Dan Sharp Mysteries 4-Book Bundle (13 page)

“What’s this place?” Bill grumbled.

“This is the Glenora ferry crossing. John A. Macdonald used to live here.”

“Who?”

“Our first prime minister? Sir John A. Macdonald?”

“Oh, him.” Bill grunted.

“You know, sometimes you worry me,” Dan said.

“I’m distracted,” Bill snarled. “I didn’t sleep much.”

Dan reached over and squeezed his knee. “I was kidding. Don’t worry.”

“I work hard, you know,” Bill said petulantly. “Thom better have champagne waiting for us when we get there.”

They joined the line of vehicles waiting to be transported across the tenuous link connecting the two counties. Bill craned his head to make out the far shore. It was draped in fog. “This place is eerie.”

“But beautiful,” Dan said. “I like the feeling of isolation….”

“I don’t. It creeps me out. I don’t like to be this far from the city.”

Dan cocked an eyebrow at him. “Aren’t you the one who always wants to go camping?”

Bill snorted. “Sure — as long as I get to sleep in a five-star hotel.”

The line-up advanced, braking and inching forward again in little shimmy movements. The gate swung closed on a full load and the boat surged into the bay. Fifteen minutes later they rolled onto the opposite shore. The fog was denser, hanging in soft folds in the trees. Dan drove slowly, alert for road signs and wary of oncoming cars shooting out of the grey gauze in an anxious rush to catch the return ferry. He skidded past the arrow pointing down a country road, then reversed and headed for the north shore.

The house was visible from a distance where it sat framed by pines. Once the mist cleared, it promised a breathtaking view of the bay. A whimsical third-floor tower with curved glass windows and a wrap-around porch softened the otherwise sober exterior. Red creeper curled over grey stone. Flowerbeds surrounded the drive in fizzy, mist-muted bands of yellow and a late-season patch of bright azure blue. Dan turned up the cobblestone half-circle. The house seemed to be watching them. Its windows winked in and out of the fog.

“Leave the car here,” Bill commanded, craning his head to look at the upper stories.

“I can’t leave it in the middle of the driveway.”

“Don’t worry about it. Park it over there, then.” He waved to the side.

Dan hefted their bags from the trunk and turned to find Bill staring at him. “What? Am I dressed wrong for this set?” he joked, glancing down at his plaid jacket, navy T and khaki pants.

“Thom’s going to love you,” Bill said apprehensively.

“What? How do you mean?”

Bill gave him a pained look. “I know Thom’s type. And you’re essentially it. I just hope he doesn’t try to steal you from me.”

Dan made a face. “I thought he was getting married this weekend.”

“That wouldn’t stop Thom.”

“Well, I’ll stop him if he tries. I’m here with you.”

“You don’t know Thom,” Bill said. “Besides, the rich make their own rules.”

“You’re rich, aren’t you?”

“Not that rich.”

A knocker resounded deep inside, as though the house went on for miles. After a few seconds, Bill grabbed the handle. The door opened onto a panelled foyer bright with flowers. A note awaited them on the hall table.

Welcome Billy and Daniel!

Your love nest is the first room on the left up the stairs. Make yourselves at home. (Food, drink, pool boys, etc.)

Seb and I will be back around 2.

XO Thom.

It was well past two now. Dan followed Bill up the stairs. Their room had an en suite bath and a fireplace. He set their bags down and looked around. A bay window overlooked a green swath that disappeared in mist before it reached the water. Dan walked over to the mantle and picked up a framed photo of a young man in a rowing scull. Big smile, bigger arms. The blond, blue-eyed looks of a matinee idol. Pretty enough for daytime soaps, though possibly not serious enough for prime time.

“That’s Thom,” Bill said, almost reluctantly.

“He’s rich
and
good looking?” Dan exclaimed. “How unfair!”

“He was an Olympic rower the year the team won a silver medal. Thom’s got it all,” Bill said with what sounded like disdain. “In fact, he’s even better looking in person.”

Dan thought it over. It wasn’t disdain; it was resentment. He heard it clearly now.

Bill pulled a rose from a bud vase, sniffed it, then laid it aside on the runner. “Come on,” he said, turning. “I want a shower.”

In the bathroom, Bill yanked at Dan’s T-shirt, then left off to unzip his fly. Fingers snaked inside his pants. “You have the most perfect cock.”

