Smile Like You Mean It - 3. Three

Chapter 3

Loren Hunt had been found at home, killed by a gunshot wound. He was a prominent enough citizen that his death was a major story, with segments devoted to him on the local news channels and articles in the newspapers and online; yet the details of his death remained sketchy, and the police had no real leads, at least none that they were willing to share with the media.

Bruno had tried to avoid the media coverage, but he had still read a few stories about the killing and pieces on Loren’s life and legacy. Bruno found it difficult to grasp that a friend of his had been murdered. The ginger had experienced sudden death before this: his own father had died in an industrial accident when Bruno was six, and a high school classmate had died in a car wreck right before graduation, but he had never lost anyone to violence. Even with his own brush with crime, a mugging, Bruno had kept that feeling that murder is something that affected other people. Loren’s death at such a young age would have been upsetting in any event, but to have it be the result of a senseless crime somehow made it more awful.

Bruno hadn’t known Loren well, but in the short time of their acquaintance had come to like and respect the man. It seemed even more unfair that the victim of violence was someone who had been actively trying to help others avoid it. At least, Loren’s legacy was safe. Everything necessary for the opening of the Amanda Brooks Home had already been put in place; in fact, Loren’s death would, in a financial way, help the organization. According to Shane, Loren had left the vast majority of his own estate to the foundation.

Shane knew this because he had been appointed temporary director of the organization. Devastated at Loren’s murder, Bruno’s friend had welcomed the distraction and the chance to help keep the lawyer’s dream alive.

Bruno had also spent the last week or so trying to distract himself from the tragedy as much as possible. He had poured himself into work, doing all those small, time consuming jobs that he typically put off, such as adding customer names to his database and mailing lists. He was doing that now, as he processed a pile of business cards.

The shopkeeper paused as he reached the one belonging to Sebastian Cain, studying it carefully. He regretted not contacting the handsome lawyer, but decided it was too late now. Still, he made sure to enter Cain’s information into his email list. Bruno had some events planned, and if the lawyer showed up….maybe they could renew their acquaintance.

Even as he contemplated seeing the dark haired man, the vision of another handsome brunet crossed his mind, Waylon. Sighing, Bruno remembered the detective’s visit; he had felt an attraction for the older man that he hadn’t felt in a long, long time. He searched for Waylon’s card and stared at it. He had entered Waylon’s number into his phone, but habit had made him hold onto the card. Bruno considered calling him; maybe they could grab drinks one night. Nothing serious. Bruno could always use another friend.

“No,” he told himself, tearing the card in two and dropping it into a wastebasket. Moments, later, he fished it out and entered Waylon’s info into the mailing list. Just because dating the closeted cop was a bad idea didn’t mean Bruno couldn’t invite him to the showing of Shane’s art he had planned. After all, Waylon and Shane were friends. No big deal, he told himself. Bruno was, and had always been, a shitty liar, even when it came to lying to himself.

As Bruno brooded about the handsome older detective, the jingle bells on the front doors of the shop sounded, and he looked up. Bruno groaned inwardly as he saw Casey entering, the blond clutching two cups of coffee from the nearby City Perk coffee shop. Usually, Bruno loved hanging out with his friend and appreciated the fact the other man shared a caffeine addiction, but lately, Casey had been obsessed with Loren Hunt’s murder.

Unlike Bruno and Shane, Casey had barely known Loren, meeting him only once at the gala. Without a deep personal connection, Casey viewed the murder as an exciting story, ripe with intrigue. In his case, knowing the victim actually gave the case extra spice. So unlike his other two friends, who had tried to distract themselves from the tragedy and avoided the media coverage as much as possible, Casey had thrown himself into the stories and articles, scouring comment sections for any extra nuggets of info and Googling everthing he could related to the case.

Casey had barely handed off Bruno’s venti americano before launching into the latest theory about Loren’s death.

“Rough trade,” he said, taking the lid off his own drink and blowing on it to cool the steaming liquid.

“Excuse me,” Bruno said before taking a cautious sip.

“The guy who killed Loren,” Casey said. “There’s a whole thread devoted to the murder on the gay new orleans subreddit, and some of the users claimed to know him. Apparently he liked rough trade. So the idea is he picked up some rough trade who tried to rob him, shit got real, and…” Casey shrugged.

