FM for Murder

by Patricia Rockwell

  “Glad I could be of service,” replied Daniel. As his eyes adjusted to the darkened apartment, he noticed that David had straightened up the place and had set out beers and several boxes of obviously fresh pizza.”

  “Just trying to be a good host,” said David, anticipating his comment. “I thought we might just eat here. More comfortable, don’t ya think? Plus, I’ve still got lots of school stuff to do before my show tonight.”

  “Oh,” said Daniel, somewhat deflated, “I was hoping we could spend the evening together. You know, talk about old times.”

  “Talk away, Danny Boy,” responded his brother, arm outstretched towards the food on the counter, “and make yourself at home. I’m sure you’ll be thoroughly bored with me before long.” Daniel smiled and shook his head. Then with a shrug he peeked into one of the pizza boxes, helping himself to a few slices of pepperoni and a beer.

  “Don’t you have a table?”

  “Nah,” said David. “Just sit wherever you want in the living room.” Daniel placed his beer on one of the end tables and carefully sat on the end of the sofa—which was without its blanket today—that remained folded at the other end. David was rifling through the pizza and piling several pieces on a plate. Grabbing a beer, he headed for the recliner. They were now in the same positions they had maintained during their initial talk this morning.

  “You know,” said Daniel, “I would have been happy to take you out somewhere nice.”

  “Hey, I’m the host—not you. This is ‘nice’ enough for me. My home—my food.” He scowled—then suddenly smiled brightly. Daniel slowly took a bite of his pizza. “Besides, this is the best pizza ever. Try it. Go on! It’s great.” Daniel took another bite. “Right?” Daniel nodded obligingly.

  “So,” began Daniel, slowly, attempting he hoped to begin a discussion that would eventually lead to a successful plea for David’s return. “How did you—uh—find yourself here? In this town? Uh…working on a graduate degree?”

  “Oh, the life history! The sob story!” David had finished his few slices of pizza and had returned to the counter for second helpings. He remained standing, munching on a new slice as he narrated his tale. “Wayward son refuses to follow in father’s footsteps. Father kicks wayward son out of family and tells him never to return. Wayward son leaves in disgrace never to be heard from again. There you have it—from your end anyway. From my end, it was actually a blessing. The old man was a monster—determined to run my life for me and—strange as it may seem—I preferred to live my own life. So—I left—quite willingly. Yes, it was hard at first. Odd jobs, and as you know—I changed my identity, although as it turned out that was probably unnecessary because the old man never really made any attempts to find me—until now—and I guess that was probably more your doing than his. And of course—you can see how changing my identity helped in keeping me safe when someone was truly determined---to find me.” With these last three words he turned to Daniel and looked at him directly with what Daniel thought was anger—maybe annoyance. Then suddenly, he smiled and started eating the pizza slice he had been using as a baton.

  “And you’re in graduate school?” asked Daniel, cautiously.

  “That I am, Danny Boy,” responded David. “Got a BA in Dramatic Arts, then came here and whizzed through a Master’s degree in English. About four years ago, I started working on a doctoral degree here in English—creative writing, actually. I’ve finished my course work. Only have to complete my dissertation and I’ll be done. It’s almost complete—just a few finishing touches needed—that’s what I’m trying to get done—got a really demanding dissertation advisor. Plus, I’m a graduate teaching assistant so I teach four sections of freshman composition.”

  “My God,” said Daniel, “I’m impressed. I always did terrible in composition.”

  “So, you wouldn’t be willing to help me grade a stack of student essays that has to be finished by Monday?”

  “Sorry,” said Daniel, laughing, “You’re on your own there.”

  “Yeah,” said David, “guess you picked a bad weekend to visit. If I didn’t have so much work to get done by Monday, I’d be able to drive you around and show you the sights of Reardon.”

  “David, I didn’t come here for sight-seeing. I came here to try to get you to return.”

  “I know, because the old man is sick and about to die,” David said, in a mocking sing-song voice.

  “Would it kill you? Couldn’t you come back for just a day or two? I mean, maybe after you finish these grading and writing obligations you have for Monday?”

