by Kelly Rey
"And she has just the right amount," I added helpfully.
"More than she needs." Curt shook his head. "Hand it over," he repeated.
Muttering to herself, Maizy pulled a laminated ID card from her pocket and slapped it into his hand. "Way to abrogate my rights as a citizen, Uncle Curt."
He shoved it into his jeans pocket. "You don't have any rights yet."
"We'll see what the ACLU has to say about that," she muttered.
Curt ignored her. "What brought you into this?" he asked me.
I glanced at Maizy. She frowned and did a tiny head shake. "Her friend bailed on her," I said. "She called me for a ride home."
"You could have called me," he told Maizy.
"Jamie wanted to meet the band," Maizy said.
His eyebrows lifted. "You're a Virtual Waste fan?"
Did he always have to be so skeptical?
"I'm not a fan, exactly," I admitted.
"She's a little old to be a fan," Maizy said. "The median age of the audience was 21. She's way over that."
I crossed my arms. "I wouldn't say way over."
"What time did you go to bed last night?" she asked me.
"I don't know. After the news."
"Six o'clock?" She shook her head. "See? Old."
"The eleven o'clock news, Maizy," I said tightly.
I saw a flash of Curt's dimples. Was he laughing at me? He had a lot of nerve since he was a year older than me. Of course, it was different for men. Especially men like him. Curt was going to draw admiring stares when he was seventy. Judging from my premature gray hairs, poor eyesight, and complete lack of curves, I was going to draw flies.
"Did the cops question this mystery man you saw going backstage?" Curt asked.
Maizy shook her head. "I don't think so. He must have gone out the side door. I didn't see him again once Mike found Nicky D."
"Who's Mike?" he asked.
"He plays bass," she told him. "There's Bones, TJ, Plop, Nicky D, and Mike."
"Plop?" Curt repeated.
"His real name's Marion," Maizy said. "They call him Plop because—"
Curt held up his hand. "Don't want to know." He moved over to the recliner, scooped Ashley up, sat down, and repositioned her in his lap. She licked his hand, squinted up at him adoringly, wrapped her tail around herself, and went back to sleep in a fog of contentment. "Let me ask you this," he said. "Do the cops even know about the mystery man?"
"It would be grossly unfair to make assumptions about what the cops know," Maizy said.
"So you didn't tell them," Curt said.
Maizy stuck her hands in her pockets. "I couldn't do that, Uncle Curt. I wasn't supposed to be there in the first place."
Uh-oh.
"I could use some hot chocolate," I said brightly. "Anyone interested?"
"You weren't supposed to be in the bar," he said. "It's legal for you to watch a concert in the auditorium." He hesitated. "You were in the auditorium, right?"
"Maybe some tea?" I asked. "I can probably find some old tea bags in the back of the cabinet. They might be dusty, but that can only enhance the flavor, right?"
Maizy frowned a little. "Well, this happened in between sets, Uncle Curt."
He stiffened. "Were you at the bar, Maizy?"
"No, of course not." She shook her head. "I was bar adjacent."
"Bar adjacent," he repeated.
"Not drinking," she added helpfully.
Curt was quiet for a very long time, during which I think I saw a few of his hairs turn gray.
Finally, he said, "So when are we going to talk to the band?"
Maizy and I exchanged a glance.
"You mean you aren't going to ask me any more about the bar?" Maizy said.
He looked pained. "Would there be any point in it?"
"Doubtful," she said. "But I'd hate to deprive you of the practice."
"I'll bear up," he said. "I'm guessing you know how to find them."
"They play the Pinelands every weekend," she said. "But they had another gig midweek, so they were going back to pack up their stuff. Bones said they'd be there around noon."
"Then we'll head out around eleven," he said.
We stared at him.
"If you think," he said, "that I'm going to let you two run back and forth to the Pine Barrens in that car—"
"Hey," I protested. "It only ran out of gas."
"—so that you can play detectives again—"
"Hey," Maizy protested. "We don't play."
"—you're dead wrong," he finished. "It's going to be 'we' or letting your father ground you until you turn 21. Your choice."
