Sam's Song

  Chapter Thirteen

  Derwena retired to her bedroom; she was in need of a nap. I was slipping into my trench coat when Woody phoned to say that the police were releasing him without charges. However, he was still under investigation. Woody would be back at the castle shortly. So I removed my trench coat. I figured that I should get his version of events at the party and his thoughts on a possible murder suspect.

  I was sitting by the fireplace, gazing at the logs in the grate. These days, the fireplace was only for show because the castle was equipped with modern central heating. I was thinking about T.P. McGill and his murder when Milton entered the hall. He had been to the west wing, to tuck Derwena into her duvet.

  With a heavy sigh, Milton flopped into an armchair, opposite me. He glanced at his wristwatch, mopped his brow then moaned, “What a mess. I didn’t get into the music business for this, I can tell you.”

  “Why did you get into the music business?”

  “For the music. Sometimes, I think I’m the only one. Everyone else seems to be in it for the fame, the sex, the drugs, the money...” He shook his head sadly, then placed it in his hands. “It makes me depressed.”

  I allowed Milton a moment of reflection, then he continued, “When I was a youngster, I was on my own. I was sent to public school. I don’t understand why rich people have kids, only to send them to public school for the rest of their childhood days. It’s not natural. The other kids and the teachers bully you, or at least they did back then. At night, you’d hear the kids in your dorm masturbating or crying. Or both. And these kids grow up to become our leaders. And we wonder why the country is in a mess. I didn’t fit in at school. I sensed I was different.” He raised his head and gave me a cautious, sideways glance. “You know that I’m gay?”

  I nodded.

  “Music was my salvation, all types, all styles...Fats Waller, Bill Haley, Elvis, the Beatles, Bowie, Elton, the Floyd...If it wasn’t for the music...” He shrugged and his eyes filled with tears. With his silk handkerchief in his hand, he blew his nose before settling back into his armchair, more composed. “The music pulled me through my teenage years, into my twenties. I was drifting. My family are wealthy – the Vaughan-Urquhart’s are disgustingly rich – and they were bankrolling me, but I knew that I needed something; I needed a career. So why not music? I can’t hold a note, but I’m a great organiser. So I got into management. I backed a few losers, the Drainpipes – they went down the drain – Chelsea May, Cleveland’s Zygotic Circus...but then I heard Derwena sing and I knew that I could take her all the way to the top. My ambition is to crack America, then you know that you’ve made the big time. But success brings distractions, and along the way something, my dream, got lost.”

  “You’ll find it again,” I smiled encouragingly. “Maybe with Derwena, maybe with someone else.”

  Milton returned my smile. He reached across and patted me lightly on the knee. “You’re a good kid, Sam. Can you sing?”

  “I sing in the bath, and the neighbourhood cats join in.”

  He grimaced. “That bad?”

  I nodded. “That bad.”

  There was a moment of empathy between us, a moment that touched me and, to judge from the wistful look on Milton’s face, it touched him too. In that moment we were calm, serene, in the eye of the storm as it turned out because moments later the heavy oak door of the hall opened and Woody, dressed in a harlequin’s suit, complete with prominent codpiece, bounded into view.

  “Hey, dudes,” he grinned, “why the gloom? The ego has landed! Woody’s footloose and fancy-free and on the prowl ready to impregnate and make beautiful music!”

  Milton’s eyes were still tired and bloodshot. Nevertheless, they opened wide and with his jaw dropping, he gazed at Woody’s apparel. “What are you wearing?”

  Woody waved a hand over his colourful suit. “I saw this in a window when the taxi stopped at the lights. I thought, Woody, my man, that is just the outfit for ‘The Jester’s Tear’.”

  “And the codpiece?”

  With a large right hand, Woody gripped his crotch and jiggled his codpiece. “Extra, extra large. Anything smaller tended to pinch. Only the biggest and best for Woody Larson!”

  Milton shook his head and groaned. “It looks obscene.”

  “Give me a break, dude. It’s not my fault that Woody Larson is well endowed.” The frown on Woody’s features morphed into a smile as he turned to face me. “What do you think, Peaches, do you think I look cute?”

  I shrugged and gave my honest opinion. “You look sad, Woody.”

