“She’s baking in this heat?” Zee asked as she happily took the treat.
“Yep. She loves to bake. She doesn’t eat much of it, but she sure can crank it out.” I chuckled. “Clark says she started baking when she stopped drinking. It’s her therapy when she’s anxious about stuff.”
“I hate to hear that Grace is troubled,” Zee said with genuine concern, “but I sure do love the results. Seth will eat this entire loaf tonight before we go if I don’t watch him. Maybe I’ll stick it in the freezer until we get home from Hannah’s. He says I don’t bake enough now that the kids are gone.” She rolled her large expressive eyes and patted her round belly. “Like either of us needs it.”
“Me included,” I added. “It’s like Mom’s our dealer and her bread and cookies are crack. I’m putting my loaf directly into the freezer too, to save it for Greg.”
Zee laughed. I love her laugh. It’s as rich as dark chocolate and as merry as an elf’s. “Right,” she said, winking at me. “I’m betting it’s half gone by noon tomorrow.” Zee knew me too well. We’ve known each other for over twenty years. Hannah was just a toddler when I met Zee and Seth, and their son, Jacob, hadn’t been born yet.
“Well, dear,” she said, “give me a hug because I won’t see you until I get back from my trip.” We hugged tightly. After, she added, “And don’t you go getting into any trouble while I’m gone, and especially while Greg’s out of town.”
“What trouble? I’m just going to look up some stuff on the computer and make a few phone calls to keep my mother happy. Pretty boring stuff. Not to mention, you encouraged me over lunch to do it.”
“That’s the plan, Stan,” she said with another signature laugh. “If you help Grace with this, maybe you’ll be too busy to get into any real trouble.”
four
When I got home, the first thing I did was put the banana bread directly into the freezer. Huh. A lot that smartypants Zee knows. I can be trusted with baked goods. I even did it before I greeted Wainwright and Muffin, although I had to maneuver a gauntlet of wagging tails and meows to do it.
Poor Wainwright. He usually goes everywhere with Greg. With Greg traveling for the next week or so, the dog was going to be singing the blues. I’d have to make sure we took two walks a day instead of just our usual morning walk down to the beach. Muffin, on the other hand, didn’t care who was home as long as there was at least one warm lap in which to snuggle.
After taking care of animal greetings, I pulled out my laptop, grabbed a yellow pad and pen, and went out on the patio to work. I wanted to first initiate a Marigold search for Boaz Shankleman. That might quickly lead me to some people I could contact to ask about Bo, and that would put my mother and Art at ease. It helps on Marigold if you can provide as much information as possible to weed out duplicate names. Although I doubted there were many Boaz Shanklemans running around, I was able to pull Bo’s date of birth from Wikipedia and insert that along with his name and alias of Bo Shank into the Marigold search engine. Marigold results were not instantaneous. It could take anywhere from thirty minutes to two hours, depending on how much there was to pull and how busy the server was at the time. In the meantime, I pulled up images of Bo on Google and checked them out.
He’d been a tall, sexy drink of water in his band’s heyday, with a lean body and wavy dark hair that he wore down to about his chin most of the time. Over the years, Bo’s hair had run the gamut of lengths from shoulder-length to almost a buzz cut. I’d lusted after the singer during his wavy mane period. Recent photos of him showed a man in his late sixties, still lean, still sporting a shock of wavy hair, but now it was steel gray. His taste in facial hair had been just as varied, from full and long to short, but never clean shaven. Even now he wore a Vandyke beard, much like my husband’s but gray. Greg’s beard was showing scant bits of gray, like patches of snow at the end of winter. Sometimes he likes it, sometimes he doesn’t and threatens to shave it off, proving that men are just as vain about going gray as women. Bo’s face looked like a rough road with deep tire tracks around his eyes and mouth, but even when he was younger Bo Shank hadn’t been a pretty boy. He was still good looking though, even for an old guy, and in photos he still exuded a casual sexiness that was hard to ignore.
