Fanatically in Trouble

by Jenny B. Jones

  “There’s a whole world out there for you,” Frannie said.

  She leaned in as if sharing a scandalous secret. “Last week Mel and I went to Hawaii. Hopped on a plane and everything.”

  Sylvie nudged Frannie. “We should take a trip. Maybe act like normal retirees every once and a while.”

  “Mel and I even saw two celebrities on our return flight.”

  “That’s nice.” My phone pinged with a few texts, and I checked the messages. “Who was it?”

  “The dearly departed and some rapper my daughter called Little Tee Pee.” She wagged a finger in Tee Pee’s direction. “That’s him over there.”

  I lowered my phone, and I gave Mrs. Ellis my full attention. “America was on your flight?”

  “Yes!” Her cheeks lifted in delight. “Mel and I got bumped up to first class, and we sat right behind them.”

  “America and Little Tee Pee were sitting together?” I asked.

  “Sure enough. Though they didn’t act like they wanted to.”

  I thought America had arrived much later. “What do you mean?”

  “Those two got into a pretty good argument when we were flying over Oklahoma. Mel slept right through it, but I heard almost every word.”

  “What were they arguing about?”

  “Well, hon, I don’t like to gossip, but if they’d wanted it to be secret, they should’ve been quieter, right?”

  “Exactly.” I smiled encouragingly for her to continue. “Not gossip at all.”

  “I heard America tell that rapper he’d cheated.”

  I frowned. “On Jaz?”

  “That was my first thought, and I don’t mind telling you, I assumed I was in for a juicy eavesdrop, but it kind of went downhill from there. Still, it was more interesting than my fights with Mel. Those usually involve dirty dishes and underwear on the floor.”

  “What did you hear?” I asked.

  “About the time that I tuned in, turbulence picked up. I lost quite a few words thanks to Mel squealing like a piglet, but I’m pretty certain America told that rapper she knew he was cheating people out of money and she could prove it.”

  “Did she say how?” Sylvie asked.

  “Things got really loud in the cabin,” Ida said. “But I know I heard America say, ‘Your camping days are over.’ Then she told him she was going to the police.”

  “Wow.” This sounded like we had the beginning of a motive for Tee Pee. “I wonder what America meant by that.”

  “Who can understand these famous musicians? They’re all weirdos.” Ida patted my shoulder. “Not including you, dear. You seem at least partially normal.”

  “Thanks.”

  “They ignored each other the rest of the flight,” Ida said. “When the plane landed, the rapper yanked down his carry on and walked away as fast as his giant pants would let him.”

  “Did you see or hear anything else noteworthy?” I asked.

  “The couple behind us could burp the opening number from Hamilton. But other than that, nah.”

  So America had something on Little Tee Pee. Something serious enough to be illegal. Your camping days are over?

  What if her accusation had pushed the man over the edge?

  And what if Tee Pee had decided to insure America’s silence . . . forever?

  Chapter Fourteen

  Music fans were a group unlike any other. Most gave approval and hard-earned money because they loved the music. But sometimes fans were more interested in the celebrity aspect of an artist. As I escorted a group of festival attendees down the sidewalk to the community center that afternoon, I knew I was in the presence of both breeds. I also knew Jaz didn’t care what club they belonged to as long as they all agreed she was the queen of it all.

  “Enjoy your hip-hop class, ladies and gentlemen.” I smiled warmly at the group, especially charmed by the eighty-one-year-old grandmother wearing a Jaz For President t-shirt, as well as Felipe, who informed me he’d won second place at the Nebraska State Fair talent show while singing Jaz’s hit “My Man So Fine.” With full makeup and a Jaz-esque wig, Felipe did make an impressive facsimile.

  I peeked inside the classroom, looking for Jaz’s choreographer, who’d been recruited to teach during the fest. Alaina Scott was the “it” girl in dance and had worked with the Who’s Who of famous rock stars. In her early days, she’d even been the choreographer for the Electric Femmes our last two years, bringing our shows to a new level and wowing our crowds. Wondering if Alaina had any dirt on Jaz or America, I wove my way through the eager attendees waiting to learn the hottest dance moves.

