Ice on the Grapevine

by R. E. Donald

  Russell's next destination was Whistlestop Studios. It was even harder to find than the victim's home, so he stopped at a gas station and bought a coffee, casually asked for directions as he sorted through his American coins looking for Canadian quarters. It wasn't all that far, but en route he had to wait for a freight train, a seemingly endless string of grain cars peppered with rust and graffiti. Russell sipped at his coffee and tried to revive some sense of optimism about his relationship with Jennifer. Was it really as bad as he thought when he woke up this morning with his brain leached out by alcohol? By the time the train passed and he put the car into gear, he'd decided that yes, it was as bad as he thought. Maybe worse.

  The studio was on the second floor of a boxy warehouse with light blue aluminum siding. He took the stairs two at a time in an attempt to punish himself for last night's drinking. The upstairs door was open, and he looked in to see two unkempt young men watching another one work the buttons and dials of a piece of electronic equipment, black and brushed aluminum with blue and green LED displays. A thundering riff from a base guitar started and immediately stopped as the operator became aware of Russell's presence. All three stared at him without smiling.

  "Are you the Carrots?" he asked, stepping inside. The room was sparsely furnished: a couple of scarred trestle tables and several stacking chairs of the types that populate church basements and school gymnasiums. There were some garish rock music posters and a few pen and ink drawings taped to the wall that ran between the door and the window.

  "No," said the one manning the hardware. He was, Russell thought, surprisingly healthy looking for a musician. He seemed exceptionally fit, and his cut off blue jeans and muscle shirt exposed shining planes of tanned skin. "We're part of a single carrot," he added, turning back to the machine. He wore a purple bandana on his head, pirate like. Russell looked for a gold hoop earring but couldn't see one.

  "Three quarters of a carrot," added one of the others.

  "The fourth quarter is here in spirit," said the third. The first musician spun around, eyes wide in mock alarm. Baring his teeth, he raised two fingers in the sign of a cross toward two or three spots on the ceiling.

  "And that would be Greg Williams," said Russell, producing his ID and holding it out to each of them in turn. "Is there somewhere I can talk to each of you about him, one at a time?"

  "Why?" said the first musician, dropping his exorcism and turning to Russell with a grin too much like the Joker's for Russell's comfort. Either the man had never grown out of the role of class clown, or he was half crazy. "We keep no secrets from each other! We're like the Three Musketeers, all for one and one for all. Right, guys?" His grin faded. "Ayeee! Agree with me, you slime dogs, or I'll make cat food out of you! En guard!" he growled, snatching up a drum stick and wielding it, with sound effects, as if it were a rapier.

  The second musician frowned, shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. "Get serious, Max."

  The other one shrugged and spoke to Russell. "I got no problem with it. Can't tell you much, but I got no problem." He turned to Max. "We could use the mad room, eh?"

  Max, who turned out to be the drummer and to all appearances the lead Carrot, led the way to a tiny back room, probably intended as a supply closet, but now furnished with a mattress on the floor and a child's bedside lamp, shaped like a clown. One of the clown's arms had broken off. A mountain bike leaned up against one wall. Max rolled back the mattress with his foot and rearranged two mismatched chairs, then ushered Russell and the second musician in with a sweeping bow. "Entrez," he said, rolling the r like a Frenchman.

  "Why is it the mad room?" asked Russell, after the door was closed.

  "Oh, it's just that Max kind of took it over, and we call him Mad Max because... well, you see how he is, never serious for a minute and kind of off the wall, you know?"

  Russell had a line of questioning that was meant to elicit information about Greg Williams, his final weeks, and the band itself. He was also fishing for information about the equipment in the studio. Who paid for it? How was it paid for? His thinking was that if there was dirty money involved in the purchase of the equipment, that same dirty money, or the means by which it was obtained, could have supplied the motive behind Greg's murder. The more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that smuggling was involved. Drugs across the border by truck. God knows there were enough truckers showing excessive interest in the case to make him wonder. The first Carrot, who was the bass guitarist, didn't have much new to say or was effectively playing dumb. He had long blond hair and a goatee, and wore a navy blue tee shirt and faded jeans. There was a silver ring in his left nostril.

