A Case of Sour Grapes

by Gae-Lynn Woods

“Slow, Stan. Slow. Anything new?”

  “Only you. I’ve never known you to come in so early. What’s up?”

  I hesitated, only because now it was none of my business. “Nothing.”

  “It’s something. What can I do for you? We’re headed into that lull when Sunday School starts. Now’s the time.”

  I struggled to keep my mouth shut. I really did. But maybe my insane degree of nosiness will turn into an asset when I’m a private detective. “Do you remember a group called Poison Ivy and the Dismembered Bunnies?”

  Stan’s face lit up. “One of the great musical mysteries of our time. Why do you ask?”

  I chewed my lower lip. Most of what I was about to reveal was public knowledge, except for the names of the suspects. They would come out soon enough. And I couldn’t help myself, I had to figure this out.

  I leaned forward. “Can you keep a secret?”

  A REAL LIVE CARRIE UNDERWOOD

  KADO WIPED THE SWEAT dripping from his chin, then stepped into a slice of shade left by the hungry sun. The black powder smearing the car’s exterior revealed no prints, and he could do nothing more until the Medical Examiner arrived. Mitch and Cass were talking to the landscape guy, and Kado winced as she reached up to touch her left shoulder. Cass insisted she was ready to go back to work, but Kado suspected she was in more pain than she revealed, and that single touch told him he was right.

  A rumbling sounded from the drive and John Grey backed the medical examiner’s van into a spot next to Kado’s truck.

  “That’s a real live Carrie Underwood,” Porky Rivers said as he and Grey approached.

  “What is?” Kado asked.

  The painfully thin black man circled the car. “That song she sings about the chick who’s been cheated on. This is what she does to his car.”

  “The cheated on chick?”

  “Yup. Knocks his headlights out with a baseball bat, scratches his paint, slashes his tires, and writes her name in his seats.” He peeked through the passenger window. “They missed that one.”

  “You think somebody did this based on a song?”

  “Looks like it,” Porky stated. “But those words, the ‘NOW it’s over, bitch.’ That’s not part of the song. She just uses her key to mess up his paint.”

  Kado looked at Grey, who shrugged. “I don’t listen to pop music,” he said.

  Porky scoffed. “It’s country, man. We’ve got to get you out more.”

  “I’ll stick with show tunes, thanks. Is it locked?”

  The door opened easily when Kado pulled the handle. The medical examiner was six feet eight inches tall and had to bend almost in half to look in the driver’s door. “What is that?”

  Kado leaned in next to him. “Some sort of tool.”

  “Can you get prints?”

  “If there are any, yes. The door and handle were wiped down.”

  Grey eased himself upright and looked over the car at Porky. “Grab the bag. I need to get her temperature.”

  “I haven’t seen any signs of a struggle outside the car. Is it possible she was killed in her seat?” Kado asked. “I’d expect some spatter from that wound.”

  “Given the amount of blood that’s drained down her chest, it looks like he hit her carotid artery or jugular vein. If he’d pulled the tool out, I’d expect spatter. But if he didn’t move it, it’s possible it’s stopping the blood from running out too quickly.” He examined her hands where they rested in her lap. “No sign of defensive wounds. Do you want to get photos?”

  Kado nodded and took shots from the open driver’s and passenger doors, then motioned for Grey to take her temperature. As the medical examiner lifted her blouse and made a small incision, her body moved.

  “Grey,” Kado said. “There’s blood on the headrest.”

  The ME gently turned Daphne’s head. Blood matted her hair.

  “Fracture?” Kado asked.

  “I’ll check during the autopsy. But I’d guess he hit her with something outside the car, then put her in here.”

  “He did it carefully,” Kado said. “There’s no smear across the headrest, and she’s not a small woman. Whoever did this was strong enough to position her without making a mess.”

  A mower started and they watched Chewie Rodriquez drive to his trailer. Mitch and Cass walked up the drive.

  “Anything?” Mitch asked.

  Grey pulled the thermometer from her body and his lips moved as he calculated. “Given her body temperature and the heat, she died late last night or early this morning.”

