Murder in the Dressing Room, page 3
By the time DI Davies and DS Hughes returned from the dressing rooms it was nearly 11:30 p.m. and Misty was tired and ready to go home. Misty was interviewed first, in the bar’s big open-plan kitchen. She supposed she was first because she was the one who’d found Lady Lady dead, but she didn’t like it. Everybody had watched as she walked through the bar with the officers, like she was responsible. She felt worried about going into an interview with the police. Should she have a lawyer? Did she need one? Should she ask for one? All she could think about in this moment was Criminal Minds, and she doubted that the highly dramatic methods of a group of renegade profilers with their own private jet bore any similarity to how the Metropolitan Police operated when confronted with a poisoned drag queen.
I don’t want to do this, she thought as she sat down in front of Davies and Hughes.
“What’s your name?” said DI Davies, tapping a pen against his knee.
The tap, tap, tap instantly set Misty on edge. “Misty Divine,” she said without even thinking.
“No, your real name,” said Davies.
“Joe…Joe Brown.” It felt strange to introduce herself as Joe while in drag. There was a clear mental divide that happened when she put the drag on—Joe wasn’t there. Joe was away taking a break somewhere until the wig came off.
“Joe,” said DI Davies, “tell us what happened tonight. Start at the beginning.”
Misty felt irritated that he had called her Joe. Not that this conversation didn’t warrant Joe’s presence, but because DI Davies had made the decision for her. He thought he could be the one to decide, and that pissed Misty off. It stank. It was a fleeting irritation but one she registered in a new mental log about her dealings with the police.
“Well, after the show, I went to see that Lady Lady was all right, and I overheard her arguing with Mandy.” As soon as she said it, she regretted it. She shouldn’t have mentioned the argument to the police—Mandy might not have done anything wrong.
“Mandy White? The owner?”
“The co-owner,” said Misty, “yes.”
“Now, did you hear what Ms. White and Mr. Fulton were arguing about?”
Mr. Fulton!
“I’m sorry, DI Davies, but nobody called Lady Lady Mr. Fulton. She hasn’t used that name for decades and, honestly, it feels disrespectful. But, no, I didn’t hear what they were arguing about. I arrived just as Mandy left.” She wished she could go back in time two minutes and keep Mandy and Lady Lady’s argument a secret. This DI Davies was clearly an asshole.
“And then what happened?”
No apology, Misty noted.
“Lady Lady came out asking who had been in her room. Somebody had left those chocolates for her, and she wanted to say thank you.”
“So, Mr. Fulton brought the chocolates to the group dressing rooms?”
Misty felt her chest prickling with sweat. She was annoyed. “Yes, Lady Lady brought the chocolates to the dressing rooms.”
“But he didn’t offer you one.”
“No. She just said, ‘Thank you,’ and then went back to her room. Then we heard a thud and a glass break, and when I went in to check on her, she was already on the floor. She had a chocolate in her hand and was foaming at the mouth. It looked like she’d been poisoned.”
“Did you touch anything in the room?”
“No,” said Misty. “I just called for help and then the others came. Moneypenny called the ambulance.”
“And Moneypenny’s real name is?”
“I don’t know,” said Misty. It was true. But the way DI Davies had used the word “real,” as if drag identity and persona were somehow unreal, or didn’t exist. Moneypenny was as real a name as Misty was. Misty had DI Davies’s number now, and she didn’t like it.
DS Hughes leaned forward in her chair. “What was your relationship like with Lady Lady?” Hughes was a softer presence and certainly seemed more approachable and understanding. Misty instantly felt more comfortable talking to her than to Davies.
“We were close,” said Misty to DS Hughes. “She was my drag mother.”
“Drag what?” scoffed DI Davies.
“She was your mentor?” asked DS Hughes, ignoring Davies, but answering his question at the same time. “I’ve watched a bit of Drag Race.” She smiled, and DI Davies rolled his eyes.
“Yes, my mentor,” said Misty, shifting in her seat so she was facing Hughes more than Davies. “And we’ve worked together for years. I don’t know how anyone could do this.”
“Do you know where Lady Lady gets her costumes?” asked Hughes.
“Yes, from a designer called Florentina, mostly. She specializes in drag custom pieces.”
“And is that where she got the dress she was wearing tonight?” asked DS Hughes. “From Florentina?”
“I don’t know,” said Misty. What did the dress have to do with anything? “Maybe. Probably not. Florentina normally makes everything herself, and that one looks vintage.”
