Dead in the Water (Olivia Grant Mysteries Book 1) (13 page)

The number ended in a crescendo greeted with applause, and after a smug look in our direction, Chaz nodded to his buddies again, and they took off with a number that was not only decibels quieter, but actually had an occasionally recognizable tune. A few people took to the dance floor to gyrate to it, and the waiter returned, offering to refill our glasses. Talking still being difficult, we sipped our drinks—my wine warm and tasteless—and waited for the set to end.

When it did, the band members retreated backstage, but not before a half dozen young girls swarmed around them, and they had to stop to give autographs. As well as accept an occasional kiss from an over-excited female groupie.

Chaz returned, having removed his costume and makeup, fangs and all, bringing with him not just Randy but the other two musicians as well. Randy appeared to be younger than Chaz, probably early twenties, with both a tattoo and an earring. The two others were named Guy and Izzy and, like Randy, were young, thin, and excessively decorated with jewelry in—in my opinion—a few too many places. Chaz slid into the booth on my side, but the others acknowledged the introductions and then disappeared again into the hallway leading to toilets and possibly a private room for performers.

Chaz leaned over the table, smiled, and tossed his head so his thick hair swayed, and once more I couldn't help thinking he had inherited the family good looks. In addition, his black T-shirt seemed molded to his upper body, sculpting the well-developed muscles.

I slid closer to Elizabeth, and Chaz followed me partway on the leather seat then waved to the waiter who brought him a tall mug of beer. "So, whaddaya think?" he asked.

Elizabeth looked at him with a sneer. "With the racket you make, thinking is impossible."

Chaz laughed. "Doesn't like my music anymore, I guess." He turned to me. "What about you?"

Put on the spot, I remembered times when I had to gush over someone's new baby and said, "It's really something, isn't it?" However, I could be sincere about one thing. "I enjoyed your keyboard solo. You play very well."

"Yeah, wait'll you hear the next set. I don't usually do more than one a night like that, but I'll make an exception for you. I have two rather good ones I've been practicing."

"Don't do it on our account," Elizabeth said. "We're leaving."

Chaz's smile turned into a frown. "You just got here. What'd you come for then?" His grin returned. "Lookin' to pick up blokes?" His leg pressed against mine as it had at dinner my first night at Mason Hall, and I moved away again.

Elizabeth stiffened, and her face turned red, so I spoke up. "No, of course not. We came to hear you. I didn't want to go all the way back home without listening to your band. What do you call it?"

"Hounds of the Hall."

I immediately thought of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's
The Hound of the Baskervilles
. Although I realized they'd chosen to look like some kind of feral beasts, I ruled out the possibility they'd named themselves for a Sherlock Holmes story. "How long have you been together?"

I didn't have much interest in how they met and what they'd endured to get to this point in their careers, but I wanted to be polite, and it might keep Elizabeth from saying something we'd all regret. She seemed determined not to enjoy herself, and I didn't want a scene.

I wished I'd found some other way to get there. In fact, I wondered if I'd been smart to think I'd learn much. The other musicians had gone off, so I couldn't question them about knowing Noreen. Actually, after seeing them, even for so short a time, I realized Noreen would have had no interest in them. Obviously, she'd be attracted to Chaz. Who wouldn't? As a classless American, I hated even to think of the term, but his good breeding couldn't be totally hidden under his stage persona. If Noreen made plans to move up in the world, she'd rank him the only candidate in sight. Her then latching onto Uncle Edward seemed proof of that ambition.

Somehow the three of us managed small talk for the next ten minutes, and then Chaz went off to join his buddies.

Elizabeth wanted to leave, but I tried to convince her to stay long enough to hear the songs Chaz had promised to play. "It's still early, and we ought to be polite."

"Since when has Chaz ever been polite to anyone? You don't know him as I do. I came because you begged, and frankly, I'll go crazy if I have to listen to anymore of their playing."

Elizabeth had been more than generous in bringing me to the club, and I saw no way I could get home by myself, so I had no choice. I shrugged and reached for my jacket, when the four men appeared again. Three returned to the stage, but Chaz, apparently noticing our preparations for departure, hurried over.

"Where you goin'? You can't leave now."

"Elizabeth has a splitting headache, and I have to go back with her."