  Alaina stood at the front of the room, her platinum hair gelled into a faux hawk on top of her head. She wore black spandex leggings and a hot pink tank top that showed off her tanned and toned arms. “Paisley!” Excusing herself, Alaina squeezed by her fans to capture me in an enthusiastic hug. “It’s been forever since I’ve seen you.” Perky as ever, Alaina glowed like a yellow beam of sunshine wherever she went. She was rarely without a smile, buzzed with limitless energy, and projected a confidence a decade of therapy would still never get me.

  “It’s good to see you as well.” Jaz’s guests were enormously fortunate to have Alaina agree to teach. “When did you get into town?”

  “Yesterday morning,” she said, and I mentally crossed her off my ambiguous suspect list. “I’m still absolutely stunned at the news. I simply can’t believe someone would kill America. What a loss for the music community.”

  I wasted no time with polite transitions. “Had you worked with her?”

  Alaina’s beaded earrings dangled as she spoke. “I began working with her a few months ago. I was completely booked up, but her manager made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.” She gave a wry grin. “Pretty sure it ticked off Jaz, but then again, what doesn’t?”

  “So Johnny Pikes hired you?”

  “Yeah. He pulled out all the stops for America. I know he must be devastated.”

  At the memorial, Johnny had sat there stone-faced and devoid of emotion. I’d thought it a little odd. “Did you ever see Jaz and America together?”

  “Lots of times. I did the choreography for this last tour. When America was added, the two fought like alley cats.”

  “What were these arguments about?”

  “What weren’t they about?” Alaina’s volume rose as the room filled with more people. “They fought about everything. Usually, it was instigated by Jaz, but America could be a pain as well. She had me redo her two duets with Jaz because she thought Jaz had more of a starring role. When I refused, she went to Johnny.”

  “What good would that do?”

  “Johnny wrote me another fat check, and I rewrote the routine. Hey, I’ve got two kids, and private school isn’t cheap. Jaz lost her mind, of course. She told me she and Johnny got into it big over that one. I don’t know what hold America had over Johnny, but in the last few months, whatever America wanted, America got.”

  Except for coming to Sugar Creek. She hadn’t wanted that.

  I caught the eye of an impatient fan and knew my time was up. “I’ll let you get started. It was great to see you, Alaina.”

  She pulled an arm across her chest in a willowy stretch. “Has Jaz put you in charge of her counter-investigation?”

  “She might’ve asked me to look into a few things.”

  Understanding softened her expression. “Paisley, don’t let her walk all over you again.”

  “I’m not.” I wasn’t that girl anymore. My days of letting Jaz push me around were over. Weren’t they?

  “Be careful, okay?” Alaina’s face clouded with concern. “You think you know Jaz, but there’s nothing she wouldn’t do to stay on top.”

  Did Alaina think Jaz was capable of murder? And why was Johnny catering to America’s every whim? He had a goldmine in Jaz. Why would he risk angering her and losing her as a client? If there were a Mt. Rushmore of female music legends, Jaz’s face would be chiseled alongside such greats as Whitney Housto
n, Aretha Franklin, and Beyoncé. What would cause Johnny to toss that away for the newcomer that America was?

  As I stepped outside, birdsong and a warm breeze weren’t the only things that greeted me.

  Arrogantly parked in a loading zone was Frannie’s black minivan. My aunt and grandmother hung their heads out their respective windows like Labradors on a joy ride.

  “Word on the street is that the police might be done with the mansion at the golf course,” Sylvie said.

  The back door slid open like a squeaky, slow-moving invitation.

  Frannie beckoned with her chin. “Hop in. Let’s go check it out. Maybe you can sweet talk someone into getting inside.”

  I checked the time on my phone. I had an hour-and-a-half until the next activity rotation. “Drive fast.”

  Frannie cranked up the John Denver tunes as I climbed inside. “Hon, fast is the only speed limit I know.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Gossip in this small town was about as reliable as its hand-cranked internet service.

