Ray timidly pulled the microphone toward his mouth. His voice caught on the first couple of notes, but he steadied himself and was soon belting out a version of a Mog Campbell hit, “The Mountain”. Joan was floored. Ray sang with powerful, sweet clarity. People around the room gradually stopped dancing to marvel at the captivating sound coming from the stage. With each bar Ray gained confidence.
This road is heading home. I'm longing for your arms.
Wanted to do more, didn't happen as we planned.
His eyes scanned the room, passing over the heads of the crowd, looking for one person. His gaze finally settled and he smiled warmly.
Tried to stand alone, a tree that's lost its roots.
I fell and washed away. You're the rock and I'm the sand.
Curious, Joan craned her head to follow his gaze and was surprised to see that, in a roomful of swooning women, Ray was singing to his wife. Marlena looked as though she might die of embarrassment. Rank finished the song then segued directly into CCR's “Stuck In Lodi”. Dancers once again began writhing. All Joan could do was wonder why Roger had been the headliner all of those years rather than Ray. She caught Gabe's eye across the room and suspected he was chewing on the same question. Ray was halfway through the Credence tune when, without any warning, the room went dark and the sound system died abruptly.
Rudy's voice bellowed, “Oh, crap!”
A murmur rose and the crowd froze. Joan knew this uniform response. When people are cast into sudden darkness, deprived of their sense of sight, their instinct is to stay still. The only illumination now was the red glow of the exit sign. From the corner of her eye, Joan saw the door swing open. A figure rushed out. She hadn't time to get a good look, but she had the impression that it was a woman or perhaps a slight man. A few people started flicking lighters on, and the crowd started to move.
A scream cut through the shadows. Joan rushed to the source of the cry: the doors at the side of the auditorium leading to the basement. Gabe darted ahead of her, taking the stairs two at a time. Over his shoulder she could see a figure crumpled at the bottom of the stairs.
“Are you okay?” Gabe was asking. “Can you hear me?” He looked up at her. “It's Ed Fowler. He's hurt.”
Heart racing, Joan felt her way to the bottom of the stairs. It was easy to see how someone could fall down this dark, narrow passageway. The dank smell transported her to her childhood and the rare occasion she had gone to the eerie basement of the old school. Mr. Fowler lay unmoving, his body crumpled in an awkward contortion. Then a low moan rose, and the pile of fabric took the shape of shirt and trousers, arms and legs. To her relief, Mr. Fowler started to unfold into a sitting position.
“Stay still. We'll get a stretcher,” said Gabe.
Mr. Fowler brushed Gabe's arm away. “Nonsense. It's nothing. I'm cool. I'm cool.” As he awkwardly got to his feet, Joan could tell that he was in considerable pain. “I might be a bit stiff tomorrow, but I'll be fine. Went downstairs to put the breaker on. Must've tripped.”
“I can see how easy it would be to slip,” Joan consoled him, but Mr. Fowler was quick to correct her.
“Man, I'm up and down these stairs at least a half-dozen times a day. I didn't slip. I tripped. There was something on the stairs.”
“Maybe you dropped something when you were setting up for the concert,” she offered.
“But I'm the one always telling people how dangerous it is. All day I've been after everyone. Hell, now I feel foolish.” He tried to make light of it and smiled. “Ghosts.” He pushed his hip out against his hand. “Ow, I'll have one giant bruise tomorrow. You know what surprises me? That the electrical system couldn't take the drain on power.”
“All those amps and speakers?” she guessed.
Ed insisted that it had often dealt with more than the simple sound system and a few lights. “It can handle a far bigger load.” He added, with a sad smile, “When Peg was around, every concert included some sort of spiffy light show. She'd put them together using the old lighting board from drama class productions.” He went on to explain that the building had been completely rewired when the restoration was done eight years ago. It had to be brought up to code. “As a matter of fact, Ray's company did the plumbing.”
Gabe went with Mr. Fowler to find the electrical panel, and Joan, using the LED light on her keychain, scoured the stairs for the object that had tripped him. If there had been something, it had been removed.
