Red House Blues Read online

  It struck her that she had forgotten to e-mail Claire that she had arrived safely in Seattle. That was the first thing she would attend to in the morning, groveling abjectly. Already messing up after promising to keep her posted every day

  The tiny night sounds of the old building - someone coughing at the end of the hall, the floor creaking as the ancient timbers shifted, a purring sound like an elevator in the walls, maybe a heater – strangely seemed to comfort her. She pulled the rough blanket up around her neck and relaxed into the curve of the stall floor like a mollusk repositioning itself in the sand. Eventually she drifted into an exhausted sleep.

  “Hey, you dead in there?”

  The voice reverberated around the tile enclosure. Suzan peered over the edge of the blanket. A shadow filled the glass door. She was alone and trapped in a tile box, nightmares seeping in through the cracks. Nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. She strangled a cowardly whimper.

  “Come on, I see you moving around. Some of us have to go to work, here. You coming out any time soon? The other fuckin’ shower is broken.”

  “Okay, sorry.” Suzan struggled to unwind herself from the blankets, losing her balance as she tried to stand. Pain shot through her shoulder.

  “Hurry up in there.” said the woman by the door, tapping on the glass.

  “Hang on.” Suzan unlocked the door and stumbling over the sill, dragging the blanket after her like a two-year-old.

  “You’ve got to be shittin’ me,” said the woman. “No way you were sleeping in there.”

  “It’s hard for me to believe, too. My roommates were partying pretty hard last night.”

  “The Germans, right? God, I could hear them all the way down to my room. Don’t worry, though. The room was empty when I went by. Probably checked out at dawn.”

  “That’s good news, anyway."

  As the woman hung her towel on the hook and stepped into the shower, Suzan caught herself studying the woman with an artist’s eyes. Porcelain white skin scribed with more tattoos than Suzan had seen on one human. Even in her groggy state she was astounded at how beautiful the tattoos were. The designs in black and red pigments began at the nape of the woman’s neck and spread all the way down her back onto her upper thighs. From what Suzan remembered of her Northwest Indian art class the designs looked Haida. She was repelled yet fascinated.

  What in the world are you thinking, Suzan? Wash your face and pull yourself together before the tattooed lady notices you’re staring and thinks you’re a lesbian. Things were awkward enough without that particular complication.

  The day Suzan planned over her breakfast of runny eggs and greasy hash browns didn’t materialize. Not wanting to risk roommates worse than the Germans, she tried to locate a cheap hotel room for the remainder of the week. Cliff, the hostel desk clerk, suggested three or four possibilities and let her use the phone. Not one had a room cheap enough that wasn’t obviously an hourly flop. There was some sort of convention in town. It was the hostel or a night sleeping under a bridge.

  That afternoon she used the hostel computer in the threadbare lounge to e-mailing Claire, telling her that everything was going really well but she hadn’t learned anything new. The last comment being the only thing not a total lie.

  There was now a steady stream of people dragging duffel bags and back packs past Cliff. The hostel was filling up fast for the night. She was glad she had hedged her bets and not checked out.

  She probably should decide where she was going to get dinner. Not that she was hungry. The fish and chips she had for lunch down on the waterfront were still leaden in her stomach. But she couldn’t expect to learn anything hanging around the hostel. She pulled up a map and info on Jax’s, the club where Sean played the night he died. It was a bar. Maybe they served food and she could talk to the servers.

  “Took care of everything,” said a hoarse whisper in her ear, sending her jumping out of her skin.

  “Cliff, you scared me to death!” she screeched. “What did you take care of?”

  “Moved you in with Marla, one of our regulars. Quiet type. You’ll be okay in there.”

  “Thanks.” I think. “Regulars?”

  “Yeah. She comes up from San Francisco every few weeks on business.” He handed her the key to room Eight-B. “Moved your gear for you.”

  She suppressed an urge to tear into the man. How dare he pack up her clothes, underwear and toiletries without asking. Still, he obviously thought he was doing her a favor and since she wasn’t in the position to get huffy about well-meaning help she kept mum.

