Nine

We should call you Enchilada, not Pumpkin.” I hoisted the cat, all thirteen pounds of her, out of the sink and set her on the kitchen floor. My restless sweetie had done a great job on cleanup duty. But he’d left the baking dish soaking, and Pumpkin had practically stood upside down to get at the bits of sauce stuck to the edges.

Scrubbie in hand, I set to work removing temptation. It didn’t take long—she’d been thorough.

I laid the baking dish on the drain rack and reached for a smudgy wineglass. Most times, washing dishes relaxes me. But tonight, I’d caught a bit of Adam’s agitation. I’d wanted him to stick around and let me soothe it—Tanner would be here all week—but he’d made no move to stay, and I hadn’t wanted to ask. Instead, I’d been content with a long, sweet kiss after Tanner headed for the car.

I reached for another glass. My internal PowerPoint flipped through a series of images: Gerry Martin’s body lying on the rocks, the roiling river, the short stretch of trail with an unprotected edge, Gerry Martin on stage last night.

The slide show kept playing: Martin bristling at Barber, then barking at Gabby. All they’d wanted was a piece of his spotlight. Oh, and earlier, Martin scowling at Sam for a missed cue.

Who had pushed Martin?

And why?

I wiped my hands on the kitchen towel and spotted Pumpkin, crouched hopefully on the kitchen floor. “That’s the point Holmes was making to Watson, right? About the dog in the night? If two people tangled and one slipped and fell, the ground would have been beat up. The dirt edge would have been broken and shrubbery torn. There should have been signs, at the edge of the trail and the top of the cliff, of Martin slipping and trying to catch himself. Of the other person trying to grab him.”

Was I placing too much importance on signs that should have been plain as day, but weren’t there?

On the page and on screen, Holmes never betrayed a lick of doubt. Oh, for such certainty.

What did I actually know about Gerry Martin? Not much—jazz guitar had never been my thing. I put on his new CD, then settled in the chocolate brown leather chair with a fresh glass of red and two truffle rejects. Pumpkin eyed me from the rug a few feet away. Sandburg was nowhere in sight.

The liner notes gave the air-brushed version of Martin’s life. Born in Pittsburgh to a father who plumbed by day and drummed by night and a mother who taught piano. Child prodigy on the keyboard, until he—like so many kids—discovered the guitar at thirteen. Unlike most, he stuck with it, joining a popular jazz band at sixteen and working regularly in the city’s bars and clubs. He hadn’t bothered with college, getting his musical education on the road and in bands large and small. He was praised for his tone, his rhythm and harmony, and his versatility. Even I’d heard of some of the artists he’d recorded and toured with.

I reached for a truffle. The mark said double chocolate, but with rejects, you never know. Martin had seventeen Grammy nominations, five awards. “Mmm. Raspberry.”

Rebecca had said his career had taken a downturn recently. Ebbs and flows had to be common, but she’d made it sound more serious.

I dug out my laptop and searched his Grammy history. Impressive as the numbers were, the last award had been eight years ago, the last nomination six.

No obits online yet, though a couple of small pieces reported that Martin had “apparently plunged to his death while hiking in a remote Montana valley, where the innovate performer and composer had been scheduled to teach at a music festival before dates in Seattle and Vancouver, and an Asian tour.”

Remote, shmote. Interesting that Ike had not revealed that there was a witness, or that he suspected that old demon, foul play.

I flipped to the website for Dimitriou’s Jazz Alley in Seattle. Next to Martin’s name on the schedule was the ominous word cancelled.

When I lived in Seattle, a boyfriend—using the term loosely—had taken me to Jazz Alley to hear Diane Schuur, the hometown singer and pianist. She’d been fabulous; the guy had been a fail. My dating life in the city had been a cross between Survivor and The Apprentice, with me repeatedly voted off the team as one guy after another climbed corporate ladders leading elsewhere.

Martin, on the other hand, had climbed the ladder of success like a monkey streaking up a palm tree. Surely he’d made a few enemies along the way. Was one of them here for our festival? One of the other artists?

Of course, you can’t find out who hates a guy enough to kill him by checking his website. I dug the program I’d grabbed this afternoon out of my bag.

No clues there, either. I ate another truffle—cherry, as marked, but with an imperfect bottom.

I stood, unkinking a leg, pondering. Glanced into the bedroom. Sandburg lay on the chaise, staring out into the night.

I sat beside him and ran my hand over his sleek fur. From a distance, he looks black, but he’s a sable Burmese—dark chocolate with black pointing on his ears, face, feet, and tail. I’m no expert on cats. We had a cat at the Orchard when I was a kid, but after a hawk killed him and my sister bawled for days, my dad brought home Sparky the border collie and we became dog people. Sandburg was my first feline roommate, and until Pumpkin came, he ruled the place. They tussled with each other the first few weeks, hissing and snarling, one cat deliberately taking the other’s favored spot or eating out of the other’s bowl. I’d wondered about my sanity, thinking two regal pretenders could occupy six hundred square feet and leave room for me. But they’d since settled into an uneasy truce, sharing the throne.

