Divas Las Vegas (17 page)

WE ARRIVED BACK AT OUR HOTEL WORN OUT AND
completely unprepared for what we were about to discover:
there, in the parking lot of the Atlantis, were several cop
cars, a fire truck, and two ambulances. Recent events led
us to believe, quite accurately, that the scene playing out
before our eyes had something to do with our little adventure. We prayed that it was a fire, or a bomb threat, or a
roving band of gypsies that had kidnapped those screaming
and hollering children who kept running around the pool.
As usual, we were not so lucky.

"We have two choices," Justin said as we stood outside
staring at the entrance to the hotel.

"Damn, only two?" I moaned.

"Well, two legitimate ones, anyway. The one where we
sneak into the ambulance and steal the morphine probably
wouldn't be in our best interest right now," he said.

"Ah, no, probably not. So what are the other two
choices?"

"We can creep around the back, go to our rooms, get our luggage, and leave, washing our hands of the whole mess.
Maybe buy your mother a nice urn when we get home. But
definitely we avoid whatever chaos this clearly is."

"Or choice number two?"

"Or two, we do the adult thing and march ourselves into
that lobby and face the turmoil head on."

"You're joking, right?" I asked, seeing as we never, ever
chose the adult thing.

"Just giving you the options here, Em."

But before we could even find the back entrance, two
gurneys were wheeled out of the front one, and whoever was
on each of them was most certainly dead, or had a problem
with the sun. Otherwise, they don't usually wheel you out
with the sheet over your face like that. We gulped as the
two corpses went veering by. We gulped again when a nearly
hysterical Jacques came out, saw Justin and me standing
there, and then ran to us, arms flailing, as he screamed over
and over and over again, "Thank God it wasn't you!" He
landed at Justin's feet, sobbing uncontrollably. It was like a
scene out of a bad movie. Too bad we all had starring roles.

"Um, Jacques, would you mind telling us what that
cryptic statement means?" Justin asked, helping Jacques to
his feet.

It took Jacques several moments before he could control
himself enough to tell us. And once he did, I kept thinking
how that gypsy scenario sounded so much better.

Actually, it was a short story, but it seemed to take years
for Jacques to tell it. Each word came out in slow motion,
one sentence after the next pulling us further and further
down into a dark abyss. And once he was finished, all we
could do was stand there and shake our heads in disbelief.

Here's how the story unfolded.

"Oh, my God! Oh, my God! Oh, my God!" he screamed,
panic-stricken, repeatedly drawing the phrase out between
sniffling sobs.

If it had really been a bad movie, I would've slapped him
across the face to calm him down. Actually, the thought was
rather appealing. His squealing was completely unnerving.
I could tell that Justin was thinking the same thing, but
Jacques caught his breath and saved himself from the embarrassment.

"Just tell us what happened, Jacques," Justin said in a
smooth, reassuring, even voice.

"Oh, it was just awful," he began. "The maid found
those two poor men that are being loaded into the ambulances."

"Found them how?" I asked.

"Found them dead," he answered. Justin shot me a shut
up so he can finish this look, and I complied.

"Go on," Justin said, caressing Jacques's arm.

"She went into the room this morning to clean up and...
and... and..." (More sobbing. My hand started to go up in
slap mode. I was aching to let him have it.) "And they had
been stabbed in their sleep. Oh, my God-the blood.. .the
blood... It was everywhere. I almost fainted when I saw it
all. It was horrible."

Again he started crying and wrapped his arms around
Justin for support. I was sure that Justin was ruing the day
he had sex with the man. It couldn't have been worth all
this. And then, a strange thought passed through my mind.
"Um, what exactly did you mean when you said, `Thank
God it wasn't you'? I asked, terrified at his response.

He stopped bawling long enough to answer, pulled
himself away from Justin's embrace, looked from one of us
to the other, and then blurted out, "They were in your old
room."

Uh-oh. Now it wasn't only Jacques who was hysterical.

"Our old room?" I screamed. "Our old room?" I
screamed again, but louder. "The room we were in prior to
the one we're in now?" I screamed, even louder, just in case I was saying it wrong the first two times.

