Killer Riff

by Sheryl J. Anderson

  “If Olivia accuses Claire, and Claire accuses Olivia, don’t they cancel each other out?” Tricia asked.

  “You trying to cancel out my article?” I asked.

  “No, but you’re at such a delicate place with Kyle, I’d hate to see it founder for no good reason.”

  “‘It’ being the article or the relationship?”

  “Either.”

  “You notice she’s not taking Kyle with her tonight,” Cassady said, draping an ice-blue silk tee across the pile of clothes at the foot of the bed.

  “That would be mixing pleasure with business,” I protested lamely.

  “Which is which at this stage?” Tricia asked sweetly.

  “More to the point,” Cassady said, perching on the bed beside her, “it would be mixing someone who believes this was murder”—pointing to me—”with someone who doesn’t.” She gestured vaguely in the direction of the front door to indicate Kyle.

  I’d already told Kyle that I was going to the concert as part of my research for the article, and we’d left it at that. I had tried to maintain the same lilting, intimate tone with him that I’d employed in our morning phone call before I’d met with Olivia, even though my concern about where this article was going to lead had sharpened considerably. He hadn’t expressed any interest in the concert or any concern about my going alone; I suspected he was giving me time to sort through whatever facts Olivia would be able to offer and then come around to his way of thinking, that Russell’s death had been accidental. I was going to need a lot more than Olivia and Claire pointing fingers at each other to persuade him differently. And I was going to have to find out more about the tapes.

  “It’s much simpler than you’re making it. Claire Crowley asked me to come, and it didn’t seem appropriate to ask to bring a guest. I’d love to have you both there, believe me.”

  “Thanks for the thought,” Cassady said, “but I’m seeing Aaron tonight for the first time in three days, and that will be hotter than any Crowley in concert, save perhaps Micah returned from the grave.”

  I shivered. “That’s such a disturbing mix of images, I can’t possibly respond.”

  “Wow. Not having seen him for three days and you’re so excited,” Tricia said with a theatrical sigh. “Imagine if you hadn’t seen him for three weeks. Or maybe even six!”

  Cassady looked at her askance. “We said we weren’t going to pry.”

  “You said we weren’t,” Tricia corrected.

  “What’s there to pry about?” I asked, slipping into a black tiered jersey skirt.

  “The next time you and Kyle are getting together,” Cassady said, stretching out on the bed, hands behind her head, ankles crossed carefully beside, not on, my pile of potential outfits.

  Tricia stretched out beside her, mimicking her pose. “And any relevant details.”

  “I’d love to share, but I have work to do,” I said, starting to pull on a teal boatneck blouse.

  “Not in that, you don’t,” Tricia said, sitting back up with a disgusting lack of effort, pulling the blouse out of my hands, and floating back down.

  “Kyle and I are talking again. Isn’t that enough for the moment?” I asked.

  “Is it?” Cassady asked. “Try the peach one.”

  I obediently picked up the peach blouse and slid into the crisp cotton while I tried to decide if the fact that Kyle and I were talking again was enough. Much as I missed him, I was acutely aware of the fact that we hadn’t addressed our problem, much less fixed it, so the slower we took things, the better our odds of successfully getting back together. I was also acutely aware that such intellectual sandbagging could hold back the emotional floodwaters for only so long. Especially when I could still feel my lips humming from his kiss.

  “It’s not enough. I can tell,” Tricia said with authority.

  “How?” I asked.

  “You’re buttoning your blouse wrong.”

  I persuaded my friends to table the discussion about Kyle, since it was making me increasingly nervous, so I could concentrate on my approach for the concert, not that it was anxiety-free. This would be an ideal opportunity to get a feel for the dynamics of the inner circle and see if any of the rest of them were supporters of the theory that Russell had died by someone else’s hand. Not that I was planning on using the question as an icebreaker, but I hoped I’d be able to pick up some undercurrent along the way.

  I needn’t have worried.

