Drag Queen in the Court of Death (20 page)

Nigel wasn't in the phone book. I knew his office wouldn't give out anything personal. Lew would know, but I didn't want to get into any explanations with him. I phoned Laura. We chatted for a few minutes about the Dharman event and how her old maid was getting along. When I asked about Nigel, she gave me the information without question. Dear, trusting Laura.

Nigel lived in a loft in the downtown core. At least he was practicing what he preached. Development of the downtown core as a living space was part of his platform. The place had a security guard and a concierge, who sat protected by a huge mahogany desk and banks of TV monitors, their cameras trained on every entrance and the parking lot too. I arrived at eight thirty that evening, knowing he worked late. Would he be out? How much did he socialize? I wished I'd called Lew after all. He probably knew all this and more.

I parked on the street, knowing I wouldn't be long, and marched up to the desk confidently.
"Michael Dunn-Barton to see Nigel Ross."
After a brief conference on the house phone, I was buzzed in by the concierge. I knew I was breezing along on the coattails of the foundation, doing just what I despised when others did it, but in this case, I had to know. I had come so far down this twisting road, in search of the real Ronnie Lipinsky and the true reason for the death of love. A mere twinge of conscience wasn't going to stop me now.
Nigel's door was at the end of the hall on the fourteenth floor. The door was opened by a tall man with the kind of boyish good looks that gave him a deceptively young appearance. He had a lot of white blond hair that tumbled artlessly over one eye, like an English schoolboy.
"I'm Rhys Evans, Nigel's campaign manager," he said, holding out his hand. Firm handshake. Lots of eye contact. Politics in action.
"Michael Dunn-Barton," I said, firmly shaking back.
"I hear the Dharman bash was very successful," he said, leading the way into the spacious loft. One whole wall of floor-to-ceiling windows showed the city lights spread out like winking jewels against the dark night. Ribbons of traffic streaked past in a steady curve of light. It was hypnotic. I found it hard to look away.
Nigel was coming toward me, a drink in one hand. He was shorter than Rhys, and more substantial, his once-luxuriant black hair thin on top and brushed with silver. His face was broad, bland, and difficult to read. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, and his shirt open at the neck. His feet, in their monogrammed leather slippers, made no sound on the enormous Persian carpet.
"Michael! I thought I saw you at the Dharman do, but I didn't get a chance to talk. Then you disappeared."
We shook hands. More firmness and eye contact. Nigel was definitely on the campaign trail, and he hadn't even officially entered the ring.
"It's so hard to really talk at those things," I said, letting him guide me to one of the leather armchairs grouped around the large glass coffee table.
"We were just going over a few loose ends from the office," he said, including Rhys with his smile.
Sure, I thought. I looked at the glass table in front of me, clear of everything but a few silver coasters. Life in the closet must be hell.
"Could I get you a drink? Scotch? Rye? Martini? Beck's?"
"Beer would be good," I said, settling back in the comfortable chair. Rhys went to get the beer, and Nigel settled into the chair opposite me. I wondered how long I would be here before they threw me out.
"You know, Nigel, it's been so long since we've moved in the same circles I'm surprised you recognized me today," I said.
He laughed easily. "At that event? Of course everyone knew who you were. After all, it's Dunn-Barton money that keeps the thing going. Always has been."
"The foundation has a lot of supporters."
"Now it does, yes."
I accepted an ice-cold glass of Beck's and took an appreciative sip. "Good stuff."
I noticed that Rhys hesitated a moment, unsure what his role should be. Then he sat down in the other armchair, leaned back, and crossed his ankles. His face looked older in repose.
"It must be tough for you," I said to him, without thinking.
His face was suddenly alert. He looked at Nigel.
"Rhys has experience managing campaigns. He knows what he's doing," Nigel said easily.
"I hope so," I murmured and took another drink.
"Do I take it we can count on you for support?"
Campaign funds. He wants money. Of course. I shrugged. "So far I'm uncommitted," I said, smiling. "You know, I had dinner tonight with another old friend of yours, Duane Kelley."
He shook his head. "Sorry. The name doesn't ring a bell. I meet so many people, you know."
"This is from the old days," I said easily. "When you were going with Bianca. She lived with Glori Daze, otherwise known as Duane Kelley. Ring any bells now?"
I had to hand it to Nigel. Nothing changed but the small lines around his eyes and the corners of his mouth. He shook his head firmly. "Nope. Sorry. Could you tell your sister—"
"You must remember Bianca," I persisted. "Remember that night in 1965 when the party was raided and you climbed out the window, leaving her to be arrested? It was just luck that Ronnie and I weren't arrested along with her, and in those days it could have been serious."
"You're mistaken. Michael, why did you come here tonight? To reminisce about people I don't know? I'm a busy man..."
"Nigel, look. I don't believe in outing people. I'm not a threat to you and Rhys."
"I think you should leave." He glanced at Rhys, who stood up.
"Nigel, I want to know if you went to Ronnie's place that night to pick up Bianca."
"In 1965. You expect me to remember some silly party with some girl I don't even remember?"
I didn't move. I lay back in my chair and watched his closed face. He remembered all too well. Rhys had moved to stand beside my chair. He was looking at Nigel too.
"You got to the party after I did. You came in when I was still in the hall, waiting for Ronnie. I didn't remember until I was talking to Duane this evening. I've been thinking about it ever since. I think you got to Ronnie's to pick up Bianca and walked in on something."
"That's enough! Rhys, call security." He was on his feet now, his face blotched and sweaty.
"Tell me what you saw!" I was on my feet too. I was slightly taller than he was. But Nigel stood his ground. Rhys was at the wall phone. He paused and looked back at his lover. Nigel waved him away.
"What do you want?" he said, his voice cold.
"I want to know." On impulse, I pulled out the picture I still carried of Ronnie and Haven outside Christopher's Curios in New York. "Take a look. That's Ronnie Lipinsky in 1965."
"You want to write a sordid, sensational article for the
Rainbow Rag
?"
"It's just for me," I said. "
I
need to know. No one else enters into it."
He looked at the picture, and I saw his expression subtly change. His head snapped up and he looked at me, his eyes hard and sharp. "Where did you get this?"
"In Ronnie's things. I had it blown up. You knew Rey Montana?"
He shook his head. "Never heard of him." He handed the photo back. "I can't help you about that other matter, either. Sorry you came down for nothing, but I'm afraid you've got me mixed up with someone else."
"Me and Llewellyn ab Hugh and Duane Kelley and Bianca..."
"Let go of the past, Michael. Good night and safe home."
He was steering me to the door, one hand on my arm. Rhys was on the other side. I was being herded by a couple of experts. "Give my regards to Trish. She did a bang-up job with that event."
I was in the hall. The door closed softly behind me. Nigel was good, but he couldn't hide the facts. He knew a lot more about that night than he was admitting. Had he walked in on something at Ronnie's the night of May 24, 1965? The night Rey Montana was murdered?
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I sat in my garden as the night wore on, drinking Crown Royal and listening to the water splash. The Goldberg variations—the old Landowska recording—played on the speakers hanging just inside the door. Ronnie's cardboard box sat at my feet.

