Drag Queen in the Court of Death (2 page)

Ellis uncoiled himself from the floor as if released by a spring and whirled into mindless action. All the time he moved he was talking endlessly, words meant to center himself, organize his suddenly chaotic world: "All right, all right. We'll just get these things cleared up. Just keep busy till they get here. Nothing to do with us, really. Like, nothing. Just get these things put away. Come on, Jaym. We'll just get these things in the car."

He was scooping the gowns up in his arms, rolling them up and under, any old way. The turquoise and silver and deep red silks and satins slithered out of his grasp as if they were alive. Sequins and beads winked and sparkled in the sunlight.

Jaym turned from the window. His face was drained of color, his dark eyes glazed with shock.
"We have to wait for the police," I said.
"I know!" snapped Ellis. "I just want to put these in the car, okay? Shit, I need a cigarette." I handed the car keys to Jaym without another word. I felt stiff, even the muscles of my face clenched and slow to react.
Together, Ellis and Jaym swept up the gowns from the coffee table where they had been flung in our rush to get the trunk open, and almost tumbled out the door and down the stairs, leaving me alone.
The heat and dust and sudden silence closed around me like a liquid wall. I felt trapped, buried alive. I realized that, except to stand up, I hadn't moved since we found our grisly discovery. The mummified corpse still leered at my feet. My heart tightened in my chest. I couldn't breathe. A sob strangled in my throat as I finally wrenched myself away, almost running across the hall toward the bedroom. At the last moment, I veered away and ducked out the window to stand on the fire escape. I concentrated on nothing but breathing ... in and out ... in and out...
Below through the branches of the maple tree, I could see Jaym leaning against the trunk of the car, swinging my keys nervously in one hand. Ellis was pacing back and forth, smoking and talking, gesturing with his cigarette. For the first time in many years, I felt the urge to smoke. A useful vice, I thought, like drinking too much. Oblivion. That's what I craved right now.
I didn't want to think of what was in the other room. What had obviously been there for a very long time. The feeling that overwhelmed me, however, was not revulsion but a shattering sense of betrayal. I blinked in the dappled sunlight, and for a moment I saw two of Jaym. Two of Ellis. I blinked again.
Minutes crawled on. By the time the police arrived, my bones seemed locked in place from hours of standing on the fire escape, although I knew it had been less than fifteen minutes. I listened to the tramp of their feet on the narrow stairs and opened the door slowly, so as not to knock into them.
"It's in here," I said, leading the way into Ronnie's living room.
The first cop was large and pink, his partner, a woman, tanned and fit, her uniform crisp even in the wilting heat. They both moved with a solid tread, weighted down with the equipment attached to their belts. They kept me standing in the hall while they checked out the corpse, then the male officer politely asked if he could use the phone.
The woman, Officer Dio, came out into the hall with me and began asking questions in an irritatingly calm voice, as if there was nothing out of the ordinary about having a mummified corpse in your living room.
"My name's Michael Dunn-Barton," I said, spelling the last name. I gave her my address. My phone number. "This place belonged to Ronnie Lipinsky, who died three weeks ago. I'm his executor. We came to pick up some clothing he had left to Ellis, the young man downstairs." I saw another police car arrive, along with an ambulance and a fire truck. There were more heavy treads on the stairs. "There's really no need for all this commotion," I said.
Officer Dio went to the door and talked to the others in a low voice. I wished I was downstairs with Ellis and Jaym.
"Step in here for a moment and give them room to work," Officer Dio said, herding me into the bedroom with the expertness of a border collie. The small room with its intimate associations made me even more uncomfortable. The trunk used to be in here, covered with an old Spanish shawl Ronnie had picked up at the Sally Ann store for fifty cents.
"I don't know a thing about this," I said, with a quick gesture to the living room. I was annoyed with myself for feeling any sense I possessed slipping away in the cloudpainted room where I had first gotten to know Ronnie—or thought I had.
Officer Dio flipped open her notebook again. "How long have you known the deceased?"
"Know him? I don't know him!"
"I meant the man who lived in this apartment."
I took a careful breath. "We were good friends about twenty-five years ago," I said. "Then I moved away from Toronto, and after that, I only saw Ronnie occasionally."
"But you're his executor," she said, pencil poised, the unstated question hanging in the air.
"I moved back to Toronto in the fall."
"The fall of 1989?"
"Yes, last year. I'm a history professor at the University of Toronto." She seemed unimpressed. She had stopped writing, waiting for me to get to the implied question. I shifted uncomfortably, feeling trapped, guilty of some unspecified crime.
"When I met Ronnie again, he was quite sick. I joined his circle of friends to help out. I had no idea he had named me as his executor until I was contacted by his lawyer." I heard the anger in my voice. I was sure she heard it too.
"Have you any idea of the identity of the body?"
"None whatsoever." I glanced out the window and saw a crowd gathering, gawking at the police cars, the ambulance, the fire truck. Another cop was talking to Ellis and Jaym.
Officer Dio kept me a few minutes longer, asked a few more questions. I gave her a set of keys to the apartment.
