by Josh Lanyon
I was instantly snared by Lisa, looking bridal in white silk. She had Dauten in tow. Dauten made the tuxedo look like a monkey suit for real.
“Darling.” She offered a scented cheek and whispered, “You’re the handsomest man in the room.”
Dauten offered a beefy hand. “Adrien.”
“Bill.”
We shook.
Lisa frowned. “Is Jake with you?”
“No.”
That posed a dilemma for her. She wasn’t keen on Jake, but she wasn’t keen on being dissed either. Before she could react, we were joined by Natalie, looking fetching in an unnervingly short iridescent blue shift. She had glittering blue flowers in her hair.
“Wow, you look spiffy,” she informed me.
Spiffy? Did that translate to “not bad for an old guy?” I said, “You look spiffy too.”
We all laughed gaily, and I wondered where the hell the bar was. As the latest influx of guests separated us from our parental units, Natalie said, “Our plan is working beautifully.”
“I can see that.”
“Daddy’s over the moon.”
I glanced back at the stoic-looking Dauten.
“So where’s this mystery man we’ve heard about? Lisa said he’s a detective.”
“Did she?” I glanced around. “I don’t know about you, but I could use a drink.”
“Oh, the drinks are fabulous!” She chattered blithely on while I steered her to the bar. She continued to chatter while we sipped our drinks. I was watching the crowd, mulling the possibility that I might actually be the only gay person in the entire gathering, when her smile faded.
“Uh-oh.” Her hand fastened on my arm. “Let’s go say hi to Lauren.”
Lauren, looking like Hollywood royalty, stood with a giant Ken doll. At least that was my first impression. When he moved, I realized only his hair was plastic. They seemed to be arguing in that intense, but expressionless way that couples do in public, but as soon as Lauren spotted us she forced a smile.
“We were beginning to think you had gotten lost,” she greeted me.
“No such luck.”
Her smile was perfunctory. “Brad, this is Adrien, Lisa’s son. Adrien, this is my husband —”
Brad said curtly, “Excuse me,” brushing past.
There was an uncomfortable pause.
“Laurie,” Natalie began, but Lauren cut her off sharply.
“Don’t say it!” Her eyes glittered with a mix of fury and tears. At my expression, she blinked rapidly, forced a smile. “He’s under a lot of pressure. That wasn’t personal. So! You didn’t bring anyone?” She looked past me to the ghost at my shoulder — my usual escort.
“He had to work.” For now and forever.
“Adrien’s being mysterious about this guy,” Natalie said. She shook her head disapprovingly. “You need to lay down the law, Adrien.”
No pun intended? I said, “Are you an expert?”
“I’m an expert in what not to do,” Natalie said cheerfully. She and Lauren did one of those wordless exchanges. She wrapped her arm around mine and gave me a quick hug: a disarming gesture.
“Come on and meet the rest of the family.”
“There are more of you?”
They laughed at my ill-disguised horror, and I did Lauren a favor and let Natalie drag me off.
There really weren’t an unreasonable number of relatives; in fact, the majority of the guests were business and social acquaintances of both Dauten and Lisa. There were a number of beautiful male and female versions of Natalie and Lauren who turned out to be cousins. Apparently the good-looks gene skipped a generation, because Dauten’s brother and a sister — pretty much indistinguishable — looked like Bill.
With the exception of Lauren’s socially-challenged spouse, they were all nice enough, although I don’t think I imagined the curious looks. I wasn’t sure if they were on Lisa’s behalf or my own, but it didn’t matter. Odds were I’d never have to see any of these folks again. It was an easy, if boring gig. I switched on automatic pilot, gliding along shaking hands and making small talk.
Our duty done, we circled back toward Lauren, who looked less like a beautiful statue.
Natalie tilted her head, appraised me smilingly. “What do you think of us, Adrien? We can’t read you at all.”
“I think you’re all…amazing.”
