Hush

by Nancy Bush

  Gen recognized that look. Jarrod was pissed.

  But then Jarrod went back to the mic, started in on some vocals, and the show went on.

  Gen felt almost gleeful. Maybe, just maybe, this time the band was over for good!

  Danner’s eyes followed his brother through the last several songs. He felt tense as a poised bear trap. He’d heard Split Decision a number of times and had always thought they were good for a garage band, not for the big time, maybe, but good enough to keep a crowd happy around the greater Portland area. He’d always suspected that Jarrod knew it, too, even though Jarrod loved the band.

  But Kirk’s shocking announcement had definitely come as a surprise to all of them, Jarrod included.

  The set ended and Split Decision went backstage without much more than a couple of mumbled good-byes. Kirk’s bald head shone red as he walked with a swagger across the stage and out of sight. Danner wondered if they were just on break; their time wasn’t up yet, was it? Then he heard Genevieve say, “Who knew?” and the rest of her friends chimed in with surprised noises. A few minutes later another band came on and broke into their first set, clearly taking over.

  Danner was on his feet. He needed to talk to Jarrod—about a lot of things, it seemed.

  “Ready?” Coby asked, looking at him.

  “I’m sorry. I want to find Jarrod. Mind waiting just a bit?”

  “No problem.”

  Danner skirted the tables and around the apron of the stage to a side door marked “No Entrance,” which he ignored. That’s what he loved about Coby, he realized. Her ability to just get what was happening and know when to go with the flow and not get in the way. She was amazing that way. Surprisingly self-confident. Never needing the kind of soul-sucking, constant reassurance so often demanded by other women.

  You’re thinking in terms of love, he told himself.

  He supposed that should bother him some, at least register at some deeper level, but all he felt was grateful for her, glad that she was in his life.

  He walked around the back curtain and past a guy who said, “Hey!” which Danner also ignored, and found Split Decision squaring off behind a set of double doors, all of them facing each other across a room with a few of the scarred wooden chairs from the club and not much else. Jarrod actually looked like he wanted to take a swing at Kirk.

  “What the fuck’s your problem, man?” Kirk goaded him with a sneer, begging to be hit.

  “Hey, dude,” Spence greeted Danner, his eyes darting around the room like he was looking for an escape.

  “You’re my problem!” Jarrod snapped back, jabbing a finger at Kirk. “Always with the big deal. Always, always making some kind of stand. Gotta be about Kirk!”

  “That sounds like something from Gen’s mouth.” Kirk was unfazed. Glancing at Danner, he also said, “Hey.”

  Jarrod slowly dragged his gaze from Kirk and glared blindly at Danner. “What are you doing here?” he demanded, fists clenched.

  “Seeing the show.” Danner was on the balls of his feet, recognizing the danger of things exploding from his experience on the job breaking up numerous fights.

  “I know you’ve been asking around the clubs about us,” Jarrod snarled at him. “You think we’re some kind of thieves.”

  “Not me,” Danner said. So, they knew about Celek’s inquiries.

  “Bull—fucking—shit. And Gen told me about your long talk with her. Coby not enough for you? You want my wife, too?”

  “C’mon, Jarrod,” Danner said quietly. He’d never seen his brother so furious.

  “C’mon? C’mon?” He took a step toward Danner.

  “Whoa, whoa.” Kirk was holding up his hands. “You wanna hit me? Hit me. What the hell did he do?”

  Jarrod wheeled around. “You can’t just shit all over us, Kirk! That’s what I’m saying.”

  “You’re the one shitting all over your brother,” Kirk pointed out.

  Jarrod suddenly leapt forward and punched Kirk in the face. A quick jab that was startling with its speed and intent. Kirk went down, bleeding hard. Spence and Ryan rushed forward, shouting, then stood around on one foot and the other, completely out of their comfort zone.

  Danner growled, “Come’n get me,” his fists lifted, needing to turn Jarrod’s anger from Kirk before he did real damage.

  But the punch had drained the fury from Jarrod and now he staggered to a chair, collapsed, and held his head in his hands. His whole body was racked by tremors, as if he were sobbing without sound.

