Scary Modsters... and Creepy Freaks: A Rock and Roll Fantasy (The Rock And Roll Fantasy Collection)

by Diane Rinella

  Well, that's a drag. Going home now is not what I want, but I had a great diversion while it lasted. Shane walks me to my car. Thanks to him and our musical journey my love affair with music is shiningly intact. Maybe heading home to no one but Jacqueline isn't so bad.

  "Hey, Rox, how about I take you to dinner Saturday night as a thank you?"

  Maybe I'll get even a touch of sleep.

  "Rox? Dinner Saturday night? Where would you like to go?"

  "Anywhere. Anywhere at all sounds great."

  Driving off, a debate over whether or not to call Niles bounces in my head. He feels bad. He has to. But I can't brush aside what he said. No one is allowed to talk about my baby that way.

  Wait. Did I just make a date with Shane?

  I Don't Like Mondays

  Coffee.

  The exaggerated weight I feel from this plastic container of cookies, along with the clouds that swirl in my head, signal the need for more coffee.

  No. The pitiful truth is there is no simple cure for the hollowness in my chest, and I'd still be crying in bed if Jacqueline hadn't again played Drill Sergeant. I swing the lobby door at work open and force myself forward. "Happy Monday, Darla!" In my mind, my flipping off the container's lid looks like film played at half-speed.

  "Ah, insomnia strikes again, eh?" Darla helps herself to a sugary boost while my eyes blur over her.

  "What's the word around the water cooler this morning?" God, did I really ask that?

  Darla abandons her cookie to give my hands an assuring squeeze. "How about we stop playing games and you let me tell you I'm sorry you are hurting. Is there anything that I can do?"

  I hang my head and shake it. Niles returning to my thoughts turns my stomach. I fear now my mind will always connect him and Joseph in a horrible way.

  "Want me to go kick his ass? I can take him, you know?"

  I actually chuckle, not because it's funny, but because it is true.

  Darla tightens her grip. "I'm here for you. Whatever you need," she assures. Her phone rings, and I start to head off to the elevator. "Rox, hold up." With a few clicks of some buttons she sends all incoming calls to voice mail. Dashing to me she covertly whispers, "Come on. Let's go sneak out on the line and steal some jelly beans out of the hopper." She starts to head off like a spy who is leading me astray. Suddenly she drops the act and high-tails me in the other direction. "What the hell am I thinking? No one should eat the crap we make here. Someone left Oliver a Starbuck's gift card. Let's make sure it works."

  Twenty-four hours into my search and I've barely slept. Slowly but surely Doris has uncovered information on Benjamin Stoddard. Her findings were speculative until she slammed her heels into the ground and kept digging on a quest for middle earth. The guy's guilty of just about everything, yet his rap sheet is spotless.

  For decades England's Serious Organized Crime Agency has been on to his ways, however the local police departments leave him alone and quickly dismiss all charges. Everything Stoddard does is unethical but also legal. The guy has his grubby little fingers in everything and is double and triple dipping all around. Since he happens to own all of the businesses, he's got complete control and is technically entitled. I have to admit the man knows what he's doing.

  Damn.

  Forever Afternoon (Tuesday?)

  After three days without a word from Rosalyn my lawyer hat has become a king's crown in the game of chess that plays in my mind. It's the only way to combat my regret. Nothing interferes.

  Nothing.

  Not even sleep.

  Doris keeps running into slammed doors, but every now and then one creeps open. So far she hasn't found anything dramatic, but I have to believe the breadcrumbs she's uncovering will form a trail that leads to my salvation.

  Doris tosses another stack of papers on my desk. "What did you find this time?" I ask.

  "A friend across the pond pulled a bunch of documents. Included are all of Stoddard's vital records and marriage licenses along with the added bonus of his prenup, which is so lovely it got me checking for birth certificates listing him as the father. No such luck. All of this isn't much, but it shows I am getting somewhere with someone. Give me a little more time."

