Long Gone Man (23 page)

Fifty-nine

Aaron licked his lips. “I
don't know what he's talking about.” He tapped a finger against his head. “Don't pay any attention to Stevie; it wasn't only Alan who did a lot of drugs.”

Steven ignored him. “When we got to Vegas, Pinky and John had ‘Long Gone Man.'” His voice was flat and unemotional. “I should have known John could never write anything that good.”

Aaron Pye threw his hands in the air. “Where the hell did all this come from?”

“We started rehearsing it before we left Vegas and we were working on an album within months. The single came out the following spring.”

“He's talking shit. I don't know anything about this.”

“Don't you?” Wilmot said mildly. “On the twenty-third of May of this year, a bulldozer was clearing land for some new homes in Taos, New Mexico. They unearthed a body, which has since been identified. It turns out, someone called Michael Lessing's brother in Los Angeles and suggested that if he wanted to know what happened to his brother, he should check out the body in Taos. Dental records have positively identified the remains as those of Michael Lessing of California, who was last seen traveling with a band called Vortex. So, Mr. Pye, would you like to rethink what you just said?”

“She probably did it,” Aaron said, pointing at Singer. “She admits she was there. She killed this Lessing guy and sold his song to John.”

“If that were true, why would she come here to confront John Vibald about the death of Michael Lessing?”

“Blackmail.” Aaron Pye looked around the room, searching for support. “She just wants everyone to think John did it. She killed Lessing and then she killed John.”

“But Ms. Brown wasn't out there in the desert with you,” Wilmot told him. “She was in Taos with Mrs. Pye.”

The room was silent. Shock showed on every face. Wilmot added the last detail. “John Vibald was murdered with the same gun that killed Michael Lessing.”

Wilmot wasn't actually sure both men had been shot with the same gun. The forensics would take weeks, but the preliminary report said that both men were shot by the same type of weapon. Only Chris Ruston might know enough to trip him up.

Chris Ruston's brain was elsewhere. “But Foster Utt killed John and Missy. He's been arrested for it. It's over.”

Wilmot crossed one leg over the other and folded his forearms on top of them. “Foster Utt has only admitted to killing Mrs. Vibald's pet.”

In the silence that followed, the people in the room looked at one another, considered the possibilities, then drew into themselves.

Janna's timid voice broke in. “But not my father? Foster didn't kill Daddy?”

“John Vibald's death is still being investigated, but at this point we don't think Foster Utt killed John Vibald.”

“Then it was her, definitely her.” Ian pointed to Singer. “She killed Uncle John. She's the only one with a reason to kill him.”

“Everyone in this room had a reason to kill John Vibald,” Wilmot pointed out.

“I didn't,” Chris protested.

“What about the affair you had with his wife?” Lauren said. “Don't you think that might be a good reason?” She smiled in delight at Chris's discomfort and Janna's shock. Lauren added, “And John had plans for you that you weren't going to like. Did you know that?”

Janna pulled out of the shelter of Chris's arm.

“Let me explain,” Chris said to Janna.

“No.” She put up her hand. “I'm leaving.”

Singer said, “Not so quickly, Janna. Perhaps you should tell Sgt. Wilmot that you arrived on Glenphiddie Island at the same time I did, just hours before your father was murdered.”

Janna's pretty mouth opened in surprise.

Singer said, “I saw you on the ferry.”

Janna lowered herself to the edge of the couch with her knees locked tightly together, her shoulders rounded.

Singer asked, “Why did you keep it a secret?”

Janna pulled down the sleeves of her black jacket to cover her hands.

Wilmot said, “Miss Vibald?”

Janna winced. “I didn't shoot Daddy.”

“But you came to the island before he was killed?”

“I just came out here . . .” She darted a quick look at Ruston and then focused back on her hands, which were squirming inside her sleeve ends like small animals inside a bag. “Daddy had called me early that morning and said some things.”

Again she looked to Ruston, who nodded, either in agreement or encouragement. “I wanted to see Chris.” Her voice faltered. “I called him when I got off the ferry but he wasn't home. I couldn't find him. I spent the night at the harbor on his boat. The next morning, I heard two guys at the marina talking about Daddy being shot.”