  Danner crouched next to him and asked softly, “What the hell’s this all about, man? It’s not just Kirk.”

  “No, it’s not.” He raised a drawn, pale face and said dully, “I’m leaving my wife. She’s in love with a dead man. She’s always been in love with him. And she’s tried to turn me into him and I’m sick and tired of it. Sick and tired . . . I had the band . . . but now that’s gone. There’s just nothing left.” Glancing over at Kirk, he said, “Sorry, man.” To Danner, “It’s over. It’s all over.”

  Chapter 22

  Yvette felt inside the depths of her coat pocket, her fingers sliding around the keys. She was cold through and through, and yet her conviction was strong. With care, she drove the vehicle back to its garage, down a long asphalt drive, very aware of the pole lights that lit up her progress as she made her way to the building with its four garage doors.

  This was Don Laidlaw’s house. Don Juan, as he was known at Xavier’s. Don was in his sixties, thought he was in his forties. He was portly with a well-fed, too many steaks and not enough vegetables look about him. His eyes were large, kind of buggy, and his hands were a little grab-ass. He had an eye for all the barmaids and waitresses at Xavier’s and a thick wallet that he was only too happy to open. His wife had left him to go live in a sunnier climate with one of their two daughters and her stick-up-his-butt husband, or so Don claimed.

  Don owned a two-story renovated farmhouse built sometime in the forties that was down a long lane. He lived in the house during the spring, summer, and fall, and in the winters he took off for Palm Springs and played golf and probably hit on the women who worked in the bars nearby.

  Don liked Yvette. Especially Yvette, because she didn’t like him. She told him: “I’ve got an eleven-year-old son and a job that sucks up all my nights. I have no time for anything but Benedict and work. What the hell would I do with you?”

  “I’ll take you out. We’ll take the Rolls through the wine country and end up at the coast. I’m a gentleman.”

  With grab-ass hands.

  She’d put him off for two years but just recently, when all the shit started raining down, she saw the benefit of knowing him. She’d pretended to be weakening, had even sat at his booth one night, briefly. Not long enough to get fired. Just long enough to set the hook.

  He’d gotten drunk and she’d pulled his keys from his coat, knowing about the garage and Don’s love of vehicles, the Rolls being only one. She’d sent him home in a cab that night, taken the keys to a locksmith and made a copy of five of them, the ones that looked like they might open the door to his garage or house. The next day, when Don showed up, looking for his keys, she handed them to him and told him with a smile that she’d made copies and he’d better be careful, she might show up at his place one day and surprise him.

  He told her she could come by any time. Use his house. Use his cars. Use him . . . please. . . .

  She laughed it off and then Don stopped by Xavier’s one last time before heading to Southern California until mid-March. He tried to kiss her, but she pulled away. She didn’t want him thinking he could get lucky if he stuck around.

  Reluctantly realizing she was still unattainable, he said good-bye, and from the moment he stepped out of sight, Yvette started plotting.

  She had months before he would be back.

  Tonight, all her planning had come to the end. She’d taken a bus to the stop closest to Don’s house and walked down the lane to the garage, unlocking the fourth bay,
knowing the car inside was the only one that wasn’t a collector’s. It was his wife’s six-year-old Acura sedan. It was perfect for her plans, and she unscrewed the back license plate and left it at the house.

  She drove the Acura to her apartment, parking it on the street. She worked a couple hours at Xavier’s and complained of a headache and possibly coming down with the flu and left her torked manager to cope without her. The bastard would probably actually have to do something, for once.

  And then she’d called him and made the date. He’d refused, of course, but she’d been pretty insistent. He knew the place she wanted to meet. He knew the turn-off from Highway 26 that would wind through a dark, two-lane road and end up at the little inn where they used to meet.

  She’d waited in Don Juan’s car and watched as his Land Rover cruised by. Then she went after it, pacing herself, keeping back when he made the turn.

  And when he’d reached the hairpin turn with a pond on one side and a ten-foot ditch on the other, she rammed him with everything she had, sending him spinning out of control and into the ditch with a slow tumble that ended in the field beyond.