I opened the various current photos of Bo that showed him with people. On the webpages on which they appeared, some had captions noting who was with him. I saved the photos to my desktop that I thought might be important and jotted down the names of the people with him in each. There were a few of Bo holding a small dog. I opened the first one, but there was no caption. The second one yielded information. The caption for the photo read Bo Shank with His Taco Terrier Ringo. I enlarged the photo and studied the animal. Bo was sitting, holding the dog on his lap, a hand cupped against the front of the dog’s chest, while he talked with an unidentified man to his right. Neither man paid any attention to the photographer, but Ringo did. He stared at the camera with open intelligence and confidence that told the world he was quite comfortable in his celebrity status.
I checked out a few more photos of Bo with Ringo. One showed the animal standing on a table on his small hind legs, his front paws on Bo’s chest. The man and dog were snout to snout, sharing smooches. Clearly the animal loved his owner, and Bo loved him back. The dog’s body was small but sturdy, especially through his chest, and his legs were stumpy. His coat was mostly white, with splotches of medium brown, as if he’d rolled around in soft milk chocolate, then shook most of it off. His eyes were large and dark and very expressive, while his ears were quite comical. They were too large for his head, like they’d been borrowed for the day from a larger dog. Ringo looked like an animal with a sweet and stable disposition, and he was evidently comfortable around people—my kind of animal.
My curiosity about Ringo satisfied, I continued going through more recent photos of Bo and noted the names and faces of the people with him when they were listed. I’d gone through almost two dozen when I hit pay dirt.
It was a photo of Bo with a man about his age but round and soft and bald, like a boiled egg wearing business casual. The photo was taken about six months earlier and the caption noted Legendary Bo Shank with His Manager Titan West.
Titan? It made me wonder if it was his real name or some nickname hung on him by snarky kids in school. The last thing this man looked like was a Titan. A Morris, maybe, or even a George or a Howard.
I googled Titan West and found a simple but very professional website for Titan Entertainment. From the information on the site, Titan West headed an agency that represented tribute bands and old-time musicians still pumping cash out of the baby boomers who had followed them way back when. Among the bands he represented was Acid Storm, but it wasn’t listed as a tribute band. Confused because I knew the band had broken up decades ago, I clicked on the link that brought me to the group’s bio, which included a close-up photo of the band. Bo Shank was in front, arms crossed in front of him, one eye half closed in a surly look that suggested he didn’t give a damn if you hired them or not. The photo looked familiar. Switching to Amazon, I looked up Acid Storm’s albums, which were still available in used condition through outside vendors.
Sure enough, gracing the front of one of Acid Storm’s first album covers was a very similar photo, with Bo giving the same challenging stare; the other two band members on either side of him but slightly in the background were wearing the same serious scowls. The difference, besides the newer photo not being an album cover, was that Bo was older and one of the band members standing with him was much younger. He wasn’t a kid, maybe in his mid-thirties, but young enough that when Acid Storm was riding high in the charts, he probably wasn’t alive or at most had been in diapers. The other band member was about the same age as Bo and looked familiar. I toggled back and forth between the two photos until I was reasonably sure that the third guy was also an original member of the band.
Bo Shank had been the lead
singer of Acid Storm and the most well-known of the original trio, but he was certainly not the only member who grabbed attention. The lead guitarist, an English guy by the name of Kurt Spencer-Hall, was notorious for wild nights and partying with teenage girls, often underage. I dug deep into my memory for the name of the other band member. I could have looked it up but wanted to see how well my gray matter had stood up over the years. As I recall, the drummer’s name was David Oxman, the other original member in the current band. I looked it up online and was pleased to see that I was right. It was Kurt Spencer-Hall who had been replaced by the young guy.
I toggled over to the Marigold site and input searches for Titan West, Kurt Spencer-Hall, and David Oxman. My search results for Bo had not shown up yet, so I went back to the bio page for the new Acid Storm group and checked on the identity of the young guy. His name was Simon Tuttle. I ran a Marigold search on him as well.
