FM for Murder (18 page)

“Sure. I’m exhausted actually. I think I’ll go take a nap until later and then I’ll find my way over there. It’ll be fun to see what you do as—Black Vulture!”

“It’ll be fun, all right!” repeated David.

Chapter 23

Present time, December 19, Wednesday, late afternoon

It was hard to believe it was still only about four o’clock in the afternoon. As they entered the out of the way dive on a side street in downtown Reardon, the place was virtually pitch black. As the outside door whooshed close from the wind, Pamela, Joan, and Arliss stood shivering together, as they attempted to warm up and let their eyes adjust to the darkened interior. The Blue Poppy might as well have been named the Dark Poppy. Did they have any lighting at all? wondered Pamela. While she was pondering this question, a somber voice asked, “You ladies want a table?” Pamela turned to her left where she saw a young woman wearing a white (a delightfully visible white) apron.

“Yes,” she responded, turning to peer at Joan and Arliss who both looked as mystified as she felt. The young woman motioned to them and they followed her through the darkness around several walls until they were eventually in a cavernous setting full of wooden tables at one end, a long wooden bar on one side and a small platform at the far end. Now she could actually see because ambient light from spotlights aimed at the platform allowed her to view the interior of the Blue Poppy. She had a strong déjà vu experience of a hippie poetry reading marathon. The young woman motioned to them to an empty table (most of the tables were empty—it was, after all, only four o’clock—not the time when most creatures of the night were out prowling).

The three women removed their outer coats and placed them over their chairs before they seated themselves at the small table. The table was so small, in fact, that all of their knees were smashed together. One chair remained empty, its back to the stage. Pamela hoped they would see or hear some performance because she wanted to get a sense of what Black Vulture—Ted Ballard—was actually like and this was evidently the place to find that out.

The young hostess handed the three women a long handbill which turned out to be a type of menu. She hurried away promising to return shortly for their order.

“This is weird,” said Arliss.

“Yes, dear,” agreed Joan, patting her hand, as she typically did when she sensed that Arliss might be headed for a meltdown, “but fun weird. Let’s just drink it all in.” Joan closed her eyes and gestured as if she were pushing nearby aromas closer to her nostrils.

“This looks actually good,” said Pamela, reading the long, curly menu. “A Tulip Kiss. It has Amaretto, chocolate, and vanilla ice cream.”

“Really?” said Joan, perking up. “Let me see.” She unrolled her paper menu and began perusing the various alcoholic offerings. “Ooo. Yummy.”

“Pam,” said Arliss, “do you really think you’re going to learn something meaningful about this Vulture fellow from this place?”

“I hope so,” replied Pamela, “Maybe we’ll hear a performance. That would really help. Don’t you think?”
“Vulcan’s Coffin!” exclaimed Arliss, reading from her rolled up menu, “Can you imagine? It sounds disgusting!”

“Have you ladies decided what you’d like?” asked the non-smiling waitress who had appeared miraculously at their table.

“I definitely want one of these Tulip Kisses,” said Pamela.

“Oh,” said Joan, “and I’ll have a Bloody Lover’s Revenge.” She smiled coyly.

“Arliss?” asked Pamela looking over at her friend, her head buried in the list of hundreds of strange drink names. “Arliss?” Arliss remained unresponsive. “She’ll have a “Vulcan’s Coffin.”

“No!” said Arliss.

“Yes,” said Pamela, taking the menu from Arliss’s hands, rolling it up, and handing it back to the waitress.

“A number four, a 21, and a 33,” said the bland woman, writing the order on her pad without comment, and then disappearing again into the darkness.

“Now why did you do that, Pam?” pouted Arliss.

”Because otherwise you would sit here until closing time trying to make up your mind. If you don’t like Vulcan’s Coffin, just order something else. As long as it has alcohol in it—it should work.”

“Yes, my dear,” agreed Joan. “You need to unwind. You’re far too uptight about all this wedding business. Just sit back and let Bob’s mother handle things. That’s what I’d do.”

“I’m not you, Joan,” countered Arliss, crossing her arms—in lieu of crossing her legs which were frozen solidly against Pamela’s and Joan’s kneecaps under the small table. “Oh, look, I think they’re going to play music.” She pointed towards the stage and appeared to be right. Several people (they could have been men or women) dressed all in black appeared on the small platform and began setting up equipment, and turning on amplifiers. One of them set up a microphone center stage and placed a wooden stool behind it.

