The Burnt House (12 page)

“Good or bad?”

“Illuminating. I had two interviews with the women who worked
the desk for flight 1324. Neither remembers Roseanne boarding the aircraft. One of the flight attendants—Sara McKeel—wouldn’t swear that Roseanne didn’t board, but she didn’t
recall
seeing Roseanne that morning. The other flight attendant was a woman named Erika Lessing and she told a different story.” Marge recapped the conversation. “Erika swears up and down that she would have noticed if Roseanne had boarded the plane. She had an acute madar—mistress radar.”

Decker nodded. “But Lessing didn’t know if Roseanne was on the previous flight from San Jose and had stayed on board.”

“No, she couldn’t tell me that. So I guess the next thing to do would be to call up San Jose and ask them if Roseanne boarded 1324 from their location.”

Scott Oliver knocked then walked into Decker’s office, looking very Casual Friday. Navy crewneck sweater with a blue oxford-weave shirt underneath, and black chino pants. Sneakers on his feet. Decker said, “Who gave you the day off?”

“We’re interviewing Priscilla Huntley in about forty minutes. If we’re going to take a trip down memory lane, I thought I’d look the part.”

Marge said, “You look way more fifties than seventies, Scott.”

“First of all, I can’t come to work in torn jeans and a tie-dye shirt, stinking of tobacco and weed, unless I’m doing narcotics, which—thank God—I’m not.”

“You did narcotics?” Marge asked.

“About a zillion years ago when I was young, invincible, and hookers had diseases that could be controlled by antibiotics. But let us not digress. While my dress might not be in sync with those patronizing a Zeppelin concert, I think I would have melded very nicely with the Priscilla and the Major crowd, even back then.”

“Explanation accepted,” Decker said.

Oliver said, “We’ve got to go, Margie. Her agent is waiting for us. He absolutely refuses to let us interview her without him being there.”

“Why’s that?”

“He’s protective of Priscilla, but more than that, he’s madly in love with her. He doesn’t want a stud like myself horning in on his territory.”

“Uh-huh—”

“What uh-huh! Some women find me utterly charming.” A pause. “Some women find me ludicrous. So what? I’m too egotistical to believe them, and even if I did, I’m too old to care.”

U
SUALLY MARGE DROVE,
but since they opted to take the Cruiser—Scott’s Venetian-red Chrysler hot rod, not a police car—Oliver was behind the wheel. He was annoyed for several reasons. From the moment Marge sat down in the passenger seat, she started in with the cell phone, yakking to her daughter nonstop. He was also pissed because he was following Miles Marlowe—Priscilla’s aged agent—who was in an old Buick, tooling along at the speed of ten miles per hour.

Marge spoke into her cell. “So go to the movies and then study for your microbiology test…Vega, the test is a week away. Two hours of diversion will probably clear your mind…okay, okay, you know yourself better than I do…uh-huh, uh-huh…So how about if Willie and I take you both out for dinner on Saturday night? That way you don’t have to refuse Josh twice in a row.”

Marge switched to the other ear.

“That’ll work? No, honey, it’s not a problem, I’m sure Willie would love to meet him—”

Oliver cleared his throat.

“Honey, I’m about to go interview someone. So we’re on for Saturday, all right? Okay…okay…okay…okay…bye.” She hung up her cell and spoke to Oliver. “I’m going out on a double date.”

“Who gets the backseat?”

Marge punched him in the shoulder.

“Move it!” Oliver told the Buick in front of him. “Just put your foot down on the accelerator. The pistons will do the rest!”

“He can’t hear you—”

“The old man belongs on the Galápagos with all the other ancient tortoises,” Oliver said.

Marge leaned back and pretended not to hear.

Twenty minutes later, Miles Marlowe turned right into a gated complex, then slowed the Buick to a stop, rolled down the window, and pointed to a spot where he wanted the detectives to park. Oliver maneuvered the Cruiser into the tight space on the first try while it took Miles five minutes to ease the Buick into a space that was roomy enough for an African elephant. Finally, the old man got out and hobbled over to Marge and Oliver. He was stooped over, but even in the prime of his height, he must have been a short man. He wore thick glasses and had a gigantic nose. His eyes were milky blue and slightly rheumy. His best feature was a thick mop of snow-white hair. The agent checked his watch. “Don’t worry. I already called Priss to tell her that we’d be late.”

Oliver checked his watch: 3:03. “Is her place a far walk from here?”

“You’re standing right in front of it.” He pointed to the house. “After you.”

The development was filled with luxury homes with a minimum of thirty-five-hundred square feet of interior space sitting on an acre plus lot. There were an assortment of architectural styles and Priscilla Huntley’s piece of the rock was a variant on the Tudor mansion. The front lawn was emerald green, with a stone walkway lined with leafy bushes of red and pink roses, English lavender in full bloom, yellow
and white daisies, and rosemary sprouting lilac-colored blossoms. Ground cover swirling around the brush included sage, mint, and thyme. A soft breeze emitted a scent somewhere between sachet and stew.

