Junie had disagreed with me since the thievery had occurred in the commission of a felony, namely a break-in, but I told her to do what she thought was best. I was tired of dealing with criminal behavior in all its forms.
I needed some time away from all the drama with Pieces. Away from Round Rock and Taylor and Georgetown and anyone who knew me. I needed time to look over every line of Highway and Block my Heart but especially Chasmwithout any band members constantly staring over my shoulder eagerly waiting for a melody to spring forth. And, while it was true the sheets with those songs were gone, along with my bag, what the burglar apparently hadn’t realized was some people, like me, have eidetic memories. Every lyric was imprinted in my brain.
Freddy’s Steakhouse opened daily at eleven but the majority of customers waited until well after one to take advantage of the down-home cuisine. So the place was almost deserted when I rolled up in the Chevy at eleven-fifteen and parked in the dirt lot in front of a structure that retained the appearance of having been condemned fifty years earlier.
“Bebe? Bebe Becerra? Well, howdy, girl. Way too long between visits.”
I grinned. “Hey, Fred. Good to see you. I’ve missed this place.”
Fred Colmer, owner and chef for the steakhouse, had weighed in at about two-fifteen ten years ago. He’d gained another forty pounds and gone completely bald but his soft green eyes and the smile on his round face still held a sweetness I had seldom seen mirrored by any other person.
He nearly crushed my ribs with his enthusiastic hug. “I’d heard you were back. Singing with Pieces. Fantastic. You and the rest of the band need to pop in sometime and do a set for the customers. Y’all have been greatly missed.”
“Thanks. I’ll talk to the guys and we’ll set a date. Promise.”
Fred escorted me to the booth in the back where I’d always sat with Marigold, Nic, or the whole band and any hangers-on. It supposedly held six people, but Fred had never cared whether one, two, seven or twelve graced the space. He didn’t bother to give me a menu. I was certain none had ever been printed in all the years Fred had been in business. Instead, he hurried off toward the kitchen to return moments later with a basketful of biscuits, pats of real butter and a thirty-two-ounce glass of sweetened iced tea.
“Be about fifteen minutes on the steak and potato, Hon. If I recall, you like your steak well-done. If you want more biscuits or tea meantime, give me a holler. I just spotted two tourists who look lost, so it you’ll excuse me I’ll go play good Texas host.”
I grinned and waved him away to do his thing. Two minutes in Freddy’s and I was already less stressed than I’d been since first stepping foot in the Palace Theatre ballroom a few days earlier. I chugged down half my tea and began buttering a second biscuit, but placed it back on the plate as memories began flooding in. Marigold had brought me here about two weeks after I’d joined Pieces.
I could still see her politely handing me the basket of biscuits, then plopping her elbows on the table in a most unmannerly manner, before flatly stating, “Okay, wimp. Why didn’t you tell us you write music? And why don’t you speak up and give your opinion at rehearsals? What’s the problem? Are we so mean and hateful you’re scared to make a sound apart from musical low notes? Marvelous as those are.”
I blushed. “Without analyzing too much, I’d say I’m suffering from the seventeen-year old scholarship girl image. The girl who was always too tall in high school and a total music nerd and is now considered a baby around you guys. My self-esteem isn’t quite at the ‘speak up for one’s self’ stage.”
“Why in blazes not? Your sound is something Stevie Nicks and Gracie Slick put together would envy andoh mydigressing here, but talk about an amazing combination. Where was I? Oh yeah, you look like some eerie Spanish Renaissance painting and you’re smart.” Marigold had sighed and dove into a potato piled high with sour cream, cheese, chives and real bacon. No fake soy bits at Freddy’s. “Yet you are such a dork!”
“Why?”
“You don’t understand that the only somebody to be is you. You apparently have always wanted to be like me. Short, blonde, arrogant, boisterous, cute, sexy, and soprano. Right?”
“Yeah, pretty much.” I winked. “Except for the soprano. I’ve never met one who wasn’t a royal pain.”
