Long Gone Man

by Phyllis Smallman

  “Why did Mr. Openheimer stay?”

  “John was our connection, the man with the drugs. That’s what kept us with Vortex.” Steven turned away. “That’s how John got rich. In those days, there was no problem laundering money. I’d see John with grocery bags full of it after a gig. One time, Thea came back from a variety store with a bag full of pop and chips and John dumped all the stuff out on the bed to get the bag. He opened his shirt. He had all this money stuffed inside and he just started shoving it in the bag. You should have seen Thea’s face. I thought she’d climax right there. Man, did she want some of that, but not even Thea could pry money out of John. He was tight. And he was smart. That money went into legitimate businesses, into investments. We never would have stayed on the road so long if John hadn’t pumped money into the band. I think that’s why he started dealing in the first place.”

  Steven’s long, slim fingers massaged his temple. “Aaron bloody Pye, John’s bum wipe, actually sold the drugs, and if they’d ever been caught it would probably have been Aaron who went to jail. John would have walked like he always did.”

  “And you were going to tell the world about it.”

  “I didn’t kill John, if that’s what you’re thinking.” He got to his feet and picked up his glass. “Will you join me, Sergeant?”

  “No, thank you.” Wilmot watched as Steven went to the sideboard. His shuffling gait was uneven and his balance was off, as if he was drunk . . . or ill. His hands shook as he poured Scotch into his glass, spilling a little. Steven David ignored the spillage and shuffled back to his chair.

  “What can you tell me about Ms. Brown?”

  Steven, about to take a drink, lowered the glass. “Who?” His face mirrored his question.

  “The woman staying with Mrs. Vibald, who was with Vortex back in the seventies.”

  “Oh, yeah, met her this morning . . . haven’t seen her since John experimented with a girl singer . . . back then he was always trying out different things. We went back to just the guys after she left.” He frowned. “She had something special . . . remember John being really excited about her. Don’t know why he dropped her. Maybe it would have turned out to be Ace and her band Vortex if she’d stuck around.” His hand mimed a banner. “John wouldn’t have liked that.”

  “Ace?”

  “Yeah.” Steven smiled. “Yeah, it just came to me. That’s what she was calling herself.”

  Wilmot felt a surge of excitement. “Any last name?”

  Steven frowned, concentrating. “Not that I can remember, but maybe it will come to me later. She was good, really good, and she was overshadowing John, but I remember being surprised when he let her go.”

  “Where was this, when he let her go?”

  Steven rubbed his jaw. “New Mexico . . . Arizona . . . before Las Vegas, Taos maybe, but that’s only a guess.”

  “And you never saw her again?”

  “Don’t think so.” His right hand slid down to his lap, where it lay fluttering like a dying bird.

  “How do you feel about development coming to the mountain?”

  “It’s just wrong. More houses, more noise, and maybe even boats on Glenphiddie Lake.”

  “Would someone kill to make it happen?”

  Steven David reached out and clasped his shaking hand. “I’d have killed John to stop it happening.”

  Wilmot straightened. “Is that a confession?”

  “No, I didn’t kill John. I don’t think John would ever have sold, but Janna owns it now and she’ll surely sell.”

  “Can you tell me anything about the night John Vibald died?”

  “Nothing.” Then Steven David smiled. “Except perfume.”

  “Perfume?”

  Steven shook his head. “Nothing. It was just a silly thought.”

  Wilmot got to his feet.

  Even using his arms to push himself up from the chair, it took Steven two tries to rise.

  Outside, the warmth had seeped out of the day. Wilmot buttoned his coat and turned up his collar.

  An owl called and flew from a tall pine. The bird’s outline was barely visible against the sky. The light was almost gone. There was no twilight here, no gentle evening, only sudden darkness. With those clouds blocking out the moon, it would be a black, black night. The thought of being lost out in the tangled wilderness sent a shiver down his spine, never mind the embarrassment he’d face if his detachment had to mount a search party for Sgt. Wilmot. It would be impossible to find his way through the woods after dark without a flashlight.

  Of course! If someone had walked through the woods to kill John Vibald, they would have passed close to this house, and they must have had a flashlight. Surely the light would have been seen through the trees while Steven David was doing dishes, but he hadn’t mentioned a light. Was it possible Steven David knew who the killer was? A car swung around the curve of the drive and captured Wilmot in its headlights.

  Thirty-six

  Sgt. Wilmot raised his right arm to block out the light, then lowered it as the cruiser swept by, making the turn and stopping with the hood pointing in the direction it had come from.

  He slipped into the passenger seat. As soon as the door slammed behind him, Duncan put the car in drive and eased back along the drive.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “What do you know about the development company that’s trying to buy up Glenphiddie Lake?”

  “They’re from away.” Duncan didn’t keep the disgust from her voice.

  “Anything else?”

  “They’ve been spreading money around.”

  “You mean bribes?”

  “I don’t know if there’s anything illegal going on, but they’re spending lots of money to get things to go their way, wining and dining and fancy presentations to show how rich everyone on the island will be.” She sighed. “You can’t beat greed. Greed wins out over right every time.”

