Deadly Night (17 page)

I really didn’t know if the boys would be untouched down the road, but for now I just knew they’d be okay. Despite not having Fiona’s sentient gifts, I do get some intense gut feelings every now and then. Like my strong intuition about more than one person out there, and if I’m right, I wouldn’t be surprised if we’re dealing with a guy and a girl. That’s the strongest impression I get.

“
Don’t rely on your ‘feelings’ on this one, Jimmy!” she scolded, announcing the fact she’s reading my thoughts verbatim, despite her claims it’s a hit or miss thing when it comes to deciphering my mental images. “And, I’m picking up just the guy…if there’s a girl involved, then it’s some struggle within him.”

Since I’d never mentioned a guy/girl impression before, I nodded in response, reluctant to expose myself to any more telepathic voyeurism. Luckily, we were within a block of the restaurant. Since Fiona doesn’t air her personal dirty laundry, and never has, she changed the subject to sort of ‘rinse’ our discussion. Talking about other subjects, like what she might order tonight. Her intent was to be clear-eyed by the time we reached the parking lot. So for now, my indiscretion was as good as forgotten. At least until the next stupid thing I did.

It gave me a chance to reflect on how the day had gone up until our ride to the Gerst Haus. After another restless night’s sleep, I just had to suck it up, since most of my day at the call center would be spent in meetings—most of them hashing over old business we’d already discussed last week…and the week before that. We talk about pretty much the same things every meeting, month after month, year after year.

Not much ever changes in the art of delivering customer service over a telephone.

By the time I got back to my desk, I could only take care of a couple of call-backs from angry customers and confirm my team’s final payroll report. That left just a few minutes to touch base with Matilda, rebuffing her attempts to dredge out news on the killer still at large and my team’s recent slump—and what I planned to do about the latter. Then, out the door and off to the historic Ryman Auditorium, where Dickey’s memorial was scheduled to begin at four o’clock.

Since Gerard, my brother-in-law, agreed to hang around Fiona and my boys for the day, he told me he’d have Fiona there ten minutes early. Very little time to waste, and though doing so is risky business on the highways surrounding downtown Nashville, I drove like a bat out of hell to make sure she wasn’t standing around waiting on my ass. As fortune would have it, the only cop to notice my craziness headed the other direction on I-65, with no immediate opportunity to whirl around and chase after me. I’d already exited by the time I saw the flashing lights coming back my way, and I quickly maneuvered around the mid-afternoon traffic until I reached the parking lot next to the Ryman.

“
I got here as quick as I could, babe,” I told my wife, right after I caught up with her near the main entrance.

I feared she’d be alone, but two other females stood with her. I recognized one from a BMI songwriter event last spring. Both girls blond and pretty, they sauntered off together toward a side entrance. I almost followed them, thinking they must know the routine around here, but Fiona lightly tugged my arm to lead me inside the building’s main doors.

Smartly dressed in a black pantsuit and gold blouse, her eyes reflected the glistening silk. Golden orange like a Bengal tiger, and yet tinged by profound sadness. The loss of those close to her continued to extract a toll.

We moved toward the balcony, since the place was packed. There were probably more folks here than the Ryman had seen in quite some time. The place used to be a church, and every country music legend has played in this building, from the 1920s on through the current resurgence, as well as a bevy of popular rock artists during the past decade.

This afternoon, people all around us were standing—even the ones who could sit down, since the wooden pews leave much to be desired in terms of comfort. Dimly lit, the atmosphere had a concert vibe…like Dickey might finally get his own artist wish, since while alive his music biz destiny was to help others attain fame and fortune. Fiona told me that his dreams of performing to such fanfare were cast aside long ago, when he realized his musical gifts weren’t special enough to take him to the top.

He might’ve struggled as a performer, but he sure was one hell of a manager. The accolades from so many stars—most of whom were clients at one point—gave me a much better appreciation of the man’s greatness, and what the industry lost by his death.

The service lasted roughly an hour and a half, and the energy around us grew more and more intense. Not sure why, but it seemed noticeably different than Candi’s service yesterday afternoon.

