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Authors: David James

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BOOK: A Not So Model Home
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“Drake, are there pocket gophers on the estate?”
Jerry's question caught me totally off guard. Either he was very good or just crazy.
“They're all over the place,” Drake admitted. “They're driving Ian crazy since his
cha-cha heels
sink into their holes when he's walking on the grounds.”
“Okay . . .” Jerry replied, discerning a bit of scorn in Drake's voice. “Drake, do you keep gopher poison here on the estate?”
“In the potting shed. I'll show you.”
Drake led the way to a building on the back of the garage. He opened the door to the shed and led us inside.
“There's no lock on the shed door?” Ken asked.
“No,” Drake replied. “Why lock it? It's full of pots and garden tools. Nothing worth stealing. Besides, no one ever goes in here but me. No one that I know of. Can you imagine Ian or any of his playthings getting their hands dirty?”
“I see your point,” Ken replied.
The shed was neat beyond belief. The shelves were orderly to a compulsiveness, with labeled bottles and labeled drawers. Nothing seemed to be out of place. Jerry slowly took in the room, then pointed toward a large white, plastic, spike-shaped container lying on a high shelf, neatly on its side.
“Drake, is that the container where the gopher poison is stored?”
“You mean this?” Drake responded, reaching for the container, only to have his hands stopped in mid-flight by Jerry's hand.
“You don't need to touch it, Drake.”
Drake, having been to Yale, was no dummy. “You suspect that Keith was poisoned? Shit! Well . . . you insert the spike into the ground until you feel it hit a gopher tunnel; then you pull it out, drop some pellets into the hole, and cover it up.”
“Drake, now it looks like you run a very tight ship here. Can you tell me if anything is missing . . . or out of place?”
Drake looked around a few seconds, but it seemed more to placate the detective's questioning. “Nope, everything is where it's supposed to be.”
“You seem awfully sure of that.”
Drake smiled. “I can tell. Believe me. I'm orderly to the point of being insane.”
“Okay, Drake. Thank you for your time. You can return to the house. Oh, and even after the crime lab people have gone through the shed, could you not touch anything for a few weeks? Thanks.”
“Sure. You're welcome. Anything I can do to help.”
After Drake had gone, I started with my questions.
“So gopher poison is made of strychnine, huh?”
“Yes, blended with barley grain or anything enticing to gophers.”
“So does strychnine have a taste?”
“It's incredibly bitter.”
I inched a bit further. “So it wouldn't be tasted if it were in something strong like cranberry juice?”
Jerry, still looking around the shed, put his finger on his nose and pointed the other free index finger at me. “You might make a good detective one day. Keep it up. If it does turn out to be strychnine—which I would bet that it was—the killer knew enough that he had to hide the taste.”
“And even more telling, the killer had to know that Keith regularly drank cranberry juice because of his kidneys.”
“And . . . ?” Jerry prompted me, seeing if I could make the leap to the next clue.
“Uh . . . Uh . . . you went to the well too many times, Jerry.”
“Someone would have to grind up the gopher powder somewhere to make the poison. So somewhere on the estate, maybe, there's a container that was used in the commission of the crime. If the killer is smart, that container is probably in someone else's trashcan miles from here by now, but you never know. So we need to stop all garbage going out immediately.”
I looked around the room, wondering if any of the containers here were used to prepare Keith's lethal beverage. There was an old-fashioned watering can, a small, dented metal paint bucket, a few old plastic food containers that Drake had washed out and reused—it was hard to tell. I guess that only the forensics unit would know for sure.
“I wish I could hire Drake to organize my house. Look at this place! Everything in its proper place, everything labeled, nothing out of place, nothing broken. Perfect.”
Jerry looked around the room again and commented, “A bit on the
anal
side, isn't he?”
“I'd be careful how you use that word around here if I were you, Detective.”
