by Richard Neer
Alex said, “Local sheriff and a deputy got there first, but like I said, the feds swooped in and shut them down. That’s Jasper County and I don’t know a lot of those guys, but the sheriff backed the story.”
“I don’t know if what Black needs from me has anything to do with that shootout. All I know is it’s about a widow. Was this Brand X married?”
“Don’t think so. Could be Black is trying to help the wife of one of the security guards. But that’s just a wild guess. I just hope that Charlene isn’t using this as a pretext to hook up with you again. You seem to have a hard time saying no to that woman, no matter what she does to you.”
I didn’t need another lecture about Charlene from Tomey or anyone else. “Moses, you want to come along for the meeting? You might as well get the story first hand if you’re going to work with me on it. The woman who answered the phone promised a delicious lunch.”
Ginn said, “Like always, you gonna be needing me when going gets rough. Problem is, after this heavy breakfast, doubt I’ll be up much for a big lunch. Unless we do a five mile run this morning. Weather’s a little chilled, but I’m up for it if you are.”
“You got it. Let me do some computer work first, and we’ll run in say, an hour?”
“Always enjoy nice little winter fartlek,” Ginn said.
Tomey wrinkled her nose. I said, “It’s a Swedish term, means an interval run. Although after this breakfast, what you were thinking he meant might come to pass.”
Tomey winced and waved me away but Ginn laughed. “Pass? As in wind? That’s a good one, 5-0.”
3
Ginn insisted we take his car to Black’s place. I was getting tired of him ripping my ten year old Acura MDX. It is a constant bone of contention with us, although I have to admit he is wearing me down.
Ginn said, “Thing is 5-0, even though my ride is twenty five years older than that crate you drivin’, it’s so much cooler. You got bread. No heirs, no wife. Who’re saving it for?”
“You really want me to buy a car that’ll put yours to shame?”
“I doubt that’d ever happen, but sure. Then I won’t have to be chauffeuring you around. You springing for gas money don’t make up for the miles I’m putting on Molly here.”
Ginn’s car, called Molly, was a restomod. He’d outfitted the eighties Mercedes two-seater with all the modern conveniences, like satellite radio, heated seats, GPS, hands free phone, supercharged motor. Matching numbers throughout, less than fifty thousand on the odometer. A crisp black metallic paint job completed the picture. Even I had to admit it was a vehicle to be reckoned with.
I said, “Then put in for a mileage allowance.”
“Might just do that.”
I knew he wouldn’t. Our working relationship is an unusual one. He lives in my house with Tomey and pays no rent. He helps me out on cases, and when I tell him to submit a bill for his services, he agrees but never does. I’m afraid he’s going to present me with a whopper some day, but that day has never come. I have no idea where his money comes from, but he is never short of cash. He doesn’t bill me for food, or any of the items around the house that he repairs without me asking.
We pulled onto the long gravel driveway at Black’s Bluffton address. The house is on the outskirts of town, surrounded by several acres of woods, not in one of the gated communities so prevalent in the area. The building itself is shielded from the street by tall pines and live oaks. It is a compact one story affair, dating back to the early part of the last century. Like Ginn’s Mercedes, it has been meticulously restored.
Black emerged from the front door before we got out of the car. “Welcome, Mr. King. I didn’t know you were bringing an associate, but no worries. Katrina’s made plenty of food.”
I introduced my ‘associate’. I don’t know exactly what else to call him.
Jason Black played the gracious host. “Can I get you a drink? I’m working with power tools so I won’t indulge, but our liquor cabinet is pretty well stocked. One of the advantages to being married to a restaurant owner.”
“We’ll hold off on the drinks for now,” I said, as we entered the house. “Nice place. Did you do all the restoration yourself?”
“Most of it. I updated the HVAC, electric and plumbing. Put on a new roof, replaced some windows. Re-did the kitchen and master bath. Painted and did some cosmetic stuff. The rest is pretty much original.”
