Girl Can't Help It: A Thriller (Krista Larson Book 2)

by Max Allan Collins

  Rod Penniston’s wife, Chloe, in a red-and-navy-blue-patterned silk blouse, managed the Galena Bath and Candle Shop. Also in her midfifties, the African American woman—slender and delicately featured, her hair short, her lashes long—always displayed a quiet elegance that Krista admired, although she did not know Chloe well.

  Donna Jonsen was, as usual, in a Corner Stop shirt, this time a black polo with white lettering. With dyed, permed, medium-length blonde hair and light makeup, she projected a blue-collar, “one of the gang” persona that her patrons at the bar enjoyed. But Krista knew the deceptively slight woman could be formidable. One of Krista’s officers claimed Donna sometimes did her own bouncing at the club.

  Lisa Pike was more in Chloe’s league, defying the warm day in a navy blazer over a light blue dress with a wide checked pattern. Her dark hair in its blunt-cut bob curved nicely around her sharply pretty features, softening them, and her slender figure was no doubt hard-fought (she wasn’t touching the dip and chips), making her look forty, not near sixty. She was a top real estate agent at the Rector agency, where Brian worked.

  Everyone said their hellos, and Krista (to no one’s surprise) declined a margarita, much as she would like one. People with Glocks holstered on their hip shouldn’t be drinking alcohol. She took the waiting chair between Maria and Chloe.

  Brian’s mother said, “Thank you for coming, Chief Larson.”

  For a moment Krista almost prompted the women—she knew them all, at least a little—to use her first name; but then she decided she didn’t mind a modicum of formality here. Judging by the somber looks on the others, something serious was in the air, and she could guess what it was.

  Chloe, with a one-sided smile and a hooded gaze, said, “I seem to have been elected as a spokesperson, but I’m sure my friends here won’t be shy about expressing themselves, either.”

  Already Krista knew she could have used that margarita.

  But she merely smiled, her gaze in return not at all hooded, and said, intentionally arch, “Sounds a little like I’m being called on the carpet. Is there something I’ve done to offend you good citizens?”

  Lisa said, “It’s what you haven’t done.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Chloe picked up. “We don’t feel we should’ve had to come to you . . . and arrange this little get-together. We feel you had a responsibility to come to us. One at a time. And you’ve neglected that.”

  “You’ve lost me,” Krista said, though they hadn’t really—she was using the delay to gather her thoughts. With this not yet officially a murder investigation, she’d been in no position to actually interview the women.

  Chloe drew a long breath and let it out slowly. “My husband, and Lisa’s ex-husband, would appear to be in some danger. Do you deny that?”

  Now it was Krista’s turn to draw a long breath, but hers came out in a rush of words: “There’s some reason to think so, yes, but not enough evidence to suggest there’s anything concrete to back those suspicions up.”

  Leaning forward, concerned, Maria said, “What about Brian? If someone might be killing members of the band he’s in today . . . that his father was in, back in the day . . . is my son potentially in danger, too?”

  Donna said, “That goes for Phil, too. We’re not married, Phil and me, but I think most of you know we live together. That we’ve been together for a couple years now. And yet I’m the only one of this little group who knew, Chief Larson, that you were worried enough about the situation to send your daddy over to protect the boys.”

  Then, her piece spoken, Donna dragged a chip through the guacamole and took a crunching bite.

  Krista, keeping her voice steady and her tone reasonable, said, “My father was part of the band going back to college days. He roadied for them, and he’s stepped up to do that again now. Kind of a for-old-time’s-sake thing.”

  Chloe said, “You provided him as a bodyguard. He’s armed.”

  Now Krista bristled a little. “If you’re concerned about the welfare of your husband, Chloe . . . your ex, Lisa . . . your son, Maria . . . your significant other, Donna . . . I would think you would all appreciate that a step like that has been taken.”

  Eyes tight now, Chloe said, “What we would have appreciated is being informed of that step, and told why such a precaution was deemed necessary.”

  “I wouldn’t say ‘necessary.’ More like . . . prudent.”

