Long Gone Man (4 page)

Ten

Frozen in place, the two
women listened. When the sound faded Lauren said, “You can hear them when they're right below us but then when they go around a switchback the mountain blocks out the sound.”

Singer exhaled a line of smoke. “How long before they get here?”

“At a guess . . . fifteen to twenty minutes.”

“It seemed to take me a lot longer than that.”

“They'll have fog lights and they know the road.” Lauren picked up the dishes.

“Leave them,” Singer said. Lauren started to protest, but Singer added, “Part of our alibi.”

“It goes against my nature to leave dishes.” She smiled at Singer. “Besides angry you can add anal retentive to my personality chart.” She slid the dishes back onto the counter. “Just this once.”

“Watch your attitude.” Singer ground out the cigarette. “And don't make it easy on them. You were here. How hard are they going to look for someone else to blame for the shooting? You're a rich woman with a dead husband.”

“But I'm not rich.”

“Come again?”

“Prenup . . . if I left him or he died before seven years were up I got a fixed sum of money. It wasn't overly generous.”

“Johnny never was. The guys in the band always lived on junk food while Johnny ate steak.”

Lauren leaned a hip against the counter. “Yup, that would be the wonderful guy I knew.”

Singer pointed at Lauren with a fresh cigarette. “Now there you go again. Try and be a grieving widow, and it wouldn't hurt to break open an onion.”

Lauren straightened. “I'm not going to pretend something I don't feel.”

“Honey, that's life. Sometimes we all have to pretend something we don't feel. It's what my mother would call being nice. Be nice.” Singer lit the cigarette and took a long drag before saying, “Why did you marry him anyway?”

“God, I've asked myself that over and over. It's a long story, but the quick answer is I liked the attention. I thought it made me a
someone
to be with John, but it turned out being with him made me the housekeeper.”

“Johnny could be charming when he wanted something.” Singer brushed her hair back from her face. “If he wanted you, you didn't stand a chance.”

“That's pretty much how it was, but all the charm was gone within months of the wedding. So in place of a life of travel and adventure we hunkered down here, and instead of my life expanding it was cut off and closed in. I wasn't allowed to change anything in the house. There isn't one room that reflects my taste because John wouldn't let me redecorate. Tonight . . . well things happened tonight and I decided that I wasn't going to let myself be beaten down any longer. I was claiming my life for me.”

“That sounds close to a confession. I wouldn't share that information with the police.”

“I was only telling you 'cause you asked.”

“Okay, but keep your real feelings to yourself. You went in to see Johnny and found him on the floor with a hole in his head. You picked up the gun out of fear. You were afraid that the killer was still here.”

A haunting wail seeped into the kitchen. Anxiety awoke in Singer. The Mounties wouldn't get past Johnny being murdered the night a homeless singer, who used to sing with the band, arrived. Along with the wife, an outsider would be right up there on the suspect list, and there were certain events in Singer's past that would shine that apple for them.

She was well and truly stuck in this shit, and there was no chance of just disappearing, not on a tiny island. She couldn't just get lost in the crowd and she had no transportation. For now she was trapped.

And there was another problem. Would they search the van? A search of the van would be a very bad thing. Singer's knowledge of the law was shaky at best, but past experience told her there were two sets of laws, one for upright citizens and one for people like her, and if they thought she was involved in Johnny Vibes's death, her rights would have nothing to do with what happened.

Lauren had only told the dispatcher that her husband had been shot. Could they convince the police it was suicide? It was possible but unlikely. If Lauren didn't believe it was suicide no one else would.

Singer studied Lauren, who paced the floor, worrying a hangnail and thinking. Lauren's shock was being replaced by the reality of a dead husband and cracks were appearing in her tough facade.

Singer was pretty sure Lauren was trying to decide whether to go along with their alibi or dump the murder on Singer.