Didn't seem like much of a choice to me. I'd go with "we" every time. Curt provided the muscle and the restraint to counterbalance my inherent cowardice and Maizy's impetuousness. Plus he had a reliable vehicle. And bonus, he was eye candy.
"I'm fine with it," I said.
Curt's gaze shifted to Maizy.
Her fingers drilled a frustrated beat on her crossed arms. "Don't misconstrue my agreement as sanctioning that clumsy attempt at blackmail."
"Duly noted," Curt said soberly. "And there was nothing clumsy about it. Now I'm going back downstairs to bed. We're going to function on the honor system here. That means the second I leave, you two aren't going to do something stupid like drive back to the bar. Right?"
I yawned hugely. "Bed sounds good to me."
"Bed? At three a.m.?" Maizy looked disgusted. "Old people are so boring. God."
CHAPTER FOUR
I'd made the mistake before of letting Maizy stay the night, but I was forever trying to turn over a new leaf and find optimism underneath, so I climbed into bed hoping this time would be different.
It wasn't.
For the next four hours, Maizy kicked me, kneed me in the kidneys, slapped me in the face, and stole my blankets. I wasn't an early riser, but I could only take so much abuse. By the time seven thirty came, I was showered, dressed, and waiting on the toaster to produce something to carry me through until lunchtime while I sipped orange juice.
Maizy came into the kitchen rubbing her eyes. "Have you got any oatmeal?"
I shook my head. "Cap'n Crunch."
She opened my cupboard and stared at the solitary box of Cap'n Crunch. "Almond milk?" she asked hopefully.
I shook my head. "Whole."
She closed the cupboard with a shudder. "Maybe I'll have some toast."
As if on cue, my slice popped up, beautifully golden brown and deliciously fragrant. Maizy snatched it from the toaster and snarfed a third of it before I could get out of my chair. She sniffed her sleeve while she ate. "Think I need to go home—"
"Yes," I said.
"—and change?" she asked.
Oh. "Depends," I said. "How long have you been wearing that shirt?"
She gave me a strange look. "About fourteen hours."
"You're fine," I told her. "I'd be more worried about the underwear."
"What underwear?"
I had no intention of going there.
She brought the box of Cap'n Crunch to the table and started eating it by dry fistfuls. "I should probably call Honest Aaron. He's got a customer waiting on that Cordoba today."
"You're kidding." I held out my hand. She poured some cereal into it. "Who'd want to rent that hunk of junk?"
Yeah, I know, pot and kettle.
"I don't ask," Maizy said. "It's better that way. All I know, whoever it is prepaid the disposal fee."
The disposal fee honed Honest Aaron's competitive edge. If you needed the car for the sort of unsavory criminal purposes that were apt to leave behind ample bodily fluids, you could pay an extra $15 and just drive the car into a quarry. For $20, Honest Aaron would do it for you, no questions asked.
"Oh, well." Maizy got up to pour herself some orange juice. "He can take the LTD. No one's wanted to rent that since the Campbell divorce got a little messy in '14."
I wasn't sure what that meant, but eww.
Some
one knocked on the door. I got up to find Curt on the landing with a Dunkin' Donuts bag and a cardboard tray holding three lidded cups. "Chocolate frosted, right?"
"You shouldn't eat that," Maizy said over my shoulder. "Too much sugar isn't good for you."
"You've got Cap'n Crunch all over your lips," I told her. I took the bag.
Ten minutes later, it was empty along with half the box of Cap'n Crunch.
"I did a little reading up on Virtual Waste this morning." Curt settled in with his coffee. "Doesn't sound like Nicky D made himself a lot of friends."
Maizy emptied the doughnut bag crumbs into her palm. "He was full of himself. Like a lot of good-looking guys."
I appraised Curt. Curt wasn't full of himself at all, even though he had every reason to be. But I could see Maizy's point. Take Wally Randall, the Boy Lawyer at Parker Dennis, the law firm where I worked. Some women would consider Wally good-looking in a guy-lining, self-tanning, tooth-whitening kind of way. Problem was, Wally owned a mirrored compact and wasn't afraid to use it.
"What'd he look like?" I asked. "Just for background purposes."
Curt snorted into his coffee. "A fan, huh?"
"Don't blame her," Maizy said. "We had the cheap seats. She could barely see the stage."