Ginn said, “Sounds like a big job. I heard you did a lot of rehabbing and flipping up near Charleston. You still doing that?”
“No. I live and work down here now. Kat’s restaurant is in Beaufort, about twenty minutes away. I do custom woodworking. Bookcases, cabinets, things like that. And the occasional concert gig.”
He walked us to the rear of the house where an extremely attractive woman, probably mid-fifties, was busy preparing lunch. At first glance, one sensed she was extremely capable by the way she had everything meticulously organized and laid out. Her movements were efficient and seemed almost choreographed. I envied Jason. This lady checked all the boxes.
Black said, “Kat, this is Riley King and his associate, Moses Ginn. Gentlemen, Katrina McCann, my wife and owner of the finest Italian restaurant in the state.”
“Pleasure. Please, call me Riley.”
Ginn said, “Moses is cool. I make a mean veal piccata myself.”
I rubbed my hands together. “I can attest to that.”
She said, “Call me Kat. My mom was Italian, that’s where I learned to cook. Jase, lunch’ll be ready in about fifteen minutes. Why don’t you fellows take care of business in the great room and I’ll call you in when it’s done.”
Black nodded. “This way, gents.”
Jason Black is a good-looking galoot. About my height, 6-2, but ten pounds leaner. Thick silver hair, pulled back into a ponytail. The requisite facial scruff, strong jaw and piercing eyes. Mature Ralph Lauren model look about him. They make a handsome couple.
Moses and I took a seat on a comfortable sofa. Black sat opposite on a wing chair.
I said, “I’m sure you get this all the time, but I’ve really enjoyed your music. Love the way you play guitar. Tasty, not overdone. Just nice clean riffs.”
He held up his left hand. “I’m afraid that’s a thing of the past. Got hurt a while back and I don’t have the time to relearn technique, given the limitations. Even barre chords are tough these days, but thanks for the kind words.”
There was an ugly scar on his palm, the result of the gunshot wound he’d suffered in the X shootout. Katrina was the woman who saved him that day. I was curious to hear their side of that story.
He said, “Charlene said you were pretty knowledgeable when it came to music, Riley. Not so much country, but rock.”
I said, “I learned a lot from a friend of mine. Rick Stone. He was a sports talk guy in his later years, but he was a disc jockey before that. He was always quoting rock lyrics. Seemed like he had one for every occasion. I once challenged him to say nothing for an entire hour that wasn’t a line from a song. He did it without missing a beat.”
Black gave a wistful smile. “I knew him. Not well, but he interviewed me a few times in his DJ days. Mostly on the phone and a couple of times in person. I know he died last year. Way too young.”
I said, “Yeah, he was one of a kind. So, you didn’t call me in just to talk music.”
“No. Just wondering if you ever heard of a guy named Colton Townes?”
“Vaguely. Didn’t you cover a couple of his songs?”
“I did.”
“So he was mostly a songwriter, not a performer.”
“Not exactly. He had two albums out in the late seventies. Underground FM radio was fading away then, but the stations that kept the faith played his stuff. He kind of reminded me of Springsteen’s career arc. Not his style, but in that his first two albums didn’t do too well, then Born to Run made Bruce a star. Townes was like that. He played me some of the songs he wanted to put on his third album. They were
great. It would have been a breakthrough for him and he would have been big. Bigger than I ever was, I think.”
“You say ‘would have’. What happened?”
“His first two records were for a small label and they dropped him for lack of sales. He was looking for a new deal and not getting much traction. The night after John Lennon died, he lit out for New York. Left his wife a note and took off. He disappeared. No one ever heard from him again.”
4
As we sat down to lunch, I again found myself admiring Jason Black’s place in the world. His life seemed pretty sweet. He had a well equipped workshop behind his residence, where he made custom furniture. The house itself was compact and elegant, in perfect harmony with his needs. He had spent money in the right places. The kitchen featured restaurant quality appliances; the great room had soaring beamed ceilings with plenty of space for entertaining. He had artfully concealed a huge flat screen television behind a sliding barn door bookcase.