  "The stuff belongs to Greg and Max. I don't ask questions, man. You know, don't look a gift horse in the mouth, that's what they say, right? I appreciate having the stuff, but I'm no techie. I'm just the bass player, man. Half the stuff was already set up here when I started last fall. Could be rented... hell, could be stolen for all I know." He shook his head and pressed his lips together. "I got nothin' I can tell you. Greg and Max made things work here. I'm just along for the ride. They write the songs. I just play my licks and go home, man."

  The keyboard player wasn't much better. The only thing he added to Russell's fund of knowledge about Williams was that Williams took his music a lot more seriously than he should have. "Like, not to speak ill of the dead and that, but he wasn't that good. Me? I know I'll never be more than a second rate musician, and that's okay by me. I got no pretensions. I love to play. I'm gonna play anyway, and if somebody wants to pay me a few bucks to do it, even better." He grinned, exposing a broken front tooth, then he shrugged his shoulders and tweaked the ends of his droopy mustache. "But Williams figured he could make big bucks if he sent a decent demo to L.A. or Nashville or something. Him and Max had ambitions. Shit. I liked the guy, but he was no Bryan Adams. He wrote a couple of songs that weren't too bad, but, shit. He was no Springsteen, that's for sure."

  When Max came in, he turned the chair around, straddled it and hunched himself around its back. His knee bobbed with some arcane rhythm, the heel of his black boot stopping just short of the floor with every beat. "So, who iced the poor bastard? You guys figure it out yet?" he asked, then grinned like the Joker.

  "You and him get along?" The guy just shrugged. The RCMP had told Russell that Max Curry and the other band members had solid alibis for the afternoon of Greg Williams' last trip to the border, but the drummer's extreme nonchalance about his friend's death raised Russell's suspicion. "How long did you and him play here together?"

  The drummer made a show of counting to thirty on his fingers, then said, "About four years. We've only had this space since last fall, though. Before that we practiced in my Dad's garage." He frowned then soberly said, "No, five. It was the same year I started working at Toilets R Us. "

  Russell consulted his notes. The RCMP had said Max Curry worked part-time at a wholesale plumbing supply warehouse. He was doing a shift there up until five o'clock of the day Greg disappeared. Stronger alibis than that had been broken. Russell clenched his jaw. He ached to tell this smart ass to can the humor, but knew that was exactly what he wanted and he'd be damned if he'd give the guy the satisfaction of reacting. "That your bike?" he said instead.

  Max nodded, surprised at the question. "My mean green wheelin' machine," he said.

  "Nice," said Russell. Then, "You got receipts for all that equipment out there?"

  "I don't see how that's any business of the L.A. Po-leece," Max replied with the Joker's grin. "Care to enlighten me?"

  "If you're referring to the possibility I might prosecute you for possession of stolen property, you're absolutely right. I won't, and I couldn't if I wanted to. I'm trying to find out more about your buddy Williams. If that's his equipment, I want to know. If it is, I want to know where he got his money from." He grinned back at the drummer. "If you're scared of being suspected of his murder, relax. Don't get your gaunchies in a knot. But if you want to confess to it and
take the fall, just for fun, be my guest." Russell pulled his dead cell phone out of his pocket. "Just say the word and I'll call in the Mounties."

  Max snorted. "Everybody's got to be a comedian. Why don't you leave it to the real funny guys, like me and Saddam Hussein, huh?" He stood up, sliding the chair out from between his legs, stretched his arms and back, then sat back down. "Yeah, Greg brought the stuff here. You never heard the expression, don't look a gift horse in the mouth? Why take the chance that his stinkin' breath'll make you puke."

  "Horses don't eat meat. It's carnivores whose breath stinks," said Russell. "So where'd Williams get the bucks?"

  Max held up his hands, pleading ignorance. "I asked him the same question. He answered me with a question of his own."

  "What's that?"

  "'What the hell difference does it make to you?'" He said it as if the question were addressed to Russell.

  Russell stiffened, waited in silence for him to continue.

  The drummer sniffed, kicked the chair leg lightly with the heel of his boot, then said, "That's what he said, and I said, 'I guess it doesn't, man' and we left it at that."

