Beware False Profits Part 2

"I guess we'd better get started."

Dorothy deposited Toto in a basket, then walked us the three steps to the door. Ed thanked her. I thanked her with a wary eye turned toward the dog. The door was already open when my curiosity overcame me.

"Dorothy?"

She looked expectant, a hulking Judy Garland with the same dewy-eyed intensity. I was really sorry we were going to miss her gig. I had a feeling she was one heck of a performer.

"Here's something I noticed. You referred to all the other...performers as 'she.' But whenever you talked about Joe? Well, you referred to Joe as 'he.' Would you mind telling me why?"

Dorothy leaned closer. I noted that the freckles looked real. This time she was all set for her trip to the Emerald City. "You noticed that?"

"Uh-huh. I was wondering if there was some kind of message I can't decode."

"Like if Joe's different from say, me or Marilyn? You really want to know if he's gay or he's not. Does it matter?"

Ed clarified what I hadn't been able to ask. "I think Aggie's wondering if Joe might have a special friend here in town. Somebody he's staying with? Somebody we could check with?" When Dorothy didn't answer, he went on. "Maybe one reason Joe disappeared is that he's tired of pretending he's something he's not."

"No, you'd be barking up the wrong tree looking for another guy in the wings. Josephine liked to strut his stuff on the stage, but when he walked off? n.o.body had any doubts, and n.o.body ever tried to push him on the subject."

"You're saying Joe's not gay? That he's straight?"

She smiled. "There's no requirement. Nothing in our contracts. You'd be surprised. Lots of guys like to hang out in their wives' clothes once in a while. But they also like being married and going to bed with a woman. Joe's just a great performer. Me, I wish he'd been different."

"Gotcha. Um, any idea why he'd perform here?" I tried not to stress the last word, but that turned out to be impossible.

"Don't know and don't care. I just hope he's okay and plans to come back. There was this moment at the end of his set, when he'd come out in a white jumpsuit all spangled and sparkly wearing a long white wig. The crew would flood the stage with color, and he'd sit on a trapeze. They'd crank it up and he'd swing over the stage out into the audience and sing 'Believe.' I get s.h.i.+vers thinking about it. I don't know if I want to live in a world where I don't have that to look forward to."

Dorothy looked so crestfallen I considered giving her a hug, but decided against it. Toto looked like he was ready to leap out of the basket.

She pointed us toward the exit door, and we took off as somebody on stage crooned "Stormy Weather."

Outside on the street Ed pulled me against the building and we stood quietly a moment.

"So...what do you think?" I asked at last.

"I think this is going to be one of those ministerial moments I don't look back on with pleasure."

"You mean telling Maura?"

"Among other things. Finding out what's happened to Joe isn't going to be much fun, either. Whatever it is can't be good."

"I guess at this point we go back to the apartment and start making calls."

"Ag, unless we discover something that keeps us here, I think we have to go home on the first flight in the morning. Maura has to know what we discovered as soon as possible, and I can't see keeping her waiting or explaining something like this on the phone. She's going to have to figure out what to announce at Mayday! Joe's always such a huge part of the celebration."

I'd thought the same thing, although rebelliously my mind had skated through other possibilities first-just in case there was some way to salvage our romantic weekend together. No such luck.

We walked toward the front of the club in silence. A platinum blonde in a raspberry miniskirt and a sweater tight enough to diminish lung capacity gestured at one of us. I wasn't sure which, and it didn't matter, because as if he'd been born to it Ed quickly hailed a cab. He was so comfortable in the city, I wouldn't have been surprised if he conversed with the driver in his native language.

I settled on the b.u.mpy seat while Ed gave directions. In English. Then when he sat back I tapped him on the shoulder. "The Plaza Hotel?"

"I thought we'd take a carriage ride through the park, then find a nice place to eat, if it's still possible to get a table on a Sat.u.r.day night. But we'll try."

I didn't know what to say. As our cabbie sped into the heart of traffic, Ed s.h.i.+ned his s.e.xiest smile on me. I even forgot to be terrified.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I really am. I know you were looking forward to this time away. But we'll have the rest of the night to make calls to the police and the hospitals. Let's take a little for ourselves, okay?"

I leaned over and kissed him. I barely noticed when the driver stomped on the brake, and the resulting snap of my seat belt launched me backwards.

I'm married to a great guy, and when he has time, he can be wonderfully romantic. I was delighted we were going to be spending a few hours doing what we'd come to New York to do. But I wondered, even as I kissed him again, if either of us would be able to put the saga of Joe Wagner, alias Josephine Fairheart, behind us tonight.

3.

