Her father laughed. “She’s at the stable so much, we could have rented out her room for the summer. But I suppose she wants to make the most of her time off from school.”
He tried to put a positive spin on the fact that Whitney took every opportunity to escape from her mother’s orbit. He probably knew, though, that I wasn’t fooled.
On his way out, Donald thanked me again for accommodating Leya. “If you see Nick, tell him I’m going to miss working with him. He was a big help!”
“I will,” I promised.
* * *
“Sounds like things are kind of spinning out of control with the Fosters,” said Mark when I gave him this update Wednesday evening. We had grabbed a quick dinner at his condo, and now were in his cobalt-blue RAV4, headed across town to Quintessence’s rehearsal. His college guitar, in its case, rested on the back seat.
“That’s the impression I got, too,” I said. “Donald seems like a pretty low-key guy, so I felt that, if anything, he was soft-pedaling the situation. But, of course, I’d already heard from both Nick and Bonelli that all three members of the family got into a screaming match on Tuesday.”
Mark kept his eyes on the road. “Well, at least their cat’s out of the house, and you’re being well paid to take care of her.”
“That’s Sarah’s attitude, too,” I told him. “But something about Donald’s explanation bothers me. He said Leya was upset by the renovations going on in the cellar. Really? More than when the main level was being worked on, over the past year or so?” I shook my head. “If you ask me, the cat’s freaking out because the humans are fighting all the time. And if Whitney’s hardly ever home . . . I got the feeling she’s the one who’s really bonded with Leya.”
In the sunset glow that suffused the car, Mark shot a sideways glance at me. “Cassie, you’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Getting involved in your client’s personal problems. Your job is to board the Fosters’ cat, not to fix their marriage.”
“But you suggested, yourself, that sometimes issues with the animals are tied into issues with their owners.”
“I also told you that unless it’s very serious—like, criminal—I try not to interfere. If I got a reputation for poking my nose into my customers’ business, or telling them how to live their lives, pretty soon I wouldn’t have any clinic.”
He was right about that, of course. Still, I wondered if there had been something more behind Donald Foster’s visit to my shop the previous day.
Mark went on, “Y’know, sometimes at the clinic we have animals dumped on us! The owners bring in a pet that’s hurt or sick, we tell them the cost, they agree to it and leave the animal . . . but they never come back. We’ve even had people give us fake addresses and phone numbers, as if they planned to skip out all along.”
I frowned in sympathy. I knew in a case like that, the vet could only try to place the animal with a no-kill shelter; send it to the town shelter, where it would promptly be gassed; or, if it were old or sick, they could humanely euthanize it at their own expense.
Still, sad as it was, I couldn’t see how Mark’s example related to my problem. “I highly doubt the Fosters intend to do that. For one thing, Donald prepaid me for a month’s board. I know they can afford the bills, and I sure know where to find them if I need to collect more.”
He fell quiet for a moment. “I don’t mean to give you a hard time, Cassie. I just don’t want people to take advantage of you, because you care so much.”
“I don’t think Donald was trying to do that, exactly. But I did sense maybe he was trying to reach out to me, through Leya,” I admitted. “So someone else, outside the family, would know what was going on.”
“Apparently, the Chadwick cops already know what’s been going on. At this point, he should be reaching out to a marriage counselor. Or maybe a lawyer.”
Again, Mark was right. Maybe Gillian refused to see a counselor, though. And to consult with a lawyer might look like first step toward divorce. Awful as life with Gillian sounded, Donald didn’t seem to want that.
Who’s got the money in their marriage? I wondered. Maybe it’s mostly hers. Maybe that’s why she’s gone on the offensive, accusing him of adultery . . .
There could be more behind their clashes than meets the eye.
A few minutes later, we arrived at our destination—Stan Burrell’s guitar shop in a neighboring town. It stood at the center of a whole block of turn-of-the-century brick storefronts. Gleaming guitars of various designs and colors filled the front display windows, which were guarded at this hour by pull-down metal gates. Mark drove around back, where several vehicles already occupied the lot. I accompanied him to the building’s rear door. He pressed an intercom button, announced himself, and got buzzed in.
