Killer Riff (7 page)

“I don’t know. It didn’t make any sense to me. But I know it has something to do with Claire. Everything has something to do with Claire. She’s been his work since Micah died. I mean, Dad took care of her, got her back on her feet emotionally, watched over her in every possible way.”

“Then why would you suspect her of having something to do with his death?”

“I think she came to resent it. Him. That more and more over the years, people talked about how important Dad was, not how important she was. And after Adam’s career tanked, Claire blamed that whole thing on Dad, and things eroded from there.”

“I thought Adam decided to quit performing.” After he wowed everyone at the memorial concert for Micah, Adam had recorded an album under Russell’s tutelage. My recollection was that it had been successful. I owned it, though truth be told, I hadn’t played it in ages. But I did remember reading about Adam giving up his music and moving on to other pursuits, and I hadn’t heard anything about him in a couple of years.

Olivia managed a smile. “That was Dad’s magic, putting everything in the best possible light. Adam’s album was actually pretty strong, but when everyone’s expecting the Second Coming, anything else is a disappointment.”

“It hasn’t hurt Jordan.” Jordan’s album had come out eighteen months ago, torn up the charts, and was still getting decent airplay. It was eerie how much he sounded like Micah, as both a singer and a writer. Even more so than Adam. Jordan had captured those of us old enough to remember and adore his father, as well as the teenagers who embraced him as the next rock legend. Critics and the public were clamoring for his new album.

“Which drives Claire crazy. That the ‘other son’ is the one to inherit Micah’s crown. Something else she blamed on Dad.”

“Because he produced the album.”

“Because he treated Adam and Jordan the same.”

Claire struck me as the kind of mother who could turn tigress and devour anyone who threatened her young, but I needed to fill in some of the gaps in my knowledge of this intriguing group before I could decide whether there was something to Olivia’s theory or not. And how the tapes fit in.

“Who has the tapes?” I asked.

“I do.”

“Where?”

“I don’t see how that’s relevant.”

“Fine. But you know they’re safe, secure.”

Olivia rose, hands clamped to her sides. “You think the tapes have something to do with this?”

“I don’t know what I think yet. That’s why I’m asking so many questions.” I smiled, wanting to end our first encounter on a somewhat positive note, to ensure there would be a second. “I need to go back to the office, but I would like to continue our conversation.”

“Of course. I’ll see you tonight, make sure you meet the right people.”

“Thank you.”

Olivia let out a long breath, as though we’d crossed a finish line. “Thank you. For listening. I wasn’t sure you would.”

I nodded. “I’d suggest you be cautious about discussing this with anyone else.”

“And spoil your exclusive?”

“I’m more concerned about how it would play on
Page Six
.” Every gossip column in the city would have orgasms over Olivia accusing Claire, and it just wasn’t smart.

“Point taken.”

I still wasn’t convinced any of this was a motive for murder, but I was intrigued. Out in the hallway, staring at the call button for the elevator, I wondered about the strain of living in the public eye, with paparazzi charting your every move, mood, misstep. It had to take a thick skin, and a skin that thick would get hard to shed over time, might even become your regular coat. Combine that with the ballistic power of artistic egos, and small wonder relationships went sour, marriages faltered, and families got weird.

I was in the middle of trying to figure out what I’d be like if I’d grown up with rock stars when a slender hand grabbed my upper arm with viselike strength. I came close to literally jumping out of my shoes, but that didn’t faze Claire in the least.

“You do understand that she only sees her side of the story,” she said darkly.

“Pretty common affliction,” I said, trying to ease my arm away from her. But she wasn’t going to let go until she’d had her full say. I hoped I’d still have use of my fingers at that point.

“Olivia has a particularly flexible relationship with the truth,” Claire continued urgently. “Her grief over what’s happened makes it even more difficult. I don’t want you to take her fantasies and present them as fact. She’s a very troubled girl, and she should be allowed to come to terms with her responsibility in private with the help of the people who love her.”

“‘Responsibility’?” I asked, no longer caring that my arm was numb. It wasn’t just Olivia’s imagination or guilty conscience.

Claire released me abruptly. At first I thought she was being coy, then I realized she’d genuinely said something she hadn’t intended to say. I was willing to bet that was a historic event. “Poor choice of words on my part.”

