Old Scores

by Scott Mackay

“Any idea why?”

  “She comes up every so often,” said Stacy. “Looking for bookings. And also to see Glen. I wish there was something GBIA could do for her, but there’s not. No one wants to book her anymore. She came out with that new album a few years back but it bombed. She’s lost her voice. Only die-hard Judy Pelaez fans bought it.”

  “And were they cordial with each other? Glen and Judy?”

  Stacy looked away, picked a burnt sesame seed from her seed cake, and put it on her napkin.

  “On their good days, yes,” she said. “But I don’t know why she bothers.” Stacy glanced at the kitchen windowsill where some chives grew in a terra-cotta pot. “Before yesterday, Judy still insisted on thinking they had a future together. It’s sad. I guess when you have kids together…you know…she thought he would finally come back to her. So she comes up every year. To plead with him. It can’t be good for her. Or for her kids.”

  “Did Boyd help her out at all? Like child support, or whatever, for the kids?”

  “Sometimes,” said Stacy. “But he’s made a few bad business decisions over the last few years, and it’s hit him hard. He hasn’t contributed significant amounts recently. Judy asks him for money whenever she comes up. I think last week she asked for more than usual. They had a big row about it. I heard them fighting. On their bad days they fight. Boy, do they fight. And then I guess he told her he was seeing someone new. He shouldn’t have done that. She came raging into my office and asked me who it was. I didn’t know. I try to stay out of Glen’s personal life as much as I can. Judy was livid. I haven’t seen her that angry in a long time.”

  “So Judy’s never gotten over Boyd?” he said.

  “That would be putting it mildly,” replied Stacy.

  “And is Judy still in town?”

  Because if Judy were still in town, he would definitely have to talk to her.

  “Yes. I spoke to her this morning.”

  “And do you know where she’s staying?” asked Gilbert.

  “At the Best Western Primrose, on Carleton and Jarvis.”

  Gilbert took a sip of his tea. Minty. Not bad. Then he glanced at his seed cake. He thought he’d leave the seed cake alone.

  “Tell me,” he said, “do you know if she’s a natural blond?”

  He sure would like to put his mind at ease about the blond hair, get a blond suspect, not Regina, so he could consider the possibility of a DNA comparison test.

  “She’s gone gray,” said Stacy. “But she dyes it back to her original blond.”

  This was good.

  For now, he left it. For now, he moved on.

  “Do you know anything about the restraining order Glen Boyd filed against Phil Thompson?” he asked.

  Her cup stopped halfway to her lips—he couldn’t help noticing the design on the cup, a series of interlocking electric guitars, and in black lettering along the bottom, GUITAR SUMMIT ’99.

  “You’d have to talk to the company lawyer, Daniel Lynn, about that,” she said. “He’s advised me not to talk about it.”

  He grew suddenly curious about the other band members of Mother Courage.

  “Tell me, is Michelle Morrison still around?” he asked. “She and my wife were high school friends. They went to North Toronto together in the sixties.”

  A pigeon landed on the kitchen windowsill and looked in on them, then flew off.

  “Michelle opened a flower shop in ’eighty-nine and now has five locations citywide.”

  “I understand Glen Boyd managed Mother Courage for a while.”

  “I wouldn’t say it was an amicable partnership, but yes, he did.”

  “I was a big fan,” said Gilbert. “I have some of their albums. What happened to Carol White?”

  “Oh…Carol. I’m afraid Carol died a few years back.”

  “Really?”

  “She died of cancer. I’m not sure what kind. She was a sweet, sweet lady.”

  “What about Paul?” asked Gilbert.

  “Paul moved to London, England. He produces New Age music there.”

  “And what about Ted Aver?” asked Gilbert, picturing the famous drummer. “He was always my favorite.”

  Stacy stroked the edge of her mug. “You knew about his motorcycle accident, didn’t you?” she asked.

  His eyes widened. “No,” he said. “What happened?”

  “He was sideswiped by a truck while riding his Harley up to Stouffville a few years back,” said Stacy. “He’s been in a wheelchair ever since. He’s a paraplegic.”

  “Really?”

  “He loved his Harley.”

