Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 140, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 853 & 854, September/October 2012

Final Vinyl by Brynn Bonner

Brynn Bonner is the pseudonym of a North Carolina writer who debuted in EQMM’s Department of First Stories in 1998 with the Robert L. Fish Award-winning story “Clarity.” She has since been a regular contributor to EQMM. This new story brings back the protagonist of 2007’s “Jangle,” vinyl record shop owner Sessions Seabolt. “Jangle” is now available on audio (http://www.sniplits.com/mystery_stories.jsp). The author’s debut novel, Lies and Embellishments, is due out soon.

It’s ridiculous the lengths I’ll go to when stalking a rare vinyl record. It’s the thrill of the hunt. Some quest for shipwrecks, gold, the Fountain of Youth, but for this woman, the treasure is rare vintage vinyl records. And I’d be willing to stand up in a room full of people seated on rickety folding chairs drinking rank coffee and confess out loud, “My name is Session Seabolt and I am a vinyl addict.”

On this Monday morning I’d left my record shop in Raleigh, North Carolina before daylight and headed west. Two hours into the drive I hit a torrential rainstorm that seemed to be stalking me. I had a white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel as I leaned toward the windshield, squinting to negotiate the hairpin switchbacks up into the Great Smoky Mountains to the cabin of a fellow vinyl junkie, Darby Brenner. He called last night and rattled off a list of fifteen albums he’d decided he could let go from his collection — at a bargain price — among them the Yardbirds’ 1965 For Your Love, near mint.

As it happened, I’d had a call just last week from a collector in Philly. He’s a dead-serious Eric Clapton completist intent on owning every recording Clapton even plucked a string on. The Yardbirds, Cream, Blind Faith, Derek and the Dominos. Sideman stuff with John Mayhall’s Bluesbreakers, Delaney and Bonnie, Lennon’s Plastic Ono Band — everything. He’d asked me to keep a lookout for this exact Yardbirds album and hinted he might be persuaded to pay premium for it.

But I’d have made the trip anyhow. Darby Brenner and I have been friends since childhood. We’re both rock-band spawn. My dad is Sonny Seabolt, one of the founding members of Copper Hill, a Southern-rock band with many things in common with the Allman Brothers. Unfortunately tax bracket isn’t one of them. They did okay, enough for the guys to live comfortably now that they’re getting to be golden oldies. But Darby’s mother, Sarah, a. k. a. SuzyQ, was one of the two female members of the quartet Squares in Pairs. They made a mint. Though the band’s schtick was dressing like nerds, complete with horn-rimmed glasses and pocket protectors, Sarah didn’t carry the part over into her real life. She was a wild woman. As far as I know, Darby’s father’s identity remains a mystery even to Sarah.

My mother ran off when I was a toddler, so I was raised by a rock band — yet I survived. Darby was raised mostly by a housekeeper named Nadine Blackwell, but he survived too — and so did Nadine. In fact, she’s still looking after him. We were lucky to each have a parent who cared about us, even if their parenting skills were marginal. But we’d both had chaotic childhoods and now, pushing thirty, we’re like old combat veterans still sharing foxhole stories.

The seal on our bond is that we’re both hooked on vinyl. A couple of years back I gave up my career as a CPA for my dream of opening a vinyl-record store. I’m struggling financially, but so happy I fear any day I might break into a Marie Osmond medley right there in the middle of the store and embarrass myself. As for Darby, SuzyQ apparently felt some guilt over her substandard mothering and assuaged it by giving him an early inheritance. Upon his twenty-first birthday he became, if not filthy rich, at least somewhat soiled. And to everyone’s surprise, including Darby’s, he has a flair for business and quickly turned a small fortune into a bountiful one.

I laughed as I rounded a bend and Darby’s abode came into view. He still insists on calling it a cabin even though the original 700-square-foot structure he bought six years ago — along with half the mountain — has been swallowed up in the 3,000 square feet he’s added since. Now another wing was sprouting from the south side of the residence, excavation was under way for a pool, and the skeleton of a pool house was silhouetted against the brooding gray cloudbank.

By the time I pulled up in Darby’s driveway the rain had lost ambition and dissolved into a mist so fine it seemed suspended in the air. Before I’d even put the car in park, Darby was out the door from the central atrium he added last year and bounding out to shelter me with an umbrella. He crooked an arm around my neck by way of greeting and we headed for the atrium in lockstep. Darby only tops my five-seven by an inch or so and with his blond hair in a Beatlesque moptop and my own blondish pixie cut, we must have looked like grown-up Bobbsey twins.

“Glad you made it out,” he said, “sorry I didn’t arrange better weather.”

As I crossed the threshold, I marveled anew at the atrium. It was built in a lodge style with exposed beams and a river-rock fireplace that spanned an entire wall and tapered to the two-story ceiling. All very rustic, but this was Darby’s listening room and I knew he’d brought in an acoustic engineer to design the space. Just behind it was his private record library, a climate-controlled maze of shelves and bins filled with LPs, 78s, and 45s, the inventory catalogued only in Darby’s head.

“Hope you can stay and hang out,” he said.

“Awhile, but I want to get back at a decent hour tonight. Where’s Beth?”

“Oh, she’s around here somewhere,” he said, looking around as if he’d misplaced his wife.

“She’s right here,” came a voice from behind me. She was decked out in her usual hippie gear, a long-tiered skirt of many colors and a torso-hugging T-shirt, but bowing to the chilly weather she’d foregone the requisite Birkenstocks for boots. With her honey-blond hair caught up in a ponytail she looked even younger than she had on their wedding day a little over a year ago. Darby may not have felony-robbed the cradle, but he’d pickpocketed it.

“Hey, Session,” Beth said.

As usual, I couldn’t read her. Was she happy to see me, irritated I was there, or simply didn’t care either way? I hey-ed her back.

