Martha Grimes - The Old Silent

Wiggins was blowing on his hands. "That he was sending someone from Wakefield headquarters. And that the coins from the call box matched the prints on the brandy decanter-Irene Citrine's. He added it didn't prove when the calls had been made."

"He's as hard to convince as Commander Macalvie," said Jury.

"Good for Sanderson. I take it this Citrine woman was one of Roger Healey's ladies?"

"It might have been pure greed and not love and greed. Rena's the poor Citrine. Everyone else in the family had money. Roger and Rena must have made a divine pair, both after his wife's money. They meant to kidnap Billy; Toby was there; they had two boys to deal with. Somehow Billy Healey got away. But they couldn't let Toby live to identify them later-"

"So Toby Holt goes into the grave," said Wiggins. "Dr. Dench was right about the age, then." Wiggins sounded almost disappointed.

Macalvie cut a look round at all of them. "No, he isn't."

"Why are you still arguing, Macalvie? The woman tried to kill him. You sound like Sanderson talking about the time the calls were made. That's a little after-the-fact, isn't it?"

"That is, but this isn't. So she tried to shoot someone -"

"You're worse than a pit bull."

Macalvie steamrolled on: "Psychologically, your theory won't wash, Jury. I told you. Instead of running home to his mum, which would be the natural thing, he disappears-"

"Can't we assume he was scared out of his mind?"

"Which is why he'd go running home. Or to some kind of sanctuary. Instead he goes off to Ireland. To Ireland ?"

Jury sighed. "I'm not saying at twelve he-"

"Some sanctuary." Macalvie sat with arms binding his chest, the brim of his loose tweed cap shown over his eyes. "This twelve-year-old piano prodigy just dusts himself off, grabs the ferry for Larne, becomes a guitarist, and lets his beloved step-mum sweat it out for eight years thinking he's dead. You got any Fisherman's Friends, Wiggins? I think I'll choke myself." Back and forth, back and forth, Macalvie slowly shook his head. "Uh-uh." He got up, drained the cup of tea. "I'm supposed to be in Sidmouth. Let me know what happens when the music dies." He nodded toward Melrose. "Plant's really into this; he's reading Segue ."

Melrose looked up. "Jimi Hendrix was left-handed."

"So?" Macalvie rose just as Mary Lee came out of the stage door again, moving between security police. She carried a tray with fresh cups and a plate of stale-looking sandwiches.

She shoved the tray onto the floor of the van: "Want another cuppa? And there's someone rung up to talk to-just a tic…" She pulled a scrap of paper from her shoe, which she seemed to regard as the only proper place for safekeeping, like a safety deposit box, and read, "-Chief Superintendent Macalver." She emphasized the second syllable.

"Mac-al-vie," he said. "What someone?"

"A woman. Said to call right away."

Muttering imprecations, Macalvie jumped down from the van, nearly upsetting the tray and definitely upsetting Mary Lee who said, " You ? You said you was from Juke Blues ."

"I do that part time because I can't make a living as a cop." He patted her cheek. "Don't worry; your picture will be all over the papers. Where's the nearest phone?"

With some show of hostility she said, "I expect you could use my office."

Macalvie turned to leave, turned back again and called to Jury, "If you're so sure, Jury, why aren't you on the phone to Wakefield headquarters? I imagine Mrs. Healey would like to know he's alive."

He went off through the driving rain.

The first to come out was Stan Keeler, followed by Stone. The drizzle had turned to a steady downpour and the cigarette turned soggy in his mouth. " That was some play, man." He dropped the cigarette on the ground. "Am I nuts or was that a bullet that spun Wes around? Is some crazy trying to make a statement they don't like Sirocco? What the hell was going on in there?" He didn't seem to expect any answers. "Your friend was very persuasive. So where's this new landlady he was telling me about?"

"Front of the theater. You can't miss her. Red hair, silver jacket, beautiful nose."

Stan grinned. " Aw-right ." He turned to the black Labrador.

Stone was already halfway down the alley.

"The last number; they'll be out in a minute," said Wiggins in answer to Jury's question. "Got to keep your strength up, sir." The sergeant pushed the paper plate toward him. Wiggins was munching on one of Mary Lee's cheese sandwiches. The bread was curling up on the edges. Jury picked up a pale-looking round and then put it down.

He imagined himself sitting in the lounge of the Old Silent, staring down at his plate after the conversation with Sanderson. It wasn't, he realized now, anything Sanderson or he had said, it was the plate. The detail which then had tried to surface now did.

Wiggins was talking to him about the chap whose job it had been to monitor the spotlight. "He could identify her, sir. Why didn't she kill him if she was that desperate?"

Jury stared at his sergeant without answering. He had his own personal allergist sitting right there before him. "Wiggins, people can outgrow allergies, can't they?"

Wiggins looked perplexed by his superior's interest in a subject Jury generally considered as fascinating as one of Racer's preachments. He was, nonetheless, delighted to hold forth at some length about the various types of allergic reactions. "Billy Healey's?" Wiggins frowned. "Doubtful. His was very serious."

"Then I don't imagine he'd be eating a ploughman's." He looked from the sandwiches to his sergeant. "Lunch. Consisting mainly of cheese."

Wiggins stopped the cup of tea on the way to his mouth. "If you'd only told me what he had for lunch-"

"Duckworth's column," said Melrose, "mentions the eccentricities of some guitarists. Hendrix was left-handed and restrung right-handed guitars because he thought they were probably superior."

"What's the point? Charlie Raine's a right-handed guitarist."

"He taught himself to play by looking at instruction books and naively assumed the guitar had to be held that way. Mirror-image." He tossed Jury the magazine. "By now, he's ambidextrous. But he was born left-handed."

"Remind me to ring up Dr. Dench," said Wiggins, smugly.

The band came out.

Jury jumped down from the van and walked over to Wes Whelan. One arm of his red shirt was caked with blood. "You amaze me. You didn't even drop a beat. That was the most acrobatic turn I've ever seen." He shook his hand.

Grinning, he said, "You forgot? I grew up in Derry with the IRA." He looked at his shirt. "This is but a scratch. Nothing a tall a tall. It only grazed me."

"You all showed incredible presence of mind."

Jiminez laughed; it was very deep, very throaty. "Man, we were so into things I doubt we even knew what was goin' on until Stan Keeler came out on that stage. Don't give us no credit."

Jury smiled. "No, of course not. Where's Charlie?"

Swann motioned over his shoulder. "In there. Hates to leave the stage, Charlie does." He pushed back his golden hair and smiled.

"Don't wait for him," said Jury as they started piling into the limousine.

"If you're going to the Ritz," said Melrose, "may I hitch a ride?"

He was sitting on the bottom level of the black platform in the center of the stage, a towel round his neck, holding the white Fender, plucking a string, plucking another, playing a chord as if some ghostly remnant of that shouting, ecstatic audience still sat out there in the rows of empty seats, as if there were the lingering echo of applause.

Perhaps because of the way he sat there, looking out, the theater seemed not so much empty as abandoned. In the aisles a couple of lads were cleaning up the detritus of the concert, but they left, lugging plastic bags behind them. A clutch of roadies were standing at the rear of the stage looking out, smoking, talking. Wondering, probably, what the hell had gone on in here tonight.