Beware False Profits (3 page)

“Wow.”
Wow
is my fallback word. I didn’t know what else to say.

Dorothy shook her head. Then she leaned forward and peered at her face. Seemingly satisfied, she uncapped what looked like eyebrow pencil and began to dot more freckles on her cheeks.

“When he came out, he really looked bad. He told me he was done for the night. I told him the show must go on and all that garbage, but he just shook his head. Said he was making a phone call, and I should tell Larry he wasn’t going back onstage.”

Dorothy stopped dotting and turned to look at me. “You can guess what Larry said, right?”

“I’m pretty sure I can. What happened next?”

“I went on instead. And I really had to work up some enthusiasm, you know? I mean, was I in the mood to sing ‘Ding Dong the Witch Is Dead?’ I didn’t even have my freckles.”

I clucked in commiseration. “But I meant what happened to Joe?”

“Well, I guess he made that phone call.”

I pondered this. “You were out on the stage.”

“Well, I was, yes. But Marilyn wasn’t. She told me everything.”

Ed pulled himself together. “Do you mind filling us in?”

“She said that Joe went out in the alley for a few minutes, then he came back inside and changed his clothes and scrubbed his face. She went in to see if he needed anything. Of course that’s not why she
really
went in. I think she was hoping she’d catch him at something that would get him thrown out for good. She’s all about herself, our Marilyn, and just between us, she wants that coat. Anyway, she said his hands were shaking. She said she was afraid he might pass out, but he said he didn’t want any help. On the way out Larry tried to talk to him, but Joe brushed him aside and took off through the alley door. Larry said he wasn’t steady on his feet. And that’s all I know.”

Even though we knew a lot more now, I was afraid what we did know was something of a bust. We knew once a month Joe performed as a female impersonator. That was a bombshell with all kinds of implications, but it didn’t begin to explain where he was at the moment. He wasn’t here; he wasn’t at home. How many secret lives did this man have?

“You mentioned something about trying to return the phone,” I said.

“That’s right. After I finished up for the night and changed out of my hoopskirt”—Dorothy winked at me—“blue, almost a turquoise. With a neckline cut right to here”—she demonstrated with index fingers—“Ecru lace trim. I have a matching hat with more feathers than Vivian Leigh
ever
had. I’d show you, but it’s hanging in the wardrobe room because it takes up
so
much space. Anyway, I found the phone on the table. I knew where he usually stayed when he was in town, so I went over there to check on him and return it.”

“Where?” Ed asked.

“A small hotel on Seventeenth. The Chelsea Inn. There’s a bar in the neighborhood where we go sometimes after we finish here. You know, to eat and let off steam. Nobody looks twice. Splash is that kind of place. I’d walked with Josephine back to his hotel a few times on the way to my apartment. So I knew where he liked to stay. But by the time I got to the Chelsea Thursday, he was gone. Checked out, and they wouldn’t give me an address so I could send him the phone. You’ll take it back to him?”

“Sure, only we don’t know where he is. But we can give it to his wife.” I imagined that conversation and winced.

Actually, I’d been steadily wincing inside since the story began. The thing is, Joe Wagner is one of my favorites in our congregation. Not everybody sees me as a person in my own right. Joe has always made it clear he’s interested in Aggie Sloan-Wilcox, human being, and not Aggie Sloan-Wilcox, ministerial appendage. And by interested, I don’t mean “interested.” Not in a sexual way. Just interested, as in he likes my sense of humor and brain. It endeared him to me right from the beginning.

There were too many parts of this saga that worried me. First and foremost, Joe was missing and possibly lying ill somewhere or worse. I couldn’t think about “worse” right now, but the possibility wasn’t going to disappear until I knew he was okay.

Second, at the very least Joe had a double life. He left Emerald Springs every month, lied about his reason for leaving, and came to Manhattan to perform in a drag queen revue. Some people might be worried about that last part. I was worried about the first. Joe was not a man who would lie easily. I suspected this was not an easy deception to maintain, not logistically, and not emotionally.

Third, I didn’t think we were any closer to finding Joe than we’d been this morning. Yes, we knew more details about Thursday night, but how could we follow up? We would certainly check the hotel, and maybe the bar Dorothy had mentioned. But I was pretty certain this trail was going to go cold quickly.

