P'town Murders: A Bradford Fairfax Murder Mystery (19 page)

"I'm sorry, sir," the houseboy informed him without the slightest hint of a cringe, for the houseboy was wise in the ways of the world and used to dealing with Every Sort. Moreover, he had great power in that he knew the one truth: Money respects only what it can't buy, and hence this tale.

"If you like, sir, I can offer you an alternate suite one floor below. It's got access to the pool and the gym and..."

"I don't care! I booked the top floor and I
want
it!"

Money always insists on having what it wants, despite reason or logic to the contrary. And in this case the only logic seemed to lie in the hands of what was, all things considered, an absolutely Spectacular Houseboy.

Houseboy spectacularity notwithstanding, Money Gay demanded his chosen suite. Things went on in this vein till Money Gay decided to take matters into his own hands. Ignoring the houseboy's protestations, Money Gay tore up the stairs and pounded on the door of the very room he'd been denied.

"Open up!" he screamed. "This is
my
room!"

Where Wise Queens see beauty and Spectacular Houseboys see power, Money Gays see only ownership. For this reason, they miss the best of what life has to offer. But that's another story.

Inside, a voice called out politely. "Who is it?"

"Open this door!" screamed Money Gay. "Whoever you are, you can't possibly be able to afford this room any more than I can."

The door opened. Calvin Klein stood before him. "I'm sorry. Is there a problem?" he asked.

Money Gay was faced with
echt
Fame. He backed off, one step at a time, and allowed himself to be led quietly back downstairs by the Spectacular Houseboy who made sure not to gloat when Money Gay eventually accepted the second floor—and second-best—suite. And for that, the houseboy also made a handsome tip later that evening by assuaging Money Gay's deflated ego and other particulars of his being.

As with any fairy tale, endings must be just. And so, Fame got what it wanted: the top floor of a guesthouse renowned for its spectacular view of the town and its harbor. Money got what it could afford: in this case, being on the second-floor suite just below Fame. And Sex got what it deserved: both money and respect, without losing any of its power.

Why then, one might well ask, is Money lesser than the other two absolutes of Fame and Sex? Because, as Trevor and all houseboys know, Fame and Sex
are
power. Both can walk naked across a crowded beach and turn heads. But ask a mere Money Gay to walk naked across those self-same sands, and chances are he would run away in shame.

And that, as they say, was the end of that.

Bradford smiled, remembering his long-ago tryst with Trevor as he stood looking up at the house. He climbed the stairs and rang the buzzer. In the lobby, he asked to see Quentin. The desk clerk's eyes widened noticeably.

"Are you a cop?" the man asked.

Brad shook his head. It seemed strange to be asked that question twice in one afternoon, but he let it pass. After all, he was calling on the massage equivalent of a prostitute. Even in Provincetown, the law had to be considered sometime.

The man jerked his head toward the back of the house. "Back there," he said. "Room 24."

Brad followed a path till he came to a red door. He had raised his fist to knock, when he saw that the door was ajar. He pushed it open. There stood Tom Nava.

"Looking for me?" the cop asked from behind his mirrored glasses.

"Actually..."

"Don't tell me—you just dropped by for a massage."

"Well..." Brad's mouth gaped.

"I don't think you're going to get one," Nava said, indicating the unoccupied room. "Your masseur has flown the coop. And in quite a hurry, from the looks of things."

The bed was unmade. Clothes lay strewn around the floor. The room looked as though it had been host to its own minor Hurricane Isabel. Brad looked back at Nava.

"Care to tell me what you're doing here?" the cop said.

Brad swallowed. "Actually, I wanted to ask him about his tattoo."

Nava grunted. "That so?"

Brad couldn't tell if Nava was being sarcastic. He licked his lower lip. "You see, I have this theory..." he began.

"Go on."

"It's, uh... those snake tattoos. Ross had one. And James Shephard. So did Quentin..." he looked at the card in his hand. "Morrow. Quentin Morrow."

"Were you a friend of Mr. Morrow's?"

Brad smiled nervously. "I met him at the Ice House. A couple of nights ago."