  “’Fraid not, Danny Boy,” said David, with a shrug. “Besides, I know you don’t believe this, but the old man has no interest in seeing me. In fact, I’d venture a guess that if he did, it would probably kill him on the spot.”

  “I don’t believe that. You’re his son. No matter what caused the rift—he surely would be overjoyed to have you return.”

  “Don’t bet on it.”

  “Will you at least think about it?” His iPhone buzzed unexpectedly and Daniel reached in his pocket and answered it. “Hello. Harold? Yes? Oh, no! Yes, I am. In fact, I’m here right now. I’m trying to talk him into it. What did Knowles say? I see. Okay. Keep me posted.”

  “Bad news?”

  “Father just had another one of his seizures. He had one last week too. The doctor doesn’t think it’s a good sign.”

  “A seizure?”

  “Right—on top of congestive heart failure. David, he doesn’t have long. Really, just a brief visit could mean so much. It wouldn’t cure him—I’m not suggesting that. It would just bring him some needed closure. He’s holding such animosity in his heart because of this feud between the two of you. If you could be the one to break the impasse, I think it would relieve his mind tremendously.”

  “You think?”

  “I do.”

  “I have to think about it. Who was that on the phone?”

  “Harold Vickers. He’s our company—and family attorney. Almost like an uncle, really. Don’t you remember him? I guess not. Anyway, he’s been a rock through all of this. He was the one who found the investigator who tracked you down.”

  “And who is Knowles?”

  “Oh, he’s father’s personal physician.”

  “I bet you’re checking in with them daily. It probably killed you to have to leave the old man’s side for a whole day, didn’t it?”

  “Yes, actually. I check in as often as I can. Sometimes I just call Bernice.”

  “Bernice? You mean that grouchy woman who was the old man’s secretary?”

  “Still there. But she’s hardly grouchy.” Daniel had finished his pizza and beer and had risen and walked toward the kitchen in search of a napkin.

  “What’d you need?”

  “A napkin?”

  “And you can’t use your shirt sleeve?”

  “What?”

  “Never mind, Danny Boy. We live in two different worlds, don’t we?” He zipped around the kitchen counter and scrounged under the sink where he finally pulled out a roll of paper towels—partially used. “Here, Mr. Clean.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Yeah.” He stood beside his brother, closely scrutinizing him from top to bottom. “Still the clean-cut yuppie I remember. Button-down collar, chinos, nice loafers.”

  “I suppose so. You’ve changed quite a bit,” said Daniel, trying to assert himself against his brother’s denigration of his appearance. “What’s with the hair and all the dark clothing?”

  “It’s my image. I’m Black Vulture.”

  “Who?”

  “My radio name—Black Vulture. The hero of the local alternative music fans. I told you I’m a minor celebrity around here.”

  “And this Black Vulture dresses like a vampire?”

  “It’s even better when I go out.”

  “I’d like to see that.”

  “Oh, you can. Well, I shouldn’t say when I go out—but when I’m in my character—like tonight on my sh
ow.”

  “Your radio show?”

  “Yeah. I get all fixed up and it puts me in the mood.”

  “I would like to see that.”

  “Then, why don’t you stop by the station tonight? You can see me in my element. Full Black Vulture mode. I’d say just stick around and follow me over but I’ve really got to get those essays done before my show.”

  “It wouldn’t bother you to have me watch you.”

  “Nah,” replied David. “As long as you’re quiet.”

  “I can do that. Where is this radio station?”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “It’s on the highway I came in on, further out east—Rambler’s Rest Stop.”

  “Rambler’s. Sure. I know it. Actually you’re not too far from the station at all. Here, let me draw you a map.” He found a small writing pad and a pencil on the counter and drew a quick sketch for Daniel of how to get to radio station KRDN. “Now, look, I don’t really get going until after midnight—so don’t show up until after that, okay?”

  “Sure. I’m exhausted actually. I think I’ll go take a nap until later and then I’ll find my way over there. It’ll be fun to see what you do as—Black Vulture!”