Had Lauren killed Johnny? Singer's gut said no and her instincts had kept her alive until now. If what Lauren said was true, there was no financial motive, and when she'd opened that door to Singer . . . well something else was happening there. No, Singer decided, whoever killed Johnny it wasn't Lauren.

“Let's go over it.” Singer tapped the ash off her cigarette. “I arrived about eleven. Johnny introduced us, then, after a little chitchat, he went to that room.”

“John's office,” Lauren added with a nod.

“Right. You showed me around and made me a sandwich, then we went out for a walk with the dog.”

“Why didn't we hear the shot?”

“Don't know . . . a log house, wind direction, doesn't matter; it's not our problem. Leave that to the police to worry about. The important thing is we take ourselves out of the equation and stick to our story. No matter how they twist it, that's all we say. We were together the whole time, strangers with no reason to alibi each other.”

Lauren opened her mouth to argue, but the sound of sirens floated into the room again, silencing her.

“Isn't that a bitch?” Singer said. “So weird, like some wailing phantom flying around the house and circling us.”

Lauren looked frightened. “They're getting close.”

“Listen, there's no need to say Johnny wouldn't kill himself. If they come to that conclusion, fine.”

“But . . .” Lauren stopped, standing straighter and nodding. “Okay. Maybe I'm wrong anyway.”

There were things Singer still wanted to know before she left Mount Skeena. “Where are the other guys from Johnny's band?”

“Here.”

“Where?”

“Here, within walking distance of this house. Although, like you said, John was always mean. Their houses are about a tenth of this one, and so is their income. John never gave up control.”

“Control,” Singer said softly. “Yes, I remember that. So he didn't change?”

“Not if he was an asshole when you knew him.” Lauren saw the look Singer flashed her and said, “All right, I hear you.”

“This means you and I aren't the only ones with motive and opportunity.”

“What motive did you have, Singer?”

“None, no reason at all except I'm here. The cops only need to know that about me.” Her irrepressible grin flashed. “Great timing, huh?”

“You see, what's worrying me is exactly that.” Lauren pointed her finger at Singer. “You show up and John dies. That's what worries me. You were here.”

“We were both here. That's why we need each other, need to alibi each other. No sense in the Mounties wasting time.” Again her mouth turned up in amusement. “Without you as an alibi, they'll probably think I came here to rob the place.”

Lauren picked up the ashtray. “Maybe you did.”

Singer laughed. “Yeah, that would be me, master burglar.”

Now Lauren smiled.

“You should smile more often.”

“Don't try to distract me. Why are you here, Singer?”

Singer spread her arms wide and said, “I'm a freeloader. I thought I might find a place to hang for a while and then a little bit of cash to get rid of me.” She shrugged. “It's not pretty but it's me. Now quickly tell me about the others.”

Lauren stepped on the pedal to the garbage can lid, emptied the ashtray, and said, “Why?”

“Well, we've spent the last two hours together. We must have talked about something.”

Lauren rinsed the ashtray and dried it with a paper towel and then set it on the counter in front of Singer, her face stiff with concentration.

Singer waited, fingering the ashtray, a souvenir from a bar in Seattle, turning it around and around, and watched as Lauren turned away and paced restlessly along the counter, trying to make up her mind.

Lauren stopped in front of Singer and placed her hands on the granite. She leaned forward and said, “Look, I've changed my mind. Let's just say how it really was and leave it at that, okay? Just tell them how you came to be here, that you came up to the door and I let you in. I'll tell them I was out with Missy when John was shot. You heard her barking. That's all we need to say.”

Singer let go of the ashtray and pushed away from the bar. “Sure, that's fine with me, but ask yourself this: who's more likely to kill a man, a wife who is having an affair or an older woman who hasn't seen him in twenty years? That's a long time. I had no reason to kill Johnny.”

They were locked in place, staring at each other with the sound of sirens, closer now, filling the room, when the phone rang. Lauren jumped back as if she'd been shot.

