Sex and Murder.com: A Paul Turner Mystery by Mark Richard Zubro Page B

genetic code,” Turner said.
    “There probably isn’t,” Ian said. “Individually, gay poets are mostly harmless. Put them in a group, and they can be lethal. I wouldn’t mess with them.”
    “What is it you know about Lenzati?” Turner asked.
    “Do I get information back?”
    “As usual, you will get back in equal measure according to how important your information is.”
    “The partner, Werberg, is gay,” Ian announced.
    “Why is that important?”
    “Why wouldn’t it be?”
    “Would it cause him to kill his partner?”
    “That I don’t know.”
    “Was Lenzati gay?” Turner asked.
    “No, very straight from all I know.”
    “How do you know Werberg’s gay? And don’t tell me ‘sources.’”
    “I had sex with him.”
    “You did?”
    “No, but I thought you’d sit up and take notice.” Ian pointed and asked, “What’s he doing here?”
    Paul looked. Buck Fenwick and his wife Madge entered the room. “He likes poetry?” Turner asked. Buck and Madge took a seat near the stage. When Fenwick looked surreptitiously around, he spotted Paul. Turner left his seat and walked up to them.
    “Paul,” Madge said. “How nice of you to come and be supportive of Buck. He said you probably wouldn’t be here.”
    “He may have fibbed to you,” Paul said. “I had no idea that he was going to be here.”
    Even in the dim light, Paul could see that Fenwick had turned very red. His bulky partner looked distinctly annoyed.
    “You never told him?” Madge said. “You should be proud of what you’ve done.”
    “You write poetry?” Turner asked. Turner thought he would be as likely to find a liberal at a Christian Coalition convention as discover that Fenwick wrote poetry.
    “I am not to be razzed about this,” Fenwick said.
    Madge said, “Paul would never do that.”
    “I can be bribed,” Paul said, “but my silence on this will only be bought at a very high price.”
    Fenwick mumbled, “Whoever thought the most honest cop in the city would resort to extorting bribes from a fellow officer?”
    “You know, Madge,” Paul said, “there are cops in this town who would pay a great deal to have this knowledge.”
    “I don’t see what the big deal is,” Madge said.
    “You’re being naive,” Fenwick snapped.
    “I think poetry is great,” Madge said. “Anyone in the department could have come here tonight. How would he prevent the news from getting out even if you weren’t here?”
    Fenwick said, “Everyone in the room knows enough to keep quiet about the others.”
    Mrs. Talucci joined them. She and Madge hugged briefly. Mrs. Talucci patted Buck’s massive shoulder with one of her diminutive hands. She said, “I always figured you’d be the poetry writing type.”
    “How’s that?” Paul asked.
    “A hunch,” she said. “From the way he loves pasta, from the way he loves to eat, from the way he eyes a woman when he thinks his wife isn’t looking. He’s a romantic.”
    “You never told me,” Paul said.
    Mrs. Talucci said, “I’m not required to reveal all I know to you. The main problem tonight is refreshments. Two dollars for a thimbleful of soda? Outrageous? And why can’t they provide an adequate spread at these events?” She headed toward what Paul knew she would regard as a woefully inadequate food table. Mrs. Talucci believed that if you didn’t leave an event stuffed, you probably didn’t have a good time.
    “She deliberately tried to get me to come tonight,” Paul said. “It wasn’t just for Trevor. She knew you’d be here.”
    Madge said, “Mrs. Talucci is a smart woman.”
    “Or at least she has good sources,” Paul said. He glanced around the room. It was nearly ten, long past the scheduled starting time and he knew he was stuck staying until Fenwick and Trevor had read. He could always ask Ben or Brian to take Jeff home. Paul returned to their table. He sat between Ben and his younger son. Brian and his buddy Andy were whispering together and giggling. Paul