“The Midwest’s own Jake McVey,” the mayor continued, “will headline Saturday night’s show, and Friday afternoon we’re pleased and excited to announce a battle of the bands featuring musicians twenty-one and under. The stars of tomorrow!”
From behind her, leaning into the mic before him, which each seat at the council table had, Rod Penniston said dryly, “As opposed to the stars of yesterday.”
That got chuckles from the press, and the mayor smiled good-naturedly. In a black sport coat and red polo, Rod—slim, trim-mustached, his hair short, his lean face sharp with good bone structure—grinned back at everybody and touched his forehead in a forefinger salute.
“I think this is as good a time as any,” the mayor said, “to turn this over to our special guests . . . before they take it away from me!”
Gentle laughter.
“First, if I may,” she said, “I will introduce our local heroes, Hot Rod and the Pistons . . .”
She introduced the three surviving members, with very brief bios, and then Brian, who would be filling in for his late father, as he had at the Rock ‘n’ Roll Hall of Fame induction concert.
“Here in Galena,” the mayor said with a smile and a nod toward the final band member at the council table, “everybody knows Phil Deeson, who was a part of the Pistons—in Rick Jonsen’s later lineup—and who for almost ten years now has been house guitarist at the Corner Stop. No one is better qualified to fill in for Rick in these tragic circumstances.”
An awkward pall fell over the chamber. Krista knew that the members of the committee who had put the music festival together were concerned that the death of Rick Jonsen might lend a ghoulish, exploitive air to the proceedings.
Perhaps sensing that, the mayor turned upbeat and said, “Let me turn this over to the stars of not just yesterday but today, who I am sure will be happy to answer any questions you may have.”
The mayor and her vintage LP took a seat in front.
“First,” Rod said, the leader then and now, “let me say that it took us a good long while to decide whether or not to make this appearance at the Galena festival, as well as the Midwest reunion tour that’s grown out of it. Finally we chose to go forward for two reasons. First, we had a blast getting back together preparing for, and performing at, the induction concert at Arnolds Park.”
Burly, gray-haired Steve leaned in to his mic. “All the years melted, man. Everybody dropped back into their old roles . . . like Rod here.” He jerked a thumb at his old bandmate. “Teach took over, like always!”
That got a few laughs and the three original members all exchanged smiles, including Rod.
Who continued: “Second, after that blow-the-roof-off-the-dump reunion at the Hall of Fame . . . to quote Rick Jonsen . . . with such a warm welcome from a packed house like that? Tough to top.” He shook his head. “Then to have it come crashing down when that very night a heart attack took our beloved guitar player from us.”
Krista showed no reaction, but she knew from things her father had told her that Rick Jonsen had been anything but “beloved” by the other members of the band. Her dad had run sound for them and had been a one-man road crew for the Pistons back in college, before the band made it big, and he’d told her tales.
“No one,” Rod was saying with a sad smile, “was more of a show-must-go-on guy than Rick.”
Steve said, with a wry half smile, “That’s a fact. I mean, he went on without us after we all quit!”
That got a laugh, too, but something of a nervous one.
Skinny Dan, in his equally skinny tie and black-and-white-checked jacket, said, “The rest of us went back to real life. Got jobs, opened businesses . . . but Rick was a genuine road warrior. Rock ‘n’ roll was in his blood.”
“So,” Rod picked up, “we’ll be dedicating our performance at the festival—in fact, our entire reunion tour—to Rick’s memory . . . and donating his share to the American Heart Association.”
This got applause from the Galenians and most of the media as well.
“Now, if you have any questions,” Rod said with a gesture to the gallery, “we’ll be glad to field them.”
A Dubuque Telegraph Herald reporter called out the first question in a booming baritone: “What’s the extent of your reunion tour?”
“Strictly Midwestern,” Rod said. “That was where we had the most loyal, dedicated fans. Chicago, Rockford, the Quad Cities, Cedar Rapids, Waterloo, Iowa State Fair. We’ll wind up in Dubuque.”