Ian crossed the room in two strides and knelt in front of her. “Come on. We're going.” He lifted her to her feet and tried to wrap her in his arms, but Janna pushed him away with such force he staggered backwards and tripped over Thea's outstretched foot.

“Janna,” Chris said and tried to hold her.

Janna slapped him. The sound reverberated through the room. “Stay away from me, both of you,” she hissed, trembling and shaking with emotion. She pointed to Ian. “My father told me about you. First he told me that you raped a young girl here on the island. He bought off her parents and sent you to private school in Vancouver to cover it up.”

“It isn't like you think.” Ian struggled to free himself from his parents. “I didn't rape her.”

“I don't care about that,” she shouted at him, raising her fists to cover her ears. “I didn't care. When I wouldn't give you up, even after he told me you raped that girl, Daddy told me something else.” She stilled and lowered her hands. “He said . . . he said . . . he was your real father.”

A cry went up from Aaron.

Ian looked from his father to his mother. “Is it true?” When neither one replied, he turned back to Janna. “But we . . . oh god, I . . .”

“Shut up, shut up,” Janna screamed, slapping her hands over her ears. Her head bowed and her hair fell over her face. “Don't say it.”

A horrified silence settled on the room while the others worked out what hadn't been said.

Suddenly Janna swept back her hair and looked at Wilmot. “Why is Dad dead? Is it because he was Ian's father?”

“I don't know, Miss Vibald. Perhaps we should ask Mr. Pye.”

Janna looked to Aaron. “Uncle Ari?”

Sixty

Tears ran unnoticed down Aaron
Pye's face. “John told me the day he died that Ian was his son and he was going to take him away. They were going on tour together, and I was staying here. John said I was nothing, said I had no talent and no place in the band.” He wiped the spittle from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I told him I'd be happy to manage the band, do the bookings and things. I didn't have to play. I just wanted to be part of it. But John said he already had someone else to manage them . . . someone more aggressive. That's what he said, more aggressive. What the hell is that supposed to mean?” He looked around as if someone might have an answer.

“I did everything he ever asked. Sold drugs for him, helped him bury a body . . . everything, and he wouldn't do one thing for me, wouldn't sell this stupid mountain so we could lead a decent life, wouldn't let me manage his tour . . . wouldn't even give me a lousy twenty thousand so Thea could start her bed and breakfast. She had to go on being a hostess in that dump.”

“So you killed him?” Ian asked. “You killed Uncle John and destroyed my only chance of making it?”

“Nothing, I was always nothing. He used me, used my wife, and now he was taking our son.” He could barely get the next words out through his sobs. “He took everything from me.”

“But Ian was Johnny's son,” Singer said. “He wasn't stealing your son.”

Aaron gave a sob and slapped his hand flat on his chest. “My son, Ian is my son.”

Wilmot asked, “When did you learn about your wife and John Vibald?”

“I guess I always knew, although I tried to ignore it. It was hard not to suspect something with Thea sucking up to John and pushing Ian at him from the day he was born. The older Ian got, the clearer it was . . . couldn't look at him without seeing John, and we never had more children.”

Impatient to hear about Michael, Singer had enough of his self-pity. “Tell me what happened in Taos.”

Aaron Pye swiped his wrist under his nose. “Thea was pregnant. I felt like a hero; at last I'd done something that John hadn't.”

Singer still wasn't interested. “The murder, tell me about the murder. Did John kill Michael?”

“Was that his name? I don't remember.”

“You killed him and you can't even remember his name?” Singer wanted to hit him, kick him, beat him, and rip him to pieces with her teeth until he was torn to tiny bits on the floor.

“I didn't have anything to do with it. John killed the roadie. John shot him, and then we buried him out in the desert, thought he'd never be found.”

“Why?” Singer asked. “Why did you have to kill him?”

Aaron Pye looked incredulous, surprised that Singer needed to ask. “For the song of course. John offered to buy it, but the guy wanted you to sing it, said we could back you up but it was your song. No matter how much John offered, he wouldn't budge. He wanted everything for you. That's all he kept saying, ‘It's Ace's song.'”

The horror of it slammed into Singer. Had he loved her less, Michael might have saved his life, might still be alive. Michael's love for her had killed him. She'd thought nothing could ever hurt her again, but she'd been wrong. She slumped forward, her face in her hands. The rest no longer mattered.

