by Claire Booth
‘I was lonely. And he looked so much like Andy, with that little light in his eyes. All excited about life. He was the best company I could ever ask for.’
Hank and Raker looked at each other, puzzled. Sam straightened and hid his phone behind him. Hank hadn’t even noticed he’d been on it.
‘Son,’ Sam mouthed. ‘Overdose.’
Oh.
Hank asked. Andy had died ten years ago. Heroin. And Euford had gotten older and older and lonelier and lonelier. But after he met Patrick, things started to get fun again. They’d go sightseeing in cities where Euford had shows, pick up the mother–daughter pairs every once in a while. The road started to be fun again.
‘Then I broke my damn ankle. Didn’t see a curb outside a honky-tonk bar in Fort Worth and ended up flat on my ass in front of a whole line a young folks waiting to get in. People posted up videos of it – can you believe that? Well, that just shot it to hell in that city. And anyplace else somebody cares to type “old cowboy falls on ass” into Google.’ He sighed and studied his hands again. ‘The only place it doesn’t seem to matter that you’re old is Branson. That you don’t draw the size crowds that you used to. That you don’t sell records to that young demographic all the music labels love. People’ll still come to see you here. So we decided to come.’
They’d done a one-off show here about a year ago, and they both liked the area. Patrick had been enthusiastic about staying in one place for a while. He guessed the younger man had made a few friends. He’d say he was going out to the movies or such things every once in a while. Euford assumed it was with people, but he didn’t ask. He weren’t no parent, he said.
After a few more questions, Raker asked if they could see Patrick’s room. Euford nodded and lifted himself to his feet with his arms. Hank handed him the cane that was sitting by his chair and Euford grabbed his Gibson with his other hand. He slung it across his body with an ease that made it seem like just another of his limbs. And they all slowly made their way across the flagstone patio to the mansion’s back door.
TWENTY-FOUR
Patrick O’Connell’s room was upstairs. Second on the left, Euford’d said, because he couldn’t do the stairs. So Hank and the Pup went on up while Raker stayed below with the musician. The two of them tore the room apart. There was a nice Fender Stratocaster that Hank doubted ol’ Patrick had paid for himself. There was a variety of clothing, some name brand and some Walmart, most of it in the dirty laundry hamper. A few battered CDs. A small-ish flat screen TV on the wall opposite the bed. Posters from places that Euford must have played shows.
But then there was what wasn’t. There wasn’t a phone. Or a laptop. Or a stack of crap paperwork, like every other person on earth had somewhere that they hadn’t gotten around to dealing with. Hank stood in the middle of the room and scratched his chin. Then he eyed the heavy wood nightstand next to the bed. That’s where he’d put it.
He wiggled the nightstand away from the wall. And there, wedged behind it and half under the bed, were chargers for an iPhone and a Dell laptop. He knew neither of those had been found with the body. He turned to put them on top of the dorm-room-quality comforter and stepped on a CD case. It cracked under his weight and Hank swore. He tossed it on the bed with the cords and started in on the closet, which was apparently where Patrick kept clothes that weren’t quite yet dirty enough for the hamper.
He finished in there and backed out to find Sam staring at the bed and scratching his ear. Hank stood quietly – thoughts were happening. Sam picked up the smashed case and pried it open. He slipped out the liner notes and a folded paper dropped to the floor.
‘It’s a birth certificate.’ Sam held it out.
A seven-pound, six-ounce boy born in Tennessee just shy of twenty years ago. Named Evelyn Garo Cluth, Junior.
‘That’s one horrible name,’ Sam said with a whistle. ‘You think this is Patrick?’
‘It could be, even though the age is different from what he told Gunner,’ Hank said. ‘We haven’t gotten a confirmed ID on any Gavin Patrick O’Connell yet.’
‘Well, he had it hidden for some kind of reason,’ Sam said. ‘Good place, too. Mr Gunner never would’ve thought twice about it. A dude that old, probably still amazed they could fit all that music on a little ol’ CD. He wouldn’t think of it as obsolete. I’m sure all of this guy’s real music is on his phone.’