"I guess I shouldn't leave town," I said.
Her reply wiped the smile off my face. "That's right, sir. The detectives handling the case will want to talk to you."
"But this is absurd," I sputtered. "I don't know a thing about ... about..."
"I'm sure you don't, sir. It's just routine."
Routine? What was routine about this? I watched the ambulance crew maneuver their gurney through the hall and out the door to the stairs, the obscene bundle stuffed into a body bag and strapped in, as if it were some unpredictable alien life form that might attack at any moment. I felt hysteria rising as they said their solemn good-byes and locked up the apartment, sealing the door with police tape. It was all I could do to keep the mad laughter at bay.
Outside, the crowd was growing. Who were these people? What did they expect was going to happen? For a moment, I felt disoriented as we emerged into the bright sunlight. Everyone was looking at me as if I was the new Ted Bundy. I saw a City TV news truck slewed across the neighbor's driveway. How did they know? What did they want? A young woman in a tight black skirt was hurrying toward me with a microphone. I bolted to my car, flung open the door, and took off, narrowly missing a fire hydrant. Only when I was a few streets away did I realize Ellis and Jaym were in the backseat.
They seemed to have regained their youthful exuberance and were both full of talk, a chatter that jangled my nerves even more.
"Was that weird or what?" Ellis said. "Did you have any clue?"
"Unbelievable," Jaym murmured, over and over. Finally he leaned forward from the back seat. "How well did you know this Lipinsky guy?"
"Not well enough, it seems."
"I thought I knew him too," Ellis said.
"I only met him a few times, myself," Jaym went on. "Just around, you know. I saw a few of his shows, last year while he was still performing. I was never invited to the really intense parties."
"Neither was I," I said, trying to imagine what Ronnie's "intense" parties might be like. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I didn't know him well at all."
"But you're managing his affairs. You must have—" Jaym's dark eyes met mine in the rear view mirror. "That's none of my business," he said quickly.
"Damn right it isn't."
He drew back, slumping into his seat in silence.
"A different sorta skeleton to have in your closet, right?" Ellis prattled on. "Trust Ronnie! So, you never saw that trunk before, Michael? Where do you suppose it came from? Who would do that?"
"Enough," I said. "I don't know a damn thing about the fucking mummy. No idea who it could be, where it came from, or who put it there."
"Okay, okay." Ellis looked at me, startled. "I was just wondering how long it'd been there."
So was I. Anger rushed in as my shock abated. I could feel the heat of it and the energy, coursing through me, heightening my color, making my hands almost shake on the wheel.
Luckily it was a short ride to Ellis's. The last I saw of them both, they were struggling through the front doors of the apartment building, holding the gowns between them, talking animatedly. I wondered briefly if they had made off with more than the allotted three.
I drove away quickly, breathing fast. I hung a left across traffic, narrowly missing a cyclist. "Damn Ronnie," I muttered, my jaw tense. If only our paths had never crossed again!
I glanced at my watch. It was four sixteen. I had planned to visit Logan this afternoon. An image of his ravaged skeletal face flashed into my mind. The wheel jerked under my shaking hands as the mummy's grinning skull superimposed itself on top of Logan's face. Shit! I swerved onto a side street and glided to a stop. I felt the adrenaline seeping away, leaving me cold and shaking. I needed a drink.
On autopilot, I made my way to the Mason's Arms, a nearby pub that was usually crammed with students. In late June I felt I would be safe. I ordered a Heineken, then changed it to a scotch on the rocks.
It was Logan's fault Ronnie had entered my life again. It was all because of him and his accident.
I met Logan the first month I moved back to Toronto. He and two other men were trying to move a full-size grand piano into his apartment above a store on the corner down the block from me. I stopped to admire it and offer my help. They ended up using a crane to swing the thing into the upstairs window, and afterwards, Logan invited us all up for beer and pizza. The movers soon left but I stayed, drawn by his warmth and interesting conversation. I envied him his piano and his skill in playing it. I envied him the path he had taken to a career in music, whereas it had been denied to me. Music was a frivolity in the Dunn-Barton home.
Logan had quite a collection of musical instruments, but he made his living playing clarinet and flute as a studio musician, and in the pit of musical theaters. After that we would meet occasionally. I invited him in to check out my spinet harpsichord, and we played a few impromptu duets, with him on recorder. It was during one of these evenings he told me about his young brother who had died of AIDS two years ago. Then he told me about doing the music for Wilde Nights, the drag show AIDS fund-raiser, playing the piano during rehearsal as well as working on the orchestrations and getting the musicians to work for free. And then some after-hours place he was playing in was torched, and he was caught in the fire. That night, he had invited me to drop in and hear some visiting musician who was playing with the group. Instead, I had fallen asleep at home, watching the news at eleven.
