by Dave Daren
AJ just busted out laughing. “What language is that?”
“I don’t even know,” I said. “I think it might be Hindi?”
Behind the trance chanting, was a keyboard background, and then it turned into some sort of Hindu chanting with techno in the background. But it wasn’t even good techno. It was the kind of techno that had the potential for greatness, but was about two Casios short of anything danceable.
“Wow,” I snorted. “This is really, really bad.”
AJ and I both snickered until our ribs ached.
“Hindu techno,” she gasped with a shake of her head. “Who would have thought. And from Jerry Steele’s safe. Do you think he recorded this?”
“I don’t know,” I said as I wiped my eyes. “I can’t think of why else he would have it in his safe.”
“Maybe it was his secret band,” she theorized. “You know one of those one person bands you can do on your computer.”
“Anything’s possible,” I admitted. “Let’s look at what else we’ve got.”
We went to the next tape, and it was the same thing. Trance chanting in Hindu, this time with an alto voice, and some kind of odd pop stuff with a satir mixed in.
“This sounds like Bollywood pop,” AJ said.
“Have you followed Bollywood culture?” I asked.
“A little,” she replied and tilted her hand from side to side. “I watched a couple of their films. I would love to say I’m cultured and hip and watch it every Tuesday, but the truth is, I couldn’t get into it.”
“I never got into foreign films either,” I said. “We’ve got enough film on our hands here.”
AJ did a goofy Cleopatra dance around the room to the music, and I laughed. Then she did a silly hip shaking dance, and the next thing I knew, I joined her with my best Michael Jackson moves, which were admittedly pretty bad. We pranced around the room doing the goofiest of dances to the worst in Hindi tencho pop.
That was what we were doing when Vicki walked in.
“What the hell is this?” she asked as she stood there with her hands on her hips.
AJ and I both dissolved into laughter.
“Are you guys drunk?” Vicki laughed.
“Drunk on life,” I chuckled with a grin.
I grabbed Vicki and pulled her into the room, and we both died laughing doing that John Travolta two fingers across the eyes thing. Then the Hindi tencho satir pop tape finally ended, and we all caught our breaths.
“Where did you guys find this stuff?” Vicki grabbed some of the tapes and looked at the dates.
“Jerry Steele’s safe,” I told her. “We think it was his secret one man band.”
Vicki flipped through another box of tapes and shook her head at the labels.
“Jesus,” she said. “How much bad art can one man make?”
“The world wasn’t ready for his vision,” I replied with as straight a face as I could muster.
“We got through that tape,” AJ said. “Now like 699 more to go, right?”
“We’d better get cracking,” I laughed.
AJ turned on the next tape, and it was the same stuff. She turned the volume on low, and I caught up with Vicki.
“How did it go with Clare and Leila?” I asked.
“Eh,” Vicki shrugged, “Clare didn’t show, but I spent a lot of good time with Leila. She told me Clare’s a straight up nutbag.”
“Clare told me as much herself,” I laughed.
“No,” Vicki said as we sat down with Hindu pop running in the background. “She disappears for days at a time. Sometimes a couple of weeks.”
“Isn’t Thad in school?” I asked as I cocked my head to the side.
“That’s the thing,” Vicki said. “Clare will leave him with neighbors, or friends, and go off on these trips.”
“What does she say these trips are?” I questioned.
“She says she goes on ‘stress vacations,’” Vicki replied with air quotes. “But she goes on them two or three times a month.”
“Stress vacations two or three times a month?” I repeated as I made a skeptical face. “Sounds fishy. Sounds like an affair.”
“That’s what I thought, too,” Vicki agreed with a nod, “but she’s not married, and I don’t think she’s in a relationship. So, why would she sneak around?”
“How stressful can being a music therapist be?” I mused as I rubbed my chin. “I’m sure there are ups and downs, but you don’t need a stress vacation two or three times a month.”
“Exactly,” Vicki said. “The whole thing is weird.”
