Black Orchid Blues (11 page)

I nearly choked on my tea. “Seriously?”

Mrs. Cardigan waved her hand. “Oh, I was being a fool. She looked just like them back then. But I used to love to pretend. It just irked me that … well, that they’re so mysterious.”

“Some people like to keep to themselves.”

“Maybe.”

I frowned as though I’d had a sudden thought. “Is Sheila their only child?”

“Oh, yes. For sure.”

“No son?”

“No. Why?” Now she frowned too, intense with curiosity.

I shrugged. “Just wondering.” I took another sip. “When was the last time you stopped by to see them?”

“Yesterday. I went over to ask her about sharing a monthly subscription to a magazine I thought she’d like.”

“And what happened?”

“Dr. Bernard answered. He slammed the door in my face.”

“He didn’t!” I tried to make light of it. “Well, you’ll just have to polish your approach. There’s always one hard nut to crack. I guess they’re it, for you.” I glanced at my watch, saw that some twenty minutes had passed, and reached for the package. “I’d better go now. But thank you. It was good to see you.”

“Yes, it was nice having you over. You must come again,” Mrs. Cardigan struggled to her feet and took a firm hold of my forearm. “Here, let me lean on you.”

With exaggerated slowness—she’d certainly moved faster when she let me in—Mrs. Cardigan escorted me to the door. She reached to open it, but then paused and put a wrinkled hand on my wrist.

“I like you Lanie Price. Always have. Quite bluntly, you’re the daughter I wish I’d had—not that I was unhappy with my sons, but they’re gone now. All I have left is memories, wonderful memories to be sure, and some people would be content with that, but not me.” Her grip on my wrist grew stronger. “You’re here, you’re now, and so am I. We’ve got to make the best of it. We have to stick together and help each other whenever we can. Understand? I can help you keep an eye on things. And no one need ever know, no one but you and me.” Mrs. Cardigan put a trembling index finger to her lips. “Shh,” she said, and smiled. “Partners?” She extended a hand.

I was totally charmed. “Partners,” I replied, and shook on it.

C
HAPTER
16

I
t was Sheila who finally answered the door. Her complexion had a pallor that had grayed her skin. Her lips were drawn, her dark eyes quick and nervous.

“Oh, hello,” she said in a short, breathy voice. She sounded as though she’d raced to the door. She was about my height, quite thin, and more plain than pretty. Her eyes were red and puffy, and she was gripping a handkerchief so tightly that her knuckles gleamed under her skin.

I identified myself, just in case she didn’t remember me. I explained that I needed to see her parents.

She fingered her handkerchief. “I … I don’t know.” She glanced over her shoulder. “They’re really busy right now and—”

“Sheila?” a loud male voice called from within. “Who is it?”

Dr. Bernard emerged from the parlor. He wore a pale blue shirt under a V-neck navy-blue cashmere sweater, and pale gray pants. His black leather shoes were polished to a soft gleam. He came up short when he saw me. He looked not only surprised, but irritated. Then he seemed to make some inner mental adjustment.

Sheila willingly stepped aside to let him deal with me. He blocked the door; his attitude was polite, but it was clear that he wanted to get me away from the house as quickly as possible. There was no sign of the charm I remembered.

I decided to preempt him. “Dr. Bernard, I’m sorry, but I have news.”

“I’d love to invite you in,” he answered, “but I don’t have time.”

“You do for this.” I tapped the box under my arm. His gaze slid to it and lingered for a moment. Then he glanced back at me, wary and puzzled.

“I don’t understand.”

“You will.”

His eyes met mine for an instant. He gave a tight-lipped nod, then turned away and headed back down the hall. I stepped inside. Sheila closed the front door.

“This way,” she said, and showed me into the parlor.

The room was Spartan. The largest piece of furniture was a shiny black baby grand piano that sat near the front windows. The keyboard lid was down. A cluster of gilt-framed family photographs, set on a large white crocheted lace doily, decorated the top. I squinted at them. The photos hadn’t been there the last time I visited. But then that had been a couple of years ago.

An antique scrolled writing desk sat in one corner. Bookshelves banked an adjoining wall, covered with rows of leather-bound books, some of whose titles appeared to be in German.

