“So how long have you been waiting to interview Jed?” he asked before leaning back on the seat and sucking on his rollie.
“Oh, not long. Only got here yesterday afternoon.”
He exhaled. “Long enough, selfish prick.”
Roxy was caught off guard. That was the second time in less than a day that Jed Moody had been referred to so derogatorily. With friends like these... Roxy thought, but she would never say that out loud. “Really. I don’t mind.”
“Well, you should. Your time’s just as precious as his. Who the fuck does he think he is?”
“Jed Moody,” she replied, cocking her head to one side, and he stared at her blankly for a moment before nudging his lips into a smile.
“That’s right, I keep forgetting, he’s the one and only, the formidable, Mr. Jed ‘Come on Down’ Moody!” He mimicked the sound of an audience roaring, laughed and then dragged on his rollie again.
“So, no love lost between you two, then?” Roxy asked.
“Oh, Jed’s all right. So long as he gets worshipped, he’s under control. It’s when the attention goes elsewhere that he turns into an asshole.”
“Harsh words.” She darted a glance towards the digital recorder, which was already on.
He followed her glance and pretended to laugh. “Just kidding, of course. Jed’s a top bloke. True superstar.” But there was no sincerity in his tone, just a hissing on that last word.
Roxy wondered how to take this. If she were writing a freelance article, she’d be in journalism heaven about now, already envisaging the headline: Moody Roos at Breaking Point! She would be keen to probe further, find out what Al’s beef with the lead singer was all about. But this was nothing of the sort. This was a book commissioned by that lead singer and it had to be gushing. There would be no discussion of Alistair’s obvious disdain. And even if she did include it, Annika and Houghton would be sure to edit it out. She knew it, and perhaps Al did too, which was why he was being so forthright.
Still, Roxy had a book to write and no time to waste, so she gently steered the conversation into safer territory. Over the two hours she asked Al about his own background and participation in the band. Yet all the answers seemed to lead back to Jed, and when Roxy made the error of asking what Al thought was the secret of the band’s success, his tone turned snarly again.
“We’re a successful band because I know how to write shit-hot melodies and Doug knows how to keep a drum beat.”
“And Jed? Surely Jed’s got something to do with it.”
Alistair looked at her like she was speaking nonsense, then shrugged, dropped his third rollie to the ground and stood on it as he got up. “Yeah, you’re right. Jed knows how to strut like a peacock. Every good band needs one of those—think Mick Jagger, Jim Morrison, Freddie Mercury. And you can put that in your book.”
Then he scooped up his tobacco pouch and marched off towards the studio.
Chapter 8
“So did you get the wounded bass player act or was he behaving himself this time?”
Houghton was still on the veranda when Roxy reappeared and she sat down beside him again.
“Bit of both.”
He nodded his head, his fuzzy hair flopping about. “Sorry about that. It’s just hard, you know, playing second fiddle to a guy like Jed.”
“Why? Because Jed gets all the glory?”
“And most of the groupies, or at least first dibs on them. Poor old Al just gets sloppy seconds. Thirds even, if Doug’s about.”
Roxy winced. “Really, is that all it’s about? Groupies?”
He scratched his stubbled neck. “Well, there is the small matter of writing all the songs and only getting half the royalties. That kinda pisses him off, too.”
“I thought Jed cowrote.”
“That’s what you’re supposed to think. Al’s the brains behind it, always was. But, you know how it is, without a sexy frontman Al’s songs were going nowhere, fast. Al writes, Jed shares the royalties, it’s the only way to keep the band together.”
“And Doug? What does he get?”
“Oh, he gets enough, if you count proceeds from gigs and merch.”
“Merch?”
“Merchandise—T-shirts, posters, that kinda shit. He’s just happy to play along. Besides, he knows he’s expendable, he just keeps the beat; it’s not rocket science. Could be replaced like that.” He clicked his pudgy fingers.
