“Let me do it, Mr. Music,” she said, pushing his wrist away. Producing an unsatisfactory muffled sound, she scrunched her face and tried again. The pinging sound of a breaking guitar string startled her, causing Kayleigh to almost drop the instrument. “Oh, no!” she cried out, visibly shaken. “I broke your guitar!” Tears welled up in her eyes as she looked at Sean. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it!”
“You didn’t break the guitar, Kayleigh. It’s just a string. I’ve done it a bunch of times.”
“Real--really?” she asked, wiping her frail forearm across her eyes. “Can it be fixed?”
“Of course.”
Kayleigh’s head swiveled toward an approaching car slowing down to pull over and stop at the curb. “I hope he wants some lemonade!” she said, handing over the guitar.
Sean’s head tilted in surprise when he saw the driver exit the car.
“Hey, mister, would you like some lemonade?”
“I sure would,” Elliot said, giving Sean a wink.
Kayleigh pulled the spigot, filled the cup, and handed him his drink.
“That’ll be fifty cents, please.”
“Are you raising money for Alex’s Lemonade Stand?” he asked, reaching into his pocket.
“Uh huh.”
“I think that’s great,” Elliot replied, placing the cup down on the table. “You’re doing something very special for a great cause.” He reached into his inside jacket pocket, removed his wallet, and handed Kayleigh a ten-dollar bill. She stared at the money in her hand, looking confused and a bit upset.
“I’m sorry,” she told him, “but I don’t have enough money to give you back your change.”
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Kayleigh Michaels.”
“Nice to meet you, Kayleigh,” he said. “My name’s Elliot, and I want you keep the change. You’re doing a wonderful thing and I know every dollar counts.”
“Wow!” she shouted, staring at the money as if the tooth fairy herself sat on her palm. “Ten whole dollars!” She spun to her side, waving the bill in front of her. “Look what Elliot gave me, Mr. Music!”
Sean offered a tributary nod of acknowledgment but assumed no coincidence behind Elliot’s sudden appearance. “That was very nice of you, Elliot,” he said. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that you know about Alex’s Lemonade Stand.”
“Of course I do. It’s an amazing story.”
“Elliot’s a nice man, Mr. Music,” Kayleigh said, continuing to stare in obvious delight at the money in her hand.
“Well, thank you, honey.” Looking at Sean, he smiled and nodded his head. “Mr. Music, huh? I like that name for you.”
“So what brings you out to my neck of the woods, Elliot? I didn’t figure you knew where I lived.”
“I’m a persistent man, Sean,” he said. “We have the phone number and address of every person who’s worked at the Center, even special guests like yourself that played for us.”
Sean chuckled. “Maybe Kayleigh should start calling you, “Mr. Persistent.”
Elliot stared at Sean, showing no change in expression as he sipped from his cup. “Our talent show is in three weeks and everything is setting up quite nicely except for one thing--we still need a guitar player. Know where I can find one?”
“Mr. Music plays the guitar!”
Both men turned toward Kayleigh.
“Tell him, Mr. Music,” she said. “You could win any talent show. You’re a rock ’n roll star!”
“That’s not what he’s talking about, Kayleigh,” Sean replied, giving a quick shake of the head. “Elliot wants me to play for some kids in his talent show.”
“Really?” she replied, her voice rising. “That’s really neat!”
Elliot placed his hands on the front of the lemonade stand and leaned forward toward Kayleigh. “Tell you what, honey,” he said, nodding his head toward Sean. “If your friend here agrees to play guitar for us, not only will you and your family be invited, but I’ll give you a private tour of the Center before the show starts so you can see how we help other kids.” Sean slumped into his chair as he watched Elliot work his charm, attempting to seal the deal with a wink and a smile. “I think a big-hearted girl like you will like what we do.”
“Oh, boy!” she cried out. “Will you play, Mr. Music? Please? Pleeease?”
“You both forgot something,” Sean said, staring at Elliot. “I don’t play anymore.” After another moment, he turned his gaze away and looked at Kayleigh. “We don’t even know if it will be okay with your parents.”