Maura and Joe Wagner live in a perfect Cape Cod on a perfect street in Emerald Springs. Using perfect twice in the same sentence doesn't begin to point out the, well, picture-perfect, storybook setting for their lives.

The Wagner's neighborhood, Ess.e.x Village, is just old enough to have towering trees and homes built when quality and individuality were valued. Luckily, the neighborhood isn't so old that houses are being torn down to make room for more contemporary specimens. Maybe the houses don't have today's recreational bathrooms, or media rooms where moviegoers can park a fleet of Hondas drive-in style, but they have cla.s.s. It's even possible to walk into town without packing a lunch. Of course it's easier to drive the family Volvo or Saab, which is more often the case.

If I was going to buy a home in Emerald Springs, I would first look in "The Village," as locals call it. An area has arrived when it coins its own nickname. Although real estate in general sells slowly in our little burg, houses in the Village are snapped up immediately. Our richest citizens live in the modern, pretentious homes of Emerald Estates, but young professionals with luck and taste congregate here.

The Wagners' house is white frame, with slatted spruce green shutters and a mulberry front door. The windows are multipaned and double-hung, and three dormers nestle into the roof. A cupola with a rooster weather vane graces one side, a fieldstone chimney juts from the other, and a wide front porch looks over the neighborhood. The yard is surrounded by a picket fence corralling displays of herbs and perennials, flowering shrubs, and a superb rose garden. I know from attending a Valentine's Day brunch here last year that one of the two flawlessly proportioned wings holds a parade of bedrooms. The other contains the garage, master bedroom, and bath. Maura is only too delighted to show guests through her pride and joy.

The term housewife has gone out of favor, but Maura is more or less married to her house. I'm convinced she thinks of her charming little Cape Cod the way some of us think of best friends or lovers. She never seems happier than when the two of them are alone together. She gifts the house with precious finds, fusses over it until it's in peak condition, and murmurs sweet nothings when no one is around to hear them.

Okay, so I've never really "heard" her murmuring sweet nothings to the family room fireplace or laundry chute. But some things are obvious without a shred of proof.

When Ed and I drove up, the lilacs stationed at the entrance to the driveway breathed a sweet welcome. I could smell them before I opened the car door, and once outside, the fragrance was enough to root me to the spot. On one side of the yard a crab apple flowered in cotton candy puffs, and underneath it, drifts of daffodils outlined the walkway to the porch. Beside the front door a deacon's bench sported two life-sized rag dolls dressed in Amish clothing and posed back to back.

I know from my tour that Maura changes the dolls' clothing whenever she feels the whim. She has an entire guest room closet filled with everything from yellow rain slickers to a ball gown and tux. The day of the brunch they had been dressed as Romeo and Juliet. Today the dolls looked as if they were about to head down to the barn for the morning's milking. Mama would come back with enough cream to churn the day's b.u.t.ter.

"It's all just so strange," I told Ed as reluctantly, I lifted the pineapple door knocker and let it fall above a s.h.i.+ny bra.s.s plate that said The Wagner Family.

"I know."

"How do you get from this to belting out 'Dark Lady' at the p.u.s.s.ycat Club?"

"One agonizing step at a time, I guess."

The door opened, and Maura stood at the threshold. There was no sign of emotional trauma. She looked much as she always did. Maura is slender and small, with pert features offset by amazing blue eyes. Her naturally curly blonde hair was neatly combed, each curl a s.h.i.+ning tribute to the ma.s.ses. She wore a pale blue twinset and camel-colored slacks. I was most impressed that under the circ.u.mstances, she had still found the presence of mind to add a gold chain, small hoop earrings, and an impressive watch.

"It's bad news, isn't it?" She looked vaguely puzzled, as if hearing bad news was so far from her universe that this moment was akin to preparing for an alien invasion.

"We haven't found Joe," Ed a.s.sured her, "but we need to talk to you."

"Of course." She stepped aside and gestured us in. "I have a fresh pot of coffee and a cinnamon coffee cake."

Had my own husband disappeared, I probably wouldn't think to break out the lemon Pledge. But the telltale aroma proclaimed that Maura had just polished the furniture. In one glance I could tell the house was spotless. She could serve us coffee cake on the foyer's maple floor without concern. As we pa.s.sed the living room I was fairly sure that the needlepoint pillows on the sofa and love seat had been recently plumped, and the collection of antique mantel clocks had all been wound.

In the blue and yellow kitchen she gestured us to the table by a bay window and without speaking set botanical-themed dishes in front of us.

"Maybe you should sit down, too," Ed said gently.

"Oh, I will in a minute. Just let me get organized."

