Wired For Sound: The MacGrough Clan, #2

By Cherime MacFarlane

What will he do to keep his wife from being a suspect? Anything. 

Number 3 Listopia's Best Indie Romantic Suspense
1988 and the band Bushmaster is on its 4th album and 2nd US tour. A bagpipe lament at sound check invades MacGrough's head. He doesn't know his second sight is trying to warn him. 
Hamish and Vincent started the band, Bushmaster, in college. Vince's nastiness causes someone to exact the ultimate revenge: death. Lori has already been burned by one man. Can she trust her Scottish keyboard playing husband to respect her career? Will their marriage survive Hamish's suspicions and this last gig?
Hamish knows he coerced Lori into marrying him and isn't sure how long she will stick around. His focus has been on keeping his wife happy and getting out of the band. When Vince is murdered, MacGrough must find answers. Lori's secrets terrify him. Was Vince the man who broke her heart? Hamish must find the killer. But when he finds the murderer, will he be forced to protect that person? In a race to find the answer before the police, MacGrough has to use every resource he can, including the wife he fears may be a prime suspect

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paper Gold Publishing OLD
• Release date: Mar 31, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386719274

Cherime MacFarlane

Meet Award-Winning, Best-Selling Author Cherime MacFarlane. A prolific multi-genre author, she has a broad range of interests that reflect her been there-done that life. Romance, Historical Fiction, Fantasy, Paranormal, all sorts of characters and plots evolve from a vivid imagination. As a reporter for the Copper Valley Views, Cherime MacFarlane received a letter of commendation from the Copper River Native Association for fair and balanced reporting. She was part of the Amazon Best Selling in Anthologies and Holidays, and Fantasy Anthologies and Short Stories. The Other Side of Dusk was a finalist in the McGrath house award of 2017.

Book preview

Chapter One

He played a short bass pattern then began to add a melody line. Feeling slightly depressed without knowing why, Hamish MacGrough, Heavy Metal to his friends, ran through a series of warm-up exercises.

H.M. found himself in bagpipe mode. It amazed him how realistic the patch sounded on his keyboard. A lament skirled out across the stage. Closing his eyes, he could picture Loch Lomond and Ben Vorlich.

H.M., what's bothering you? A strong pair of hands began to knead his shoulder muscles.

I am bloody tired of foolin. I wish tha gig were over. I have tha feelin somethin is goin tae keep us here. He found something more cheerful to play as a warm-up. Ya do have tha tickets safely tucked away, m'luv?

I made reservations the day after the last time you and the Viper had it out. Slaughter is the biggest butt hole I've had to put up with in a very long time. How in the world have you kept from running him over with the Harley? You've been good for how many years now?

Tha bleedin' bugger has been taking bites out of my ego for eight years. How Slaughter can think I would work with him on his monstrous debut album, I cannae understand. I'd give up music an become ah motorcycle mechanic or go on with tha remainder of tha medical program if I had tae do another tour with tha shite.

Lori's fingers found the knots beneath his shoulder blades. H.M. rolled his muscles in response. Her strong thumbs eased the tension at the base of his neck.

Aye, he sighed. Ya recall tha old line about tha way tae ah man's heart?

Sure thing, 'm'luv. Her voice dropped in timbre as his wife drawled out a fair imitation of his slurred endearment. Keep on rubbing, right?

I've another place ya can rub later. Listen, luv, want tae keep me company after tha show?

Sliding her hand to his shoulder, she gave him a gentle pat, snuggled her nose behind his ear, and growled softly. I'd better be the only woman you fool around with after the show.

Taking his right hand off the synthesizer, Hamish reached up to cup her cheek. Woman, yu've nae sense of humor. His hand went back to the keyboard and H.M. ran through another melody line, fingers flying over the keys.

Lori MacGrough tweaked an errant dark curl into place behind his ear. Just get through tonight, and we'll climb on the jet for Heathrow tomorrow. You need a good dose of Glasgow and home to mellow you out. Let him play the big man and give everyone a bad time during sound check. You're almost free.

H.M. spun the stool around and stood to give his wife a bear hug, which almost broke a rib or two. Yu're a wonder, Mrs. Mac.

It's a wonder I haven't any broken bones. Turn me lose, Heavy Metal. I'll be in the dressing room when you're finished. She strode off in a deliberate manner.

