The Ginseng Conspiracy (A Kay Driscoll Mystery) (19 page)

Sunday, November 6

“Good morning, Kay. Did I wake you up?”

I knocked the alarm clock off my bedside table as I reached for it. “Phil? What time is it?”

“Seven o’clock. I thought I would give you a quick call before we get started this morning.”

I rested the phone next to my head on the pillow and pulled the quilt up to my chin. “How's it going so far? How are the musicians?”

“We have some exciting combos. Working with a creative group.”

“Nice.” I closed my eyes for a few seconds. “Same classes this year?”

“Pretty much...theory, combo, and big band practices. First thing we did on Friday was to have a rhythm session. I'm starting to internalize Afro-Cuban rhythms.”

“Sounds great,” I said, trying to be supportive. In reality, I was afraid he was going to give me a blow by blow, minute by minute account of his experiences. I wasn't awake enough to absorb that. I repressed a yawn.

“This afternoon there's a concert finale that all of the families are invited to. At three o'clock. I thought you and Deirdre might want to come.”

“Are you guys going to be playing?”

“Of course.”

“Okay. I'll call Deirdre later. We had a late night. I'm sure she'll want to see Mike.” A momentary pause. “I want to see you, too.”

“Fantastic! We grooved last night at the faculty recital. Hon, we were good. The improv was—”

“So you played with the Jazz Segovia?”

“You remembered! Yeah. Afterward we all went to the Artists' Quarter and listened to this outstanding band, Apricot Illusion. The camp's a dream. Everyone's together on a musical journey. Better get going.”

“Should I call Neelam?”

“Dinesh says she can't come because of the store. Too bad. He's dedicating his sax solo to her.” Phil said goodbye and hung up. I pressed the button on the phone and snuggled back into the covers for another hour or two of sleep.

* * * *

“Well, now I know why they call it Jazz
Fantasy
Camp,” I said into Phil's ear during the thunderous applause after one of the vocal numbers. Every person had a turn on stage, either singing a solo or playing in a combo before the Big Band finale. It was impressive how polished the combos sounded for having been together for only a weekend. However, some of the vocalists were a different story. The woman whose number had just ended sparkled in her glitzy evening gown as she took a low bow. With the spotlights on her, she had delivered a theatrical jazz standard in the nightclub atmosphere, but her lack of breath control left some of her passages flat. She beamed and stood basking in the appreciative response from an adoring audience that seemed unaware of her flawed performance.

The afternoon was capped off by the performance of the Big Band ensemble. Featured among the rows of musicians were Dinesh on tenor saxophone, Mike on double bass, and my own Phil, playing his guitar in sweet tones that floated clearly and moodily through the room. I may not be all that enthusiastic about jazz, but something in the way Phil and the band played held me in thrall.

After the Fantasy Camp attendees had congratulated each other and said their goodbyes for the year, everyone parted to make their way home and back to reality. On the way home, I told Phil about Elizabeth and me breaking into Al's house.

Phil's face reddened. “You and Elizabeth did
what
?”

“We broke into Al's house.”

“What do you mean you broke into Al's house? That's a criminal offense. You could go to prison.” Phil looked like he was struggling to keep his eyes on the road.

“We didn't get caught. We put everything back into the closet and desk.”

Phil wrinkled his forehead. His eyebrows drew together. “I don't want to hear about this. Geez, Kay, my blood pressure—”

“We're on the verge of solving a crime here. It
was
kind of exhilarating, just like Elizabeth said.”

“I don't understand what's gotten into you. Quit playing sleuth. Leave it to the police.” Phil put his icy hand on mine. “Anyway, Elizabeth's crazy. Maybe you should know... Uh, never mind.”

“What?” I stared hard at Phil after he stopped talking. Phil looked uncomfortable; his jaw was clenched as he studied the road. “What, Phil?”

“Umm. I just wanted to tell you, Saturday night we went to this Thai restaurant that Dinesh wanted to check out in St. Paul. The food was excellent, by the way. We should go sometime. I sat across from Mike and Dinesh with my back to another booth. There were a lot of people in the restaurant. The noise level was high. I thought I heard the name Sherman Walters mentioned in the booth behind me.”

My eyes opened wide. “You did?”

“So I turned around, but these tall plants blocked my view. A while later, guess who I saw coming back from the restroom? Al Stewart!”

“Are you sure it was him?”

“Yes.”

“Did he see you?”

“No. I tried to listen some more and picked out a few words. I heard the other person say, ‘John's a problem.’”

“Must be John Stewart. I wonder who Al was with.” I looked at Phil, waiting for an answer to my unasked question.

Phil glanced over at me, looking back at the road when he saw me watching him. He placed his hand on my knee. “I don't know.” Then he put both hands on the steering wheel and didn't say anything else.

“Didn't you get up to look?” I asked, now growing suspicious.

“Not right away. I planned to. I knew you'd want me to. By the time I got up to use the restroom, they were already gone.”

“Did you hear anything else?”

“Not much. Margaret's name a few times.”

“And you couldn't see anything through the plants?” So they were still talking about Margaret. I wondered if she was still in town or if she had taken Al's advice to visit her sister.

“I did the best I could,” Phil said, pleading in his voice. I could tell he was holding something back. “Mike was telling this hilarious story at the time. I was lucky to hear any of their conversation.”

What was Phil holding back? “At least Al didn’t see you.”

“Right.”

“Phil, I told Jeff we'd go to see his band tonight. Rebecca and Elizabeth are coming also.”

“Tonight? I've had enough music this weekend. I'm going to have to pass.” Phil didn't say much the rest of the way home.

* * * *

Most of the tables at Gatsby's were filled, a good turnout for a Sunday night. Rebecca, Elizabeth, and I sat at a large table in the front off to the side. The lights dimmed.

