The Hell You Say (24 page)

“I don’t think there’s any point hanging around here now.”

“We could try to talk to the others.”

I shook my head. “I don’t think so. I need to approach this from another angle.” Prone.

In my own bed.

He stayed silent as we walked the rest of the way back to his car. He unlocked my side, went around to his own. I lowered myself gingerly into the leather seat, massaged my sore knee.

“Did you hurt yourself?” he asked stiffly.

“Mostly my ego.”

He started the engine, but did not pull away from the curb. “His name is Peter Verlane,” he said.

“What?”

“The friend who told me about this club. His name is Peter Verlane. He’s a former student and a -- well, that doesn’t matter.”

I suspected what that unfinished sentence was and felt an unexpected ripple of jealousy. Disconcerting. “Is this Peter Verlane the ex-student who you spoke to about harassing Angus?”

“Yes.”

“You still think he’s not involved?”

“Do you imagine everyone interested in the occult is involved in this?”

“You must have thought of him for a reason.”

Guy said reluctantly, “I thought it would be pleasant to see him again.”

Oh.

I heard myself say coolly, “And was it pleasant?”

“Yes. It was. It always is.”

The first rain drops splattered against the windshield, trickled crookedly down the glass.

I didn’t have an answer. I didn’t care anymore. I just wanted to go home.

When I didn’t say anything, Guy put the car into gear.

148

Josh Lanyon

Chapter Nineteen

The alarm went off on Tuesday morning, and I slapped it off the nightstand. Every bone in my body ached. My head throbbed. And that was the good news. I could as easily have wound up pain-free in the morgue. What had I been thinking for the past two weeks? I was not up to this shit. I imagined what Jake --

No.

I didn’t want to start thinking about what Jake would or wouldn’t say. Thinking about Jake was not useful. In fact, thinking about Jake was liable to lead to pulling the covers over my head and canceling the day due to lack of interest.

This was one time when I was not going to examine and analyze and rationalize and agonize. He was right. I knew the score. He’d never pretended it was other than it was --

whatever the hell that was. I had never kidded myself there was really a chance for us. Well, not often anyway.

I guess my mistake had been in believing that he was too smart and too honest not to eventually realize…

Not his feelings for me -- because I didn’t think what he felt for me was that significant -- but his own true nature. How could he deny who he was? How could he choose to live such a profound and cancerous deception?

I didn’t begin to understand. It was better not to try.

Throwing aside the blankets, I sat up. Every muscle screeched protest. There were bruises on my hips, legs, ribs. My knee was definitely wrenched. My wrist felt sprained.

This verged on self-destructive.

I showered and dressed and hobbled downstairs.

* * * * *

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It was a quiet day. Business was brisk, but unexceptional. When lunchtime came, I decided I had better things to do than sit at the computer feeding more horror stories into my brain. I grabbed a falafel at King Tut’s on West Colorado and limped around Old Town in a kind of blank abstraction, threading my way down sidewalks crowded with holiday shoppers and street performers and tourists.

I reminded myself that while Angus might not be a murderer, he wasn’t exactly an innocent bystander either. I remembered our fleeting phone conversation before I had headed over to his house and the discovery of Kinsey Perone’s mutilated body. That revealing I didn’t have anything to do with it.

Maybe he hadn’t participated in what happened to Tony Zellig or Karen Holtzer, but he also hadn’t done anything about it.

Yes, I understood that he had been frightened, but there was a difference between ignoring someone wrongfully parked in the handicapped zone and ignoring murder.

Velvet was on the phone when I walked in after two. Immediately, she replaced the receiver.

“Who were you talking to?”

“Er -- my mother.”

She turned away. I felt an unfamiliar surge of anger. “Then why did you hang up? Why is it you hang up every time I walk in on you making a phone call?”

She stared at me owlishly. “I thought you might not like it.”

“You’re right. The next time I catch you making a personal phone call during work hours, you’re fired.”

She gaped at me.

“Just kidding,” I said. I walked back into my office, sat down at the desk, and put my face in my hands.

