Rock Til You Drop: The Rock and Roll Mysteries, #2

By Kathryn Lively

The exciting sequel to Rock Deadly!

 

Matt "Lerxst" Johnston can't stay out of trouble. Hoping to resume a peaceful existence with his family and career, he's thrown for a loop when his fellow Dead Barchetta band mates want out of the group and the music teaching business they run together. When a body once again turns up at the studio, Lerxst can't decide whether to sympathize with or suspect his old friends. 

Lerxst doesn't fear the Reaper, but he's not exactly fond of him, either. Will he be successful in catching him this time?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kathryn Lively
• Release date: Apr 20, 2015
• ISBN: 9781513007915

Kathryn Lively

Kathryn Lively is an award-winning writer and editor, Slytherin, Big Bang Theorist, and Rush (the band) fan. She is an EPIC Award nominee and winner and has edited EPIC Award nominated titles for Phaze Books, Whiskey Creek Press, and FrancisIsidore ePress. She also maintains a pen name, L.K. Ellwood, for other mysteries. She loves chocolate and British crisps and is still searching for a good US dealer of Japanese Kit Kat bars. Kathryn assists businesses with Virginia Beach social media services, and also works as a freelance writer. You are welcome to visit Kathryn online: http://www.kathrynlively.com http://kathrynlively.blogspot.com http://www.booksthatrock.us (book reviews) http://www.facebook.com/livelywriter http://twitter.com/MsKathrynLively

Book preview

Special thanks to my family, and my friend Joe.

For Geneva

Chapter One

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Harpo, I said, the tone of my voice clearly emphasizing disbelief over my grandmother’s answer.

Grandma had just cleared away her place setting and reached for that of her gentleman friend Jerry when she paused to look at me. That’s what I said.

Harpo? I’d gone up an octave.

What’s wrong with Harpo? This from my girlfriend Diane, sitting beside me. She tapped a small pink packet to clump the sweetener inside at one end. You have something against mutes?

Harpo wasn’t a mute, I said. More of a mime. That was part of the act.

I’ve never heard him talk, even in media clips.

I suppose he was a workaholic, I told her. Took it home with him.

Wonder if anybody at home noticed, Grandma murmured.

Diane shook her head and resumed spiking her coffee. She might as well have poured maple syrup in her mug if she didn’t want to taste the full, roasted goodness. I’m aware that he kept up the act in public, Lerxst. Why can’t you just accept your grandmother’s answer? There’s nothing wrong with it.

My sister Juliet passed around the plate. I took one of the two remaining slices of pound cake and sent the pastry assortment down the line. "It’s just that I didn’t expect anybody to say Harpo, I said. You’re asked a question like that, you’d think people would choose Groucho easily."

Indeed, you would think every time the question of which of the Marx Brothers you most want to sleep with arises, Groucho would lead the poll. Perhaps Zeppo might have an edge, assuming you’re discussing the topic with a group of hipsters or baby boomers checking Google Images on their phones to see exactly what these guys had looked like in their prime.

My grandmother, who definitely has more boom than most babies born in her day, shrugged and returned to her seat. Sue me, I always liked Harpo, she said. He was really the only one in those movies who made me laugh. The others rather irritated me.

Could be that vacant, glazed look of his that gets to her. This from my father. I remember seeing it on my father’s face more than once.

Usually while trying to fix something, Grandma added with a chuckle.

Jerry laughed and smoothed a hand over his balding head. As long as it wasn’t the curly hair that did it for you, I’m good. I can do vacant stares... guess I could buy a wig for later.

Ugh. TMI, Jer, I said, groaning. That brought more levity into the conversation, which segued into a deeper debate on sexual characteristics of a Marxist sort. I interjected only when necessary, as I wanted to sit back and enjoy the cake and company. A stranger coming into my grandmother’s kitchen might happen upon us, pleased to see such familial harmony and think we’d easily been trading barbs for years. In fact, many of us here had only met a few months ago.

Odd to believe, yes, but the Johnstons of Virginia Beach aren’t like most families. We are an ABC Afterschool Special on Mars.