The same reporter followed up: “You had a real share of national success. Why not venture out farther?”
Rod grinned. “Well, I can only give this summer to the reunion tour. Real life beckons. Classes at Galena High start late August. My next public appearance will be directing the Show Choir’s fall concert.”
That got smiles, a few titters.
On the other hand, Krista knew that Steve would likely give up his motel night man job gladly, to trade it and playing with the Corner Stop’s house band for better-paying gigs and some latter-day fame, however minor that fame might be. Phil Deeson, too, would almost certainly jump at the chance to get the Pistons going again. And Brian would have been tempted, as well, though as a real estate agent, real life “beckoned” to him, too.
Still, everybody knew—especially without flashy lead guitarist Rick—there was no Hot Rod & the Pistons without Rod Penniston. What would the Stones be without both Mick Jagger and Keith Richards?
Linda Cook with the Quad-City Times sang out, “I have a question for Phil Deeson . . . Phil, are you at all uneasy about taking over for the late Rick Jonsen?”
Phil had been a heartthrob in the second Pistons lineup, but had since lost his hair and, while not fat exactly, had put on weight; he kept his head shaved, wore a single earring, and—though they didn’t show at the moment, thanks to a cream-color no-lapels sport coat and bright yellow polo—he had a Pistons tattoo on one bicep and a skull with a Mohawk on the other.
The replacement guitarist said, “Rick was my mentor. Taught me everything I know . . . including all of his riffs and leads on both Piston albums. Played in the trenches with him on the road. So I am ready, willing, and able to channel him and give the people the real rockin’ thing.”
That tried a little too hard, Krista thought. But then so did Phil.
Allison Wong, KCRG’s Dubuque-beat reporter, asked, “Brian, what was it like taking your father’s place in the Pistons? I understand you played in an alt-rock band in high school—were you consciously following in your dad’s footsteps?”
For someone who had performed as a musician since childhood, Brian was shy in front of people, without his bass guitar between him and the rest of the world. Krista considered him the most devastatingly handsome guy she had ever gone out with. His olive complexion, dark eyes, and dark curly hair were courtesy of his Hispanic mother, Maria, and his good looks were a combination of her and his late rock-star father.
Brian, in a brown sport coat and a tan shirt, had to be nudged toward his mic, after the beginnings of his answer didn’t carry. Then: “My dad taught me on an upright bass—when the Pistons started, that was what he played. They didn’t go electric till they started recording, and uh . . . what was the question?”
“Did you consciously follow in your father’s footsteps?”
“Yes.”
When he leaned back, as if that covered it, he got a few gentle laughs from the gallery.
Then the reporter followed up with what had been her first question: “What was it like taking your father’s place at the Hall of Fame concert?”
He leaned forward again, his soft response picked up by the mic. “Intimidating. An honor. Just what you’d think. But, you know, I grew up listening to those two albums my dad’s group cut. I loved those. I knew ’em by heart by the time I was, oh, probably thirteen. On the bass. Could play along.”
Krista was impressed. She’d never heard Brian speak at such length, or with such unabashed heart.
&
nbsp; “And I’m glad,” he said, “I had the chance to play just once with Rick Jonsen. He was something.”
Krista knew Brian felt “something” included talent, showmanship, flair, and craft, but also narcissism.
“Not a nice guy,” Brian had said in private, which coming from him covered a lot.
But right now he was saying, in public, “A real kick to play with somebody on Rick Jonsen’s level.”
A few more questions followed, then the mayor returned to thank everyone, and various TV reporter/camera teams zeroed in on individual band members as they stepped away from the council area. In each case, the musicians were escorted outside or elsewhere in the building for interviews.
Rebecca Carlson with KWQC had apparently lined things up in advance with Penniston, because the singer/keyboard artist went directly to her. He was the best interview to nab, since (again) he was Rod of a group called Hot Rod & the Pistons. They alone stayed up near the council table.
