of time, we’ve been here quite a while and maybe it’s best for us to let your mom have a rest, seeing that she’s been on her feet shopping and cooking the whole day.”
While my mother packed up leftovers for everyone, people gathered up coats, exchanged hugs, and headed into a rain somewhere between rotten and pissing, in the Irish catalogue of weather. My mother put Tommy to bed while Nina and I did the dishes. I found handwashing dishes soothing, even pleasurable, especially with a sensuous woman gently bumping my hip and brushing my shoulder as she reached across the sink in the course of rinsing and drying.
We had the mess cleaned up by the time my mother came back downstairs. She asked us into the living room, a space filled with enough lacey doilies, gilded frames, flocked wallpaper, and floral upholstery to be the envy of a Victorian aristocrat. She poured each of us a glass of sherry, an unusual indulgence, as she wasn’t one for drinking more than half a glass of wine at dinner.
There was an agenda to go along with the nightcap. After some awkward starts and oblique references to disrobed women, she came out with it—almost.
“I was cleaning Tommy’s room and I found a magazine under his bed.”
“A Playboy, I’d venture to guess,” I said.
“Well, yes. A nudie magazine. I don’t know what to do.”
“He’s a grown man. He’s curious. I’m surprised that you didn’t find anything like that until now,” I said.
“But Riley, he doesn’t know about such matters. He’s like a child.”
“If I may,” Nina said, “he has the understanding of a child but the body of an adult. It must be very difficult for him. He sometimes holds hands with a girl, actually a woman in her thirties, at the daycare. I don’t think there’s anything more to it than that. But surely it’s natural for him to wonder about women and, well, sex.”
“Yes, you’re right,” my mother sighed. “And that’s probably his fascination with insect mating and all that.” She took a modest sip of sherry.
We chatted for a while longer, convincing my mother that Tommy’s hiding Miss January under the bed didn’t mean he was a deviant. Nina agreed to talk with him about his new hobby which, I was quite certain, was only newly discovered by my mother.
At the end of the evening, I drove Nina back to her apartment and did a quick reconnaissance to assure myself that Tim wasn’t lurking. I headed home and climbed into my own bed, digesting a gutful of food and anticipating an unholy Sunday featuring a visit with Stefan. I slept poorly, dreaming about running naked through the city while being chased by giant spiders with pendulous breasts.
CHAPTER 25
I once overheard Father Griesmaier telling an offended parishioner after Mass that the church welcomes sinners as well as saints. The congregant had been put off by a visitor who did his best to look like a woman. The butt-hugging silver lamé dress was out of place, but the glittery pumps were a fashionable addition. Given the priest’s attitude, I figured that spending Sunday morning with Stefan would be approved by God—if there is one, which I highly doubted, particularly given recent events.
Stefan had pulled himself together since Thursday, having made a pot of coffee and set out a tray of pastries. No reason a pervert can’t be a good host, I suppose. The man’s decorating taste was appalling, with a kitchen featuring neon appliances and a zebra-striped tabletop, but he could make a tasty drink.
“This is outstanding coffee,” I said after the first sip.
“It’s light roast from one of the Vietnamese grocers, and I make it with a French press,” he said. I wasn’t familiar with this device, but it struck me as vaguely erotic, which made sense given Stefan. “Would you like cream or sugar?”
“No, I take it black. You don’t pour sauce on a good steak.”
“Understood, although embellishment can take sensuality to another level,” he said, slipping a chunk of pastry to the Yorkshire terrier sitting at his feet. The dog expressed its gratitude by trying to hump Stefan’s leg, affirming that debauchery was a household practice.
“I’m sure it can, which brings us to the point of my visit. Have you come up with any reason somebody would have embellished your bedroom with a deadly spider?”
“I’ve been reflecting on the days leading up to that horrible moment.” Stefan sighed and slowly stirred his coffee. I waited. “She was anxious about something. At the time, I dismissed it as an issue with the business, perhaps a difficult customer. But it was more than that.”
“How do you figure?” I said, taking a bite of apricot pastry.
“Michelle couldn’t let it go. She wasn’t eating wel
l, even when I made her favorite foods. And a couple of nights I woke up and heard her crying. Something was going on, but I couldn’t get her to share it with me. So I just tried to be supportive.” Stefan began twisting the fringe of the pink-and-green plaid lambswool scarf he’d loosely wrapped around his neck. No lamb should’ve been shorn to produce that thing.
