P'town Murders: A Bradford Fairfax Murder Mystery (11 page)

"Some people roast a pig when they have guests to supper," Brad heard Hayden say. "I deflower a virgin."

Just then, the thin man from the front door appeared and leaned down to their host, whispering in his ear. Hayden looked up sharply and nodded. He rose.

"Gentlemen, I'm afraid I must leave you for the briefest of moments."

Rosengarten disappeared with his bodyguards, while Ichabod slipped back out the way he'd come.

Brad was curious to know what had made his host leave so abruptly. He looked around the room to see who might be watching. The singer had gone into a drug-induced haze. Ted, meanwhile, had fallen asleep with his chin on his chest, dreaming of blue chips. The others were absorbed by the on-stage spectacle.

Waiting till it seemed discreet, Brad slipped through the door after Rosengarten.

13

Bradford started up the grand staircase after his host's receding footsteps. He passed the portrait of the unhappy Maud Lacey, still awaiting the return of her peripatetic son. Next to her was an original Botero, the painter's famous fat men looking lustfully mischievous in garters and negligees. They'd always made Brad laugh. Now they reminded him of nothing so much as the roomful of ninnies he'd just left.

Upstairs, three separate passageways led off from a circular landing. Brad peered around a corner and saw Johnny K., the almond-eyed guard, posted outside a paneled door. A loud voice came from inside the room. Clearly, that's where Hayden had gone.

Brad peered down the second hallway. At the far end, a ladder led upward. In all likelihood, he realized, it ascended to the cupola. It would be useless to go up there now. He chose the third hallway and found himself treading a darkened passage to a set of double doors where a sign read, 'Arctic Collection of Admiral Donald MacMillan.'

He turned the doorknob. All was dark. He slipped in, closing the door behind him with a soft click. He fumbled in his pocket for Sebastian O'Shaughnessy's matches and struck one against the box. As it flared, a ghostly white shape lunged at him out of the darkness. Brad stifled a yell and fell back with a thud. The room plunged into darkness and silence again.

He lay there listening. Nothing moved. Had it been the ghost of Maud Lacey, still haunting her house after all these years? Brad wasn't sure he was ready to believe in ghosts. Still on his back, he struck another match. Towering over him, a polar bear reared on its hind legs, claws menacing the air and teeth set to tear apart anything that got in its way. Thankfully, its time for destruction was long past.

By the light of the fading match, a row of stuffed puffins sat laughing silently at him. They'd known all along it wasn't Maud Lacey's ghost. Off in another corner, a ship's anchor had come to rest. The match died again. Brad stood and lit another. He moved softly about the room whose walls were covered in maps and charts that once belonged to Admiral MacMillan and his crew. They'd been seeking a new world at the top of the globe, but somehow all routes had led to Provincetown.

A wall hanging caught his eye. Three silhouettes crossed a wooden bridge as a flock of birds winged silently past a pagoda. A boat waited in the distance. Something protruded from behind the weave. Brad ran his hands over the hanging and felt the wall shift. He gave a quick push and a panel opened.

He was in the secret slave closets! The darkness ahead was pierced by pinpricks of light. Brad eased his way along till he found himself peering through a hole into a sumptuous bathroom with smoked glass walls. Whatever else it might contain, his host was noticeably absent. He continued on to the next peephole.

As he inched forward, Rosengarten's voice came booming through the wall.

"Are you threatening me?" Brad heard him snarl.

He could see his host pacing around a large oak desk, the phone pressed to his ear.

"Try me, you son of a bitch!" Hayden spat into the receiver. There was another pause. "Well, join the parade. Lots of people would love to see me dead!"

Shifting his gaze, Brad saw the Nubian bodyguard standing inside the door.

"You listen to me, you little worm!" Hayden sneered. "You're a fake and we both know it. I'll expose you to the whole world if you try anything else!"

Rosengarten hung up violently just as a knock came at the door. Ichabod entered wearing an agitated look.

"Yes, Jeremiah?"

"It seems one of our guests has vanished," the thin man said, his gloomy gaze roaming the room. "A certain Mr. O'Shaughnessy."

