Sand City Murders (33 page)

“What’s that?”

“Oh, part Santa, part Joe McCarthy.” He smiled.

Wait, did Jason just make a joke?
That was a first. He certainly wasn’t known for his sense of humor.

“Funny, same thing happened to Jack last week.”

“Jack? You mean Leaning from the
Times
?”

“Well yeah.”

“How do you know Jack Leaning?”

“I do a little freelance for their IT department sometimes.”

“Oh.”

And there was Amy too. Anytime I went into the studio, she was all over me, completely flirtatious, though still impossible to talk to. Apparently she only had one tattoo yet to be revealed.

Frank Gannon had given up wearing baseball caps entirely. He walked into the office wearing a floppy canvas hat.

“Hey Frank, what’s with the chapeau?”

He reached up for a nonexistent brim. “Oh this? I was out fishing this morning. It’s good against the sun.”

The final straw was
Pat’s Place
. Wait, who changed my standing head? I’m sure the title of my weekly column was
Jardel’s Journal
...
Pat’s Place
just sounded way too cutesy. I asked Eleanor about it.

“Patrick, we had this discussion a few weeks ago,” she said with more patience than usual. “Are you alright?”

“I’m not sure. Can we go back to
Jardel’s Journal?
”

“Fine.”

***

Wednesday, I rolled into the office to find Inspector Fynn sitting in the thick of things. I was a bit startled. They were all over him. It was a sickening charm fest on both sides. Even Miriam, Lucinda and Amy got into the action, fawning over him like he was some kind of local celebrity. Apparently they were in the midst of planning the Policeman’s Ball. I interrupted the proceedings:

“I see you have a new king,” I said to Fynn.

“Eh?”

“A new king for the Netherlands.”

“Ah yes… I am sorry to miss the festivities.” Fynn smiled up at me. “But, I’m very happy to see so many tulips in town.”

Melissa gave us both a look and picked up where she left off: “I was thinking we could book the Grande Vista or the Californian maybe. They both have huge dance floors. Big function rooms, you know?” She was starting her hard sell.

“Not the yacht club?” I butted in.

“There’s an idea... I wonder if Chamblis would go—”

“I was being facetious.”

“Okay, then what’s your great suggestion, hmm?”

“Seems obvious...”

“Where?”

“I can think of three places: Sneaky Pete’s, Shorties, or the Beachcomber.”

“Patrick, you’re a genius. That’s it. A party on the beach...”

“On the beach?” Fynn asked. “I might prefer something at a higher elevation.”

What a strange thing to say. Melissa gave him an odd look but generally ignored his request.

“So… will it be a masquerade or formal attire?” she asked.

“As much as I like the idea of a costume party, all those masks and such will only make things confusing,” Fynn said and smiled. “I think formal attire best suits the occasion.”

Was that a pun, I wondered.

“I’ll call Jerry right now.”

“Jerry?”

“My husband, Jerry…” Melissa turned on her smile.

“Right,” I said, but swore his name was Julian.

“He knows the guy down at the Beachcomber…”

Melissa had it all mapped out. Her tongue was racing as fast as her mind: “We’ll sell tickets at a hundred dollars a pop… and probably about a hundred people… Maybe ten percent in comps… A charity event, a benefit… We could do a raffle too. Do you have anything we could raffle? Or maybe auction off?” she finally asked Fynn.

“A pair of wooden shoes, perhaps?”

***

Suzy had definitely lost weight. She was almost approaching hotness. I ran into her outside the ice cream place, or rather, she ran into me. I was crossing Captain’s Way when she came flying down the hill on her bike, one hand on the handlebars, the other wrapped around a fruit smoothy. I stepped back just in the knick of time. She slammed on her brakes and skidded to the curb. “I’m so sorry, Patrick,” she called out and pedaled up to me. “Hey, are you okay?”

“Hi Suzy… I’m fine, no problem.” I brushed away some imaginary smoothy splatter from my jeans. I was surprised by her appearance. She was wearing a tight green sweater, a short skirt and wool leggings up to her thighs. “Wow, you look great, Suzy. I guess I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Thanks, Patrick…” She grinned and sucked from her straw.

“I guess the bike thing is paying off.”