“Convenient that Stan has a rehearsal space over his own store,” I commented.
“Pretty cool, huh? And as you can see, after dark this block is dead, so even if he had the world’s loudest rock band, they wouldn’t bother anybody.”
We climbed one flight of stairs, covered by tweed industrial carpet that was worn down the center, and reached a corridor lined with fake-wood paneling. Mark, accustomed to the layout from his weekly lessons, automatically headed for the one door that stood open.
About a dozen people already occupied the room. A platform against one wall held the band’s drum kit, electronic keyboard, big double bass, and Stan’s electric guitar, which rested on a sky-blue chair. More of the metal folding chairs, in assorted bright shades, had been set up in two rows to accommodate the small audience.
I asked Mark about the multihued but adult-size seating.
“During the day and some evenings, Stan rents this space out for other uses,” he said. “Support groups of different kinds, I think.”
“That’s interesting. Maybe the colors are supposed to help cheer them up?”
On the platform stage, Stan and a teenaged boy fiddled with an amplifier. Herb, the bland, balding keyboard player, and Nash, the pumped-looking black drummer, stood talking and joking with people in the front row. As Mark had suggested, they seemed to know the audience members well.
He and I took seats in the second row and he set his guitar case on the floor, which was covered in the same commercial carpet as the stairs. I guessed that, combined with the paneled walls and acoustic ceiling tiles, it helped mute the volume during the band’s practice sessions . . . and maybe any outbursts during the support groups?
Mark leaned forward in his seat, forearms resting on his lean, denim-covered thighs, and hands tightly clasped. Picking up on his tension, I asked, “What exactly are you supposed to do tonight?”
“I’m not too sure, myself. Stan’s had me working on two numbers in particular, though. I guess the group will go through their normal rehearsal, and then he’ll have me join in toward the end.”
“Ever played in front of an audience before?”
He chuckled grimly. “Not since college, and then it was just a group of friends, not strangers. Damn, I didn’t expect to be this nervous.”
I covered his clasped hands with one of mine in support. I would have suggested that he picture the audience naked, but since it included a few women who might be wives and girlfriends of the band members, that seemed unwise.
Even more unwise when I noticed that Tracy, the sizzling singer, occupied a front-row seat.
I recognized her first by her shoulder-length blond locks, although tonight she had skipped the crimped, 1940s waves. She was chatting vivaciously with a more sedate-looking woman who had a roundish face, short auburn hair and glasses. At one point I overheard Tracy ask her, “So when do we meet this mysterious new student of Stan’s? He’s told us just enough to make me really curious.”
The older woman smiled and shrugged. “You probably know as much as I do. He talks sometimes about how well a student is doing, or isn’t, but he usually doesn’t bring them to the house.”
Kenny, the bass p
layer whose moussed-up hair made him look even taller, entered from a hallway with a Coke can in his hand. He spotted Mark, waved and ambled on over. The two of them shot the breeze for a few minutes about Mark performing for the first time in front of a real audience. Kenny tried to put his fears to rest.
“Everybody here’s like family,” he said. “Nobody’s looking to judge you. From what Stan’s told us, you’re already pretty good. This is just to give you a feel for working with an ensemble.” He confirmed that Mark would just be sitting in on a couple of numbers at the end of their set. “Otherwise, you guys will be part of our audience. You’ll be here awhile, so if you need a break, there are vending machines out there.” He gestured with his soda can toward the hallway.
“Thanks, man.” Mark shook Kenny’s hand.
When the bass player stepped away, I noticed that Tracy had twisted around in her seat in front of us. Clearly she’d been eavesdropping on the conversation and now she fixed a wide-eyed stare upon Mark. When he faced forward again, happening to catch her gaze, she smiled and winked.