Marigold shoved the butter plate at me. “Sadly, I must acknowledge the truth of your statement. Anyway, I will confess to a certain envy about you being tall and willowy and able to eat all this junk without gaining an ounce. I will also admit you’re funny, talented, gorgeous, and brilliant, and then we have the whole alto thing which about kills me since I am the second coming in spirit of the great alto rockers of the Sixties but with this weird coloratura wailing out of me like God mixed up bodies and voices in this latest incarnation. But I digress again.”
“Gee, what a surprise. Marigold digressing more than once in the same conversation?” I commented, trying to steer the conversation away from me.”
“Ahem. Let me finish, you, uh, teenager, you. Where was I? Oh, yeah. I, Ms. Marigold Columbine Blume, have no desire to be you. I’m me. Only me. Loud, brassy, geared up and rarin’ to break most of the original seven sins. I missed owning the vocal range Pat Benatar had in the Eighties by three notes, but I’m still damned good. I’m not the best lyricist since McCartney and Lennon or Jim Morrison, but I’m good. And you, my friend, are amazingly gifted and you need to quit worrying about trying to be something you’re not and will never be and enjoy being you. Although you could definitely use some serious spunk pills to argue now and then with the guys. They’re not always right.” She winked. “In fact, they’re usually wrong.”
I could only nod.
I had tried to take those words to heart and gain some confidence. I showed my compositions to the others, especially once Marigold and I began to collaborate. But I never quite lost my feeling of being “less than” others. Maybe it was because I was so much younger than the rest of the band. But it was funny. Even though I finally managed to start expressing my opinions to the guys, I was never able to argue with Marigold. Perhaps because I looked up to her as my mentor and one doesn’t try to debate the teacher. Perhaps because I envied Marigold’s sass and savvy and ease around others. Or maybe the real reason, as Junie had pointed out to me in the wee hours last night, because I had some issues communicating real feelings with anyone I truly cared about, and the two people I cared most about yet I lost were Marigoldand Nic.
Chapter 26
“Good as ever?”
I glanced up. A smiling Nic Jericho stood next to the booth, pointing at the biscuits.
I blinked. “Uh. Yeah. As always.”
We stared at each other. Nic finally asked, “Going to let me to sit down or would you prefer I walked out of here and headed back to Dallas?”
I contemplated my answer for a few moments. Nic appeared more and more uncomfortable looming over the table. “Uh, Bebe, can we say rhetorical question?”
“Ah. Right. Sorry. Have a seat. Please. Although, Nic, I’m rather surprised to see you. I figured you might still be with Ms. Baker off doingwhatever y’all were doing.” Great. Jealous female was oozing out of me.
Fortunately, a fortyish-looking waitress sporting a brown beehive hairdo and matching pencil-filled eyebrows magically appeared with a glass of tea and another basket of biscuits. She set them down on the table, beaming when Nic smiled up at her. Her nametag read, “Honey.”
“Thanks, Honey. Just keep ‘em comin’, would you? I have a feeling I’m about to embark on a dehydrating experience for the next couple of hours.” He inclined his head my direction.
Honey nodded. She glanced curiously at me, before turning her attentions to the tourists at the table closest to the entrance.
Nic didn’t waste time. “Before I get into serious matters, I want to state unequivocally and for the record, that, while Saffron Baker and I have been running around together for the last couple of weeks, nothing has happened
I couldn’t tell my six-year-old niece. There is no romantic commitment, and nothing remotely like that in the works.”
“None of my business,” I mumbled. “Though I wonder if Saffron is on the same page.”
Nic shot me a look. “Saffron is not out to become Mrs. Jericho, although admittedly she can be a jealous person, no matter what stage of a relationship she’s in. As to this being your business? To begin with, that’s not true in my opinion, but we’ll get back to what is and is not your business after we first deal with your safety. What’s all this I hear about break-ins at the Blume estate and trucks in the ditch?”
I sighed. “Junie called you, didn’t she?”
“She did. Seemed a bit concerned because you chose not to report break-in number two to the police especially after someone ran you off the road last night. Why the hell didn’t you call me? Why am I hearing things second-hand?”
