Spider Season (33 page)

I’d observed more than a few marriages between straight women and gay men in my time, and had come to recognize a few basic types among the wives. There was the unworldly and blissfully naïve wife, who married a gay man out of ignorance and innocence, so blinded by love and devotion—and perhaps a touch of comforting denial—that she never recognized the telltale signs. Then there was the more experienced and astute type, who suspected her husband might be homo or bisexual but figured she could change him, that his homosexuality was just an itch or a phase that would pass now that they’d exchanged marriage vows and were about to begin a family. There was the classic marriage of convenience, prevalent in Hollywood but also in the world at large, in which a lesbian married a gay man as a beard, and vice versa. There were also unconventional women who coupled enthusiastically with gay men, even preferring homosexual husbands, happy to share them with other men for the rewards it might provide while keeping up the hetero charade for propriety’s sake.

Angela Wu seemed to fit this latter mold: shrewd, calculating, manipulative, someone who knew exactly what she was getting when she married her husband—control, the emotional dependence of a weak man, social and financial security, and the certainty that he’d never leave her for another woman. These weren’t marriages on the “down low,” in which wives were used and deceived by men who cheated with other men. They were mutual pacts, based on loyalty and commitment, and more likely to last than many heterosexual unions, since each partner was getting exactly what he or she wanted without unrealistic expectations, a carefully constructed deceit based on almost naked honesty. Passionless relationships, perhaps, like so many straight unions that are based less on deep feelings than on need and convenience, but far more common than many people realized.

Reigns laid a hand fondly on each of the children’s heads, and then proceeded alone through a side gate. Wu lingered to chat briefly with his wife, then kneeled to hug the kids. Mrs. Wu ushered them into the luxurious SUV, and her husband stood waving until she’d driven off, passing the Metro while I kept my head down. When she was out of sight, Wu turned and disappeared through the same gate Reigns had used, picking up his pace as he went.

I hopped from the Metro and scurried across to the house, and followed the same route. Behind the house, the stone path led past a broad terrace built into the hillside, overlooking the lush greens of the Riviera Country Club, where a few foursomes were playing through the final holes, trying to beat the encroaching dusk. From the terrace, looking down the canyon, one had a postcard view all the way to the ocean, where the sun was setting through the smoky sky, creating a dreamy golden light. Somewhere down there, closer to the ocean in another hillside house, the noted artist Don Bachardy had spent most of his life with the late iconic writer Christopher Isherwood. It was a canyon with bohemian history that was now an enclave of the very rich, at least up here where the congestion of business and traffic along the coast highway was distant and the views more serene.

The stone path twisted downward through a series of terraced gardens until it reached a small, one-story building on the right, constructed to match the main house. A door was open and I looked in to find an art studio, with large west- and north-facing windows and a skylight that flooded the room with gentle light. Large abstract paintings done in Wu’s trademark geometric style took up much of the space. They hung on walls or were propped on easels, or stacked on the floor against a paint-spattered worktable, where a box cutter lay among several open cardboard containers filled with cans of acrylic paint. Judging by the price tags I’d seen in Wu’s gallery exhibit, the paintings here must have cumulatively been worth a small fortune.

Neither Wu nor Reigns was there, so I stepped out and surveyed the property. The paths and terraces were likewise empty, and it occurred to me that the two men might have entered the rear of the main house and that I’d overshot my mark. Then I noticed another set of stone steps, just beyond the studio, leading steeply down, and decided to proceed farther. Past the steps, the path angled sharply to the right. I stayed on it for another hundred feet or so until I found myself blocked by a wooden fence covered by a tangle of thorny bougainvillea, and a sturdy, latched gate. On the gate was a sign in bold red letters:
PRIVATE
—
DO NOT ENTER.