Maybe it’s the building, with so much age, history, and….

Ghosts?

Damn! For a moment I felt incredibly tempted to sneak out to my car and grab one of our cameras. But that temptation fizzled away when I considered the sea of emotion surrounding us. A curious mixture of grief, and yet also, a ton of admiration for a man I soon realized I knew very little about. I thought all managers in the music biz were snakes—even the nice, approachable ones. My band’s manager can be a conniving prick. From what I learned at the service today, Dickey wasn’t anything like that.

When the service ended, Fiona and I filed out with everyone else, her head nuzzled beneath my chin. I didn’t realize how much closeness had waned between us since the killings started. A temporary thing, I hoped…prayed. She suddenly looked up into my face and smiled, so I know she felt the same way.

We remained close like that until we reached the Camaro. I opened her door before moving around to the driver side. Fighting my arousal, I debated on how to broach the subject I’d been avoiding. Maybe I didn’t wish to spoil the moment, or more likely, I turned chicken shit. Either excuse would do, I guess, as to why I continued to stall in telling her about the mysterious Buick and its hostile driver. At least it’s finally out there now, while I navigated through congested traffic in our quest to reach the Gerst Haus....

“
What up, ya’ll?”

It would figure that Justin greeted us first at the restaurant. He might be a little green in haunting investigations, but the kid has got keen instincts when something’s not right. He didn’t say anything about the tension between Mr. and Mrs. Alea, but the way he studied Fiona’s face told me—and surely her, too—that he sensed something amiss. Then everyone lined up to give my wife a much needed hug. The girls wept with her, which made an awkward few minutes for the guys.

“
There’s plenty of beer and ale,” said Justin, motioning to the bar. He didn’t need to educate Tom or Tony—they’d tried them all over the past few years. “And we should have a table in just a few minutes.”

The truth, I hoped. I was starving…literally, with a bad case of the shakes coming soon.

“
I’ve got the buzzer right here,” added Tom, holding up the palm-sized square with the pulsating red and green lights.

He and Tony wore matching black NVP Tshirts, along with the insignia caps we ordered for our most recent group photo shoot last month. Dragon Lady must’ve seriously intimidated them when we visited the Thompson place last week. Nice gear, really, and maybe someday it’d be fun for our entire group to dress in our ‘official attire’ for an investigation.

But tonight? Sorry boys…our insignia will do little good to ward off Charlain’s abrasive malice. Justin’s gold chain and white rabbit’s foot won’t help either. Sure as shit, the matron of the remodeled Victorian formerly known as Robertson Manor will be waiting in her driveway with her arms folded while she taps her Gucci-covered toes on her driveway’s sealed surface. Not exactly a picture of overflowing fondness and support. More like Grimm’s cannibalistic witch ready to gobble up the Hansels and Gretels once the seven of us arrive, armed only with our normal array of cameras, EMF detectors, and voice recorders for protection.

But that’s still a couple of hours away, after a belly full of Gerst Haus specialties and two or three tall glasses filled to the brim with the darkest ale. Not enough to knock us drunk on our asses, but a lasting buzz would surely be in order tonight.

At least Jackie, Angie, and Justin are dressed in their normal investigation attire. Blue jeans and dark Ts...kind of the standard choice for the group’s majority. Fiona and I still needed time to change, which isn’t as difficult as one might imagine, since we’ve gotten used to the routine. We can both change quickly in the tinted-window confines of the Camaro.

“
So, why did you decide to be a dickhead and not tell anyone about a dark van following you home after rehearsal?” asked Jackie, loudly across our table, her buzz already in full force.

We’d just sat down. The long dinner table was made from imported dark oak. Heavy oak, I should say. Immovable. The restaurant’s festive ambiance is quite different than the Chophouse. A bit rustic….like the German taverns of old.

“
I should’ve said something…I know,” I admitted, feeling my face burn. I paused to look over at my wife, who motioned for me to go on. Could this be a down payment on an eventual full pardon? “I guess I didn’t want to frighten Fiona and the boys needlessly, if the asshole was just out to harass me. I doubt he cares much for rocker-biker dudes.”