Logan had been in the burn unit at the Toronto Hospital for months. At first he wasn't allowed visitors. Then, one at a time, we could go in, fully gowned and masked. By now there were few who still went to spend time with him. I used to go almost every evening, taking papers to correct or notes for my book to write up on my laptop, anything to keep me busy but still there. I played music on CDs I brought with me, all kinds, some I bought just for the purpose. I had this insane sense of guilt, as if my being at the club would have made a difference. Of course it made no sense, and I never mentioned it to anyone. Not even to his sister, who was his one faithful visitor. His girlfriend had drifted away weeks ago. So much for love.
The scotch warmed me. I felt my body relax into the fake leather armchair. I could weather this. I could deal with Logan this evening, keep as much to my routine as possible. I wouldn't let Ronnie's nasty trick disrupt my life. Everything would blow over quickly. In a city this size, there was always something bizarre happening to catch the headlines. I drained my glass. As I raised my head, looking around for someone to give me a refill, I noticed the TV over the bar. The sound was turned down, but I recognized Ronnie's house. The police cars. The gurney and its awkward alien burden. And me, my face a mask of shock and anger. I paid my bill and left.
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As I walked in the front door, the phone was ringing. I rushed across the hall to answer it, slipped on a scatter rug, and skidded to a jarring stop. What if this was the police? But the voice I heard when the answering machine picked up was that of Julie Kates, telling me she knew I was here, had just seen me come home, and if I didn't answer the effing phone she would come downstairs and lie across the front door, howling at the moon.

I picked up the phone. "It's too early to howl at the moon," I said. "It's still light outside."
"Bullshit. Never too early. Okay, Michael, what's the poop? Since when do you run around discovering dead bodies?"
I felt the jolt go through me. "I forgot you were a reporter," I said. I looked at the flashing light of the answering machine. Eighteen messages. Of course. The fourth estate.
"Michael?" The voice sounded very close. I turned around. She was standing in the hall, her new cordless phone in one hand. "You left the door open," she said.
I dropped the receiver back on the cradle.
"I'm a pushy broad." She grinned and shoved back her mane of untidy red hair. "But we're friends, right?"
I looked at her. She had the grace to look sheepish.
"I'm curious," she said. "Shoot me."
"Not till you pay the rent," I said. "It was due last Wednesday."
"Shit. I forgot." She dropped into a chair and stretched out her long legs, resting her Doc Martens on my footstool. "So what's the story?" she said, cracking open a package of Chicklets.
"There is no story."
"Oh come off it. I saw you on TV."
"Fifteen seconds of fame I could have done without."
"I guess. Bummer for you, but still a great story." Her eyes gleamed. "So who was Lipinsky to you? Friend? Partner? Lover?"
Good question, I thought. But not one I was about to discuss with Julie. "Not now," I said. Maybe not ever.
"Ah, come on."
I shook my head.
"Hey, this is the topic du jour, Michael, and you're the only one with the answers."
"But I don't have any answers," I said. "Let's talk about something else."
"Okay. I want to know about the trunk. Did the cops take it? What else was in it? Will they look for fingerprints? What?"
"This is your idea of changing the subject?"
She shrugged. Her eyes strayed to the big cardboard box I had lugged over from Ronnie's place just before he died. Had I unconsciously glanced at it, tipping off her well-honed instincts? I don't know why Ronnie was so insistent about me bringing it home then. I kept telling myself I would look inside soon, but something kept pushing me away, not wanting to open old wounds, painful memories. It stood where I had left it, pushed almost behind the chair Julie slouched in. Ronnie's name and mine were on the side in thick neon pink. Underneath, in ornate printing,
Oh best beloved ...
After all these years, he still remembered how I used to read him the
Just So Stories.
She turned back to me. "So, more than a friend," she said with a smile.
"Look, I've had a rough day. What I want now is to forget about this nightmare."
"Oh come on. Talk about it. Let it all out. You'll feel better."
I stood up. "Julie, I'm going out tonight," I said abruptly. "I have to shower and change."
"Hell, it's only five thirty, far too early for the fashionable set you hang out with." One hand ran over the peeling glitter stickers and rainbow ribbons decorating Ronnie's box. "So what's up with this?" Her fingers slid under the flap of the box and flipped it up and down, playfully.
I stiffened. "It's none of your business."
She grinned at me mischievously. "Oooo, no more Mr. Nice Guy, eh?" She pushed back the flap and pulled out some photos. "Look, pics."
"Put those back at once. Then leave."
Her playful air dropped away suddenly. "Okay, okay. But can I talk to you later? Before you talk to anyone else?"
"I'm not talking to anyone. Period." I walked over to the door and opened it. "Out. Now."
She got up and walked towards me, eyeing me closely, as if trying to read my thoughts. Then she shrugged. "I'll drop the check off tonight," she said and slipped past me.
I slammed the door after her and walked back to the box, the anger hard inside. I laid my hand on the cardboard surface, as if this contact would erase Julie's invasive touch. After a moment, I pushed the thing completely behind the chair. I poured a Cinzano and vodka and listened to the messages. Sure enough, word had spread. The fourth estate was out for blood. So was my sister, Trish, but that was not unusual. This just gave her more ammunition. I erased the messages and took a shower, trying to wash away the sour taste of the day. I needed to clear my mind for visiting Logan tonight.
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