by Kelly Rey
Mike's face lit up. "You've got to be kidding me."
My jaw went slack. "You've got to be kidding me."
Curt settled himself behind the drum kit, picked up the sticks, and launched into a complicated riff for a minute or two before settling into an easy groove. He showed me double-barrel dimples, and I fought the urge to hurl my panties onstage.
Plop stopped scrounging to listen.
I turned to Maizy, hands on hips. "Did you know he could do this?"
She shook her head, unconcerned. "I thought he only played the guitar."
A smallish guy wandered over to stand next to Mike. "Who's that?"
"Name's Bruce." Mike nodded toward us. "He came with Alana."
"Hey, TJ." Maizy pulled me forward. "This is Hortense. TJ's the lead singer," she told me. "He's a songwriter, too."
I shook his hand. "Have I heard anything of yours?"
"Sure," TJ said. "On Nick's solo CD."
Was that a motive I heard?
"That's theft of intellectual property," Maizy piped up. "You could sue. Just so happens my partner here knows a few good lawyers."
"No, I don't," I said immediately. I wasn't lying. I worked for Sleepy, Grumpy & Dopey, LLC.
"Doesn't matter," he said. "I can write more songs. Not like it's going to be a problem anymore."
I took a harder look at him, wondering if he was strong enough to wield an amplifier. He was on the thin side, but it was the wiry kind of thin that could be deceptively strong.
TJ turned his attention back to the stage. "Dude sounds good. We gonna hire him?"
Mike glanced at Maizy. "Is he looking for work?"
Curt in a band? I hadn't even known Curt could play an instrument. And here he was onstage, going all Dave Grohl on me. But he couldn't be seriously auditioning. Curt already had a job, eschewing his business degree and the nine-to-five existence that came with it in favor of the cubical-free life of package delivery.
Oh, who was I kidding?
Then it occurred to me: this was Curt's midlife crisis. Joining a band instead of covering up gray hair or getting in shape or buying a Corvette. He had no gray, he already had a killer body, and the Jeep was more his style. More horrifying, if he joined a band, would that make me a groupie? I didn't want to be a groupie. I couldn't afford it. I didn't have the body for it. And I liked to be asleep by eleven.
Maizy nudged me. "Don't overthink this."
Hard to do that when my whole world had just been drummed off its axis.
"It's not that bad," Maizy said.
How could it not be bad? The Curt I knew was up onstage morphing into a sexy rock guy right in front of me. It wouldn't be long before he stopped shaving and grew his hair long and got naked-lady tattoos.
"It could be worse," Maizy said. "He could get a ruler tattooed on his—"
"Will you stop that?" I snapped.
She shrugged. "It's not my fault you think out loud."
Pretty sure I didn't. Just in case, I took a step farther from TJ, which is when I noticed Mike had gone onstage to talk to Curt.
"That guy your father or what?" TJ asked Maizy.
"He's one of my partners," Maizy told him.
TJ frowned a little, clearly unsure of the context. "I just hope he knows how to show up on time and be professional."
Note to self: steal Curt's watch and take the batteries out of his wall clocks.
"Why?" Maizy asked. "Wasn't Nicky D professional?"
Onstage, Curt was shaking his head and Mike had a pained expression. The new job was falling through. Hope surged through me.
TJ snorted. "Oh, sure. A professional wannabe."
Ouch. Also, hm. TJ seemed to be throwing plenty of shade at Nicky D.
"We're trying to do this for a living," he added. "The guys all bought into the concept of group. Nicky D bought into the concept of Nicky D."
Serious shade.
"What do you mean?" I asked. "Like stealing your songs?" Now that I had new hope, I was back in the game.
Plop had moseyed offstage and disappeared. Darn. I was hoping to ask him where he'd been between sets.
"Nick thought he could get away with anything," TJ said. "He treated people like dirt. Don't get me wrong… A good-looking guy never hurts a band's appeal. I mean, look at Jim Morrison, right?"
"He's a good-looking guy," I said, gesturing toward Curt, who was in deep discussion with Mike.
"But he's a noob," TJ said. "He's got no say. Nick was with us from the beginning. He thought he invented Virtual Waste."
