Murder in Rock & Roll Heaven

by Robin Ray

  “Wow, the way you guys speak about time,” Tony joked, then adopted a fake stentorian voice. “I lost my dog 5,000 years ago to the day and I still haven’t found him yet. Pretty wild.” As usual, no one thought he was funny.

  Ka’Arina, practically blowing smoke from her nostrils, turned to L’Da. “This is part of the investigation?” she grumbled, pointing to Tony like he was a diseased cockroach.

  The head angel threw up his hands. “Like we have a choice.”

  “Tony,” Gregory called out, “be serious or you’ll have to sit this out.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” the youngster quickly apologized. “Can I get a break because this is just my first week here?”

  “You’re okay, young man,” L’Da asserted. “Just try to focus.”

  “No problem,” Tony nodded.

  “We went back to the drawing board on this one,” Matthias stated. “Someone mentioned that wouldn’t it be odd if she had no soul because, as you know, no soul, no life. It was always ruled out because souls cannot be forcefully removed. The body has to die first, not the other way around. Still, even if we thought it involved her soul, how would we detect that? That idea was abandoned because when we consulted with Potens Vigilem, he said that her soul never came by him. And he sees all.”

  “I thought he couldn’t talk,” Tony said.

  “I have the ability to communicate with the Watcher of Souls and other non-verbal angels telepathically,” Ka’Arina revealed. “We dug up a rare machine that hadn’t been utilized in thousands of years because it was never required. A few beings had hypothesized that the creation of a soul-detecting device could be needed just in case something like this came up. It never did and the device was determined lost forever. However, a thorough search in an ancient depository rediscovered it. After we quickly learned how to use it we applied it to Ms. Winehouse. As it turned out, her soul was missing. Someone had removed it.”

  “The machine showed you that?” Tony asked.

  “Not directly,” Matthias admitted. “Considering it can detect other living souls as we’d tested it on others, and since it bore no readings from Ms. Winehouse, we are only left to conclude that, somehow, hers was purposefully removed. Yes, revolutionary, but still within the realm of possibility. We even considered that knowledge-occluding karma could also be a reason her soul wasn’t detected, but similar tests on those who are known to possess such karma still revealed their soul’s existence.”

  “In other words,” Gregory added, “we have to find a missing soul.”

  Tony furrowed his brow. “How can we find them when they’re so tiny they’re invisible?”

  “It may have something to do with that very small abdominal scar,” L’Da explained. “Something powerful enough to somehow extract her spark.”

  “Then her soul is being kept somewhere,” Gregory surmised, “otherwise the Watcher would’ve detected it already. I wonder where it could be?”

  “Maybe it’s still in the extraction tool,” Tony figured, his brain bursting with activity.

  “Could be,” L’Da agreed.

  “We travel, some of us forever,” Gregory emoted, out of the blue, “to seek other states, other lives, other souls.”

  “Wait…what?” his young charged asked. “What does that mean?”

  Gregory shrugged. “Just thought I’d say something deep. It’s from Anaïs Nin.”

  “Never heard of him,” Tony admitted.

  “Her,” the ex-cop corrected him. “She wrote…”

  “Can you two discuss Anaïs some other time?” L’Da interrupted, frustrated. “I think you have much more important business at hand.”

  Around 3PM, Gregory and Tony were casually strolling down Ohayo Mountain Road just south of the main drag through town to meet their second interviewee. The narrow, winding lane, sorely in need of repair, was marred with cracks for most of its miles. The afternoon sun could barely be seen through the curtain of towering maples, oaks and pines decorating both sides of the street. Taking a break from the long walk, Tony stopped to drink some of the water cascading down a rivulet at the side of the road. Following suit, Gregory also stopped to imbibe some of the deliciously clear gelid drink.

  “Remind again me why we’re walking instead of taking the trolley?” Tony asked.

  “Just learning the lay of the land, Tony,” the elder PI explained. “You know, if I could bottle this water I’d make a fortune.”

  “Who would you sell it to?” his pal asked rhetorically.

  “True,” Gregory admitted.

  A little further down the road, they stopped to read the green sign which pointed south.

