The Song Never Dies (8 page)

*

Lauren had moved on to mushrooms, now using a smaller paring knife to quarter the small mushroom caps.

Far cry from the glamorous life of a rock star’s wife,
Sarah thought.

It must have been strange for her to be at Alex King’s, then return to her sleepy, suburban life here.

And still — Lauren kept her head down as she chopped.

Keeping her head … a little too low.

Sarah took a step closer and decided to dig a bit deeper.

“That night — you heard the fighting, the arguments?”

Again — no glance from the chef.

“Hmm?”

“The fighting. Between Alex, Nick. Chris. Over the band’s plans and that song?”

“I don’t think—”

“You weren’t there? Your husband says he was?”

That made Lauren look up fast.

“You talked to Will?”

So Will didn’t tell Lauren about me and Jack,
thought Sarah.

That in itself was interesting.

Her instinct told her to play down Will’s involvement.

“We’ve talked to a couple of people who were there.”

Lauren finished her last mushroom, put down the short knife and wiped her hands on her apron.

“All right. Yes. I
knew
they were arguing. They’ve always argued. I just didn’t see it myself. So I really don’t know what was said.”

“I see,” said Sarah.

How convenient.

But suggesting an even more important question.

“Then, just let me get this straight. Where were you? At the party, I mean. By yourself somewhere? Some place where you couldn’t hear a thing?”

For a moment, it seemed as if Lauren was considering that as a reasonable answer.

Her eyes looked away.

If ever Sarah had met someone hiding something, it was this woman trying to cower behind her dinner preparations.

Then — maybe realising that if she had been with others at the party Sarah might already know who that was.

Instead, Lauren said, “Um, no. When they were all arguing, I wasn’t really in the house. I went out … for some air.”

She left the big fancy party? Walked out to the gardens?

For air? And she expects me to buy that?

*

Jack watched Chris Wickes pull off his helmet, a silver full-face model, then give his long dark hair a shake.

Quite the entrance,
Jack thought.

Biker. Rock star. Still has his hair. Though Jack could see lines of grey in it.

Jack walked over as Wickes killed the engine on the big Harley.

“That a CVO?” Jack asked.

There had been a time that — along with his interest in sports cars, Jack thought of getting a Harley.

But when a good friend — off duty cop, riding from NYC to Adirondacks, got rear-ended and killed by a hyped-up trucker, Jack thought better of it.

Four wheels are better than two.

And a doctor he knew hit the nail on the head, calling them ‘donor cycles’.

Still, this was one impressive machine.

“Yeah. The limited version,” Wickes said.

The cycle was a brilliant gold and black, with the chrome-plated engine gleaming in the sunlight.

And the motorcycle featured a raised passenger seat, perfect for whatever female Wickes wowed as he roared into town.

“You ride?” Wickes said, now sliding off the bike.

“Oh, no. Still, got to admire the craftsmanship. Set you back a pretty penny?”

“Penny? You from the States?”

Jack nodded and smiled.

Wickes obviously liked having this expensive machine being fawned over.

But after another slow glance, from front to rear, Jack turned to Wickes, who was standing next to him, enjoying all that appreciation.

“Say. Been wanting to bump into you.”

Wickes smile faded.

“Had some questions to ask.”

The smile turned into scowl.

And Jack knew — this would not be easy.

Sarah forced herself to wait. Another technique she had learned from Jack.

Slow things down.

If someone was lying or hiding something, it’s good to let it all hang a bit.

Let those bits of doubt and self-questioning creep in.

Then: “For air? Walked out. By yourself?”

The quickest of nods.

“How long were you out there. A minute? A few minutes? Longer?”

The difficulty of making something up was closing in on Lauren Dumford.

Sarah had to admit it, this part always felt like fun.

Bit of a hunt to it all …

Lauren had turned back to her worktop now — unfortunately — empty of any task that she could use to occupy herself.

“I — er — I’m not sure. Just went out. Walked around.”

Another trap she just walked into. If you give a bit of what sounds like a detail then you’d better know exactly what that detail is.