“Did she tell you anything about the dress she was wearing?”
“No, nothing. I mean, it looked expensive. All those crystals and sequins. I told her it looked nice. But she didn’t tell me anything else. But what does that have to do with anything?”
“When and where did you first see the dress?” asked DI Davies.
Misty frowned. “Maybe seven o’clock, when Lady Lady came out of her dressing room wearing it.”
“Today? And you’d never seen it before today?”
“No! What’s so interesting about the dress?” Misty asked, feeling frustrated by the line of questioning.
“Do you know anybody who would have reason to want to harm Mr. Fulton?” said DI Davies, changing the subject.
“No,” said Misty, still wondering about their extensive interest in the dress but glad they were finally asking something that related to the murder.
DI Davies sighed. “So, there’s nobody you can think of with an axe to grind? Nobody who would want Mr. Fulton dead? Lady Lady…” He said her drag name like he was holding back a throatful of vomit.
“She got along with everybody,” said Misty. “Well, except Auntie Susan. But she hasn’t spoken to her in years.”
“And who is Auntie Susan?” said Davies.
“You know who Auntie Susan is,” said Hughes, shocked at her partner. “Remember? Lady Lady’s TV partner from the nineties. From breakfast telly.”
Before she opened Lady’s Bar, Lady Lady had been part of a famous television comedy double act with fellow drag queen Auntie Susan. They’d interviewed celebrities, presented the weather together, and performed comedy sketches. Misty remembered seeing them on TV when she was little, and though she’d only been working with Lady Lady for the last five years, it felt as if she’d always been part of her life. Lady Lady and Auntie Susan had been a huge hit until they fell out, privately and famously. Lady Lady went on to invest in the Old Compton Street bar with Mandy and became a huge cabaret success, while Auntie Susan vanished into obscurity and now operated a run-down pub on an even more run-down street.
Thoughts of these moments ran through Misty’s brain. A life thoroughly lived, she thought, but one that shouldn’t be over already. Lady Lady had meant so much to Misty: a childhood inspiration, a queer icon, and then a personal friend. She should still be here. Tears brimmed in Misty’s eyes and she tried her best to hold them back—a drag queen instinct to protect the lashes.
Davies shrugged, somehow, almost impossibly, having never heard of Auntie Susan at all. “And you said Lady Lady had some sort of problem with this Auntie Susan?”
“No,” said Misty. “I said they hadn’t spoken in years.”
Misty didn’t like this DI Davies one bit. He was arrogant, and now it felt like he was putting words in her mouth.
“Can I go now?” she asked. “I want to go home.” She wasn’t comfortable in this room anymore, in this small space with this horrible man, and she didn’t have the strength to deal with him tonight, not so soon after losing her friend.
“Yes, fine,” said Davies. “We need to talk to the others anyway.”
Misty sighed heavily as she walked toward the door.
“We’ll come to visit you tomorrow,” said DS Hughes, “to take a more complete statement. Is there a time you’d prefer?” It seemed that DS Hughes was kinder than DI Davies, genuinely caring. There was a hint of something in her eyes that suggested she was annoyed with Davies, too, but that she was hiding it well. Misty almost felt as though she could trust her, but not quite—not after the way Davies had just behaved.
A more complete statement? she thought. She wasn’t sure what else she could possibly tell them and didn’t relish the idea of seeing them again, but hopefully they’d seem less like dickheads in the fresh light of day.
Misty told DS Hughes that she’d prefer the evening, after work. Am I really still planning on going to work tomorrow? Hughes pointed her in the direction of a police officer who would drive her home. Dazed, that’s how she felt, dazed. So much had happened, and her emotions were racing to catch up with her brain. She needed to take off her corset. She felt trapped by it, as if it were squeezing the energy out of her with every second that passed. But she would wait until she got home for that.
As she stepped out of the club onto Old Compton Street, she suddenly found herself on the edge of tears. The coffee shop across the road was where she and Lady Lady would go before a show. Balans, the twenty-four-hour restaurant down the street, was where they’d head for postshow midnight dinners, always with Lady Lady buying champagne for the table. Now, standing on the pavement in her drag, about to step into a police car, Misty realized that all that was over.
She’d really never see Lady Lady again.
3
By the time Misty got home it was after midnight. She lived near Russell Square in a small one-bedroom flat with her boyfriend, Miles, and it wasn’t a long drive from Soho, but one during which she seemed to have plenty of time to think, to start to process the loss, the realization that her friend and mentor was gone forever.