  “Semantics, Chief Larson.” The beautiful black woman’s eyes flared. “We should have been told.”

  Lisa, having a bite of chip and black bean dip, seemed less concerned.

  “Yes, you should have been told,” Krista said, and knew she was wading into uncomfortable territory, but added anyway, “by your husbands. And by your son, Maria. As for you, Donna, you already knew all this. How much have you filled them in?”

  Donna shrugged, talking through the tail end of another bite of chip and guac. “Just that you suspect Dan didn’t kill himself, and that Rick didn’t really die of a heart attack in that hot tub. That you think they were murdered.”

  Krista said, “May have been murdered.”

  Chloe asked, “What leads you to think they may have been murdered?”

  “Didn’t Donna share that with you?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  Now Chloe seemed a little uncomfortable. “She hadn’t gotten to that, when you arrived.”

  That made Krista smile. “Ah. Well, Rick died in a part of the world where police departments are smaller than ours, and ours isn’t exactly the Chicago PD. No inquest was performed and he was quickly cremated . . . Donna, were you aware of that?”

  Donna, looking a little uncomfortable herself now, nodded. She wasn’t even reaching for a chip.

  Krista asked her, “Do you know who approved that cremation?”

  “Well . . . I did. He was my ex but he had no close next of kin living, and I was listed as executor on his will.” She shrugged. “He left the small share of the Corner Stop that he still owned to me.”

  “Why cremation?”

  “Why not?”

  “Certainly was your prerogative. However, if his body had been available for exhumation, we might be able to determine if he was dosed with a drug that causes cardiac arrest.”

  All eyes were on Donna.

  Feeling the heat, she said, “I, uh . . . look, I didn’t want to pay for transport of his body back to Des Moines, where he lived, or over here either. Cremation was the easiest thing to do. Path of least resistance.”

  The other women were frowning at Donna now.

  Krista said, “Well, frankly, even then we might’ve had difficulty. Some of these deadly drugs don’t leave much in the way of traces. The autopsy on Dan Davies didn’t turn one up.”

  Chloe, her expression puzzled, asked, “So why the assumption that someone is murdering the Pistons, one by one?”

  “I don’t make that assumption,” Krista insisted. “I only know that two of the band members died under circumstances that are at least a little suspicious. My father talked to Dan, had a conversation with him right before the supposed ‘suicide.’”

  Donna said nastily, “Does your father have an alibi?”

  “Actually, he does. You’re looking at her. But what my dad reports is that Dan was somewhat depressed, over a breakup with a longtime, live-in boyfriend.”

  Chloe asked, “Does the boyfriend have an alibi?”

  “Yes. Also, Dan was down in the dumps, after that blowup he had with the band the night of the preview gig. Surely you all must know that.”

  Somewhat grudgingly, they all nodded.

  Krista went on: “But my father said Dan did not show any signs of severe depression. He seemed in fairly good spirits, after he and Pop talked for a while, and was even considering not quitting the band after all.”

  Lisa said, “That doesn’t mean Dan didn’t kill himself. You can’t know what’s going on in another person’s mind.”

  “No,
you can’t,” Krista admitted.

  Chloe, frowning, mostly in confusion but probably with irritation mixed in, asked, “Then what makes you think those deaths were likely murders?”

  “Possibly murders. Because I am a cop. A small-town cop, maybe, and a young one at that. But my father is a cop and I grew up around him and his cop friends. And they disagreed about all sorts of stuff. Some were Republicans . . . okay, most were. But some were Democrats, and some rooted for the Cubbies while others, across the river where Pop worked, weren’t interested in anything but the Hawkeyes. Some were white, some were black, some were Hispanic, one or two were Asian. They liked different food, they liked different movies. Some believed in God, others did not. But they agreed on one thing: they did not believe in coincidence. Cops hate coincidence.”

  Her four-woman audience thought about that. Meanwhile, patrons were starting to file into the restaurant. A mild breeze had come up to flap the cloth umbrellas and make it almost chilly now. Not quite.

