Killer Riff

by Sheryl J. Anderson

  Murder and thievery are all well and good, but if you can’t stop a moment and squeal over your best friend’s brand-new engagement ring, then what’s your life come to?

  18

  Perhaps there’s some law in physics that can explain life’s continual need to flip itself upside down when you least expect it. It’s an excellent characteristic in a roller coaster but makes crafting a balanced life nearly impossible. The friend you thought would be the last to get engaged goes first, the man you find perfect finds you flawed, the person you thought was totally incapable of committing murder turns out to be the most cold-blooded creature you’ve ever met. Maybe Aaron can explain it to me someday, since he’s apparently going to be around for the duration.

  Tricia and I nearly conked heads as we both dove in to hug Cassady. Laughing, we let go of her long enough to fall upon Aaron, then moved right back to Cassady.

  “Isn’t this the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever seen?” Cassady said, tears sparkling at the corners of her eyes.

  “It’s splendid,” I said, choked up myself.

  “Were you shocked?” Tricia asked, sniffing grandly.

  “Stunned,” Cassady answered.

  “And here you thought he was up to no good,” I said, turning her hand so the diamond caught the glittering club lights.

  “Do you know why he’s been standing me up? Because he was too nervous and he needed to rehearse a few more times,” Cassady said with an “isn’t that sweet?” tone.

  “So his student didn’t have a problem?” I asked.

  “Oh, she did, but he said he’s not normally one to let work interfere to that extent. He was using it as a handy excuse,” she said with proud relief, knowing now that it was all for the best. I felt a hot flash of guilt; how much of my insistence on the importance of my work was a defense mechanism, hedging my bets in case Kyle and I couldn’t get the bugs worked out?

  “Oh, this is so amazing,” Tricia said, quivering with sympathetic happiness. “You wait right here, I have the most incredible idea.”

  She raced away, giving me the opportunity to hug Cassady all by myself. “I’m so happy for you.”

  “Who’da thunk it?” She laughed.

  Over her shoulder, I could see Aaron explaining his method of proposal to Kyle and Kenny, who both smiled appreciatively. Kyle looked up long enough to catch my eye and wink. He didn’t seem to be experiencing any of the pangs of guilt or, I admit, jealousy that I was feeling, but my head was too jumbled for me to decide whether that was a good sign. Besides, as thrilled as I was for Cassady and Aaron, I needed to stay focused on why we were there, beyond Jordan’s singing.

  Checking on the ringside booth, I could see Gray, Claire, and Adam sitting together, the men watching the stage expectantly, Gray spewing about something and Adam nodding absently. Claire stared daggers at me across the crowded room. Enchanted evening, my foot.

  Onstage, Bonnie and the technicians appeared to have reached the end of their consultation, and I caught a glimpse of Jordan and Tricia whispering cozily in the wings with Olivia as a welcome third wheel. Olivia’s hands flew to her mouth, and Jordan smiled dazzlingly at something Tricia said, then they both nodded. Tricia threw her arms around Jordan’s neck, and they kissed with noticeable heat. How caught up in my own story—stories—had I been not to have noticed how involved my two best friends were with these two men?

  Then Jordan walked onto the stage, skintight black leather pants, white linen shirt only partially buttoned. Bonnie clasped her hands together, radiating maternal pride, then threw open her arms to embrace him. Jordan scooped her into his arms and spun her around once before depositing her carefully back on her feet. The people who were watching the stage applauded, causing everyone else to turn toward the stage.

  Jordan kissed Bonnie on the cheek, and now the whole room erupted with applause. I spotted Risa in the crowd, smiling and clapping in approval. Bonnie slipped into the wings as the band came out and Jordan strode up to his microphone, holding out his arms in welcome. “Good evening! Welcome to our little party for a few close friends.” He grinned, gesturing to the full house. “We’ll be starting in just a few minutes, so grab a drink, grab a date, and settle in. We’re gonna be here all night.”

  This was a more gregarious Jordan than I’d seen before, and I wondered if that was a reflection on how things were going with his songs or with Tricia or something else. I glanced over at Adam, who was watching Jordan with razor-sharp intensity. Maybe Jordan was just enjoying have a leg up on Adam.

