Not So Model Home - By David James Page 0,39
to tell him the whole story. He was taking it all down on his iPad. He then started upstairs, beckoning to me with his finger to follow him. I did, leaving the rest of the cast downstairs and bewildered as to why I was getting special treatment.
“So, Jerry, why are you bringing me up here with you? To what do I owe this honor?
“I need someone who’s on the inside. I need you to fill me in on the personalities here.”
“Jerry, they’re male models. Personality isn’t the first word that comes to mind.”
“You know what I mean. Who’s who, etcetera.”
“You mean who’s doing who? The answer: everyone.”
“Well, nothing’s changed here. We’re always getting calls about guys screwing on the lawn of Ian’s estate.”
“Jerry, the walls here must be eight feet tall and the vegetation is higher than that. You can’t see anything from the street.”
“You can when you’re on the celebrity tour bus. It’s a double-decker.”
“Oh,” I said. “I guess the tourists got some photos that the folks back in Kansas won’t believe.”
“That’s not the half of it, Amanda. Sometimes there are guys screwing, sometimes there’s someone dressed in a rubber catsuit tied between palm trees. Whipping, flogging, piss parties. You name it, we’ve gotten complaints about it.”
“I had no idea,” I replied as we walked down the hall to Keith’s room. “You see, Jerry, that’s the problem with being a straight woman in a gay town. Great parties and fun bars, but you always feel like an outsider.”
“You’re upset because you don’t get invited to a piss party?”
“No, not that. It’s just that life is going on around here and I’m not on the inside track.”
“I’m a straight cop in a very gay city. How do you think I feel? But I get on with my life. I don’t get invited to a lot of parties since there are either drugs there or people are drinking and driving. People treat me like they’ve invited someone’s mother to a party. Not fun.”
Normally, Jerry wouldn’t even leave a blip on my sexual radar screen, but he had changed since I had last seen him. He lost some weight, put on some muscles, and stopped having his gray hair dyed, leaving it to go my second favorite color after jet black: salt and pepper. He wore a really nicely tailored suit. In short, he had climbed quite a few numbers on the hot meter.
We reached Keith’s room. Jerry peered in, then whistled.
“Boy, I haven’t seen this in a long time,” he said.
“Seen what? A murder? You’re a homicide detective.”
“No, strychnine. Nasty stuff.”
“You can tell just by looking at him?”
“Amanda, this isn’t conclusive, but it has all the signs of strychnine. The jackknifed back, the eyes wide open, and the grimace on the face. Looks like he’s been dead since late last night. So you think one of the guys downstairs killed this . . .” he said, looking at his iPad again, “. . . Keith because he was the son of Ian Forbes?”
“Possible heir, Jerry.”
Jerry stood at the doorway, avoiding going in just yet until the crime scene unit arrived. He scanned the room slowly, over and over, looking at the carpet, the windows, drawers, bed. I scanned the room, too, but didn’t see anything that looked suspicious. Well, except for the glass on the nightstand, which probably delivered the poison.
“Look at the glass,” Jerry commented.
“What’s so unusual about it?”
“It has the faintest tinge of red. Very, very faint.”
“And that means what? Keith often drank cranberry juice because he was susceptible to kidney stones.”
“Orange juice is a better antidote to stones.”
“Oh, so you’re a doctor too?” I joked, realizing that I was starting to flirt a bit.
“Just a detective. Amanda, is there someone here who manages the property?”
“Drake Whittemore. He manages the estate, inside and out.”
“Excellent. I have a question to ask him.”
“He’s sitting downstairs.”
“Before we go down, has he had relations with Ian Forbes?”
“You’re not a very good detective, Jerry. All of the men downstairs have pillowed Ian at one time or another. With the exception of the show’s staff . . . you know, the director, cameramen, etcetera. Actually, I can’t say that’s completely true. There’s a lot of sex that goes on around here.”
“Gotcha. Let’s go find Drake.”
We descended the stairs, and as I followed Jerry, I eyed the entire cast to see if there was guilt visible on anyone’s face.
“Which one of you is Drake?” Jerry asked.
“I am,” Drake responded.
“Could I ask you a few questions in