"The
Ice
House?" Nava pulled out his pad. He shook his head and began jotting down what Bradford said. "There was a murder there last night. I suppose you know nothing about that, either."

"Just what I heard locally."

Nava looked up from his notes.

"You sure are one for being in the thick of things, aren't you, Mr. Fairfax?"

"What happened to Quentin?" Brad said.

The cop took off his glasses and looked around the room as though hoping it would speak for itself. Then he turned his unwavering gaze on Brad.

"I don't know what happened to him," he said, "but I intend to find out."

24

Brad wasn't surprised by the houseboy's disappearance. He had no way of knowing what had happened to Quentin after he was knocked unconscious, but obviously he'd been witness to the attack. Perhaps that was why he'd fled. Or did Quentin have something to do with Rosengarten's death? He hadn't seemed the murderous sort. Then again, most murderers didn't, until viewed in hindsight.

As far as Brad was concerned, there was already a sizeable cast of suspects. He could simply add Quentin to the list. On the other hand, attractive young men—especially those bearing snake tattoos—seemed to be on P'Town's endangered species list lately. Something drastic might have happened to the boy, but for the moment Brad didn't know what, if anything, he could do about it.

At three o'clock he made his way to the Gifford House. It was still early, which meant it was a good time to have a conversation with a certain bartender of extraordinary sexual appeal. He reached the imposing guesthouse and walked across the outer deck, his footsteps echoing behind him. The circuit-party boys from the previous day were gone. In their place, as if time had simply jumped a few decades, sat a gathering of older men in stuffy shirts and cravats, drinking mint juleps and bearing the optimism of a bygone era. They reminded Brad of Amanda Wingfield and her hordes of gentlemen callers, He nodded to them as he passed.

He tried to organize his thoughts as he headed down the steps to Purgatory. He hoped Perry would talk to him this afternoon. That is, if the hunky bartender was even working today. He wasn't sure what he'd do if Perry refused. He could hardly force him to talk. Despite his claims, Perry was clearly connected with Hayden Rosengarten and the Ice House.

On the bottom step, Brad froze and pulled back abruptly inito the shadows. There, talking intently with Perry, was Zach.

They knew each other!

Brad heard Zach laugh and saw Perry flash his smile in return. For one paranoid instant, he imagined they might be talking about him. Paranoia gave way to jealousy. So this was what Zach did with his free time! It was a slap in the face. Suddenly he felt a surge of fear. Did the boy know Perry was infected?

He tried to shake off the thought. Get a grip, he told himself. A simple conversation did not a sexual relationship make, even in Gay. And even so, he reminded himself, he hadn't married Zach or asked whether he was seeing anyone else. What right had he to be jealous? If Brad got possessive over every man he slept with he'd have no time for anything.

Brad crept quietly back up the stairs and sat at the bar in a seat obscured by an overgrown fern whose leaves trailed to the floor. His suspicions continued to plague him. Every few seconds he turned to look over his shoulder at the doorway. What on earth was Zach doing here? Were he and Perry both somehow connected with the deaths of Ross and Hayden?

He shook his head at his own stupidity. How could he have been so blind? He didn't know a thing about Zach! The first rule in his work was to trust no one. It had been drilled into his head repeatedly. Anything could be arranged to look like an accidental meeting: find a lonely young agent, discover his weakness for attractive men and set a trap. Zach had been a sexy duck decoy just waiting for him to light on the pond.

Another godlike bartender flirted with Brad as he took his order. Brad ignored his overtures. Other customers came in and the man turned his attention elsewhere.

Twenty minutes passed. Brad's curiosity was killing him. Finally, Zach came up the stairs and left without looking around. Brad finished his drink and went downstairs. He leaned on the bar.

Perry looked up. "G and T, my friend?"

Brad nodded. "You've got a good memory."

"Only for the good-looking ones," Perry said as he reached for a glass and filled it with ice.

Still flirting, Brad noted, but there wasn't much sense in asking for a date now.

"So how's the invention business?" Perry asked.

"Thriving, thanks. How are the boys?"

"Getting cuter and cuter," the barkeep replied with what might have been a smirk.