  Walking up to the entrance of Mars Hall, I took in the throng of fans waiting to get in and allowed myself a moment’s thrill at being on the right side of the velvet rope for a change. I knew that the few people who even noticed me were more inclined to be thinking “I wonder who she thinks she is” than “I wonder who she is,” but it was still cool to walk up to the heavily muscled gentleman girded with the all-powerful clipboard and say, “Hi, I’m a guest of Claire Crowley. Molly Forrester.”

  My head barely came up to his mammoth shoulder, even though Cassady had persuaded me to wear my four-inch Max Studio black ankle straps with the little satin bows, mainly because Tricia had talked me out of the jersey skirt and into the one leather skirt I own, given to me by a former fashion editor at the magazine because I’d let her niece interview me for a school project. It was a tad shorter than I was used to, but I had vowed not to tug on it once during the course of the evening.

  The doorman looked down at me with a frown. “Holly who?”

  I repeated my name for him, my buzz from being on the right side of the rope quickly dissipating as the first few people in line snickered with each other, figuring I was trying to bluff my way inside. Had Claire changed her mind or just forgotten? What was the most polite way to proceed with a guy who had no doubt heard many more inventive reasons why “no, really, my name should be on the list” than I could possibly come up with in the ninety seconds I had left before he got impatient with me? He was at least polite enough to look at the list again, but he was shaking his head as a voice said, “It’s cool, she’s with me.”

  It was a beautiful voice, low and resonant, and its owner was pretty hot, too. It took me a moment to recognize him because he was wearing his black hair shorter, the curls cropped into waves, and his face was a little thinner, his cheekbones more prominent. But there was no question about the dazzling green eyes and the full-lipped mouth. “Adam Crowley,” I said. Squeals from the women in line confirmed it.

  “No, pretty sure I’m Adam Crowley. Which makes you Molly Forrester.” His lopsided smile was slightly pained, as though being charming didn’t come easily to him, which I doubted was the case.

  It was hard not to smile back as I shook his hand. “If you insist.”

  “Let’s give it a try, see how it goes.” He thanked the doorman and pushed open the door for me. The women in line called his name, several reaching out for him. He waved to them politely and scooped his hand around my back, hurrying me inside.

  “I don’t mean to take you from your fans,” I apologized as the door closed behind us.

  “Just because someone screams your name doesn’t mean they love you,” he said wryly. He made a point of giving me the once-over. “Though you probably haven’t been in that kind of relationship.”

  “You’re very kind.”

  “Only occasionally.” He cocked his head to the side as though considering pursuing that line of thought further, then seemed to change his mind. “We’re back here,” he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder, then turning and walking in that direction.

  I fell in beside him. “I appreciate your coming out to meet me,” I said as we walked through the back of the theater, the darkened interior already crackling with the energy of employees hurrying to prepare for the doors to open. It was a large open-floor plan, with an old proscenium stage on the front wall and tall gilt mirrors along the back. There was table seating on the floor and an upstairs balcony on the three sides facing the stage. The decor was minimalist, just this side of sawdust on the floor and cowboys a
t the bar; brass sconces on the wall and accents on the balcony railings were the only noticeable efforts at glitzing up the place.

  “My mother wanted to make sure you were properly escorted. Does that mean you’re someone deserving of special treatment or someone she doesn’t trust?”

  I laughed, hoping it didn’t sound nervous. Or adolescent, given that a shrill little teenage girl in my head was screaming, Adam Crowley! I can’t believe it, Micah Crowley’s son Adam is talking to me! I cleared my throat and tried to clear my head. “I just met her, I’d hope it wasn’t a matter of trust.”

  “So you’re a new girlfriend of Jordan’s, not an old one or a stalker.”

  “None of the above,” I said, stopping just as he was about to lead me through an unmarked door flanked by two men who made the giant out front look undernourished. “Maybe you were supposed to pick up someone else.”

  He made a face that was probably supposed to look sheepish, but the green eyes were too amused to pull it off. “I just assumed—I get sent to the front door to pick up a beautiful woman, you must be connected with Jordan in some way.”

  “I’m here with Olivia, actually.”

  “One of her patients?”