  ←WOODSTOCK PARK

  “I guess we’re almost there,” Tony mumbled.

  Traipsing a few yards further, they saw what they were looking for. In a clearing on the side of the road sat a red stone lodge with a gray roof much like the ones the Choctaw built in Oklahoma at the turn of the century. In front of it was an old fashioned stone and wood well that looked like it was trucked in from a John Wayne Sunday matinee. Above the front door was a long rectangular wooden sign with the words ‘Ohayo Mountain Center’ carved in it. To the rear of the lodge was a serene oval lake approximately 1 ½ miles in circumference, framed by a forest so thickly wooded that Snow White and the Seven Dwarves could live there forever without ever being detected by the modern world.

  “Funky little joint,” Tony thought aloud as they walked to the building.

  Opening the front door, they found themselves surrealistically transported back to 1890’s Ohio, half expecting Annie Oakley or Buffalo Bill to show up on horseback and greet them to their humble establishment. Winchester and Remington rifles were displayed on varnished planks high up on the walls. Native American blankets and covers hanged off racks throughout the store. Along all walls were shelves stocked with fishing equipment – lures, poles, buckets, nets, how-to pamphlets, etc. Life jackets, inflatable boats and wooden canoes were displayed at the far end of the spacious room. Several potential customers were checking out the goods. The one clerk in the store, himself attired in a mix of Apache and East Indian accoutrements, was assisting a gentleman in the back decide which canoe to purchase. Both salesman and customer on the ground facing the canoe, they were testing the strength of the carrier’s blue keel and hull. Gregory approached them while Tony studied the various items on sale elsewhere.

  “Excuse me,” the PI introduced himself to the two guys. “Can I get some help?”

  The clerk turned around and said in a gentle voice, “I’ll be with you in a minute.” Gregory almost had an asthma attack when he saw the brown skinned, afro wearing, Native American-hatted clerk was Jimi Hendrix in the flesh.

  CHAPTER 19

  When Jimi was finished consulting with the customer, he walked over to Gregory who was checking out some sleeping bags, survival supplies and edible plants at the Center. Tony, himself, was occupied trying on several hooded tribal Aztec ponchos.

  “Can I help you?” the legendary rock & blues guitarist asked the PI.

  “My name’s Gregory Angelicus,” the ex-cop said, shaking his hand. “That fellow over there is Tony Lopez. I’m an investigator and he’s my assistant.”

  “Oh, man,” Jimi groaned. “What’d I do now?”

  “No, no, no,” the PI assured him. “It’s not like that. We wanted to talk to you about Amy.”

  “Amy?”

  “Winehouse,” Gregory answered.

  “Oh, yeah,” the guitarist recalled. “Wow, that was a heavy thing, man. Tragic, you know?”

  “Um, is there some place we can talk?” the ex-cop asked, surveying the lodge.

  “I was just gonna take a break and go for a walk down to South Beach,” Jimi revealed. “Why don’t y’all come with me? It’s a pretty nice day out.”

  “Sure,” Gregory said, nodding. “Um, who’s gonna mind the shoppe? You seem to be the only clerk around.”

  “Still learning the ropes, huh?” Jimi chuckle
d. “It’s not just the stores in town without locks on their doors. If cats want to corrupt their soul with petty thievery, that’s on them. Brother, around here, when they say there’s hell to pay, they really mean it.”

  A few minutes later, Jimi, Gregory and Tony were on the road to the South Beach, passing a doobie around supplied by Jimi. The transparent, cloudless sky, an endless canopy of cerulean blue, hovered over them like a comforting blanket. The trees and shrubs of all shapes and sizes on both sides of the narrow road extended into infinity, rendering them as perfect sites for camping. Tony, wearing a knapsack donated to him from Jimi, fished a bottle of water out of it and started gulping it down like a parched hyena.

  “As you cats can see,” Jimi spoke, stretching out his arms, “this is nature at its peak. I come out here a lot to commune with the missus, as I call her.”

  “To play guitar, no doubt,” Gregory guessed.

  “Not really,” Hendrix negated. “I mean, whew, can you imagine strumming away day after day for, what, thirty, forty years? I could go crazy. Then again, they say I am, so maybe it’s too late,” he laughed. “Everybody’s got their opinion. That’s cool. We’re all just trying to live.”