  “Is she wearing shoes?” Cass asked.

  Kado looked at the foot well. “There’s a black tennis shoe on her right foot.”

  “Its mate is in the roses.” She gestured along the drive. “Along with an empty bottle from Cedar Bend Winery.”

  “I’ll print it.”

  Cass and Mitch circled the car, taking in the damage.

  “This looks like ‘Before He Cheats’, that country song,” Cass said.

  Porky nodded. “See, I told you.”

  “And that was about revenge, right?”

  Porky nodded again. “She was mad at her boyfriend for cheating and she busted up his car.”

  Cass looked at Mitch and Kado. “We’d better talk to Blue Ivey.”

  “You think this is one of Bret’s girls?” Mitch asked.

  “She’s got a big bottom,” Cass answered. “Just the kind Blue says her husband likes.”

  POISON IVY AND THE DISMEMBERED BUNNIES

  STAN DELIVERED MY VEGETARIAN omelet and two mugs of fresh coffee, then opened the jukebox and fiddled with it. I’m usually not picky about eating meat, but given the amount of ribeye I consumed Saturday night at the Elliot’s, I decided to give my digestive system a break. Sally brought a stack of pancakes and a jug of syrup to the table, and I told her they weren’t mine.

  “You’re too skinny, Maxine. Eat them.” And with that proclamation, Sally walked off and Stan slid into the booth.

  “Sally has spoken,” he said.

  “That must be a million calories.”

  “Only half a million. Listen,” he said.

  A great caterwauling came from the jukebox. I noticed the Pettigrew brothers exchanging a look as they left the café, and I couldn’t help it, I grimaced. “That’s them?”

  “Poison Ivy and the Dismembered Bunnies, a song called ‘Stick to the Trees, Boys’.”

  “Angry,” I said, and took a bite of an exceptionally good omelet.

  “It was punk. Everybody was angry.”

  I listened, surprised the lyrics were so political. “He’s bashing Reagan and Thatcher?”

  Stan nodded, tapping a thumb to the music. “Lots of music is politically charged, but these first two songs are very explicit. This one focuses on the economic state of the U.S. back in the eighties. The next one is about the Mexican drug cartels.”

  “Their singer was part of a drug family, wasn’t he?”

  “Yeah, and that’s what broke them up in the end.”

  “Who was who in this band?”

  “BB Ivy and Santiago ‘Sonny’ Arellano collaborated on lyrics and music. BB played banjo, a little guitar, and mandolin or violin. Sonny played guitar, keyboard, accordion, and washboard. Both sang. Sugar Murphy played bass and Big Billy Garcia played drums and other percussion instruments.”

  “Is Sugar his real name?”

  “Single mom. Flower child.”

  “Poor kid.”

  “No doubt.”

  “Only four guys?”

  Stan nodded.

  “What’s the big mystery?” I asked.

  “All the recordings for their second album went missing.”

  I shrugged. “Mitch mentioned that. So what?”

  “They were on the verge, right on the tipping point, of breaking out. Their first album, Hand to the Throat, was picking up airtime when they went back into the studio. The band’s manager was making a big deal about how explosive the second album would be. A r
eal hot potato, even angrier. Rumor had it they were calling it Fist Full of Nuts and BB wanted the band to be photographed naked, grabbing their uncovered nether regions.”

  “Radical,” I said, raising an eyebrow.

  “At the time, it was.”

  “You said Sonny Arellano’s being part of a drug family was what caused the band to break up. Mitch said he got killed in Mexico. Is that what you meant?”

  “He did disappear while they were recording that second album, and popular theory has it that he resurfaced in Mexico. Some think his family was pissed off about the second song on the first album, ‘Tequila Baby, Not Bullets’. It’s possible that was true. The song - here it comes - is an outright indictment of the drug violence. Sonny was related to one of the big honchos. He might’ve been grabbed one night, or he might’ve honored a summons. I also heard Sonny and BB were at each other’s throats. They were kind of a Simon and Garfunkel team: brilliant, but huge rivals for musical credit.”

  The song had a rough Latin feel and the lyrics damned the violence originating with the Mexican cartels. “He was killed in a gun fight?” I asked.