When she opened the front door of the apartment she saw that the kitchen light was still on. He’s waited up for me. Of course he has. The kitchen door swung open and Miles threw himself into the corridor, giving Misty a tight hug with arms that went on forever. His hugs always reminded Misty of a stretchy-armed Hulk Hogan toy her mother had given her as a child.
“I’m so sorry,” said Miles.
“I’m hungry,” replied Misty. She truly was. And she didn’t have the energy to talk about any of it until she’d eaten, that much she knew. A drag queen is a beast who must be fed after a show, especially when there’s been a murder in the dressing room, it seemed.
“Come on, I’ll make us some eggs.” Miles broke the embrace and took Misty’s hand, leading her to the flat’s little kitchen. “Do you want to take your drag off first?”
“No,” said Misty. She wasn’t ready to be Joe just yet. “I’ll eat first.” Being Joe meant returning to the reality of Lady Lady being dead: their friend, their mentor. The reality was one of their friends could have been the killer, and Misty wasn’t ready to face that as Joe. Joe was more emotional, introspective, thoughtful. For now, as Misty, she had a barrier up to the world, to the grief.
Once in the kitchen Misty sat down at the small table, and Miles began pottering, taking eggs from the fridge, a pan from the cupboard. Misty played with her fingernails, tugging gently at a hangnail, finding the focus irresistible to break from.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he said.
“I’m not sure,” said Misty.
“We don’t have to if you don’t want.” Miles started cracking eggs into a glass jug, glancing at Misty over his shoulder, checking that she was okay. He added milk and whisked with a fork until the contents of the jug were a smooth light orange color.
“I just can’t believe she’s gone,” said Misty.
“I know,” replied Miles. “She was such a big personality. It’s strange to think of life without her.” He sounded sad, as Misty expected a lot of people would over the coming days. Lady Lady was an integral part of the cultural landscape, and losing her was going to be hard for a lot of people. “I feel really cut up about it,” he said. Though not a drag performer, Miles was well known as being Misty’s partner, and over the years, he’d become firm friends with many of the people on the scene. He and Lady Lady had known each other for as long as Misty and Lady Lady had.
“Someone killed her, Miles. Can you believe that? Someone killed Lady Lady. On purpose.”
“What happened?” asked Miles, tipping the scrambled egg mixture into a hot frying pan. From across the little kitchen his eyes looked watery, and Misty wasn’t sure if Miles was crying or if it was the steam from the eggs.
“Nothing and everything,” said Misty. “Someone left some chocolates in her dressing room, and it seems like they were poisoned. I went to check on her and found her on the floor. Dead.”
They were silent for a moment, and Misty’s thoughts turned to Lady Lady on the dressing room floor again: the vein in her forehead, the contorted face.
“I can’t stop thinking about it, Miles,” she said. “About her dying like that. About what she looked like.”
They ate their food quietly, the sound of crunching toast and slurping tea the only noise for a while. Misty found she couldn’t finish hers. She had been hungry, but now, confronted by a plateful of egg, she felt sick. She pushed her plate to the center of the table.
“I need to get out of this drag.”
In the bathroom Misty looked at herself in the mirror. Her makeup tonight had been perfection. Her eyeliner was pristine and swept up from the outside corners of her eyes into sharp points on her temples. Her lashes were long and fluffy and her lips expertly lined and glossed. Her wig was big and long and blond and the height of glamour.
She peeled off her lashes, then raised her hands and unpinned her wig, tucking her thumbs under the lace. She lifted it up off her head, revealing a wig cap wrapped in a tight bandage to hold it in place. And as the wig came off, Misty went away, for now.
Looking back from the mirror was Joe. A plain, brown-haired thirty-four-year-old in a red dress with a full beat. Joe took a wipe from the cupboard and started removing their makeup, and as they did, they started to cry.
4
Thursday
Unsurprisingly, Joe did not sleep well. They kept waking in the night, their dreams filled with images of Lady Lady’s dead body on the dressing room floor. At 4:13 a.m., according to the alarm clock on the bedside table, they made the mistake of checking their phone. Through sleepy eyes in the dark bedroom Joe read hundreds of notifications and messages from nosy drag queens and kings who wanted to know what happened.