  “He can’t even play drums anymore?” asked Gilbert. “The foot pedals and so forth?”

  “Oh, no, he still plays,” said Stacy, then glanced at her watch. “I should go to the office soon. The voice mail will be backed up completely.”

  “But how can he manage the bass drum and the hi-hat?” asked Gilbert, trying to picture it.

  “He’s got this chin brace that works the bass drum, and an elbow brace that works the hi-hat,” she said. “You should see him play. He’s amazing to watch.”

  “But he doesn’t play professionally anymore, does he?”

  “No. He doesn’t have to. He’s done extremely well in business investments.”

  Gilbert nodded, relieved to hear that his favorite Mother Courage band member had made a decent and successful life for himself, post rock-stardom.

  “What about Phil?” he asked, because he thought he might as well take one more stab at Phil. “What’s he doing these days?”

  She sighed, looked away.

  “Phil’s been trying to resurrect his pop-star status ever since Mother Courage went belly-up in ’eighty-three,” she said. “He gigs around in bar bands to keep himself going, and as far as I know, he’s trying to get a solo album off the ground, and of course he makes a bit of money from his yearly guitar retreat in Bobcaygean. But I think he never got over the breakup of the band. He’s never moved past the band, into new things, the way the others have. He was a big star. A really big star. And when you’re that big, it’s hard to be small again.”

  Gilbert drove Stacy Todd to Glen Boyd International Artists. He asked her for Phil Thompson’s telephone number. She went to her Rolodex, jotted Phil Thompson’s number down, and gave it to him.

  “I’ll give you Ted’s as well,” she said. “Ted was Glen’s voice of reason. And here’s the company lawyer’s number, too, Daniel Lynn, in case you want to talk to him about that restraining order. He’s up on Bay. In the Polo Center.”

  “Thanks,” said Gilbert.

  She looked around the office.

  “You took Glen’s computer,” she said.

  “We had to. I hope you have all the necessary files and applications you need on your own PC.”

  “My own computer is the office workhorse,” she said. “Glen’s was just his personal toy. I doubt you’ll find anything useful on it.”

  He gazed at her. She looked positively pale, and her forehead was clammy. But she looked as if she were going to soldier on anyway.

  “I’m going to take a look in the other room again,” he said. “Call me when you’re done. We’re going to have to leave together. I can’t leave you here alone. Sony.”

  While Stacy went about her business, Gilbert went into the apartment.

  He walked over to the piano, an instrument he had once played badly in high school. The broken plate and jar of coins still lay on the floor. He could see that Nigel Gower from Auxiliary Services had dusted them for prints. He tried a few bars of “The Bluest Bird in the World.” He managed to tinkle his way through most of the chorus, singing in a tuneless voice as he went: “I don’t want to hear your endless lies, or your sad good-byes, I just want to fly away, like the bluest bird in the world…spread my wings and fly away…fly away…”

  How could anybody write anything so melancholy? He thought of the things Stacy had said about Judy Pelaez, how the folksinger pleaded every year for Boyd to
come back to her, remembered how Lombardo said the murderer might have been a woman. He glanced down at the piano bench and saw some papers and music sticking out from underneath the lid. He would speak to Judy Pelaez, and it would be odd because she had a famous face, a face he’d seen in pictures, television, and on the Internet, one that adorned three of his own records at home. He would find out why she was so sad, why she never got over Boyd, and why she had tortured herself by believing Boyd would someday come back to her.

  He opened the piano bench and found a photograph of Regina and Glen resting on top of all the music.

  He froze.

  His arm went limp and his finger accidentally stroked high C. The damper was broken on that particular key and the note resonated, sterile and lonely, on and on, until it faded like an aging rock star, finally disappearing into the noise of the Queen Street traffic.

  He lifted the photograph. His emotional gyroscope went a-kilter, and he had to fight to get himself under control.

  The photograph showed a twenty-eight-year-old Regina and a thirty-four-year-old Glen Boyd sitting on a stone balustrade overlooking the French Riviera. Boyd had his arm around Regina. Regina wore a peculiar grin. She looked like she was suppressing a laugh—as if Boyd had just told her a joke. Some bougainvillea cascaded from a garden trellis. Boyd smiled that devil-may-care smile he had. They were happy. Regina was happy.