He answered quickly. "I can take you home." He laughed. "We live at the same place now, don't we?"

"That'll be hours from now," Elizabeth said. "Olivia doesn't want to stay so long."

Chaz continued, apparently used to getting his own way. "Won't be too late. We're just doing one more set. Then we're through for the night."

Elizabeth slipped out of the booth and pulled on her coat. "We're going now."

I hesitated. I'd gone there to learn something. I wanted to question him about his affair with Noreen and hoped he'd be more likely to loosen up in this atmosphere. So far, however, except for discovering Chaz's virtuosity on the keyboard, I'd failed. Besides, he was right. He had to go home eventually anyway and could drive me there if Elizabeth didn't.

"Loosen up," he said. "Nobody from the family ever comes to hear us. I like to show what I can do."

I looked at Elizabeth. "I really would like to hear more." I lied, but I didn't need to get more information from her. I needed to get it from Chaz.

She gave me a look, seemingly both fearful and angry, then turned and left.

As soon as the door closed behind her, I felt guilty. I shouldn't have let her go home alone. Furthermore, I remembered Chaz's overtures to me. Could I keep him in his place?

Elizabeth left, the band members donned their costumes again, and the music started up as if programmed for "volcano eruption." I peered around the room, still trying to determine if anyone else who frequented the club might have known Noreen. In spite of what Charlene and Wanda said, I wondered if I had succumbed to foolish optimism. Suppose the women weren't telling the truth? Suppose Noreen lied, inventing another man to impress them? Even if it were true and Mister X had indeed committed hanky-panky with Noreen, I probably wouldn't find him if I stayed at the club for a year.

For confirmation, I looked at the four men then sitting at the bar. Two wore beards, ragged jeans, and scruffy jackets and appeared to be buddies who always came in for a pint after doing some grubby manual labor. The third, thin, with a pock-marked face and sparse hair, slouched on the stool, one filthy hand clutching his beer mug, and exuded all the charisma of a sweat stain.

The fourth one was big and burly but clean-shaven and wore a plaid shirt and tan trousers. He saw me looking in his direction and rose from the stool. As he strolled in my direction, I felt a momentary panic. What had I started? I squelched my apprehension. I'd come to learn something and mustn't be too choosy about the direction from which it came.

Reaching my side, the man stuck out a large, calloused hand. "Frank's the name."

"Olivia."

He appeared to be in his forties and was both tall and muscular, his broad shoulders stretching the shirt taut. I let myself wonder if he might be the man. Had he attended the funeral that day? If so, I didn't recognize him, but that didn't exclude him from my consideration. After all, most murderers probably don't attend their victims' funerals. Or do they?

"You care to dance?"

Dance? Hadn't Wanda said Noreen and her latest lover went dancing? I felt my heartbeat increase. This could provide more clues. I slid from the booth and joined him.

His dance technique consisted of standing in front of me, holding onto my fingers, and swaying to the beat, occasionally twirling me around and catching me again. The band's volume still permitted almost nothing like conversation, and when the number finished, he put a hand under my elbow, guided me back to the booth, and sat next to me.

"You're from the States." He grinned, apparently pleased with himself for deducing that.

"I'm visiting relatives for a few weeks. What about you?"

"I'm on holiday, bound for the lake country to do some hiking and fishing."

"How nice."

He elaborated on his vacation plans. I listened but contributed nothing, since my idea of hiking and fishing is walking through the aquarium about once every five years. When he paused, I returned to my detecting mode. "Do you live in the area?"

"No. I'm a stranger to these parts myself. Just arrived in the village today."

A stranger? So much for my hopes I'd found Mister X. Two minutes into our conversation and I already knew he wasn't the one. Unless, of course, he lied. A murderer would lie, wouldn't he?

I asked what he did when not on holiday, which subjected me to twenty minutes of enthusiastically delivered information about shipbuilding. He seemed so knowledgeable I had no reason to doubt his occupation, and if so, he did it on the coast somewhere, not here in suburban London. I'd struck a dead end.

"Can I buy you another?" He nodded toward my wine glass.

"No thanks. I'll be leaving soon." I let a beat go by. "I'm going home with the band leader."

Before you could say, "Blimy," he made a hasty retreat back to the bar.