“Not too many people here for a performance,” Pamela said, looking around. “We must be the largest part of their audience. Do you see anyone else?”

“I think I see some people in the back,” said Joan, peering over Pamela’s shoulder. “It’s hard to tell in this darkness.”

The glum waitress that had taken their order returned with a tray of their drinks. She slowly placed each beverage in front of each woman.

“These look amazing!” exclaimed Pamela.

“If they put Gummy Bears in this I’m going to puke,” said Arliss.

“It’s what you wanted, “ replied Joan.

“No, I didn’t,” said Arliss, “It’s what Pamela made me order.”

A tall blonde woman entered the stage and stood beside the microphone. Clapping from a few unseen people ensued. Pamela immediately joined in enthusiastically and Joan and Arliss followed suit. The blonde woman bowed and took her place on the stool and adjusted the mic. She opened what appeared to be a small notebook and began reading what sounded to be poetry—although Pamela wasn’t certain. Pamela recognized much of the imagery that she had seen in the poetry that Trudi Muldoon had showed them in Theodore Ballard’s dissertation. There was lots of death, gloom, darkness, torture, unrequited love, and other horrific images. The blonde reader spoke in a low, rumbling voice into the microphone:

“Death is daring me

Death is calling me

Come to me, Death.

Come be my lover.

Make love to me, Death.

Hold me in your arms

And smother me

With eternal kisses”

“Gross,” said Arliss, cringing.

“Now, dear,” said Joan, “doesn’t a Vulcan’s Coffin sound like a nice idea?”

The woman continued reading as activity went on around her. The bar tender continued making drinks—even using his blender on high speed which was very loud. The young reader didn’t seem to be cognizant of or bothered by the noise.

The sour waitress arrived back at their table just as Pamela had finished slurping through her Tulip Kiss. Wanting to drink another, but realizing that she had driven to their present location in her Civic and not wanting to end up in jail (that would really set off both Rocky and Detective Shoop), she pulled the waitress’s sleeve and whispered in her ear, “Do you always have entertainment in the afternoon?

The waitress responded in a monotone, her lips barely moving, “We usually have readers late in the afternoon most days. There are lots of would-be poets who want to perform. In the evenings we have bands. If you want to hear some of the bands, you’ll have to stick around until eight or so.”

“Did you happen to know this Black Vulture fellow who was killed on Saturday night at KRDN?”

The waitress looked at her for a second, as if to sense the sincerity of her question. Then she intoned, “We all knew him. Not well, really. But he was here often. He introduced a lot of bands that play here on his show.”

“Did anyone know him well?”

“I don’t think so. Black Vulture was really a loner. Too bad, too. There were a lot of girls in his classes—at the University, you know, who had a crush on him. But, he never seemed interested in anyone that I could tell. Mostly just interested in the music.”

“Alternative music?”

“Yeah,” she replied, shrugged and then turned abruptly and headed back to the kitchen.

“Pamela!” Pamela looked around to see who was calling her name. A tall, gawky form in a long navy blue raincoat was headed their way, squeezing between tables. When she arrived and stood before the three women, backlit by the spotlights from the platform, Pamela realized that she was looking at Trudi Muldoon, Rocky’s colleague from the English Department.

“Trudi,” she exclaimed, “What brings you here?”

“I’m here to find out more about Ted,” said Trudi.

“Really?” asked Pamela. “That’s why we’re here. Trudi, my friends and colleagues Joan Bentley and Arliss MacGregor from the Psychology Department. This is Trudi Muldoon, from the English Department. Her office is right across from Rocky’s—and she was Ted Ballard’s dissertation advisor.”

“Do tell,” said Joan, brightly.

“Could I interest you in a Vulcan’s Coffin?” asked Arliss, extending her half-finished drink to Trudi.

Trudi’s auspicious appearance enlivened the conversation as the three women had an unending series of questions for her. Pamela repeated for Trudi the waitress’s response about Ted Ballard not having any close friends but that a lot of the female students had a crush on him.