“Where exactly did you ‘walk’ around? Down to the pool house maybe?”

And now fully boxed in … cornered, she saw Lauren shift her tone.

“The pool house? No. I don’t … know where. And where I went walking that night can’t have anything to do with their stupid arguing. And anyway I have to get back to this. My family is going to be home any minute and they like their dinner served on time.”

Sarah smiled.

Though Lauren hadn’t really told her anything much.

She did get one thing.

That inside this little kitchen, Lauren Dumford had told her anything
but
the truth ….

The drummer’s wife had a secret.

The big question: what kind of secret?

“Thanks,” Sarah said, turning, while she felt the now-shaken Lauren’s eyes boring into the back of her skull.

*

“A Yank with questions. I’m kinda busy, Mr.—”

“Jack.”

“And what would your questions be about …
Jack?”

“Alex Kings’ party, his death. The fighting. All the band. Threats Alex made towards Nick.”

“Crazy Alex … Sad when someone loses it, hmm,
Jack
? Alex thinking that was his song. Yeah, sad to see really, all drugged up, accusations flying.”

Wickes held his giant helmet in his right hand as if he might use it as a battering ram to get Jack out of his face.

“I’ve heard that Alex said he had evidence the song was his. Sounds like more than an accusation.”

“Really? Then where the
hell
is that bloody evidence? I don’t remember Alex ever playing it. Besides, Nick knows his way around building a song. Then he got lucky with that little floozy of his. That’s the music business. And our dear old leader couldn’t handle it.”

Jack nodded.

An elderly couple — the hotel’s normal patrons for its rather old school dinner — walked past the two men. The dapper old man in a waistcoat and jacket, his wife in a crisp dress and pink hat.

Jack waited until they passed out of earshot.

“But what — Chris … what if there
was
evidence?”

Jack realised that even though Wickes had no interest in answering questions, here he was …

Answering anyway.

“Hmm?”

“You think someone, say Nick, might be a bit worried about that?”

Wickes licked his lips.

Good guitarist — or so it was rumoured. Killer with the ladies.

But the bulbs in his brain — after all the years of partying — might be running a bit slow in turning on.

“Think someone might want Alex gone?”

“Gone?”

“Dead. Tell me — how angry, how upset was Nick?”

Wickes said nothing.

“I—” then Wickes stopped himself. Looked away. “I got plans, Jack. And talking to you is making me late.”

He gave his helmet a heft.

Did Wickes have a short fuse? Jack had felt him getting more taut by the moment.

Jack smiled.

“Just asking questions.”

“Yeah. Right.” Wickes took a breath. “Sure.”

Then he turned and walked back into the Bell Hotel.

And Jack looked down at the now rider-less Harley.

What a beauty.

Then looking back Wickes disappeared into the tweedy hotel …

And thinking
: What a liar.

*

Sarah walked up the plank to the deck of Jack’s boat.

The smell of fish drifted up from the open door that led down into the saloon of the Grey Goose.

And the sound of Sarinda’s hit was coming from the depths of the boat.

She went through the wheelhouse, then down the steps into the galley and saw Jack at the small gas stove, while Riley, squatted close by.

“Bit early for dinner, isn’t it?”

Jack turned around, big smile on his face.

“Hey, didn’t expect you. I’ll get another plate.”

“No, I just thought I’d stop by, touch base on this case … that is, if it is a case. Sounds like you’re taking it seriously though, Jack.”

She gestured to Jack’s iPod on its speaker cradle.

“Thought I’d better hear this damned song that everyone’s talking about.”

“And?”

“First I thought it was no big deal. But — second time I played it, I was joining in. And now …”

“You like it?”

“Kid’s got a cute voice. And let’s just say … I appreciate the art that’s gone into the song.”

“Praise indeed.”

“Hey, ‘La Boheme’ it ain’t. But it’s one helluva ballad. Kinda sad too, when you listen to the words.”

“First love always is.”

“Aha! You know the words too.”

“Chloe played the whole album on repeat every evening last term while she was revising for her exams.”