“Not much to go on.”
“No, it’s not. That’s why I spent yesterday going through her notebooks, business letters, photo albums ... and videotapes.”
“And?”
He fidgeted with the end of his scarf, like he’d done with the tie of his bathrobe on Thursday—a sure tell that he was holding back. The man wouldn’t last an hour in a poker game.
“Come upstairs with me, please. I need to show you something.”
We went up the multihued spiral staircase to the room with the projection television. I settled onto a lime-green couch with asymmetrical lavender cushions while Stefan put a videotape into the player. He sat on the edge of a chair that looked to have been upholstered in Dalmatian skin, but given his affection for the Yorkie, I figured the dog fur was fake.
“You told me when we first met that Michelle was blackmailing Mr. Linford with a video showing him in some embarrassing situation. I was dubious, to be honest. Michelle did make specialized films, but she scrupulously protected the identity of anyone in scenes that could harm their reputations.”
“So faceless pornography?”
“Not always. Professional models want their fans to recognize them. But Michelle wasn’t into standard bump and grind stuff. The major studios have that covered. She was interested in distinctive material for niche markets.”
“And Lane Linford filled a niche?”
“Indeed, he did. Let me show you.”
A man was lying on a plush, forest-green carpet. The camera showed him from the waist down. He was naked. Pale, skinny legs. A close-up of his flaccid penis and black pubic hair trimmed very short. On the four-foot wide screen, the image was life sized. The camera pulled back and the man’s hand came into the picture holding a small, Tupperware container.
He peeled off the lid and sprinkled a dozen ants onto his genitals. A close-up ensued as they crawled about. The sound of his breathing became audible. Next, he added some half-inch-long black beetles, which I guessed were mealworm adults. For a couple of minutes he nudged them around, becoming aroused.
Then into the picture came a tropical cockroach, slowly exploring its new surroundings. The camera panned up the man’s body. He was so focused on his pleasure that he didn’t seem to notice his face being filmed. Lane Linford’s eyes were half-closed, his mouth gasping.
“That’s enough. I get the picture.” Stefan hit the pause button and Lane’s face was frozen in twisted ecstasy.
“I found her record of cinematic projects,” he said. “She documented every date and location, along with abbreviations of the performers,” Stefan handed me a spiral-bound notebook opened to an entry: “January 4 / 9212 Jackson Street / LL: Begin supine. Add ants, beetles, cockroach. Arousal to orgasm required. Anonymity guaranteed. Payment in-kind for product delivery.”
“What’s that last bit about payment mean?” I asked.
“There’s an earlier entry indicating that Michelle restocked his colonies after they were killed off by an exterminator who was treating the house for fleas,” Stefan said. “I guess he allowed her to film in exchange for a new supply of insects. Plenty of people with kinks enjoy performing, as long as the videos are anonymous.”
“There seems to have been an agreement to that effect. But she broke the rules and filmed his face. Michelle must have been using the video to blackmail him,” I surmised. “He wouldn’t tell me what she had, but now it’s obvious. The upper crust of San Francisco can look the other way when it comes to one of their own screwing the help, snorting coke with celebrities, or crashing the Bentley after a bender. But getting off with insects would be more than the well-bred could ignore.”
“Yes, zoophilia is an unforgivable sin in our world. Animals can be food but not lovers. Given the choice of being skewered or screwed, I think most creatures would prefer the latter, don’t you?” he asked.
“I suppose, but Lane wasn’t doing either,” I said.
“No, but Michelle and society provided a motive for murder. Perhaps we’ve found her killer.”
The couch, which had been designed for style rather than functionality, was getting uncomfortable and Lane’s orgasmic expression was still frozen on the screen. Plus, I needed time to consider this newest twist before answering Stefan. So I suggested continuing our conversation over another cup of coffee, which would keep him occupied while I did some thinking.
On the way to the stairs, I paused at the master bedroom door which was cracked open. I could still catch a whiff of vomit and see the remnants of the paramedics' work scattered alongside the rumpled, satin sheets. Stefan mumbled about having a cleaning service coming tomorrow but doubting that he’d ever go back into that room. I didn’t like such a revolting man being able to evoke my sympathy.
As Stefan heated water and ground beans, I mulled over what I knew. Lane Linford had manipulated his grandparents into a lethal delusion and taken over the family business. He needed access to a large amount of money to pay off Michelle, who had devastating videos of him with insects perking his pecker. The blackmailer had met an unpleasant end, courtesy of a poisonous spider that she’d mistaken for a safer version of foreplay. A good, clean American story of capitalism at its finest.
