by Louise Clark
Mitch nodded. "And sales, right now at least. I can see it backfiring on us long-term. My company has a distribution agreement with one of the major labels. Right now they are willing to accept that I was only a bystander at Vince's death. If they think I'm involved?" He shrugged. "Not good news for us."
"I write balanced, investigative articles, not fluff pieces or smear attacks," Quinn said, keeping hold of his temper. "I want to know how Vince's death is going to affect those in the music business who worked with him. That includes SledgeHammer and your company. Most people only know the music business by what they listen to and the songs they purchase. I'd like to give my readers a wider picture, with more detail on how the industry works. Sledgehammer fans are worried. There's been a lot of ink shed about Vince's death being the end of the band the way Brian Epstein's death presaged the end of the Beatles."
Vince nodded gloomily. "Could happen."
"Or it might not."
"Bands break up all the time. Musicians are creative flakes and they can get wound up over the craziest things. SledgeHammer has had a long run." He shrugged. "Maybe it's their time."
"Sledge and Hammer don't think so," Quinn said, though truthfully he didn't know. He had Crosier talking now, even if it wasn't on tape, and he was getting impressions and ideas he'd be able to use.
Crosier grimaced. "They never do before they do it."
Quinn assumed he was speaking generically. They being musicians in general, not Rob McCullagh and Graham Gowdy specifically.
Kim Crosier chose that moment to arrive with two mugs, a coffee urn, a plate of sweet bread slices, and a stack of napkins, all balanced on a silver tray. A fragrant scent wafted from the bread. Quinn eyed it uneasily. He thought it might be banana bread; not one of his favorites.
She set the tray down and poured coffee into the mugs. "Do try the banana bread, Quinn," she said, confirming his suspicion. "It's just out of the oven."
"My favorite," Mitch said, eying it hungrily.
She laughed. "I know, darling. Today was difficult for both of us, but especially for you. I thought you needed a treat." She handed Quinn a mug. "If you like it, I'll give you the recipe for Christy." She smiled, then turned to provide the other mug to her husband.
Time to reassess, yet again, Quinn thought, as he watched Mitchell look at his wife fondly. Kim Crosier managed her husband with a deft dexterity that indicated a subtle understanding of the man. There was clearly more to her than appeared on the surface.
Mitch took a slice of banana bread, bit into it, and chewed. After he swallowed he winked at his wife and said, "Wonderful!" She winked back, then said, "I'll leave you to talk, then. Nice to see you again, Quinn."
She was gone before Quinn had time to sample her banana bread. Ordinarily, he wouldn't have bothered, but this time he didn't have the option with Mitchell Crosier watching him, waiting for his reaction with a possessiveness the baker herself didn't seem to share. With a mental shrug, he picked up a slice. He'd eaten worse when he had to. He broke off a chunk, then popped it into his mouth. And savored. "God, this is good," he mumbled. The texture was firm, but not heavy, the flavor sweet, but not over sweet. It was delicious.
"I know!" said Crosier, with enthusiasm. "That woman is a domestic goddess. She looks great, and she understands that sometimes I have to chat up the chicks. She is absolutely the best wife a man could want." He shook his head as he chewed another piece of banana bread. "I don't know how she puts up with me, but that's not why you're here."
Since Quinn had another mouthful of the bread, he couldn't reply. Mitch flicked his finger at Quinn's phone, which was still sitting on the desk. "Go ahead. Turn it on. Let's get started."
Quinn finished chewing, then wiped his fingers on a napkin, which was linen with cheerful red checks and a hand-sewn hem, ironed into crisp, perfectly even folds. He flicked on record and got started.
They talked for an hour about the music business and Crosier's position in it. That led to his plan for convergence marketing and inevitably, his hope that Roy would be involved. "Your father's agent turned me down flat," Mitch said, looking gloomy. "Too bad about that." He eyed Quinn thoughtfully. "If you talked to your father, do you think he'd override his agent?"
Quinn was prepared for this. He shook his head. "Wouldn't work. My dad always takes his agent's advice over mine."