  "I hear you had a break-in here. Looks like they weren't after your equipment."

  "Yep, that's what it looks like," said Max. "Whoever it was, they dumped the contents of a couple of Greg's cardboard boxes all over the floor. Most of it was his sheet music and shit. I don't know if they found what they were looking for, because I don't know what all was in them in the first place."

  Max stood up, turned his chair around and sat down again, then tipped the back against the wall, balancing on the back legs. The right knee started to bob again, marking complicated time to some unheard tune. Russell tried not to watch it.

  "What kind of a relationship did you have with Greg Williams?"

  Max gestured with a limp wrist. "I swear, Officer, we were just good friends," he said in a falsetto. Then, "Only thing we really had in common was our music. Except for the women, of course. But that was before."

  "The women?"

  "Well, we did some stuff together as two couples. You know. We went out for pizza, had parties at home, that kind of shit. I was living with Double Hell..." He shuddered visibly. "And Greg was shacked up with her little friend, Jag. You must've seen Jag, right? Greg's old lady?'

  "Teresa Jagpal? Yeah."

  "Then you probably met Double Hell, the Wonder Bitch."

  Russell assumed he meant the woman with the spiky hair, and nodded.

  "Hell hath no fury, like the Wonder Bitch. You know what she did? We decided right up front when she moved in with me that we'd hang loose, you know? No strings. An open relationship. It was even her idea. Well, then she decided I wasn't staying home enough and she started getting on my case. Finally I told her I was fed up, she was hangin' all over me and bitchin' every time I stayed out all night. I was sorely tempted to beat the shit out of her, but I didn't. So I told her I was moving in with my sister and setting her free. That's how I put it, setting her free. I thought she'd like that. So I come back to pick up my drum kit, and she'd fuckin' cut the skins to ribbons with the biggest knife she could find. She's one scary chick, man. Don't think Fatal Attraction didn't flash through my mind. I've steered clear of her ever since."

  Russell looked at the drummer appraisingly. He had no reason not to believe him. "How did Hellen and Greg get along?"

  Max snorted. "Double Hell was nice as pie to Greggie after I split with her. She had him convinced that I had it coming - the knife bit - and me and Greg weren't exactly bosom buddies at the time so it didn't take much convincing on his part. He could be such a supercilious little prick sometimes..." He rolled his eyes, his lips twisted in a disgusted sneer. "I think he was poking her, after she moved back in to her aunt's place there. I know she was trying to get him more involved in her animal rights shit. I swear she'd shoot a man dead for kicking a dog. Like I said, she's a crazy bitch. Anyway, Greg didn't exactly confide in me, but I think they started fucking."

  "So you and Greg didn't get along?"

  Max scrunched up one side of his face, drew a sibilant breath through closed teeth. "Let's just say we didn't always agree on the direction to take the band or our music. Sometimes he behaved as if the music was just there to showcase his voice, and I wasn't all that crazy about his voice. Aspartame. No edge to it. The chicks seemed to like it, though. I gotta give him that. Let's just say that he liked to sip champagne and I like a good slug of Jack Daniels. Nothin' personal, but we had our disagreements from time to time."

  Russell steered the conversation back to money. Max remained adamant that he didn't know where Greg's money came from. He'd never seen Sharon or Ray Nillson, nor heard of Watson Transportation. Either he was involved and hid it very well, or the drummer from Carrot Rampant was telling the truth.

  Joker or not, as he headed back out to his car, Russell decided that Mad Max had been telling the truth.

  Sunday morning, Hunter and his landlord had made the trek up Highway 99 to Squamish, to the closest golf course where they were able to book an early tee off at short notice. Standing on the first tee, Hunter took a deep breath and swung his fat-headed driver once or twice, easy and relaxed. It felt good. He was suddenly thankful that he had kept his promise to Gord, and taken the time to golf. Sometimes he forgot how good it felt to let himself play - not golf specifically, just "play". To do something for the sheer joy of it.