She returned to the main floor to assure the grad class that everything was fine, then stepped outside to get a breath of air. Apparently, half the crowd had decided to do the same thing. People stood in small clutches, shivering without their coats. Most looked worried. Ray stood with Candy Dirkson and Linda Howard, both making a fuss over his debut as lead singer. Sarah came over to him with her husband. She took the hand of her childhood sweetheart and ex-husband, patting it between hers, saying something that made him smile shyly. Joan mused that it was something a grandmother might do. Their children had been born when Sarah and Ray were very young, barely out of high school. Did Ray have grandchildren that he'd never seen? The entire time that he was in conversation with Sarah, he was straining to stare over their heads, obviously looking for Marlena.
Candy waved at Joan, then made a bee line for her. “You seen Gabe, Joannie?”
“He's still inside.”
“There's something I've been meaning to tell him. Early menopause. It's not just the hot flashes. Half the time I have sieve-brain. I'll just have to start writing everything down,” she rattled on, “if I can remember to put a pen and notepad in my purse.”
Before Joan could offer to take a message, Candy had flitted away.
As the lights in the building flickered on, Joan saw Mr. Fowler emerge from the old school to herd everyone inside. Worried that he may have bumped his head in the fall, she asked him if there was anyone he could call if he needed help. “Do your girls live nearby?”
“Hell no,” he chuckled. “You teach kids to be free spirits, to have minds of their own, and what do they do? They question everything you say, then they sprout wings.” He rubbed his shoulder as he reflected. “Though I guess all kids do that. No, Sky and Summer, they flew to the city as soon as they could. Sky landed in Brussels, works as an environmental consultant. Summer roams. She still hasn't found herself.”
“Do they stay in touch?”
“Every week.” He smiled proudly. “We Skype. I won't tell them about this little tumble. How lame is that, to fall over like an old man?”
She gently touched his arm. “You get that shoulder looked at,” she advised.
“Oh sure, I will,” he said dismissively, then led the class back inside, giant students obediently following their teacher.
Joan moved to the far side of the building where it would be quieter, where she could concentrate on assembling information. She sat on the low, horizontal steel tubing that served as a fence. Covered in thick coats of forest-green paint, it seemed unchanged since her school days. She was quietly pondering Mr. Fowler's bizarre accident when, without any forewarning, Marlena came out of the shadows, weaving slightly.
“Why, if it isn't Dr. Smell. That's what you do, isn't it? Create a big stink?” She didn't give Joan a chance to respond, diving into her attack with vehemence. “Why did you come back? You know you don't belong here,” she hissed. “You never did.”
Before Joan could control herself she raised her hand and slapped Marlena hard.
The other woman laughed. “Oh, smooth, Parker.” Then, with Joan off guard, Marlena grabbed her hair and tried to tug her to the ground.
She could feel the strength in Marlena's arms and knew that she'd have to take drastic measures. With her head being forced toward the gravel, Joan turned and clamped her teeth on Marlena's thigh, biting through size A Evening Shade pantyhose. It felt strangely methodical, the whole process. How odd, she mused, to be in a cat fight.
Marlena let go of Joan's hair and grabbed her own leg. “You bitch, look what you've done to my pantyhose!”
Joan stumbled and fell on her butt. She cowered, covering her head with her arms, afraid that Marlena would go after another mitt-f of her hair.
“You had enough?” sneered Marlena, her foot poised to kick.
“Yes,” mumbled Joan, then yanked the other woman's leg and sent her sprawling to the ground. “And so have you.”
Neither spoke for a moment, then Joan asked, “Why do you hate me so much? I've never done anything to you.”
“Oh, you haven't, eh?”
Joan shook her head. She only knew that Marlena had hated her a long time. It went back to their teens; everything about this woman reminded her of a wounded teenager.
Marlena crawled into a sitting position. “Do you know how many times I sat through dinner listening to my dad talk about how smart you were? How you worked so hard? In his whole life he never once talked about me like that.” She continued in an angry whisper. “And I know that your mom probably told the whole world about my dad using the motel like a brothel.”
Joan listened to the litany of sorrows and realized that she hadn't had to do anything to hurt Marlena. That intimidating strength and confidence, in reality, had been a smoke screen. Marlena had been a wounded girl. Nothing had changed. Standing over Joan again, her wounds were still evident. The fight wasn't finished.