Phyllis Bernard perched on the simple sofa, crocheting, her legs neatly crossed at the ankles. Her back was ramrod straight, her glasses resting on the tip of her nose. She was shaped like a pear and a bit plumper than I remembered. Her eyes widened when I walked in. It wasn’t just surprise; it was alarm. She smiled, but it took obvious effort.

“Oh, Mrs. Price,” she said, rising. “What a surprise.”

“She says she has news for us,” Dr. Bernard explained. “Something to do with that box.” He gestured toward it.

“It was left on my doorstep,” I said. “Sometime late last night.”

Phyllis Bernard’s gaze met her husband’s.

“The package wasn’t addressed, so I opened it,” I continued. “Once I did, I realized that it was meant for you.”

I could’ve told them the contents. I nearly did, but I wanted to see their reactions. I didn’t feel good about not warning them, but I did think it for the best. I held the parcel out to Dr. Bernard, but he made no move to take it.

“What’s in it that made you decide to come here?”

“A letter.”

His face showed indecision, fear, and resentment. And why not? He was caught up in a bad game against players who’d stop at nothing to win.

“Dr. Bernard?” I prompted.

“Alfred,” his wife said. “Go on.”

He accepted the box with an expression of distaste and held it at arm’s length. Did he already have an inkling of what was inside? He eased down on the couch, his wife and daughter at either side. They looked sick with fear.

Dr. Bernard balled his hands into fists and sucked in his breath, like a man about to dive into dark, deep, and icy waters. His fingertips grazed the lid of the box, then lifted it. He removed the letter, read it, and glanced at me. “You shouldn’t have read this.”

He hadn’t even questioned why someone should address such a letter to him. Clearly, he knew what it was about from his lack of surprise.

“The box was on my doorstep,” I said. “No address, no nothing. I assumed it was meant for me. There was nothing to change that assumption. Until I saw the letter. By then, it was too late. I’d already seen what it covered.”

Their gazes returned to the box. Dr. Bernard pushed the letter aside, removed the separation paper, and revealed the stained linen. He grabbed a pencil and used it to flip back the corners.

Sheila cried out and Phyllis Bernard shrank back with a sob. Dr. Bernard, the clinician, took a long, hard look at the disarticulated member and then slammed the box shut. For a moment, he sat perfectly still, his jaw working, his eyes full of cold rage.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Price, that they’ve gotten you involved in this. No one …” He swallowed. “No one deserves …” He blinked, his voice so thick that he couldn’t finish, then closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“Do you recognize it?” I asked.

He shook his head and waved me off. “No—please. No questions. I am so sorry that you had to see this, but please, I can’t say any more.”

“So you do know Queenie Lovetree,” I said.

“Queenie who?” Phyllis Bernard asked.

“Queenie Lovetree,” I repeated. “It’s his finger.”

Her face remained blank.

Now I was confused. “He’s a drag queen, works down at the Cinnamon Club. Some people know him as the Black Orchid.”

Phyllis Bernard shook her head. “I don’t understand. What’s—”

“Queenie was kidnapped the other night. You must’ve heard about it,” I said.

No answer.

I stared at each of them in turn. They maintained a noncommittal silence.

“He was wearing that ring,” I said, “or one just like it.”

“A coincidence,” Phyllis Bernard said.

“Not likely.”

I waited for them to respond, but Sheila turned away and Phyllis Bernard lowered her gaze. Dr. Bernard was the only one to hold steady. His eyes were as hard as stone. No answers there.

“Junior,” I said. “It’s Junior, isn’t it?”

The tension in the room, already bad, jumped another notch.

“Why would you say something like that?” Sheila said.

“Because it makes sense. He’s the right age, and he’s apparently not here. Furthermore,” I gestured toward the family photographs on the piano top, “those pictures, the man at your side. I didn’t remember much about him, but the instant I saw that picture, it hit me that he looked extraordinarily familiar.”

“Of course he does. You’ve met him.”

“Yes, I have. Two nights ago, at the Cinnamon Club, before he was kidnapped. That picture. That’s exactly how Queenie would look without makeup and dressed as a man.”

“How dare you!” Sheila was indignant. “To suggest that—”

“I’m not suggesting. I’m stating that it’s your husband they’ve got. He and Queenie Lovetree are—”

“No, please! Please don’t say that!”

“Why not? Because it’s true?” I paused. “Are you telling me that it’s not? Honestly?”