  There's nothing out of the ordinary in the prenup except the guy's a big douche bag who wants to scarf his cake while guzzling fine champagne. The infidelity clause states he's allowed to have affairs left and right while the wife has to act like Mother Teresa. All is well on his end as long as he doesn't let the swimmers catch their prey. If that happens, the wife gets half of everything in a speedy divorce settlement. What kind of woman would sign this? He's got something on her. "Hey, Doris—"

  "I'm already on it," she calls out on her way back to her desk. "Nothing on her yet, but if something's out there, I'll find it."

  Of course you will. There's not a doubt in my mind.

  The alarm on my phone sends it buzzing against the desk. With briefcase in hand I head off to face my day in court, fighting someone else's battle.

  Seven exhausting hours later I return to the office. While I was victorious in my case I'm far from winning my war for salvation. Doris is long gone, but she's left her legacy on my desk. The stack of personal information on Stoddard has grown, as have other stacks on his business ventures. It's going to take a lot of dot connecting to find something I can pin on this guy. That's okay. I have all night. Actually, I have my entire life, because if I fail with this, there's nothing else worth working on.

  Why would a manor-born woman sign such a brutal prenup? Maybe a lack of birth control and a shotgun were involved. Maybe they just wanted a fancy party and to shack-up without shame.

  Shacks, like in the B-52's song. Every time they talk about that tin roof I want ice cream. No, no, no. I need lobster. Can you eat Rock lobster? Maybe someone will deliver one. What time is it?

  The hit of my phone's button reveals that it's 3 A.M. on Wednesday. Seems I should know since I check it every ten minutes in case I miss a call from Rosalyn.

  Inside the break room I groan in disappointment it hasn't magically restocked itself within the last six hours. A bag of dry Malt-O-Meal goes into a cup of yogurt and breakfast is served. Just the smell of coffee brewing enlivens my senses. The last of the yogurt gets gulped down with the aid of warm, nutty, liquid salvation. "Ahhh, black coffee."

  I need to listen to some Humble Pie. No one sings "Black Coffee" better than Steve Marriott. I wonder if he drank his coffee black. Did he drink coffee at all? Do the English drink anything other than tea?

  This is bad. My brain is meandering into casual mode. I grab another coffee pod and pop it into the machine before finishing the first cup.

  "Still insist on doing things your way?" Peter's voice comes from behind. I'm too tired to jump at the surprise.

  "It's only been a few days. I'm hardly giving up yet." Geez, the man doesn't let up. I'm more like him than it is desirable to admit.

  "Really? Because you look as if you've resigned yourself to death and have been torn up by hawks. You're starting to smell like it too." Peter's nose crinkles as he waves his hand past his face while shaking his head at my allegedly rotting corpse. Great, the death of me is another commonality for us.

  "Cut me some slack. I'm deep in over my head with Stoddard research, and I'm due in court this afternoon with real work—you know, the stuff that pays me." The last bit of coffee is guzzled. Time for more—like a gallon more. Tomorrow I'm hiring us a twenty-four hour, on-call barista.

  I wonder how well Peter would sing "Black Coffee?" If he's gonna hang around, I'm making him entertain me.

  Wow. I really need to pull my head together.

  "Which is precisely why your methods are bloody ridiculous. That Shane chap is jumping on Rosalyn—I mean, jumping on opportunity. They already spent too much time together Sunday night."

  While Peter sees it as a threat, he's no idea that for me this is a common occurrence I got used to years ago. This time though… This time it hurts.
"Maybe I don't mean much to her after all. Why am I even bothering?"

  "Quite the contrary. Apparently she's rather broken up over the whole debacle." Grabbing the fresh cup, I make my way back to the office. "What is all this?" Peter asks, swiping up a stack of papers.

  With a yank I smack them back onto the desk. "Do not, I repeat, do not, shuffle anything. Put everything back in the exact order in which you picked it up, okay?"

  "My, you get nasty when in need of coffee. You should bring that device in here and make a lorry full." Peter plops on the sofa and flips through documents while grumbling about how screwed he was. Robbed, blah, blah, blah. Swindled, blah, blah, blah. Hurting people, blah, blah, blah. "Personnel records?" he asks of the stack in his hands. "That yob had some luscious secretaries. They were always young, fresh, and willing to do anything he needed. It was downright disgustin'!"

