Long Gone Man (15 page)

Thirty-seven

What remained of Aaron Pye's
faded red hair was mixed with gray, and his freckled scalp showed through the thin strands combed over the top. He seemed more like an accountant than an aging rock star. The paper napkin in his hand said that his dinner had been interrupted, and his frown showed his displeasure. “We expected you earlier.”

Aaron Pye's wife and son came out of the dining room, blocking the narrow hallway.

Wilmot smiled broadly and spoke over Pye's shoulder. “Sorry for the inconvenience.” Wilmot waggled his fingers at Thea Pye. “But I wanted to get my facts straight before talking to you.”

He stepped over the threshold without waiting to be invited in, forcing Pye to back up. Duncan followed him into the house. “Perhaps we might go somewhere more comfortable,” Wilmot said.

He smiled at Thea Pye. Her hair was blond and her nails were red. The jeans and sparkly sweater she wore were both too tight—a woman fighting hard against age and losing.

“Fine.” Thea started for the living room across the hall.

Wilmot swept past Aaron Pye and stuck out his arm to block Thea's way. “No need for everyone's dinner to get cold. I'll speak to Mr. Pye first.”

Life had disappointed this woman. Her mouth was turned down in hard, bitter curves, and now her face showed her further displeasure, aggravated by being given orders in her own house.

Wilmot smiled. Her cloying perfume was overpowering. He pointed to the dining room. “Please.”

“Fine,” she said again and swung back to the room across the hall. Her son followed her. Wilmot closed the door behind them.

“Now.” Wilmot waved a hand towards the living room. “Shall we?”

Pye didn't invite them to be seated nor wait for them to seat themselves. He flung himself back into an overused Naugahyde recliner and stretched out until the footrest clanged up into place.

Wilmot moved a small, straight-backed chair to face Pye.

Seated, he favored Pye with another of his bright smiles. “First let me express my sympathy for your loss of a friend.”

Pye gave a little nod. The paper napkin in his hand was being wound into a tight sausage.

“Where were you last night between the hours of nine and two?”

Pye jerked his head towards Corporal Duncan. “She already asked me that.”

“Yes, of course, but please pretend this is the first time you've ever heard these questions.”

They labored over the same ground that had already been covered in Aaron Pye's earlier statement, with Pye protesting at each and every one of Wilmot's queries.

The man was a powder keg and Wilmot wanted to push him to the point of blowing and letting down his guard. “What was your relationship to Mr. Vibald?”

“He was my friend.” The fingers of Pye's right hand picked at the corner of the napkin sticking out of his clenched left fist, shredding it to confetti.

“Yes, Mr. Vibald must have been a very good friend indeed. Mrs. Vibald said you wanted to borrow twenty thousand dollars.”

Pye dug in his heels and arched his back, slamming his chair upright. “It was a business deal.”

Wilmot waited.

“It had nothing to do with John's death, and it's none of your business.”

“Humor me.”

Pye sucked in his lips. “We're going to open a B & B and need to do some renovations.”

“Normally people go to a bank for a loan.”

Pye's face turned scarlet.

“Mr. Pye?”

“It's still none of your business.”

“Mr. Vibald is dead; everything is my business. What happened back in Taos?”

“What?”

“Taos, you remember. The woman who called herself Ace was with your band back then. What went wrong back in Taos?”

Pye's face was no longer flushed. He shifted in his chair. “Nothing.” And then he gave a high-pitched giggle. “Hell no, everything went right. It was up all the way after Taos. We had our biggest hit.” He spoke with confidence, sure of himself, pleased even. “It was the making of us. It all got better after Taos.”

“Do you remember anyone else being there?” It was a random question while he figured out what he should be asking, but Pye's face said it struck home.

“What do you mean?”

“Surely the question isn't all that difficult. Who else was with the band in Taos?”

“I don't remember. It was a long time ago.”

“When you left Taos was Ms. Brown with you?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“She stayed behind.”

“Why?”

Pye shrugged. “She just did. That's all I remember.”

“But things were better for Vortex after Taos?”

“Yeah, great! And they would have got better again if John hadn't been murdered. We were going to make a comeback. John said so.”

“But at the moment things aren't going so well for you and Mrs. Pye, are they?”

“We're doing all right.”

“Do you work, Mr. Pye?”

“Yeah.”

“Where do you work, Mr. Pye?”

“In the summer, I work at the winery. They do lunches for the tourists. I play guitar. Background music, you know.”

“And is that it?”

“I give music lessons.”

“Quite a comedown, isn't it, from making records to giving lessons?”

“Where do you get off talking to me like that?”

“Did you kill John Vibald?”

