Pick up the Pieces Page 4

  “Will you quit? I swear, Marigold Columbine Blume if you call me any of these names or tell anyone, including the guys, wellI’ll just have to kill you?”

  Now, ten years later, sitting in Marigold’s closet, I cringed at the last part of the memory. I smoothed out the crumpled Nana Banana, before gently placing it back in the box. I had never since made one of those blow-off stupid comments about killing to another human being. Sometimes words which are tossed away, or silly phrases said in jest, come back to haunt one’s soul.

  I couldn’t face more traveling into the past tonight. I shoved the box into the corner of the closet and then got ready for bed.

  I dreamt I was in a cave. Somewhere I’d been before although I wasn’t sure of the exact location. I knew it was Texas since Juniper Blume’s voice repeated, “Why don’t I live someplace civilized? Someplace cold?” The dream Bebe shook her head at Junie, and then Marigold, attired in her awful purple cat suit, poked her head out from behind a tree in what had become the Blue Hole Park, and motioned to me sighing, “Stella Blanche Beatrice. Ursula and Nana Banana want youuuu . . .you have to remember . . . it’s a name game . . .All in the music. All in the music.”

  The game echoed through the trees and the trees changed shape, becoming guitars and microphones. I heard a voice I couldn’t identify murmuring, “Marigold. Tell anyone and I’ll have to kill you. Have to kill you.”

  Marigold shook her head. “Ragweeds, Lady Ursula. Ragweeds and seeds. Spices and herbs. Look down, Bebe Becerra. Spices and herbs.”

  I did. My bare feet were encased in peanut butter, basil leaves, marshmallow crème, mayonnaise, cinnamon, nutmeg and sunflower seeds.

  When I looked up again, Marigold was gone.

  Chapter 6

  A nice-sized crowd filled the Palace theatre ballroom for Pieces’ second rehearsal. Beta Zeta pledges were still working on the decorations, and they’d brought dates to help. With more than a little amusement, I noticed the guys seemed more interested in listening to our band than in tacking red and black crepe paper over the ridiculous, Frankensteinish castle walls left over and sadly not discarded after the dance ten years ago.

  Glenn Iverson and Clifford Black were both in attendance, sitting together at a table about thirty yards from the bandstand. From my vantage point onstage I saw Stone Blume join them. Before he had to a chance to pull out a chair, he was besieged by five co-eds who swooped around him before trying to squeeze in next to him at the too-small table. I smiled, though the smile held pain. Stone and Marigold had something more than an adoptive mom and good looks in common. They sent out vibes of attraction without being aware of the effect. An effect I’d seen prove devastating to the ‘attractee’ on many occasions.

  Nic Jericho was another of those charismatic attractor types. I spotted six giggling girls trying to get his attention by waving and calling out song titles. Nic waved back, twirled his drumsticks in the air, and then asked Cam to oblige the ladies with a couple of the requested Dan Fogelberg ballads. Sounded great to me. Dusty and Nic both were far better singers than they admitted and could definitely sing more than backup. I’d be happy to let them take the lead for a while and give me a chance to rest. The coeds were thrilled. Who wouldn’t be? Nic’s looks alone, even without his rich baritone voice, were enough to excite any female above nine or under ninety.

  Pieces spent the next hour entertaining the sorority girls, their boyfriends, Glenn, Clifford, Stone and several Georgetown locals who’d heard the music through the open lobby doors and decided to take advantage of a free night out on the town.

  I finally called, “Break? Please?” and then chugged down a full bottle of water before heading down the steps. I stopped at the table where Glenn and Stone were still talking to several delighted pledges. Clifford Black had left “the kids” to it and was chatting with an older woman I assumed was the housemother for the Beta Zetas.

  “Suggestions?” I tentatively asked Glenn. “This doesn’t sound right, does it. I mean, the mix?”

  Glenn nodded. “It’s good, Bebe, but it’s lacking. I hate to say it, but it’s clear what’s lacking. I’m just not sure yet how to deal with it.”

  Cam heard him. He jumped down from the stage, closely followed by Nic. “Deal with it? You know exactly how to deal with it. Get real, Glenn. You’re the one pushing the idea of a new record and the command performance of a broken Pieces. We’re obviously not the band we used to be. Exactly what do you want from us?”