Ronnie's diary stopped May 21, with an entry that made me blush as he described our last meeting at my bachelor apartment in flaming purple prose. He then went on to rhapsodize about the coming party at Bobby Mason's, and how excited he was to be wearing the dress Bianca had loaned him. Glori Daze was teaching him to sew, and he would have to shorten the gown. They both said they were coming to help him get ready. He also mentioned I wasn't too thrilled by the whole thing, but he thought I'd come around. I did remember being a little skittish about going out with him in full drag. Everything was so new, perhaps I felt I could only handle so much. After that, there were a few pages of scribbled swear words, jagged, angry words scrawled across the page with such force the paper was torn. But not a word was written about May 24. From then on, there were no real diary entries at all, just a few lists, a disconnected note here and there. Then, a year or two later, the scrapbook took over, photos and crushed flowers and faded gift tags from boyfriends and admirers long dead or forgotten.

I thought back to the night of May 24. I had gone to pick up Ronnie. He was only half dressed and fussing with the wig he had bought for far too much money in my opinion. I still thought of this as dressing up for a costume party. For Ronnie it was much more than that, and this was hard for me to understand. I got tired sitting around, watching this rather unsettling change taking place. The room was too small to pace in. People kept dropping in: the girl from downstairs with some jewelry, Tucker Freemont for the rest of the wine he'd left there a while ago. I was drinking a terrible Chianti and smoking. Finally Ronnie asked me to leave. I was making him nervous. I remember leaving money for a taxi, which made him angry. I remember some harsh words, which I regretted almost instantly. I guess this whole drag thing was getting to me. I had enjoyed it at first, but now I felt it was taking Ronnie away from me. I remember he wouldn't kiss me, because of the lipstick. It had been something I kept thinking about in the weeks that followed.

