Adrien English Mysteries: A Dangerous Thing & Fatal Shadows (17 page)

Over swordfish carpaccio with orange and fennel salad, I got Bruce to tell me about himself. Used to doing the interviewing, he was clearly not comfortable on this side of the questions, but I’d had enough of my own problems for a while. I kept turning the conversation back to Bruce, and gradually, soup through dessert, I got his life story. Like me he’d grown up in the Valley. Unlike me he’d attended public schools, graduating from Chatsworth High and going on to CSUN. Like me, he’d realized he was gay his last year of high school. Unlike me, his family had disowned him the minute he came out of the closet.

“In retrospect it would have been wiser to wait, like you did, to break it to them.”

“It wasn’t wisdom,” I told him. “My motto growing up was always, ‘Discretion is the better part of valor.’ ”

He said reflectively, “I think they would have come to terms with it, but both my parents died right after I graduated from college.”

“I’m sorry.”

He smiled awkwardly. “Your family was more enlightened, I take it?”

I shrugged. “In a weird way I think my mother is relieved there will never be a young Mrs. English to contend with. She’s not keen on competition.” I grinned wryly meeting Bruce’s sympathetic gaze.

He didn’t talk much about his work, seeming reticent, as though he suspected I might not approve. I tried to make all the appropriate noises and faces. I realized though that I was trying too hard.

Bruce realized it too. “I’m boring you, aren’t I?”

“Hell no!”

His lopsided smile was rueful and appealing in his homely face. “It’s okay. I bore myself.”

“No, Bruce. I’ve just got a lot on my mind.”

102

Josh Lanyon

“Were you lovers?”

“Who?”

“You and Hersey.”

“No. A long time ago.” I didn’t want to talk about it. I had to work through those memories on my own.

“What about you and -- what was his name? Pierre?”

“La Pierra. No. He was ... .” I took a breath. “A good friend. I should have --”

“What?” His solemn dark eyes were curious.

I shook my head. I didn’t want to share those thoughts either -- maybe not the most promising indicator of a change in my emotional litmus. I put my hand over my glass when he raised the wine bottle. He frowned. “What’s the problem?”

“Two of my closest friends have been killed.”

“Do you think there’s a connection?”

“Of course there’s a connection.”

“I mean to you.”

“Me?”

He nodded gravely. “Was there anything else they had in common?”

I looked at him, but I was seeing Robert. What did Robert and I have in common?

We were both gay. We were the same age and race. We went to the same high school.

We belonged to the Chess Club in high school -- as well as the tennis team and sharing many of the same classes. We both knew Claude. We both knew Tara. We both knew a lot of the same people. So what?

The truth was, Robert and I had very little in common besides being gay and going to high school together.

Into my silence, Bruce said softly, “There is something isn’t there?”

I barely heard him. Had Claude hedged about knowing who Robert was seeing before his death? Maybe he really hadn’t known. Whoever Robert had been seeing it hadn’t been for long or openly, because none of Robert’s crowd knew anything about the guy. Claude had claimed Riordan had killed Robert. Claude had claimed Riordan was going to kill him.

Something didn’t make sense. Should I assume that Robert’s killer and Claude’s killer were the same? Did that only hold true if Robert’s killer and my stalker were the same? Why kill Claude? Why not kill me?

Were the flowers and CD a prelude to murder? Had Robert also received these tokens of esteem? If so, he hadn’t considered himself “stalked.” Maybe I was more insecure.

Robert had not been stalked. Claude had not been stalked. But Claude and Robert were both dead. I was being stalked but I was not dead. Not yet.

Fatal Shadows

103

I became aware that Bruce was waiting for an answer. I said, “You probably know more about that than me.”

“I’m off the story, remember? Conflict of interest.”

I wondered if he resented that conflict? How much did his career mean to him? How far could he be trusted?”

“Do you play chess?” I asked suddenly.

He smiled. “Sure. You?”

“Not for years. I was thinking -- if there’s some special significance to chess.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know.” I sighed. Ran a hand through my hair. I was tired. And once again I’d had too much to drink.

“There’s something you’re not telling me,” Bruce’s gaze held mine.

“It’s just a theory.”

“Tell me.”

Belatedly, I remembered Riordan had warned me to keep my mouth shut. “No. It’s nothing.” I looked at my watch. Tried not to yawn.

