Long Gone Man

by Phyllis Smallman

  Steven stopped at the entrance. “Do we have to sit in here?” His eyes went across the room to the closed door to John Vibald’s office.

  “This is the biggest room.” Lauren had one hand on his arm and the other on the middle of his back. “And there are a lot of us.” She pushed hard, trying to move him forward, but he resisted, his eyes fixed on the door to the office.

  Lauren no more wanted to be in that room than Steven did. Even though John’s body was long gone, she was sure she could smell him, smell the putrid odor of rotting flesh seeping out from under the door.

  “It’s okay,” she said, using her full weight to start him forward. Too weak to resist, he stumbled ahead a step. Lauren felt a brief stab of guilt but then told herself that now was not the time to take pity on anyone.

  Lauren had rearranged the furniture, pushing the leather couches together to form a V shape. Where the couches met, there was an armchair and she led him towards it. “Sit here, Steven. It’s the most comfortable.”

  He collapsed into the chair.

  “Glenlivet?” she asked, and he nodded.

  When she came back from the kitchen and handed him the highball glass, he had to clutch the drink in both hands to get it to his mouth, and even then liquid dribbled from the corners of his mouth. A natural compassion, nurtured by caregiving parents throughout her life, made Lauren want to reach out to him, to stroke the uncombed hair back from his face and tell him it would all be fine. But in the back of her mind was the thought that Steven’s final collapse had come with the knowledge that Michael’s body had been found. His trembling might be from guilt, from his fear of others finding out about his involvement in Michael’s murder or even John’s.

  Lauren turned away. She switched on the green banker’s floor light. The shadows in the room seemed deeper than normal tonight, the three grotesque masks over the empty fireplace, with their tongues extended and eyes popping, even more terrifying. She crossed her arms over her chest and hugged herself tightly.

  Pounding came from the back of the house. “That will be the Pyes.” She lingered in the doorway, reluctant to leave Steven, unsure of what she’d find upon her return. The noise from the patio door increased. “I’ll be right back,” she promised and went to let the new arrivals in.

  Aaron Pye brushed past her. “The door was locked.”

  “Yes, Aaron. Given the circumstances, you might be wise to lock your own doors.”

  “They’ve arrested Foster Utt. No reason for you to be shaking in your boots anymore.” He headed for the drinks cabinet. Ian and Thea followed him without acknowledging Lauren.

  Thea had left off her makeup and wore a saggy jogging suit, something Lauren had never seen on her before. Normally when Thea came to Syuwun she was dressed to impress.

  Lauren closed and locked the door.

  Ian moved past her to the counter, and Lauren caught a whiff of alcohol. He said, “If you’re so scared, maybe you should leave right away. Janna owns everything now.” His words were slurred. “You’re going soon, might just as well get on with it.”

  “Well, thank you for your kind thoughts, Ian.”

  At the drinks cabinet, where his father had already retrieved a bottle of Canadian rye, Ian shouldered Aaron aside, saying, “You’re in my way.” He reached for a bottle of vodka.

  Lauren turned to Thea. “Steven is in the living room. Would you like a drink to take through with you?”

  Aaron pointed at Thea with the bottle of rye still in his hand. “She’s quit drinking, haven’t you, Thea?” His laugh was vicious.

  Lauren thought, Things are not all cake and cookies in the Pye household and they aren’t about to improve anytime soon.

  But Thea ignored her husband’s jibe and pulled out a barstool. “I’ll have a white wine.”

  The lack of a please would normally set Lauren’s teeth on edge and have her biting back a cutting remark, but she was focused on something different tonight. The more alcohol she pumped into them, the less guarded they’d be. She took down the largest wineglass in the cupboard and filled it to the top.

  As she replaced the wine in the fridge, Ian opened the freezer above her, forcing Lauren to duck. “You forgot to put ice in the bucket,” Ian told her as he filled his glass with ice.

