Lanyon, Josh - Adrien English 04 - Death of a Pirate King (20 page)

Jean was jubilant. “We did it! We’ve got an agent!” she crowed,
waving a copy of an e-mail.

“We haven’t signed yet,” Ted corrected quickly, “but we’ve
got an offer for representation.”

“You’re
kidding
,” I
said.

Jean and Ted had been writing and rewriting their ghastly
first novel
Murder, He Mimed
for as
long as I’d been hosting the group. There were many things I loathed about
Murder, He Mimed
, but my number one
objection was that their main character, a gay gossip columnist by the name of
Avery Oxford, bore an unsettling resemblance to me.

I seemed to be the only person who saw it, though. The one
time I’d suggested it to the group, everyone had burst out laughing. The fact
that Avery was thirty-two, had black hair, blue eyes, a cop friend by the name
of Jack O’Reilly, and a penchant for getting involved in murder investigations
was apparently just a coincidence. For four years I’d lived in dread of the
Finches finishing that damn book, and now not only had they finished it, they’d
apparently tracked down the only literary agent on the planet demented enough
to want to represent it.

Jean -- reading my response correctly -- glowered at me. “No,
we are
not
kidding. It’s a wonderful
book, and now that we have an agent, I
know
we’ll sell it to one of the big publishers!”

Ted beamed at her fondly. “What we’re really hoping,” he
admitted, “is that maybe we’ll have the same luck as you, Adrien, and someone
will option our book for the movies!”

Chapter Seventeen

On Wednesday morning, I gave Al January a call and asked if
he had Marla Vicenza’s phone number.

I sensed his surprise. I’m sure he wondered why I wasn’t
asking Paul Kane for Marla’s contact info, and I mentioned casually that I’d
tried Paul’s number a couple of times that morning without success. That was a
lie, but January seemed to accept it. He said, “He’s probably at the studio
today. I think he mentioned something about it on Sunday.”

I was in luck. January was in a loquacious mood. We chatted
casually about sailing and boats, and I managed to work my way around to
Langley Hawthorne and Porter’s affair with Nina.

I said -- stretching the truth a little, “I read Bonnie
Kirkland’s bio on Paul. I hadn’t realized he and Nina also had an affair.”

Al made a sound of disgust. “That book was garbage. The woman
is a homophobe.”

“She sure seemed to take Nina’s side in the breakup.”

“There wasn’t any reason to take sides,” Al said. “They were
both kids. It wasn’t anyone’s fault.”

“Nina must have been on the rebound after Porter?” I
suggested.

“I never did quite understand the thing with Porter,” Al
admitted. “Who can fathom the heart of an adolescent female?”

Even the ones not doing drugs. I made assenting noises like a
few years of rubbing shoulders with
les
femmes
in high school and university gave me Man of the World status.

January said, “After the affair with Porter broke off --
after Langley insisted it end -- Nina got involved with Paul. They were both
very young and…very stupid. I think in a way Paul was swept off his feet. He
came from a poor working class background. Nina was beautiful, young, and the
daughter of southern aristocratic privilege. For a kid from a slum in Bristol,
it was like American Dream 101.”

“And Hawthorne disapproved of that relationship as well?”

“No.”

“No?”

I could hear the smile in his voice at my obvious surprise.
“Not at all. Langley was very fond of Paul. Paul was his discovery, his
protégé, and he admired the way he worked his way up from nothing. He thought
the future was full of great things for Paul. He thought he was going to be the
Cary Grant of our generation.”

“Was Kane’s sexuality under wraps back then?” Considering how
voracious he seemed these days, I wondered how successful he would have been at
concealing his cosmopolitan tastes.

“Jaded, aren’t you?” He chuckled. “Yeah, Paul was pretty much
in the closet back then. Conventional wisdom held -- still holds really -- that
coming out as openly gay is the kiss of death in Hollywood as far as marketing
yourself to mainstream audiences. Back then we didn’t have anything like Logo
or here! And even if we had, being relegated to TV was considered a fate worse
than death.”

Paul didn’t strike me as someone who was overly serious about
his art, but I could understand that he had probably wanted more for himself
than guest appearances on
ALF
or
Moonlighting
.