The night sighed around me. A cat yowled in the distance. Closer to hand, there was an eerie scraping noise. A shadow formed on the other side of the fish pool. Blond hair, graceful, raised arm. Tentative steps.

I dropped my glass. It splintered on the flagstones, sending scotch and shards of crystal flying in the torch light.
"Jesus Christ!"
"Michael, it's me. Rhys Evans. I'm sorry to sneak up on you like this. I was trying not to startle you."
"You didn't succeed," I said.
"I'm so sorry. I heard the music. Here, let me help you."
"No, no. It's fine. I'll just clean it up." I went into the kitchen, leaving him standing in the shadows. As I swept up the mess, he hovered over me.
"I hope it wasn't crystal," he said.
"It was. Waterford."
"Tell me the pattern and I'll replace it."
I told him. "It's probably not made anymore," I added.
"I can track it down," he said. He wrote down the name in a small notebook.
"Well, now that you've made your grand entrance, you might as well sit down. Scotch?"
He nodded. "But not crystal."
"It's crystal or nothing." I was still feeling shaky and needed another drink. When we both had a glass in our hands, I looked at him expectantly. He put his drink down carefully on the small table.
"Nigel talked a lot after you left," he began.
"Does he know you're here?"
"No. He took a pill and went to sleep. He won't wake up till tomorrow."
"And you came here."
"You've got the wrong idea about him, Michael," he said leaning forward urgently. "He doesn't know that Rey Montana you were talking about, the one who was killed. But he did recognize the boy in the picture. He didn't want to tell you because you might make something of it that wasn't there. His name was Haven, and Nigel met him in New York years ago. Then the guy showed up on his doorstep about six months later. Nige was really upset."
"I believe it."
"Anyway, he explained to this guy he couldn't take him in or anything. He gave him enough money to get back to New York and that was that. He never saw him again."
"He never saw him again, Rhys, because he was dead," I said. "Haven was a stage name. A working name. His real name was Rey Montana."
Rhys was shaking his head. "No," he said. "You must be mistaken."
"Not about this," I said.
Rhys picked up his drink and took a long swallow. "Nigel didn't know that wasn't his real name," he said staunchly.
"Probably not, but that doesn't help."
There was silence for a moment. Ice tinkled in our glasses. "That was all a long time ago," Rhys said.
"Right."
"Everyone has something in the past they'd rather keep hidden."
I just looked at him. If my life had gone on the way it was going when I got married, I would be vulnerable to this subtle threat. Rhys was a politician. He had come here to deal, and I had stolen his ace. By the look on his face, I could tell he knew that.
"What now?" Rhys asked. "How far are you going to take this ruthless quest for knowledge?" His voice took on a bitter tinge I hadn't heard before.
"What I said to Nigel is the truth. I just want to know."
"And be damned to anyone who may get hurt."
"No one is going to get hurt."
"And you can guarantee that?" Rhys put his glass down again, adjusted his blazer, and stood up. "I'd better go. I shouldn't have come here. I just wanted you to know about Haven, that Nigel didn't ... Shit."
"How long have you two been together?" I asked, getting up too.
"Three years, if you can call it being together, when I have to keep a separate apartment. One day maybe..."
"Yeah. One day." I ushered him through the house to the front door.
He stopped and faced me at the door. "Three years is a lot longer than you were with your boyfriend back then, as I understand it," he said. His pale hair glowed in the porch light, his eyes looked directly into mine. Then he turned and went down the steps to his car and drove away.
Yes, I thought, and maybe the one to blame is Nigel Ross.
Nigel and Haven. I couldn't get my head around that. What a shock it must have been, seeing the boy at his doorstep. And Ronnie. How did he fit in? I had thought Haven/Rey came to see Ronnie, but maybe I was wrong. I thought the boy wanted a share of the money his pal Ronnie stole. But maybe Ronnie was only a backup plan, someone else he knew in Toronto, someone to bunk with. Maybe his real mark had been Nigel, the wealthy closet case who had given the impression he was mad about Haven, mad enough to let slip his address. But in that case, why would Ronnie kill him? Or did Nigel follow Haven and kill him at Ronnie's? But then why did Ronnie cover it up? Money? Nigel had lots of it. Always had.
They say that money and sex are the great motivators behind murder. Was this just another sad example of the truth of that saying?
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