“Proof,” Colleen said quietly, not wanting to rub it in as she laid the photos down in front of Steve on the sheet of wallboard resting on two sawhorses.
Steve stood there, dumbfounded, the light from the single bare bulb catching the safety goggles on his face, the fine white plaster dust in his hair.
It was early evening and she had just come over after picking up the Olema prints from the drugstore.
Steve pulled his plastic safety goggles up to the top of his head, leaving raccoon eyes. He took a deep breath, lay his sheetrock knife gently down next to the photos, picked up one of Melanie riding Ebony, huge grin on her face.
“She looks so bloody happy,” he said.
“I’m sorry, Steve.”
“No—I’m sorry I doubted you, Colleen.”
“The bottom line is that Melanie’s okay.”
“Right.” He worked a soft pack of Lucky Strikes out of the pocket of his denim work shirt. Shaking one out, he popped it in his mouth. He patted himself down for matches. “And you’re absolutely sure Lynda’s behind it?”
“Just between you and me, I snooped around Lynda’s place. That’s when I noticed Lynda had gathered Melanie’s riding gear together. It made me realize Melanie must be nearby. So I visited Edenview, where Melanie rides. Next day I trailed the owner delivering a new horse—whose name is Ebony—to Olema. I suspect the ‘kidnap’ is taking longer than expected, so Lynda decided Melanie could have her new horse in the meantime. A peace offering.”
“Bloody bitch,” he said, meaning Lynda.
“A hundred to one her father, Rex Williamson, is involved, too.”
Steve found a book of matches, lit up his cigarette, leaning down into the flame. He sucked in smoke, blew it out. His eyes had assumed a hard squint. The expected relief of knowing his daughter was alive wasn’t as apparent as she had hoped. “Rex is supposed to transfer the cash to my bank account tomorrow—once I sign and return the papers authorizing the release of my catalog. They’re due to arrive any time tonight by special messenger. When I get the cash, I have a little under a day to pay the kidnappers.” He took a drag, blew it out. “But it’s all a bloody scam.”
Colleen was relieved Steve hadn’t pulled the trigger on the money yet. But she was concerned about his reaction.
“Well,” she said, “now you’re off the hook. No need to give up your catalog. No need to pay off ‘kidnappers’ anymore.”
Steve nodded, but his neck was taut. Controlling the rage. He ran his hand through his dusty hair, hit the safety goggles, suddenly ripped them off, hurled them across the room.
“Fucking bastard! Damn bitch!”
Colleen saw new tension fill Steve’s face as he came to the full realization of the betrayal. His ex-wife, her father, possibly even his daughter, had conspired against him, not only fleecing him for money he didn’t have, but taking his music, his only legacy, and putting him through emotional hell. “Lynda turned my own daughter against me!”
“Melanie’s a kid, Steve.”
“A kid who sold me out for a bloody horse!”
The apple didn’t fall far from the tree, Colleen thought. “A kid who’s under the controlling influence of a very strong, manipulative mother. Lynda doesn’t take ‘no’ for an answer. Count your winnings. Mel’s okay. You keep your catalog. You don’t have to go in hock for any more money.”
He gave a deep sigh, sucked in smoke, smashed his cigarette out in the tuna can on the corner of the wallboard. “Talk about a mixed blessing. But, yeah, you’re right, I suppose—all in all, I’m up.” He looked at Colleen with a tired frown.
“Steve, it’s time to call Inspector Owens. We might be able to get that twenty K back.”
“I’ll take care of it. I’ll bloody deal with them.”
“Steve, I don’t want you to confront Lynda on this.” She nodded at the photos of Melanie and Ebony. “It’s not just Lynda. It’s most likely her father—and whoever else they’ve got working for them. It could get dangerous. Let the cops handle it.”
He gave a twisted smile. “I’d like to wring her bloody neck.”
“Exactly why you should not talk to her for the time being. Stay away. Change your locks. Don’t let her in.”
“I’ve never been in a situation like this before.”
“Few people have,” Colleen said. “You should get some sleep.” She really didn’t want to leave him alone. He might go find Lynda. “You’ve still got a lot on your plate. We need to deal with Octavien before he wants his money.”
“What’s another day without sleep?” Steve laughed bitterly. “I’m too bloody pissed off to sleep, love. I owe you a drink—or three. You just got me out of a hell of a jam. You showed me that the daughter from hell is still alive. It’s ironic as anything but it’s still a relief.”