When their alarm went off at 7:30 a.m., Joe did not feel ready to be awake again. Their eyes were swollen and sore from crying late into the night, and Miles was already up, so the bed felt empty. They lay in and listened to Miles whistling in the kitchen, a cheerful sound on what was otherwise a very uncheerful morning.
Joe couldn’t help but think about the first time they met Lady Lady; it was one of their first times out in drag. They had performed a few times, mostly in unpaid open mic slots, before they saw a competition advertised on Instagram: Lady Lady’s Star Search, a talent contest at Lady’s Bar for new and upcoming drag artists. She had been running it once a year for ten years. It was one of the best reputed drag contests, and winners would see their bookings increase overnight, along with their fees.
With Miles’s encouragement, Joe decided to enter Misty. They’d been so anxious at just the thought of it, and without a gentle shove from Miles and some drag tips for beginners from Den, they’d have never had the guts. Putting Misty out there, in front of judges, was a big deal. A first tentative step away from the Empire Hotel. For the first round of the competition Misty performed an Adele song, one of the big belters. She’d felt anxious to perform at Lady’s Bar; the place had a reputation for booking only the biggest and best performers, and though she was there as a contestant, it was still her most significant stage to date. Misty’s song went down well with the judges: a panel of bigger, more established drag names and Lady Lady herself. But they said Misty’s look had let her down. She’d worn a simple black dress and a straight wig that she’d bought on Amazon for fifteen pounds, and the judges said she didn’t look sophisticated enough, not draggy enough. They said she was clearly a talented performer but too early in her career for the competition. Needless to say, she didn’t win.
That night, coming home from Lady’s Bar was difficult. Joe felt embarrassed. They got out of drag as quickly as they could and drank whiskey in the kitchen with Miles. But the next day, hungover and eyelashes clogged with yesterday’s glue, Joe received a text from a number they didn’t recognize.
Misty, I think you have more potential than you realize. I’d like to invite you to come and have a coffee with me at Lady’s Bar one day. Let me know when you’re free. LL. X
Joe could hardly believe their eyes. A message from the Lady Lady. And she thought Misty Divine had potential! Joe replied with haste, and before they knew it they’d arranged a meeting with Lady Lady for a few days’ time.
* * *
—
Miles opened the bedroom door, interrupting Joe’s reminiscence, and they were suddenly snapped back to reality. Lady Lady was dead.
“I’m making porridge, if you’re hungry,” said Miles.
By the time Joe had showered and dressed, Miles was sitting at the kitchen table eating his porridge, a bowl waiting for Joe next to him. They ate in an uncomfortable silence, and Joe knew already what it was about. But before they could say anything to preempt it, Miles spoke up.
I don’t want to do this, she thought as she sat down in front of Davies and Hughes.
“What’s your name?” said DI Davies, tapping a pen against his knee.
The tap, tap, tap instantly set Misty on edge. “Misty Divine,” she said without even thinking.
“No, your real name,” said Davies.
“Joe…Joe Brown.” It felt strange to introduce herself as Joe while in drag. There was a clear mental divide that happened when she put the drag on—Joe wasn’t there. Joe was away taking a break somewhere until the wig came off.
“Joe,” said DI Davies, “tell us what happened tonight. Start at the beginning.”
Misty felt irritated that he had called her Joe. Not that this conversation didn’t warrant Joe’s presence, but because DI Davies had made the decision for her. He thought he could be the one to decide, and that pissed Misty off. It stank. It was a fleeting irritation but one she registered in a new mental log about her dealings with the police.
“Well, after the show, I went to see that Lady Lady was all right, and I overheard her arguing with Mandy.” As soon as she said it, she regretted it. She shouldn’t have mentioned the argument to the police—Mandy might not have done anything wrong.
“Mandy White? The owner?”
“The co-owner,” said Misty, “yes.”
“Now, did you hear what Ms. White and Mr. Fulton were arguing about?”
Mr. Fulton!
“I’m sorry, DI Davies, but nobody called Lady Lady Mr. Fulton. She hasn’t used that name for decades and, honestly, it feels disrespectful. But, no, I didn’t hear what they were arguing about. I arrived just as Mandy left.” She wished she could go back in time two minutes and keep Mandy and Lady Lady’s argument a secret. This DI Davies was clearly an asshole.
“And then what happened?”
No apology, Misty noted.
“Lady Lady came out asking who had been in her room. Somebody had left those chocolates for her, and she wanted to say thank you.”
“So, Mr. Fulton brought the chocolates to the group dressing rooms?”
