Ghost in the Wind (12 page)

“What?”

It had become my signature line since we'd entered the Last Resort, which lived up to its name in every way except that it was not at all a resort. The music, which at the moment was coming from a band named Whatever, was loud, mostly bass and repetitive to the edge of madness. But at the moment I was trying to determine what Liz Seger had just said to me.

It turned out Josh really
did
have friends named A.J. and Liz, and they really
were
coming along with us on my reconnaissance mission to find and question Bill Mastrovy and the other members of Once Again. A.J. Merrill was an English professor at Monmouth University, specializing in humor and the Edwardian period, of which I knew nothing. Liz, who was now to my left at a round table the circumference of a quarter, worked in a business I could not begin to understand even after having it explained to me in very clear
language (which had happened before we'd entered the club, so I'd actually heard it).

Josh and A.J. were sitting, respectively, to my right and Liz's left at the table, each holding a bottle of beer (I'd agreed to drive because I wanted to be completely sober when Mastrovy and his cover band hit the stage), and even at a table this small, that was far enough in this din to keep them completely shut out of our talk. They didn't seem the least bit concerned about it and were probably talking (screaming) about baseball—Josh doesn't like other sports much—or movies. Guy stuff.

“What?” I repeated.

“I said I'm glad we finally arranged this,” Liz shouted directly into my ear. “Josh has been talking about you for a long time.”

Now I felt guilty, generally my baseline emotion. “It's my fault,” I said. “We've been together for months, but because I run the guesthouse I can't get out much at night, or even during the day. How about you guys come over for dinner one night?”

“What?” Liz shouted.

(In the interest of time, just assume that everything either of us said while the band was playing had to be repeated at least once. Okay? It'll just simplify this whole process tremendously.)

After I restated my case, Liz laughed and shook her head. “No, I don't mean just the last few months. Josh has been talking about you since I met him, and that's got to be seven or eight years.”

Since Josh and I had only recently reconnected after not having seen each other since middle school, that was something of a shock. “What do you mean?” I said. “We were out of touch for years.”

“Yeah, but he always mentioned your name. He would tell us what he heard about you from your dad, until he passed
away.” Liz clearly hadn't been told that Dad was still available for opinions and updates, which was something of a relief. I don't hide the haunted aspect of the guesthouse, but neither do I go around telling people that I consult with deceased family members on a regular basis.

“That's sweet,” I said. “A little creepy, but sweet.”

“Creepy?”

“Well, we weren't in touch. The idea that Josh was obsessed with me all those years is a little . . .” I trailed off when I saw the look on Liz's face.

“Obsessed?” She laughed. “I wouldn't go that far. He mentioned you once in a while.” The fact that, during those years, I probably would have had a slightly difficult time recalling Josh's name was probably not the best thing to mention.

There was an extremely welcome break as the bandleader of Whatever, who looked just as engaged as his band name would indicate, leaned into the mic after the song and mumbled something about us being a great crowd and walked off without a look back. We in the crowd (although “crowd” was a pretty serious overstatement) had been great in context, mostly because we hadn't run for cover and left the room empty six notes into the band's first song. The second the live band left the stage, recorded music started to play over the club's sound system, thankfully at a much lower volume.

“That's a relief,” I said.

Liz regarded me with something that resembled judgment. “I wouldn't think a guy thinking fondly of you would be a problem.”

Huh? Oh. “No, I meant the music stopping. That was the relief.”

The pictures on the website hadn't given me much of an idea what William Mastrovy looked like, so I'd have to wait until Once Again took the stage. He'd be the lead singer and Maxie had said he played bass. After their set, which I could
only hope would be at a lower decibel level than Whatever's, I'd do my investigator thing.

Liz was still scrutinizing me carefully and I worried that she might be considering whether to bring me back for a size that fit better. “How are things with the two of you?” she asked in a regular tone of voice, but quietly enough that Josh and A.J. (who seemed to be engrossed in a deep discussion about . . . some guy thing) couldn't hear.

“We're fine,” I answered, wondering how you measure such a thing. “Josh seems happy with the way things are, and I certainly am.”

“Did I hear my name mentioned?” Josh looked over suddenly, and I was greatly relieved. “Are you saying nice things about me?”

“Always,” I breathed. Josh always rescues me, and that's one of the best things about him—I know I can depend on him.

Liz looked skeptical. I was starting to worry about Liz. But she didn't add anything, and that at least was a positive sign. Luckily Josh would be riding home with me so he wouldn't hear the postmortem from his friends.

“So the deal is what?” Josh asked. “We wait for the next band to play and then you just go and accost the front man? Is that about right?”

“Pretty much.” I leaned into him a little bit to better demonstrate some affection. I couldn't see if Liz took notice.

Josh told me he'd mentioned my private investigator status to his friends, leaving out the rather difficult-to-explain aspect of collaborating with ghosts. It tends to smooth out a conversation when you don't have to mention that your business partners (as if we ever got paid!) are dead but continuing to participate.

“What's this guy supposed to have done?” A.J. wanted to know. I guess Josh hadn't filled them in
that
much. “Deadbeat dad? Cheating husband? Something like that?” People
you meet all think they know what investigations are like. I'm not that sure I know, but I can tell you that most of them definitely don't.

Well, I was about to throw a grenade into A.J.'s expectations. “Um . . . he's not necessarily a suspect, but he probably has some information about a woman's death.” That was about as straightforward as I could be while sounding matter-of-fact.