“Hmm.” She gave me an unexpectedly shrewd look. “I don’t think we should take that at face value.” And before I could respond, “You know, Em’s right. You do sort of look like that actor. The one in A Place in the Sun.”
“Elizabeth Taylor?”
She giggled, then had to report this witticism to Lauren, who smiled vaguely, her eyes following the progress of her husband, who was now at the bar.
The bar sounded like a good idea, but I didn’t want to rub shoulders with my soon-to-be brother-in-law.
And that’s when I noticed Oliver Garibaldi.
He was talking to Lisa. She laughed, her voice rippling across the pool. He gazed at her with that enigmatic hooded gaze. I wouldn’t say it all fell into place, but I did recognize a piece of the puzzle — with a stab of alarm.
“Excuse me,” I said to Lauren and Natalie, and cut my way through the space heaters and strategically placed futons and giant pots of flowers.
Lisa smiled as I reached them. “Oh, Adrien, have you met Oliver?”
“Yes. How are you?”
Oliver said, “We meet again.” I was struck again by that light, fruity voice. You expected God-like John Huston tones.
“This handsome stranger is my son,” Lisa informed him.
“I didn’t realize you knew each other,” I said to Lisa.
“Oliver is an old friend of Bill’s.”
Garibaldi said smoothly, “We met many years ago. We share interest in a number of worthy causes.”
“What causes?”
Lisa laughed. “Adrien writes mystery novels, you know. He’s terribly clever. And terribly curious.” She patted my shoulder. “My clever grown-up son.”
“I did not realize.” Garibaldi smiled, reminding me of a phrase I’d read describing Aleister Crowley: “eyes that could spoil everything.”
“Did you ever find your friend?” he inquired.
“My friend?”
“The mystery novelist who disappeared. You thought he had been abducted?”
“Abducted!” Lisa would certainly have pursued this, but she was distracted by the appearance of yet another bosom buddy from yet another charity committee. Departing, she squeezed my arm, said urgently, “Darling, we must talk before you leave tonight. Don’t forget.”
I nodded. Replied to Garibaldi’s inquiry, “No.”
“No? No word at all?”
“You mean like a postcard from the Great Beyond?”
He stared at me. “Perhaps he wished to disappear,” he said at last. “It happens, you know. Have you never wished it were possible to leave the past behind? To erase your mistakes, your missteps. To start completely fresh.”
“I don’t think he disappeared voluntarily.” I drained my glass.
“Perhaps not.” He shrugged, a sort of these-things-happen gesture. “Did you find out any more about this…Black Sable?”
“Blade Sable.” I smiled. “Apparently it’s the junior branch of a larger organization called The Scythe of Gremory. Kind of like the Cub Scouts.”
Again, a long moment passed without a word from Garibaldi. Then he smiled that twist of wine-stained mouth. “The Scythe of Gremory. Fascinating. And what purpose does the Scythe of Gremory serve?”
“I’m not sure they’re what you’d call a service organization,” I said consideringly. “I don’t think they go in for baking cookies, for example, or contributing to children’s hospital funds — although they may supply patients.”
The pupils of his eyes were enormous, making the entire eye appear black. He might have answered, but we were joined by a truly striking brunette. She reminded me of one
of those Botticelli angels, plump, white-skinned, with raven black hair parted down the middle.
“My fiancée, Dr. Ava Wilding.”
Ava and I shook hands. She had a rock on her left finger that looked like the Hope diamond and a silver star on a chain about her long, white neck. I wonder if she knew about the red-haired nymphs. Then again, maybe she liked red-haired nymphs.
“You two look awfully serious.”
“My love, this is Adrien English, soon to be William’s stepson. Adrien was asking if I had ever heard of a religious sect called the Scythe of Gremory.”
Ava raised her brows. “Had you, my love?”
These two should have taken the show on the road. Their timing was impeccable.
“But all is not bad news,” Garibaldi said, apparently changing the subject. “I see that your other friend has been released by the police.”
