With a Tilt of My Hat

by Mary Matuskey

  I looked into their faces and saw an interest shine forth. It was funny how old Kurt had that effect on people.

  “Kurt’s favorite tales are his love of the years he rode the rails as a hobo—the thrill of outsmarting the engineer when he ran alongside of the train and hopped into the boxcar. Kurt told me he was a working man. He would hop a train in one town just to jump off at another to work at a wheat field. Lots of guys lived this way. He said, “most hobos had a mutual respect for each other and the townspeople were hospitable, those who took us in. Even though we were stealing rides from the train company, we still respected the trains. Several of us became real good friends, like family.’”

  I continued, telling Kari that most of the club patrons really enjoyed Kurt’s stories. Bo Bo, especially, enjoyed them. He befriended Kurt like a brother. Bo Bo hasn’t had family around in years, not anyone to call his own. So the two of them discovered they walked similar paths, both played in bands and traveled to different towns.

  Our drinks arrived then he nudged me; “Hey, let’s play that new song of yours for Kari and her mother—a private show.”

  I slammed back my whiskey and with a full grin on my face, accepted. Excited to perform, I turned to Kari and softly kissed her lips before I got up on stage. I grabbed a hat from the rack, where so many of my fedoras now hung on a permanent stand near the stage. Placed it on my head with a tilt, my guitar in hand, I sat caressing the smooth wood, my fingers gliding up the neck. I drifted into song, sensing the mellowness of my entire being, one with my music, in the realm of Jazzman. My favorite place to be, I could stay here forever and ever.

  Tears fell on Kari’s cheeks, and with a faint smile, she told me, “I’m overwhelmed with gratitude.”

  I rested my head upon the wooden guitar body, then stood and took my bow.

  Joanne gave her a napkin. Kari accepted and wiped her face before she approached me with open arms. “I guess you really did miss me. That was so beautiful, and my very own private concert,” Kari said, as I hugged her ever so tightly.

  The three of us took a cab back to the hotel. With the urgency of my desires I escorted Joanne to her room and held Kari’s hand. Together, we practically ran down the hallway into my room. I felt such ecstasy and, without hesitation, my pants were off. I kissed her neck hard; she rubbed me with all her pleasures. We moved in rhythmic motion, and sort of danced over to the bed. I stripped off her clothing, our bodies touched with a deep sense of longing. She was on top of me. Kari took the lead and embraced what she desired. The warmth of our lovemaking went on for over an hour. Exhaustion overtook us and soon we lay limp in the mixture of our sexual sweat.

  It wasn’t too much longer after that when I scooted out of bed, gently moved Kari’s head from my arm to the pillow. My total body was now immersed with her scent; I didn’t want to wash it off. But I needed a shower before we went back to the club.

  Afterwards, I called room service for dinner. I wrote a note—a love note I suppose—with a dash of my cologne I left it on the nightstand. When the hotel attendant knocked on the door and awakened Kari, she would not only have dinner but a gift of my words too.

  I had left notice to the club attendant that the front row table on the left side of the stage be reserved for Kari and Joanne. My phone buzzed with a text message from John that the guys were waiting curbside for me. I texted back that I was two minutes behind and would be down sporting my new fedora, which was a beautiful gift from Kari’s parents. With my coat slung over my arm and my hat set atop my head, I pushed for the elevator doors, still grinning from our lovemaking.

  Chapter 65

  “Sharp man, you are looking real sharp!” Bo Bo said to me when I entered the van.

  “And I feel it, man, I feel sharper than ever.”

  Twenty minutes later, through heavy Seattle traffic, the van stopped in front of the Blue Waterfront Club. Tonight is what we musicians call a “wonder night”. Most of the city had heard about our music, from media, to the drifter. I was already feeling the atmospheric vibes here on the sidewalk. The energy from John and Bo Bo exploded as we bumped shoulders with each other when we pushed our way through the wooden door of the club.

