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

by Max Allan Collins

  “Turning over a new leaf is he?”

  Neither farmer got that. And it was pretty obvious what the cash crop for the Jones Boys Farm was.

  The helium voice got even higher—so to speak. “You need to get out from between us and him. You need not to bug the boy. He’s got a sweet thing goin’ and you don’t wanna go messin’ it up.”

  The man who lived here shrugged. “I’ve said my piece to Steve. That’s the end of it. Up to him now.”

  A sneering lip curled over Bruce’s upper row of corn-kernel teeth. “Well, maybe it’d be different if you was friends with us, too?”

  Keith smiled just a little. “I already have a lot of friends. Thanks, though.”

  Pete said, basso profundo, “You could have a taste.”

  Bruce said, “Pete’s right. A weekly taste. You know how much that could run, Mr. Larson?”

  Was it supposed to intimidate him, them knowing his name?

  Keith, shaking his head, said, “Don’t know. Don’t care. Fellas, this is private property. Have to ask you to move along.”

  The smaller one crowded the Toro, too. “You need to mind your own bidness, man. You ain’t a cop no more or nothing.”

  “Actually, I am.” He reached for his wallet in his back pocket, although it wasn’t there. He was hoping they might lean in for a look, and they did.

  He shoved the mower into them, hard, and it caught them both on their shins, and then they were dancing around, making noise, Ow! Ow! Ow!, and it was all Keith could do to stop from clapping his hands and stomping his feet in rhythm, like two of the Three Stooges would when the remaining Stooge suffered a similar injury.

  But helium boy Bruce stumbled around the mower and lurched toward Keith, who came forward to meet him halfway and punched him in the belly, doubling him over, then gave him a hard left in the jaw. The farmer didn’t go down but he was reeling, and Pete caught him, to keep him on his feet and off the brick surface below.

  Backing away, Keith said, “Go. Get out of here! Now!”

  His hand felt sprained from slugging the guy, and two of his knuckles were bleeding, as he scrambled back into the house, glad he’d left the kitchen door unlocked. But he locked it now.

  He stood there shaking his left hand a little, breathing hard. He had been in his share of scrapes as a cop in Dubuque, but was no street fighting man, as the Stones put it. Those two were big and dumb and muscular in a way a guy in his late fifties wasn’t, and he was a little scared.

  Thank God that was over.

  Then came the pounding on the windowless door.

  Fists banging, banging, banging, the wood groaning as it gave, but held on.

  “We ain’t through with you, you son of a bitch!” Bruce finally sounded actually threatening, a shrieking quality giving his helium voice some actual fright factor.

  Then the deep-voiced Pete started hurling profanity, nasty words, threatening words, arranged in no particular order, a wounded animal’s howls of rage. But at least the banging had stopped.

  “Go home!” Keith yelled, getting his phone out of his jeans jacket to dial 911.

  His finger was poised to punch in the numbers when one of them threw a shoulder into the door. Then came a kick. The bastards were not going to stop till they broke into the place!

  He glanced over at the kitchen counter, where earlier today he’d cleaned and oiled his Smith & Wesson M&P nine millimeter, in preparation for carrying it in his role as bodyguard-cum-roadie. A pair of handcuffs, which he’d also decided he might be needing, was over there as well, ready for him as part of his revised wardrobe’s accessories, as Krista might put it. He went over and grabbed the cuffs in one hand and the nine millimeter in the other—it was already loaded—as the battering on the back door continued.

  He walked over and waited till after the latest heave of a shoulder before opening the door and the two farmer boys were standing there with their eyes wide and their mouths wider, not expecting him to actually let them in, which of course he wasn’t about to.

  He was pointing the blunt snout of the nine millimeter at them. They struck awkward frozen poses, their hands (as it happened) already upraised.

  “Here,” Keith said to Pete, and handed him the cuffs. “Your right wrist to his left wrist. Now.”

  Pete did that. Fumblingly, but he did it.

  “Now go sit down,” Keith commanded. He pointed. “Right there.”