  Stan sipped his coffee. “Never confirmed. He could be alive and living in Mexico for all anyone knows. Or buried in a mass grave with others who objected to the cartels.”

  “All the recordings from the second album, the unmastered tapes, right?” I asked. Stan nodded. “What happened to them?”

  “That’s the mystery. The band waited for Sonny but ran out of recording time. They were righteously pissed. Sonny had a beautiful National Triolian guitar, and BB busted it up in a fit when the studio kicked them out. And that was that. The remaining band members rocketed apart. Big Billy and Sugar tried to start another band, but nothing came of it.”

  “Then why does the second album matter?”

  “Hand to the Throat was selling well. A solid second album would’ve pushed them over the top and they would’ve been into some big money.”

  “They had a following?”

  Stan shrugged. “They were more of an underground band when Sonny disappeared, but that was set to explode. All the anger in Fist Full of Nuts was directed at the cartels. Sonny had written a couple of songs for his mother, accusing an uncle of having her murdered to keep her quiet.”

  “Is it possible somebody got wind of what this second album was about and decided to shut Sonny down?”

  “That was one of the theories, but most people think he went to Mexico willingly and for whatever reason, didn’t make it back.”

  “It had to be an important reason for him to leave a recording session.”

  Stan nodded. “It did.”

  “If those unmastered tapes still exist, do you think they’d be worth anything?”

  “Thirty-plus years later? Who knows? But it’s possible.”

  Sally swept by the table and topped off our coffee. “The Bunnies are scaring the customers.”

  Stan fiddled with the juke box again and Willie Nelson crooned gospel through the speakers. He winked when he slipped back into the booth. “She’s right. Poison Ivy and the Dismembered Bunnies are a bit rough for this town. You think this Bret Ivey is BB Ivy?”

  “Mitch does. And it seems too big a coincidence for him not to be.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “That if he is BB Ivy, he might have the tapes. That would explain why Sugar and Big Billy were chasing him and have trashed his stuff.”

  “Did you get a picture of the guys who were chasing Bret?”

  I nodded. “I got some video as they were leaving a strip club. But it didn’t come out very well.”

  “The Big Billy Garcia I’m talking about has a limp.”

  My eyebrows shot up. “One of the guys was limping.”

  “They all had tattoos, if that’s any help. Hang on a minute.” He disappeared into the back of the café and returned with an album sleeve encased in clear plastic. I reached for it and he pulled back. “I need a solemn promise, Maxine.”

  I held up my first two fingers. “I promise to do my best. To do my duty to God -”

  “That’s the Cub Scout Promise, Maxine. Wrong gender. I’m serious. There aren’t many of these around. It’s worth some money.”

  “I promise I’ll take good care of whatever you’ve got there.”

  Stan placed the album cover on the table. A quartet of pimply-faced shirtless teenagers stood defiantly on what might’ve been the bow of ship, steel cuffs around their necks, dirty bunny ears on their heads, heavy chains stretched tight by Ronald Regan and Margaret Thatcher look-a-likes. Although they each wore an expression of teenage angst, they were unique. One was toned and with his heavy thatch of blond hair could’ve passed for a surfer dude once the smirk was off his face. Another kid was darker skinned with masses of black hair and a sexy, pouty lower lip. A tall blond kid stood at the back of the group and while he was still skinny, he was broader through the shoulders than the others. The fourth member of the group was shorter and a ghostly white with black hair slicked straight back. A bunny head tattoo was visible on each of the boys, one on the neck, another on the arm, one on the chest, and the fourth peeking from the surfer dude’s cut-offs.

  Stan pointed to the surfer dude. “That’s BB.”

  Then to kid with the sexy lower lip. “Sonny.”

  Then to the tall blond at the back. “That’s Sugar Murphy, and that one,” he touched the ghostly white kid, “is Big Billy Garcia.”

  “He’s not very big,” I said.

  “Nicknames are like that,” Stan said.

