“What are you doing here?” she asks without even the pretense of politeness.
My mind goes blank. Luckily, Cordy rescues me. “Audrey just stopped by to tell me about some research she’s been doing on the price of vintage concert posters.”
“Yes, I have some prices here on my phone,” I say, wondering if I might be able to switch the Dictaphone into my pocket if the phone is on the table.
“I won’t be able to read that without my glasses,” Cordy exclaims. “Ariel, be a love—run upstairs and get my readers, would you?”
Clever, Cordy.
But instead of running anywhere, Ariel simply pivots to a pile of clutter on the counter and extracts a pair of purple reading glasses.
“Aren’t you amazing!” Cordy accepts the glasses with good humor, but I suspect that Ariel knows the old woman well enough to sense something is up.
The Dictaphone sits on my lap like a hot coal. Ariel hasn’t taken her eyes off the kitchen table for even a second. I don’t see how this is going to end, but I’m not sitting here all afternoon. I need to get back to Sean.
Then the doorbell rings. Saved!
“That must be your father,” Cordy says to Ariel. “He never comes to the back door.”
Ariel scowls and flounces to the front door. We only have a moment to act.
Cordy’s head swivels like an owl’s as she looks for a safe place to stash her treasure. The kitchen cabinets are an obvious choice, but I recall items tumbling out of one the day I made tea. A better idea comes to me: the oven. God knows, Cordy never bakes.
I slip from my seat and slide the Dictaphone beside a grimy broiler pan that’s probably lain unwashed in there for decades. As I turn toward the back door, Cordy shakes her head and mouths “don’t leave”.
What? Why not?
A second later, Ariel returns.
She’s with the tall, weathered man who visited her booth at the craft fair. This is her father?
“Richie!” Cordy calls out jovially. “You’re early!” She reaches into the pocket of her pilled cardigan and pulls out a crumpled twenty. “Why don’t you two go buy some coffee and donuts. This gathering needs refreshments.”
Early? Early for what?
Richie makes no move to take the money. His face hardens as he glances from Cordy to me. The words, “I was just leaving,” form in my mouth. Whatever is going on here, I want no part of it. If Cordy is afraid to be alone with these two, I can call the police and ask them to do a welfare check on my elderly friend.
“Nice to meet you,” I say although no one has introduced us. I head toward the back door, but Richie’s large hand grabs my upper arm tightly.
“Ow! What are you doing?”
“Siddown,” he jerks me around and pushes me toward the chair I just left. My heart-rate kicks up whether from fear or outrage, I’m not certain.
Richie looms over me. “You have what we’re looking for.”
“I don’t know what you’re—”
“Shut up!” he yells. “Gif told me he put the Dictaphone in the house across the street. Then you held a sale there. Now you’re here. Where is it?”
I’ve had it with these people. I should just tell him where the Dictaphone is and leave. Cordy and her efforts to make money from this recording don’t matter to me. But I hesitate because my natural impulse is to resist controlling jerks like Richie.
He grabs the front of my sweater and pulls me partway out of the chair. “Do you wanna end up like Gif?” I notice the skin on his knuckles is broken. Tiny brownish-red spots dot his denim jacket, noticeable now that I’m so close to him.
Blood? What did he do to the poor old roadie?
“Take your hands off me,” I say. My voice sounds surprisingly steady given how nervous I am.
Richie whirls around and in one motion grabs a knife from the block on the counter. I jump from my chair, and Richie presses the knife against Cordy’s sagging neck.
“Richie!” she gasps. Her pleading eyes turn to Ariel. “Honey, come on—make him stop.”
The blade pricks her wrinkled skin and a drop of red appears. Sweat breaks out on Cordy’s upper lip. But instead of nodding toward the oven, Cordy locks eyes with me. Her gaze seems to be telling me to keep quiet. But I’m not going to stand here and watch an elderly woman’s throat get slit over a twenty-five-year-old rock recording.
My mouth opens.