“
For real?” said Justin. He paused to take a drink from the Bavarian lager he selected for dinner. “It’s gotta be the same dude killing everyone around here. Right?”

Fiona and Jackie nodded as well, and this time I shrugged my shoulders. Tony and Tom shook their heads in silence, while Angie wore the same worried look from the other night.

“
It could be,” I agreed, sipping on the amber ale I ordered. Closest thing to Killian’s I’d find in this place. “But, what if it’s not?”

“
Just the same, I decided to call Ed about it,” Fiona advised, which seemed to surprise only me.

Fine German ale really stings like a mother when it’s going through your nose, and everyone looked in my direction as I spit it up. She must’ve called Dick Tracy after we entered the restaurant.

“
Sorry, hon’, but he needs to know,” she continued, reaching over to gently pat my thigh. “It’s just too bad you couldn’t catch the van’s license plate.”

“
Or, that we haven’t gotten permits to carry our handguns with us,” I added.

“
Concealed weapons?” asked Jackie, her tone less surprised than I would’ve expected.

“
Sounds sort of fun,” deadpanned Angie, her impish smile returning. She winked at Tom, who finds the whole idea of bearing arms distasteful—regardless of the reason. “I guess the Aleas have moved past the Tazer stage—gonna pack some real firepower, now! You sure you won’t hurt yourself, Cracker Jack?”

Everyone found that funny, overpowering the ‘hell no’ that came out as a mumbled response from my throat. More shit to tease Jimmy about, how lovely.

“
Anyway, Ed told me he would research the Buick emblem on the grill this evening before he leaves the office,” said Fiona, herself chuckling, but determined to keep us on track. “It should narrow down the model and year.”

“
I understand.”

No I didn’t…but what in the hell could I do about it now? Tired of the jokes at my expense, I wanted desperately to let the subject go…at least for now. But my ghost hunting pals were far from ready to drop the subject.

We spent the next hour talking about it, even after our food arrived. Rather, everyone else asked questions, and I gave answers…mostly curt ones. It did little to help matters, but I was in no mood to be a cooperative subject. It wasn’t until we finally moved on to a brief overview of how we wanted to set up our gear at Ms. Thompson’s place that I received a true reprieve.

Once the last ribbing ended, and we’d had our fill of bratwurst, pig knuckles and kraut, we prepared to leave. The plan tonight was to leave all vehicles other than Tom and Jackie’s in the Gerst Haus’s parking lot and return for them as soon as we finished our investigative work. Justin and I rode with Jackie and Angie, in the back seat, and Fiona hitched a ride with Tom and Tony…said she had something to discuss with Tom, our technical whiz., on the way to Charlain’s.

Nearing eight o’clock when we pulled up into the Thompson house’s curved driveway, Charlain did wait for us, standing in the middle of her driveway. But her arms were opened wide.

Was that a wicked grin I detected in the dwindling sunlight? Or did it just seem naughty, as she stood in the shadowed half of the driveway?

She looked even more unapproachable, like a damned vampire fatale who hadn’t fed in years. Fiona has assured us that she’s harmless, but Dragon Lady’s really creeping me out tonight, and I’m sure at least the guys all feel the same thing. Something about the
way
she’s just standing there… like she’d been out here in her driveway for an hour or longer.

“
Here goes nothing!” whispered Justin, glancing worriedly in my direction.

Tom and Tony already outside the vehicle, I followed him out of the backseat wearing a forced smile.

It’s Showtime.

“
Wel-l-com-m-m-e, Fiona! Welcome as well to her troupe of spirit investigator-r-r-s-s!!”

What in the hell??

Okay, this is really weird. First she’s out in the middle of her driveway acting like Jesus at the Second Coming, and now she sounds like Joan Crawford fired up on crack cocaine. Keep an eye out for an oversized hatchet hidden behind her, man…or at least a metal hanger or two. A shot of Thorazine or Prozac might be in order.