I felt myself flush. Who did she think she was? With me sitting right beside him? This girl has a real problem!
Mark must have felt me freeze up, because he subtly took my hand. “Now, don’t go all crazy. She’s probably one of those ladies who just likes to flirt. You remember how, when we saw them at the Firehouse, she kidded around with the guys in the audience.”
That reminder helped to ease my worries, as did the fact that a minute later Quintessence took the stage for their rehearsal. At the mic, Stan explained that they were trying out some new material, and later on would be bringing in one of his students, Mark Coccia. Mark nodded modestly while I and the rest of the small audience applauded. Even though the male band members were too cool to join in, Tracy made a show of clapping for him, too.
Just watch your step, honey, I warned her silently.
Stan then announced the group was going to do “Exactly Like You,” written by Jimmy McHugh and Dorothy Fields in 1930, and “One-Note Samba,” written by Antônio Carlos Jobim around 1960. “This will be our first venture into bossa nova,” he said of the second song, “and since Tracy doesn’t speak Portuguese, she’ll be singing the English lyrics by Jon Hendricks.”
While the members of Quintessence prepared to start, I whispered to Mark, “Stan really knows his musical history, doesn’t he?”
Mark nodded. “You know, you might want to ask him about the value of Chester’s jazz albums.”
“Just what I was thinking.” It surprised me that Mark would encourage my sleuthing.
Quintessence didn’t sound as if they needed much rehearsal, interpreting both numbers with style. But both were love songs, and though I might have been getting paranoid, I felt Tracy kept focusing in our direction—Mark’s—while she breathed that she prayed each night for someone “exactly like you.” At least the second number was more of a novelty song, fast-paced and quirky, but she still seemed to aim lyrics such as “all the love I feel for you” in the direction of Mark. My Mark.
Stan announced that after a short break Mark would be joining the group onstage. “He’s a hard-working veterinarian with a busy clinic in Chadwick, so I’m glad no rottweiler-related emergencies interfered with his coming here tonight.”
A few audience members chuckled and Mark managed a weak smile, but he still looked tense to me.
“Can I get you anything from the vending machines?” I asked. “A soda?”
“Maybe just a bottle of water, if they have it. Thanks.”
I found the hallway alcove well equipped with both drinks and snacks. Had Stan installed the machines just for his rehearsals, or did the support groups who met in the space make use of them, too? Could be a problem for Overeaters Anonymous!
It took me only a minute to purchase water for Mark and a Diet Coke for myself, but even that might have been too long to leave him alone. By the time I returned, he’d taken his guitar out of its case and Tracy had stopped by to admire it.
“It’s an older model,” Mark was telling her. “I’m sure they make fancier ones now. But hey, it gets the job done.”
“I’m sure it does,” Tracy purred.
At that point he spotted me approaching, and dodged awkwardly around her. “Anyway, I’d better grab my water and get on up to the stage.”
Her eyes followed him as he took the chilled bottle from me, with a sheepish shake of his head.
“Don’t let her rattle you,” I whispered, and kissed him on the cheek. “Good luck!”
At least with Mark on a chair toward the rear left of the stage, Tracy couldn’t focus on him anymore. When Quintessence launched into “Summertime,” guitarist Stan took the lead at first, then Mark picked up the tune for a bit. He’d definitely made progress since the evening he’d played for me at his condo. He still emphasized the core melody over any wild improvisation, but when he did get creative he showed a style of his own, clearly distinct from his mentor’s.
The small audience applauded, and the group ended with “Sunny,” one of the numbers Mark had played for me before. Again, he built on that foundation while adding more of his personal touches. He might never be as brilliant a jazz guitarist as he was a veterinarian, but for a hobbyist he sounded pretty darn good.
When the band finished, Stan invited the audience to give Mark a special hand. They did, and I saw a blush creep up his cheeks. I knew he must have felt great to have conquered his fears and acquitted himself so well. Almost predictably, Tracy went to congratulate him, too, and her touch on his arm lingered longer than was necessary. He laughed it off and tried politely to extricate himself and leave the stage. Meanwhile, he even seemed to be easing the guitar in between the two of them!