But Aaron Pye wasn't finished. “Maybe if John hadn't been high, if he didn't already have the gun in his hand, it wouldn't have happened.”

Wilmot said, “Did you keep the gun?”

Aaron nodded. “John gave it to me to get rid of when we got to Las Vegas, but I kept it.”

“Why?” Wilmot genuinely wanted to know why anyone would be so stupid as to keep a weapon that tied him to a murder.

“John had lots of guns. I didn't have any and I wanted one. And it was special. Before, John just shot birds and rabbits and things, but with this one he'd killed a man.”

“And you used it to kill Mr. Vibald.” How simple and ugly the truth was.

Sixty-one

“No.” Aaron Pye was indignant
at the suggestion. “I didn't.” He pointed a finger at Singer. “That woman killed John, that singer. That's why she came here, she wanted revenge. I didn't kill John.”

Singer's head came up. “You tried to kill me yesterday, didn't you, Pinky?”

Aaron Pye was shaking his head in denial, when Lauren's voice cut in. “You rammed her van, trying to push it off the mountain.” Everyone turned to Lauren. “You and Thea went down to sign your statements and then you took Thea to work. She always works the lunch shift. I saw you going into the grocery store when I came back to Kilborn with Janna.”

“Shut up, you bitch,” Aaron snarled.

Singer nodded, understanding at last. “That morning, I mentioned Taos. On the way home, you saw my van and you tried to make sure I'd never tell anyone what you and John did. Oh, you probably didn't plan it, just a spur of the moment sort of thing, but that's what you did. I saw you. I know it was you,” Singer lied.

Thea clutched at him. “Ari?”

Aaron Pye turned to his wife. “I just wanted her to go away and leave us alone.”

“But you searched my van. Why did you do that?”

Aaron was defeated. He mumbled, “I thought you might have some more music. I wanted the music for Ian.” There was one thread of defiance left in him. He raised his head and said, “But I didn't kill John.”

“Mr. David, do you have anything to add?” Wilmot asked.

Steven David looked up in mild confusion. “What?”

“Did you kill John Vibald?”

He nodded, apparently in agreement with Wilmot's question. “I wanted to kill John for a long time, years even. Everyone's life would have been better with John dead, but I'm a coward and it was too late, too late for Alan and too late for me. I wish I had killed him . . . now more than ever. I let John ruin our lives. All these years, the one good thing we did was a lie. But I didn't kill him. I wasn't strong enough.”

“Why were you in Mr. Ruston's office today?”

“You don't have to answer that,” Chris said.

Steven waved the advice away. “Doesn't matter. Nothing matters now. I went to make out a new will. I'm ill, dying actually. First the disease will humiliate me and then it will kill me. I needed to make things right while I still could. I left everything to Singer Brown, not that it's much, but it's hers anyway.” Then he turned to Aaron Pye. “If she sues you and John's estate, I'll make sure I live long enough to testify against you.”

Wilmot looked around the room, trying to decide if he should call an end to this charade. There was something he was missing, some question that hadn't been asked. Would he endanger his case if he questioned these people now, like this? How much further could they demote him? He might soon be going out for pizza and beer with the four constables who made up the rest of squad, while Corporal Duncan was put in charge of the detachment. None of that mattered. Like a dog on a trail, he'd caught a scent and would follow it to the end.

Wilmot didn't realize that his eyes had come to rest on Ian Pye until Ian said, “Well, don't look at me. I'm the only one here who wanted Uncle John alive.”

“Not necessarily true.” Wilmot was speaking idly, not really accusing Ian of anything, but the effect on the Pyes was immediate.

Thea was on her feet instantly, screaming, “Leave him alone, you dirty liar.” Her husband grabbed ineffectually for her hand, trying to pull her down. Thea struck out at her husband.

Corporal Duncan moved forward, ready to step in, but Wilmot waved her back, watching while husband and wife physically attacked one another.

It was Ian who stopped it by putting himself between his mother and father. “Stop, for god's sake. That's enough.” He held on to his mother's wrists. “Aren't things bad enough without you two getting into it?” Thea stilled and Ian withdrew his hands, wiping them on his jeans and backing away from her. Slumping down onto the end of the couch farthest from his mother, he asked Wilmot, “Why do you think I killed Uncle John?”