C
HAPTER 16
The Pocket Gopher Did It
J
erry questioned everyone separately. Just about everyone was up fairly late. Aleksei was busy coloring his newly grown, but very short hair stubble so that it would be ready for the day's shooting. David was performing fellatio on a nearly comatose Ian, then returned to his room to look through a stack of fashion magazines. Gilles was on his computer watching some of the French fashion shows on YouTube. Aurora was going over notes that she had written up about the men on the show. And Ian, as usual, couldn't sleep and took an Ambien and crashed until Lance Greenly shook him out of his coma when the sculpture fell down the stairs. Lance was up most of the night working on financial projections for Ian's company for next year. His story got real interesting when he said he went down to the kitchen at around 1:30 to get a Red Bull and saw Keith coming out of Aleksei's room with his shirt off. Everyone else said they went to bed by 1
A.M.
and didn't get up and didn't leave their rooms until the stairway incident.
“It's amazing how the sculpture fell just about the time I estimate Keith was probably going through his convulsions from the strychnine, isn't it?” Jerry confided to me.
“So someone knocked over the penis to cover the noise from Keith's swan song?”
“You got it. I'm sure Keith would have been making a lot of noise thrashing around when the strychnine really hit him.”
“Since you know a scary amount about poisons, Detective Hallander,” I said, “how long would it take from the moment he ingested the poison to the time it really started to hit him?”
“Ten to twenty minutes after ingesting it, more if on a full stomach.”
“So that means he would have taken the strychnine about two
A.M.
Maybe a little earlier.”
“About that time.”
“Which means he probably came down to the kitchen around one-thirty to one forty-five or two
A.M.
to get some cranberry juice. Oh shit! It could still be there in the refrigerator!”
“Relax, Amanda. I already had the juice rounded up for the lab. It seems kinda chancy, though, on the killer's part. Someone else could have drank it.”
“No, not really. Keith wrote his name on the jug of cranberry juice. Everyone in the cast is doing that since they're all living here like one big happy family.”
“Except that one member of this family is highly dysfunctional.” Jerry snorted.
“And that would be different from any family how?” I replied. “Well, Lance's trip to the kitchen was convenient too. Just in time to have the opportunity to poison Keith's juice.”
C
HAPTER 17
The $how Must Go On
T
he cast managed to pull itself together as Jeremy called an emergency meeting in Ian's billiard room later that morning.
“I've been on the phone all morning with executives from the network. First . . .” he said, turning toward Ian. “They would like to send their condolences for the de . . . the . . . whatever happened to Keith. So . . . they're extremely sad and sorry and everything. Now, the reason I've gathered you all here is to discuss the future of the show.”
Several members of the cast scoffed at what they were hearing.
“Now, now, before you say no to the idea of going on, I want you to hear me out. I think that if we were to go and throw away all our hard work, I want you to first consider Keith and what this show meant to him.”
Everyone looked at each other, flashes of guilt briefly passing over their faces even though Jeremy's statement was as suspect as a holy relic.
Drake spoke up, “Jeremy, I know that you have reasons to want the show to go on, but I think I speak for the rest of us in saying that we're all too filled with inconsolable grief to want to go on.”
Jeremy maneuvered like a mongoose squaring off with a cobra. “Drake, I really want to thank you for airing those very
personal
emotions, but we have to consider what Keith would have wanted, and I think if he were here today, he would have wanted this show to continue. Remember, Keith was in show business, and you know what they say: ‘The show must go on.'”
“Keith designed nightclubs and texted people to get them into those clubs,” Drake corrected Jeremy.
“Drake?” Jeremy continued, rushing up to Drake and getting in his face . . . lovingly. “Drake, Drake, Drake, Drake. What are nightclubs but show business? You've got lights”—he emphasized by pointing up at imaginary lights—“music”—he cupped his hand to his ear—“and PEOPLE! It's all showbiz!”
Several of the guys shook their heads in agreement. Like a fundamentalist preacher, Jeremy paused for a few calculated seconds, then changed gears.