  Bonnie and Olivia appeared at the booth to the right of the stage, smiling and waving to people as they took their seats. It was like warring dynasties clustered at the feet of the crown prince.

  Tricia ran back to us, out of breath but carrying bottles of Veuve Clicquot in each hand. “Jordan has something special for you,” she said to Cassady. “Come sit down and enjoy.” She pointed to the booth next to Claire and Gray and led the way.

  “I’m gonna start things off,” Jordan said to a renewed wave of cheering, “with a song I’ve never performed in public before. In fact, only a couple of people have heard it at all until tonight. And I’m playing it for two very special people here tonight—Cassady and Aaron. Congratulations on your engagement!”

  Tricia looked back over her shoulder and winked at Cassady and Aaron, who both blushed. A club filled with people who had no idea who Cassady and Aaron were cheered voraciously for them anyway. Jordan fired off an amazing riff that exploded into a sustained chord from the entire band, then they pulled it way back down into bluesy vamping as Jordan leaned into the microphone, eyes half-closed, voice husky with emotion. “Carve out a space where only we exist,” he sang. “Lead me to a place that I would have missed.”

  Tricia parked the champagne bottles on our table and gestured to the stage proudly. “I asked him to play it for you,” she shouted over the music.

  “It’s beautiful!” Cassady shouted back.

  “It’s the one he wrote for me. That’s my song.”

  “Oh, sweetie, thank you!” Cassady teared up, clutching Tricia’s hand with one hand and Aaron’s with the other.

  “Raises the bar on our engagement present to her, doesn’t it?” Kyle whispered in my ear, trying to guide me into the booth.

  At least it was a great song. Because it would have been doubly tragic if the chaos that ensued had been inspired by some disposable pop tune that you couldn’t even remember three minutes after you listened to it. I was turning to answer Kyle when Claire Crowley came hurtling out of her booth beside us.

  “Stop him!” she demanded of the room in general, despite the fact that the music was so loud, no one more than an arm’s length away could hear her.

  “Mother,” Adam warned as he clambered out of the booth behind her. Gray stayed at the table, his head in his hands. It truly was a beautiful song, and I didn’t understand why the three of them were so upset.

  Frustrated by the general lack of response to her demand, Claire turned to us. “Stop him!” she insisted again.

  “Mrs. Crowley,” Tricia said in her best hostess voice, “don’t you like it? It’s my song.” She placed a placating hand on Claire’s arm, and Claire smacked it away.

  “You awful little wannabe,” she spat, “that’s not your song. Who told you that?”

  “Jordan wrote it for Tricia,” I said, confused by Claire’s lack of control and trying to figure out exactly where Kenny was standing and whether we should quickly modify our agreement about no preannouncement pictures.

  Now it was my turn to feel the wrath of Claire. Her nostrils flared so wide that her top lip flattened out. “I knew you weren’t as clever as you pretend. That’s my song.”

  There’s a ride at Disneyland that my devious little niece lured me onto last summer, where you’re supposedly in the elevator of a haunted hotel and you rocket up just long enough to get a magnificent peek at the park and the city, spread out as a million sparkling lights below you, before
the car drops so fast that your body rises up, straining against the seat belt for a moment, then slams back down in pursuit of your stomach, which has plummeted all the way to your ankles.

  “The song Micah wrote for you?” I asked.

  “Yes!”

  A whole different answer to the puzzle of the Hotel Tapes, of Russell’s murder, flashed before me even as my stomach and theories went into deadfall. I’d been so fixed on Claire as puppet master, jerking Olivia, Adam, and everyone else around for her own purposes, that I hadn’t seriously considered the other branch of the family tree. I hadn’t seriously considered that Jordan had been sitting on the tapes all along until he was ready to pass off the songs as his own.

  “Jordan wrote it for me,” Tricia repeated, wounded.

  “It can’t be,” I said to Claire, not defending Jordan as much as trying to hold my theory together. “I mean, if you had the tapes and gave them to Adam to record, then you’d keep quiet.”

