A Playboy in Peril

by Kelly Rey

  "That's not possible." She blew some hair out of her eyes. "And just so you know, the morning star is a multipurpose tool."

  I sighed. "It's in my trunk right now, isn't it?"

  "Right next to the bag of lime," she said. "And the shovel. And the do-it-yourself embalming kit I bought at the flea market. I've got my doubts about that one."

  "You really worry me," I told her.

  "You can't be too prepared," she said.

  For what, a DIY burial?

  We stood watching the band play.

  "Remember that necklace from the pickup truck?" I asked. "Mike's wearing it."

  "Yeah, I noticed that necklace." Maizy sounded thoughtful. "Bryn's got one, too. I've seen her wear it a couple of times. I think it's a Harley thing."

  Were they giving those things away?

  "Does Mike ride a motorcycle?"

  She shrugged. "I guess he might. I've only seen him drive the van. Maybe I should find out. I don't trust anyone with hair that short."

  "Your Uncle Curt has short hair," I said.

  "Yeah, but he probably has enough chest hair to make up for it," she said. "I think Mike shaves his chest. He's a girly man."

  Curt was no girly man. He had just the right amount of chest hair.

  We listened some more.

  "Maybe all Mike's hair is on his butt," Maizy said. "I hear some guys are like that. Cue ball up top, Koosh ball down below."

  Eww. I was not going there. "I don't want to talk about Mike's butt hair," I said. "Watch the band."

  We watched the band for a minute.

  "The two Susans are here," I said. "Two brought her moisturizer with her."

  "Uncle Curt's safe while he's playing," Maizy said. "She always makes her move between sets."

  Oh, well, then there was no point in worrying, so long as the band played until Monday.

  "Did you know that Bryn is here, too?" I asked.

  "Hard to miss her," Maizy said. "Guess she's a fan."

  "Or she's still trying to help us solve Nicky D's murder," I said.

  Maizy snorted. "Amateur."

  Well, that was rich.

  "Did you talk to Archie?" I asked her.

  She shook her head. "I haven't seen him. He was supposed to be here." She chewed her lip, thinking. "So what'd that girl say?"

  "Plop wasn't sleeping between sets like he said. He was outside with her. She said the clueless thing is an act."

  "Wonder why," she said.

  "Maybe it's easier for him that way," I said. "No expectations, no chance of failure."

  Her eyebrows rose. "That's pretty insightful."

  "Sometimes I surprise myself," I said. "Also, his girlfriend wanted to take Nicky D to Bermuda with her."

  "There we go," Maizy said. "Back to earth."

  There had to be more to it than garden-variety cheating. Plenty of people cheated, and their significant others didn't go around knocking them off. Of course, it only took one nutcase to skew the odds. Was Plop a nutcase?

  "Could be," Maizy said. "I'll look into it."

  "I asked you not to do that," I said.

  She shrugged. "Then don't make it so easy."

  I didn't make anything easy. Ever.

  How could we find out about Plop's relationship with Nicky D without asking him directly and potentially ripping off old scabs? Maybe Curt could find out. Plop would probably open up to another guy more easily than to me or even to Maizy and her maddening mind-reading skills.

  The band hit the opening chords for "Free Bird," which would probably stretch all the way to the two a.m. closing time. After all, it was already eleven o'clock.

  I scanned the people nearest the stage for the two Susans. No sign of them. Maybe Hank had picked up One outside and she was long gone, leaving Two to lotion her way backstage solo.

  I turned to Maizy. "Did you know Nicky D wanted to ditch Bones?"

  Her expression darkened. "The redhead tell you that?"

  I nodded. "He thought Bones kept the group from going global."

  "Global." She snorted.

  Yeah, that's what I thought.

  "She showed me a video of Nicky D bullying Bones," I said. "It was pretty bad. Nicky D wasn't a good guy."

  "He was a doofus," she said flatly.

  I hesitated. "Maybe we should leave well enough alone with this investigation."

  Maizy was quiet for so long, it seemed she was ignoring me. Finally, she pulled a piece of paper from her pocket and handed it over. Drawn on the paper was the old Hangman game, complete with rickety oversimplified gallows and a hanging stick figure. Then I noticed the stick figure had poofy blue hair. And the answer to the not-so-subtle puzzle had been filled in at the bottom: A-L-A-N-A.