* * * * *

I was tempted to cancel the Tuesday night writing group. But then I’d been tempted to not get out of bed that morning. I knew the drill. I’d been through it before. All I had to do was keep to the routine, stay busy, not stop to think -- not drink too much -- and before I knew it, it would be in the past. A dull, distant ache that would be easy to put aside and ignore.

It couldn’t possibly hurt worse than Mel, and I’d managed to get past that. Mel and I had been together for five years. Jake and I hadn’t lasted one. This shouldn’t take long at all, if I put my mind to it.

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Josh Lanyon

So when the Partners in Crime started arriving, I was ready for them. The coffee was made, pastries set out, the chairs circled, pencils sharpened. I was able to meet Chan’s awkward gaze like nothing was wrong.

Thank God, being heterosexual, he wasn’t going to sympathize or ask how I was doing.

“Man, Adrien,” said Max, arriving late as usual, “is there a jinx on this place or what?

First, your old pal Robert gets bumped off, then Angus turns out to be a serial killer.”

“Whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty?” I said.

They all gave me different versions of the same all-knowing sympathy.

“You’re such a nice person, Adrien,” Grania said, patting my shoulder and reaching past me for the last cheese croissant.

What was the point of arguing? For all I knew, they were right.

We went through the stories, one by one, starting with Max’s new chapter. Against my best intentions, I found myself considering whether it might be possible to find this Peter Verlane without Guy’s help. Would it hurt to ask a question or two?

Maybe Guy was right, maybe Verlane was floating on the fringe. Or maybe Guy was wrong. Or maybe, as little as I liked the idea, Guy was involved.

I needn’t pursue what I discovered, but I couldn’t deny that I still wanted answers.

Now that I had a name, I could try to track this latest lead through the university. For that matter, I could try Information. I wondered if I was spelling Verlane correctly. Maybe it was supposed to be like the poet Paul Verlaine.

Jean’s soft voice penetrated my consciousness.

“Avery walked across the lobby of the Biltmore hotel…”

“What is Avery doing at the Biltmore Hotel?” I interrupted.

“He’s following the guy who he thinks killed the mime,” Grania said, through a mouthful of cheese croissant.

“He ought to leave that to the police,” Chan muttered, adding another red mark to a page that already looked like he had bled onto it.

“No. Why is he at the Biltmore?”

Jean met my gaze. Bit her lip. Her cheeks were scarlet.

“Sheesh, Adrien, relax,” said Ted, looking from me to his wife. “Why not the Biltmore?

It’s a great location.”

“I can change it,” faltered Jean.

“Yeah, I think you should.”

Grania and Max exchanged a look which suggested I needed to take a pill. Or two. Or maybe the entire bottle.

I bit off the rest of it and sat back. Jean returned to reading. Her voice was slightly unsteady.

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* * * * *

When the group had cleared out for the evening, and I’d finished cleaning up, I dragged upstairs to discover that Guy had left a message. I weighed calling him back, then decided maybe it was better to let that ride.

Dimming the lights, I put on Peter Davison’s Adagio and went slowly through my tai chi exercises. I focused on deep breathing and relaxing every muscle. It had been awhile. I was stiff and sore, but as I went through the routine, I felt better. More limber in body, if not spirit.

Of course, Jake’s idea was that I should focus on cardio stuff and forget the tai chi.

But it didn’t matter what Jake thought or didn’t think. That was my new mantra.

The phone rang. I listened to it ring, then right before the machine picked up, I abandoned my combat pose and grabbed it.

“Hello there,” Guy said, elaborately casual. “I wondered how you were recovering from last night.”

My heart slowed. “I think the wine did more damage than the crash landing. I’ve had a headache all day.”

“Me too.” He gave an odd laugh. “I’ve been placed on administrative leave.”

“What does that mean?”

“In effect, I’ve been suspended pending the outcome of the police investigation into the death of Tony Zellig.”

Phone propped between my shoulder and ear, I poured myself a brandy and sat on the sofa. I should have known Jake wouldn’t abandon his original line of inquiry. This must mean that the police were now openly and officially connecting Kinsey Perone’s death with the others. I wasn’t sure if that was good news or bad news for Angus. Good news if he could prove his alibi for the night Kinsey had died.

