Red House Blues

by sallie tierney

  “So, where is this going? Sounds like either he was too hammered to know where he parked or someone borrowed the car. Big deal. He got it back, didn’t he?”

  “Jonson didn’t think it was a big deal either until he remembered that Marla had been the one who put him in the cab. That suggested it was Marla who ‘borrowed’ his car that night. Earlier she and KiKi got into a huge fight. People at the Comet heard them yelling at one another. The cops later figured the fight was why KiKi stormed off. Jonson told Sean it sounded like Marla took the car to catch up with KiKi.”

  “But obviously she didn’t find her,” said Claire. “Because if she had caught up with her KiKi wouldn’t have been killed, right?”

  “Not if the fisherman was the one who killed her.”

  “Suzan, you can’t be saying that Marla killed KiKi. The fisherman was convicted on forensic evidence.”

  “D.N.A. evidence proved he raped her, Claire, but think about it. It didn’t prove he killed her.”

  “Okay, I see the distinction,” she said. “Though I think that would be one improbable coincidence that the poor kid ran into a rapist and a murderer on the same nasty night. God, that would be some serious bad karma.”

  “Weren’t you the one who used to say that sometimes shit happens?”

  “Yeah, well . . . I can see that if Marla killed KiKi and if she knew about the Comet conversation, that would be a pretty good motive for murder but, sweetie, how would she ever find out about the conversation? Are you going to say someone who overheard Sean and Jonson blabbed to her about it?”

  “No. What actually happened was my dear dumb husband asked her about it after he talked to Jonson.”

  “No way! You have got to be kidding.”

  “Sadly, no. He apparently asked her about it one night when she came to the house looking for Ferlin,” said Suzan. “By the way, Sean cleared up another mystery that has plagued me from the first. I kept wondering what Marla’s connection was to the house and its inhabitants. It couldn’t have been merely that she hung out at the Comet with Sean’s friends. She was hip deep in everything and I couldn’t figure out why. Alexis apparently hated her yet she was always hanging around the house. Well, here’s what Sean wrote; ‘KiKi had a fight with Marla, Ferlin’s granddaughter’. Which explains so much. How she gained access to the house, why Ferlin tried to cover for her, and why he played along with her when she hauled me into the kitchen the night I was beat up. The people who assaulted me were probably Ferlin’s little pals from the neighborhood, sent to scare me off but not to kill me. I don’t think Ferlin is the killer type but he couldn’t let me get too close to the truth. I’m sure he either knew or at least suspected that Marla killed KiKi, and then had killed Sean and Jonson because they knew she drove after KiKi that night.”

  “But, Suzan, the fisherman had already been convicted and was in prison. Marla had gotten away with murder. Even if Sean and Jonson had gone to the police with their suspicions, who would believe a junkie and a guy who was dead drunk the night of the murder?” asked Claire.

  “Do you think Marla would have wanted to take that chance?”

  “Maybe not. But to kill two men just in case . . . and she would have killed you, Nick and me too. That woman was seriously off the rails.”

  “No question about that. Ferlin too could have died in the fire. What a whole lot of carnage . . . and all for love.”

  “Love?”

  “Marla was in love with KiKi. Sean said all their friends knew Marla was crazy about Zell, jealous of her. Was practically stalking her. That was what the fight was about. Zell had had enough. She told Marla to leave her alone. KiKi was going to take Alexis on an upcoming concert tour, not Marla.”

  “Love. A crime of passion, in other words. At least the first death.”

  “Yeah. Pretty sad,” said Suzan, closing the notebook. “Strangely, I kind of liked her, at least at first. As deranged as the woman was, she was . . . personable, nice even. She seems to have had lots of friends willing to help her, cover for her.”

  “Don’t be too hard on yourself for not spotting her. Marla was a sociopath. Sociopaths are masters at playing people, otherwise they’d be out of business. Think about it, predators have to lull their prey into a false sense of security,” said Claire. “Ted Bundy made friends everywhere he went.”

