Murder in Rock & Roll Heaven

CHAPTER 1

  Gregory Angelicus finally stirred awake from his crazy dream. Lying cold and naked in a foetal position on a yellow wooden bench in the midst of a park the size of a baseball diamond, the 40-year-old arouser also felt something in his head that he hadn’t felt in three or four years – a splitting headache. Holding his sinuses, he sat up. What the hell? he thought as he discovered he was as nude as Renaissance Art. Gazing around, he saw nothing with which he was familiar. Judging from the early morning light, he figured it must be around 6AM or so, but where was he? It was chilly but not so cold his mysterious nudity wasn’t a painful bother. At the edge of the bench he noticed a white sheet sitting neatly folded. Picking it up, he draped it around himself then stood up to survey the area.

  The ground beneath his feet was a hybrid of manicured lawn and cobbled stone. Around the edges of the park were palm trees, some of which stood nearly 30 feet high. Along the back of the park was a neat row of quaint one-story businesses, all of them in brick & wood houses, and all of those shoppes painted in earthen tones like yellow, red, brown, and orange. Among the stores were a pizza joint, a clothing shoppe, a precious elements emporium, a spiritual reader, a yoga center, music store, weed shop, and a beads retailer.

  Walking out to the edge of the road in front of the park, he gazed up and down the block. Towards both ends he saw small groups of people milling about or simply moving on their merry way. From what he could see, most were attired in loose fitting clothes like the ones commonly worn in Africa, Middle East and the South Asian continent. The majority of people, all adults, were white with a smattering of blacks and Asians thrown in for good measure.

  Some of the buildings on the main drag, he noticed, were two stories high with at least two being three stories high. And again, like the row of houses behind the park, they were basically homogenously painted in yellows, reds, browns and oranges. Strolling over to one corner of the park, he read the name flanked by blue flax flowers on the wooden sign there –

  VILLAGE GREEN, WOODSTOCK

  Woodstock? he thought. Woodstock where?

  As far as he could tell he was in a small town, village or hamlet. Trees, shrubs and plants were the main decorations in sight. In the distance behind the park he saw two mountains, one snowcapped, the other green as money. The vista towards the front of him was also thick with woodland. The road before him, he noticed, was unpaved but cobbled. Parallel lines of steel tracks ran the complete distance of the main drag. Walking towards the intersection to his left he read the trio of wooden directional signs.

  TINKER STREET - MILL HILL ROAD - ROCK CITY ROAD

  Gazing up Tinker Street, he saw a man in his mid-20’s with long black hair and a cherubic face walking towards him. Wearing a simple yellow and red dashiki with hemp slippers, he appeared as comfortable as a snowflake in northern Iceland.

  “Hey,” the stranger greeted the white-clothed new arrival.

  “Morning,” Gregory responded. “This is Woodstock?”

  “Yes.”

  Gregory looked puzzled. “Woodstock where?”

  “What do you mean?” the stranger asked.

  “That sign back there said this is Woodstock,” Gregory stated. “What state?”

  The dashiki-donned stranger started laughing. “You’re new, huh?”

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing,” the stranger answered, shifting his weight from one foot to the next. “You can call this place Woodstock if that’ll make you feel better.”

  “Well what else would I call it?”

  “Heaven,” the stranger answered flatly.

  Oh, boy, Gregory thought, gazing curiously at the man in front of him. Somebody left the floodgates at the asylum open again. He took another look around the serene hamlet. Glass & metal lamps, some incandescent, some oil, were glowing behind some windows of the buildings, painting the vista as being both casual and cozy. Decorative white flags, some with drawings of blue flax flowers, others red, dangled from every wooden light post. There was hardly any litter in the streets or sidewalks.

  “This is Heaven, you know,” the long-haired gentleman repeated.

  “Yeah, sure, whatever,” the doubting arrival groaned.

  “I’m Tommy,” the young man said, offering his hand. “Tommy Bolin.”

  “I’m Gregory,” the sheet-wearing visitor identified himself.

  “What do you play?” Tommy asked.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Musical instrument,” Tommy clarified. “What kind? Guitar? Piano? I play guitar.”

  Gregory shrugged. “I’m not a musician. I’m a PI.”

  “A what?”

  “Private investigator.”

  “Really?” Tommy asked. “That’s odd.”

  Not as odd as waking up naked in who-knows-where, Gregory thought. “Why?” he asked the black-haired questioner.

  “It’s just…odd,” Bolin maintained.

  Gregory scratched his head. “I’m confused about something, Tommy. Maybe you can answer a question.”

  “What is it?”

  “A question,” Gregory joked, “is a sentenced expressed so as to elicit information.”

  “No,” Tommy asked, taking the comic seriously. “What do you want to ask me?”

