The Trouble With Hairy, page 19
part #2 of West Hollywood Vampires Series
“Goddammit, Christopher, you’ve known me long enough. Stop calling me that! It makes me feel old.”
“Pamela,” Chris said, pleased that Burman had returned to her normal irritable self. “I think someone’s trying to frame him. Another werewolf.”
“You mean we’ve got two?” Pamela, who had assumed that the evening couldn’t possibly hold any additional surprises, was very surprised she’d been wrong.
“Trust me,” Clive told her, sadly, “I know how you feel.”
“I know we get a lot of weirdos coming to town for Gay Pride every year,” Burman continued. “But this…” She pointed at Louis, cringed a bit and drained the rest of her drink.
Chris froze and suddenly slapped his forehead. “Stupid!” he chastised himself aloud. “Stupid, stupid, stupid! Dumb, dumb, dumb!”
“What, what, what?” asked Becky, mimicking him.
“Of course! Gay Pride!” He stood up, abruptly and turned to face the others. “What better way to make certain Louis gets caught? A murder during Gay Pride.”
“Huh?” Becky wasn’t following.
“Four hundred thousand people coming into the city for the parade, the festival and to celebrate Gay Pride. Add one or more murders and a gay werewolf. Don’t you see?”
“He’s gay, too?” Burman asked weakly. “Now, I’ve heard everything.”
“All that’s missing is the wolfsbane. Can you imagine if Louis were to touch some? Right after a murder was discovered? Right in the middle of all those people?”
“There’d be a panic when he changed,” Clive said slowly. “People would be injured in the rush to get away. Maybe even killed.”
“And if someone killed Louis during the confusion, he’d change back into human form. Everyone would assume he was just another victim of the panic. No evidence that he was anything other than human. The wolf would be chalked up to mass hysteria or, at the most, a stray German shepherd,” Chris finished.
Louis was paying close attention, his lupine eyes filled with an unnatural intelligence.
“There’d be an autopsy,” Becky protested. “Something would show up, I don’t know, in the genes, the internal organs, somewhere.”
“But the autopsy would take place here,” Chris said. “You’d be the one doing it. Maybe this isn’t quite the right time to mention this but…” Chris hesitated and carefully avoided looking at Burman. “After the network we set up last fall, word got out. Our people feel safe here. Slowly but surely, some of us are moving into this city.”
“Great,” said Burman, “I can just imagine what the next census form is gonna look like. ‘With regard to your principal residence, do you rent, own, hang from the rafters or live in a kennel?’ ”
“Oh, not the werewolves,” Chris assured her. “They won’t leave their packs. I’m talking about the rest of us.”
“Thanks,” Burman’s sarcasm was impossible to miss. “That makes me feel a whole heck of a lot better.”
“Your theory makes sense,” said Becky, who’d been thinking it over. “At least, it’s the best we have.” She spread her arms, questioning. “So now what do we do? Let him loose so he can pick someone up and, hopefully, we can catch the bad guy? Or keep him here at Pamela’s until Gay Pride and hope the killer makes his move then?”
“Now hold on just a goddamned minute,” Burman said. “Here? What the hell makes you think he’s gonna stay here?”
“He can’t stay with us,” Chris said. “Troy’s allergic.”
“My chest gets all tight and I can’t breathe. Anyway, we’re about to move to a place on Crescent Heights.”
“Don’t look at me,” Becky protested as Pam did. “I’m in a one bedroom. You’ve got two. Besides, I’ve got two illegal cats and a tank of tropical fish.”
“So?” Burman asked belligerently.
“Pamela,” Becky began, shaking her head in mock disappointment. “I’m surprised at you. Don’t forget Daniel’s legislation last year. The pet limitation laws? Three pets per household.”
The coroner tried to repress a grin as Burman purpled at the mayor’s name. “You wouldn’t want me to violate a West Hollywood ordinance, would you?”
“Fish were supposed to be exempt,” Burman said, in disgusted defeat. She turned toward Clive, confrontational.
“So, what’s your excuse?” she demanded.
Clive held up his hands helplessly. “I’ve got this thing…” he started and then, blushed and stopped.