Hank was an idiot. He’d thought nothing of an anachronistic technology in the room of someone that young. He should have. At this point, he wasn’t capable of investigating a fender bender, let alone a complicated homicide. He dragged his hand through his hair, tugging hard to maybe jostle loose some intelligence. He stopped when he noticed Sam eyeing him apprehensively.
‘There was another one over here.’ Hank forced the words out. He strode around to the nightstand on the other side of the bed and pulled another CD case out of the drawer. He started to open it and then stopped. He hadn’t figured this out. Sam had. He handed the case across the bed.
Sam pulled a photo out of the liner notes. It was an old one – shot on film – of an infant. It was impossible to tell if it was a boy or a girl – the onesie was yellow. Sam sighed.
‘A whole darn room, and these two things are all we find. Better than nothing, I guess, but …’
He kept talking, but Hank had stopped paying attention. He stared again at the birth certificate and that God-awful name. And then bolted for the stairs.
Sam hustled after the Chief. He must’ve done something wrong. His boss was obviously pissed off. He hadn’t meant to show him up. He rounded the bend in the enormous staircase and hit the ground floor a few steps behind Hank.
Mr Gunner was with the Branson detective in the middle of the two-story-high great room. The big leather couches they were sitting on looked tiny in the huge room. The Chief stopped a little ways from the musician, his hair sticking up in all directions. Sam reflexively ran his hand over his own stubbled head and waited to see what the boss would do.
‘Euford Gunner is a pretty good name for a country music star,’ Hank said. ‘Seems tailor-made, really. A lot better than Evelyn Cluth.’
The color in Mr Gunner’s cheeks drained out like somebody had opened up a spigot. He slowly wilted inward until the puffy sofa cushions seemed to be the only things holding him up. Detective Raker turned toward them with a what-the-hell expression that Sam was pretty sure looked a lot like his own face.
The Chief held up the birth certificate.
‘Was “Patrick” your son?’
Damn. Sam fought back a smile. Now that was a piece of detective work right there.
The old musician’s mouth sagged open. ‘What?’
The Chief stepped forward and held out the document. Mr Gunner took it with shaking hands.
‘I’ve never seen this before.’
Hank pointed. ‘Is this your name?’
‘Yes. Except for the junior part. The rest is my given name.’
The Chief pointed again, to the empty space where the father’s name should be. And then to the mother.
‘Pamela Helbing. Sound familiar?’
He shrugged, in an I-just-got-hit-by-a-truck kind of way.
‘That many panties, huh?’ Mr Raker said.
Mr Gunner looked like he was going to cry. ‘Look, I got no idea what’s going on. I don’t remember this woman. It was a hell of a long time ago. But I sure as hell know I’d remember if I’d been told I knocked somebody up. And nobody ever told me that.’
The Chief took back the birth certificate. ‘Any recollection of a woman who knew your real name? That narrow it down any?’
Mr Gunner intertwined his fingers, which helped somewhat with the shaking. He swallowed and shook his head. He didn’t think anyone knew about Evelyn. He’d worked very hard to keep it that way. Wouldn’t you, with a name like that? He started using Euford Gunner when he was sixteen and trying for a record contract. It worked. After unsuccessfully trying for Sun Records – it’d been home to
Johnny Cash and Elvis and was the label he’d desperately wanted – he ended up with a slightly smaller company, but still out of Nashville. They loved ‘Gunner,’ and he never told them reality was any different. He never even did any court paperwork to change Evelyn, just let it vanish like so much smoke on the wind.
He ‘lost’ his driver’s license at one point, and the folks at the label took care of getting the replacement, saying that their recording star was born in a shack in the Smokey Mountains and had no birth certificate, but it was quite obvious who he was. Just look at the album covers. And ‘Euford’ was official from that point on.
Mr Gunner fell silent, and Sam marveled at a time when that kind of tall tale worked. Heck, he needed two forms of ID just to sign up for the club card at the grocery store. He turned toward Mr Raker as the detective started talking.
‘I was just about to ask Mr … Gunner, here, about his new show. And where he’s gotten the financing for it. Because you seem to have had some money problems in the past few years, Euford, which would make it very difficult to launch that kind of production on your own.’