Roxy looked at Houghton sideways. She still couldn’t get over his candour. For a publicist, he was extraordinarily frank. Wasn’t he supposed to be telling her how legendary they all were? Her face must have said as much because he cackled with laughter.
“Listen, I love the Moody Roos, you gotta know that, right? They’re the best band this country ever produced, and I’m not being disingenuous. I mean it. Hell, I’m not slogging it out here in boonsville for nothing, lady!” He scratched his stubbly neck again as he glanced around. “But things are always complicated where bands are concerned. There’s always a little friction, a little history. It’s what makes the music so raw, gives it the edge we all love. Am I right or am I right?”
“But I can’t imagine you want me to talk about that friction in the book?”
“Christ no! Your job is to...”
“Whitewash history?” she suggested and he looked back at her.
“Just talk ’em up, eh? We wanna sell books, tickets to the reunion tour, albums, merch. This is one big happy family, it’s all his fans wanna hear and it’s all they need to know.”
She sighed. It would be easier said than done, if early indications were anything to go by. No one seemed to have a nice word to say about Jed Moody, and already she could feel her own admiration waning. Was that really all Jed was, a prancing peacock looking for his next conquest? Were women really that stupid?
Was she?
Sadly, Roxy never got a chance to find out. Before she knew it, morning had turned into afternoon and Jed Moody was still nowhere to be found. And despite asking Houghton to help, he seemed reluctant to seek Jed out, so it wasn’t until late afternoon, as the sun began to descend towards the horizon, that she first spotted the lead singer meandering along the footpath, towards the studio.
He was wearing dark blue jeans today and another western-style, long-sleeved shirt, this one a creamy white colour. Dark sunglasses were covering his eyes.
Roxy grabbed her recorder and chased after him.
“Hi, Jed, hello!” she called out just as he reached the front door of the studio.
He turned back and looked at her blankly for a moment before his thick lips broke into another of those dazzling smiles. He pushed his sunnies up onto his head where they got tangled in his wet grey mop, and she saw that his greenish-yellow eyes were now bloodshot.
“My gorgeous Ghostie!” he said, stepping towards her. “You’re still here? Annie hasn’t scared you away yet?”
She laughed and was relieved it didn’t sound like yesterday’s girlish giggle. “I’m not going anywhere, Jed Moody, not until you give me an interview. Got some time now?”
He looked towards the studio and back to her. “Not the best time, hey? We’re doin’ a jam later, need to get the gear ready.”
“Can I talk to you while you do that?”
“Nah, not gonna work for me. Tomorrow, I promise. Tomorrow, my gorgeous Ghostie, I am all yours.” Then he bowed before her, almost toppling over, before flashing her one of his 1000-kilowatt smiles and disappearing into the studio.
********
As she watched from a distance, Mr. Millionaire Pop Star did his pathetic little dance, bowing down and causing Little Miss Four Eyes to blush like an idiotic schoolgirl, the woman couldn’t help feeling a ferocious sense of rage. It had been creeping up on her lately, getting stronger and stronger until she almost couldn’t breathe, almost couldn’t think straight.
How long was this going to go on? She thought. How much more must I endure before I put my foot down, before I make it all stop? Before
I force some action!
She spotted Alistair sitting on the side steps of the studio, restringing his bass while sucking on a cigarette like it was an oxygen tank and her brain began to click into gear. The fog finally lifted. She knew now what she had to do.
It was time, she decided. Oh yes indeed, it was time.
Chapter 9
It was just after 5:00 p.m.
As she walked towards the sound of music, down the pebbled pathway between the main house and the bails where she’d just vamped herself up, Roxy couldn’t help frowning. If this was the sound of the Moody Roos screeching through the gum trees and across the sprawling lawn, then she was Diane Sawyer.
The drum beat was sloppy, there was a wailing sound that she assumed was a guitar, but if it was, it needed tuning, desperately, and—horror of horrors—what sounded a lot like a squealing fiddle, one of her least favourite instruments, second only to the flute which she could also just make out amongst the din.
