Long Gone Man (9 page)

Twenty-one

Lauren's thoughts took a swift
change in direction. “Did you ever go back again after you left home?”

“Nope. My mother and I had this arrangement, an unspoken agreement, where when I called to say I was coming home, she would send me money not to. I didn't want to go there, and she didn't want me to come back, so it worked for both of us. Are you thinking of going home?”

“Maybe. When I called my folks to tell them John was dead, my mother told me to come back. If I do, I'm afraid I'll be exchanging one prison for another, but last night, early this morning, it seemed like my only choice.”

“You always have choices. Why did you stay with Johnny?”

“Didn't want to admit I'd made a mistake.” She blew out a breath. “That's not entirely true. I didn't get a cent if I left our marriage before the seven years were up. There was still a year to go and since there was no sex anymore, thank god, I was just sort of like a well-dressed housekeeper. Plus there was the snake, Chris. I was waiting for him.”

“And last night you decided it wasn't worth hanging in any longer?”

“Yup.” Lauren's hand stroked Missy's head. “In more ways than one.”

A hand knocked on the window beside Singer. She yelped and drew back.

Sgt. Wilmot smiled at her through the window.

Singer forced herself to return his smile, but her heart was still pounding. It was the place, she told herself as she rolled down the window. “Good morning.”

“Sorry to frighten you.” He placed his left hand on the roof over the window. “I just wanted to remind you that you are expected at the station today.”

Lauren and Singer both nodded. Singer leaned an elbow out the window. “What are you searching for in the ferns?”

He smiled and glanced past Singer to Lauren. “Do you know where our offices are?”

“Of course,” Lauren said. “Was the gun we found the one that killed John?”

“Early days. See you down at the station.” He tapped his fist on the window opening and turned away. They watched him stride briskly to a dark sedan parked discreetly to one side of the drive.

“Did he hear us?” Lauren whispered.

“Naw, besides we didn't say anything incriminating, like where we hid the other bodies.”

“This is no time to joke,” Lauren said.

“What are you going to put in your statement?”

Lauren's answer was slow in coming. “Everyone up here would like it to be me. I'm pretty sure they're all telling the Mounties it was the wife. I'm the outsider, they're . . . well, they're the band.” Lauren took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I'm going to tell them what you and I decided on last night. If I don't, I don't think the Mounties will investigate any further than me, but what about Chris? What if he says I was with him?”

“It will still be all right. You can tell them I went with you to see Chris. You talked to Chris while I waited for you. I was being considerate and standing back a bit so Chris wouldn't see me.”

Lauren worried her lip. “It might put you at risk. They might think you ran back up and killed John while I talked to Chris.”

“I didn't have a reason to kill Johnny. I wanted him alive, wanted to hit him up for money. Besides, would there have been time for me to come back up and kill Johnny, get rid of the gun, and run back down the path? You might have noticed I'm not much of an athlete.”

Lauren smiled. “I see your point.”

“Whatever we tell them, we're going to have to stick to that story. Don't tell them you were with me if you're not comfortable.”

Lauren shrugged. “Trouble is, I'm not comfortable telling the truth either.”

Singer screeched her door open. “Wilmot didn't deny that there may be another gun.”

“And he didn't confirm it either,” Lauren replied. “Does it matter to us?”

“Wouldn't think so, but we did say we were outside. Maybe they're going on the theory one of us killed Johnny and took the gun out with us.”

Singer slid to the ground and slammed the door shut as she looked up at the house Johnny Vibes had built. In the fog she hadn't realized how big it was. Made of giant logs, it had two wings stretching out from the gabled entrance. Totem poles supported the jutting roof, covered in green slate, that protected the entry.

“To each according to his greed,” she said and grinned to herself, surprised that her old leftist leanings hadn't been totally erased. Still, maybe it was just jealously. Hard to know. “Come and show me around this mansion,” she said and headed for the front door.

In the studio,
nearly a dozen electric guitars stood on stands around the room and hung on the walls. A few of them, lacquered and highly decorated, didn't appear to ever have been intended to be played but instead had been created as pieces of art. The walls were hung with pictures of John Vibald with famous people. Singer walked around the room, looking at the photos, before stopping in front of an early picture of the band. With them was a girl with long hair that was falling forward and partially obscuring her face.