“That doesn’t surprise me,” said Trudi, who had opted for a Tulip Kiss too. Arliss continued to prod on the crunchy morsels in her drink. “He adopted that Romantic—and by romantic, I mean with a capital “R” look. The longish hair, dark, brooding look, dark clothes, boots, and even sometimes make-up.”

“Like lipstick?” asked Arliss, sticking out her tongue in disgust.

“No,” replied Trudi, “typically eye liner. I thought maybe he used white make-up sometimes. He was less obvious about it on campus. I got the idea that he pushed the envelope more when he was out and about in his persona as this ‘Black Vulture.’”

“Is that why you came here, Trudi?” asked Joan.

“Yes,” replied Trudi, slurping the last of her Tulip Kiss. “This is really good. But, yes, my students had told me that he tended to hang out here and had a following. He also recruited alternative bands from bands that played here, so I thought I might learn something if I came and waited around a while.”

“You didn’t happen to mention your plans to Rocky, did you?” asked Pamela, carefully.

“No,” Trudi answered, “should I have?”

“Tell me, Trudi,” said Pamela, obviously feeling a bit emboldened by the amazing Tulip Kiss, leaning against the table and staring at Trudi, “does your husband approve of your investigating the death of your student?”

“What?” said Trudi, sputtering.

“My dear,” said Joan to Trudi, interjecting her body between the two women, “Pamela’s husband is very protective and doesn’t like her to get involved in police matters, which, as you know, she has definitely done.”

“Oh, I see,” replied Trudi, laughing, her large front teeth protruding, “truthfully, I think it’s wonderful that Rocky cares so much about your welfare, Pamela. My husband is so totally wrapped up making model airplanes in the garage, that I hardly think he knows when I leave and when I return.” She laughed sadly, but loudly.

“We all have our crosses to bear,” exclaimed Arliss, pushing back a lock of her flyaway black hair and pulling on a chunk of Vulcan’s Coffin that was stuck between her front teeth.

“Don’t we though,” said Joan, smiling as she glanced around the table at her three companions. “So many problems caused by love.” The three women looked at her as she nodded wisely and sipped her drink which was only barely touched.

Chapter 24

Previous week--December 15, Saturday evening

After a pleasant supper in the restaurant of the Rambler’s Rest Stop, Daniel had returned to his room where he relaxed and napped for a while. Around eight o’clock he pressed Amy’s number on his iPhone and she answered on the second ring. She sounded sleepy.

“Don’t tell me you’re in bed this early?” he asked, leaning back against the headboard of his bed.

“Oh, Dan,” she responded, “I must have caught a virus or something. I felt terrible this morning and I didn’t even think I’d make it in to work.”

“I hope you stayed in bed,” he replied, immediately concerned, more by the sound of her voice than her report.

“No, actually,” she said, “I’m better now. It must have been one of the 24 hour bugs. I’m just beat though. Sam’s was packed. Have you met David?”

“Yes,” he said, “actually, we’re getting together again later tonight.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” he replied. “You know he’s a disc jockey. He’s got a Saturday night show that’s evidently a cult favorite around here. I’m going to go by the radio studio later and watch him do his thing.”

“That sounds promising,” she said, “and does he seem to be willing to return with you to see your father?”

“That part—not so much,” he replied, sighing, “but I haven’t given up. I think it’s more that he’s really busy with his graduate program and teaching, plus he doesn’t seem to think that father would appreciate him showing up. I tried to convince him otherwise.”

“Keep at it,” she advised. “If anyone can convince him, it’ll be you. You are relentless when you want something.”

“I thought I’d never convince you to give me a chance,” he whispered softly.

“As I said, relentless,” she whispered back.

“Umm, I miss you,” he said, “There’s just way too much distance between us. Holding my iPhone is not the same as your soft, smooth skin.”

“At least we can talk,” she said, “besides, I still look a little green, so you might not want to be close to me. I’m probably contagious.”

“If you still feel bad tomorrow,” he ordered her, “I want you to go to the clinic and get checked out. Better yet, I’ll call Knowles tonight and have him stop by your place tomorrow.”

“Now how would that look?” she asked. “Dr. Knowles doesn’t know about us—unless of course Harold Vickers clued him in. Besides, he has his hands full taking care of your father.”

“You’re right,” Daniel agreed. “But, I don’t want you getting worse. If you’re not better tomorrow, promise me, you’ll go get checked out.”