Chapter 30
“Oooh girl, this is a drag queen bar!” Wavonne calls into my ear over the loud club noise.
“Apparently so.” I look around the room as Mable Devine entertains the audience. Aside from a small but rowdy group of young ladies who appear to be out for a bachelorette evening, the club goers are almost all gay men, a handful of them dressed in drag themselves.
Ms. Devine ends up being quite amusing. She has some fun banter with the crowd and brings the bride-to-be from the bachelorette party onstage with her. Her questions to the inebriated young woman, while a bit vulgar for my taste, are funny, and she gets lots of laughs from everyone.
After thoroughly embarrassing the soon-to-be-wed woman, Mable ends her monologue and introduces the next act, a very tall performer in a Tina Turner wig and short gold dress. As we watch her “Rolling on the River” routine, Wavonne starts to really get into the whole thing and works in a few calls of “Sing it, girl!” and “Shake what your Momma gave ya!”
We’re having such a good time, I almost forget our reason for being here in the first place, but by the time the fourth drag queen appears onstage, I’m starting to get tired and my feet are beginning to hurt.
“Why don’t we see if we can find Maurice?”
“Okay, but let me get another cocktail,” Wavonne says, turning back toward the bar and placing an order.
“Do you happen to know Maurice Masson?” I ask the bartender while he hands Wavonne her drink, and I hand him my credit card.
“He’s backstage getting ready for his number.” The gentleman points toward a door several feet to the left of the stage.
“Thank you.” I sign the receipt, motion for Wavonne to follow me, and we work our way through the crowd. We’re about halfway down the steps to the lower level of the club when a highly intoxicated young man looks Wavonne up and down.
“Girl! You slayin’ all dayin’!” he says, snapping his finger.
“You know it,” Wavonne replies as if she hears this sort of thing all the time.
“Fierce!” the gentleman, a stocky white guy, calls, reaffirming his admiration of all things Wavonne. He stands at nearly six feet, but when you factor in her heels and wig height, Wavonne is taller than him. I should probably also mention the man is wearing a cheap wig, an ill-fitting leather skirt, and a spandex tube top.
Wavonne smiles as if to say “Don’t I know it!” before the man introduces himself. “I’m Margaux Laveau,” he says. “What name do you go by?”
“Go by?” Wavonne asks.
He ignores the question while his eyes continue to scan her from head to toe. “You’ve got to help me out with some tips,” he demands. “Your look is flawless! The wig. The heels.” This Margaux character is truly excited by Wavonne. “And the breasts. Amazing!” He stares down at his chest. “They look so much better than my foam falsies. What do you have stuffed in there?”
My mouth drops as I realize the assumption Ms. Laveau is making and brace myself for Wavonne to go off on him for mistaking her for a drag queen. But, to my surprise, Wavonne doesn’t seem at all bothered.
“Girl, you gotta go with the chicken cutlets . . . you know, the gel pads. And you’re just gonna have to gain some weight if you really want those boobies to look authentic with a low neckline. Get a little fat upstairs, and then all you need to do is squish the flab together with some duct tape . . . and voilà, you got yourself some cleavage,” she says. “Duct tape . . . it’s a broke girl’s Wonderbra.”
“That sounds painful.”
“You think all of this”—Wavonne points her finger from her toes up to her neck—“comes without pain? If bein’ fierce were easy, everyone would do it.”
“What else? What else?” the young man asks eagerly. “Any wig tips?”
“My first tip would be to bury the one you got on your head because, girlfriend, it’s dead,” she advises. “You gotta go to Lolita’s Lavish Locks in Capitol Heights. Mrs. Sagong will hook you up . . . she’s a mean little Asian woman, but boy can she throw down with some wigs. And you got to get the real hair. No nylon . . . if some chick in India or China ain’t walkin’ around bald because of your wig, it ain’t worth puttin’ on your head.”
“Duct tape. Lolita’s Lavish Locks. No nylon. Got it,” Margaux says.
“And the clothes,” Wavonne adds, shaking her head and pursing her lips while looking at his outfit. “I’ll be straight with you, Margaux . . . you look more ‘transvestite’ than ‘drag queen.’ You ain’t never gonna be Lady Chablis if you keep dressin’ like Lady Project Ho. You gotta hit the sample sales at—”
Much as I’d like to help Margaux up his drag queen game, we didn’t come here to play fairy godmother to some RuPaul wannabe . . . and my dogs are barking big time, so I interrupt Wavonne. “I’m sorry, Ms. Laveau,” I say. “But we have to go backstage. Perhaps the two of you can continue this discussion later?”
“Yeah . . . sure,” he says. “Thanks for the tips . . . ah . . . ah,” he adds, waiting for Wavonne to tell him her name.