Krista couldn’t hear any of it, but she had to admire both Rebecca’s poise and beauty, interviewing her subject. Tall, slender, curvy in her red, black-trimmed dress, Rebecca—a fashion-model-lovely brunette in her early forties—knew what she was doing. She put herself in frame for a two-shot, then midway directed her cameraman to come in close on Rod for a few answers. After she dismissed Rod, the reporter then repeated her questions in close-up for the camera.
Calling Rebecca Carlson a reporter was something of an understatement. Until a few months ago, in Chicago, she had been WLG-TV’s anchor—a popular, highly paid local celebrity; but when she was shifted from anchoring the morning and noon news to a second-string position on weekends—by her ex-husband no less, general manager of the station—she had quit.
Krista would have thought another Chicago station would have snapped the woman up. But no. Now she was in Davenport, doing a daily morning show with the occasional story like this one taking up afternoons.
Krista’s father, Keith, was seeing the Chicagoland expatriate—a first toe into dating waters for him since the death of Karen, his wife and Krista’s mother. The reporter and the ex–homicide detective (Pop had taken early retirement after Mom passed) met when her father was helping Krista out on a multiple homicide that media types like Rebecca had dubbed the Class Reunion Murders.
Fortunately, nothing quite so challenging or unpleasant had come up since. But at least her dad had come out of his shell, thanks to that sordid case, and got to know this beautiful TV journalist. Krista told herself she was happy for him. But it was hard. Still, it had been almost two years since Mom died.
So why did it feel like yesterday?
Brian was at her side. “Hi, Chief.”
Krista raised an eyebrow and said, “They through with you so soon? Big rock star like you?”
“When that woman from Cedar Rapids asked me what my future plans were,” he said, deadpan, “I started talking about selling real estate.”
“Did you mention the name of the firm?”
“I did.”
“Well, that won’t make air.”
“I know.” He shrugged. “I don’t have your press savvy, Chief.”
“Don’t call me ‘Chief.’”
“How about ‘sir’?”
She gave him a smile and the tiniest elbow nudge.
Brian nodded toward Rebecca, still doing her pickup lines for the Rod interview. “Any ideas about that?”
She knew what he meant: a situation was brewing with Rebecca and her father, and it included Brian and Krista. This had to do with Krista and Keith sharing the family house and just exactly how certain sleeping privileges and arrangements might be worked out where the two couples were concerned. Hadn’t come to a head yet, but it surely would soon.
“No ideas at all,” Krista said.
“Don’t you create much of the scheduling at the PD?”
“Yes. I have help, but . . . yes.”
“That involves a dozen people.”
“It does.”
“This involves four people.”
“Right.”
“Shouldn’t that be easier?”
She gave him a look, not completely suppressing her smile. “I am armed, you know.”
He held up his hands, palms out, grinned just a little, then said, “Let me know if I can be of help. From a distance.”
Madison Conner from WQAD approached and asked Brian if he was up for a brief interview, and he said sure, then whispered to Krista, “Fame has its duties,” and she crinkle-grinned back at him and watched him walk off with the pretty brunette.
Then Rebecca was striding up to her. The two tall women exchanged smiles, Rebecca’s an easy thing and Krista’s something she had to work at.
Rebecca said, “Exciting times for Galena.”
“Always something happening here,” Krista said, and it came off a little defensive for no good reason.
Rebecca either didn’t notice that or just skimmed past. “I think this has legs.”
“Who has what?”
“This rock reunion. Some very good elements here. A son picking up his fallen father’s baton. A rock star turned schoolteacher lured back into the fray. Locals playing in a dive house band now suddenly back on tour. Not to mention a dead lead guitarist. Say. Anything suspicious there, you think?”
“Don’t think so,” Krista said.
“Heart attack, then drowned in a hot tub? Drugs involved you think?”
“No idea. No reason to assume that.”
Rebecca shrugged and the light brown hair danced on her shoulders. “Well, it is rock and roll. I’ll see what your dad thinks.” The reporter leaned in, and Krista for a moment thought a kiss on the cheek might be coming. But all the woman did was touch her on the shoulder and squeeze, just a little.
