The Pride Trilogy: Kyle Callahan 1-3 (10 page)

“I asked the desk guy.”

“Ricki.”

“Yeah, Ricki. I saw you this morning at the pool. My room’s above it on the second floor. You’re good with a camera.”

“Not as good as I’d like to be,” Kyle said.

“Yes, he is,” Danny interjected. “He’s just falsely modest.”

“I’ve never sold anything.”

“Because you’ve never asked to be paid!”

“He’s right,” Bo said. “You could sell your photographs, absolutely. I’ve seen your website.”

This got his attention. He knew how many people visited his photoblog on any given day; he could track the statistics. If 500 people looked at AsKyleSeesIt in any 30-day period, he was doing well. That this stranger, here for a weekend at Pride Lodge, had not only asked Ricki about him, but taken time to look at his site, was something out of the ordinary. While it was flattering, it was also a little unsettling, as if he’d finally acquired a stalker.

“I used the Lodge’s laptop,” she said, nodding toward the old battered Dell that was always on a table by the checkerboard. “I’m impressed. Maybe I’ll be your first customer.”

“First paying customer,” Danny said. “He’s had quite a few customers.” And to Kyle, “You see? It’s time to take it—“

“Please don’t say it.”

“To the next level.”

“I hate that phrase. Along with a few others: next level, same page, bandwidth. Do you think we have the bandwidth to carve these pumpkins?”

Elzbetta suddenly appeared between Kyle and Bo. She’d got into costume for the weekend and was dressed this year in a French maid’s outfit with an enormous Marie Antoinette wig. The studs were still in her nose and ears and her fingernails were painted black with tiny witches in the middle of each fingernail.

“You did that yourself?” Danny asked, indicating the intricate paintings.

“Kevin,” she said, meaning the karaoke host. Kevin McGill had been running the evening entertainment at Pride Lodge nearly as long as the Lodge had been in business. He didn’t show his face before mid-afternoon, which made Elzbetta’s fingernail painting this early in the day something of a rarity.

“He just got in after lunch, “ Elzbetta said. “He’ll be down for dinner. What can I get you to drink?”

“I’ll take a martini, vodka, straight up,” Danny said.

“There is no such thing as a vodka martini,” Elzbetta said. “A true martini is made with gin.”

“Then I’ll take a fake martini, vodka, straight up. And not the house swill, either.”

“I’ll have Scotch and water,” Kyle said. “Plenty of ice. And whatever Bo’s having, our treat.”

“Why thank you, that’s very nice of you! I’ll have club soda, please. Make mine neat.”

Elzbetta nodded and hurried off.

Watching her go, Bo said, “Not the costume I’d expect with someone so deliberately rebellious.”

Just then Dylan interrupted with several loud hand claps. “Listen up, everybody!,” and when a few of the guests kept chatting, “‘Everybody’ is self-explanatory! It means every single person who can hear me!”

“Does that include Staten Island?” Linus said, to approving laughter from his mini-entourage.

“Each of you has a fresh pumpkin in front of you and the pattern you’ve chosen or been provided. These pumpkins are sacrificing their lives to provide us with a fabulous weekend, so don’t disappoint them! Next to each pumpkin you’ll find . . . “

Kyle let Dylan’s voice fade into the background, much like the sound of a flight attendant giving survival instructions from the aisle of a crowded plane. He realized he needed
before
photos of the pumpkins to contrast with the
after
. He quickly picked up his Nikon from the table and set about taking pictures. He wasn’t worried about Dylan calling him out for not paying attention; the man was completely self-absorbed in his own central part of the afternoon’s drama. Kyle and Danny would carve one pumpkin together, leaving an extra one. This happened with most of the couples, whether they were involved or just friends. There was something about carving a pumpkin with someone that made it more enjoyable and less tedious. He snapped a photo of their pumpkin, then angled his camera for a shot at Bo’s. He noticed she had one of the X-act knives resting to the left of her pumpkin.

“I see you’re a southpaw,” Kyle said to her, commenting on her left-handedness. “And a pro at pumpkin carving! I’d probably cut my finger off using one of those.”

“It’s for the details,” she said, holding up her pattern. It was an intricate sketch of Cinderella’s pumpkin carriage being pulled by two horses. Once it was finished and a candle placed inside, the flame would shine through the carriage’s windows. “I’m used to detail work. I make jewelry for a living. I also restore old watches.”

