The Pride Trilogy: Kyle Callahan 1-3 Page 11

  “Austin,” the young waiter said, knowing Kyle was trying to decide which of the twins he was. “You’ll have an easy time of it tonight. Dallas is David Bowie with the lightning bolt on his face. I think it’s so forty years ago, but whatever. “

  “Sure,” Eileen said. “Chimney sweeps are so . . . a day ago.”

  “Timeless is the word. What can I get you to drink?”

  Kyle ordered a Bloody Mary and Danny a vodka martini, dirty with olives. Austin hurried off as quickly and quietly as he’d arrived and the three of them got back to their conversation.

  Just then Linus Hern showed up, and, like Kyle and Danny, he ignored Dylan’s attempt to seat him, his boyfriend and his two hangers-on at the large table for eight. Danny thought it was odd, since the biggest table in the room had the appearance of being where the captain ate—whoever that captain was and whatever ship he was sailing. For Linus to turn down a place at the center of attention seemed unlike him, until Danny remembered that Linus was always the center of attention, it mattered not where he sat.

  The group’s trajectory brought them past Kyle and Danny’s table. Linus was dressed as someone out of the Matrix movies, complete with sweeping black coat that ran from his buttoned collar down to his black boots. His boyfriend was wearing a collar as well, but studded, and Danny took it as an indication of what the pair did behind closed doors. Aside from the collar, the handsome youth was wearing a suit, as one might to a fine restaurant. The two sycophants appeared to be Munchkins representing a Lollipop Guild from Hell.

  As they floated by the table Linus stopped in front of Danny. Danny eyed him quickly and said, “No costume this year?”

  Linus chuckled. “You’re very amusing, Mr. Durban. This,” he said, indicating his companion in the studded collar, “is Carlos, remember the name. Phineus you’ve met.”

  “I fired him, as you told the room earlier.”

  “Yes, you fired him. And this is Henry. Not nearly as distinct a name as Phineus, but with its own rich history. Now if you’ll excuse us, Carlos is a feng shui expert and said this table’s toxic.”

  “It’s nice to meet you all,” Kyle said. He secretly enjoyed encounters between Linus and Danny.

  “The pleasure’s all yours,” Linus said dryly. Then he leaned down just a bit and said to Danny, “Tell Margaret happy birthday for me. Eighty is quite an accomplishment. She can’t have many left.”

  “I’ll give her your regards,” Danny said. “I know how much you mean to her.”

  “So much I wasn’t invited.”

  “It’s a small venue, nothing personal.”

  “Not at all,” Linus said. “Not at all. I’m sure she’ll remember me for her ninetieth. Or maybe not.”

  The Munchkins chuckled slightly. Carlos the collar boy didn’t seem to get it and just looked bored.

  “We’ll see you later at the bar?” Linus said.

  “He’ll be asleep,” Kyle interjected. “Beauty rest, Linus, something you could use more of.”

  “Oh I did forget you’re just about as entertaining as your husband. You are married, aren’t you? New York permits it now.”

  “It’s in the planning,” Danny said. “Don’t worry, you’ll be the last to know.”

  The sparring had run its course, the verbal fencing having left a prick or two but drawn no blood. It was time to get on with the evening, something they all realized and silently agreed on as Linus nodded goodbye and took his troupe to a table in the corner.

  “Who was that?” Eileen asked, having stayed quiet through the exchange.

  “The Creature from the Chelsea Lagoon,” Danny replied. “No one to be concerned with.”

  The restaurant was filling up by then and Kyle was wondering if they might be joined by some strangers when Bo walked into the restaurant, spotted them and came over. “May I?” she asked.

  They all nodded. Kyle knew people often formed clusters at extended gatherings. It seemed natural to gravitate toward a few other guests as a way of increasing the comfort level and having reliable conversation partners when they all knew they would be there for a weekend.

  “To costume or not to costume,” Bo said as she took one of the two remaining seats. “I decided not to. I’d rather surprise everyone tomorrow night and walk away with the prize.”

  “There’s a prize?” Eileen asked, waving across the room at Austin to let him know they had another person at the table.