Her expression changed, an anticipatory smile eclipsed by a sudden tight-lipped look of doubt.
“I’ll make you a deal, Kayleigh,” Elliot said. “Even if Sean doesn’t agree to play for us, you’re still invited. But he’s right about your parents. Would you like me to talk to them for you?”
“You would do that?” she asked, wide eyed.
“Of course. But if they don’t want you to, you have to respect their answer and not give them a hard time. Agreed?”
He extended his hand toward Kayleigh.
“Okay,” she said, grasping the tips of Elliot’s long fingers.
Sean observed Kayleigh. His growing familiarity allowed him to study her in further depth. He marveled at her capacity to smile over simple things like most kids her age, while remaining enslaved to the decrees of King Cancer. He found himself traveling back in time to his own childhood, before the realities of life’s progressive stages chipped away at his innocence like a perpetual sandstorm. Observing her bright, wholesome expression competing against the weight of those continual shadows clinging like twilight beneath her eyes, he decided if playing guitar in a kids’ talent show excited her this much, he’d acquiesce this one time.
And it was a good bet those kids wouldn’t be asking to sing a Beatles’ song.
Chapter 17
“It’s been nine weeks to the day since you came here,” Maldonado said, “and we’ve been able to narrow down the original list of suspects. Capturing a murderer never comes fast enough, but in this business, two steps forward to one step back is a preferred way to dance.”
Sean watched in silence as Maldonado removed the photographs from the folder. Picking through them, he placed the group picture of Hank, Travis, and Arnie, three employees from the dealership, to the side. He proceeded to do the same for the head mechanic, Carlos Carrillo, his general manager, Tom Claiborne, and Merissa’s hairdresser, Dino.
“I won’t exclude them completely until we find who we’re looking for,” he said, pushing the photos farther away, “but I feel it’s best to focus on the others for now.”
Like Scrabble pieces, the detective laid the other photos in a left to right order on the table, allowing full exposure of the lingering Beatles’ Song Murderer candidates. “The one other suspect not included here is Amazing Stan the Magic Man. We’ve actually come across several in the LA County area with that same nickname, but that doesn’t surprise me. It’s a big city with lots of professional magicians, and if you’re name was Stan, what else would you call yourself, right?” Maldonado scanned the photos. “We’ll certainly keep him in mind, but it appears he was just a one-time visitor at Ms. Franklin’s.” Maldonado looked up from the photos. “And I still have a strong hunch the murderer was a close acquaintance.”
Sean leaned forward on his elbows and rubbed his hands together, glancing at the men Maldonado pushed aside--men Sean never suspected in the first place. Until yesterday, he also felt the same about the others, but the note he read and pocketed from Roger’s drawer engulfed him in increasing waves of uncertainty--enough to phone Maldonado requesting another meeting.
“I looked around to make sure Roger wasn’t there before putting the note in my pocket,” he told him. “I swear, the doctor’s assistant could have been speaking a foreign language at that point. I lost focus on her and everything around me.”
Maldonado’s cell phone rang. “Sorry, I have to take this.
”
Sean grasped the other photos and found the one with Roger and his wife, Anita. Studying the man’s solemn face, he reflected on what transpired the day before at the dealership when Roger returned to his desk after the discovery of Merissa’s note.
“Sean!” Roger said, his voice a loud whisper.
Sean’s eyesight ascended from the desk to Roger’s face.
“Tom wants to see you in his office. He’s with that couple you got into it with.” Rolling his eyes, Roger nibbled on his lower lip and stared. Sean couldn’t be sure if Roger felt genuine concern or wanted to bust out laughing. “Sorry, buddy,” he told him. “Good luck.”
His urge to grab Roger by the neck and question him about the note, and maybe more, remained on hold as he walked down the hall toward Claiborne’s office. His thoughts raced, wondering what Roger had been up to and for how long. For the many times he’d gone through the motions as a car salesman, feigning enthusiasm while answering third grade questions, Sean never lost his cool with a customer. And as trivial as the incident seemed compared to Merissa, or to his previous thoughts about having cancer, Tom Claiborne had a well-deserved reputation as a no-nonsense disciplinarian when it came to employee misconduct. As the owner’s son, Sean didn’t know if that mattered.