  Chloe said, “Chief Larson . . . Krista . . . do you think the reunion appearance at the festival should be canceled?”

  “I talked to the mayor about that,” Krista said. “I stopped just short of recommending we cancel, but it wouldn’t have done any good if I had. The town has too much wrapped up in this festival. We’re too far down the road with publicity and ad buys and posters and . . . well, all I could think of to do, and maybe it was just a gesture, was to put my father on the job.”

  Chloe actually smiled a little. “A roadie with a gun.”

  “An old roadie with a gun. The gun isn’t terribly new either, but they’re both reliable.”

  Gradually, the margaritas were disappearing and so was the dip and chips.

  Maria asked, “What if we want it canceled? What if we went to the mayor, as a group?”

  “You have only one recourse,” Krista said with a sigh. “Chloe, you can talk to your husband. Lisa, I know you and your ex aren’t on the best of terms, but you can talk to Steve. Or you can enlist your daughter, Holly. If she agrees with you, maybe she could convince her dad the risk is just not worth it. If either of them decides not to perform, I don’t think any acceptable version of the Pistons can be cobbled together.”

  Maria asked, “What about Brian?”

  Krista shrugged. “His unwillingness to play might convince the other two to throw in the towel, too. But some other bass player might fill in. It’s the two original members, frankly, who count.”

  Maria was frowning, but nodding. “Not just any Piston?”

  “I don’t think so. Phil, for example, could be replaced fairly quickly. The band plays oldies that a lot of musicians around here, seasoned ones anyway, could probably fake on the spot.”

  Chloe had been thinking. “Then this must be about something that happened a long time ago.”

  The others looked at her, not following.

  But Krista followed, all right. “Yes. That’s my guess. Some old grudge, some old rivalry, something. Maria, Lisa, Chloe, Donna . . . you were all followers of the band, back in college days, when they first went out playing and then made the big time, right?”

  Chloe said, “Right.” She smiled a little, some sadness in it. “The big time, briefly.”

  Krista looked from face to face. “So if you four could search your memories, together or singly, about anything from those days that might be significant . . . someone kicked out of the band early on, an old girlfriend, someone in another band, envious then and bitter now. If you come up with anything at all, let me know.”

  They all nodded.

  Chloe asked, “What precautions will you be taking?”

  Krista said, “Snipers on rooftops, plainclothes SWAT team members working the crowd. Plenty of precautions.”

  “Which could mean,” Lisa said, thinking out loud, “the concert isn’t where the danger is.”

  Chloe said, “They may be in more danger off the stage. At home with us. Think about it—Dan was in his place of business, Rick was in a cottage at Arnolds Park.”

  The restaurant patio was filling up beyond the latticework barrier.

  “You should stay alert,” Krista advised them. “If you have home alarm systems, utilize them. If you see anything or anyone suspicious, call 911. You also need to talk to these men you value, and I include the nonoriginal members of the band.”

  The women were slowly nodding.

  Krista went on: “We can’t be absolutely certain, if these really are murders, that their cause is in the past. You need to watch out for your men. But the boys in the Pistons need to watch out for their own selves, too.”

  Her dark eyes big and unblinking, Chloe said, “It’s not just the music festival, it’s a summer of gigs.”

  All eyes were on Chloe now.

  “We’ve had one death in Arnolds Park,” Chloe said, “and another here in Galena. Who’s to say next time it won’t be a stop on the summer-long Hot Rod and the Pistons reunion tour?”

  Chloe’s eyes went from face to face—Lisa, Maria, Donna, and finally Krista herself.

  “I will tell all of you right now,” Chloe said, quietly firm, “that I’m going to do my best to convince Rod to drop out of this whole reunion thing. Because if there’s no Rod, there’s no ‘Hot’ tour.”

  Leaning in, Lisa asked, “Do you think you can talk him out of it? Deprive himself of reliving his glory days for a little while?”

  Chloe thought about that for a long time.

  Then she said, “No.”