  “The prize is for the pumpkin,” Danny said. “I don’t think they give another one for costume, do they?”

  “We haven’t stayed that late to find out,” Kyle said.

  “We should this year.”

  “Fine. You’ll be sleeping in a booth by then but we can set our sights high.

  Bo picked up one of the menus and glanced at it. It hadn’t changed since Kyle and Danny had been there in the spring, or, for that matter, since Pucky had sold the place to Sid and Dylan. They’d hired a new chef and made a few changes, but they had kept the Lodge’s long-time success in mind and not fixed what wasn’t broken. There were lamb, chicken, fish and vegetarian lasagna dishes as entrees, supplemented with a half dozen choices for sides and appetizers.

  “How’s the food here?” Bo asked.

  “Above average,” Danny said.

  “He’d know, too,” said Kyle. “He manages one of the best restaurants in Manhattan.”

  “But homey, don’t you think?” Danny added. “Margaret’s—she’s a real person, by the way—it’s high-end but not uncomfortably so.”

  “True, anybody would feel welcome there, providing they can spend a couple hundred dollars for dinner.”

  “So they come for lunch and only part with half that. It’s a bargain.”

  “You think it’s a bargain because we get to eat there for free.”

  The two women watched, amused, as Kyle and Danny mildly bickered over Margaret’s Passion.

  Eileen suddenly jumped at a hand on her shoulder. Sid had come up to the table unseen and unheard. He was wearing gray trousers and a navy jacket over his sweater, looking unusually dapper, like the proprietor of a guest lodge he was.

  “Kyle,” he said, his voice low and full. It had a soothing depth to it, and Kyle sensed that Sid had deliberately adjusted his voice.

  “Sid,” Danny answered, “The weekend’s going great, you look full.”

  “Me or the Lodge?” Sid said, following it with an affected laugh. “Halloween is the big event here every year, you know that. It was falling off some in Pucky’s last year, he just wasn’t up to it and it made people . . . sad, I suppose. Quite a few stayed away last year, but it was so good you and Kyle came. I know it meant a lot to Pucky. I heard he might be coming.”

  “Really?” Kyle said, pleasantly surprised.

  “Yes, but not staying here. We’d know, of course. Too painful for him I’d guess.”

  “Who’s Pucky?” asked Bo. She was smiling, but it was as artificial as Sid’s voice. She was staring at him and something told her he hadn’t come to their table by chance.

  “May I?” Sid said, nodding at the last available seat. No one objected, and in a moment Sid was sitting with them, next to the woman who had come here to kill him.

  “Pucky Green was the owner of Pride Lodge, along with his partner Stu Patterson, for twenty-three years? Twenty-five? They built it up from an old Inn that was about to be torn down. Then two years ago poor Stu died from a heart attack on the steps to the pool.”

  “That’s a very unlucky pool,” Bo said. “Maybe you should fill it in.”

  Kyle noticed a tension between the Lodge owner and the jewelry maker. There wasn’t any reason for it he knew of, and he wondered, watching and listening to them, if Bo was someone who simply didn’t care for men. But that didn’t jibe, since she’d been very friendly with him. And then he thought it might simply be a case of clashing personas; if there was love at first sight, there was certainly dislike at first sight.

  “Do you suppose that detect
ive will come back?” Bo asked. “For follow up questions?”

  “Why, Bo, it sounds like you’re interested in Ms. Sikorsky. Plenty of couples have met here over the years, but I’m not sure she’s even family.”

  Bo blushed, having been seen through so easily, and just as quickly realized he had called her by name. They’d not spoken since she arrived.

  “Who mentioned my name to you?”

  Sid smiled with all the warmth of a lizard eyeing its meal, and said, “Oh, I make it my business to know all the guests’ names. It’s the right thing to do.” He put his hand out at last, “Sid,” he said. “Sid Stanhope, I own Pride Lodge, along with my husband Dylan.”

  She shook his hand and held it, staring into his eyes. Two could play at the predator game.

  “Let’s have a table photo,” Kyle said. He took the camera from the table and walked around to get a shot of the others.

  “But you’re not in it!” Eileen protested. “And my hair looks like straw!”