“A death?” Liz said. Suddenly she was all attention and appeared to be intrigued. “You mean he might've killed her?”

“Well, I don't know. She might have died of natural causes, or someone might have helped her along. All I'm doing is trying to find out if he was there and what he knows about it.”

“Wow,” Liz said. “How do you do that?” Her demeanor had completely shifted from skeptical and a little frosty to engrossed and oddly delighted. I wasn't sure if it was a good change or a bad one.

“I ask him.” That seemed obvious. To me.

A.J. smiled. “That's it?” he asked.

“Yeah, pretty much. You can't find out what somebody knows until you ask them.” Duh.

Liz crinkled her brow. “What if he lies?”

Josh put an arm around my shoulder. “Alison's pretty good at figuring that out,” he said. “But let's talk about something else.” He looked over at A.J. “Have you heard from anybody? I didn't go to the reunion last year, but . . .”

Liz cut him off. “No, I really want to hear about this detective stuff. How can you tell if somebody's lying?”

I debated getting into Paul's theories of “tells” that can indicate a person is uncomfortable with the line of questioning, even if they're not perfect predictors of guilt. I also tape all my interviews with a voice recorder so I can play the interviews back for Paul after I get home and he can tell me all the things I missed. He's better at deciphering these things.
It's a functional professional relationship, but one that would be really difficult to explain to Liz.

And then Bill Mastrovy himself bailed me out.

I'd like to say the lights dimmed, but they were never exactly what you'd call bright to begin with, so it was really more a question of two guys (clearly a new band member had taken Vanessa's place) and one woman trudging—there is no other word for what they did—up to the stage and plugging into the amplifiers. Apparently, management had not noticed this was a relatively small room and people in the back could have heard the musicians using two tin cans and a string if necessary.

The difference between Whatever and Once Again was obvious immediately. As soon as they were onstage, the Once Again musicians became animated (no, they weren't cartoons—very funny), looked the audience in the eye and actually—you'll find this amazing—
smiled
. After the lavish show of indifference the previous performers had cultivated, this was positively refreshing.

There was no introduction. The lead singer, presumably William Mastrovy, just waited until his bandmates had tuned up and plugged in, and then leaned into his microphone at center stage.

“Once Again,” he said simply. Then the drummer—the tattooed, pink-haired woman with the piercings who must have been Samantha Fine—counted them in.

The music was familiar, and played professionally. Each song was a bygone hit, an “oldie,” and could be identified within the first four notes. No surprises, no amazingly fresh or original arrangements. This was not the superstar jam session I'd seen in my house earlier today; nothing else could be. But what they did, they did well, and they knew they were playing for an audience.

The problem was, much of the audience had come to see Whatever and were expecting more of the earsplitting same.
They were restless at the beginning of the set and looks among the band members showed some notice of that.

They simply played harder. Bill Mastrovy (he confirmed his name when introducing every player in the group after four songs) talked to members of the audience between numbers. He joked, he cajoled, he did everything but juggle. It became clear that Once Again's set was the work of good musicians who were inspired by others and not trailblazers on their own. But they were entertainers and they understood the concept of pleasing an audience.

It worked, to some extent. The noise level among the audience dropped and attention was paid. Applause, albeit not incredibly wild applause, followed each song. And after seven of them, Bill leaned into the mic again and said, “We're Once Again. Thank you.” And the band left the stage.

Josh nodded at me as I stood and the message was implied. He'd stay here, but he'd be watching. If he was needed, he'd be available. Even the nod was superfluous; I knew that already.

But as I made my way toward the band, who were heading toward the back of the room where presumably was whatever passed for a dressing room, I felt a presence over my left shoulder and turned to look.

Liz Seger was following me.

That was bizarre. “I have to work now, Liz,” I said even as I kept walking toward my quarry. I was just close enough now, so I said, fairly loudly, “Bill,” and watched as he stopped and looked at me.

Bill Mastrovy looked puzzled. “Do I know you?” he asked.

“No, we've never met. I wanted to ask you about Vanessa McTiernan.”

His eyes widened a little and the right side of his mouth twitched. “Why?” He looked behind me, where I knew Liz was still standing, inexplicably.

“I'm a private investigator and I'm trying to find out what
happened to Vanessa. Is there somewhere we can talk?” I could practically feel Liz's breath on my shoulder. She seemed absolutely enthralled.

“You're a private investigator?” Bill sounded astonished. Can you blame him?

I get that a lot, so I already had the license in my hand and showed it to him. He looked at it for about ten seconds, which is a long time. Then he looked at me.

Then he looked at Liz. “Who's she?” he asked.

Well,
she's a friend of my boyfriend
didn't sound especially professional, so I was stuck with, “She's my assistant.” Liz blinked a couple of times but didn't say anything. “Now is there somewhere we can talk?”

Bill's expression suggested he'd prefer not to, but he nodded. “There's a dressing room, sort of. Follow me.”

He led us out of the main room and down a staircase to the basement, where players from tonight's bands were milling around in various stages of dress, or un-. A few doors down a fairly depressing corridor was one marked
Storage
, and he opened that door for us to enter.

There were already three people in the overcrowded room: the other members of Once Again, and a woman who clearly (and I mean
clearly
) was with the lead guitarist they called T.B. or “Teeb,” and now Bill, Liz and me. When we walked in, absolutely no one looked up. The drummer, introduced onstage as Sammi Fine, sat at a mirror taking off her stage makeup, which meant dabbing at her eyes with a cotton ball.