  “True. I guess that was why Cliff, the desk clerk at the hostel, was so willing to do her bidding. He’d known her ever since the days when he tended bar at the Comet. He helped her the night Kiki died too, letting her grab Jonson’s car keys and he could have ratted her out the next day when he learned Kiki was dead but he didn’t. He kept it to himself all those years. That’s a pretty powerful friendship.”

  “Or maybe he’s just a crazy old drunk with too many dead brain cells,” said Claire. “Have you decided what you’re going to do with the notebooks once the police arrive?”

  “I’ll hand them over. There’s no need to keep them now. They have nothing to do with me anymore.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  Chapter 26

  The police had come and gone, taking Sean Pike’s infamous notebooks with them. Nick sat on the edge of his hospital bed sporting a brand new cast and a feeling of dread. He was finally alone with Suzan. Under other circumstances he would have been elated but not now. She would be going back to Bellingham and he would be . . . what? Returning to California? He was still under contract. That hadn’t changed. And now that they were out of danger Suzan would have questions. It was the questions he dreaded.

  She was sitting in the gunmetal gray bedside chair. She looked uncomfortable. He wished he could keep his eyes off of her but he couldn’t. Even with half her face covered with green and yellow healing bruises she was beautiful. She has no idea how beautiful she is and I can’t tell her because then she’ll feel obligated . . . or threatened. Or both. It was a doomed situation. He drank in her face, etching it on his memory because soon enough she would be gone from his life.

  “Where’s Claire?” he asked.

  “Checking us out of the hotel.”

  “So you’ll be leaving today?” He tried to keep the disappointment out of his voice.

  “She’s leaving. I’m staying . . . at least for a while,” she said.

  “You’re staying in Seattle?” Did he dare hope she was staying for him?

  “I thought I’d like to hang around until you’re on two feet again if that’s all right with you.”

  “Why? I mean . . . sure it’s all right. Damn, what am I talking about, it’s great! But don’t you have to get back to Bellingham?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that and I haven’t come up with any reason at all to go back. Not right now at any rate. Claire is already staying at my apartment so I don’t have to worry about the plants or the rent.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  Suzan slumped back in the chair.

  “Oh my God, I feel like such an idiot,” she breathed. “You have other plans is that it? Here I am pushing myself on you without even thinking what you might want.”

  “No! God no, Suzan! I want you to stay. Don’t even think . . . I was hoping you’d stay but I can’t say for certain what I’m going to be doing yet. There’s a possibility I’ll be heading back to Napa. That’s what my folks want me to do but I don’t know . . . it’s complicated. I have certain obligations up here.”

  “That sounds pretty cryptic,” said Suzan. “What ‘obligations’, if you don’t mind me asking.”

  Oh boy, here it comes, he thought. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound.

  “I have a one year contract with Seattle University that I’m only a few months into. I don’t want to bail on them unless I have no other choice.”

  “You teach at the University?”

  If he had told her he made a living threading clamshells she couldn’t have been more incredulous.

  “Yes, in a manner of speaking, I guess you could sa
y I teach at Seattle U.” said Nick, steeling himself. “I . . . I’m this year’s poet in residence.”

  There, he’d said it. It’s over now. She’s sure to lump me in with all the worthless artsy-fartsy losers she’s ever met, most especially her worthless musician husband. She’ll run full speed for the exit.

  “That’s the big secret?” asked Suzan. “You’re a poet?”

  “Go ahead, laugh.”

  “I’m not laughing. It’s just that . . . it’s the last thing I would have expected you to tell me. A poet.” She was clearly at a loss for words.

  “Whatever you say, it can’t be worse than what my dad said when I told him what I wanted to do with my life. He’d have taken it better if I’d told him I was gay.”

  “You must be a pretty good poet if you’re Poet in Residence. He should be proud of you.”

  “It’s growing on him. By the time my third collection was published he was speaking to me again.”

  Suzan laughed.

  “Jeeze, Nick, you were being so cagey I thought you must be a hit man or, even worse, a lawyer,” she said. “So if you were on the faculty at the university why on earth were you staying in that horrible house? I would have thought the school would provide more suitable housing.”