January said, “Anyway, I think Langley was hugely relieved
that Nina was involved with someone of her own age. Someone unmarried. Someone
he thought highly of.”

“So what happened?” I suspected what had happened was Nina
discovered the games Paul liked to play -- I assumed he played those games back
then.

“Unfortunately, Langley drowned. Nina went off the rails and
her relationship with Paul ended. Not amiably.”

“That seemed to be the gist of the Kirkland book.” This was
the tricky part. I asked, “Do you think part of Nina’s problem might have been
the way her father died?”

“Not sure what you mean.” There was a cautious note in
January’s voice.

“Well, it was sudden. An accident, right?”

“Oh, right. Yes, I suppose part of Nina’s problem was the
shock of Langley’s death.” He sounded guarded. Which wasn’t unexpected, since
he had been on the yacht that night along with Nina, Paul, Porter, and Porter’s
first wife, Marla.

I said, “Was there any suggestion that Hawthorne’s death
might not have been an accident?”

There was an abrupt pause.

“There was a full police investigation at the time,” January
said. “Which was only to be expected. Langley was very wealthy, and his death
was a stupid one.”

“He got drunk and fell overboard, is that what I read?”

“That’s about the size of it,” January said.

I changed tack. “Was Hawthorne married?”

“Widowed.”

“That would have made it harder on Nina, I guess.”

“It didn’t help.”

“Was Hawthorne a heavy drinker?” I asked.

“We were all heavy drinkers back then,” January said.

There were a number of questions I’d have liked to ask, but
if I asked them, January would be contacting Paul Kane -- he might give Kane a
ring as it stood now -- and I preferred to fly under the radar for as long as
possible.

I said, “I’ve met Nina. She seems…like an interesting personality.”

“She’s all that,” January said, “but no way did Nina push
Langley off that boat.”

“That’s what Paul said.” I added, “I guess I’ve been writing
mysteries for too long.”

“Could be,” he said. “Might want to watch that.” Despite
January’s easy tone, I had a feeling he meant it.

* * * * *

It took some doing, but I finally got hold of Marla Vinceza
and managed to set up a meeting with her for the following day. After that, my
sleuthing had to be placed on hold. It was Natalie’s day off and customers kept
me jumping while they amused themselves pulling books off shelves and leaving
them stacked around the store, abandoning their empty Starbucks cups on
shelves, and informing me they’d changed their minds about books we’d special
ordered for them.

Natalie was right about needing help. The way it stood now,
any time she had a day off or I was out gallivanting, we were in trouble.
Bathroom breaks, stockroom searches, even lengthy phone calls meant no one was
available to help customers. And offsite lunches meant closing the shop for an
hour or so. When I’d first opened Cloak and Dagger, that wasn’t a problem, but
now we were busy enough that closing for an hour irritated customers and cost
us in sales.

I resolved to write Angus in Mexico and find out if he was
serious about coming home, and then I locked the place long enough to get
myself a frozen yogurt from down the street. It was too hot to eat, even if I’d
been hungry, but the boysenberry yogurt was something to tide me over.

Checking my messages, I saw there was one from Jake. I
listened.

He said in that careful flat voice, “There’s been a
development. It turns out that Nina Hawthorne has some kind of heart ailment
for which she takes digitoxin.” He hesitated, then added curtly, “Give me a
call if you feel like talking.”

It occurred to me that I hadn’t seen or spoken to him since
I’d walked off the
Pirate’s Gambit
. I
thought about what Chan had said -- the fact that it mattered to Jake whether
we stayed friends or not. I wanted to think that I was mature enough,
sophisticated enough, to stay friends with him -- I told myself I didn’t blame
him for making the choices he had made, that I saw him as a victim and a
prisoner of his internalized homophobia -- and yet…

The truth was, even if I could put aside the past, he was too
close to Paul Kane for me to confide in.

* * * * *

When I got back from taking Emma to her riding lessons on
Wednesday evening, I found Natalie’s four-footed pal waiting for me beside the
side door. The cat scampered away when I got out of the Forester, but then
slunk back as I stood there unlocking the door.