Organized meant five long minutes, a silver tea tray with a coffeepot and all the accoutrements, the aforementioned coffee cake, a vase with one fragrant narcissus to adorn the center of the table, and napkins straight from Provence. By the time she joined us, I had taken stock of everything in the room and was fighting back the urge to report Maura to some higher female authority. Not a thing was out of place. No keys on the counter, no newspapers on the table, no dishes in a drainer. No drainer, in fact. I suspected she washed, dried, and put away every single dish without the need for one. Next to Maura, the Stepford wives were slobs.

Everything in plain sight had been placed there with care. The walls were embellished with cheerful embroidered sayings augmented by kittens or cherub-cheeked children. s.h.i.+ning red apples filled a pottery bowl. From an uncapped crystal jar, potpourri added its rose scent to the lemony air. I had a sneaking suspicion Maura had spent more time folding and ironing her dish towels than I had spent remodeling the parsonage.

We were both relieved when she finally sat. Me because I could stop imagining how often she cleaned out her refrigerator, and Ed because he needed to get Joe's story out in the open.

She sliced the cake and we accepted pieces. She poured coffee, then cream. I stopped her at the sugar cubes. It was time to move on.

"I didn't know you would be here so early, or I would have sliced some fruit." She lifted her cup gracefully and took a dainty sip. "It was kind of you to come." She could have been thanking a neighbor who had brought her a piece of misdirected mail.

"Where's Tyler?" I asked, hoping Joe and Maura's twelve-year-old son wouldn't walk in as we were describing Joe's slinky silver gown.

She gestured vaguely. "Oh, upstairs I think."

It was eleven o'clock, and had Joe been home, Tyler would have been sitting in Sunday School. But even if Maura hadn't been worried about her husband, she probably wouldn't have brought him to church. Joe was the parent who rounded him up and herded him there.

"Can we speak privately then?" Ed asked.

"I doubt he'll be down anytime soon. He's probably working on a model. That's what he and Joseph normally do on Sunday afternoons."

I picked up my cup. Of course the coffee was exceptional. "I imagine he's worried."

"Tyler?" She looked vaguely bemused. "I haven't told him anything. Why would he worry?"

"Wasn't he expecting Joe to come home Friday?"

"Well, yes, but he just thinks his father was delayed. I didn't tell him differently." She looked at Ed's plate. "You aren't eating, Ed. Please go ahead."

Ed reached across the table and rested his hand on hers for a moment. "Here's what we discovered. Joe's trips to New York haven't been for business, Maura. There is no Fund for Food."

"But of course there is. That's why he goes." She was wide-eyed and not one bit petulant. She was sure that Ed had simply made an error.

He picked up his fork, but the coffee cake remained untouched. "No, he's been going for another reason."

Had this been me, I would have immediately guessed my husband was having an affair. What woman, even a minister's wife, wouldn't jump to that conclusion first?

But Maura shook her head. "What reason could there be?"

"He's been performing once a month at a nightclub in the East Village, a place called the p.u.s.s.ycat Club."

"What a silly name." She murmured this into her cup, just before she took another measured sip. "That doesn't sound like Joseph."

I wondered if Ed was going to skip the part about Joe being a once-a-month drag queen. We hadn't discussed how he would tell Maura, and I wondered if he would spare her.

But of course, he couldn't. Joe was missing, and every clue to finding him was an important one.

"The p.u.s.s.ycat Club has a variety of acts," he said slowly, clearly feeling his way. "And Joe entertained the audience by impersonating Cher."

"Cher?"

"That's right."

"Like Sonny and Cher?"

"That Cher, yes."

"But Cher is a woman."

"Joe dressed up like a woman, like Cher, and sang her songs."

"And people came to see this?"

"They did."

"People will pay to see a man dress like a woman?"

Earth to Maura. I could see that Ed hadn't had a clue she would be so completely unprepared. I took over. "The thing is, he's been doing this for some time. It started as a joke, but he was so good at it, they asked him to come back. And apparently he enjoys it."

Maura nibbled at her bottom lip. It was the first real sign she felt anything. "He does have a good voice."

Now I was speechless. I glanced at Ed. He was looking at his coffee cake longingly, as if he wanted to shrink to ant size and escape into yeasty oblivion.

Maura shook her head. "It just doesn't sound like something Joseph would do. Are you sure?"

"You haven't noticed anything different about him in, oh, the past year or so?"

"No, he's just the same as always."

"Maybe there were some physical things?"

"Like what?"

"Like maybe he was shaving more than his face?"

Her eyes widened, and this time she nodded. "Only he told me he had developed some dermatological problem and all the hair on his legs had fallen out. Just sometimes, though. Then it would grow back."

Again, I was speechless.