  “They would have. They will. Right after I arrived from Napa and got settled in guest housing all the electrical wiring in the building fizzed. The university offered to put me up in a hotel downtown while the building was rewired but I thought it would be a terrific opportunity to get to know the neighborhood if I rented a room for a few weeks in . . . well, a house more typical of the area. I thought the experience might inspire a whole new series of poems. Which, as it turned out, wasn’t the best decision I ever made.”

  “You’re a master of understatement as well as a poet.”

  “You know, Suzan, I have to admit I’m surprised you’re taking it so well. I was really pretty worried you’d Google me and I’d have no chance with you once you learned I write poetry for a living.”

  “Why would that worry you?” asked Suzan. “Oh wait, I see. You thought just because Sean . . . boy, have you underestimated me, pal!”

  * * *

  E-mail to artyblond@yahoo.com

  Hey, girlfriend! How do you like Napa Valley? Hope you are getting some rest and sun down there. You have really earned it. Is Nick getting around any better? Cool that the university gave Nick a leave of absence while he heals.

  I miss you so much, Suze! Your ficus is still alive but it misses you too - I’m not much good with plants. Mrs. Bloomquist says to tell you hello. It was so nice of her to let me take over the rent. But remember, when you finally decide to come home this place is yours. I moved the last of my stuff out of Tony’s. I went over when he was working - thought if I saw him I might do something I’d get jailed for. I know I should let it go - forget I ever met him. It’ll be a while but I’m working on it.

  Hey, note I have a new e-mail address - bought my own computer since I don’t have the use of Tony’s anymore. It’s a cute Apple laptop that Tony the Windows Geek wouldn’t have a clue how to use! Such a freeing feeling! If you can break away from all that delicious Napa Valley vino and that equally delicious Napa Valley Greek-American, please e-mail me right away. Love - Claire

  E-mail to coffeeclaire@hotmail.com:

  Hi Claire! “Coffee Claire”? I love it! You should have your own coffee shop and call it Coffee Claire’s. I’ll come up for the grand opening.

  Napa is glorious! And the winery - wow! I had no idea that when Nick said his folks had a winery and an olive orchard he meant it took up half the valley and that his family lived in an Italian-style villa the size of Wyoming! Nick and I have our own suite of rooms opening onto a secluded garden with a fountain. A far cry from my bedraggled ficus tree - but thanks for taking care of the poor thing anyway while I take care of Nick. The leg is out of the cast and he’s working hard at physical therapy three times a week. He says he wants to take me horseback riding by next month.

  Claire, he is also working hard trying to convince me to stay here on a permanent basis and I have to admit I am tempted. Don’t you dare think it’s the palatial digs and sunny climate! (Although that’s pretty great too.) I know Nick and I haven’t known each other all that long, but I am so comfortable and happy when we are together. You’ll probably say I’m out of my mind. Maybe I am. I haven’t been the best judge of men, considering how my marriage turned out. But every time I think of leaving Nick and going back to Bellingham alone I get sick to my stomach. If the nightmare we went through taught me anything it was life’s too short not to take a few chances. I am so weirdly happy! I’m painting again. And Nick is writing. That’s a very good sign, don’t you think? Nick’s mom - who is a sweet, lovely woman - bought me paints and canvas. She has even forgiven me for not being Greek. Needless to say I’m painting romantic landscapes with lots of grape vines and olive trees!

