Long Gone Man

by Phyllis Smallman

Singer spread her arms wide and said, “I’m a freeloader. I thought I might find a place to hang for a while and then a little bit of cash to get rid of me.” She shrugged. “It’s not pretty but it’s me. Now quickly tell me about the others.”

  Lauren stepped on the pedal to the garbage can lid, emptied the ashtray, and said, “Why?”

  “Well, we’ve spent the last two hours together. We must have talked about something.”

  Lauren rinsed the ashtray and dried it with a paper towel and then set it on the counter in front of Singer, her face stiff with concentration.

  Singer waited, fingering the ashtray, a souvenir from a bar in Seattle, turning it around and around, and watched as Lauren turned away and paced restlessly along the counter, trying to make up her mind.

  Lauren stopped in front of Singer and placed her hands on the granite. She leaned forward and said, “Look, I’ve changed my mind. Let’s just say how it really was and leave it at that, okay? Just tell them how you came to be here, that you came up to the door and I let you in. I’ll tell them I was out with Missy when John was shot. You heard her barking. That’s all we need to say.”

  Singer let go of the ashtray and pushed away from the bar. “Sure, that’s fine with me, but ask yourself this: who’s more likely to kill a man, a wife who is having an affair or an older woman who hasn’t seen him in twenty years? That’s a long time. I had no reason to kill Johnny.”

  They were locked in place, staring at each other with the sound of sirens, closer now, filling the room, when the phone rang. Lauren jumped back as if she’d been shot.

  Eleven

  “Yes, they’re coming here,” Lauren said into the phone. “There’s been . . .” She glanced at Singer. “There’s been an accident. John is dead.”

  She listened and then said, “No, don’t come.” She stubbed at the ceramic floor with the toe of her leather slipper.

  Singer could hear the excited voice on the other end of the line—a man’s voice, she could tell that, but she couldn’t make out the words.

  As Lauren waited for the caller to finish, she tapped her fingers on the counter and rolled her eyes in disgust. Finally she cut in,“I’m not alone, a friend of John’s is here. If you really want to help, just call the others and explain to them what happened and tell them not to come up. There will be enough confusion with the Mounties.” She listened again. “Of course I called the Mounties. Don’t be stupid, it’s what you do when someone dies.” And then she quickly added, “Look I have to go.” She hung up the phone without waiting for the other person to speak.

  “Aaron Pye,” Lauren said to Singer.

  “Ah, Pinky—played bass guitar, always came in late.”

  “Yeah, John never stopped bitching about Ari coming in late.” She screwed her face into a frown. “John was making them practice, every day lately, so they’d be ready for a big comeback. He never stopped dreaming of another chance.”

  Singer made a noise of disgust. “Wasn’t going to happen. Vortex was a mediocre band with that one megahit, ‘Long Gone Man.’ There wasn’t going to be a comeback for them.” Singer thought for a moment, then asked, “Who else is here?”

  “Steven David.”

  “Stevie Dee, drums and vocals. What about Allie Oop?”

  Lauren frowned. “. . . Oh, you must mean Alan Openheimer. Never heard him called that before. He died of a drug overdose years ago.”

  “He played lead guitar and was the best musician of them all,” Singer said, remembering. “Really great musician with the talent to play for anyone.”

  “You sound like the liner notes on one of John’s old albums.”

  The door to the outside slammed open, and a man entered the kitchen. The two women started but Missy ran to him, wiggling in joy and standing on her back legs to be fussed over. In his mid-thirties, the man, tanned and blond, ignored the little pet dancing at his feet. He was good-looking but carrying fifteen pounds too many and was starting to look like his best years were behind him.

  His eyes were fixed on Lauren. “What happened?”

  Lauren crossed her arms over her chest and leaned her hip against the counter. “Get out. I don’t want you here.”

  The man rushed at Lauren. “For Christ’s sake, what happened?” He raised his right hand. He held a large, silver flashlight in it. “Tell me.”