“Really,” Bruno said. “If he’s into guys who are butch and scary, why would he ask me out?” He gestured to his own slender form, curly auburn ponytail, and starched slim fit shirt and carefully co-ordinated pants.

Casey’s brows furrowed for a moment, then he said, “Well, you know. Who a man marries is not necessarily who they prefer to fuck. Gay guys do that Madonna/whore thing, too. Anyway, it’s not just randoms from the internet. I ran into Frank, and we got to talking about the murder. Frank said he’s seen Loren pick up some pretty sketchy looking guys at the Hardy Hole and the Phoenix.”

“I guess,” Bruno said. “I trust Frank to know. I mean, he goes out all the time, and he knows everybody. It makes sense, I suppose. I can’t imagine anyone having a grudge against Loren; he was such a nice guy.”

“Well…..” Casey said. “The rough trade hookup gone robbery gone wrong is only one possiblity. But I have a hunch that one isn’t right. And I have my own theory.”

“Good grief,” Bruno said, rolling his hazel eyes. “You’re having hunches and coming up with theories about murders? Are you turning into a Hardy boy?”

Casey drew himself up with dignity “Of course, not, I’m obviously Nancy Drew.” He paused and looked at Bruno consideringly. “You’re not butch enough to be my George, but you can be my Bess. Honestly, though, I think I’d make a fantastic detective.”

Bruno considered this as he sipped his coffee. Casey wasn’t entirely wrong about that; despite his flighty appearance and mannerisms, the blond was whip smart and very observant. Bruno had seen Casey spot the one decent vintage garment in an estate sale in seconds, or recount a conversation almost word for word even after appearing to ignore it while scrolling on his phone.”

“Okay, Nancy,” Bruno said. “What’s your theory?”

“Well,” Casey said, “You know that Loren was one of Viktor Pamchenko’s attorneys right? And a close friend.” The ginger nodded in assent. “Well, what if Loren helped Viktor disappear. Maybe knew where he is now? Viktor had to have at least some help to pull his vanishing act. I did some research, and the only thing that people really know about what happened to Viktor is that he funneled his money into the Caymen Islands before he disappeared. Coincidentally, that’s where Loren just went on his last business trip. Maybe, somebody wanted info on Viktor.”

“I guess,” Bruno said.

“It makes sense,” Casey assured him. “And it would explain something odd. There was a leak from the police investigation: Loren’s safe was open, but nothing was missing. That includes the $50,000 in cash that he kept in there. It was all accounted for. Maybe the killer didn’t want money, but information, a jump drive, or something like that.”

“Oh, come on,” Bruno said. “You’re basing this off some ‘leak’ you found on the internet. I need more proof.”

“He’s right, though,” a voice said, and both Bruno and Casey jumped, both dangerously close to spilling their drinks. They had been so engrossed in their conversation that they hadn’t noticed the doors’ noise as Shane had come into the shop. Maybe, Bruno thought, Casey wasn’t all that observant.

“Good lord,” Casey said, dramatically clutching his chest. “You almost gave me a heart attack.”

“Sorry,” Shane said as he hugged Casey, and then Bruno before settling into a chair near them.

“I feel like a ghoul,” Bruno said, “Let’s talk about something else.”

“No, it’s fine,” Shane said with a sad smile. “I really don’t mind. I’m just as anxious to figure out who did this to Loren as anyone. And Casey is right; the safe was open. In fact, that’s what triggered the alarm. But nothing is missing.”

Bruno stared at Shane. “How do you know that? How would anyone?”

“Since I’m the acting director for the charity, I’ve been in contact with the estate lawyer, who, for someone who is supposed to respect confidentiality, turns out to be a real gossip. Loren recently increased his fire insurance coverage, and for that, as well as the new will he wrote that left his estate to the foundation, he had to have a complete inventory made for the house and furnishings. That included a detailed survey of the contents of the safe which was done in front of witnesses. When the estate lawyer examined it after Loren’s death…..the contents hadn’t changed. It’s possible, of course, he had added something since the inventory that the killer took, but none of the original things were gone. That includes the cash.”

“Do you think Loren helped Viktor disappear? Do you think he knew where Viktor is?” Casey asked Shane.

“I don’t know. I didn’t want to know, so I purposefully avoiding talking about Viktor to Loren.”

Bruno could tell his friend was upset, so tried to change the subject again. Shane interrupted him.

