Death in the 12th House

by Mitchell Scott Lewis

  “Can I ask you guys some questions about Freddie?”

  “Sure.” Kanter got up from his stool and sat in an armchair. “But only if we’re suspects.” He winked.

  “At the moment everyone in Freddie’s life is a suspect.”

  Kanter laughed. “This might be the hardest case you ever worked on.”

  “Why is that?”

  The four band members looked at each other, as if silently trying to decide what information they would, and would not give. Lowell waited patiently. Finally, a brief nod from each.

  Kanter spoke. “Well, the truth is, a lot of people didn’t like Freddie. He was…difficult in a lot of ways.”

  Ritchie lit a cigarette and blew the smoke into the middle of the room. “Yeah, difficult.” He laughed. “But talented as hell.”

  “How did you all get along with him?”

  Again the silent looks.

  Ritchie blew another cloud out, then snuffed out the cigarette in the tin ashtray on the table. “We’re a band, Mr. Lowell. And a band is like a family. We have our problems, but we don’t turn on each other.”

  “I understand. I’m only trying to get to the bottom of this. Can any of you think of a reason someone would want Freddie dead?”

  Ritchie lit another cigarette. “I’m sure by now you know that Freddie wasn’t the nicest person on the planet. He stepped on a lot of toes in his life, and I imagine someone wanted to return the favor.”

  Lowell tugged on his ponytail. “Only it wasn’t his toes that got shot.”

  “Look, at one time or another we’ve all had our disagreement with Freddie. But we’ve lived and worked together for a long time. Freddie was like a brother to us all.”

  “What’s going to happen to you now?”

  Kanter got up and started to pace. “We’re not sure. We have another album about to come out. We’re going to have to do something.”

  “Won’t you all make a lot of money from it?”

  The drummer shrugged. “We’ll do okay, but only Freddie and Ritchie, who wrote the songs, will make any real money from ASCAP, and they get the lion’s share of the record sales. The rest of us rely on touring to make it.”

  “And without Freddie, there’s no tour?”

  This time most of the musicians looked at the floor, not each other.

  Ritchie spoke. “Well, we may try to find a substitute, not that anyone can ever really replace Freddie.”

  Lowell tugged on his ponytail. “You mean another front man to do Freddie’s act? Is that possible?”

  Several of them nodded.

  Ritchie blew a smoke ring. “A lot of bands continue after the original members die or leave. The band’s name is like a trademark that can continue to earn for years.”

  “I read that you guys had thought about replacing Freddie even before he died. Any truth to those rumors?”

  Their silence said it all.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  Kanter started to pace again. “Mr. Lowell, don’t think badly of us. This is a business like any other, it’s how we support our families and put our kids through college. Freddie was moving on to other things. He wasn’t that interested in the band anymore. He had more money than he could spend in three lifetimes, and he was concentrating on TV gigs, and more outside activities. The rest of us need to work or we’ll go broke. And if Freddie didn’t want to tour, there was no tour.”

  “Unless you replaced him.”

  “So now we’re all suspects?” asked Ritchie.

  Kanter returned to his drum kit. “Hey, great. I always wanted to be the bad guy in the movies.” He hit the cymbal.

  Lowell eyed the bandmates.

  Ritchie blew out a cloud of smoke. “What else do you want from us?”

  “Could I have your birth information? Date, place, and time.”

  Kanter chuckled. “Oh, that’s right, I forgot. Latner mentioned that you’re an astrologer. I have no problem with that.” He scribbled the information on a piece of music paper, and then handed it to the others. Only George, the bass player, didn’t know his time of birth, but promised to check into it.

  Ritchie walked Lowell to the front door. The girl with the green shorts was lying on her back on the lawn catching some rays, topless. As the limo pulled out she sat up and waved at Lowell. He waved back.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Lowell took a Coke from the refrigerator in the limo and dialed his office.

  “Starlight Detective Agency,” said Sarah.

  “Is Mort there?”

  “And good afternoon to you, too. He’s right here, hold on.”

  “What’s up boss?”

  “I want you to double check the birth information for the four surviving members of Rocket Fire. I’m emailing it now.”

  “Okay, where will you be?”

  “I’m going for a drive, so just email it back to me, there’s no hurry.”

  “I understand.” He knew that when Lowell went for a drive he was seeking solitude and wouldn’t answer his phone.

  Lowell wanted this time in the car to think. He turned on the scenery to the drive up the California coast he had shared with Vivian, endless beach on one side, grass-covered hillsides on the other, but found it made him miss her, and turned it off.

  If they had more time Lowell would have asked Andy to take the Taconic instead of the thruway. He loved the twists and turns of the parkway and the bucolic setting so close to the city. Rock outcroppings and reservoirs lined the road, and he made a mental note to ask the system’s designer, Delaney, to produce screen images for him of that route. The limo was one of the few places he really could relax and enjoy the privileges of his wealth, something he unknowingly shared with the late Freddie Finger. Still Lowell was eager to get back to the office.

  The car was completely sound-proof, bullet-proof, and could probably survive a small rocket attack, or so the designer had hinted. It was an office on wheels, equipped with all the tools of his main office, a concept he very much had in mind when buying it.