"YES!" Jacques shrieked back.

It took Justin all his reserves to calm the two of us down.
By the time he did so, we were all quite hoarse. Then he
asked Jacques a few more questions. Though I was reluctant
to hear him out, I knew that it was definitely in our best
interest to find out the whole story. And by our best interest,
I meant our very lives.

"Who were those two men? Did you know anything
about them?" Justin asked.

"They were a gay couple from Los Angeles. The only
reason I knew about them at all is that a travel agent friend of
mine called and asked if I could get them a room. Normally,
I don't get involved with reservations, but I owed this guy a
favor. Wait until I call him and tell him what happened. Oh,
my God, it's my fault! It's my fault! It's my fault!"

Again Jacques resumed his caterwauling. We both
comforted him as best we could until he stopped.

"Jacques, it's not your fault those men were murdered.
It's the murderer's fault," Justin reassured him. "Now, tell
me again what you saw when you got to the room."

He paused, caught his breath, and then answered,
"As soon as the maid found them, she came running to
find me. Then I called the police and waited for them to
show up. I didn't think it was a good idea to go snooping
around before they arrived. Luckily, it only took a few
minutes for that whole menagerie outside to congregate,
because word got around the hotel fast that there had
been a murder. I'd never seen the casino so quiet before. It
was dreadful.

"When the police walked in, I met them at the entrance
and took them to the room. The men were both in one of
the beds, sprawled out under the covers, which, by the time
we got there, were entirely red from all the blood. It was
the most horrible thing I've ever witnessed-besides Bush's election results, that is." (Well, at least he hadn't lost his gay
sense of humor. Though I could see his point.)

"And what did the police tell you after they got there?"
Justin asked.

"They didn't tell me anything. They pushed me to the
side while they looked around, but I stayed in the hallway,
so I heard most of everything they said."

"Which was?" I asked.

"Which was, that it didn't look like a robbery. Both of
the guys' jewelry and wallets were left out, untouched. Oh,
and the shades were still drawn and the lights were all off,
so it must have been dark when it all happened-which they
guessed to be several hours earlier, probably in the middle
of the night. Nobody heard anything, so there couldn't have
been much of a struggle. They were probably sound asleep
when it happened."

"Anything else?" Justin asked.

"Nope. Well, they did ask if we supplied the rooms with
corkscrews. I thought that was strange, told them yes, then
asked why."

"Because that's what they thought the murder weapon
was, right?" I guessed, and he nodded in the affirmative.

All three of us blanched. Talk about your gruesome
murders, and right in our proverbial backyard. I would've
felt guilty, except for the knowledge that if it hadn't been
them, it certainly would've been us. Should I feel bad for
admitting this? I suppose, but at a time like this, self-preservation is paramount.

Then the three of us stood there in a huddle and hugged.
If there really was safety in numbers, I was hoping more
of the hotel guests would come out and join us. My knees
were knocking at the thought that it could have been us, or
worse yet, it was supposed to have been us. Though why
anyone would want to see us dead was beyond me. Let
me rephrase that: why anyone would want to see me dead was beyond me. Justin was an entirely different story.

Spotting us standing there like that-which wasn't hard,
three hysterical queens being difficult to miss-our dear
friend Detective Lombard came over to investigate. Now
that we were connected to two murders in two days, our
presence in Vegas had thrown suspicion our way. Go figure.
Still, for our own safety, we explained to the detective our
involvement up to that point. He looked at us dubiously,
wrote everything down in his trusted notebook, and then
informed us that we were involved in both murder cases and
not to leave town. That was not what we wanted to hear.
Vase or no vase, by that point we were sorely ready to head
on back home.

Actually, I would think the police would be glad to get
rid of us; people kept turning up dead whenever we were
around. Not everyone was sad at that news, however.
Jacques allowed himself a brief smile at the thought that
he now had Justin at his disposal for an indefinite period of
time. Shows you how much he knew.

Then, one by one, the emergency vehicles started pulling
away, and we were left alone beneath the sweltering midday
sun. I ached to be fog-enshrouded again. Nix that. I ached
to be enveloped by fog again. For the time being, I thought
it best to avoid words like shroud.