Wavonne looks away for a moment and sees a bottle of champagne en route to the bachelorette party. “Champagne,” she says. “Bubbles Champagne.”
Wavonne is better at wading through a crowd than me, so she leads this time. Fortunately, we encounter no further interruptions on the way backstage. Unlike me, who would have probably knocked and waited God knows how long for a response, Wavonne opens the door next to the stage with no permissions given, and we walk into a cramped room with six dressing tables, three on each side. We find Maurice at the middle table on the left side. He’s wearing a wig cap and his face is adorned with thick concealer or maybe foundation.
He sees us as we come into view in his mirror, but he finishes pressing a fake eyelash on his lid before saying anything. I’m expecting a curt “Who let you back here?” but instead he says, “Well hello, ladies. What can I do for you?”
I smile and take in Maurice for a second or two. His mirror has a little nameplate on it that says BRIGHTINA GLOW. There are two performers adjusting wigs and reapplying makeup on either side of him. Their mirrors are labeled DIXIE CRYSTAL and DOMINIQUE DEVERAUX. Maurice notices me looking at their nameplates.
“Dixie is from the South . . . and she likes sugar.” He turns his gaze to the man on his other side. “Dominique is a Dynasty fan.”
I nod and give a quick wave to Dixie and Dominique as Wavonne and I inch closer to Maurice, who doesn’t seem at all startled or unnerved by our presence. And he certainly doesn’t seem embarrassed for us to find him about two-thirds of the way to an alternate gender. He does, however, seem to become annoyed when, after offering a few pleasantries and not even bothering to try to explain how we found him here, I start asking him questions. But I sense that his irritation may have more to do with me delaying his readiness to perform than with any insinuations I’m making about him possibly being associated with Monique’s murder.
“I apologize if we’re in the way, but I tried to call you a number of times and didn’t have any luck reaching you,” I say. “Forgive all the questions, but I’m just trying to make sure the police really have the right guy locked up. I’m sure as someone who cared about Monique, you want that, too.”
“Of course I do. But I, unlike you, have no doubt that Nathan killed her. I’ve known that man to be evil to the bone for as long as I’ve known Monique.”
“And how long is that?” I ask. “How long have you known Monique?”
“I met Monique right here about ten years ago. She came to Enigma to catch the show with a bachelorette party and sought me out after my performance.”
“Really. Why?”
“Because she was just starting to launch Hair by Monique, and she was impressed with the quality of my wigs, and how they were virtually impossible to discern from a real head of hair.” Maurice applies some blush to his cheeks. “We all now know that Monique did not have a lot of hair. As her products began to take off, she planned to make infomercials to really push her business to the next level. If she was going to be hocking hair care products in an age of HD television, she needed her wigs to be flawless.” He quiets for a moment, stares at himself in the mirror, and applies a bit more pink powder to his face. “So, Monique and I came to an agreement. I’d make her wigs . . . and position and style them for any important occasions . . . and, most important, I’d keep her secret.”
“And what did you get out of the deal?” I ask.
“Money,” Maurice responds. “A lot of money.”
“So, if you’re so good with wigs,” Wavonne says, “how come Halia can’t find any record of you having a cosmetology license? Why would Monique trust a person with no formal training with something so important to her career?”
“No formal training!?” Maurice says, more riled by this question than any having to do with Monique’s murder. “I’ve been working with wigs since I was old enough to reach the one on my momma’s dresser.”
He pulls a wig from a foam head on his dressing table, lowers it on his head, and begins to describe how he learned to make “truly exquisite” wigs and adhere them in a way that makes them undetectable through years of trial and error as a performer. He explains concealers and lace fronts and wig clips . . . and knot bleaching . . . and edge control . . . and the creative use of a toothbrush for baby hairs . . . and eyelash glue to hold things in place. By the time he’s done with his spiel, and Wavonne is finished taking notes on her phone, I’m more than convinced of his talent and understand why Monique entrusted him with something so important to her. But I’m still wondering about his new line of wigs, and if it translates to a motive for wanting Monique dead.
“It does look pretty amazing,” I compliment, eyeing his wig as he dabs some concealer along the part near his forehead.
“Thank you,” he says. “One never wants one’s wig to look . . . well, wiggy.”
I chuckle. “May I ask you about one more thing, Maurice? Then we’ll—”
“Get out of your hair,” Wavonne says, and laughs and laughs, quite pleased with herself, but also annoyed that neither Maurice nor I found her quip as amusing as she did. It’s one of those things that must be funnier after two gin and tonics.
“What?” he asks, touching up his wig with a big plastic comb.
“Triple M Wigs,” I say. “We came upon the new website for it this afternoon.”
“What did you think? I’ve been working on it for months.”
“So it was in the works before Monique died?”
“You’re a business owner, Halia. You, of all people, should know you can’t launch a business, especially one with an interactive website, in a week.”