  They did, in the middle of the wide drive, between the garage and their carelessly parked pickup.

  He did not call 911. He called Booker instead, and the detective got there in under five minutes. Nothing happened between the call and Booker’s arrival except Pete starting to cry and having to use his free hand to use his Metallica T-shirt to wipe his face of tears and snot.

  Booker took a look at them. “Heard about these boys. Big pot farmers, a county over. What you been up to, Keith?”

  “I was mowing the grass.”

  Booker squinted at him. “That’s not a figure of speech, right? You mean, you actually were out here mowing the yard?”

  “Yeah. These two idiots dropped by and tried to assault an officer of the law.”

  “No shit? What officer of the law would that be?”

  “Me.”

  Booker grinned. “You got a badge now, do you?”

  “Enough of one.” He handed Booker the handcuff key. “Would you take these dopes over to the jail for me? I’ll stop over after I clean up. Make a statement, provide the details.”

  The big cop shrugged. “Sounds fair.”

  “It’ll be after lunch. I’m meeting Krista.”

  “It’s a plan.” Then Booker turned to the farm boys seated on the brick. “Okay I leave that dumb-ass truck here, Keith, till I got these two processed?”

  “You’re the police officer.”

  Booker grinned. “One of ’em, anyway.”

  Keith—a new man after a shower, fresh polo, fresh jeans, and a Band-Aid for two left knuckles—met his daughter downtown under the black-and-gold sign of One Eleven Main. They exchanged smiles but no kisses on the cheek or anything—they had enough Nordic DNA not to.

  He escorted her into the vestibule of the refurbished 1850s building, and soon they were at a table by the window in the first-floor, brick-walled dining room. Black-and-white photos framed and on the wall showed local farmers with whom the restaurant did business; Bruce and Pete were not among them.

  As they waited for Krista’s Cobb salad and his fish and chips, Keith filled her in about his failure to mow the yard without incident.

  “You’re all right, though,” she said, pausing before her latest sip of iced tea, eyeing his bandaged knuckles, touching that hand lightly.

  “I’m fine,” he said, and grinned. “We pro bono consultants for the Galena PD are tough, you know.”

  “You’re tougher than most,” she admitted. “But you’re no tough guy. And I’m working on that pro bono thing. You might just get paid this time around.”

  He raised a palm as if swearing in. “You’ll spoil me. What was that meeting with those women at La Mesa about?”

  She filled him in, in some detail.

  “You realize, don’t you,” he said, narrowing his eyes at her, “that those women are prime suspects, if we really are looking at murder.”

  She narrowed her eyes back at him. “Bigger suspects than those clowns you tangled with today?”

  “Please don’t denigrate my attackers, honey. I prefer to think of them as formidable opponents. And, anyway, I don’t see them having any connection to the two deaths in question.”

  She shrugged, considering that. “Drugs, maybe?”

  He shook his head. “No. Thin. Thinner than thin. That was just me mixing it up and getting a little exercise.”

  “I see.”

  “But those women? They all go back to the original days of the band. Before they were wives, they were . . . well, not groupies, but sort of camp followers, who graduated into various relation
ships with the individual musicians.”

  Slowly, she said, “All right. I see that. But how does that add up to murder?”

  He shrugged. “I can’t say specifically. And I was really only close to the band . . . you know, traveling with them . . . before they got their record deal and hit the small big-time.”

  “Okay. And?”

  Another shrug. “And those were wild times. Different days. It’s hard to know exactly what went on back then.”

  “Sex and drugs and rock and roll, you mean.”

  He sipped his Carlsberg. “That’s the expression. Yeah. Old sins come back to haunt.”

  She turned over a hand. “Well, none of the women said anything about that kind of thing.”

  “Why, do you think they would?”

  The food came, and it was typically delicious One Eleven fare, and the talk was limited and had nothing to do with anything important, when there was any talk at all.

  But over coffee afterward, Keith decided to dive into it. Something was on his mind far more frightening than pot growers trying to kick the door down, or some fiend out there maybe murdering musicians.