I watched my father study the activity around the table, his grim smile taking in the merriment, and especially noted the way he reacted when his mother flirted with Jerry. He’d known about them for some time, but only now saw their relationship up close. I could tell he still hadn’t adjusted to seeing his mother with a man other than Grandpa, but to his credit he seemed to accept it. Why not? I loved Grandpa, too, but he died years ago and my grandmother set aside her personal concerns to raise me and my brother. Once she fulfilled her obligation to see us both through college she met Jerry, and we all had to admit she chose well.

Diane, however, impressed me the most. Considering our unusual introduction, which involved an innocent breaking and entering into her apartment, the fact that she continued to hang around told me she was either very laid back or just as crazy as everybody else in my family. Either way, I sensed by the way she squeezed my knee under the table that she’d had enough of this twisted cinematic discussion. To be honest, the debate began to wear on me once I’d finished the pound cake.

I couldn’t resist a final dig, however. We haven’t heard your answer, I told her.

"We haven’t hoid yours, either," she retorted in near perfect Groucho, complete with a waggling butter knife in substitute for a cigar.

I was going to say Groucho, but Grandma makes a good point about Harpo. Not only that, but he’s less likely to go around bragging about it later. Go.

Diane propped up her chin on her fist. Easy. Chico.

Somebody at the table sputtered. I looked up and saw Juliet patting our father’s back as he struggled not to choke on his coffee.

I looked back at Diane. I can’t wait to hear this explanation, despite the obvious deadly implications.

You ever see the guy play piano? Imagine what else he could do with those fingers.

Can I change my answer? asked Grandma.

The table chorused in a loud, laughing fit just as the front door bell rang. Highly unusual to hear the chime on a Sunday evening, since most visitors knew to come through the side kitchen door. Of course, I had taken to locking it in recent months following a break-in here that precipitated a series of strange events that ultimately led to my family’s reunion. Still, the only people who rang up front either wanted to sell us magazines or religion.

Dad tensed, no doubt a force of habit. More than a decade of living incognito did that to a person. I scooted my chair back and stood. I’ll get rid of them, I said. It’s probably a lost pizza delivery person. The numbers on the houses are hard to see at night sometimes.

If the pizza’s already paid for, don’t toss him out too quickly, Jerry called behind me. Cute, for a retired cop.

A familiar mop of light hair bobbed in the front door window. Jack Kline played drums in our Rush/Grateful Dead tribute band, Dead Barchetta, and was also a partner in the music studio I co-owned with our bassist. Why he picked this formal route baffled me; he’d spent most of his life barging into our home unannounced. Come on in, I invited him, but he hung back and shook his head.

I need to talk to you for a second, he said, hands in jacket pockets and bouncing on his heels. I know you have a full house tonight, and I’d rather not be heard by anybody else.

Que? Jack looked shifty and nervous, like he had a dead body stuffed in the cab of his truck. I’d seen enough of those this year. Sure, I said, and closed the front door for good measure. Let’s talk. I gestured to the stoop and sat down next to him.

Jack wouldn’t look at me. He fixed on a spot of gravel on the pathway leading to the house. Joel and I have been talking, he said, referring to our third musketeer, and we’re sort of on the same wavelength about a lot of things. The band, the business, stuff like that.

Okay, what about them? I couldn’t follow if I didn’t know where to turn. Business peaked for us now, with enrollment for music lessons higher than it had been in years. As far as the band went, we were in the envious position of turning away offers for gigs because we nearly had a full calendar. I’d like to think that many local venues finally came to acknowledge the genius of my three favorite Canadian musicians and our ability to emulate them so well, but surely my recent celebrity played a part in the uptick of offerings. Few locally based musicians could claim to have escaped certain death in a situation worthy of a TV movie.

Not that I play up the fact for my benefit. I’m happy to have my life return to the bizarre level of normal to which I’m accustomed.

Jack seemed to struggle for words. He wrung his hands and sighed a lot. Whatever he had to say, he probably expected me to explode. It worried me, to be honest. Business was good, but we were by no means millionaires. In this questionable economy, we all knew parents viewed music lessons as a luxury more than a necessity, so we were prepared for a sudden downturn any time. It hadn’t happened yet, but the look on Jack’s face had me thinking of other disastrous scenarios.

Jack, what is it? I asked. Is there a problem with the studio? Do you need money? Please say no, I thought. Instant wealth didn’t come with the type of celebrity I’d earned.

He shook his head. It’s not easy for me to say. I’ve known you forever. His eyes glassed over, scaring me shitless now. This sounded more like an I have cancer and it’s terminal announcement.

