Long Gone Man

by Phyllis Smallman

  “Oh, he meant something. He always means something, always making snide little suggestions and comments. Is this still my home, Chris?”

  “Until the will is read, yes.”

  “Good. Then I want you all out.”

  “Not going to happen, sweetie,” Aaron said, raising his arms, palms out. “This is our rehearsal space, and John’s door is always open to us.”

  “Well, he’s dead now, isn’t he?”

  He started to argue, but Steven said, “Leave it, Aaron.” Pulling on Aaron’s arm, he urged him towards the door. “If you need anything, anything at all, just let me know,” Steven told Lauren as he went past her.

  “Yeah, me too,” Chris said, without looking at Lauren.

  Lauren gave a harsh bark of a laugh and put her hand over her mouth.

  The three men shuffled reluctantly to the door where they bunched up like sheep, waiting to be forgiven and invited back.

  Lauren followed, shoved through them, and led the way down the hall to the back door.

  The sounds of another haunting melody came from the studio.

  Aaron hustled to catch up to Lauren and whispered, “Look, Lauren, talk to her and see if she’ll let us check out her music.”

  Lauren answered with a snort of disgust, which Aaron ignored. His hand braceletted her wrist to stop her. “Her stuff’s good, really good. Ian needs some original material.” His eyes returned to the door to the studio. “Even with John backing him it would be hard to make it but now . . . on his own . . .”

  “Even harder when you have no talent.” Lauren jerked away from Aaron and went back and pulled the door to the studio closed.

  “You bitch.” Anger flooded Aaron’s face with color.

  “Singer will let you know if she wants to show you anything.” Lauren lifted her arm and pointed down the hall towards the kitchen. “Now get out.”

  One by one, they made their way slowly to the kitchen. They still couldn’t quite grasp that they were being asked to leave a place they had always considered like a club, almost their own, a place of free booze and free food. They hovered at the end of the bar, waiting for Lauren to relent, to apologize even.

  She went past them and opened the sliding door.

  Outside on the patio, bodies close together, they stood in deep discussion, while Lauren closed the door and wrestled the stiff lock into place. The men heard the click of the latch and glared at Lauren through the window.

  Lauren turned her back on them and went to the kitchen window and locked it before going methodically through the house and locking each door and window to the outside.

  Back in the studio, Lauren said, “To think how polite and nice I’ve been to them. No more. The days of free and easy access are over.” She went to the window and slid the latch into place. “They’ve always been condescending and arrogant towards me and John let them. Thea can barely say a civil word, looks right through me like I don’t exist, while her husband makes passes.” Tears bit her eyes. “I thought I could win them over by ignoring their nastiness and going out of my way to please them, but every year it got worse. You don’t know how good it feels to tell them to get out.”

  “What about Stevie?” Singer asked.

  “Well, he didn’t make passes, just treated me like a pleasant, dim-witted child . . . and something else I didn’t like to think about . . . like John’s latest piece of ass. I gave up my self-respect but I’m taking it back. They aren’t coming in again unless I ask them and that won’t be for a long, long time.”

  “Good. One of them is likely a murderer.”

  Lauren gave a start of surprise. “That’s true, isn’t it?”

  “And don’t be too sure they haven’t got keys.”

  “Shit.” Lauren planted her hands on her hips and thought for a moment. “All right, I’ll call a locksmith right now.”

  “While you’re at it, I think you should get a lawyer and see what you can do about that prenup. Did Chris draw it up?”

  “No, his father.”

  “Still, he isn’t going to help you break it.” Singer thought for a moment. “Unless he thought he could worm his way back into your good graces. How good an actress are you?”

  “Lousy. What are you thinking?”

  “You said the development deal Johnny was offered was worth millions. How much was Johnny’s share?”

  “About ten million.”

  “Wow. So you stand to inherit at least five million if the courts divide it between you and Janna. If Chris thought he could get you and five million, he might find a way around the prenuptial agreement.”

  Lauren pointed her finger at Singer. “You are a very devious person, but not even for five million bucks will I make kissy face with that creep.”

  Singer grinned. “Then get yourself a good lawyer.”

  “I haven’t any money for a lawyer.”

  “Well,” Singer said, “maybe you can hire him on a percentage basis. He gets paid nothing unless he wins and then he gets a percentage of what you win beyond what you’d get in the original prenup.”

  Lauren cocked her head to one side and considered Singer. “What does a woman living in a rusted-out van know about lawyers and percentages?”

  “There’s a difference between stupid and ignorant.”

  “Which means?”

  “I’ve lived a long time and listened to a lot of rambling talk for the price of a drink.” Singer pushed back from the piano and headed for the door.

  “You don’t fool me,” Lauren said to Singer’s retreating back. “You’re more than a crazy homeless woman.”

  The door closed behind Singer.

  “But I don’t know what,” Lauren told the closed door, “and that’s what scares me.”

  Tomorrow, at the latest, Lauren vowed, she’d give Singer a little money and say goodbye.

