Red House Blues (10 page)

She tucked the guidebook back into the side
pocket of her purse, took a final sip of tea and plunged into the
flood of humanity, letting herself be swept toward the market,
carried like a leaf on a stream.

The current spilled her in front of a stall
piled with fresh herbs and plastic bags of spices. Huge bouquets of
dried flowers and foliage swung from beams above the tables like
trapeze artists. It was lush as a fairy bower. The mingling aromas
of herb vinegars and soaps took her breath away for a second. In a
sweep of scent she was transported to fields of thyme and lavender,
cleansing her head of the urban stench. She felt a coil of tension
loosen its grip on her spine.

“Anything you’re looking for I have,” said
the stall’s proprietor, an older woman in multilayered gauzy gown
and an abundance of crystal jewelry.

“Just browsing,” said Suzan, scanning the
fragrant display.

“Everyone is looking for something, my
dear.” She studied Suzan as if she were an especially interesting
trick of light.

“Just taking in the scenery. You have a
beautiful stall. Would you mind if I took a few pictures?” Suzan
dug her small digital camera out of her purse.

“Not at all. That’s one of it purposes.
Local color," said the woman. “But I perceive you have other more
pressing needs I might be able to help you with.”

Oh no, what have I started, thought Suzan.
Here comes the gypsy fortuneteller routine she trots out for sweet,
simple tourists. What will it be next, a tarot deck? Suzan wasn’t
about to be suckered into it, whatever the spiel would be.

“Are the soaps handmade,” she said by way of
diversion.

“Sure are. Any particular scent?”

“Do you have a rosemary scented bar?”

It was Suzan’s favorite scent - woodsy,
sharp, mysterious. She hadn’t pampered herself in a long time.
Maybe a pretty soap might make her next visit to that dreary shower
stall almost bearable.

“Yes, it would be rosemary," said the herb
woman. “You are definitely a rosemary type. It’s for remembrance,
you know. But I don’t believe that’s the one for you today, my
dear. Sage is just the ticket. Sage is for protection, you know.
Always a good idea when going through difficult times.”

The woman handed Suzan a light green oval of
soap the size of a lemon.

How on earth, wondered Suzan, was a bar of
soap going to protect her? And from what danger, body odor? The
woman was clearly more than a bit spacey.

“Well, thanks, but I’ll just have the
rosemary.”

“If you say so,” said the woman, bagging up
a chunky square bar. Before she closed the top of the bag, Suzan
noticed she tucked a sprig of some dried herb in with the
purchase.

“What’s that you put in the bag?”

“Compliments of the management. A little
something just in case.”

Suzan wasn’t going to
pursue the matter. You encourage the crazies and soon you’re caught
up in their delusion.
Wouldn’t it be nice
if all problems could be solved with a hand full of dried weeds or
a bottle of snake oil.

She paid her for the soap
and tucked the bag into her purse. Because she had said she would,
she shot a few photos from different angles of the varied wares
displayed on the table. Thanking the woman, she edged away from the
stall back into the crowd. It was silly but there was something
that had unnerved her about the woman. She tried to shrug it off.
The world was full of people making a living off other people’s
ignorance, vulnerability or desperation. This woman had a good
patter. Probably did palm readings on the side.
Still, she picked up on my . . . what? My nervousness,
fear?

Never far from the surface of her thoughts
was the knowledge that a killer walked free in this city. And if
Sean’s killing wasn’t just a random act of violence, then his
murderer was someone he knew, someone Suzan might cross paths with
tonight at Jax’s. Someone who may not take kindly to her nosing
around. If so, she would need more than dried sage leaves and
bangles for protection. She would have to keep her wits about
her.

She couldn’t exactly steam onto the scene
identifying herself as Suzan Pike, Sean’s widow. She learned from
the cops that he had been using the obviously phony stage name of
Stephan Wolf but someone might recognize the name Pike. There was
no way of knowing if he had told his house mates or the other band
members his real name or where he was from. She couldn’t take the
chance of using her own name. She would use her maiden name of
Sullivan and convert Suzan to Ann. Ann Sullivan prowls Seattle
looking for bad guys.