Footsteps thump up the back porch stairs. A moment later, Alan Greer enters the kitchen, an acoustic guitar case slung over his shoulder. He takes in the scene in a flash. “For God’s sake, Richie—put that knife down.” His voice is low and authoritative. He doesn’t shout.
The two men glare at each other.
“Drop it,” Alan commands again, “or I’m outta here for good. I didn’t want to come in the first place.”
Reluctantly, Richie removes the knife from Cordy’s neck. She coughs and smiles sweetly at Alan. “Thank you, Alan. So nice to see you again after all these years.”
So I was right—Alan Greer is a member of Plan for Extinction. Cordy seems to have invited him here.
Alan studies Cordelia Dean and gives a tiny shake of his head, like he can’t believe his eyes. Then he turns to me. “Why are you here? Still looking for guitar lessons for...who was it? Your nephew?”
He caught me in my lie. But I don’t begrudge him that. Of all the people in this kitchen, Alan seems the most trustworthy.
Cordy squints at me “You know Alan?”
“I heard him play at the craft fair,” I begin to explain. But before I can stammer out further excuses, the doorbell rings again.
Cordy beams at us all.
“Narwhal’s here.”
Chapter 41
“HELLO?” A DEEP VOICE calls from the foyer.
“Back here, darling,” Cordy shouts.
We all stare at the empty archway to the hall. A moment later, it is filled.
The man who enters is easy to recognize. In his youthful pictures, Narwhal’s dark, wavy hair cascaded to his shoulders. Now it’s stylishly cut, but still thick and dark with just a hint of silver at the temples. He’s still lithe, but instead of tight jeans and a tee shirt, he wears sharply creased wool slacks, a pale gray cashmere sweater, and a buttery leather jacket.
His sensuous lips have not thinned. He smiles and arches one eyebrow. “Hello, everyone. So nice to see you after all these years.”
Clearly, whoever Narwhal is today, he’s not a rock musician.
As his bright blue eyes study each person in turn, I can practically hear the thoughts going through his head. Cordy: you look like shit. Richie: still a pathetic loser. Alan: so earnest even now. “Where’s Mikey?” he asks.
“Dying of cancer,” Alan answers. “He sends his regards.”
Mikey must be the fourth member of Plan for Extinction who Ariel and Richie were talking about at the craft fair.
Narwhal’s face grows serious at the news. Then his gaze turns to Ariel and me. “And who might you be?”
Cordy opens her arms like she’s introducing dear friends from different circles of her life. “Ariel is Richie’s daughter. And Audrey is...well, she’s the one who found the Freeman lyrics and helped me sell them.”
“Ah,” Narwhal says. “You started us down this ridiculous road.”
“Not intentionally,” I respond. “And I’m ready to take the exit ramp.”
Cordy holds up her hand to discourage me from leaving. But she’s no longer frightened. Indeed, she’s clearly enjoying herself. “Now that I have you all assembled, it’s time for you to hear what I’ve found. Audrey, do the honors, if you will.”
So I weave through the crowd in the kitchen and open the oven. Ariel’s quick intake of breath is the only sound in the room as I place the Dictaphone on the table in front of Cordy. She begins speaking, sounding like she’s offering the best man’s toast at a wedding. “Twenty-five years ago, I followed you boys on tour. Your music electrified the crowds. Each concert was diff
erent. You never played the songs the same way twice.”
“That’s ‘cause we were always strung out on something,” Alan mutters.
“I had the foresight,” she lays her hand on her ample bosom, “to record your concert in Amsterdam even though Ross Pelletierre strictly forbade it.”
“Prick,” Richie snarls.
“Unfortunately, I lost track of the tape for a period of time,” Cordy continues.
“Period? Decades in this rat’s nest,” Ariel complains.
“Now, because of my action all those years ago, you boys have the opportunity to hear your original work and recreate it.”
Cordy beams at the members of the band. She’s having the time of her life. This is what she wanted all along. To be important. To be relevant again. Money has never mattered to her. I should have understood that.
Richie practically paws the ground in anticipation. “C’mon—let’s hear it. Once we hear it again, the songs will come back to us—right guys?”
