"I'd feel… Go without me. You can take my car."
"And kill myself driving on the wrong side of the road? No thanks." I sat beside her and tried to think. Not only would I have difficulty staying to the left, but, being directionally challenged as well, I wouldn't necessarily reach my destination the same day I started out. I needed a driver. Besides, the idea of solving Noreen's murder had bitten me like a snake whose poison I had to remove, and I wanted to see if anyone at Chaz's club had also attended the funeral. At the same time, I hoped to glean more information from Elizabeth on the way. I'd have preferred to take Elizabeth into my confidence, but it didn't seem prudent then. But how to convince her to go? Play on the guilt thing again?
"I'm sorry. I don't mean to make you uncomfortable, but it has been such a long time between visits. You're my sole relatives on my father's side, and I feel as if I hardly know you." I lowered my head, slumped my shoulders to look as dejected as possible. "It would have been nice to get better acquainted with Chaz and see where he works and listen to his band. At least for an hour. Or less," I added.
She sighed. "Well, for your sake, I guess I could, for a little while."
"Good." I got up, took her hand, and pulled her to her feet. "Now change."
"Why can't I go like this?"
"I don't know what people wear to the club, but I hope it's more like what I'm wearing. Don't you have anything similar?" I went to her wardrobe and searched among the garments, finding several quite attractive dresses, making me realize her dowdy appearance must be a recent choice. Judging by the style and skirt length, she must have worn these brighter, fancier things in the not too distant past.
I found a red dress with a low, square neckline. "Here."
"No, not that." She snatched it from me and returned it to the wardrobe. Pushing garments aside, she finally chose a dark blue number that, while not sexy, at least didn't look like a restroom attendant's uniform.
While she changed, I found some high-heeled shoes on a rack and then suggested she put on some bright lipstick and do something with her hair besides tie it back severely.
She sat at her dressing table to apply makeup, then brushed out her hair. I've never been good with hair, mine choosing to do its own thing no matter what, so I couldn't help Elizabeth with hers, but fortunately it looked quite nice hanging rather loose and wavy, slightly below her ears.
"Now remember," she said, getting up from the bench and reaching for a purse, "we're not going to stay long. All that loud music and smoke will bring on a splitting headache sooner than you can say, 'Primal Scream.'"
"Then you've been there before?"
"I think we've some cotton balls in the lav." She left the bedroom but not before I noticed she didn't deny having visited Chaz's club before. Good, that would be a big help.
While she headed for the garage to bring her car around, I took Mr. Tarkington for a short walk in the garden then let him back into the kitchen. I met Elizabeth at the front driveway and climbed into the passenger seat.
I forced myself to observe a two-minute silence then launched into my investigator role. "What good news," I began, "that Noreen didn't inherit anything after all. I'm sure you're all relieved."
"Quite. No telling what harm she might have done if she hadn't drowned so soon after Uncle Edward's death."
"I gather she did enough damage in those three weeks."
"Mum is rehiring all the servants, so I won't have to pitch in and help anymore. Not that I minded," she added, "but the Hall is very large. It takes more than two people to keep it tidy. We appreciate your help."
"Uncle William thinks Noreen instigated more mischief than that." Elizabeth didn't comment, so I went on. "He thinks she had a lover."
"Someone besides Chaz?"
So, everyone knew about that affair. "William heard Noreen and Chaz quarreling, probably for that reason."
"'William heard'?" Elizabeth repeated. "I can't believe he heard anything."
I didn't want to reveal William's ability to read lips, in case he wanted to keep his talent a secret, so I said, "I meant he saw them arguing. And then he noticed Noreen stopped going to the club and other places with Chaz. Your mother thinks she was meeting another man, as well."
"I wouldn't put it past her."
"But you don't know who it might be?"
"No, why should I?"
"No reason." I let the conversation lag for a while. "I understand she met Chaz and his band at the club. I wondered if she might have been carrying on with one of the other band members before him."
"That's possible, but I doubt it."
"Did she ever mention anyone else's name?"