  Glenn scowled at Cam. “I want a soprano. Okay? No offense to Bebe, who is admittedly the best singer on the planet, but having the one alto in a group folks remember as the complete package of amazing female harmonies doesn’t cut it. Sorry.”

  Everyone lapsed into silence. I ducked my head down and tried not to cry.

  Nic put his arm around my shoulders. “Do you have some sort of plan, Glenn? I hate to sound callous, but it’s obvious our former soprano is not going to come waltzing in here any time soon.”

  It was way too comforting to feel Nic’s arm, holding me gently but firmly. Summoning major will power, I managed to focus back on the discussion at hand. I was certain questions about what had happened to Marigold were on the tip of every tongue even though no one dared to bring up the word “dead.” Cliff Black stared down at the table. Even the college girls looked somber, although they had no idea what precisely was the issue.

  Rehearsal ended early. No one was in the mood to sing. Or talk.

  Dusty gave me a lift back to the Blume residence. We talked about New Jersey. We talked about his life as a new parent of twins. I told him about Clyde, my rescue collie, now at the same stage of housetraining as Dusty’s toddlers, and doubtless currently chewing his way through every tissue box in the house of my dog-sitter Thea, then discovering and devouring sliced filet mignon in his bowl every evening. Thea adored the mutt and spoiled him anyway she could. We avoided any mention of Marigold Blume or Daria Black or female band singers.

  We also did not talk about Nic and what I realized had been too much time spent on my part trying to ignore the coeds fawning all over him. Watching as he flirted from his spoton stage—harmlesslyit was part of his whole sexy drummer persona. Doubtless he wasn’t even aware he was doing it. It was as though I’d fallen into a time warp and it was ten years earlier and everyone, including me, was sidestepping the question of precisely where the Nic and Bebe relationship was going.

  Dusty and I said goodnight and he watched me safely enter the Blume house. No one appeared to be up and roaming and I was glad. Much as I loved Junie, I had no desire to rehash the rehearsal with her. She’d ask about Nic. Junie had always seen him as a second son and been ready to fill the Blume mansion with double flower arrangements for a double wedding ceremony. Cam and Marigold. Nic and me. Nic had never officially proposed to me, but Junie had never wavered from her romantic visions. I’d personally been troubled by no clear promise of commitment from Mr. Jericho. Then again, the last time I’d seen Nic before this week, I’d been all of eighteen years old. Not too young to dream of walking down the aisle but of course, Nic’s family wouldn’t have approved even if I’d been twenty-threeNic’s age at the time.

  I listened for signs of life from Junie’s room. Heavy breathing followed by light snoring. Good. I could avoid conversing, hide in the bedroom, dive into the lyrics of those three songs I’d found and try to come up with musical notes to suit each mood for possible inclusion on Pieces Together.

  “Chasm” was the first sheet I pulled out from the box. It was definitely the most intriguing of the three. The title seemed familiar. The lyrics were written in almost childish penmanship and obviously meant to convey something important to Marigold.

  “Chasm” by Marigold Blume. “Note to Bebe. Hey, kiddo. I kept trying, but the feeling just doesn’t seem right. Was considering a rock ballad. But it shouldn’t be heavy. You or me on acoustic guitar, maybe? Ha! Could be the chance to finally use the lute I’ve been hanging onto forever! Anyw
ay, I now rely on you to get the perfect melody. Nothing I did worked although I may give something a shot at that stupid sorority dance we’re playing for next week. But Bebe, the lyrics here are the thing and I need to tell you . . .” Tell me what? She was sorry she’d vanished before we could make up? She was sorry she’d crashed into the relationship Nic and I had been trying to build? Sorry something too awful to share with her best friend had ensnared her? Had changed her life so much she was trying to wreck every good thing and all the people who loved her? Or merely sorry because whatever was messing up her life offstage had led to someone finding her alone, probably smoking her fifth cigarette outside the Palace Ballroom, and managing to spirit her away forever.

  She didn’t know that her troubles had somehow leaked over and become the reason for a young co-ed named Daria to disappear. Would that have been included under ‘sorry’?

