Thirteen
Morrie Chrichton had made it to the age of sixty-six before he’d died a mere eight months previously, he’d told us, from “extremely natural causes”—a heart attack sustained while playing electric bass in a recording session for a trio called Squirrel Meat.
“So I’d like to find the swine who forced me into playing these cheap boring gigs for the last twenty years of my life and probably contributed to me keeling over with a Fender in my hands, playing the dreariest repeat riff in the history of rock ’n’ roll,” Morrie told us, demanding to know where Vance was and if anyone could find a way to make a ghost feel a great deal of pain. Cost, he’d mentioned, would be an object.
Although he hadn’t reverted to a younger self, I still recognized Morrie from old Jingles album covers, though he said he’d stopped getting royalties after Vance McTiernan had sued him and thrown him out of the band—not necessarily in that order—when the Jingles were already on their way down in popularity. (Many believed Jell-o, the only Jingles album without Chrichton’s input, was the band’s weakest.) I couldn’t expect to be paid handsomely for my information “because McTiernan, that louse, took all my money and reduced me to living in New Jersey.”
Morrie Chrichton wasn’t making a great number of friends in my house.
I’d assured him that I had no idea where Vance McTiernan might be, which was technically true because Vance hadn’t told me where he was going and I hadn’t asked.
That was my story, and I was . . . well, you’ve got it by now.
Melissa had quit the poker game to see what was going on and suggested to Morrie that, with all eternity awaiting both him and Vance, maybe it was time to bury the hatchet.
“That’s a good idea,” Morrie said to my eleven-year-old. “Maybe I can bury it between a couple of his ribs.”
At that point, I asked Morrie to vacate my premises, ostensibly because I didn’t like the way he had talked to Melissa, though she seemed completely unperturbed by what he’d said. The fact was, I didn’t want Morrie around the house when Vance returned and I had no idea when that might happen.
Morrie, calm as the surf at low tide, nodded, made the ukulele disappear into his coat and rose up through the ceiling to exit. “I’ll be back,” he intoned as his head broke through into the rooms above (I estimated that was Tessa’s room).
Once he’d vanished into the rafters, Liss looked at me with a wisdom that belied her tender years. “What a jerk,” she said.
“Got that right.”
Paul chose that moment to rise through the floor. “The recording of your interview with William Mastrovy is interesting,” he said. “But I didn’t hear anything from any of the other band members except the woman, and that was only an occasional comment. What did the others say?”
Um . . . “I didn’t get to talk to them,” I admitted. Total honesty with Paul was my latest resolution; we’d see if it lasted longer than that whole thing about exercising every day. “The one guy was really, really occupied with the woman on the couch, and I think he’s new anyway. The other guitarist wasn’t in the band when Vanessa died.”
Paul did his best not to look impatient. We were healing our relationship, and we both knew it. “What about the woman?” he asked, tone flat and consciously nonjudgmental.
“Sammi didn’t want to talk,” I told him, and that was true. She’d simply stared blankly at me and then walked out.
Paul, clearly having decided he would do what it took to make this arrangement work, nodded. “Very well. You’ll get to them next. Our priority now should be to find Vanessa’s mother and half brother.”
Given the chance, I told him about our encounter with Morrie. Paul is an excellent listener and waited until the end of my tale to put his hand to his goatee and say, “I’m not sure if this simplifies matters or complicates them. This might be a side issue unrelated to Vanessa’s death.”
I considered Morrie. I’d never had the same blind admiration for him as I’d developed for Vance when I was a teen. In interviews, he’d seemed almost contemptuous of the fans, as if we were somehow a necessary inconvenience that went with his true goal, living the rock star life. It could be somewhat off-putting.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d swear he was drunk,” Maxie chimed in.
There was no sign of Vance or Morrie in the den. Quietly (as if I didn’t want to disturb the poker players’ concentration) I asked, “Where is Vance?”
“I have no idea,” Paul said. “I haven’t seen him since before you left.”
“Well, Morrie’s not here now,” I said. And perfectly on cue, I was proven wrong.
Morrie Chrichton sank down through the ceiling, which meant he’d passed through at least one of the guest rooms. I wasn’t crazy about that. And as soon as he saw me, he pointed a somewhat shaky finger—it really was like he was drunk!—and said, “You’re hiding him! Where is that dirty Vance McTiernan?”
“I have no idea,” I said. “I’m just the innkeeper.”
“We know, dear,” Tessa sighed. She must have wandered in from the card game. “I’ll be going up to my room now.” And she turned and left.
This conversation with Morrie would just be easier elsewhere, I realized. “I’m going into the kitchen,” I said.
Liss, Paul and Maxie followed me, and after a second, Morrie did, too. We walked through the den on our way, and my mother, sensing something was up, came in behind us without asking questions.
Once we were all in the kitchen, I turned to Morrie. “When my guests are present, you’re going to be civil and you’re going to let me tend to them,” I said. He looked confused. “Is that clear?”
“What, can they hear me?” Morrie tried to focus.
“No, but I can. And are you drunk? How can you be drunk? You can’t drink anything!”
