Dead by Any Other Name by Sebastian Stuart Page A

Ridge.
    â€œI know that Collier Denton character; my old company did his gardens.” Before he earned his landscaping “degree” and went out on his own, Zack worked for a big local landscaper.
    â€œNo kidding, what was he like?”
    â€œDude put the sleaze in sleazy, always had these hustler types hanging around. Plus he stiffed my boss for something like five grand.”
    â€œHe just didn’t pay it?”
    â€œBingo. He lived like royalty—a queen to be exact. You should have heard him, ‘I’m sorry, my dear boy, but that hydrangea plant simply must be moved three inches to the left.’ And this is at 9 in the a.m. while he’s drinking a glass of champagne. Then he got fired from his soap opera gig for showing up drunk, and then he started selling shit from his house; he had all kinds of paintings and silver and knick-knacks and stuff, the place was like a museum. He also switched to Champale for breakfast. Then he stopped paying his bills, there were all sorts of excuses. Finally we just quit.”
    â€œWhat about those hustlers?”
    â€œThey were hot kids, I remember one was Dominican, another was a hick from up in Schoharie County. Denton would always be trying to ‘educate’ them, reciting Shakespeare and playing operas, but you could tell he was nothing but a meal ticket to them—and under his mentor schtick, they were nothing but sex toys to him. There was always some kind of blowup after a month or two and he’d kick them out.”
    Was Pavel his latest hustler? And if Denton was as obsessed with Pavel as Octavia was, well, who knows what dark corners of the soul it could have led him into.
    â€œI need to meet this guy.”
    â€œHe’s a sucker for fans and flattery, old ladies used to show up at his house with presents, he creamed every time, invited them in, showed off the place. I’m telling you, he’s a total freak.”
    I could feel my adrenaline kick up a notch, my short hairs tingle, my throat tighten. The truth is pathology excites me, the swirling vortex of lust/obsession/degeneracy/evil, the question of how far a human being will go—and what it is within us that allows us to go that far. I took a deep sip of the Zackwacker.
    Zack leaned over and opened the oven door to braise the chicken. His shorts rode low and pulled tight against his firm beefy butt.
    â€œClose that oven door,” I said.
    He straightened and turned to me, “Wassup?”
    I walked over to him and undid the top button of his shorts.
    â€œI’m in an eat-dessert-first mood.”

sixteen
    I sat at my kitchen table the next morning reading a follow-up story on Natasha’s death in the Freeman . The investigation had turned up no signs of foul play, although the cause of death was still officially listed as “undetermined”; it also stated that a memorial service was going to be held in Cold Spring on Saturday evening.
    I was sure that Natasha’s friend Billie up in Phoenicia was holding out on me. I called her.
    â€œIt’s Janet Petrocelli.”
    â€œOh, hi.” She sounded wary.
    â€œHow are you?”
    â€œI’m okay.”
    â€œAre you going to Natasha’s memorial?”
    There was a pause. “I can’t, I can’t handle it.”
    â€œListen, I’d like to talk.”
    â€œWhat about?”
    â€œNatasha.”
    â€œI just lost my best friend and I’m not doing that well.”
    â€œI want to find out what really happened with her death.”
    â€œThinking about it, maybe she did kill herself. She wasn’t happy.”
    â€œIf every unhappy person killed themselves, the world would be a ghost town.” I heard her light a cigarette and take a deep pull. “What do you say? Let me buy you a drink.”
    There was a long pause, then, “Okay, but nowhere around here.” I heard fear.
    â€œName your spot.”
    She took another deep pull on her