Beyond the gate, up against the east side of the property, was a small cottage situated out of sight of the main house and the studio. I lifted the latch quietly and entered. The front door of the small house was closed, so I went exploring and found a rear window with the curtains open. I raised myself up and peeked in. Reigns and Wu were in deep embrace, the artist smothering his younger assistant with kisses, the kind of unbridled passion Wu’s public demeanor and lifeless abstracts worked so hard to conceal. Reigns maneuvered Wu to the edge of a bed and began unbuttoning his shirt to expose a smooth, well-developed chest. Reigns sat on the bed, worked Wu’s pants and shorts down, and proceeded to give his boss one of the more creative blow jobs I’d ever been privileged to witness. When Reigns was finished and Wu fully satiated, they fell together onto the bed in each other’s arms, kissing ardently like two men who were truly in love and whose stolen moments together—clandestine, hurried, a bit desperate—only enhanced the experience.

A minute later, Wu unbuttoned and unzipped Reigns, exposing a lithe body sprinkled deliciously with fine, blond hair, and returned the favor. With a final, tender kiss, Wu got to his feet and put himself back together. Reigns remained where he was, lighting a cigarette, reclining on satin pillows, and looking blissfully content. I ducked down and waited behind the house until Wu emerged. He closed the door behind him, and started back up the path. As he reached his studio and stepped inside, I climbed the path after him, stopping when I reached the doorway.

He was standing across the room before an easel, intently studying a large white canvas with a black square in the center.

“Maybe you could call it
Death,
” I said. “That has a nice ring to it.”

He spun at the sound of my voice. When he recognized me, he became as taut as one of his expertly stretched canvases.

“No one gave you permission to be here,” he said. “What do you want?”

I sauntered in, brushing past him to study the black square.

“What’s the price tag on this one, Wu? A couple hundred thousand?”

“Some of my paintings are priceless.” He glanced around the studio. “These are my most personal pieces. Only a few of these are for sale.”

I gave up trying to understand this particular style of abstract art, and moved on to a more practical subject.

“So tell me, Wu, how long were you and Jason Holt lovers?”

He feigned effrontery. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’ll give you credit. Steven Reigns is a big improvement.”

Wu stepped toward me, but not too close. “I want you off my property, now.”

“You’ve got everything arranged as neatly as one of your paintings, don’t you? The smart, attractive wife and two well-behaved kids up at the house. And your nice-looking assistant down here, staying in the guesthouse, so close when you need him.”

Wu reached into his pants pocket, pulled out a small cell phone. “If you don’t go now, I’m going to call the police.”

He raised his other hand, his finger poised as if he was about to press the speed dial number for 911.

“Go ahead, Wu. Call the police. When they get here, you can tell them why you excluded Holt’s portrait from your otherwise complete collection. Not the PR version, but the truth.”

He stared at me with widening eyes.

“You can tell them why Holt’s portrait didn’t measure up to the standard of the others,” I went on, “because you painted it so quickly, without your usual meticulous layering, and because it was the only one you painted from a photograph.”

“I don’t know how you came up with that,” Wu said.

“I have a copy of the photograph you used. It’s almost identical to the portrait, right down to the blond highlights, which Holt had for only a short time.”

“Please go.” Wu’s voice quavered. He lowered his cell phone. “Please. Just go.”

“Holt brought you the photograph just after he pushed Silvio Galiano to his death.”

Wu shook his head furiously. “No.”

“You worked fast, nonstop, painting the portrait to create an alibi for Holt, who was about to tell the police he’d been sitting for you at the time of Galiano’s death. After he did, you and Angela backed up his story.”

Wu stood motionless in shocked silence, blood bringing color to his pale face.

“Why, Wu? Did he blackmail you? Threaten to expose you as a closet queen? Threaten to implicate you in Galiano’s murder?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t!”

“Then why? I need the truth, Wu.”

He shoved me forcefully toward the door. I slipped away and around him and grabbed the box cutter lying on his workbench. The razor’s edge was exposed. When he saw the sharp tool in my hand, he backed away.

“I’m tired of waiting, Wu. I want the truth.”

When he said nothing, I stepped over to the painting of the black square, raised the box cutter to the upper right corner of the canvas, and sliced downward, dissecting the square neatly in half.