“There, that's me.” Singer stabbed a finger at the girl in the photo.

Lauren leaned forward to see. “Oh yeah, John told me about you.”

“Really?”

“If you're the woman in the picture.”

“What did he say?”

“Said you sang like Janis Joplin and fucked like a rabbit.”

Singer threw back her head and hooted with laughter. “That's me all right, but there's no way Johnny knew about the rabbit bit. I kept that for a special guy.”

Lauren nodded. “John liked to pretend he was a stud. He wasn't.”

In the place of honor at the center of the room was a gleaming baby grand.

Singer slid her hand reverently over the polished surface. “These days I hardly ever get near ivories.” She slid onto the piano stool, flexing her fingers, clenching them and then bending them backwards. Her fingers ran lightly up and down the keys, testing the sound. She played delicately at first, searching and finding, caressing music from the keys, and then softly, in a sand-filled voice, she began to sing an old Billie Holiday tune. “He's not much on looks . . .” Her sensual lament rose like smoke from a cigarette in a late-night bar, hung in the air, and then wrapped around the heart. “He's no hero out of books . . .” Her voice was deep for a woman, deep and raw. “But I love him.”

When the last notes died away, there were seconds of absolute silence and then clapping filled the room. She opened her eyes and turned in surprise. Beside Lauren stood three men: one was the lawyer from the night before and the other two she could still name after twenty years. The lingering emotions the song created in her were swept away, and Singer's heart turned to stone.

“Stevie Dee and Pinky,” she said and rose to her feet.

Twenty-two

Steven David came forward with
his hand extended. “Superb!”

In his early fifties, his blue eyes had lost their sparkle, but he was still handsome in a faded sort of way and still exhibited the gracious charm that had always made him a favorite wherever they played. But Singer knew his easy ways hid a violent temper. She'd once seen that other side of him, seen him lash out at a roadie who'd made a mistake.

Stevie Dee was the one she'd have to watch.

“I can't put a name to your face but I never forget a voice,” he said. “Who could forget yours?”

At first she thought he was merely being polite but then she saw something in the steely depths of his eyes and realized that wasn't the case. He knew her. She couldn't hide and she'd lost the element of surprise.

With a soft laugh, Singer moved away from Steven's outstretched hand, pretending she hadn't seen it.

Behind Steven, Aaron Pye added, “Yeah, too right, that was friggin' awesome.” The oldest member of the band, Aaron's red hair had grown sparse and gray. His face was flushed and crackled with veins, like red lines on a map. The name Pinky really did describe him. “Did you always sing like that?” he asked.

Singer moved along the piano as she answered, “Pretty much.”

Everything beneath his shoulders had slid downward; he was now pear-shaped and bottom-heavy. The least talented and least intelligent member of the band, he'd been the most loyal to Johnny. He was the likely accomplice, but would Johnny ever have trusted him? Allie Oop would have been more probable. Johnny could always manipulate him, and Allie, always in need of drugs, would have agreed to do anything to get them.

“Man, I don't know why you haven't made it big,” Aaron said. “Don't know why we haven't heard of you.”

“Me either.”

In his enthusiasm, Aaron had stalked her around the curve of the instrument and now he closed in on her. “But you're still working?”

Singer slid away, putting the piano between them again. “Still working.”

Aaron asked, “So, where was your last gig?”

“Twelfth and Vine.”

He seemed puzzled. It took him a moment to work it out. His smile faltered. “What do you mean?”

“I mostly sing on sidewalks these days.”

An awkward silence filled the room, before Steven smoothly put in, “Well, wherever you sing, you've still got it.”

Chris Ruston, impatient and wanting to talk about the murder, said to Singer, “Look, we have some personal things to talk about. Do you mind?” He waved a hand towards the door.

Before Singer could react, Lauren said, “She's staying.”

Chris frowned. “I really don't think it's appropriate.”

“And you know all about appropriate, don't you?” Lauren crossed her arms and stared him down, unmovable and resolute as a hunk of marble.

