by Sylvia Warsh
Another musician! I had genes on both sides.
Diane said they found the notebook under her mattress. That meant she didn’t want anyone reading it. So when she said she was innocent, it was like she was talking to herself. Didn’t that mean she was telling the truth?
I found at least twenty notes from the women in another manila envelope, some scrawled and childlike, some neat and carefully written.
Dear Mandy, The cops should burn in hell for putting your mom in here. She was no killer. Patty.
Dear Mandy, Your mom was the best. Rest in Peace. Lottie.
Dear Mandy, If it wasn’t for your mom and the choir, I’d be dead. There was nothing to live for till I started to sing. I owe her. Dale.
Dear Mandy, Your mom shouldna been here. It was wrong cause she didn’t kill no one. Her music helped me go on. Vi.
There was a business-sized envelope in the bag. The letterhead said it was from a lawyer named Randall Webb. I pulled out a single page.
Dear Carol,
I’m afraid I have bad news. Our appeal was turned down. In his explanation, the judge said there was no new evidence, so no new trial. I’m very sorry. Sometimes the justice system isn’t fair. I know you’re innocent but have no way to prove it. I will keep in touch.
Randy
The lawyer thought she was innocent! His opinion meant more than Diane’s and the other prisoners’, didn’t it? Maybe I wasn’t the kid of a murderer. I looked at the lawyer’s letterhead. It had his phone number. The letter was dated May 1995. Fifteen years ago, but what the heck. I hesitated, then punched in the numbers.
A woman answered. She asked my name and, to my surprise, put me through.
“Hello.”
“Mr. Webb, I hope I’m not bothering you, but you were my mother’s lawyer years ago…”
“Who’s this?”
“Carol Allan’s daughter.”
“It’s Amanda?”
“Uh, yeah…”
“I’m so sorry. I heard about her… passing. She was a class act.”
I took that in for a second. “I hope you don’t mind—I wanted to ask you something.”
He didn’t interrupt to tell me he was too busy.
“I know it was a long time ago. But— why did the jury convict her?”
“Oh. That was a long time ago.” He paused and I half expected him to beg off. But then he went on.
“I was straight out of law school, just finished articling. She called me first because we went to high school together.”
“You did?”
“She couldn’t afford a real lawyer.” He smirked into the phone. “She was assigned a legal-aid lawyer who didn’t give a crap. I worked with him, but it was hopeless. She lost because I didn’t know what I was doing and the real lawyer didn’t care.”
“So she didn’t do it?”
“Evidence was circumstantial. The steak knife was like a million others made in China and sold by Canadian Tire. Every house had a set just like it.”
“Well then…?”
“The jury didn’t like her. She wasn’t soft like some women. She came across gutsy, didn’t apologize for herself. They misread her.”
It was a lot to take in. I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything.
“Look, my secretary’s preparing some estate documents for you. Why don’t you come by in a few days to pick them up? We’ll talk.”
I didn’t know what to think. My mother was a convicted killer, but people close to her believed she was innocent. How could I form an opinion if I never knew her?
I leaned back on the couch and noticed the 1984 flyer for the band. The name at the bottom of the page was Iggy Bosco. He’d remember her. Maybe he could tell me something. Shouldn’t be hard to find a guy with a name like that.
I typed Iggy Bosco into Google. Most of what came up was old stuff about the band. Vandal Boss had been big twenty-five years ago. They put their last names together to come up with Vand-al Boss. There was a lot about Freddy’s murder. The headlines read, Wife Convicted of Killing Freddy Allan. Gets Life. Everyone agreed—she killed him because he couldn’t keep it in his pants. The next-door neighbor (it didn’t give her name), said she heard fighting whenever Freddy was back in town.
One article began:
After being dropped at home by a band member, it appeared that Mr. Allan was surprised by his attacker when he entered the house. Friends told police he usually partied pretty hard after a performance. The prosecution said Carol Allan, insane with jealousy, lay in wait for her husband to come home. While her three-year-old daughter slept in an upstairs bedroom—(that was me, the three-year-old!)—Ms. Allan waited until her husband walked in the door then stabbed him to death with a kitchen knife. The defense lawyer argued the knife was identical to all the steak knives in the neighborhood. Since it had no fingerprints on it, there was no proof it had come from Ms. Allan’s kitchen or that she was the killer. But the jury…
I couldn’t read any more, my hands were shaking.
Finally I found one little item about Iggy Bosco that was more current. It said he taught drums in a music store in the east end.
CHAPTER THREE
I took the subway farther east on Bloor than I’d ever been. Long past the stop I usually got off at to go home. No, not home anymore. The house I grew up in. Shelley’s house on Maple Glen. All those years I was growing up she knew the whole story. She’d have to be in a cave to miss those headlines. I could understand why she didn’t tell me when I was a kid. But I was twenty-three! It was a crappy family history, but it was my family history.
A weak October sun was shining when I climbed up to the street. My old neighborhood was nothing special, but it was the lap of luxury compared to this part of town. Some people sat on kitchen chairs outside the local coffee hangout. They watched me walk by. Two guys and a girl, all of them dressed by Goodwill.