Of course there was one more thing we could try, although the thought gave me shivers.

“We have to call all the hospitals in the city.” I wondered who we should ask about, Joe Wagner or Josephine Fairheart? Would each hospital require two phone calls or just a long explanation?

Ed gave Toto one last stroke, then held the fawning dog out to Dorothy. I leaned as far from the transaction as I could. Toto gave the air between us a ceremonial nip.

“She’s really not a bad person,” Ed told Dorothy, inclining his head toward me. “Most dogs tolerate her pretty well.”

Dorothy nodded gravely. “It’s a guy thing.”

Ed turned to me. “That’s a lot of hospitals.”

“I guess we’d better get started.”

Dorothy deposited Toto in a basket, then walked us the three steps to the door. Ed thanked her. I thanked her with a wary eye turned toward the dog. The door was already open when my curiosity overcame me.

“Dorothy?”

She looked expectant, a hulking Judy Garland with the same dewy-eyed intensity. I was really sorry we were going to miss her gig. I had a feeling she was one heck of a performer.

“Here’s something I noticed. You referred to all the other…performers as ‘she.’ But whenever you talked about Joe? Well, you referred to Joe as ‘he.’ Would you mind telling me why?”

Dorothy leaned closer. I noted that the freckles looked real. This time she was all set for her trip to the Emerald City. “You noticed that?”

“Uh-huh. I was wondering if there was some kind of message I can’t decode.”

“Like if Joe’s different from say, me or Marilyn? You really want to know if he’s gay or he’s not. Does it matter?”

Ed clarified what I hadn’t been able to ask. “I think Aggie’s wondering if Joe might have a special friend here in town. Somebody he’s staying with? Somebody we could check with?” When Dorothy didn’t answer, he went on. “Maybe one reason Joe disappeared is that he’s tired of pretending he’s something he’s not.”

“No, you’d be barking up the wrong tree looking for another guy in the wings. Josephine liked to strut his stuff on the stage, but when he walked off? Nobody had any doubts, and nobody ever tried to push him on the subject.”

“You’re saying Joe’s not gay? That he’s straight?”

She smiled. “There’s no requirement. Nothing in our contracts. You’d be surprised. Lots of guys like to hang out in their wives’ clothes once in a while. But they also like being married and going to bed with a woman. Joe’s just a great performer. Me, I wish he’d been different.”

“Gotcha. Um, any idea why he’d perform here?” I tried not to stress the last word, but that turned out to be impossible.

“Don’t know and don’t care. I just hope he’s okay and plans to come back. There was this moment at the end of his set, when he’d come out in a white jumpsuit all spangled and sparkly wearing a long white wig. The crew would flood the stage with color, and he’d sit on a trapeze. They’d crank it up and he’d swing over the stage out into the audience and sing ‘Believe.’ I get shivers thinking about it. I don’t know if I want to live in a world where I don’t have that to look forward to.”

Dorothy looked so crestfallen I considered giving her a hug, but decided against it. Toto looked like he was ready to leap out of the basket.

She pointed us toward the exit door, and we took off as somebody on stage crooned “Stormy Weather.”

Outside on the street Ed pulled me against the building and we stood quietly a moment.

“So…what do you think?” I asked at last.

“I think this is going to be one of those ministerial moments I don’t look back on with pleasure.”

“You mean telling Maura?”

“Among other things. Finding out what’s happened to Joe isn’t going to be much fun, either. Whatever it is can’t be good.”

“I guess at this point we go back to the apartment and start making calls.”

“Ag, unless we discover something that keeps us here, I think we have to go home on the first flight in the morning. Maura has to know what we discovered as soon as possible, and I can’t see keeping her waiting or explaining something like this on the phone. She’s going to have to figure out what to announce at Mayday! Joe’s always such a huge part of the celebration.”

I’d thought the same thing, although rebelliously my mind had skated through other possibilities first—just in case there was some way to salvage our romantic weekend together. No such luck.

We walked toward the front of the club in silence. A platinum blonde in a raspberry miniskirt and a sweater tight enough to diminish lung capacity gestured at one of us. I wasn’t sure which, and it didn’t matter, because as if he’d been born to it Ed quickly hailed a cab. He was so comfortable in the city, I wouldn’t have been surprised if he conversed with the driver in his native language.

