by Robin Ray
CHAPTER 12
Early the next morning, Gregory went knocking on Tony’s door in his room at The Inn. After waiting for nearly a minute, and receiving no answer, he left the building and carried on to the main drag where he bought himself an aloo pie and a coffee from Beth’s Pastry Shoppe next to the hardware store. Trekking up Rock City Road, he had a clear line of sight to the twin mountains in the distance. Both roughly the same height, it did appear odd that the one to the left was covered with trees while the other looked like a ski resort in full swing. From here, he thought, that vista looked like a giant flag. And he was half right. Had the good detective been a more focused student in his vexillology class, he would have realized the distance green & white scene was nothing more than a monstrous, veritable representation of the Nigerian flag. Along the way, he glanced at the various open fields to the left and right of the road. Wildflowers of all different sizes and colors dotted the otherwise sparse fields, land that seemed perfect for a family gathering or spring dance.
As he continued on, he remembered one of his earlier cases, Elizabeth Bathory. She stayed fixed in his memory simply because her gothic name brought up images of a well-heeled duchess bathing in the blood of virgins within the bowels of her inner sanctum while the villagers burned stakes outside her castle. How odd, he thought, her American parents should name her Elizabeth. Maybe they weren’t aware of the Hungarian serial killer who shared the same name. Or maybe these Bathorys were blood relatives. He never did find out. All he knew was Elizabeth needed his services to follow her man around to see if he had another mistress. The two were planning to get hitched soon; it’d be a shame, she thought, if her man was simply using her for her money.
Elizabeth lived in a posh, gated community with fields of marigolds and gently flowing streams everywhere, a landscape not dissimilar from the one he’d found himself in now. Some of the homes, he remembered, were colossal, perhaps sporting 12 to 14 bedrooms, maybe more. They all had gorgeous, picture book landscaping and, even though it was mere blocks away from the interstate, the thickly wooded surroundings were more than adequate to buffer the squeal of the incessant tires out on the paved road.
One other element jogged his memory about Elizabeth’s little homestead. When he was a few yards away from her house, her spotted Great Dane would come trotting towards him. The first time that happened, he nearly shit his pants. Her dog, Alfa, was a Harlequin Dane that clocked in at around 190 pounds; in other words, a Dalmatian on steroids, and its bark was so loud it could give a rabbit a heart attack from ½ a block away. As it turned out, and much to his relief, Alfa was just an overgrown puppy, a well-fed Deutsche Dogge that lived the life of Riley, albeit a lonely one, in Elizabeth’s estate. And now it was up to the good detective to find out why her fiancée, a Haitian creole named Josué Dumarsais, had become so distant in recent weeks.
For one month, Gregory followed Josué everywhere, from scheduled meetings with his tech co-workers at various eateries around the Pacific Northwest, to visiting his family members in Tacoma, Federal Way and Vashon Island. As it turned out, Elizabeth’s suspicions were for naught. Josué simply had family members who weren’t nearly as well off as he was and he felt obligated to help them cope in life, especially his cousins on Vashon Island who, truth be told, should start investing some of their donated money in contraceptives.
Arriving at a bend in the block, the ex-cop read the street sign – Byrdcliff Road. According to the instructions given to him last night by Shannon Hoon, he should soon arrive at a large, white, six-bedroom colonial house with a sloping front yard and a detached garage. Ah, there it is, he thought as he came upon it seconds later. The hedges in the front, he noticed, could use a trimming and the lawn could stand a little mowing. Other than that, the estate appeared to be well kept. Some of the garbage cans on one side of the house were overflowing, though. And, although it didn’t look it from the street, the house could benefit from a touch up paint job. Replacing some of the missing beams in the wooden porch railing would also probably be in order, too. But who was Gregory to say? He was just a visitor on a mission, not the lifestyles judge from Better Homes & Gardens.
Ringing the door bell, the PI waited for someone, anyone, to answer. The house, being up on a hill, had a spectacular view of downtown Woodstock, but would it kill them to upkeep the place? he thought. Ringing the bell once again, he peeked in the curtained windows but wasn’t able to see inside. Still receiving no answer, he knocked on the door. Maybe this is the wrong house, he wondered.