  I quietly closed the door, and then spent the next few hours in Marigold’s bedroom with a pen and at least two-dozen sheets of paper. This was not a project for a computer. Marigold and I had never been able to write lyrics or compose music staring at a grey screen. It was more time-consuming to do everything by hand but we’d always felt the results were better this way. When I finally rose to stretch, I heard Juniper’s grandfather clock on the first floor landing strike three. My back hurt and my eyes needed massive amounts of fake tears but I was proud of myself. I felt the way I had the first time I’d written a melody for a song for Pieces and the whole band listened and cheered and clapped for a solid five minutes.

  This song could be a wonderful memorial to Marigold Blume. I began to imagine Pieces standing on a stage, gathered around a podium as Stevie Nicks herself distributed Grammy statues to each member of the band for Best Recording of the year. Stevie and Marigold were exchanging tips on keeping their hair the right shade of blonde along with which diet could take off thirty pounds in three days. They started dancing around me chanting, “Flamenco Girl Beanpole. Sing for us!”

  “Bebe, Hon, wake up.”

  “Wha . . .?” I sat up. I was still surrounded by wads of crumpled paper. Junie stood at the foot of the bed gently calling my name.

  “Junie? What time is it? It’s still dark.”

  “Yeah, it is. And I’m sorry to wake you, but Nic and Cam are downstairs.”

  “What? Wait a sec. Am I still dreaming?”

  “No. Believe me, I wish you were. It’s about four a.m. But . . . there’s been some trouble.”

  The word hit me like cold water over hot skin. I was instantly alert. “What kind of trouble?”

  Junie’s voice became hoarse. “One of the little Beta Zeta pledges who was helping with the decorations for the dance at the old theatre tonight never made it home. There’s a policeman downstairs with Cam. Nic and Stone are there too. Wow. Talk about odd. I can’t believe Stone is actually in my house again. But that’s not important right now. Everyone’s trying to figure out what happened. Where this girl could be. No one has a single clue.”

  I bit my lower lip and almost dived under the bed covers again. Maybe if I went back to sleep, I’d wake up again in an hour and discover this was all a nightmare. Better still, I’d wake up back in my apartment in New Jersey, feeling Clyde’s cold, wet doggie nose nudging me and pretend the last two days never happened.

  Then I looked at the tears coursing down Juniper Blume’s face and knew it was all way too real.

  Chapter 7

  I forced myself to get out bed, and throw on some jeans and a tee before heading downstairs to the kitchen. Various flavors of tea were available and coffee was brewing for those who needed stronger than oolong or green herbal or peppermint. Jorge, impeccably dressed for four o’clock in the morning, calmly poured whatever beverage was desired into cups for Cam, Nic, Stone and a gentleman who appeared to be in his late fifties or early sixties, sporting a trimmed white beard and moustache and wearing jeans, white shirt and a blue blazer. I assumed he was the policeman, even though his clothes were more casual chic than I normally associate with cops.

  The guys jumped up as I entered. I waved for them to sit. This was not a social occasion. Hoping to quell my growing nausea, I opted for ginger tea, raised the cup to my lips and proceed to drink down half the contents before even realizing my tongue was burning. I didn’t care.

  “Bebe. This is Detective Reece Harrison,” Nic stated.

  I glanced around the table. “Would someone please fill me in on what’s going on? All Junie told me was a co-ed didn’t make it home last night.”

  Detective Harrison nodded. “She’s right. Arianna Prentice, one of the sorority pledges, was helping to decorate the ballroom until about one a.m. Ms. Prentice was seen unlocking her car around one-fifteen but we don’t know what happened afterwards. A bracelet identified as belonging to the young lady was found two feet from the car. Nothing else. Arianna lives with her parents and they reported her missing about two a.m.”

  “Dear God.”

  The queasy feeling changed to full-fledged I’m going to be sick. No amount of ginger or peppermint tea would help. I ran out of the room and headed for the nearest bathroom. I splashed water on my face, took a few deep breaths, and then slowly walked back to the kitchen. I sensed not a word had been uttered in the time I’d been gone. For a moment I wondered if anyone had even taken a breath. The stillness was almost as terrifying as the horrible scenarios playing through my head regarding the whereabouts of the young co-ed. I sank back down in my chair and gulped down the rest of the tea without bothering to taste it..