“The other songs this good?”

“Not a patch on it.”

“Interesting.”

Sarah sat down at the small wooden table and watched Jack cooking.

“No martini tonight?”

Sarah knew Jack’s routines well by now. And an early evening martini was usually compulsory on the Goose.

“Not yet. Got some plans for later.”

“I won’t hold you up then. Shall we see where we are?”

Jack nodded. “Dazed and confused, I’d say. Unless you’ve found out anything.”

The fishy smell was very powerful; then Jack gave the fish a shake in the frying pan.

Then he smoothly slid it onto a plate. Riley didn’t stir.

“Riley doesn’t seem too bothered?”

“Much more used to a nicely charred rib eye. Tried him on fish once — no sale.”

Jack leaned back to the drawers to the left of the stove, turned off the music, then fished out two forks.

He gave one to Sarah.

“Here. Take a bite. Caught it just this morning. Fresh from the river.”

In truth, Sarah wasn’t much of a fish eater herself.

But — as Jack squirted lemon over the fish’s crispy skin, head and tail disconcertingly still in place — she thought:
how can I refuse?

And she followed Jack’s example, digging the fork in, and pulling up a piece of the white meat, and just a bit of the lemony skin.

When she tasted it …

Not bad!

“Hmm, tastes fresh … sort of a sweet taste.”

“Never bought fish from any stores back in Brooklyn. I mean, the day boats in Sheepshead Bay always came in loaded, everyday. Nothing like it. This, though …” he held his fork suspended with his second piece — “is a fine trout. Pretty tasty.”

“So …” she said, putting her fork down. She had her own dinner to get to for the kids. “What do you think of this lot? Alex King’s death?”

Jack looked away. His brow furrowed.

It was a look Sarah would best describe as confused.

“Well, doesn’t seem like anyone is telling the truth.”

She laughed at that.

“Tell me about it. They couldn’t act more guilty if they tried.”

He nodded. “But guilty of what? To be honest—”

Sarah smiled at that. “To be honest? I see you have adopted our very useful expression.”

Jack laughed. “When in Rome. But what evidence do we have of anything? That joint in the sauna? Could have been there for weeks. Lot of animosity and threats? Not much else.”

Sarah looked down at the plate, the fish half done.

She thought:
I may have to expand my cooking repertoire. They do say fish is good for you!

“So, this early dinner. And no Grey Goose on the Grey Goose? You have plans?”

Jack grinned at that. “You might say that. Who haven’t we talked to?”

Sarah thought for a moment. There had been a lot of other people at the party. No way they could interview all of them.

“I don’t know … the other guests?”

“Think. They’re just guests. Though, as I like to say, never rule anything out. But I’m thinking of someone who was basically part of the band.”

Sarah thought for a moment.

Then she had it.

“The agent. That Carlton chap.”

“Right, Carlton Flame. Managing them as well, sounds like. The man putting them back together, getting the act on the road. Lot of money at stake for him.”

“Is he still in town?”

Jack nodded. “Yup. Talked to Sally at the desk of The Bell. Turns out he’s also staying there. Booked through till Saturday. He’ll be here for the memorial.”

“God, and that’s less than 48 hours away.”

“Right. Then everyone vanishes. Wouldn’t even be surprised if Gail King locks Kingfishers up and leaves Cherringham for a while.”

Now Sarah looked away.

“We don’t have much time.”

“When do we ever?”

Then Sarah turned back to him.

“So, tonight?”

“Well, you haven’t done any online digging into these people’s lives, right?”

“No. Not yet.”

“See what secrets you can find. Think you can work your magic?”

“After I get dinner on the table, I’ll do my best. Kids are going to be eating late tonight. And what will you be up to?”

“Sally also told me — well, I actually asked — if she knew where Carlton might be this evening. She told me. Couldn’t imagine him putting up with the soggy meals the hotel serves.”

Then Sarah too knew where Carlton Flame would be going.

For dinner. Tonight.

“The Spotted Pig?”

“He has a reservation for 7.”