“Want me to bring you two in some lunch?” she asked Darby. “Cook has made up a pot of mushroom soup that smells fantastic.”

“Yeah, that’d be good,” Darby said, without looking up from where he was sorting through a stack of LPs. “Bring us a couple of bowls and crackers and stuff.”

As Beth turned to go Darby added, “And Beth, don’t call her Cook. She hates that. Her name is Nadine. Call her by her name.”

Beth opened her mouth to say something, then seemed to think better of it and went on her way.

“Want to listen to some tunes?” Darby asked, holding up a beautiful copy of Nick Drake’s Fruit Tree, a 1986 release on the Hannibal label.

“Not if that’s the copy you’re selling me,” I said. “I wouldn’t want to risk scratching it.” I could see the vinyl was shiny and the jacket was in pristine condition, no fading or scrub marks. I’d get $200 for this album alone.

“Naw, this is my play copy,” he said, “it’s a first pressing, you’re not gonna believe the sound.”

He settled the record onto a turntable I was pretty sure cost more than my car, lifted the stylus, and pointed me toward an armless lounge chair while he rested the needle into the lead-in groove. As “Pink Moon” filled the atrium it was like being bathed in sound. I closed my eyes and listened, trying to ignore the fact that I’d recently heard this song on a car commercial — pure blasphemy!

“Oh, I love this song.” I heard a familiar voice and opened my eyes to see Nadine, Darby’s longtime housekeeper and second mama, bustling into the room with a tray laden with steaming soup bowls and all manner of accoutrement.

“You love practically every song, Nadine,” I said, standing to get a hug.

“Guilty as charged,” she laughed. “How are you, Session? Haven’t seen you in a blue moon, nor a pink one either for that matter.”

Just then the outside door to the atrium burst open. We all whirled to see a hulking figure framed in the doorway. I didn’t recognize him at first. The rain had picked up again and he was dripping wet and his face was doing a good imitation of the thundercloud outside. Noland Nicholson was a record hound I’d met through Darby. They were good buddies — or at least I’d thought so up until this moment.

“So, it’s true!” he shouted, taking long strides toward Darby. “You’re selling off? And you’re selling to her? He turned in my direction and seemed to notice his own accusatory finger poking the air. “Hey, Session, no offense, how ya doin’?” he said offhandedly, then turned back to Darby with full ire. “You told me you’d give me first crack. You said if I pushed this job to the front of the line,” he motioned toward the outside construction, “you’d sell to me! We had a deal!”

“That was before the place didn’t pass inspection, Noland,” Darby said. “You’re the owner of the company; take some pride, man. Like I’ve been telling you, you do shoddy work, there’s consequences. The deal’s off!”

Nadine and I must have looked like spectators at a tennis match as we followed volleys of accusation and insult until I feared they’d come to blows.

“Darby!” came a small but commanding voice as Beth ran into the room. “For pity’s sake! Calm down! This is ridiculous.” She waded in between the two men, putting stiff arms out to referee. “You should both be ashamed. You’ve been friends forever and you’re going to act like this over a pile of cardboard and plastic?”

“Vinyl!” we all corrected in unison.

“Vinyl,” she repeated, rolling her eyes. As she continued to dress them down like a mommy scolding misbehaving children, both Darby and Noland began to study their shoes and I got a vision of my sweet deal circling the drain. I was bummed, but not upset enough to get in the middle of whatever this mess was to try to save it.

Noland had left the door to the atrium standing open and now two more men appeared, dressed in yellow slickers. They stood, solemnly appraising the situation.

“Have we come at a bad time?” the shorter man finally asked.

Noland glared at the man as Darby motioned them inside. Nadine went to close the door. I noticed she threw the latch this time to shut out any more troubles. She stared at the unfolding scene, her lips set in a hard line.

“Hello, Ted,” Noland said, spitting each word as if it were a foul taste.

“Noland,” the man nodded by way of greeting. “You’ll be happy to hear everything passed. You’re clear to start the electrical.”

“Shoulda been clear the first time around,” Noland tossed back.

“Look, Noland,” the man said, “this isn’t high school, I’m doing my job. It’s like I told your man John here,” he jerked his thumb at the tall man standing behind him, “it wasn’t his fault. I say John Daws is one of the best construction foremen I know. They changed the code last year and anybody could have missed this.”

“Well, if it’s not my foreman’s fault, and it’s not your fault, whose fault is it?” Noland persisted, but it was clear he was having to strain to keep up the bluster.

“Nobody’s, Noland. It was just one of those things,” replied the man named Ted, who I’d now surmised was a building inspector. “You’re all set now and there’s no reason for anybody to be ticked off about it anymore.”

Noland’s foreman, John Daws, stood silent and expressionless through the whole exchange. He stared straight ahead as they discussed him as if he weren’t there. He was a large man with features that hinted at a Cherokee heritage and was clearly no stranger to manual labor.

Noland started to argue, but Darby cut in. “Ted’s right, Noland. Beth too. This has gone on long enough. I’ve been an ass. I don’t know what got into me.”

He turned his big brown eyes on me in silent supplication. I flapped a hand even as I mentally added up gas money and time lost on this useless excursion.

“I’ll make it up to you, Session,” he said, “I promise.”

Beth rubbed his shoulder. “That’s good. Now, can I get anybody anything?”

I saw a sour look come over Nadine’s face as she caught a few loose strands of salt-and-pepper hair, capturing it with the clasp at the nape of her neck. She didn’t exactly harrumph — not out loud, anyway — but it was clear she didn’t think Beth capable of functioning as hostess.

Lurking in the doorway that led off to the kitchen I saw a boy who looked to be in his teens. Beth followed my eyes and waved him in. “Everyone, this is my little brother, Kyle. Kyle, say hello.”

Kyle shuffled into the room but didn’t seem inclined to say hello, or anything else. He stared ahead; his eyes — or at least the one I could see — were dark and brooding. His hair, blue-black as a raven’s wing, was shaved close on the sides and back but long on top, one clump falling to his nose.