  He looked at the astrolabe on his computer screen, constantly rotating the planets, to get his bearings. The Moon had just entered his 12th house, ruler of the unconscious, often a time of introspection. That was probably why he felt like running away for a while. Well, it was time to use his intuition, not his intellect.

  He sat back and tried to relax. Mercury was still retrograde and he knew that delays were inevitable. But Freddie’s death was big news, and everybody wanted results.

  Mort sent the requested information about thirty minutes later. There was a question mark next to the birth time of one of the names. Lowell threw the information into his “in” pile. He’d get to it later.

  He went back to the computer and punched in a horary chart, an ancient means of divination used by astrologers for centuries. He thought out his question quite carefully: What was the true motivation behind the three killings? Then he went to Solar Fire and hit “here and now,” and printed the chart. But the horoscope didn’t tell him much. The aspects are contradictory and unclear. Saturn is exactly square the ruler of the 7th house, which implies that the reader, Lowell, is not seeing something clearly, and cannot answer the question until further information is at hand. They drove for a while as he thought. Perhaps it was the way he had stated the question.

  Maybe all three murders weren’t related. Was Roland right? He reworded the question. What was the true motivation behind Freddie’s murder? Enough time had passed so that the house cusps had moved perhaps sufficiently to reveal a different answer than before. He printed it.

  He sipped the cold soda and stared at the paper. This is much more direct and clear, he thought. Uranus, the ruler of the 2nd house, is exactly square Pluto, which is conjunct the ascendant. It was financial, there’s little doubt about it. And Jupiter’s prominence on the nodes shows that it involved a great deal of money. That rules out almost nobody. Everyone involved in this case, including Marty Winebeck, stands to make or l
ose a great deal of wealth with Freddie’s death. Uranus in exact square to Pluto also indicates that there was something vengeful about Freddie’s murder as well. But that too doesn’t much limit the suspects either. He gazed at the chart with an unfocused eye and just allowed the numbers and symbols to wash over his mind.

  He had once given a lecture on the astute awareness of our unconscious. In it he had proposed that we always know what’s best for us, if we could turn off the loud conscious voice and hear the whispers underneath. This is why he meditated twice a day. If he could relax and let the information in through the unconscious he could sometimes find the illusive answer to his questions.

  Lowell realized they were close to the city, as Andy had to slow and brake occasionally. He put the charts away, turned off the computer screen, and finished his Coke as the limo approached Manhattan.

  They got back to the office about six. Andy took the car and left.

  Lowell entered the deserted office - Sarah and Mort had both gone home for the day - and settled into his room. He opened the drapes to allow the sunset full access to his world. Lately he enjoyed the little things in life more and more. Was it an aging thing? Or was he finally reaching some sort of peace within himself. He turned on the TV and was about to call Louie’s to order dinner when he changed his mind and dialed the Carlyle.

  ***

  He picked her up at seven.

  “Do you mind if we stop at my townhouse for a moment?”

  She was dressed all in white. “Not at all, if you’ll give me a tour.”

  “Andy, stop at home.”

  The townhouse was on 93rd Street between Lexington and Third, a brown and white house in the middle of a row of townhouses. There was a metal gate about twelve feet in front of the house, which allowed for a small front yard. He buzzed the intercom.

  “Hello?” said a female voice.

  “Julia, it’s Mr. Lowell.”

  “Mr. Lowell? Just a minute.”

  The gate buzzed. He and Vivian entered the front yard.

  “This is so cute,” she said. “Why don’t you put a table and a few chairs out here?”

  “Because this is New York City. You don’t sit out on the sidewalk anymore. Not since about 1948.”

  “Oh, nonsense, I would do it and I think it would be fun.”

  “Not once the neighbors knew you were sitting out here. They’d crush you with their love. I’ll show you something that may make up for your disappointment.”

  He opened the front door to the house.

  “Mr. Lowell, is that you?” A short dark-haired woman came to the top of the stairs and looked down. A TV could be heard in the background.

  “Yes, Julia, I’m here with a guest but I’m only staying for a minute. You just go back to whatever it was you were doing.”

  “Okay.” She disappeared.

  They were standing in a foyer with twelve-foot ceilings and a giant chandelier.

  “Come in.” He took her by the arm. “This obviously is the front hall. The house was built in 1929 right before the crash. Its foundation is brick and limestone and the entire structure has recently been refortified.”

  She was looking at the staircase, circular and winding up to a second, third, and fourth story.

  “There is even a small elevator.” He opened a small door and showed her the tiny lift. “Off to the left here is the living room.”

  They entered a large room that housed a Steinway grand, two opulent velvet couches, several chairs, a full wall of books, and a fireplace. He led her through a small den, bathroom, and the rest of the first floor until they reached the kitchen in the back of the house.

  It wasn’t too large, but had a center island and loads of counter space. Not an inch was wasted. There was a back door with a curtain across the window that reminded her of the 1950s.

  “Here,” he said, opening the door and turning a light switch, “maybe this would be a better place to sit than the front of the building.”