“Yeah, I’m always riding now. Getting a little wild on this thing…” she said while straddling. “So are you coming?”

“What?”

“Open mic. Murray’s expecting you.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow night, silly.”

“Okay, yeah... I guess I’ll be there.”

Suzy let go a big smile and leaned in close. She planted a kiss on the side of my cheek, gave me a special look and took off down the hill again. She was definitely approaching hotness. I wasn’t totally sure if this was a timeline thing or not.

***

The next afternoon was the faux paste-up. Our Thursday ritual began as usual at around five o’clock. Eleanor, Frank and I joined Amy in the back room, the studio. Eleanor had long since given up being apologetic about her old fashioned ways, but this hybrid method had it’s plus side. Amy had laid out all the flats, thirty-six pages this week. Some of them had to be stacked on top of each other to make room. Eleanor liked to do the front page, the cuts and the jumps. She also liked to write headlines on the fly with her pale blue marker in the space provided. This was old school. Eleanor spent most of her effort making sure the Op Ed page looked good. This was the jewel in the crown of the
Chronicle
. Even her own column
Out of the Woods
was subject to gentle editing.
Letters to the Editor
were subject to ruthless cuts.

The back pages, community news, the library schedule, house ads… the rest of the paper was left to Amy and I, well me mostly. Amy usually just complained and did what I asked with a loud sigh. Frank Gannon took care of the sports pages, did his own cuts and jumps. Eleanor would occasionally correct one of his headlines. And he had some trouble sizing the pictures. Somehow, he still hadn’t grasped the whole column thing, and would always come to Amy for help. I couldn’t understand why he didn’t just sit in front of the computer and finish it there. This Thursday he was done in a flash and out the door, muttering something about an ultimate tournament the whole time. If it wasn’t Thursday, I’d probably be playing too.

Eleanor had finished as well; she packed up, lit a cigarette and wished us a good night. All we had left were the back pages. We were alone. A month ago, I was the creepy old guy… now… well… now things seemed different.

“So... what are you doing tonight, Amy… after we’re all done?”

“I don’t know, not much… go home, eat dinner, watch a movie.”

“You like movies?”

“I love movies.”

“What’s your favorite?”

“Hmm… I can’t answer that. It’s like asking what’s your favorite ice cream. Plain vanilla or chocolate chip cookie dough? It all depends on your mood.” Amy got up from her computer and leaned against the drawing tables with a very fetching pose.

“Still some are better than others, right?”

“You mean flavors?” She gave me a big smile.

“No, movies.”

“Absolutely not. They’re all good,” she said and walked closer. “Speaking of flavors…” Amy brushed against me none too subtly. “What’s your favorite font flavor?” she asked and came right up to me, face to face.

“Font flavor?” I asked nervously. “You mean like typeface?” I looked into her eyes.

“Sure… are you a
Mistral
kinda guy, or maybe a
Freestyle Script
… she pushed me back against one of the tables. Definitely not a
Snell Roundhand
.” She did a slow twirl in the middle of the room and started giggling.

“I don’t know, Times New Roman?” I smiled.

“No way. Maybe a
Bodoni
or a
Souvenir Book
…” She came close again and slid her hand down my side. She started unbuttoning my shirt. “Or maybe you’re into the whole san serif thing.
Antique Olive
or
Avenir?
” Amy stepped back and unzipped her hoody cardigan. That left a tight, white midriff shirt. Her belly button appeared just above her jeans.

“Definitely feeling italics here.”

 She reached up and undid her pony tail, shook her head and her dirty blonde hair fell to her shoulders. She came over again and leaned against me. I could feel her, every part of her against my chest…We kissed savagely, she was biting my lip. Moments later we were on the new carpeting, tearing at each other’s clothes. Stop the presses. This was definitely an alternate timeline... Was she going to follow me up to Partners for open mic? I actually hoped not, hard enough having stage fright...

***

It was a warm night, finally. I saw some of the regulars hanging out by the side entrance, smoking, cigarettes mostly. I heard the strains of live music from inside, leaking from the door anytime anyone opened it. I recognized the strains of
All Along the Watchtower
. It was either Fat Jack doing Jimmy, or it was Davy doing Bob. Both guitarists, one of them had a huge level of talent, the other more of a plodder. The door swung open again. I heard,
There must be some kind of way out of here,
said the joker to the thief…

I got there late, probably just before midnight. It was wall to wall crowded. Murray came up to me instantly. He put his arm around my neck, affectionally, I guess. “Patrick... time for a haircut, you’re starting to look like a hippie.”