When the silence stretched beyond good manners, Beth blushed and herded him out of the room.

Darby looked after them and sighed before turning back to us. “Take a load off, Noland,” he said, “we’ll work this all out. How ’bout you, Ted? Lousy day out, we’ve got hot soup and we’re listening to some good tunes. Can you stay a bit?”

Ted let himself be convinced and the foreman, John Daws, headed for the door, never having uttered a word. No one seemed to note his leaving except Nadine, who intercepted him and unlatched the door to let him out. I saw a look pass between them, but couldn’t begin to guess what it might mean.

I glanced at my watch, calculating how long I’d need to stay to be polite now that my business here was a bust, and decided a couple of hours would do. After all, it was Darby who needed to stay in my good graces since he’d reneged on our deal.

The soup was outstanding, served up in huge crockery bowls along with hot crusty bread, and, as always, Darby’s playlist was a great listen. In addition to their musical opinions, I learned Noland and Ted had played football together in high school. “I did all the work and he got all the glory,” Noland said, a line so glib it was clear this was a regular routine. “I was a lineman,” he went on, “opened up holes you could drive a truck through. All Ted had to do was sashay up the field and into the end zone — and the crowd would go wild. While he was doing his little victory dance I’d be limping to the sidelines to have some body part iced.”

“Hey, but I’m the one who gave you your start with this collecting thing,” Ted grinned. “Remember? I went over to CDs and gave you all my LPs. ’Course, you didn’t tell me they were going to be worth this kind of money someday.”

“Foresight,” Noland said, tapping his temple. “I may be brawny, but I’ve got my full share of brains.”

They argued over the best renditions of the songs Darby spun — who did the best cover of Neil Young’s “Helpless.” Whose styling of Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah” was superior. Why do guys always have to argue? They may as well have stood on a table, thumped their chests, and bellowed.

Beth never came back into the room, but I had a hunch she was somewhere close by. I felt as if we were being watched and thought I caught movement in the doorway a couple of times.

About four o’clock Ted decided he’d best get back on the job and I figured this was an opening for me to take my leave, but Darby, who was in fine spirits by then, asked me to stay awhile longer. He disappeared into the inner sanctum of his record room and came out ten minutes later cradling a stack of albums.

“Noland, I really am sorry about the way I’ve been acting, man. You can buy those albums at the price I quoted Session.” He nodded toward the table. “And I know you’ve always lusted after this one, so take it as my peace offering.” He handed over an LP and I was perplexed by Noland’s jubilant reaction. It was Grand Funk Railroad’s 1973 We’re an American Band. It’s a nice album, stamped on gold vinyl, but only worth twenty to thirty dollars and Noland was carrying on like he’d hit the lottery. Darby saw my frown. “He’s a colored-vinyl freak and this one’s got the four stickers included. He’s been looking for one that’s complete for years.”

That explained it. This had nothing to do with monetary value, it was Noland’s personal Moby Dick.

Darby placed the rest of the albums into a crate and set it at my feet. “Restitution,” he said. “I think these will make it up to you.”

I reached for the crate, asking about content and price, but he stayed my hand. “It’s a surprise collection, a gift — an apology. Look at them later.”

I left the guys as they were starting in on a new playlist and went to the kitchen to say goodbye to Nadine. I found her at the back door talking in low tones with John Daws. She looked flustered when she saw me. Daws gave me a level look, nodded once, and walked away.

“There are always questions,” Nadine said, nodding vaguely toward the construction area. “Darby’s not one to get involved in the particulars if it’s got nothing to do with his records, and his bride,” she made the word sound frivolous, “can’t decide what to wear in the morning so it falls to me.”

“And you’ve already got plenty to do,” I said sympathetically. “I wanted to say goodbye to Beth, but I can’t find her.”

“She’s off somewhere with her brother,” Nadine said.

“Is her brother living here now?”

“Gawd, no!” Nadine said. “He’s just here for two weeks. One down, one to go. Honest to Pete, there’s something wrong with that kid. He gives me the willies.”

“Making adults squirm is a popular teen pastime, Nadine. As I recall, Darby went through a Goth phase that creeped you out a bit.”

“Oh, Session, do not remind me of that,” she said, but a grin spread across her face, pleating up wrinkles she otherwise managed to hide.

“He grew out of it,” I said. “Kyle will probably end up as a respectable dentist or some such thing.”

This time Nadine did harrumph out loud.

I didn’t look in the surprise crate until I was in the car. There were eighteen albums, all superior to the ones Darby had lured me out here with in the first place, and he’d given these to me. The offering of atonement was way overdone and I supposed I should have felt guilty about taking them, but I didn’t.

I drove home through a now clear North Carolina evening, with the Indigo Girls’ “Closer to Fine” blaring through the car’s speakers. It’s one of my favorite road-trip songs and as I sang along I was feeling pretty freakin’ fine myself. I should have known I was tempting fate.

I was bragging to Dave the next morning in the shop’s workroom. “It looked bleak there for a while, but in the end I scored big.” I pointed to the albums on the table.

Dave works for me — sort of. He’s not much on chain-of-command. We’ve known each other too long and he’s older and continues to treat me like a kid sister. He pretty much defines his job however he pleases, which is fine by me; I couldn’t make it without him — in the business or in my life. He’s my best bud.

He whistled long and low as he thumbed through the albums. “If Darby just handed these over, he must have been feeling a whole lotta guilt.”

I told him how the afternoon had unraveled and Dave shook his head. “Boys and their toys. Must have been a pretty bad wrangle. I don’t know Noland that well, but Darby’s not one to welsh on a deal.”

My cell phone chimed and at first I thought I had a bad connection, then realized the caller was sobbing. “Session, you’ve gotta come. It’s all messed up. I don’t know what to do. Darby wants you here.”