In response, Alan takes his guitar from its case and strums a few chords. Then Cordy hits the play button.
The sound of the youthful Plan for Extinction fills the room. Richie bobs his head, using his hands to tap the drum rhythms on the kitchen counter. Alan tentatively picks out parts of the melodies on his guitar. Narwhal hums.
One song ends and the song that has become “Dig It,” comes on.
“Augh—fast forward past that. Ross ruined it forever,” Alan complains.
So Cordy advances the tape. They listen to more songs.
Finally, they come to the one I know is at the end of the tape. It’s a more soulful number, lacking the hard punk beat. They listen for a minute, but Alan switches the tape player off before the end of the song. He begins to play the entire song on his guitar.
“Plan for Extinction, unplugged,” Narwhal comments. “It worked for Clapton, why not us?” He begins to sing, his voice a rich, true tenor. He remembers all the lyrics.
Richie’s face lights up. “See! See! We still got our mojo, man.”
Alan and Narwhal finish their duet and smile at each other.
Then Alan pops the tape from the machine and tosses it to Narwhal. The elegantly dressed man reaches into his pocket and pulls out a cheap cigarette lighter. Before any of us recognizes the significance, he flicks it on and sets the tiny plastic tape on fire.
It melts before our eyes, and before the flames singe his fingers, he drops it in a half-empty mug of cold tea.
A plume of rancid smoke floats over the table.
A moment of silence hangs like a prayer.
Then Richie lunges across the table with a scream of incoherent rage. Narwhal neatly sidesteps the attack, as yet another man enters the crowded space.
He’s as tall and wide as Cordy’s refrigerator, and he pins Richie down with very little effort.
“This is my personal assistant,” Narwhal says. “Richie, he’ll be keeping you company until the police arrive.”
Narwhal kisses Cordy’s hand. “Cordy, you old reprobate—try to behave yourself.” Then he turns to Alan and briefly embraces him. “That was a lovely duet, Alan. I’m glad we got the opportunity.”
Finally, he turns to Ariel. “I regret to inform you, my dear, that your father is a murderous psychopath. You’ll be much better off when he’s behind bars again.”
I check Cordy’s reaction. Her face glows. “What a story!”
Chapter 42
SEAN IS THE STAR OF the Coughlin family Thanksgiving dinner.
We all realize we have a lot to be grateful for. Life is fragile; it might end in the blink of an eye. Instead of focusing on the new life that we haven’t been able to create, Sean and I are offering thanks for our marriage and the love of the family that surrounds us.
After the turkey and before the football, everyone gathers around Sean in his sister’s crowded family room. His father and grandfather, both retired cops, want to hear the full story of Ross Pelletierre’s murder investigation. His mother, still outraged that someone tried to hurt her little boy, wants to know what happened to the actor that clobbered Sean. And the kids, all fans of Boom, Trucka Lucka (even if the older ones won’t admit it), want to hear about the connection between the old rockers and today’s hit.
“So the fella that hit you in the head wasn’t the one who murdered the Hollywood producer fella?” Sean’s mother asks in between shouting turkey carcass clean-up instructions to her daughters in the kitchen.
“No, Quincy Caravelle did have a grudge against Pelletierre, but he didn’t kill him. When Pete and I showed up to arrest him, he thought he was being taken in on drug charges for the second time, and he lashed out.” Sean rubs the bald spot on his head. “He probably could’ve plea-bargained a drug rap, but now he’ll definitely do time for assaulting an officer.”
“I should hope so,” Mary Coughlin huffs, and stomps back to the kitchen.
“So the man who actually killed Pelletierre was this rock star?” Sean’s father asks.
“Not a star at all,” Sean corrects. “Richie Floyd was the drummer in a Nineties post-punk band called Plan for Extinction, and Pelletierre was their manager. The band broke up after having just one hit record, and Richie fell on hard times. He wound up doing a long stint in prison for armed robbery and assault. Like a lot of felons, he struggled after his release.”
Sean’s grandfather scowls. No sympathy from that quarter. Sean continues with the story. “Richie really wanted to relive his glory days and get back into performing, but he wasn’t having any luck.”