“It really is fine to talk about Loren. In fact, that’s why I stopped by to talk to you two. Loren’s instructions called for his estate to be completely liquidated and the proceeds donated to the Amanda Brooks House. The really valuable art and furniture are going to an auction house, but the rest of the contents are being sold through an estate sale. There’s going to be a presale viewing for dealers on Friday morning, and I thought you might be interested. Especially you, Casey.”

Casey perked up. “If he really did have more St. Laurent and some Givenchy and Dior in his closet, I am, indeed.” A serious look settled on his elfen face. “You know, if he has some serious couture, Shane, it could be worth a lot. If you want me to, I’ll identify anything really valuable. I’ll be happy to sell it for you and donate the proceeds to the charity.

A genuine smile warmed Shane’s face. “That would be amazing. Thank you Casey.”

So, at 8 am on Friday morning, Bruno pulled up to Loren Hunt’s former home with Casey riding shotgun. Somehow, even though there weren’t any real changes from the last time Bruno had seen it, the house seemed sad, abandoned. He sat looking at it or a moment longer, before unbuckling his seat belt, exitting, and joining Casey who had bounded out of the car as excited as a puppy at a dog park.

“I’ve never seen a real crime scene before,” he whispered to Bruno, following the auburn haired man up the stairs.

“Really, Casey,” Bruno hissed, turning to the blond, “could you knock off. I mean, Loren was friend.”

“Sorry,” Casey said looking honestly abashed. “Sometimes I just can help myself.”

“Try.”

Bruno stepped into the foyer. It was shock seeing the house like this, without Loren’s slim figure greeting him, with strangers milling around, and several items already stripped from the carefully decorated rooms and sent to the auction house. With a sigh, he pointed Casey to the den where Loren had been found.

Bruno had no desire to see it, even though he knew it had been scrubbed by a special cleaning unit. Instead, he passed through the front parlor. He noticed the Keane portrait was gone, as well as a few pieces of furniture.

The adjoining dining room was even emptier; the table, chairs, and buffet gone. The photograph of Loren was still in place over the mantle, though. Bruno wasn’t surprised. Loren had said that a friend, a talented amatuer, had taken it; it had no real intrinsic value, so it wouldn’t have been one the pieces of art sent to auction. With an impulse he couldn’t really explain, Bruno decided to buy it. He found the person in charge and had just concluded his transaction, when Casey found him.

The blond was ready to see Loren’s drag wardrobe, so Bruno led him upstairs. Here were less empty spots, and it was easy for Bruno to remember the tour Loren had given him. They passed through the master to Loren’s drag dressing room, a small room adjoining the master that had likely been a nursery in the home’s former life.

The small space, accessed through a narrow pair of mirrored French doors was alive with color. Unlike the tasteful, mainly neutral main spaces of the rest of the house, in this roomm the walls, ceiling, and woodwork were painted a deep, saturated peacock blue.

The deep hue set off the vibrant colors of the sea of gowns that ringed the walls. In addition to the hanging space, there was a built in bureau that contained accessories such as scarves and costume jewelry. Shelves below and above the dresses housed shoes, purses, hats and wigs. A mirrored vanity, covered in makeup and perfume bottles sat in front of the floor length mirror.

Bruno helped Casey search the racks for designer labels, and soon several dresses were carefully laid upon the animal print chaise that took up much of the limited floor space. Not all of the couture pieces were in pristine condition, but Casey had found several that he thought were worth thousands each. In addition to those gems, Casey had determined that the collection as a whole was worth his while, so he planned to buy it all, including accessories.

As Casey made notes, Bruno rummaged through the bureau drawers. He held up a vibrant silk scarf in a geometric pattern. “This would make a great pillow,” he said.

Casey turned to him. He glanced at the scarf and said, “You’re right. If they accept my offer, you can have it.”

“Really?”

“Sure,” the blond shrugged. “Most scarves aren’t really worth much. In fact, you can have them all, unless there’s a limited edition Hermes or something in there.”

“I couldn’t do that,” Bruno said.

“Please do. Honestly, they’re not usually worth enough to waste my time on. I’d donate them. And with Patricia on vacation, I’m going to need your help processing all this. If you can use the scarves for pillows, it would make me feel better.”

“Thanks,” Bruno said.