Oh-oh!
Brad thought.
Gotta scram!

Rosengarten motioned to the bodyguard. "Cyrus, take Johnny K. and find him. He can't be far."

Brad watched as Ichabod exited behind the guard, then he hurried back down the darkened passage to the Arctic Collection. He peered out into the hallway in time to see Ichabod descending the stairs along with the two guards.

He waited till they were out of sight before slipping from the room and across the landing. He'd just reached the top of the stairs when he heard footsteps coming up. He froze. It would be impossible to return to the Arctic Room without being seen. Gauging his chances, he decided to take a risk.

He sprinted down the hall to Hayden's door and stood in the doorframe, smiling invitingly. A hand lingered suggestively over his crotch.

"Hi there!" he called out. "I was hoping to catch you alone."

Hayden's steely eyes took in his guest.
"Ah!
My young friend with the father complex. I seem to have become somewhat of an obsession for you."

Whoever had been coming up the stairs arrived at the door right behind Brad.

"Yes, Joseph," Rosengarten snapped. "What can I do for you?"

The young man stopped in his tracks. "I was... just coming to see if everything was okay, sir," he said.

"It's all right," Hayden said. "Mr. O'Shaughnessy was just expressing an interest in my... well-being. You can go back down."

"Yes, sir!" The boy disappeared down the hall.

Rosengarten waited, his eyes on Brad. "Come in, Mr. O'Shaughnessy," he said, leaning against his desk and picking up a cigar.

Brad retrieved a match and lit it for him. Rosengarten puffed several times, and then looked over at Brad. "How are you enjoying your evening so far? I trust you're having a memorable time?"

"Very memorable, thank you.Interesting guests, tantalizing food, and delectable service."

Brad looked around, quickly taking in the room—filing cabinets, bookshelves, a standing lamp. There was nothing out of the ordinary.

"And then there's the house itself," he continued. "I'll bet the history is fascinating. Am I correct in thinking the hedge outside is belladonna?"

"Quite correct!" Hayden said, breathing a cloud of smoke. "You're not only handsome, but observant as well."

"Don't you worry about, uh, poisoning your guests?"

Hayden shrugged. "There are things
inside
this house that are far more deadly," he said. "Not to mention tempting. It's amazing what money can buy."

Brad nodded. "I'm no stranger to the things money can buy," he said. "And I know all pleasures have their price."

"Of course! As do all men. But I pride myself on offering the things that money can't buy."

"Such as?" Brad asked, alert to the answer.

Rosengarten fixed his gaze on Brad. "Discretion, for one," he replied simply. "It can be a priceless commodity when you have need for it. Personally, I find it a necessary complement to both the deadly and the tempting. You must have recognized the good senator sitting in our midst?"

"Of course."

"How do you think he'd feel if word got out that he was seen frequenting a resort like this?"

"Not very happy, I'm sure," Brad said.

"Exactly! Especially as he has plans to run for the presidency in the near future. And we are also graced with the presence of a very big star this evening. He has some highly irregular tastes, to say the least."

"'To each his own,' as they say. I'm sure you must get all types here," Brad said.

"All types, yes indeed. Politicians, movie stars, religious figures... even Mafia heads."

And all in good company, Brad mused.

"Why, just two nights ago we were host to a very queer fish indeed..."

Rosengarten brought the cigar to his lips and seemed to ponder the memory, as though it disturbed him.

Two nights ago was when Ross was murdered, Brad realized. Just how
queer
was this fish and what did it have to do with Ross's death, if anything?

"That's why these men spend thousands coming here instead of going elsewhere. Absolute discretion," Hayden continued, punctuating the air with his cigar, "is my guarantee when they walk through this door. Why, the names I could name..."

Brad leaned forward.

Hayden pulled back. "But I would never," he said. "I'm not free to disclose trade secrets. If anyone thought I was trying to blacken his reputation, I'd be putting myself in a very dangerous position, indeed."

"My lips are sealed, Mr. Rosengarten."

"And such lovely lips they are," Hayden said, tapping ash into the palm of his hand.

Brad looked directly into Rosengarten's eyes. I'm flirting with my ex-lover's murderer to entice evidence out of him, he thought. How obscene is that?