  Mr. Barrows, the owner, greeted us, “Welcome boys, welcome to our big night of music and dance. We have had phone calls all week. The city is hyped about tonight’s performance. I told everybody to get into jazz mode and come on down. If you can’t see the stage, you will damn well hear the music from the outside balcony.”

  John eagerly shook Mr. Barrow’s hand. “I’ve never seen him so happy.”

  Bo Bo chimed in next with, “Hey, how about passing out some of those great tasting cigars you have hidden behind the bar?”

  Almost on cue, Mr. Barrows offered us a cigar. Ryan followed behind him with whiskey poured over ice in tumblers. We raised our glasses, signifying good luck and lit up our smokes. Conversation did not exist; only quiet reflections and anticipation were felt in the dim lighted room.

  The time of elation was in front of us. I stepped on stage and tuned up. The club filled quickly. The crowd noise elevated at the sound of our first song. “Hush, hush,” was softly heard amongst them. All eyes focused on the band. We played with such a force that the walls trembled while the patrons swayed. Our first number rocked the house! John seemed to twirl his cello in double time, Bo Bo was beating his drums like never before, and I strummed my guitar in 4/4 jazz time.

  The response from the crowd was amazing, and for the first time I stood up and bowed. I looked beyond the people one by one, each table towards the back wall, and took it all in with appreciation. It felt damn good. I felt very proud when I placed my hat upon my head and sat down. With a tilt of my chin, guitar in hand, I strummed softly, slowly, once again lost in Jazzman’s melancholy world.

  * * * *

  Jones and Fike were surprised at the amount of people when they arrived at the club. They squeezed their bodies past a couple holding hands. They broke their grip just to get inside.

  “I’ll get a couple coffees for us,” Jones said.

  Instant mental relief, Fike thought, the music vibrated in the air washing away his stress.

  This atmosphere is exactly as I recalled from my early youth. Smoke-clouded room, the smell of cigars and whiskey, all uniting with the music of guitar and bass.

  Jazzman Steven Straws strummed the last song, bowed his head, and paused for a full minute when the first set ended. Jazzman rose to his feet and that’s when Fike noticed the resemblance. He was a perfect match to the descriptions given by witnesses in the Oregon murders. Fike stared at every inch of Steven’s face, around his head to his neck; he observed his body language when he walked off stage.

  “Hey buddy. Jazzman’s real name is Steven Straws?” Fike asked.

  I never read the poster of Jazzman while in Portland, nor did I catch a glimpse of his face. He was bent over his guitar and his hat was more prominent than any facial features.

  The guy hit him on the shoulder half-drunk, and replied, “Yes, Steven Straws. He was born and raised right here in town. He’s the best of the best.” The guy continued to talk in a drunken slur. “His bio is in the insert of VitalWinds CD. You can buy a signed copy at that back table.”

  Fike purchased the CD when his phone buzzed in his shirt pocket. He ignored the call, his mind at full speed, racing through the timeline of last year’s events. The killing we investigated in Washington, along with the killings in Portland, the same boundaries and the same path of VitalWinds gigs.

  It was all too predictable, unfolding like pages in a book. Steven Straws, the jazz guitarist, is the killer. This calm young man who huddled over his guitar! “Damn it, Jones! We strolled right into the murderer’s domain and we applauded him. Damn.” Fike raised his voice to her. His cell phone vibrated again. This time Fike went outside away from the crowd noise. “Fike here.”

  “What! Are you sure it’s Straws you saw?” Fike asked.

  “It’s Straws; we just
watched him walk into the shed. He stayed there for about ten minutes and exited carrying a box. It appeared to be a toolbox. He then proceeded into the cabin. There was a light that shined through the side window where he sat on a chair; he is erect, almost frozen like a statue,” Officer Pete told him.

  “Did you and the other officers come to the conclusion that this man is Straws?” Fike asked. “Are you positive it’s the same man from the photograph Elizabeth Straws sent to us?”

  “Definitely, yes, sir,” Pete responded.

  “Hold your position for now. Apprehend him if he attempts to leave the area. I will be there in twenty minutes. Have you contacted Captain Michaels?” Fike asked.

