Long Gone Man

by Phyllis Smallman

  Wilmot smiled. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Pye. I’ve been running here and there all day. I needed to sort out the inconsequential bits before I got to the . . .” He was about to say the meat, for that’s exactly what sprang to mind when he saw her, round and fleshy in too-tight clothing, a right little porker, like an over-stuffed sausage about to burst out of its casing. “Before I got to the important people.”

  “Well.” She patted her hair. “I just wish you’d called to keep us informed.”

  “Where were you when Mr. Vibald was shot?”

  “Here, with my family. We were here all evening.”

  “You, your husband, and your son?”

  She nodded in agreement.

  “Were you all in the same room?”

  “I was lying down in the spare room. I worked the lunch hour. I’m the hostess at the Crab Trap. Not something I’d normally consider, but it’s totally dead up here on this mountain. Working gets me out and lets me meet people.”

  “And I’m sure the extra income is nice.” Wilmot added a smile to take away any offense his words might cause. “Tell me about Taos.”

  “Taos?”

  “Ace, the singer with Vortex in Taos, arrived on Glenphiddie Island last night.”

  “Oh, is that who she is?” Talking about other women held little interest for Thea. “Aaron told me about her.”

  “Was anyone else there?”

  Thea’s forehead wrinkled in confusion. “Where?”

  Wilmot gritted his teeth. “Taos.”

  She only needed to think for a minute. “That roadie, can’t remember his name, came with the singer, he was with us.”

  “Did he leave Taos with you?” Wilmot asked.

  “How the hell would I remember that? I had enough problems to deal with.”

  Wilmot got to his feet. “Thank you for your help.”

  Aaron Pye was seated at the table eating when Wilmot and Thea Pye entered the dining room.

  “Just one more question, Mr. Pye. Your wife remembers a roadie being with you in Taos. Did he leave with you?”

  Pye stopped chewing and turned to his wife, who was busy filling her wineglass. He stretched out his neck and swallowed his mouthful of food in one great gulp and then wiped his mouth with his knuckle. “Yeah, that’s right, I remember him now.”

  “Did he go to Las Vegas with you?”

  It took him some time. “Thea and I went with John. The roadie and the singer were supposed to come behind with Alan and Steven.” He looked to his wife. “That’s right, isn’t it, Thea?”

  She lowered her wineglass. “That’s right. I remember because I was pregnant with Ian. I had morning sickness.”

  “Not just in the morning, all day long, if I remember.” Their eyes met and for the briefest space of time they were in harmony.

  Thirty-nine

  Wilmot had been courteous with the parents, but his questioning became aggressive and accusatory with Ian Pye.

  Ian neither noticed nor took offense. He sat back in his father’s recliner, legs crossed at the ankles and fingers entwined across his midriff, totally at ease.

  Wilmot said, “I’m surprised that Glenphiddie Island would hold much attraction for you.”

  “Most boring place on Earth, but Uncle John and I were working on launching a new band.” He frowned. “It’ll be harder now without him, but with my inheritance I’ll still be all right. Uncle John said he’d take care of me. Has the will been read yet?”

  “You’ll have to talk to his lawyer about the will. Did John Vibald talk about the past?”

  Ian laughed. “Nothing else.”

  “Did he talk about a singer named Ace, the woman staying at Mrs. Vibald’s?”

  “Not that I ever heard, but my dad said she has some really good songs. I’m going up later to see for myself.”

  “Your father said nothing about knowing her in the past, about her days singing with Vortex?”

  “Nope. They’re just concerned with the will. We all are. And we need to talk to Janna. I tried to call her.” He scowled, but then his face went from disappointed to sunny again in a blink. “The mountain is Janna’s now. She’ll be selling it. She doesn’t like it here. Too remote. She’ll sell and we’ll move to Vancouver or maybe LA.”

  “All of you?”

  “Well, Janna and I. Don’t know what the folks plan to do.”