The house was fashioned from bricks and stucco that formed high peaks, and was topped by a slate roof. A massive stained-glass window ran from the top of the door’s keystone to just below the dormer window that sat in the middle of the pitch of the roof. Square mullion windows sat symmetrically on either side of the entrance—a recessed set of heavily carved, walnut double doors. The old man rang the bell: it chimed low and melodious and went on for several seconds.

“‘Springless Year,’” Oliver whispered to Marge. “Probably their biggest hit.”

To Oliver’s surprise, Priscilla Barrett answered the door.

She had aged well. In Oliver’s recollection, she had never been youthful-looking, even when she was a young pop star, but that might have been due to her conservative style more than her face. Even when she had been a singing sensation, Priscilla’s hair had always been coiffed, her makeup had been expertly applied, and she was always dressed fashionably. In that regard, Priscilla hadn’t changed a whit. She had well-tended, shoulder-length platinum hair, wide blue eyes, and a hint of pink cream softened her lips. She wore a silk tunic over slim-fitting jeans, her feet housed in platform espadrilles. Her fingers were slender: her nails long, with white French tips.

“Miles, my love, so good of you to act as an escort.” As her voice softened, it became sultry. The old man smiled at the compliment. “Can you be a love and take the children for a walk?”

“I thought I might stay here with you, Priscilla, and make sure these two don’t get out of line.”

“Nonsense, the boys need you more than I do.” Slowly she moved her gaze over to the detectives. “The boys are my Yorkies. They adore Miles.” A pause. “Besides, I think I can handle these two on my own.”

Marge offered a hand and made the introductions. “I’m Detective Sergeant Dunn and this is Detective Oliver and I assure you there’s nothing to handle.”

“I don’t know about that.” Back to Miles: “They’re in the kitchen. Take them off my hands. Imelda will help you with the leashes.”

“I don’t trust them alone with you, Priscilla.”

“Oh don’t be ridiculous! Go on, Miles.” She threw open the doors. “I’ll be fine.”

Miles had no choice but to go. When he was gone, Priscilla heaved a dramatic sigh. “I love my critters, but they’re unruly. I thought about calling that dog expert on TV. I don’t know if he’ll do the dogs any good, but the publicity wouldn’t hurt.”

“I was looking online at all your reviews, albums, and performances,” Oliver said. “You seem to be doing just fine in the publicity department.”

“One can never get too much publicity.”

They were still standing outside.

Priscilla was still looking at Oliver. “How old are you?”

“Old enough to know that you haven’t changed at all.”

Priscilla smiled. “I bet when the Major and I used to come on the radio, you’d turn the dial to another station.”

“Then you’d be wrong,” Oliver lied.

Priscilla said, “Okay. Name our four number one hits.”

“‘Springless Year’…but that’s a no-brainer because it’s your doorbell tone. Uh, let me think…‘Petunia and Porky’…a little sappy for my taste. I did like ‘Jammin’ ’ and ‘Request for Lovin’.’ I don’t remember if they were your number one hits or not.”

Priscilla tried to hold back her delight. “I’m impressed. Either you’re sincere or you’ve done some homework.”

“A good cop comes prepared. This brings us to why we’re here.”

“Yes, I suppose I should let you in.” She stood aside. “Come on. I hope you like pink.”

PRISCILLA LED THEM
up the grand staircase into a twenty-by-twenty square room: pink walls, pink carpet, pink ceiling, pink light fixtures, and pink furniture that included a desk and chair, and two love seats facing each other with a pink coffee table between them. The walls hosted a slew of framed vinyl records, three of them platinum, three of them gold, and a complete archival history—print and photographs—of Priscilla and the Major—with a big emphasis on Priscilla. There were hundreds of black-and-white snapshots: the duo with two presidents, with senators, governors, mayors, foreign dignitaries including royalty, and countless other celebrities. At least six major magazine covers, six covers of Sunday magazine inserts of all the major newspapers. Space not taken up by photographs was occupied by newspaper clips and reviews, everything framed in pink.

Marge felt her heart beat a little harder. The piece of nylon fabric that had been salvaged from the charred body had pink threads. She carefully looked over the room and even read a few articles. She was amazed that the duo had been
that
big. Oliver had told her that their music was a little corny, coming out in a time when political protest anthems were all the rage. Later, the folkies and acid bands had given way to sex-heated thump-a-minute disco and dance music, made even more frenetic by the frequent use of cocaine by the clubbers. Priscilla and the Major didn’t fall into that genre, either, yet they spanned the late sixties through the seventies and into the early eighties before they were done in by familiarity and age.

“Wow,” Marge said, “this is something else!”

“Why bother having the stalkers build me shrines when I can build my own?” Priscilla said.

“You have stalkers?”