A strange, visceral sensation shot through my nerve endings. I needed to put a stop to this, but how? In the past I’d been mildly jealous of some other women who’d chased after Mark, but when he’d said he had no interest, I’d believed him. He’d always followed through by ignoring them, which ended the problem. I had a sense, though, that Tracy was not used to taking no for an answer. Mark still might never give in to her, but in the meantime she could make him very uncomfortable. And she had no right to do that!
He left his guitar near the stage and disappeared in the direction of the men’s room, which gave me an opening. Did I dare to take it? As Tracy stepped down from the platform, our gazes locked and I rose to the challenge.
I walked straight up to her and put out my hand. “Hi, we haven’t met. I’m Cassie McGlone. Mark and I saw you once before, at the Firehouse in Chadwick.”
She accepted the handshake. “Oh, were you there, too?”
I’d been prepared to play nice and compliment her on her singing, but this slightly snarky comment made me drop all pretense. “Yes, he and I were there together. We are together.”
“You’re lucky,” she simpered. “He seems like a very nice guy. Not many of those around these days.”
And even if there are, you don’t attract them, do you? I thought.
Tonight she’d dressed more casually and discreetly than at the Firehouse, but still wore tight jeans and a snug red T-shirt with a suggestive zipper running down from the neckline. My choice of a floral peasant top, to dress up my own jeans for the evening, felt almost puritanical by comparison.
“So, you’re married?” she asked. “Or living together?”
“I’m his girlfriend.”
“Oh. Well.” Her tone implied that could change.
My heart hammered in my chest at this challenge, but I held my smile. “Listen, honey, almost every day at work I get hissed at, spat at, scratched and bitten, so don’t get into a catfight with me. You think you’re tough? How many times have you been held at gunpoint?” That startled the smirk from her face. “I’m up to three so far, and all of those jerks are behind bars now. If you think I’m lying, ask Detective Angela Bonelli of the Chadwick PD.”
The pink of Tracy’s cheeks faded. Whether she
was guilty of some secret felony or whether she just thought I was insane, she backed away and raised her hands in self-defense. “Hey, whatever you say, sister! The nice-guy vet is all yours.”
Mark had returned to the rehearsal room by then. With no idea of what had taken place between me and Tracy, he advised me to talk to Stan before the guitarist headed home.
I decided not to mention to Stan that Chester’s albums had mysteriously vanished, and said only that he’d been wondering about their value.
“Depends on different things,” Stan told me. “The old ones by top artists, in good condition, usually go for five to seven hundred. But even a little scratched up, I’ve heard of a rare one going for three or four thousand.”
“He mentioned Art Blakey, John Coltrane and Wayne Shorter,” I said.
The guitarist nodded. “All top names. Again, some of their records are more in demand than others, but the prices still should be up there. Sounds like your friend’s got a good collection. If he’s interested in selling any, he should go through one of those sites online. They’re easy to use, and he could do well.”
I thanked Stan, though this was not such great news for Chester.
“That’s too bad,” Mark commented, as we walked out to his car. “Sounds more like Chester has lost part of a very good collection.”
“If somebody’s been ripping him off for thousands of dollars, I’m going to get to the bottom of it. I swear I will!”
As we took our seats in the RAV4, he sent me a startled look. “You’re in a feisty mood tonight, aren’t you? Did you also have some kind of go-round with Tracy, earlier? When I came back in the room she was, like, slinking away from you.”
I smiled sweetly. “I told her you were my man, and not to mess with me because I’d already put a few perps behind bars.”
After a second of disbelief, Mark laughed out loud. “No kidding? Wow, I’m just glad it didn’t come to blows!”
“Did I go too far? I don’t want to get you in trouble with Stan, or embarrass you with the other guys.”
Claw & Disorder Page 14