Singer laughed and slid back onto the piano bench, idly running her hands over the keys and leaving them to get on with it but making no effort to hide her interest.

Always the conciliator, Steven said, “We just want to know what's happening, Lauren.”

“Then ask Sgt. Wilmot.” Lauren faced the three men with an aggressive stance, crossed arms and lifted chin, daring them to argue. “He hasn't said anything to me. I have no idea what is going on. We have to go downtown to make formal statements. Mine will be that I spent last night with Singer.”

“You should have a lawyer there. I'll go with you.” Chris reached out to touch her but thought better of it. “You have to be very careful what you say.”

“I didn't kill John and I have nothing to hide.” She leaned towards him and spoke louder than was necessary. “Can you say the same?”

Chris ignored her challenge. “Being innocent won't protect you from some difficult questions.”

“I'll tell them what I told them last night. Singer came. John introduced us and then he went into his study. I made Singer something to eat. We took Missy out. We were together the whole time.” Her chin jutted out in defiance. “What did you tell them?”

“There was nothing to tell. I was with Steven all night.”

Steven lifted a hand. “But that's . . .” He faltered to a halt. Four pairs of eyes were locked on him, waiting. He added, “We played chess.”

Steven twisted around to stare at Aaron. The others did the same.

Aaron said, “What? You think I killed John? That is just plain stupid. I was home all night. Ask Thea. I was installing that damn closet organizer she wanted.” Bouncing on his toes, he waved his arms. “She was practically standing over me with a whip.”

Lauren frowned. “Your alibi will only work if no one tells Sgt. Wilmot about the daily routine of the Pye household. We all know about Thea. She starts on gin and tonic by four and by nine thirty she's unconscious. She'd be passed out long before John died.”

“You bitch.” Aaron jerked towards her.

Steven moved in front of Aaron, placing his hands on Aaron's chest to hold him back. “That won't help, Aaron. Cool down and take it easy.”

Color flushed Aaron's cheeks and he waved a hand at Lauren. “She can't talk about Thea like that.”

“We can't fight among ourselves,” Chris said. He swung back to Lauren. “What time was John killed?”

Lauren shrugged. “I'm not sure, sometime around midnight.”

At first Singer listened more to the people talking behind her than to the music she was making. Her hands caressed the keys and found their own melody. A song from long ago drifted out, the haunting words full of pain and loss and a wry certainty that there was no happy ever after in love. She sang softly to herself, her hands moving easily over the keys as memory and experience overcame time.

You hear the news, your heart explodes, but life goes on.

There are things to say and bills to pay, so life goes on.

But I don't know why, when I'd rather die, that life goes on.

The music overtook her and she forgot the others were there. He'd been a long time gone, but the ache was still there, still eating at her. Her voice wailed like the hurting sound of an alto sax.

Steven walked around the piano to face her, listening intently and fighting back tears, his own loss swamping him. When the last notes faded, everyone stared at her in silence.

When Steven could breathe again, he whispered, “What's that you were playing?”

“Oh, something I wrote long ago. I've got a few of them.” Her fingers picked out a new melody and her voice howled a raucous song of defiance at love betrayed.

For once in his life, Aaron Pye came in first. “Shit, that's bloody wonderful.” He spread his hands on the piano, lifting up onto his toes in his eagerness. “Ian could use that.”

Singer kept her eyes on the keys. “I thought Johnny might like it.”

“Jesus,” Aaron said. “We'd kill for another hit.” Suddenly the color drained from his face. “Oh.” He turned away, picked up a guitar, and started fiddling with it.

“Did you play that for John?” Steven asked.

“Never got the chance.”

“If he'd heard it, John would have had us up here practicing last night.” Steven laughed but all the time he was studying her. Eyes narrowing, he asked, “When did we last meet? I'm really blanking out here.” His smile oozed charisma. “I can't decide if it's old age or too much living better chemically.”

“Past mistakes—we all have too many of them.” Singer watched him closely. “You last saw me in New Mexico.”

Aaron Pye's guitar made a startled sound, but Singer's eyes were locked on Steven David's. What she saw there confused and maybe frightened her a little.