Sheila blinked like a deer caught in headlights, then shot a frightened glance at her father. His look clearly said,
Keep your mouth shut
.

“You just wouldn’t understand,” she murmured. Tears slipped down her face in rapid succession.

“Try me.”

“It’s not my husband,” she said. “It’s his brother.”

She gestured toward the piano. “That’s his picture over there. They look very similar.” She glanced at her parents again. “It’s Billy who sings at the Cinnamon Club, Mrs. Price. The family’s not proud of it. So, we—we don’t talk about it.” She’d balled up her handkerchief. She couldn’t bring herself to look at me.

Her father stepped in. “I didn’t want her to tell you, but now that she has, I can see in your face that you don’t believe her.”

I didn’t know what to believe. “Well, then, where is Junior?”

“On a business trip.”

“Does he know what’s happened?”

“We’ve been in contact. He’s on his way back.”

I peered again at the photograph.

“What you’re seeing is a family resemblance,” Dr. Bernard said. “When we first met William, my wife and I, we thought he and Junior were twins. They’re not. William is a year younger.”

I walked over to the piano to take a closer look. There were two black-and-white pictures of what appeared to be the same young man, one of him alone and one of him standing next to Sheila. “Which one is William?”

“Neither,” Dr. Bernard said. “They’re both of Junior.”

I reached for one of the pictures. “May I?”

“Of course.”

I picked it up, studied it for several seconds, mentally applying Queenie’s makeup to the face, adding the wig and the costume. It definitely worked. There were also marked differences, however. There was something about the eyes that I couldn’t quite figure out. Overall, Queenie’s face was leaner, the cheekbones higher, the lips fuller than that of the man in the photo. But those changes could’ve been the result of expertly applied makeup, or lighting, or simply that the photo’s subject had lost weight. I set the picture down.

“How do you tell them apart?” I asked.

“The eyes. Junior’s are dark. William’s are light, almost golden.”

Yes, that’s what I’d sensed in the photo. Even if I didn’t have a picture of William, I had a mental one of Queenie and knew that one of his most stunning characteristics were his golden eyes.

“But the main difference is in their personalities,” Dr. Bernard said. “They’re like night and day. You can’t mix them up. Junior is calm and dependable, a man of taste and discernment. William, on the other hand …” He made an exasperated sound meant to cover the rest. Then he gave me a cynical smile.

“Mrs. Price, I do understand. The idea that a transvestite might be our son-in-law is just too plump a duck for you to resist. But believe me, that’s not the case.” He paused. “Naturally, we don’t entertain William or his kind in our home. But he’s related by marriage, so we stand by him. For the sake of our daughter and her husband, we will do whatever’s necessary to ensure William’s safe return.”

I had to admit it: Dr. Bernard was right. I’d really liked the idea that the flamboyant and outrageous transvestite known as Queenie Lovetree was married to the only daughter of Strivers’ Row’s most conservative pair. The idea that it was Sheila’s brother-in-law who’d been kidnapped was a whole lot less sexy, but it certainly made more sense.

“Okay,” I said reluctantly. “So you’re saying that Queenie is part of the family—but only to a degree?”

The three of them nodded.

“Then why did the kidnappers contact you instead of Junior’s family?”

Sheila answered: “My husband and his brother, they don’t really have any family left, and what there is … well, they wouldn’t be able to meet the kidnappers’ demands. Understand?”

I could accept that. “When did you first hear from them?”

“A telephone call that night,” Dr. Bernard said.

“It was so late,” Phyllis Bernard said. “They told us they had William and they demanded money.”

“We didn’t want to believe them,” Sheila added.

“You know how it is,” Dr. Bernard went on. “That could’ve been a prank call. It could’ve been from anyone.”

“And so we refused,” Phyllis Bernard said. “God help us, we—” A sob broke from her. “Oh, Alfred, we’re responsible for this, don’t you see? If we’d just gone ahead and paid, then—”

“We didn’t know, Phyllis. We just didn’t know.” Dr. Bernard turned back to me. “Please, let us handle this. Please—don’t tell anyone about this. We know now that they’ll kill him. We’ll need a little time to get the money together, but we will, and then we’ll pay and they’ll let him go.”

I sensed that he said this more to reassure his family than to convince me.