Dan slipped off his trousers and stepped into the shower. Bill knelt and looked up at him through the stream. “Who am I?” he demanded.

“You’re a dirty little hitchhiker I picked up on the Trans-Canada,” Dan said. This was Bill’s game, though for the most part Dan went along with it. “Who am I?”

“You’re a big sweaty trucker and you’re taking me to a place off the highway to make me suck your big dick.”

Dan ran a hand through Bill’s hair.

“Oh yeah!” Bill exclaimed. “Hit me … slap me around.”

Dan tapped Bill gently on the cheek.

“Harder!”

Dan gave his hair a tug. “I told you — I don’t mind make-believe, but I won’t hit you for real.”

Bill leered up through the pouring water. “What if I deserve it?”

“Then you’ll have to find someone else to give you what you deserve.”

“What if I told you I already have?”

Dan felt himself stiffen.

“You like the thought of someone else fucking me, don’t you? It turns you on.”

“Shut up,” Dan said.

“Yeah! Call me names. Tell me what to do!”

Dan thrust until he heard Bill gag. He felt slightly used, the unwilling participant in a porn video aware the camera is on him but closing his eyes and thinking of the money he needs to buy medication for his infant son.

Bill milked him until he stopped throbbing. “Sweet! You are so fucking hot!”

“And you are a very bad doctor,” Dan said. He towelled off and returned to the bedroom to dress.

Bill followed him. “Got you going there, didn’t I? It gets you hot to think about me getting off with other guys, doesn’t it?”

“Does it?” Dan said, adjusting his shirt.

Bill stood beside him. He turned and regarded his reflection with a frown. “I’m getting fat.”

Dan wrapped his arms around Bill from behind. “More to love?”

Bill reached behind, impatiently tugging at Dan’s zipper again. “More,” he commanded.

“Later,” Dan said, doing up his fly. “We have to be downstairs to meet your friends” — he checked his watch — “forty minutes ago.”

Bill made a disapproving face. “Friend,” he corrected. “I’ve never even met this other guy.” He stood. “All right, then. Mr. and Mrs. Thom Killingworth await.”

A picture window gave way onto an unbroken view of the harbour. Idyllic, grand. For a moment, the sun broke through the clouds like a promise of better things to come. The light reflecting on the waves lent the room a solemn stillness, mysterious and exotic, like something hidden in plain view, all the more startling when you finally notice it.

Bill looked around the empty room and shrugged. “Told you,” he said. “There was plenty of time. We could have done it again.”

Oil paintings hugged the walls. Even someone unversed in art would know it for a serious collection. The intricate filigrees and whorls of the frames spoke of cultured tastes and leisurely times when the art of woodcarving was a commonplace but necessary attribute. Still lifes predominated — apples and pears in bowls, flowers in vases, slabs of butter, and loaves of bread on tables. There were also landscapes — glowering forests, rugged mountains, stormy lakes, and open-throated skies — in cartoon-dreamy colours. There were no portraits. Impressionism favoured the inanimate.

“Thom’s a collector,” Bill said, looking them over as though considering a purchase. “What do you think this room is worth?”

Dan glanced over the walls. “I have no idea. I don’t know much about art, except that it’s usually bought by rich collectors for a lot of money after the artists are dead.”

He recalled the impressive jade tiger dominating Bill’s living room. On their second date, Bill had tossed a silk shirt over it as though it were a hitching post. The garment sizzled and slipped to the floor. Bill had left it lying there as he went for Dan’s belt.

“Do you know anything about Canadian Impressionism?” Bill asked.

“Not really.”

“That’s what this is. It’s pretty pricey stuff. I’d say this room is worth at least three or four million.”

“I didn’t know there was anything other than Group of Seven.” Dan looked over the nameplates at the bottom of the frames — Mary Wrinch, Clarence Gagnon, and a few others. He’d never heard of any of them, apart from an A.Y. Jackson over the fireplace.

“Well, there is,” Bill declared. “This is it. Most people don’t know about this stuff. Thom collects it. Paintings and sports — that’s Thom.” A photograph frame sat on the mantle. “Here, just look at this.”

It was a triptych of Thom manning a sailboat on the left then in his scull on the right. In the middle, a much younger Thom sat on a black horse, an alert-looking hound by his side. The mantle thronged with trophies and awards.