I settled on the bumpy seat while Ed gave directions. In English. Then when he sat back I tapped him on the shoulder. “The Plaza Hotel?”

“I thought we’d take a carriage ride through the park, then find a nice place to eat, if it’s still possible to get a table on a Saturday night. But we’ll try.”

I didn’t know what to say. As our cabbie sped into the heart of traffic, Ed shined his sexiest smile on me. I even forgot to be terrified.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I really am. I know you were looking forward to this time away. But we’ll have the rest of the night to make calls to the police and the hospitals. Let’s take a little for ourselves, okay?”

I leaned over and kissed him. I barely noticed when the driver stomped on the brake, and the resulting snap of my seat belt launched me backwards.

I’m married to a great guy, and when he has time, he can be wonderfully romantic. I was delighted we were going to be spending a few hours doing what we’d come to New York to do. But I wondered, even as I kissed him again, if either of us would be able to put the saga of Joe Wagner, alias Josephine Fairheart, behind us tonight.

Maura and Joe Wagner live in a perfect Cape Cod on a perfect street in Emerald Springs. Using
perfect
twice in the same sentence doesn’t begin to point out the, well, picture-perfect, storybook setting for their lives.

The Wagner’s neighborhood, Essex Village, is just old enough to have towering trees and homes built when quality and individuality were valued. Luckily, the neighborhood isn’t so old that houses are being torn down to make room for more contemporary specimens. Maybe the houses don’t have today’s recreational bathrooms, or media rooms where moviegoers can park a fleet of Hondas drive-in style, but they have class. It’s even possible to walk into town without packing a lunch. Of course it’s easier to drive the family Volvo or Saab, which is more often the case.

If I was going to buy a home in Emerald Springs, I would first look in “The Village,” as locals call it. An area has arrived when it coins its own nickname. Although real estate in general sells slowly in our little burg, houses in the Village are snapped up immediately. Our richest citizens live in the modern, pretentious homes of Emerald Estates, but young professionals with luck and taste congregate here.

The Wagners’ house is white frame, with slatted spruce green shutters and a mulberry front door. The windows are multipaned and double-hung, and three dormers nestle into the roof. A cupola with a rooster weather vane graces one side, a fieldstone chimney juts from the other, and a wide front porch looks over the neighborhood. The yard is surrounded by a picket fence corralling displays of herbs and perennials, flowering shrubs, and a superb rose garden. I know from attending a Valentine’s Day brunch here last year that one of the two flawlessly proportioned wings holds a parade of bedrooms. The other contains the garage, master bedroom, and bath. Maura is only too delighted to show guests through her pride and joy.

The term
housewife
has gone out of favor, but Maura is more or less married to her house. I’m convinced she thinks of her charming little Cape Cod the way some of us think of best friends or lovers. She never seems happier than when the two of them are alone together. She gifts the house with precious finds, fusses over it until it’s in peak condition, and murmurs sweet nothings when no one is around to hear them.

Okay, so I’ve never really “heard” her murmuring sweet nothings to the family room fireplace or laundry chute. But some things are obvious without a shred of proof.

When Ed and I drove up, the lilacs stationed at the entrance to the driveway breathed a sweet welcome. I could smell them before I opened the car door, and once outside, the fragrance was enough to root me to the spot. On one side of the yard a crab apple flowered in cotton candy puffs, and underneath it, drifts of daffodils outlined the walkway to the porch. Beside the front door a deacon’s bench sported two life-sized rag dolls dressed in Amish clothing and posed back to back.

I know from my tour that Maura changes the dolls’ clothing whenever she feels the whim. She has an entire guest room closet filled with everything from yellow rain slickers to a ball gown and tux. The day of the brunch they had been dressed as Romeo and Juliet. Today the dolls looked as if they were about to head down to the barn for the morning’s milking. Mama would come back with enough cream to churn the day’s butter.

“It’s all just so strange,” I told Ed as reluctantly, I lifted the pineapple door knocker and let it fall above a shiny brass plate that said The Wagner Family.

“I know.”

“How do you get from this to belting out ‘Dark Lady’ at the Pussycat Club?”