“I never said you killed your father.” Wilmot saw the young man wince. “I said you had something to gain by your father's death. John Vibald left the rights to ‘Long Gone Man' to you. Of course, given the fact that he murdered Michael Lessing and stole that piece of music from him, you are unlikely to benefit from those royalties, but you didn't know that.”

Wilmot scanned the room, considering this beaten collection of humanity, each huddled in their own cocoon of misery. One of them was a murderer.

None of them looked back at him nor did they look at each other. Wilmot considered Lauren and Singer. Mustn't forget them. Each of them had reason to kill Vibald, and it was only their unshakeable commitment to one another and their mutual alibi that protected them. Perhaps they murdered Vibald together. But only one of them could have pulled the trigger. Which was the most likely suspect?

“So,” Wilmot said, “Mr. Ian Pye says he didn't kill John Vibald. And while Mr. Aaron Pye admits to being an accomplice in the death of Michael Lessing and trying to kill Singer Brown, he does not admit to killing John Vibald.” They stared at him like dumb animals in an abattoir, waiting for the ax to fall and hoping it wouldn't be on their own necks.

Wilmot's eyes went to the center of the group. “Mr. David, you were doing dishes at the kitchen sink at the time of the murder, is that correct?”

“Yes, I suppose it is.”

“And the window above the sink overlooks the woods where the path goes along the edge of your property. Did you see a light in the woods?”

“A light?”

“Like a flashlight.”

“No.”

“But wouldn't you have seen a flashlight if someone had passed within ten feet of your window?”

Steven was trying to concentrate, trying to work out what was being asked. He shook his head. “I didn't see any light when I was doing dishes.”

Wilmot's eyes moved to Chris. “Mr. Ruston, tell us about that night.”

Chris Ruston's answer came slowly. “It was foggy.” He looked around for confirmation. “By the time we finished dinner, the fog was so thick I decided to stay on at Steven's. We played chess.”

“And during the game you stepped out for a cigarette,” Wilmot prompted him. “Was that the first time one of you left the house?”

“No,” Chris said. “Steven went into the kitchen to get more coffee.” He chose his words carefully, as if he was afraid that admitting anything would have him confessing to a bigger crime. “Steven went outside.”

“Why?”

Chris Ruston glanced at Steven David, who said, “Oh, go ahead and tell him. Nothing will shock him now.”

“Steven went outside,” Chris flushed, “well, for a piss.”

He had called out to Steven, “You old piss-in-the-woods, what's with this whizzing outside?”

Steven had answered, “It's my way of going back to nature. I'm one with the universe.”

“Yeah? Well as your lawyer, I have to tell you if you're caught doing it, you'll end up being charged with indecent exposure.”

“Cold enough out here there's barely enough of it to expose and get the job done, definitely not enough to be considered indecent.”

Chris had laughed with him and said, “I'm going out front for a smoke.”

In reply, Steven had said, “There's a jacket in the hall closet.”

“Bad habit of
his,” Chris told Wilmot. “There's a powder room right at the back door, but he's always stepping outside. I went out the front door, under the overhang, and smoked a cigarette.” The fog had been so thick it was almost like rain. “Steven was in the living room when I went inside again.”

“So, perhaps two or three minutes at most. No time for either of you to go up to the house and kill John Vibald?”

“No.”

“But that wasn't the only time you left the house, was it?”

Chris Ruston's face flushed. “I didn't kill John.”

Wilmot's voice was sharp and louder than normal. “And the second time, Mr. Ruston, tell us about the second time you left the house.”

“I stepped out for another cigarette. Steven was in the house doing the dishes when I came back inside.”

“I thought Mr. David had finished doing the dishes when you came inside.”

“I don't know, maybe he was finished.”

“Mr. David, did you have time to finish the dishes?”

Steven David took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Yes, and I made another pot of coffee. I was pouring fresh coffee when I heard the front door slam. That's when he came in.”

“A very long time for a cigarette, Mr. Ruston.”

In desperation, Chris swung to face Lauren. “Lauren,” he said, “tell them.”

“Tell them what?” she replied. Her hand was in the basket, and she was laughing.