“Beth? What’s wrong? What’s happened?” I cringed, wondering if I was about to get sucked into playing marriage counselor — a role for which I am woefully ill equipped.

“He’d dead!” Beth wailed. “Noland’s dead and they think Darby killed him.”

Beth bawled on, growing more hysterical. I couldn’t get a grasp on the details, but the broad strokes were bad enough. I tried to calm her and told her I’d be out as soon as I could make arrangements.

My unfortunate response to stress is to get the inappropriate giggles and I felt the first one gurgling up as I switched off my cell. Dave knows this is a sign of sure trouble and I saw a frown stitch itself across his forehead.

The landline in the shop rang and I instinctively picked it up, trying to get control of myself. The caller identified himself as Sheriff’s Deputy Jared Fowler. In a deep, serious voice, he asked some perfunctory questions to establish my identity before dropping the hammer. “Sheriff Neal Pierce has dispatched me to Raleigh to question you about events you witnessed yesterday. We ask that you stay where you are and not discuss this with anyone until I’ve had a chance to talk with you. I’m on the road now, I’ll be there in less than an hour.”

I told him I understood, placed the receiver back into the cradle, and immediately began to discuss every last detail with Dave.

I asked Bliss, one of the shop’s uber-dedicated part-timers, to take over and waited in the workroom where I could pace. I had so many questions. But when the deputy arrived he insisted on going first. Had I been at Darby’s house yesterday? Did I witness an altercation between him and Noland? Who else was present? Could I supply a list of the albums Darby had sold to Noland and estimate their worth? I answered as succinctly as possible and read off the list of albums I’d jotted down on the pad beside my phone when Darby called two nights ago to make the offer.

“As far as value,” I said, “anybody off the street could probably get fifteen hundred dollars total. I’d get more because I know a lot of collectors and what they’re looking for.”

Deputy Fowler was young and strikingly handsome. He maintained his professional scowl and scribbled in a little notebook. I’d insisted that Dave stay with me as my counsel. I never claimed he was a lawyer, could I help it if the deputy jumped to conclusions? And anyway, for all I knew, Dave really did hold a law degree. I’m surprised on a regular basis by things that pop up from his past.

I pride myself on staying calm in emergencies — except for the giggling thing — but I heard a definite edge creeping into my voice as I asked my own questions. Deputy Fowler gave me a reassuring smile — he had a nice smile. “Look,” he said, dropping the professional-cop bearing, “it looks bad for Darby right now, but frankly, I don’t think the actual evidence will amount to much in the end. It’s true that Noland was found dead in Darby’s atrium, and it’s true that Darby was passed out — snockered to the gills — in the same room. And yeah, maybe Darby’s fingerprints are on the pottery bowl somebody used to whack Noland in the head, but I suspect those things can all be explained away. I mean, I know Darby; he’s not that kind of guy. ’Course, I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t tell the sheriff I’ve expressed that opinion. He already thinks I’m soft on this one.”

“You’re friends with Darby, Deputy Fowler?” I asked.

“Yeah, I’d like to think so,” he said. “I’ve known him since he moved to the mountain. I go up to his house and listen to tunes with him once in a while. He’s got me started with a little record collection of my own. I’m not in his league — or yours — but I’ve got a few good ones. And hey,” he leaned toward me and lowered his voice, “just call me plain old Jared — but don’t tell the sheriff I said that either, okay?”

“No, ’course not.” I struggled to stifle a giggle lest he misinterpret it.

“Has Darby been charged?” I asked.

“’Fraid so, but they’re calling it manslaughter — heat of passion and all. He’ll make bail. And as you know, money’s not an issue for Darby. Try not to worry. ”

Dave moved up behind me and we watched as Deputy Fowler made his way across the shop to the door, turning the heads of a couple of female customers.

“Depity-Dawg’s got himself a little witness crush. Call me Jared,” Dave mimicked, lowering his voice.

“That’s ridiculous. Stop making jokes, ” I snapped. “Dave, a man is dead.”

“Yeah, tell it to the deputy,” Dave drawled. “Pretty inappropriate occasion for him to be hitting on you.”

“He wasn’t. You’re just being — well, you. You should be happy. You heard him, he knows Darby’s innocent. I can’t believe any of this. Noland’s dead? And Darby — I’m going out there right now. Can you cover the shop for me?”

“Nope,” Dave said. “If Bliss can’t stay I’ll call Tracker and have him come in. I’m going with you. Think of me as Deputy Dave — but you can call me just plain ol’ Dave.”

Beth sat at the kitchen table alternating between choking out disjointed sentences and popping another tissue from the half-empty box on the table. So far I’d learned that Darby was in custody and would be arraigned the following morning. “Unless somebody comes to their senses by then,” Nadine huffed. Until then, no visitors and no phone privileges.

Dave had gone down to town to nose around, an activity he’s incredibly good at. Dave knows people everywhere and because he lets a lot of quiet into his conversations people tend to babble on to fill the spaces, ofttimes telling him things they didn’t intend to tell.

My approach is a little less polished. “What in God’s name happened?” I asked Beth and Nadine.

“I don’t know!” Beth wailed, the tears spilling over again. “But whatever it was, I know Darby didn’t do it. He’d never hurt anybody.”

“It’s okay, Beth,” I said, trying to sound soothing. I’m not the world’s most patient person, I admit that, and ordinarily I’d have to resist the impulse to shake her into sensibility, but she looked so pitifully young and confused I felt for her. She was, in fact, young. Darby had met her when she was a college sophomore volunteering with one of his pet environmental causes. Smitten, he’d put on the full court press and three months later they were married.

Nadine offered me coffee, bless her, and when she came to pour, Beth latched onto her hand. “Nadine, can’t you just come and sit with us — please.”

Nadine looked taken aback by the gesture, but she sat and patted Beth’s hand awkwardly.

“You’re the one who found him, Nadine?” I asked.