  It was a garden, small by California standards, but huge for Manhattan, framed on all three sides by tall wooden slab fences. There was a table with a built in umbrella, half a dozen chairs, a state of the art barbeque, and a shed. The lawn was perfectly kept, edged with colorful shrubs and many different kinds of flowers.

  “The garden is one of Julia’s pet project,” he said. “She loves having this little bit of earth to play with.”

  “Oh, David,” Vivian took his hand, “this is wonderful. But why would you stay in that office when you live here?”

  “Austerity is often as much the parent of genius as inspiration. I get distracted here and start daydreaming. In the office there is only work. I must differentiate between the two or I could get lost.”

  He showed her the upstairs, four bedrooms, another den, and a workout room. The four bathrooms were spectacular, with a Jacuzzi in each.

  The basement held his three room at-home office.

  ***

  They ate at a quiet neighborhood Italian restaurant. The ambience was subdued and the food terrific. They arrived early enough to be seated at once. There were only twelve tables in the place, and by the time they finished each was occupied, and there were about a dozen couples waiting. They took no reservations, accepted cash only and had a huge delivery business.

  Over dinner they kept the conversation light, chatting about easy things, like where they went to college, favorite movies, and foods. After they had eaten Vivian could no longer contain herself.

  “What do you think is going on?”

  The detective was slowly stirring a packet of sugar into his espresso. He looked at her. With her brave exterior it was easy to forget that she had just lost her father. Her veneer was holding, but just barely.

  “I wasn’t close to my father,” she said, “not as a child, anyway. My mother kept us apart and forbid me to see him for many years. It wasn’t until recently that we began to spend time together. I finally forgave him for leaving us and learned to love him. It’s such a fucking, god-damned shame.” She started to cry softly. “It took us so long to get together and now he’s gone.”

  She leaned against his shoulder, her head buried in his sport jacket, muffling her sobs. He gently patted her head. She looked up at him, her make-up smeared and running down her cheeks.

  “You’re going to owe me for a cleaning.” He pointed to a round reddish-brown stain her mascara had left on his jacket.

  She laughed, and then cried: “I’m sorry,” she sobbed. “I’ll pay for it.”

  “I’m only kidding, silly.”

  “I know.” She wiped her eyes with a handkerchief. “But I thought I’d play along.” She blew her nose and tried to control her sobs. “You remind me of him. Maybe it’s your age. There’s something about your generation that’s different than mine. You’re more compassionate, gentler.”

  “It was the times. The world was different in the sixties and seventies than it ever was or probably ever will be again.”

  “Why is that?” Her crying subsiding, now that her Gemini attention was on something interesting.

  “Well,” he sat back, taking on a professorial demeanor, “first of all we were the only winners of the Second World War. Europe was destroyed. Even the other victors were devastated financially and morally. China was bombed out and in the middle of a civil war, with the rest of Asia in a state of chaos and horror following ten years of Japanese rule. Russia was bankrupt, India was fighting for its independence, and everyone was looking toward the U.S. to bail them out. Even our new enemies behind the Iron and Bamboo Curtains were secretly cutting deals for food and supplies. From 1945 on, this country relished in its role as military and cultural ruler. Everyone wanted blue jeans and a Coke.”

  “Okay,” she sipped her cappuccino, “so we were the fat cats, I get it.”

  “And the baby-boomer generation grew up in a society of previously unknown wealth and growth. Because of FDR’s programs a generation earlier, America had social security, unemp
loyment benefits, and a sense of sanctuary and serenity. There was a sugar coating to everything from advertisements to government reports. We became the America Hollywood had invented. Levittown with its picket fences and suburban splendor was everyone’s dream. We could finally shrug off the Great Depression and the Second World War and live in Never Never Land”.

  “So what happened?”

  “The Bomb. Underneath all the prosperity and the security was a collective nervous breakdown waiting to happen.”

  “And did it?”

  “Did you hear tales of the sixties, of all sides of it?”

  “When I was growing up in California you didn’t hear about much else.”

  “I’m convinced that the sixties was a collective nervous breakdown. I’m discussing that period of history and how astrology played a role at a lecture next week. That era wasn’t just about sex and drugs. It was one of the most politically volatile eras in man’s history.”

  “Do you think my father’s death could have been politically motivated?”

  “I don’t know, but I haven’t ruled out any possibilities. But I promise you that I won’t quit until I find out who did this.”

  After dinner they walked a few blocks until Vivian got tired. Andy, ever-present, pulled over when Lowell signaled. When they got to the hotel he was about to voice some platitude about her always being good company, when she put her lips on his. They kissed for a few moments, and then she pulled back.

  “David, would you like to come up to my room?”

  He could hardly catch his breath as he nodded.

  Once they were in her suite there was no talking. She approached him directly and with great passion. They kissed, playing tag with their tongues. They went into the bedroom, dimly lit with only the distant light from the bathroom. She eased him out of his shirt and caressed his chest. He unconsciously tightened his stomach muscles.

  She slowly took off her clothes, until she stood naked, her body outlined by the pale lamination. He removed the rest of his clothing, took her by the hand, and they lay on the bed.