  I went cold. "Where did you get this?"

  "Bones found it under the wiper of the tour van earlier," she said. "When he went outside to smoke."

  "And you didn't tell us?" I yelled.

  Tiffany's posse turned to scowl at me.

  I lowered my voice. "Why didn't you say anything?"

  "What for?" Maizy asked. "So you could freak out?"

  "I think I'm entitled to freak out," I snapped. "Someone threatened you again!"

  "Alana," she said. "Not me."

  "Pardon me if I don't see the distinction," I said. "You have to tell Curt."

  "I will." She shoved the paper back in her pocket. "When the time is right."

  "When would that be, Maizy?" I demanded. "Should I show it to him at your funeral?"

  "Don't be so dramatic," she said. "It's just a flimsy attempt to scare us off."

  It was inartistic, yes. Crude, sure. Unsubtle, definitely. Not sure I'd call it flimsy.

  Something occurred to me. "Does Bones know you're looking into Nicky D's death?"

  "Who's to say what anyone knows?" Maizy said. "But I don't see how he couldn't. Like I said, people talk. What, you think Bones drew it?"

  "Why not?" I asked.

  "Because it wasn't Bones who went backstage," she said.

  "It was just someone wearing his clothes," I said.

  She stared over my shoulder. "Jamie, look."

  "Nice try," I said, "but we're not done talking about this."

  "No, seriously," she said. She took me by the shoulders and spun me around. "Look."

  Even from across the room, I couldn't miss Hank. No one could miss Hank. He stood belly button, chest, shoulders, and head above everyone else in the bar. He'd swapped out his grease-stained work shirt for a slightly less grease-stained work shirt, and his hair had a little less bushiness to it. But the scowl was still there beneath the unibrow, and it was directed onstage. At Curt.

  Oh, no.

  A queasy feeling roiled in my stomach while I did a quick scan of the crowd. Sure enough, Susan One had made her way near the stage, all big hair and toothy smile, sights set on her next obsession. She'd lost Susan Two somewhere along the way, which was only more incriminating for her.

  "What's he doing in here?" I asked. "He's supposed to wait in the parking lot."

  "It's a giant's prerogative to change his mind," Maizy said. "Quick, go see if the pickup is outside. I'll provide a distraction."

  Maizy had various methods of distraction, and I didn't want to know any of them. "Be careful," I told her.

  She rummaged through her pockets. "Go. You've got five minutes."

  I didn't waste them asking why. Thirty seconds later, I was standing outside in the dark parking lot. Plenty of cars, but no one in them. No people coming or going. I was alone. Alone worked for me in the safety of my own apartment. Not so much in the Pine Barrens. Problem was, I had only a partial view of the parking lot.

  I took a tentative step. When nothing exploded, flew at me, or tackled my legs out from under me, I took another one. Before I knew it, the music had faded to a memory tease, and I had the full view from the middle of the lot. There were a dozen pickup trucks, but none was of the gargantuan variety. Which was a relief and a disappointment at the same
time.

  I wondered if ours was the truck at Max's Garage, picked up and dropped off like a taxi to accommodate bouts of road rage. Maybe it wouldn't be a bad idea to take a quick drive past while Hank was busy stalking Susan One. After all, he had access to any of the cars in the garage; he wouldn't necessarily have to drive the pickup. And I could get Maizy away from Hank before her distraction possibly became dangerous.

  A hand fell onto my shoulder.

  I screamed and ducked and swatted and bolted all at the same time. You'd have thought I'd seen a dust spider. When I came up for air, Bryn was standing a couple feet to my right, staring at me with her mouth open.

  I waited until my heart descended out of my throat and back into my chest where it belonged. "You startled me."

  "I didn't mean to," she said in that little girl voice. "I saw you come out here, and I wanted to make sure you were alright. Is Alana with you?"

  "She's around here somewhere," I said then hesitated. "Is this what you do on your nights off?"

