by Josh Lanyon
“Of course,” I said. “I’m sorry I missed you earlier.”
I stepped aside, the detectives crossed our threshold, and stopped short at the sight of John coming up behind me.
“Kolchak. Iff.” John sounded brisk but cordial.
“Commissioner,” they said in near unison. They looked about as thrilled to see him as I’m sure I looked to see them.
John slid his arm around my waist—a little protective, a little possessive—and said to me, “Joan and I are going to make sure everything’s set up and ready to go.”
I nodded, grateful beyond words for that casual, maybe even instinctive gesture from John. The point wasn’t lost on Iff and Kolchak, who somehow managed to exchange a glance without so much as a flicker of their eyes.
John smiled at his investigators. “Gentlemen, our wedding rehearsal starts in one hour, so I’d consider it a personal favor if you could keep this brief.”
“Of course, Commissioner.” Kolchak’s smile was as meaningless as my own.
John’s arm tightened in a small, reassuring squeeze; then he released me and followed Jinx out to the kitchen.
“Like marrying you wouldn’t be stressful enough,” Jinx was saying.
The detectives were silent, waiting for the moment we all heard the door leading into the backyard slam shut.
I said at random, “We’re getting married on the bottom terrace of the back garden. John had thirty ivory heirloom roses planted. It’s going to be a white garden.”
“Sounds very convivial,” Iff replied.
I gave him a doubtful look and gestured toward the steps leading down to the living room. “Would you like to sit?”
Iff nodded graciously, preceding me down. Kolchak followed. Iff took a seat at one end of the sofa.
I waited, but Kolchak gestured for me to sit. “That’s okay.” He took out a small notebook. “I have a bad back. It’s easier if I stand.”
I sat on the opposite end of the sofa and resisted the temptation to make meaningless chitchat. Learning to survive interrogation is one of the things we learn in high school.
Kolchak leisurely flipped through his notebook. I glanced at Iff, who offered a genial and unconvincing smile. “Congratulations on your impending nuptials,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t mind him,” Kolchak said, turning pages. “He’s trying to improve his vocabulary in thirty days.”
Pyewacket appeared at the top of the steps. He eyed our visitors, flicking his tail as he sized up the situation.
Iff brightened. “Oh, he’s a beauty! Russian Blue?”
“Yes.”
Pyewacket raised his fangs and disappeared.
“He’s not very social,” I said.
Iff laughed and sighed. “Yeah, we get that a lot.”
I said, “Can I offer you tea or coffee or, um, something?” I wasn’t sure we had tea or coffee or um something, but waiting for the interview to begin was making me nervous—as it was no doubt intended to do.
“No thanks,” Iff said. “We’ve had lunch.”
Kolchak said suddenly, briskly, “Yep, times have sure changed. Our first gay police commissioner. And he’s getting married in a big high-society wedding.”
It wasn’t a question, so I didn’t try to answer.
“Where was it you first met?”
Presumably Kolchak was loosening me up by lobbing a few easy questions before he started playing hardball. I explained about meeting John at Bonhams and then again at the Black and White Ball.
“So it was what they call a whirlwind courtship?”
“I suppose so.”
Iff leaned back and studied the ceiling. Kolchak proceeded to ask a lot of general background-information questions. I told him my mother was French but my father was American and that I had been born in Salem, Massachusetts. I had grown up mostly in San Francisco but had attended Université Lumière in Domrémy.
“That’s in France?” Iff inquired.
“Yes.”
“But you’re an American citizen?”
“Yes.”
I explained about buying Blue Moon Antiques four years earlier from Oliver Sandhurst. “He was in business for forty years. He’s written a number of books about historical San Francisco.”
In fact, “Uncle” Oliver, as he was known within the Craft, had penned several books about San Francisco’s occult history. Not all of them approved by la Société. At one time there had even been talk of sanctions. Of course, it had come to nothing. Oliver was a beloved figure. Even an institution.