After the band members finished playing, they did more laughing and groping with the girls who clustered around them. Finally, however, they turned off the sound equipment and the stage lights. Then all four of them trooped over to my table. "A final drink, eh?" Chaz said.

As they squeezed into the booth with me, I got the strong impression the three others were already high, possibly on more than alcohol or music. I wondered if, during their breaks in the back room, they used drugs. Probably marijuana by the smell.

My knowledge of drug use came mainly from hearsay. Sure, my generation "experimented" with it during our teenage years, but I'd been brought up strictly, and I seldom went to parties where anyone even drank beer, much less took drugs. I'd been on the swim team in school, practicing every minute I wasn't doing homework, and then I went to a private college for three years, spending just one at UC Berkeley. Even there, my most rebellious activity consisted of wearing old clothes from the Salvation Army, growing my hair long and trying to straighten out the curl by ironing it.

Chaz, despite playing with Randy, Guy, and Izzy, didn't seem to have picked up their drug-using habit, if, indeed they did use drugs. He seemed the same as he did without the Hound costume. When the waiter came with their drinks, he asked me if I'd like more wine. "Can't walk on one leg," he said with a laugh. I agreed to one more, preferably chilled.

"Are you sure it's all right for you to quit early to take me home?"

"We don't play long on weeknights. Owner doesn't want to pay for more."

I didn't know what to say next, but I needn't have worried about too much silence. The sound system continued to play their music, and Randy kept loud time to it by tapping on the tabletop with his drumsticks. Izzy and Guy, sitting next to each other, carried on a private conversation, touched hands often, and giggled at private jokes, and I decided they were gay. No mysterious Mister X there, even if I hadn't already decided Chaz's bandmates were too young and immature to have interested Noreen. One more theory that didn't pan out.

Finally we left, but, as for questioning Chaz in private while driving back, that, too, fizzled. Randy recently lost his license to drive, so we dropped him off at his home on the way.

Chaz's vehicle turned out to be a Land Rover with space behind the seats for carrying band instruments. He helped me inside, and, after Randy hopped out at his door, we rode for a mere five minutes before arriving at Mason Hall. Chaz parked the Rover on the gravel driveway behind the house.

Before getting out, I glanced over at him. "Aren't you going to put it in the garage?"

"Don't like to wake Tim when I come in late, seeing his room's up top."

I saw no light coming from the windows of Tim's apartment over the garage, so I assumed he'd already gone to bed. "You're very considerate."

Chaz looked a little sheepish, as if he didn't like being caught doing something admirable. He'd rather be considered selfish. "More convenient for me this way. Just a hop and skip to the door."

We entered the great hall via the door behind the staircase. The first floor swathed in darkness, Chaz snapped a switch on the wall, which provided enough illumination to climb the stairs.

I wondered how I'd manage a conversation with him, but he solved my problem for me. He spoke in a low voice. "Night's not done yet. Come upstairs and see my studio."

I thought about his suggestion for a few minutes. Like going into a man's apartment back home, it was an invitation to sexual activity, and I wanted none of that. However, I was a "woman of the world," wasn't I? Able to handle myself in sticky situations? Of course.

I took off my shoes to keep the heels from making too much noise on the uncarpeted steps. "Yes. I'd like to see it. We didn't get a chance to talk much tonight."

He preceded me up the stairs. "I don't fall asleep straight away after playing, and we can both wind down a bit. I have some good stuff, not like that junk they serve at the club, and you'll like it."

I didn't want a drink. The truth was I rarely drank anything at all. Because of my swimming coach, I'd gone years without alcohol passing my lips, and one glass of wine in social situations usually lasted me all evening. I liked it that way. I'd never have to hear someone say, "Wow, you were the life of the party last night," while I remembered nothing after asking if I could leave my coat on someone's bed. As for that night, I'd look over Chaz's studio, say something complimentary if I could, and ply him with questions about Noreen. That had been my goal for the evening, and I could still accomplish it if I kept my thoughts in control and my feet on the floor.

On the third floor, we walked partway down the hall, and then he opened a door, and we went inside. He flipped a switch on the wall, bringing to dim life a vast room whose walls and ceiling seemed to shiver with some puffy silver material.

"Acoustical stuff," Chaz explained.