  “It’ll be fun, all right!” repeated David.

  Chapter 23

  Present time, December 19, Wednesday, late afternoon

  It was hard to believe it was still only about four o’clock in the afternoon. As they entered the out of the way dive on a side street in downtown Reardon, the place was virtually pitch black. As the outside door whooshed close from the wind, Pamela, Joan, and Arliss stood shivering together, as they attempted to warm up and let their eyes adjust to the darkened interior. The Blue Poppy might as well have been named the Dark Poppy. Did they have any lighting at all? wondered Pamela. While she was pondering this question, a somber voice asked, “You ladies want a table?” Pamela turned to her left where she saw a young woman wearing a white (a delightfully visible white) apron.

  “Yes,” she responded, turning to peer at Joan and Arliss who both looked as mystified as she felt. The young woman motioned to them and they followed her through the darkness around several walls until they were eventually in a cavernous setting full of wooden tables at one end, a long wooden bar on one side and a small platform at the far end. Now she could actually see because ambient light from spotlights aimed at the platform allowed her to view the interior of the Blue Poppy. She had a strong déjà vu experience of a hippie poetry reading marathon. The young woman motioned to them to an empty table (most of the tables were empty—it was, after all, only four o’clock—not the time when most creatures of the night were out prowling).

  The three women removed their outer coats and placed them over their chairs before they seated themselves at the small table. The table was so small, in fact, that all of their knees were smashed together. One chair remained empty, its back to the stage. Pamela hoped they would see or hear some performance because she wanted to get a sense of what Black Vulture—Ted Ballard—was actually like and this was evidently the place to find that out.

  The young hostess handed the three women a long handbill which turned out to be a type of menu. She hurried away promising to return shortly for their order.

  “This is weird,” said Arliss.

  “Yes, dear,” agreed Joan, patting her hand, as she typically did when she sensed that Arliss might be headed for a meltdown, “but fun weird. Let’s just drink it all in.” Joan closed her eyes and gestured as if she were pushing nearby aromas closer to her nostrils.

  “This looks actually good,” said Pamela, reading the long, curly menu. “A Tulip Kiss. It has Amaretto, chocolate, and vanilla ice cream.”

  “Really?” said Joan, perking up. “Let me see.” She unrolled her paper menu and began perusing the various alcoholic offerings. “Ooo. Yummy.”

  “Pam,” said Arliss, “do you really think you’re going to learn something meaningful about this Vulture fellow from this place?”

  “I hope so,” replied Pamela, “Maybe we’ll hear a performance. That would really help. Don’t you think?”

  “Vulcan’s Coffin!” exclaimed Arliss, reading from her rolled up menu, “Can you imagine? It sounds disgusting!”

  “Have you ladies decided what you’d like?” asked the non-smiling waitress who had appeared miraculously at their table.

  “I definitely want one of these Tulip Kisses,” said Pamela.

  “Oh,” said Joan, “and I’ll have a Bloody Lover’s Revenge.” She smiled coyly.

  “Arliss?” asked Pamela looking over at her friend, her head buried in the list of hundreds of strange drink names. “Arliss?” Arliss remained unresponsive. “She’ll have a “Vulcan’s Coffin.”

  “No!” said Arliss.

  “Yes,” said Pamela, taking the menu from Arliss’s hands, rolling it up, and handing it back to the waitress.

  “A number four, a 21, and a 33,” said the bland woman, writing the order on her pad without comment, and then disappearing again into the darkness.

  “Now why did you do that, Pam?” pouted Arliss.

  ”Because otherwise you would sit here until closing time trying to make up your mind. If you don’t like Vulcan’s Coffin, just order something else. As long as it has alcohol in it—it should work.”

  “Yes, my dear,” agreed Joan. “You need to unwind. You’re far too uptight about all this wedding business. Just sit back and let Bob’s mother handle things. That’s what I’d do.”