She nodded. “Early this morning, before daylight. Couldn’t sleep and came down to start breakfast. Thought Darby and Beth might like to eat in the atrium so I went in to start a fire in the fireplace and there Noland was, sprawled out on the floor. I knew right off he was for good and all dead even before I saw the blood on the back of his head. Then I saw Darby slumped in a chair and it was all I could do to get my heart beating a rhythm again. I thought he was dead too, but then he groaned. He smelled like a distillery and the bottle of scotch one of his business people gave him for Christmas was sitting on the table nearly empty. I knew he’d brought it out for Noland but I just couldn’t believe he’d been drinking. You know he had a problem. He swore off years ago.”

“He wasn’t!” Beth insisted. “He wouldn’t. I told the sheriff, Darby knows better.”

“What did Darby have to say? Have you talked to him?” I asked.

“Just when I found him,” Nadine sighed, “ but he wasn’t making good sense. He was talking wild and swore he couldn’t remember anything since yesterday morning. I called nine-one-one and the sheriff and the ambulance came. Look, Session, I know good and well Darby would never hurt another living thing, but I can’t explain any of it. Right now I’m just praying hard as I can somebody will get to the truth.”

“Where were you two when it happened?” I asked.

“We don’t know when it happened, but it had to have been after seven o’clock last night,” Nadine said. If she was offended by my questions she didn’t show it. She frowned as if working through the timeline in her own mind. “Those two were still listening to music and I took them in some supper then went down to town to a movie. I wish to God I’d stayed home. I got home about midnight and music was still coming from the atrium so I went on to bed.”

“And you?” I asked Beth gently. “Where were you? Did you hear anything?”

Beth hesitated. “I wasn’t here either. I was—” She popped another tissue from the box and I held my breath, waiting for another meltdown. “I went looking for Kyle,” she said finally. “He’s gotten sort of wild. That’s why my folks sent him here. They thought being out here isolated in nature for a couple of weeks would be good for him, but he’s made friends with a guy from the construction crew and he’s been sneaking out to do stuff with him. I was making the rounds at the clubs and bars looking for him.”

“Did you find him?” I asked.

“Eventually,” Beth said. “I had to drag him out of a bar and I guess I made a scene. He’s underage and they let him in, that’s not right! He’s furious with me for embarrassing him, but I can’t think about that right now.”

“What time did you and Kyle get back?” I asked.

“It must have been around two in the morning. The music was still playing then too,” she looked to Nadine. “That was a long time for them to be at it.”

Nadine shrugged. “Not for those two.” She turned up both hands as if she couldn’t think of anything to add, then rose. “I’ve got to clean up after those crime-tech people. Nasty fingerprint dust all over everything.” She swiped at a smudge on the counter and started to unload the dishwasher. “They don’t show this part on the TV shows — who has to clean up their mess. And Beth, would you ask your brother to stop leaving drinking glasses in his room. There’s one missing from this tall set Darby likes.”

“Sorry, yes, I’ll remind him,” Beth said, her voice a study in misery.

Nadine looked as if she wished she could call that one back. This was, after all, no time to be worrying over kitchenware.

“So the crime techs are done here?” I asked.

“In most of the house,” Nadine said, running the faucet to get hot water. “But they’ve got the atrium sealed, we’re not allowed in there.”

“I don’t think I can ever go in there again,” Beth said with a shudder.

As it turned out, Beth didn’t have a choice. An hour later Sheriff Neal Pierce showed up with Deputy Fowler trailing behind him. Sheriff Pierce had already called my shop and learned I was here and seemed mighty pleased. “Saves me sending Deputy Fowler to fetch you,” he said.

Deputy Fowler — Jared, I corrected in my head — nodded briskly, but when the sheriff turned away he gave me a warm smile and again I felt relieved knowing Darby had an ally in law enforcement.

“I’d like each of you to walk the crime scene with me,” the sheriff said, making me shudder as Beth had earlier. “Miss Blackwell, we’ll start with you since you know the house best and were first on the scene.”

When the two had left the room Jared again let the professional veneer drop. “Darby’s holding up okay,” he said, glancing toward the door. “He’s upset, and hungover, but he’s in a good frame of mind. Beth, he asked me to tell you not to worry. He’ll be home soon.”

When it was my turn to go into the atrium, Sheriff Pierce handed me booties to put over my shoes and instructed me to put my hands in my jeans pockets and keep them there so I wouldn’t be tempted to touch anything. I wanted to hate the man, but he seemed kind, like everybody’s favorite uncle. “I know you’re a friend of Brenner’s, and I know you want to help him,” he said. “Just answer my questions as honestly as you can. The facts have freed as many men as they’ve caught.”

Just like in the movies, a chalk body outline was traced on the stone of the atrium floor and onto the edge of a rug. I coughed to mask a renegade chuckle and was relieved when the sheriff steered me toward Darby’s record room.

“I’m not going to be any help to you here, Sheriff,” I said. “I’ve never been in this room.”

“Never?” he asked, frowning.

“Not since it was under construction. This was Darby’s private realm.”

The sheriff took my elbow, guiding me around a couple of small numbered easels on the floor. I spotted stains on the carpet. Blood?

“Well, maybe you can help me with this,” he said. “These records here,” he pointed to a stack on the countertop, “match up with the list you gave Deputy Fowler yesterday, so I take it these are the ones that caused the dispute?”

With gloved hands he started to hold the albums up to me, one by one. “Maybe the deal went sour again after you left. The records ended up back here in what you’re telling me is Brenner’s private room.”

“Those are probably not the actual same records,” I said.

The sheriff looked puzzled.

“Darby’s a hard-core collector,” I said. “He’d never have sold off an album if he didn’t own a duplicate in better condition. I imagine he pulled the records and sorted them before we got here yesterday. Those are likely duplicates. Didn’t you find the others out in the atrium?”

The sheriff didn’t answer. He started to examine random albums from the shelves. “He’s got six of these,” he mused, showing me a Jethro Tull Aqualung.