"No. Fact is, she rarely spoke to any of us except Edward and Chaz, of course. Truth to tell, I preferred it that way. Not to speak ill of the dead, but I couldn't stand the woman."
I found it interesting that everyone insisted they didn't wish to speak ill of the dead but then did so anyway. Since I needed all the information I could get, I was pleased they did. However, I expected to get nothing worthwhile from Elizabeth at the moment. She volunteered none, and we arrived at the club.
The building looked like what I would have called a "roadhouse." Long, low, built of stone, with a wavy roof consisting of some substance I couldn't identify and surrounded by trees. The parking lot in front held few vehicles, but two more pulled in before we'd locked up the car and walked to the front door.
The room we entered was smaller than I'd expected and looked rather like a cozy pub. Low-ceilinged, paneled in dark wood, its left side held a small stage containing a few instruments and two loudspeakers. Floor-to-ceiling dark red curtains hung behind the stage, providing some color in the room, and recorded background music provided the sound. True to Elizabeth's prediction, cigarette smoke clouded the air, and the odor mixed with the stale smell of beer. A bar, the four stools in front occupied, took up most of the right-hand side of the room. Round tables with scarred tops and small wooden chairs with curved backs surrounded a tiny dance floor in front of the stage, but no band members occupied the stage at the time. Elizabeth led me to a booth padded in worn brown leather at one side.
A slim young waiter in white shirt, bow tie, and a small white apron around his waist came over almost at once and inquired what we'd like to drink. Elizabeth named something that sounded as if it must be beer or ale, but I don't like beer, so I asked for white wine and hoped it would come chilled.
I removed my jacket, leaving it on the seat beside me, and glanced around the room. Most of the other patrons, I had to admit, sported jeans and sweaters, but a few women, like us, wore dresses, and even some of the men looked a tad formal in coats and ties.
My eyes having adjusted to the room's low light level, I noticed two men at the bar had swiveled around and faced in our direction, but if they'd come to Noreen's funeral that morning, I didn't recognize them. They got up, retreated behind a doorway next to the stage, and about ten minutes later, after the waiter returned with our drinks, four men appeared from that doorway.
At least I assumed they were men. They wore furry jackets with animal tails hanging from the back, wigs with pointy ears on their heads, and a lot of fake hair partially covering their faces.
One, on spotting us, came to our booth, a grin spreading across his face. When he got close, I realized it was Chaz made up to be some sort of scary creature. He even had fake fangs, which he removed before speaking.
"You made it. Began to think you wouldn't." He pulled the chair from in front of our table, turned it backward, and straddled it, arms across the backrest. After a slight hesitation, another band member arrived and did the same.
I acted as if seeing men dressed up like animals was no big deal. "Is that your music they're playing?"
Chaz glanced at Elizabeth, who seemed to be staring at the table top, too embarrassed even to look up, then back to me. "Yeah. They're playing the CD we made last year. Not as good as when we're live, of course."
"Are you o
n a break?" I asked.
He glanced at his watch. "And time's up." He turned his head to his companion. "Give 'em a good set, shall we?" He turned back to me.
"Randy's our drummer. Randy, these are my cousins, Elizabeth and," he hesitated, "Olivia. Whadda they call you 'sides Livvy?"
"Sorry. That's been my nickname since the age of four."
"That's all? Really?" He curled his fingers in a "come on" gesture.
"You don't need to know."
He laughed, throwing his head back, the strong cords in his neck standing out. "Come on, boy-o, time to put on a show."
They got up simultaneously and joined the other two men on the bandstand. As they took their places and tuned their instruments, Elizabeth reached into her purse, pulled out a cotton ball, and handed it to me. "Here, you'll need this."
I held it in my hand while I focused on the stage. Chaz sat at what appeared to be a sound console where he pushed levers. Randy sat behind a massive drums arrangement, and the other two men stood in front of twin microphones, one with an electric guitar at hip level and a wide strap slung over his shoulder, and the other with a bass. Chaz then swiveled around to the keyboard and, with a nod to the others, began to play.