"Pity," Mitch said. They went back to the music business and talked about SledgeHammer from their early days to the band's current world success. Quinn steered the conversation back to the night of Sledge's party and Vince's murder. "Give me your impression of the evening."
Mitch leaned back in his chair, cradling his second mug of coffee. All that was left of the banana bread was crumbs on the plate. "There was an edge, like everyone was waiting for something to happen." He took a sip while he reflected. "Not surprising, really, after that girl's death at the concert. There was a lot of looking over your shoulder, if you know what I mean."
"Explain it to me so I'm clear."
Mitchell leaned forward and put his elbows and the coffee mug on the table. Hands free he moved them in the air, using them to help him find the words for something he evidently hadn't tried to describe before. "I think there were several people in that house who wondered if Kyle Gowdy was guilty. They wondered and they watched. It struck me that no one was surprised when Vince told Hammer to keep away from his brother. It was as if everyone expected him to say that and an argument to follow."
"Where were you when the argument happened?"
Mitch hesitated.
Quinn raised his brows. "My dad told me Kim was in the great room talking to him. He didn't know where you were."
Mitch looked at the phone, looked at Quinn, then looked at the door before he said with a rush, "I was in the kitchen when the shouting started out on the deck. I was on my way to the music room when Hammer and Vince came into the great room."
"Why were you going to the music room?"
He hesitated again, before he said, "I was looking for the lady chef Sledge used to cater the party. One of the servers told me she had gone to the music room. I followed her."
Quinn blinked. Not the answer he expected. "Did you find her?"
"Not then. Later." Crosier had reddened.
Quinn wondered why. He imagined it was probably the usual one for powerful men, but he asked anyway. "Why were you looking for her?"
If anything, Crosier's face got redder. He stared at Quinn's phone, looking worried. "She made the most wonderful mini tourtiere pies. The crust was sensational and the filling..." He sighed. "Heavenly. Kim asked the chef for the recipe, but the bitch wouldn't give it to her. So I thought I'd see what I could do."
"You wanted a recipe," Quinn said carefully.
"Kim loves to cook. You tasted her banana bread. Imagine what she could do with a light as air pie crust and some ground meat."
From the expression on Crosier's face, Quinn figured he was doing enough imagining for them both. "Did you ever find her?"
"Later, after all the fuss happened," Mitch said looking annoyed. "Turned out she wasn't in the music room at all. She wouldn't give me the damn recipe either."
"Anybody see you between when Vince left the house and when Vince's body was found?"
"No." The annoyance was now in Mitch's voice.
So Mitch Crosier didn't have an alibi for the time of Vince's death. If his irritation was any indication, he realized he could be in a vulnerable position if the cops chose to take a closer look at him.
"How was your relationship with Vince? I understand he wanted a complete review of the contract terms between SledgeHammer and your company."
Mitch eyed him levelly. "He did and I respected him for it. Vince was a talent agent as well as the band's manager. His job was to get the best terms he could for his artists. He was good at it too, because he only represented quality musicians. I knew that whatever Vince and I agreed to, I'd still profit from the arrangement."
"And yet you
played the game."
"Yeah, I played it. Why not? I wasn't going to just hand over the gilded plate to Vince. I was willing to make concessions, but he had to work for them."
"What happens now?"
Crosier shrugged. "SledgeHammer finds a new manager."
Quinn looked at him. "My research indicates that your label has interests in a company dedicated to managing artists. Sledge told me he'd already been approached by them."
"Yeah, so?"
"So it puts another spin on Vince's death."
"No, it does not," Crosier said shortly. "My company has an investment in the management company. I don't own it. Dig deeper into them. The artists they represent are recorded by a dozen different labels. If SledgeHammer decides to go with them, there's no guarantee they will keep the band with us."
No, there was no guarantee, but even if SledgeHammer signed with a new record label, Mitchell Crosier would still benefit.
The man had no alibi for the time of Vince's death and a lot gain from it. In Quinn's opinion, that put him right up near, or at the top, of the suspect list.