Iff and Kolchak appeared disinterested in Oliver Sandhurst’s literary endeavors. “Is it fair to say there was some conflict with yourself and Reitherman over the purchase of the store?” Kolchak asked.
I had to give them credit for doing their homework.
“Well, yes. Seamus made an offer as well, but Oliver chose to go with mine.”
“Why do you think that was?”
“Two reasons, I’m guessing. I was in a position to offer more money down, and my plans for the shop were more in keeping with Oliver’s vision.”
“Elucidate,” Iff invited.
“I believe Oliver’s feeling was that Seamus was mostly interested in Blue Moon for its location and footprint.”
That was true, as far as it went. But Oliver—as well as many within the Craft community—had also looked down on what he deemed Seamus’s “business practices.” By which he meant Seamus’s decision to sell kitschy and cheap occult souvenirs and gimmicks alongside some really wonderful heirloom pieces.
It’s one thing for non-practitioners to sell Craft items, but when someone who knows better chooses to sell the sacred—and items that mock and mimic the sacred—not everyone takes a lenient view.
“And that led to some hard feelings between yourself and Reitherman,” Kolchak said.
“I…not on my part.”
“But certainly on Reitherman’s part.” Kolchak smiled. His teeth were gray too. “No need to answer. We’ve had confirmation from plenty of people on that score.”
“Any ill will was on Seamus’s side. I got what I wanted.”
“Do you usually get what you want?” Iff inquired interestedly.
I ignored that.
“Would you say it’s fair to assume that Sandhurst’s decision to sell to you was the inciting incident—”
“No.”
“Catalyst—”
“Certainly not!”
“Start of a fairly contentious—”
“No,” I said. “We were competitors, yes. But—”
“Business rivals, you’d say?”
“By that definition, I’m business rivals with every antiques dealer in the city. It wasn’t a contentious relationship.”
“Wasn’t it, though?” Iff put in. “Weren’t there hard feelings over a transaction regarding a fancy gold mirror?”
That threw me. I didn’t know how they could have learned about the mirror. It was a scandal within the Craft, but only within the Craft.
“It wasn’t— You’re placing too much importance on that.”
Kolchak asked, “On what?”
“It’s natural that dealers will bid against each other. That’s how it works in this business.” It sounded lame, but it was true.
However, I wasn’t surprised when Iff said, “We’re talking about a Louis XVI rococo hanging mirror that was put up for private auction.”
“Yes. It was three years ago. The mirror isn’t, in itself, that valuable, but it was a family heirloom, so I bid heavily and won the auction.”
“And then Reitherman tried to do an end run around you,” Kolchak said.
I shrugged. “Yes. I didn’t even know I was bidding against him, but apparently, he took the loss personally. He went to the mirror’s owner and offered them more money, a lot more money—in fact, a ridiculous amount—if they would cancel the sale and allow him to purchase the mirror.”
Iff said, “But instead, the
owner contacted you, and you were irate at Reitherman’s duplicitousness.”
“You’re making this sound like a much bigger deal than it was,” I protested.
“But it was a big deal to Reitherman. That’s obvious.”
Yes. It had been obvious at the time too.
“He was still irritated over my purchase of Blue Moon—and, like I said, I think he took being outbid personally.”
Probably. But that was the tip of the iceberg. Seamus had deliberately—knowing the history of the rococo mirror, knowing that recovery of the mirror was important to me and to my entire family—bid against me. And when he lost, fair and square, he tried to get the mirror through cheating. It had not been his finest hour, and I had been angry. No question. But it had also been three years ago. I’m not good at holding grudges. Maman says I lack “constancy of purpose,” but honestly, I don’t have the heart for hatred.
“Once again you had bested Reitherman,” Kolchak said.
“If you want to call it that.”
“That’s what Reitherman called it.”
I said nothing.
“Would it be fair to say that Reitherman believed you were a rich dilettante,” Iff said, “and that he considered you a hobbyist and thought your success—and you do seem to be very successful—was entirely due to your family’s wealth?”