“This thing?” Burman’s tone told him he’d better spit it out or risk being on the receiving end of the frying pan himself.
“Chris is trying to help me with it but…well, it’s kind of a phobia.”
“A werewolf phobia,” Burman said flatly and Clive nodded. “You were pretty chummy with Old Yeller there a few minutes ago.”
“That’s here. Now. With all of you in the room.” He shook his head sadly. “No, if I had to live with him for three weeks, I’d be a nervous wreck.”
“What the fuck do you think I’m gonna be?” she shouted. “Calm, cool and collected?”
“That’s different, Pam,” Becky chided. “None of us would be very comfortable… Nothing personal, Louis… But, Clive’s got a legitimate problem. You don’t know what we had to go through back at the station.”
“Try me,” Burman’s face was set with determination.
“Later,” said Chris, firmly. “Look, Ms. Burman…Pamela…your apartment is the only option.”
“You don’t have to worry,” Troy piped in again. “I’m sure he’s had his distemper shots.”
Louis glared at him, got up and padded softly across the room toward the sofa as Troy scooted away. He stood, looking at Burman hopefully for a moment, and then, to everyone’s surprise, put his head down in her lap.
“If he does this while he’s human,” Burman said, uncomfortably, “the neighbors are gonna talk.”
“Yeah,” Clive grinned, “Ed Larsen at The Gay Gazette would have a field day.”
“Unfunny,” Burman snapped. “Very unfunny.” Unconsciously, she began to rub Louis’ fur behind the ears as the rest of them looked at her expectantly. Louis began making a low, rumbling sound of contentment.
“Reminds me of a husky I had as a kid,” she commented. She remained quiet for a moment or so, thinking.
“All right,” she said finally. “He can stay.”
She turned to glare at Becky, “But you come over and walk him twice a day and you…” she turned to Clive, “…are gonna pay for the dog food.”
Burman looked down into her lap as she felt something odd occurring down there. All at once, she was in the uncomfortable position of rubbing the head of a very human, very naked, and when he stood up, very virile young man.
“Thank’s ma’am,” Louis said. “I really appreciate it.” He began to gather his clothing from the floor. “I won’t be any bother. I promise. And I can do my own…ah…cooking.”
“That’s another thing,” Clive said. “What are we gonna do about all those cats and dogs?”
“Not to mention George Hilton’s pig,” Burman said. “That idiot Eversleigh even called me to complain,” she added by way of explanation.
“Louis is going to promise to restrain himself. Isn’t that right Louis?” Chris’ tone brooked no argument.
“Yeah,” he mumbled, truculently, “I suppose so.”
“You’ll have to get him fresh meat,” Chris told Pamela. He pulled his wallet from his back pocket. “The fresher the better.” He took out a few bills and started to count them.
“Go to the Chalet Gourmet on Sunset,” Becky recommended. “They’re expensive but everything’s real fresh.”
“Here’s five,” said Chris, handing the money to Pamela. “Will that do?” he asked at her shocked silence.
“Christopher,” she said quietly, “These are thousands. They don’t even make ’em anymore. You could buy half the super market with this.”
“I’m sorry,” said Chris. “You’ve got to remember who I live with. He goes out to pick up a pair of underwear and the bill comes in at two or three thousand dollars — not that he actually wears underwear. Look, keep it anyway. For the inconvenience. Use it to try and replace some of your things that you lost last fall. Or give it to charity if you feel like it.”
Becky reached across Chris’ chest and plucked one of the bills from Burman’s hand. “For the Homeless Shelter,” she explained.
Clive whistled softly, “Where the hell do you get that much money, throwing it around like that?”
Chris shrugged. “I made good investments?”
“Good?” Clive exclaimed. He sighed with envy, “Man, they were fantastic.”
“Well, it was in 1810 or so. I think one of them was Atlantic-Pacific Railroad or maybe Pennsylvania Steel.” He shrugged again to indicate that money wasn’t a big concern. “I lost a bundle during the depression.”
“1929,” Burman said, nodding knowingly. “My parents almost lost the house.”
“No, the one before that. But somehow, even with the way Troy spends, there’s always more.”