  Singer rose to her feet, her hand sliding for the gun, but Lauren seemed unconcerned.

  Lauren said, “John’s dead. He was shot.”

  He dropped his hands. “Oh Christ, what have you done?” He wasn’t yelling anymore. “You crazy bitch, why?”

  “Me? I didn’t shoot him. What about you? Did you kill him?”

  “Why would I?”

  “Well, there’s the little matter of you screwing his wife.”

  The man waved his hand, dismissing her words, and stepped back from her. He saw Singer. His eyes opened a fraction wider and then his jaw set in anger.

  “Hi, there,” Singer said brightly and gave a little wave. “Don’t mind me, just a friend of the family stopping by for a visit.”

  The man swung to face Lauren. “Who’s she?”

  “Why,” Lauren said, crossing her arms over her chest, “this is Singer Brown, an old friend of John’s.” Lauren jerked her head in the man’s direction. “Singer, this is Chris Ruston, John’s lawyer, the man who did everything for him except wipe his bum, and who knows, Chris is so willing he might have done that too.”

  “Shut up.” He stood over her, every muscle in his body tensed.

  “Get out,” Lauren said.

  “You fool.” He backed up a step. “You’ve ruined everything, but I’m not going down with you. You killed John on your own.”

  “She didn’t kill Johnny,” Singer said.

  Chris spun to face Singer, ready to argue.

  “Lauren was with me the whole time.”

  He lunged towards Singer, the metal flashlight in his hand raised again. “You’re lying.”

  Singer smiled. “Am I? Prove it.”

  Before he could respond Lauren said, “Now get out.”

  Twelve

  Chris dropped the flashlight on the counter and ran his hand from his forehead to the back of his head. “You need me here if the Mounties are coming. You don’t want to face them on your own.”

  “I won’t be alone. Singer’s here.”

  He looked at Singer, took in the wild mane of graying hair, parted in the middle and hanging down past her shoulders, rather like a small bush from which her face peeked, took in the stained T-shirt that advertised a festival from some long-ago summer, and then he ignored her. His attention went back to Lauren. “You need a lawyer.”

  “Fine, tomorrow I’ll get one but I don’t want you here.”

  He started to argue.

  “Go or you’ll regret it,” Lauren warned.

  His body stiffened and he got as far as saying, “I think . . . ,” saw her face, and stopped. “Fine. I’m out of this.” He picked up his flashlight.

  “By the way,” Lauren said, “there’s no need to tell the police that you saw me earlier. I’m not mentioning it. I’m just telling them I spent the last couple of hours with Singer. There’s no need to complicate things.”

  Chris raised his hand, but Lauren quickly added, “No need for anyone to know about our little indiscretion.”

  He pivoted on his heel and went out, slamming the sliding door shut hard enough to make it bounce in its track and open again behind him.

  Singer dug a cigarette out of the pack. “Well, that was fun—and enlightening.”

  “I bet.” Lauren went to the door and slid it shut against the night.

  “So he’s the guy you went out to meet.”

  “Yup. Pitiful, isn’t it? He told me tonight that he was afraid John would find out about us, said he didn’
t want to see me anymore. He said if John dumped him as a lawyer he’d lose his business and have to leave the island. See how important I was to him?”

  “And you thought he was at the door when you let me in.”

  Lauren nodded.

  “And you believed he killed Johnny. Do you still think so?”

  “I don’t know. It was my first thought when I found John, but I honestly don’t know.” Lauren’s forehead wrinkled and she cocked her head to one side. “He thought I did it, didn’t he? So that says he couldn’t have done it.”

  “Maybe he was pretending to think it was you. People have been known to lie.”

  Lauren’s laugh was bitter. “Especially men, especially that man.”

  “Will he tell the Mounties he was with you?”

  “No, not when we’ve given him an out.”

  “Does he live here?”

