Authors: Margaret Fenton
“Hi. I’m Claire Conover.”
“Donovan Grayson.”
“I was wondering if I could ask you a
few questions?”
He studied me, starting at my bare legs
and working his way up to my face, with just a slight layover at my breasts. I
took the moment to assess him, too. The suit was well cut. A silver tie and
black shirt. Trendy. Brown hair, receding, and dark brown eyes.
I was too underdressed to be a
salesperson and his curiosity was getting the better of him. “Of course. May I
ask what this is about?”
“I’m trying to find out what happened to
a client of mine.”
“Let’s go up to my office.”
He led me to a stairway behind a door in
the far corner. The deejay’s little room was at the top of the stairs, and an
office across the hall from that. It was large and well decorated with modern
furniture and a bright abstract-patterned rug on the tile floor. On the far
wall was a cluster of framed newspaper articles and pictures. Donovan’s
glass-topped desk was laden with papers and stacks of CD cases with names like
Junkie XL and Electric Indigo. He closed the door and gestured to a chair.
“Please. Now, what’s this about?”
I pulled out the newspaper article I’d
dug from my purse, the one about Ashley’s sentencing that I’d meant to file in
the chart, and showed it to him. “I’m trying to find out if this woman has been
here recently, and, if so, who she was with.”
He scanned it. “That’s the woman whose
kid died of the overdose. She pled guilty.”
“That’s right. She used to come here
with a friend.”
He handed the article back to me. “Who’s
she to you?”
“I used to work with her.” I left it
vague. If it somehow got back to DHS that I was here, I was in big trouble.
Okay, bigger trouble.
“Where?”
He wasn’t going to let it go. “I was her
son’s social worker. I’m trying to piece together what might have happened the
night the boy died. I heard she hung out here sometimes.”
“I see. The person you want to speak
with is my brother, Lucas. He’s the bartender most nights.”
“Oh.”
“Hang on.” He reached into his inside
jacket pocket and pulled out a phone. He scrolled through his phonebook, hit
dial, and said, “Where are you?” Then, “So you’re on you’re way here?” A second
pause, then, “Come to my office when you get here.” No greeting, no good-bye.
He snapped the razor-thin phone shut and relayed to me, “He’ll be here in just
a few minutes if you care to wait.”
“Thanks.”
I wandered over to the large wall of
framed memorabilia. One photo was of Donovan standing with a group of men on a
golf course. Another was Donovan cutting a ribbon to open a club, a crowd of
supporters behind him. I recognized the building as a country-western bar I was
dragged to once for a bachelorette party. Fiddles. Three of the frames
contained articles from the entertainment section of the paper about club
openings. Kaleidoscope was the subject of one, Fiddles another. Another I
didn’t recognize, Flow.
Behind me Donovan said, “Can I get you
something to drink?”
“No, thanks. How many clubs do you own?”
“Three, as of now. Another one opens
this fall in Inverness.” Inverness was a suburb southeast of town. He rose,
picked up a gray business card out of a glass holder and offered it to me.
Eclipse Entertainment. Donovan Grayson, Owner
.
Two circles, a black overlapping a white one. Professionally printed.
“And Lucas is your brother? Is he an
owner, too?”
“No, just me.”
“Who’s older?”
“We’re twins,” he said. “But you’d never
know it from looking at us. We’re fraternal.”
“Oh.” To kill time I kept asking questions.
“And how long have you been doing this?”
“I opened my first club when I was
twenty-two. Three years ago.”
He was twenty-five, four years younger
than me. He looked older. I said, “Wow, and now you own three?”
“Four, when Goal opens in October. It’s
a sports bar and restaurant. I’ll be breaking into the restaurant business for
the first time.”
“That’s impressive.”
“Thanks.” He accepted the compliment
easily. A person used to praise.
The door opened and Lucas walked in. He
saw me and stopped short, surprised. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t know there was
someone here.”
He looked much as I remembered. Shaved
head, tattoo reaching up the left side of his neck. What I thought was a
phoenix the first time was actually a man with wings. The flames below the
figure were not flames, but the sun. Icarus.
“This is Claire Conover,” Donovan said.
“She’s a social worker. She wanted to ask you about someone who may have
visited the club.”
The mood in the room had suddenly
altered. Lucas and Donovan hadn’t said more than two sentences to each other,
but I could sense a current of emotion between them. Something dark. Mac’s
wisdom floated to the top of my pool of thoughts. Something he’d taught me
years ago. Pay attention to what you are feeling when you are with your clients.
Your own emotions are a mirror of theirs. If you feel defensive or angry or
afraid, so do they. So what was I feeling now? I searched deep, and realized it
was fear. I wanted out of that room.
Lucas was looking at me expectantly. I
held out the newspaper clipping. “Do you know this woman?”
“Sure, that’s Ashley. Her kid just
died.”
“She came in here sometimes?”
“Yeah, with her friend Brandi.”
“When was the last time you saw her
here?”
He thought back, blue eyes on the
ceiling. “Oh, let’s see. About three weeks ago, I think. About the middle of
June. It was a Saturday, the day we were running the rum drink specials.”
“The eighteenth,” Donovan supplied.
“But Ashley didn’t drink. She’d gotten
sober,” Lucas said.
“Did she look high?” I asked.
“Not at all.”
“Did you talk to her?”
“Yeah.”
I was missing something. “What about?”
“Just stuff. You know, catching up.”
“How long have you known Ashley?” The
atmosphere was tenser, the fear in my gut increasing. I looked at Donovan,
seated again behind his desk, arms resting on the top, hard brown eyes riveted
on his twin.