  “You and Miss Vibald are going to be married?”

  Ian Pye grinned. “That’s the idea.”

  Forty

  Lauren went to Singer’s room and shook her awake.

  “What?” Singer asked and closed her eyes again.

  “You told Wilmot you saw John on television.”

  The tone of Lauren’s voice jerked Singer back to wakefulness. “What happened?”

  “You tell me. You said you always knew where John was, but you told Wilmot that you found out from a television show. Which is it?”

  “You woke me for that?”

  “How did you know John was on Glenphiddie Island?”

  Singer let out her breath in a long sigh and worked her dry lips. “My lying is slipping. I used to be much better at it.” Her bones ached and her muscles screamed. She moved her feet under the sheets. Pain shot up her legs.

  Lauren ignored Singer’s grimace. “What happened between you and John? Why did you come here? And don’t give me that ‘I was just in the neighborhood’ shit.”

  “Why are you getting so bent out of shape?”

  “My life has gone down the toilet since you arrived.” Lauren raised her hands dramatically in the air. “Now I’m lying to the police. What have you gotten me into?”

  Singer’s eyes closed. “Relax. It has nothing to do with you.” She moved her arms and flexed her fingers and was rewarded with more agony. “It all happened a long time ago.”

  Lauren sat at the foot of the bed and waited.

  Singer opened her eyes. Lauren’s jaw was clenched, her arms crossed firmly over her chest, hugging her anger to her. Singer smiled. “Twenty-eight with the emotional range of a nine-year-old. Okay.” Singer licked her lips. “I left home at sixteen. There were a couple of years singing in bars, at festivals, and even a couple of times being on other people’s albums.” Her eyes closed. “I’m tired.”

  Lauren nudged Singer’s foot. “Keep going.”

  Singer didn’t open her eyes. “I met Michael in San Francisco. He was a student, philosophy.” She smiled. “Michael Lessing was going to change the world. We got into some trouble, protests, you know, no big deal, but we thought we were pretty important.” Harsh laughter. “We left California and took to the road, hitched across the country. I sang on street corners and got work with a band or two. Those were the days, in the early seventies, of pyrotechnics, KISS wannabes, dry ice, and all that shit to make up for lack of talent.”

  Singer was lost in the past, a dreamy world of memory that softened her face and her voice. “Every day was a miracle, heady excitement . . . so alive, living with passion, the future brilliant.”

  Her voice faltered. The shower dripped in the silence. “Michael wrote poetry, beautiful and heartbreaking, which I put to music . . . our own music. There was going to be an album all my own. We were sure it was all going to happen . . . just days away . . . and success would give us the power to make the social changes Michael dreamed of starting.”

  She licked her lips again. Lauren got up from the bed and brought her a glass of water. Singer sipped and began again. “Michael was really committed to making a better world. Me, I just wanted whatever he wanted, didn’t have a thought of my own except when it came to the music. My head was full of it. We were back east then. There was more trouble. We had to leave, one chorus ahead of the cops . . . joined Vortex in Texas. Michael was the roadie and I sang with the band, moving across the Southwest.”
>
  Singer’s body arched and her face hardened into her age. “We were between gigs, so the guys camped out in the Taos desert, while Thea and I stayed with her aunt.

  “After four days it was time to move on to the next gig. I hadn’t seen Michael for days. He didn’t come into town once. None of the guys came near us. I was going crazy with no car and no way of getting in touch. I would’ve walked into the desert if I’d known where to find them. We’d never been apart for more than a few hours since the day we met, so I couldn’t understand it.

  “When the rest of the band finally showed up to get us, Michael wasn’t with them. They told me he’d left, just gone away, no message.”

  Her eyes opened. “How could he leave without me?” Hurt filled her face.

  “They said they didn’t know where he went. They moved on, and I stayed behind, waiting, afraid if I left Taos he’d never find me. He didn’t come. I got a job in a restaurant.” She smiled. “The first and only real, honest-to-god employment I ever had. Months went by and still I hung around, sure Michael would come back. I waited for a whole year. Nothing.