  “What?” Adam exclaimed in outrage. “That’s what you thought?”

  People in our vicinity were starting to take notice of the agitated body language and the fact that we were blatantly ignoring Jordan’s impassioned performance, even though they couldn’t hear what we were discussing. Most just turned in our direction, but a couple of men stood up, reacting to that male instinct for violence brewing. This could get very ugly, and not in the productive way I’d planned.

  I didn’t have time to explain properly to Adam, so I plowed ahead, hoping I’d be permitted to do all my apologizing at once, when this was all settled. “But how can he expect to sing Micah’s songs and not have you expose him?”

  “Jordan’s not a genius,” Claire sneered.

  “And you can’t prove the songs aren’t his,” Kyle pointed out.

  Claire blanched, her mouth moving soundlessly for a moment. Behind her, Gray still sat with his head in his hands, having already figured this part out. “But the tapes …” Having never seen Claire at a loss, I found it disconcerting.

  “You don’t have copies. And Micah didn’t write any of those songs down,” I finished for her.

  “Who the hell cares?” Adam said, storming away.

  “Adam,” Kyle said, on that testosterone wavelength.

  “Leave him alone,” Claire demanded.

  “That’s a really bad idea,” I said, spotting where Adam was headed.

  As the song reached its climax, Jordan was working the guitar with feverish dexterity, the notes swirling together, building to a melodic and emotional peak that had people on their feet, swaying and grooving as if it were an old favorite, even though they’d never heard the song before. But just before the final, tumultuous chord, Adam leapt onstage and punched Jordan in the jaw with admirable accuracy. Jordan tumbled back into his bass player, and Adam jumped on them, fists still flying. Feedback and guests screamed in unison, the drummer and the keyboard player dove into the scrum, Kyle ran for the stage, and I followed, only to have Cassady and Tricia yank me back. Aaron raced unimpeded after Kyle, while Kenny strained next to me, like a puppy wanting off the leash.

  “Go for it, Kenny,” I said. “The papers may not want them, but the courts will need them.”

  As Kenny and his camera raced to the fracas, Claire turned back to me. “This is all your fault.”

  Tricia and Cassady gasped for me, so I concentrated on replying, “Life must be such great fun when you never have to take responsibility for anything.”

  “Speaking of responsibility, your party’s getting a little out of control,” Cassady told Tricia, pointing out that even in the darkest corners of the club, people were now comprehending that something unusual was happening onstage. There was no panic, no clamor, just a breathless lull in the conversation as club security rushed forward and people waited for the next development. Which was Jordan jumping down from the stage the moment Kyle and Aaron pulled Adam off him. Unfortunately, the rest of the band grabbed Kyle and Aaron, not understanding that these two strangers were trying to help. Which allowed Adam to jump down beside Jordan, where the two of them began, of all things, a pillow fight.

  After yanking a large pillow out from under a model with no posterior padding of her own, Jordan swung it full force at Adam. Adam staggered, almost fell, then caught a pillow tossed to him by Risa, surprisingly, who applauded merrily as Adam threw his whole weight into smacking Jordan. Jordan swung back, connecting soundly with Adam’s chest and face, while Risa and several of her friends snatched up pillows and waded into the fray.

  Tricia dashed off in search of more security. Completely misreading what was going on between Jordan and Adam, the guests flung themselves into the new party sport with glee and abandon. With dizzying rapidity, the dramatically dressed and coiffed guests dissolved into a screaming mass of five-year-olds. Designer shoes flew through the air as women kicked them off to improve their stances, tailored jackets hit the floor as men sought to free up their swings, and the wait staff scrambled for cover. Kenny popped up and down all over the room, it seemed, like a gopher with a flash in his hand. The Mad Hatter Tea Party air of it all was further elevated by Gray, who had made his way to the baby grand onstage and begun playing crazy, mad blues progressions that whipped themselves into a frenzied melody. “Blues for Chaos” seemed a fitting title.

  Eager as I was to shoulder my way to the center of the storm and help separate Jordan and Adam, I was reluctant to leave Claire. But then I saw Olivia hurtling toward the locus where my boys and the bouncers were grappling with her boys despite the pummeling they were receiving from giggling guests, and I knew I had to lend whatever aid I could.