"So you're not sorry that he's gone," Maizy said.
"Not especially." TJ hesitated, coloring slightly. "Not that I'd want to see him dead or anything."
Of course not. His abiding affection for Nicky D came through loud and clear.
"So where were you between sets last night?" Maizy asked him.
TJ didn't hesitate. "I went outside for a smoke."
She nodded. "Anyone with you?"
"The Marlboro Man," TJ said. "What are you, a cop?"
"A concerned citizen," Maizy said. "Did you see anything out of place last night? Someone where they shouldn't have been, that kind of thing?"
"It was a full house," TJ said. "I didn't notice anyone in particular."
"Think about it," she said. "Anyone with a navy hoodie, work boots, maybe a baseball cap?"
"Yeah," he said. "Bones. He likes to hide in plain sight."
I could relate. I practically made a religion out of going unnoticed. That might have had something to do with the fact that only water retention made me top a hundred pounds and my cat had more curves than I did. See? Not groupie material. Not backup singer material, either, but I was pretty sure Maizy hadn't been serious about that.
Maizy seemed crestfallen. "Did Bones have a problem with Nicky D?"
"Everyone had a problem with Nicky D," he said.
"Is Bones here?" I asked.
"He didn't show up this morning, and he's not answering his phone." TJ smirked. "Probably had another accident. That dude drives worse than my grandmother."
Bad enough to rear-end a moving car while escaping the scene of a homicide? Maybe it was me, but that had flee the country written all over it.
Curt and Mike rejoined us. Hard to read anything from their expressions. Curt seemed amused, maybe because I was shooting death rays out of my eyes. That sort of thing tended to amuse him. Which tells you how threatening I can be.
"Did I miss anything?" he asked me.
"No," I snapped, "but I think I did. Do I have to go buy some high heels and low-cut tops now?"
He kissed the top of my head. "No, but I really wish you would."
"That's not funny." I stuck my fists on my hips. "Did you take the job?"
"I have a job," he said mildly. He leaned in close and lowered his voice until I felt it more than heard it. "But wouldn't it be nice to have someone on the inside, Hortense?"
I drew back to stare at him, and suddenly it all made sense. Well, not all of it. I still didn't understand why reporters thought you wouldn't understand the concept of bad weather unless they stood outside and showed it to you. But at least the part about Curt's impromptu audition made sense.
"Do you have time for this?" I asked him.
"Not really. But it's only for one or two shows." He slid his arm around my waist and pulled me against him. "Now about those high heels and low-cut tops."
A shiver started at my toes and worked its way up.
"Could someone hose down the old people?" Maizy practically yelled. "I'm trying to do a job here. God."
The shiver flatlined in the vicinity of my kneecaps.
Maizy turned back to TJ. "Where does Bones live?"
Oh, right. The possible killer who'd gone underground. That was important, too.
TJ shrugged. "I've never been to his place, but I don't think he lives too far from here." He glanced at us in turn. "You don't think Bones did anything wrong, do you?"
"Doubtful," Maizy
said.
"You don't know until you know," Curt said at the same time.
That was usually Maizy's philosophy. It sounded strange coming from Curt. Even stranger not coming from Maizy.
Mike's pocket buzzed. He pulled his cell phone out and glanced at the screen. "Archie's been tied up," he said. "He's not going to make it here today."
Well, that was awfully convenient, considering we were planning to check Mike's alibi with him. Made me wonder if that text had truly come from Archie or if it was an easy way to be rid of us.
Mike dropped his phone into his pocket. "Sorry to rush you guys, but we really need to get broken down." He looked at me. "Come in and audition when you get that vomiting problem under control."
Just the thought was enough to make me race for the bathroom.
CHAPTER EIGHT
We were halfway through the bar on our way to the exit when someone whispered, "Pssst!"
Maizy glanced over her shoulder at me. "What?"
"I didn't say anything," I told her.
"Psssst!"
We all stopped and looked around. Behind the bar, Plop slowly rose to come into view. He glanced side to side before leaning forward on his elbows to whisper, "TJ lied to you."
Maizy's eyes narrowed. "I knew it!"
