Murder in Pastel (11 page)

“You’ll see. Then we’ll find out how good a friend you are.”

“I have my limits.”

“Where Adam is concerned?”

Something about the way he said that made me uneasy. “What the hell are you talking about, Brett? Spit it out, would you?”

With all the cunning of a ten-year-old he taunted, “You’ll soon find out.”

Chapter Eight

A
dam sketched me and Brett together a number of times that summer. He seemed fascinated by some fancied likeness between us—or maybe it was the differences. In pencil, the fact that my eyes were hazel and Brett’s green, that his hair was blonde and mine brown, wasn’t noticeable; there was only the similarity of our bone structure, the shape of our eyes, the line of our noses.

Having grown up with artists, I barely noticed when Adam would grab a napkin or the back of the TV Guide and start penciling, but it irked Brett. If he found one of those impromptu portraits of the two of us, he would crumple it up.

A lot of things irked Brett. He ragged on Adam about his painting, about working in his “comfort zone.” Ten years ago Adam had found his niche. He was doing well financially which permitted Brett to live in his comfort zone. But Brett sneered at Adam’s stuff, called him the Painter of Graveyards, in mockery of Thomas Kincaid’s success.

Me, I thought Adam’s work was lovely. Accessible. But as Brett pointed out, what did I know? According to Brett, Cosmo was the real thing, and Adam was a cheap imitation. Per Brett, Adam had sold out. He was going to end up a footnote on commercialism in the annals of Art History.
You’ll be right there with Tommy Kincaid and the Marty Bell cottages.

I don’t know if Brett’s barbs worked their way into Adam’s psyche, but they worked into mine. It was hard to keep my mouth shut sometimes.

The evening after the party I was sitting on the verandah stairs beside Adam. Adam was idly pitching pebbles across the lawn at the sundial.

“Did you read Joel’s book?” I asked.

Adam grimaced. The next pebble pinged off the point of the sundial’s arrow.

“He implies that he and my father…”

After a moment Adam said, “I wasn’t there. I don’t know. Straight guys do experiment occasionally.”

“But Cosmo
was
straight?”

“As the shortest distance between two points.” There was something rueful in his smile that made me wonder if Adam had had a thing for Cosmo. Not a comfortable thought.

“Did he know I was gay?”

For a minute I didn’t think Adam would answer. Then he took a deep breath, expelling it slowly. “Your father only said one thing to me on the subject. He said, ‘let him make up his own mind.’”

I mulled this over. The way Adam repeated it, it sounded vaguely like a warning. Why would my father have felt it necessary to warn Adam off? I studied Adam’s profile. His lashes were down, veiling his eyes as he reached for another pebble.

“Why did you come back, Adam? Why now?”

“Brett wanted to. It was his idea.”

Brett shoved open the porch door, which banged against the wall of the house. “Do you know there is no one in this entire goddamn county who delivers Chinese?”

Adam glanced around. “You want me to go get take-out?”

“I want to go out to dinner,” Brett said. “I’m sick of this dump!”

“Don’t turn into Betty Davis,” Adam said mildly. “We’ll go out. Kyle?”

“How about you and me for a change, Adam?” Brett gave me a stare as green as broken glass. “I’m sure Kyle understands.”

“Sure,” I said hastily. I stood up.

“See ya,” said Brett.

The next morning I woke to sunlight on the floorboards and the smell of newly-mown grass on the breeze, but the chill on my heart felt as though it were the dead of winter. The star-crossed lovers thing was getting old fast. My “friendship” with Brett wasn’t helping Brett and Adam, and it was bad for me.

Watching the shadows on the ceiling, I reasoned that it would be best for everyone if I finished the summer someplace else. New scenery. New faces. I remembered the air show poster my father had brought me so many years ago. I’d never been to France. The City of Lights? Gay Paree? Hell, I’d never been anywhere. I tried to work up some enthusiasm. The more I dreaded the idea of leaving, the more I knew I had to go.

After lunch I drove into the village to pick up supplies. When I walked into the grocers I could tell by the way the old biddies clammed-up that rumors about “goings on” at the colony were rampant.

“Storm’s coming,” Mrs. Hammett informed me as I paid for my salmon steaks and low fat milk.