  “One day, I was serving ham and eggs to one of the regulars when Vortex came on the radio. They were singing ‘Long Gone Man.’ Michael’s words and my music, the song I was sure would make me famous.” Tears slid unheeded down to her pillow. “I knew there was no use waiting any longer because Michael was never coming back.”

  Heartache, as real and sharp as in the first second of its birth, filled her voice. “I’ve been on the road more or less ever since. For a long while, I wasn’t sober for longer than it took to get the next drink or fix. A whole decade there is gone. Got real sick.”

  Lauren asked, “What happened to Michael?”

  “I didn’t know. Not knowing is what drove me crazy.”

  “Did you ever go back?”

  Singer nodded. “I kept going back, kept going out into the desert, searching the sand, hoping to find some sign of Michael.” How could she explain the miles she’d walked, past dead campfires, following old tire tracks in the sand, searching for any clue of the man she loved, the man who said he would never leave her?

  Lauren stood up and walked away from the bed.

  “Anyway, even dead drunk for days and years, I knew where Johnny and Vortex were . . . my only connection to sanity. I wanted to know what happened, to know why Johnny had our song. I waited.”

  Singer looked at Lauren. “More than that, I guess I stalked Johnny, showing up at his concerts, got thrown out more than once. I wrote to him demanding to be told what had happened to Michael, but I never heard back. I often wondered if that’s why Johnny left the country and came way out here. Maybe not, maybe I’m making too much of myself once again.”

  Lauren settled back on the bed, her knees pulled up to her chest, her back against the brass footrail.

  Singer raised her hand and brushed at her damp cheeks. “Never knowing, that was the hardest part. After a while I stopped hassling Johnny but I never let him get too far away. The liner notes said Johnny had written ‘Long Gone Man,’ but I knew better. I just didn’t know if he bought it from Michael or killed him to get it.”

  Lauren gasped. “No! Michael sold it to John and then ran away because he couldn’t face you.”

  Singer’s eyes opened and found Lauren’s. “I just found out . . . A few months ago, they cleared land for a new subdivision in Taos. A body turned up, the remains of a young man who’d been shot. Nothing to identify him except for a ring he’d been wearing.” Singer raised her left hand. “A ring exactly like the one under this bandage.”

  A harsh sound escaped Lauren and then she put her head on her knees and started to cry.

  After a while, she looked up at Singer. “John was a crazy news junkie. He must have seen the same article. That must have been what set him off, meaner and more vicious than he’d ever been.” Her face was pulled tight in thought. “I remember something else. Once, I asked him why he became a Canadian citizen and he said it was because Canada doesn’t have the death penalty and won’t extradite a person to any country that does. I thought he was making a moral statement, his one unselfish stance, but it was his most selfish decision of all. That’s why he gave up his citizenship and became a Canadian, so he’d never have to face the death penalty. All these years, he’d been hiding out and building a defense.” She wiped her palms across her cheeks.

  “Go back to sleep for an hour. I’ll call you when dinner is ready.” Lauren got to her feet, her shoulders slumping in defeat, and pointed to a white fleece robe and matching slippers at the end of the bed. “John gave them to me for Christmas. I’ve never worn them and I won’t blame you if you don’t want to either. I’m sorry for what he did to you, Singer.”

  Singer nodded and closed her eyes.

  Hank delivered Singer’s yellow beast and the locksmith did his job while Singer slept. Lauren decided to put the van in the garage. Even though someone had already searched it, Lauren planned to lock it up nice and tight until Singer had a chance to go through it. She went out to the garage and punched the garage door opener. A riding lawn mower and furniture, too good to throw out but too old to use, cluttered the third parking space. She’d phone Foster Utt, the handyman, to come and help clear out the garage.