  “Don’t let her go anywhere,” I told Cassady.

  “May I have your permission to sit on her?” Cassady asked.

  “Since we’re running short of pillows, absolutely,” I said.

  “You can’t treat me like a criminal,” Claire protested.

  “Sure we can,” Cassady said. “Just watch.”

  “You still think I had something to do with this?” Claire asked me indignantly.

  Fissures were appearing in my theory with alarming rapidity, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that Claire was involved somehow. “Maybe you killed Russell because he gave Jordan the songs and now you’re going to win public sympathy by discrediting him.”

  “Oh, I will discredit him, believe me,” Claire said with the pent-up rage of two and a half decades. “But I didn’t kill Russell.”

  “Watch her,” I told Cassady again, and threaded my way through the obstacle course of swirling cushions and flailing knees and elbows to where Kyle and Aaron were giving the security guys their shot at wrestling Jordan and Adam apart while Olivia hovered fretfully.

  Tricia had reached the stage and convinced Gray to stop playing long enough for her to announce, “Ladies and gentlemen, we’d like to wind down the pillow fights now and return to the music. So if you could all settle back in, our special surprise guest, Gray Benedek, will finish his set and then we’ll get Jordan back up here.”

  Happily, the crowd was amenable, dropping their pillows and plopping back down on them to applaud enthusiastically as Gray started back up. The drummer and bass player grabbed their instruments and joined the jam. Attention was soon focused back on the stage by everyone except the small knot of people formed around Jordan and Adam. Kenny wandered back but had the grace to keep his camera down for the moment.

  “No way in hell he’s getting back up on that stage,” Adam fumed. Kyle stood behind Jordan, pinning his arms back, while Adam leaned as far into Jordan’s face as possible, given that Aaron was similarly restraining him. Security guards stood by, ready to help but respecting Kyle’s shake of the head.

  “Why not? What the hell’s wrong with you, dude?” Jordan asked angrily.

  “You stole my mom’s song, you dirtbag.”

  “Your mom’s a liar, man.”

  “Jordan, please,” I said, digging deeply for my most diplomatic tone. “Everyone needs to put their c
ards on the table before anyone else gets hurt. Where’d you get the song?”

  “It’s my song.”

  “Jordan …,” Tricia said with an anguished catch in her voice.

  Jordan looked at her for a long moment, then looked at the rest of the group, his eyes falling on me last. “All right. Someone else wrote it.”

  “Dull!” Adam exclaimed. “Dad wrote it. For my mother.”

  “No way!” Jordan exclaimed in return. “He didn’t write it.”

  “It was on the Hotel Tapes!”

  “No!” Jordan was so upset, he was trembling.

  “My mother heard it, Jordan!”

  Craning his neck, Jordan looked around the club as much as his pinioned position would allow. “No. Where is she?”

  “Claire?” I asked.

  “No, my mom.”

  Adam grimaced in disgust. “You infant.”

  “You don’t get it, Adam. She wrote the song. She gave it to me. Because I was having such a hard time writing songs for the new album. She said it was a gift and I had to keep it a secret.”

  Adam snorted in derision. Sensing the fight draining from him, Kyle let Jordan go. Jordan pivoted sadly in the midst of our group, scanning the club. “Mom?” he called halfheartedly.

  Just as I’d thought: a mother willing to kill to get what she regarded as her son’s birthright, to give him a leg up on claiming his artistic legacy.

  Right theory, wrong mother.

  19

  “I gotta get back out on the road!”

  Glowing with sweat, excitement, and champagne, Gray Benedek flung himself offstage as though a horde of screaming fans were waiting for him rather than the hysterical cluster of the Crowley inner circle. “That felt amazingly good. Anybody gonna tell me how great I sounded? Or at least thank me for keeping the show going?”

  I moved to pull him aside and explain, but Claire cut me off, steaming up to him with her chin lifted in regal indignation. “Why don’t you get back out there and make sure anyone gives a damn before you make too much of an ass of yourself? Maybe they all think it’s just part of the joke tonight.”