  Peter's humming brings welcome relief from his yammering. Where was I with all of this? Right, the wife. Doris found she came from a wealthy family and signed that prenup just three months after turning eighteen.

  "Jenny Reed," Peter says. His evil laugh is almost a cheerful melody. "A real right one she was. Just as we were starting out, B.S. sent her to the apartment we all shared to have us sign some papers. I answered the door wearing nothing but a towel. Since I was half ready to go I asked if she fancied a shag. Her little mouth dropped open, so in turn I dropped the towel." He laughs. "That was the last I saw of her. Pity."

  "Peter, you done yet? Really need to focus here." The wife. Her parents divorced when she was young, leaving her and her twin in the full custody of their mother.

  "Fine." He drops the stack back on my desk so the papers become wonky. The compulsion to straighten them further impedes my ability to focus. "Boy, I really screwed you over didn't I? Seems I got all of the fun parts of our personality." Peter sticks his tongue out, crosses his eyes, and disappears. If what he says about us being the same person is true, I may become an ass when this is over. If he doesn't get off of my case immediately, it's gonna happen even sooner.

  Time Is Passing

  Every moment dedicated to our cause is a losing one. Peter didn't exaggerate a thing about Stoddard being a snake. He was also right in another little fact. I reek like spoiled apples. The point of how long I have been here is driven home at seven-thirty when Doris arrives with a sympathetic smile, a jumbo cup of coffee, a knife, and a white paper bag with grease seeping through. Yes! Old-fashioned donuts. Doris never lets me have junk food. If I reach for it when no one is around, she'll literally slap my hand, just like my mother.

  Both hands jet out for the bag, waving in a "gimme" motion. "Oh, thank God." There's no time to properly open the bag. Instead—rip!

  "Due to my waking to an encyclopedia's worth of emails from you I anticipated your desire for comfort food. But if you even think for a hot second I'm going home tonight before you do, you have absolutely lost your marbles."

  I slice the bottoms off of both a chocolate and a maple-glazed donut and press the two tops together, reforming the fried delight.

  "Niles, you have now hit your fourth day of obsessing, and I'm not going to let you hit a fifth."

  The chocolaty, mapley, greasy goodness hits my mouth and my eyes close off the world as sticky sugar is savored. "Sorry to disappoint you," I mumble while chewing. Closing my heavy lids was a mistake. "I'm getting absolutely nowhere. I shudder to think what you'll bring me on day seven."

  "That won't happen because by day six either you will have collapsed from exhaustion or it'll be funny farm time for you. Your choice." She gives me a wink and a smile. Man, I must be half dead. I swear Doris looks as if a couple of years have been knocked off overnight.

  "Hey—" Don't ask about it! You'll screw it up and need a new paralegal.

  Umm … Seriously, this donut is amazing.

  "So I had a bit of a revelation last night," Doris tells. "I suspect that Mrs. Stoddard may have been a rebound relationship. Remember how there were two marriage licenses? Shortly after the first one was issued, the now former fiancée married the son of a very wealthy ambassador. A few months shy of a year later that prenup was signed."

  Doris's words cause a light bulb to illuminate in my brain. "So you suspect that Stoddard became a shrewd bastard out of jealousy?"

  She takes a seat across from me. Her legs slowly cross while her face gently scrunches in an expression of thought. When she tilts her head, the way the light hits her hair changes. She's dyed it a slightly different color. "It may go much deeper than that. Niles, people don't always make the best decisions when their heart hurts. That horrible prenup may have been his way of guarding against more pain. He may have felt the only way Mrs. Stoddard would leave is if she found someone richer."

  "If that's true, then the more he felt someone to be a threat, the worse they would be treated. Still, why do you think Mrs. Stoddard was willing to effectively get paid to be the only permanent member of a harem?" I take another chomp of the donut. Man, this is tasty!

  Oh, tasty, like The Good Rats song…

  Niles! Back on target!

  "Well, she was only eighteen when she signed it. People do foolish things when they are young and in love or in need of it. Maybe she was in a similar situation."