  FIFTEEN

  While his daughter was at La Mesa, Keith was working up an appetite for his lunch with Krista at one. In jeans so old and tattered that if a female were wearing them they’d be stylish, and an ancient, faded orange DA BEARS T-shirt with Chris Farley on it, as well as equally old tennies that had burst here and there, he set out to mow the lawn.

  The white-trimmed, gray-framed two-story house on Hill Street, dating as it did to the late 1890s, had an incredible panoramic view overlooking Galena’s historic downtown, a few church steeples in the foreground, the river and hilly countryside farther out, chasing the horizon. With the weather starting to cooperate, like today’s warm yet lightly breezy late morning, he and Krista would soon be sitting in wicker chairs on the quaintly covered porch, taking their time emptying bottles of Carlsberg.

  The lawn was no great challenge. Higher up on Quality Hill, some of the steeply terraced lawns would have been a nightmare to mow. With the Larson home, you could break a sweat, but that was about all. The shallow backyard, perhaps a dozen feet wide, edged up against a stone wall with gnarls of bushes riding the land immediately above. The front yard sloped to a wire fence above Prospect, steep enough to get your attention but nothing crazy.

  In the garage, Keith checked the gas and oil on the red Toro mower, then wheeled it out across the wide brick drive and steered it into the front yard, taking the sloping front yard in a side-to-side fashion—up and down would’ve been a killer.

  The sun felt good—maybe he should have applied sunscreen—but so did the easy, lazy wind, lapping at him like a big friendly dog. The mower’s motor had a kind of percussive musicality that helped make the experience a pleasure not a chore.

  The Toro’s front-wheel drive didn’t preclude the need for Keith to put his back into it. He liked giving his muscles a workout, however mild. He went around the far side of the house and cut that narrow edge of green, then started on the landing strip of grass behind the big old house. Almost before he started, he was done. He shut off the mower, leaned on the handle, then rolled it toward the brick drive heading for the garage when someone said, “Hey, you!”

  Hey, you.

  That dumbest of all insults. That rudest salutation known to man that didn’t include an obscenity.

  He glanced to his right and saw them, one already planted, the other still ambling across the driveway. Just for the hell of it, he waited for the second one to catch up and fall in next to the first. The vehicle they’d arrived
in—an old beat-up green pickup, the body lowered and a new-looking logo on it saying JONES BOYS FARM with caricatures of his two visitors labeled Pete and Bruce—was parked at a careless angle on the wide brick drive.

  They were a sturdy-looking pair. Had to be brothers or at least cousins—a few years separated them, Keith putting the slightly taller one at early thirties, and the other at late twenties. They shared shoulder-length greasy reddish-brown hair, receding hairlines, flat noses, and wide thick-lipped mouths. Both wore red baseball caps, backward.

  The taller one was clean-shaven, or anyway shaven, the other with a week’s growth of beard. The tall boy, resembling the “Bruce” caricature, wore a black T-shirt that said ZERO SHITS GIVEN while the smaller guy, Pete apparently, wore a black Metallica KILL ’EM ALL tee. Both wore jeans almost as faded and tattered as Keith’s.

  They grinned at him, their teeth big and yellow, oversized kernels of corn. Their arms were muscular and heavily tattooed—marijuana leaves, skull heads, a topless pinup girl toking, that sort of thing. Fairly well done, though, Keith had to admit.

  All this sizing up Keith did in about a second and a half.

  “Help you fellas?” he asked.

  “You better had,” Bruce said. His voice was gruff but high-pitched, as if he’d been sucking from a helium-filled balloon, which minimized any intended menace.

  Keith, amused but uneasy—they looked dumb but dangerous—said, “Sure you have the right address?”

  “We’re Steve’s friends,” the helium-voiced Bruce said.

  “Steve’s friends,” Pete echoed, in a bassy voice.

  The effect was unintentionally funny—tall one girlish-toned, small one overly masculine.

  Keith smiled, as he leaned on the Toro handle. “If you mean Steve Pike, he’s a friend of mine, too. Meaning no offense, fellas, but so what?”

  Bruce moved closer, only the Toro between them. “Steve says he don’t wanna do bidness with us no more.”