“If he did, that was on him.”
“Oh, he did,” Iff assured me. “According to everyone we’ve talked to, Reitherman hated you.”
I could see the direction this was headed. “Look, if there were bad feelings, they were on Seamus’s side, not mine. I rarely, if ever, gave him a thought.”
“That would make it worse,” Kolchak informed me. “Nothing aggravates a person like finding out their archenemy doesn’t even know they exist.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t know—” I stopped. Tried again. “I know where you’re going with this. If Seamus hated me as much as you’ve decided he did, why did he ask me to come to his shop last night? But he did invite me.”
“Exactly,” Kolchak said. He gave me another of those wintery smiles. “Why did he invite you? Not to sell you a book of poetry, that’s for sure. But we think we’ve got that worked out.”
“It’s a matter of proving it,” Iff said. He smiled too.
“Which we hope to do before the wedding,” Kolchak said. “That would be better for everyone, wouldn’t you say?”
I swallowed. My throat was drier than graveyard dust.
“Better for the commissioner,” Iff agreed. He rose. “No question there.”
“We’ll be talking to you,” Kolchak said.
Iff said, “Soon.”
Chapter Nine
By the time I reached the bottom of the garden, most of our wedding party had arrived.
I had taken the time to splash water on my face, comb my hair, and smear balm over my split lip. Maybe I didn’t look stylish, but I also didn’t look like I’d been hit by a train. I felt like I had, though. I did my best to hide it, plastering on a smile as I reached the bottom flagstone.
The opposing factions—er, John’s friends and family were standing on the opposite side of the garden from mine. Well, my friends. My family was not making an appearance until dinner. Which, frankly, was a relief.
I spotted John standing by the white arched trellis where we would exchange our vows on Sunday. He was speaking to a tall—nearly as tall as he—lean, dark-haired man. Military or maybe ex-military. I was beginning to know the type.
I went to join them. John smiled in welcome, and as usual, I felt that crooked little grin in the center of my heart. Like an arrow hitting a bull’s-eye. “Okay?” he asked.
“It is now.”
He started to speak, then settled for smoothing his hand over my back. Not the time nor the place. I got it.
The man beside John was smiling too, but his blue gaze was cool, considering, as he sized me up.
“This is Trace,” John said. “We served together. You’ve heard me speak of him.”
Trace Levine. They had been in the SEALs together. That much I did remember.
“Right. The Best Man,” I said.
“I keep telling him,” Trace said, and they smirked at each other.
“Very nice to meet you,” I said.
Trace’s grip was harder than it had to be, though not actually crushing. Pointed. Someone else not thrilled with John’s selection, but doing the necessary. I was starting to wonder if John and I were the only people genuinely thrilled by our marriage.
Actually, given the curious looks I was getting from pretty much everyone, I was starting to wonder if I was the only person genuinely thrilled by our marriage.
“What do you think?” John asked.
I blinked at him, then realized he was talking about the wedding preparations. I did a half turn, scanning what amounted to a small glade surrounded by a forest of overgrown and towering oleander bushes.
The white garden was John’s wedding gift to me. The work had been completed the day before. Silvery white flagstones ringed a wide border of ivory and white heirloom roses, cream and blush-edged peonies, and panicle hydrangeas. The beds were filled in with sweet-smelling lily of the valley, snowdrops, Queen Anne’s lace, fragrant white hyacinth, and choisya. Datura and angel’s trumpet vines climbed obelisks made from ornate reclaimed wrought iron. There were even a couple of faux gazing balls in silver and blue atop weathered pedestals. It was perfect in every detail. Made more perfect by the fact that John had chosen everything—plants and accents—himself.
(Which should have warned me he paid close attention to the little things.)
“It’s so beautiful.” I meant it. The garden, but even more, the thought behind it.
He studied the plantings in their mounds of dark, freshly turned soil. “It’ll be more beautiful once it all takes root.”
I nodded. Something in his look of quiet satisfaction put a lump in my throat.