Misty felt her chest prickling with sweat. She was annoyed. “Yes, Lady Lady brought the chocolates to the dressing rooms.”
“But he didn’t offer you one.”
“No. She just said, ‘Thank you,’ and then went back to her room. Then we heard a thud and a glass break, and when I went in to check on her, she was already on the floor. She had a chocolate in her hand and was foaming at the mouth. It looked like she’d been poisoned.”
“Did you touch anything in the room?”
“No,” said Misty. “I just called for help and then the others came. Moneypenny called the ambulance.”
“And Moneypenny’s real name is?”
“I don’t know,” said Misty. It was true. But the way DI Davies had used the word “real,” as if drag identity and persona were somehow unreal, or didn’t exist. Moneypenny was as real a name as Misty was. Misty had DI Davies’s number now, and she didn’t like it.
DS Hughes leaned forward in her chair. “What was your relationship like with Lady Lady?” Hughes was a softer presence and certainly seemed more approachable and understanding. Misty instantly felt more comfortable talking to her than to Davies.
“We were close,” said Misty to DS Hughes. “She was my drag mother.”
“Drag what?” scoffed DI Davies.
“She was your mentor?” asked DS Hughes, ignoring Davies, but answering his question at the same time. “I’ve watched a bit of Drag Race.” She smiled, and DI Davies rolled his eyes.
“Yes, my mentor,” said Misty, shifting in her seat so she was facing Hughes more than Davies. “And we’ve worked together for years. I don’t know how anyone could do this.”
“Do you know where Lady Lady gets her costumes?” asked Hughes.
“Yes, from a designer called Florentina, mostly. She specializes in drag custom pieces.”
“And is that where she got the dress she was wearing tonight?” asked DS Hughes. “From Florentina?”
“I don’t know,” said Misty. What did the dress have to do with anything? “Maybe. Probably not. Florentina normally makes everything herself, and that one looks vintage.”
“Did she tell you anything about the dress she was wearing?”
“No, nothing. I mean, it looked expensive. All those crystals and sequins. I told her it looked nice. But she didn’t tell me anything else. But what does that have to do with anything?”
“When and where did you first see the dress?” asked DI Davies.
Misty frowned. “Maybe seven o’clock, when Lady Lady came out of her dressing room wearing it.”
“Today? And you’d never seen it before today?”
“No! What’s so interesting about the dress?” Misty asked, feeling frustrated by the line of questioning.
“Do you know anybody who would have reason to want to harm Mr. Fulton?” said DI Davies, changing the subject.
“No,” said Misty, still wondering about their extensive interest in the dress but glad they were finally asking something that related to the murder.
DI Davies sighed. “So, there’s nobody you can think of with an axe to grind? Nobody who would want Mr. Fulton dead? Lady Lady…” He said her drag name like he was holding back a throatful of vomit.
“She got along with everybody,” said Misty. “Well, except Auntie Susan. But she hasn’t spoken to her in years.”
“And who is Auntie Susan?” said Davies.
“You know who Auntie Susan is,” said Hughes, shocked at her partner. “Remember? Lady Lady’s TV partner from the nineties. From breakfast telly.”
Before she opened Lady’s Bar, Lady Lady had been part of a famous television comedy double act with fellow drag queen Auntie Susan. They’d interviewed celebrities, presented the weather together, and performed comedy sketches. Misty remembered seeing them on TV when she was little, and though she’d only been working with Lady Lady for the last five years, it felt as if she’d always been part of her life. Lady Lady and Auntie Susan had been a huge hit until they fell out, privately and famously. Lady Lady went on to invest in the Old Compton Street bar with Mandy and became a huge cabaret success, while Auntie Susan vanished into obscurity and now operated a run-down pub on an even more run-down street.
Thoughts of these moments ran through Misty’s brain. A life thoroughly lived, she thought, but one that shouldn’t be over already. Lady Lady had meant so much to Misty: a childhood inspiration, a queer icon, and then a personal friend. She should still be here. Tears brimmed in Misty’s eyes and she tried her best to hold them back—a drag queen instinct to protect the lashes.
Davies shrugged, somehow, almost impossibly, having never heard of Auntie Susan at all. “And you said Lady Lady had some sort of problem with this Auntie Susan?”
“No,” said Misty. “I said they hadn’t spoken in years.”
Misty didn’t like this DI Davies one bit. He was arrogant, and now it felt like he was putting words in her mouth.