“Angus Gordon? Yes. His alibi held up.” I hadn’t seen Angus since the night after his release from jail. Nor had I seen the investigators hired by Martin Grosser. Or the police. Even the newshounds seemed to be seeking fresh meat. It was as though everything were in a holding pattern.
“That must be a relief to you,” Ava said. “Nothing hurts us more than when bad things happen to the people we love.”
Stillness washed through me.
“The pendulum swings between a tear and a smile,” Garibaldi said. “Perhaps it is true of the Scythe.” He gave one of those French shoulder lifts.
Ava sipped her drink and said, “You run a bookstore, don’t you? I think that’s what Lisa said. In Old Town?”
I said, “Yes. Cloak and Dagger Books.”
“Is business good?”
“It could be worse.”
“Things can always be worse.” She smiled like a Renaissance courtier, glanced at Garibaldi. Winked. Winked?
Garibaldi said, “This sect, the Scythe of Gremory — if such a group existed, you must realize what a premium they would place upon discretion. It would not be easy to find someone willing to…”
“Betray the secrets of the guild?”
“Just so. One who broke the oath of loyalty would be harshly dealt with. Inquisitiveness would not be welcome.”
“How do these groups separate curiosity seekers from true seekers?”
He was silent. Ava took a sip from her champagne and gazed at the star-scattered sky. She looked rather bored.
“There you are!” Natalie, looking more and more like an escapee from A Midsummer Night’s Dream as the evening wore on, joined us. “You’re supposed to dance with Lisa.”
I made my excuses and let her drag me away through the forest of shoulder-high pots of trees, past the swimming pool, and up the stairs. All the time I was thinking that only in mystery novels was the obvious answer wrong. How many times had Jake jeered at my efforts to over-complicate crime in my own writing?
The one person who had no reason to lie to me was Angus, and according to Angus, the benefit of belonging to Blade Sable and the Scythe of Gremory was material as well as spiritual. Putting aside for a moment the promise of all the world’s lost treasures — and sex with the world’s most desirable women — what were the more obvious perks of membership? Money, power, influence, social position. And in order for any of that to happen, the highest echelon had to consist of a tight network of well-connected A-listers. The single well-connected occultist A-lister I knew was Oliver Garibaldi. Which meant I could pretty well discount everything he’d said to me before this evening as a pack of lies.
That wasn’t the alarming part. The alarming part was that he knew that I was belatedly adding two and two together — and he was not concerned by any answers I drew. It kind of reminded me of that famous exchange between Holmes and Moriarty.
All that I have to say has already crossed your mind…
Except that I was not Sherlock Holmes. I wasn’t even Watson.
I did my duty on the dance floor and escaped. After a time, I found myself at the bar again with Bill Dauten.
Bill nodded owlishly. “Enjoying yourself?”
I nodded back. I wasn’t as tight as Bill, but I was drinking too much. That seemed to be happening a lot again. I wondered if I should be concerned, then decided that since I was questioning it, probably not.
“Business good?” he inquired.
“Pretty good.”
“It’s a good time of year.”
“Yep.”
He was silent. I tried to think of polite ways to ask if he was tied into a demonic cult.
“So,” I said. “How long have you known Oliver Garibaldi?”
Bill stared at me solemnly. “Oliver and I go way back. He’s a good man to know. Very useful man to know. Very influential.” He nodded, watching me with his bear-like eyes. “Very good man to know.”
Swell.
After that we seemed to have run out of things to say. Bill ordered us each another drink. “Your mother wants you to be happy. That’s the main thing,” he said finally, apparently continuing an earlier imaginary conversation.
“I’m happy.”
He nodded wisely, patted me on the back with his massive paw, departed.
Starry, starry night above and below. I took a moment to enjoy the spectacular view of the city lights beneath us when Lisa joined me. “Darling…”
Uh-oh. I knew that wheedling tone of old.
“No,” I said. “Whatever it is, no.”
She gave one of those shimmering laughs. “Oh, Adrien. Now this is serious. What would you think about hiring Natalie?”
“I would think that I was having a very bad dream. Why?”
