Murder in the Dressing Room, page 26
But now I’m riddled with guilt. It’s all I can think about.
I’m sorry to take this way out, but I’m poisoning myself to balance the score, cosmically speaking. To die in the same way as Lady Lady to make up for what I’ve done. I hope it works.
Thank you, for helping me,
Den
Just as Misty had finished reading the letter there was a tap on the front window of the car. DI Davies opened the front door and sat in the driver’s seat.
“We’re going to the station,” he said.
“I’ll call my solicitor,” said Misty. She didn’t want to go to the station again—not with DI Davies. She didn’t want to be searched and photographed and stripped and put in the cold hard cell again. She needed Mr. McDermott, and she needed him urgently.
“You’re not under arrest. Not yet,” said DI Davies.
“I know,” said Misty. “I’d just be more comfortable with Mr. McDermott present.”
* * *
—
Mr. McDermott arrived, not in his usual suit and tie, but in a gym workout outfit that Misty honestly found to be a little gratuitous in the pectoral area.
“Sorry,” he said, “I came straight over.”
“No need to apologize,” said Misty. “Thanks for coming.”
“Okay,” said DI Davies with a deep, serious tone. “Let’s get started.”
Misty squeezed her fingertips beneath the table to keep them from trembling. Lady Lady, Auntie Susan, the Red Egg, Den’s twisted poisoned face…and here she was, right in the middle of all of it.
* * *
—
Misty talked through a version of events that was as close to the truth as possible. That she was worried Den might have been involved with the Kensington Catburglar because she’d spoken to Florentina and that she wanted to ask him face-to-face.
“You do know what this is starting to look like, don’t you?” said DI Davies.
“What’s that?” asked Misty.
“A pattern.”
“A pattern?”
“Well, how often does a person find a poisoned body? And to find two in a week? You’re either very unlucky or very very clever.”
“Are you accusing my client of something, Detective Inspector?” said Mr. McDermott. “Because you certainly better have some evidence. My understanding is that there was a suicide note at the crime scene, a confession?”
“Yes,” said DI Davies. “Looks like the case is closed. Unless your client happens upon another body.”
Misty sighed with relief.
34
DS Hughes offered to drive Misty home after she’d given her statement, and she accepted.
“I’m really sorry, by the way, for DI Davies,” said Hughes. “He’s a bit of a prick, but he’s been doing his best to find the murderer, I promise. If you ever need to talk about what you’ve gone through this week, please call me. I’m here for you, Misty.”
“Thank you,” said Misty, thinking that she would never, ever, call her.
Misty got out of the car and walked up the stairs to the flat. It was a warm evening and the breeze felt good on her face. Her mouth tasted of cigarette and she wanted another one.
She got to the front door of the flat and let herself in. Miles came rushing out of the kitchen and wrapped his arms around her.
“What the fuck? What happened?”
“He killed himself, Miles. Den. He killed Lady Lady and then he killed himself.”
“Oh my God, how do you know?”
“He left a note explaining everything. That Lady Lady had found the dress in the dressing room and wanted to wear it. He poisoned her when she realized what it was.”
“Oh my God. That’s awful. I’m so so sorry.”
He leaned forward and hugged her tightly.
“I need to take this drag off,” she said.
“Of course. Go get changed and I’ll make us something to eat. Sandwiches okay?”
“Sounds good,” said Misty. “Thanks, Miles.”
Misty got out of drag and felt relieved. Relieved to be taking off the costume, relieved to have solved the mystery, to have followed the clues to Den’s house. She was also angry—with Den. So incredibly angry that somebody who she thought was her friend could do such a thing. How could she trust anyone again if someone as unsuspecting as Den could be a mastermind cat burglar and a murderer?
She was angry about Lady Lady, that he’d killed her, taken her life away forever, because of a stolen dress. What a pointless and stupid reason for two people to die.
As Misty rubbed the makeup off her face, she felt furious.
* * *
—
Joe stepped into the shower to try to wash the day away. The meeting with Auntie Susan; the argument with Miles in the toilets; the cloudy, lifeless gaze of Den’s dead eyes…It all swam around in Joe’s brain as they washed their hair with soft, silky shampoo and scrubbed their face.
They still couldn’t process it properly. That Den had been capable of all that. But there it was, in black and white. It was over.
They dried off and then put on some jogging bottoms and a T-shirt. Miles had made curried chickpea sandwiches, with salt and vinegar crisps. They sat at the table to eat.
“So, that’s it,” said Miles, taking a bite of sandwich.
“That’s it,” said Joe.
“I can’t believe it,” said Miles. “Den. Gone. I know we were suspecting him, and he seemed so defensive the other night, but I wasn’t expecting him to turn up dead.”
“Me neither,” said Joe. “In a morbid kind of way, the investigation was weirdly fun when we were making the lists in the notebook and whatnot—like an episode of something. It was strangely hypothetical, but now it feels real. One of my friends was a murderer and killed himself. It’s too much to think about.”
“Yeah,” said Miles, “it’s awful.”
They ate in silence for a while before Miles spoke again.
