Richfield & Rivers Mystery Series 2 - Stellium in Scorpio (25 page)

"Just
business," I lied, and a burning anger began to kick in to mask the pain.
"I checked on the show that Elliot Traugh said he was late for when he
dashed out of Karla's house. There was no show at that time, or any time for
the next five hours, so Elliot lied—like everyone else in this town. Must be
catching."

Callie
let go of me, turned over, and moved to the other side of the bed. It was the
second time I'd called her a liar.

“Teague,
regardless of what you feel or don't feel for me, don't let Rose get killed
over it."

"Very
dramatic," I said scornfully, locking my suitcase in preparation for
loading the Jeep.

"Please."
She placed her small hands on my wrists, closed her eyes, and breathed deeply,
diminishing my anger. "I'm asking you as a personal favor—don't leave me
here alone."

Unfair,
I thought.
If anything happens to
her now I'm responsible because she asked me to stay and not leave her alone.
Does she really believe something will happen? Or is she using me again?
She
looked up into my eyes, and with that look of innocence and pleading, Callie
Rivers talked me into staying to help finish the case, without ever saying
another word.
It’s her way of getting me to stay in hopes that my anger will
die down and we’ll get back together. How can I ever trust her? I've seen her
with someone else with my own eyes!
Besides, Callie Rivers was dangerous.
She could look at me and get me to do things. Like a horse whisperer, she was
able to mentally connect with me and make me move toward her without ever
speaking my name. Her look said, "you know you love me, don't leave
me." Looks are more dangerous than words. Callie had the ability to
control me with a look. I bolted for the door, terrified of being owned in that
way, wanting to put distance between the two of us. Not wanting her to—look at
me.

Elmo
and I spent the day walking the Strip alone. I was thinking about Callie and I
was sure he was thinking his legs were way too short for this kind of exercise.
"Elmo, I know you love her too but I just don't see how it can work. If
she will flirt with a man in a public place, she'll do other things right in
front of me and deny she's doing them. That has to be a sign of, at best, a
pathological liar. How could someone like me, who has been trained to read
people, be so wrong about her? My heart got in the way. That's all I can say
for myself. My heart did me in."

Elmo
made a series of short, grunting sounds I'd never heard before that sounded a
lot like blah, blah, blah. I stared at him. "Are you making fun of
me?" He rolled his eyes and went silent, walking more slowly. "Okay,
we're both tired," I said less defensively.

We
returned from our walk still saddened. Callie barely registered a nod as we
came into the room. "Have a good day?" she asked, clearly put out by
our having been gone.

"Fine,
thanks," I said sullenly. Elmo's dragging ears signaled that he felt the
drain on our energies, and he plopped down, pleading for dinner. I started to
order room service but decided maybe Callie was right on this one, so instead I
reached up on the top shelf of the closet to retrieve the extra cans of Elmo's
dog food I had brought with me. My reaching only pushed them farther back onto
the shelf, and I had to pull the desk chair over and stand on it to retrieve
the elusive chow. That's when I saw the thin black wire and dime-sized lens
embedded back in the closet wall. I stood on my toes and leaned into the shelf.
I was looking into the back of a pinhole surveillance camera—the lens focused
on room 1250.

"Thank
you, Ms. Loomis," I said quietly. "This room does have a better
view."

"What
did you say?" Callie asked.

"Ms.
Loomis is trying to tell us something. Take a look. It's like a nanny-cam.
Receiver could be a hundred yards away and linked to a box where it could be
recorded."

Callie
climbed up to have a look. "So who monitors and where are they?"

We
both went silent, contemplating that. I finally said, "Just about
anybody."

That
night, Callie and I went to the theater together. We spoke very little, walking
side by side almost like two strangers. I could barely stand to be with her
because it reminded me of what I couldn't have. I tried to focus my thoughts
away from her and onto the scenery.

With
the house lights up full, I could see the theater in all its gay-guy grandeur
festooned in red velvet drapes and large gold sconces and lots of paintings on
the side walls of young Greek boys in compromising positions. Callie and I took
a seat down front, and I ordered a drink. Callie changed my order, whispering
to the waiter, "She'll have bottled water." Looking at me she said,
"Safer. Who knows where the water comes from and who's touched it?"

"Your
regular water will be just fine," I said, letting the waiter know that his
orders came from me and letting Callie know that I didn't really care what she
thought anymore, and letting myself know that if the regular water killed me
that would be just fine. I felt half dead anyway.

The
waiter gave it one more beat and said, "Bring you one of each, on the
house," and spun in a diplomatic exit, no doubt to tell his friends in the
kitchen that there was a dyke fight in row one.

We
were extremely early, not sure what to do with ourselves since we were now
estranged lovers—I couldn't yet bear the term "ex-lovers." I
suggested we go backstage to the dressing rooms and check on Rose Ross. It was
as if I thought by locating her often enough we could prevent something bad
from happening to her. We inched our way between the tables and up the side
steps onto the wings of the stage and down an equipment-littered path along the
massive concrete walls.

Twenty
feet farther on, I took a wrong turn, headed behind a parallel set of scenery
flats, and ended up in a jumble of lighting, ropes, and other stage debris. As
I turned around to lead us out, I caught sight of Rose in silhouette. She was
apparently rehearsing her entrance, which involved standing on two ropes that
hung from the sky. One arm was wrapped around each of the thickly braided
colorful ropes and her feet were planted firmly in the clear plastic footholds
that jutted from the ropes, creating an unsteady pair of rope stilts that held
her a few feet off the ground. Sophia stood slightly below her, giving her
guidance and positioning her feet. She smoothed Rose's pale pink leotard,
pressing the wrinkles up the leg toward the body of the costume. When their
eyes met, Sophia's hands moved quickly down and away, coming to rest on Rose's
ankles, and both women froze in a trembling tableau of erotic realization. They
slowly came to life when Sophia once again caressed Rose's calves and knees and
thighs, then lifted her skirt, and through the thin pink leotard used her
thumbs to massage between Rose's legs and rested her cheek on the girl in just
that spot to smell her and feel her.