Keep your mind on the job,
he could hear Grace say. Brad's eyes lit on a paperweight on Hayden's desk, an ugly obelisk with a starfish embedded at its center. He reached over and picked it up.

"That was a present from an admirer on my fortieth birthday," Hayden said. "The late Andy Warhol threw a party in my honor."

"Sounds like a great time."

"The only thing that marred it was the music. He was going through a lesbian phase at the time and hired all women singers. It was one depressing wailer after another..."

Rosengarten shuddered.

"But why are we talking about this, Mr. O'Shaughnessy? What would make this night memorable for you? A blowjob from James Dean? Montgomery Clift in a sling? These things can be arranged. A little makeup, the right wardrobe and lighting, and
presto!
You can have anyone you've ever wanted. With muscles, even."

"Now that you mention it, I've always wanted to be lassoed by the Marlborough Man," Brad murmured, his gaze traveling down Rosengarten's chest.

Hayden's face feigned disbelief. "Why would you want me, with all those strapping young lads downstairs?" He made a deprecating gesture. "I know I may seem a little rough on them at times, but they're like family to me.
Suffer the children
," he intoned, piously.

"Some kids like it rough," Brad said with a wink. "And a few of us even enjoy a little 'suffering' now and then."

Come on, Brad was thinking. Show me how far you would go.

"In fact, Mr. Rosengarten," he continued, "I think you and I might share similar tastes. Certain
dark
tastes for forbidden things."

He was staring right into Hayden's crystal blue eyes. He could feel the man's breath on his shoulder. Okay, so sometimes I have to do more than keep just my
mind
on the job, Brad told himself. Grace might not approve, but Grace didn't have to know everything.

Hayden smiled and leaned back on the desk as though considering something. That's when they heard the first gunshot.

14

The dining room was in chaos as they entered. Ichabod stood by the doorway, hands on his hips, looking furious. Most of the guests were huddled beneath the dinner table except for the old-looking young man who sat wreathed in cigarette smoke, gazing absently into the distance. The porn star, oblivious to everything, was onstage in the throws of preorgasmic fury.

On the far side of the room a body lay on the floor. It was the man with the snake bracelet. Brad was about to rush over when a second shot tore into the ceiling.

"The chandeliers!" shrieked the irate Ichabod, as a chunk of ceiling fell onto the table and smashed a pot of exotic blooms. "My orchids!"

In the midst of the pandemonium stood Senator Freeman, smirking and waving a Colt .45 over his head.

"What's going on here?" Hayden bellowed.

"I was just saying I had a rod that could rival that gentleman's on stage any time," said the garrulous Texan with a laugh.

"He tried to kill me!" exclaimed the tiny man cowering on the floor.

"This here Yankee faggot called me a closet case," the senator replied. "And I told him my private life is none of his business, but that subterfuge and trickery is how everything works in these here Yewnited States of America."

"He doesn't deserve to call himself a gay man," moaned the elf. The ghost of self-esteem had raised its head, and it had taken a geriatric gnome to do it.

"Partner, that's the last thing I'd be calling myself!" the senator said, roaring with laughter until his face turned red and he began to wheeze.

"Careful, Senator," Hayden warned, "or they'll be saying you laughed yourself to death in a gay whorehouse."

The elf shook his fist. "I didn't spend my life fighting for respect so this baboon could make a mockery of it!"

"Hold your fire, gentlemen," Hayden spoke up. "This is a private resort, not a public battlefield." He turned to one of the young servers. "Claudio, take our friend here..." he said, indicating the man lying on the floor, "And cheer him up a little."

They waited as the older man hobbled out of the room on the arm of the younger. "When I was your age," they heard him say, "I was just as good-looking as you are now..."

Rosengarten turned to his guests. "That's the end of our scheduled entertainment, gentlemen," he announced, as though the shoot-out had been part of a floor show.

Within seconds, a bevy of young beauties swarmed into the room.

"Choose the object of your pleasure and feel free to retire to any area of the house." With a meaningful look to Brad, he added, "Except for my upper en-suite offices, of course."