“Weeeell, Nattie needs a job. She doesn’t seem to have any direction. It’s ever so worrying for Bill. And meanwhile, you’re working yourself to death in that awful little shop, so this would really solve two birds with one stone.”
“Solve two birds? Now there’s a euphemism.”
“Don’t change the subject, Adrien. I’m thinking of what’s best for you. It frightens me to see you so…fine-drawn.”
“I’ve already hired someone,” I said.
“What does that matter? You can hire as many people as you like, can’t you? And Nattie would be wonderfully useful to you. She’s such a smart girl. And she’s family.”
“Which is exactly why I don’t want to hire her.” Not that my heart didn’t go out to anyone saddled with the nickname Nattie.
A frown appeared between Lisa’s elegant brows. “That’s a strange comment. How is hiring your perfectly charming sister any worse than employing That Boy, when anyone could see he wasn’t normal.”
“Who is?” I muttered, and drained my glass.
She sighed. “Now you’re being silly. I’ve already told Bill that you would, so please think about it.”
Off she sailed, with the unassailable poise and grace that won her rave reviews in Swan Lake. I decided I needed another drink and headed for the bar, negotiating my way through the strategically arranged mattresses and space heaters and potted trees.
On my return journey, I spotted Emma seated on a puffy cushion by the pool. Her hair was piled on her head, long tendrils framed her face. She wore something pink and frothy and absurdly formal. She looked bored out of her mind.
“Hi,” I said, drawing up a pillow and lowering myself.
“Hello,” she said gloomily. She was staring at the dancing on the upper level. The music drifted down. “Fools Rush In.” Probably not her trip. Not mine, either.
On the landing above us, I caught a glimpse of Lisa and Dauten lumbering by in a foxtrot. Sort of like the dancing bear and his trainer. Nah, that wasn’t fair. He wasn’t bad for such a mammoth. Lauren and her husband moved stiffly in and out of my line of vision.
My wandering thoughts were recalled by Emma’s abrupt, “Why do you call her Lisa?”
“I just always have.”
She made a disapproving face. “She told me to call her Mummy.”
I blinked. “Did she?” I said finally
. This was followed by several long moments of total and probably none too healthy self-absorption before it registered that the cheese mite looked unhappy.
“Is that a problem?” I inquired.
“My mom’s dead,” she said flatly.
“I know. I’m sorry.”
She shrugged a bony shoulder. “Lisa’s okay. But she’s not my mom.” Her eyes met mine on a sideways slant.
“Maybe she could be a friend to you, though. Me too, maybe.”
She nodded primly. Tucked a long strand of shiny hair beneath one small ear.
I had no idea what to say to her. She didn’t seem much for small talk. I shook the ice in my empty glass. “Can I buy you a drink, kid?”
She giggled.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The holiday garland stretched across the empty street was unraveling in the wind when the taxi let me off in front of the shop at three a.m. I let myself in, sliding back the ornate security gate, pausing in the darkness and silence. The Christmas lights twinkled like little colored stars amidst the bookshelves. Tired, but too wound up for sleep, I went back to the stock room and logged onto the computer.
Nothing interesting in e-mail. I yawned, scratched my bristly jaw.
On impulse I logged into blackster21’s e-mail, and found a message from [email protected]. Wasn’t aeternus Latin for everlasting or eternity?
Hmmm. You’ve Got Hell!
I clicked on the e-mail, waited, wincing, for my computer to lock up. The e-mail opened.
Dear Blackster21,
Those that have a common quality ever seek their kind.
6:00 a.m. 9182 Hobb Street.
Six a.m. on a Sunday. These people truly were fiends. I connected to the Internet and plugged in the address. It brought up a list of references to a Satanic Grotto, but when I clicked on the URL, the web page came up as unavailable.
I dug out my Thomas Guide, searched for Hobb Street.
East LA. Wow, it really was Hell. I glanced at my watch. I could grab a couple of hours sleep before I’d need to head over to the Mondrian to retrieve the SUV.