At that moment, we heard someone come into the office, and I peeked my head into the main room.
“Horace,” I said with a smile. “Good to see you.”
“Hi, Henry,” the burly man greeted me. “I just got out of a lunch at Jitters, and with you guys right here, I thought I’d come by to personally talk to you about what’s going on.”
“Wow,” I said and cocked an eyebrow. “Sounds important.”
“If the ladies are here,” he said, “they can hear, too. It concerns all of you.”
“Great,” I said, and the sounds from the conference room wafted in through the office.
“What the hell is that?” Horace asked in disgust.
“That,” I laughed, “is the sound of a murder investigation.”
“Huh,” he said and furrowed his brow as he listened. “What the hell are they speakin’? Gibberish?”
“Hindi,” AJ said as she and Vicki peeked out in the main room.
“Hindi,” he echoed and scrunched up his face, “that’s one of them religions were the men wear those robes. Ugh. Ain’t nobody want to see all that shit. On a woman, hell yeah. But, a man, shit no. Nobody wants to see your hairy ass beer gut all falling out your robe. I know they don’t want to see mine.”
We all laughed, and I gestured toward a chair while AJ flipped off the music for a bit.
“Have a seat, Horace,” I said.
Horace sat and we all gathered in the office and sat around him.
“Well,” Horace wiped his meaty hands on his jeans, “we’ve got some serious business to discuss.”
I nodded with a hint of impatience, since we did have a ticking clock on a murder investigation.
“I know this is going to be difficult to hear,” Horace continued, “Lord knows it’s difficult to say, but I just had lunch with Michael Knapp, and … the film’s been canceled.”
His expression was grave and solemn as he watched our faces like he was waiting for us to have an intense emotional reaction.
I gave him the appropriate amount of nodding and somber silence.
“Well, thank you for coming over personally to tell us that,” I said. “I’m sure Michael will be sending out a mass notification, but we do appreciate the heads up.”
“That’s not all,” he added. “There’s been a development.”
“A development?” I asked curiously.
“Now,” he said as he leaned forward and looked us all in the eye, “I want you to think carefully about what I’m about to tell you. Don’t go into this lightly.”
I frowned. “Go into what?”
“Michael Knapp has asked me, and my theatre, to produce a stand in piece for the festival,” he went on. “It won’t have all the original flavor of the first. It will be a much smaller stage production.”
Then he looked each of us one by one in the eye and delivered his next line.
“I’d like to invite all of you to be a part of it,” he announced.
This part I had a definite emotional reaction to, but it wasn’t the one Horace was looking for, so I kept it under wraps.
After a pregnant pause, Horace launched into his pitch.
“It’s going to be an exciting production,” he said with a broad grin. “We’re going to start from scratch, so I’ll need actors, and writers, and crew and everything. And we’ll be on a time crunch. The fourth is in about three weeks.”
I turned to Vi
cki, who, with the tiniest upturn of her lip, told me she felt the same way I did.
“Well, Horace,” I replied hesitantly, “I am honored, I truly am. But, I can speak for Vicki as well, that this business with Jerry and The Count has got us swamped.”
“I hear ya.” Horace nodded.
“I think we would like to devote our service to finding out what really happened that day at the studio,” I continued diplomatically. “You work on your end, and we’ll work on our end.”
Horace grinned and slapped his knee. “I like the way you think. I understand. What happened to Jerry was tragic, and the people of this town need answers.”
“They do,” I agreed, “and I want to give it to them.”
“I’ll do it,” AJ suddenly piped up.
We all froze and turned to look at her.
“What?” I asked in confusion.
“I’ll join the production,” she explained with a smile.
Horace looked surprised.
“You know,” AJ continued, “Jerry had me write a couple of scenes, and it was difficult and crazy and confusing, but that’s because the whole production was those things. But the writing itself I really enjoyed. I would love to sign on as a writer.”
Horace’s face lit up. “Well, you got yourself a deal, little lady.”
Vicki and I both looked at her quizzically. I didn’t expect that from her.