“Did you want to get out of here, Adrien?” he asked abruptly.

* * * * *

It was just a couple of minutes drive back to the bookstore.

“I had this planned so differently,” Bruce said in the quiet of the car.

“I had a good time.”

In the silence that stretched, he asked diffidently, “Will you come back to my place?”

We drove back to Bruce’s. He lived in one of those quiet Chatsworth neighborhoods in one of those sprawling brown and yellow ranch-style houses. The grass was getting long, there were dandelions in the flower beds, and the asphalt driveway needed resurfacing.

Bruce let us into the dark house. My nostrils twitched at the faint scent of air freshener and cat.

“Sorry it’s such a mess.” He switched on the lights as we went through the rooms.

It wasn’t a mess. It was spotless. It also wasn’t like anything I’d imagined. Plastic fruit in bowls, the Leaning Tree gallery of Indian paintings, a bookshelf full of stuff like Dr. Spock on raising kids, Barbara Cartland romances, an out of date set of Encyclopedia Britannica. The china cabinet was full of pink stemware. The kind of stuff you get at markets for buying so many dollars worth of produce. It didn’t strike me as Bruce’s taste.

“Did you want a glass of wine?”

May as well be drunk as the way I am, I thought. “Sure.”

104

Josh Lanyon

There were plenty of those multi-picture frames featuring a nice middle-class American family, mom and dad and a cute little girl who went from pigtails to wedding gown. There were even photos of assorted dogs and cats, but no photos of Bruce. Pale squares and ovals on the wall indicated where his pictures once hung.

“This was your Mom and Dad’s house?” I lifted up a figurine. A dog tugging on a girl’s dress.

“Yeah. I’m not here enough to bother clearing this junk out,” Bruce explained, again reading my thoughts. He brought me a glass of wine.

We touched glasses and Bruce kissed me.

* * * * *

Moonlight flooded the room but Bruce slept peacefully on. I eased gingerly out from under his arm, padded over to the window, put one hand on the cool glass.

The backyard was vaguely familiar like so many yards out of my Southern California childhood. There was a cactus garden in the center of the patio, which featured a built-in barbecue. In the jungle of weeds stood a rusted swing set, gilded in moonlight. I could make out the roof of an empty dog house behind tufts of dead ornamental grass. And, unless I missed my guess, around the corner of the house would be a narrow walkway with steps leading up to a side door. Potted palms on either side.

“What are you thinking about?” Bruce’s whisper behind me had me starting. He put a hand on my shoulder, warm, possessive.

“Nothing.”

“More bad dreams?” His voice was as low as though he feared his parents could still hear.

I shook my head.

He kissed my shoulder. “You’re so beautiful.”

There was a sudden blockage in my throat. “Bruce --”

“You don’t know how long I’ve dreamed of you here. With me. Like this.” He guided me back to bed.

We lay down, put our arms around each other. Already this was becoming familiar.

I wanted it to be familiar. I wanted it to be right. I rejected the disloyal thought that Bruce was clutching me too tightly, that his urgent gasps didn’t leave me room to breathe, that he was rough when I needed tenderness, and tentative when I needed sureness.

“Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“I’m not thinking.”

“I love you,” Bruce murmured against my ear. I turned my head quickly, stopping his words with my kiss.

Fatal Shadows

105

* * * * *

The answering machine was signaling disaster when I finally got in. Some impulse made me hit Play despite my exhaustion.

“Where the hell are you?” Riordan sounded ... angry wasn’t quite the word. “Call me when you get in. I don’t care what time it is.” He recited a couple of new numbers to phone.

I didn’t think he meant five-thirty in the morning, and I didn’t have the energy to deal with him right now anyway. I stripped, dived into bed, loving the cool kiss of my own sheets on my nakedness. The bed did a spin. I closed my eyes. Passed out.

* * * * *

I was surprised when Mr. Atkins called. He said he always enjoyed meeting with former students, and we arranged to meet for lunch at the Denny’s on Topanga Canyon.

I recognized him immediately in blue-tinted spectacles that matched a baggy sleeveless sweater. I recalled that he had a sleeveless sweater in every shade of blue. His hair was thinning but still longish. It occurred to me that while he had seemed ancient and venerable to my 11th grader eyes, he couldn’t have been that old. He was only about sixty now.

