Beauty Queen

choking with anger all over again.
    The fact was, she still had plenty of reason to kill Colter. Danny, her partner, her kid brother, was dead because of this woman. Many innocent people were being hurt because of this woman. Even if Maiy Ellen herself had a questionable claim to having been hurt, she could still act on behalf of all the millions of aggrieved gay people in the country whose lives would be touched, and seared, by the Colter poison.
    Bill was walking along a downtown street during one of his peregrinations. He passed an antique shop and saw a soup tureen in the display window.
    It was one of those small shops that have a small stock of choice stuff—everything in immaculate condition and nicely arranged. The window also displayed a silk Ghiordes prayer rug, a couple of little French inlaid tables, sterling candlesticks, Dresden bisque figurines, a nice ivory miniature portrait of a lady.
    The tureen looked like an original piece from the old Staffordshire pattern "Fair Winds". It had been done from copper engravings of harbor and sea scenes in the great ports of the time: New York, London and Canton. This dish showed a splendid view of New York Harbor and ships at anchor in the roads. It was such a fine old pattern that modern copies were being sold in the supermarkets now.
    He went in. The owner was tending shop, a pleasant slender brown-haired man in his thirties who seemed to be gay, which made it all the more perfect.
    "I'm interested in the Staffordshire tureen," Hill explained.
    "It's an entire set," said the man. "Just about complete. I've got the rest boxed in the back. Would you like to see it?"
    Bill knew enough about antique china to know that a close-to-complete set was a rarity, and also very expensive. He also knew that Marion adored old Staffordshire.
    He helped the owner carry out the three boxes. The china was carefully wrapped in old newspapers that told of Watergate and Son of Sam. The men unpacked selected pieces—dinner plates, sugar and cream pitcher, teapot, serving dishes, cups and saucers. Aside from a chip here and there, the china was in beautiful condition.
    Bill mused over the scenes etched on the pieces, getting lost in them. Work was proceeding apace on the Catherine Slip house. The men had started on a general clean-up and the plumbing. The place needed a new roof, new windows, new shutters. He was hoping to move into it by fall. But, with supply shortages and the usual other construction delays, a more realistic date would be in early winter, maybe Christmas.
    He pictured Marion and himself celebrating Christmas in their own house. A magnificent pine tree in the living room, covered with antique ornaments. A fire crackling in the great new fieldstone fireplace. A roast goose, or maybe game, and champagne. Friends dropping in. Yes, it would be interesting to see which of their present friends would drop in for drinks, if and when he and Marion ever managed to come out.
    Their relationship seemed to be stymied by a kind of coldness. Bill knew that it depended mainly on himself, on his attitude toward Jeannie, to break the stalemate.
    Sometimes Marion seemed to forget that he was Jeannie's father. But Bill found it was impossible to throw over a lifetime's love and concern just because he wanted to lead an open life. For instance, he was terribly concerned at the threatening letters and phone calls that Jeannie had received. Maybe some emotionally disturbed or angry gay person might try to harm her or the children. And Bill knew that, no matter how much she might have taunted someone into doing it, he would be grief-stricken if something happened to her. Because life was not a simple thing at all, not the strictly black-and-white thing that Marion thought it was.
    Yesterday she had told him, chortling, that she had just hired a bodyguard—a young former policewoman. A bodyguard! Bill's stomach had done a sick-scared plunge. Jeannie had even considered wearing a flak vest, though she said the bodyguard said that flak vests were no defense against a head shot.
    Tenderly he set the last cup and saucer on the counter.
    "How much?" he said.
    "A thousand dollars for the set," said the man.
    Bill hauled out his checkbook and his card. "Would you have the china delivered to this address? It's going to be in storage for a little while, so please repack it carefully."
    The man studied the card. "Are you the William Laird?" he asked, delighted.
    Bill wasn't listening—his mind