Chapter 25
The house was still when Christy woke up. Outside her window she could hear morning commuters on the way to work. Not as many cars passed as usual, but it was still Spring Break, so that wasn't surprising. She lay in the dim light that seeped through the curtains covering the windows and wondered why she'd woken so early when she didn't have to get up to make sure Noelle got to school on time. Then a cold damp nose pressed against her cheek and the sounds of loud purring echoed in her ear. Stormy was awake and wanted breakfast.
She kept her eyes closed and pretended she hadn't woken. Since their return Stormy had acted like a normal cat. A friendlier cat than he'd been when Frank was alive, but still just a cat. He snuggled. He sat on her paper if she was trying to write notes or a letter. He played with Noelle, chasing the ball she threw down the stairs, then made her retrieve it so she could have the privilege of throwing it for him again. He purred when he was stroked. He ate quantities of food.
But he didn't talk. To anyone.
Roy was upset. He worried that it had been his decision to take the cat to the SledgeHammer party that had caused Frank's silence. Roy figured that seeing the murder happen in front of him had brought back memories of his own murder and that he'd been traumatized. This had either convinced him to accept his passing and to flee Stormy's body, or it had left him so deeply unhappy that he had retreated from life and those still living. The result for both options was the same. Frank was no longer willing or able to communicate with the living the way he had before.
The purring in her ear grew louder and this time Stormy butted her cheek with enough force that Christy could no longer pretend to be asleep. She swatted at the cat and said, "Go away."
Still purring, Stormy positioned his paws on her shoulder, then began to knead. His purrs echoed through the room, in time with the slow rhythmic movement.
Christy groaned. His claws were in, thank God, or she'd be shrieking right now, but the loud purring and the kneading weren't going to let her go back to sleep. "It's too early to get up. I'll wake Noelle."
Stormy kneaded and purred, intent on his objective, paying no attention to her excuses.
"Oh, all right. I'll feed you, but then I'm coming back to bed." Fat chance that would happen, but she could hope. She wiggled out from under the kneading paws, then flung off her covers. Stormy bounded to the edge of the bed and leapt to the floor. He waited for her at the door as she yawned and put on her dressing gown.
They headed downstairs, Christy trying to be as quiet as possible so as not to wake the other occupants of the sleeping house, Stormy thundering down the stairs the way he did when he was intent on making his presence known. By the time she reached the kitchen, Christy knew that returning to bed to sleep was a forlorn hope, so she programmed the coffeemaker for a cup before she opened the pantry door to pull out a can of cat food for Stormy.
Stormy sat by his bowl and fixed an unblinking green gaze on her while she worked. She had deliberately fed him only canned cat food since she'd returned. She thought that if there were no treats—no tuna, no shrimp, no human food of any kind—that Frank would come out of his funk and complain. That he hadn't said a word was ever increasing proof that he was no longer living in Stormy's body.
She opened the cutlery drawer and picked up a spoon. "I have tuna in the fridge." She shoved the drawer closed. "If you want it, tell me now before I open the cat food."
Stormy stared at her, unmoving.
She went over to him, and stroked his head. "I don't know what happened that night, what you saw and what it made you think, but I want to help."
Stormy stared at her, then slowly blinked, but Frank didn't respond.
She sighed and picked up the bowl. She returned to the counter and put the bowl beside the can of cat food. The label said Tuna Dinner. Frank had always been scornful of the names given to the cat food she bought and said that all the flavors tasted the same. Stormy consumed the various varieties enthusiastically, though, much to Frank's disgust. But then, Stormy also happily ate grasshoppers, beetles, mice and birds, so he wasn't much of a gourmet.
She held up the can. "Last chance for real tuna."
Stormy abandoned the mat on which his food and water bowls sat and came over to wind around her legs. Then he stood on his hind legs and reached up toward the counter with his forepaws.
The message was clear. Feed me now.
The coffeemaker sputtered and completed its drip cycle. Despite the cat's silent demand, she took a moment to grab her cup and have a sip of fresh brewed coffee. "Oh, Frank," she said, staring at Stormy. "Why didn't you wait to say good-bye?"