“Shall we just watch some TV after this? Try to take our minds off it all? Are you up for a Criminal Minds?”
“Honestly, Miles, I think I might just need to sleep.”
There was no more investigating to do. The mystery was over.
35
Thursday
Joe woke at 9 a.m. and rolled over to find Miles was already up. The bed was empty. Joe stretched out their long arms and legs like a starfish in the middle of the duvet.
They felt lighter this morning, brighter, as though an enormous weight had been lifted from their shoulders. They were no longer a murder suspect, they were no longer in danger at the club, Lady Lady’s killer had been found…It was only good news. Well, not for Den.
They almost bounced out of bed.
“I want Pop-Tarts, Miles. I just want Pop-Tarts for breakfast today,” they said as they walked into the kitchen.
Miles laughed as Joe went to the junk food cupboard—the one where they kept the crisps and the Party Rings—and grabbed a box of apple Pop-Tarts. They ripped off the foil wrappers and dropped them into the toaster. They felt almost giddy.
It was the shock, surely, they thought. It wasn’t normal to feel happy after you had just found your friend’s body. It was the shock. And the relief that justice had finally been found for their beloved drag mother. They’d really done it. They’d really found Lady Lady’s killer.
“How are you feeling?” asked Miles.
“I feel relieved mostly and sad. Is that weird?”
“I don’t think so,” said Miles. “It’s been pretty stressful. I’m not surprised you’re relieved.”
The toaster popped and two steaming hot pastries jumped up out of it. Joe caught them and dropped them onto a plate. They were too hot to eat yet.
“I’m just glad that we know who did it,” said Joe, “and to know that we’re not in any more danger. That the whole thing is over before Lady Lady’s memorial tomorrow. Would have been strange celebrating her life while her murderer was still on the loose.”
“I bet,” said Miles.
Joe picked up a Pop-Tart by the corner and blew on it, cooling it down before taking a big bite.
“So, what’s your plan for today?”
“I’m going to the bar,” said Joe. “Florentina never replied, about making a new dress for the reopening tomorrow. So I think I’m going to wear one of Lady Lady’s from her dressing room. They haven’t been auctioned yet, and I thought it would be fitting with me taking over from her at the club.”
Miles left and went to work and Joe got ready slowly, with the television on in the living room. They dressed in their most nonbinary finery, feeling confident as Joe for the first time in a long time. They put on a pair of pink jeans and a loose bright blue silk blouse. They matched it with a pair of boots that they’d spray-painted gold and a chunky gold chain and checked themself out in the mirror. They looked hot.
This confidence felt new. There was something fresh and revitalizing about it, as though finding out who killed Lady Lady, starting a new life at the club—all these things together had boosted Joe up an extra five inches taller.
Everything made sense now. Den had been skint and had turned to stealing to pay the rent. Joe guessed he’d got greedy, progressing from the stolen jewelry he’d tried to sell to Florentina to the valuables of the rich people of Chelsea. Lady Lady had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, it seemed, discovering the Judy Garland gown in the dressing rooms and uncovering Den’s secret life. He had killed her to keep her quiet. And Joe supposed they could understand why, to a certain extent. Den had had nothing—he’d been broke, begging friends for money—and suddenly he had in his hands an eleven-million-pound ruby. He’d found a new life, one he wanted to protect. Lady Lady was collateral damage on Den’s path to riches.
* * *
—
As they walked, they reviewed everything that had happened in the last week: the murder, meeting Anna Bowman, the new job at Lady’s Bar, meeting Auntie Susan, finding Den…So much had happened. But everything would be different from now on. They’d be performing every day, booking the Lady’s Bar lineups, meeting with Florentina once a week to discuss custom designs. It was a dream come true. The only dark blotch on this bright, new life was the bribery—the money the bar was giving to the council to keep from being taken over. Joe pushed the thought away. One thing at a time, they told themself.
They passed the British Museum, always astonished at the patience of those standing in the queue to get in. Then they walked down Tottenham Court Road to Cambridge Circus and turned right onto Shaftesbury Avenue, wanting to stroll a little, to take in London a bit before going to the office. They passed casinos and Chinese restaurants and famous theaters until they reached Piccadilly Circus. Joe noticed how people were looking at their clothes. The oversized silk blouse was billowing in the summer wind, and the bright blue color of it was certainly striking. They didn’t care that people were looking, not today.
Piccadilly Circus was beautiful, Joe thought. Tall, grand buildings surrounded the busy junction and, on one side of the square, were covered in enormous video screens advertising everything from West End shows to Coca-Cola. They stopped for a moment and took it all in. It felt nice to have nothing more serious to think about, to have the freedom to allow their brain to think about something other than murder and stolen dresses.
As they reached the outside of the Criterion Theatre they noticed something, someone they recognized. It was Plimberley, across the street, getting off the bus with armfuls of shopping.
Plimberley wasn’t in drag, and out of drag her style was fairly unremarkable. She wore a light gray tracksuit and blended in with the crowd. Joe waved as Plimberley looked in their direction, trying to get her attention.