Still, it gave me an opening I couldn’t resist pushing at a little harder. “Unless you think Olivia had something to do with Russell’s death.”

Claire ran her tongue over her top teeth, pushing out her pursed lips even farther. She was waiting for me to continue or, better yet, to change the subject, but I wasn’t about to let her off that easily. Finally, she said, “His death was an accident.”

“Not a universally held opinion.”

“The official decision.”

“What do you think?”

“What exactly is your article about?” she said, putting on the practiced smile of a public person.

I’d gotten as much as I was going to get at the moment.

“Olivia as gatekeeper of her father’s legacy.”

The last thing I expected from Claire Crowley at that moment was laughter, especially the throaty laugh of the bitterly amused. Before I could ask her what was so funny, the doorway at the other end of the hall opened, framing Olivia. Claire saw her but made no effort to quell her laughter. Olivia stepped out in the hallway, but Claire turned back to me and said, “We should talk. So our lawyers don’t have to,” and walkedback into her apartment without another look at Olivia or me. As soon as Claire’s door closed, Olivia withdrew and closed her door. I was left standing in the hallway, rubbing the hairs on the back of my neck and wondering exactly what I’d thought was wrong with being an advice columnist.

4

“You can’t go alone.”

“Thank you for being worried about my safety.”

“Oh. That too.”

“Excuse me?”

“Okay, I admit it. I love Jordan Crowley, and you’re denying me the opportunity to see him up close, all sweaty and artistic and magnificent.”

It was nearly déjà vu. We were in my bedroom, with Cassady going through my closet with the precision of a U.S. Marine on a search-and-destroy mission, Tricia sitting on my bed clutching a pillow to her chest and proclaiming her affection for a rock star, and me standing in front of the dresser and wondering if I wouldn’t just be better off shaving my head since I’m never happy with my hair. For a moment, we were suitemates in college again, and it was rather gratifying that those days didn’t seem out of reach. At least completely.

“You need to bring along someone who’s really into him and can give you a genuine reaction to meeting him in the flesh for the first time,” Tricia continued. She twirled a lock of hair around one finger and smiled at me beseechingly.

“You meet celebrities all the time,” I said. The events she planned were often star-studded and brushed her up against many hot personalities of the moment.

“The ones I meet aren’t necessarily the ones I crave,” she replied, letting her smile slide into wicked territory.

“I’m not really going because of Jordan. I’m going to try and understand Olivia better.” They both looked at me with large, intent eyes until I added, “And figure out if she really thinks Claire killed Russell or if she wants to cause trouble for Claire for some other reason.”

“Perhaps because Claire harbors a suspicion or two about Olivia?” Cassady frowned deeply at one of my favorite pairs of black slacks, then shoved them dismissively back into the closet.

“What’s wrong with those?”

“Nothing. If you’re staying home,” she answered, continuing her search.

“If Olivia accuses Claire, and Claire accuses Olivia, don’t they cancel each other out?” Tricia asked.

“You trying to cancel out my article?” I asked.

“No, but you’re at such a delicate place with Kyle, I’d hate to see it founder for no good reason.”

“‘It’ being the article or the relationship?”

“Either.”

“You notice she’s not taking Kyle with her tonight,” Cassady said, draping an ice-blue silk tee across the pile of clothes at the foot of the bed.

“That would be mixing pleasure with business,” I protested lamely.

“Which is which at this stage?” Tricia asked sweetly.

“More to the point,” Cassady said, perching on the bed beside her, “it would be mixing someone who believes this was murder”—pointing to me—”with someone who doesn’t.” She gestured vaguely in the direction of the front door to indicate Kyle.

I’d already told Kyle that I was going to the concert as part of my research for the article, and we’d left it at that. I had tried to maintain the same lilting, intimate tone with him that I’d employed in our morning phone call before I’d met with Olivia, even though my concern about where this article was going to lead had sharpened considerably. He hadn’t expressed any interest in the concert or any concern about my going alone; I suspected he was giving me time to sort through whatever facts Olivia would be able to offer and then come around to his way of thinking, that Russell’s death had been accidental. I was going to need a lot more than Olivia and Claire pointing fingers at each other to persuade him differently. And I was going to have to find out more about the tapes.