  She ground her teeth in rage. How had she let it come to this? They used this house as if it was their own, always had, and they treated Lauren as if she was a servant. If she defended herself, John would snap at her. But John was dead now, and tonight was the last time she’d ever be forced to put up with these people.

  Ian was getting out the olives for his double martini when the front door bell rang.

  Fifty-seven

  Chris Ruston had one arm protectively around Janna, while the other held up an umbrella to protect them against the fine rain. Janna, wearing a black velvet jacket and black jeans, stood cowering on the step.

  Chris said, “I don’t think this is a good idea. I don’t think Janna should be here.”

  “And I really don’t care what you think.” Lauren smiled at Janna. “This concerns you and Syuwun and your future. As I told you on the phone, there are some real problems with the estate. You may lose everything. You have to know what’s going on, have to understand the mess John has landed us in.”

  Janna’s voice was always soft but now it was nearly inaudible. “I don’t think I can do it, Lauren. I don’t think I can come in. I hate being here.”

  “You don’t have to be here,” Chris said and pulled Janna to his side. “I’ll come in, and Janna can wait in the car.”

  Lauren said, “Do you think that would be safe?”

  Janna gave a start.

  “Really, Janna, you don’t want to be alone out there. It’s safer in the house.” Lauren put out her hand to Janna. “And you need to hear for yourself, Janna.” Lauren took the girl’s hand. “Your Uncle Steven is here now. Come in.” She drew Janna into the house.

  But at the door to the living room Janna froze and wouldn’t be moved.

  Lauren coaxed, “Your Uncle Steven is here, see. You’ve always loved your Uncle Steven. Come on.”

  “No,” Janna protested. “No, I can’t go in there. That’s where it happened, isn’t it?” Janna’s eyes darted to the door in the corner of the room.

  “There’s nothing here that will hurt you,” Lauren soothed. “Everything is gone.”

  Ian Pye was suddenly beside them.

  Janna jerked back. “What’s he doing here?”

  “It’s okay, you don’t have to talk to him.” Lauren pointed to the couch where Thea and Aaron already sat. “Sit over there, Ian.”

  Ian ignored her.

  “Now, Ian,” Lauren ordered in a loud voice, leaving no room for argument.

  Startled, Ian sat down next to his parents.

  Lauren took Janna firmly by the arm and led her to the couch across from where Ian was sitting. Then she went to the sliding wooden doors and pulled them shut, trapping everyone inside. She turned and faced them with her back to the doors.

  Fifty-eight

  “You look like a gypsy drag queen,” Singer told the woman in the mirror. She’d decided there was no use blowing her disguise, so she’d changed back into her tattered orange skirt and wrapped scarves around her head to hide her new hairdo. She was the homeless singer again, the woman they expected to see.

  She was surprised by how disappointed she felt. The woman she saw in the mirror wasn’t the woman she wanted to be anymore. Would it matter if they saw the new Singer? After tonight, she’d be gone.

  What outfit would have more impact, the homeless gypsy they’d be expecting or the upscale woman? Off balance. She had to keep them off balance and not knowing what to expect. Best to deliver a woman they didn’t know. She considered her abundance of clothing choices.

  Pants would disguise her injuries mo
re than a skirt. Never look weak was one of her rules for surviving on the street. The weak were always the first victims.

  And strength instilled fear. Fear is what she wanted them to feel. They wouldn’t fear a street singer. She’d give them something else. She took down the cream pantsuit from where it hung in the closet and started over.

  Ignoring the rain, Singer went out on the patio and down to the gazebo. While Lauren moved the furniture in the living room, Singer had made one call to extend an invitation of her own.

  Now she lit a cigarette and waited. He wouldn’t let her down. She saw lights turning up the switchback below.

  The timing was perfect. In the living room, they’d be focused on each other, believing they knew what was happening, thinking everything was normal and they were in charge of their world, but that was about to change. It had taken a long time, but Michael was going to get his justice.

  Evil couldn’t always win. This time, someone would pay.