“Now that we've got Keith's wishes to think about, I want to say something else that you might want to consider. I'm as upset as you are and I want to always respect Keith's memory—but the studio executives are saying that this latest development could send our little show into the ratings stratosphere. Higher than it's climbed already. Even higher than
American Idol!
” he said as he threw in an are-you-with-me face, complete with raised eyebrows. “Think about it. You will be household names which could lead you—I don't know—anywhere after this show. A-N-Y-W-H-E-R-E!”
There was complete silence as what Jeremy uttered insinuated itself into our heads.
Ian, a man used to getting a fair amount of press (not all of it favorable), swallowed Jeremy's bait—hook, line, and sinker. “Jeremy's right,” he said enthusiastically. “Keith would have wanted us to go on.”
This sentiment was echoed by the other members of the cast, including one that sort of shocked me: Aurora. But as I learned, the more we filmed, celebrity—no matter how petty and short-lived—had a power and momentum of its own. It was like a train, and once started, it was hard to stop. Plus, these people didn't want the ride to stop. And to be totally honest, I wasn't sure I wanted that either. I mean, why not make a little more money, grab a little more fame, and get a lot more business? It's not like any of us could bring Keith back to life, right? So sitting around feeling sad for him wasn't going to accomplish anything. It would be better if we were out there being famous and making a buttload of money, okay? The show must go on. And what a show it turned out to be.
A show of hands indicated that everyone wanted to continue shooting. Even my hand went up. Reluctantly, but it did go up.
“Oh, one last thing,” Jeremy said. “Because of the studio's concern for the safety of our cast, we're going to have twenty-four-hour security on any set and in Ian's home.”
“That's a wonderful idea, Jeremy,” Aurora said. “I think the cast needs to feel that this show is a safe haven, a place where they can talk about their emotions and compete in the show without being distracted. They are armed, aren't they?”
“Yes, Aurora, you are perfectly safe.”
Jeremy's assistant, Tony Marcello, entered the room as quiet as a mouse, whispered something in Jeremy's ear, then left as quickly and as silently as he entered.
“Okay, since we're all on board with continuing the show, I have an exciting new announcement to make. We have a new member on the show: Darryn Novolo. His plane just got in from New York.”
The guys were even more stunned than when they found out that Keith was dead. The reason was obvious: Just when they were settling in to the idea of one less contestant, Jeremy comes in and screws it up royally.
David Laurant leaned over toward me. “Uh-ohhhhhh,” he muttered.
“Bad news?” I asked.
“Just wait.”
“A model?”
“Supermodel.
The
supermodel. I didn't know Ian had slept with him.”
“Maybe he hasn't yet, but it could be in his plans.”
Jeremy motioned for Darryn to enter the room and enter it he did. He was easily one of the most striking men I had ever seen. A perfectly elongated, slightly rounded, triangular face, with catlike green-gray eyes set perfectly far apart under deep and chiseled brows, offset the most perfectly formed pair of lips that pouted ever so slightly in the middle. His hair was slicked back in a rather rakish way. And his clothes! They were expensive, looked it, and fit like it. Probably custom tailored. No off-the-rack for this boy. It was hard to look away—you had to stare at him. You just had to. It was funny. The more you looked at him, the more he looked like a male version of the British actress Charlotte Rampling. It wasn't just the freckles that made me think of Charlotte; it was the waiflike, yet seductive innocence that dragged you in, hypnotized you. He could toy with you and not have you suspect a thing.
“Gentlemen, I'm Darryn Novolo,” he said in a deep, but smooth, silky voice that just completed the picture of perfection. “Some of you are aware of me from the modeling world. I'm here to be a member of the cast, and I consider it a great honor to be allowed to be here with you on this show. And, Ian . . .” he said with the kind of sincerity lacking in this crowd and with an intonation that would make you thank him for killing your mother. “I offer my sincere condolences on the loss of your son.” This guy was the definition of suave. Of refinement. He stuck out like a sore thumb in this tribe.