  “So, what happened?” I croaked. “I mean, she’s obviously missing but what happened? Wait. I’m not saying this right. Why was she alone in the parking lot at one in the morning? I mean . . . ”

  The detective stated in a soothing tone, “It’s okay. I understand. Apparently, Arianna left the ballroom at one with four other pledges. They watched her put her key in the lock and open her door. Then the other girls piled into another car. They assumed she was right behind them so they drove off. About one-twenty, two more girls entered the parking lot. They noticed Arianna’s vehicle was parked in her spot, but didn’t think anything of it. Her car was still locked when we searched the area. We surmise she might have realized she left something inside the ballroom, turned back to retrieve it, and was abducted before she could get back into the building. It appears there was a window of opportunity of about twenty minutes. Tops.”

  I hated to be repetitive but I couldn’t help it. “Dear God.” It was a cry. It was a prayera plea.

  Junie had been quietly sitting at the end of the table listening to Reece Harrison’s explanation. She lifted her chin and abruptly inquired, “I don’t wish to be rude, but why are you here? I mean specifically at my house as opposed to somewhere else?”

  His answer was equally blunt. “Because ten years ago something similar happened to your daughter and to Professor Black’s niece. Cliff and I have been friends for sixty years,” he smiled wanly, “ever since our mothers shared a room in the maternity ward at King’s Daughter’s up in Temple, and delivered within thirty minutes of each other. I’ve always felt guilty because I was in Seattle with the F.B.I, rather than in Texas when Daria went missing. My understanding was that the Georgetown police missed a lot of opportunities for interrogations because Marigold’s disappearance wasn’t taken seriously. Then, later, no one the police questioned seemed to know where anyone was when Daria vanished. Now I’m hoping one of you might remember details from the night Marigold disappeared. Or if any of you were around when Daria went missing? Odd as it seems—any little thing could end up helping us with this current investigation.” His unsaid next words were obviously before it’s too late.

  He gestured to those of us seated around the table. “I’d like to hear your recollections about what happened when Marigold or Daria went missing and also where each of you were last night after you’d finished with your rehearsal. Let’s start there.” He turned his attention to Junie. “Is there a room
somewhere a bit more private? I’d prefer to talk to folks on an individual basis.”

  Junie nodded and motioned to the small parlor down the hall from the breakfast area. The guys appeared stunned. To me, “recollections” sounded like we were about to enter the realm of “statements and depositions.”

  Nic, as usual, had followed my unspoken train of thought. “Detective, I’m an attorney. Do I need to offer my services to anyone?” He glanced around the room.

  Detective Harrison said, “I’m just trying to discover if there’s anything tying these two disappearances together, apart from the place and relative age of the vic . . . the ladies. If anyone is uncomfortable with speaking about this, then by all means, feel free to say ‘no’ or include Mr. Jericho in on the discussion.” He smiled. “I believe in rights. I don’t want to violate anyone’s. And I won’t jump to wild conclusions and label someone a villain if he or she declines to speak with meor decides to take advantage of Nic’s services.”

  I spoke first, as I rose and led the detective toward the parlor. “I’m not sure how much I can help but I’ll definitely do my best to remember. We need to bring Arianna home. Now. Maybe it’s early enough to help make that happen before . . . ”

  My legs were wobbly and as weak and rubbery as if I’d just finished a marathon. Reece Harrison and I sat opposite each other on embroidered Victorian style chairs in the parlor. Oddly, seeing their elegance made me want to cry. I lifted my chin and addressed the detective. “I made it home around midnight. Last night, that is. Dusty Sears gave me a ride. End of story. I wish I could be more help.” I blinked. “Detective? I’m so sorry and I’m embarrassedbut which girl was Arianna? I have no idea who she is. Now I feel truly rotten.”

  He nodded and flashed a glimmer of a smile. “Blonde, blue-eyed and petite. Cam told me she was one of the girls sitting at the table with your manager and Stone Blume. You saw her but probably weren’t introduced. I gather the young ladies were soaking up the atmosphere and enjoying the music and not saying much. However, she was very interested in the music. Arianna’s parents said she wants to be a singer.”