Mr Raker casually smoothed at his super-wrinkled suit coat and waited. The Chief studied the birth certificate for a minute and then started to wander nonchalantly around the room. Sam wasn’t sure what he should be doing. So he stayed put, shifting from foot to foot and wishing he were on one of those cushy leather couches. He turned a little so he could see the detective as well as Mr Gunner. It wouldn’t hurt to see how someone besides his boss conducted an interview.
He seemed to be more patient than the Chief. He sat calmly for several minutes until Mr Gunner started talking.
‘You read about that, did you? Some of those reporters had a field day with me gettin’ taken for a ride like that. My business manager … what an asshole.’
Mr Raker raised an eyebrow in exactly the same way Sheila did when she was calling bullshit.
‘OK, OK. That’s not all of it. I might’ve gotten into the gambling a bit. But that’s done with now. I’m outta debt. I don’t owe nobody nothing.’
‘Except your financial backers for this show,’ Detective Raker said.
Euford glowered at him. He looked like he was getting some of his starch back. ‘Everybody needs financing nowadays. That’s just ridiculous to sit there and imply that I’m doin’ something illegal or crooked or whatever, just because I – like everyone else in this damn town – need money to mount a successful show.’
‘So who’s your backer?’ Mr Raker said.
Entertainment Enterprises, Inc., Sam thought. And that was exactly what Mr Gunner said.
‘Yeah, but who is that?’ The Chief stopped his room-wandering and pinned the man down with his laser look. ‘That name doesn’t mean anything.’
The old musician started to fidget again. He hemmed and hawed and stuttered for a bit before he admitted that he didn’t know. The Chief glanced over at Sam in a quick conspiratorial way that made him feel a little better. Mr Raker, who didn’t know that they’d already encountered this company at the travel lady’s office, grunted in a very displeased way.
‘You done anything to upset them – these mystery backers?’ he asked.
‘No. What on earth kinda question is that?’
Mr Raker leaned forward. ‘It’s the kind of question that follows along after a murder. And you – as I’m sure you remember – have got a murdered companion. Someone who was important to you. So we want to know if there’s any reason that somebody would want to get at you? Any reason somebody would want to make a point?’
Mr Gunner started to cry.
‘I don’t know. I didn’t know he was my son. I didn’t know he was dead. I don’t know what he was doing … I don’t know anything anymore.’
TWENTY-FIVE
The first bar was a bust. Yeah, Mick Fitch was a regular. So no, it was near impossible to narrow down which nights he was there, because it was most of them but not all. Which was not helpful, so Sheila made sure the visit wasn’t completely in vain with a reminder to the bartender that allowing drunken patrons to leave the bar without designated drivers was seriously frowned upon by local law enforcement.
The second place Fitch had mentioned was actually more of a restaurant than a bar, on Highway 165, south of the Strip. Sheila was skeptical that waste of a man had spent Saturday night here watching college football and eating potato skins with gainfully employed members of society. The bartender, a clean-cut white kid with short brown hair named Austin, confirmed it.
‘Never seen that dude before. And I worked until close Saturday night. Mizzou game was on.’ He tossed a clean glass from one hand to the other, poured an ice water, added a lemon and set it in front of her.
‘Thanks,’ she said, surprised.
He grinned. ‘No problem. You probably been out asking questions all morning. You want lunch?’
She shook her head, but did take a seat on a barstool and a sip of the water. The kid changed the TVs from the Golf Channel to ESPN and turned back to her.
‘You’re Tyrone’s wife, aren’t you?’
Sheila’s eyebrows shot up. She wasn’t the only black woman in town. Close, but there were others. He interpreted the look that flashed across her face correctly.
‘No, no, ma’am … uh, that wasn’t, uh …’ He got all pink as she set the water down. ‘Tyrone comes in here for lunch sometimes, him and a couple other mailmen. He’s said that his wife is a sheriff’s deputy. He’s real proud of her.’ He gestured frantically at her uniform. ‘That’s why I thought it might be you. That’s all. Honest.’
