Page 106 of By Any Means

Maybe even if there weren’t openings. Sam probably knew someone.

“Did Mrs. Simon follow you from New York?” he asked Chary. He was seated across from him, calmly absorbed in this week’s mail—he was currently down to the Police Gazette—nibbling on a blueberry kolache. He was still vigilant for any kind of exposé, rather rightly so. Laurie had begun to be suspicious himself. Raberding didn’t seem the type of man to let a threat go so long unrealized.

“Hm? The cook? No,” Chary said. “Mrs. Leonard hired Mrs. Simon locally. She’s the wife of an offshore fisherman, out of Milbridge, as I understand.”

Laurie grunted his surprise, mouth full of potato. “Poor Mr. Simon.”

“Why?” Chary asked. He turned the page in one careful sweep.

“Why? If you ever move back to Gotham, you should offer her the townhouse spot; that’s why. You’ll be sought after for the queens’ brunches.”

Chary shook his head. “It’s kept empty, since August’s…” He trailed off. “And… I’ll never again live in the city. I’m selling it. I let the staff there know yesterday.” He said it frowningly, like the words were automatically formed by his brain and passed his lips as formality only. He got like that when reading. And indeed, his eyes and focus were still intent upon the paper.

“Oh.” Laurie looked back down to his plate. He hadn’t meant to probe for that answer. He hadn’t even wanted to ask the question. But he had, and that was that, it seemed. Chary loved Maine. His only family was there—if conspicuously absent at present. Why would he live in New York past giving up the job at the glassworks?

“Did you see the Gazette of two weeks ago?” he asked, buttering the bread. “The bodybuilder on the front page? Abdominals for a mile?”

“What?” Chary sat back, pushed away the magazine. “No.” He exhaled.

“Nothing?”

“Nothing. Still nothing. Lord. I wish it would just come out.”

“Have you talked to your brother? He’s been sleeping in the house, hasn’t he?” If he had, Laurie hadn’t noticed. They hadn’t left the library much since yesterday; twenty-four, indeed.

Laurie hadn’t blamed August for slipping out of the cellar when he had. Mere hours with Raberding had made Laurie feel defensive, unmoored against the truth, not knowing what next to expect. He couldn’t fathom spending months of intimacy with the man, but he could see what doing so might do to one’s ability to endure conflict.

Chary nodded. “I think so.”

“Even last night?” Laurie pondered this, conspicuous and obvious. “Maybe the man just prefers a quiet sleeping environment.”

Chary’s glumness broke, and he laughed. “As though I didn’t endure many nights of the same—” He cleared his throat. “No. I think it is only that… August always sought me out,” he explained. “Despite whatever consequence it might’ve held. It’s my turn.” He waved. “Give me a metaphor, will you?”

“The ball’s yours? It’s in your court?” Laurie teased. “Despite consequence… like being found out by an infamous reporter? You were sneaking around behind my back last week. I knew it.”

A tiny smile. “Yes, of course. How good of you to have ignored it.”

Laurie laughed. “It was for a good cause.”

“But not…” Chary hesitated. “Not only that consequence. Before as well. Raberding never liked me, remember.”

The bastard Raberding again. Laurie immediately regretted his choice of words. “Shit. No, don’t worry about me. No consequences here. Go find your brother. It’s still blueberry season, isn’t it? When in doubt, find me in the kitchens. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Thank you.” Chary stood. He came over, glanced to the door, quick, and then leaned in and kissed him.

Laurie grinned through it, vowing, if nothing else, he’d convince Chary men damn well did kiss openly in their own damn house, even in the middle of nowhere, Maine, where one had to remain perfectly venial for the parish priest. Then he changed his mind and pulled Chary in, so as to convince him on the spot. They ended up in the hall, Chary sequestering him into a discreet corner, breathing hard.

Eventually, Chary said, with a regretful groan, “I really must.”

“Sorry. Go.”

Chary departed up the wide foyer stairs, face flushed, his steps quick and light. Unburdened.

Honestly, Laurie thought—leaning against the wainscoting (for reasons), watching Chary climb—if there’d been more light left to the day, Chary might’ve ended up finding him in the barrens instead. He wanted to know more about the foreman Herbert, his ways and means of hiring his seasonal pickers—where, exactly, they were being housed and what they were paid. Professional curiosity, nothing more. He hadn’t had time to check it out last time he was there. And Brasher might’ve turned out not to be a cop, only a fancy kind of butler-bodyguard-turned-lover for August, but he’d been lifted from the police station by suits with stars on. Feds. Civilians didn’t get that kind of treatment. Civilians didn’t take butler jobs in the middle of nowhere for no reason, either. Hiram’s “sabbatical” from his office was mysteriously unexplained, Sam suspiciously tight-lipped about it.

Tomorrow, he resolved.

“Best of all,” Laurie muttered to himself, “it’s not a damn whodunit.”