  “Is everyone taking sides?” Wilmot asked.

  “Pretty much.”

  “Which side are you on?”

  She glanced quickly at him and then back at the road. “I know we aren’t allowed to get involved in the local politics.”

  “Just satisfy my curiosity. I’m sure you have no real interest in politics, just tell me what you think.”

  “The problem with growing up in the islands is that everyone from off-island treats you like an extra in Deliverance and thinks you came from the bottom of the gene pool with webbed toes and gills. Our opinion doesn’t count. Skeena Mountain should never be developed. It should belong to everyone.”

  She glanced over at him. “There’s a white orchid up here, very rare, called the phantom orchid. Grows with some fungus that only occurs in nature. You can’t dig this orchid up and put it in your garden because it needs exactly the right conditions, the right combination of trees and fungus. That orchid will disappear if they start cutting down trees and putting in houses.”

  She pressed down on the accelerator and gripped the wheel tighter. “I think the government should buy Mount Skeena to save it for all of us, never mind the other things they’d be saving besides the water and the orchid. Buy it at a fair price and keep it for future generations as a natural resource.”

  Wilmot braced himself as they swung too fast into a curve.

  She pointed her finger at Wilmot. “Sitka spruce, what Howard Hughes’s ‘Spruce Goose’ was built from—they grow up there. Some of those trees are three hundred years old and only grow on a narrow strip of land along this coast, nowhere else on Earth. How many other special things grow around Glenphiddie Lake that we don’t know anything about yet? When they’re gone, they’re gone.”

  Duncan wasn’t done. “And water is going to become an issue soon. We have to stop it falling into private hands now, have to stop polluting and exploiting
it. And as for tourists and people from away,” she glanced over at him, “we already have far too many of them. Let’s not encourage any more to come here.”

  “Could you slow down just a little?”

  Duncan touched the brake gently, and Wilmot let out the breath he’d been holding. “That’s the most words I’ve ever heard out of you,” he said. “If you feel this strongly about Glenphiddie, those conservationists must be going crazy.”

  “My uncle was part of a delegation that went up there last week. Vibald told them to get out, said it was his land and he’d sell it if he wanted to. He told them he’d had a really good offer and he was tired of this place.”

  “Give me their names. We have to interview them tomorrow. And between you and me, I agree with everything you just said.”

  Wilmot’s mind switched tracks. “It’s really black up here, isn’t it? How long a drive is it from Steven David’s to the Pye home?”

  “Under ten minutes walking through the woods, twenty-five minutes by car. But it would have taken at least double that last night.”

  “How do you know?”

  She slowed for a switchback. “Because I drove it and walked it this morning.”

  Wilmot digested this and then nodded. “Could someone walk through those woods at ten at night without a flashlight?”

  “Never. Not even on the brightest moonlit night.”

  “Steven David said he didn’t see anything. If one of the Pyes had been walking by his house in the dark, it would have been just luck if he had seen their light.”

  “It likely wouldn’t show up in the fog. And don’t forget that the Utts can also walk to the Vibald home.”

  “So how many people could have killed John Vibald?”

  “Two from Steven David’s, three from the Pye household, and two from the Utt place . . . seven.”

  “And don’t forget Lauren Vibald and Singer Brown, nine.”

  Thirty-seven

  What remained of Aaron Pye’s faded red hair was mixed with gray, and his freckled scalp showed through the thin strands combed over the top. He seemed more like an accountant than an aging rock star. The paper napkin in his hand said that his dinner had been interrupted, and his frown showed his displeasure. “We expected you earlier.”

  Aaron Pye’s wife and son came out of the dining room, blocking the narrow hallway.

  Wilmot smiled broadly and spoke over Pye’s shoulder. “Sorry for the inconvenience.” Wilmot waggled his fingers at Thea Pye. “But I wanted to get my facts straight before talking to you.”

  He stepped over the threshold without waiting to be invited in, forcing Pye to back up. Duncan followed him into the house. “Perhaps we might go somewhere more comfortable,” Wilmot said.

  He smiled at Thea Pye. Her hair was blond and her nails were red. The jeans and sparkly sweater she wore were both too tight—a woman fighting hard against age and losing.

  “Fine.” Thea started for the living room across the hall.

  Wilmot swept past Aaron Pye and stuck out his arm to block Thea’s way. “No need for everyone’s dinner to get cold. I’ll speak to Mr. Pye first.”

  Life had disappointed this woman. Her mouth was turned down in hard, bitter curves, and now her face showed her further displeasure, aggravated by being given orders in her own house.

  Wilmot smiled. Her cloying perfume was overpowering. He pointed to the dining room. “Please.”

  “Fine,” she said again and swung back to the room across the hall. Her son followed her. Wilmot closed the door behind them.

  “Now.” Wilmot waved a hand towards the living room. “Shall we?”

  Pye didn’t invite them to be seated nor wait for them to seat themselves. He flung himself back into an overused Naugahyde recliner and stretched out until the footrest clanged up into place.