Laughing softly, Hamish watched her as she left the stage. Lori probably thought she looked self-assured. Sexy as hell would describe her better. Hips swaying slightly, she strode past the curtains. H. M. gave a moment's consideration to following her back to the dressing room and pulling those lovely hips against him. Later, it would have to be later.

Seated on the piano stool again he spun around to face the keyboard. Vince wondered what he saw in such a cold fish. His wife didn’t turn her aloof, dismissing side on anyone but Vincent the Viper. She detested Vince on sight, a circumstance which endeared her to H.M.'s heart.

Scales, scales scales. Deliberately, he ran through several scales to limber up his fingers and warm his hands.

Were he to be strictly truthful, her body caught his attention first. H.M. never tired of the sight of her, or her company. It had been such a plus to discover she was as insatiable in bed as he was.

He enticed her into intimacy during their cruise in the Mediterranean. Getting her to agree to marry him proved to be a test of his powers of pursuasion.

The melody that flowed from his head to his fingers and onto the keys was titled 'Lori'. Simple and straightforward, a suggestion of something spicy, a hot rhythm, hid in the phrasing.

She was like the song he had composed for her. You thought what you saw was what you got, unless you got past the mask. They had not been apart for more than twenty-four hours since the first night over two years ago.

Mood lightened, he began to fine tune his rig. He did not care for the monitor mix. Perhaps a wee bit less reverb.

Lori, Vince the vapid, all was forgotten, as he adjusted his sound. A perfectionist, Heavy Metal made a point of getting to the sound check before anyone else in the band.

From the corner of his eye he noticed a rodie near the bank of speakers to his left. The lad was a frustrated keyboard player. H.M. had given him a couple of short lessons a time or two. Making a mental note of a spare pair of hands available should he need them, H.M. went back to work.

***

Vincent thought he might ask his latest groupie to hang around again this evening. She amused him more than most. He might even keep her around after the tour wrapped up. He hoped to take a short vacation in California once the gig ended. Maybe he would keep her on when he began the new album.

Whoa now! Vince shook his head. What a dumb idea! There would be a whole banquet of fresh flesh to choose from shortly. Getting hooked on a groupie, even an interesting, accomplished one like the girl would be stupid. Vince prided himself on not getting strung out on any one female.

Vincent the Viper Slaughter stuck with only one woman? With a grin, Vince pulled the blonde closer.

Not bloody well yet! He mumbled. With one hand on his crotch the smiling girl rubbed against him. The Viper felt himself developing a hard on. Sliding down, the girl knelt on the dressing room floor in front of him. With one hand on his thigh, she leaned forward and reached for the zipper on his leather pants. The tip of her pink tongue slid out between red lips.

Glancing into the mirror behind her, Vince checked his image. His shoulder length blond hair fell in artfully arranged waves, a heavy gold choker circled his neck and diamond earrings in each lobe completed his look.

The Viper studied his face carefully for new wrinkles. A few creases he hadn't noticed before the beginning of the tour clustered around the corners of his eyes.

Further inspection revealed puffy, dark areas beneath the pale skin slightly above his cheek bones. The whites of his blue eyes bore a resemblance to a road map of London. He snorted; no surprise that, considering how he had spent the previous evening.

Record company be damned! Vincent decided he would take a vacation before starting work on the new album.

Nimble fingers popped open the snap holding his pants together. The girl pulled downward on the waistband.

Bloody hell! Do you want something little girl? Vince asked her with a grin.

The sound check could wait. MacGrough was probably usurping the throne anyway. The thickheaded Scots motorcycle bum had no appreciation of how good he had it. H.M. should be flattered he even wanted a wanker like him to play on his first solo recording.

Likely, MacGrough's fud, Lori, put a bug in H.M.'s ear. At one point he wouldn't have minded humpin MacGrough's burd, until he got to know her better.

Swinging that bahookie of her's around the place made her hard to miss. H.M.'s woman had decent tits as well. But when she opened her mouth, all that came out was greetin about how he did things.

What bloody business of hers was it? The damn woman had no say in band business. MacGrough needed to put a muzzle on her.

Damn boot! Then again, they were all bitches, and wanted something. The one on the floor in front of him wanted something and he planned to give it to her. Vincent decided to cooperate with the girl who smiled up at him before licking him from balls to tip.

***

H.M. launched into the keyboard part to one of their newer hits. The rhythm guitar kicked in. Lurch's rhythm provided a rock-solid base for him to play on. Before the chorus, drums, then the throbbing bass kicked in. Since Vince hadn't bothered to show up, H.M. took advantage of his absence and played a hot keyboard lead.