  Alice Cooper's "Eighteen" starts playing in my brain. When I was eighteen all my head thought about was college. All my dick thought about was girls. My God, Sarah Thompson and her taunting rack. Too bad her nose was always in a book. Then again, none of us cared about her nose.

  I miss Rosalyn's cute, little nose.

  "Doris, when you were eighteen, what were your concerns?" I toss the last bit of donut in my mouth and lick some chocolate off of my thumb. Heaven.

  "I was lucky. The only real one I had was what college to go to. Money was tight, but my parents covered all of my basics."

  Neglecting the unglazed donut halves I dive in for a new set. Doris was lucky her parents stayed together. At least Mrs. Stoddard's mom received child support. My dad couldn't be bothered to remember to pay. Mom should have had plenty of help until at least the day I turned eighteen. Even then …

  The Godfather of Shock Rock still screams in my head about being eighteen and wanting to escape his world. Ah, you can only do that if you have the cash. When Mrs. Stoddard turned eighteen, the child support money would have stopped. Marrying Stoddard ensured her lifestyle continued. She may have also really been in love with him, thus explaining why she was so shortsighted. If she is still emotionally attached, it could pose a problem.

  "Doris, do we have any reason to believe Mrs. Stoddard wants out of the marriage?" I take another bite of chocolaty, mapley goodness. This time not while closing my eyes.

  "You mean, other than the fact that she spends a good chunk of her free time traipsing around the world without her husband? Sounds like a tumultuous relationship to me."

  Tumultuous. That word sounds ominous. My ninth-grade English teacher used it a lot. She was a happy person until her bastard husband left her for a woman twenty years younger. God, we men are pricks. No wonder why women are always fussing with their hair and makeup.

  My proverbial shovel just hit a treasure chest!

  "Doris, we're looking at this affair thing the wrong way. We know he's snuggling up with other women, but get surveillance on Stoddard ASAP and find out who they are. I'll settle for any pictures implying he has had an affair within the last, say, ten years. I just might be onto something."

  Instead of heading off, Doris leans in and stares me dead in the eyes. "Only on one condition. For the sake of the entire planet, go home immediately and shower."

  Out of court settlements are supposed to be a way to find middle ground. Realistically, no one wants that, thus making them a boring tennis match. One person serves, the other lobs back, then back again, then back again—each swing a quickly calculated retort in an effort to get the other party to screw up and miss the return shot. My key to winning is time and patience. Eventually
the other party grows tired of my cool demeanor, gets emotional, and blows it. It makes winning easy.

  The guy across the table lobs another shot. I stick out my racket and don't even swing. The ball bounces off and nearly bops him on the head. If Joy Perfume Industries didn't already pay this firm so much, I'd increase their rate. We are twenty-minutes past when this meeting should have wrapped. Surely we all have places to be, yet my opponent leans back in his chair. He stretches out his legs and tries to act cool. However, I know he's sweating on the inside over how much of his reputation he has to lose because of this frivolous lawsuit regarding his client's alleged allergy. That's okay, I have endless patience.

  It's too bad that today my determination outweighs it. Or maybe it's not bad at all. The day is almost over and Doris has a big fat nothing to show for it, which means I need a new angle.

  My opponent takes another shot. This time he knocks an insignificant ball out of the court so far I don't even glance at it. Out of sight, out of mind—like a hot foreign band that has a big hit then returns to their homeland and is never heard from again. If Love Machine had been in America's face from the beginning, their success would have been different. Instead—

  If Stoddard had contacts here, his secretaries did as well. It's time for a surprise maneuver.

  "Ladies, gentlemen, since we are failing to progress I must excuse myself for another appointment."

  My opponent rights himself and loses all traces of cockiness. He stammers to stop me, but I'm out the door and already on my phone. "Doris, check birth records in other countries, starting with America."

  On Thursday morning I'm barely out the elevator when my expertly sneaky partner in crime dashes up to me with her hair bouncing, her hips swaying, and her smile dazzling. She's struck gold. "Guess what I found in Reno." She grabs my arm and rushes me into my office. "Not only did a former secretary have a child within seven months after leaving Stoddard's employment, Stoddard is actually named as the father on the birth certificate."