“Probably a quadraphonic and a stereo on the blue label and maybe a green label with the different studio address. Could be a Japanese or British release in there as well. Then, of course, he’d have his playing copy.”

“So you’re telling me there are fine points to this collecting thing,” he said. “These,” he swept his hand to take in the room, “are different from the crates of musty old albums I see people peddling at the flea market.”

I nodded. “Yeah, except sometimes you find a prize in those musty crates. But you have to know what to look for. Not every album is collectible.”

Back out in the atrium I looked around but didn’t spot the stack of albums that had set all this in motion. I thought about telling the sheriff how generous Darby had been in making amends for the broken deal, to show Darby was an honorable guy, but I thought it might sound desperate. The sheriff asked more questions and at some point I realized he was doing a solid reconstruction of events, retracing to fill in details. I was grudgingly impressed. Finally he asked me if I saw anything that seemed out of place or noteworthy.

“That,” I said, pointing to the turntable. “That’s odd. Darby would never have stacked records like that.”

Sheriff Pierce frowned. “Isn’t that the point of these things? You stack five or six records and it changes them automatically?”

“For casual listeners, yes, but when the top record drops onto the stack they scrub against one another. Darby’s fastidious about his records.”

“Would Nicholson have done it?”

“I doubt it,” I said. “I mean, I didn’t know Noland all that well, but he’s — he was — a pretty serious collector too. And anyway, like the record room, this turntable is strictly Darby’s domain.”

Beth insisted we stay at the house and directed Dave and me down a long hall to the guest wing where I’d stayed a couple of times in the past. I was struck again by how spread out the house was. Beth and Darby’s bedroom, as well as Nadine’s, was in a twin wing on the opposite side of the public rooms. Even if anyone had been home last night they wouldn’t have heard anything. We seemed miles from the atrium.

After Nadine brought us a stack of towels and started the trek back to her own room Dave came in and flopped on my bed, spilling what he’d garnered from his afternoon of nosing around.

“First off, the consensus on Noland is that he was basically a nice guy, but he had a flare for saying the wrong thing at the wrong time, and a habit of pushing people’s buttons. That little dust-up yesterday with Ted Mayhall, the inspector, wasn’t their first. And it was no secret he was hard on his foreman, John Daws.

“Well, there you go,” I said, “people with motive.”

“Yeah, but he and Darby have mixed it up a few times too. Publicly. I gotta tell you, Session, it looks bad for Darby.”

A shiver went up my spine. I told Dave what I’d found out from Nadine and Beth and about my walk-through with the sheriff.

Dave scratched at his two-day growth of beard and mulled this over. “Time of death was between nine and eleven last night.”

I looked him a question.

“Got a friend in the lab,” he drawled. “So maybe that puts Nadine elsewhere — and I say maybe. But does it clear Beth? She say what time she left here?”

“No!” I said. “Are you crazy? Why would either of them want to hurt Noland Nicholson? Beth’s all peace and love; she couldn’t hurt a fly. Nadine either.”

“Not even to protect Darby?”

“Protect him from what?”

Dave shrugged. “Still some holes in the theory.”

“Still some holes in your head,” I snarked, but he’d planted a seed and despite myself I felt suspicion growing.

“I wonder what time Kyle went AWOL,” I mused aloud.

“Ten minutes till ten he was out at the main road waiting for a kid named Nate from the construction crew to pick him up.”

“Wow, you have been busy,”

“Young Nate’s got himself a little fencing enterprise going. Kyle told him he’d bring him some ‘good stuff,’ but he didn’t deliver. Said he couldn’t get to the goods and promised to have another go at it.”

“Why in the world would this kid Nate tell you all that?” I asked.

Dave flexed a neck muscle. “I can be very persuasive. And anyway, he might have gotten the impression I was with the SBI.”

Dave flashed a badge at me. From this distance it looked like a proper State Bureau of Investigation credential but if the kid had bothered to look closer he’d have seen it was bogus.

“You’re going to get in trouble with that one of these days,” I said.

“But not this day. Anyhow, the kid was probably lying about some of it.”

“Is he, like, bad news? Capable of violence?” I asked.

Dave sighed. “Nearly everybody is, given the right circumstances. Could be he’s in just deep enough to start thinking he’s a tough guy who can beat a rap. Or maybe he’s a scared punk who thought he was caught and started blubbering.”

“Any idea what Kyle was planning to bring to him to fence? Maybe it was the albums? Sheriff Pierce wouldn’t tell me, but I think they may have gone missing.”

“Naw, the kid swears he doesn’t know what Kyle was gonna filch.”

I paced. “So, there are other people who could have done this, and who might have had a reason. Do we know where any of them were when it happened?”

Dave ticked off the lineup. “Ted Mayhall claims he was home, watching TV, alone. John Daws flat-out refused to answer questions about his whereabouts. And according to Nate, he picked up Kyle before ten, but he was mad and ditched him once they got into town. You’ve got Nadine and Beth’s story. So no, we don’t really know where anyone was — except Darby.”

I felt my spirits sag. “Well, Sheriff Pierce needs to know all this about Kyle. For Beth’s sake I hope it turns out he didn’t get mixed up in something that caused Noland’s death, but like the sheriff says, we need all the facts.”

“Yep,” Dave said. “Word on the street is the sheriff’s hot to get this one in the bag before the real SBI comes in and big-foots the case. We don’t want any rush-to-judgment deal going down here.”

The next morning I walked out away from the house toward the tree line to make the call. I didn’t want to risk being overheard, and anyway, the view of the mist-shrouded blue-green mountains was spectacular and somehow gave me hope.

“Don’t suppose there’s any sense in asking how you’ve come to learn all this,” the sheriff said after I told him what we’d learned about Kyle and Nate.

“I’m just passing on information — the facts, like you said, Sheriff.”