The ginger idly looked through the racks again, pausing when he came upon Loren’s Cleopatra costume from the Mardi Gras ball. It was in a sad state. What appeared to be red wine stains cascaded down the bodice, and the skirt was ripped at the waist seam. The train was dirty and tattered, and beads and sequins were missing. Only the collar, a large, stiff circle of quilted gold lame’ embroidered with sequins, beads, and faux jewels was intact.

“It looks like Loren must have had fun that night,” Casey said, looking up from his notebook at Bruno’s sound of dismay.

“I guess so. Can it be saved?”

Casey examined it and frowned. “Not worth it. It looks like he had it cleaned, but the stains were too severe. It would cost a fortune to repair….it’s just not worth it for a costume.”

“The collar’s in good shape.”

“But it’s of no use to me. I don’t really do costumes at any rate.”

Something in Bruno protested that this garment that had meant so much to Loren was to be discarded like trash. An idea came to him.

“I know. I had a really cool African neckpiece in a shadow box in the shop a few weeks ago. This…” Bruno gestured to the collar, “....would look fantastic framed like that.

“Then do it. You can add that to your stash.”

After a bit more time, Casey had made his mind up for his bid, and Bruno had found a few more items he could convert into things for his shop, including a rather moth eaten fur stoll that would make great pillows.

The dealers’ preview had been early enough that both Casey and Bruno were only a bit late in opening their respective shops. The day had been busy, but Bruno had found it difficult to concentrate. There had been a certain amount of fun in exploring the drag closet, enough to distract from the circumstances necessitating the exploration, but as the day went on, Bruno couldn’t stop thinking about Loren and his murder.

Bruno tried to distract himself with customers, with paperwork, and when the business day was done with preparing a much more elaborate dinner than usual and with a favorite Netflix series. Still, as he lay in bed, tossing and turning, Bruno couldn’t sleep.

Eventually he gave up, and got out of bed. Bruno didn’t want sleep; he craved companionship, activity, noise, lights. Feeling a little like Sally Bowles with her mantra of “What good is sitting alone in your room?”, Bruno decided to take a shower, get dressed, and hit the Quarter.

Forty-five minutes later, he was there. He had taken an Uber and directed the driver to the Hardy Hole. It was already midnight, and that was one bar that was sure to be still active. Stepping out of the car, Bruno could hear the pulse of music inside the bar and noticed a cluster of guys outside. He had been right, the crowd at the Hole was just getting started.

Bruno had just stepped inside when he felt himself grabbed into a crushing bear hug He was disoriented for a moment because the inside was so much darker that the brightly lit exterior, but then he relaxed when he recognized his assailant's voice as the other man screamed out “BRUNOOOOOO!!!!”

“Frank,” Bruno said, “let go of me I can’t breathe.”

“Sorry,” said the other man, a very cute cub in his mid twenties. “I’m just so glad to see you. It’s been forever.”

“I know. With the store and every thing, I just don’t get out much.”

“Well, you’re here now. Let me buy you a drink.”

“Sure,” said Bruno and followed the bearded man into the fray surrounding the bar.

As they sipped their drinks and talked, Bruno found the tension of the day easing. It felt good to connect with an old friend, to be around other people.

“Let me get the next round,” Bruno said, reaching for his wallet.

“Sorry,” Frank said, checking the time on his phone. “I don't have time. I need to head out to meet my fiance. We’re planning to see Skyler’s show. Want to come with me?”

“No, I think I’ll stay here. But tell your hot professor I said ‘hello.’”

“Will do,” said Frank, a smile on his handsome face. He kissed Bruno on the cheek and headed out.

After his friend left, Bruno ordered another drink. He turned with his back to the bar as he sipped. He felt other men’s eyes on himself. Bruno had taken some care with his appearance, choosing a tight, black v-neck tee and slim black jeans that showed off his lean, toned body. He had left his shoulder length hair loose, and the auburn waves gleamed under the pendants that lit the bar. Still, though Bruno watched the crowd, he tried to avoid those hungry gazes. He wasn’t here to hook up; just to forget about life for a while. To just coast in a comfortably numb haze for a few hours.

“Hey,” said a deep voice to his left.

Sighing inwardly, Bruno turned. He didn’t want to be rude, but he wasn’t in the mood to fend off an admirer. When Bruno saw the man beside him, he gasped.

