unnoticed, from up in the bedroom loft. later, Robin and I had
listened to a couple of the albums. Public domain songs,
mostly-ballads and reels, done traditionally and pretty well.
“You’re Bobby and Ben, aren’t you?”
Being recognized cracked their suspicion and brought back the
confusion.
“Robin Castagna’s a friend of mine,” I said.
“That so?” said the man.
“She patched up your gear last winter. Gibson A-four with a headstock
crack? D-eighteen with loose braces, bowed neck, bad frets, and a
popped bridge? Whoever baked those muffins was good.”
“Who are you?” said the woman.
“Exactly who I said I was. Call Robin-she’s at her shop, right now.
Ask her about Alex Delaware. Or if you don’t want to bother, could you
please tell me where I can find Dawn Herbert? I’m not out to hassle
her, just want to get the chart back.”
They didn’t answer. The man placed a thumb behind one of his suspender
straps.
“Go call,” the woman told him.
He went into the house. She stayed behind, watching me, breathing
deeply, bosoms flopping. The dogs watched me too. No one spoke. My
eyes caught motion from the west end of the block and I turned and saw
a camper back out of a driveway and lumber toward Sepulveda. Someone
on the opposite side of the street was flying an American flag. Just
beyond that, an old man sat slumped in a lawn chair. Hard to be sure
but I thought he was watching me too.
Belle of the ball in Culver City.
The suspendered man came back a few minutes later, smiling as if he’d
run into the Messiah. Carrying a pale-blue plate. Cookies and
muffins.
He nodded. That and his smile relaxed the woman. The dogs began
wagging their tails.
I waited for someone to ask me to dance.
“Get this, Bob,” he said to the woman. “This boy’s her main
squeeze.”
“Small world,” said the woman, finally smiling. I remembered her
singing voice from the album, high and clear, with a subtle vibrato.
Her speaking voice was nice too. She could have made money delivering
phone sex.
“That’s a terrific woman you’ve got there,” she said, still checking me
out. “Do you appreciate her?”
“Every day.”
She nodded, stuck out her hand, and said, “Bobby Murtaugh.
This is Ben. You’ve already been introduced to these characters.”
Greetings all around. I petted the dogs and Ben passed the plate. The
three of us took muffins and ate. It felt like a tribal ritual.
But even as they chewed, they looked worried.
Bobby finished her muffin first, ate a cookie, then another, chewing
nonstop. Crumbs settled atop her breasts. She brushed them off and
said, “Let’s go inside.”
The dogs followed us in and kept going, into the kitchen. A moment
later I heard them slurping. The front room was flat-ceilinged and
darkened by drawn shades. It smelled of Crisco and sugar and wet
canine. Tan walls, pine floor in need of finishing, odd-sized homemade
bookshelves, several instrument cases where a coffee table would have
been. A music stand in the corner was stacked with sheet music. The
furniture was heavy Depression-era stuff thrift-shop treasures. On the
walls were a Vienna Regulator that had stopped at two o’clock, a framed
and glassed Martin guitar poster, and several handbills commemorating
the Topanga Fiddle and Banjo Contest.
Ben said, “Have a seat.”
Before I could comply, he said, “Sorry to tell you this, friend, but
Dawn’s dead. Someone killed her. That’s why we got freaked out when
you mentioned her name, and the other murder. I’m sorry.
He looked down at the muffin plate and shook his head.
“We still haven’t gotten it out of our heads,” said Bobby. “You can
still sit down. If you want to.”
She sank into a tired green sofa. Ben sat next to her, balancing the
plate on one bony knee.
I lowered myself to a needlepoint chair and said, “When did it
happen?”
A couple of months ago,” said Bobby. “March. It was on a
weekend-middle of the month, the tenth, I think. No, the ninth.”
Looking at Ben.
“Something like that,” he said.
“I’m pretty sure it was the ninth, babe. It was the weekend of Sonoma,