Chapter Three（2）

On Tuesdays, the Partners in Crime mystery writers group usually met in the store after hours to critique each other’s work in progress, tear published writers’ books apart, and argue hot topics like who was bringing what refreshments next time.

That evening I half-expected, half-hoped everyone would cancel. It didn’t happen. In fact all five members showed up early, with Claude arriving first. He wore a white raincoat, looking as suave as Shaft at a New Orleans funeral.

“Mon chou, have you reconsidered what we discussed yesterday?” He helped me set chairs in a semi-circle: a fake Chippendale, a fake Sheraton, and four genuine folding metal that pinched your butt if you didn’t sit up straight. Cheap thrills.

We dragged the long library table to the center.

“If you’re still talking career ops in B & E, no.”

Claude made distressed noises.

“I can’t believe you’re serious about this,” I said. “The police already suspect me.”

“You!”

“Moi. Even if I —”

We were interrupted by the arrival of Jean and Ted Finch.

“Adrien, you poor baby!” exclaimed Jean, giving me a hug.

The Finches are writing partners, which seems like a surefire way to destroy a healthy marriage, but what do I know? My social life was pronounced DOA many moons ago. She’s small and slim and dark, and so is he; a matched pair, like bookends. They met at one of the Bouchercon mystery conferences. Love among the midlist.

“It’s raining cats and dogs!” Ted announced, which gives you an idea of the sort of thing they write. He collapsed a rain-spotted red umbrella, adding, “We were sorry to hear about Rob, Adrien.”

“Thanks.” I felt awkward in my role as bereaved.

Jean, spotting Claude at the coffee maker, darted away to contest his decision to serve Godiva Cinnamon Hazelnut over Don Francisco’s Moka Java.

Ted sidled over to me. “Do the police know who did it?”

“I don’t think so. I’m not exactly in their confidence.”

“Jean thinks it’s a serial killer preying on the gay community.”

“A serial killer with only one victim?”

“It has to start with someone.”

I was still mulling over that happy thought when tall, well-built Max Siddons blew in. Max threw off his yellow poncho, shook himself like a dog, and made straight for the coffee and the chocolate pecan brownies provided by Jean. She giggled nervously as he flirted with her.

None of that awkward sentimental stuff for Max. I remembered that Robert had hit on Max once or twice when Rob first came back to LA That was before the thing with Claude. Rob had briefly joined our writing group but gave it up after we ran out of eligible men. Max was aggressively heterosexual which Robert had been convinced was just a facade. I never knew exactly what happened, but Max was coldly civil to Robert after the misunderstanding. Luckily duels were no longer acceptable social behavior.

Studying Max as he flattered Jean out of one side of his mouth and crammed brownies into the other, I wondered just how offended he had been.

Max finished grazing and sat down with Ted. They held a breezy post-mortem over Rob. Ghoulish but probably inevitable with mystery writers. Wasn’t I standing here considering whether muscular Max would be capable of tossing Robert’s body into a trash dumpster? I shoved aside that mental picture, but as I went to get more pens I could still hear Max and Ted — now joined by Jean — comparing their theories against the newspapers’ conjecture. As they knowledgeably debated the possibilities of disorganized lust murder over organized lust murder, and demonstrated their technical expertise by discussing types of blades, defense wounds, stab vs. slash injuries, I realized that Rob’s death wasn’t real for them. They could have been playing a grisly version of Clue.

“Are we going to get any work done tonight?” Grania Joyce demanded while I was in the storeroom.

“If Adrien ever stops futzing around,” Max returned easily.

“I’m ready.” I left the storeroom, pens in hand and joined them at the circle. Grania, head bent over her manuscript, reached for a pen without looking up. She’s tall, red-haired, the Boadicea type. She turns out hard-boiled feminist stuff and informs me regularly that my writing is “anemic.” Tonight she wore a T-shirt that proclaimed, Listen to Girls, which we did, settling down to the dissection of the first three chapters of Claude’s The Eiffel Tower Affaire with huffy rustles of paper and under-breath comments from Max.

* * * * *

Robert’s funeral was Friday.

