Long Gone Man (6 page)

Fifteen

He watched Singer Brown saunter
into the room, stroll to the table, and pull out a captain's chair like she was about to attend a boring meeting about company statistics. He studied her for a moment. Not one flicker of fear or apprehension showed on her face. “Tell me . . .” Sgt. Wilmot consulted his notes. “Ms. Brown, have I got that right? It is Ms. Brown, isn't it?”

“Yes,
Ms.
Brown.” She exaggerated the Ms. and didn't hide her smile.

“I understand from Corporal Duncan that you have no identification.”

“Yeah, it was stolen.” And then, when he seemed to expect more, she added, “In Vancouver.”

“And did you report the theft?”

It was easy to laugh. “Fat lot of good it would've done.”

“That's what the police are for.”

“Oh, find a lot of purses do you?” Her right arm went over the back of her chair while her left arm stretched along the table.

Wilmot said, “Tell me again what brings you here.”

“I heard Johnny was out here and thought I'd look him up.” She got up from the table and strolled to the bar, lit a cigarette, and returned to the table with the ashtray.

“Did you hear this from a friend?” He turned his palm up. “Someone who knew Mr. Vibald?”

She drew deeply on her cigarette and pondered the question. “Actually, come to think of it, I think it was some television show about Glenphiddie Island and all the famous people living here. Not that Johnny was really famous. He only had one big hit, ‘Long Gone Man.' Do you know that song?”

“Yes,” the sergeant said.

Singer closed her eyes and hummed the melody, smoke from her cigarette rising in front of her.

“Ms. Brown.”

Her eyes popped open and she said, “Everything else they did was shit.”

He nodded, as if she'd just made perfectly clear something that he'd been wondering about. “How did you know Mr. Vibald?”

“I sang with the band back in the seventies.”

He waited, but Singer just took another long drag, relaxing back against the chair.

“When was the last time you saw him before you arrived this evening?” Wilmot's voice was calm, his manner unhurried, as if they were just passing time in idle conversation, as if it wasn't the middle of the night and there wasn't a body in a room down the hall still waiting to be picked up because the driver of the hearse refused to come up the mountain until the fog lifted, as if every room in the house wasn't being searched. “Tell me the approximate date.”

Singer Brown crossed one leg over the other and swung her foot. With a soft shrug she said, “Don't know exactly, must be twenty years now.”

When she didn't elaborate, he asked, “What year was this?”

She gave it some thought, twirling a hunk of hair around her forefinger. “Probably about 1974 or '75, but I'd have to think about it. Things back then are kind of garbled in my brain.” She smiled. “A little too much of the good times, if you know what I mean.”

“And where was this?”

She raised an eyebrow and asked, “The good times?”

“When you last saw Mr. Vibald, where was that?”

“Down in New Mexico.”

“That you remember clearly, do you? It was New Mexico?”

She nodded. “Oh yeah.”

“Why get in touch with Mr. Vibald now?”

“Well, to tell the truth, I'm a bit down on my luck, thought I might wring a bit out of him for old times' sake.”

“And how did that work out?”

“Didn't get the chance to ask, did I? I was thinking, come morning, he'd give me a few bucks and say goodbye.” She grinned. “No problem. At least I got a bed out of it for the night. Maybe longer if Beastie needs fixing.”

“Beastie?”

“My lovely yellow van, a great big beast of a thing.”

She had already told Corporal Duncan about the van going off the road. He'd need to get someone to confirm it at first light.

He studied her. Dressed in garish colors, like a theatrical gypsy costume for an early Halloween, she was unconcerned about being questioned by the police. Most people, even innocent people, were uneasy and tried to impress their questioner. Not Singer Brown. She treated it like an everyday occurrence, almost as if she enjoyed it. Wilmot pressed harder and asked more questions. After a half hour she no longer looked amused. Her air of playfulness had faded and she answered questions mechanically. She was exhausted, but his next question brought her suddenly alive.

“Did you kill John Vibald?”

She laughed, neither worried nor threatened by his question, her eyes shining with sudden interest. This was the question she had been waiting for. “Nope.”

“Did you have reason to kill John Vibald?”

“Hadn't seen him in twenty years.”

He let it go and made a few more probes, but she'd fallen back into disinterest. Wilmot understood he'd fallen short in this interview, knew there was something he was missing, some query that would lead to the real truth. Singer Brown hadn't for a minute been concerned he'd discover her secret. It rankled.

Nothing she'd told him added to what Corporal Duncan had written down. The first place to start was always with discrepancies in the statements of witnesses but there were none. He considered her, trying to think of a way to attack that would give him an edge.

She gave a gigantic yawn.

He bit back his annoyance. Singer Brown could wait. But there was something; it was just a matter of finding it. He wanted to know more about her before he tackled her again.

“Don't leave the island. I want you to come to the office tomorrow and make a more complete statement.”

Without replying, she reached forward and stubbed out her cigarette, then climbed to her feet.

He had the strangest feeling he should clap for a great performer leaving a stage. But what had the play been about? He had no idea what he'd just witnessed. Perhaps a murderess hiding her crime, but he'd feel much easier if he could discover a reason for her to have shot John Vibald. Love, lust, money, hate, and even revenge were the normal motives to kill, but twenty years was a long time for any of those emotions to remain strong enough for murder and she didn't seem to have anything to gain from John Vibald's death.

“Don't leave the island, Ms. Brown.”

She shrugged. “Suit yourself.” She sauntered from the room. He watched her regal exit and wondered.

