by Kelly Rey
She did a quick nod. "Don't tell Uncle Curt."
"Did he threaten you?"
"Not really." She stuck out her chin. "It was a pathetic attempt at psychological warfare."
I stuck my hands on my hips. "Maizy, did he threaten you?"
"He saw me." She looked away. "That's all."
"That's all?" I yelled.
Curt glanced over at us with a frown. I forced a smile and a no-worries wave.
"What do you mean, that's all?" I whispered savagely. "That's enough. He saw you?"
"He saw this." Maizy gestured to her blue hair. "Not this." And to the rest of the picture, which was typical teenager, except for the body piercings and lower-back tattoo. "In a weird way," she added, "my hair is like a shield. It's all people notice."
"You have to change it," I told her. "Immediately. Tonight."
"That's like asking Samson to get a little trim," she said.
I shook my head. "I don't care. You're going to lose the blue, or I'm going to tell Curt about that note." Either way, I planned to tell him. He needed to know his niece could be in the cross hairs of a killer.
"Okay, fine. I'll be a conformist until we solve the case. God." She crossed her arms. "It just better be fast. My hair is my mojo."
Curt and Tommy were back.
"Anything else I can help you with?" Tommy asked.
"Depends," Maizy said. "Did you see someone here last night taller than me but shorter than him—" pointing at Curt "—wearing a dark baggy hoodie and work boots?"
"Maybe a baseball cap?" I added.
Tommy unloaded another chair and gave it a perfunctory wipe. "You're kidding, right? You just described eighty percent of the customers. Men and women."
"How about anyone who was acting suspicious?" Curt asked.
"What do you mean?" Tommy asked. "Like drinking some fruity drink with an umbrella in it?"
"Like gonging people in the head with an amplifier," Maizy said.
"Or making plans to run innocent women off the road," I added.
It was possible I'd come with my own agenda.
"I didn't see no one I didn't expect to see," Tommy said.
"Who'd you expect to see?" Curt asked.
"The regulars. The band and the lawyer that works for them. Alana." Tommy swiped at a tabletop. "And a whole bunch of strangers. That's about it, until that kid turned up dead and the cops got here. What's this all about, anyway?" He gave the table a couple more swipes and straightened. "Wait a second. You telling me someone killed him?"
"You didn't hear it from me," Maizy said.
"I didn't hear it from you," Tommy said. "You heard it from me. But the cops said it was an accident."
"Yeah," Maizy said. "They do that."
Tommy seemed perplexed. "Wouldn't they know about that hoodie person?"
"You'd think so," Maizy said. "What were you doing while Nicky D was getting himself killed?"
He moved on to the next table and started off-loading chairs. "I was behind the stick all night, except for a quick run to the back for a case of JD."
"Did you see anything unusual?" I asked him.
He slung the rag over his shoulder. "Not that I can think of. Look, I appreciate the interrogation, but I got work to do here. Whyn't you go on back. Bryn's there helping the boys pack up. Until they get another drummer, they're pretty much done." He glanced at Curt and me. "These your folks?"
I stuck my fists on my hips. "Do I look like I could be her mother?"
"Well…" He cocked his head sideways, assessing. "Yeah."
Curt choked back laughter.
"She's my partner," Maizy said. "We solve crimes together."
"You do, huh?" He seemed bemused. "What kind of crimes?"
"Murders, mostly," Maizy told him. "Missing persons. Pretty much anything except shoplifting. Anyone can catch shoplifters. You could probably catch shoplifters."
Tommy frowned at Curt. "This kid for real?"
"Alana's as real as it gets," Curt said. He grinned at me. I gave him nothing. I didn't like to encourage him.
"Here's a case for you," Tommy said. "My libido seems to be missing. I think my wife stole it." He let out a cackle.
"TMI, dude," Maizy told him. "Also, don't believe inherently flawed gender-based memes about sexual performance. Maybe the problem is you."
Tommy's mouth fell open.
"We'll be backstage when Archie gets here," Maizy said. "Let me know if there's anything you want to tell me about last night."