“Mama always told me to marry money,” Troy quipped. He turned to Burman, “You’re gonna need every penny if Scooby Doo decides to go potty on your rugs.”
“Can it, queen,” said Louis, irritably.
“Oh, sooo butch! Why don’t you go chase a car or something?” Troy shot back.
“Cut it out,” Becky ordered. “Both of you.” She turned to Burman. “So, it’s settled then. You’ll keep him here. And you’ll keep it quiet.”
“You think I want everyone to know I got a naked kid in here? Young enough to be my grandson? Who am I gonna tell?”
“Gotcha,” Becky said and stood up. Her face was suddenly split with a huge yawn. “Oh! Excuse me. I’m so damned tired, I’m not even hungry.” She turned to Pam. “You think the city manager would mind if the coroner showed up late for work tomorrow?” she joked.
“Listen, you,” Burman snapped, “just because you’re out there playing Van Helsing doesn’t mean you can waste tax payer dollars.”
“Pamela,” Becky allowed her irritation to show. “It’s two something in the morning and Clive and I still have to stop by Louis’ apartment.”
“Do what?” asked Clive, startled.
“Clothes,” Becky said, waving an arm in the direction of the still naked Louis. “He can’t keep wearing that junk we gave him from the jail. Anyway,” she paused, a look of mischief on her face as she said to Clive sweetly, “I’m sure you wanna take a look around his apartment. For clues.”
“Actually…” Clive began, uncomfortably.
“Clive…” Becky’s tone was a warning.
“Oh, all right.” He stood up. “But if I wind up as a Milk Bone Biscuit…”
“So it’s settled.” Becky turned to Burman. “We’ll be in late tomorrow.”
“Oh, all right,” Burman grumbled. “But I’m calling your office at noon to make sure you’re there,” she warned.
Chris rose to stand beside the coroner. “Follow me to our place so I can drop Troy off. I don’t want him all puffy-eyed from werewolf dander.”
Becky looked at him, a question in her eyes.
“Remember Daniel and the lions’ den?” Chris asked gently. “I don’t know about you but I’m sure Clive would feel better if I came over to Louis’ apartment with you. God knows what’s waiting in that apartment.”
“Thanks a lot,” Clive said miserably. “You just had to remind me, didn’t you?” He shook his head sadly. “Somehow I never saw myself as Little Red Riding Hood.”
“Good enough,” Becky said as she moved toward the door. On her way, she stopped and turned to Troy. “I want to see you,” she said, “at the morgue at twelve thirty sharp.”
“Huh?” he asked, confused.
“We made sure Clive wasn’t gonna get the screaming mimis the minute he sees the killer, right?”
“So?” Troy asked.
“What good do you think you’re gonna be if we have a repeat performance of what happened to you at the station today? Not to mention Chris. If the rest of us run into trouble, do you think he’s gonna be able to help us with you turning blue over in the corner?” She turned to Chris.
“What’s his biochemistry like?” she asked, a professional note creeping into her voice.
“Normal, I guess,” Chris answered, puzzled.
“Normal?” Becky’s disbelief was evident. “Look at him. He’s what? Almost a hundred years old? That’s not normal. John Travolta didn’t look half so good in Staying Alive and he was less than half Troy’s age.”
“I was born in 1927,” Troy announced proudly.
“Twenty-seven?” Burman was astounded. “Incredible. Why, I was born in nineteen…” Her voice trailed off as the others looked at her, expectantly. “Forget it,” she snapped. “You’ll find out when Larsen prints my fucking obituary.”
“Well,” Chris continued, “he needs to eat like a normal person. God knows, his alcohol consumption is higher than average but, in this town, who’d notice? He just doesn’t age.”
“And I don’t need much sleep,” Troy added, “and I never get sick.”
“Fine,” Becky said with determination, “We’ll start with running some tests.”
“Wait a minute Becky,” Chris said, moving to stand protectively between her and Troy. “I’m missing something.”
Becky looked surprised. “Wasn’t I clear?” she asked. “I’m gonna figure out how to give him allergy shots.”