Rocking on the stool in time to the music, H.M. grinned. They were tight. It would be a good performance tonight. By mutual consent, without a word spoken, they ran through the tune again.

On the second go round, Lurch experimented with a lead while H.M. kept the rhythm going. Thud carried the ending off with a spectacular bit of drum magic. H.M. spun around on the stool to face the other members of the band. Everyone wore a broad smile.

Glen, the bass player put it into words. Hot! Damn, we're hot! Where’s Vince? He shoulda heard that.

Thud pounded out a lick. Who gives a flying frig? That's pr'bly what he's doing now. I saw his latest piece headed tae tha dressing room 'bout an hour ago. I wonder if those dumb groupies really think his prick is as big as his guitar's neck.

Glen turned to move his mic stand a little closer. Like you said who gives a flying frig. Aren't we all going our own way after this gig? Wonder if we'll miss it in a couple of years? Maybe we'll be like the Who or the Stones and get together for a bash in fifteen or so years.

Leaning forward, Glen breathed into the mic. Now in the year 2000, ladies and gentlemen for the revival of... Bushmaster!

Lurch's deep bass chuckle got picked up by his mic. It boomed around the hall. Sure. I think we should be worried about where the next gig is coming from. Forget the dreams. What are we going to be doing in a week? H.M. has the studio gig. What do the rest of us have?

Thud adjusted his mic then whispered into it. I plan tae get pissed for a week or so before going home tae Belfast. Don't tell me old lady.

Glen just grinned as the others looked his way. If he had any plans, he hadn’t said anything to his band mates.

Reminiscing about the good old days already? Vincent took his guitar from its stand. You lot of stupid eejits will be lucky to be playing with yourselves in a couple of years.

Go friggin do yurself, Vincent. I'm sure it would be most satisfying for ye. Thud sing-songed into the mic.

Vincent chose not to reply as he stalked over to his amp. Flipping the switch, he turned it on then walked back across the stage to the mic. With one hand around the guitar's neck, fingers resting on the strings, he reached out to reposition the mic.

A scream cut the air, magnified by the microphone. It filled the hall. Vincent clung to the metal tube; froth bubbling from his lips.

Pull tha plug! Thud, pull tha bleedin plug! H.M. roared as he raced across the stage to Vincent's spare Strat.

Jerking the cord from the guitar, Hamish grabbed it like a golf club and dashed back over to Vincent. He hacked at the mic stand with the guitar. Finally, he succeeded in knocking it away from Vincent just as Thud pulled the amplifier's power cord from the power bar somewhere behind the speaker bank.

Smoke filled the air along with the smell of burned flesh. Vincent the Viper jerked a few times before going still. H.M. tossed the guitar to one side, fell to his knees and began CPR on Slaughter.

Thud screamed at the nearest roadie to call an ambulance. H.M. counted silently as he tried to bring Vincent back to life. He didn't hear the wail of the sirens.

The paramedic had to shake him to get his attention. We'll take it from here. You did the best you could.

H.M. reluctantly relinquished his position. The other paramedic continued CPR.

After a few minutes he turned to look up at his coworker. I don't think he’s going to respond.

Looking around him, his gaze slightly vacant, H.M. left the stage without a word. Now, this minute, he wanted Lori. He pushed through the growing crowd which formed backstage. A rising tide of voices filled the space.

Their dressing room was at the far back away from the noise and bustle. He pushed open the door. A slight smile curled his lips for an instant when he saw her. Lori had on the headphones for her Walkman. Humming along to whatever she had on, the small woman worked on her latest painting.

To keep from frightening her, he walked around in front of the easel and waved a hand before her face. Lori glanced up with a slightly startled expression.

She tore the headset off, it dangled forgotten from the Walkman on her belt. What's wrong? What happened?

He took a step around the easel and reached out to tug her against him. With a deep sigh, H.M. hugged her tightly. I think Vincent's dead. Electrocuted. I dinnae ken how it happened. I tried CPR. The paramedic, Taking a deep breath, he went on, he said Vincent was nae respondin. I dinnae ken how...

Lori's head lay on his chest. Closing his eyes, he felt her soft breath on his neck.

What a horrible way to die! Hamish, how does something like that happen? It can't happen to you, can it?