  “Pretty sure the house is still on lock-down,” I said as we pulled into the driveway of the mansion. Two unmarked cars and three police SUVs clogged the pristine street.

  “Jack and Diane are still guarding the door.” Sylvie pointed to the same two burly bodyguards who’d been on duty the night of the murder.

  Frannie jumped out of the van and gave her chest a little boost. “The girls and I will turn on the charm and see what we can find.”

  My aunt’s girls were a little less perky and transfixing than she gave them credit for, so Sylvie and I had no choice but to follow and lend our assistance.

  “Hello, sweet things.” Frannie gave the gentlemen a saucy wink. “You two are looking extra muscular and intimidating today. As a former agent with the CIA, I really admire that.”

  “Is there something we can help you ladies with?” the bald one asked, his eyes mere shadows behind those dark sunglasses. I decided he’d be Diane.

  Frannie’s charm charade wasn’t over yet. “Those are some nice muscles. What do you bench press, seventy-five?”

  “Three-fifty.”

  “I don’t believe you. Let me see.” Without permission, my aunt curled her hand around his bicep. “Oh. Very nice. Mama like. Yes, I do approve.” She patted his arm again. “Sylvie, these guns are bigger than those bazookas we carried into the Venezuelan jungles in 1985.”

  “Indeed,” my grandmother said. “And they’re attached to such a handsome, yet thoughtful and intelligent face.”

  Diane extracted his arm from Frannie’s claws. “I’m not letting you three inside the house.”

  Sylvie tossed back her head and laughed a little too loudly. “You think we want inside? Frannie, did you hear that? This gorgeous man thinks we want to go in that mansion!”

  Frannie slapped her knee and hooted. “Hellewwww, a person was murdered in that house. Even if you opened the door and invited us inside to snoop about at our expert, fingerprint-free leisure, it would be ‘no thank you, sir!’ Why, you can smell the bad ju-ju from here.”

  Mr. Security Guard crossed those beefy arms over his superhero chest.

  I sidestepped my aunt. “I’m Paisley Sutton and—”

  “I know who you are,” the other one said.

  “Oh. Okay.” I smiled at Jack. “Well, in that case—”

  “I did security for your Electric Femmes concert at the Eiffel Tower ten years ago.”

  “I thought you looked familiar.” He did not, in fact, look like anyone I had seen in all of my earthly days. “I’m sure you did a fabulous job. I was wondering—”

  “I had to retrieve you from the top when you decided to dangle over the railing.”

  Reason number four-thousand-and-ninety-one why my mother disapproved of my music career. “I was nineteen. I have a better sense of gravity these days. And I’m sorry if I was a brat to you and anyone else on the security team. I’ve grown up a bit since then.”

  His face softened to a degree nearly imperceptible to the eye. But I was descended from secret agent stock, and I certainly saw it.

  “Detective Ballantine told you about us, didn’t he?” I asked.

  Jack gave a single nod. “Said to be on the lookout for two crazy former operatives and their short handler.”

  Ballantine was so off my birthday card list. “Maybe you could just give us some information before these two operatives start tossing their bras.”

  He lifted his chin and returned his stare to the distance.

  I fired off a question anyway. “Did either of you see anyone lurking about America’s room the night of her death?”

  Nothing.

  I tried again. “Perhaps some of your team saw something strange or suspicious that day?”

  Frannie reached into her giant purse emblazoned with Prince’s face outlined in rhinestones and extracted a white box. Lifting the lid, she waved it under the bald one’s large nose. “I have four homemade cupcakes with extra icing with your name on it if you want them. I bet you’ve got a carb-loading day coming up. . .”

  Diane sniffed as he removed his sunglasses, his eyes briefly dropping to the baked goods. “Is that carrot cake with cream cheese frosting?”

  “You betcha.” Frannie waved it under his nostrils. “Organic carrots, so it’s like a dessert and a vegetable. Win-win.”

  “My grandma Effie used to make me carrot cake,” he said.