The floor, covered with thick, dark green carpeting, held a keyboard, a sound console, two guitars, loudspeakers, amplifiers, and even a sleek, ebony grand piano. Chaz led me to a corner furnished with a black bar fronted by a low, multi-cushioned sofa and several chairs. He pushed me, not ungently, onto the sofa and proceeded to pour something into two glasses. He pointed one at me. "Here."

I didn't take it. "No thanks. Your studio is—well, somewhat different from your bedroom." I stood and walked across the room.

He swallowed both his drink and mine then put both glasses back down on the bar's surface. "You remember my bedroom, do you?" His smile seemed to intimate that our brief conversation there had elevated our relationship.

"Yours wasn't the only bedroom I saw that day. I was helping Aunt Alice put clean linens in all of the rooms."

"I sleep there, but I don't
live
there."

"You spend your time up here, I suppose."

"Have to. Practice, you know."

"Did Noreen come here too?"

Ignoring my question, he apparently pressed a switch somewhere because I heard music begin to play, soft music, not his usual style. "You like this?"

"Yes, that's very nice, but…"

He dropped into the sofa. "I like all music myself, learned classical when I was a wee lad."

I moved toward the sofa but didn't sit. I was still trying to find an opening for the subject I wanted to discuss. "How did you happen to choose the name of your group? Did Noreen suggest it?"

"No, it was the guys and me. We voted between Mustard Gas and The Speckled Band."

"
The Speckled Band
?" I repeated. "As in Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yeah, I thought it was a clever name for a band. We settled on Hounds of the Hall, but they don't understand where it came from."

So I'd been right in guessing it came from the other Sherlock Holmes mystery.

He reached out, grabbed my hand, and pulled me down next to him—a move I hadn't expected. I began to worry. He'd downed both our drinks plus whatever he had at the club, and, even if not inebriated, he seemed eager to pursue his own agenda. I shifted away from him, ready to get to my feet and leave,

He moved even closer to me, and, although I shifted again, I found myself squashed against the sofa arm. "About Noreen—" I started, trying to remind him of what I'd come there to talk about.

He held my arms and looked me over. "You're the hottest thing's come into my life in years. They oughta make you pay taxes on a body like that."

Against my will, I smiled at his compliment, although it appeared my dress had done its job a little too well, but I realized I wouldn't get any useful information from Chaz that night. Not there anyway. "I think I'd better go."

"You can't go now. We're hardly getting started."

He moved again, and I thought if he got any closer he'd be on the other side of me. I tried to push myself to my feet, but between the low sofa and the soft cushions, I couldn't get any leverage. Chaz didn't help. He pressed against me, his cheek against mine, his left arm across my shoulders and the other across my waist.

"Don't!" I twisted in his grasp, but he didn't move. I struggled to rise, all the while trying to keep from taking the situation too seriously. "Come on, Chaz, be sensible." I tried to laugh, but it came out squeaky.

"Sensible is not who I am." He pinned me into place, his mouth came down on mine, his lips firm and warm, a well-practiced kiss.

I'm not making excuses here, but for some reason I didn't move. Perhaps it was the atmosphere, or the wine I'd had at the club, or because we hadn't met before my current visit. I hadn't been kissed in a long time, and thirty-nine is not too old to enjoy lovemaking. Not that, even in the dimmest recesses of my mind, I had any intention of letting it get that far. I just—I can't explain it. For a second—really, only a second—I let myself feel desire again, feel someone wanted me, this good-looking young man, who could make love to any number of women, this cousin…

Whoops. The "cousin" part turned me off at last
. He
might not think it relevant these days, but I couldn't live the rest of my life remembering having coupled with him. I managed to break the kiss and lean back. "You're being silly. Stop this right now."

"You don't want me to stop. You know you don't." His hand slipped under my skirt and inched upward.

"What are you doing?" My voice rose an octave, and I squirmed and tried to push him away.

"I'm doing what comes natural. You're single. I'm single. Where's the harm?"

"You're—" I couldn't say more. He was kissing me again, this time his lips bruising mine, his body pressing into me, pushing me, sliding me down so I nearly lay flat against the cushions. He was too strong, and I found it even harder to move. I could only turn my face from side to side. Drastic methods were called for. I bit his lip.