  Singer slid back the doors, pausing dramatically in the middle of the opening with both hands extended. Lauren moved aside. The people in the living room looked up at her with varying degrees of surprise and shock. Singer smiled and stepped into the silent room, while Lauren went to sit behind Steven by the table with the woven Navaho basket, the basket that held the gun.

  “Who is she?” Thea asked.

  Her husband answered, “I think it’s the woman I met here yesterday morning, but she didn’t look like that.”

  Singer smiled again and held on to the back of one of the two straight-backed chairs Lauren had put at the head of the couches. Leaning heavily on the chair, she studied the faces turned expectantly towards her.

  Chris’s face was full of outrage, and she could see he was about to protest. His arm was around Johnny’s childlike daughter, his intentions towards Janna clear. Whether it was a sexual conquest or just a business deal had yet to be decided, but he’d staked a claim on a new meal ticket. Singer looked at the other faces. Like Janna’s, two more faces held fear, while one bore incredible anger.

  Singer greeted them with a simple, “Good evening.”

  Janna’s brow furrowed. “Who is she?”

  No one answered.

  Singer spoke to Johnny’s daughter. “I knew your mother.” Singer paused for a beat and added, “And I knew your father. And I know things from the past that you should know.”

  Alarm sprang to life on Janna’s face. “But I don’t want to know.”

  The sound of a car engine filled the room and lights swept across the walls. Singer watched them stiffen, watched them exchange looks, trying to decide who was missing. They turned to the windows, straining to see who was about to come to the party.

  Lauren left her post and went out into the foyer to open the front door.

  The rain was falling harder now. Lauren watched Wilmot and Corporal Duncan jog to the open door of the house, then stood aside so they could enter. Without speaking, she took their coats and shook the rain onto the slate floor. While Wilmot and Duncan waited, she stepped across the hall and laid the coats over the arm of the sofa in the sitting room.

  Finally Lauren said, “We’re in here.” She pointed to the family room off the hall.

  Sgt. Wilmot and Corporal Duncan’s entry was greeted with rustlings and murmured questions that no one answered.

  “Thank you for joining us, Sgt. Wilmot.” Singer pointed to the chair next to her. “Sit here with me.”

  Wilmot opened his mouth and then snapped it closed and went to the chair Singer pointed to. His eyes never left hers.

  “Why is he here?” Chris demanded and started to rise, but Janna clung to him, holding him down. Chris said, “I thought this was about the estate.”

  Wilmot was as unhappy with the situation as Chris Ruston.

  Corporal Duncan, in the shadows by the door, slipped an audio recorder and a notepad from her tunic.

  “What’s this about?” Aaron Pye demanded.

  “Shut up, Aaron,” his wife snapped.

  “I just want to know what brought her here,” Aaron mumbled.

  Singer said, “Murder is what brought me here.”

  A sound like a shot rang out. “Sorry,” Duncan said and bent over to pick up her notepad.

  “Murder?” Wilmot said.

  Singer nodded. “And memories. We’re going for a little walk down memory lane.”

  The room was totally silent. She had their attention. “I’m sure you’ll remember the time I’m going to speak about very clearly. I was calling myself Ace and I sang with the band. We were all young then. We were in Taos, and Thea was pregnant with Ian.” She stepped carefully around the chair and sat down. “There was a roadie who joined the band when I did.” She waited a beat. “His name was Michael Lessing. You remember him, don’t you, Pinky?”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “Fine, Aaron. You remember Michael, don’t you, Aaron?”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Ah, but you helped murder him. I’d think that would make him unforgettable.”

  Both Aaron Pye and his son jumped to their feet, yelling threats and denials.

  Wilmot moved towards them, ready to intercede to protect Singer, but it was Steven David who stopped them. “It’s true.” He spoke softly at first, so softly no one paid any attention, and then he shouted, “It’s true.” They all swung to face Steven. “It’s true,” he repeated. “Sit down and listen.”