Footsteps approached. Dan turned to see a slightly older version of the rower in the flesh. Keenly cut hair hugged the sides of his head, giving him a distinguished look, like an ad for business executives flying first class on British Airways. His deep tan and billowy shirt exuded a casual sportiness.

“Billy!”

Bill’s face lit up. “Thomas, old man! How are you?”

Dan listened with amusement to the good old boy affectations. He knew the private school system and its presumption that money and social worth went hand-in-hand. He’d have plenty to fill Donny in on later.

“Let me introduce you — Thom Killingworth, this is Dan Sharp.”

Thom turned to Dan with an appraising stare. “Wow. You’re pure sex,” he said as they shook.

“I don’t know about the ‘pure’ part, I’m afraid,” Dan said.

“Don’t believe him! He’s all that and more,” Bill said, in much the same way as he’d declared the value of the paintings.

Thom flashed his matinee idol smile. “I’m intrigued. Does Bill lend you out? Oops! Forget I said that — it’s my wedding day, after all!”

“I’ll forget it,” Dan said.

Thom shot Bill a look. “You didn’t mention he was cocky. I might just have to steal this one away from you, Billy.”

“Go ahead and try,” said Bill, glancing at Dan. “If you think you can. This one has staying power.”

They were interrupted by the arrival of a young man with an impressive physique and a chiselled face that looked far more serious than might have been intended. He was twenty-one or twenty-two at most, dressed in tight-fitting jeans and a sleeveless T-shirt over a gym-sculpted body. Mother Nature at her most appealing. The shirt emphasized the boy’s chest and squared triceps. The jeans packaged bulging thighs and a spring-form butt. On a catwalk he would have been a one-name supermodel — Tyrone or Ché or Lars. In an escort service, he’d be top-dollar flesh rented by the minute. Here, in the living room of the Killingworth estate, he radiated a mercurial sexual appeal few could equal.

“My
husband
,” Thom said, with an ironic inflection.

“Isn’t that husband-to-be?” Bill said.

“We’ve had the pre-nups already,” Thom said. “The test drive was awesome!”

The boy stood uncertainly in the middle of the room. His permanent scowl wasn’t eased by a row of pearly whites bared into a grimace like a child’s approximation of happiness.

“Does he have a name?” Bill said.

“This is Sebastiano Ballancourt,” Thom replied.

Dan offered his hand. “Dan Sharp.”

“I am very pleased to meet you,” the boy said with an articulation straight from a translation phrasebook.

“Sebastiano’s from Brazil,” Thom said, as though anxious to explain away the single flaw in an otherwise priceless commodity.

“How did you meet?” Bill asked, savouring the boy like an after dinner mint.

“We meet … I mean, we
met
,” Sebastiano corrected himself, “on the site for gays on the computer.”

“We met on
sex4men.com
.” Thom looked at Dan. “I’m sure you’ve heard of it.”

“Actually, I’ve never been on a chat site,” Dan said, annoyed by Thom’s presumption yet feeling strangely prim, like somebody’s maiden aunt discovering a skin magazine stashed under a mattress.

“Really? How queer.” Thom’s tone was ironic again, though whether out of disbelief or disdain wasn’t clear. “Seb’s a mail-order husband. We had a brief chat the first night and I flew him up from Sao Paolo the next day.”

Sebastiano bared his crooked smile. “Thom likes everything so fast,” he said, as though recounting a particularly funny moment from his day.

“And it was lust at first sight!” Thom laid an arm over the boy’s shoulders, giving him a peck on the cheek. “Love came a bit later. I proposed the following month.” Sebastiano beamed. “Of course, I made sure we both got tested. So now we know.”

“Know what?” Dan said.

Thom looked surprised by the question. “That we’re both HIV-negative, of course.”

“Oh.” Dan looked at Sebastiano. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” the boy said solemnly, as though he’d just accomplished a particularly harrowing feat.

“Of course it was no surprise,” Thom said, grinning at Sebastiano. “No one’s ever tupped this Brazilian bull.”

Sebastiano laughed long and hard, shaking his head at the remark.

“And now we’re about to embark on a lifetime of commitment till death us do part.” Thom turned to Dan and winked. “Starting tomorrow. Tonight, anything goes.”

“Yes,” Sebastiano echoed happily. “It’s true.”

Bill leaned against the fireplace. “Now that Thom’s getting married, he’s going to inherit a fortune.”