  “I was with Rebecca last night,” he said.

  She sipped her coffee. “Yes, I know. You drove down to Davenport, right?”

  What happens at the Tick Tock stays at the Tick Tock.

  “Well,” he said. “Never mind that, what I want to say is . . . she had an interesting point of view about her and me, and you and Brian.”

  She gave him an unblinking look. “Really? What do Brian and I have to do with you and her exactly? I mean, I like Rebecca fine, and—”

  “And Brian is a great guy.”

  “He is. What are we talking about again?”

  He paused. Took another run at it. “Look. Things have heated up with Rebecca and me. I would like to be able to have her stay over now and then, and I’m hoping you don’t have a problem with that.”

  She tossed her head a little, too casual. “Why should I? You’re of age. She’s of age. Way past of age, really—right?”

  He stayed at it. “Rebecca had a nice notion. She would sleep in the guest room, and I would sleep in my room. Then I might go, you know . . . drop in on her, during the night and . . . are you all right?”

  She was staring into her coffee. “This is really not a conversation I want to have.”

  In for a penny. “Hear me out. She thinks you might be uncomfortable with her and me sleeping in the same bed that, you know, your mom and I slept in. Together.”

  Her tone got brittle. “Don’t be silly. Aren’t we all adults? Come on, Pop.”

  He’d come this far. “And there’s a guest room downstairs. So why not have Brian over, when it gets to that stage in your relationship, or maybe it already has, and . . . oh, God. I hate talking this much.”

  “You have now officially talked to me more about this than you did to me on any subject during my high school years.”

  “That’s isn’t fair.”

  “Life isn’t fair. But I’ll tell you what is fair.” She touched his wounded hand. “You have Rebecca over anytime you like. Maybe tell me ahead of time, a little. But anytime you like.”

  “Okay. Same goes for you and Brian.”

  Her smile was small and ironic. “Well, thank you. It is my house, but thank you.”

  “You sound a little pissed off.”

  Another sip of coffee. “I’m not really. Can we talk about something else? Something more pleasant, like is somebody out there poisoning people and faking heart attacks and suicides and such?”

  A couple at the next table glanced at them, alarmed.

  Krista frowned. Softly, she said, “What’s their problem? I’m a cop in uniform, aren’t I? Can’t I talk about such things?”

  He leaned in. “What about this for another topic? Are we comfortable with me having Rebecca over at the same time that you are having Brian over?”

  She clenched her fists.

  “What’s wrong, honey?”

  “Nothing, Pop. Just trying not to scream.”

  SIXTEEN

  Under a wide purple awning on South Main that said

  GRAPE MINDS

  GRACIE’S WINE & MARTINI BAR

  Krista and her father entered, along with a number of other invited guests for the PRIVATE PARTY (as the sign in the window said) that was actually a second preview night for Hot Rod & the Pistons, this time with their new four-piece lineup.

  The Grape, as locals called it, was one of Krista’s favorite spots in town. Like the Corner Stop, it offered a wide range of musical styles, but replaced the intentional dive atmosphere of Donna Jonsen’s establishment with an eclectic, electric funkiness.

  The bar stretched at left as you came in, with the lounge at right, through an archway in a brick wall. Christmas lights dangled over the bar and front windows, couches and comfy chairs hugged the periphery, and on the walls hung obscure advertising signs and big canvas artwork ranging from Pollock-style splatter to a rumpled bed with an equally rumpled blonde in it.

  Waiters and waitresses in purple tees with the Grape Minds logo were circulating. Among them was the little blue-eyed, bob-cut platinum blonde, Holly, who was Steve and Lisa Pike’s daughter. Small tables provided intimacy where couples could sip an international wine (Falling Star merlot-malbec from Argentina, anyone?) or oddball martinis (an Antioxidant Tini suit your fancy?). At slightly larger tables, little groups could nurse their drinks while playing one of the countless board games available.