I stated in a defeated monotone, “What’s the point? She told you about the first time, right? In Marigold’s old room? Well, whoever searched it wasn’t looking for exotic treasure. They wanted music. Which happened to have been in my carryall bag. Which was apparently taken in the middle of the night while Junie and I were having tea and turnovers in the kitchen. So you tell me, should the cops who are currently and rightly engaged in a massive manhunt for a missing girl pause to investigate or even give good rip or rap about a bag and three songs? For that matter, tell me why I should care?”
Nic stirred his tea vigorously and seemed intent on eliminating any sugar crystals not yet dissolved. “Bebe? What’s wrong with you? I mean, I always admired your ability to remain calm and collected in emergency and crisis situations but right now you’re acting like you’re not even involved. You’re in danger, yet when you’re not being prickly around the band, you’re acting like zombie girl who’s determined to hide every feeling she owns.”
I stiffened. “Well, I’m sorry I’m not continuously throwing fits like certain female members of Pieces. Past and present. Then again, I did toss a good one last night at the studio which ended up going nowhere, did it?” Except to one hair-curling kiss. “I’m terribly sorry I’m not sobbing into your manly chest over missing music and someone’s idiotic road rage. Obviously I’m devoid of real emotional feelings. Sue me.”
Nic reached across the table and grabbed my hand. “Bebe. Stop it. I’m worried about you. I care about you. Saffron also let it slip you thought someone was around when you were at Blue Hole yesterday--although you didn’t bother to tell us when we were at the studio and then—wham. You’re in a ditch. Someone is burglarizing Junie’s house. There’s a college kid missing. We all believe the disappearance is related to Marigold and everyone is dealing with these huge memories of our lost friend, which keep popping up in every situation. Folks are constantly screaming at each other or frantically worrying about the same folks they’re screaming at. But not Bebe Becerra. When you’re not roaming alone in dangerous places, you’re calmly sitting down to dinner at Freddy’s.”
He lifted his glass of tea and studied it for a moment. Then he continued, “You’ve never been a temperamental bitchy prima donna, and I’m not suggesting you turn into one now. But the opposite is almost as bad. The last few days, except for getting mad at the guys at the session and getting emotional talking to Detective Harrison about memories, you’ve been cold. Detached. Frankly, it scares me.”
Fortunately my dinner hadn’t arrived yet because the control I been clinging to for the last few days when I’d been around Nic dissolved. I began to cry big unladylike tears. I was certain my mascara was now merging with my blusher and it was probably not a pretty sight. Nic sat in silence while the storm erupted, even waved the waitress away for a moment until I could regain some composure.
“Oh, fie.”
“Ah. I’m encouraged. A sign of normal indignation from my stoic perfect mezzo.” He smiled.
I bit my lip and managed to halt the flow of tears. “Nic. Look, let’s face it. I don’t always deal well with life. I ran away ten years ago rather than face the fact my best friend was gone and . . . well, anyway. I adored her, even when I wanted to murder her. She drove me insane and she was into so much stuff which was so completely wrong but I looked up to her, admired her sassiness and humor and her talent and half the time I wanted to beher even if I didn’t want to do some of her wilderdoings. Probably saw all too well with bad behavior growing up with a mother in jail most of my life.”
The waitress noticed the waterworks had stopped, so she plunked two enormous plates down in front of us before tactfully moving off again.
I attacked my steak with fury.
Nic spent a moment or two dealing with the ‘extras’ for his baked potato then mumbled through a forkful of meat, “ I don’t want to ruin dinner, but let’s talk about the big issue.”
“What?”
“You and Marigold. You taking off two days after she vanished.”
I methodically began tearing my paper napkin into thin strips, which I piled by my glass. “Look, when Marigold disappeared, I first thought she was just teasing us.It was likeone more stupid joke to add to her other pranks. I expected her to waltz right back into the ballroom after we’d given up on her for a second set after intermission, grab the mike and sail into Pat Benatar’s Love is a Battlefield. Then, when it was obvious she wasn’t coming back . . .” I took a deep breath. “Nic, I thought she’d gone off somewhere and killed herself and I believed it was my fault.”