Stormy was down on all fours again. His tail was now shivering with anxious anticipation.
Christy sighed again. There were moments when she wondered if Frank had chosen to leave because she'd gone away with Quinn. He probably guessed that she and Quinn had become lovers; that would have been hard for him to bear. Add the affront to his ego together with the trauma of witnessing a murder and you had a pretty good one-two emotional punch.
Unfortunately, the deed was done. There was nothing now that she could do about it. She took another swig of coffee, sighed again, and pushed guilt aside as she set about preparing Stormy's breakfast. She pulled the tab on the can and the seal broke with a hiss of air. She glanced down at the cat to see his reaction, but Stormy was simply being a cat. He paced to his mat then back again, impatient at her dithering, but nothing more.
She ripped off the lid. "Noelle is getting anxious. She refused to believe that you were gone, you know. She was so certain that you would say good-bye, that you wouldn't abandon her. Not a second time." She scooped Tuna Dinner into the bowl and chopped the paste into bite-sized morsels with the edge of the spoon.
Stormy paced from mat to counter and back once more, his tail straight up and shivering, muscles tense with excitement.
Christy picked up the bowl and took it over to the mat, then she crouched down as she placed it beside the water dish. Stormy made a great show of sniffing the contents before he dug in and began to eat with considerable enthusiasm. Christy stroked his back. "If you're in there, Frank, you need to come out and reassure your daughter. I don't care how traumatic seeing the murder was. You must put Noelle's needs ahead of your own, you know that."
Stormy paused to take a breath. He cast her one long unblinking look then he went back to vacuuming up his breakfast as quickly as possible.
Christy sighed and stood up.
"Were you talking to the cat? I smell coffee. Did you make a pot?"
Christy's heart skipped a beat and she jumped. "Ellen!" How much had she heard? Just the last bit where she'd talked about putting Noelle's needs in ahead of other ones? Or earlier where she'd used Frank's name? "Did I wake you when I came downstairs?"
"The cat woke me. Before I moved in with you I thought cats were stealthy and soundless. This
beast can be noisier than a lawn mower on a Sunday morning."
Christy laughed. "At times. He can be quiet when he wants to be, too."
Ellen sat down at the kitchen table where she could watch the cat eating. Christy did the morning feeding, because she was always up early getting Noelle ready for school, but Ellen was the one who prepared Stormy's evening meal, while Christy made their dinner. Consequently, she had become more appreciative of the cat.
"I only made a single cup of coffee," Christy said, cautiously hopeful that Ellen hadn't heard anything amiss. "Would you like a cup, or are you going to try to go back to bed?"
"I'm up," Ellen said. "If I went back to sleep now, the day would be half over before I woke up."
"I'll make a pot, then. I doubt I'll be able to get back to sleep either."
"I don't think a cat can be traumatized by what people do, unless those people are hurting the cat," Ellen said, her gaze still on Stormy.
Christy's hand shook as she ladled coffee grounds into the paper filter. She swallowed hard and tried to act normally. "Roy told me Stormy was howling when you found him."
"He was." Ellen put her elbow on the table and her chin on her palm. "I've heard animals can sense a soul passing. The cat's behavior makes me think that might be true."
Christy focused on making the coffee and didn't comment.
"Has Stormy been ignoring Noelle or something? Is that why you were lecturing the poor beast?"
Christy's hand shook as she dumped the last scoop into the filter. "Something like that." She put the filter into the machine, added a pot of water, then set it to brew. "I think Stormy is mad at Noelle and me for going away. He's taking a while to warm back up."
"He certainly missed you. He spent most of his time outside or with Roy while you were gone. I hardly saw him until after the murder. Then he stayed inside and did a lot of cuddling."
Before and after, Christy thought. Before, when Frank was still in Stormy and resentful of his aunt. After, when he'd gone and the cat was once again just a cat. More evidence that Frank wasn't going to be talking in her head ever again, no matter how many lectures she aimed Stormy's way.