  “Hardly.”

  “She’s one of yours?”

  “Colder.”

  His smile grew more relaxed, and he backed through the door, cocking his head again as I followed him. “You can’t be a friend of hers,” he said as he led me down the hallway decorated with posters of performances at the theater that formed a crash course in rock history: Jagger, Byrne, Verlaine, Johansen, Hynde, Springsteen, Cobain …

  “Why couldn’t I be a friend of hers?”

  “Because I’ve met both of them and they’re not lovely or interesting.”

  Now I cocked my head at him. “She speaks highly of you.”

  “Either she’s lying or you are.”

  “Would you feel better if I said she didn’t talk about you at all?”

  “I’d know we were getting closer to the truth,” he said, his smile dimming slightly. We turned a corner into a new hallway densely populated with roadies trying to get work done and assorted hangers-on who were hanging. Adam turned so he was facing forward and tucked my elbow into his hand. “Stick with me, you’ll have a much better time.” Steering me expertly through the crowded hallway, responding with a smile to the people who called out his name in varying levels of excitement as we walked by, he moved me quickly through the throng.

  I was fascinated that people responded to him so strongly, even though he hadn’t recorded anything in a long time, and had said on more than one occasion that he was done performing. Of course, he was putting on quite a show for me, and I wondered if that was just his way, to be “on” all the time. Or maybe it had something to do with the real tenor of his relationship with Olivia, which could be an interesting aspect of the article. Especially if Olivia and his mother had genuine reasons for suspecting each other in Russell’s death.

  “I would like to talk to you, somewhere quieter than here,” I said.

  “Great. Let’s go.” He stopped, pulling back on my elbow as though to turn us around so we could go back to the entrance.

  “Later. Right now I have work to do.”

  “C’mon, Olivia can be difficult, but work? Give the kid a break.” He propelled us to a door with a printed sign that read JORDAN CROWLEY. AS he raised his hand to knock, the door swung open and a striking but very unhappy man strode out. Tall and thin, with exquisitely sharp cheekbones and thick, shoulder-length black hair shot through with silver. My breath caught in my throat and stayed there—fortunately, because it kept me from shrieking his name or babbling about how huge a crush I’d had on him when I was a teenager.

  Dancing awkwardly around us, he forced a polite smile. “Excuse me.”

  “Gray, you leaving?” Adam asked.

  Gray Benedek’s hazel eyes went cold, even though his smile never faltered. “Buddy, I don’t even know why I came.”

  “Let me talk to her,” Adam began.

  “I’m sure you’ve got better things to do.” Gray tipped his head in acknowledgment of my stammering, starry-eyed presence and hurried down the hall.

  It wasn’t until he was out of my line of sight that I could breathe again. As impressed as I was to be standing next to Adam Crowley, he wasn’t a superstar idol from my formative years, when I’d all but glue on headphones and listen to one album over and over again while gazing at the band’s picture and memorizing every word, every bit of phrasing, on every song. “Was that Gray Benedek?” I asked, trying to force the squeak out of my voice.

  “Yeah. Sorry, I should’ve introduced you,” Adam said, looking back over his shoulder to spot Gray.

  “Some other time,” I assured him. Sometime when I was prepared not to drool. I needed to be professional now. As my mother had told me when I got invited to an embassy formal while in college, “Pretend you do this all the time.”

  Once Adam knocked successfully, the door opened, revealing Claire Crowley, dazzling in a swirling vintage Indian cotton dress, something she might have worn when Micah was starting out. And looked just as good in it now as then. She smiled at her son, but he didn’t return it. “What’s wrong with Gray?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” Claire said, “he just had to go.” She turned to me quickly, giving me the same smile. “Molly, thank you for joining us.”

  “My pleasure,” I said as she drew Adam and me into the room. It was a classic dressing room, with several lighted mirrors and stools at the left wall. The rest of the space was dominated by two large and slightly bedraggled sofas and a big circular table loaded with iced beverages ranging from water to wine, fruit platters and baskets, and a huge tray of sandwiches and baked goods.