I returned to the Titan Entertainment website and the page for Acid Storm’s upcoming events. If Acid Storm was in the middle of a string of shows, that could explain Bo’s disappearance and whereabouts. Then I remembered that Seaside had said his manager had no idea where Shankleman was. Seems he would if they had a show scheduled. But I checked anyway.
The events page listed shows up until the beginning of last month, but nothing was going on right now. In fact, there was nothing listed for the rest of the year, and it was only August. I found that odd. Nostalgia bands were a big hit at fairs and other summer and fall outdoor events. I looked at the page again. There was no mention of the band being closed to bookings.
I did a Google search to see if there was any mention of Bo Shankleman or bookings for Acid Storm not on the Titan Entertainment page. There was nothing. Everything was pointing to Boaz and Ringo hitting the road for a little off-the-book road trip.
I took note of the number for Titan Entertainment and punched in the numbers on my cell phone. According to its website, it was located in Santa Ana. One quick call just might take care of this mystery. After the fourth ring, right before I expected it to go to voicemail, the call was answered.
“Titan here,” a man’s voice barked.
“Is this Titan Entertainment or Titan West?” I asked, toggling back to the photo of Titan West with Bo Shank. The voice didn’t match the photo.
“One and the same,” the man said. “State your business.”
It didn’t seem like a very professional way to answer a business phone, but I wasn’t about to give him a tutorial on phone etiquette. “Mr. West,” I began.
“Titan,” he said, cutting me off. “It’s just Titan.”
“Okay, Titan.” I took a deep breath. “My mother lives at Seaside Retirement Community, where Boaz Shankleman also resides.”
He cut me off again, this time with, “So? What’s that got to do with me?”
“Mr. Shankleman hasn’t been seen in a couple of weeks, and my mother is worried.”
“Why? He banging her?”
I clamped my mouth closed at the vulgar question, lest I say something equally bad. “No,” I quickly answered, “but he is a friend and neighbor, and she and some of the other residents are concerned.”
“Yeah, so I heard.” He cleared his throat. “Some woman from the front office there called me a few days ago looking for Boaz. As I told her, I don’t know where he is and don’t care.”
“Aren’t you his emergency contact and his manager?”
“Yeah, I guess. At least the first part, which I need to change. As for the manager end, he fired me a few months back.”
“So that’s why there are no bookings for the group on your website. I thought it seemed strange that the listings stopped. Did you and the band have a falling out?”
He laughed. “Just artistic differences.”
“Do you know who’s representing the band now?”
“Not for sure, but I have my suspicions. And she can have them. Acid Storm burned out decades ago, and it’s still a bunch of burnouts. Cydney Fox ruined the band back then, and she’s going to ruin what’s left of it. Mark my words.” He hung up.
Cydney Fox. The name sounded familiar, but I couldn’t immediately place it.
I was about to do a Google search for Cydney Fox when my cell phone rang. It was Greg. I eagerly picked it up. “Hi, honey,” I said into the phone. “How are you doing?”
“Just fine, sweetheart. I had a few minutes before Clark and I left for an early dinner and thought I’d check in with you.”
Dinner?
I glanced at the time on my laptop. It was past five o’clock. Holy moly! I’d been researching for over two hours. “Wow,” I said to Greg, “I had no idea it was that late. I’ve been working on the computer since I got home from lunch and shopping with Zee.”
“You doing something for the office?” he asked.
Okay, here’s where it could get sticky. I wasn’t about to lie to my husband, but if he knew I was nosing around about people, he might get upset. Usually when I did that, it meant someone was dead and I was up to my neck in trouble. Before I could make up my mind about what to say, the dead air on the phone made him jump to the worst-case scenario.
“Oh my God, Odelia!” Greg shouted. “I haven’t even been gone twenty-four hours and you’ve managed to find a dead body?”
“No. No. No,” I hurriedly assured him. “There’s no body. I swear.”