“And I thank you. But I’d appreciate it if you and your erstwhile SBI friend Dave would let me do the investigating from here on out,” he said, firmly but not unkindly. When I didn’t reply he added, “There’s not much that goes on in this county that I don’t hear about sooner or later.”

Wow, “erstwhile”? This was no yokel. I promised him earnestly that we’d stay completely out of it, hung up, and jogged back to the house. Dave and I had concocted the plan the night before. The minute Beth left to post Darby’s bail I’d find Kyle and question him — without Dave. Intimidation wouldn’t work with this kid and I can at least feign a caring touch. I was quite confident I could get the kid to talk.

I was quite wrong.

Kyle turned belligerent before I even got the first question out of my mouth. He ordered me out of his room and slammed the door right in my face.

I looked up and saw Jared at the end of the hall and was relieved it wasn’t the sheriff catching me interfering in the case. I met him halfway down the passage.

“I’m assuming the sheriff told you what we found out about Kyle?” I said, jerking my thumb toward the kid’s bedroom door.

“Yeah,” Jared said, “I’m here to question him. Did he tell you anything?”

“Nada,” I said.

“Maybe I’ll have better luck,” he said. “I’m pretty good with young punks. Maybe because I used to be a young punk myself,” he said, and there was that nice smile again.

I was momentarily distracted by the way his tanned skin crinkled around his blue eyes. Geez, what would Dave say about that! I shook my head to clear it.

“Kyle was planning to steal something, I know that much,” I said. “Maybe he took those albums Darby was selling to Noland. He knew they were valuable.”

“And untraceable, no way to prove those particular records were Darby’s even if we caught the kid red-handed with them. Everybody around knows Darby’s records are valuable,” he said. “He was always going on about his latest find. Kid probably thought that gold one alone was worth a wad of cash.”

“Yeah, people tend to get all excited about records stamped on colored vinyl. They’re not all that rare, but a neophyte like Kyle wouldn’t know that.”

“Exactly.” He clasped my shoulder lightly. “Let’s hope this leads somewhere — for Darby’s sake.”

Later that afternoon I wandered into the kitchen and saw through the window that Dave was talking with John Daws, who had a two-man crew out securing the construction site. I wondered what would become of Noland’s company.

Beth was at the table and I cringed when I saw she was on another crying jag. But she’d already seen me and it was too late to escape, so I sat beside her and tried to comfort her as best I could.

“I’m sorry,” she said, between sniffles. “I feel like my whole world’s falling apart. First Darby, now Kyle. That deputy questioned him; did you know that? Kyle won’t talk to me. He says he’s done something awful, but he won’t tell me what. He’s clammed up and locked himself in his room.”

I felt my stomach lurch. Bad as I’d wanted to find something to free Darby, I hadn’t wanted to sacrifice the kid. If he’d gotten mixed up in something that led to a man’s death it would destroy his family.

“Beth—” I began in a whisper. But I didn’t have a clue where to go from there. “Just stay strong, try not to worry,” I said, finally, hearing how lame it sounded.

Beth slammed both palms down on the table and practically spat, “I’m sick of everybody telling me that. How can I not worry? I can’t be Little Miss Sunshine right now, I am down, Session. Down in a deep, dark funk, and I’ve got a right to cry my eyes out if that’s what I need to do.”

I recoiled and stared at her a long time. I was surprised by the outburst, but it had started something percolating in my brain. “You’re right,” I said, finally. “You’ve got every right to be in a funk — a grand funk.” I ran over everything in my mind, double-checking myself. “Un-be-lievable,” I whispered.

I went outside to call Sheriff Pierce, wondering if he’d dismiss me as a conspiracy nut.

It was near nightfall when Dave found me and handed me his cell. “Your Uncle Sheriff wants to talk to you.”

“Since you’ve been so helpful in this case, I thought you and Dave might like to be here when we bring the suspect in,” Sheriff Pierce said. “Your call.”

Part of me definitely did not want to be there, but I felt I had to.

When we got to the station I was thrilled to learn that all the charges against Darby had been dismissed and he was being processed out, but I felt ill about what I knew was about to happen.

The door opened and Jared — Deputy Fowler — came into the room with two more officers close behind him. He nodded to me as he came closer, but the smile was long gone. He lifted his cuffed hands as if rebuking me. “So this is your doing? You’re nuts, you know that? Why are you accusing me?”

“The gold record,” I said. “The Grand Funk Railroad. It wasn’t on the original list of albums I gave you. Only the three of us were there when Darby gave it to Noland. Noland’s gone and Darby has no memory of that day. I’d forgotten about it myself, actually. I never mentioned it to you, the sheriff, or anyone else.”

He laughed, but there was no mirth in it. “This is never gonna stick, you know. Albums are untraceable, remember? And I am not a neophyte. Darby and I listened to each other’s albums all the time so fingerprints aren’t going to tell you anything. I haven’t done anything wrong.” He curled his lip in an Elvis-worthy smirk. “Hey, listen, could I call you once I get kicked free? Maybe we could get some dinner or something — listen to some tunes,” he said, drawing out the last word.

I could hear Dave cracking his knuckles behind me.

As the deputies carted Fowler away to booking, the sheriff crossed his arms and glared after him. “Never was any kind of deputy,” he scoffed. “Politics I had to take him in the first place. We found the albums at his place. He’s so arrogant he didn’t even hide them. But he’s right about one thing; we’ve got no way to prove they were Darby’s. I suppose if he gets a good lawyer he could get away with it.”

I smiled. “I’m going to break a confidence, Sheriff Pierce. I don’t think Darby will mind. He puts a sticky note way back inside each record jacket documenting when and where he got the record. You wouldn’t know it was there unless you were looking for it. Normally, he takes them out when he sells the record, but he was planning to sell those to me and he knows I like to see where they came from. I’m betting they’re still in there.”

The sheriff smiled broadly. “Good to know,” he said.