  Twenty-four

  Putting the transmission into its lowest gear and riding the brakes, praying they didn’t fail, Singer drove slowly and cautiously down the mountain. Now that it was daylight and the fog was gone, Singer saw how truly treacherous and heart-stoppingly beautiful the switchbacking road was, and she swung back and forth between terror and awe. Sudden views over valleys to the ocean were quickly followed by dark channels through thick forest that opened onto chillingly steep drops. There were no safety barriers on the snaking curves that pointed straight out into sky. Only the tips of fir trees would keep the unwary from launching into nothing and plummeting towards the cobalt water and the islands floating there, blue and hazy and slightly unreal. Above every panorama floated snow-capped mountains, looking like they were hovering above the horizon and not quite part of the earth.

  The caustic smell of over-heated brake linings filled her nose and she rolled down the window, trying to remember when the brakes on the Beast had last been checked, if ever. “As needed” was the way she did maintenance, and in most cases repairs didn’t get done until well after they were needed.

  A deer, with a fawn tagging behind her, trotted across the road in front of the van. Singer stomped down on the brake pedal. The van slowed but didn’t stop completely on the steep grade and the odor of burning brakes grew stronger.

  Near the bottom of the mountain, the number of houses increased. Built on narrow strips of land along the road, they were cantilevered out into space to take advantage of the view over the ocean. The mountain road grew less steep, the curves less sharp, and Singer breathed a sigh of relief.

  Finally the mountain road disappeared into a rural lane with farms on either side and then ended at the ocean, where three small islands, like green cupcakes on a blue plate, guarded the mouth of the harbor. Now the pavement looped back and faced inland to the town of Kilborn, the jewel of the Gulf Islands. Wearing its fall colors, it rose in steps above a harbor filled with swaying masts.

  There was
very little flat ground to build on so the streets rose sharply away from the water, spreading out and moving uphill in an arch. Each business and residence, stepping up from the docks, seemed to have a terrace decorated with huge planters filled with blooming flowers and fluttering umbrellas. The balconies above the water became gardens hanging in the sky. Many belonged to restaurants, where gulls circled, trying to steal unguarded food. The whole picture was one of color and movement, a fantasy arrangement of buildings and gardens. Small parks bordering the water were dotted with palm trees, something Singer hadn’t expected in Canada. But then this whole town was a surprise.

  Long, gray fingers of weathered docks pointed out into the water at the middle of the horseshoe harbor. The moorings were crowded with runabouts, huge yachts, and sailing vessels of all kinds, creating a forest of silvery masts, swaying gently on swells and wakes, an equal number of American and Canadian flags fluttering from the tips. A seaplane taxied slowly out from its dock, waiting for a large, white yacht to motor farther down the harbor and clear a path for takeoff. Organized chaos was how the channel seemed to Singer.

  Located at the upper reaches of the town, the RCMP headquarters was a flat-topped, utilitarian building from the sixties, ugly and disappointing after the colorful town.

  Beastie shuddered to a halt in the gravel parking lot, and Singer sat there and considered what she was going to say to avoid the quicksand of the truth.

  Beastie’s door complained as it swung open.

  Lauren was coming out of an office just as Singer entered the building. Pale and tired, Lauren lifted her hand in silent greeting. Behind her, Corporal Duncan stood in the open doorway, watching.

  Singer winked at Lauren, but no response showed on Lauren’s ashen face and she passed Singer without speaking.

  “I’m ready for you, Ms. Brown,” Corporal Duncan said. “If you’ll just come in here.” The corporal didn’t appear any more rested than Lauren.

  I guess we all look like shit, Singer thought.

  Corporal Duncan went over Singer’s statement with her before asking Singer to sign it. “Now we just need your fingerprints,” Corporal Duncan said.

  Panic leapt in Singer. “Why do you need my prints?” And why hadn’t she seen this coming? Exhaustion and murder had definitely kicked her out of survival mode. “I already told you I picked up the gun.”

  “We need to be able to eliminate your prints from the others in the room.”

  Singer forced a smile. “Fine.” She could only hope the ineffective police chief in that small town had screwed up one more thing and her past stayed dead.

  Twenty-five

  Singer drove up and down the streets, searching for places to perform. There was a knack to picking the right spot and at the end of the day the amount of money she earned depended on choosing the best location. There had to be good foot traffic, and it had to be a spot where she wasn’t likely to attract unwanted attention from an outraged merchant. Some store owners were quick to move her along while others welcomed her.

  Before she decided on a busking spot, there was something else Singer wanted to see. She’d checked the small, spiral-bound telephone directory in Lauren’s kitchen and knew where Chris Ruston’s office was. She cruised by it and smiled when she saw an outdoor café across the street: two birds with one stone. Cafés usually welcomed street singers as long as they didn’t hassle customers. She’d set up there, where she’d be able to watch Chris Ruston’s premises without seeming to. There was a question she wanted answered. Why had the man in Lauren’s life told Lauren their affair was over the night Johnny was murdered?

  Singer opened her guitar case, seeded the case with a few coins, and started singing one of her own songs.

  On the wrong side of midnight

  When hope fades and dreams die

  I lie awake and listen to you breathe

  The people sitting outside the café on wrought-iron chairs turned to smile at her.