Eleven

“Yes, they're coming here,” Lauren
said into the phone. “There's been . . .” She glanced at Singer. “There's been an accident. John is dead.”

She listened and then said, “No, don't come.” She stubbed at the ceramic floor with the toe of her leather slipper.

Singer could hear the excited voice on the other end of the line—a man's voice, she could tell that, but she couldn't make out the words.

As Lauren waited for the caller to finish, she tapped her fingers on the counter and rolled her eyes in disgust. Finally she cut in,“I'm not alone, a friend of John's is here. If you really want to help, just call the others and explain to them what happened and tell them not to come up. There will be enough confusion with the Mounties.” She listened again. “Of course I called the Mounties. Don't be stupid, it's what you do when someone dies.” And then she quickly added, “Look I have to go.” She hung up the phone without waiting for the other person to speak.

“Aaron Pye,” Lauren said to Singer.

“Ah, Pinky—played bass guitar, always came in late.”

“Yeah, John never stopped bitching about Ari coming in late.” She screwed her face into a frown. “John was making them practice, every day lately, so they'd be ready for a big comeback. He never stopped dreaming of another chance.”

Singer made a noise of disgust. “Wasn't going to happen. Vortex was a mediocre band with that one megahit, ‘Long Gone Man.' There wasn't going to be a comeback for them.” Singer thought for a moment, then asked, “Who else is here?”

“Steven David.”

“Stevie Dee, drums and vocals. What about Allie Oop?”

Lauren frowned. “. . . Oh, you must mean Alan Openheimer. Never heard him called that before. He died of a drug overdose years ago.”

“He played lead guitar and was the best musician of them all,” Singer said, remembering. “Really great musician with the talent to play for anyone.”

“You sound like the liner notes on one of John's old albums.”

The door to the outside slammed open, and a man entered the kitchen. The two women started but Missy ran to him, wiggling in joy and standing on her back legs to be fussed over. In his mid-thirties, the man, tanned and blond, ignored the little pet dancing at his feet. He was good-looking but carrying fifteen pounds too many and was starting to look like his best years were behind him.

His eyes were fixed on Lauren. “What happened?”

Lauren crossed her arms over her chest and leaned her hip against the counter. “Get out. I don't want you here.”

The man rushed at Lauren. “For Christ's sake, what happened?” He raised his right hand. He held a large, silver flashlight in it. “Tell me.”

Singer rose to her feet, her hand sliding for the gun, but Lauren seemed unconcerned.

Lauren said, “John's dead. He was shot.”

He dropped his hands. “Oh Christ, what have you done?” He wasn't yelling anymore. “You crazy bitch, why?”

“Me? I didn't shoot him. What about you? Did you kill him?”

“Why would I?”

“Well, there's the little matter of you screwing his wife.”

The man waved his hand, dismissing her words, and stepped back from her. He saw Singer. His eyes opened a fraction wider and then his jaw set in anger.

“Hi, there,” Singer said brightly and gave a little wave. “Don't mind me, just a friend of the family stopping by for a visit.”

The man swung to face Lauren. “Who's she?”

“Why,” Lauren said, crossing her arms over her chest, “this is Singer Brown, an old friend of John's.” Lauren jerked her head in the man's direction. “Singer, this is Chris Ruston, John's lawyer, the man who did everything for him except wipe his bum, and who knows, Chris is so willing he might have done that too.”

“Shut up.” He stood over her, every muscle in his body tensed.

“Get out,” Lauren said.

“You fool.” He backed up a step. “You've ruined everything, but I'm not going down with you. You killed John on your own.”

“She didn't kill Johnny,” Singer said.

Chris spun to face Singer, ready to argue.

“Lauren was with me the whole time.”

He lunged towards Singer, the metal flashlight in his hand raised again. “You're lying.”

Singer smiled. “Am I? Prove it.”

Before he could respond Lauren said, “Now get out.”