Chapter Twelve
We returned to the castle. By the time we got there, we discovered that Woody was ‘helping the police with their enquiries’. Back at McGill’s apartment, Derwena’s mind had cleared and she had recalled the location and address of the party. Acting on that information, Sweets had sent his detective sergeant along to interview Woody.
I was in the castle hall with Derwena. She was stretched out over the chaise longue when Milton staggered into the hall looking the worse for wear.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
He nodded.
“Where’s Tim?”
Milton flopped into an armchair. He took out his pocket watch, gave it a quick glance, then placed his silk handkerchief on his head. “Tim is having a lie down. He has a migraine. Coke doesn’t agree with him, so I don’t know why he indulges.”
“And Nerd?”
“Nerd met a forty-year-old mystic at the party. She promised that she’d enlighten him as to his past lives and teach him the techniques of tantric sex.”
“So he might be gone sometime,” I reasoned.
Milton sighed. “If what I’ve heard about tantric sex is true, then we’ll be lucky to see him this side of Christmas.”
Derwena roused herself from her stupor. She paced around the hall, then stood in front of the fireplace. Leaning forward, she yelled, “How can you joke at a time like this? How can you joke when Woody’s in a police cell waiting to be hanged?”
Milton groaned. He mopped his forehead with his handkerchief and closed his eyes. “Derwena, dear, they abolished hanging fifty years ago.”
She buckled at the knees while placing the back of her left hand to her forehead. “I might never see my darling Woody again.”
“Pull yourself together,” Milton growled. He was sitting forward now, his hands resting on his thighs, his bloodshot eyes glaring at Derwena. “The police only want to question him, that’s all.”
“But what if he gives the wrong answers?” Derwena persisted. Milton ignored her, which annoyed her intensely. Her eyes wandered around the hall, then they settled on a life-size suit of armour. She drew the back of her hand across her lips and headed for the suit of armour. “I need a drink.”
Showing a surprising amount of agility, Milton leapt from his armchair and skipped towards the suit of armour. He stood in front of the armour performing a kind of two-step with Derwena as she hopped to the left, then to the right, Milton’s twinkling toes covering her moves, blocking her access to the booze.
“No drink.” Milton placed a firm hand on the helmet of the metal knight. “Drink and drugs have brought us to this point. From now on, no more drinks and no more drugs. We’re on the wagon. All of us.”
Derwena pouted, sticking out her bottom lip. Again, she placed her hands on her hips, then leaned forward and yelled at Milton. “Now you’re just being cruel!”
“I’m being cruel to be kind,” Milton replied with a long-suffering sigh.
Derwena pirouetted. She went on a circuit of the hall, slapping her hand against anything within reach. “How can I quit at a time like this? Someone’s murdered Troutbeck, Woody’s a suspect and I’ve got an album to finish.”
With a rhythmic beat, Milton’s podgy fingers drummed on the knight’s helmet while his right foot tapped the flagstone floor. “Drink and drugs or Milton. You choose.”
Derwena put her hands to her head. In frustration, she tugged at her hair. Her face turned puce. “Ooh! I need all of you. I can’t choose!”
“Drugs and booze have wrecked the creativity,” Milton continued like a Salvationist preaching to the depraved. “We’ve had no hits for four years. We’re living off our reputations and our reputations are slowly going down the pan.”
With her face still glowing and her right hand waving and pointing frantically, Derwena turned on her heel and rounded on me. “Well, why doesn’t she do something about it?”
“What has Sam got to do with our music?” Milton asked patiently.
“I’m talking about Woody. She’s supposed to be a detective, right. Well, why doesn’t she get out there and do some detecting?”
“What about the stalker?” I asked in a quiet voice.
Derwena bit her bottom lip. She glanced at me through a veil of dishevelled hair, then she stared at the ground. “Um...I kinda made him up.” With her indignation returning, she glared at Milton. “I needed the attention, right. Can you imagine what it’s like being Derwena de Caro?”
One up for Sam’s intuition. I must learn to trust myself more often. So, the stalker was a figment of Derwena’s imagination and at least we didn’t have to worry on that score. However, the droop of Milton’s shoulders and the careworn expression on his face suggested that he was still carrying the weight of the world, or at least the weight of Derwena de Caro, which, on occasion, amounted to the same thing.
“And you’re convinced that Woody is innocent?” I asked Derwena.
“He’s a gentle, creative soul, isn’t he, Milt?” Her tone was imploring, her look pleading.
Milton glanced towards the suit of armour, as though longing for a drink. I didn’t blame him. There was something of the dervish about Derwena and when she went into a spin, everyone in the vicinity was sucked into her chaos.
“Woody can lose it at times,” Milton admitted. “Drugs affect some people like that. But I don’t think he’d go so far as murder.”
“There we have it,” Derwena stated confidently, as though Milton were judge, jury, the Almighty himself. “Woody is innocent. Now get up off your sweet fanny and prove it!”
Milton took a step towards me. He looked tired, drained by Derwena, drained by the trappings of the music business. “What about it, Sam,” he asked wearily, “will you help?”
“Well...” I was a soft touch, but not that soft. I had my own sanity to consider.
“I’ll double your fee,” Milton cajoled. He gave me a doe-eyed look that threatened to melt my heart. “Treble it.”
I thought about Milton’s pitiful look. I thought about a carpet for my office, and maybe some curtains. I thought about my mountain of unpaid bills. If I worked for Milton, I’d be on triple pay. I smiled optimistically. “I’ll see what I can do.”