  Nobody was playing a board game at the moment. The air was buzzing with anticipation, the place packed with assorted merchants and restaurant owners, including the mayor and most of the city council members. Quite a few teachers from Galena High were on hand to support their moonlighting colleague, Rod Penniston, as well as a contingent of twenty- and thirty-somethings who’d been his students over the years in Show Choir. Many here were dressed to the nines—definitely not a rock ‘n’ roll feel and not a typical night for the Grape.

  Solo and other smaller acts would perform in a nook in the bar, but for a band like the Pistons, an area in the lounge by the windows onto the street had been cleared—no stage, but much roomier than the postage-stamp platform of the Corner Stop. The boys would be able to display some real showmanship tonight.

  Krista’s father had said rehearsal here this afternoon went well—he had helped them load in, of course, in his roadie role, before going home to shower and spruce up. After all, Rebecca Carlson would be there with her cameraman.

  And her pop did look good—gray polo, black jeans, black sport coat (and Smith & Wesson on his hip under it). Threads any fancier would have been a mistake, since he had to help tear down and load out after the gig.

  As usual, Krista as police chief had to walk the fashion tightrope for a night out in Galena, conservative enough to cause no ripples, but definitely not dowdy—light blue shell top, black cardigan, navy trousers, and pumps.

  A modest area had been allotted for dancing, and tables were at a premium—plenty of standing room only. But her father had told her the band would only be doing a single set tonight, just an hour, as they would at the Music Fest. So the Larsons had split up to circulate among a crowd that included a good number of their friends.

  The band members were off in the green room in back, but Chloe Penniston, Maria Paulen, and Lisa Pike were together in the lounge at a high-top right off the little dance floor. They seemed to have agreed upon a group dress code—colorful untucked silk blouses and dark slacks. One chair remained and Krista (and her glass of chardonnay from Galena Cellars) drifted over and asked if she could join them.

  Maria said, “Until Donna alights, please do.”

  This appeared to be the table for wives of the band, including exes and a widow. At the moment Donna was nearby, talking with Krista’s father.

  “With apologies for prying,” Krista said, directing this to all of them but landing on Chloe, “it would appear any efforts to disco
urage a Pistons reunion fell on deaf ears.”

  “Well,” Chloe said wryly, “all old rock and rollers are at least a little deaf.”

  “I plead not guilty,” Lisa said, with hand to her blouse. “Steve and I were barely talking before all this started.”

  Maria, shrugging a little, said to Krista, “Brian says it’s not his decision. But he must have told you the same thing, dear.”

  The previous evening—in his bedroom at home, with Weezer and Foo Fighters posters still on the wall from high school days—Krista and Brian had taken advantage of his mother being at La Mesa. After the couple had gotten back into their clothes, they’d returned to the bed, smoothed the comforter, and stretched out on their backs.

  Krista had said, “We have to quit meeting like this.”

  “No. We have to keep meeting exactly like this. Just not here.”

  “I’ve been talking to my father about that.”

  She’d told Brian about the guest room hopscotch Pop had suggested.

  “Quite reasonable,” Brian said.

  “Okay. I’ll bring it up.”

  “Good.”

  “Listen.” Choosing her moment. “What would you think about not playing with the Pistons?”

  “Not good.”

  She went over all the reasons why he should seriously consider walking away from the reunion, and he’d listened patiently.

  “Here’s the problem,” Brian said. “I’m not letting my dad down.”

  “But you wouldn’t be.”

  “In my mind, I would be. And if you felt that way about your mom’s memory? Or you dad’s, if he weren’t with us? What would you do?”

  She hadn’t been able to argue with that.

  Krista glanced around. Rebecca and her cameraman had just come in, and were standing inside the door looking at the mob they had to navigate. Her associate was a guy in his thirties in a KWQC T-shirt and jeans, lugging a tripod, but Rebecca looked glamorous, in perfect if rather heavy makeup and a black, white, and pink floral dress.

  Rebecca saw her and smiled and waved. Krista returned the smile and the wave, having to work at it a little.