  "You mean spend it in another bar?" She smiled. "Not usually, no. But I want to help, so I thought I'd come by and try to find that guy I'd spoken to at the Pinelands. Remember I told you he'd seen Mike and Nicky D fighting the night Nicky died?"

  Don or Dan or Derek.

  I nodded. "Did you?"

  "Not yet, but it's still early. He must be a Virtual Waste fan, right?"

  "Who isn't?" I said. "Do you know why Mike would have had issues with Nicky D?"

  "Everyone had issues with Nicky D."

  TJ ought to put that to music. I'd heard it often enough.

  "Mike's the money guy," Bryn said. "And I think he found out that Nicky was using the band's money as his personal bank. You don't mess with Mike's money."

  I could relate. "How much money?"

  She shrugged. "Enough to have them fighting about it and for Nicky to wind up dead the same night."

  I blinked. "Are you sure that's what they argued about?"

  "Why would Don or Dan or Derek lie to me?" she asked.

  Same reason everyone lied to us. Because they could.

  Still, it sounded like Mike was something of a control freak, and things might go badly for anyone who ended up on what my mother called his "bad side."

  On the other hand, Mike seemed like the most level-headed member of Virtual Waste.

  "What do you want me to do next?" Bryn asked.

  I had no clue. "Listen, Bryn. I appreciate that you're trying to help, but we kind of have our own—"

  Suddenly it dawned on me that the music had stopped. And someone was shouting. People began streaming out to their cars, some laughing, some grim-faced. Oddly, they seemed wet. I reached out to a couple as they rushed past. "What's going on?"

  "Sprinkler malfunction," the man said. "They're shutting the place down for the night. Show's over."

  That had Maizy written all over it.

  Instantly Bryn snapped to attention. "They might need help clearing the place out." And she sprinted away. Show-off.

  I made my way back into the Golden Grotto, which was now living up to its name. Everything was wet. Including Maizy, who stood stage right, sipping a ginger ale while the band hurried to store their instruments and equipment in a dry place. Hank and Susan One were gone, as were Tiffany and her friends and Susan Two. There were no bartenders in sight, and a moment later I knew why. They emerged from the men's bathroom with fire extinguishers in hand, followed by an elderly white-haired, slope-shouldered man who had to be Flagler.

  I angled up to Maizy. "What did you do?"

  "Not much," she said. "Just held a flaming paper towel up to the fire detector in the men's bathroom until it activated the sprinklers."

  I stared at her. "You set fire to the bathroom?"

  "Not the whole thing," she said. "Worked pretty well, right?"

  "Depends," I said. "I thought you wanted to distract Hank, not commit arson."

  "Do you see him anywhere?"

  He was probably on his way home to towel off.

  She waggled her finger at me. "'Provide a distraction' is what I said. And that's what I did. You can question my means but not my results. What'd you find outside?"

  "The truck wasn't there." I watched Flagler directing people outside. Then I watched Curt sling two guitar cases on top of a heavy wheeled case. Definitely more fun to watch Curt. He glanced over, spotted me, and mouthed Call you later. I nodded and mouthed back Come upstairs around six tomorrow, and bring baked ziti with garlic bread.

  A siren wailed in the distance, quickly growing stronger.

  Maizy frowned. "That would be the fire department. We should probably go now. We'll head to Max's."

  I glanced at Curt again, wondering if it would be a good idea to fill him in, just in case a search crew had to be dispatched later, but Maizy yanked at my arm, and Curt was hard at work, so I followed her through the side door into the night.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  It took a while to get out of the parking lot, with all the customers leaving at the same time, and when we did, we couldn't reach any kind of speed until the herd thinned. By then, Maizy practically vibrated with impatience, and I'd dozed off. Until we got to Max's. Then I came awake as if a jolt of electricity had sizzled through me, remembering the last time we'd been there, with Hank lurking in the dark office. That wouldn't be a problem this time around since Hank was with Susan One.

  Maizy swung a looping left turn into the lot. "It's here," she said. She seemed disappointed.

  "So it's not the truck that keeps chasing us," I said. That wasn't entirely bad news because it made Hank seem less likely to be the main suspect. I wasn't at all sure we could handle that much suspect.