  Gord was holding his five wood above his head, twisting his body left and right to loosen up his spine. In his seventies, it often took some time to get the stiffness out of his joints. They hardly said a word as they waited for the threesome ahead of them to hit to the green and move out of range. There was a light breeze to take the hot edge off the sun, and it carried the liquid melodies of a robin, as well as the chirps and warbles of a few birds Hunter didn't recognize. He inhaled deeply of the scent of fresh cut grass. Gord's drive went straight down the middle about a hundred and forty yards. He nodded with satisfaction. "I'll take that," he said.

  Hunter's first drive sliced wildly out of bounds, so he took a mulligan and used another ball. It still went right but stayed on the fairway, about twenty yards or so beyond Gord's. They grinned at each other and walked off the tee box. "I should do this more often," said Hunter.

  "You should," agreed the old doctor, grabbing the handle of his pull cart and walking on.

  When they finished the round, Hunter managing to break a hundred in spite of being out of practice, thanks to a couple of strategic mulligans, while Gord ended up with about a dozen strokes more, they headed back down the highway to Horseshoe Bay, looking for a quiet table in the Troller Pub to relax over pints of ale and a late lunch. "I met my ex-wife's new boyfriend last week," announced Hunter halfway into his first pint.

  The old man nodded. "And?"

  "Nothing," said Hunter with a shrug, playing with the corner of his napkin. "She likes him, and I guess that's all that counts."

  Gord raised his beer mug. "Good thing you don't have to like him," he said with a twinkle in his eye.

  Hunter smiled. "Okay," he said, leaning back. "You're right. I'm having a hard time liking him. He's a real jerk, and I think she deserves better. No, I think the girls deserve to see their mother with somebody better." He shook his head. "I never understood it, in all the years attending domestic disputes while I was a member. Why do so many women settle for abusive men?"

  "He's abusive?"

  "Maybe not physically. He's obnoxious. It's not that he's overtly mean to her, but he doesn't show her enough respect. Or am I being old fashioned again?"

  "You're allowed to hate him, if it makes you feel better."

  The waitress set down a basket of onion rings and they each took one, then another.

  "It's not that I'm harboring a secret desire to get back together with my ex-wife." Hunter picked up the thread of the conversation again, gesturing with an onion ring. "It's... well... ." Hunter sighed. "He did the barbecuing. He's now part of
what used to be my family, and I'm part of..." He shrugged. "... nothing."

  "You can't hold him responsible for your choices."

  "Hey! You're the one who said I could hate him."

  Gord shrugged apologetically. "Sure, go ahead. I just didn't want you to forget that being on your own is ultimately your choice. It's something you can change, if you really want."

  "I guess I haven't wanted then." Hunter smiled wistfully. He thought of Alora Magee in California, and he thought of Helen Marsh, widow of his friend Ken. He hadn't spoken to her more than a couple of times since Ken’s death. "Or wanted enough."

  They were halfway back to the house, Hunter driving his landlord's Mazda through a surge of ferry traffic along the Upper Levels Highway, when Hunter said, "I wish at least that he'd burned the chicken."

  Gord grunted in agreement, and Hunter was glad he'd been able to talk to somebody who understood.

  CHAPTER

  NINETEEN

  After leaving the Carrots' studio, Russell pointed the nose of his rental car north and then west, which, according to the map, was downtown. Jennifer was staying at the Holiday Inn Harborside, which he understood was right in the heart of Vancouver. He didn't expect to find her there, but he wanted to get familiar with this place she didn't share with him, he wanted it to lose its mystery and mystique. He wanted to uncover its warts.

  The highway turned into a street named Broadway, which gradually became more and more commercial until block after block was an endless line of retail stores and restaurants, with an occasional office tower or hotel. Here and there, through a gap between buildings, he could see mountains rising up north of the city, higher and greener than the hills around L.A. The signs told him to turn, and he did, heading across a six lane bridge toward the mountains. Water, a deep blue and littered with small boats, stretched in both directions beneath the bridge. Soon he was in downtown canyons, surrounded by concrete and glass. The usual big city mixture of tourists with cameras and derelicts with green garbage bags, students with backpacks and tailored men and women in expensive suits. He turned again, heading west, and soon found the hotel: a deep brown building on a street near the waterfront, quiet because it was Sunday. He watched a group of elderly Asians clamber into a mini-van, and took the parking place when it pulled away.