  “Obviously, I got so blitzed last night I don’t even know where I ended up,” the recently arrived man revealed. “Where my clothes are, I don’t have a clue. Am I still in Washington State, maybe near Tacoma or Bellingham? I’ve never heard of Woodstock, Washington before.”

  “You’re not in Washington State.” Tommy assured him.

  Gregory furrowed his brow in disbelief. “No? So, where am I? Spokane? Portland?”

  “Heaven,” the stranger stated flatly.

  “Yeah,” Gregory moaned, “you keep saying that. I woke up with my nards exposed on that bench over there but I don’t know how I got here.”

  “You’ll find out soon enough,” Tommy swore.

  “What?”

  “I’ve gotta go,” Tommy insisted. “I’m late for work.”

  “Do you have a phone I can use?” Gregory asked.

  “A phone!” Tommy exhorted, as if Gregory just asked him if he owns his own 70’ luxury yacht and marina. “Who can afford that?”

  “What’s so special about phones that they’re expensive?” the surprised Gregory asked.

  “Not just phones,” Tommy explained. “All electronic items are beyond what anybody would pay for them. You really are new.”

  “I don’t see what’s such a big deal about electronics,” Gregory shrugged, “but whatever.”

  “You could check out one of these stores, they might have a phone, but I doubt it. These shoppes aren’t open yet. I mean, they are open – they’re always open – they just don’t have any attendants at the moment; maybe around 9 or 10AM.”

  Gregory squinted. “I’m not following you. The stores stay open without workers?”

  “Yep,” the black-haired fellow answered, then pointed to one of the wood & glass doors. “See? No locks.”

  Gregory, finding Tommy’s assertion hard to believe, went over to the store and, sure enough, there was no lock. I’ll be damned, he thought. Checking a few more stores, he realized that none of the doors, all constructed of wood and glass, contained locks. Grabbing the door knob at one of the shoppes, he turned it. Sure enough, the door opened. Looking in briefly, he saw no one in the relatively dark store then shut the door and returned to Tommy. Another interesting fact about the environs had him thinking.

  “They sure have a lot of restaurants here,” he noticed. “Almost every other establishment, it seems. That’s kinda bizarre. This is a tourist town, pretty much?”

  “You’ll understand later,” Tommy pledged. “I really gotta go.”

  “Wait,” Gregory pleaded. “Can I walk with you to your job?”

  “There’s no phone there, either,” Tommy enlightened him. “You can hang out till somebody comes by, but people don’t really carry
phones around here.”

  “Why not?”

  Tommy shrugged. “No need to. This is more of a face to face kind of place.”

  “Really?” Gregory asked. “I don’t get it. How do people even get around? I don’t see any cars anywhere.”

  “What about those?” Tommy questioned, pointing to a few parked electric scooters and rickshaws.

  Gregory stared at the rudimentary modes of transportation Tommy alluded to. I’ve seen some ass backwards towns in my life, he thought, but this really takes the cake.

  “And there’s the main trolley,” Tommy added. “Doesn’t run that often, though. If you want, the Cumby’s at the end of that road,” he said, pointing down Mill Hill Road. “It’s manned 24 hours. They might have what you need.”

  “What’s Cumby’s?” Gregory asked.

  “Cumberland Farms,” Tommy replied. “It’s a convenience store.”

  “Thanks, Tommy,” the weary traveler said, shaking his head. “I’ll take your word for it.”

  Gregory watched as Tommy disappeared up Rock City Road towards the mountainous area. About a minute later, walking down Mill Hill Road, the thoroughly confused new arriver studied the curious surroundings astutely, passing by several closed restaurants, bakeries, food markets, and other businesses, all of which were built in regular homes re-purposed for commerce, all of which had simple wood & glass doors, and all of which lacked locks. After strolling past a large brick house of worship, and a couple of folks milling about in front of a gothic concert hall, he saw the Cumberland Farms store with its lights on at the end of the block as Tommy Bolin had described.

  “Bingo,” he smiled and hurried towards it.

  Stepping quickly through the rickshaw-populated parking lot and past four refill stations, he opened the wood-framed glass door to the convenience store and entered. A young man of about 21 in a yellow Cumberland pullover, white pyjama bottoms, and sporting a shiny yellowish pompadour, is dozing off in a chair behind the counter with his bare feet up on the glassy work surface. Next to the chair was an electric, maple stained, big body Gretsch guitar sitting on a stand.

  “Hey,” Gregory introduced himself, knocking on the counter. The young man, snoring like a sleeping giant, barely moved a muscle. Gregory knocked again. “Hey!”

  The loud bang jarred the clerk awake, almost causing him to fall off the chair. Accidentally crashing into the guitar, he caught it just before it hit the floor.

  “What the hell?” the startled young man roared, then softened his countenance when he saw there was a customer present. “Oh, cool. It’s Will Smith.”