  I looked closer and felt an itch of familiarity. It was hard to tell if the surfer dude glaring from this forty year old photograph was the Bret Ivey who lived in Forney County and liked big bottoms. I pulled out my phone and found a photo of Bret and Bimbo. I enlarged his face. “What do you think?”

  Stan looked back and forth between the two. “Hard to say, but there is some resemblance. If you promise to return this in the same condition, I’ll lend it to you for research purposes.”

  “Is the album in there?”

  “Nope. Do you want it?”

  I nodded. “It’s not really my style, but maybe I’ll learn something about BB and the boys.”

  He opened the juke box again and carefully removed an album, then slipped it into the sleeve and handed it to me. “Mitch could be right about Bret Ivey being BB Ivy.” Stan collected his order pad and stuck it in his apron. “But why would Sugar and Big Billy start looking for the tapes after all this time, if BB even has them?”

  I thought about the article in Texas Eats. “You know Stan, I think it’s taken them this long to figure out where to look.”

  ALL VERY NEAT

  KADO PICKED UP THE phone and dialed. Mitch answered on the first ring. “Have you been to see Blue Ivey yet?” Kado asked.

  “We’re on our way now.”

  “Cass is with you?”

  “She is.”

  “Stop by the courthouse. I’ve got news.”

  __________

  “SO?” MITCH ASKED AS he pushed opened the forensics room door. Cass followed him in and although he relished the sight of her, Kado wanted to get this briefing done. Mitch was right, if Hoffner saw her in the courthouse and knew she was working a case, he’d blow a gasket.

  “Cut and dried,” Kado answered. “Hoffner’s ready to arrest Blue Ivey.”

  “What’s he got against her?” Mitch asked.

  “She didn’t go out with him years ago,” Cass supplied. “Hurt his ego. And she won with the county over Hoffner’s protests when she wanted to open the winery.”

  Mitch sat at the wide forensics table and studied the reports Kado handed him, scanning each before passing it to Cass. She looked them over and laid them out in neat rows. Truman backed into the room balancing two carry out containers of coffee from The Golden Gate Café and passed them around. John Grey ducked through the doorway, dropped two files on the table, snagged a cup of coffee, and folded his lanky body int
o a chair.

  Mitch absently took a cup, and then looked up at Kado. “This is all very neat.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “Do you believe it?” Cass asked.

  “You’re not here,” Mitch told her. He looked at Kado and then at Truman. “Do you believe it?”

  Kado shrugged. “Fingerprints are fingerprints and the places where we found those,” he nodded at the rows of paper, “implicate Blue Ivey. Tell them what you think, Scott.”

  Truman spun a chair around and sat next to Cass. “I think there’s about a twenty-five percent chance she killed them.”

  Mitch raised an eyebrow.

  “The DA could make a case that Blue murdered the two girls, based on her fingerprints alone. At Annie’s garage apartment, Blue’s prints are on the wine bottle. Blue’s and Annie’s are on the wine glass. Both contain traces of tetrahydrozoline.”

  “Annie was drugged using eye drops?” Mitch asked.

  Grey shifted in his chair. “We won’t know for sure until her tox screen comes back.”

  Mitch chewed his lip. “Were Blue’s prints anywhere else in the house?”

  “In the kitchen on one of the burner knobs, on the fridge door, and there were a few in the living room,” Truman said.

  “On the computer, the mouse, or the printer?”

  “Nope. Annie’s are on both, but they’re smudged in some places.”

  “You said there were no prints on the door knobs?”

  “Correct.”

  “Like someone wiped them off,” Mitch stated. Cass was squirming and Mitch relented. “You can be here for a few minutes. Go ahead.”

  “So you think,” she began, “Blue went to Annie’s with a roofied bottle of wine, convinced Annie to drink it or pretended to drink with her, and when Annie passed out, Blue strangled her in cold blood, wrote and printed a suicide note, looked up a video on how to tie a noose, and managed to hang a girl who outweighed Blue by at least forty pounds? She wore gloves for some of these activities and didn’t for others, and wiped her fingerprints off some surfaces but not others?”

  “I said there was about a twenty-five percent chance,” Truman clarified. “The stepladder had Annie’s prints on it, and again, some of them were smudged.”