As he started walking down the steps from the porch, he heard something akin to a scratching noise, albeit faint, coming from the right side of the house. Instinctively, he started investigating, traipsing down the grass-covered driveway to the detached wooden garage in the back. Arriving at the light-yellow terminus, he tugged on the heavy lock anchored through the latch that kept the shed tightly closed. Then, knocking, on the door, he listened carefully to see if he could perceive anything.
“Hello?” he called out. “Anyone there?”
Just then, he heard what sounded like a phlegmy snort emitted from the back of the garage. Hurrying around the shed, his eyes fell upon a black-bearded man with curly black hair nodding off beneath an old, torn, psychedelic blanket. His pillow was a puffed-out garbage bag.
Hmm, the PI thought. A transient; probably unusual for a place like Heaven. Just then, the stranger stirred.
“Are you okay?” Gregory asked him. “Need some help?”
“What time is it?” the stranger asked, wiping spittle from his mouth.
The PI checked his watch. “9:30.”
“How come it’s so bright?” the squinting waker asked.
Gregory shook his head. “9:30 in the morning.”
“Oh,” Black Beard muttered, extending his right arm. “Can you give me a hand?”
Treading towards the downed man, Gregory helped him up. The strong smell of hard liquor in the stranger’s skin caused the PI to reel backwards slightly, but not so much as to offend the recently awaked señor. He then helped the curly haired Romeo sit on the steps of the back porch. Clad in a thigh-length, black and red plaid tunic, loose-fitting, dark blue cargo pants and brown shoes, he was a dead ringer for Paul Bunyan sans Babe the Blue Ox.
“Do you live around here?” Gregory asked him.
Black Beard cupped his throbbing head. “Yes. Right here, as a matter of fact.”
“What were you doing back there?” the PI asked.
The recently roused man took a deep breath then answered, “I think I came home late and probably lost my card.”
Gregory squinted. “Probably?”
“Maybe I did,” Black Beard voiced weakly. “I don’t remember. Who are you anyway?”
“Gregory Angelicus,” the D answered.
“You live around here?”
“Uh huh,” the PI said. “New in town.”
The stranger offered him his hand and said, “Jim, Jim Morrison. Oh,” he groaned. “Who planted an axe in my skull?”
“Oh, you’re Jim Morrison,” Gregory realized. “Mama Cass mentioned you earlier.”
“I love that chick,” Jim stated plainly.
The former policeman surveyed the area and noticed the back door of the house was ajar.
“Let’s get you inside,” the ex-cop told him.
Seconds later, Jim was sitting on a kitchen chair with the new arrival’s help.
“You drink coffee?” he asked the Paul Bunyan clone.
“Yes,” Jim answered.
“I’ll make some,” Gregory offered, “if I can use your kitchen.”
“Help yourself, man,” Black Beard said. “If I tried I’d probably burn this place to the ground.”
“How do you take yours?” the PI inquired, scouring the cabinets for ground beans.
“Black,” Jim replied. “Make it so I can stand a spoon in it.”
“You lived here a long time?” Gregory asked as he started rinsing the glass coffee pot he’d found
near the sink.
The black-haired man rubbed his stomach as if it was troubled. “Since 1971.”
“Wow,” the PI stated. “What’s that, like, 45 years?”
Jim shook his head. “I don’t know, man. I stopped counting in ’72.”
“Well, you look good for a 70-year-old chap,” the detective complimented him.
Morrison started getting up. “You don’t mind if I shower and change while you do whatever it is you do, do you?”
“No,” Gregory assured him. “Go ahead. I’ll be right down here.”
“Okay,” Jim said, sauntering off to the upstairs bathroom.
About 30 minutes later, after being rejuvenated by the cold water and a thorough splashing of scented rubbing alcohol on his neck, Morrison looked and felt like he was fit enough to run a marathon. Wearing a fresh change of clothes, he almost looked like a different man with his white pyjama pants and light blue, long sleeve shirt. Plopping himself down on a couch in the wooden floored living room opposite Gregory, he helped himself to the coffee and sponge cake that was set out on the center table. The PI had turned the holographic TV above the mantle on to a game show. The soft sunlight, filtering in through the curtain-covered blinds, washing the room with its gentle presence, was hardly a visual deterrent to the virtual TV.