“We’re starting from scratch,” Horace said. “So come up with some ideas, and we’ll meet tonight.”
“Cool,” AJ replied with a smile.
Horace left the office, and AJ grabbed her laptop and floated back to the conference room and the Hindu techno.
“Who would have thought?” I mused to Vicki.
“A blogger becoming a scriptwriter?” Vicki answered. “No, I didn’t see that coming.”
I laughed, and my phone buzzed.
“It’s my dad,” I said as I looked at the screen.
“I wonder what he wants,” Vicki said.
I snickered and answered. “Hey, dad, what’s going on?”
He was breathless when he responded. “You wouldn’t believe who I just got out of a meeting with.”
“Who?” I asked, even though I had a pretty good idea.
“Okay,” he gushed. “Think Earth Market. Think national or major even global distribution.”
“Uh-huh,” I said as a smile started to spread across my face.
“I just got out of a meeting with Perry McGrath,” my dad explained, and his voice jumped an octave with excitement. “He owns a kombucha brand called Coconino Brew. He wants to pick up Jimi’s Red Hot Purple Haze Salsa.”
“No,” I said. “Perry McGrath? Really?”
My dad was quiet for a moment.
“You knew,” he stated flatly.
I sighed. “He’s a client, and I gave him your number.”
“Really?” he asked.
“Yes,” I replied. “I knew he did Coconino Brew, and I helped launch it into Earth Market.”
“You what?” he asked. “I didn’t know that.”
“It was a few months ago,” I told him, “but we liked the Jimi salsa, and I thought the two of you might hit it off.”
“You liked Jimi’s Red Hot, Purple Haze Salsa?” he asked.
“I did,” I said with a grin. “Vicki and I ate the whole jar in one sitting.”
He laughed heartily. “It’s good stuff, isn’t it?”
“It is,” I chuckled. “Although, one little tweak.”
“Too much garlic,” he said. “I know. I told your mother--”
“No, no,” I cut him off. “The garlic is fine. I just wonder about the name.”
The line went dead for a few moments.
“Dad,” I said. “You still there?”
“Yeah,” he grumbled. “What’s wrong with the name?”
“Well,” I said. “I don’t know if you could use Jimi or Purple Haze in your product name.”
“Well, what do you mean?” he replied. “Jimi told me to make it. Isn’t that considered permission?”
“Uhhhhh,” I drawled, “I like the name. I just personally know the lawyer for Jimi’s estate. And he’s … kind of a hardass. I don’t know if he’d be into the whole vision from Jimi thing.”
“Ah,” he said. “I got ya. But you’re a better lawyer than he is, right?”
“Well,” I hedged, “I don’t--”
“Come on,” he cajoled. “You could negotiate that for me. Make a couple of calls, smooth talk him. We could even pay him royalties once this takes off, and it will.”
“I don’t know about that, Dad,” I sighed. “I just don’t think it’s going to happen.”
“Well,” he said, “what if it’s only a guy named Jimi? I mean, I could make up a fictional character named Jimi, right?”
“Uh,” I laughed, “not with the Purple Haze. It wouldn’t be that simple.”
“Alright,” he countered, “we’ll put a ‘y’ on the end. Make it J-i-m-m-y’s Red Hot Purple Haze Salsa.”
Suddenly, The Count walked in and waved to get my attention.
“Hey, Dad,” I said, “I’m sorry, I gotta go. We’ll finish this later.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” he grumbled, and then we ended the call.
“Hey, Alfred,” I greeted as I stowed my phone and stood to meet him.
Alfred grinned broadly in response, and I couldn’t help but think that for a man accused of murder, The Count always looked happy.
“I have sketches of your home design,” he announced as he unrolled a ledger size page. “You will love the design, I am certain. And, if you go with me, I’ll offer you a discounted rate for my services.”
“Well,” I said, “thank you, Alfred.” Then I knocked on the doorframe of the conference room, where Vicki and AJ sat on their laptops and listened to the tapes.
