by Louise Clark
He spent the afternoon avoiding the techs and peeking out his windows at the ever-growing crowd of media at the end of his drive. Many were snapping pictures using super long lenses on high-end cameras and they all clamored for interviews every time someone moved in or out. He couldn't live like this. He knew it was part of the cost of the fame he'd worked so hard to achieve, but faced with this feeding frenzy at a time when he just wanted to grieve, it was too much.
He had snuck out in the small hours of the morning. He didn't attempt to breach the media barricades. Instead, he'd slipped through the trees that separated his property from Mrs. Tam's, then crossed her lawn to the next house. Waiting for him at the base of the driveway was his father. Which was why he was now sitting on Ellen Jamieson's antique sofa, wishing last night hadn't happened yet and it was the day before yesterday. Vince would still be alive, he'd be looking forward to the party and maybe, just maybe, everything would happen differently.
But it wasn't the day before yesterday. It was today. Vince was dead and he was homeless, living in Ellen Jamieson's downtown condo as a guest of his father. He shifted on the Victorian monstrosity. Thank God Ellen's condo had a spare bedroom. He couldn't imagine spending a night on the sofa. His back would seize within an hour.
His father, who was sitting on the other end of the Victorian monstrosity, didn't appear to find the sofa uncomfortable. He wasn't sitting upright, though; he was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, his expression intent as he listened to what the others were saying.
Ellen and Roy had arrived about a half an hour ago to join his father and him in a brainstorming session to figure out who killed Vince. Across from him was Ellen, perched on her pretty little lady's chair. Beside her, Roy lounged in a high-backed chair, all wood, with not a hint of padding to be seen. It was constructed of walnut and beautifully carved, with a wicker seat and back. Ellen had said proudly that it was Jacobean, whatever the hell that meant. Sledge thought, with some considerable admiration, that Roy had aced the damn Jacobean antique. He looked as if he owned it, sitting on it with an easy confidence, like a lord presiding over a gaggle of serfs. Crouched under Roy's Jacobean throne, and still not talking, was Stormy. The cat had taken up a position there when Ellen had chased him off the Victorian monstrosity. Sledge thought the cat might have the better of the seating arrangement.
Trevor said, "Szostalo hasn't arrested Hammer yet, but he will."
That roused Sledge from his introspection. They'd been talking generally about the situation, allowing him to tune out and do a little wallowing. It looked like they were finally getting down to business. "Why?" he asked, unable to hide his hostility. "Hammer didn't kill Vince."
"So he says," Trevor said.
That made Sledge mad. His father often said stuff to prod people into looking at situations in a different way. Maybe that was what he was doing now, but if so Sledge was having none of it. Hammer was his friend. His ally. As close to a brother as a man could be. "Yeah. He says. And if he says it, it's true."
Roy rubbed his chin. "He did leave the house just before Vince left. He could have been waiting for him outside. Maybe he didn't want to cool off. Maybe he wanted to go at Vince in private. They got into another argument and it got out of hand."
The anger that had made Sledge snarl at his father boiled up into a rage that was fueled by worry and grief. Vince had been more than their manager, he'd been a trusted friend, as much a member of SledgeHammer as Sledge and Hammer were. He'd been there at the beginning. His energy and his belief in them had brought success and made them all wealthy. He couldn't believe Vince was gone. He knew Hammer would never kill him, any more than Sledge himself would. "Vince was family. Families disagree, but they come together again."
Roy cocked a brow. "Even when the quarrel is about a brother? A real brother?" He paused for a minute, then added, "Vince was telling Hammer he had to dump his brother for the good of the band. He was forcing Hammer to choose. Sounded to me like Hammer did before he rushed out."
"I know Hammer. He wouldn't kill Vince." Sledge's voice rose, hardened.
Roy shrugged.
"And I know Vince." The words came out with a snap. He swallowed, fighting his temper. This was a brainstorming session, after all. Everything laid out on the table. "Once he and Hammer both cooled down, they would have talked it through and worked out a compromise."