  “Yes sir, he is in the area, and his orders are the same as yours.”

  “Jazzman, the guitarist, is Mr. Steven Straws, the brother of George Straws, who is now surrounded by officers at the cabin.”

  “Shit,” blurted Jones. “Do you think they abducted and killed those people as a team?”

  “I don’t know,” answered Fike, “but we are going to get both their asses.”

  “Damn straight, we are!” Jones concurred.

  “Let’s stop the jazz show and take him in for interrogation. What’s your plan?” Jones asked.

  “We have no alternative but to take Steven in for questioning. However, it can wait until the show is over,” Fike said. “It will allow me the time I need to drive to the cabin. I want you to remain here. Don’t let Jazzman out of your sight. When the final song has ended, go backstage and apprehend Straws. I will have two officers stand guard at the front and back doors, along with two other officers who will assist you backstage.” Fike exited the club.

  “Finally, we got him. This case is going to close,” Fike said to himself while he drove into the woods over the dirt road. He telephoned the police station with alerts. “I want a psychiatrist/behavior analyst escorted to the cabin site ASAP,” Fike told them. “Pull up the list of psychologists. I have a couple highlighted. One in particular who stands out is highlighted in yellow. I chose Heather Brown, not only for her specialty, but for her depth of human kindness and her ability to be fair. I want you to call her on my behalf and explain the details of our current situation.”

  The eyes of a young deer glowed bright in front of the car; frozen. Fike slammed on the brakes, which caused the car to a skid to a full stop. He stared into the deer’s glazed-glass eyes, and exhaled in relief. What seemed like minutes, was merely seconds before the young deer galloped away into the dense trees.

  Fike was approximately half a mile from the cabin. He pulled the SUV over to the side of the road. Stepped out of the car and walked the last bit of road, not wanting to alert anyone with the vehicle engine sounds.

  He grabbed his phone and texted Michaels with a heads-up on his location. His reply was immediate. “Situation calm with no change.”

  Chapter 66

  “VitalWinds’ performance tonight was phenomenal!” Detective Jones yelled as she leaned into a woman at the bar. The woman sat throughout the second set and danced in her seat to the swinging sounds of Jazzman.

  “Did you hear me?” Jones repeated herself an octave above the applause and chatter.

  “Yes, yes they were fabulous! That was absolutely fabulous performance. Their music empowers my soul!” the lady replied.

  Jones clapped her hands fast then she told the woman about how she and a friend missed seeing VitalWinds perform in Portland. “When I heard they were playing here tonight I took the opportunity and jumped through the open window, so to speak,” Jones told her.

  “Same with me,” the woman responded. “My favorite song was the second to the last one they played. It seemed to be composed of jazz, swing, with a bit of classical tempo mixed in. I loved it so much. Such a unique sound,” she said.

  Jones recognized the woman immediately, but didn’t let it show. “Let’s look at the pamphlet and locate the name of the song,” Jones said. “It states that the song was composed by guitarist Jazzman Steven Straws as a gift to his parents. The changes reflect his childhood memories of fun and simplicity. The title of the song is ‘Heirloom Echoes.’ Beautifully written,” Jones said to the woman, who smiled.

  “Thank you, that young man is my son. I am Elizabeth Straws.”

  Jones shook her head, startled that Elizabeth did not know her. Perhaps it was because her hair was down over her shoulders, and that she wore a baseball cap. Jones just smiled, and gave her a hug like any proud fan would have done.

  The stage lights turned on; the club was now fully lit. John, Bo Bo, and Steven took their bows. Mr. Barrows stepped onto the stage and waved his arms towards them in praise. “Thank you VitalWinds for your magnificent performance tonight.”

  The crowd whistled, banged on tabletops, and the boys bowed one more time.

  “Quiet please, quiet please!” Mr. Barrows shouted. “I would like to introduce each of these musicians. Please quiet down! This is the band’s leader John, on bass Cello. Bo Bo back here on drums. Jazzman Steven Straws on guitar.