  That didn’t bother him so much.

  What bothered him was that the photograph should be here in the first place.

  Right on top of all the music.

  Within easy reach.

  As if in fact Regina still had a cherished place in Boyd’s life.

  Four

  As Gilbert reached Bay Street, he gazed up at the Polo Center. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand—it was hot, and the weatherman was calling for a heat wave. Except for a few interesting curves and a semicircular courtyard, the Polo Center was a generic skyscraper of glass and steel—bright, reflective, and futuristic. He pushed his way through the revolving doors into the marble lobby, grateful for the air-conditioning. He took the elevator to the third floor.

  On the third floor he found his way to suite 308, the offices of Clifton, Simhi, and Lynn, Barristers and Solicitors. He went inside and presented himself to the receptionist, a young man in a white shirt and red tie.

  “Can I help you?” asked the man.

  “I have a three o’clock appointment with Daniel Lynn.” He showed his badge and ID. “I’m Detective-Sergeant Barry Gilbert of Metro Homicide. He’s squeezing me in.”

  The receptionist glanced at Gilbert’s ID, then gestured at the chairs in the waiting area.

  “Have a seat,” he said. “He’ll be with you shortly.”

  Gilbert sat down in the waiting area.

  Daniel Lynn emerged with a client ten minutes later. The client, a middle-aged man with curly dark hair and a mustache, looked grim, as if his meeting with Lynn had gone badly. He didn’t shake Daniel Lynn’s hand—didn’t even say good-bye—just walked right out and disappeared into the corridor.

  “I don’t think we’ll be seeing him again,” said Lynn to the receptionist.

  The receptionist smiled sweetly at Lynn. It occurred to Gilbert that the young man might be gay.

  “This is Detective-Sergeant Barry Gilbert of Metro Homicide,” said the receptionist.

  Gilbert rose. He didn’t particularly like lawyers, but Lynn looked decent enough, a tall man close to sixty, fit-looking, impeccably groomed, conservatively dressed, slim, handsome, with a swimmer’s build.

  “Detective Gilbert,” said Lynn, extending his hand. “A pleasure.”

  The two men shook hands.

  “Thanks for taking the time to see me on such short notice,” said Gilbert.

  A look of dismay came to Lynn’s blue eyes. “Poor old Glen,” he said. “Let’s go into my office, shall we, and see if we can sort him out?”

  Gilbert followed Lynn into his office. Lynn had a puzzling accent. Gilbert couldn’t place it. It sounded Glaswegian, or Dutch South African.

  “Have a seat,” said Lynn.

  Gilbert sat down. “I can’t place your accent,” he said. “Are you South African?”

  Lynn grinned like Prince Philip on the Queen’s birthday. “I’m Jamaican,” he said.

  “Jamaican?” said Gilbert.

  “Yes,” said Lynn. “A white Jamaican. There aren’t many of us, but we do exist. She was a British colony, after all, for the longest time.”

  “So you’re originally British.”

  “Actually, my grandfather emigrated from Wales. He came from Cardiff and started a coffee plantation in the Blue Mountains near Mavis Bank. That’s just north of Kingston. A lovely spot, really. The high altitude moderates the heat comfortably. I grew up there. So I don’t consider myself British. Or Welsh for that matter. I’m second-generation Jamaican. Have you ever tasted Blue Mountain coffee, Detective Gilbert?”

  “No,” said Gilbert.

  Lynn lifted the phone and dialed the outer office. “How do you take it?” he asked.

  “With cream and sugar.”

  “Donald, could you bring in two of the Blue Mountain, both with cream and sugar.” He hung up. “My uncle has the place now. Most of his market is in Japan. I don’t know why the Japanese love Blue Mountain coffee the way they do, but they’re willing to pay outrageous prices for it.”

  While they waited for Donald to bring in their coffee, Gilbert and Lynn got down to business.

  “I understand you have to honor counsel-client confidentiality,” said Gilbert, “even when the client has become deceased—”

  Lynn quieted him with a wave of his hand.

