Dead Wood - By Dani Amore Page 0,45
I had enough to go to the tabloids. I wondered what the National Enquirer would pay. I could see the headline: P.I. claims famous singer shaves pubic hair while smoking marijuana!!!
“How well did you know her?” I said.
“We bumped into each other once in awhile,” she said. “Well, when I wasn’t traveling. You know her Dad right? You’re working for him?”
I smiled. “I don’t remember telling you that.”
She shrugged her shoulders. “Someone did.”
The stench of the marijuana smoke was getting to me. Or maybe it was the little scene unfolding in front of me. Probably both. I felt like I was stuck in some kind of 1960s experimental film and soon a man in all black with a long goatee would come out and start rambling about the symbolic roots of Fascism.
“Tell me about the guitar she was making for you.”
“Oh, Christ, I’d practically forgotten about it,” she said. She shook her head, a vaguely self-condemning act. “I’ve got quite a few, but this one was going to be special. Jesse said she was making it just for me, you know, my size, my playing style, my sound, as it were.”
“Did you approach her or did she approach you?”
She sucked on the joint, then answered while exhaling. “I approached her. I’d seen a lot of her guitars around. Studio guys love to record them. A lot of dumbasses think they’re only for looks, but the sound is truly incredible.”
“So you asked her to—”
“I told her to spare no expense,” she said. “I just wanted her to make her masterpiece. She told me she loved it so much, you know.
“The guitar?”
“Building guitars. It was what she lived for.” Now, for the first time, some emotion crept into Shannon’s voice. She and Jesse had obviously enjoyed some sort of relationship. How deep it had gone, I wasn’t sure.
“I guess in that sense, she died happy, doing what she loved to do,” Shannon said. “We should all be so lucky.”
She licked the envelope and sealed it closed, then rolled her panties back up. What, no aftershave lotion?
“If she had finished it, how much do you think a guitar like that would have been worth?” I said.
“Fifty grand. A hundred grand,” she said. “More if I’d actually played it.” No boastfulness on her part, just a statement of fact.
“Do you know if she finished it?” I said. “Do you have it?”
“Nope. She must have been close to finishing it. I was going to play it at the concert, which is just a week or so away. But I never got it.”
“She never contacted you and told you it was ready?”
“No, she didn’t work that way. You didn’t rush Jesse. She did what she did, and she told you when it was ready.”
“If she loved building guitars so much, why do you think she was going to take a sabbatical?” I said, using the word Nevada Hornsby had used.
The joint stopped halfway to her mouth. “Sabbatical? What sabbatical?”
I shrugged. “Someone told me she was maybe going to take some time off from her work. Do something else.”
Shannon inhaled a few cubic feet of pot smoke. “Not Jesse. She couldn’t stop building guitars any easier than Van Gogh could have stopped painting. I think it was more than a passion, it was her calling in life.”
She took another hit. Her eyes were bloodshot and I felt a little faint.
“Thanks for your time,” I said. “How did you find out about her death?”
“My manager.” I waited, thinking maybe she’d like to add thoughts about her reaction, but nothing happened.
“Can I call if I have any more questions?” I said.
“You have Molly’s number?”
“Yeah.”
“Sure. Anytime. You coming to the concert?”
“You bet,” I said. Actually, I wasn’t planning on it, but my daughters did like Shannon’s music. Anna and I could take it or leave it, frankly.
“I’ll have Molly give you a backstage pass,” she said. “Do you have kids?”
“Two of the biggest Shannon Sparrow fans in the world,” I said. It was a little bit of lie. They actually liked the Dixie Chicks a lot more, but brutal honesty wasn’t needed right now.
“I’ll have Molly hook you up. I try to make the shows good for families, you know. Some of my biggest fans are young kids.”
I was sure her pubic mound was raw and angry, and my eyes were dry and irritated from the marijuana, but damn if she wasn’t making herself sound like the poster girl for family fun.
“Okay, thank you,” I said. “But I guess I