  “No. He’s staying at Steven’s. He brought some contracts up for John to sign this afternoon and then went to play chess and have dinner at Steven’s. They’re friends. When the fog got thick, he called to say he was staying the night and he’d pick up the contracts in the morning if John had them signed.”

  “And you snuck out to see him.”

  “He’s been really cool towards me.” She sucked in her lips and then took a deep breath before going on. “He hasn’t wanted to see me. I walked over to Steven’s with Missy, waited until he was alone in the room, and then knocked on the window and motioned him out. He yelled to Steven that he was going out for a cigarette and would be right back. Then he came outside and told me it was over.”

  Lauren smiled. “And now you’re wondering if you’re standing here with a murderer. Maybe I came back from my touching moment with Chris and shot John. Perhaps I thought with John gone Chris would take me back. Is that what you’re thinking?”

  “Among other things, but don’t get me wrong, I won’t hold it against you if you did shoot Johnny. I just wish you would have waited ’til after I’d talked to him.”

  “Just so you know, I didn’t shoot John.”

  “Good to know,” Singer said and jerked her thumb in the direction that Chris Ruston had taken. “He can alibi you.”

  Lauren considered it and then shook her head. “If Chris believes I shot John, the Mounties will too. I’d have to tell the cops why I went to see him. It gives me another reason to have killed John. With John dead I get a hundred thousand dollars and my freedom. Let’s stick to the story of being together. It’s safest.”

  A long, mournful whine of sirens grew and filled the room before being abruptly shut off.

  “Showtime,” said Singer. “Remember to be sad and say as little as possible. You’re in shock.” Singer’s grin lit her face. “Mounties, eh? Maybe I’ll get my man at last.”

  Thirteen

  The cruiser was driven by Corporal Duncan, the only female on the island detachment of six, which comprised four constables, one corporal, and one sergeant, Sgt. Wilmot, who was in the passenger seat. The six Mounties on the island were really only a skeleton force for the population of ten thousand and in tourist season, when the number doubled, they were stretched.

  It was only luck that found Sgt. Wilmot at detachment headquarters when the call came in. He tended to drift by the office whenever he couldn’t sleep and there was nothing on the eighteen-inch portable television in his battered studio apartment to hold his attention.

  Duncan, the Mountie officially on duty when the dispatcher called from Vancouver Island to say a suspicious death had been reported, took down the details and then phoned RCMP headquarters for a file number for the case, making it her case on the record.

  Wilmot said, “A shooting death?”

  Duncan didn’t look up from the form she was filling out. “Yes.”

  “I’d better go along.” He came to the desk and opened a drawer, taking out a blue notepad. “After all, it might be murder, and I was on the Major Crime detail in Vancouver.” He shoved the book in his jacket pocket. “How many murders have you worked?”

  Duncan laid down her pen and stood. She drew herself up to her full five foot eight and looked Wilmot in the eye. “I’ve never worked a murder case but I know the procedure.”

  “All right. No need to get bent out of shape. Besides, it’s likely a suicide.”

  “No need for you to come along then. You don’t want to lose sleep for a suicide.”

  Wilmot walked ahead of her to the door. “We’ll treat it as a crime until the coroner can say positively that it isn’t.”

  “I should call the coroner’s office right now.”

  “Let’s make sure he’s dead first.”

  Duncan grimaced but followed him to the door without argument. She shrugged on her jacket and patted the pocket, checking for her own notebook, before going back to the desk to add an audio recorder and then following him out into the fog.

  On the way to the car, he said, “We should go over the steps for dealing with a crime scene and decide what each of us should do: photograph the scene, collect any physical evidence, and take statements.”

  “I know how to work a crime scene.”

  Wilmot continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “You’ve already called headquarters and gotten a file number for evidence such as blood. The blood samples you collect will be sent to Victoria for analysis.”

  Duncan stopped and took a deep breath. “I’m the one on duty.”

  Wilmot kept walking. “Everything you’ll need to collect evidence is in the trunk of the car.”

