Stranger Things Have Happened: An Adrien English Write Your Own Damn Story (The Adrien English Mysteries) (13 page)

But this freak isn’t interested in you. He runs for the back door, raincoat flapping like a scarecrow’s overcoat.

“Claude?” you yell. You have a terrible, terrible feeling about this.

You find Claude lying by the front door, a dull puddle widening beneath him, slowly covering the black-and-white checked floor. You kneel beside him, but it’s too late to do anything but stay with him as he dies.

The police come at last. Detective Riordan shows up. You remember that Claude said Riordan threatened to kill him. You didn’t believe him, but now Claude is dead.

“How are you doing?” Riordan asks. He’s watching closely as you nod tightly.

“How’s the heart?”

“Takes a licking, keeps on ticking.”

The faintest smile touches his mouth. After a moment, he asks, “You want my jacket?”

“Thanks. I’m fine.”

He’s not impressed. He shrugs out of his suede jacket, tosses it to you, and you fumble it on. It’s warm from his body and carries the scent of his soap.

Riordan interviews you briefly and then sends you home.

Bruce phones to apologize and somehow you end up inviting him over. I think we can all do without reliving THAT.

You’re letting Bruce out the front entrance when Riordan shows up early the next morning.

You give Bruce a chaste peck under Riordan’s inimical eye and then Bruce reluctantly departs so you and Riordan can have coffee and a little chat.

Riordan is dressed casually in jeans, a gray sweatshirt and Reeboks, as though he’s on his way to the gym. Which is kind of odd since it gives the appearance he’s been lurking outside the bookstore since sunrise.

That could be sinister, right? I mean, he probably wasn’t planning to serenade you.

“For the record,” Riordan begins, getting right down to business, “There was no chess piece at the scene. We vacuumed it. Twice.”

“Maybe I interrupted him before he could plant it.”

“Maybe. But you didn’t go to high school with La Pierra did you? La Pierra was never a member of any Chess Club?”

“No.”

Riordan seems to believe that Claude’s murder is not connected to Robert’s, but isn’t that a stretch?

You say, “Maybe Claude was killed for another reason.”

“Like?”

“He thought he knew who killed Robert.”

“And that would be —?”

“You.”

But Riordan seems to find this kind of amusing. “You do have balls, English.” He drinks his coffee and studies the grapevine stencil on the kitchen walls.

You bring up Claude’s theory that Riordan was — is — gay, which provokes a rather unpleasant speech that increasingly upsets readers with each passing year. But hey. Jake is not a politically sensitive guy. Especially back then. Now. Whatever.

“So, do you have relationships with men?” you ask, when you can get a word in.

Riordan answers, “Yeah. I have relationships with men. My father, my brothers, my partner. I have sex with queers. Don’t confuse the two.”

“Queers and men?”

“Sex and relationships.”

“You’ve never had a healthy, satisfying homosexual relationship.” It isn’t a question, but he answers anyway.

“That’s a contradiction in terms.”

So now everybody’s on the same page — or at least agreed they are not on the same page and, in fact, aren’t even reading from the same book — and you and Riordan get back to discussing the evidence against you. The case against you isn’t getting stronger, but it hasn’t fallen apart either.

You still believe Robert’s killer and your stalker have to be one and the same.

Riordan doesn’t buy that theory, but he tells you he has done some checking after the remaining members of the Chess Club.

You’re not sure if he’s telling the truth or just telling you what you want to hear.

Later that afternoon, another creepy present from an anonymous sender arrives for you. A CD of Verdi’s
Requiem
.

Apparently, it really is better to give than receive. You hurl the plastic case across the room and it breaks open. Two parts land on the floor. You pick up the CD. Across the front in black Sharpie are printed the words,
“Our fatal shadows that walk by us still.”

It’s a quote from “Honest Man’s Fortune” by English dramatist John Fletcher.

Man is his own star; and the soul that can

Render an honest and perfect man,

Commands all light, all influence, all fate,

Nothing to him falls early or too late.

Our acts, our angels are, for good or ill

Our fatal shadows that walk by us still.

Which is interesting, but not all that helpful really.