The metaphor ran its course. If he was the King and she the Queen, who was I?

Their humble servant.

Back in the kitchen, I poured another half glass and took a sip. Rebecca had said she and Martin had known each other in Austin, and she claimed credit for bringing him here. Too late to call her, but if I sent a text, she could answer when she wanted.

Which turned out to be about three minutes later. No, she wasn’t aware of any other artists on this year’s schedule angry with Martin, but she wouldn’t know, would she? Since he hadn’t been talking to her much, and when he was, he obviously hadn’t been truthful. Sorry she wasn’t much help.

She got that right.

I grabbed the program and flipped to the page of featured performers, or in the trendy term, emerging artists. First on the list, courtesy of alphabetical order, was Gabrielle Drake. A smaller version of the photo on our poster smiled out at me. Truly a beautiful young woman. The program described her as “the voice of a new generation,” the words Gerry Martin had used to introduce her, saying she’d been raised in New York City and Connecticut, and now studied at Indiana University, “the finest school of music in the country.” I didn’t know about that, but I did know a little about sales puffery. Every performer listed was “the finest,” “iconic,” “stellar,” and otherwise super double groovy.

Maybe Gabby Drake deserved all the praise. She’d outshone Gerry Martin, I knew that for sure.

And I knew for sure that he hadn’t liked it one bit.

She had no website, but I did find her Facebook page, her Twitter stream, and her Instagram feed. She’d be busy this summer, with performances scheduled all over the country. I had no idea that music festivals had become so popular—obviously the thing for the “emerging artist.” Ours was a little different, combining big-name concerts with daytime workshops, and welcoming serious adult musicians as well as the younger set.

I clicked on a series of YouTube videos and sank deeper into my chair. Gabby had entered a nationwide contest for singer-songwriters. Each week, contestants were given a topic and a key, then required to write a song with those elements and submit a video. Fan voting ruled the early rounds. A clickable version of The Voice.

Part way through Gabby’s first piece, Pumpkin jumped on the arm of my chair and trained her yellow-green eyes on the screen. I reached for my wine to prevent a clash between tail and glass.

Gabby had an ethereal, haunting sound, her lyrics betraying her youth, all romantic angst and searching for identity. Her guitar playing, I couldn’t judge. A few early clips had obviously been recorded on a phone in her dorm room.

With three weeks to go, Gabby clung to the top five. I voted for her latest song, then opened the festival’s website. Martin’s face shone from the front page. A small text box said the festival “mourned the passing of a great artist,” and dedicated this year’s events to his memory.

Rebecca was still listed as Executive Director. I knew most of the board members, including Dave Barber and Marv Alden, but none well. Grant Drake, I’d just met.

Meaning I’d have to work for insider knowledge.

Though she wasn’t on the board, I started my search with Ann Drake, soprano. No joy. She must have performed under her maiden name. She’d mentioned the Met.

“What do you think, Punk? Gabby’s a junior, so let’s call her twenty-one. Ann’s about my mother’s age. Can we narrow the search that way?”

Bingo, by jingo, as Ned would say. Ann Fletcher had been a cast member for thirteen years. As she’d said, minor roles, some as understudy, and several tours. She, too, had attended Indiana University’s school of music.

A twenty-five-year-old wedding announcement for Ann Fletcher and Grant Drake lauded her musical career, noting that the groom “worked in finance.” It also said the groom was attended by his sons. No children were mentioned for Ann. As I suspected, Gabby had been a later-in-life addition to the family.

So what? None of that had anything to do with Gabby’s relationship with Gerry Martin, or with his death.

The Drakes were protective. Righteous anger on a child’s behalf is understandable, even expected. But would a parent kill to avenge a slight against a child, if the slighter stood to harm that child’s professional aspirations?

Extreme, yes, but hardly unheard of.

If Martin had threatened to withdraw his support for her career, then her parents might have done almost anything.

So might she, for that matter.

I squinted, trying to picture who’d hung around after the performance, who might have heard more of Martin’s tirade. The other musicians had been busy on stage, unplugging amps and cords and packing up instruments.

I frowned. When Martin stormed out of the courtyard, Jennifer Kraus had run after him. She might have seen or heard something. I hadn’t remembered that when I gave Deputy Oakland my statement, but he would have talked with her by now.

What was I looking for? What was I expecting to find?

I was too keyed up to sleep. I refreshed my wine, decided I’d had enough truffles, and sprinkled a few treats in the cats’ bowls. They came running from opposite ends of the cabin. Their bowls were mere inches apart, yet they managed to avoid each other completely, as if each had cast a protective spell around their territory.

Heck, maybe they had.

“The photographs.” My feline companions ignored me as I scrolled through the pictures I’d sent myself this morning from Derek D’Orazi’s phone. I sat at the kitchen island and studied them. Nothing jumped out at me: just dirt, smudged here and there. Who could say how a body had tumbled, whether it should have gone this way or that instead of that way or this?

I shivered. Death is a messy business.