“Can I go now?” she asked. “I want to go home.” She wasn’t comfortable in this room anymore, in this small space with this horrible man, and she didn’t have the strength to deal with him tonight, not so soon after losing her friend.
“Yes, fine,” said Davies. “We need to talk to the others anyway.”
Misty sighed heavily as she walked toward the door.
“We’ll come to visit you tomorrow,” said DS Hughes, “to take a more complete statement. Is there a time you’d prefer?” It seemed that DS Hughes was kinder than DI Davies, genuinely caring. There was a hint of something in her eyes that suggested she was annoyed with Davies, too, but that she was hiding it well. Misty almost felt as though she could trust her, but not quite—not after the way Davies had just behaved.
A more complete statement? she thought. She wasn’t sure what else she could possibly tell them and didn’t relish the idea of seeing them again, but hopefully they’d seem less like dickheads in the fresh light of day.
Misty told DS Hughes that she’d prefer the evening, after work. Am I really still planning on going to work tomorrow? Hughes pointed her in the direction of a police officer who would drive her home. Dazed, that’s how she felt, dazed. So much had happened, and her emotions were racing to catch up with her brain. She needed to take off her corset. She felt trapped by it, as if it were squeezing the energy out of her with every second that passed. But she would wait until she got home for that.
As she stepped out of the club onto Old Compton Street, she suddenly found herself on the edge of tears. The coffee shop across the road was where she and Lady Lady would go before a show. Balans, the twenty-four-hour restaurant down the street, was where they’d head for postshow midnight dinners, always with Lady Lady buying champagne for the table. Now, standing on the pavement in her drag, about to step into a police car, Misty realized that all that was over.
She’d really never see Lady Lady again.
3
By the time Misty got home it was after midnight. She lived near Russell Square in a small one-bedroom flat with her boyfriend, Miles, and it wasn’t a long drive from Soho, but one during which she seemed to have plenty of time to think, to start to process the loss, the realization that her friend and mentor was gone forever.
When she opened the front door of the apartment she saw that the kitchen light was still on. He’s waited up for me. Of course he has. The kitchen door swung open and Miles threw himself into the corridor, giving Misty a tight hug with arms that went on forever. His hugs always reminded Misty of a stretchy-armed Hulk Hogan toy her mother had given her as a child.
“I’m so sorry,” said Miles.
“I’m hungry,” replied Misty. She truly was. And she didn’t have the energy to talk about any of it until she’d eaten, that much she knew. A drag queen is a beast who must be fed after a show, especially when there’s been a murder in the dressing room, it seemed.
“Come on, I’ll make us some eggs.” Miles broke the embrace and took Misty’s hand, leading her to the flat’s little kitchen. “Do you want to take your drag off first?”
“No,” said Misty. She wasn’t ready to be Joe just yet. “I’ll eat first.” Being Joe meant returning to the reality of Lady Lady being dead: their friend, their mentor. The reality was one of their friends could have been the killer, and Misty wasn’t ready to face that as Joe. Joe was more emotional, introspective, thoughtful. For now, as Misty, she had a barrier up to the world, to the grief.
Once in the kitchen Misty sat down at the small table, and Miles began pottering, taking eggs from the fridge, a pan from the cupboard. Misty played with her fingernails, tugging gently at a hangnail, finding the focus irresistible to break from.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he said.
“I’m not sure,” said Misty.
“We don’t have to if you don’t want.” Miles started cracking eggs into a glass jug, glancing at Misty over his shoulder, checking that she was okay. He added milk and whisked with a fork until the contents of the jug were a smooth light orange color.
“I just can’t believe she’s gone,” said Misty.
“I know,” replied Miles. “She was such a big personality. It’s strange to think of life without her.” He sounded sad, as Misty expected a lot of people would over the coming days. Lady Lady was an integral part of the cultural landscape, and losing her was going to be hard for a lot of people. “I feel really cut up about it,” he said. Though not a drag performer, Miles was well known as being Misty’s partner, and over the years, he’d become firm friends with many of the people on the scene. He and Lady Lady had known each other for as long as Misty and Lady Lady had.
“Someone killed her, Miles. Can you believe that? Someone killed Lady Lady. On purpose.”
“What happened?” asked Miles, tipping the scrambled egg mixture into a hot frying pan. From across the little kitchen his eyes looked watery, and Misty wasn’t sure if Miles was crying or if it was the steam from the eggs.