  “I gotta say,” Tony inserted, “my life is complete; walking down the street with the greatest guitar player in the world.”

  “Oh, man,” Jimi moaned. “If I had a nickel for every time I heard that. I’m not the greatest. There are cats out there that make me look like I have no fingers. Thanks for the compliment, though. So, why are you guys talking to me about Amy? I barely knew her.”

  “She lived in your house,” Gregory answered. “The 27 Club.”

  “Oh, shucks,” Hendrix said, “you know, at this point they can call it the 74 Club.”

  “Is that how old you guys really are?” Tony asked.

  “I guess so,” Jimi stated. “Trippy, right?”

  “How did you and Amy get along?” Gregory queried.

  “Everything was alright between us,” Hendrix admitted. “I mean, she did her thing and I did mine. Did you know she was a blues singer?”

  “No,” the PI admitted. “I didn’t know. Why’d you mention that, though?”

  “They call me the wild cat,” Jimi explained, “but she can be out there, too. I was kind of intimidated when she first came by. Whew, she’s strong, but she surprised me by knowing songs from people like Blind Willie McTell, Big Bill Broonzy, Blue Lu Barker, Georgia White…pretty impressive. We did a couple of recordings back at the house, or The House, as they call it in Woodstock. Never saw so much press in my life when she died, not even at the Isle of Wight or Monterey Pop.”

  “Wow,” Tony extolled. “Recordings with Amy Winehouse backed up by Jimi Hendrix.”

  “What else are we gonna do up here?” Jimi pondered. “A bunch of us cats just sat around all night, playing music, getting stoned out of our minds, that sort of thing. You know Stevie Ray Vaughan?”

  Gregory shook his head. “Sounds familiar, but not really.”

  “I do,” Tony confessed. “Plays a lot like you.”

  “Yeah,” Jimi smiled. “That’s the one. When I first heard him I was, like, wow, I may as well hang it up now. But we get along real good, you know? Comes by the house to jam every so often. He was part of those sessions, too. Keith Moon, Johnny Entwistle, lots of cats.”

  “You had a big influence on musicians,” Tony explained. “Even till this day.”

  “Cool,” Hendrix acknowledged. “A lot of good players up here, too. Gary Moore, Rory Gallagher, Zappa, Terry Kath, Randy Rhoads, Dimebag Darrell, Duane Allman; you know, I taught Robert Johnson electric. That brother, man. Wow.”

  “Who’s Robert Johnson?” Gregory asked.

  “Oh, gosh,” Jimi lamented, “we gotta get you up to speed. That’s the grand pappy of them all. All us slingers can sit at his feet all day and still not pick up on half the stuff he plays. He’s a bluesman, but his ideas are, wow, mind blowing. Just when you think a lick is headed in one direction he completely alters it, keeps you on your toes. Very creative plucker. Took my own equipment and turned it on its ear! I think I didn’t play for a year after that. Oh, yeah. Robert Johnson. Spends most of his time in Blues Heaven, but knowing him, he probably has a second home in Models’ Heaven. I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  “They recently found out how Ms. Winehouse died,” the PI stated. “Someone removed her soul.”

  “Really?” Jimi asked, surprised. “That can be done?”

  The PI nodded. “Apparently.”

  “How’d they do it?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out,” Gregory explained. “We think they used some sort of extraction device and that’s what may have left that mark on her abdomen.”

  “I don’t know how I can help your investigation,” Hendrix vowed. “All this is new to me.”

  “We’ll need you to come back to the station for a polygraph,” Gregory said, trying his best to make his request sound as un-authoritative as possible.

  “Oh, shucks,” the legendary guitarist groaned. “Again? I did one already.”

  “I use a different set of criteria,” Gregory informed him.

  Jimi eyed the PI. “Where are you from?”

  “Seattle,” the ex-cop answered. “Why do you ask?”

  “You remind me of this guy I used to jam with from the Rocking Kings,” Jimi explained. “Sound just like him, too. Your father played drums?”

  Gregory shook his head. “Not that I know.”

  “You must be really familiar with that city,” Gregory wondered.