“Dear God, no!”

Wu threw up his hands, rushing to the mutilated canvas.

“Now you’ve got two black triangles,” I said. “I think I like it better this way.”

He ran his hands over the mutilated canvas the way a father might touch his dead child. Small, agonized moans escaped his throat. I stepped across the room to another large white canvas, this one with a cobalt blue circle in the center.

“Let’s see what we can do to improve this one.”

He dashed toward me as I sliced diagonally through the canvas, halving the blue circle. As he reached it, I was already on the move with my weapon, heading toward more of his paintings. He darted frantically around his studio, putting himself between me and his cherished creations.

“All right, all right!” He choked back sobs, imploring with his outstretched hands. “I’ll tell you. If you’ll just stop.”

“It better be good, because I’m really enjoying this.”

“It’s true,” he said, “Jason and I were seeing each other in secret. I don’t know why I got involved with him. He was charming and I found him attractive. I was shy, introverted, inexperienced. He was the first man I’d ever been with. I thought I loved him. Later, I realized I just couldn’t see beyond him, to the possibility of anyone else.”

“The portrait, Wu. Galiano’s death.” I held up the box cutter, showing him the blade. “Let’s cut to the chase, so to speak.”

“Jason came to me that night with the photograph. He told me that Silvio had fallen to his death. He claimed it was an accident. He convinced me that if he didn’t have an alibi, the police were certain to suspect him, since he was set to inherit Silvio’s estate. He suggested that I might even become a suspect, since Jason and I were”—he paused to swallow dryly—“were romantically involved. At the very least, Jason said, our relationship was certain to be exposed and get into the newspapers.” Wu broke off again, looking mortified. “It would have seemed so sordid, the two of us having an affair while Jason was living off an older man like Silvio. I couldn’t bear that. My parents—”

He stopped, seemingly horrified by his own words.

“He wanted you to work fast,” I said helpfully, “nonstop, painting a portrait from the photograph, so you could tell the police he’d been sitting for you at the time Galiano died.”

Wu nodded pathetically. “Yes.”

“Why couldn’t Holt sit for you, like all your other subjects? Why did you need the photograph?”

“He hadn’t come up with his plan for an alibi right away. Several hours had passed after Silvio’s death before Jason came to me about it. To avoid suspicion, he felt he needed to return home and appear to discover Silvio’s body himself. The plan was for me to be painting the portrait from the photograph while Jason dealt with the authorities. By the time the police questioned me, the portrait would be finished.”

“And when the police got around to you, you told them you’d completed the painting the previous day, while Holt was sitting for you in your studio. Holt worked it out so that it amply covered the approximate time of death the coroner would establish after examining Galiano’s body.”

Wu sagged hopelessly, nodding again.

“And your wife agreed to help you back up Holt’s story.”

“Angela and I weren’t married yet.”

“Of course—that would happen a few months later.”

“We’d been discussing marriage. She’d been—she’d been pressuring me.”

“I assume she knew about your secret life, your relationship with Holt.”

“Angela had become my confidante, my closest friend. It was such a relief, to be able to reveal certain things to her.”

“Let me guess. She proposed a deal. She agreed to back you up, providing a stronger alibi for Holt. In exchange, you agreed to marry her and start a family. She got what she wanted—a noted artist as a husband and companion, with complete control over him. And you got the cover you needed, so no one would suspect that you and Holt had been lovers.”

“I love Angela very much.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“She saved me!” Wu’s outcry seemed as sincere as it was anguished. “She took an enormous risk to help me when I needed it.”

“She also joined you as an accessory to murder.”

“We believed that Silvio died exactly as Jason told us he did—accidentally.”

“But you must have had doubts.”

“Angela said we had no choice but to believe Jason. That I was in a bad spot, and the only way out was to provide Jason with the alibi he needed. Otherwise—”

“The lie you were living would be exposed. You’d bring shame upon your family. You’d be a pariah in the eyes of your unforgiving father.”

Wu clasped his hands in front of him, prayerlike, beseeching me to believe him.