Killer Riff by Sheryl J. Anderson Read Free Book Online
Authors: Sheryl J. Anderson
together and gracious, welcoming Jordan and Bonnie into their family circle.
Olivia, whose mother had died when she was only seven, and her father had been part of the circle, too. I was beginning to think the interview with Olivia should focus on her front-row seat for some intriguing family dynamics rather than her father’s legacy when the phone rang.
“First ring,” Kyle said quietly when I answered. “You’re working.”
“After midnight,” I replied. “So are you.”
“We’re wrapping up, but I think I should go home.”
It wasn’t until I felt the pang that I realized how deeply I’d been hoping he’d come by, even if he didn’t stay all night. I was like a junkie falling off the wagon; now that I’d had one taste, I had to figure out how to get my hands on more. But some lingering shred of decorum prevailed, and I said, “Okay.”
“It’s not, but it is better this way.” We considered that statement a moment before he added, “Not as much fun, but better.”
“If it’s not as much fun, how can it be better?”
“Broccoli’s good for you.”
“Are you saying our relationship is a vegetable?”
“This is why I have to go home. I can’t keep up.”
“I’m sorry, I’ll be quiet.”
“No, you won’t be. Which is perfect. But I’m beat. And you have work to do.”
“Work can wait.”
“So can we.”
“Speak for yourself.”
He didn’t say anything for a moment, and I was afraid he’d hung up. Then he said, his voice huskier than usual, “It was really good to see you.”
“It’d be even better to see you again.”
“I’ll call you in the morning.”
“You better.”
“You bet.”
“Good night, Mr. Townshend.”
“Good night, Mr. Daltry,” he said with an approving laugh, and hung up.
As tempting as it was to now put the Who’s Face Dances on the CD player and sing “You Better You Bet” at the top of my lungs, I knew that could easily lead to my playing air guitar on the coffee table at three a.m., and I needed to attempt to settle down so I could get a good night’s sleep before meeting Olivia. So I swapped out Film at Eleven and put on The Good Fight , Subject to Change’s fourth album, the one with the uncharacteristic power ballads that gave them three Billboard number ones. I drifted off in front of the laptop with Micah Crowley singing about love, betrayal, and girls with long hair and longer legs.
“Long-Haired Girls” was still running through my head the next day as I got ready to meet Olivia Elliott in the flesh. Rocking out in front of the bathroom mirror, singing into the handle of my hairbrush as if I were fourteen again, I remembered that although I’d broken the news about Olivia’s suspicions to Kyle, I hadn’t told Eileen. But I rationalized that while I’d told Kyle to keep him from being upset because I’d kept it from him, Eileen was already upset with me and I didn’t need to nudge that thermometer up any further. Certainly not until I knew whether there was any basis for Olivia’s concerns.
Figuring I was better off lying low until I knew more, I stayed home to continue my research, increasing my fascination with the circumstances in which Olivia had grown up. The Crowleys and the Elliotts seemed inseparable, and after Micah’s death, Russell had stepped in to manage the estate and the careers of Adam and Jordan. Russell was the one who spoke to the press and dealt with the business matters. Claire dedicated herself to charity work, and Bonnie experimented with a variety of endeavors; she was painting now. They sounded like one big happy family.
So where did the discordant note of murder come from? I knew all the happy press didn’t mean things had always been sunny, but I was still struggling to imagine what had occurred to put the idea into Olivia’s head and not into the medical examiner’s.
Olivia was already at the table by the time I got to the Grill Room and neither rose nor offered her hand as the
Olivia, whose mother had died when she was only seven, and her father had been part of the circle, too. I was beginning to think the interview with Olivia should focus on her front-row seat for some intriguing family dynamics rather than her father’s legacy when the phone rang.
“First ring,” Kyle said quietly when I answered. “You’re working.”
“After midnight,” I replied. “So are you.”
“We’re wrapping up, but I think I should go home.”
It wasn’t until I felt the pang that I realized how deeply I’d been hoping he’d come by, even if he didn’t stay all night. I was like a junkie falling off the wagon; now that I’d had one taste, I had to figure out how to get my hands on more. But some lingering shred of decorum prevailed, and I said, “Okay.”
“It’s not, but it is better this way.” We considered that statement a moment before he added, “Not as much fun, but better.”
“If it’s not as much fun, how can it be better?”
“Broccoli’s good for you.”
“Are you saying our relationship is a vegetable?”
“This is why I have to go home. I can’t keep up.”
“I’m sorry, I’ll be quiet.”
“No, you won’t be. Which is perfect. But I’m beat. And you have work to do.”
“Work can wait.”
“So can we.”
“Speak for yourself.”
He didn’t say anything for a moment, and I was afraid he’d hung up. Then he said, his voice huskier than usual, “It was really good to see you.”
“It’d be even better to see you again.”
“I’ll call you in the morning.”
“You better.”
“You bet.”
“Good night, Mr. Townshend.”
“Good night, Mr. Daltry,” he said with an approving laugh, and hung up.
As tempting as it was to now put the Who’s Face Dances on the CD player and sing “You Better You Bet” at the top of my lungs, I knew that could easily lead to my playing air guitar on the coffee table at three a.m., and I needed to attempt to settle down so I could get a good night’s sleep before meeting Olivia. So I swapped out Film at Eleven and put on The Good Fight , Subject to Change’s fourth album, the one with the uncharacteristic power ballads that gave them three Billboard number ones. I drifted off in front of the laptop with Micah Crowley singing about love, betrayal, and girls with long hair and longer legs.
“Long-Haired Girls” was still running through my head the next day as I got ready to meet Olivia Elliott in the flesh. Rocking out in front of the bathroom mirror, singing into the handle of my hairbrush as if I were fourteen again, I remembered that although I’d broken the news about Olivia’s suspicions to Kyle, I hadn’t told Eileen. But I rationalized that while I’d told Kyle to keep him from being upset because I’d kept it from him, Eileen was already upset with me and I didn’t need to nudge that thermometer up any further. Certainly not until I knew whether there was any basis for Olivia’s concerns.
Figuring I was better off lying low until I knew more, I stayed home to continue my research, increasing my fascination with the circumstances in which Olivia had grown up. The Crowleys and the Elliotts seemed inseparable, and after Micah’s death, Russell had stepped in to manage the estate and the careers of Adam and Jordan. Russell was the one who spoke to the press and dealt with the business matters. Claire dedicated herself to charity work, and Bonnie experimented with a variety of endeavors; she was painting now. They sounded like one big happy family.
So where did the discordant note of murder come from? I knew all the happy press didn’t mean things had always been sunny, but I was still struggling to imagine what had occurred to put the idea into Olivia’s head and not into the medical examiner’s.
Olivia was already at the table by the time I got to the Grill Room and neither rose nor offered her hand as the