It was the question Aaron Pye had been waiting for. His spine stiffened. He looked directly at Wilmot. “I didn't kill John.” He pointed a forefinger at Wilmot. “If you ask me, it's that crazy bastard Foster Utt you should be going after. John fired his ass last week. Utt has been going around saying we stole all this land from his family and it should be his. John laughed it off at first but last week he went ballistic. Threatened Utt, I heard him.”

“Did you do it?” Wilmot asked.

Pye frowned in confusion. “What? I just told you I didn't kill John.”

“No, my question is did you and the others steal this land?”

“Of course not. We paid exactly what they asked.”

“And now it's worth a great deal more, isn't it?”

“That's life,” Aaron Pye said.

“Are you in favor of development around the lake?”

“Sure. My share will be close to a million. Who wouldn't want that?”

“But some people aren't in favor of the development, are they?”

“Fools who don't have anything to lose, the same idiots who have weekly meetings for world peace, as if the world cares what they think.”

“What about Mr. Vibald? Was he in favor of the development?”

Pye frowned. “Hard to tell, John was a kidder.”

“Which means?”

“He kept changing his mind, or saying he did. He'd say whatever would piss people off.”

“So you never knew where you stood?”

“Exactly.”

Wilmot rose. “Thank you, Mr. Pye.”

Pye seemed startled, then he shot to his feet, saying, “Okay, okay.” He headed for the door, eager to be free.

As Pye disappeared, Wilmot nodded at the door. “Go with him, Corporal, and bring in Mrs. Pye.”

While he waited, Wilmot took in the over-furnished room. No doubt the furniture hadn't been attractive when it sat as a grouping in a discount showroom, and time hadn't improved it. Cheap and tawdry were the words that sprang to Wilmot's mind. The door behind him opened and he turned to face the woman who perfectly matched her living room.

Thirty-eight

“I don't appreciate being treated
like some afterthought. We've been waiting all day and then you come here at the most inconvenient time, just when we decide to have dinner. No consideration.”

Wilmot smiled. “I'm so sorry, Mrs. Pye. I've been running here and there all day. I needed to sort out the inconsequential bits before I got to the . . .” He was about to say the meat, for that's exactly what sprang to mind when he saw her, round and fleshy in too-tight clothing, a right little porker, like an over-stuffed sausage about to burst out of its casing. “Before I got to the important people.”

“Well.” She patted her hair. “I just wish you'd called to keep us informed.”

“Where were you when Mr. Vibald was shot?”

“Here, with my family. We were here all evening.”

“You, your husband, and your son?”

She nodded in agreement.

“Were you all in the same room?”

“I was lying down in the spare room. I worked the lunch hour. I'm the hostess at the Crab Trap. Not something I'd normally consider, but it's totally dead up here on this mountain. Working gets me out and lets me meet people.”

“And I'm sure the extra income is nice.” Wilmot added a smile to take away any offense his words might cause. “Tell me about Taos.”

“Taos?”

“Ace, the singer with Vortex in Taos, arrived on Glenphiddie Island last night.”

“Oh, is that who she is?” Talking about other women held little interest for Thea. “Aaron told me about her.”

“Was anyone else there?”

Thea's forehead wrinkled in confusion. “Where?”

Wilmot gritted his teeth. “Taos.”

She only needed to think for a minute. “That roadie, can't remember his name, came with the singer, he was with us.”

“Did he leave Taos with you?” Wilmot asked.

“How the hell would I remember that? I had enough problems to deal with.”

Wilmot got to his feet. “Thank you for your help.”

Aaron Pye was
seated at the table eating when Wilmot and Thea Pye entered the dining room.

“Just one more question, Mr. Pye. Your wife remembers a roadie being with you in Taos. Did he leave with you?”

Pye stopped chewing and turned to his wife, who was busy filling her wineglass. He stretched out his neck and swallowed his mouthful of food in one great gulp and then wiped his mouth with his knuckle. “Yeah, that's right, I remember him now.”

“Did he go to Las Vegas with you?”

It took him some time. “Thea and I went with John. The roadie and the singer were supposed to come behind with Alan and Steven.” He looked to his wife. “That's right, isn't it, Thea?”

She lowered her wineglass. “That's right. I remember because I was pregnant with Ian. I had morning sickness.”

“Not just in the morning, all day long, if I remember.” Their eyes met and for the briefest space of time they were in harmony.

Thirty-nine

Wilmot had been courteous with
the parents, but his questioning became aggressive and accusatory with Ian Pye.

Ian neither noticed nor took offense. He sat back in his father's recliner, legs crossed at the ankles and fingers entwined across his midriff, totally at ease.

Wilmot said, “I'm surprised that Glenphiddie Island would hold much attraction for you.”