  “I’m not Will Smith,” Gregory corrected him.

  “Man, Will,” the clerk laughed, “you were hilarious as Fresh Prince.”

  “I’m not Will Smith,” Gregory maintained.

  “I like that movie with the robots, too,” the clerk continued, ignoring his customer’s plea. “Pretty deep. How’d they film that?”

  “I’m not Will Smith,” Gregory attested firmly.

  “Tell me something, though,” the Cumby’s clerk wondered, completely ignoring Gregory’s protests. “They really didn’t need to make that third Men In Black, right? You agree?”

  Gregory could feel his blood pressure rising to new levels. “I’m not Will Smith.”

  “Wow,” the clerk nodded. “Will Smith in my store.”

  Me without my gun, Gregory lamented mentally, shaking his head. “Okay. Um, which way is it to Seattle? I don’t even know how I got here.”

  “Ah,” the clerk smiled. “A newbie, huh?”

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” the young man answered. “Just saying.”

  “Can I use your phone?” the Fresh Prince lookalike asked. “I just wanna call for a ride.”

  “The phone!” the astonished clerk belted.

  “What’s with you guys and telephones,” Gregory asked, surprised, “like they’re poison or something.”

  The clerk pointed to the old fashioned, two-piece, black metal rotary phone on a wooden shelf jutting off the brick wall by the metallic, smooth-edged, 1950’s-era soda case.

  “Geez,” Gregory squinted as he eyed the ancient devices. “Modernize much?”

  “Here,” the clerk said, handing “Will Smith” a clean rag.

  “What’s this for?” he asked.

  “Nobody ever dusts that phone,” the clerk admitted, “because no one uses it.”

  “Oy,” Gregory moaned. “You’re killing me.”

  Walking over to the antique, he picked up the heavy metal receiver and, hearing a dial tone, called a number. The last time he’d seen a dinosaur like this was in a Hitchcock movie, and like that film, it felt like he was dialing forever. He listened as the phone rang. And rang. And rang. No one answered. Hanging it up, he trotted back to the clerk.

  “Did the phone even ring?” the clerk asked.

  “Of course,” Gregory replied with incredulity. “I guess they’re still asleep. You got a map?”

  The clerk pointed to a man-sized, metallic rotary display stand towards the back of the shop that was filled with maps. Gregory immediately went over to it, found a chart that said ‘Woodstock,’ and opened the leaf-fold direction finder. The town he was in, he noticed, was smack in the middle of an oval island which, according to the pamphlet, had an area of about 60 sq. miles. Completely surrounded by water, there were no bridges, roads, tunnels or passageways, according to the map, off the island.

  “What is this?” Gregory shouted, holding the chart up. “A joke?” He scooted back towards the front of the store. “This thing says I’m on an island.”

  “So, it seems,” the handsome clerk nodded.

  “That’s ridiculous,” the bothered visitor complained. “I’m starting to get frustrated. How the hell could I be on an island if….?” A realization popped into the confused stranger’s head. His memory, he realized, was beginning to clear up. “You know what?” he informed the clerk. “I think I was in an accident.”

  “Probably,” the blond clerk mused.

  “I was driving to Jack in the Box to get something to eat when, I don’t know, I think I crashed or something.”

  “When was this?” the clerk inquired.

  “That part I don’t remember,” Gregory admitted. “It’s like I lost a lot of time. What day is this?”

  “Thursday.”

  “No, I mean, what date?”

  “August 4th, 2016.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Gregory suggested. “I was heading to Jack in the Box for lunch on August 3rd. That’s yesterday.” Scanning the counter, he saw a folded newspaper, picked it up, and read the date.

  “Thursday, August 4th, 2016,” the skeptical customer read. “Well, I’ll be hog swallowed.”

  “You’ll be okay,” the clerk assured him.

  “This is weird, man,” Gregory admitted. “Trippy. I’m on an island and don’t have a clue how I got here. How do you get off this rock? I didn’t see a bridge on the map.”

  “You have to petition.”

  “Petition who?”

  “The Council.”

  “What Council?”

  “You’ll see,” the clerk promised him. “In due time.”

  “Petition to do what?” Gregory asked. “Get off this rock?”

  “Yep.”

  Gregory shook his head. “That makes no sense. Where’s the bus terminal? Marina?”

  “There isn’t any.”

  “Any what, buses or marinas?”

  “Neither,” the clerk insisted. “There’s the Triangle. It’s the trolley that goes from West Beach to East Beach to South Beach. A complete triangle. That’s it. No way off.”

  “You know what,” Gregory gnashed his teeth, “this place is beginning to get on my nerves.”

  “Blow a gasket if you want, man” the clerk warned him. “Just know it attracts bad karma.”