As Roxy got closer, though, she felt a wave of relief. A stage had been set up in the open shed at the farthest end of the lawn in front of the veranda. A black curtain had been strung up and, in front of that, was a merry band of men who were definitely not the Moody Roos. More like a local hippie act. These blokes were even older and scruffier, most wearing flared trousers, some in woollen vests, others in open peasant-style shirts. Not one of them appeared to know how to play a note. Yet it didn’t seem to put the crowd off.
There was already a gathering of similarly dressed people dancing in front of them, arms in the air, heads back, dazed smiles on their faces as though they were in some kind of trance. Perhaps they had been hypnotised, Roxy thought, or, more likely, smoking some of the local weed. It would certainly explain why they didn’t find the music as offensive as she did.
A large bonfire had been set up in the centre of the lawn and it was crackling away, a wide circle of hay bales around it where several other hippies were seated, chatting and smoking what looked and smelt a lot like pot. That explained that, then. An elderly couple sat together on a hay-bale, looking more stony- faced than stoned, and about as comfortable as chicks in a snake pit. Roxy wondered momentarily who they could be before she noticed Houghton waving to her from the other side of the fire.
“When do the Roos go on?” she asked, seating herself down beside him.
“Oh, Jed’ll tell this mob to bugger off when he’s ready.” He held his hands out towards the flames as though attempting to toast his fingers.
Roxy looked around. “Who are all these people?”
He followed her eyes. “Just the local riffraff. Jed always invites them to his jams. Keeps the natives happy.”
Roxy spotted Govinda then, the woman from the Goddess Café. She was in the middle of the crowd, childless this time and twirling around in circles to the music, her eyes closed. She was surrounded by a swirl of other women, some blonde, some brunette, one with cherry red hair that fell about her face in long, luscious locks. It might have been the same woman Roxy had spotted earlier with Alistair at the stables. All of them were wearing the standard hippie garb—long skirts, feathers hanging from their ears and hair, velvet vests and tinkling silver beads that looked straight out of an Indian marketplace.
“And who is that band? Please tell me they’re going to stop.”
He chuckled. “Local lads called the Cloudchasers. Again, it’s all about keeping the peasants happy. Let ’em have their moment in the sun, then they let Jed and Annika get on with their shit.”
“What ‘shit’, exactly? Recording albums?”
“And the rest.” He lowered his voice slightly. “Got big plans to turn this property into a festival site. Got a development application in with the local council now.” He pulled a piece of hay from beneath him and began chewing on it. “Some of the locals aren’t happy about it, been trying to make waves. Jed keeps throwing bones out to them, trying to woo them all back.”
“Who’s against the DA?”
“Just your usual greenies, a few councillors, some of the neighbours. It’s nothing Annie can’t sort out.”
“What sort of festival are they planning?”
He spat the hay out. “Festivals, actually. Plural. Want to put at least ten on a year, bring in top rock acts; maybe do a jazz fest. Take advantage of the growing yuppie crowd down in Byron. Anyway, as I say, it’s early days. Still jumping through hoops with Council at this stage.” He shrugged. “They have to do something if they want to start making money.”
“I thought Jed was raking it in.” He did have a cleaner and a cook, after all.
“Oh, he’s doing all right. You and I wouldn’t complain, but he’s not getting the record sales he used to get. The cash ain’t flowing like the old days.”
“Hence the book and tour?”
He grinned. “Got it in one. Hey, here’s the High Priestess herself.”
Roxy looked up to find Annika strutting across the lawn towards them, an enormous goblet of red wine in one hand, a plate laden with some kind of brownish white meat in the other. She looked breathtaking, in a long, white halter neck dress that billowed out as she walked, accentuating her chiselled shoulders and long black hair. She stopped to offer the plate of food to the surly older couple who brightened up when she approached, then to several others before she reached Roxy, a wide smile on her face.