Lerxst, he said, Joel and I want to take the band in a different direction.

Oh. This necessitated tears? What does that mean, less Dead and more Barchetta or the other way around? Our last few gigs had us doing more from our Grateful Dead playlist—not our strength, but we play what the person writing the check wants.

It means less of both and more of...well, Jack and Joel, Jack said. We’ve been working on some original songs, and they’re good. They should be heard.

Okay. I had to admit it sort of hurt to think my two band mates were writing songs without my knowledge. It’s no secret I prefer to play than compose, but I’m sure I could have offered some input on writing the music I’d eventually play. Well, I’ve never had a problem with that. You know me, I’m always up for whatever you two want to try out. So, you want to bring some of these songs to our next rehearsal?

Jack sighed again. Any minute, I expected him to slap the back of his hand against his forehead and emit a woeful wail. What the hell?

We were thinking, Lerxst, of playing them ourselves. In our own band, independent of Dead Barchetta. In fact, we want to leave the group.

The pound cake I’d eaten churned with the bile in my stomach and threatened to resurface. Go on hiatus, or just go?

Jack only looked at me. I wanted to believe I didn’t hear him right, because truthfully this conversation made little sense. Only last weekend we’d played to a packed crowd at an Oceanfront club, and Jack and Joel had neither said nor did anything to indicate they were unhappy with me or the band. I couldn’t figure this out at all.

Why? I wanted to know. It sounds like you want me out of the picture altogether. What the fuck did I do to you guys to deserve this?

Lerxst, it’s not you. It’s us.

Jesus H.—

You’re not making this easy on me. Neither of you are. Jack shot up and paced the gravel walkway. Joel was supposed to come with me, but he chickened out. Said he thought it’d hurt less with just one of us here, and I’ve known you longer.

Yes, I was supposed to feel bad for Jack because he drew the short straw and had to come alone to wrench a knife in my heart. It was my idea to form a band, I told him, trying to keep my voice from cracking, and now you’re dumping me for no reason.

It’s not like that, guy. You got a good thing going with Diane now, and you’re going to want to see more of her. That means more trips to Jersey—

Which has not interfered with my work or the band, I was quick to point out. She is not a Yoko, so don’t even think of pegging her like that.

I never said she was, Lerxst. I like Diane, she’s great for you. Me, Jack rocked on his heels again, eyes skyward and blinking away tears, I want something like that, too. I don’t think I’m going to get it playing Rush songs fifteen to twenty nights a month.

Jack, I don’t care what we perform onstage. I do this because I love the band and you and Joel are my closest friends. I stood now. I wanted to shake some sense into my friend. I don’t understand why you feel it’s necessary to eject me from the group or leave it, whatever. The quality of my guitar playing hasn’t declined...is this because of what happened earlier this year? Seriously, I didn’t ask to become involved in a cult-directed murder-suicide. At least it ended well for me, until this point.

That’s not the issue. I’m glad you found your dad and sister and all that. We’ve just grown apart and want to do something else.

Grown apart? Fuck, Jack! He looked genuinely frightened by how my voice carried in the night, but I didn’t care. Let them hear me in Williamsburg—I wanted the world to know how my heart broke to hear this.

I did oblige him by adding more softly, If you’re leaving the group, I’m keeping the name. I came up with it, and you have no business using it if you’re not doing Rush covers.

That’s fine, man. We were going to let you have it.

Well, fuck you very much for tossing me that bone, I almost said.

Jack reached into his jacket for a large manila envelope, which he handed to me. Inside I found a thick sheaf of papers and a check made out to me for twenty-five thousand dollars. What the hell? I cried, and thumbed through the thick contract of legalese. My heart numbed with every sentence I read.

They wanted to buy my share of the business. The fuckers might as well have sat shivah for me; they obviously considered me dead to them.

You’ll find that’s a fair amount, Jack was saying. It covers your share of the studio and the equipment. Also, the PA system and all shared rigs. We... he faltered and continued after swallowing, we figured we could use them more quickly.

I don’t believe this. I flipped to the end of the dissolution agreement and saw that Jack and Joel had already signed it. You’re taking all the equipment and leaving me with nothing?

"You’re getting twenty-five grand, Lerxst. It’s not like we’re taking your stuff away. You have plenty there to start over."