There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, but Mrs. Hammett’s rheumatism is as reliable as a ship’s barometer. “We could use the rain,” I said.

“Your grandfather was in here, Kyle.”

“Yeah? How is he?”

I’ve known Mrs. Hammett since I was tall enough to push my three pennies across the counter for her homemade taffy. She replied tartly, “Lonely. I’d say he could use some company.”

Probably some company he
liked
would be a better idea, but I only said, “Maybe I’ll stop by there on the way home.”

Mrs. Hammett gave a mollified sniff and handed over my change.

* * * * *

Aaron Lipez lived in one of those white two-story Victorian jobs with a red roof, gingerbread trim and lots of geometrically shaped windows. I have vague memories of playing under the spreading shade trees when I was very small. As I recall, I buried a whole platoon of WWI tin soldiers under that leafy roof. I also recall my grandfather telling me he would bury me with them if I didn’t exhume each and every one. An idle threat since here I was, walking onto his front porch and knocking.

And knocking.

There was no answer.

I wandered around back. My grandfather’s pickup was gone. Relieved, I climbed back in the jeep and headed for the colony.

Once home, I unloaded my groceries and gave the nearest travel agency a call to price out tickets to France. That done, I felt better. I changed into swim trunks and trucked down to the beach.

On the way down to the cove I spotted the weed killer apparatus Irene had loaned me sitting in a rose bed. I picked it up, examined it. It was empty. Had I left it outdoors so long that the liquid evaporated? I didn’t think so. I carried the weed killer back to the porch and continued down to the beach.

I was hoping to have the cove to myself, but I noticed Brett lurking under the dock a few yards away. Seeing me, he ducked back behind the piles. That suited me. I didn’t want to talk to Brett. I started for the water. But Brett stepped out and beckoned me over imperiously.

“What are you doing here?” he asked accusingly when I was within earshot.

“Swimming.”

“You never swim this time of day.”

“Sometimes I do. What’s it to you?”

“Are you spying on me?”

“Are you nuts?”

Seeing that I was pissed, he said quickly, “I’m kidding, Kyle.” He looked at his watch. As I turned away, he said, “Where are you going?”

“I’m going to swim.”

“Can’t you swim some other time?”

“Who are you waiting for?”

“No one.”

I snorted and turned away.

“Wait.”

I waited none too patiently.

“You may as well keep me company.”

“I’m not in the mood.”

“What did I do?” He sounded genuinely hurt. I ran a hand through my hair, feeling the wind ruffle it up.

“Nothing. I came to swim.”

Brett wasn’t listening. He looked at his watch again. His expression changed; I couldn’t tell if it was irritation or disappointment. He seemed to relax though. He questioned suddenly, as if the thought had only occurred, “Did Cosmo keep a journal?”

“No.”

“What about letters?”

“He wasn’t sentimental. He didn’t hang on to things.”

Brett looked like he didn’t believe me, but it was the truth. Cosmo had kept nothing that didn’t relate to current business transactions. He had an excellent memory. Perhaps he relied on that.

“Did it ever occur to you that maybe Cosmo never left Steeple Hill?”

“Huh?” I said intelligently.

“If he left, why wouldn’t he come back? He always came back, right?”

“Maybe he will some day,” I said, not believing it. “If he’s still alive. Maybe he planned to, but…” I shrugged.

“You told me you thought he was dead.”

I said reluctantly, “I do.”

“You think he died after he split. Suppose he died before he could leave?”

“What? But that’s…” I gestured confusedly. The thought had honestly never occurred, and I didn’t like it now. “His body,” I expostulated. “What about his body? It would have been found if he’d drowned or fell or…”

“I’m not talking about an accident.”

“What
are
you talking about?”

“Shit, use your brain, Kyle. What kind of mystery writer are you? Why would he leave right then? Didn’t you ever ask yourself?”

I put into words for Brett what no one had put into words for me, but what I knew everyone believed. “I think my getting sick was the last straw,” I said. “He wasn’t cut out for fatherhood. I think he cared for me but it was too much responsibility. And then my getting sick—it was obvious right away there was a problem with my heart. It was just too much for him, I think.”

“You think he’d walk out without a word? Without a note? Without a change of clothes?”

“Who says he didn’t have a change of clothes?”