“So Zellig was a student?”

“Yes. Practical Magic 101.”

Funny, I’d thought to ask him about everyone except Tony Zellig.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Me too. But you don’t have anything to be sorry for. My impression is that the police pushed for this, and the administration was relieved to have the decision made for them.”

I said, “I’m sure it will all work out.” I wasn’t sure of any such thing, but I had no idea what to say to him.

There was a silence that lasted too long, then he said, “I tried to get hold of Peter today.

I wanted to ask whether he would be willing to speak to you, but he’s out of the country.

He’s celebrating the holidays with his parents in Germany.”

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Josh Lanyon

It was possible. Lisa and I had celebrated Christmas in Germany when I was eighteen.

It was the year before I’d started college. The year before I met Mel.

“I appreciate that.”

“What will you do next?”

“I don’t know. I’m running low on ideas.” And I was completely out of enthusiasm. I had no proof that my inquiries hadn’t made everyone’s situation, including mine, worse.

Maybe the biggest favor I could do myself was to butt out.

“I see,” he said quietly.

Once again there was an unnatural silence.

Once again Guy broke it. “If there’s anything I can do to help, I wish you’d let me know.”

“I’ll let you know,” I said.

* * * * *

Rewind Tuesday, hit play: that was Wednesday.

When it was over at last, and my wish to be alone again -- silent and barricaded in for the night -- was finally granted, I realized I was too restless to stay home.

I couldn’t do tai chi all evening. I had no desire to write. Less desire to read. Sitting home with the brandy bottle was not a good plan in any case.

What did single people do on Wednesday nights? I didn’t seem to remember, although technically I had never stopped being single. Did they sit home and watch TV, or did they go to clubs, bars, single events? I was pretty sure the majority of them did not run around trying to solve murders.

I decided to get my hair cut. You know, stiff upper lip. Standards must be maintained.

Here in the African bush we dress for dinner.

I decided if I couldn’t wrangle an appointment with Paolo, I’d settle for Super Cuts, but the risk turned out to be minimal. When I walked into That Jones Boy, the place was empty.

One of the stylists was kicked back in his chair reading GQ, and Paolo and a third kid were leaning on the front desk.

Paolo is about as Italian as I am British. He’s tall and thin with blue black hair -- more blue than black -- and permanent eye makeup. He’s one of this new generation of gay guys who seem to be totally apolitical and essentially fear free -- about everything except getting fat.

He nudged the Asian boy with a shaved head who stood beside him and greeted me.

“Look what crawled out of the train wreck!” The Asian stylist met my eyes. Winked.

“Sweetness, do you have to wait till you look like Beethoven’s baby brother before you’ll come and see me?”

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I slipped off my coat, draping it over one of the brass hooks. “I know you enjoy the challenge.”

A young, platinum blonde manicurist was summoned from the tanning room where she had been toasting herself midsummer brown. I sat in the styling chair; the manicurist wheeled her nail station over to me. Paolo positioned himself behind me, comb in hand, like the maestro about to conduct the symphony.

“So, are we doing something different?”

“No.”

“Sweetness. You know, hair style has evolved through the centuries.”

The girl buffing my nails snickered.

I tuned out while Paolo fluted on about waxing my eyebrows, his strong clever fingers massaging my scalp with what I had to admit was hypnotic skill.

“Why so gloomy, Heathcliff?” he asked finally.

Someone who sounded a lot like me answered, “My boyfriend dumped me.”

The crispy manicurist squeaked and dropped her nail file. The stylist to the right of me, still poring over GQ, raised curious eyes over the glossy pages.

Paolo exclaimed, “The heartless basta d

r . Right before Christmas!”

But I was listening in horror to the echo of my own words. Had I actually said that? I don’t think I ever permitted myself to think of Jake as my boyfriend even when we were seeing each other. Now here I sat spilling my guts to my hairdre -- er -- stylist.

When I tuned back in, Paolo was going on about honey almond masks and mango deep conditioning. “Sweetness, you are having the works. My Christmas present to you. Or are you Jewish? I can never remember. I didn’t know you were seeing anyone.”