“What! What are you talking about? In the first place, no way would Marigold Blume ever commit suicide. No one who loved life as much as she did would ever consider ending it. And your fault? Where did this crazy idea come from?”
I answered, “Something she said at the dance. After I’d griped at her for the way she’d been acting and throwing herself at every guy in the bandand out of the band, too.” I had to get this out. “Especially you, I guess.”
“Yes?”
“She told me, ‘I guess I’m digging my own grave. It’s in the music. All in the music. Rock on.’”
“Which makes no sense.”
“I know that. You know that. But when Marigold Blume began talking about rocking on and dropping suicidal hints to barely turned eighteen-year-old Bebe Becerra after Bebe Becerra managed to stand up to her and tell her how awful she was acting, well, all I could think of later was she meant she wanted to die.. I felt guilty she might have done something because I’d hurt her. I felt guilty she was goneyet I was still around.” I paused, but decided I had to say it. “I felt guilty because maybe she wanted you and had been regretting every minute since the day y’all broke up, and there I was, standing in her way, but she’d backed off because of me and taken off for Mexico or somewhere rather than go for what she wanted.”
Nic looked stricken. “Yow. Bebe. What a mess of wrong assumptions. First of all, people don’t generally kill themselves because they have a fight with a friend. Secondly, it was pretty obvious she’d been abducted, so why should you be the one to feel guilty? If the perpetrator of this is some serial nutcase, he’s a nutcase who prefers small blonde sopranos. What are you supposed to do? Hate yourself for being tall, auburn-haired with a gorgeous alto voice and not getting involved in sex, drugs and booze, fast cars and Lord knows what else like Marigold?”
I looked into his dark brown eyes. I had more admissions to make. He needed to be aware of what his father had said to me. But even now those words stayed with me, like a slow-acting but ultimately lethal poison I couldn’t quite manage to spit out.
Nic studied the label on the steak sauce with more intensity than it deserved. “Did you know the sodium content in this sucker is more than in an entire vat of fries?”
I stayed silent.
Nic sighed. “Why didn’t you bring this up ten years ago? Why didn’t we have this conversation and scream and get over it and go off and declare our mad passion for each other and live a happy life?”
Because I also knew som
eone in the band was responsible and I wanted out.
For a moment I thought I’d said it aloud. Then I realized I hadn’t needed to. Nic was staring at me, reading my thoughts. He stated flatly, “You believed I had something to do with Marigold going missing.”
I winced. “Nic, I thought every guy in the band might have had something to do with her going missing. Then there’s Daria. And now Arianna. Both resembling Marigold. It’s too much coincidence. Pieces is involved. It’s more than just a hunch. It’s a raw, ‘I’m sure about this’ gut feeling.’ I’d love to be able to trust . . . all the guys in the band and manager and studio engineers etcetera. But I don’t have the luxury of faith leaping when girls’ lives are on the line.”
“Go on.”
I took a breath. “After Marigold disappeared and all the guilt was flowing through me regarding my mixed feelings about her and . . .” what I suspected about you and Marigold sharing a last fling and still can’t bring myself to ask ten years later even though it’s completely stupid” . . . and being afraid of every guy who was anywhere near the Palace ballroom during the dance, I had to leave. I was completely clueless as to how to handle any of it. I didn’t care about the band. I didn’t even care about performing anymore. I was young. I was scared.” I repeated.
A slight smile slowly replaced the pained expression on Nic’s face. “Bebe, I get it. If I’d been you, barely eighteen, away from home, losing my best friend, still angry with my best friend, terrified I could be next, I’d’ ve doubtless also taken flight. And since we’re being honest, ever since Arianna vanished the other night, I’ve had those same thoughts about who could be involved. I keep trying to stop images of one of my friends in Pieces being so sick or insane. Yet those images keep flooding in, especially with a third girl matching the description of the other two disappearing the very night the band reunites. Too much coincidence to be coincidence. I’ve prosecuted and won cases based on less circumstantial evidence.”
Pick up the Pieces Page 16