“Most boring place on Earth, but Uncle John and I were working on launching a new band.” He frowned. “It'll be harder now without him, but with my inheritance I'll still be all right. Uncle John said he'd take care of me. Has the will been read yet?”

“You'll have to talk to his lawyer about the will. Did John Vibald talk about the past?”

Ian laughed. “Nothing else.”

“Did he talk about a singer named Ace, the woman staying at Mrs. Vibald's?”

“Not that I ever heard, but my dad said she has some really good songs. I'm going up later to see for myself.”

“Your father said nothing about knowing her in the past, about her days singing with Vortex?”

“Nope. They're just concerned with the will. We all are. And we need to talk to Janna. I tried to call her.” He scowled, but then his face went from disappointed to sunny again in a blink. “The mountain is Janna's now. She'll be selling it. She doesn't like it here. Too remote. She'll sell and we'll move to Vancouver or maybe
LA
.”

“All of you?”

“Well, Janna and I. Don't know what the folks plan to do.”

“You and Miss Vibald are going to be married?”

Ian Pye grinned. “That's the idea.”

Forty

Lauren went to Singer's room
and shook her awake.

“What?” Singer asked and closed her eyes again.

“You told Wilmot you saw John on television.”

The tone of Lauren's voice jerked Singer back to wakefulness. “What happened?”

“You tell me. You said you always knew where John was, but you told Wilmot that you found out from a television show. Which is it?”

“You woke me for that?”

“How did you know John was on Glenphiddie Island?”

Singer let out her breath in a long sigh and worked her dry lips. “My lying is slipping. I used to be much better at it.” Her bones ached and her muscles screamed. She moved her feet under the sheets. Pain shot up her legs.

Lauren ignored Singer's grimace. “What happened between you and John? Why did you come here? And don't give me that ‘I was just in the neighborhood' shit.”

“Why are you getting so bent out of shape?”

“My life has gone down the toilet since you arrived.” Lauren raised her hands dramatically in the air. “Now I'm lying to the police. What have you gotten me into?”

Singer's eyes closed. “Relax. It has nothing to do with you.” She moved her arms and flexed her fingers and was rewarded with more agony. “It all happened a long time ago.”

Lauren sat at the foot of the bed and waited.

Singer opened her eyes. Lauren's jaw was clenched, her arms crossed firmly over her chest, hugging her anger to her. Singer smiled. “Twenty-eight with the emotional range of a nine-year-old. Okay.” Singer licked her lips. “I left home at sixteen. There were a couple of years singing in bars, at festivals, and even a couple of times being on other people's albums.” Her eyes closed. “I'm tired.”

Lauren nudged Singer's foot. “Keep going.”

Singer didn't open her eyes. “I met Michael in San Francisco. He was a student, philosophy.” She smiled. “Michael Lessing was going to change the world. We got into some trouble, protests, you know, no big deal, but we thought we were pretty important.” Harsh laughter. “We left California and took to the road, hitched across the country. I sang on street corners and got work with a band or two. Those were the days, in the early seventies, of pyrotechnics, KISS wannabes, dry ice, and all that shit to make up for lack of talent.”

Singer was lost in the past, a dreamy world of memory that softened her face and her voice. “Every day was a miracle, heady excitement . . . so alive, living with passion, the future brilliant.”

Her voice faltered. The shower dripped in the silence. “Michael wrote poetry, beautiful and heartbreaking, which I put to music . . . our own music. There was going to be an album all my own. We were sure it was all going to happen . . . just days away . . . and success would give us the power to make the social changes Michael dreamed of starting.”

She licked her lips again. Lauren got up from the bed and brought her a glass of water. Singer sipped and began again. “Michael was really committed to making a better world. Me, I just wanted whatever he wanted, didn't have a thought of my own except when it came to the music. My head was full of it. We were back east then. There was more trouble. We had to leave, one chorus ahead of the cops . . . joined Vortex in Texas. Michael was the roadie and I sang with the band, moving across the Southwest.”

Singer's body arched and her face hardened into her age. “We were between gigs, so the guys camped out in the Taos desert, while Thea and I stayed with her aunt.

“After four days it was time to move on to the next gig. I hadn't seen Michael for days. He didn't come into town once. None of the guys came near us. I was going crazy with no car and no way of getting in touch. I would've walked into the desert if I'd known where to find them. We'd never been apart for more than a few hours since the day we met, so I couldn't understand it.

“When the rest of the band finally showed up to get us, Michael wasn't with them. They told me he'd left, just gone away, no message.”

Her eyes opened. “How could he leave without me?” Hurt filled her face.