  Wilmot moved a small, straight-backed chair to face Pye.

  Seated, he favored Pye with another of his bright smiles. “First let me express my sympathy for your loss of a friend.”

  Pye gave a little nod. The paper napkin in his hand was being wound into a tight sausage.

  “Where were you last night between the hours of nine and two?”

  Pye jerked his head towards Corporal Duncan. “She already asked me that.”

  “Yes, of course, but please pretend this is the first time you’ve ever heard these questions.”

  They labored over the same ground that had already been covered in Aaron Pye’s earlier statement, with Pye protesting at each and every one of Wilmot’s queries.

  The man was a powder keg and Wilmot wanted to push him to the point of blowing and letting down his guard. “What was your relationship to Mr. Vibald?”

  “He was my friend.” The fingers of Pye’s right hand picked at the corner of the napkin sticking out of his clenched left fist, shredding it to confetti.

  “Yes, Mr. Vibald must have been a very good friend indeed. Mrs. Vibald said you wanted to borrow twenty thousand dollars.”

  Pye dug in his heels and arched his back, slamming his chair upright. “It was a business deal.”

  Wilmot waited.

  “It had nothing to do with John’s death, and it’s none of your business.”

  “Humor me.”

  Pye sucked in his lips. “We’re going to open a B & B and need to do some renovations.”

  “Normally people go to a bank for a loan.”

  Pye’s face turned scarlet.

  “Mr. Pye?”

  “It’s still none of your business.”

  “Mr. Vibald is dead; everything is my business. What happened back in Taos?”

  “What?”

  “Taos, you remember. The woman who called herself Ace was with your band back then. What went wrong back in Taos?”

  Pye’s face was no longer flushed. He shifted in his chair. “Nothing.” And then he gave a high-pitched giggle. “Hell no, everything went right. It was up all the way after Taos. We had our biggest hit.” He spoke with confidence, sure of himself, pleased even. “It was the making of us. It all got better after Taos.”

  “Do you remember anyone else being there?” It was a random question while he figured out what he should be asking, but Pye’s face said it struck home.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Surely the question isn’t all that difficult. Who else was with the band in Taos?”

  “I don’t remember. It was a long time ago.”

  “When you left Taos was Ms. Brown with you?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “She stayed behind.”

  “Why?”

  Pye shrugged. “She just did. That’s all I remember.”

  “But things were better for Vortex after Taos?”

  “Yeah, great! And they would have got better again if John hadn’t been murdered. We were going to make a comeback. John said so.”

  “But at the moment things aren’t going so well for you and Mrs. Pye, are they?”

  “We’re doing all right.”

  “Do you work, Mr. Pye?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where do you work, Mr. Pye?”

  “In the summer, I work at the winery. They do lunches for the tourists. I play guitar. Background music, you know.”

  “And is that it?”

  “I give music lessons.”

  “Quite a comedown, isn’t it, from making records to giving lessons?”

  “Where do you get off talking to me like that?”

  “Did you kill John Vibald?”

  It was the question Aaron Pye had been waiting for. His spine stiffened. He looked directly at Wilmot. “I didn’t kill John.” He pointed a forefinger at Wilmot. “If you ask me, it’s that crazy bastard Foster Utt you should be going after. John fired his ass last week. Utt
has been going around saying we stole all this land from his family and it should be his. John laughed it off at first but last week he went ballistic. Threatened Utt, I heard him.”

  “Did you do it?” Wilmot asked.

  Pye frowned in confusion. “What? I just told you I didn’t kill John.”

  “No, my question is did you and the others steal this land?”

  “Of course not. We paid exactly what they asked.”

  “And now it’s worth a great deal more, isn’t it?”

  “That’s life,” Aaron Pye said.

  “Are you in favor of development around the lake?”

  “Sure. My share will be close to a million. Who wouldn’t want that?”

  “But some people aren’t in favor of the development, are they?”

  “Fools who don’t have anything to lose, the same idiots who have weekly meetings for world peace, as if the world cares what they think.”

  “What about Mr. Vibald? Was he in favor of the development?”

  Pye frowned. “Hard to tell, John was a kidder.”

  “Which means?”

  “He kept changing his mind, or saying he did. He’d say whatever would piss people off.”

  “So you never knew where you stood?”

  “Exactly.”

  Wilmot rose. “Thank you, Mr. Pye.”

  Pye seemed startled, then he shot to his feet, saying, “Okay, okay.” He headed for the door, eager to be free.

  As Pye disappeared, Wilmot nodded at the door. “Go with him, Corporal, and bring in Mrs. Pye.”

  While he waited, Wilmot took in the over-furnished room. No doubt the furniture hadn’t been attractive when it sat as a grouping in a discount showroom, and time hadn’t improved it. Cheap and tawdry were the words that sprang to Wilmot’s mind. The door behind him opened and he turned to face the woman who perfectly matched her living room.

  Thirty-eight

  “I don’t appreciate being treated like some afterthought. We’ve been waiting all day and then you come here at the most inconvenient time, just when we decide to have dinner. No consideration.”