“A while. A few years.”
“How?”
He shrugged. “We’ve hung out before.”
“You know a guy named Flash? Ashley used
to run around with him. He’s a drug dealer.”
Donovan didn’t move a muscle.
“I know who he is,” Lucas answered.
“Was he here that night?”
“No.”
“How do you know Ashley?”
“Look, I’ve done some stuff in the past
I’m not proud of.”
What the hell did that mean? Was he a
drug buddy of Ashley’s? One of her johns?
“You know anything about GHB?”
“What do you mean?”
“Ashley’s son died of a GHB overdose.
You ever see Ashley do any of that? Here, or —”
“No.”
“What about you? Have you ever —”
Donovan cut me off.
“Lucas is working very hard to get his
life straight. Part of that is working for me. He needs to go set up the bar
for tonight.”
Lucas moved toward the door. “Yeah, I
gotta go start stocking. If you see Ashley, let her know I’m thinking about
her.”
“I will.”
After Lucas left, Donovan walked me to
the door. “I’m sorry we couldn’t be more help.”
“It’s fine. You were very helpful. I’m
sorry if I pried too much. I didn’t mean to offend you, or your brother.”
“Lucas is going through a difficult time
right now.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“Me too.”
“Can I ask one more question?”
“What?”
“In the club, are drugs a big problem?”
“Sure, we have a few people who show up
under the influence. And Lucas is real good about cutting people off when
they’ve reached their limit. The bouncers usually call them a cab. I don’t
allow drugs in here, but we can’t always catch it. More than anything, Ecstasy
is an issue.”
“I see.” I thanked him for his time as
he walked me down the stairs. Some early customers were already in the club. A
girl, long black hair reaching all the way to her Daisy Duke shorts, sipped a
tall drink as she chatted with the guy fixing the speaker. Another young man
with long, shaggy, blond hair and dressed in casual business attire sat at the
bar. His finger traced the rim of his glass. He and Lucas stopped talking when
Donovan and I came through the door. Lucas waved to me from behind the bar
where he was stacking bottles of imported beer in a cooler. Under their gazes,
Donovan and I crossed the dance floor to the door and he showed me out.
According to Lucas, Ashley hadn’t been
high. And, of course, her drug screens had been clean. She’d been here three
Saturdays ago, but had nothing to drink. Could she have gotten the G here and
kept it for later? I doubted it. If Ashley was going to use again, she would
have done it immediately, not squirreled it away. So what had I learned from
coming here? Not much, other than Ashley and Lucas knew each other, and that
Lucas was a drug user. Or in recovery.
It was a quick trip to Avondale, where I
parked in my usual spot in front of Ashley’s. Her upstairs neighbors were on their
balcony, a barrel smoker filling the air with the aroma of hickory and pork.
They raised beer cans to me as I walked to her door. I fished out Brandi’s key
and unlocked it.
I jumped inside my skin as the door
opened. Al Mackey was standing at Ashley’s battered dining table, flipping
through her mail.
Chapter Eighteen
Al and I spotted each other at the same
instant.
“Holy crap, you scared the shit outta
me,” he said, once he saw who it was.
“Same here. What are you doing?”
“Dee sent me down to look and see if the
bills was paid. I don’t see none. What’re you doin’ here?”
“Same thing. Ashley asked me to check on
the bills.”
“Hell, if I’da known that, I coulda
saved me a trip.”
“Sorry.”
“Ah, well.” He tossed the handful of
flyers and envelopes on the table. “Least the ball and chain will quit her
bitchin’ about it.”
Never mind that the ball and chain
provided the beer in your belly and the sexually explicit clothes on your back.
I walked to the table and thumbed through the pile he’d just dropped. Grocery
ads, three catalogs, some coupons, and a credit card offer. “Looks like someone
paid them, anyway.”
“Yeah.” Al waddled over and opened
Ashley’s fridge. Over his shoulder I could see what was inside. Not much. Some
pickles, mayo, a small hunk of cheese, and a Tupperware container. Zander had
cleaned her out.
Not finding what he wanted, he closed
the door. “Well, I guess I’ll be headin’ back.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“You know if Ashley had any life
insurance on that kid?”
That kid. Disgust rose in my throat like
bile. “I don’t think so. Most people don’t carry policies on children.”
“How come?”
“Well, the purpose of the insurance is
to provide for your family should anything happen to you. Children normally
don’t die suddenly, and they don’t have income that needs to be replaced.” I
felt like I was lecturing to a kindergartener.
“What about insurance for her?”
“I believe Ashley has a policy.” We’d
discussed it at one of her intervention meetings, and had made it a goal. Just
in case something were to happen to her unexpectedly. Although I hadn’t
envisioned Ashley being poisoned by the juice in her own refrigerator.
“She won’t need hers now, now that the
kid’s gone, right?”
“Why?”
“I was just wondering. I thought maybe
if she’d had some insurance on the boy we could give some of it to that drunks’
home, since — what’s her name — the big black one — helped so much with the
funeral and all.”
“Nona.”
“Yeah, Nona.”
“No, as far as I know there’s no
insurance for Michael.”
“Too bad. Maybe Ashley could cash in
hers.”
“I don’t know.” If she did, I hoped Al
would be the last person to know about it.
“Well, I’ll see you.”
I nodded. “I’ll lock up.”
He exited the apartment, beer belly
leading the way, and pulled the door shut behind him. I peeked out the front
blinds and saw him cram himself into a rusty Dodge Colt, his stomach jammed
against the steering wheel like a clown in a tiny car. The sight made me
chuckle.