"What about?" I asked.
Plop held a finger over his lips. "Sssh."
"What about?" I whispered.
"He was really ticked off about Nicky stealing his songs," Plop whispered back. "He played it cool, but I heard him tell Nicky he'd be sorry for ripping him off."
"What do you think he meant by that?" I asked.
"You guessed it," Plop said, although I hadn't. "Don't let his size fool you. TJ's got a wicked temper. He was especially cheesed about Nicky stealing 'Puddle of Drool.' He thought that would be our breakout song. Nicky didn't even like it at first, said it was too mainstream. And then he put it on his CD."
Right. Nothing said mainstream like "Puddle of Drool."
"Just thought you ought to know," Plop whispered. "Oh, and something else." He glanced side to side again. His paranoia was making me nervous. "You might want to talk to Hank from the two Susans if you want inside info. He's engaged to Susan One."
Curt frowned at me. I did a palms-up who-knows? shrug.
"He don't come inside much," Plop said, "but he follows her to all the shows, waits in the parking lot to make sure she leaves alone. Check out the parking lot at the Golden Grotto. Or head over to Max's Garage. You can't miss him. I got a Buick smaller 'n him."
Oh, good. A jealous giant. We'd have to take reinforcements. I eyed the width of Curt's shoulders. Not ginormous, but not bad. While I was at it, I eyed the taper of his waist and parts farther south. Then I raised my eyes to find him staring at me with a crooked little grin, like he could read my mind.
"Why should we talk to him?" Maizy asked. "If he doesn't even come inside?"
"Much," Plop said. "Last night was one of those times."
"What'd he do?" Curt asked.
"He just stood there and stared," Plop said. "He stared at her, and then he stared at him. Dude is off the rails scary."
"You never told us what you were doing between sets," Maizy said.
"Me?" He blinked innocently. "I was catching some Zs. You'd be surprised how tired the digits get." He waggled his fingers at us. They seemed perfectly alert to me.
"Were you alone?" I asked.
He seemed surprised by the question. "Sure I was alone. Nobody else was tired." He shrugged. "I gotta jet." And he sank down into a low squat and stayed there.
We all looked at each other.
Maizy hoisted herself onto the bar on her forearms. "You're still here, dude."
Without looking up, Plop duck-walked away and out of sight.
Maizy shook her head. "Doofus."
I had to wonder if Plop was a doofus by accident or design.
CHAPTER NINE
Maizy used an ancient Yellow Pages at the bar, and twenty minutes later, we rolled to a stop at Max's Garage. It was strictly a repair facility, without gas pumps or niceties such as squeegees and snack foods. The door to its single service bay gaped open like a screaming mouth. A car sat on the single lift inside. A couple of tree trunks wearing denim and steel-toed boots stood working beneath it.
No one got out of the Jeep.
"So are we done here?" I asked.
"We should talk to him," Maizy said.
No one moved.
The behemoth that had to be Hank stepped away from the lift to plunder a giant rolling tool chest. Cannon ball shoulders beneath a flannel shirt. Big shaggy yeti head. Hands the size of catcher's mitts.
"Who knew Plop was a master of understatement," Curt said.
"I didn't know blood could pump that high," Maizy said.
"I have to go to the bathroom," I said.
"I'm sure there's a bathroom here," Curt said.
"At home," I said.
"I read about people who can't use strange bathrooms," Maizy said. "You're a shy urinater."
"Pretty sure I'm not," I said. "In fact, I'm doing it a little right now."
Curt's head jerked around. "I hope you're kidding."
I rolled my eyes. "Maybe we should wait until next Thursday night to talk to Hank. At the Golden Grotto. When there are lots of people around." Also known as witnesses.
"And lose this opportunity?" Maizy opened her door. "Who's coming with me?"
Curt let out a pained sigh.
"Are you sure?" I asked him.
"Who else is going to do it?" he asked.
Implicit in that response was there's certainly no way a ninety-eight-pound weakling like you can stand up against Mechanic Yeti in there.
How insulting. But I was willing to overlook it.
