by Hannah Howe
Chapter Twenty-Nine
I spent an hour soaking in the bath. Then I tended to the scratches and bruises on my face. If there’s one thing I’m good at it’s disguising scratches and bruises. And after I’d done that, I dressed, slipping into a clean pair of jeans and a baggy woollen tunic before driving to Castle Gwyn.
At the castle, I found Woody in the recording studio. He walked up to me with a big grin on his rugged face, his arms open wide, inviting an embrace.
“Hey, it’s my favourite private eye. The radio reports that the gum heels are holding someone in connection with McGill’s murder. You’ve pulled it off, Peaches; you’ve put me in the clear.”
I shrugged modestly, “Just doing my job.” Reluctantly, I accepted Woody’s embrace. It was a bit like being mauled by an octopus, but I managed to escape with my dignity intact.
After our brief hug, Woody stepped back with an even broader grin on his face. He delved into his jeans pocket and placed something in the palm of his hand. “Look what I’ve got.”
I stared at his large hand and the three blue, diamond-shaped pills resting in his palm. “That looks suspiciously like Viagra.”
“It is Viagra.”
I frowned, not entirely sure where this conversation was going. “Why do you need Viagra, Woody?”
“Well,” he explained, “to be honest with you, Woody Larson is a 20/7 man. I mean, I’m ready to please the groupies twenty hours a day, but I do have a little down time. The solution? Viagra. With this, I’ll be a 24/7 man with no down time.”
I shook my head. Some arguments – most, actually – are not worth getting into, but I felt obliged to dive two-footed into this one. “Ever thought that maybe you should be putting more effort into pleasing the woman in your life, Derwena?”
“Nah.” Woody waved a dismissive hand. “Derwena can’t cope with my appetite. To be fair to her, no woman could. I need lots of women in my life. Though, that said, if I had you...”
If he hadn’t used those words on at least a thousand women, I would have been gratified.
Undeterred, Woody reached for his guitar and strummed a few chords. He picked out a rather beautiful melody. “I’ve written a song for you. It’s called ‘Private Investigations’.”
The song ran through my head. I had to admit, the tune was very familiar. “Didn’t Mark Knopfler do that?”
Woody pulled a face, gurning for all he was worth. “I thought it sounded familiar.” Then his features brightened. Ever the optimist, he suggested, “Maybe I can write another song for you. You got an idea for a title?”
“How about, ‘I’m Not in Love’.”
Once again, he frowned. “I think that’s been done too.”
“I know,” I shrugged impishly. “It must be so difficult to be original.”
Woody was strumming his guitar, trying to fashion an original melody, when Derwena wandered into the recording studio. She was wearing a flimsy cotton nightdress with ‘cute babe’ emblazoned across the front, which spoke volumes for the quality of the modern heating system in the castle, and a vacant look on her face, a reflection of the empty vodka bottle, held in her right hand.
“I fell off the wagon,” she mumbled, placing a hand on my shoulder for support.
I nodded. “On to both knees, by the look of it.”
“After the album and tour I’m booking myself into a clinic. I’ve had a chat with Dr Storey. He reckons I can do it, if I have the right support.”
“I’m sure you can,” I smiled encouragingly.
Derwena hiccupped. She placed the palm of her hand to her chest, then turned to glare at me through rolling, bloodshot eyes. “I suppose I should thank you, for Woody’s sake.”
“Just doing my job,” I repeated.
She toyed with the hem of my tunic, then gave me a lecherous grin. “You saw me naked. Many men have done that, but not many women.”
I smiled, politely. Maybe it had something to do with the drugs, the booze, or becoming stir-crazy in the castle, but there were heaps of rampant hormones flying around today.
“I bet you look good naked,” Derwena leered.
Gently, I removed Derwena’s hand from my tunic. “Derwena, dear, I think you’ve had a drop too much of the sauce.”
She frowned, then hiccupped again. “I guess you’re right. I don’t really know what I’m saying. I think I need a lie down.” As if by magic, Tim appeared in the recording studio. He took hold of Derwena’s elbow and escorted her to the stairs. As she climbed the stairs, Derwena called out over her shoulder, “I sing better than I speak, do you know that? I’ve got a beautiful singing voice.” Then she went into a chorus of ‘Fire and Ice’. Incredibly, she hit the high notes. At the top of the stairs, she yelled, “It’s not easy being Derwena de Caro. Make sure you tell them that.”
Woody was still strumming his guitar, still looking for the lost chord, when Milton waddled into the studio. “Ah, Sam,” he beamed, “I heard that you were in the castle. I’ve written a cheque. Will that cover your services?”
I took the cheque from Milton’s outstretched hand. Then I studied the numbers with my spirits rising. Maybe I could afford an office carpet now. “You’re too generous, Milton.”
“We can afford it,” Milton replied dismissively. “The new album’s all mixed. It sounds good. Maybe not a classic, but it should keep us going until the next one. Hopefully, by then, Woody and Derwena will have cleaned up their act and rediscovered their creative spark.”
I looked across to Woody, who was scratching his head with a pen before scribbling lyrics into a notebook. “I’ll stay tuned.”
Milton checked his pocket watch, then he extended his right hand and I shook it. “Thanks, Sam. It’s been a rough ride. We couldn’t have done it without you.”
“Down these mean streets a woman must go who is not herself mean, who is neither tarnished nor afraid...”
Milton grinned. He wagged a finger at me. “Chandler.”
“With a little gender twisting, yeah.” I walked over to the staircase. It was time to leave the castle. Then a thought occurred to me. Turning to face Milton, I asked the question, “Where’s Nerd?”
“In hospital. He slipped a disc during a tantric sex session.”
“Pain and pleasure,” I mused. “They’re often intertwined.”