“Oh, yes,” the curly haired musician smiled, rubbing his cleaned beard. “Much better.”
“Do you do that a lot?” the ex-cop asked, “sleeping behind the garage?’
“I have a history,” Jim answered, pouring himself some coffee in a mug.
“Mama Cass you’re a musician?”
“I’m a singer and poet,” Jim specified. “You ever got into poetry?”
“Sorry,” the detective apologized. “Not my thing. I’m real busy doing other stuff.”
“That’s okay,” the singer said. “Did you ever hear Light My Fire?”
Gregory looked puzzled. “Light My Fire?”
Jim lazily sang one line of the chorus:
“Come on baby light my fire.”
“Oh, yeah” Gregory smiled. “I know that one. That’s by…um…”
“The Doors,” the 70’s icon filled him in. “The Doors of Perception.”
“The Doors of Perception,” the PI mused then, looking around the room, asked, “So this is the famed 27 Club?”
“27 Club, Club 27, whatever,” the singer explained. “The one and only.”
“Where’s everybody?” the detective asked.
“Working,” Jim answered, reaching for some crumb cake. “Who are you again?”
“Angelicus,” the PI answered. “I’m investigating the death of Amy Winehouse.”
“Oh,” Jim groaned. “Here we go with the 50 questions again. I’m tired of you fucking angels prodding me and prodding me about this shit. When is it gonna end?”
“I’m not an angel,” Gregory assured him. “I do understand the importance of this situation, though. Just like you, just like everyone else, I want this whole thing to be done and over with. I know it’s hard for you to not take it personally; I know how it feels to lose the people around you.”
“Where are you from?” the rock singer asked. “Legal Heaven?”
Gregory shook his head. “I live here. Just arrived a few days ago.”
“Oh, man,” Jim lamented. “I’m sorry, man. I didn’t know you just, you know…”
“That’s okay,” the D assured him. “I’m getting used to the place.”
“Yeah, you will,” Jim acknowledged. “Pretty big adjustment, huh? A lot of cats who come here go crazy within a week, especially when they realize there ain’t no drugs here. Weed, but no hard stuff. And you know, for a rock and roll crowd, that’s torture.”
“I can believe it,” Gregory attested. “Did you get along with Amy?”
Jim stroked the hairs on his chin. “Amy was…troublesome. I mean, she was okay when she first got here, but she changed.”
“How so?” the detective asked.
The rock singer shrugged. “She was really enthused about hanging out with Pearl…Janis Joplin. They did get close, too. Went around everywhere. I don’t know when shit got sour, though. You know how it is with ladies. They’re here, they’re there, they’re everywhere.”
“I don’t know what that means,” the addled interviewer admitted, “but if you say so.”
“Pearl’s like my sister, man.,” Black Beard insisted. “We go way back. Haight-Ashbury, Hollywood. Shoulda been with me in Paris. Oh well. Too late now. See this?” The singer bent his head forward, parted some of the hair on top and showed Gregory the old faded scar there.
“Janis did that?” the detective asked.
“With a bottle of Southern Comfort,” Jim lamented. “I dug her but, you know, that’s how it turns out sometimes. I kinda like to think she was jealous of Amy, but that wasn’t the case.”
“I thought all scars healed completely up here in Heaven?” Gregory wondered.
“I think the angels purposely didn’t make this one disappear,” Jim guessed, “to be sure I don’t forget how destructive my hedonistic, Bacchanalian ways can be. I don’t blame ‘em.”
“You and Amy had something going?” Gregory inquired.
“Nope,” the singer swore. “A little too out there for me, and this is Jim Morrison talking!”
The PI smiled. “How many people live here?”
“Just me, Janis, Jimi,” Jim answered. “We get along swimmingly – just as long as we keep our own businesses to ourselves. Better that way, you know? Our private paradises within the house of love.
“Where was Amy’s room? Gregory asked.
“Upstairs,” Jim answered. “Wanna have a look?”