Damn! What if she gets carded or someone
searches her purse? She should have thought this through before she
left Bellingham but it was too late to worry about it tonight.
She’d have to cross her fingers and pray to stay under the radar.
Tomorrow she’ll email Claire and ask her to get Tony to help. He
made fake cards for them all when they were in high school. He was
a genius at that sort of thing. With a computer and a good laser
printer it must be even easier these days. Claire was sure to have
a photo of her that he could use.

And if he refuses to do it? He wasn’t
exactly her biggest fan right now. Claire had to make him see that
the whole idea was to find out what happened to Sean. If nothing
else that should induce him. Still, even if he goes along with it
it’s going to take a few days. Tonight she was on her own.

Maybe if she looked more like she belonged
in a punk bar . . . Suzan wandered down to the lower floor where
there were a collection of funky consignment shops. She put way too
much of a dent in her budget with a worn out leather jacket that
could have belonged to James Dean. To complete the outfit she
splashed out for a grey sleeveless concert t-shirt so faded it was
impossible to make out what band it originally touted. Maybe not
the perfect camo but it would do in a pinch, at least she hoped
so.

Chapter 10

Jax’s was cramped, dark, loud, redolent of
stale beer and already at barely eight p.m. filled with the blue
haze of too many cigarettes. Suzan paid the cover charge to a
mountain of muscle by the front door. Luckily he hadn’t asked to
see identification. She didn’t know whether to feel relieved or
insulted.

She noted the reader board. The band that
night wasn’t Scalplock but she held out hope that one or two of the
band members might be in the crowd, or people who knew them.

The walls, what she could see of them
through the smoke, were layered with handmade concert announcements
and gobs of lavishly applied red paint. It was a narrow room with a
bar down the left side, and a collection of microscopic mismatched
tables and chairs. Snugged to the right wall was a low stage, not
much bigger than a drum riser. Any band playing here couldn’t
squeeze in more than a trio. A strip of empty floor in front of the
stage was probably intended to represent a dance floor.

Suzan threaded her way to the bar and
climbed onto a high stool next to a guy in an intentionally torn
sweatshirt. The bartender was a chunky woman with cerise hair,
pierced eyebrows, and blue Celtic knot work tattoos on her
hands.

“Could I have a white wine, please,” she
said automatically, too late remembering the problem of
identification.

“We only have beer and soft drinks. Wanna
Coke or something?” said the bartender.

Having dodged that bullet, she ordered a
Coke and checked out her fellow Jax’s patrons. Black jeans and
t-shirts sporting slightly pornographic graphics. She had made a
good call on the appropriate garb.

At her left elbow a guy wearing a
wife-beater shirt was drumming the side of his schooner.

“Are you with the band?” she asked.

“Not the one playing tonight. They stink,”
he said.

“I’m guessing you’re a drummer,” she said,
hoping he wouldn’t take it as a come-on. “The biceps, you know. My
brother used to play drums. So, what bands do you play with?”

“Pig Iron most recently. You know them?” She
shook her head no. “They’re pretty hot right now. Sometimes
Scalplock. They got a new CD but I didn’t play on that one.”

Suzan couldn’t believe her luck. The first
person she pumps for info plays for Scalplock. What were the odds?
It can’t be this easy. Something is going to go wrong, she just
knew it.

“I think I’ve heard of Scalplock. Do they
play here?”

“Sometimes,” he said. “Hey, my name’s Sol.
What’s yours?”

“
Ann. I came up from
Olympia to catch some bands. There’s nothing worth hearing in
Olympia.” With luck he wouldn’t question her on the Olympia music
scene because she knew absolutely nothing.

“I hear you. No innovation. Seattle is the
only scene worth shit.”

“What do you know about the band playing
tonight? What was the name? I couldn’t read the card by the
door.”

“Spent Ammo. Not really a band. Just a dude
with lame hardware and a chick who sits in on keyboards when she
feels like it. Strictly amateur.” said Sol. “Hey, you don’t want to
hang around here tonight. How ‘bout we go over to the Croc. They
got wine over there.”