He had to be joking. His hair was tied back, but probably went down below his shoulders. He was pretty wasted as usual. If I were to draw Murray as a cartoon, I’d have to include tiny little bubbles that followed him around, popping all the time. He was a super nice guy but somehow all those years of drugs and alcohol had softened his brain to mush. Murray told me I was second on the list. That meant I had ten minutes to gulp down a beer and stuff down my anxiety.

On the stage, that is, the spot just in front of the pool table, was a small three piece drum kit. I walked over to Teddy and whispered in his ear. He was a consummate jazz drummer and a jam buddy. His eyes lit up, he smiled and followed me to the stage. I heard somebody introduce me through the PA as Gary Sevens. Teddy took his place behind the kit. I was always a little nervous when I first started. I strapped on my guitar and checked my levels. “Hey everyone, welcome to spring,” I said into the mic. “I’d like to start off with a Procol Harum tune. It’s called
Whiter Shade of Pale
.”

It was one of those weird songs with indecipherable lyrics about something that happened to someone else, and that should make no sense to anyone; yet it did, perfectly. I knew exactly what this song was about, though I didn’t know at all. What a contradiction, a wonderful contradiction. This was music, the most temporal of arts, only the moment counted, only
the now
. You might mess up or hit it spot on.

“I was thinking maybe Randy could help me out on this one. A big hand everyone, please, for Randy.”

 And older guy stepped up onto the stage amidst some scattered applause. He was one of those shaved-heads-with-a-goatee kind of guys. Usually wore a bandana, and tonight he carried a beautiful handmade accordion, bright red and white with brass trim. To my surprise he plugged it into the PA system and played a few quick scales. He adjusted the volume, then signaled ready with a smile. I turned to whisper: “I had to bring this into G instead of C.”

“What?” he asked.

“I changed the key to G, so I can sing it.”

He nodded and I counted off, one, two, three... Teddy started with a slow four-four. I came in on the one with a finger-picked electric. Randy hit the signature melody, a beautiful mimicry of Bach… somehow it didn’t sound like an accordion at all, but much more like a Hammond organ. He played his perfect measures and then it was my turn to sing,
We skipped the light fandango…

 I have a bad habit of closing my eyes when I sing, screwed up tight, maybe like Joe Cocker. I had to, I had to leave the room and go to another place to belt out this song properly. I opened my eyes for a second and a shock came to me. I looked around the room and it wasn’t Partners any more. It was some huge venue, like a stadium. There was a sea of faces before me in the dark. I was on a giant stage. I kept singing though:

That her face at first just ghostly...

Something was not right, not right at all. It seemed like another reality was superimposed on mine, almost as if they were existing at the same time. I glanced over to my left, expecting to see Fynn himself sitting just off stage, perched on a little stool with his arms folded and grinning at me. He was not there however.

 The song was still playing, I finished the refrain: “...
turned a
whiter shade of pale
…” The crowd went wild, the music continued and someone, Teddy I guess, skidded across the beats and started a slow roll. A stand-up bass picked up the iconic melody. It was a magical moment. I closed my eyes and opened them again. It was Eddie from Fish City… it was Partners again. He hit every note perfectly, he filled the tune with poignant starts and stops on his acoustic bass— just incredible.

I sang the verse again, then Janice hit the stage with her fiddle. She attacked the melody with her bow and careened through the solo with a sorrowful flourish… This was a jam. The music died off again, and we were left with just drums and bass. Practically a cappella… the beat was perfect. I sang out the last verse and wound up into the chorus. Fat Jack had taken the stage as well, the world’s loudest lead guitarist. I dimly saw him plug in behind me and noticed Murray rushing to the mixing board to turn his channel down. But Jack nailed it. I’d never heard such a great solo, sustaining each note flawlessly, soulfully and subtly. This guy was savant. We came to a crescendo, then I sung the final line again in the silence that followed …
turned a whiter shade of pale…