"What if Kyle Gowdy is charged with the murder of the girl? Then what?" Trevor asked. "Hammer must have known that Vince would push him that much harder to disown his brother." He tapped on the inlaid coffee table between the sofa and the chairs. It looked like an antique, too. "Maybe Hammer decided to silence Vince now, before his demands started to make sense."
"You think Hammer would dump his brother because he was framed by the cops?" Sledge asked tightly.
"Not framed, charged, because of the body of evidence made a case against him."
"Framed," Sledge said. Anger burned through him and made him bite out each word. "Framed, because he's no guiltier than Hammer is."
His father flicked a glance at Roy, who flicked a look at him. Roy then closed his eyes once, slowly like a cat, and Trevor nodded. Fury engulfed Sledge. They were managing him, the bastards, like he was a little kid having a temper tantrum.
Ellen's quiet voice broke through his outrage and had him quickly looking her way. "There were so many people at the party, wandering in and out of the house, moving from room to room. Is there any way we can figure out who heard the argument, and who was where? Besides us, I mean."
"You're right," Roy said. He sounded chirpy, as if this was all a game that was hugely entertaining. "Since we were in the great room, we were center stage, as it were. Let's try visualizing." Ellen frowned. His father looked intrigued. Roy continued. "Close your eyes."
Between the party, the cops, and the late night flit, Sledge hadn't had much sleep. If he closed his eyes he'd probably doze off, even on this dreadful sofa. Then he'd wake up with a crick in his neck and a headache.
"Imagine yourself in the great room," Roy chanted in a soothing monotone. "Feel what you are sitting on."
His chesterfield, a hell of a lot more comfortable than this God-awful Victorian monstrosity. He wished he was home again, not here.
"Listen to the voices around you. What are they saying? Can you hear one voice? Who does it belong to?"
"Hammer saying that he just saw Sydney Haynes leave," Ellen said. She sounded as if she was in a trance, or at least on the edge of one.
This was ridiculous. "Too early," Sledge said, trying to keep his voice as mellow as Roy's. He didn't succeed. There was an edge to it as he said, "I saw Syd slip out before the argument ever started."
"How long?" Trevor asked. His voice was sharp. He wasn't zoned out in some meditative trance.
Sledge shrugged, but the question made him look back on the evening. "Long enough for him to get into his car and be gone before either Hammer or Vince left the house."
Roy nodded. "Sledge is right. Syd came late, had a few words with everyone who counted." He snorted. "That means everyone who gave big donations, like Mitch Crosier. Early on, I saw him and Vince talking, but I don't know what they said." He pointed at Sledge. "Getting back to the time in question. That chef—what was her name?"
"Rita. Rita Ranjitkar," Sledge said. He decided he wasn't going to be pissed about the finger pointing. He wondered where Roy was going with this.
"She came out after Syd left and whispered something in your ear."
"She was asking me when I wanted her to bring out the celebratory cake. I was about to tell her we had to round up all the guests, so in about fifteen minutes, when I heard Vince and Hammer out on the deck, voices raised. I went out to see what was up. Rita went back to the kitchen. At least that's what I think she did."
"But you don't know for certain where she went?" Trevor asked.
Sledge thought back, then shook his head.
"Now we're getting somewhere," Roy said. "Who el
se was in the great room when Vince and Hammer came in from the deck?"
"Kim and Mitchell Crosier," Ellen said. She sounded a little more with it, but she still had her eyes shut.
"Kim was with us when we heard Stormy howl," Sledge said. He addressed his comment to Roy and his father. Ellen's serene, spacy expression was creeping him out.
"Mitchell wasn't, though," Trevor said. He shot Sledge a penetrating look. "Crosier and Vince did business together. Were there any issues between them that might have been contentious? Contract problems, that sort of thing."
"Crosier had a crazy scheme he wanted me to buy into," Roy said. "Was he pushing it at Vince too?"
Sledge shrugged. "Could be, but if he was, Vince wouldn't care. He kept his focus on the band and our interests."
"Any concerns, then?" Trevor asked.
"He was negotiating a new contract. He told me he was asking for better terms and more perks, because SledgeHammer was at the top of the charts and a hot commodity."
"Money and profit, then," Roy said, satisfaction in his voice.