Her words cut through the shock which held him captive. It shouldnae hav happened. Tis been a verra long time since ah musician died tha way. If everythin is set up correctly, 'tisnae possible."

The big Scot rubbed his hands over Lori's arms before backing away from her. Listen, we must find Warren, ken? Tha concert will ha tae be cancelled an tha dosh refunded along wa ah thousand other things. Come wa me.

Lori absently noticed how much more pronounced his accent became under stress. The same happened when he was home in Scotland. At times, she had to work to understand him when out with friends in Glasgow. H.M. took her by the hand. Tugging her along behind him, he strode out the door.

Warren Hale, their manager, was just where Hamish expected to find him, organizing the roadies so the show could be packed up. This was it, the day Bushmaster died.

Any chance there might have been for things to work out vanished. The two men held a hurried conference. Warren agreed with H.M. as he had already been thinking along those lines.

I'll need everyone's input. Warren waved a hand back up the stairs away from the area where the cases stood. Why don't you go backstage? I'll try to get everyone together.

Hamish started back up the stairs slowly. Reaching out, he tucked Lori next to him. With an arm around each other, they walked back the way they had come. Hamish avoided even a glance at the stage.

Just behind the heavy curtains, they stopped. Keeping his back to the place where everything had happened, Hamish pulled his wife close. Contact with her was essential to his sanity at that moment. He and Lori would wait for Warren there.

***

Heat radiated off her husband's body. Lori had always assumed his high metabolism came from living in a cold country. At this moment it seemed to her his brain was racing at such a high rate of speed, it burned rubber.

Missing this horror did not bother her. Lori wished it hadn't happened at all. The slightly vacant look in her husband's eyes when he came to find her in the dressing room told her the experience would leave a permanent mark on him.

In every sense of the word, Hamish was a gentleman. She knew for a fact he moderated his language around her. The man always put his body between hers and passing traffic when they walked. Since meeting the big Scot, Lori never opened a door when going anywhere with him.

Disturbed as he was by Vincent's constant sniping at him, H.M. held his anger in. Biding his time, he waited to be finally free. For two years she had watched him walk away from baiting which would have had her frothing at the mouth.

On a couple of occasions, she stepped in and told Vincent off, because she couldn't stand listening to him rag on her husband one more minute. But it was always Hamish who got her away from Slaughter and defused the situation.

With an arm around him, Lori waited. She assumed they were waiting for news from the hospital. The errie silence in the auditorium raised goosebumps on her arms.

Eventually, every one of the band members assembled back stage. Someone brought out folding chairs so they could sit down as they waited for word from the hospital. Lurch joined the group last. Walker carried his six-string acoustic guitar by the neck.

Without his asking, Lori went in search of H.M.'s tiny battery powered portable keyboard. He could hold the little thing in one hand while playing with the other. Sometimes, he put it across his lap. Lurch tuned to the little keyboard. Shortly, they were jamming. It passed the time as well as kept everyone's mind off the shocking incident they had just witnessed.

Thud tapped on the side of the case he was sitting on with his drumsticks. The three of them got the rhythm and launched into some up-tempo twelve bar blues.

Chapter Two

An old familiar frisson of awareness swept down H.M.'s spine. The hair at the back of his neck lifted. The polis had arrived.

After finishing a run, Hamish reached around the back of the instrument to turn it off. Moving slowly and cautiously, he placed the keyboard next to his chair. He carefully kept his movements slow and non-threatening.

He did not like American polis. Pigs—was the epithet he often heard his fans use when speaking of the coppers. He understood his young fan base had a reason. This lot held the power of life and death, yours, in their hands. They made sure those they approached acknowledged their authority. Common sense and a knowledge of human nature weren’t their primary tools. Guns and bullets were.

During one of Bushmaster's very first important New York gigs, H.M. rented a Harley, found some friendly Hog people and played about in the city for a while. His friends got a bit boisterous in a pub one night. The pigs responded by herding everyone out. The coppers roughly lined the group up against a wall as they prepared to search everyone.

The polis felt up the first couple of women while they frisked them. H.M. opened his mouth and told the polis what he thought of them and their tactics.

Without warning, one of his new friends punched him hard enough in the stomach to lay him out. As he lay on the ground, trying to catch his breath, he watched it all play out. The individual who punched him got worked over.