“You think you can come here and do whatever you want and maybe you don't care what us people in Madden think, that we're just a bunch of hicks, but I can make life miserable for that boyfriend of yours. Real miserable.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Joan but she already knew.
“It won't just be his marriage that's over. I can't imagine the RCMP will be thrilled about one of their cops sleeping with his murder suspects.” Marlena smiled with satisfaction, turned and sashayed back to the party just as Rudy's wife Monica came around the corner.
Joan slowly rose and brushed the dust from her pants.
“Are you all right?” asked Monica.
Joan contemplated answering that Madden was becoming increasingly dangerous. “I'm about ready to get home,” she answered simply.
“Hallelujah, me too.” Monica Weiss sighed as she sat beside Joan on the fence.
They'd shared pleasantries over the past few days but hadn't had anything you could call a conversation. Monica, though, was either comfortable with Joan or desperate to talk to someone, or both. She fumbled through her bag, pulled out a crushed cigarette and disposable lighter, then smiled conspiratorially. “Rudy doesn't like it when I smoke in public, especially here, in Madden. He says I look trashy.”
Trashy was the last term Joan would use for this matronly woman who used minimal makeup and dressed in the conservative manner of a bygone era.
“Rudy recites stats on smoking like some guys do baseball.” Monica paused and took a long drag. The smoke lazily drift from her mouth. “And not just the health outcomes. He can name the dates of the studies that prove that smokers have less education and lower IQs, all that stuff.”
Joan thought of Mort. He wouldn't do that to her in a million years, no matter what her bad habits. There were aspects of Mort's personality that she had taken for granted. His socks always matched his pants, but he'd never raise an eyebrow if hers didn't. When she blurted an awkward comment, he somehow made her social gaff disappear. Did it matter that their relationship had settled into a cushion of comfort rather than a bed of passion?
Monica hid her cigarette as a couple walked by, and then she spoke in a tone of conspiracy: “I hate coming here, to Madden. Rudy changes. He never worries about his hairline or his waistline at home. In Prince George he's proud of himself. Here it never seems to be enough. I'm never enough.” She stubbed out her cigarette. “Now it's just creepy with people dying all over the place. I can't wait to leave.” With that she tucked her purse under her arm and headed back into the school.
Left on her own, Joan thought about what Marlena had said about her dad. Had Dan Prychenko had some sort of obsession with her? Had she too easily dismissed that married Romeo as harmless? He'd been a drinker and one of the few people in town who could have afforded to stock his booze cabinet with Crown Royal. Could he have been the pervert who had taken those photos of her? But the appearance of any parent at that Labour Day weekend kegger would have been noticed by the teenagers and sent everyone scrambling. Besides, if he really did respect Joan in the way Marlena described, it didn't make sense that he'd have taken pornographic snapshots of her. The only other obvious candidate in her mind, was Roger, the photos possibly representing a victory trophy of the damage he'd done. And he also had access to the speakers. Now both men were dead. She might never know the truth.
W
HEN
J
OAN WENT INTO THE GYM
to bid goodnight, the party was again in full swing. Marlena was actually standing with her husband, laughing, as though the altercation in the schoolyard had never happened. With a girlish inflection, she was feeding Ray chips and salsa, giggling as the tomato dropped onto his shirt and wiping it off with her finger. Had his stake been raised because of his skilled performance on stage or because of the attention that the other women, including his ex-wife, were heaping upon him? Joan suspected it was the latter.
Hazel, encircled by a gaggle of dancers, was demonstrating a complicated group routine. She held them in rapt attention. Lila watched from the sidelines, towering over them all in spiked heels and a sleek pantsuit that accentuated her height. She was obviously feeling ignored and twirled the glass of wine in her hand with an intensity that could ignite flames. In a far corner, Gabe spoke into his cell phone, looking very grave. Police business, thought Joan. Others had already departed: Steve, Daphne, Candy, Rudy and his wife. She decided to sneak out without saying goodnight. Her mind was preoccupied with the events of the evening and she doubted that her absence would be noticed.