Jeff strutted out on stage looking confident in his black leather pants. The regulars in the audience cheered when he appeared. Flipping a scarlet scarf he had around his neck backward, he joined the rest of the band. He picked up his guitar, caressing its slim neck with his long, white fingers. All of a sudden, he cut loose with a riff, and the music began. He played freely and with abandon.

Jeff looked up from his guitar over to Rebecca and gave her a brilliant smile.

I was glad Jeff didn't start off with one of his humorous songs about his life with Rebecca. She seldom ever came as it was. Rebecca was into jazz like Phil. Whenever the four of us would get together, she and Phil would go into never-never land talking about music. As it was, Jeff's showmanship, his hip grinding against the curves of the guitar, his licking the sides of it, seemed to embarrass his wife. Her face flushed, and Jeff hadn't even sung anything about his life with her, yet. I couldn't believe his sexual movements on stage.

“He's good,” I said, trying to be positive. “Really good. The crowd loves him.” Rebecca gave me a look that did not express approval.

I tried to listen to the music while Elizabeth came back to our table with some drinks. In a loud voice, she started telling me about her weekend.

“Something fantastic happened this weekend.”

“Hmm?”

“There was this treasure hunt at the wilderness retreat. John and I were partners. I followed John for what seemed like hours into the woods, almost becoming hypnotized, watching his firm cheeks flex through his tight pants. Back and forth and back and forth and—” Elizabeth's voice was drowned out to a great extent by an exhilarating guitar solo, but her back and forth squeezing hand gestures continued.

My face turned from watching the band over to Elizabeth and back again. “Elizabeth, really...”

“What? He had on these tight jeans. I wasn't watching where I was going. I tripped over a rock on the pathway, fell, and twisted my ankle.”

“You seem to be walking fine.” Although the music tended to drown out Elizabeth, she kept raising her voice to be heard. I was sure Rebecca could hear what she was saying. I thought this was a conversation Elizabeth and I should have in private, not here.

“Whatever. The important thing is, John came to my rescue. He took off my hiking boot, and his touch...oh, Kay...electrifying. He took control. It felt wonderful having someone take care of me.”

“John's a nice guy.” I turned my attention back to the music.

“He helped me walk back, his strong arms around my shoulders, his hip against mine. We had so much to talk about. Funny, I never noticed him much before.” I knew that was a lie. “I think I'm falling for him.”

“What about Lorenzo?” I glanced at Rebecca, and she happened to catch my gaze. She smiled, but I couldn’t tell if it was a smile in recognition of what we were talking about.

“I don't know. You're so lucky. Phil's crazy about you. The same with Deirdre and Mike. I want that. I don't think Lorenzo feels that way about me. Dave sure didn't.”

The song ended. Everyone applauded, and Jeff started a song about Rebecca. I recognized the beginning. Rebecca must have recognized it too because she cringed.

“Most of my adult life, I've been taking care of everyone, my son, my ex-husband,” Elizabeth went on. “I told him about my marriage. John says he wants to take care of me. He said I was all he could think about, every day at work and every night at home.” Elizabeth's eyes softened and twinkled.

I glanced over at Rebecca. Her face was a flushed scowl. Every time the audience laughed at one of Jeff's lyrics, the scowl deepened. She looked like she wanted to crawl away and die by the end of it.

I smiled. “I'm happy for you, Elizabeth.” I wondered if John would turn out to be another Dave or Lorenzo.

“Thanks, Kay. I think I'm going to get going. I had a big weekend, and, as you know, I'll have a busy day tomorrow.” She winked and got up to put on her coat.

“You and John will make a great couple,” Rebecca said, turning her face away from the stage.

“Thanks, Rebecca.”

“Okay, Elizabeth. Hope you have a
productive
day tomorrow.” She looked at me knowingly. I tried to make my eyes say, “Find out about the names on the paper.”

“I'll do my best.” She left.

After a few more songs, the wail of Jeff's guitar subsided and the band went on break. Jeff grabbed a beer from the bar, came over to the table, and swung his arm over Rebecca's shoulder. She seemed relieved the music had stopped, at least for now. When the band came back on stage and started into their next set, we decided to head for home.

It had been an enjoyable evening of music, but as I drove us home, music wasn't what I had on my mind. Instead, I kept thinking of my conversation with Phil. Who was the person at the restaurant with Al?

Monday, November 7

When I came in from walking with Deirdre, Phil was reading the newspaper at the kitchen table. I went over to give him a good morning kiss. He didn't take his eyes off of the paper, barely brushing his lips against mine. I walked over to the other side of the kitchen and took a whiff under each arm. Not too bad. I cupped my hand over my mouth and exhaled, checking my breath. What was up with Phil?

“Do you want to go out for dinner tonight? Or I can make your favorite enchiladas.”

“I think I'm going to be home late,” Phil said. He gave the newspaper a theatrical rustle as he pushed his face closer to the headlines.

“I thought you were done at five on Mondays.”

Phil looked up at me. “Not today. Think we have a long lab.” All of a sudden, Phil folded the newspaper and got up from the table. He started to walk toward the door, came back, and gave me a half-hearted hug. “Sorry, Kay. I need to get ready.”

“Maybe I'll give Ted a call and see if he's free for dinner. I hate eating alone.”

Phil scowled. “You've been seeing a lot of Ted.”

“That's not true. And besides, we're friends...as in
all
of us.”

“You and Ted are too good of friends.”

“What are you talking about? That's ridiculous—”

“Tell you what, I can make it home by six. Let's have a romantic dinner. Make your damn enchiladas. I'll pick up some wine on the way home.” He walked out of the room.