  We sat silent for a beat.

  "Hey," Maizy said. "It's been moved."

  I frowned through the windshield. "Has it?"

  Maizy put the Escort in park and leaned over to scrounge in the glove compartment. "It was nose-in last time we were here. Now it's tailgate in."

  "Are you sure?"

  "You know I am."

  "That doesn't mean anything," I said. "Hank probably drove it into the garage to work on it."

  "That would be one explanation," she agreed.

  I moved my knees out of her way. "What are you looking for?"

  "Something to write on. Scrap of paper. Bank envelope."

  "You won't find one of those," I told her. I pulled a wad of napkins out of my bag and peeled one off. "Will this do?"

  She took it and got out of the car. "Wait here."

  "What are you doing?" I called after her. "It's not the truck!"

  "Information never hurts," she called back.

  Maybe information didn't, but winged creatures of the night did, so I stayed right where I was, watching while she slapped the napkin on the hood to jot down the license plate number then immediately picked it up and pressed her hand to the hood instead.

  I rolled down my window. "What are you doing? Hurry up!"

  "It's warm." She moved her hand around. "It's been driven recently."

  Oh, boy. My eyes went straight to the office to check for movement inside. It was hard to see. The only illumination we had was the Escort's rheumy headlights.

  "Get the plate, and let's go!" I urged her. "It doesn't matter anyway. It's not the truck!"

  "I need to hear the horn!"

  Oh, right. The air horn.

  "Give me a second," she called.

  I heard the drone of an approaching vehicle. "Someone's coming!" I yelled.

  Maizy scribbled the plate number on the napkin, shoved it into her jeans pocket, and rushed back to the car. As soon as she slid behind the wheel, a decrepit white van wheezed past, the pale oval of a face turned in our direction.

  "That's him!" Maizy gunned it, sending up a spray of dirt and cinders behind us.

  I grabbed for the dash. "Who? Who is it?"

  "Gilbert Gleason!" She peeled out onto the blacktop and took off after the van. "I bet he's going home. T
alk about luck!"

  I could talk about a lot of things, but luck wasn't one of them. "How do you know it's him?"

  "I recognize him." She tossed her pen onto the dashboard. "Bar association photo. News article about the disbarment. You don't think I waste time sleeping all night, do you?"

  Certainly not. I'd spent the night with her.

  "Let him go," I said. "We know where he lives. We'll talk to him another time."

  "This is another time," she said. "The universe wants us to talk to him tonight. Didn't you see how guilty he looked? I bet he'd confess if we gave him a little nudge."

  I narrowed my eyes. "Define nudge."

  "Make him think we've got something on him," she said. "Make him sweat."

  "That sounds dangerous," I said. "Especially if he did kill Nicky D." And by the way, when had we decided that he had? Sometimes Maizy's reasoning gave me whiplash.

  "Danger is relative," she said. "A peanut is dangerous if you're allergic. Where'd he go?"

  She stomped harder on the gas, and the Escort leaped forward like an arthritic deer. "You really need a new car. We should've caught up to him by now. He was only doing like five miles an hour."

  I stared out into the darkness. "I don't see anything. Maybe he took a shortcut."

  "Good thing we know where he's headed," Maizy said.

  Oh, no. Not the Whispering Pines Mobile Park. Anywhere but there.

  I had a flash of inspiration and doubled over, clutching my belly. "I think I'm going to be sick."

  "You're just saying that." Maizy switched off the headlights. It was like being summarily dumped head first into an oil vat.

  My pulse hammered in my neck as I sat up. "What'd you do that for?"

  "So I can see." She hung over the wheel like a vulture. "Feeling better already?"

  I crossed my arms. "Fine. If you insist on going back to the trailer park, let's just get it over with so we can put an end to this dismal failure of a night."

  "That's the spirit," she said cheerfully. "Now if I could just see—"

  Suddenly a big white box loomed out of the darkness right in our path. It took a second to recognize the van, straddling the road. Immediately Maizy yanked the wheel hard to the left. The Escort went into a sickening fishtail, lurched off the pavement onto the sandy shoulder, and died.

  "I thought you turned off the lights so you could see!" I yelled.