  Sweetie, I really think you should talk to Tony. No, don’t ignore me here. You two should be together. I am telling you that you should forgive him - remember, this is coming from the one person who probably has the most reason to hate him for apparently ratting me out to those monsters in Seattle. But I am absolutely sure Tony never meant to hurt me. It isn’t in his nature to be hurtful, even to someone he believes is a cold-hearted bitch. (And, face it, he may have been right about that bitch part.) He loves you - you know he does. Please, give him a chance - for me? His only real mistake was being loyal to his best friend, who turned out to be unworthy of his loyalty. Promise me you’ll talk to him! Love - Suze

  E-mail to artyblond@yahoo.com

  Suze, I think I’m going to surprise you. Nick is a good guy so you go for it, girl! Yes, you’re right, life is too short not to grab what happiness we can. God, I just reread what I wrote! Before you say it, I will say it - I should take my own frickin’ advice and go see if Tony and I can manage to patch things up. Not that I hold out much hope. But I have to admit I still love the miserable man. And I think you’re right - he might still love me too. Go figure. Give Nick a big hug from me. Keep in touch. Love - Claire

  Epilogue

  Alexis unlocked the back door and stepped into kitchen. The acrid stench of smoke still clung to the air like dead skin. Where to start, she thought? She stood still in the center of the blackened linoleum floor, unable to move. The basement door hung by one hinge just as it was left by the EMTs who rescued Ferlin from the bottom of the stairs. So much to do. And she almost could not bear to begin. Perhaps the old house had served its purpose, thought Alexis. Maybe it should be demolished and all the sorrow put to rest at last. Tear it down and salt the earth. That’s what Sean Pike had written in his song. Set free the trapped ones - the tall woman, the one who weeps, the others . . .

  And Ferlin. The crazy old bastard locked in another age, alone and sad – no family now that his psycho granddaughter was dead. Where does he go, now that he’s sold me the house? And should I care? Maybe not, but silly as it is I do care. Still, he’ll be okay. He has the money now. He can go to a retirement home. Someplace where he gets three meals a day and his sheets laundered every week. He’ll be safe. Be with people his own age. Take up a hobby.

  The idea was so utterly ridiculous she laughed out loud. No, this was Ferlin’s home. It would always be his home, she thought. Alexis would do what she did best, put things back together again. The insurance money would pay for clean up and renovation. Over the years she was constantly battling Ferlin about “wasting” money on homeowners insurance but luckily she always prevailed.

  Alexis made her way to the dining room studio. Lots of smoke and water damage but she thought she could probably salvage most of the canvases. The majority of her finished work was stored at the gallery anyhow. So, not too bad. The real mess began at the door into the foyer. Alexis took in the scene. The staircase was a total loss. It would have to be torn out and replaced. Also sections of floor and wall. She didn’t look toward the foyer. That w
as where Marla had died . . . where I killed her, thought Alexis.

  The damage could certainly have been much worse had the fire not inexplicably dampered itself down before it got to the upper landing minutes before the fire trucks arrived. The firefighters couldn’t explain why the flames hadn’t spread up from the second floor. It was as if something blew out the flames as the fire roared up the stairs. Alexis didn’t have to wonder. She knew the Red House looked after itself as if it had a survival instinct. So she would do her part to preserve it, she decided. For the house, for Ferlin, for herself . . . for all the souls within its walls.

  What the hell, she thought, I could renovate the place, make a nice suite off the remodeled kitchen for Ferlin to live out his life. Put in a few more bathrooms upstairs. Maybe convert the house into a bed and breakfast. I could advertise it in the Seattle Weekly and Sunset Magazine as a haunted house. Tourists just eat that shit up. Things could get pretty interesting in the future.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. That being said, real-life events and people have inspired some aspects of the story in the same way that snippets of diverse fabric make up a crazy quilt. The characters in the story are purely the product of my imagination. Any similarity between them and actual persons is coincidental but as Suzan would be quick to point out there are no coincidences.

  The Comet Tavern on East Pike Street in Seattle is the iconic birthplace of Grunge and continues to be a driving force in the music scene today.

  The Red House still stands, though it is no longer red (if in fact it ever was). The scouring salt wind from Puget Sound has rendered it driftwood gray with a leprosy of failed paint jobs. On misty mornings it is as ghostly as some of its former occupants. I have disguised its exact location so as to protect it from intrusive curiosity – and perhaps to protect the incautiously curious. At this writing it is currently vacant. So should you be in the market for a one-of-a-kind Victorian fixer-upper with issues . . .