I kept going along the main drag until I found it. Right next to a vegetable market. Painted on the glass storefront of the music shop: Drum Lessons by Iggy Bosco of Vandal Boss.
I opened the door and stepped into shadow. The dark wooden walls sucked in most of the light from the front window. A distant rumble came from upstairs. Someone going at the drums. A young dude in a plaid shirt stood behind the counter. He looked me over. I was wearing my little poofy skirt and jean jacket with high-heeled boots, so I knew I made an impression.
“I’m looking for Iggy Bosco.”
His face fell as if I’d let him down. Must’ve thought I was a groupie. He glanced up at the wall clock. “With a student. Be down in ten minutes.”
Dude would’ve been cute if he combed his hair. I stepped over to a display of guitars on the wall. The old wooden floor was worn smooth and creaked as I moved. I knew the dude’s eyes were scanning my butt.
My mouth watered at the guitars, but the prices were way out of my range. I taught myself to play on a cheap secondhand one I found on Craigslist years ago. Had kind of a tinny sound, but I loved its little heart.
Footsteps came down behind the wall. A gawky kid stepped through a door across from the counter. An old guy with a ponytail followed, carrying some sheet music. The kid disappeared out the front door.
“Someone to see you,” said the counter dude.
I recognized Iggy from the picture. Same thin nose and owlish eyes. He’d gained weight and let his brown-gray hair grow too long.
He turned to me. “What can I do for ya?”
I suddenly got tongue-tied. This guy was a real musician! I didn’t meet a lot of those in the hair salon.
“I…Could I talk to you? In private.” Counter dude didn’t need to know my business.
Iggy’s eyebrow lifted with interest, and I realized he’d gotten the wrong impression. Old geezer. I followed him up the dark stairs, hoping I wouldn’t have to fight him off. I’d been in that position before.
He led me into a room dominated by a drum set, and we were alone. “So, you a fan?” he said, st
anding too close. “Want some drum lessons? An autograph?”
I blurted out, “I’m Freddy’s girl.” That sounded strange even to me. To him, too, apparently.
“What?”
“Freddy Allan was my dad.”
His mouth dropped open. Then he smiled, and his whole face lit up. He put one hand on my shoulder at arm’s length. “Let’s take a look at you! Freddy’s kid! Can hardly believe it.” He paused, a touch of sadness pulling down the smile a bit. “You grew up real nice. Got Freddy’s chin.” He tapped mine playfully.
I grinned, exhilarated.
“Sit down, sit down.” He pointed me to a chair. “Mandy, right?”
I bobbed my head and sat down. “I don’t know if you heard, but my mother—Carol— died last week.”
His smile dissolved. “Man, I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Lost touch.” He looked away, embarrassed. “I visited her for a few years. Then…well, you know how it is, life moves on. You look a lot like her.” He studied my face. “She was the prettiest girl in school.”
“You went to the same school?”
“You didn’t know. Sure, how could you? We all went to the same school. Freddy and me and Carol. And Stu. Can’t forget about Stu. Even if he’s forgotten us.”
“What was she like then?”
“Carol? Oh, she was a pistol. Real smart. Played a mean piano.”
“She played piano?”
“She rocked! She wanted to teach music. All the guys in class were into her. She could’ve had any of us. She picked Freddy. No accounting for taste.” He winked at me.
Iggy Bosco was joking with me. I swallowed.
“We were always touring. She played piano for us at the beginning. Freddy had to behave himself then. Girls liked him. Hell, they liked all of us, don’t get me wrong. Never a shortage of groupies.”
“He fooled around?”
“Couldn’t help himself. All these chicks offering themselves up. He had this shyness about him—girls loved it.”
“Carol knew?”
“No avoiding it. They were in her face when she was there. And when she wasn’t…Well, when the cat’s away, the mice will play. He didn’t deny himself. If a chick went after him, he caved.”
I looked down at the floor, trying not to hate my father.
“Don’t feel bad. He was a kid himself. What was he? Twenty-two? He didn’t want to grow up. Then they had you, and Carol had to grow up. It scared the hell out of him. She taught piano at a private school when she could.”
“She stayed home to take care of me?”
Iggy smiled. “She was crazy about you.”
I took a deep breath. “You think she killed him?”
“I would’ve. He had it coming.”
“But do you think she did?”
“It was her knife.”
“They never proved that. It was one of those steak knives made in China that everybody has. No fingerprints.”
“Whatever.” He shrugged. “She loved him. Chicks do strange things for love.”
“Were you at the trial?”
He nodded, his face vacant, remembering. “She never had a chance. She didn’t know it though. Head high. Looking confident. Always said she didn’t do it. But then the jury guy read out ‘Guilty!’ Should’ve seen her face. She was stunned. We were all in shock when they took her out.”
We both sat quiet a moment. I spoke to break the awkwardness. “You ever wonder how things would’ve gone if Freddy had lived? The band could’ve made it big.”
“Hell no! That night was going to be our last anyway. We were breaking up.”
“What…?”
“Couldn’t last. Freddy and Stu were fighting over rights to the music. Freddy wanted to take Stu’s name off the copyright because Freddy was the one who wrote all the songs. Well, Stu ain’t one to lay down and play dead, if you’ve noticed.”