  Now she was shaking. Shaking so badly she could barely close the door on the garage, aware she was lucky the Acura had kept running although there was definitely some serious damage on the left front side.

  She walked back toward the bus stop, aware that her left leg was aching badly. Something had rammed her upon impact. The dashboard? Steering column? Whatever it was, it hadn’t affected the engine. Her leg had been pinned, though, something she hadn’t messed with until she was back at Don’s garage, and then she’d had to work herself free. Now her knee hurt like hell, but it was functioning and that’s all that mattered.

  After boarding the bus, she sank into a seat in the middle. Thirty minutes later the bus dropped her off and she half walked, half hobbled through a wisping fog to her apartment complex. Juanita was there, taking care of Benedict. She didn’t know Yvette had left work as Yvette had parked her car down the street, changed into less noticeable clothes, then walked down the road to the bus stop. Now she did the reverse, circling the complex on the way to her car. She changed again, wincing in the cramped space. Her knee was swollen, she realized, and as she put back on the Xavier’s uniform—black short skirt, form-fitting top, black tights—she wondered just how noticeable the swelling was.

  She entered her apartment as if she were just getting off work. Juanita, who’d cleaned the kitchen and picked up the living room, was dozing on the couch. She awakened with a start when Yvette appeared, and then happily chattered on about Benedict and how he’d done all his homework, had actually shown his math paper to Juanita—such a smart boy!—who hadn’t understood any of it.

  As soon as Juanita was out the door Yvette moved to Benedict’s room, switching off the hall lights and letting her eyes adjust to the dark. She cracked open the door and listened, hearing her son’s even breathing. Then she walked to his bed and gazed down at him.

  He was the most beautiful boy. Beautiful boy.

  And he was all hers.

  She retraced her steps to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water, staring out the window to the parking lot below. Something was wrong with her. She was quivering like a palsy victim. Quivering all over.

  Reaction. Closing her eyes, she tried to zen out.

  She hoped to hell Hank Sainer was dead.

  Coby watched Genevieve get to her feet and walk toward the Cellar’s chain-link-fenced bar area. Danner had been gone about fifteen minutes and the party was breaking up even though the current band was energetically trying to keep the crowd happy. Suzette and Galen had followed Gen, and Paul, after a moment, headed their way as well. Juliet looked from Vic to Coby, then got up, said something about leaving, then strode out the door.

  Vic gazed at Coby in a way that made her start to feel nervous. She thought of the slashed tires.

  But what he said was: “Kirk Grassi’s an asshole.”

  Though Coby wholeheartedly agreed, she said, “He’s your friend.”

  “An asshole friend. We’ve all got ’em. You know why he’s leaving, don’t you?” he said. “He can’t stand Jarrod. Resents him, his suburban life . . . everything about him and Genevieve. Kirk’s glad they lost all their money on that house. They couldn’t afford it but Genevieve is such a bitch with big plans, and Jarrod let her run all over him way too long. Kirk finally said fuck it, and that’s what you saw tonight.” He picked up his beer and drained the rest of the bottle.

  Coby absorbed that, then asked, “What about Juliet? He said he was going to California. Didn’t sound like he was taking her.”

  He barked out a nasty laugh. “Juliet? We’ve all had a piece of that. Kirk knows.”

  Just talking to Vic made Coby feel like she was going to need a cleansing shower. “I thought he was her boyfriend.”

  “What are you, still in high school? Boyfriend? She’s a hookup, and she can call it any damn thing she wants, but Kirk’s not into her. Not like that.”

  “Sounds like she’s the last to know,” Coby stated coolly.

  “She knows. Don’t feel sorry for Juliet, or Suzette, or any of those Ettes. They’re all crazy, fuckin’ bitches, if you ask me. Even their own dad said they were at Annette’s party.”

  “Doesn’t sound like Jean-Claude,” Coby said tautly, gathering up her purse. She’d heard enough.

  “Yeah? Suzette overheard him. You can ask her.”