“They said they didn't know where he went. They moved on, and I stayed behind, waiting, afraid if I left Taos he'd never find me. He didn't come. I got a job in a restaurant.” She smiled. “The first and only real, honest-to-god employment I ever had. Months went by and still I hung around, sure Michael would come back. I waited for a whole year. Nothing.

“One day, I was serving ham and eggs to one of the regulars when Vortex came on the radio. They were singing ‘Long Gone Man.' Michael's words and my music, the song I was sure would make me famous.” Tears slid unheeded down to her pillow. “I knew there was no use waiting any longer because Michael was never coming back.”

Heartache, as real and sharp as in the first second of its birth, filled her voice. “I've been on the road more or less ever since. For a long while, I wasn't sober for longer than it took to get the next drink or fix. A whole decade there is gone. Got real sick.”

Lauren asked, “What happened to Michael?”

“I didn't know. Not knowing is what drove me crazy.”

“Did you ever go back?”

Singer nodded. “I kept going back, kept going out into the desert, searching the sand, hoping to find some sign of Michael.” How could she explain the miles she'd walked, past dead campfires, following old tire tracks in the sand, searching for any clue of the man she loved, the man who said he would never leave her?

Lauren stood up and walked away from the bed.

“Anyway, even dead drunk for days and years, I knew where Johnny and Vortex were . . . my only connection to sanity. I wanted to know what happened, to know why Johnny had our song. I waited.”

Singer looked at Lauren. “More than that, I guess I stalked Johnny, showing up at his concerts, got thrown out more than once. I wrote to him demanding to be told what had happened to Michael, but I never heard back. I often wondered if that's why Johnny left the country and came way out here. Maybe not, maybe I'm making too much of myself once again.”

Lauren settled back on the bed, her knees pulled up to her chest, her back against the brass footrail.

Singer raised her hand and brushed at her damp cheeks. “Never knowing, that was the hardest part. After a while I stopped hassling Johnny but I never let him get too far away. The liner notes said Johnny had written ‘Long Gone Man,' but I knew better. I just didn't know if he bought it from Michael or killed him to get it.”

Lauren gasped. “No! Michael sold it to John and then ran away because he couldn't face you.”

Singer's eyes opened and found Lauren's. “I just found out . . . A few months ago, they cleared land for a new subdivision in Taos. A body turned up, the remains of a young man who'd been shot. Nothing to identify him except for a ring he'd been wearing.” Singer raised her left hand. “A ring exactly like the one under this bandage.”

A harsh sound escaped Lauren and then she put her head on her knees and started to cry.

After a while, she looked up at Singer. “John was a crazy news junkie. He must have seen the same article. That must have been what set him off, meaner and more vicious than he'd ever been.” Her face was pulled tight in thought. “I remember something else. Once, I asked him why he became a Canadian citizen and he said it was because Canada doesn't have the death penalty and won't extradite a person to any country that does. I thought he was making a moral statement, his one unselfish stance, but it was his most selfish decision of all. That's why he gave up his citizenship and became a Canadian, so he'd never have to face the death penalty. All these years, he'd been hiding out and building a defense.” She wiped her palms across her cheeks.

“Go back to sleep for an hour. I'll call you when dinner is ready.” Lauren got to her feet, her shoulders slumping in defeat, and pointed to a white fleece robe and matching slippers at the end of the bed. “John gave them to me for Christmas. I've never worn them and I won't blame you if you don't want to either. I'm sorry for what he did to you, Singer.”

Singer nodded and closed her eyes.

Hank delivered Singer's
yellow beast and the locksmith did his job while Singer slept. Lauren decided to put the van in the garage. Even though someone had already searched it, Lauren planned to lock it up nice and tight until Singer had a chance to go through it. She went out to the garage and punched the garage door opener. A riding lawn mower and furniture, too good to throw out but too old to use, cluttered the third parking space. She'd phone Foster Utt, the handyman, to come and help clear out the garage.

Then she remembered that John had fired Foster three days before. She'd have to find someone new. Casual labor was in high demand on the island. All of the owners who lived off-island and only came for weekends fought over anyone able to stand on two feet and hold a rake in their hands. And Foster Utt, despite his whine and his sense that the world was against him, was better than most of the other choices.

Reality hit her. John was dead. She could get Foster back until the place was sold and she was kicked out. She straightened a ten-speed bike that had fallen over and noticed the side of John's Yukon. The right fender was dented and it had a yellow streak of paint on it. She traced it with her fingers.

The Pyes only had one car and used John's
SUV
when they needed extra transportation. Ian always drove the
SUV
, and Steven took it when he needed to pick up supplies. Everyone living on the mountain used John's car because he so seldom did. It could have been any one of them who tried to kill Singer.

Her fingers lingered on the silver scar below the yellow paint. Would they try again?