  “It is straw,” Kyle said. “Besides, I don’t take pictures of myself. So everybody just squeeze in a little and smile when I say so.”

  Sid slid his chair in from one side, Eileen from the other. Bo found herself being pressed against by a man who had been in her house thirty years ago and seen the bodies of her parents, dead in their bed with bullet wounds in their heads. She at once wanted to move away, fearful she would find a knife blade slipped between her ribs, and to move closer, ever closer, to feel his breath on her face as she watched him die.

  “Cheese!” Kyle said. They all smiled reflexively and he snapped the picture.

  “I should say hello to the others,” Sid said, easing back to his place and rising from his chair. “I’m not supposed to play favorites.” And then, to Bo, “Not even with someone so charming as yourself. A jewelry maker, no less.”

  “Yes,” she replied, her voice cold. The game was clearly up. “I specialize in pocket watches.”

  “So I’m told,” Sid said. “Well, everyone. I’ll head off now and do the meet-n-greet. See you all at the party tomorrow, if not sooner. And don’t forget to vote on the pumpkins. There’s a high-tech basket with pencils and paper on the front desk. I’m partial to Bo’s Cinderella, but I mustn’t given anything away, it’s not fair.”

  Sid glanced at her one final time, adjusted his smile, and walked away from the table.

  Both Kyle and Danny wanted to say, “What was that?” but neither did. Instead they turned to find Austin back at last with their drinks. Animosity still hung in the air, and Kyle waved it away, telling himself it had just been a strange encounter, nothing more. He put his camera back on the table and sat down.

  Chapter 18

  A Little Night Music

  As Kyle knew he would, Danny declined to go to the bar that night, once they’d settled back into their cabin after dinner. It had long been Danny’s habit to retire to their bed shortly after dinner and read books or magazines with the television on low volume.

  This night Danny found a Frasier marathon on the Hallmark Channel. He’d undressed, slipped into the gym shorts he slept in along with his t-shirt, and nestled under the covers to watch the reruns and eat from a box of chocolates every guest at the Lodge found on their beds when they checked in.

  “You’re going dressed as Laurel?” Danny said, watching Kyle get ready to head to the piano bar.

  “Why not?” Kyle said. “It’s more trouble to change clothes. I don’t plan on staying long anyway, once I hear what Dylan has to say.”

  “What do you think’s going on? And why get involved? This is something for the police.”

  Kyle had been lying next to Danny, resting up after dinner, but had got up and started adjusting his clothes in the dresser mirror. “I agree with you, and I have every intention of calling Detective Sikorsky myself if this is more than lurid speculation. He can be lurid, you know. Dylan’s got a dramatic streak.”

  “Death is dramatic.”

  Kyle glanced at Danny in the mirror.

  “There was a death, remember?”

  “Of course I remember. And it was a death that might have been prevented if I’d picked up the phone and called Teddy last night.”

  “Have you thought about that?” Danny asked.

  “About what?”

  “About what if it was an accident? What if Teddy fell off the wagon and ended up falling in the pool?”

  “I don’t think that’s what happened.”

  “Because you don’t want to think it, Kyle.”

  “He was sober, I believe that.”

  “Just don’t believe it against the evidence, whatever that turns out to be.”

  Kyle sighed, knowing Danny was right. He didn’t want to believe Teddy had gone over the edge, that he’d thrown away six months hard-earned sobriety. But it happened all the time. Addiction was merciless, and all it took was one sip from a glass or a bottle and someone like Teddy could find himself right back where he started—or even where he ended.

  The Lodge was emptying out by the time Kyle got back. He’d lingered in the cabin longer than intended, and when he walked back in he saw the twins and Elzbetta closing up the restaurant. It was after 10:00 pm, and the restaurant had seated its last guest at 9:00. Ricki had changed back into his civilian clothes and was fidgeting behind the check-in desk. Few people would still be arriving at this time of night, but a few did and the desk was staffed until midnight. Grueling hours, Kyle thought, as he walked into the great room and saw a couple of stragglers playing checkers at a table, and Jeremy Johnson, the ancient sentry, settled in for his night of television watching until well past the witching hour. Jeremy would be the last person standing—or in his case sitting—and was so much of a fixture during his stays that people tended not to notice him; he, however, noticed everything and everyone.