CHAPTER SIX
With Maizy in the lead, we wound around the tables and into the rear wing of the bar that served as the auditorium. There were rows of chairs packed tightly together facing a no-frills stage. No curtain, no windows, one door in the back corner that provided access to the backstage area for the acts. I figured it was probably how the killer had escaped without notice. It was the kind of door that locked automatically when it closed so that you could get out but not in. Which meant the killer hadn't sneaked in from the parking lot but had been in the audience or at the bar before Nicky D's death.
Curt glanced around. "You know you've made it when you play here."
"Don't judge," Maizy said. "Virtual Waste started out playing proms."
"And then things went downhill," he said.
I was kind of proud of myself for noticing the door. It wasn't often that I scooped Maizy. I nudged her. "That door can't be opened from the outside."
She barely glanced at it. "It might've been propped open, for all we know. Or someone could have let the killer in."
I blinked. "You mean an accomplice?"
"Not necessarily," she said. "He might have knocked, and someone just opened it. You know, like at the movie theater."
"That's how you get into the theater?" Curt asked. "You do realize that's a business."
Maizy shrugged. "I buy popcorn. Hey, look. There's Bryn!"
Bryn had emerged from backstage busily looping a long electrical cable.
"Wow," Curt said.
Yeah. That's what I'd been thinking. She wore skinny jeans that were a misnomer in the case of legs like hers, along with a bright pink midriff top that showed off the bottom of her six-pack abs.
We followed Maizy up to the stage and waited while Bryn stowed the cable in a travel case.
"I didn't expect to see you so soon," she told Maizy. "But I'm glad you're back. And you brought friends." She beamed at us like a grandmother offering freshly baked cookies to hungry kindergarteners.
"They're not friends," Maizy said. "They're my partners. Hortense and Bruce."
That cut it. I was buying Maizy a book of twenty-first-century baby names.
Bryn turned her megawatt smile on me.
"We met," I said. "Last night. Outside."
She nodded, the way you do when you're just being polite. I wasn't offended. Being memorable wasn't in my skill set.
She pivoted to Curt. "Hello, Bruce."
Well, I didn't like the sound of that.
"Nice bike you've got out there," Curt said. "'53 Panhead, right?"
Bryn's smile brightened even more. "That's right. My Uncle Doug gave it to me as a graduation gift. I got my love of bikes and cars from him. Want to take it for a spin?"
He shook his head. "Thanks, but I'm happy on four wheels."
"I've got those, too," Bryn said. "I also restore muscle cars." She batted her eyelashes at him. "I'm always happy to show them off."
Gee, I hoped we didn't accidentally back over her Harley when we left.
She turned back to Maizy. "You said you were going to find out who killed Nicky D, but I know you're busy preparing to defend your thesis, so I thought I could help. I did some asking around."
Curt mouthed thesis? at me. I don't know why he bothered. Not like he should have been surprised.
"Do go on," Maizy said.
I rolled my eyes. She might be taking that Dr. Alana thing a bit too far.
"I might have a lead for you," Bryn said. "That's w
hat it's called, right? A lead?"
Maizy shrugged. "Lead, suspect, killer. Tomato, to-mah-to."
"Well," Bryn said, "someone told me he saw Mike and Nicky D arguing right after the first set. He said it got pretty heated."
"What were they arguing about?" Curt asked.
Bryn shook her head. "He didn't know. He was watching them from across the room. But the argument's not the most important thing." She glanced over her shoulder and lowered her voice. "He said that right after that, Mike propped open the back door and made this strange arm motion. Like he was signaling to someone outside."
"Like this?" Maizy did a come-here gesture by crooking just her forefinger.
Bryn shook her head.
"Like this?" Maizy did a whole-arm get-over-here wave.
Bryn shook her head.
"Why don't you demonstrate," Curt suggested.
Bryn took a step back, lifted her right arm, and batted it around hard enough to wrench her shoulder out of its socket.
"That's weird, alright," Maizy said. "Did he see anyone sneak in after that?"
"He wasn't paying attention," Bryn said. "I think he said he left not long after that. He hadn't planned on sticking around for the second set anyway."
"What was this guy's name?" Maizy asked. "We'll need to talk to him."