“Hello, my darlings!” she said, bending down to plant a thick kiss on Houghton’s lips, followed by a sly wink.
The jealous wife had transformed into a zealous hostess and she was now holding the plate out to Roxy who still couldn’t work out what it was.
“Freerange pork! Just off the spit.”
“There’s a spit?”
“We always do a spit. It’s not a Moody jam without one!”
Houghton was already plucking several slices of oily meat from the plate and shoving them into his mouth.
“No, thanks,” Roxy said. “I’m not real hungry yet.”
“Well, don’t wait too long.” Annika glanced around surreptitiously then leaned in closer and said, “With this lot there’ll be nothing left within the hour. Vegetarians my arse!” She stepped back, flinging her long hair behind her as she did so. “Didn’t get a chance to chat to Jeddie, I hear?”
Roxy shook her head. “He thinks tomorrow will work better.”
“I’m sorry about that. I’ve kept him a bit busy today.” The look she gave Roxy reminded her of the cat who’d just swallowed the cream. Clearly Mr. and Mrs. Moody had made up for last night. “If you need a drink, just help yourself. You should know where the bar is by now.”
Roxy nodded and glanced around the crowd. Several people were nursing beers and glasses of wine. Did they all just help themselves? It seemed considerably gracious of her.
“I cannot believe it!” Annika exclaimed, staring across the fire. “The Green Brigade has shown up!” She turned to Houghton and dropped the plate into his lap. “Here, hide that, quick. If Joe sees it, he’ll start lecturing me again. I don’t think I could bear it, not tonight.”
She took a large mouthful of wine, then said, “Wish me luck!” before striding in the direction of a small group who were just entering the party from one side of the house.
There were two men, an older one, short and slightly beefy with curly white hair and a brown woollen poncho, and another half his age, taller, leaner with a swishing ponytail and linen drawstring pants. Behind them Roxy could just make out a young woman, a teenager perhaps.
Both Roxy and Houghton watched as Annika rushed up and gave the two men an air kiss then said something before breaking into her trademark machine-gun laughter. The ponytailed man laughed along with her but the older man did not.
“A couple of the greenies I was telling you about,” Houghton said, picking up another piece of pork. “The young one’s one of the councillors, can’t remember his name; other one’s the mayor.”
“The mayor? At a rock jam?”
He chuckled. “This is Byro
n Bay, Roxy. That’s situation normal.” He made a whistling sound. “It’s also a good sign for Annie. Maybe Mayor Kidlong is coming on board after all.”
Roxy stared at the short, white-haired man who was now deep in conversation with Annika. “He’s against the festivals?”
“Kidlong’s against everything. Typical bloody NIMBY.”
She looked back at Houghton, a confused look in her eye.
“It stands for Not In My Back Yard,” he explained. “There’s thousands of NIMBYs in these parts and it’s all very well for them. They’ve moved here, set up homes and businesses, but don’t want anyone else to have a crack. Selfish bastards.” He chuckled but there was no laughter in it.
“You’d think, being a greenie, he’d be into music and the arts. It’s not like it’s a shopping development. What’s his beef with the whole idea?”
“Shh, don’t say beef, not around that bloke.” He laughed more genuinely this time. “Guy’s a vegan from way back. Says it’s all about the marsupials.”
“Marsupials?”
“Yeah, reckons any kind of development here will destroy their natural habitat. Make sure you don’t get stuck talking to him, eh? Will bore you senseless with lectures about koala corridors, threatened quolls, even cares about bloody bush rats, would you believe?” Houghton looked around. “Listen, I’m as big on animals as the next bloke, but there’s 250 freakin’ acres here, Roxy. How much more room do the furry little critters need?”
He thrust some more pork into his mouth.
“Who’s the girl?” Roxy asked, nodding towards the teenager who was still standing just behind them, a bored look on her face as she chomped away on a candy-coloured string of beads that were hung around her neck.
Note Before Dying (Ghostwriter Mystery 6) Page 5