It stood just out of range.

“Do I look like a cat person to you?” I asked it.

It meowed, showing all its little sharp teeth. It really was
an unprepossessing creature. Its head was too big for its body -- sure, partly
that was because it was so damned skinny -- its color a dirty dun.

“I don’t know what she sees in you,” I told it. “It must be
your winning personality.”

He ignored me, waiting for the door to open. I used my foot
to block him, and slipped inside, closing the door firmly behind me.

The shop was quiet and warm. I went upstairs to my flat, let
myself in. It was too warm up there as well. And too quiet.

There were no messages on the answering machine.

I changed into a soft gray T-shirt and faded, comfortable
Levi’s and tried to figure out what to eat. I knew I needed to eat something,
but I couldn’t think of anything that sounded appetizing. I wasn’t sure there
was anything in the cupboards; I’d got into the habit of relying on Guy to
bring home takeout.

I opened doors, examined shelves, but I just couldn’t work up
enthusiasm for ramen or oatmeal -- and the cornflakes were stale. I could run
out and get something, but I didn’t have energy for that either.

Giving it up, I went into the front room and poured a brandy.
I sat down in one of the comfortable overstuffed chairs and…suddenly I couldn’t
think of anything I wanted to do.

Ever again.

I closed my eyes. Everything seemed like too much effort. The
silence seemed complete and final. I could just about hear the dust settling
around me. What did I used to do before Guy?

Sit around wishing Jake would call?

No. Because it was Wednesday, and Mondays and Wednesdays had
been “our” nights together. Work and his straight life permitting, Jake had
turned up like clockwork on my doorstep and in my bed. In fact, by the end he
was turning up more and more frequently and less scheduled, and ironically I
had thought that was a good sign, that we were moving closer to each other.

What the hell was the matter with me? Sitting here feeling
sorry for myself, drinking brandy -- which was definitely a no-no for now. I’d
been fine. For two years I’d been perfectly fine. This was silly. This was sad.

I got up and spilled the brandy down the kitchen sink, opened
a can of salmon, and dumped it on a plate.

I took a couple of bites. There had to be something creative
you could do with salmon, but I decided the most creative thing I could do was
feed my neighbor in the alley. I carried the plate downstairs, set it outside
the door.

“Yo, Top Cat,” I called.

With an alacrity that indicated Natalie was probably feeding
him on a regular basis, the thing slunk out of the nest of cardboard boxes
against the cinder block wall. He trotted across the alley, keeping a wary eye
on me, and delicately sniffed the plate.

“Yep, you should be worried about poison,” I told it. “And
cars. And rats bigger than you -- which would be any rat in town.”

He took little bites of the salmon, giving his flea-bitten
head a tiny shake every so often.

Ear mites…fleas…bubonic plague. I shuddered and closed the
door on him.

The phone was ringing as I reached the top landing. I paused in
the doorway, stared at it, then crossed to pick it up.

Dial tone.

Well, I could always spend my evening doing what I used to do
when I didn’t have anyone, and kill way too much time poking into other
people’s lives.

I had a niggling feeling about that fatal accident of Langley
Hawthorne’s. Maybe he hadn’t had a problem with his daughter’s relationship
with Paul Kane -- there had been an awful lot of money at stake. And that was
an awfully convenient accident -- not that it couldn’t happen. Alcohol and boating
were a bad mix. Everyone knew that.

A knock on the door to the flat sent me jumping out of my
skin. Had I locked the side door? But yeah, I had. So that brisk tattoo could
only be Guy -- and he was feeling uncomfortable enough to knock rather than use
his key, which was probably not a good sign.

But it was a relief that he was back. Right?

I opened the door and halted.

Jake stood on the landing.

For the life of me I couldn’t think of anything to say.

“Can I come in?” he asked.

“Uh…sure.”

I backed up and he walked inside the flat.

“You kept your key,” I observed brilliantly. Either that or
we were experiencing some kind of space-time shift. What year was this?

He stared down as though wondering how that key had got on
his ring. Then he raised his light gaze to mine and said tersely, “You should
have changed the locks.”