  What kind business, wondered Suzan, could a woman be in that she stayed at the Sea Turtle Hostel? Obviously not an awfully upscale or lucrative business. Either that or something not particularly legal.

  No concern of yours, as long as she doesn’t snore or smoke crack in the wee hours.

  Room Eight-B turned out to be a corner room overlooking Western Avenue on the west and a parade of rooftops to the south all the way to the football stadium. It was empty except for two pair of high-top Keds positioned under one of the twin beds and a black denim jacket on a hook by the door. No bunks. Palatial accommodations by hostel standards. The regular had clout if not style sense.

  Cliff had placed her backpack at the end of the second bed. Suzan hung her clothes in the vacant side of the closet, taking note of her new roommate’s small collection of clothes. Shirts and jeans in funereal tones. Nothing Suzan would normally associate with a business traveler though what did she know?

  After her miserable night on the shower floor the simple bed looked heavenly. She stretched out on the rough woolen blanket, hoping there might be enough time to close her aching eyes for a few minutes before dinner. She couldn’t seem get enough sleep any more. If only she could sleep for days on end and wake to find that the last few years had just been a nightmare. One sign of depression, part of the grief process, she supposed. Something she would just have to outlive, like acne.

  “I’ll be damned if it isn’t Sleeping Beauty. I might have known. What’s the matter, the shower in use?”

  Suzan opened her eyes to see the tattooed woman of that morning, now fully clothed, looking down at her, heavily illustrated hands on hips.

  “And you must be Marla. Cliff took the initiative of putting me in here. If you’d rather I move I’ll get him to find me another room.”

  “Hey no problem, as long as you’re here you might as well stay. I’m not around much anyway.”

  “I won’t be around much either. In fact I’m going out tonight,” said Suzan. “I’ll try to be quiet when I come in.”

  “If I’m asleep, you won’t wake me. I suppose you’re going to the Space Needle. All the tourists do,” said Marla.

  “What, is that a not-so-subtle way of asking me what I’m doing in town?”

  “Can’t blame me for being curious about my new roomy. You don’t exactly look like the typical drifting dirt bag that comes through here.”

  “Thanks ever so much, I’m sure. Glad I meet with your approval.”

  “Okay, that didn’t come out right. I’m just trying to be friendly, but suit yourself. You got one hell of a chip on your shoulder, Sleeping Beauty.” said Marla, as she turned to rummage through the closet, grabbing a black scrap that could have been a top from one wire hanger.

  What’s wrong with you, Suzan, that suddenly you’re seeing enemies everywhere?

  “I was out of line, Marla, I didn’t mean to be such a bitch. I have some issues right now and I seem to be taking it out on innocent bystanders. Can we start over?”

  “No prob. You got a right not to have people poking their noses into your business,” she said. “Hope you have a good time tonight.”

  “Thanks, Marla. As a matter of fact I could probably use a friend who knows Seattle . . . that is if you still want to be friendly with your bitchy roomy.”

  “What do you need?”

  “Do you know of a place called Jax’s?”

  “You’re not thinki
ng of going to that place, are you?”

  “A friend of mine is in a band that plays there sometimes.”

  Marla fixed her with penetrating ice blue eyes that seem to see through the little falsehood.

  “Well, child, if you’re going to Jax’s your friend better be a very large, nasty friend or that crowd is likely to eat you alive. You’re a little dainty for what goes down at Jax’s. How ‘bout you drop your friend a note from a safe distance instead?”

  She’s taking me at face value, thought Suzan, skinny, wispy blond with a baby doll face. She’s thinking I must be a lightweight in the brainpan. Her brothers often made the same misjudgment when they were kids and lived to regret it.

  “Thanks, Marla. I’ll keep that in mind,” said Suzan, as she slid off the bed and shouldered her purse. One piece of info she was grateful for was that Jax’s didn’t sound like a place she could expect to enjoy dinner. She would try to locate a noodle shop or burger joint on her way to the bar.