  Kyle regretted having kept his Stan Laurel costume on. The suit didn’t fit well and the bowler hat was at least a size too small, making it perch on his head rather than fit it.

  “What’s on tonight, Jeremy?” he said to the old man. Jeremy was wearing pastel striped pajamas, and it was not a costume. This is how he dressed after dinner, for his long stay in the easy chair.

  “A couple of Christopher Lee Draculas,” Jeremy replied. He had a snifter of brandy sitting on the small stand by his chair. Kyle knew it would be top-of-the line and supplied by Jeremy himself. The old gent may love his visits to Pride Lodge, but there were some things even he was too particular about to leave to his hosts.

  “They scared the shit out of me when I was a kid.”

  “Me, too!” Ricki said from behind the desk. “Maybe I’ll join you.”

  “Off to the bar?” Jeremy asked.

  “Normally no, not by myself,” Kyle said. “But I thought a nightcap was in order. Danny’s asleep right about”—and he looked at his watch—“now.”

  “Have fun. The kids are a little wild for me, as you know.”

  By ‘kids’ Jeremy meant anyone under the age of sixty. Kyle waved to him, noticing the two men playing checkers had never looked up during the exchange, and made his way downstairs.

  “Basement” wasn’t really a word that described the below-ground level of Pride Lodge. It usually conjured images of house basements with family rooms or exercise setups, washers and dryers and boxes stored away never to be opened. The basement of the Lodge was cavernous, as long and wide as the Lodge itself, and Pucky had had the idea to gut it, renovate it, and launch it as two clubs in one: a piano bar reminiscent of his favorites in New York City, and an adjacent karaoke club.

  The following night the clubs would be combined for the annual Halloween blowout, but tonight they still maintained separate identities. He glanced into the karaoke bar, christened “Club K” (not, he presumed, a reference to the infamous club drug Ketamine, but to “karaoke”), and saw a dozen people sitting at booths around a central stage area where Kevin was announcing the next singer.

  He headed past it down the sho
rt hall and was immediately met with the sounds of Pete the Piano Guy playing and singing “Come In From The Rain,” the Melissa Manchester, Carole Bayer Sager collaboration that always gave him goose bumps. It was a melancholy song and he knew there wouldn’t be too many of those played this weekend.

  He entered Clyde’s and glanced around. The decor consisted of loveseats, sofas and overstuffed armchairs accompanied by small tables for drinks; a bar area with a dozen stools, and in a corner a baby grand where Pete held court with just his voice, his music sheets, and a giant snifter as a tip jar. Kyle knew nothing about Pete except that he’d been the main entertainment here since Clyde herself passed on some twenty years ago. He rotated now and then with other local musicians, but Pete was the main headliner. The fact that so many of the Lodge’s staff and guests had been there for many years made it that much more welcoming. It was, Kyle knew, an old friend to many, and he nodded at Pete when he entered. He noticed Pete had lost weight: the piano player wore a tuxedo, his own gimmick, but Kyle saw it was a much smaller tuxedo than it had been the last time he and Danny were here.

  There were probably twenty people in the bar, as Kyle made a quick headcount. Cowboy Dave was bartending, named so for his habit of wearing a cowboy hat even though there was nothing else cowboy about him. He, too, had been a regular presence at Pride Lodge for some years, certainly since before Kyle and Danny had been coming there, and Kyle said hello as he stepped to the bar and ordered a diet cola. He wanted his senses about him tonight and wouldn’t allow himself so much as a beer.

  “How’s it hanging, Kyle?” Dave asked, sliding the soda across to Kyle.

  “You’d have to ask Danny that,” Kyle said, winking.

  “Good to know it still works at our age, ain’t it?” Dave said.

  Kyle wasn’t sure how old Dave was, and he couldn’t tell if there was hair under the hat or not; he’d never seen Dave without it. But he looked to be about fifty, and a well-kept fifty at that. The kind of older man who did a hundred sit-ups in the morning while he watched the news.