“Detective Venturi?”

“I’m off-duty. You can call me Waylon.” A smile lightened the handsome face.

“Hi, Waylon. I never would have expected to see you here.”

“Well, it is a bar known for discretion. Plus, I’m almost 100% guaranteed not to run into my colleagues here.”

“I guess so.”

“Buy you a drink?” Venturi gestured to the empty glass in Bruno’s hand. Bruno rarely drank more than a glass or two of wine these days, and he had had two Irish whiskeys on the rocks. He knew getting a third was a supremely foolish idea. Bruno nodded ‘yes’ to Waylon.

The cop flagged down the bartender, ordering a beer for himself and a Jameson for Bruno.

“So,” Waylon said, leaning in closer to Bruno, “I haven’t seen you here before.”

“Well, I don’t come here anymore. It’s ironic. I actually met Sammy here, but after we started dating, I stopped coming. It’s a meat market, so he didn’t like me coming here. And after the store opened, I just haven’t had the time.”

“A meat market,” Waylon repeated. “Is that why you’re here tonight? You're in the market?”

Bruno felt hot, like he was flushed with fever, and it wasn’t the stuffy, crowded bar.

“I wasn’t,” he said, liquid courage flowing in his veins, “but I did see something I’d like.”

“Really,” Waylon said, pausing to sip from the beer loosely held in his fingers. He leaned in even closer to the redhead, the faint, spicy scent of his aftershave more intoxicating than an amber liquid. “And would that be?” he drawled.

Bruno sipped some more courage. “I think you know,” he said, staring hungrily at Waylon.

The handsome detective’s eyes shone as he gazed at the younger man. Waylon reached out a large hand, gently stroking Bruno’s mane. “I love your hair,” Waylon said. “It makes you look like something out of a Pre Raphaelite painting.”

“You’re into art?”

Waylon smiled a wolfish smile. “I don’t know a lot about art, but I know what I like when I see it.”

The kiss, when it came, melted Bruno’s insides. It was warmth and passion and sweetness and madness, and he felt like he could never get enough of it. They had made it back to Bruno’s apartment, the 10 minute drive seeming to never end before he tasted Waylon's lips. The cop had fallen on the redhead just inside the back door, pressing the lean frame under his own formidable bulk.

Waylon’s touch had been demanding, fervent, and Bruno had yielded to the older man willingly. Had yielded with whimpers and gasps and cries of pleasure. And in the aftermath, sated and boneless, Bruno had drifted off in Waylon’s cocooning embrace.

Hours later, as the pre-dawn sky lightened, Bruno awoke, somehow sensing that his source of warmth and comfort had been withdrawn.

He sat up, blinking in the dim light seeping through his lightly shaded windows. Waylon was sitting on a nearby chair, tying his shoes. The cop noticed Bruno was awake.

“Oh, hi,” he said, a somewhat sheepish expression on his face. “I was just about to wake you. I wanted to make sure you locked up after me.”

“Do you want some coffee, or something,” Bruno said, yawning and trying to read the situation. The midnight passions had been replaced by awkwardness.

“No, I don’t have time. Look…” Waylon began.

Bruno held up a hand. It had been a long time, three years, in fact, but he recognized this routine. “You don’t have to say anything. Last night was…..amazing,” he admitted, “but I don’t think this is a good idea.”

Relief flooded Waylon’s face. “Bruno, you’re a great guy, but I’m not ready for ....”

“Me either." Bruno cut him off. "Sure you don’t want coffee?”

“No, but walk me out, and lock up after me.”

Bruno slid out of bed and slipped into the boxer briefs he spied lying next to the bed. He followed Waylon down the stairs and to the back entrance which opened into the kitchen. Before leaving, Waylon turned to Bruno and took his face between his hands.

“Last night was amazing,” the cop said before leaning down and kissing Bruno gently on his lips. “Take care of yourself.” Then he was gone.

Bruno glanced at the clock on the microwave. 4 a.m. He would never get back to sleep and needed to be up in a couple of hours anyway, so he decided to put on some coffee. Last night, Bruno told himself as he measured water and ground beans, had been a one time only thing, a casual hookup. Wonderful as it had been, it had been a mistake, and he was glad Waylon felt the same.

Unfortunately, Bruno had always been a shitty liar, even when it came to himself.