The acreage surrounding the home afforded privacy. No commute or office politics. The ability to craft custom pieces at his own pace, plus the occasional concert to remind him that he still had fans who appreciated his talent and held his work in high esteem.
And then there was Katrina. It’s difficult to judge relationships by their public face. But they seemed so happy together is an oft-heard refrain from friends when a quiet couple goes through a vituperative divorce. They had a strong awareness of each others’ sensibilities, moment to moment. A thoughtless aside would be promptly replaced by a kinder one without offense taken. I envy them that. It is a skill I’ve lacked in my relationships.
Lunch lived up to its billing. If this was any indication of the food at Kat’s restaurant, The Frog and Peach, it would be worth a trip to Beaufort.
I said, “Katrina, this fish is incredible. What is it exactly?”
“It’s called Finnan Haddie. It’s a Scottish dish. Haddock smoked with green wood and peat. I didn’t do all that from scratch but the sauce is mine. I checked out your heritage online and I thought this would be appropriate.”
“That’s news to me. The only product of Scotland I’m aware of is a taste for its whisky. You really shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble. I’ve never heard of Finnan Haddie, but it’s a winner.”
Ginn said, “I ain’t a big fish eater but this is most refreshing. My compliments, ma’am. You serve this at your restaurant?”
She stifled a laugh. “Doesn’t really fit in with the Italian cuisine. I’m from Philadelphia originally and I have to walk a fine line down South. I can’t get too adventurous, but I can’t be Olive Garden either. If you ever saw the movie Big Night, you know what I’m talking about.”
I said, “One of my favorites. Stanley Tucci is great in that. That guy who played Monk was terrific, too.”
She smiled . “Tony Shalhoub. Primo and Segundo. So, are you guys and Jason going to work together on the widow Townes situation?”
Black said, “Actually, you called us in before we got too deep into it. If you don’t mind us talking business while we eat dear, I can fill them in.”
Kat said, “I have no problem talking about Townes now if our guests don’t mind.”
I had no objections.
The table had been set with each utensil in its proper place, the white china arranged just so, as if the Queen was joining us for lunch. Black cleared his throat and drew a cloth napkin to his mouth. “Well, this all started when I went to Home Depot to pick up some stain and ran into Colton’s widow.”
Ginn said, “Not many women shop there. Too much like a warehouse. The ladies prefer Lowe’s.”
Kat shot him a quick glare for what she must have taken as a sexist remark, but she held back from saying anything.
Black said, “Actually, she wasn’t shopping there. She was a cashier. When Townes and I were tour mates for a bit, she came along on all our gigs. I didn’t know her well and I barely recognized her. That was forty some years ago and she’s aged a bit.”
Not wanting to risk his wife’s wrath, he smiled and added. “Haven’t we all?”
“How old is she?”
“Townes was a few years older than me, so I’d guess she’d be seventy to seventy five. It was heartbreaking to see her working behind a register at that age. I asked her when her break was and said I’d buy her lunch.”
Kat said, “Jase told me about her that night. It’s really sad. She has no pension or anything. Worked as a waitress and a bunch of other low paying jobs to make ends meet. She lost the house they lived in. He split and left her nothing but a sad letter and a mortgage.”
Ginn said, “Did she tell you what the note said?”
Black dabbed his mouth with the napkin again. “It was a three page letter. Says she still has it. He was depressed. Felt he was a burden to her. He needed to make some money. Session player, songwriter, backing vocals, whatever he could. Hoped he could get a record deal but said he’d do whatever it took to provide for her. He’d send as much money back as he could. Left her three hundred bucks cash with the letter, all he had.
“They found his van a few days later. It was on the Coosaw Scenic Drive, just north of here on the way to I-95. It was a ways off the road, hit a tree.”
I said, “So he was in an accident.”