  He wiped his hand across his mouth and waited until everyone was seated before he began. “Alan and I were there. All of us guys were camping out in the desert, but John was being his normal obnoxious self, so Alan and I moved away. We left Michael there with you and John, Pinky.” He used the name like an obscenity. “Michael had a song he was working on, remember, Pinky? He wanted us to listen, wanted to know what we thought of it. He borrowed John’s Fender, the same one that’s in the music room. But Alan and I didn’t wait to hear his song. We just wanted to get out of there. As we loaded our Volks, John stopped shooting up the cacti and told Michael to stop wasting time and just play the damn song. That’s the last thing I remember: John standing there with a gun in his hand, and Michael sitting on an old wooden box full of sound equipment.”

  “You’re crazy,” Aaron said. A pulse throbbed in his forehead. “It never happened.”

  Steven went on talking as though Aaron hadn’t interrupted. “We were just pulling out when Michael finished tuning the guitar. We should have waited. How different our lives would all be if we had just waited.”

  Aaron Pye said, “I’m leaving.”

  Wilmot, in the quietest of voices, said, “Sit down, Mr. Pye.”

  Aaron hesitated.

  “Sit down, Mr. Pye,” Wilmot repeated.

  Aaron Pye sank down between his wife and son, mumbling, “He’s talking rubbish. Those two were always high, barely knew where they were.”

  Steven rubbed his forehead and said, “When we got to our next gig, John had ‘Long Gone Man.’”

  Aaron appealed to the others. “Steven’s lost it. Can’t you see that?” He looked at Steven and said, “You haven’t been the same since Alan died.”

  “That’s true,” Steven replied. “But I still know what you did.”

  Fifty-nine

  Aaron licked his lips. “I don’t know what he’s talking about.” He tapped a finger against his head. “Don’t pay any attention to Stevie; it wasn’t only Alan who did a lot of drugs.”

  Steven ignored him. “When we got to Vegas, Pinky and John had ‘Long Gone Man.’” His voice was flat and unemotional. “I should have known John could never write anything that good.”

  Aaron Pye threw his hands in the air. “Where the hell did all this come from?”

  “We started rehearsing it before we left Vegas and we were working on an album within months. The sing
le came out the following spring.”

  “He’s talking shit. I don’t know anything about this.”

  “Don’t you?” Wilmot said mildly. “On the twenty-third of May of this year, a bulldozer was clearing land for some new homes in Taos, New Mexico. They unearthed a body, which has since been identified. It turns out, someone called Michael Lessing’s brother in Los Angeles and suggested that if he wanted to know what happened to his brother, he should check out the body in Taos. Dental records have positively identified the remains as those of Michael Lessing of California, who was last seen traveling with a band called Vortex. So, Mr. Pye, would you like to rethink what you just said?”

  “She probably did it,” Aaron said, pointing at Singer. “She admits she was there. She killed this Lessing guy and sold his song to John.”

  “If that were true, why would she come here to confront John Vibald about the death of Michael Lessing?”

  “Blackmail.” Aaron Pye looked around the room, searching for support. “She just wants everyone to think John did it. She killed Lessing and then she killed John.”

  “But Ms. Brown wasn’t out there in the desert with you,” Wilmot told him. “She was in Taos with Mrs. Pye.”

  The room was silent. Shock showed on every face. Wilmot added the last detail. “John Vibald was murdered with the same gun that killed Michael Lessing.”

  Wilmot wasn’t actually sure both men had been shot with the same gun. The forensics would take weeks, but the preliminary report said that both men were shot by the same type of weapon. Only Chris Ruston might know enough to trip him up.

  Chris Ruston’s brain was elsewhere. “But Foster Utt killed John and Missy. He’s been arrested for it. It’s over.”

  Wilmot crossed one leg over the other and folded his forearms on top of them. “Foster Utt has only admitted to killing Mrs. Vibald’s pet.”

  In the silence that followed, the people in the room looked at one another, considered the possibilities, then drew into themselves.