“It’s much simpler than you’re making it. Claire Crowley asked me to come, and it didn’t seem appropriate to ask to bring a guest. I’d love to have you both there, believe me.”

“Thanks for the thought,” Cassady said, “but I’m seeing Aaron tonight for the first time in three days, and that will be hotter than any Crowley in concert, save perhaps Micah returned from the grave.”

I shivered. “That’s such a disturbing mix of images, I can’t possibly respond.”

“Wow. Not having seen him for three days and you’re so excited,” Tricia said with a theatrical sigh. “Imagine if you hadn’t seen him for three weeks. Or maybe even six!”

Cassady looked at her askance. “We said we weren’t going to pry.”

“
You
said we weren’t,” Tricia corrected.

“What’s there to pry about?” I asked, slipping into a black tiered jersey skirt.

“The next time you and Kyle are getting together,” Cassady said, stretching out on the bed, hands behind her head, ankles crossed carefully beside, not on, my pile of potential outfits.

Tricia stretched out beside her, mimicking her pose. “And any relevant details.”

“I’d love to share, but I have work to do,” I said, starting to pull on a teal boatneck blouse.

“Not in that, you don’t,” Tricia said, sitting back up with a disgusting lack of effort, pulling the blouse out of my hands, and floating back down.

“Kyle and I are talking again. Isn’t that enough for the moment?” I asked.

“Is it?” Cassady asked. “Try the peach one.”

I obediently picked up the peach blouse and slid into the crisp cotton while I tried to decide if the fact that Kyle and I were talking again
was
enough. Much as I missed him, I was acutely aware of the fact that we hadn’t addressed our problem, much less fixed it, so the slower we took things, the better our odds of successfully getting back together. I was also acutely aware that such intellectual sandbagging could hold back the emotional floodwaters for only so long. Especially when I could still feel my lips humming from his kiss.

“It’s not enough. I can tell,” Tricia said with authority.

“How?” I asked.

“You’re buttoning your blouse wrong.”

I persuaded my friends to table the discussion about Kyle, since it was making me increasingly nervous, so I could concentrate on my approach for the concert, not that it was anxiety-free. This would be an ideal opportunity to get a feel for the dynamics of the inner circle and see if any of the rest of them were supporters of the theory that Russell had died by someone else’s hand. Not that I was planning on using the question as an icebreaker, but I hoped I’d be able to pick up some undercurrent along the way.

I needn’t have worried.

Walking up to the entrance of Mars Hall, I took in the throng of fans waiting to get in and allowed myself a moment’s thrill at being on the right side of the velvet rope for a change. I knew that the few people who even noticed me were more inclined to be thinking “I wonder who she thinks she is” than “I wonder who she is,” but it was still cool to walk up to the heavily muscled gentleman girded with the all-powerful clipboard and say, “Hi, I’m a guest of Claire Crowley. Molly Forrester.”

My head barely came up to his mammoth shoulder, even though Cassady had persuaded me to wear my four-inch Max Studio black ankle straps with the little satin bows, mainly because Tricia had talked me out of the jersey skirt and into the one leather skirt I own, given to me by a former fashion editor at the magazine because I’d let her niece interview me for a school project. It was a tad shorter than I was used to, but I had vowed not to tug on it once during the course of the evening.

The doorman looked down at me with a frown. “Holly who?”

I repeated my name for him, my buzz from being on the right side of the rope quickly dissipating as the first few people in line snickered with each other, figuring I was trying to bluff my way inside. Had Claire changed her mind or just forgotten? What was the most polite way to proceed with a guy who had no doubt heard many more inventive reasons why “no, really, my name should be on the list” than I could possibly come up with in the ninety seconds I had left before he got impatient with me? He was at least polite enough to look at the list again, but he was shaking his head as a voice said, “It’s cool, she’s with me.”

It was a beautiful voice, low and resonant, and its owner was pretty hot, too. It took me a moment to recognize him because he was wearing his black hair shorter, the curls cropped into waves, and his face was a little thinner, his cheekbones more prominent. But there was no question about the dazzling green eyes and the full-lipped mouth. “Adam Crowley,” I said. Squeals from the women in line confirmed it.

