Dead Wood - By Dani Amore Page 0,64

shoulders, obviously she never felt like she had to answer questions she didn’t want to.

“He was shot, right?” she said.

“Couple times.”

“Were you there?” she said.

“Yep.”

Shannon slugged down the rest of her wine, her hand shook a little as she held the glass. She set the glass down and pulled out a joint from her front pocket. She tilted it toward me and I shook my head.

I was a regular Boy Scout.

Shannon looked for a light in her pockets, but came up empty. A woman appeared next to her, in her hand was a Bic with a substantial flame sprouting from the end.

“Are you the P.I.?” the woman with the lighter said.

“John Rockne,” I said, holding out my hand.

She took it and said, “Memphis Bornais.”

“I think we’ve met before,” I said. “That’s an interesting name. A little American south combined with a little, what, French?”

Yeah, I sounded a little stupid, but I never could hold my booze very well.

“Memphis is my songwriter,” Shannon said. I nodded, studying her. Memphis had on red velvet pants and a chocolate brown lace top. The pants were bell bottoms and the sleeves had giant openings. Her age was hard to tell, could have been anywhere from late twenties to early forties. She had shoulder-length brown hair, fine features, and full lips. Kind of like a nicely aged Jennifer Love-Hewitt with a little more meat to her.

“Do you write all of Shannon’s songs?” I asked her.

“Most,” Shannon said. “All the ones I didn’t write.”

“So what exactly do you do?” Memphis asked and sat down in the chair between Shannon and myself. As if on cue, Shannon got up with her empty wine glass.

“I gotta piss,” she said by way of explanation. I wondered if the switch had been planned. Was it something I said?

“Investigate,” I said to Memphis.

“Investigate what?”

“Whatever someone pays me to do. As long as it isn’t illegal or immoral.”

“A man with ethics,” she said.

“A few. Not all.”

She took a hit from a joint.

When she exhaled she said, “God the lake is beautiful tonight.”

Something about a grown woman sounding like a stoner made me laugh.

“I wish I could see my lighthouse,” she said.

“You have a lighthouse?”

“I can see it from my farm on Harsen’s,” she said, referring to an upscale island a half-hour drive from Grosse Pointe. “It’s not a bad view, but not as inspiring as this.”

“Speaking of inspiration,” I said. “Where do you get your ideas for songs? Isn’t that what everyone asks?”

She nodded. “How the heck should I know?” she asked. “That’s what I want to say.”

“What do you usually say?”

“Usually something about pulling things in from life. Or that God just beams them down to me. You know, I tailor the answer depending on the questioner.”

“Did you know Jesse Barre?”

She shook her head. “I knew of her guitars, of course. Anyone in the industry knew about them. But no, I didn’t know her personally. Why?”

“She makes music. You make music. I figured the two of you would have crossed paths at some point.”

“Good guess,” she said. “But no. We never did.”

“Oh,” I said.

We sat in silence for a few moments. A few thoughts ran through my mind.

“How long have you known Shannon?” I said.

“We sort of grew up together,” she said. “Went to high school together. Played music together. Fell in and out of touch over the years, but when we both got serious, then we hooked up.”

“Did you know Laurence Grasso?”

“Um-hm.”

“Did you hear he’s dead?”

She nodded.

“Do you care?”

“Not at all.”

“Why not?”

“He was a waste of a human being.”

“That seems to be the general consensus,” I said.

“He treated her like dirt. He was mean. He was cruel. He was stupid, but cunning. A weasel,” she said. “I’m glad someone sent him on his way.”

She was pretty matter-of-fact. I didn’t think it was an act.

“Will you turn it into a song?”

“Everything’s a song. It’s just a matter of writing it down.”

Sounded like a tailor made answer.

I was about to ask another question when I saw her face change. It sort of went slightly pale and the general din of the crowd went down a notch. I turned and looked over my shoulder.

Shannon’s manager stood before me. Teddy Armbruster, his bald head glistening like a Fabergé egg, his tree trunk body immoveable.

“Let’s go,” he said.

I turned back to Memphis, but she was gone.

I looked back at Teddy and his dull blue fish eyes stared back at me.

“Yes you,” he said.

I picked up my beer.

It seemed like the party was over.

Thirty-seven

Teddy lifted the