“Can you tell us what happened now?” Dave asked.

He motioned us to sit. “Darby was acting strange when we picked him up and Beth swore there was no way he’d been drinking,” he said. “She set in on me that morning and hectored me into having him tested for GHB — the date-rape drug. She had a friend in college who got dosed at a party. Next morning the girl was talking gibberish and didn’t remember a thing, just like Darby. Beth wouldn’t let it alone until I had the doc run the test and sure enough—”

“I still don’t understand,” I said.

“Sorry, that didn’t segue, did it?” the sheriff said, running his hands through his close-cropped gray hair.

“Segue”? Who was this guy?

“Okay, from the beginning,” he said. “Fowler ran into someone in town that night, most likely Ted Mayhall, who told him about the row Darby and Noland had gotten into about those records. He decided to drive on out there and see what was what, maybe horn in on the deal himself. He always liked hanging out with rich guys but at the same time he resented them. Anyway, he’d just come from a sweep of one of the downtown trouble-spot bars, where he’d confiscated a vial of GHB. Phone records show Darby was on the phone with one of his business interests in China around that time, so he was likely in his office in the bedroom wing when Fowler arrived, leaving Fowler alone in the atrium with Noland. We don’t know what transpired between the two of them, but some kind of argument blew up and Fowler ended up grabbing the first thing he could put his hands on and cracking Noland in the head with it. I’m sure he didn’t mean to kill him; Fowler’s not evil, he’s just — worthless. But whatever his intentions, Noland’s not any less dead.”

“And then he drugged Darby?” Dave asked. “How?”

“The theory is, Fowler heard Darby coming and dragged Noland’s body into the record room. Maybe Darby looks around for Noland and decides he’s in the bathroom, whatever. He sets down a glass of juice he’s brought in with him and goes off to find Noland and it’s then that Fowler remembers the GHB in his pocket and gets a bright idea. He spikes the drink and waits. Darby comes back, has a few sips, and is out cold. Fowler was smart enough to take the drinking glass with him, but not smart enough to get rid of it. We found it at his place too. We’re testing it now. We think he dragged the body back out, put a stack of records on the changer so it would sound to anyone wandering by like they were still listening to music, staged the scene by dousing them to make it look like they’d been drinking heavily — then on the way out decided to scoop up the stack of records for his trouble.”

“I’m Deputy Fowler,” Dave whispered into my ear, “but you can call me plain ol’ scumbag.”

Back at Darby’s the celebration was in full swing. The man of the hour was taking a shower, “washing the jail off himself,” as Nadine reported. Everyone else was gathered in the kitchen, where the table was fast filling with food as Nadine ferried things from the refrigerator. Beth tried to help, but Nadine shooed her away.

“Nadine!” Beth said, squeezing her hands into fists. “I want to help you. Look, Nadine, I don’t know how to be a rich man’s wife. I don’t know how I’m supposed to act or how to do things. I just want to be a regular person. I want us to be friends, family even, not — whatever we are now. Can’t we, please, work on that?”

Nadine stared at her for a long moment and I saw her face soften. “Yeah, we can,” she said finally. “’Course we can.”

Kyle was stuffing finger foods into his mouth at a rate so accelerated it was clear he hadn’t had the foresight to stock in food for his self-imposed confinement. His eyes — well, eye — was red rimmed and looked like he’d been crying. Beth pulled me aside to tell me that he’d finally confessed to her he’d planned to steal some of the expensive jewelry Darby had given her. He’d gotten as far as taking it from her dressing room and squirreling it away, but when the time came to give it to the fence he couldn’t go through with it.

“We’ve got lots of things to work through, but we are talking now at least,” she said with a wan smile.

Darby came into the room to our hoots, hollers, and hugs. Then, as if the thought had come to all of us at the same moment, we fell silent, remembering that Noland Nicholson wasn’t going to be celebrating anything ever again.

“Awful quiet in there,” came a deep voice from the doorway and we turned as one to see John Daws standing on the porch. His work clothes had been replaced with pressed chinos and a crisp white shirt. Nadine looked undone, but motioned him in. “Darby,” she said, then cleared her throat. “John is, well, he’s—”

“I’m her boyfriend,” Daws cut in, and for the first time he smiled. “And how silly does that sound? We’re way too old to be sneaking around. She wouldn’t even let me pick her up for a date. Had to meet me at the movies or go to the next town over to have supper together. That’s not right. We like each other. I want to keep seeing her. You got any problems with it?” he asked Darby.

“No... well, no,” Darby said, looking as if he’d been hit by a stun gun. “That’s... that’s great.”

“Told ya,” Daws said, nudging Nadine, who was blushing like a schoolgirl.

“You haven’t spoken for forty miles, you okay?” Dave asked as we sped down I-40 back to Raleigh the next night. It was late and traffic was sparse.

“Yeah,” I sighed, “just trying to process it all. It’s so sad about Noland. And I can’t believe how Fowler snowed me. I thought I had better cretin radar than that.”

“That’s why you got me,” Dave said. “For backup. Besides, you weren’t so blinded by his charm you didn’t pick up the clue that broke the case.”

“I can thank Beth for that. She was telling me, rather emphatically, how she had the right to be in a funk if she felt like it and I suddenly remembered about the Grand Funk record. It was Beth who made sure he got tested for GHB too. I think I’ve underestimated her. I should’ve tried to get to know her better.”

“Plenty of time yet,” Dave said. “Darby invited us out again next week. Beth’s doing a cleansing ceremony for the atrium; Daws and Nadine are helping her plan it. Burn sage, chant, all that. Get rid of the bad vibes. Then we’ll listen to music as a memorial to Noland. Darby’s already busy putting the playlist together.”

We rode in silence for a while.

“Seems fitting,” I said.

I gazed into the sky. There was an autumn moon — not pink, but an awesome warm gold.

Copyright © 2012 by Brynn Bonner