  Coby left the table. She saw the rest of them through the black chain-link wall. Gen was just getting a glass of wine and Suzette and Galen were hanging around. Coby had a sudden memory of Jean-Claude saying, “All my daughters are smart and beautiful, but a little tweaked, eh?” to her when she’d first seen him at Annette’s party. And she’d thought Suzette had been taking a nap, but maybe she wasn’t asleep and had overheard.

  But “a little tweaked” was a far cry from “they’re all crazy, fuckin’ bitches,” Vic’s own spin on Jean-Claude’s comment.

  Gen waved Coby to come inside the bar, and she reluctantly did so. Better than talking any more to Vic Franzen.

  Jarrod was still sitting in his chair as Ryan and Spence helped Kirk to his feet. The left side of Grassi’s face was swelling rapidly.

  There was a strained silence in the room, broken when Jarrod said, “Spence, Ryan, if you’ve been lifting band equipment from our venues, better stop. The law is onto you.”

  Danner looked from Jarrod to Spence, Ryan, and Kirk who were all staring open-mouthed in Jarrod’s direction.

  “Huh?” Ryan asked, blinking rapidly.

  “They’ll find you on craigslist, or wherever you’re selling the stuff,” Jarrod said. “If you turn yourselves in, return the stuff, and make restitution, you might even get a pass,” Jarrod added reasonably. He slid a look to his older brother for confirmation.

  All Danner could feel was relief in being tacitly told that his brother wasn’t involved in the burglaries. He nodded to both Spence and Ryan, whose faces were studies in panic.

  “We didn’t do anything wrong,” Ryan protested.

  “An investigation is under way and you have a limited time to get ahead of it,” Danner told them. “You need a good criminal defense attorney.”

  “Are you deaf, man?” Spence yelled. “We’re not going to jail for this! We weren’t even there.”

  “Jesus, you guys are dopes,” Kirk said in disgust.

  The two accused men left in a rush then, grabbing their equipment and practically stumbling over each other on the way out.

  Jarrod heaved a sigh and said, “They brought me some cash. I didn’t take it. Told them if they were stealing to stop. They knew Gen wanted a baby and that we couldn’t and how much it was going to take to have one . . . Gen talks and talks. They wanted to help pay for the IVF procedure.”

  “They’re dumb bunnies,” Kirk put in. “But they’re not, like, criminals.”

  Danner looked at him and Jarrod rushed in. “I swear, D
anner, if you say something like a crime’s a crime, I’ll punch you out, too!”

  “Yeah?” Danner asked him.

  “A crime’s a crime,” Kirk stated flatly.

  Jarrod glared at him coldly a long moment, but Kirk merely sent him back a lopsided grin; he held no grudge. Finally Jarrod shook his head in disbelief, then gave a short, aborted bark of laughter. “Dumb bunnies,” he repeated.

  Danner said, “Tell them to get their lawyer to contact Joshua Celek at the Portland PD. Soon.”

  Jarrod stared at the floor a moment, then nodded and said, “Will do.”

  Danner turned to leave, but Jarrod asked, “Can you hold on a bit? I need a little time before I go and face her.”

  Her being Genevieve. Danner thought about Coby, then pulled out another chair and straddled it backward, wondering how long it took someone like Jarrod to grow some balls.

  Coby was perched on a stool beside Genevieve, who’d finished her drink and was twisting the stem of the wineglass between her fingers. Suzette and Galen had left and Paul was trying to talk Vic into going as well.

  Vic seemed to want to hang around, and that finally decided Genevieve, who threw both Coby and Vic a dark look and seemed to want to say something else, then flounced away.

  “So, have you learned anything about Annette’s murder?” Vic asked as soon as he and Coby were alone again.

  She found herself glancing at her watch for the umpteenth time. “Not really.”

  “Not really? Or you just don’t want to say? Hey, I can keep a secret.”

  Coby had had enough. “Vic, is this some kind of learned behavior? This I’ll just keep being annoying and maybe something’ll happen attitude? It’s why everyone wanted to blame you for leaving the notes. You know what mine said: ‘You don’t belong here.”’