Lying there, he realized the Yank saved his hide. Those pigs could have easily killed him. Likely, they would have thought nothing of it. He got the bike back to the shop the next day. From that incident on, Hamish tried to stay under the radar and as far away from U.S. coppers as possible.

Looking up as he laid the keyboard down, Hamish spotted them. Three members of the polis were in the backstage area. One wore a uniform, the other two didn’t.

Both coppers wore cheap suits. They made a show of reaching into the inside pockets of their jackets when putting away their sunglasses. That gesture allowed them to give everyone a good look at the guns they carried in shoulder harnesses.

So yure armed. Bleedin marvelous! H.M. thought as he leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms over his chest. The two men in suits were somewhere in their late thirties or early forties. The older inspector's dark hair had touches of gray sprinkled here and there.

The older one spoke first. I'm Lieutenant Wasserman, this is Sergeant Fredrick. We want individual statements from all of you. All the band members, Wasserman pointed toward the curtains. will assemble over there.

His sarcastic pronunciation of the words 'band members' caused H.M. to grind his back teeth. Hamish guessed what was coming. After getting to his feet, he turned to Lori and gave her hand a light squeeze. Taking his time, H.M. walked over to the area indicated.

Damn tha fool who found it necessary tae kill Vincent! While jamming, Hamish unconsciously came to the decision someone had committed murder. Some bastard planned it out. Electrocution did not happen in a large venue with good wiring and competent roadies. Not accidentally.

H.M. took care to keep the first wave of revulsion and panic which flooded him hidden from the polis. All their lives, their careers were at stake here. The murderer must be found.

He prayed they got the correct person. Nearly everyone assembled had a reason to kill Vincent. The man had injured hundreds of people. Hamish doubted Vincent's parents, brother and two sisters, were above suspicion. Their saving grace was their absence.

Once the inspectors had the crowd sorted out, they herded everyone else but the band out of the immediate area and into another room. Lori glanced at him for reassurance before the door closed behind her. He noted the fear in her eyes.

Damn Vincent as well! Why had tha bugger allowed his colossal ego tae run rampant over everyone? Hamish’s fingers tapped out a rhythm on his thigh which he stilled.

Which one of you is Hamish Cadell MacGrough? Fredrick read his name from a list then looked up expectantly.

I am. Hamish replied.

Okay, come along MacGrough. We’re going to have a little talk.

Hamish followed the copper to one of the dressing rooms. Fredrick motioned H.M. toward the chair opposite the one he stood next to. Everything would be nice and cozy with them knee to knee.

Intimidation tactics. H.M. realized immediately what Fredrick planned. He forced himself to relax. He didn’t kill the bawbag and this copper wasn’t going to make him act nervous or uncomfortable for trying to save the bastard's life. And he tried.

You're from England. Fredrick waved a piece of paper he held.

Nae. I'm fra Glasgow, Scotland. 'Tis nae England. 'Tis Scotland an I'm ah citizen o tha United Kingdom. He realized he was falling into broad Scots and must hold it down.

It's the same thing. The copper waved the paper in H.M.'s face.

'Fraid not. But, I dinna believe furtherin your education is tha reason we're in here.

The Sergeant leaned back in the chair with a slight smile on his face. What do you think we’re doing here?

As tae front man of our band just died of electrocution, I would think we were tae discuss his death.

Hamish's statement appeared to take the copper back a trifle, which in turn amused H.M. The inspector chose to back off for the moment. The man decided on a new tactic; H.M. watched the wheels turn in his head.

I understand you tried to resuscitate the victim? The detective asked.

Aye, I did. It wa worth an attempt.

Are you aware Slaughter is dead? The copper watched him carefully.

I thought that wa tha case when they took him away tae hospital. I knew he wasnae respondin. It dinna seem likely they would revive him. His heart didnae start on its own. His brain wa without oxygen tae long. Had they been able tae get his heart restarted, likely he would ha been ah vegetable.

Silent for a moment, Hamish rubbed his right hand on his thigh. On realizing that, H.M. clasped his hands together. Vincent had ah living will. He carried ah copy in his wallet. Slaughter had ah horror of that sort of thing happening tae him.

Fredrick’s scrutiny didn’t relax. How would you know?

I knew ah great deal about Vincent. We ha been playin together for eight years. There was ah time, before being ah star went tae his head, when we chatted as mates do.

A twinge of sadness flicked through Hamish. "We had many conversations about various things, 'Cabbages and kings', ya might say. Talk is easy late at night on yur way tae