I hadn't been to a rock concert in more years than I cared to remember, but when a blast like a space shuttle taking off hit me, I ripped the cotton ball in half and put the pieces in my ears. Subconsciously, I felt nagged by my mother. Even reduced to an almost bearable level, I didn't recognize what they played, but its unfamiliarity didn't surprise me. Besides being in a foreign country, I knew most musicians wrote their own music.
Conversation being out of the question, Elizabeth shrugged and gave me a what-did-I-tell-you look. Midway through the number, however, the other players stopped, and Chaz did a solo. His head lowered in concentration, his hands flew over the keys, and I imagined William and Beryl arranging for his lessons, picturing him as a concert pianist, playing Tchaikovsky, not heavy metal rock.
The number ended in a crescendo greeted with applause, and after a smug look in our direction, Chaz nodded to his buddies again, and they took off with a number that was not only decibels quieter, but actually had an occasionally recognizable tune. A few people took to the dance floor to gyrate to it, and the waiter returned, offering to refill our glasses. Talking still being difficult, we sipped our drinks—my wine warm and tasteless—and waited for the set to end.
When it did, the band members retreated backstage, but not before a half dozen young girls swarmed around them, and they had to stop to give autographs. As well as accept an occasional kiss from an over-excited female groupie.
Chaz returned, having removed his costume and makeup, fangs and all, bringing with him not just Randy but the other two musicians as well. Randy appeared to be younger than Chaz, probably early twenties, with both a tattoo and an earring. The two others were named Guy and Izzy and, like Randy, were young, thin, and excessively decorated with jewelry in—in my opinion—a few too many places. Chaz slid into the booth on my side, but the others acknowledged the introductions and then disappeared again into the hallway leading to toilets and possibly a private room for performers.
Chaz leaned over the table, smiled, and tossed his head so his thick hair swayed, and once more I couldn't help thinking he had inherited the family good looks. In addition, his black T-shirt seemed molded to his upper body, sculpting the well-developed muscles.
I slid closer to Elizabeth, and Chaz followed me partway on the leather seat then waved to the waiter who brought him a tall mug of beer. "So, whaddaya think?" he asked.
Elizabeth looked at him with a sneer. "With the racket you make, thinking is impossible."
Chaz laughed. "Doesn't like my music anymore, I guess." He turned to me. "What about you?"
Put on the spot, I remembered times when I had to gush over someone's new baby and said, "It's really something, isn't it?" However, I could be sincere about one thing. "I enjoyed your keyboard solo. You play very well."
"Yeah, wait'll you hear the next set. I don't usually do more than one a night like that, but I'll make an exception for you. I have two rather good ones I've been practicing."
"Don't do it on our account," Elizabeth said. "We're leaving."
Chaz's smile turned into a frown. "You just got here. What'd you come for then?" His grin returned. "Lookin' to pick up blokes?" His leg pressed against mine as it had at dinner my first night at Mason Hall, and I moved away again.
Elizabeth stiffened, and her face turned red, so I spoke up. "No, of course not. We came to hear you. I didn't want to go all the way back home without listening to your band. What do you call it?"
"Hounds of the Hall."
I immediately thought of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's The Hound of the Baskervilles. Although I realized they'd chosen to look like some kind of feral beasts, I ruled out the possibility they'd named themselves for a Sherlock Holmes story. "How long have you been together?"
I didn't have much interest in how they met and what they'd endured to get to this point in their careers, but I wanted to be polite, and it might keep Elizabeth from saying something we'd all regret. She seemed determined not to enjoy herself, and I didn't want a scene.
I wished I'd found some other way to get there. In fact, I wondered if I'd been smart to think I'd learn much. The other musicians had gone off, so I couldn't question them about knowing Noreen. Actually, after seeing them, even for so short a time, I realized Noreen would have had no interest in them. Obviously, she'd be attracted to Chaz. Who wouldn't? As a classless American, I hated even to think of the term, but his good breeding couldn't be totally hidden under his stage persona. If Noreen made plans to move up in the world, she'd rank him the only candidate in sight. Her then latching onto Uncle Edward seemed proof of that ambition.