"Come on, guys." Maizy shifted from leg to leg, impatient. "Don't let his freakish ginormousness scare you. I bet he helps little old ladies across the street and collects kittens."
"Probably to make stew," I muttered. But I wasn't going to be the only one who sat in the car, safe behind locked doors, with my fingers twitching over the ignition key and my foot hovering over the gas pedal. I had my pride. I got out of the car and followed Curt and Maizy at a safe distance of roughly ten feet.
I didn't have that much pride.
When we—and by we I mean Curt and Maizy—got closer, Hank lifted that grizzly bear head of his to glower at us (them) under his unibrow. His voice was like an echo in an oil drum. "Help you?"
"Are you Hank?" Curt asked him, not sounding intimidated at all although Hank had a good six inches and probably fifty pounds on him. To be fair, Curt had a secret weapon. Maizy. She'd marched right up to Hank with the world-weary bearing she'd mastered watching Columbo on Antenna TV. World weary wasn't easy for a seventeen-year-old to pull off, but she managed.
"That's my name," Hank said without a trace of good nature.
"I'm Alana Winkelrod," Maizy said. "I'm investigating the death of Nick DiBenedetto from Virtual Waste."
Hank's head drew back, his jaw drew down, his eyes dropped, and there, finally, at knee level, he found Maizy. "Your hair is blue," he told her.
"It is?" She clapped a hand on top of her head. "How'd that happen?"
One corner of Hank's mouth twitched for a millisecond. Probably as close as he got to smiling.
Maizy narrowed her eyes at him. "Guess that makes me a blue-haired girl."
Oh, no. I didn't even want to think this giant was the killer.
His expression remained stony. "You're who?" he asked. "Doing what?"
Maizy flashed a business card at him. "Alana Winkelrod. Private eye." She stuck the card back in her pocket. "About Nick DiBenedetto."
"I couldn't see that," Hank said.
"Then you'll have to come down the beanstalk," she said. "I'm doing the best I can here."
Hank's glower transferred to Curt. "Who're you?"
"He's my partner," Maizy said. "Vin Diesel. No relation."
"No kidding," Hank said. His attention shifted to where I was cowering behind Curt. "Who's this one? Beyoncé?"
For some reason, I sensed skepticism.
"No idea," Maizy said. "We picked her up hitchhiking. What was your relationship with Nick DiBenedetto?"
"Him again." Hank blew out a sigh. "I got no relationship with him. All I know, he's a guitar player or something for that band plays over at the Pinelands."
"Drummer," Maizy said.
He shrugged. "Whatever."
"Did you ever watch them perform?" Curt asked him.
"I don't like music," Hank said flatly. "My girl likes it enough for the both of us."
"Does she watch them perform?" Maizy asked.
He snorted. "She ain't missed a show in a year. You ask me, she's making a fool of herself."
"I am asking you," Maizy said. "Why'd you say 'him again'?"
"Because how many times does she have to see the same lousy band play, that's why." He shook his massive head. "It's like it's her job or something. What, I ain't good enough for her? I'm working six days a week so we don't have to live in a tent, and she's all the time going on about that Nicky D. 'Isn't he cute, Hank. Isn't he something, Hank. Isn't he—'"
"I don't get it, either," Maizy said. "Insecurity is so attractive in a man."
My ears perked up. I knew bitter when I heard it. Here was my opening to ingratiate myself with Hank so I could charm some more information out of him.
"I know what you mean," I said. "My job doesn't pay much, either. You should see the car I drive. Well, I mean, you probably should see the car I drive, you being a mechanic and all. It makes some weird noises, but then who doesn't? Not like I can afford to get it fixed. I should probably ask for a raise, but I've got this thing about asserting myself. My mother says that I—"
Curt said, "Ahem."
Oops. "At least I'm not covered in grease and motor oil," I finished.
Hank looked me up and down. "You wanna be?"
"Hey," Curt said sharply. "Have some respect."
Hank put up his hands. "Sorry, man. Didn't know you and the hitchhiker had it going on."
I blinked. Did we have it going on? I guess that depended on what it was.
"It's like they've known each other for years," Maizy said. "It's really something. So I hear you wait outside for your girlfriend when the band plays."