Darryn was going to be trouble. He was in the room for less than a minute and already it seemed that the contest was over. The guys were so disturbed by Darryn's addition to the show that they didn't seem to know what to do, how to react, or how to handle him. What disturbed me wasn't Darryn, since I didn't have a thing to lose to him, it was the fact that Jeremy added Darryn deliberately, sadistically. It's not as if the shit pot needed any more stirring. This pot was ready to boil over.
As I was musing this, another thought struck me: A few minutes ago, the future of the show was in jeopardy. So why was Darryn invited to fly across the country to be in a television program that might be canceled?
Ian commanded Drake to fetch a seat for Darryn. Drake found one and inserted it in between David and Gilles, a few people down from Ian. But Ian had other plans.
“Drake, would you be a good boy and put the chair here?” he said, pointing to a space between his chair and Gilles. The slight was glaring. Even Gilles, who was protected by inches of narcissistic armor, seemed shaken to his foundation. Darryn sat down innocent of the power play he had just been thrown into.
“So, Darryn,” Ian inquired, staring through his tented fingers. “So you're
the
hottest male model in the world right now?”
Ian was up to his usual cat-and-mouse tactics.
“Thank you for the compliment, Ian, but I wouldn't say I'm the hottest male model in the world. I'm just popular right now. That could pass. I just finished several shows in Milan and four in Paris. Armani, Gucci, Prada, Dolce & Gabbana, and Versace. And here I am.”
Gilles fired the first shot.
“So you are here. I see that. My question ees whyyyyyyy?” he sneered.
Darryn looked perplexed. “Because I was asked to join the cast of this show.”
“But who ask you?”
“Jeremy, of course. He's the producer of this show.”
“So, Darryn, he say you must come on the show, and you just come?” Gilles sniffed.
“I thought about it first, but I said yes.”
“So you come on zeese program after all the hard work we have done joost to geeet your hands on Ian's money?”
Everyone waited to see if Darryn would take Gilles's toxic bait and fire back.
“I was invited to be on the show under the same circumstances that you were, Gilles.”
It was an innocuous answer, but it was the right one. If it were me, I would have answered, in this order: “The only hard work you've done has involved working hard on Ian's cock.” “And why, exactly, are
you
here, Gilles?” And finally, “I think that money would be much better in my hands than yours, that way it would end up going for tasteful, stylish things and not for the disposable Eurotrash clothing and items you plow through every day.” But Darryn was not going to wear his ego on his sleeve. He had good looks and he was smart. I liked him. A lot. I was slipping into my old pattern of falling for gay men.
Drake, never one to dive into battle with any of the other guys, spoke up, “Darryn, I'd like to welcome you to the show. If there's anything you need, feel free to ask me.”
“Well, thank you, Drake,” Darryn replied, showing 105 of the whitest teeth I had ever seen.
“So, Darryn, I'm sure that Jeremy's request that you be on the show must have come as a surprise. I've never seen you around Ian's before.”
Touché, Drake. He was trying to see whose idea it was to drop Darryn as a bombshell on
Things Are a Bit Iffy
.
“I was in the middle of the Armani men's show. It was a little sudden, but I thought it would be interesting, so here I am.”
I was right. Darryn was smart. Good looking. In shape. Well mannered. Just the kind of guy to win this contest. And the type to get killed. His appearance on the program affected the other guys profoundly. Aurora had pretty much ended the texting and video-game playing with a single comment. Manners were tidied up for the same reason. But it didn't take long for the guys to slip into their old routines, and the chemistry of the group, I suspect, was designed for maximum hissy fits. But Darryn changed the rules of the game in under a minute. The guys at the table were out-handsomed, out-mannered, and outsmarted. What to do? What to do?
BOOK: A Not So Model Home
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