"Don something." She frowned. "Maybe Dan. Or Derek. I'm not sure. He's only been here a couple of times."
"Try to find out if you see him again," Curt said.
Bryn's expression softened into a smile. "I can call you if I do."
I really didn't like the sound of that. I was just about to unleash the full force of my wrath, which surely would have frightened her into incoherence, when lucky for her, I got distracted by something banging backstage, followed by someone cursing loudly and colorfully.
Bryn gave a start. "I should get back to work," she said. "They offered me a hundred bucks to help them pack up their gear today." She leaned in. "It gives me the chance to keep an eye on Mike, right?"
"You want to be careful with that," Maizy said. "Investigating isn't a hobby."
It wasn't a job, either. At least not the way we did it.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Someone wandered out from backstage, noticed us standing there, and flashed us a peace sign.
"Hey." I nudged Maizy. "Who's that?"
She glanced over. "Oh, that's Plop. He's the keyboardist. Come on. I'll introduce you."
Plop was a slob in a Grateful Dead tie-dyed T-shirt, sagging jeans that settled at mid butt, and untied Nikes. His face was round and pink and unshaven. He wore round glasses with a pale blue tint. A miasma of cigarette smoke surrounded him.
"This guy should come with a Surgeon General's warning," I whispered to Curt.
He smirked. "Try not to take deep breaths."
Plop gave his jeans a hike with both hands. "Hey, Alana." The cigarette in the corner of his mouth bobbled when he spoke. "Didn't expect to see you today."
"How you doing, Plop?" Maizy gestured to us. "These are my friends. They're cool."
"Good enough for me," Plop said. He stuck out his hand to Curt. "Nice to meet you, man."
"You know that'll kill you," Curt said flatly.
Plop drew back in horror. "Shaking hands? Since when?"
"He means smoking," Maizy said. She turned to Curt. "Don't worry. If I was interested, I could've gotten cigarettes from Herbie Hairston at school. He keeps a dozen cases in the trunk of his car. He steals them from the 7-Eleven."
"Can you hook me up?" Plop said.
"That was Hairston, right?" Curt asked.
I'd heard all about Herbie Hairston. Herbie was the poster child for juvenile delinquents everywhere.
"Let me ask you something," Maizy said. "Did you see Mike and Nicky D arguing last night?"
"You mean about all the lawsuits?" Plop asked.
"What lawsuits?" I cut in. This was familiar territory. Lawsuits paid my rent. Okay, some of my rent. On the months when I didn't have a hefty car repair. Or a need to eat.
Maizy elbowed me, not too gently. "Yes," she said. "About all the lawsuits. Is that what they were arguing about?"
"Beats me," Plop said. "I didn't know they were arguing."
"What about the lawsuits?" I asked.
"Beats me," he repeated. "I didn't know there were lawsuits."
"But you said 'all the lawsuits,'" Maizy reminded him.
"Did I?" He frowned. "I don't remember."
Oh yeah, this was going to be easy.
"Is Archie here?" Maizy asked.
He labored to consider the question. "Haven't seen him since last night, chilling with Bryn. Why?"
"We want to talk to him about Nicky D," she said.
I could have been wrong, but I thought a shadow darkened Plop's face. Or maybe it was a stray wisp of smoke because he was pulling on his cigarette so hard his cheeks were caving in.
He didn't say anything for a few seconds while he blew out smoke in a stream. "What for?"
Without a word Curt reached out, took the cigarette from him, dropped it, and ground it under his heel.
"Dude." Plop stared at the remains. "That was so not cool."
"Maybe you can help us," Maizy said. "What can you tell us about Nicky D?"
"Let's see." Plop rolled his eyes upward, thinking. "He's dead."
Curt muttered something under his breath.
"Can you be more specific?" I asked him.
More exertional thinking. "He's really dead."
"Do you know anyone who might have wanted him that way?" Maizy asked.
"Everyone wanted him dead," Plop said.
"What do you mean?" Curt asked. "Why?"