She smiled, glad to see some slight payoff. “A drink is always on my list of to-dos.” She’d hang out with Steve until he cooled down. “It’s been an eventful couple of days.”
“You, madam,” Steve said, “are the mistress of understatement. Give me five minutes to grab a quick shower, yeah?”
“I wasn’t going to mention it,” she said with a wink, although Steve smelled pretty good the way he was, in that primeval way. She was a sucker when it came to men and workaday sweat. When she liked guys, she liked the ones who worked with their hands. Basic: what you saw was what you got.
And this one could also sing like a soul-shouter extraordinaire.
“Help yourself to a beer,” he said, heading off to the back of the flat.
She did just that, going back to an open kitchen that was only partially remodeled. She dug a longneck out of the fridge, popped it, looked at the pictures on one wall that hadn’t been torn down to the studs. Steve had met just about everyone in music in 1966. John Lennon. Tom Jones. You name it, he was in a photo with them, with stylish mod hair and a world-at-his-feet smile. She had no idea he had been so big, to be honest. But it had sure come and gone in a hurry. Nature of the business, no doubt.
She worked her way down a narrow hallway off the kitchen, sipping beer, studying the memorabilia.
Steve’s bedroom door was open. She peered in. The room, surprisingly, was neat, meaning the bed had actually been made and there were no clothes on the floor. He had a waterbed, too, from what she could see, and more goodies on the wall. She stuck her head in. A handbill from a concert. A photo of Mick Jagger in a white suit, leaning against Steve like he was a post, Steve with his arms crossed, propping him up, mugging for the camera. Another one, a grinning Keith Richards handing Steve a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels. Marianne Faithfull in a headband looked on, bemused. Colleen saw a gold record on the wall. She fought the urge to go into the bedroom.
She wondered who else was involved in the faux kidnap. One guy was dead. But there were at least two others involved: Duffle Coat and whoever was on that motorcycle who most likely took off with the bag of cash.
The shower shut off with a squeal, and she stepped back into the hallway. The bathroom door opened. Steve appeared in nothing but a towel.
Muscular and trim, with deliciously tousled hair. She was proud of herself for not staring too much. What she did do was blush at snooping around.
“Sorry,” she said, nodding at a photo of Steve sitting at a piano with Aretha Franklin. “Curiosity got the better of me. You should open a rock ‘n’ roll museum.”
“No problem, love.” He winked.
She did like being called that. He wasn’t fazed at all. He’d probably been around hundreds of women barely clothed. And vice versa.
She headed back into the kitchen while he went into the bedroom to get dressed.
“You left your album the other night,” he shouted. His bedroom door was open so they could talk while he dressed.
“I forgot it when your ex showed up, breathing fire,” she shouted back.
“Well, she won’t be doing that much longer,” he said, coming down the hall.
He wore a two-tone black-and-white short-sleeve shirt, nice tight jeans, smart black loafers, no socks. His hair was gelled, and he’d shaved. He looked a lot better.
“I know it’s easier said than done, Steve, but you need to watch how you react to Lynda.”
“What I meant was that she won’t be getting away with any more bullshit,” he said.
That sounded a little better. She sipped her beer. “We need to get your money back.”
“One way or another.”
The doorbell rang.
“Courier,” he said. “Rex’s papers.”
He answered the door, and she set her beer bottle on the counter, and followed.
A guy in an expensive suit with slick-backed hair and a briefcase stood there, holding an official-looking envelope. “Good evening, Mr. Cook,” he said, introducing himself as a lawyer representing Rex Williamson, Lynda’s father. “I’m here to go over the paperwork?”
“Of course,” Steve said, taking the envelope from him. “I can take care of it right now, if you like. I imagine you’re in a hurry.”
“I am, indeed.” The man beamed. “I do appreciate that, sir.”
Steve took the envelope, right on the doorstep, extracted the document, gave it a quick glance. Colleen looked over his shoulder. Legal papers. She saw the figure $20,000.
“Do you have a pen, mate?” Steve said.
He did. Steve took it.
And printed “VOID” in the signature box.
And wrote in big letters in a diagonal across the first page: P I S S O F F
Steve studied his handiwork, while the lawyer watched, mouth agape.
“Yes, I do believe that covers it,” Steve said. He turned his head to Colleen. “What do you reckon, love?”
“Looks about right to me,” she said.
Steve handed the document, torn envelope, and pen back to the lawyer. Before the man could protest, Steve shut the door on him.
He turned to Colleen. Their eyes met. His crinkled. She felt hers doing the same.
Both of them burst into laughter.