  Then she remembered that John had fired Foster three days before. She’d have to find someone new. Casual labor was in high demand on the island. All of the owners who lived off-island and only came for weekends fought over anyone able to stand on two feet and hold a rake in their hands. And Foster Utt, despite his whine and his sense that the world was against him, was better than most of the other choices.

  Reality hit her. John was dead. She could get Foster back until the place was sold and she was kicked out. She straightened a ten-speed bike that had fallen over and noticed the side of John’s Yukon. The right fender was dented and it had a yellow streak of paint on it. She traced it with her fingers.

  The Pyes only had one car and used John’s SUV when they needed extra transportation. Ian always drove the SUV, and Steven took it when he needed to pick up supplies. Everyone living on the mountain used John’s car because he so seldom did. It could have been any one of them who tried to kill Singer.

  Her fingers lingered on the silver scar below the yellow paint. Would they try again?

  Forty-one

  Lauren tapped on the door before pushing it open. She went to the bed and bent over Singer, shaking her gently to wake her up.

  Singer started into wakefulness. “What?”

  “It’s okay,” Lauren assured her. “Dinner’s ready. Can you eat something?”

  “Yes,” Singer said. “Have to eat. Always eat when there’s free food.”

  “Another rule of the road?”

  “Exactly.” Singer moved her legs cautiously. The pain was even worse than she’d expected.

  Lauren held a polished stick topped with a handle shaped like the head of a raven. “I brought you a cane John used when his knees were bothering him. Do you need some help getting up?”

  “No. I can manage.”

  Lauren stayed by the bed, ready to help, while Singer sat up and carefully swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Lauren said, “We’ll eat when you’re ready.” She rested the cane against the bed and left the room.

  The pain made Singer lightheaded. For a moment she considered calling Lauren back and telling her she’d changed her mind, telling her she’d just stay in bed. But that would be a mistake. She had to stay mobile.

  Singer tested her left foot, seeing if she could put weight on it, stepping gingerly and cursing the pain. With the help of the cane, she stood up. She hobbled experimentally up and down the bedroom several times. She could totter about, no marathons, and her right foot was functioning so she would be able to drive. “Right, let’s get on with it.”

  She reached for the robe and wrappe
d it around her naked body. Made of cashmere, it was soft as a caress. She turned the collar up around her face and pulled the belt tighter.

  Singer didn’t care if Johnny had bought it. She didn’t have the luxury of such feelings. She was halfway to the bathroom door when she was struck by a new idea. All these years, she’d blamed Johnny for Michael’s disappearance. What if she was wrong about that? Johnny was a vicious, nasty bastard, quite capable of murder, but he hadn’t tried to kill her. Who had, and why would they try to push her off the mountain? She was a threat to one of them. She had no proof that they’d murdered Michael and stolen the song, but the members of the band didn’t know that.

  “Couldn’t be Thea,” she told the woman in the mirror. “She was with me when Michael died.” That left Stevie or Pinky, but if one of them had stolen the song, why wasn’t their name on it?

  She should have told Wilmot what happened in the desert. The problem was the story gave her a reason to murder Johnny, and since he died the night she showed up . . . best wait until Wilmot found Johnny’s killer and then they could discuss Taos.

  Singer made her way slowly and agonizingly down the hallway, propelling herself forward on the cane and leaning against the wall with her shoulder for support.

  Halfway down the hall, Singer heard voices. She stopped outside the open kitchen door to listen.

  A man’s voice, harsh and demanding, said, “I need to see her.”

  There was the sound of water running, and then Lauren answered, “If Janna wants to see you, she’ll call.”

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with her.”

  From where she stood, Singer watched the visitor walk around the end of the kitchen island and pull out a stool. He sat down with his back to Singer. “I’ve called her a dozen times a day for weeks, but she won’t pick up and won’t return any of my messages.”

  “Well I’m not going to get in the middle of it.” There was the sound of metal against metal and then the creak of the oven door opening. “She wouldn’t speak to John either and wants nothing to do with me.”