"I can see," I insisted. "What'd he look like?"
Maizy pulled out her cell phone, worked the screen for a few seconds, and stuck the phone under my nose.
I sucked in a sharp breath. Nicky D was more than good-looking. He had the kind of face that made you forget your name. Caribbean blue eyes, perfect Roman nose, lips bordering on girlishly full. High cheekbones. Carefully disheveled hair in three shades of gold.
Yowza.
"Like what you see?" Curt asked.
Oh, no. I wasn't stepping into that trap. "He's alright, I guess." I handed Maizy her phone. My hand shook a little.
"I know what you mean," Maizy said. "Bones is a lot better looking. He plays lead guitar." She tapped away the photo of Nicky D and another very different photo appeared. "See?"
Bones, in action onstage. Shoulder-length black hair tied back in a loose ponytail, showing silver hoops, barbells, and studs lining the curves of both ears. Multiple chains around his neck. Leather straps around his wrists. The whole rock jewelry suite, right down to the dark sunglasses that made it impossible to see his eyes. I didn't need to see his eyes. I'd seen enough. And so had Curt, if his horrified expression was any indication.
"You find this guy good-looking?" Curt asked in a pained voice.
"This guy," Maizy said, "isn't conforming to Madison Avenue's perception of attractiveness. He's honoring his own individual truth. That's good-looking."
"Point taken," Curt said. "I'm proud of you, Maize."
"Plus he's got a cute butt," Maizy said.
Curt just looked at her.
"For some reason, the two Susans always chased Nicky D around instead." She shrugged. "Go figure."
Curt cleared his throat. "The two Susans?"
Maizy nodded. "Susan One and Susan Two. They claim to be Virtual Waste groupies, but they're really Nicky D groupies. They went to every show in the area and never once paid attention to Bones."
Suspicion shaded Curt's expression. "What happened to Brody Amherst? He really likes you, doesn't he?"
Another shrug from Maizy. "I guess so. Brody's gone all corporate ever since he started delivering pizzas for Domino's. Now he's part of the problem."
Curt glanced at her cell phone. "There might be more than one problem."
"I'll say," Maizy agreed. "Virtual Waste needs to find another drummer. That's a big problem. Which reminds me." She glanced up at the wall clock. "We should leave around ten. I want to talk to Archie before he leaves for New York. He's trying to line up a gig for the band at the garden."
"Madison Square Garden?" Curt sounded impressed.
"Nah," Maizy said. "The beer garden at the county fair."
I drained my hot chocolate and got up to toss the cup. "Who's Archie?"
"Virtual Waste's agent," Maizy said. "Archibald Dougal Ritz. You haven't heard of him?"
"I never even heard of Virtual Waste before last night." I noticed Curt's eyebrows lifting. Oops. "I mean, of course I've heard of Archie Ritz. Who hasn't?"
"I hadn't," Maizy said. "Not until two months ago, after they fired their last agent, Gilbert Gleason."
"Why'd they fire Gleason?" Curt asked.
Maizy shrugged. "Not sure. Nicky D probably did nicky-nack with his wife. He was like that."
"Then they should have fired Nicky D," I said indignantly.
"You'd think so," Maizy agreed. "But you don't kill the golden goose. Gilbert tried, but he just put a hole through the snare drum. Mike was pretty upset about that since a new one wasn't in the budget."
I stared at her. "Are you saying Gilbert tried to shoot Nicky D?"
"Does that surprise you?" she asked.
"Yes, Maizy," I said. "That surprises me. Did he try to shoot Nicky D because he got fired?"
She shrugged. "Chicken and egg. I'm working on that."
"Seems like Gilbert Gleason is someone we might want to talk to," Curt said.
"I know what you're thinking," Maizy said. "But Gilbert couldn't have done it. Word is his wife dumped him and he disappeared after the snare drum incident."
"Why'd she dump him?" I asked.
"I'm working on that, too," Maizy said. "Anyway, no one's seen him. And Mike looked."
"So what?" I said. "He could have been lying low while he figured out a plan to get back at Nicky D."