He smiled wryly. At least, that’s what he thought. “It’s all sense memory, my pet. I spent so much of my life like this I can pretty much summon it whenever I want. It’s a kick, isn’t it?”
I looked at Paul, who shrugged. “I never drank much,” he said.
“Oh, you should try it,” Morrie suggested. “Do you a world of good.”
“Well, I need to talk to you seriously right now,” I told him. “Can your senses remember how to be sober?”
“Yeah, but it’s not half as much fun.” Suddenly his eyes focused, his expression sharpened and his voice lost a percentage of rasp. “Now tell me where Vance McTiernan is and I won’t trouble you again.”
“I have no idea where Vance is right now, and given the way you’ve been talking, I don’t think I’d tell you if I did. I don’t know what went on between the two of you but I’m not going to leave him open to whatever warped idea of revenge you have in your mind. So stop haunting the place, pal. You’re not going to find what you want here.”
Paul looked proud, and Maxie looked astonished, which wasn’t very flattering. I can be very authoritative when I put my mind to it. Ask my daughter.
Okay, maybe don’t ask my daughter. But it’s true.
Morrie stared at me. It wasn’t a pleasant gaze. “Why would you protect that swine?” he asked, using an unfortunately familiar word. “What has he got on you?”
What did that mean? “He hasn’t got anything on me,” I said. “He’s a guy who made music that matters to me, and he’s asked me to help him with something that’s weighing down his whole being. His daughter is dead and he’s distraught. Why should I turn him away?”
“Because he’s a lying snake! I wrote most of that music you’re so nostalgic about,” Morrie answered, completely sober. “He’s a fraud and that daughter of his never meant anything to him until she was dead.”
My eyes must have narrowed unconsciously because the amount I could see decreased. “How would you know that?” I asked.
“I was his bandmate and supposedly his frien
d all those years until he died,” Morrie said. “For the first twenty years of her life, I never heard one word about his daughter in all that time except when Vance complained about some bird in the States trying to squeeze him for money.”
Paul took over the questioning, which was something of a relief, given that I had no idea what to say. This was not the Vance I’d seen. Of course, the Vance I’d seen had changed moods and intentions so many times I wasn’t sure I knew anything about him at all.
“Why would Vance suddenly develop an interest in his daughter after she died?” Paul asked Morrie. “What is the advantage for him?” Paul was lightly stroking his goatee, a sign he was in Sherlock Holmes mode.
“It must be almost impossible for a parent to survive the death of a child,” Mom chimed in, looking concerned.
“He didn’t survive it,” Paul corrected. “He died years before Vanessa.” Forgive him; he can’t help it.
“Vance has always been a drama queen,” Morrie answered. “It’s always about him. He wrote the words; he wrote the music. Or so he said. He had to have it that way in every press release, every interview. His daughter was trying to make a name for herself in music and he didn’t lift a finger, did he? Then she passes away and the next thing you know he’s the grief-stricken dad out for revenge. He makes the story about him, again. If Vance can get his name back in the papers and on TV, he’ll be a happy man.”
“But the press won’t know he’s trying to get revenge,” I said. “They’ll have no idea Vance is around driving the investigation. That doesn’t play into this publicity push you say he’s trying to generate.”
Morrie shrugged. “Doesn’t matter if the punters know he’s behind it. What matters is that people will be talking about him and playing the records again. He’ll be able to float around and hear his voice coming from people’s houses. What could be better than that?”
“Why did you just arrive?” Paul asked. “You’ve been harboring this resentment since you passed away.”
“I died in New Jersey,” Morrie reminded us. “McTiernan was in England.”
“You could have gone there,” Mom pointed out.
“And give him the satisfaction?”
It was all starting to make too much sense to me. Vance clearly had a pretty healthy ego, which wasn’t the least bit surprising for someone in his line of work. Vance might very well have simply seen Vanessa’s death as a way to attract publicity, even from beyond the grave. Given what Bill Mastrovy had said about Vance’s relationship with Vanessa, I felt the trap springing around me.
Suddenly everyone seemed to be looking toward me, waiting for some defense of Vance, but I didn’t have one. The only thing I could muster was, “It doesn’t matter. If what the autopsy report says is right, somebody probably killed Vanessa McTiernan. What difference does it make if Vance wants to be seen as a hero as long as we find out who did it?”
“Who wants to be seen as a hero?” The voice behind me was familiar, mostly from hours of listening to his recordings. I turned.
Vance was floating just inside the kitchen door, looking at me with a perplexed expression. Then he looked up.
“Chrichton,” he said.
“That’s right, you old villain,” Morrie said. “I’m here to settle with you.”
Vance pointed to himself. “Settle with me? About what? About you wanting credit for work you never did? Will you never get off that one?”
“You don’t get to take that tone this time, McTiernan,” his ex-bandmate said. He swept his hand majestically around the room. “They’re not taken in by you anymore.”
Mom held up a hand. “Now, boys,” she said. “This is no time to bicker about who did what all those years ago. Isn’t it time to forgive and forget?”
My mother, spreading reason and just-getting-along from birth to the afterlife.
But the two Jingles weren’t hearing it. They drew closer to each other, which necessitated Vance actually moving through me. This time his sensation was hot, fueled by anger.
