The Mysterious Case of Cupid and the Drag Queen: A Love…Maybe Valentine eShort

I suspected the law had more important things on its collective mind these days. A copy of the Gazette lay open on the smoky glass-topped coffee table between us. The front page was a report on the abduction of Coco Doyle, the seven-year-old daughter of a local businessman. In this case, the business was drugs – but let’s face it, that wasn’t Coco’s fault. Neither was her name.

‘So, when was the last time you saw Cupid?’ I asked, dragging myself back into the here and now. No matter how surreal it was.

Harley tugged a pink tissue from a zebra print box by his side, and dabbed delicately at eyes that already bore the residue of soggy mascara. Dorothy tenderly tapped his hand, trying to reassure him.

‘One of the staff took him out for a run, down at the waterfront, yesterday. We were out looking for new chocolate fountains all day. If I’d know then that I wouldn’t see him again, well, I’d, I’d …’

The tears started to flow in earnest, and I tried to find the right face for the occasion. It wasn’t easy, so I ended up looking a bit constipated.

Dorothy pulled himself together and sat up straight.

‘Billy,’ he said. ‘He’s our cellar man, as well as one of our performers. He says he brought Cupid back here, and locked up behind him. We saw Cupid when we got back, and he was in here with customers later – they all love him! We’re not even quite sure when he went missing … We feel so guilty now, for not paying more attention. We let him down!’

He gulped in some air, fluttered his fingers in front of his face, and continued: ‘We stayed here, in the flat we keep upstairs on the fourth floor, and it was only this morning we really started to worry. We were exhausted – dead to the world all night, assuming he was safe in his little bed! But then he didn’t come and wake us up to take him outside for a tinkle! And now we can’t find him, anywhere. The tracker says he’s here, but he’s not – we’ve searched everywhere! That’s when we called you – one of our friends, Mystic Melissa, said you might be able to help.’

‘The tracker?’ I asked, even more confused. And trying not to dwell too much on the fact that I now owed Mystic Melissa – aka Clive, a stallholder who worked with my mum down at the market – a pint.

‘Yes. There’s a GPS chip in his collar. You have to understand that Cupid’s our baby. And you’d get your baby tracked, wouldn’t you?’

I didn’t feel qualified to answer that question. I had no babies, furry or otherwise, and had no idea if it was normal to fit them with spy satellites or not. It did, however, seem to be what we in the trade call ‘A Clue.’

‘You’re 100 per cent positive he’s not still here, trapped somewhere, or hiding? I mean, he does look … well, petite?’

In fact, Cupid looked like a rat that had dropped some poppers and run into a brick wall. But it seemed indelicate to phrase it like that, and one of Harley’s eyelashes was already dropping off.

‘Certain, Miss McCartney,’ replied Dorothy. ‘We’ve torn the place apart – all the staff have helped, even the customers. He’s not here – whoever took him must have somehow hidden the collar, or disabled it somehow. Cupid is gone! How can we go on without him – how can we throw a party when our lives have ended!’

I raised an eyebrow in question.

‘The Love Boat. Tomorrow night. We do it every year for Valentine’s Day,’ said Harley through his sniffles. ‘Hire a ferry and go out onto the river. It’s a big event, and Cupid is always the guest of honour!’

I jumped to my feet. Things were about to get messy here, I could tell from the voice doing a dramatic Mariah Carey-style full-octave wobble.

‘I’ll need to talk to Billy,’ I said, grabbing my notebook and pen and shoving them back into my bag. I couldn’t wait to tell my best friend Tish about this. She would quite possibly wee herself laughing. It was the kind of story that needed to be delivered along with a multi-pack of Lady Tena.

‘He’s in the main bar,’ replied Dorothy, before burying his head in Harley’s dip-dyed hair extensions.

Chapter Three (#ulink_f8c426d1-b9f3-5520-8894-fe741baa7e7e)

The main bar looked like a crashpad for Dracula Prince of Darkness and his BFF, Malibu Barbie. Lots of dark red velvet, black wood, crystal vases and flowers. Pink flowers. Everywhere. I felt my nostrils wrinkle in response and stifled a sneeze.

The bar itself was long, dark, and garlanded with even more flowers. Behind it was a very tall, very broad, very handsome man. He had thick dark hair tied back in a loose pony, and vivid green eyes that met mine as I perched myself on a high-backed stool. He was beautiful, in a Pirates of the Caribbean kind of way – I could imagine him in a blouson shirt with frilly sleeves. In fact he was wearing a grubby paint-stained sweatshirt that said ‘Billy the Builder’ on it in block capitals.

‘Are you the private investigator?’ he asked, washing his hands in a sink behind the bar and drying them on a tea towel.

‘I am,’ I replied, introducing myself. ‘And I need to ask you a few questions about the day Cupid went missing.’

He nodded, and came round to sit beside me. I noticed that his fingernails were cracked, embedded with dirt and grunge, and wondered if I’d heard right when Dorothy said he was also one of the performers. Always one with the sneaky investigative techniques, I asked: ‘Did I hear right when Dorothy said you’re one of the performers?’

The club was officially called Francesca’s Friends, but was referred to by those wanting a cheap gag (this included me) as Franny by Asslights. It had a small raised stage where the performers showed off their many talents, and the bar itself was also often decorated with six-foot plus size supermodels with penises doing their own take on Coyote Ugly. It was actually a great night out.

Billy the Builder gave me a smile that could melt hearts, and nodded. He pulled out his phone, and opened the photo screen. He did the thumb-scroll thing until he found one he liked – and I have to admit it was a cracker. Very classy, as these things go – head to toe in a black tube dress, hair in a Fenella Fielding bob, make-up perfectly highlighting those killer eyes and cut-your-finger cheekbones. He was crooning into one of those old-fashioned Thirties-style microphones.

‘I’m Wilhelmina Wanderlust by night,’ he said, with an element of pride.

‘So,’ I replied, ‘you’re a cellar-man-slash-drag-queen-singer-slash … builder?’

‘Yep. I’m a man of many layers. You can unpeel some of them if you ask nicely.’