  The day was cool, only in the low sixties, and everyone except Singer was wearing a jacket or heavy sweater, but she was used to the cold streets of cities, used to the wind that swept down between tall buildings. Here in the clear, sweet-smelling air the sun was strong.

  Singer kept her eyes on the building across the way. People passing the café dropped coins into her guitar case. She thanked them, but they barely distracted her from her vigilance. She watched as people came and went from Ruston’s office building, with no idea who they were or if they were related to the murder.

  And then a girl, barely into her twenties and wearing a red backpack, hurried along the street. Her head was down and turned towards the building, her face hidden from Singer. At the door, with her hand already stretched out for the handle, she hesitated. She raised her head and turned her body to face the spot where Singer stood singing “Long Gone Man.” The girl’s eyes found Singer’s. Singer felt a jolt of recognition.

  A well-dressed, middle-aged woman stopped indignantly in front of Singer, blocking out the girl, and said, “People like you are a disgrace to this country. Get a job.”

  Singer leaned to the side to look around the woman. The girl was gone.

  “There’s lots of work if you’re willing to do it,” the woman said.

  Anger blossomed in Singer. “Believe me, trying to get fifty cents out of an old shrew like you is work.”

  The woman stepped back, her face turning red, and then she drew herself up and marched off.

  Mustn’t do that, Singer admonished herself. Everyday Singer repeated her mantra for survival on the streets. Never talk back, always say thank you, never be rude, and never ever attract anger. Those were the rules of singing on the street. Make people like you was the most important rule of all, but these days it seemed to be harder for her to do. Singer’s desire to please was growing thinner and so were her takings because of it.

  A young girl with maroon hair got up from a chair at the edge of the coffee drinkers and dropped a bill in Singer’s case. “Nice one,” the girl said. “The old bat deserved it.”

  Singer nodded and tried to smile. She began a Bob Dylan song, figuring it would be her last of the day. By now the matron would be telling someone in authority to move her along . . . best to go before they showed up. She could try again tomorrow to collect some exit money. It had taken nearly a month to work her way north to Vancouver, longer to put the money together to travel to the island.

  But the day hadn’t been a total loss. There was something invisible floating in the air, some thread of an answer weaving through the atmosphere. She just needed time to catch hold of it. She might even have a faint idea of who had shot Johnny, but how did she prove it? And did she really want to get involved any further? It was none of her business and it wouldn’t change history. She worried this thought around and decided it was best to get the hell out of Dodge at the first opportunity and leave justice for the police. But still, there were questions she wanted answered before she left the island.

  Singer was beginning the last verse of the song when Lauren came around the corner, saw Singer, and stopped in her tracks. “What are you doing?” Lauren hissed.

  “Earning my living,” Singer replied. “Don’t be so tight assed.” Singer bent over and picked the money off the worn, green velvet before she gently laid the guitar in its case. “I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”

  “No.” The word rocketed out of Lauren’s mouth. She looked around to see if they were attracting attention. “My husband was murdered last night,” she said quietly. “It wouldn’t look right to be sitting in a café drinking coffee this afternoon.”

  Singer shrugged and calmly latched the one buckle still remaining on the case and tied a string around the neck to keep the lid closed.

  Lauren stuffed her hands in her jacket pockets. “See you at the house.” She rounded her shoulders and walked away.

  “Have a coffee
with me.” The young girl with the maroon hair was standing beside Singer. “I’d like to talk to you about music.”

  Singer really didn’t want to waste money on coffee. Cigarettes were more important to her, and everything cost more on Glenphiddie Island. “C’mon, let me buy you a coffee,” the girl coaxed. “I really like your voice. I sing, but not like you. You’re a real singer. And that Martin guitar you’ve got is pretty special too . . . museum quality.”

  Singer’s time spent with Meagan proved useful for more than the coffee and pastry the girl bought. The murder of one of the island’s best-known citizens was what all of the people sitting outside the café were talking about. Soon three women from another table turned their chairs around and joined in Singer and Meagan’s conversation. Singer listened avidly to all the theories and the gossip.

  With a little encouragement, they happily gave Singer a sketch of the people up the mountain, cheerfully discussing the lives of all the people who might be involved. It was agreed that Lauren had an attitude, seldom took part in town activities, wasn’t at all friendly, and probably killed her husband.

  John Vibald had seen himself as the king of the mountain. He took no part in town life and wouldn’t donate to any good cause, so no great amount of sadness was expressed at his passing. But it seemed the islanders would miss the mildly famous people who sometimes flew in to spend time with him. Those people always left a great deal of money behind and that would be missed most of all.

  Everyone knew that Thea Pye was a drunk and her husband was a weakling. They all agreed the Pyes’ son, Ian, was a spoiled brat grown large, who John Vibald had bought out of more than one scrape.

  The only person living up the mountain who found favor with the people at the table was Steven. He took part in the town’s little theater, helped organize art shows, and each year he donated one of his handmade instruments to the local art center for a fundraiser. Steven was heads above the rest as far as the people at the table were concerned. Steven could not be involved with anything as horrible as murder.