Sean kept his head lowered as the Blankenships passed him in silence outside the doorway, sensing their icy glare. He stood and didn’t say a word until Claiborne motioned for him to sit in the chair across from him, his indecipherable expression leaving uncertainty about his fate.
“I called you in here for two reasons, Sean,” he said, his voice cold and steady. “The first thing is, I want to make something very, very clear. If you ever pull that shit again, I won’t care if you’re God’s son, you’ll never work here another day.” Claiborne’s unwavering eyes seemed to bore a hole into Sean’s skull. “Do you understand me?”
Sean nodded. “I’m sorry, Tom, I just--”
Sean’s mouth clamped shut as Tom’s hand shot up.
“Now for the second thing I want to talk about.” Claiborne swiveled the leather chair to his left, looking out his window for a few moments at the empty hallway. He scratched his neck, stroked his chin, and then turned back, resuming his laser beam focus on Sean. “Your father told me to treat you like any other employee, which is fine, but no other employee of mine has gone through the hell that you did. That’s the kind of thing that’s going to affect you for a long time, and I understand that. The Sean Hightower who represented himself like an unprofessional asshole a few minutes ago isn’t the man I know, and it’s why you still have a job.”
Sean shut his eyes for a moment and nodded. “Thank you, Tom.”
“But there’s something I want you to do first,” he said. “Actually, let me rephrase that. There’s something I insist that you do before resuming your employment.” Claiborne leaned his upper body forward, hands and arms flat on the desk, staring at Sean with a look that showed neither anger nor compassion. “I want you to get away from here for a while and don’t come back until you’re ready. Use whatever vacation time you’ve accrued and, hopefully, you won’t have to dig too much into your own savings, but however long it takes, I don’t want you here until your mind’s right.”
While Maldonado’s phone conversation continued, Sean’s thoughts returned to the subject at hand as he glanced at the photos of the men who weren’t deemed likely considerations anymore. Focusing on the one of Dino, not only did it remind him of the grieving man’s extended leave of absence from the salon after Merissa’s death, but also the need to make an appointment now that he had returned.
Redirecting his attention to two of the remaining suspects, his shoulders sagged from confusion and doubt as his eyes alternated between the faces of Roger and Adam.
He felt as if he’d been transported to some Twilight Zone episode where people he thought he knew might not be those same people. Plopping his elbows back on the table, Sean covered his face in his hands as Maldonado finished his call.
“You said you don’t know those two guys from the Chevy dealership, right?” the detective asked, pointing at the third and fourth photos from the left. “But you’ve seen them at those bowling matches?”
Sean nodded. “The only thing I can say is that the guy on the left is the loud, obnoxious type who takes winning too seriously. The other one kind of blends into the background and doesn’t say much at all.”
Maldonado held his coffee cup to his mouth, staring at the two men. “Is this bowling thing you guys had still going on? Merissa was the ringleader, right?”
“More for the poker nights,” he answered. “It took about four or five weeks but the teams are bowling again every other Wednesday like before.” Sean ran his finger along the rim of his cup. “I didn’t go to the first two, but went last week. I knew it was going to be awkward for everybody, but I enjoy the camaraderie so it had to happen sometime, right?” Leaning back, he offered Maldonado a tight-lipped smile. “It hurt like Hell, Ray. The memory of her laughter and the way she smack talked everybody...even her stupid-looking bowling motion...” Sean allowed his tears to fall without restraint, staring at the beige nothingness of the wall in front of him.
“You want some more coffee, Sean?”
“No thanks,” he answered, his eyes remaining fixed on the wall. “Are we almost done?”
“You told me those bowling matches are every other Wednesday and you went last week. So a week from Wednesday’s the next one?”
“That’s right.”
Maldonado picked up the photo of the two men whose names remained unknown.
“See what you can find out about these two guys,” he said. “Starting with their names. Do they work at the Chevy dealer across the street? Do you see them with a wife or girlfriend?” Maldonado tossed the photo back on the table. “Any pertinent information would be helpful, like what you told me about that note in Roger Peterson’s desk, or Adam McBride maybe copping a feel.”