“Is that the traditional song of the Mumbai tribe?” The Count asked as he perked up.
“Bollywood tencho,” AJ supplied.
“Ahhh,” The Count gripped his heart and closed his eyes in reverence, “I love Bollywood.”
I smirked. Of course he would.
“Hello, Alfred,” Vicki said. “Good to see you.”
“Great to see you, madam,” he said with a bow. “I have your house sketch.”
We turned the Bollywood techno down and laid open his schematic. It was a pencil drawn sketch of a house, well, at least it was shaped like a house. But I noticed the whole thing lacked a certain structure.
“Now,” The Count began, “I got to thinking about the way a house actually functions. Our most relaxing or vulnerable moments happen in a small closet sized room located at intervals throughout the house. Why not--”
“Wait,” I cut in as I pointed to a square on top of the roof. “Is that a bathroom?”
“Yes,” he said with an od. “I think it would get the pesky business of … business … out of the way so the rest of the house can have the pure chi energy.”
“Uh-huh,” I muttered with a cocked eyebrow. “Well, that means it’s further for the plumbing to go down. And if there’s something wrong with it at some point, the plumbers have much more wall to rip into.”
The Count hesitated and looked at the drawing.
“Plus,” Vicki added, “I mean, what are you going to go outside on the roof in your towel after a shower?”
“Well,” The Count gestured toward another figure, “you’ll have a privacy tunnel that takes you down into the interior of the house.”
“But what if it’s a cold day?” I asked. “And you get out of the shower, and you’re freezing all the way through the privacy tunnel.”
“And what if it’s raining?” Vicki said. “You get a double shower.”
“Well, then don’t take a shower on the roof!” Alfred exclaimed. “And really, how often is it cold in Sedona? It’s the desert for Christ’s sake. Now, let me draw your attention to this part. I love this. The entire outside will be made of s
hipping containers.”
“Shipping containers?” I asked dubiously.
“Yes,” he said with a serious nod. “We get a bunch of shipping containers together, and we configure them like blocks to produce this shape and then, it will create this look. It’s eco-friendly and will be a gorgeous piece of art.”
Vicki took a call at this point, although I didn’t know if it was real or fake.
But The Count went on and on about the shipping container house.
“Alright,” I finally cut him off, “this looks like something. Vicki and I will look it over, talk it over, and circle back around to you with an answer.”
“I trust you will, good sir,” he said and bowed.
The Count left the office, and I stuck the plans in a drawer. I appreciated the effort, but a house made of shipping containers? I’d heard of hipsters in Portland doing that, but that wasn’t exactly the lifestyle I was pursuing.
“Clare left town again,” AJ suddenly announced and drew my attention from Alfred and his eccentricity.
“How do you know?” I asked.
“She left Thad with one of the neighbors,” AJ replied. “They’re fed up and called Leila to pick him up from school. Leila called Vicki.”
“She’s in New York,” Vicki added. “Or so she told the neighbors.”
“New York?” I repeated with a frown. “Who goes to a stress vacation to New York? People take stress vacations from New York.”
Vicki and AJ laughed.
“He doesn’t get it, does he?” AJ asked as she looked at Vicki.
“Nope,” Vicki responded with a smirk.
“What?” I glanced between the two of them and furrowed my brow. “What am I missing?”
“Shopping,” they said in unison.
“I would have said Broadway,” I muttered.
“There’s that,” AJ said, “but Broadway’s too mainstream, and expensive. Clare would have gone to some off Broadway thing.”
“Like Ghoti,” Vicki said, and they both laughed.
Ghoti was our last big client, a Brooklyn based nude performing arts group.
“You might be onto something there,” I chuckled. “See if you can find any link to Clare and whatever’s left of Ghoti in Brooklyn.
“I was kidding,” Vicki snickered. “I don’t think she really went to New York to see Ghoti. I think she’s lying and doing something sneaky, like hiding out because everyone is about to find out she killed her ex-husband.”