From here, things became messier. The spider’s inclusion in the ménage à trois was evidently not a simple matter of mistaken identity, given the knowledge needed to acquire and handle a Sidney funnel-web. So who had sent the eight-legged assassin, how had they acquired the creature, and why did they want Michelle dead?
“Riley, you look like you’re in another world,” Stefan said, setting the coffee pot between us and pulling up a chair to the kitchen table.
“Just thinking about what I know and what you suspect. I can’t make Lane Linford fit into the puzzle of Michelle’s death. At least not as her killer.”
“Why not? He had a reason to want her dead,” he said, pushing the plunger into the glass pot.
“I’ll grant you the motive, but what I can’t figure is how he would’ve acquired the Sidney funnel-web.” I knew that Scudder had provided one to the Cal Academy and there was confusion as to its whereabouts. But I didn’t see any connection of Lane to the science museum, nor did I see him having the skills to handle an aggressive spider. There was, however, no reason to share this information with Stefan. His role was to provide me with answers and payments, not to collaborate in the investigation.
“Maybe from that wholesaler, Sam what’s-his-name,” he said, pouring the coffee into our cups.
“Not likely. But there’s a bigger problem. Linford had already gone through extreme measures to acquire the money before the spider did its work. And you don’t pay dead blackmailers.”
“So, what’s next? If Lane Linford didn’t do it, who else is a suspect?” he asked, pursing his lips and blowing across his mug. Somehow he made the simplest acts look dirty.
“There’s still a promising loose end. Why was Michelle blackmailing Linford? You two seem to have plenty of money,” I said, taking a sip. Too bad Stefan ended up with a sex shop rather than a coffee shop. But I suppose there’s more money in grinding and heating human beings than coffee beans.
“Good question,” he said, setting down his mug. “I’ve been so focused on her killer that I’d not thought about why she betrayed the confidence of a customer. There must have been some extreme circumstances. And that’s what had her so upset of late.”
“Right. The implications for your business would be enormous if your clientele knew of her double-crossing Linford. So, what would be the explanation? We’re looking for a hundred thousand reasons, Stefan.”
Stefan got up from the table and paced the k
itchen. His leather slippers made a rhythmic shuffling. I poured the rest of the coffee from the pot into my mug and marveled at the simplicity of how the plunger formed a seal with the glass to keep the grounds from getting into the coffee. There was something far more elegant about a mechanical, two-piece device than my Mr. Coffee with its rocker switches, paper filters, and power cord. The metronomic pacing stopped.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t think of what she needed money for. A hundred thousand dollars is beyond anything we ever talked about in terms of expanding the business. We’d discussed finding a new place to live closer to the shop. Maybe a nice loft or even a house. But there was no urgency or desperation. If there was any sort of medical issue, she would’ve told me. And our health insurance premiums are always paid up, so that couldn’t be it.”
Stefan was a totally inept liar, and nothing in his voice or movements suggested he was being less than honest. He wasn’t even fiddling with his scarf. The guy really had no clue.
“Alright, but she needed the money for some reason. And once I know why, I’ll know a whole lot more about who planted the spider. Give me something. Anything.”
He paused for a long minute before saying, “Well, there’s Luis at the Pleasure Palace. He’ll be at work tomorrow.”
“What about this Luis? Could Michelle have owed him money?”
“No, no. He’s our longest serving employee, as good and honest as they come. But he might know something you could use.”
“How so?”
“He specializes in BDSM. Luis knew all of the wholesalers and trends. He always had us stock the most updated supplies and equipment. He was also very knowledgeable about zoophilia, especially where it overlapped with sadomasochistic practices. So he and Michelle would talk about marketing opportunities and sales strategies.”
“You figure he might shed some light on whatever had Michelle uptight and why she needed a hundred thousand dollars?”
“Maybe, but you’ll need to be subtle, Riley. And to be honest, it’s not your forte.” He was right. I wasn’t going to be assigned to any diplomatic posts, unless some tinhorn dictator in South America needed an ass kicking. I shrugged and he continued, “Remember, Luis and other folks in his community are used to being ridiculed and vilified. These days, the police and prosecutors are just looking for ways to make their lives miserable.”
Lethal Fetish Page 19