I heard voices, then a second later I heard my brother’s voice as Greg switched his phone to speaker. “Dammit, Odelia, now what are you into?” Clark barked into the phone.
Clark was a retired cop who now headed up security for a company headquartered in Phoenix. The ultimate owner of the company is Willie Proctor, a friend of ours who is also a felon on the run. On paper, though, it’s just a normal company with a normal board of directors.
“I’m just helping Mom,” I snapped. “She and Art are worried about one of their neighbors. He’s been gone for a few weeks, along with his car and his dog, and they’re concerned. I’m sure he’ll turn up after having taken a little road trip. He’s an entertainer, so he’s probably in Vegas or someplace like that.”
“What’s he do?” asked my always suspicious brother.
“Do you remember the band called Acid Storm?”
“Sure,” both Greg and Clark answered.
My husband was ten years younger than me, so he would have been a very young teen at the time. “You listened to Acid Storm, Greg?” I asked with doubt.
“My brother had their albums,” he answered. “After my accident, I pulled them out and played them all the time, to the point where my mother threatened to throw them out. It was angry music, and I was an angry kid.”
Greg had become a paraplegic after a fall from a bridge at the age of fourteen. In spite of it, he’d managed to finish high school and college, build a great business, and develop an incredible and genuine positive outlook on life, but I knew it hadn’t happened overnight and without overcoming great obstacles and setbacks.
“Well,” I continued, “here’s a newsflash: Bo Shank, the lead singer, lives at Seaside.”
“Get out of here!” Greg exclaimed.
“It’s true,” I confirmed, “but he goes by his real name of Boaz Shankleman.”
“Hey,” said Clark, “I’ve met that guy during a couple of my stays with Mom. I had no idea who he was, though. He was just introduced to me as Boaz.”
“So it’s Bo Shank who’s missing?” asked Greg.
“Yep,” I answered, “along with his dog, Ringo. I’ve been looking into him online and just got off the phone with his former manager. He doesn’t know where he is, but it seems Acid Storm might have new representation since the band still performs nostalgia gigs. I’m betting he’s on one of those trips and just forgot to tell anyone at Seaside.”
“Sounds reasonable,” said Clark, “although I tho
ught that band broke up years ago. Wasn’t there some scandal?”
“I think you’re right, Clark,” I answered. “Only Bo and David Oxman are still performing. The third member of the band, Kurt Spencer-Hall, was replaced by some young guy when they got back together.” I paused. “So you see, no dead bodies.”
“It’s still early,” Clark scoffed.
five
I hung up from Frick and Frack after Greg and Wainwright had a slobbery moment via the phone, after which I brought all my stuff inside and thought about dinner. Nothing caught my interest as I stood in front of the open refrigerator door hoping something would magically appear. It was nearly barren, but I didn’t feel like grocery shopping either. Spying Wainwright’s leash hanging on its peg by the back slider, I had an idea.
I grabbed my tote bag and stuck my laptop into it, then grabbed the leash. I didn’t need to call to Wainwright. As soon as the animal saw his leash off its peg, he bounded over, tail wagging and ready to go. In doggie years he’s an old guy, but jiggle his leash and he behaves like a puppy. I barely had the leash attached before he was pulling me toward the front door. We could have been going out the back to the car, but the smart dog had read my mind.
Our home is only a few blocks from the ocean and the Seal Beach pier. Wainwright trotted along happily as we made our way down the street toward the ocean. He’d get his walk and I could grab dinner at a small café across from the beach. It had a patio facing the street, and I could keep Wainwright with me on the patio while I ate. When I got down there it was still a bit early for the usual dinner crowd, so Wainwright and I easily found a spot where we could both people watch. A few neighbors waved hello as they passed, and one stopped long enough to give Wainwright an affectionate pat.
“Hey, Odelia,” Brad Hornby said as he handed me a menu. “Where’s Greg?”
Rhythm & Clues Page 3