“It was a beat up old VW van. Standard issue for musicians back then. The strange thing about it is that his guitar was still there, in its case. A Martin D-28 1937 dreadnought, easily worth six grand. Man, he loved that axe. If it was an accident and he survived, that’s the first thing he would have taken. Never would have left it behind.”
I said. “After the accident, he might have been dazed and wandered off for help, not able to carry the guitar. If scavengers got there before the police, they might not have realized the value of an old guitar.”
Ginn added, “Or they might have known if they tried to pawn it and the widow reported it missing, the shops would be on the lookout for it. Possession of stolen goods.”
Kat brought out coffee and cookies that were as perfect as the rest of the meal. She apologized for rushing us but said she needed to get to her restaurant soon.
Jason said, “The police didn’t think any foul play was involved. He couldn’t have been carrying much money and who’d want to rob an old VW? The big thing that was missing was his music. Carla, that’s the widow’s name, told me he took a notebook with him that had his songs in it, including all the new ones. It wasn’t in the van.”
I said, “They’d be even harder to fence than a guitar. Only a collector or rabid fan would pay anything for them. I can’t imagine it’d be of much value. The cops must’ve scoured the area with dogs and stuff. Obviously, no body was found.”
“Nothing. They apparently did a hot line, if anybody saw him wandering on the road. Drew a blank there, too.”
I hated to throw cold water on the gathering, but I couldn’t take any money on the premise I could solve a forty year old case. I told them so.
“I have to tell you that cold cases like this rarely get solved. If the cops going on fresh evidence couldn’t find anything, there’s no way we’re going to come up with something they missed. It’s not like DNA or modern science’d help in a case like this. That van probably got crushed and recycled decades ago.”
Ginn said, “Yeah, if not, you’d be drivin’ it.”
I did my best to ignore the dig. Jason said, “No, the rusty old thing’s actually in the yard of the shack Carla’s renting.”
I said, “Regardless, there won’t be any new clues there. And if you’re thinking it’ll bring closure to this woman, it won’t. By now, she has to have come to grips with the fact he’s gone and won’t coming be back. Chasing ghosts doesn’t really help anybody.”
I did sympathize with the widow and had a suggestion. “Maybe Charlene and you can do a benefit for the widow Townes to help her out.”
Katrina said, “That’s a sweet idea and we’ll look into that. But we wouldn’t waste you
r time chasing ghosts as you put it if there wasn’t more to it. Tell him, Jase.”
“Meeting Carla triggered something in me. I didn’t realize it till a few days later. I sometimes listen to music while I’m working. There’s a band out now that has a bunch of hits on their first record. They’re on tour now. I checked it out and they’ve sold over a million downloads which is unheard of these days. I’m going on old memories here, dudes, but I swear, they’re some of the songs Colton played for me from the third album. The one he never got the chance to record.”
5
We were in Molly Mercedes, headed home from Bluffton. Black had given us a tour of his place after Katrina left for work. The master suite was sweet. Marble floors in the bathroom, body sprays in the luxurious steam shower. Hot tub on the deck. His workshop would make Norm Abram jealous. And the lovely and talented Katrina McCann was less than sixty feet six inches away.
He printed out a list of the songs he thought might belong to Townes and the band that recorded them, a group called The Flying Machine. He also provided the names of a couple of record shops in the area that might have Townes’ two early albums. I wanted to talk to the widow. He said he’d make that happen.
While driving, Ginn said, “Don’t get why you doing this, 5-0. ‘Less you plan on stealing that Kat lady away from Black.”
I said, “Please, I wouldn’t think of it. Those two are perfect for each other. No, I’m psyched to do this. It’s a good old fashioned mystery. You know, there’re people who are absolutely sure Jim Morrison never died in that Paris bathtub and is still alive.”
“That old Doors dude who flashed his junk in Miami? Good riddance. Who wants to see that?”
“I doubt Colton Townes ever did anything like that. I honestly can’t remember any of his stuff. Hope there’s some on YouTube. He wasn’t a household name, but other musicians respected him. Posthumously. That means after he died.”