Sledge could imagine him rubbing his hands together with glee and he had the thought that if Quinn were here, he'd shake his head and say his father was plotting a novel again.
"What about that musician? The guy who plays guitar when you're on the road? He was talking to Vince earlier, I think," Trevor said.
"He asked if Vince had talked to Mitch about something," Ellen said.
Sledge frowned. "You mean Brody, Brody Toupin?"
Ellen smiled at him, proving she wasn't in a trance, but she still looked very relaxed for someone who'd witnessed a murder and was now discussing suspects. "Could be," she said. "Dark hair, wearing a leather jacket and a black T-shirt, with jeans. Black boots on his feet."
The damn woman was uncanny. "That sounds like Brody. He wants a chance as a solo artist and I know he'd talked to Vince about it. That was one of the reasons he came on the tour with us. Vince was testing him out, trying to see if he could handle the pressure. I doubt Vince had decided yet, though. He usually takes a couple of weeks off after the tour ends before he picks up the pieces again."
"I saw a young man emerge from the corridor that leads to your music room just as you all came in from the deck. I don't think he knew anyone was looking at him. His expression was..." Ellen paused, thought. "I don't know. Fierce. As he listened to the argument it changed and became almost... gloating."
"You're talking about Hank Lofti," Sledge said. "I saw him too. He was one of the roadies on the tour. Stoned half the time and snarky the rest of it. Undependable. Vince wasn't going to hire him for the next tour. He wasn't happy about that."
"Then, of course, there's Kyle Gowdy," Roy said. The cat slipped out from under his chair and began to paw his leg, claws sheathed. Roy picked him up and absently settled him on his lap. "He was the cause of the argument. He would obviously want his brother to side with him. What if he thought Vince would keep at Hammer until Hammer ditched Kyle and left him to the mercy of the Vancouver cops? He's probably afraid of being charged with poor Chelsea Sawatzky's murder."
"So any number of people had a good reason to dislike or be angry at Vince," Trevor said. There was approval in his voice. "Our job, then, is to dig up what we can on everyone but Hammer, because I don't think Detective Szostalo of the West Van PD is going to bother doing it."
"What about Chelsea?" Ellen said. There was no relaxation in her expression now. If anything she looked upset. "We were searching for her killer. Are we going to abandon that project in favor of this one?"
Trevor drew a deep breath, his expression thoughtful. "The murders don't appear to be linked, except that Kyle Gowdy is a featured suspect in both. I think that's happenstance, though."
"I'm sorry the girl died," Sledge said, "but this is personal. I need to know who killed Vince."
Slowly the others nodded, one after the other. Stormy yawned, then began to knead Roy's leg. "I think he's hungry." Roy said.
"Maybe he wants to use the litter box," Trevor said, frowning.
"He probably wants attention," Ellen said, with a sniff.
It was easier, Sledge thought, when the cat could talk.
Chapter 21
"Thanks for coming, man," Sledge said, as he waved Hammer into Ellen's apartment.
Hammer looked around curiously as he followed Sledge from the entry foyer to the large living-dining room. Sledge had to suppress a grin. The apartment was in a modern building that was mostly glass and steel, creating expectations of sleek, simple furniture with clean modern lines. Ellen's antiques, designed for another era and a more formal generation, came as something of a shock.
"Can I get you anything? A beer? Scotch?" Sledge asked as he gestured toward the Victorian monstrosity. He could no longer stifle his grin as he saw the dismay on his friend's face when he realized where he would be sitting.
"Beer," Hammer said. He perched gingerly on one end of the sofa and smiled at the two other people there. "Hi, Ms. Jamieson, Trevor. I appreciate your helping Sledge and me."
Sledge headed into the kitchen and busied himself in the refrigerator. There was bacon in the meat tender and a head of lettuce in the vegetable drawer. A carton of eggs rested beside a six-pack of his favorite microbrew. A package of cinnamon buns and a loaf of bread were shoved behind a bottle of French merlot, which his father said was Ellen's choice. A half-liter of the cream his father used in his coffee was slowly aging. Though it hadn't yet passed its best before date, it soon would.