It was one of those perfect days when the Santa Ana winds sweep the smog out over the ocean; the sky looked as uncannily blue as if it had been colorized by Ted Turner.

The mourners didn’t outnumber the church officials by many. I recognized a few people but most were strangers. Strange to me anyway. Rob had always been popular. Where were the people we had gone to school with? The friends who, like me, stood by while he married Tara in a chapel very similar to this one? Where was all the extended family? The aunts, uncles, cousins? Where were the cronies of the last few liberated months? Claude did not show. Nor any of Robert’s numerous lovers — at least none that I recognized.

The media were represented by a local news van parked by the cemetery gates. The murder of one gay man was hardly a Stop-the-Presses event. A bored reporter waited outside the vaulted-ceiling chapel kicking pebbles back and forth. There were a few sightseers. And, of course, the police. Detectives Chan and Riordan looked suitably grave in dark suits and sunglasses. I think I did a kind of guilty double take when I spotted them. Chan nodded affably.

I found a place behind Robert’s father, shrunken in his wheelchair, and Robert’s sisters. The younger one had had a crush on me in junior high. She could barely meet my eyes now.

Tara sat on the other side of the first row of pews, the kids with her, wide-eyed and scared. She looked like hell beneath her chic Princess Diana hat. Like she hadn’t slept in days. That made two of us.

My mind kept wandering during the generic service. It was obvious the minister had never met Robert. Rob’s sisters took turns getting up and speaking huskily about his qualities as a brother and husband and father and son. The church felt stuffy, airless. I viewed the rosewood casket. How quickly, how neatly the chaos of a living person could be reduced to an insignificant box.

When the service ended I hung back while everyone shuffled outside into the windy, sunlit afternoon. I wasn’t sure how Tara would react to my presence. I didn’t feel up to hysterics: hers or mine.

“Adrien? Mr. English?”

I turned around. Next to me stood a very tall man with strong features and black, lank hair. Kind of attractive in a homely way. He offered a hand.

“Bruce Green. Boytimes.”

We shook hands. His grip was warm, firm.

“I just came by to pay my respects.” Brown eyes held mine. “Have you changed your mind about talking to me?”

“Man, it must be a slow week for news.” I broke off as Chan and Riordan materialized beside us. There was an uneasy pause. Perhaps I looked as tense as I felt. Bruce Green gave my hand a meaningful squeeze before letting it go.

“What are you doing here?” It came out roughly because I was afraid I knew what they were doing there.

Chan said quietly, “Just paying our respects like everyone else, Mr. English.”

“This could be viewed as harassment,” Bruce Green said.

They stared at me. Stared at Green.

Riordan inquired, “And you are —?”

“Bruce Green. Boytimes.”

Their faces said it all.

Green turned to me. “You don’t have to talk to them, you know?”

Chan looked pained. Riordan … well, I momentarily expected a MegaMan reaction of nuclear proportions.

“It’s routine, so they tell me.”

“I’ll be in touch.” Green’s gaze locked once more with mine.

I nodded. He gave the cops a curt inclination of his head before turning away and vanishing into the line of mourners still filing out through the double doors. He looked too well-groomed, too well-dressed to fit my image of a reporter.

Riordan made a sound of contempt. “Reporters.”

Chan said, as though it had just occurred to him, “Mr. English, were you aware that Mr. Hersey had taken out a sizable life insurance policy a few months before he died?”

“No. How sizable?”

“People have committed murder for less,” Riordan said.

I was afraid to ask. “Who’s the beneficiary?”

Riordan’s brows shot up. “Can’t you guess?”

I stared at them dumbly. Whatever I said, I knew they would think I was lying. The more I tried to explain, the worse it would look. It was like being in quicksand. The more I struggled, the faster I would sink.

“Excuse me.” I pushed past them, following the scattering of mourners down the slope toward the ornamental lake. The ground was soggy from previous days’ rain. My shoes squelched in the grass as I made my way to the green canopy positioned a yard from the grave.

I didn’t see Bruce Green in the crowd. I was sorry because I had changed my mind about talking to him.

I had changed my mind about a lot of things.