“One agonizing step at a time, I guess.”

The door opened, and Maura stood at the threshold. There was no sign of emotional trauma. She looked much as she always did. Maura is slender and small, with pert features offset by amazing blue eyes. Her naturally curly blonde hair was neatly combed, each curl a shining tribute to the masses. She wore a pale blue twinset and camel-colored slacks. I was most impressed that under the circumstances, she had still found the presence of mind to add a gold chain, small hoop earrings, and an impressive watch.

“It’s bad news, isn’t it?” She looked vaguely puzzled, as if hearing bad news was so far from her universe that this moment was akin to preparing for an alien invasion.

“We haven’t found Joe,” Ed assured her, “but we need to talk to you.”

“Of course.” She stepped aside and gestured us in. “I have a fresh pot of coffee and a cinnamon coffee cake.”

Had my own husband disappeared, I probably wouldn’t think to break out the lemon Pledge. But the telltale aroma proclaimed that Maura had just polished the furniture. In one glance I could tell the house was spotless. She could serve us coffee cake on the foyer’s maple floor without concern. As we passed the living room I was fairly sure that the needlepoint pillows on the sofa and love seat had been recently plumped, and the collection of antique mantel clocks had all been wound.

In the blue and yellow kitchen she gestured us to the table by a bay window and without speaking set botanical-themed dishes in front of us.

“Maybe you should sit down, too,” Ed said gently.

“Oh, I will in a minute. Just let me get organized.”

Organized meant five long minutes, a silver tea tray with a coffeepot and all the accoutrements, the aforementioned coffee cake, a vase with one fragrant narcissus to adorn the center of the table, and napkins straight from Provence. By the time she joined us, I had taken stock of everything in the room and was fighting back the urge to report Maura to some higher female authority. Not a thing was out of place. No keys on the counter, no newspapers on the table, no dishes in a drainer. No drainer, in fact. I suspected she washed, dried, and put away every single dish without the need for one. Next to Maura, the Stepford wives were slobs.

Everything in plain sight had been placed there with care. The walls were embellished with cheerful embroidered sayings augmented by kittens or cherub-cheeked children. Shining red apples filled a pottery bowl. From an uncapped crystal jar, potpourri added its rose scent to the lemony air. I had a sneaking suspicion Maura had spent more time folding and ironing her dish towels than I had spent remodeling the parsonage.

We were both relieved when she finally sat. Me because I could stop imagining how often she cleaned out her refrigerator, and Ed because he needed to get Joe’s story out in the open.

She sliced the cake and we accepted pieces. She poured coffee, then cream. I stopped her at the sugar cubes. It was time to move on.

“I didn’t know you would be here so early, or I would have sliced some fruit.” She lifted her cup gracefully and took a dainty sip. “It was kind of you to come.” She could have been thanking a neighbor who had brought her a piece of misdirected mail.

“Where’s Tyler?” I asked, hoping Joe and Maura’s twelve-year-old son wouldn’t walk in as we were describing Joe’s slinky silver gown.

She gestured vaguely. “Oh, upstairs I think.”

It was eleven o’clock, and had Joe been home, Tyler would have been sitting in Sunday School. But even if Maura hadn’t been worried about her husband, she probably wouldn’t have brought him to church. Joe was the parent who rounded him up and herded him there.

“Can we speak privately then?” Ed asked.

“I doubt he’ll be down anytime soon. He’s probably working on a model. That’s what he and Joseph normally do on Sunday afternoons.”

I picked up my cup. Of course the coffee was exceptional. “I imagine he’s worried.”

“Tyler?” She looked vaguely bemused. “I haven’t told him anything. Why would he worry?”

“Wasn’t he expecting Joe to come home Friday?”

“Well, yes, but he just thinks his father was delayed. I didn’t tell him differently.” She looked at Ed’s plate. “You aren’t eating, Ed. Please go ahead.”

Ed reached across the table and rested his hand on hers for a moment. “Here’s what we discovered. Joe’s trips to New York haven’t been for business, Maura. There is no Fund for Food.”

“But of course there is. That’s why he goes.” She was wide-eyed and not one bit petulant. She was sure that Ed had simply made an error.

He picked up his fork, but the coffee cake remained untouched. “No, he’s been going for another reason.”