  “Ah, loosen up,” he snarled. “You know what your trouble is, don’t you. You need a good...”

  Milton was on his feet and to my rescue. Before Woody could complete his sentence, Milton interjected, “Leave Sam alone. She’s helping us with the murder enquiry. After all, you’re still a suspect.”

  “But I’m innocent.” Woody held his arms out wide at his side. He gave us a pathetic, guiltless look. Then, in the blink of an eye, he grinned again. “Where’s Derwena?”

  “She’s resting,” Milton replied. “She’s upset.”

  “She’s upset.” Woody bounced around the hall like a kinetic spring suddenly released from its moorings. “That’s great. Get her into the studio; we can capture the emotion in her voice. It’ll be great for ‘Lover Don’t Go’.”

  “She needs her rest,” Milton advised. “And you need to come down.”

  Woody bounced around the hall, completing another circuit. Then he rubbed a contemplative hand across his chin. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. It was a hellava party.” He nodded in acknowledgement towards Milton before turning to face me. “Sorry, Peaches, I was out of line. You’re a cool chick. I like you.” Then he went wandering through the hall like a drunk in search of a missing beer bottle. He muttered to himself, “I think I’ll chill with Maybelline.”

  “Who’s Maybelline?” I asked.

  “My six string.”

  Milton – who else – found Woody’s guitar propped against a free-standing candelabrum and he handed the instrument to the guitarist, who sat on a four-legged stool and began to play.

  Say what you like about Woody, and he was several slices of ham short of a sandwich, he could play the guitar and he gave a beautiful rendition of Rodrigo’s Concierto de Aranjuez.

  “Ah, that’s better,” Woody sighed.

  Milton, who had listened appreciatively to the performance, stepped from the shadows and paused at Woody’s side. “Sam wants to talk with you.”

  Woody picked up his guitar and pointed the neck towards me, like a rifle. “Shoot, Peaches.”

  “Derwena asked me to establish your innocence.”

  “Cool.”

  “So tell me, what happened at the party?”

  Woody scratched his head. His roots were showing and, in truth, his long tresses looked as if they could do with a wash. “It’s all a bit vague, man. There was a lot of heavy junk flying around.”

  “Did you kill T.P. McGill?”

  He scratched his head again and frowned. “Don’t think so.”

  “You don’t think so?”

  “Like I said, there was a lot of junk at the party. Heavy duty. Industrial. It kinda fuddles the brain sometimes.”

  “But if you murdered someone,” I persisted, “surely that would stick in your mind.”

  Woody’s face brightened. A light bulb moment. How many guitarists does it take to change a light bulb? Three – one to hold the tuner, one to adjust the tuning pegs, and another to play the accompanying twenty minute solo. “Yeah, you’re right,” he admitted, “I didn’t shaft the dude. Not saying he didn’t deserve it though.”

  “Can anyone supply you with an alibi?”

  Woody shrugged his broad shoulders. “Everyone at the party was stoned.”

  “Assuming you’re innocent, and let’s be generous for Derwena’s sake and make that
assumption, who do you think killed McGill?”

  Woody pulled a face, akin to Popeye without the pipe. He scratched the end of his nose. He puckered his lips, Jagger-like. “The man was a jackass, that’s for sure. You’d have a queue longer than for a Star Wars movie, the number of people who’d like to kill McGill.”

  “But do you have any theories?”

  For a change, he nodded decisively. “Deke.”

  “Why Deke?”

  “I remember now, he was arguing with McGill.”

  “What about?”

  Again, a shrug of his broad shoulders. “Dunno.”

  “Have you told the police about Deke?”

  “I only just remembered it.”

  “If you remember anything else, write it down, give it to Milton.”

  Woody winked at me, not a pleasant sight, but I let it pass. “Will do, Peaches.” The wink turned into a leer as he leaned towards me, suffocating my nostrils with his alcohol and drug-fuelled breath. “Get me off the hook, baby, and I’ll give you a reward. Know what I’m saying?”

  I threw my shoulder bag over my shoulder. I had a lead, and it was time to follow it up. At the hall door, I turned and glanced at Woody. Optimistically, I asked, “Is there any time of day when your mind isn’t in your pants?”

  He grinned, broadly. “No.”

  I shrugged and walked out of the hall. Ask a stupid question...