Needless to say, when Jacques invited us to the bar for
free drinks, we thankfully accepted. And when we reciprocated with a cute little yellow pill for him, Jacques gratefully
returned the thanks. Though nelly as all get-out, he certainly
was a kindred spirit. I hoped being with us wouldn't cause
him to become an actual spirit, though. We appeared to
be having that effect on people. It didn't seem that Jacques
was all that worried, however. Being around Justin seemed
to calm him down-like a lost puppy following a new
master. Funny, that. Justin was as calming to me as a double
espresso.

Once safely inside, we sipped our very dry martinis and
ruminated on our very awful predicament. "Okay, let's see
what we know so far," I began. "We know that we're here
to find my grandma's ill-fated vase."

"Who else knows that?" Justin asked, rhetorically.

"Let's see: the three of us here, Marvin, Ahmed, Mary,
Honey, and Chris, and anyone that those people might have
told. But if anyone was after the vase, for whatever reason,
they wouldn't be coming after us. We don't have it. And
everyone knows that too," I justified. Hearing Ahmed's
name put an additional crease in Jacques's brow, but he kept
his peace, in light of our current dilemma.

"True. Okay, then, who knew which room we were in,
in case it was us the murderer was after?" Justin asked,
sounding like a young Miss Nancy Drew.

"Again, the same people, though only Jacques knew we
switched rooms, right?" I asked, and Jacques nodded that
this was so. "But don't they all have alibis, pretty much?" I
began to reel them off. "Mary's easy. She's too old to have
murdered two grown men."

"But she also knew the value of the vase and knew where
the vase was," Justin interjected. "Killing Mr. Hartwell
should've been easy enough. Hell, a strong wind could've
sent him to the great beyond. And it sure did sound like she
wouldn't have minded him dead. Maybe she thought killing
us would cover her tracks. And it's obvious from her living
conditions that she needs the money and that she likes the
finer things in life. For all we know, Honey may have been
in on it with her. She looks strong as an ox. And killing two
men in their sleep doesn't take a lot of strength. Plus, she
may have access to the rooms, seeing as she works in the
hotel. She also knew you have your thirty thousand with
you. Thank goodness that's in the hotel safe. It just goes to
prove what I always say," Justin said.

"Which is?" I asked.

"Never trust a Country-Western singer," he said.

"You've never said that," I retorted.

"Well, I'm saying it now!"

I hated to admit it, but what he said did make sense.
Stranger things have happened. If a hillbilly can be elected
president, then a hillbilly can be a murderer, even if it is a
Patsy Cline impersonator, God rest her soul. Still, I found
that scenario hard to swallow.

"Okay, you may have a point. But let's move on to the
others," I said. "Now, we know for sure that it couldn't
have been Chris, because he was with me the whole night.
That much I do know for certain. So we can cross him off
the list."

"Possibly, but he did know about the vase and your money,
and he may have lured you away from the hotel so he could
send a partner in to find one or the other or both. Money does
strange things to people, you know. And what do we really
know about Chris, anyway?" Justin asked, irritatingly.

"Fucker. What I know is that you set him up with me.
So if he's involved in this mess, it's completely your fault,"
I pointed out.

"Oh, right. Let's cross Chris off the list, then. For now,"
Justin conceded.

The next person on the short list was Marvin, who, at
that point, I would have almost liked to blame. Asshole.
The whole Bradley thing was starting to work its way up
to my brain again, and I was awfully pissed. Still, it seemed
unlikely. Marvin did work for PBS, after all. If it were the
U.S. Post Office, then okay, maybe, but I just couldn't see
someone who worked at PBS being a triple murderer. Naive,
yes, but that was my opinion, and I said so. "Well, I doubt
it was Marvin. Just doesn't seem the type."

"Maybe. Maybe not. Again, Marvin knows the whole
scenario as well. And nobody but me and you and Jacques
knows that your money is in the safe and not in our suite. Plus, he may have found out about Chris and, in a jealous
rage, broke into our old suite and murdered those two men
thinking it was you and him. It was nighttime, after all, and
it may have been too dark to tell. What do we really know
about Marvin?"