“Plim!” they called across the street. “Plim!”
Plimberley looked up and waved at Joe.
“Misty!” she called. She rushed across the street and planted kisses on either side of Joe’s face.
“How are you, love?” asked Joe.
Plimberley was so much younger than Joe, and talking to her always felt a little like talking to a younger sibling. She was skinny and fragile-looking and Joe always had the impression that she needed protecting from the world, that she was an innocent lost in a big city. Of course that wasn’t true. Plimberley was young, but she was strong, and fiery. She’d survived a lot in her short life and certainly didn’t need Joe’s protection.
“Did you hear?” said Plimberley. “About Den?”
“I was the one who found him.”
“No way! Was it gross?”
“What do you mean, gross?” asked Joe.
“Finding a dead body. Was it as gross as Lady Lady?”
“Yeah, Plim, it was pretty terrible.”
“Fuck,” said Plimberley. “I just can’t believe it, you know. That Den did those things. It’s all everyone’s talking about.”
They talked for a few minutes on the side of the street, and those few minutes were mostly Plimberley talking and Joe nodding along. Eventually, Joe grew tired of listening to her. She was primarily just repeating the rumors and gossip, and Joe knew that as soon as they left her, she’d be writing in her WhatsApp groups that Misty had been the one to find him. They wished they hadn’t told her.
Joe tuned back just as Plimberley was saying goodbye. “I’ll see you tomorrow anyway, for the reopening. I’m doing Gaga.”
Joe grinned, knowing that Plimberley was planning to put on an amazing show for Lady Lady’s memorial. Her Gaga number was known across the drag scene for being totally iconic. Clips of it on YouTube and TikTok had hundreds of thousands of views.
And then, unexpectedly, Plimberley pulled Joe into a tight hug and said quietly into their ear, “I’m so sorry you were the one who found the body. That must have been terrible.”
36
When Joe arrived at Lady’s Bar they found the door unlocked. They walked down the stairs to the auditorium and passed through to the office.
As they stepped inside, Mandy jumped up from her desk and ran to give them a hug. “Misty, I heard about Den, that he killed Lady Lady! That you found him! I just heard.”
Plimberley spread the word quickly, it seemed.
“I’m so sorry,” said Mandy.
“Thanks,” said Joe, allowing her to hug them for a few seconds before pulling away. “It was kind of horrible.”
“Well, listen, everything’s under control for the show tomorrow, so if you need to take today off, get your head straight, that’s no problem.” Mandy tucked the corner of her bob back behind her ear.
“I’d rather be working,” said Joe. “I’m okay, really.”
And they were okay. Deep inside they were devastated about Den, but they also felt a lightness, a calm feeling that danger had passed now that the murderer had been caught and they were no longer a suspect themself.
“I’ll work on next week’s lineups,” they said, “and get the posters done.”
“I’ll make the tea.”
Joe settled down behind the laptop and began sending out emails to finalize the lineups for the following week. They were trying to keep true to how Lady Lady had booked her shows: A combination of new and old acts, a mix of comedy and singing and cabaret. And a great headliner. Always a great headliner.
“Well, sad as it is about Den,” said Mandy, putting down a pile of invoices in a huff, “and don’t get me wrong, it is sad—I don’t like anyone dying like that—but I feel so disgusted with him, Misty, for what he did to Lady Lady. And so angry with him.”
“Me too,” said Joe. “I don’t know how to reconcile it. I can’t match up the Den I thought I knew with the murderer. How are they the same person, Mandy? Right under our noses the whole time.”
“I don’t know,” said Mandy. “I just don’t know.”
* * *
—
The afternoon passed quickly, and within a few hours of emailing and texting and telephoning, they’d managed to confirm the lineups for the whole of next week. Everybody wanted to come back to work at Lady’s Bar as soon as possible.
Joe decided that they’d take a break from the computer and went to Lady Lady’s dressing room, which was soon to be theirs. Misty Divine’s very own. They opened the door and stepped inside. They hadn’t been in there since the death of Lady Lady, and seeing the room where she died was suddenly overwhelming.
Pushing back tears, Joe took a deep breath and walked across the room to Lady Lady’s costume rails, looking for something to wear at the reopening.
As they slid costumes across the rail, they examined them one at a time. The craftsmanship was exquisite. Each costume had been individually made by Florentina, and rhinestones and sequins had been hand-stitched onto every one. They were all so gorgeous.
Joe settled on a silver sequin suit with a shiny black blouse underneath. The edges were lined with black embroidery, giving the lapels sharp pointed corners and clean lines. It was beautiful, and though a little small for Misty, it would be perfect for the reopening. They already knew they’d wear it with the blond hair with the black streak.
They took the hanger off the rail and carried it back to the office.
* * *
—
It was quiet in the club. Joe was looking forward to working the reopening tomorrow, when the bar would be filled with life again, instead of being at a desk with a great big pile of invoices, which didn’t feel a million miles away from their work at the Empire Hotel. There were familiar names to be paid, and Joe went through them one at a time, settling up payments for the shows that had happened at the bar in the days before the murder.