Sixteen

What the hell is going
on?
Wilmot looked around the empty room as if he might find the answer there. Lauren Vibald showed anger and perhaps a little fear but no sense of loss. Uptight and wary, it was as if she was waiting for the next shock to arrive, waiting for something even worse than her husband's murder. And even though she told the same story as Singer Brown, there was something she was leaving out, some secret the two women shared.

If he knew that secret, he'd know everything. Should he take her over her story again, while she was tired? She was vulnerable now, exhausted and anxious, liable to let things slip. The trouble was he had no new ideas to tackle her with except to let her think that Singer Brown had given her up, but he'd already lost that advantage when he let Singer out of the room.

“Damn.”

Singer Brown was his real adversary and she'd be out there reassuring John Vibald's wife that everything was just fine. And there were still the other people, members of the band that he must talk to. Best to leave Lauren Vibald until the morning. He looked at his watch and realized it was already morning. For now, he'd concentrate on the physical evidence and get that right; later he could play divide and conquer with his chief witnesses.

Lauren was waiting
in Singer's bedroom and bounced to her feet as the door opened. “What did he ask you?”

Singer closed the door.

Lauren rushed forward to meet her. “Does he think it's murder?” Lauren followed Singer as she crossed the room. “Does he suspect us?”

Singer pulled her blouse over her head and let it fall to the floor. Exhaustion had taken away what little modesty was left after a life on the road. “Didn't say.”

“What happens now?”

Singer shrugged and undid the string tied in a bow at her waist that held the paisley skirt on her hips. She let the skirt slide to the floor and stood in limp underpants, a bra with failing elastic, and broken down canvas shoes and started to laugh. Head back and hands on her hips, Singer threw back her head and let the deep roar of amusement rise from her core.

Lauren buried her hands in her hair, scratching the shining mass back from her forehead. “Stop it.”

Tears slid down Singer's cheeks.

“What?” Lauren's hands were raised in petition.

It took time for Singer to get enough breath to reply. “I just realized I didn't have to open Beastie's door. I could have just taken my skirt off.” The thought of walking through the fog in her underwear rekindled the madness and had her gulping for air. “Chilly . . . chilly walk.” She took a deep breath. “Would you have let me in without my skirt? Yeah, probably wouldn't have mattered if I'd been nude. You barely even saw me.”

Lauren was no longer interested. She prowled back and forth in front of the bed with restless energy. “Do you think Wilmot believed us?”

“Why wouldn't he?”

Lauren gnawed at a hangnail. “He doesn't give much away. Could you tell if he believed us?”

“Relax. We just keep to our stories and let Wilmot get on with looking for the real murderer. Then I can get out of here. A couple of days, I'll be gone.”

Lauren raised her head. “A couple of days?”

“At most. The cops aren't going to let me go until they find the killer.”

“I hadn't thought . . . well, I hadn't thought of you staying here for more than one night.”

“Sure, it's okay.” Singer gave a soft lift of her shoulders. “I can move back into Beastie, go downtown, when it's back on the road. Don't worry. You won't be stuck with me permanently.”

“I think that's exactly what will happen,” Lauren said. “We're tied together forever by lies.”

“Well, forever will have to look after itself. For now I'm treating myself to a shower and going to bed. I don't care what else happens, I'm done.”

Lauren tilted her head, considering Singer. “That's strange.”

Singer looked up from the canvas bag she was digging through. “What's strange?”

“A shower being a treat.”

“Now there speaks someone who's led a sheltered life. Don't ever go camping, become a bar singer, join a band, or live on the road. In fact, don't ever leave home.” Singer headed for the bathroom.

“How old are you?” Lauren asked, staring boldly at Singer's body.

Singer turned around to look at her. “We really have to do something about your manners. Don't be rude, or I'll tell everyone I'm your long-lost mother.”

Lauren froze. “Why did you say that?”

“A stupid joke. Sorry.”

“It's all right.” Lauren sank down on the bed. “It's just me being sensitive.” She pushed her hair away from her face. “I'm adopted.”

“Well then, I can see how my claiming to be your mother would scare the shit out of you. That would freak anyone out, having me for a mother. Don't you know who your parents were?”

Lauren shook her head. “About all I know about them is I'm not the child of an ax murder.”

“Always good to know.”

“I once asked my adoptive mother if I was. Mom was horrified.” Lauren smiled. “My parentage was such a forbidden topic I thought there had to be something terrible to tell.”

“Well, there are a few blanks in my memory, but I'm ninety-nine percent sure you aren't my child.”

Lauren fingered a gold medallion that lay on her chest. “It's just that I'm tired and maybe a little crazy.”

“It's been that kind of night.” Singer reached into the bathroom and turned on the light.

“How old are you anyway?” Lauren asked.

“Old enough to be your mother.” Singer started to close the door.

Lauren flushed. “I was just wondering.”

“Fortyish,” Singer said, rocking her hand back and forth.

“Yeah? You look sixtyish until you take off your clothes. You're a lot skinnier than I thought.”

Singer shut the bathroom door. She looked in the mirror over the sink. She seldom looked at herself. It had stopped mattering. She turned her head right and then left. Little remained of the woman she'd been. But still, while the glitter and shine had gone, she couldn't get away from her bones. The old Singer still peaked out, enough for the remaining members of the band to identify her and know she was a danger.

Johnny was dead, and one of the people on the mountain had killed him. Did it have to do with that long ago crime, or were there new sins to consider? And if Johnny hadn't acted alone back then, she still had enemies. Someone might be frightened by her arrival on Glenphiddie.

She'd have to careful. When you detonated a bomb in people's lives the flying debris could kill you. And that was exactly what she intended to do now. “Lord help you if they hate you as much as you hated Johnny Vibes,” she told the face in the mirror. But of course, that's what came from destroying someone's life—hatred became a passion as strong as love.