Somehow the three of us managed small talk for the next ten minutes, and then Chaz went off to join his buddies.
Elizabeth wanted to leave, but I tried to convince her to stay long enough to hear the songs Chaz had promised to play. "It's still early, and we ought to be polite."
"Since when has Chaz ever been polite to anyone? You don't know him as I do. I came because you begged, and frankly, I'll go crazy if I have to listen to anymore of their playing."
Elizabeth had been more than generous in bringing me to the club, and I saw no way I could get home by myself, so I had no choice. I shrugged and reached for my jacket, when the four men appeared again. Three returned to the stage, but Chaz, apparently noticing our preparations for departure, hurried over.
"Where you goin'? You can't leave now."
"Elizabeth has a splitting headache, and I have to go back with her."
He answered quickly. "I can take you home." He laughed. "We live at the same place now, don't we?"
"That'll be hours from now," Elizabeth said. "Olivia doesn't want to stay so long."
Chaz continued, apparently used to getting his own way. "Won't be too late. We're just doing one more set. Then we're through for the night."
Elizabeth slipped out of the booth and pulled on her coat. "We're going now."
I hesitated. I'd gone there to learn something. I wanted to question him about his affair with Noreen and hoped he'd be more likely to loosen up in this atmosphere. So far, however, except for discovering Chaz's virtuosity on the keyboard, I'd failed. Besides, he was right. He had to go home eventually anyway and could drive me there if Elizabeth didn't.
"Loosen up," he said. "Nobody from the family ever comes to hear us. I like to show what I can do."
I looked at Elizabeth. "I really would like to hear more." I lied, but I didn't need to get more information from her. I needed to get it from Chaz.
She gave me a look, seemingly both fearful and angry, then turned and left.
As soon as the door closed behind her, I felt guilty. I shouldn't have let her go home alone. Furthermore, I remembered Chaz's overtures to me. Could I keep him in his place?
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
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Elizabeth left, the band members donned their costumes again, and the music started up as if programmed for "volcano eruption." I peered around the room, still trying to determine if anyone else who frequented the club might have known Noreen. In spite of what Charlene and Wanda said, I wondered if I had succumbed to foolish optimism. Suppose the women weren't telling the truth? Suppose Noreen lied, inventing another man to impress them? Even if it were true and Mister X had indeed committed hanky-panky with Noreen, I probably wouldn't find him if I stayed at the club for a year.
For confirmation, I looked at the four men then sitting at the bar. Two wore beards, ragged jeans, and scruffy jackets and appeared to be buddies who always came in for a pint after doing some grubby manual labor. The third, thin, with a pock-marked face and sparse hair, slouched on the stool, one filthy hand clutching his beer mug, and exuded all the charisma of a sweat stain.
The fourth one was big and burly but clean-shaven and wore a plaid shirt and tan trousers. He saw me looking in his direction and rose from the stool. As he strolled in my direction, I felt a momentary panic. What had I started? I squelched my apprehension. I'd come to learn something and mustn't be too choosy about the direction from which it came.
Reaching my side, the man stuck out a large, calloused hand. "Frank's the name."
"Olivia."
He appeared to be in his forties and was both tall and muscular, his broad shoulders stretching the shirt taut. I let myself wonder if he might be the man. Had he attended the funeral that day? If so, I didn't recognize him, but that didn't exclude him from my consideration. After all, most murderers probably don't attend their victims' funerals. Or do they?
"You care to dance?"
Dance? Hadn't Wanda said Noreen and her latest lover went dancing? I felt my heartbeat increase. This could provide more clues. I slid from the booth and joined him.
His dance technique consisted of standing in front of me, holding onto my fingers, and swaying to the beat, occasionally twirling me around and catching me again. The band's volume still permitted almost nothing like conversation, and when the number finished, he put a hand under my elbow, guided me back to the booth, and sat next to me.
Dead in the Water (Olivia Grant Mysteries Book 1) Page 12