“So Monique knew about the business?”
“Yes. It took some serious negotiating, but she eventually gave me her blessing as long as I stayed behind the scenes and didn’t market my wigs under my name or in any way that would publicly connect them to her.”
“But the business has your name all over it . . . and Monique’s, too.”
“Yes. Yes, it does, but only now that Monique has passed on.” He stands up from the table and reaches for a garment bag hanging from a hook on the wall. “I had not planned to launch the business for several months and, I swear, it was only after Monique died that I hurried to get the business online and use my history with her as a marketing tool.” Maurice unzips the bag and pulls out a short yellow dress made of layered chiffon. “Yes, it’s ill-mannered to use Monique’s death to promote a new business venture. I admit I was . . . am trying to profit from her death, but I never would have betrayed her like that when she was alive. I only tried to benefit from her secret once it was . . . well, no longer a secret. I’d like to think Monique would approve. She was clearly one to take advantage of every opportunity to market her products. I don’t think she’d have had a problem with me doing the same.” He holds the dress against his body and looks at himself in the mirror. “It’s pretty nice, isn’t it?” he asks. “I really do need to get into it.”
“Of course,” I say. “We’ll go.”
“Before you do, let me be the one to ask a question,” he says. “At first, I thought you were here to see if I could help you identify any suspects other than Nathan, and maybe Odessa, but I’m starting to think you might actually have me on your list. Is that true?”
I swallow. “I wouldn’t say you are exactly on my list, but—”
“From what I’ve heard on the news Monique was most definitively shot between eleven forty-five p.m. and twelve fifteen a.m.,” Maurice says, interrupting me. “I go onstage every Saturday at twelve thirty.” He lays the dress on the chair and turns to look at us. “Do you have any idea how long it takes to go from Maurice Masson to Brightina Glow? Do you? Any idea at all?”
Before my “no fuss/no muss” self can answer that, in fact, I do not, Wavonne looks in his mirror and adjusts her own wig. “Oh . . . I think I have some idea.”
Maurice turns back toward the mirror and looks at Wavonne’s reflection. “Then you know there is no way I could have been at Monique’s house at the time she was killed. I’m always here by eleven thirty. It takes a full hour to pluck, tuck, and glitter all of this,” he says, pointing from his feet up to his wig, “to be ready to go onstage, which is where I was at twelve thirty last Saturday night. An entire club full of people can verify that I was here.”
“Glad to hear it. I guess you’re in the clear then,” I say. “The dress and the wig . . . they really are quite nice. Thank you for your time, Maurice.” I turn to Wavonne. “Come on, Bubbles, let’s go.”
“Oh ladies,” Maurice calls right before we reach the door. “I may be a shameless opportunist when it comes to making money, but I really did care about Monique. I’m hosting a sort of memorial for her next Saturday. I can send you the details if you’d like to attend. Nothing somber or morbid. I want it to be upbeat like Monique . . . a gathering . . . a party, even . . . to celebrate her life and her memory.”
“Yes, please,” I respond. “I’m not sure we’ll be able to make it, but we would appreciate the information.”
As Wavonne and I step out into the main club and try to make our way to the exit, my mind attempts to put a few pieces of the Monique murder puzzle together. Maurice has a solid alibi, so unless any other persons of interest make themselves known, my suspect list, aside from Nathan, is down to Odessa and Alex. Did Odessa really just mix up the name of the club she supposedly went to after the white party? And, if she didn’t kill Monique, how did a piece of her dress end up on the front lawn? But at the same time, if Alex didn’t kill her, why did he skip town immediately after her death?
I’m trying to sort it all out in my head, when I hear Mable Devine introduce Brightina.
“We gotta stay for this,” Wavonne says.
I’m exhausted and really want to go home, but I guess I’m also a little curious about Maurice’s showmanship and, I must say, he does not disappoint. As Katy Perry’s “Waking Up in Vegas” blares from the speakers, Maurice emerges onto the stage looking like a Vegas showgirl—albeit an unusually plump Vegas showgirl, but a showgirl nonetheless. The yellow dress we saw backstage is nice, but his real pièce de résistance is an intricate feather headdress constructed from a mix of yellow and white feathers.
“Girl,” Wavonne says as she and I hover near the exit on the upper level, looking over the crowd as Maurice jaunts about the stage. “I bet he’s got some Spanx working overtime under all that.”
“Maybe so.” I laugh. And then it happens . . . a moment of insight when I notice some feathers that have fallen off his headdress onto the floor of the stage.
“What?” Wavonne asks me. “Why do you have that look on your face . . . like someone just shouted bingo and you’ve got the winnin’ card?”
“Oh . . . nothing . . . enjoying the show,” I lie as I carefully consider what I’ve just realized.