She reached into her pocket and pulled out her father’s pocket watch. Kyle had noticed the gold chain running up out of her pocket to a belt loop.

“This one is very special,” she said, showing it to him. “It belonged to my father. I’d have to say it’s been my inspiration since I was, oh, ten years old.”

Kyle peered at the watch. Even someone not schooled in watches or engraving could see it had been made with care. There was something delicate yet masculine about it, and it made him wonder, as he looked at the fine lines of the train station, how much of the little boy remains in a grown man: trains were something a child played with when he was ten, and built when he was thirty.

“It’s lovely,” he said. “From what you’ve said, I take it your father’s passed on.”

“Oh, yes. He and my mother both. At the same time. A freak accident.” She put the watch back in her pocket. “It’s not something I talk about. You can see some of my jewelry at my website, if you’re interested. BoAndBehold.com. Maybe we could barter, it’s the future of commerce, if you listen to twenty-year-olds obsessed with their carbon footprints. Something of mine for a photograph of yours. You could use it to get used to the idea of being paid.”

Kyle was beginning to enjoy this woman’s company. There was something both inviting and off-putting about her, an unusual combination. He was a people watcher. He had always attributed it to a mix of introversion and curiosity, the essence of a photographer even before he’d ever held a camera . He saw the world, and life, as a series of images, instantaneous and continuous while constantly changing. Almost like one of those small picture books where the image moves as you flip through the pages. Kyle was always watching the image, always observing one moment’s connection to the next.

Danny broke his reverie by saying, for the third time, “. . . Earth to Kyle, hello, Kyle?”

Kyle shook off his thoughts and noticed that everyone had started carving, including Bo, who was holding her pattern against her pumpkin and poking pinpricks along the line drawing. Slowly, steadily, one quick saw at a time. Everyone was doing it now.

“You hold the paper, I’ll cut,” said Danny. “When we get to the witch’s broom it’s your turn.”

A half hour later Danny and Kyle were finished, the table in front of them littered with pumpkin bits. Kyle looked around the room and saw the others either finished or nearing it. Bo had moved on to the X-Acto knife and was painstakingly slicing out the finest details of her carving.

“It all looks amazing!” Dylan said. He was holding a drink by this time, and while he wasn’t someone who would indulge too much (bad for his image as well as his business), he wasn’t opposed to joining the Lodge’s guests in an afternoon cocktail. It was a holiday, after all, or at least as close to an official gay holiday as the year provided.

“Now,” Dylan continued. “If I can get everyone to take their pumpkins and line them up around the porch railing—it’s wide enough, don’t worry—we can get the candles in and as soon as the sun goes down, we’ll be a proper haunted house!”

“The ghost of Teddy,” Ricki said morosely and not too loudly.

People started gathering their pumpkins for the short walk outside.

“Let me get some after photos,” Kyle said, and he grabbed his camera off the table. He quickly snapped pictures of his and Danny’s pumpkin, which, if you tilted your head at a certain angle and closed one eye, looked like a witch on a broom flying across the moon. Then he turned and took a photo of Bo’s pumpkin, which reflected her artistic expertise. He knew looking at it that her jewelry would be even more impressive: there was no need to close an eye or cock your head to tell what she had carved. Cinderella herself would ride in this pumpkin! He was about to compliment her when Dylan came quickly up to them, a pumpkin in his arms even though he had not carved one, and said, “Kyle, you’ve got an eye for these things—come with me and help me arrange all these pumpkins.”

Kyle had never been asked to do this before and looked at Danny for his reaction. Danny shrugged and carried their pumpkin himself as the Lodge guests all began to file outside.

The porch was spacious and not closed in. Pucky and Stu, then Dylan and Sid after them, had considered enclosing it so people could sit out in inclement weather, but having it open to the air and the hill gave it a sense of flowing into the surroundings. There was a porch swing on each end, a bench along the bay window looking into the great room, and two small tables with deck chairs. A waist-high railing encircled it all. People were setting their pumpkins along the railing when Dylan took Kyle by the arm and led him out into the yard.

“We’ll get a better perspective from a distance,” he said. “You’re a photographer, you know all about perspective.”

Kyle followed along as they stepped away from the crowd. It was late afternoon and the sun, while not down, was giving it up for the day. Another hour and they would be lighting the Jack-O’-Lanterns.

Once they were out of earshot of the other guests, Dylan, keeping his eyes on the porch, said to Kyle, “I need to speak to you privately, Kyle. It’s about the Lodge. About Sid.”

