surrounded by the entire stock of two florist shops. I drew in a ragged breath, inhaling a nauseating clash of male cologne, female perfume, and every fragrant bloom known to humankind. My stomach lurched. I feared I'd be sick. But then, I was already sick.
And mad as hell.
I bit down the urge to shout, "Shut up! This is God's house, a place of sanctity, a day of solemn rite!" To yell, "Stop rustling your clothes, fidgeting your feet, wagging your non-stop tongues! Bow your heads and show the man in the coffin some respect!"
Instead, I stared at casket. Lars Larson was dead. Murdered. Like a crystalized cyst tight against my heart, grief, anger and frustration pressed, the aching hurt and sense of loss a surprise. I hadn't expected I'd care this much. But I did . Another important piece of my personal history was gone forever. Stripped away. First Daddy, now Lars. And I had no clue as to why either of them had been taken from my life. Or who had taken them.
Was Lars the third victim of the Black Boutonniere Killer? Or dead by the hand of a crazed fan? Or murdered by someone close to him? At this point, I knew only what the newspapers reported and, so far, those reports were sketchy and cautious. Stone had been less than forthcoming, quick to point out: Your best friend is a prime person of interest.
Apollo.
Seated beside me, my BFF was frazzled, a broomstick in black silk jeans, black silk shirt, and black spiked hair, his ordeal with the police ongoing. One positive: he was still speaking to me — which meant he didn't know I'd given Stone the incriminating tie. The guilt to spill my guts and clear my conscience boiled like an unstable volcano, but I held my tongue. I had to.
The history of Apollo's life fit together like an awkward puzzle of betrayals, the pieces made up of dark colors and hostile shapes that formed an ugly picture. It wouldn't matter that I'd meant no harm. Once he knew the truth, our friendship would be as dead as Lars.
I had to fix this before it was unfixable.
I raised my head and glanced around the chapel. Standing room only had late arrivals crowded ready-wear to haute couture against the walls. The front pews held a good portion of King County's gay community. All of them dressed to the nines. And weeping.
The middle section overflowed with Crain relatives and friends, and — I'd swear — every woman who had ever had her hair ratted or permed or dyed at the Clip and Flip. All of them coifed to the nines. And weeping.
I had not wept. I felt too stunned to cry.
"Lars certainly touched a lot of lives," whispered Sophie Ferman, one of the elderly C & F customers. She was seated behind me, along with her two best friends, Ida Schultz and Madame Zee. The self-proclaimed "Golden Oldies" trio went everywhere together.
I nodded. "He would have relished this huge turnout."
"Burnout?" shouted Ida in her ninety-something voice, the bray screeching across the chapel like a bull horn. Ida had lost her hearing sometime during the sexual revolution of the sixties and seventies. She didn't speak; she blared. I tried shushing her, but before I could, she bellowed out, "He died of burnout? Is that when your guts get so hot you burst into flames?"
Startled faces snapped in our direction.
"No, Ida, that would be instantaneous combustion!" Sophie said, loud enough for Ida and half the church to hear.
"Oh, my!" Ida fanned herself with a memorial pamphlet. "I hope I don't get that! "
"I think you're safe," I assured her, embarrassed as the organ music grew louder.
"I don't know!" Ida fanned herself harder. "It's so close in here I'm starting to heat up!"
"Ida, dear, writer's don't get burnout," Sophie said, shaking her snow globe head and knocking half-glasses askew on the tip of her nose. "They get blocked!"
"Oh, my!" Ida exclaimed, the pamphlet stopping in mid-fan. "My uncle Eli got blocked! Intestines! Excruciating way to go! Undertaker couldn't get the grimace off his face! Had to have a closed
And mad as hell.
I bit down the urge to shout, "Shut up! This is God's house, a place of sanctity, a day of solemn rite!" To yell, "Stop rustling your clothes, fidgeting your feet, wagging your non-stop tongues! Bow your heads and show the man in the coffin some respect!"
Instead, I stared at casket. Lars Larson was dead. Murdered. Like a crystalized cyst tight against my heart, grief, anger and frustration pressed, the aching hurt and sense of loss a surprise. I hadn't expected I'd care this much. But I did . Another important piece of my personal history was gone forever. Stripped away. First Daddy, now Lars. And I had no clue as to why either of them had been taken from my life. Or who had taken them.
Was Lars the third victim of the Black Boutonniere Killer? Or dead by the hand of a crazed fan? Or murdered by someone close to him? At this point, I knew only what the newspapers reported and, so far, those reports were sketchy and cautious. Stone had been less than forthcoming, quick to point out: Your best friend is a prime person of interest.
Apollo.
Seated beside me, my BFF was frazzled, a broomstick in black silk jeans, black silk shirt, and black spiked hair, his ordeal with the police ongoing. One positive: he was still speaking to me — which meant he didn't know I'd given Stone the incriminating tie. The guilt to spill my guts and clear my conscience boiled like an unstable volcano, but I held my tongue. I had to.
The history of Apollo's life fit together like an awkward puzzle of betrayals, the pieces made up of dark colors and hostile shapes that formed an ugly picture. It wouldn't matter that I'd meant no harm. Once he knew the truth, our friendship would be as dead as Lars.
I had to fix this before it was unfixable.
I raised my head and glanced around the chapel. Standing room only had late arrivals crowded ready-wear to haute couture against the walls. The front pews held a good portion of King County's gay community. All of them dressed to the nines. And weeping.
The middle section overflowed with Crain relatives and friends, and — I'd swear — every woman who had ever had her hair ratted or permed or dyed at the Clip and Flip. All of them coifed to the nines. And weeping.
I had not wept. I felt too stunned to cry.
"Lars certainly touched a lot of lives," whispered Sophie Ferman, one of the elderly C & F customers. She was seated behind me, along with her two best friends, Ida Schultz and Madame Zee. The self-proclaimed "Golden Oldies" trio went everywhere together.
I nodded. "He would have relished this huge turnout."
"Burnout?" shouted Ida in her ninety-something voice, the bray screeching across the chapel like a bull horn. Ida had lost her hearing sometime during the sexual revolution of the sixties and seventies. She didn't speak; she blared. I tried shushing her, but before I could, she bellowed out, "He died of burnout? Is that when your guts get so hot you burst into flames?"
Startled faces snapped in our direction.
"No, Ida, that would be instantaneous combustion!" Sophie said, loud enough for Ida and half the church to hear.
"Oh, my!" Ida fanned herself with a memorial pamphlet. "I hope I don't get that! "
"I think you're safe," I assured her, embarrassed as the organ music grew louder.
"I don't know!" Ida fanned herself harder. "It's so close in here I'm starting to heat up!"
"Ida, dear, writer's don't get burnout," Sophie said, shaking her snow globe head and knocking half-glasses askew on the tip of her nose. "They get blocked!"
"Oh, my!" Ida exclaimed, the pamphlet stopping in mid-fan. "My uncle Eli got blocked! Intestines! Excruciating way to go! Undertaker couldn't get the grimace off his face! Had to have a closed
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