You keep running through the possibilities. Was Robert the victim of a hate crime? Uh…well, yeah. But the other kind of hate crime. Hate Crime.

Could one of Robert’s many discarded lovers have taken revenge? But that doesn’t explain Claude’s death. In fact, as awful as you feel about it now, you kind of suspected Claude of killing Robert.

But now…now you’re almost certain that whatever is going on here has ties back to the past, the ancient past. The past you shared with Robert. If you’re right, that means Claude was simply…collateral damage. Can that be?

A motive for murder stretching back to adolescence seems farfetched, but is it more farfetched than the idea that you’re being stalked? Coz you
are
being stalked. Whatever the police think or don’t think, you know that for a fact.

You continue with your own lame-ass efforts to find the remaining members of your high school Chess Club, and you continue to get nowhere.

You go downstairs and start putting together the next weekend’s book signing for Christopher Holmes, the author of the Miss Butterworth and Mr. Pinkerton series. Holmes is gay — and not exactly a people person — so you know you have to prep harder than usual. Luckily his cozy mysteries sell like hotcakes, so the eight people who show up for the signing should be thrilled.

Later that evening, Bruce calls. You’re paying bills and being stalked by a psychopath, so you’re not in the best mood. Plus…

Well. He’s a nice guy and it’s lovely to have someone interested and paying attention. Or it
should
be lovely.

But right now you’re preoccupied and Bruce’s timing could be better. He asks you to dinner.

__________

If you choose to go to dinner with Bruce, click here

If you choose to get takeout and spend an evening at home, click here

W
hen you climb into Claude’s car that evening he says, “
Meechelle
,
ma belle
, if you were any more vanilla, you would come with a carton of milk.”

“Very funny,” you say.

“I’m not kidding!”

You lift your leg so he can examine your very expensive leather boots. “My belt is leather,” you say.

“Mon Dieu,”
Claude murmurs, and away you go.

If Claude was not with you, you would probably never have the nerve to knock on that heavy wooden door that more than anything resembles the entrance to a dungeon. You realize, of course, that your ideas of what to expect are largely based on Larry Townsend novels and the film
Cruising
. But once you get inside the warehouse — and that is pretty much the ambience, what with the brick walls and utility lamps and guys in jeans and flannel shirts and work boots — it’s not that different from any other gay bar you’ve been in. At least, not on the furthest edges. Which is where you would prefer to stay. But Claude drags you through the heaving surging mass of men wearing way too much cologne. And alcohol.

The music is deafening and about two decades out of date. For some reason, that strikes you as the most embarrassing thing so far. Of course, the night is young. A lot of guys are dancing, and you are reminded yet again that it is sadly true that most white guys, even gay white guys, can’t dance.

You avert your gaze from the dreadful spectacle — and who should you spot from clear across the cavern-sized room but Detective Riordan. He’s standing at the bar drinking whisky and staring broodingly into space. Your jaw drops and you walk right into a guy who looks like an extra for Marlon Brando in
The Wild One
. No, correction. He looks like Marlon Brando in later years trying to force his way back into his costume from
The Wild One.
Talk about something your best friends won’t tell you.

The guy, who is old enough to be your father — although thinking about your parents in this context kinda makes you feel faint — says something you can’t make out over the music. Claude responds saucily on your behalf and drags you away, Marlon gives your ass an appreciative pat and you jump like you sat on a rocket.

“What is the
matter
with you?” Claude demands. “Behave!”

You shake your head. Claude is still hauling you along, like you’re a naughty child liable to wipe your sticky fingers on the merchandise. There is a lot more leather on this side of the human barrier. Leather and sunglasses and chains. And a lot of older guys.
Old
guys.

It’s hard to picture Robert here. Oh, he’d have liked the general subversive kinkiness of it, but Robert was not a kind or tolerant person when it came to other people’s vulnerabilities, and you see a lot of vulnerability. A lot of soft underbelly, both figuratively and literally.

You rock to a stop, bringing Claude to a halt.

“What are we doing here?” you ask in response to his questioning look.

“We’re detecting!”

“What are we detecting?”