  Gregory rubbed his hands together in frustration. He could almost feel his heart doing somersaults i
n his chest and steam gushing out from both ears. I’d better calm myself down, he thought, per the advice of my doctor. His father, troubled for years with hypertension, finally blew an arterial fuse when he lost his job and died a broken man of only 49 years old.

  “You’ll get used to heaven,” the clerk promised, pointing downward.

  “Why do you guys keep calling this heaven?” Gregory asked, spit almost flying out of his mouth. “Where am I? Some Rainbow Family Burning Man hippie commune somewhere?”

  “Do you want something to drink? A pop? Some water?”

  “No,” the frustrated stranger answered, then changed his mind. “Yeah. I’m parched.”

  “Help yourself to whatever you want.”

  “The good news,” the PI said, “is I’d gladly pay you for the drink, but you see, the bad news is, I woke up this morning in a park where I have no clue where it is, some joker stole my clothes then left me with this stupid sheet to wander around like I ain’t got no sense.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” the clerk insisted. “It’s on me.”

  “Thanks.”

  Gregory returned to the old-fashioned glass & metal soda cooler and poured through the carbonated collection. The first bottle he picked up was filled with purple liquid and called, “Alyssum,” he read. The second bottle, filled with a bright orange liquid, was called, “Calendula.” The third bottle, containing hot pink liquid, was called, “Sage Blossom.” Holding the bottle up in the air, he turned to the clerk. “What kinds of sodas are these?”

  “They’re all made from flowers,” the young man informed him.

  “Flower sodas?” the shopper queried, putting the bottle away. The fourth selection he retrieved, filled with bright blue bubbly liquid, was called, “Borage Blossom. Naturally sweetened with pure cane sugar.” He turned to the clerk again. “Do they have, like, normal drinks in here?”

  “Try it,” the Cumby’s employee advised him. “You never know.”

  Reluctantly, Gregory secured the Borage in his hand and returned to the front counter. “It’s like I’m in another world,” he groaned, approaching the clerk.

  “Maybe this’ll help you,” the young man suggested, taking the newspaper off the desk and handing it to Gregory. “It’s today’s Heavenly Times.”

  “Yeah, I already saw that,” Gregory said, trying to twist the cap off the bottle of pop.

  “Here,” the clerk said, flipping to page six. The two men stared at a black & white picture of a horrible car accident. The autos were so mangled that people would be hard pressed in trying to figure out their individual makes and models. One thing was for certain – no one could’ve escaped that crushing accident alive.

  “What is this?” Gregory asked.

  “Read it.”

  The new arrival began reading the blurb. His eyes widened then stiffened in confusion.

  “This is pretty realistic,” Gregory admitted. “It says one of the fatalities was me. That kinda looks like my car, too. Pretty good hoax. Who put you up to this tomfoolery, Barry Pepper?”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Come on, stop playing,” Gregory scolded him. “He’s played some practical jokes in the past, but this…” he motioned to the store, “…this is really going far. Well done, though. Well done. I don’t know why he went through all this trouble, but I’m impressed.”

  The PI, now thoroughly intrigued, scanned the ceiling. “Where’s the camera? How is Barry seeing this?” He cupped his hand around his mouth and aimed his frustration at the ceiling. “Come out, chicken shit! I know it’s you! This must’ve cost a fortune!” He turned to the clerk. “Okay,” he acquiesced. “I’m done. Call Barry out. I wanna get back to Seattle cos I didn’t sleep right last night. That mofro must’ve put something in my drink, then dragged me to this place when I was unconscious.”

  “You were drinking a lot last night?” the clerk asked.

  Gregory thought about that for a moment. “You know,” he admitted, shaking his head, “I don’t remember anything from last night at all. I got nothing. What’s your name, man?”

  “Eddie,” the clerk answered. “Eddie Cochran.”

  “Well, Eddie Cochran,” Gregory muttered through gnashed teeth, “tell that joker to come on out, huh? I think this has gone on long enough.”

  “There is no Barry Pepper here,” the young man insisted. “No tomfoolery, as you put it.”

  The confounded “Fresh Prince” shook his head in disbelief then handed his soda to the calm clerk. “Can you open this for me?”

  Eddie took the drink, removed the top with a bottle opener fastened behind the counter, and returned it to its owner.

  “Thanks, Eddie,” he said, sipping some of the pop.

  “How’s it taste?” the clerk asked.

  “Like soda,” Gregory shrugged, answering truthfully. “Kinda sweet, but it’ll work. What else should it taste like, by the way?”

  “I was just curious,” Eddie answered. “We never seem to sell those.”

  “What?” Gregory asked angrily. “First you tell me to get this, then you tell me no one gets these. Something’s wrong with you people in this town.” Frustrated, he turned and exited the store in a huff, moaning, “There’s gotta be somebody playing with a full deck around here,

  “Later, Will,” the pompadoured clerk stated to deaf ears.