"Yo, Plop, you want to pick it up out here? We haven't got all— Hey, Alana!" The anti-Plop swooped down to kiss Maizy's cheek. Clean shaven, military haircut, stain-free clothes. Nice cologne. This guy would look right at home in GQ, modeling $2,000 suits.
He straightened up and offered Curt his hand. "Mike Crescenzo. I'm with the band."
This was Mike? He didn't look like a cold, calculating, door-propping accessory to murder. He looked like someone you'd see modeling underwear on a billboard along the New Jersey Turnpike.
"Are you Alana's father?" Mike asked.
I snickered because Curt so had that coming.
"Is the rest of the band more like you," Curt said, "or more like…" He cocked his head toward Plop, who was humming to himself while scrounging in his pockets for another smoke.
Mike's smile showed even white teeth. "Don't let Plop fool you. He may seem bizarre, but he's a genius on the keyboard." He turned to Maizy. "What brings you back here? I thought you had to teach a relativistic quantum field theory class today."
Curt stared at Maizy. I was unfazed. I was pretty sure she could do it.
"I was twenty minutes late to class," she said without hesitation. "So, you know." She shrugged. "Fifteen-minute rule. Listen, what were you doing last night when Nicky D died?"
He drew back, startled. "Excuse me?"
"What she means—" Curt said.
"—is what were you doing last night when Nicky D died?" Maizy said.
"We were between sets," Mike said. "You must remember that."
"Sure, sure," Maizy said impatiently. "But where were you between sets?"
He seemed to hesitate. "I was at the bar talking to Archie."
"What if someone said you were fighting with Nicky D?" Maizy asked.
Mike's fingers were getting twitchy at his sides. In my experience that was never a good sign. "Who said that?"
"I never reveal my sources," Maizy said.
I did a surreptitious scan of the vicinity. Bryn had disappeared.
"What's this mean?" Maizy flapped her arm around, mimicking Bryn mimicking Mike.
"I give up," Mike said. "What is this, anyway?" His tone was terse. Terse tones and twitchy fingers meant trouble. "He died by accident. You think I dropped that amplifier on Nick's head?"
"O
f course not," I said.
"You might have pushed it," Maizy agreed.
Twitch, twitch. "Let me save you some time," Mike said. "I didn't. You can check my alibi with Archie if you want to."
"I don't think we need to call it an alibi," I said. Interesting that he would call it that when Nicky D's death had been deemed accidental.
"She's right," Maizy said. "We could call it an excuse instead. But that wouldn't be very nice, would it."
"Like I said," Mike repeated, "feel free to talk to Archie."
"We'll talk to everyone," Maizy said. "That's how it's done."
Mike frowned. "How what's done?"
Curt stepped forward, angling himself partially between them. "Looks like you've got a lot to do. We don't want to hold you up."
Mike gave Maizy a lingering glance before turning to Curt, tension visibly draining from his face. "Listen, if you happen to hear of a drummer looking for work, would you send him our way? We have a gig on Thursday after next, and I don't want to cancel it."
Talk about compassion. Nicky D hadn't been dead twenty-four hours yet.
"We could use a couple of backup singers, too," Mike added. He cocked his head at Maizy and me. "You two do any singing?"
"Yes," Maizy said.
"No," I said.
"Don't pay attention to her," Maizy said. "She just gets stage fright. Sometimes it's hard for her to sing, what with all the vomiting. We just put a bucket near her, and it's on with the show."
Oh, gross.
"What a trouper," Mike said. "I like it."
Maizy looked at me. "Good thing that didn't get in your way on the Geezer Tour."
Oh, no.
"Geezer Tour," Mike repeated. "Never heard of that one. Where was it?"
"Nursing homes, mostly," Maizy said. "Assisted-living facilities. Retirement communities. The shows were short, on account of the audiences were in bed by nine, but we packed a lot into that twenty minutes."
Mike stared at her.
"What's it pay?" she asked.
"A bill a gig," Mike said. "Give it some thought."
"We'll do it," Maizy said.
I elbowed her. "He said give it some thought."
She elbowed me back. "I heard him."
"Great." Mike gave us his billboard smile. "Now all we need's a drummer."
"I might know somebody," Curt said. He gestured toward the stage. "Do you mind?"