"Now
that takes balance," I whispered. We were voyeurs, afraid to move and let
them know we were present, and unable not to look—the girl dangling there like
a doll in the wind and the older woman having what she could of her. Rose had
her head back as Sophia transported her to a place from which she could no
longer concentrate, much less stand, and she threatened to faint and fall.
Sophia held her with one strong arm around her small thighs as Rose fully
understood in that moment that, most likely, she was gay.

Footsteps
approached. I panicked on behalf of the lovers, who were oblivious to the
sounds of anything but their own soft moaning. I moved to cut off the
approaching intruders, and Callie moved toward the lovers to warn them. It was
Marlena rounding the corner in her soft slippers.

She
looked surprised to see us. "Where are Sophia and Rose? They need to take
their places for the curtain. And what are you two doing back here?"

"Wrong
turn in trying to get to the greenroom." I shrugged.

Marlena
spotted the two women, who by now had begun to realize that they were the
center of a gathering.

"She
fell," Sophia said with unwavering aplomb, cradling Rose on the floor.
"She's a little dizzy, that's all. We'll be there."

"Dizzy
wouldn't begin to cover it," I said softly, shooting Callie a look.

Marlena
spun on her heel and left, leaving a trail of captivating cologne.

Sophia
gave me a look of lasting gratitude. I spun Callie around by her shoulders and
retraced our steps back down the littered backstage area, guiding her through
the maze of potential mishaps, down the dim corridor, and out into the
mezzanine section.

"Odd
positions seem to be an aphrodisiac in the theater world," I remarked.

"Walls
can be an aphrodisiac too, as I recall from personal experience," Callie
said, and I pretended not to hear her.

We
took our seats as the small orchestra took up its position and struck up the
overture. On the final crescendo and sustain, the chorus line of dozens of
men—in black pants, shirts, and ties, looking like male models—dance-kicked out
from stage right, arms locked, crossed in front of the footlights, and exited
stage left, returning from the wings stage right in an unbroken chain, only
this time the men were now women in black jodhpurs, white shirts, and
beautifully made-up faces. The audience broke into wild applause and speculated
in whispers about how they had managed to make the gender transition in less than
thirty seconds while moving. It was quite an opener.

The
show's theme was
Things Are Not Always What They Seem,
and in truth,
they were not. It was easy to see how Elliot Traugh became the headliner for
the show—perhaps not the female good looks, or the long graceful body, but
Elliot Traugh had real talent. He was a masterful performer, morphing into
characters. He turned his profile to us, facing stage right, a handsome John F.
Kennedy embracing a gorgeous woman. As he spun to profile us, facing stage left,
we saw that he himself was the beautiful woman and that woman was Marilyn
Monroe. When he took his final bow facing the audience, his costume was half
and half, and the audience went wild. The illusion was beautifully staged,
timed, and executed. Callie and I giggled and oohed and aahed with the rest of
the tourists over the show's brilliance. Just as soon as the audience felt
comfortable that all the women were in fact men, the real women let them know
they'd been fooled again. Gender-bender entertainment was always great when
well done, and the
Boy Review
was among the best I'd seen.

After
the show, Callie and I made our way backstage to see the performers, as we had
promised Elliot Traugh we would. While the makeup room was crowded and noisy,
the tone was more businesslike than joyous. An inexplicable pall hung over the
air. Sophia was there along with two other biological females who were part of
the illusion.

A
drag queen wearing a bouffant wig yanked it off her head and ran her hands
through her hair, the heavy makeup accenting her voluptuous lips and large
brown eyes in stark contrast to her boyish haircut. We recognized her
immediately as Marlena.

"You
were wonderful," Callie said from the doorway, and Marlena caught sight of
us through the large lighted makeup mirror in front of her and did not bother
to turn around.

"Thank
you," she said like someone used to compliments, while giving us the cold
shoulder.

I
caught sight of Elliot Traugh and told him what an amazing job he'd done. He
arched an eyebrow and smiled at us, as if to say that perhaps we finally
understood his importance. He was no mere drag queen.

"I
miss Joanie," Marlena said suddenly, lowering her head into her hands, her
shoulders shaking slightly as she cried. "She was wonderful!"

"We
went to see Joanie. She had bruises on her neck, the kinds of bruises that
occur when someone has you by the throat just before you 'slip and fall.'
Someone must know what really happened. We need your help," I pleaded.

"This
is a private dressing room. Show them out," Elliot ordered, and Sophia
jumped to her feet and herded us out of the dressing area.

She
followed us for several yards, then leaned in and whispered, "I warned
you!" She ran her fingers along the strange symbols dangling from the
strands of her necklace and then quickly moved on. I felt strongly that her
warning went beyond this moment.

Several
other theatergoers had made their way backstage and were hugging and
congratulating the cast.

"What's
up with the bug necklace? Sophia fingered it like a rosary," I said.

"Scorpions.
She had a Stellium in Scorpio around her neck. She's saying she's the one who
put the Stellium chart in your suitcase and the article under the lamp and
she's the one trying to unravel what's going on," Callie said with great
certainty. "Sophia is the Plutonian energy threatening to destroy this
secret world."

I
grasped the large brass door knocker in the shape of a cherub's backside and
banged its cherubic cheeks up against Karla's front door. As far as I was
concerned, we were here to get to the heart of the matter—the hotel's
sanctioning a boy porn ring.