  “Detective Gilbert, you have my full cooperation. This is a murder. I’m not going to confound you with the need for court orders. Glen was not only a client, he was my good friend. I want to catch his murderer as much as you do.”

  Gilbert warmed to the man. His fervency seemed genuine.

  “Then maybe we can start with this restraining order Glen Boyd filed against Phil Thompson,” he said. Gilbert took out his notebook. “Do you know anything about it?”

  A grin came to Lynn’s face. “I knew you were going to ask me about that.”

  Gilbert shrugged. “Can you blame me?”

  Lynn leaned back in his chair, rolling it a few inches from his desk, crossed his legs, and clasped his hands over his knee.

  “Let’s see,” he said. “Where to begin.” He leveled his friendly blue eyes at Gilbert. “Phil Thompson has a lot of outstanding concerns with Glen Boyd. And unfortunately most of them have never been resolved. I believe at last count we were defending Glen against seven Thompson-filed lawsuits. Mr. Thompson believes Glen owes him a great deal of money. But legally, Glen’s company, GBIA, owes Phil Thompson nothing. In the framework of the restraining order, you can see where this might fit.”

  On Bay Street, a bus rumbled by.

  “Go on,” said Gilbert.

  Lynn’s jacket slid back, revealing a gold pen in his shirt pocket. “Are you familiar with Mother Courage at all?” he asked.

  “Who isn’t?”

  “Right, then,” said Lynn. His brow settled, and he sat forward. “Popularity is a fickle bird, Detective Gilbert. That’s something Phil Thompson has never understood. Mother Courage was hugely successful in the mid-seventies. But by the end of the decade, Phil, who was the de facto head of the group, should have had the good sense to call it quits. Punk rock and New Wave were all the rage by then, and power bands who played stadium rock were dinosaurs. I think everybody else in the group sensed this. But Phil…Phil believed Mother Courage could go on forever.”

  Lynn shook his head as if at the folly of mankind.

  “Phil liked fame,” he continued. “They all did. But Phil was addicted to it. Fame was like a drug to him. He liked to go into any restaurant anywhere in the Western world and have people ask him for his autograph. He liked to see album sales soar. He liked to do in
terviews. And I suppose it shocked him when the interviews tapered off and his record sales dipped, and no one recognized him anymore.”

  A knock came at the door and Donald entered with two cups of Blue Mountain coffee.

  “Here we go,” said Lynn. “Jamaica’s finest. Thank you, Donald.”

  Donald placed the coffee on the desk and quietly left the room.

  “You’re in for a treat,” Lynn said. “Try it.”

  Gilbert lifted his cup and sipped. His eyebrows rose. “That is good,” he said.

  Lynn grinned. “I’ll have my uncle send you a pound,” he said. “I’ll have him mark it: homicide. He should get a kick out of that.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” said Gilbert. “Don’t put your uncle to all that trouble.”

  “He’s always looking for Blue Mountain converts,” said Lynn. “It will be no trouble at all.” He lifted his own cup and took a sip. “Now…where were we?” Lynn’s eyes narrowed as he looked out the window. “Oh, yes. Phil was always…how shall I put this…always trying to convince the world that Mother Courage could go the distance, that they were in it for the long haul, like the Rolling Stones or…or Aerosmith, for instance. But Mother Courage simply didn’t have the staying power of those other bands. The record companies lost interest. The other band members thought it was time to…” Lynn smiled a kind smile. “To put the instruments away.” Lynn shook his head. “But Phil wouldn’t have it. He coerced the other band members into rehearsing for another tour. Even when Decca cancelled their contract, Phil didn’t give up. They rehearsed and rehearsed.”

  “And what did the other band members say to that?” asked Gilbert.

  “Michelle finally got fed up,” said Lynn. “She wanted a break. A good long break. To underline the point, she got pregnant. I believe they remained inactive for two years after that. Meanwhile, Phil took their rehearsal tapes to record companies and flogged them relentlessly. He got Glen to help him. Glen knew many higher-ups in the record industry. GBIA managed to get David Geffen of Geffen Records interested in the band. But before Geffen would offer them a record contract, he wanted them to go on tour to see how firm their ticket sales would be.”