“You claimed every idea, every guitar lick, every drumbeat as your own,” Morrie Chrichton said. “Nobody could ever have an idea, especially not a good one, when Vance McTiernan was in the room!” His fingers curled into talons as Vance approached.
“And you thought every little note from your bass was genius,” Vance countered. “If it wasn’t for you hitting that D sharp, the whole band would have collapsed, right?” Vance’s sneer, his go-to expression when not trying to charm, took on some seriously scary undertones.
“The whole band did collapse! Under the weight of your gigantic ego!”
“Liar!”
“Thief!”
“Plagiarist!”
“Fraud!”
Vance howled in anger and lunged at Morrie. The two men grappled for a moment, grunting with effort, until Maxie slammed two frying pans from the hooks over my center island together. It made a dreadful noise, and they stopped their wrestling match and stared at her, as did everyone else.
“Knock it off,” she snarled. “You’re both dead.”
Mom nodded her approval up to Maxie, who put the frying pans back on their hooks. I marveled at the fact that she could do that, and also considered that the pans probably hadn’t been used at all for a while, since Mom insists on bringing her own cookware when she’s making dinner at my house. It doesn’t make any sense, but that’s Mom.
Paul was stroking his goatee fervently, watching Vance very closely.
“This isn’t over, McTiernan,” Morrie Chrichton said. He let go of Vance’s triceps and flew out the side wall into the night.
“You’re damn right it isn’t,” Vance said. Then he looked down at me. “Now, then. What lies has that louse been telling you?”
My head felt overcrowded. I’d begun this enterprise because I believed in Vance, defended him to Paul; then Morrie had made me question my loyalty, and now Vance was asking me what lies Morrie had told me about him. I looked up, auditioning responses rapidly in my head, and finally said, “I have to get Melissa to bed. She’s been up late playing poker.”
And I turned and walked out of the kitchen. I’m pretty sure I got a glimpse of Mom beaming proudly at me as I left.
Fourteen
There was no more discussion that night. I did indeed break up the poker game, as it was after midnight and my daughter was in fact eleven. The rest of the guests went to bed almost immediately, as none of them was close to eleven and all were considerably more tired than Melissa. This is the logic of parenting.
Mom, realizing that I wanted no more talk about murder, music or old wounds, packed up her backpack, beckoned to my father and hit the road in her Dodge Viper. At the rate of speed she drives at night, the fifteen-minute trip to her house wouldn’t take much longer than a half hour.
I went upstairs when Melissa did and holed up in my bedroom. Vance was hopefully aware by now that barging in uninvited would be a serious problem for me, and Paul and Maxie certainly knew better.
Nobody dropped in on me and after some initial tossing and turning, fatigue won out, so I slept fairly well, except for the itching in the back of my throat. In the morning I’d definitely pick up that allergy medicine.
The next morning, I woke, got myself presentable, did some tidying for the guests and was ready for an assault-by-ghost just as Paul arrived in the kitchen; early, even for him. Maxie was a late sleeper and Vance, having been a rock star when he was alive, I figured could be counted on to stay out of circulation until noon at least.
“We should consider our position in this investigation,” Paul began.
I was getting urns of coffee and hot water for tea ready for the guests (I don’t serve meals, but I consider providing caffeine in the morning a basic nutrient), and looked up to see him tilting slightly to the left—Paul lists a little when he’s thinking hard—while floating half i
nside the fridge. Luckily, there was nothing in the fridge but some batteries, milk, a little cheese and assorted vegetables I’d have to assess for freshness (or the lack thereof) shortly.
“You’re not backing out on me again, are you?” I said as I braced myself to carry the coffee urn into the den and place it on the side table, the one where Paul does not attempt the tablecloth trick.
The urn was heavy, but I do this every morning and I’m used to it. I lugged it into the den, hovered it over the table and dropped it from an altitude of about an inch. It landed with a rather unsettling sound. Maybe “used to it” was overstating things.
“No, of course not. I’m saying that we need to evaluate where we are and what we should be doing.” The goatee wasn’t being stroked yet, but you knew it was only because he was holding himself back for later. One had to time one’s goatee stroking for maximum effect.
“So, where are we and what should we be doing?” There was something very soothing about letting Paul take the reins in the investigation. It would have been soothing, frankly, to let anyone other than me take the reins. Sherlock Holmes, Jessica Fletcher, Gilbert Gottfried. It didn’t matter. But Paul was an especially comfortable caretaker.
He also likes nothing more than to recap. “We have a victim of about forty who might or might not have known she was ingesting something that could be lethal to her, so one of our priorities should be to discover if she was alone when she died. We know she was alone when the police found her body, but that proves nothing.”
He was just getting warmed up. “We have Vanessa’s ex-boyfriend William Mastrovy, who apparently told his current lover that he’d had no further contact with Vanessa but suddenly admits to being present on the day she died, a claim which might or might not be true. However, you said that he seemed legitimately surprised by the possibility she might have been killed. That would seem to place some question on his viability as a suspect, but as a witness, he is invaluable. He should be interviewed again as soon as possible.”
Ghost in the Wind Page 14