Why was Tyrone talking about her to strangers? That man. Chatty as a damn Cathy. Also, he was supposed to be on a low-salt diet, not chowing down on BLTs during breaks from work. If she didn’t love him so much, she’d smack him upside the head.
She dragged her thoughts back to the task at hand and smiled to show the kid she wasn’t mad.
‘Yes, I’m Tyrone’s wife. My name’s Sheila.’
He eyed her for a moment. ‘I think I’m going to call you Deputy Turley.’
Now all really was forgiven. She picked up the glass again and asked how long he’d worked here.
‘Two years. It’s OK. I like people, so being behind the bar’s not bad,’ he said. ‘Your job must be pretty interesting, going around talking to people and trying to figure stuff out. You like it?’
She contemplated her lemon as she thought about it. That wasn’t a question she ever really asked herself.
‘I guess I do. Yeah, I do. It’s different every day. And I’m not stuck in an office … well, not all the time, anyway.’
‘So what’d this guy do?’ He nodded toward Fitch’s mug shot laying on the bar.
‘Well, I’m not sure yet, but I do need to find out where he was Saturday night.’ Because lots of things went down on Saturday night and until everything was solved, worthless Mick Fitch was staying at the top of her suspect list. She paused for a second and then pulled something out of her notebook. ‘You probably get a lot of people coming through here, don’t you?’
‘Yeah. Tons.’ He leaned his elbow on the bar and grinned at her. ‘And I got a great memory for faces. Names, not so good, but faces I remember.’
She flipped over a photo and slid it across. He shook his head. She took back Johnny Gall’s senior picture and slid across a headshot of Euford Gunner.
‘Oh, heck, yeah. Older than this picture, though. He’d be impossible to forget. Tall, skinny guy wearing a cowboy hat. He’s some kind of country star, isn’t he? He just carried himself like a star, you know? Not snooty or anything, but lots of – what’s that called? Stage presence. That’s it. Sat over in the corner.’
‘Anybody with him?’ Sheila asked, her hand over the next photo.
‘I think so. But I’m not sure. The old guy was kinda dazzling, you know?’ So he couldn’t say if the purported Patrick O’Connell was with Gunner or not as he looked at the younger man’s photo. ‘But, dude, a dead guy. That
’s just insane.’
Sheila extracted the picture from his grip and put it back in her notebook. Then she went through the rest of the high-schoolers – he recognized the Barton and Schattgen kids as having come with family groups. She started to stack them back up and put them away when he stopped her and pointed to the last one in her pile.
‘Her, yeah. She’s been in here.’
Sheila almost reached across the bar and grabbed him by the shirt, she was so excited.
‘When? When was she here? Who was she with?’ She slid Emily Fitch’s most recent mug shot across the gleaming wood.
‘She used to come in a fair amount. Not so much anymore.’
Sheila asked for every little thing he remembered about her. Austin closed his eyes, like he was replaying scenes in his mind.
She was pretty hot. Long blonde hair and blue eyes. Real petite, she always wore skinny jeans and a leather jacket. She hung back, never sat up at the bar or at the tall middle tables with the noisy crowd. But she didn’t seem shy. More like she was observing.
‘It sounds stupid, but it was almost like she was casing the place, or the people,’ he laughed.
That didn’t sound stupid at all. Sheila settled back on her stool and gestured for him to continue. He stared at the photo. When she first started coming in to the restaurant, she’d just hang for a while. Then she began to meet people. She always got here first, ordered a drink at the bar, and then picked a table along the far wall. It was always somebody different who joined her. They’d have a conversation and then the other person would leave. She’d stay a bit and then go, too. But she hadn’t been in for at least three or four months, he said.
‘What was she doing?’ he repeated Sheila’s question. ‘I never thought much about it. I really only paid attention ’cause she was cute. Is she in trouble?’
Sheila didn’t have time to list all the things BPD wanted Emily Fitch for, which now included underage drinking. She wasn’t twenty-one yet. Polite Austin insisted that he’d always checked, and she’d had ID. She had no reason to doubt the young man. She put the pictures into her notebook and handed back her empty water glass.