Sean sat up and looked at Maldonado, surprised at himself over forgetting to mention something “pertinent.” His sudden change in expression must have seemed obvious because Maldonado sat up himself with a surprised expression of his own.
“What is it?” he asked, his wide-eyed look narrowing into a squint.
“I forgot to tell you,” Sean said. “I’m helping Elliot Hayden with his fundraiser coming up at the end of the month, so I’ll be going over there to work with some kids. Maybe there’s nothing to it, but I figured it’s worth mentioning.”
Maldonado clasped his hands together, placing them against his stomach as he leaned back, shoulders pressed back against the chair. “That’s good, that’s good,” he said, breaking into a smile. “Ms. Franklin apparently spent a lot of time at that place. There could be somebody we don’t even know about. Somebody that should have their photo right here on this table.”
Chapter 18
Dressed in a powder blue cashmere sweater, black polo shirt, and dark blue tailored jeans with loafers, Elliot greeted Sean at the entrance doors of the Valley Youth and Family Directional Center. As he approached him from the parking lot, Sean conceded how this oft-times overbearing individual represented the LA casual look with aplomb. The sole connection between his Domaine Chandon Napa Valley sweatshirt and Elliot’s cashmere sweater involved the warmth they both provided on this chilly Friday morning.
“Before I show you what we do in here,” Elliot said, placing his hand on Sean’s shoulder, “let’s take advantage of the fresh, morning air and walk the grounds.”
Strolling along the sidewalk bordered by grass and small trees, they passed a fenced playground filled with sand and the usual things one sees for young children--a slide, a small jungle gym, various sized red rubber balls, and a couple of multicolored buckets laying on their side with a partially buried blue plastic shovel between them. What appeared to be a failed attempt at a sandcastle rose about a foot above the ground as a semi-crumbled remnant of an overnight histori
cal ruin.
“The problems at home usually start with children as young as these,” Elliot said, stopping and pointing toward the playground. “We have programs to help them get along with their peers and to prep them for the skills it takes for early education.” He looked at Sean, grim faced. “Many believe, as do I, that if we lose a child at this age, we may never get them back, and they’ll waste whatever potential they have.”
Sean reflected on his childhood years in school, remembering the mediocre-at-best grades he received and the jealousy he felt toward his brother and sister’s academic excellence. At a certain point, Sean stopped trying, ready to rebel from the frustration and feeling of inferiority. But his life changed forever when his eighth-grade music teacher, Mrs. Oglethorpe, introduced him to the guitar and taught him some chords. Perhaps she rescued the kind of potential Elliot referenced, because from that point on, Sean never looked back...until the realities of the music business forced him into his current 180-degree, twisted neck, chained-to-the past, futureless state.
From the children’s playground, they walked another couple of minutes past two large rectangular concrete tables with benches before proceeding toward a patchy grassy area containing small trees and a half-filled flowerbed. Rounding a bend, they veered right and reached a separate building next to a basketball court. Several yards away, on a large section of dirt, a frayed net hung at an abused angle as a lone volleyball rested in solitude at the bottom of the pole.
Elliot pointed toward a triangular shaped one-story vanilla colored building with a pointed roof resembling a glider taking off into the sky to accommodate each extended wing of wood arching back in a forty-five-degree angle. The east and west sides consisted of a grooved vertical dark brown design, complimenting the ninety-degree angles of the stucco structure. Sean hadn’t paid much attention to the surrounding generic architecture of the school, but the building standing before him seemed different--modern and more appealing.
“This is the library,” Elliot explained, “our most recent addition to the facility. Two years ago last month to be exact. Words can’t begin to describe how beneficial it’s been to the children.” He looked to his right, then back to his left, his eyes perusing the length of the building. “That’s why we work so hard in our fundraising efforts, Sean. Between the money we raised and some help from the state, we were able to accomplish our goal.” Elliot removed a set of keys from his pocket. “Come on, I’ll show you what it looks like inside.”
You Say Goodbye Page 12