“I come here for the early bird specials,” he informed me with a wink, and poured a second packet of C&H into his tea. “That’s the beauty of early retirement, son. You’re still young enough to enjoy life.”

We ordered, and while we waited to be served Mr. Atkins said, “I was very sorry to hear about Robert Hersey. I told my wife when I read the story in the paper what a waste it was.

Such a bright, handsome kid.”

“This may sound crazy,” I said, rearranging the salt shakers. “But I’m afraid Robert’s death could have something to do with what happened with the Chess Club.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.” Mr. Atkins pushed his glasses back up his nose and frowned at me.

“No. Rusty Corday’s dead too -- also under suspicious circumstances. Both Rusty and Rob were found with ... well ... chess pieces.”

“What do you mean “found” with them?”

I explained what I meant. Mr. Atkin’s eyebrows shot up. “Well of course the whole school knew about Corday, but Hersey. I just can’t believe that. Hersey a queer?” He considered me, and I saw the light dawn. “Ah, I see,” he said regretfully.

Maybe at some point that doesn’t sting any more. I said stiffly, “The thing is, two people dead out of such a small group seems like too much of a coincidence.”

“Don’t get me wrong, son,” Mr. Atkins said. “Moralizing went out with Henry James.

But it’s an unhealthy way to live, isn’t it?”

There were a number of responses to that. None conducive to getting more information.

106

Josh Lanyon

The waitress brought our lunches. As soon as she was out of range, Mr. Atkins said, “I think you’re wrong, though. I admit at the time there might have been reason for murder, if you listen to the talk show hosts. There’s nothing more unstable than the adolescent male.”

“What actually happened?”

“You were there. Oh, that’s right. You came down with mono or something, didn’t you?”

“When I got back you had quit sponsoring the club.”

“Hell. I should hope so. What a mess!” He shook his head and ate a french fry. “Well, it’s no mystery. We were invited to the All City Tournament, and Grant Landis, the big doofus, cheated. Tried to cheat anyway. Knocked the board after making an illegal move or some such crap. You can’t cheat at chess. Not like that.”

“What happened?”

“We were disqualified.” He made a face. “The kids were humiliated and angry. Landis was -- well, I felt sorry for the kid. Poor bastard. All he wanted was to fit in. You know the kind of kid who tries too hard to be funny. Gets a laugh and then keeps telling the same joke over and over. He had a knack for irritating and annoying the kids he most wanted to impress -- like your pal Hersey.”

I tried to remember Landis. I thought maybe Rob and I had gone over to his house once or twice for study groups, but I couldn’t put a face to the name. Dark, I thought. Bushy dark hair when nobody was wearing bushy dark hair. Glasses, maybe.

“And you quit sponsoring the club? Why not just throw Landis out?”

“He quit.” Mr. Atkins looked uncomfortable at some memory. “Kids are merciless. One of the pack shows weakness and the others’ll devour him.”

“And that was it? They drove Landis out and you quit sponsoring the club?”

Mr. Atkins ate another french fry.

“There’s something else, isn’t there? Can’t you tell me? It might be important.”

“It was a long time ago, son.” He chewed thoughtfully.

“What happened to Landis? I don’t remember him my senior year.”

“Transferred out. Public school.” Behind the blue shades his eyes met mine and flicked away.

I said, “Mr. Atkins, it’s not curiosity. I’ve got to know.”

Mr. Atkins finished chewing and seemed to come to some conclusion.

“Suit yourself. About a month after the whole fiasco Landis was jumped one night coming home from the library. Well, Landis was a strapping kid. Skinny but substantial. So there had to be a gang of them. Anyway, they held him down, shaved his entire body, smeared make up all over his face, and put him in a dress. Then the little shits took photos which they handed round the school.”

Fatal Shadows

107

I was silent trying to imagine this.

“Of course there was a stink to high heaven. We had everyone from the cops to the school board breathing down our neck. But nobody ever squealed.”

“Landis must have known who did it.”

“He said they wore masks. Maybe they did, but I always thought he was lying. I think he knew who it was, but what the hell. It wouldn’t have made his life any easier to finger them.” He added caustically, “Nowadays he’d have just come back with an automatic weapon.”