Breakfast and blotto, he thought, as he pulled a can of beer from the plastic holder, except for the lettuce. Why it was there he wasn't sure. There was no salad dressing in the fridge and neither he, nor his father, were in the habit of adding lettuce to their bacon and egg sandwiches.
Still mulling over the lettuce issue, he brought a can of beer for Hammer and one for himself to the living room. He handed the can to Hammer and had to pretend he didn't notice the frown that leapt onto Ellen's face because he didn't also hand Hammer a chilled glass. Doing things in the proper way was important to Ellen and she expected everyone around her to act the same way. But Hammer didn't come from a family that favored formal manners and he'd be uncomfortable if he was expected to use them. Sledge was not about to put his friend on the spot, not when Hammer was not only grieving Vince's death, but was fearful that he might be charged with the man's murder.
"Did you get the e-mail?" Sledge asked, cracking his own can as he sat down beside Hammer.
Hammer nodded. His expression was morose. The e-mail from Vince's wife contained funeral details: viewing times, when and where for the service and then the private, family and close friends only, interment. Sledge and Hammer had both been invited to the private service two days from now.
Taking a swig of beer, Hammer said, "I hope to God I haven't been arrested when we put Vince in the ground."
Ellen winced. Trevor said, "That's why we're here today. What's that West Van cop—Szostalo, isn't it?" Hammer nodded. "What's he up to? Is he harassing you?"
"Yes. No." Hammer shrugged. "I don't know if he'd call it harassment, but I feel like it is when he asks me questions. He asks the same questions in different ways, over and over until I'm confused about what I did and where I was. He wants me to confess, but what do I have to confess? That Vince and I had an argument and said harsh words to each other before he died and now we'll never be able to make it right?"
"Not what he has in mind," Trevor said crisply. He pointed at Hammer. "The next time he tries to talk to you, tell him you need counsel present. If he tells you to come to the station, refuse. If he insists, say you want your lawyer with you. If he arrests you, say you won't talk to him until you have representation."
Hammer nodded gloomily. "I didn't kill Vince. I wouldn't. I couldn't. He could be a jackass and he'd fix on an idea, like the one that I dump Kyle because the cops were fingering him for the girl's murder. He could drive you nuts, but—" He shook his head before he lifted the can,
then drank. When he lowered it again, he said, "He cared about the band, of course, but he also cared about us, Sledge and me, as people."
"And we cared about him," Sledge said quietly.
Hammer nodded. "I hate that Vince is dead."
Ellen, who was sitting on the small slipper chair with the yellow silk covering, reached out and laid her hand over Hammer's. "It will get easier once the funeral is over and you have a chance to grieve."
Hammer nodded. "That's what my dad says."
"We won't heal until we figure out who killed Vince. Szostalo isn't looking beyond Hammer, so we need to," Sledge said.
Hammer looked at him with raised brows. "You haven't solved the arena murder. What makes you think you can figure out who killed Vince?"
"We were all at the party," Ellen said. She folded her hands in her lap and looked at Sledge and Hammer with a cool haughty expression. "Sledge's house is in an exclusive development. There are no random passersby. It had to be someone who was at the party. That means we have a limited pool of suspects to choose from."
"That's why Szostalo is looking at you, Graham," Trevor said.
Sledge noted with amusement his father was using Hammer's proper name, probably in deference to Ellen's dislike of nicknames.
"He'd probably be after Rob too," Trevor continued, "but Rob was in the middle of things, with several people who can vouch for his whereabouts. He's fixed on you because you're easy. You went out of the building. You were alone, on your own, when the murder happened. You have motive and you had opportunity."
"I was halfway down the mountain when the murder happened!" Hammer said, outraged.
"So you say. Let's see if there is any hard evidence that will prove it," Trevor said.
Hammer's eyes flashed and for a moment Sledge wondered if he was going to surge to his feet, grab Trevor, then punch him out. He hoped not. If he did, Sledge would have to punch him right back, because no one, not even a best friend, hit his dad. Then there's be a brawl right here in Ellen's living room, which would probably turn all the antiques into broken junk to be disposed of. Ellen would be mad and he'd have to replace the busted furniture, which, come to think of it, might be a good thing, after all.