  Scanning the faces of the people in the room, I spotted Olivia in the corner of the far sofa, arms folded over her chest as though she’d just finished arguing with someone. Her face brightened when she saw me, and she stood. “This is the reporter I was telling you about,” she told the room in general.

  Adam let go of my elbow. “Reporter?” he repeated with mock distaste. At least I hoped it was mock.

  Olivia tapped the shoulder of the man sitting on a stool with his back to everyone else, hunched over a guitar. He eased the stool around but didn’t straighten up. Even from the odd angle, I was struck by the similarities between Jordan and Adam Crowley. Both looked more and more like their father as they got older, especially the penetrating eyes and sharp cheekbones. Their mothers looked so different, I would have expected Micah’s features to be altered, softened in each of them, but there was little disparity and no question that they were brothers.

  Jordan’s hair was longer, a mass of curls that dropped to near his shoulders. Maybe a shade or two lighter than his half-brother’s, but not much. The same mesmerizing green eyes, the full lips in the fine-boned face. I thought of the old Dan Fogelberg and Tim Weisberg album Twin Sons of Different Mothers. Here it was in the flesh. The most notable difference between the two was the bearing; even as Jordan uncurled from his guitar and stood, there was a slight hunch to his posture, a diffidence in his smile that seemed out of keeping with his rock star status. He waved to me in greeting, even though I was only six feet away, as Olivia explained who I was.

  “Hope you like the show,” he said, grabbing a water bottle off the makeup counter.

  “Of course she will,” said a slight woman in an impressively tight pair of 7 for All Mankind boot-cut jeans and red Anne Klein platform pumps as she stepped forward to shake my hand. “I’m Bonnie, Jordan’s mom.”

  After the entrancing similarities between the two sons, the differences between the two mothers were startling. Bonnie was more petite than I had realized from pictures, her hand seeming fragile in mine, her brown eyes huge in her delicate face. The skintight mesh pullover showed there wasn’t an ounce of fat on her frame. Her hair was chopped close to her head and streaked with even amounts of red and blond so
I couldn’t quite detect the original color, and she’d spiked it lightly. She and Claire were about the same age, but Claire appeared to be accepting the fact a little more gracefully than Bonnie was.

  “It’s great you’re doing an article on Ollie,” Jordan said, throwing his arm around Olivia’s neck. “She’s the best. Like the sister we don’t think we ever had, right, dude?”

  A look of pain snapped between Adam and Olivia, then Adam nodded tightly. “You got it, bro.”

  “And we all miss Russell like hell, y’know,” Jordan continued to me. “Just not the same. I’m gonna dedicate a song to him tonight.” He moved away from Olivia, shaking the water bottle as if it were a percussion instrument and humming, too low for me to pick out what the song was.

  “Do you think that’s wise?” Claire asked coolly.

  “It’s brilliant,” he responded with a grin.

  Olivia glanced uncomfortably at Claire before speaking. “Please, Jordan, it’ll make people sad.”

  Jordan shook his head, still keeping time. “It shouldn’t, it should make them angry. Pissed that a great guy like that would think that his life had no meaning anymore, that he had no option but to—”

  A sob escaped Olivia. Jordan stopped, pulling her to him awkwardly. Everyone else looked somewhere else, and I got the distinct impression that tact was not Jordan’s strong suit.

  The stage manager knocked as he opened the door to let Mr. Crowley know that he’d be going on in fifteen minutes. Adam said, “He’s still warming up,” and eased the stage manager back out of the room, leaning against the door so no one else could come in.

  “Blood pumping now, Jordan?” Adam asked bitterly.

  “Adam,” Bonnie said in a tone that would have been more appropriate had she been his mother.

  Adam’s mother said nothing, just walked over to disengage Olivia from Jordan’s embrace. She took Olivia over to Adam as Jordan leaned back against the mirror, drumming his fingers on the water bottle and glaring at the ceiling. Bonnie went to him, stroking his arm, but he didn’t react at all. The stage manager didn’t belong out front, he belonged back here directing the emotional traffic.