  When they reached the car, Wilmot looked at Duncan over the roof and said, “Let’s hurry.” He opened the passenger door. “And let’s just hope it’s really a murder. This might be the case that gets me off this bloody island and back into the real world.”

  “Well good luck to you with that.” Duncan opened the driver’s side door. “We won’t even get to work the case if it is murder. I’ll have to call in the Major Crime Unit from Victoria. They’ll take over.”

  “No need to bring Victoria into it too soon.” Wilmot stared out at the fog. He could barely see the building they’d just left. “The weather is on our side. Nothing can move, so Major Crime won’t be able to get here before noon tomorrow, longer if they have anything big happening. This is our baby.” He didn’t even try to keep the excitement out of his voice. He reached for the safety belt. “Pray for fog and murder, fog to keep outsiders from the investigation and murder to get me off this bloody island.”

  Wilmot rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “This is the first real crime I’ve had since coming to this bucolic hell. Homeless people intruding on private property, pot growing, and the mentally ill acting out, that’s all the transgression I’ve seen.” Being demoted to the Gulf Islands from Vancouver hadn’t predisposed him to like anything about his new posting. “You could die of boredom out here.”

  Duncan leaned forward, searching the fog for oncoming lights before she made a left turn. “Don’t forget the sheep.”

  Wilmot looked over at her to see if she was joking. With anyone else there would be no question but not with Duncan. He never could figure out what was going on in her mind and he didn’t like being reminded of that less than glorious investigation. A dog running loose and killing a sheep had made him the laughing stock of the unit. The dog had driven a ewe down a walking path to a rocky beach and had harassed the animal to her death. His job had been to identify the owner of the dog.

  It had turned into a fiasco, ending with the whole detachment congratulating him on his brilliant detective work, saying it had taken someone who’d been on the force for twenty years, someone who’d been on the Major Crime Unit, to crack the case. The teasing had been merciless. Duncan had been the only one not to join in.

  He glanced at her again. “I know you’ve heard the gossip, but it’s just that, talk. The harassment case was dropped
.” He watched Duncan for a reaction but she seemed to be totally fixed on finding her way through the swirling mist. “We want this investigation to be perfect, no mistakes, ironclad.”

  “Of course,” Duncan said. “My name is on the file. It will be perfect.”

  The fog lights gave the mist the yellowed look of a gray beard on a heavy smoker. Duncan braked gently, searching for some indication of where they were. “We shouldn’t even be out in this.” The headlights flashed on the warning sign at a T-intersection.

  Wilmot said, “Brewer’s farm.” If Duncan missed it they would end up in a sheepfold and Wilmot would face another irate farmer telling anyone who would listen what a great fool the newcomer was. The thought of his ruined suit still made him cringe.

  “Ah,” she said in recognition. Duncan negotiated the bend almost blindly.

  Wilmot wanted to tell the corporal to drive faster. Pure madness. The road was very narrow, with trees right to the edge of the pavement, and they couldn’t see ten feet in front of the car. He tapped his restless fingers on the armrest.

  A few minutes later, Wilmot leaned closer to the windshield, hands on the dash, trying to see another landmark. “Can’t see a damn thing.” He sat back. “I’ve never been up there, have you?”

  “Not to the house.”

  “What do you know about them, John Vibald and his wife?”

  “Nothing . . . well not much.”

  “You’re the local, tell me the tittle-tattle.”

  She took her time. “The word about town is there was trouble up in paradise between the older man and his young wife. And John Vibald and his neighbors weren’t getting along either. Some wanted him to sell his land and some didn’t. Add to that the fact that everyone on the island is pissed off at the idea of this mountain wilderness being developed, and there’re more than enough rumors to go around.”

  “Lovely.” He rubbed his hands together again.

  “The dispatcher didn’t mention murder, only a death,” she warned. “It may well be a suicide or even an accident. He drank heavily, so maybe he shot himself accidentally.”