  “I bet it was baked with love,” Frannie said. “Just like these.”

  Now Jack’s chest rose and fell in a deep sigh. Reaching into the box, he picked up a cupcake. “What do you ladies want to know?”

  “First, how do you feel about older women. . .?”

  I nudged Frannie aside. “What can you tell us about America’s security?”

  Diane gave a mirthless huff. “There wasn’t any.”

  “Surely she had security,” Sylvie said. “She’s a mega recording star among an entire town of music fans.”

  “America was added last minute, and she refused a security detail,” he said. “I hear she routinely rejected any semblance of an entourage, and this trip to Arkansas was no exception. She was supposed to pop in, head out the next morning, and be done with it. If I’d been her manager or record label, she would’ve at least had a few undercover guys, whether she knew it or not. But that didn’t happen.”

  “Why would she risk that?” Frannie asked.

  “She was really careful about her image.” His eyes scanned the area, ever alert. “She went out of her way to maintain a low profile and keep it humble. I hear America was desperate to separate herself from her father’s legacy.”

  I frowned. “Who’s her dad?”

  The well-coifed guard slipped his Ray-Ban’s back on, but not before eyeing me like I was the simple one of the bunch. “Chaz Domingo. Famous punk rocker of the eighties.”

  “That’s her dad?” I asked.

  One eyebrow arched with condescension. “Does People magazine not make it to Sugar Creek?”

  “Hey, I’ve been busy.” Chaz Domingo was a flamboyant rock star, famous for his spiked hair, five-inch platform boots, and an ever-present posse as big as a football team. He lived to excess—excess spending, partying, and carousing until his star was snuffed out when a hotel manager found him dead and alone in a hotel room about eight years ago. “I met him once. He’d swatted me on the butt and stuffed a twenty-dollar bill in my blouse.”

  “Sounds like my typical Friday night,” Frannie said.

  “Were Chaz and America close?” Sylvie asked.

  “It’s my understanding she barely knew him,” Jack said. “She wanted to make it on her own and disconnect from any association with him—including his lavish ways.”

  “But sometimes the money buys the essentials,” I said. “Like a security team.”

  “Exactly,” he said. “And look where that got her.” He glanced toward the ground as if offering up his own moment of silence. “I did try to keep an eye on her as m
uch as I could, but Jaz keeps us busy.”

  And what if she’d intentionally kept them busy and away from America?

  “What about surveillance cameras?” Would the police confiscate the video files before Jaz’s security team could even see it? “Has anyone on your team reviewed those?”

  Jack gave a hearty Marlboro cough into his fist. “I can’t discuss that.”

  “Can’t or won’t?” Sylvie asked.

  Diane’s nostrils flared in a huff of a laugh, while Jack’s Doberman gaze narrowed even more.

  “Nothing?” Frannie trained her curious stare on both men. “Not one little tidbit to discreetly share?”

  Diane’s voice was a frustrated growl. “Let’s just say the security decisions weren’t ours.”

  They weren’t gonna budge on that topic, so I tried another line of inquiry. “Can you confirm what time America arrived at the house yesterday?”

  “I’d say about noon.”

  So her arrival with Johnny was definitely her first appearance.

  “But Ida said she came on the same plane at Little Tee Vee,” Sylvie said.

  “I picked him up at the airport,” Diane said. “That would’ve been about nine-thirty.”

  So where had America gone after landing? “When was the last time you checked on America?”

  “I did a sweep of the upstairs right before showtime and once more during the show.”

  “Did you see anything?”

  Diane scratched his smooth head, an elongated gesture as if warring with himself whether to share. “About two songs in, I came up here and heard voices that led me to America’s room. The door was closed, but I heard a pretty good argument.”

  “With who?” I asked.

  “Johnny Pikes.”

  “Over what?”

  “America was refusing to perform, having second thoughts.”

  “Or maybe something changed her mind,” Sylvie suggested.

  “Johnny was pretty animated. He got loud. Told her he’d made her career, and she better remember that.”

  Sylvie gnawed on her glossy bottom lip. “And then?”