I could hear a touch of envy in his voice. Stu was the only one who’d become a star.
“They fought over girls too. These groupies, they weren’t fussy. They thought nothing of sleeping with Stu, then Freddy. Didn’t make for peace on the road.”
“You think Stu might’ve killed Freddy?”
He gave me a thoughtful look. “Jury said Carol did it.”
“What if she didn’t?”
“Seriously?”
“I’m trying to figure it out. But I need some information. Tell me about Stu. Was he mad enough to kill Freddy?”
“Look, Stu’s a jerk, but he’s no killer. Yeah, sure they fought. We were together night and day. But Carol and Freddy fought too. She was tall for a girl, like you. And she had more cause.”
I ignored that last bit. “I need to talk to Stu. You know how to reach him?” I put a self-assurance in my voice I didn’t feel.
“Stu? He’s not so easy to get hold of. Always touring.”
I took a breath, worked up some confidence. “I’m going to talk to the police about my mother. She’s the only one they investigated. I’m going to tell them they should’ve looked at Stu. If he calls me before that— maybe he can explain himself.”
I handed Iggy one of the cards from the salon with my number.
“He doesn’t scare easy,” Iggy said, squinting at me. He looked worried. Good.
CHAPTER FOUR
When I got home I sat down with my laptop and went on YouTube. I punched in Vandal Boss. Only one video came up, dated 1986. The year I was born. The clip was annoyingly dark and grainy. Only clear thing was Stu Van Dam, center stage, his big hair sprayed in place. He gyrated to the music—lyrics incomprehensible—in tight striped pants and a white ruffled shirt. He looked like he was eating the mike, in love with himself.
Then I saw Freddy. I couldn’t believe it. This was my dad! He stood on the left in shadow, really into playing his guitar. He swayed some to the rhythm, but there was a stillness to him. His dark curly hair covered part of his face. He looked like a kid, though he must’ve been twenty-two. He leaned forward toward the mike and began to sing backup. That was when he looked up into the camera and my heart dropped. His eyes were sad and dreamy and so young! His face tilted toward the mike as he sang, his posture graceful. Especially compared to Stu who flailed his arms around like a deranged puppet. I could see the draw for all those chicks. Why they all went for Freddy. It was the eyes. His eyes said, The world is too sad. Come with me. Tears slipped down my cheeks. I wished I could remember him.
I played the video over again. This time I made out Iggy to the right in a headband. He was knocking on those drums with everything he had.
When it was over, I just sat there, drained. Who had killed Freddy? My mother? A jealous boyfriend? Did it really matter? Whoever it was, I’d been robbed of my family. Okay, it mattered.
YouTube listed related videos on the right of the screen. Usually that was annoying. Not this time. One thumbnail showed Stu Van Dam alone, singing his hit song. It was dated 1993. I clicked on it. He’d grown his hair down to his shoulders and dyed it blond. Yuck. Taking the mike with him, he jumped around the stage like Mick Jagger, sticking out his lips. The guy was gross, but it was hard not to watch him in his tight pants and shirt open to the navel. He was singing “Playgirl,” the hit that had made him a star. I grew up listening to it, so I knew the words. I mouthed them as I watched the gymnastics on the screen.
You came along and broke my heart
Playgirl, playgirl.
Without even trying, right from the start
Playgirl, playgirl.
When you trapped me
When you smacked me
I loved you just the same.
I never knew I could be so true
And happy in my pain.
It was catchy and I couldn’t get it out of my head over supper. I felt lazy—made some Kraft Dinner. My cell phone rang. I looked at the id. It was Shelley. I didn’t answer it.
Next day at the salon I was distracted. All I could think about was that I’d missed out on my real life. If only She
lley had told me about my mother, I could’ve gone to see her. The morning whizzed by. Good thing my hands knew how to cut hair all by themselves. A regular customer, Trish, chatted to me while I flatironed her bangs.
Suddenly there was a commotion at the front of the shop. My station was near the back so I couldn’t see much. Everyone around me began to rush forward. Trish was stuck because I had her hair in my flatiron. Her eyes strained sideways in the mirror, trying to see. The crowd at the front were hooting and whistling. I had too much on my mind to care.
Then the crowd parted as if Moses was coming through. And everyone turned around to look at me. Someone was coming through, but it wasn’t Moses. It was Stu Van Dam. I barely recognized him in jeans and a T-shirt, looking almost normal except for the platinum blond hair cut short and spiky. Taller than he looked in the video. He was heading right for me. My pulse quickened. Should I be scared? I guess he couldn’t kill me in front of all these people.
Trish’s mouth hung open as he approached.
My boss, Tony, shoved a pad of paper in front of him. “Could I have your autograph?”
Stu smiled and graciously signed.
“It’s an honor to have you in our salon. Can I get you anything?”
“Nah, I’m good. I’m looking for Mandy.”
Everyone stared at me.
Stu broke away and stopped in front of me. “I’d know you anywhere. Can we talk?”
One of the stylists jumped in and took the flatiron out of my hand. “I’ll finish. You go ahead.”