  “It’s where I was born and raised,” the left-handed Strat master informed him. “Went to Garfield High School on 23rd, played in a couple of local bands. So how’s the town these days?”

  “They’re developing it really fast,” Tony asserted. “Maybe too fast.”

  “People got their own rocket ships yet?” Hendrix joked.

  “Nah,” Tony shook his head. “It didn’t develop that far.”

  “At least it’s developing,” Hendrix mused. “I had to drop out because the place just wasn’t happening for me.”

  “Oh, it’s developing all right,” Tony swore, “just in the wrong direction.”

  “What do you mean?” Jimi asked him.

  “Gentrification, man,” Tony answered.

  “What’s that?”

  “The poor folks are getting kicked out of town,” the young PI asserted. “They gotta move down to Renton, Kent, Tacoma, places like that.”

  “At least they have a place to go,” Jimi stated.

  Tony abruptly stopped in his tracks and stared at the legend. “You don’t understand, man,” he said angrily. “It ain’t about development, it’s about money, like a fucking land grab.”

  “Wow,” Hendrix said, thrusting his palms outward, “you make it seem like upward progress is a bad thing.”

  “Not when it’s at the expense of the less unfortunate,” Tony roared, the veins on his neck protruding at least 1/8th of an inch.

  “I left that town because it was ass backwards,” Jimi complained. “Freaks like me couldn’t get a break. So, hell yeah, I’m all for progress. Small minds keep the world back, bro.”

  “Ah,” Tony moaned, throwing his hands up. “I give up.” Hendrix watched as the young PI stormed off to sulk in silence.

  “Your boy’s pretty high strung,” Jimi told the elder PI. “Reminds me of me when I was a young ‘un. Loose as a cannon.”

  “He just got here,” Gregory said in his pal’s defense. “Gonna be confused for a while.”

  “True,” Hendrix nodded. “Nothing a couple hits of Monterey Purple can’t fix.”

  Minutes later, the group of three found themselves on the South Beach. Tony had calmed down by at least 10 degrees, though the recent verbal altercation with the rock legend still rested like bricks on his mind. Unlike the East or West beaches, the South wasn’t super suitable for lounging on because the land was basically gravel and alluvial
silt with giant boulders and fallen tree limbs scattered about. Also, because the beach itself was narrower than the East’s, water frequently splashed up on the rocks with forces strong enough to wash any unsuspecting sunbather out to sea. Two young people were sitting in director’s chairs near the boulders, but from where the trio stood, they appeared to be fast asleep.

  “Jimi,” the ex-cop asked, “how come The Center has rifles for sale? There’s nothing to shoot up here.”

  “They just look like rifles,” the lefty guitarist explained, ‘but they emit bursts of light on reactive targets. Marks the spots where you’ve hit. I’m not into guns myself but they’re just trying to accommodate those who are.”

  “What kind of targets?” Gregory asked. “Deer? Ducks?”

  “Nah,” Jimi answered. “Just regular circular ones. You’re interested in a rifle?”

  “I might check it out some time,” the PI swore. “You know, this place is pretty sparse. Where’s all the action, Woodstock Park?”

  “Yep,” Hendrix answered. “People go swimming or jogging around the lake; some take their kayaks out on it. Lots of campsites around there, too. Picnics and meetings are even scheduled there. There’s a theatre, concert hall, reception hall, and a restaurant, too. When we get back I’ll give you a brochure if you’re interested.”

  “Thanks,” the PI said.

  “I also saw fishing rods back at the Center,” Tony noted. “There is no fish, right?”

  “Robots,” the bushy-haired guitarist elucidated. “This ain’t the season for ‘em, though.”

  “What good are robot fish?” the detective-in-training asked. “You can’t eat them.”

  “You can’t,” Hendrix agreed. “They’re just for sport. Huge ones, like marlins and swordfish. Most of the time, when they get dragged out of the water, they have to go back for repairs. That takes a while, that’s why the fishing is done in seasons.”

  “They have a duck hunting season?” Tony asked.

  “Not around here,” the Center clerk answered. “As a matter of fact, they’re doing away with all things related to hunting, you know, that karma reduction stuff.”