Getting picked up wasn’t what Suzan had in
mind, though she could understand how he might have gotten that
impression. If she unloaded him now, however, she wouldn’t find out
anything about Scalplock. This required a delicate touch.

“Thanks, Sol. The Croc sounds fine but a
friend of mine is meeting me here later. Maybe we can all go when
she gets here.”

“Sure. Whatever.”

“No really, it’d be fun,” she said. “I’m
interested in these bands you play with. Are they going to play
around here soon? I’d like to hear you play.”

“I’m playing with Pig Iron next weekend at
the Ballard Firedog. Should be worth catching. We’ve got a new dude
fronting from Vancouver. Scalplock’s doing a set here at Jax’s
tomorrow night but I won’t be playing.

“What a shame,” she said. “I won’t be here
next weekend.”

She would, however, be coming back to Jax’s
tomorrow night. Of that she was sure. Over on the drum riser the
“artist’ called Spent Ammo was setting up his equipment. It
appeared to be held together with miles of duct tape and pipe
dreams. Dread swept over Suzan at the thought that she was now
locked into making a show of waiting for her nonexistent friend
while looking appreciative of the dubious entertainment. From all
indications it wasn’t going to be easy.

Plus, she hadn’t worked things through to
the end of the evening. The idea of walking back down to Pioneer
Square in the dark, maybe trailing Sol-the-stud, was an unsavory
thought. She would have to spring for a taxi. Another bleed-out for
the budget.

Sol excused himself for the john about the
same time Suzan spotted a small empty table near the front door. If
she could grab to it while he was gone she’d be in an excellent
exit position when Spent Ammo revved up. She ordered another Coke
and made a beeline for the table.

The noise level took a significant leap as
Spent spit “test, test, test, test” into the microphone.
Unfortunately the sound level seemed to satisfy him and he screamed
a few overused obscenities into the mike and proceeded to hammer
the keyboard in front of him. Presumably his female keyboardist
hadn’t managed to get out of bed for work tonight. Simultaneously
the milling, drinking crowd amped up its own volume, probably in an
attempt to drown out Mr. Ammo. God, what on earth had Sean seen in
this total dreck?

Caught up in the mystery of it all Suzan
didn’t notice someone had drawn up a chair next to her until that
person set a beer on the table and nudged her elbow.

“Having fun, Sleeping Beauty? Nice jacket.
Suits you,” shouted Marla over the din.

“Checking up to see if the big-bads of
Seattle have worked their evil ways on me?” Suzan shouted back.

“Could be. That your friend?”

At first Suzan thought Marla meant Sol until
she remembered she had told her a friend of hers played at Jax’s.
She’d have to keep better track of the lies.

“No. He’s not here tonight.”

Sol was elbowing through the crush, spotted
her at the table and turned away when he saw she was with someone.
Guess he didn’t want his imagined threesome after all, thought
Suzan.

She wasn’t sure she had
traded up though. What was Marla doing, following her? Why? Was it
concern for her welfare or something else entirely.
Oh come on,
you really
have to keep the paranoia in check.

Marla said something but Suzan missed it
under the avalanche of noise.

“What?”

“Let’s get the hell out of here so we can
talk!”

Given the volume, Suzan figured she’d have
to leave with her just to tell her she wasn’t interested. They got
up together and pushed their way out the door into the street. A
stiff breeze blew up from the harbor, carrying with it the smell of
tandoori and clam chowder. Suzan zipped her jacket. It didn’t help
much. Marla leaned back against the building and lit a cigarette,
turning her head to exhale. She was waiting for Suzan to say
something, and probably knew just what it would be.

“So, where you here looking for me, or
what?” asked Suzan.

“Only in part. You mentioned Jax’s. The
bartender is a client of mine and I always drop in to see her when
I’m in town.”

“
A client? You sell drugs
or something?”

“That’s low, Sleeping Beauty,” she said,
exhaling a tendril of smoke. “I’m a tattoo artist. Do consultations
and freelance work up and down the coast. Anything else you dying
to know? I don’t have any secrets, which is more than we can say
for you, I’m willing to guess.”

Suzan didn’t like where this conversation
seemed headed.