Had this been me, I would have immediately guessed my husband was having an affair. What woman, even a minister’s wife, wouldn’t jump to that conclusion first?

But Maura shook her head. “What reason could there be?”

“He’s been performing once a month at a nightclub in the East Village, a place called the Pussycat Club.”

“What a silly name.” She murmured this into her cup, just before she took another measured sip. “That doesn’t sound like Joseph.”

I wondered if Ed was going to skip the part about Joe being a once-a-month drag queen. We hadn’t discussed how he would tell Maura, and I wondered if he would spare her.

But of course, he couldn’t. Joe was missing, and every clue to finding him was an important one.

“The Pussycat Club has a variety of acts,” he said slowly, clearly feeling his way. “And Joe entertained the audience by impersonating Cher.”

“Cher?”

“That’s right.”

“Like Sonny and Cher?”

“That Cher, yes.”

“But Cher is a woman.”

“Joe dressed up like a woman, like Cher, and sang her songs.”

“And people came to see this?”

“They did.”

“People will pay to see a man dress like a woman?”

Earth to Maura. I could see that Ed hadn’t had a clue she would be so completely unprepared. I took over. “The thing is, he’s been doing this for some time. It started as a joke, but he was so good at it, they asked him to come back. And apparently he enjoys it.”

Maura nibbled at her bottom lip. It was the first real sign she felt anything. “He does have a good voice.”

Now
I
was speechless. I glanced at Ed. He was looking at his coffee cake longingly, as if he wanted to shrink to ant size and escape into yeasty oblivion.

Maura shook her head. “It just doesn’t sound like something Joseph would do. Are you sure?”

“You haven’t noticed anything different about him in, oh, the past year or so?”

“No, he’s just the same as always.”

“Maybe there were some physical things?”

“Like what?”

“Like maybe he was shaving more than his face?”

Her eyes widened, and this time she nodded. “Only he told me he had developed some dermatological problem and all the hair on his legs had fallen out. Just sometimes, though. Then it would grow back.”

Again, I was speechless.

With team spirit Ed took over. “Maura, Joe performed last Thursday, but we were told he left before his act was over. That’s when he must have called you, but he left his phone behind.”

He pulled Joe’s phone out of his coat pocket and handed it to her. “People there thought maybe he was sick. We checked with the hotel where he was staying, all the hospitals in the city, and the police. We couldn’t turn up anything. He just disappeared.”

She took the phone, then she nodded. “Well, okay.”

“This must be hard on you,” I prompted. “Finding out Joe had a secret, kind of an unusual secret at that. And now, still not knowing where he is?”

“I don’t know what I’ll do without him.”

I had been uneasy. I was hesitant and sorry to be the bearer of bad news. But now, for the first time since she opened the door, I felt a rush of sympathy. Despite my feminist leanings, I felt the same way about Ed. I couldn’t imagine what I would do if he disappeared from my life. I put my hand over hers, as Ed had done.

“This must be hard,” I said.

“Joseph does so many things for us. I don’t know how we’re going to manage. He makes sure Tyler’s eating right and testing his blood and managing his shots. He pays all the bills and watches our investments and cuts the grass.” She looked up. “And it’s May, the grass will need to be cut regularly, won’t it?”

I pulled back my hand.

Ed took over again. “You can pay somebody to do that, Maura.”

She couldn’t pay somebody to be the love of her life, her partner, her best friend. But those weren’t the things that seemed to concern her. I told myself I was being unfair. People react differently to bumps in the road. Maura was trying to be practical. Perhaps she wasn’t a woman who showed her feelings. And even though Ed was her minister, we were really little more than strangers. She might be saving face.

I realized how upset she was when she got up and started to clear away our dishes, although we hadn’t touched our coffee cake and our cups were half full. “What about Mayday!?”

Ed looked at his watch. “It starts in about two hours, right?”

“People are still expecting Joseph to be there. I’ve had to field so many phone calls. He should have been there all morning setting up, and everybody wonders where he is.”

“What have you been telling them?”

“That he was called out of town on an emergency, and I’m hoping he’ll be back in time. Hazel Kefauver is the worst. She keeps calling, like I can magically transport him to the grounds of the food bank if she just calls here often enough.”