“Why me?” Kyle asked him, uncomfortable with the intimacy. He had known Dylan for the five years he and Danny had been coming here, but they had never been more than cordial.

“Because Teddy trusted you.” And then, without looking at Kyle, “I don’t believe his death was an accident.”

“Nor do I, Dylan, but you can’t take conjecture to court. If you know anything, you should call the police, speak to that Detective Sikorsky.”

“I don’t know things for a fact. That’s the problem. I only have suspicions at this point, and I wanted to speak to you first. I think I know what Teddy wanted to see you about.”

Kyle’s head was spinning. He wanted answers as much as anyone, but he’d never thought they might come from Dylan. What benefit could he have in proving a murder on his property? It was the sort of thing that might make people think twice about staying there.

“Come to Clyde’s,” Dylan said, referring to the downstairs piano bar. “Tonight.”

Before Kyle could protest or ask him anything, Dylan headed back toward the porch. “Cinderella in the middle,” he said loudly for everyone to hear. “We’ll work out to the left and right from there. You’re all looking amazing! And don’t forget to pick your favorite, Ricki has ballots at the front desk!”

Kyle watched him begin to fuss with the pumpkins, as if they had actually just discussed arranging them. He was again struck by the imposition of intimacy, the sharing of a confidence, or at least promising to, that should be shared with the authorities. He decided he would hear Dylan out that night, and depending on what came of it, he would call Detective Sikorsky in the morning. He doubted very much she took weekends off in a homicide case.

Chapter 14

Stanley and Oliver

K
yle was Stanley
Laurel, being the taller of the two, and Danny was Oliver Hardy, which he was none too happy about: Hardy was the fat one.

“Just tell yourself he went on Weight Watchers and lost forty pounds,” Kyle said, adjusting his bowler hat in the mirror.

“There was no Weight Watchers then,” Danny said, applying a moustache while he glanced at a photograph of the old comedy team.

“You’re missing the point. There’s nothing insulting about going as Oliver Hardy. You’re not really him! You’re a . . . thinner Oliver Hardy.”

“Thanks,” Danny said, having caught the hesitation in Kyle’s voice. He was a thinner Hardy, for sure, thin enough he had to pad the suit with a pillow tied around his mid-section, but not thin enough to make the costume ridiculous.

About half the guests would dress for dinner, creating a mix in the dining room of people in casual clothes eating their meal with people in Halloween costumes. Some of them were as simple as a magician’s cape and wand, while others were elaborate and probably took an hour or two to prepare. The previous year Kyle had come as a scarecrow and Danny as a sultan, complete with a sultan’s multi-colored robe and a turban. Kyle had hated his costume and cursed his decision: it was made of straw and burlap, purchased on the internet, and it itched fiercely.

“I’m so glad we’re not in the City,” Danny said. “I’d have been roped into working Margaret’s for Halloween crowd control and you’d be dealing with Imogene fretting over every sequin on a fairy costume.”

“She’s a tube of lipstick this year,” Kyle said.

“You know what I mean. If you weren’t at her apartment helping her, you’d be on the phone offering reassurance.”

The two men were just about ready. Their plans for the night were simply to have dinner, after which Danny would return for some quiet time before bed. He was a people person when he was paid to be, at the restaurant especially, but when they managed to get away by themselves, he preferred to enjoy time reading, or even watching television, anything away from the crowd. Crowds were central to his job and, to some extent, to his identity. He needed to keep the boundaries clear, to remind himself that he was not what he did for a living. There was a risk in confusing your work with who you are.

“Danny?” he heard Kyle say, and he realized Kyle had been speaking to him while he sat thinking on the edge of the bed.

“What?”

“What do you suppose Dylan found out, and why would he want to talk to me? I told him to call the detective.”

“He’s probably not sure enough to do that,” Danny said. “It’s probably still conjecture for him.”

“Suspicions.”

“Exactly.”

“But about what?”

“Well, that’s what you’re going to find out, Mr. Laurel, when youse ‘av yourself a propah convahsation with the man.”

Kyle walked over to Danny, leaned down and kissed him. “That’s the spirit.”

“I hate Halloween.”

“You don’t hate Halloween, it’s your favorite time here, you’re just being contrary. Now let’s go eat.”

Kyle retrieved his camera from the dresser and the two of them headed to the Lodge.