  “I’m not you, Joan,” countered Arliss, crossing her arms—in lieu of crossing her legs which were frozen solidly against Pamela’s and Joan’s kneecaps under the small table. “Oh, look, I think they’re going to play music.” She pointed towards the stage and appeared to be right. Several people (they could have been men or women) dressed all in black appeared on the small platform and began setting up equipment, and turning on amplifiers. One of them set up a microphone center stage and placed a wooden stool behind it.

  “Not too many people here for a performance,” Pamela said, looking around. “We must be the largest part of their audience. Do you see anyone else?”

  “I think I see some people in the back,” said Joan, peering over Pamela’s shoulder. “It’s hard to tell in this darkness.”

  The glum waitress that had taken their order returned with a tray of their drinks. She slowly placed each beverage in front of each woman.

  “These look amazing!” exclaimed Pamela.

  “If they put Gummy Bears in this I’m going to puke,” said Arliss.

  “It’s what you wanted, “ replied Joan.

  “No, I didn’t,” said Arliss, “It’s what Pamela made me order.”

  A tall blonde woman entered the stage and stood beside the microphone. Clapping from a few unseen people ensued. Pamela immediately joined in enthusiastically and Joan and Arliss followed suit. The blonde woman bowed and took her place on the stool and adjusted the mic. She opened what appeared to be a small notebook and began reading what sounded to be poetry—although Pamela wasn’t certain. Pamela recognized much of the imagery that she had seen in the poetry that Trudi Muldoon had showed them in Theodore Ballard’s dissertation. There was lots of death, gloom, darkness, torture, unrequited love, and other horrific images. The blonde reader spoke in a low, rumbling voice into the microphone:

  “Death is daring me

  Death is calling me

  Come to me, Death.

  Come be my lover.

  Make love to me, Death.

  Hold me in your arms

  And smother me

  With eternal kisses”

  “Gross,” said Arliss, cringing.

  “Now, dear,” said Joan, “doesn’t a Vulcan’s Coffin sound like a nice idea?”

  The woman continued reading as activity went on around her. The bar tender continued making drinks—even using his blender on high speed which was very loud. The young reader didn’t seem to be cognizant of or bothered by the nois
e.

  The sour waitress arrived back at their table just as Pamela had finished slurping through her Tulip Kiss. Wanting to drink another, but realizing that she had driven to their present location in her Civic and not wanting to end up in jail (that would really set off both Rocky and Detective Shoop), she pulled the waitress’s sleeve and whispered in her ear, “Do you always have entertainment in the afternoon?

  The waitress responded in a monotone, her lips barely moving, “We usually have readers late in the afternoon most days. There are lots of would-be poets who want to perform. In the evenings we have bands. If you want to hear some of the bands, you’ll have to stick around until eight or so.”

  “Did you happen to know this Black Vulture fellow who was killed on Saturday night at KRDN?”

  The waitress looked at her for a second, as if to sense the sincerity of her question. Then she intoned, “We all knew him. Not well, really. But he was here often. He introduced a lot of bands that play here on his show.”

  “Did anyone know him well?”

  “I don’t think so. Black Vulture was really a loner. Too bad, too. There were a lot of girls in his classes—at the University, you know, who had a crush on him. But, he never seemed interested in anyone that I could tell. Mostly just interested in the music.”

  “Alternative music?”

  “Yeah,” she replied, shrugged and then turned abruptly and headed back to the kitchen.

  “Pamela!” Pamela looked around to see who was calling her name. A tall, gawky form in a long navy blue raincoat was headed their way, squeezing between tables. When she arrived and stood before the three women, backlit by the spotlights from the platform, Pamela realized that she was looking at Trudi Muldoon, Rocky’s colleague from the English Department.

  “Trudi,” she exclaimed, “What brings you here?”

  “I’m here to find out more about Ted,” said Trudi.

  “Really?” asked Pamela. “That’s why we’re here. Trudi, my friends and colleagues Joan Bentley and Arliss MacGregor from the Psychology Department. This is Trudi Muldoon, from the English Department. Her office is right across from Rocky’s—and she was Ted Ballard’s dissertation advisor.”