“See you tonight,” Rebecca said.
“Aren’t you heading back to the Cities?”
She shook her head and the brown hair danced some more. “My camera guy can deal with the footage. He’ll edit the piece back at the studio and it’ll air tonight. We can probably watch it together, if you like.”
“We can?”
Her eyebrows rose above her big blues. “Yes, didn’t your father mention it? He’s asked me over. This’ll be my first time.”
“Pardon?”
“Keith cooking for me. My first time.”
Then Rebecca smiled, waved a little, and went off.
First time cooking maybe.
THREE
Keith Larson, in the kitchen at the stove, knew all too well he should have called his daughter and told her about Rebecca coming for dinner.
At fifty-nine, he looked perhaps ten years younger, a fit and only slightly paunchy six-footer with thinning blond hair and sky-blue eyes that got him compared to Paul Newman by people who weren’t looking close. Right now he stood at the stove cooking half a dozen veal tournedos—small fillets of tenderloin—in hot butter in a heavy skillet. For the occasion, he’d made a trip this afternoon to Cremer’s over in Dubuque, who had the best fresh meat around.
He could have texted Krista, of course, though he was terrible at that—took him forever to type anything clumsily in and, anyway, Krista deserved more than a clipped message that famed Chicago news anchor Rebecca Carlson would be dining with them.
After all, this wasn’t anything planned. Rebecca had called this morning and basically invited herself over, since she was going to be in Galena anyway for the Music Fest press conference. So he would play it like a last-minute thing—a spur-of-the-moment invite to his friend, his female friend admittedly, and . . .
Who was he trying to kid?
Himself, obviously. Normally, hanging around the big old house on Quality Hill, he would be in a T-shirt and jeans and running shoes. Instead he was decked out in a blue button-up chambray collared shirt and darker blue jeans with only the running shoes surviving. Making matters worse, Krista herself had helped him pick out the shirt to spruce up his wardrobe a little. Make him look hipper
than the average retired homicide detective.
Cooking in such clothes! Krista would see through this “last minute” scam like the un-retired detective she was.
Well, she wasn’t a detective now, not technically. She’d risen from clerk-dispatcher to become the small local PD’s sole detective before landing the chief’s slot. He’d played a role in that, as together they had cracked a case that involved homicides in both Dubuque and Galena.
That had been over two years ago, predating the Class Reunion Murders. Not long after their first shared investigation, the goddamned cancer had taken Karen, and he’d stayed on in the ranch-style house on Marion Street in Dubuque that he’d shared with his wife. Originally they’d lived here in Galena, in Karen’s family home, this rambling, reasonably well-maintained two-story gray-frame on Quality Hill with its view on Galena’s quaintly scenic downtown. Her parents had generously given the place to their only daughter and her husband before moving to Florida.
But the all-hours demands of Keith’s promotion to Chief of Detectives made even a half-hour commute undesirable, and they’d passed the “homestead” along to Krista. Their daughter had still been living there, a commuter herself for a time, studying criminal justice at the university in Dubuque before landing that clerk-dispatcher job.
As he stood there cooking, pleased with the aroma of the tournedos, making sure to brown them on all sides, Keith recalled how in the months following his wife’s death he’d cooked a Sunday night meal for Krista. Never missed.
The Sunday repast, usually a Danish dish like this one (kalvetournedos), would be followed by an evening of classic western movies. He was big on John Wayne and Randolph Scott, and he’d been teaching her that Audie Murphy wasn’t just a war hero but an underrated actor, though of course she hadn’t known Murphy was a war hero or an actor either. These had been pleasant evenings, or as pleasant as possible in the wake of their loss.
He transferred the veal tournedos to a hot plate, then dumped in a chopped-up medium-size onion with the skillet juices. He stirred in half a pound of sliced mushrooms, too.
Girl Can't Help It: A Thriller (Krista Larson Book 2) Page 3