“Didn’t want to get a real job,” Granda grumbles.
Sean nods in agreement. “Then one day, he heard this song on TV and recognized it as a song the band had written for their upcoming album that never got made.”
“Dig It!” Sean’s niece shouts. The kids jump up for an impromptu performance of the hit tune.
Even with their off-key rendition, their grandfather nods. “Oh, that song. I’ve heard that...catchy.”
“Pelletierre had sold the song to Boom, Trucka Lucka and made millions on residuals. It was the only song from the incomplete album that actually got written down,” Sean explains.
“Why?” one of the kids wants to know.
“Because the guys in the band would jam and make songs up during rehearsals, but only one member, Alan the guitarist, actually knew musical notation,” Sean explains as he eats his second piece of pumpkin pie. “So he was the only one who could write the songs down. The others played by ear and by memory.”
“That’s why their concerts sounded different every time,” I add.
“So Richie got in touch with Pelletierre and demanded to be paid. They met in Palmyrton because Richie was crashing in town, wanting to be closer to his daughter, who was a friend of Cordelia Dean. But Richie flew off the handle when Pelletierre didn’t offer him enough money. He picked up a concrete block in that empty lot and killed the man.”
“That was dumb,” Sean’s oldest nephew says. “Then he didn’t get any money at all.”
Sean points his index finger at the boy. “Exactly. Richie had a hot temper. He was the loose cannon that was a major reason the band broke up in the first place. But through his daughter Ariel, he learned that Cordelia Dean might have a recording of Plan for Extinction’s old songs—if she could find it. So his new scheme to make money was to reunite the band, so they could play the songs again and reignite their fame.”
“Except the other members of the band weren’t interested,” I interject. “One was dying, the other was a successful businessman, and Alan, the one working musician, was completely happy performing solo and teaching.”
“In fact,” Sean adds, “the singer and the guitarist realized Richie must’ve killed Ross Pelletierre. They wanted to put an end to Richie’s disastrous schemes, once and for all. And that’s how they helped capture Ross Pelletierre’s killer.”
Sean’s father turns to me, “Now tell me, dear—how did you happen to be there
when the police came to arrest Richie Floyd?”
My husband howls with laughter. “Oh, Dad—we don’t have time for that story if you want to watch the Lions kick-off!”
Epilogue
SEAN AND I PUSH OUR cart through the crowded aisles of Whole Foods on the day after Christmas. We’ve decided to start a new tradition by hosting a New Year’s Day Open House next weekend, and we’re shopping for supplies together.
We’ve divided the list into “things Audrey can be trusted to find” and “things only Sean can select.” This results in Sean’s departure from my side for extended periods as he forages for the precise type of Kalamata olives and Manchego cheese required for a successful party. Meanwhile, I’ve selected six limes and a head of broccoli in produce and am on my way to the cracker aisle.
Another cart taps the front of ours. “Excuse me—I’m so sorry.” I apologize reflexively for my reckless left hand turn before I even lay eyes on the owner of the other cart.
“No worries—it was my fault.”
The familiar voice forces my gaze from my shopping list. “Noreen. Hi...how are you?” I stammer.
“I’m good,” she says softly.
Her gaze searches my face. She doesn’t look angry or aloof at all. I risk a smile. “Sean’s off on a reconnaissance mission somewhere in here.”
“Peter’s at home,” Noreen explains. “Audrey, look, I’m really sorry about the way I yelled at you that day in your office. I...it was...”
I step forward and give her a hug. “No need to apologize. Cordy made us all a little crazy.” I have no idea if Peter and Noreen now know about Hank and Cordy’s affair, but I’m sure not going to be the one to tell them. “How is the old gal?”
“She’s great. She’s walking a lot steadier since she stopped drinking that herbal tea Ariel was feeding her all day long. And she seems to have found a reputable literary agent for her memoir. Oh, the real corker—People magazine quoted her in its article about Ross Pelletierre’s murder.”
Rock Bottom Treasure (Palmyrton Estate Sale Mystery Series Book 7) Page 23