“Nothing and everything,” said Misty. “Someone left some chocolates in her dressing room, and it seems like they were poisoned. I went to check on her and found her on the floor. Dead.”
They were silent for a moment, and Misty’s thoughts turned to Lady Lady on the dressing room floor again: the vein in her forehead, the contorted face.
“I can’t stop thinking about it, Miles,” she said. “About her dying like that. About what she looked like.”
They ate their food quietly, the sound of crunching toast and slurping tea the only noise for a while. Misty found she couldn’t finish hers. She had been hungry, but now, confronted by a plateful of egg, she felt sick. She pushed her plate to the center of the table.
“I need to get out of this drag.”
In the bathroom Misty looked at herself in the mirror. Her makeup tonight had been perfection. Her eyeliner was pristine and swept up from the outside corners of her eyes into sharp points on her temples. Her lashes were long and fluffy and her lips expertly lined and glossed. Her wig was big and long and blond and the height of glamour.
She peeled off her lashes, then raised her hands and unpinned her wig, tucking her thumbs under the lace. She lifted it up off her head, revealing a wig cap wrapped in a tight bandage to hold it in place. And as the wig came off, Misty went away, for now.
Looking back from the mirror was Joe. A plain, brown-haired thirty-four-year-old in a red dress with a full beat. Joe took a wipe from the cupboard and started removing their makeup, and as they did, they started to cry.
4
Thursday
Unsurprisingly, Joe did not sleep well. They kept waking in the night, their dreams filled with images of Lady Lady’s dead body on the dressing room floor. At 4:13 a.m., according to the alarm clock on the bedside table, they made the mistake of checking their phone. Through sleepy eyes in the dark bedroom Joe read hundreds of notifications and messages from nosy drag queens and kings who wanted to know what happened.
When their alarm went off at 7:30 a.m., Joe did not feel ready to be awake again. Their eyes were swollen and sore from crying late into the night, and Miles was already up, so the bed felt empty. They lay in and listened to Miles whistling in the kitchen, a cheerful sound on what was otherwise a very uncheerful morning.
Joe couldn’t help but think about the first time they met Lady Lady; it was one of their first times out in drag. They had performed a few times, mostly in unpaid open mic slots, before they saw a competition advertised on Instagram: Lady Lady’s Star Search, a talent contest at Lady’s Bar for new and upcoming drag artists. She had been running it once a year for ten years. It was one of the best reputed drag contests, and winners would see their bookings increase overnight, along with their fees.
With Miles’s encouragement, Joe decided to enter Misty. They’d been so anxious at just the thought of it, and without a gentle shove from Miles and some drag tips for beginners from Den, they’d have never had the guts. Putting Misty out there, in front of judges, was a big deal. A first tentative step away from the Empire Hotel. For the first round of the competition Misty performed an Adele song, one of the big belters. She’d felt anxious to perform at Lady’s Bar; the place had a reputation for booking only the biggest and best performers, and though she was there as a contestant, it was still her most significant stage to date. Misty’s song went down well with the judges: a panel of bigger, more established drag names and Lady Lady herself. But they said Misty’s look had let her down. She’d worn a simple black dress and a straight wig that she’d bought on Amazon for fifteen pounds, and the judges said she didn’t look sophisticated enough, not draggy enough. They said she was clearly a talented performer but too early in her career for the competition. Needless to say, she didn’t win.
That night, coming home from Lady’s Bar was difficult. Joe felt embarrassed. They got out of drag as quickly as they could and drank whiskey in the kitchen with Miles. But the next day, hungover and eyelashes clogged with yesterday’s glue, Joe received a text from a number they didn’t recognize.
Misty, I think you have more potential than you realize. I’d like to invite you to come and have a coffee with me at Lady’s Bar one day. Let me know when you’re free. LL. X
Joe could hardly believe their eyes. A message from the Lady Lady. And she thought Misty Divine had potential! Joe replied with haste, and before they knew it they’d arranged a meeting with Lady Lady for a few days’ time.
* * *
—
Miles opened the bedroom door, interrupting Joe’s reminiscence, and they were suddenly snapped back to reality. Lady Lady was dead.
“I’m making porridge, if you’re hungry,” said Miles.
By the time Joe had showered and dressed, Miles was sitting at the kitchen table eating his porridge, a bowl waiting for Joe next to him. They ate in an uncomfortable silence, and Joe knew already what it was about. But before they could say anything to preempt it, Miles spoke up.