  Mr. Barrows continued speaking, presenting a short bio of each musician. When he finished, he stepped down, turned to face VitalWinds and applauded. The cheering and shouting began again as the patrons went wild.

  “Excuse me.” Elizabeth slid off her chair to a standing position. She lightly touched Jones’ shoulder before she walked gracefully through the crowd. Two steps up and she made her way onto the stage floor.

  Quietly they stood toe to toe, mother and son focused on each other. Jones watched sensing the love they expressed through the thick smoke of the room. Without speaking a word, Jazzman and Elizabeth embraced.

  * * * *

  I held onto my mother and felt only peace. I kissed her cheek and in a whispered voice, spoke to the crowd, “My mother.”

  * * * *

  “Come on, Jones, answer the phone,” Fike said, frustrated while he paced the ground near the Straws’ cabin.

  Jones felt her phone vibrate, then saw Fike on the caller ID. “Hello Jones here.”

  “About time, Fike said, “What the hell is happening over there?”

  “The show just ended, I’ll make my move in a few minutes,” Jones replied. “Good, we are in position here. I have Heather Brown waiting outside the club sitting in a patrol car for you.”

  “They just finished the gig and you won’t believe who is hugging Steven on stage at this very moment. It’s Elizabeth Straws,” said Jones. “Damn it, I don’t want her involved in this! Somehow, you keep her away when you detain Steven. Then have the officers I assigned to the club transport you and Steven immediately to the cabin grounds. Now get on it, we don’t have much more time.”

  “I’m on it!” Jones yelled.

  Chapter 67

  John hesitated when he approached the ladies, but time could not be halted. Not after what he witnessed, Steven had been handcuffed by the police, and then pushed into the backseat alongside Detective Jones.

  Joanne was talking a mile a minute, sharing with Elizabeth the great times she, Steven, and Kari, had in Tillamook.

  “Ladies, please, I have some news to discuss with you. Steven won’t be joining us for dinner tonight,” John announced.

  “No, he won’t,” Bo Bo hurried on, “but he will catch us later.”

  John paused with a confused glare, like what the hell is going on?

  “Yeah, Steven he’s pretty wiped out, the man played his heart to the core tonight. Now, I don’t want you all to worry about this. Steven told me he’s going to shower and take a short nap then he’ll join us by dessert,” Bo Bo finished.

  “I don’t understand,” said Kari. “That’s not like him.”

  “Very true, Kari, however, sometimes a man can become overwhelmed with too much emotion. Why look at you three ladies. Damn, that’s a whole lot of happy emotion I’m seeing tonight!” Bo Bo said.

  Everyone laughed; even John had to smile.

  Elizabeth nodded. She inhaled a few deep breat
hs before she stood up. Her arm entwined with John’s and he escorted them to dinner.

  * * * *

  Detective Jones interrogated Steven pretty tough while they drove to the cabin. “Every path you took over the last year or so has been the exact path of our killer. Four murders! Pure genius how you and your brother George had this whole thing planned. Nice Steven with his calm demeanor. Oh, being a musician at that. Easy to hide under your music and strike a rape, knife a body, murder all in one easy journey. Is that it! Answer me, Steven!” Jones yelled.

  * * * *

  I was shocked, sat slumped over, unable to speak. I tried to listen, but was in disbelief and fear, fear for myself and for George. There’s no way I could fathom that my brother did these heinous acts of violence.

  “Explain to me then, Steven, what was George like growing up? What kind of behaviors did he have? Like was he happy, sad, or violent? Help me, help you,” Heather said.

  “George was a little confused at times. But mainly he was crazy, I mean like fun time humor craziness, never an abusive guy. He was little unsure of himself; sometimes George acted out like any typical kid would. He and I got along like brothers do. I swear, I haven’t spoken to him in over a year. Our father died when we were in our late teens and we grew up and went our separate ways. We would never harm another person. I did not murder those people.”

  * * * *

  The car slowed to a crawling pace as it pulled behind a patrol car near the cabin. Jones texted him, Fike, we are at the perimeter site.