“No, pretty sure
I’m
Adam Crowley. Which makes
you
Molly Forrester.” His lopsided smile was slightly pained, as though being charming didn’t come easily to him, which I doubted was the case.

It was hard not to smile back as I shook his hand. “If you insist.”

“Let’s give it a try, see how it goes.” He thanked the doorman and pushed open the door for me. The women in line called his name, several reaching out for him. He waved to them politely and scooped his hand around my back, hurrying me inside.

“I don’t mean to take you from your fans,” I apologized as the door closed behind us.

“Just because someone screams your name doesn’t mean they love you,” he said wryly. He made a point of giving me the once-over. “Though you probably haven’t been in that kind of relationship.”

“You’re very kind.”

“Only occasionally.” He cocked his head to the side as though considering pursuing that line of thought further, then seemed to change his mind. “We’re back here,” he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder, then turning and walking in that direction.

I fell in beside him. “I appreciate your coming out to meet me,” I said as we walked through the back of the theater, the darkened interior already crackling with the energy of employees hurrying to prepare for the doors to open. It was a large open-floor plan, with an old proscenium stage on the front wall and tall gilt mirrors along the back. There was table seating on the floor and an upstairs balcony on the three sides facing the stage. The decor was minimalist, just this side of sawdust on the floor and cowboys at the bar; brass sconces on the wall and accents on the balcony railings were the only noticeable efforts at glitzing up the place.

“My mother wanted to make sure you were properly escorted. Does that mean you’re someone deserving of special treatment or someone she doesn’t trust?”

I laughed, hoping it didn’t sound nervous. Or adolescent, given that a shrill little teenage girl in my head was screaming,
Adam Crowley! I can’t believe it, Micah Crowley’s son Adam is talking to me!
I cleared my throat and tried to clear my head. “I just met her, I’d hope it wasn’t a matter of trust.”

“So you’re a new girlfriend of Jordan’s, not an old one or a stalker.”

“None of the above,” I said, stopping just as he was about to lead me through an unmarked door flanked by two men who made the giant out front look undernourished. “Maybe you were supposed to pick up someone else.”

He made a face that was probably supposed to look sheepish, but the green eyes were too amused to pull it off. “I just assumed—I get sent to the front door to pick up a beautiful woman, you must be connected with Jordan in some way.”

“I’m here with Olivia, actually.”

“One of her patients?”

“Hardly.”

“She’s one of yours?”

“Colder.”

His smile grew more relaxed, and he backed through the door, cocking his head again as I followed him. “You can’t be a friend of hers,” he said as he led me down the hallway decorated with posters of performances at the theater that formed a crash course in rock history: Jagger, Byrne, Verlaine, Johansen, Hynde, Springsteen, Cobain …

“Why couldn’t I be a friend of hers?”

“Because I’ve met both of them and they’re not lovely or interesting.”

Now I cocked my head at him. “She speaks highly of you.”

“Either she’s lying or you are.”

“Would you feel better if I said she didn’t talk about you at all?”

“I’d know we were getting closer to the truth,” he said, his smile dimming slightly. We turned a corner into a new hallway densely populated with roadies trying to get work done and assorted hangers-on who were hanging. Adam turned so he was facing forward and tucked my elbow into his hand. “Stick with me, you’ll have a much better time.” Steering me expertly through the crowded hallway, responding with a smile to the people who called out his name in varying levels of excitement as we walked by, he moved me quickly through the throng.

I was fascinated that people responded to him so strongly, even though he hadn’t recorded anything in a long time, and had said on more than one occasion that he was done performing. Of course, he was putting on quite a show for me, and I wondered if that was just his way, to be “on” all the time. Or maybe it had something to do with the real tenor of his relationship with Olivia, which could be an interesting aspect of the article. Especially if Olivia and his mother had genuine reasons for suspecting each other in Russell’s death.

“I would like to talk to you, somewhere quieter than here,” I said.

“Great. Let’s go.” He stopped, pulling back on my elbow as though to turn us around so we could go back to the entrance.

“Later. Right now I have work to do.”