“Did he?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. I wasn’t in noticing shape. He never took much when he split. He was used to roughing it. Living off the land. Living off his friends.”

Brett leaned back against one of the thick posts supporting the dock and lit a cigarette. “It doesn’t make sense. If—”

The post gave way behind him. As Brett staggered back, the dock seemed to collapse in slow motion, crashing down upon him. I jumped to the side, tumbling out of the way, and came up staring in disbelief.

The center portion of the dock lay on the sand; Brett pinned beneath. He was alive, because he was yelling his head off, but he was as shocked and scared as I was—and in a lot more pain. The old planks were heavy, and besides the splinters and jagged pieces of wood, there were thick nails suitable for crucifixion jutting out everywhere.

I dragged off one plank as thick as a railway tie, and Brett screamed, “God, watch what you’re doing! You’ll cut me in half!”

I dropped to my knees and cleared the debris away from around his head.

“What happened?” Brett was crying. “What the fuck happened?” He made an effort to raise himself and fell back. “Kyle, the tide!”

“The tide’s not coming in, Brett,” I reassured. “Not for hours.” Which wasn’t exactly true. We probably had under an hour before the waves rushed the beach.

“You’ve got to get me out of here.”

I was trying; I scooped sand out from under him, thinking I could extricate him that way. But shoveling sand with my hands was slow going and inefficient; the sand burned as I scraped my hands in and out of its deceptive softness.

“Can you get your arm free?”

“It’s broken, I think. I can’t move it.”

“Shit.” I jumped up, ran around to the other side and tried once more to lift off one of the posts. It was no use. “Brett,” I said, kneeling beside his head. “I’m going for help.”

“No!”
he cried. “No, don’t leave me.”

“I can’t free you on my own.”

“Yes, you can. Don’t leave me, Kyle.”

“Brett.” I touched his face. Tears and blood mingled with the sand. I wiped them away. “Listen, I can’t do it on my own. Let me get help.”

He stared up at me, his green eyes drowned. He nodded jerkily. “Hurry. Please.”

I hopped to my feet and raced for the cliff.

Seventy-five stairs. Midway up I felt something slip in my chest and my heart began to batter itself against my rib cage. I couldn’t get my breath, the blood sang in my ears, my vision darkened. I tried to push past it.

Big mistake.

I dropped onto one knee, sucking air into my lungs.

I couldn’t hear Brett anymore. I couldn’t hear anything over the thunder in my ears. I reached for the railing, hauled myself up another step. Then another.

“Kyle.”
Strong arms closed around me. Adam’s voice was in my ear. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

I could feel myself slipping through his hands like water, pouring onto the rock at his feet. I huddled there. Colored stars shot through the blackness of my vision. “It’s Brett,” I gasped. “The dock—he’s pinned—I couldn’t—”

“Brett!” Adam’s hands bit into my shoulders. “Jesus. Can you hold on, Kyle?”

I nodded, hands to my chest, still fighting to get my breath. My vision cleared a little.

Adam crouched down, trying to see my face. “I don’t want to leave you like this.”

“Go.”

Still he hesitated, his eyes dark with concern and doubt.

“Go,”
I wheezed. “Be fine—go!”

“Sit tight,” Adam ordered. “I’ll be back in a minute. Stay still.”

I assented and Adam was gone.

Leaning back against the steps, I closed my eyes, willed my heart to stop the insanity. I was as afraid for myself as Brett by this point. Was I having a full-blown coronary? Was I dying?

I massaged my chest, took another shallow breath; bit my lip at the pain. Probably not indigestion. Angina maybe? No way. Maybe I’d pulled a muscle lifting the plank off Brett. It didn’t have to be anything really serious. I’d been fine for ages. It could be some kind of panic attack, right? I tried to fill my lungs and winced.

Fuck.

I blinked back the sting in my eyes. How stupid was this?

After what felt like eons my pulse eased, slowed. I could breathe again; the tightness in my chest relaxed. I debated continuing up the stairs to get Adam help. I was so tired. I only needed a minute, I promised myself.

A shadow fell across my face. I heard the heavy whoosh of wings as a gull swooped down. The sound alarmed me in some indefinable way. I opened my eyes, and Adam stood over me, his back to the sun, his face unreadable.