“In my heyday, I had many, young lady. I had everything from fans that waited hours to buy Priscilla and the Major tickets to bodyguards and gigolos. I had the paparazzi and journalists hounding me all the
time. I met the most important people of the decades, including several queens, a couple of kings, and a few presidents. And I thought it would never end.” A wry smile. “But it did.”

“This is amazing,” Marge said.

“It is a constant reminder that it is better to have made it and gone downhill than to have never made it at all. And there is quite a bit of recompense even when one fades into the woodwork. I still have money and I can shop without being mauled. I don’t live in my memories, but I sure as hell enjoy them. Whenever I feel blue, I come in here and feel very pink. Now sit down—both of you—and tell me why you’re here.”

Since Oliver was clearly on the woman’s A-list, Marge decided to let him handle the details. He rooted in his briefcase and came up with the colored pictures of the scanty forensic evidence they had gathered from charred Jane Doe. “This is really going to tax your memory.” He handed her the pictures. “We found this bit of fabric. We were wondering if you could possibly identify it.”

She scanned through the photographs very quickly. “What am I looking at?”

“We thought maybe you could tell us.”

“And why did you think I could help you?”

“Honestly, we were thinking that the fabric came from a rock band souvenir tour jacket.”

“One of my souvenir tour jackets?”

“You tell us,” Oliver answered.

“C’mon, handsome. My memory’s good but not that good!”

Oliver came over and picked out one of the snapshots. “See up here in the left-hand corner. We were thinking that this was part of the word
major
.”

“Yes, I see it…maybe.” She handed him back the photographs. “Why do you want to know?”

“We found an unidentified body, Ms. Barrett,” Marge said. “We’re trying to date the bones from this piece of cloth. If it was one of your souvenir pieces of clothing, we would have a starting point.”

“I couldn’t possibly tell you yes or no or even maybe,” Priscilla said.

Marge tried to hide her disappointment. “It’s important, Ms. Barrett. Maybe you could take another look?”

“I can’t help, but don’t look so down, Sergeant. I’ve got something to show you.”

THE ROOM NEXT
door was identical in size and also pink.

No furniture.

Instead, the space was filled top to bottom, and right to left, with racks and shelving units stuffed with clothing and souvenir memorabilia, probably everything that had ever been sold by Priscilla and the Major. There were racks of sweatshirts, sweatpants, T-shirts, and jackets, along with cases of hats, scarves, flags, banners, pins, posters, and cases of vinyl records, eight-track tapes (that went
way
back, Scott thought), cassette tapes, and newer-cut CDs. Everything was done in shades of pink, the most prevalent hue being powder-puff.

The room was a paean to Priscilla’s compulsiveness, and a blessing for the detectives. Everything was sorted by item and by year. It was going to take a while to find the right piece of cloth, but with time it was a task that was doable.

Oliver said, “This is incredible!”

“I have clones in storage. I used to have even more until I donated about half of the clothing to victims of Katrina and the Phuket tsunami. My accountant and agent were happy with the decision. I got a big write-off and some free publicity.”

“How much time do we have to look?”

“Take as much time as you need, handsome. And if either of you see anything you’d like or you can use, help yourself.” She turned to Marge. “How about a sweatshirt?”

Marge didn’t want to seem impolite, but felt uncomfortable with freebies. “Sure.”

“Take my newest one. What are you? Medium?”

“Large.”

Priscilla fished out a sweatshirt and gave it to Marge. Oliver picked up a CD in the 1998 section. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen this.”

“It was my first foray into jazz. Gimme. I’ll autograph it for you.”

“That would be great! I really like jazz.”

She signed it and handed it over to him. “This was my first solo album in over a decade. It brought me out of retirement. It also got great reviews.”

Oliver noticed that it had been produced nine years ago. Good reviews but no doubt lousy sales. Marge was already comparing sweatshirts to the photographs that they had taken at the Crypt.

Priscilla said, “Let me see those pictures again, Sergeant.”

Marge looked up from a rack of clothing dated 1968. She gave her the snapshots along with a piece of paper with tour-city names that might correspond to the fabric’s abbreviated letters. “We were thinking it’s a tour jacket and these cities might have been on the tour.”

Priscilla looked at the list of the cities and then sorted through the photographs, this time studying them with a determined gaze. “Hmm…this narrows it down a little. We did play Galveston. Start at around 1973.”

SITTING AT HIS
desk, Decker looked at the jacket from
Priscilla and the Major’s America the Beautiful
tour, comparing it to the forensic photographs taken off the piece of fabric. He specifically liked the way the configuration of cities had been handled, how the
s
in Galveston was over the
p
in Indianapolis, but was just slightly to the left of the
p
. If he had an overlay of the fabric—the next step—he was sure the letters would have lined up perfectly.

“So if we’re correct, the body is no older than 1974. But that doesn’t mean the murder was committed in 1974. Our victim could have been wearing the jacket long after the tour.”