Maizy thought about it. "Yeah, I guess so. From what I hear, he didn't seem like the planning type, or the laying low type, but you never know, right? Except…" She shook her head. "There's a picture of him with the band at Pinelands, and I don't think that's who I saw going backstage. The sneaker was soft. Like middle-aged spread soft." She looked at Curt. "You know what I mean."
"No," Curt said. "I don't."
I noticed his abs flexing.
"Don't hurt yourself," Maizy said. "That wasn't an insult."
I tossed Curt's empty cup in the trash. "Maybe we should get going."
Curt stood and shoved in his chair with a little too much force. "Aren't you going to ask me if you can drive, Maizy?"
"Not today," she said. "You could use the exercise. I hear it's hard to fight belly fat after thirty." She headed back to the living room.
Curt stared after her, grinding his teeth.
"Don't take it personally," I said. "She'll get older, too."
"Maybe she will"—Curt's eyes narrowed into slits—"and maybe she won't."
CHAPTER FIVE
An hour later we pulled into the dirt lot at the Pinelands Bar and Auditorium and parked next to an old blue VW van, with a chromed-out Harley on our right. The Cordoba was gone, retrieved by Honest Aaron. A couple nondescript later-model cars sat scattered about the lot. The general ambiance was a whole lot less Psycho in the daylight.
"Bryn's here." Maizy pointed at the Harley.
Curt lifted a questioning eyebrow at me.
"The bouncer," I told him. "And trust me, the bike fits."
Maizy pointed to the other side, at the VW van. "That's the band's tour bus. Mike drives it."
Curt blinked. "That's the tour bus? Things not going too well?"
Maizy hopped out of the Jeep and leaned in the open door. "Are you kidding? Do you have any idea what VW vans sell for at classic-car auctions?"
"Twenty bucks?" he asked.
Maizy snorted and slammed the door. We got out and headed for the bar after her. Overhead, puffy white clouds wafted across an azure sky. Pine scent saturated heavy air. Every winged insect known to modern entomology capered around us, pinging against our arms and legs in search of a landing spot.
Inside, it was about what I expected. Two red-felted pool tables. Pockmarked wooden tables anchored by a U-shaped mahogany bar with overhead racks for glasses along both arms of the U. No music. No boot
hs. No dance floor. On the back wall hung a cardboard fist with one pointing finger, reminding me of the Ghost of Christmas Future. Beneath the fist, someone had tacked a handwritten sign: AUDITORIUM.
A beefy sixtyish man in jeans and a gray T-shirt under a denim vest off-loaded chairs from the tabletops. He paused when he noticed us. "We're not open yet, folks."
Maizy took a step closer to him. "It's me, Tommy."
"Alana?" A smile creased his weather-worn face. "What brings you around? Did you leave something here?"
Curt looked at me and mouthed Alana?
I shrugged. I'd seen plenty of renditions of Alana before.
"I need to talk to Archie," Maizy said. "Is he here?"
Tommy shook his head. "Haven't seen him since last night. The band's in the back, though. Hey, I almost forgot. I got something here for you." He went behind the bar for a moment before holding up a folded piece of paper. "Here it is. You must have an admirer."
I caught sight of Blue-haired Girl scribbled on the front before Maizy turned away to read it.
Tommy went back to off-loading and wiping down chairs. Curt stood beside me, taking in the ambiance while waiting to leave it.
Maizy spun around. "Who gave you this?"
Tommy paused in mid wipe. "No one. It was left on the bar."
"By who?" she demanded. "Did you see who left it?"
I glanced at Curt. If I didn't know better, I'd say Maizy sounded a little freaked out.
He shook his head. "It was pretty busy last night. I found it under a glass when I was cleaning up."
"How do you know it was meant for her?" I asked him.
"Ain't too many blue-haired girls around," he said. "She kinda stands out."
In more ways than one. Right now she was standing out because tension was vibrating off her in waves.
Curt was watching her. "What's it say, Alana?"
Maizy refolded it and stuffed it into her pocket. "Nothing. Someone likes the way I dance is all."
I narrowed my eyes at her. I'd never seen Maizy dance, even when she'd crashed a wedding reception. Something didn't add up. That note.
"Hey, buddy, quick hand here?" Tommy called out.
Curt went off to help move a few tables. I turned to Maizy.
"Is that from him?" I whispered.