Brad's paranoia returned with a jolt. Was Perry taunting him? Did he know Brad had been seeing Zach? Even if Zach had mentioned him, would Perry connect Bradford the golf pro with Frank the inventor? Only if Perry had already seen him with Zach, Brad realized. And in this tiny town that was highly probable!

"I heard there was a little excitement down by the harbor this morning," Brad said, watching Perry fill his glass with tonic.

Perry whistled. "The murder? News must travel fast when tourists hear about such things the day they happen."

"I gather the gentleman in question was well known around town."

Perry gave a small laugh. "Well known, yes, but not much of a gentleman," he said, placing the drink in front of him.

Brad flipped him a bill. "If you knew Hayden Rosengarten, then you must have heard of his guesthouse."

Perry smiled innocently. "Is that the place you were asking about the other day?"

"That's it."

"Ah! Of course I knew about it. I wouldn't call it a guesthouse, though. It's more of a whorehouse."

"Really?"

Perry's smile vanished. "I should know—I worked there."

Brad leaned forward.

"But not for long," Perry went on. "Just long enough to regret it. I have that bastard to thank for the fact that I'll be stuck on meds for the rest of my life." He caught Brad's look. "Yeah—I'm positive."

"Sorry to hear it."

"Whatever." Perry shrugged. "I should've known better, but they filled my head with all sorts of crap about how beautiful I was. What they meant was how 'fuckable.' Those rich bastards didn't give a goddamn about me."

Brad sipped his drink. The mix was just right. Perry had remembered even that.

"Funny you don't recall a guy named Ross Pretty. He worked there, too."

Perry shot Brad a look. "Can I assume you were a friend of Ross's?"

Brad nodded. "I'm his ex-lover. I've come to claim his body."

Perry looked at him appraisingly, as though suddenly seeing him in a different light. "I warned Ross to get out of there before something happened," he said. "Something bad like what happened to me. Now it's too late. The only consolation is that he won't have to suffer a long miserable death like the rest of us."

Brad considered this. "You ever argue with Ross?"

"Argue about what?"

He shrugged. "Anything."

Perry looked at him long and hard. "You're not really an inventor, are you?"

Brad shook his head. "No, I'm not." He thought for a moment that would end the conversation, but it didn't.

"Yeah, we argued. More than once, for what it's worth. Ross didn't know what he'd got himself into. He wouldn't believe me when I told him Rosengarten was using him."

"Were you in love with Rosengarten?"

Perry looked at him scornfully. "I'm not into daddies. Not even the sweet type. I prefer good-looking guys like you."

"Did you and Rosengarten ever have sex?"

Perry shrugged. "Everyone did. It was part of the hiring policy. Anyway, the bastard's dead and gone. And I say 'good riddance.'"

"Do you know who killed him?"

Perry leaned forward over the bar. "Could've been me," he said. "But then again, it could have been a hundred guys in this town. If anyone confesses to it, I'll buy him a drink. Hell, I'll buy him ten drinks!"

"I take it you won't be at the funeral tomorrow?"

Perry smirked. "Oh, I'll be there," he said. "I want to see them put him in the ground and cover him over. That's the only way I'll believe the bastard's really dead."

"Harsh words," Brad said.

Perry's face twisted into an unpleasant snarl. "Man, you have no idea. That man was a monster! He didn't care for anyone."

"And what about you?"

"What about me what?"

"Do you care for anyone?" Brad said. "All these cute guys who come in here and drool over you day after day. You ever take any of them home and coax them into a little bareback?"

Perry slammed his fist on the bar. "No one should live with what I've got! I'd never do that to anyone!"

"Not even if you didn't like the guy? What about that cute kid with blue hair who left a few minutes ago? Maybe he's a younger version of those rich bastards you despise. Would you infect him to get back at the rest of them?"

. Perry released his grip on the counter and leaned back. His eyes narrowed. He seemed to be calculating something.

"Hey! Life's rough," he said with a shrug. "What a boy does with his body is his concern, not mine."

In that moment, Bradford hated the handsome barkeep more than he'd ever hated anyone. He downed his drink and stood.

"Thanks for the drink," he said, turning.

"Nice to see you again, Frank. Come back any time."

25