CHAPTER 11
The Manhattan penthouse apartment was gorgeously furnished but seemingly empty of life — as in fact it was. The late morning light seeped in past the heavy velvet curtains, catching the glint of the gold brocade wall paper, causing it to sparkle faintly.
The living room alone was furnished with enough Italian Renaissance originals to give even the most restrained Sntiquarian wet dreams for months. Two Botticelli’s hung on one wall, one representing Daphne in the Glen, the other of Aeneas and Dido, both authentic, yet neither one appeared in any catalogue or textbook dealing with the artist’s work. There was a small Michelangelo sketch, framed between two pieces of airtight glass, of an adolescent male nude, crouching down to tease a small tortoise with a twig.
If a visitor had moved from the living area into the dining room, he would have been amazed at the dichotomy of the owner’s taste in art. There were three Picassos, two of them in somber blues, the third, a sketch on the back of a paper restaurant placemat, all of them signed. Bursts of brighter color were supplied by the addition of a Klee and a huge Peter Maxx.
Most of the furnishings of the apartment, although clearly functional, were chosen for their beauty rather than for their practicality. One of the few modern touches, sitting on a beautifully carved wooden Italian Grotto Table, was a small white telephone next to a digital machine.
The silence of the penthouse was disturbed by the telephone’s gentle trill. It rang thrice before the double French doors leading from the hallway opened and a stunning, raven haired-woman emerged, bearing a striking resemblance to both the Daphne and Dido. She yawned once, daintily and, gathering her satin bedgown around herself, she caught the telephone on the fifth ring.
“Sylvia, pronto,” she answered, her voice a pleasantly musical alto.
“Hercule Legrande,” came the rough reply.
Sylvia sighed. As the universally accepted social leader of the East Coast vampires, she had, unfortunately, last had to speak with her lupine counterpart a scant nine months before. Her lips involuntarily tightened at the thought of the cost of the repairs which Hercule and his pack’s visit to the community room of her building had necessitated. She forced herself to relax and to speak cordially.
“Hercule! What an unexpected pleasure!” She glanced at the lightening room. “Darling, I’d love to chat, but it’s well after dawn. I was asleep. Is it important?”
“Oui. Would I be calling if it weren’t?”
Sylvia sighed again. As usual, Hercule’s tone was demanding, rude and unpleasant. The image of the werewolf even attempting a smile eluded her.
“Are Lillian and the kids all right?” she asked, a tinge of concern coloring her voice. Although she found the younger members of Hercule’s pack to be largely ill-mannered, destructive brutes, his wife, Lillian, was one of the few members of the lupine race who she actually liked.
“All’s fine here,” he replied tersely. “It’s California.”
Oh, God, she prayed, not another one.
Her thoughts returned to the previous fall when she had led a worldwide search to discover the identity of the rogue vampire plaguing the Los Angeles area. Her lips pursed once again at the thought of the credit card bills that had mounted due to the visit from an ancient Hungarian vampire who had been of invaluable assistance, but had also returned home with nearly a quarter million dollars worth of new dresses, furs and jewelry.
“What’s wrong?” she asked. “Don’t tell me it’s another rogue.”
“An outcast,” Hercule said, with mild disgust. An outcast was a werewolf who, for any one of a dozen reasons, had broken the rigid social mores of the lycanthrope culture and had been thrown out of the pack.
“Hercule, dear,” Sylvia began, frustrated by Hercule’s lack of exposition. “We can stand here playing twenty questions until the sun comes all the way up or you can tell me what’s going on.”
“Cousins. In Albuquerque. The family name is Chartreuse.”
Sylvia’s brow furrowed in thought, “Dennis Chartreuse? I knew him in Paris, I think.”
“Non, Dennis died in ’66. This is le fils, the son, Etienne.”
“I’m sorry. I rather liked him,” Sylvia said in an effort to be polite. Actually, she’d despised the man; he had been an insufferable bore and had once showed up at one of her parties, uninvited and unannounced, and had promptly peed on the Aubesson carpet to mark territory in her sitting room, causing several of her more sanguinary friends to beat a hasty departure.
“Dead now,” said Hercule.
“Yes, you told me,” Sylvia resolved not to interrupt again, hoping Hercule would get to the point before high noon. “I’m listening.”