“The chairs will be set up Saturday evening. And, in case this isn’t enough flowers for you, the floral arrangements will be delivered Sunday morning.”
“That will work.”
“First service is here at nine, followed by the wedding breakfast provided by your Great-aunt Coralie, then a little time to ourselves…” He winked at me, and I felt my face heat. “Then at four we have the second, formal service in your mother’s rose garden, immediately followed by the reception, which is hopefully more than picnic baskets and jugs of wine…”
“Don’t worry. Maman knows how things should be done.”
“Sure. She seems like a girl who loves to party.”
I swallowed a laugh.
John said, “After the reception, dancing and drinking until dawn at Chambers. Is that all correct?”
The battle plans were drawn up. We had our mission.
I smiled. “Yes. All that is perfect.”
“And then finally, hopefully, a lot more time to ourselves.”
“Hopefully, yes.” Assuming I wasn’t sitting in jail on murder charges. I didn’t say that, though.
“Which reminds me. Your…priest? Inés was asking if you’re bringing your own, er, broom to the service.”
“Yes. I am. I’ll speak to her.”
John grinned, though his expression was quizzical. “I won’t ask.”
I cleared my throat. “It’s a…a French thing.”
“Okay. And what about your friends over there dressed like they’re attending your funeral? Is that a French thing?” He nodded at the little knot of my black-clad attendants standing with their backs to the rest of the wedding party. In addition to Andi, who was supposed to act as my Best Woman, I had three of my closest friends taking part in the ceremony. Vaughn, Brianna, and I had been pals since the days of bubble spells and Krav Kids training at the Academy of the Sacred Art. Rex, I’d met shortly after college, and they were one of those people you instantly connected with.
“Yes.” I couldn’t help it. I hooked my arm
around his neck, pulled him in, and kissed him. And then again. And then again. “Thank you,” I whispered. “John, thank you for all of this.”
For everything. For the garden, sure. For not caring that I was making some requests he clearly thought were peculiar. For not minding that no one but us seemed to want this marriage. For not even being scared off by the fact that I was the prime suspect in a murder investigation.
“Hey, hey.” John pulled back, smiling, a little surprised. “You don’t have to thank me. This is for both of us.”
“I know. I’m just…happy.”
“Happy, huh? You’re a very emotional guy, Cos. You know that?” Despite the teasing, his tone was tender and his eyes bright with emotion.
“I know. But I love you. So much.”
John saw the tears, opened his mouth, but a couple of the groomsmen gave catcalls, and he laughed, shaking his head at them. To me, he said, “We have to get through the hoopla, that’s all. When it’s us on our own, it’ll be okay.”
Was he trying to reassure me or himself?
Before I could respond, Nola bustled up.
John’s mother was, well, let’s say she was very different from my mother. Nola was a square and sturdy woman with an open disdain for all that she considered “frivolous.” One of those people born middle-aged and aggrieved. She did not wear makeup, and she sewed her own clothes. I’m not sure if she ever had a career beyond wife and mother, but her current occupation was dedicated widow and full-time martyr.
“Cosmo, I need a final answer. Is your father attending tonight’s dinner?”
“I—I’m not sure.”
“You can surely phone him and find out?”
You would think so, wouldn’t you? But my father was never one for being in the right place at the right time. In fact, the very idea of a right time and a right place offended him. Which was one of the many reasons he and my mother had not stayed together.
John said easily, “We can always squeeze in one more, Mamie.”
“Mamie” was his pet name for her. I didn’t understand the significance of it. I did understand that she adored John with every fiber of her being. That was the single thing I really liked about her. I was sorry she was so unhappy about our marriage. John didn’t see it, but I did. Then again, Nola was unhappy about many things. Unhappy that we were not getting married in the Catholic Church. Unhappy that John had not “outgrown” being gay. Unhappy that I was male, of French descent, and probably, in her view, the embodiment of all things frivolous. Unhappy that I was. At all.