He smiles coquettishly and nods at a blond twink in jeans and a black leather vest. “I can’t speak for you,
mon cher
, but I detect
that
!”

You roll your eyes. “I’m going to investigate the bar.”

You knew from the moment Claude suggested it, that this night was a waste of time and money. You turn away, but a hand hooks around your arm. You look up and your heart jumps in your chest. Detective Riordan gazes down at you with a strange half smile.

“Why, look who’s here,” he says in that voice that always feels like fingernails raking the back of your neck.

“Oh. Hey,” you say weakly. It really IS him. Detective Riordan is in a leather club. Detective Riordan is apparently gay. Or maybe he’s undercover? Then you remember the scene in Robert’s apartment.

Detective Riordan was not giving you mouth-to-mouth resuscitation this afternoon, he was
kissing
you.

Your gaze falls and you take him in, from the gleam of his black boots…leather jeans…studded leather belt…and then bare, broad muscular chest. Nothing else. Not a single extra anything. Severe and elegant. Beneath the gold dusting of chest hair, his pecs look like rocks. So do his biceps. He’s got an abdomen like a washboard. You can’t stop staring. Your mouth is dry, your heart racketing around your chest.

“Come here often?” He’s laughing at you. Well, the line of his mouth is serious enough, but his eyes glitter with amusement. Amusement and…excitement.

He wants you.

Holy moly. Detective Riordan
wants
you.

“It’s my first time,” you joke. “So be gentle.” At least…you thought you were joking. Maybe not so much.

He blinks. Then his eyes widen.

Anyway, to make a long story short, it’s true what the American Express advertising says. Membership does have its privileges. Before you can say “second thoughts,” you’re in a small, private room marked MEMBERS ONLY. The “members” thing makes you want to giggle, but that’s because you’re strung so tight with nerves you’re ready to blow apart.

How can you be so anxious and so turned on all at the same time?

The room is more like a dentist’s office than a bedroom, but then you’re not there to sleep. There is a long — two-way?! — mirror down the length of one brick wall. There is a battered-looking armoire. Or maybe it’s an entertainment console. Are you going to be filmed? Recorded? Blackmailed? There are a couple of padded benches. Padded walls might be more appropriate. There is also a half table with a frame that looks like a cross between a rack and a baby swing. You definitely do
not
want to know.

The room is warm and the lights are low. The thump of the bass from the dance floor is like a drugged heartbeat beneath your feet.

“Do you have a safe word?”

You try not to start. Riordan is right behind you, breathing down your neck. Your scalp prickles. Your prick prickles. Your prickles prickle.

“Stop?” you offer.

“You do know how this works, right?”

“Of course,” you lie.

“You need to pick a different safe word.”

“Why wouldn’t
stop
work? If I say stop, believe me, I mean stop.”

He is not amused. “Pick another word.”

“Periwinkle.”

“Periwinkle it is. Now take your clothes off, Adrien,” Riordan orders in a silky voice.

“Oh, right.” You slowly pull your black turtleneck over your head. A black turtleneck. You’re dressed more like a cat burglar than a guy hoping for some action. You fold your pullover and then don’t know what to do with it. You hold it to your chest, in ingénue fashion.

Riordan observes your dilemma. His mouth quirks. “Maybe you better tell me about this fantasy of yours,” he says, breaking character for a moment. Or maybe this is his character. Superior, indulgent, completely in control.

“Um, well, the usual thing,” you say vaguely. How far are you going to take this? You’re not sure.

“Sir.”

“Sorry?”

“You address me as ‘sir.’”

“Right. Sir.” You almost snort, but catch yourself in time. Or do you? Riordan’s mouth quirks again.

He reaches out and his fingers brush the pulse point at the base of your throat. Your heartbeat bangs away like a little blue hammer. “Why are you really here, Adrien? Don’t lie to me.”

Now here’s a crazy thing. You open your mouth to lie to him, and you find you can’t.

You swallow hard. “Robert used to come here sometimes,” you admit. “Claude and I thought…” You don’t finish it because it occurs to you, too late, that Riordan is not a tourist like yourself. He might have run into Robert at this club. He might be a suspect in Robert’s death himself.