I didn’t want to start over! I was happy with the status quo. How long have you two been planning this? I asked.

Jack looked down. For a while now. You’ve been so busy with Diane lately, I don’t blame you if you haven’t noticed.

I notice plenty, Jack. You and Joel really know how to keep things quiet. I rolled up the sheaf and batted it into my hand. So, what? You found another guitar teacher? You’re going to take my students, too? I’ve had some kids coming to me for lessons since they literally learned to walk. What were they going to think when they showed up at the studio to find a stranger in my chair?

We’re going to let people know to call you if they still want lessons from you, Lerxst. We’re not trying to ruin your livelihood, we’re just...we’re making some changes.

Funny way of showing it. I still have some personal effects at the studio, I said, thanking Ged I hadn’t left behind my Alex Lifeson signature ES-355. Can I least come by tomorrow and pack up?

Uh, you know, he scratched behind his ear, we can drop it off later...

Fine. You know what? Fuck you, and fuck Joel. Both of you, up the ass with red hot pokers by a Dominatrix with bad eyesight. Give me a pen. Of course he’d have one at the ready, and when he pulled it from his jeans pocket I snatched it and signed the damn thing on a raised thigh. Shoving the check in my pocket, I threw the agreement at Jack and turned without saying goodbye. Jack, my best friend since elementary school, wanted nothing more to do with me, and for the life of me I couldn’t figure out why. I didn’t see the sense in asking again, or saying anything more.

Lerxst? he called after me, but I kept walking.

Matt? he tried again. I couldn’t remember the last time he used my given name. Just as well he went back to using it. Everybody calls me Lerxst, except for strangers who don’t know any better.

I pulled the front door behind me so hard the foundation rattled. It did the trick, though. I couldn’t hear Jack’s voice anymore.

* * * *

People don’t knock in my house. A visitor might find that disconcerting if he happens to be in the bathroom right when somebody appears with a Q-Tip emergency, but for the most part few people fall victim to embarrassment here. Having grown up in a liberal-minded household, I encountered no resistance or disapproval when bringing a girl over for the night—not that it happened often, but it was funny on occasion to see the looks on their faces when Grandma greeted us in my room, unannounced, in the morning to inform us of our breakfast options.

Diane, thankfully, harbored no such hang-ups. After one day under the Johnston roof she had taken to barging in wherever she pleased. Unfortunately for her this time, I happened to be clothed and not in the mood for anything kinky when she came upstairs to my room to check on me.

You want to tell me what happened out there? She reached for her Wal bass and joined me on my bed, where I sat cross-legged and tinkering through Rush’s La Villa Strangiato on my ES-355.

I didn’t look up, nor did I miss a note when the mattress sagged as she jostled for a comfortable position. I’ve been dumped, I told her.

What are you talking about? I’m still here despite your admission of wanting to bang Chico Marx. Diane quickly picked up on the bass lines of the song.

You’re the one who picked Chico, not me.

I know. It’s nice to see you were paying attention.

I chuckled, not too merrily. That was Jack earlier. He came by to tell me he and Joel want out of the band, and I’m guessing my life. I gave her the condensed version of our confrontation as we played, cleaning up the language and making Jack sound more like the asshole I thought him as now.

Wait, what? She stopped me toward the end of the story. Her hands fell from the strings into her lap. You just signed a legal document without thoroughly reading it?

I showed her the check. He gave me twenty-five thousand bucks.

Lerxst! You idiot. Do you have any idea what you might have signed away?

She shoved me hard. I fell back and conked the back of my head against the headboard.

Ow!

Diane leaped from the bed, replaced the Wal on its stand, and paced the room. You probably waived any right to sue. How do you know your share of the business isn’t worth more than twenty-five grand? What the hell is wrong with you?

I wanted that jackass out of my sight, Diane. It hurt to say the words, emotionally and physically. My head throbbed, and bright points of light popped and streaked in my line of vision. If I didn’t sign tonight, he’d have come back tomorrow, or the next day, and I just didn’t want to deal with that.

Diane stopped mid-circle and folded her arms. She took a deep breath and the anger smoothed from her face. Lerxst, I’m sorry, she said, for yelling at you, and for what Jack did. I know that had to have been pretty shitty.

I nodded, and picked up on La Villa where I’d left off before the body slam. Diane returned to bed without the bass and stretched out on