  She walked north on First toward the Pike Place Market. Four blocks up she found a hole-in-the-wall Vietnamese cafe redolent of sesame oil, garlic, and lemon grass. She grabbed the postage stamp size table by the window and ordered what she hoped was wafting through the air.

  Eddies of people were rushing past the window in all directions. The street itself was clogged with Metro buses, taxis, and cars trying to cope with the outpouring of commuters heading for home, and the influx of people coming downtown for a night out at clubs and restaurants. And then there were the poor befuddled souls wandering around looking lost, studying maps and street signs.

  The air stunk of diesel exhaust, burnt coffee, and rotting garbage. Every bus whooshing by spawned tornadoes of candy wrappers and newspapers. The cacophony of car horns, engines, and shouting people was deafening. Suzan mentally compared the chaos she saw from the window to the relative tranquility of Bellingham, feeling as if she had been drifting down a placid river only to plunge head first over a waterfall onto sharp rocks.

  It was way too early for Jax’s. The doors opened at five that was still too early for the sort of people she wanted to talk to. Closer to eight seemed right though once the band kicked in it would be too loud for conversation. Somewhere around eight-thirty then. Oodles of time to kill. Might as well play tourist after all.

  She refilled her cup of jasmine tea, pulled out the guidebook from the side pocket of her purse. Along the route to Jax’s was the world famous Pike Place Market, a major tourist trap with its fish market and boutiques. Still, the fact that she and the market shared a name settled her on the destination. Fleetingly she wondered who the market had been named for and whether he was Sean’s ancestor. Probably not, she decided. More likely the name referred to a turnpike or something. But then, who or what was Pike’s Peak named for? What’s with my brain today? Flitting all over the place. More tired than I thought or I’m tripping on the jasmine.

  Focus. She took a sip of tea and opened the guidebook. The Pike Place Market, she read, was a beloved though ramshackle remnant of early Seattle, originating in a time when farmers from rural valleys trucked fresh produce into the city in horse-drawn wagons. Every film shot in Seattle inevitably included a market scene with fish vendors heaving huge salmon over the heads of thrilled visitors. A trip to the market was touted to be compulsory if you came to Seattle.

  Nothing wrong with a taste of normalcy for a change, she thought. Soon enough she’d have to deal with matters at hand. It had been years since she did something just for the hell of it, just for fun. So many years since fun had been in her vocabulary at all. She wasn’t sure she remembered how to relax and enjoy an unplanned moment. Perhaps a flying salmon was what she needed right now.

  She tucked the guidebook back into the side pocket of her purse, took a final sip of tea and plunged into the flood of humanity, letting herself be swept toward the market, carried like a leaf on a stream.

  The current spilled her in front of a stall piled with fresh herbs and plastic bags of spices. Huge bouquets of dried flowers and foliage swung from beams above the tables like trapeze artists. It was lush as a fairy bower. The mingling aromas of herb vinegars and soaps took her breath away for a second. In a sweep of scent she was transported to fields of thyme and lavender, cleansing her head of the urban stench. She felt a coil of tension loosen its grip on her spine.

  “Anything you’re looking for I have,” said the stall’s proprietor, an older woman in multilayered gauzy gown and an abundance of crystal jewelry.

  “Just browsing,” said Suzan, scanning the fragrant display.

  “Everyone is looking for something, my dear.” She studied Suzan as if she were an especially interesting trick of light.

  “Just taking in the scenery. You have a beautiful stall. Would you mind if I took a few pictures?” Suzan dug her small digital camera out of her purse.

  “Not at all. That’s one of it purposes. Local color," said the woman. “But I perceive you have other more pressing needs I might be able to help you with.”

  Oh no, what have I started, thought Suzan. Here comes the gypsy fortuneteller routine she trots out for sweet, simple tourists. What will it be next, a tarot deck? Suzan wasn’t about to be suckered into it, whatever the spiel would be.

  “Are the soaps handmade,” she said by way of diversion.

  “Sure are. Any particular scent?”

  “Do you have a rosemary scented bar?”

  It was Suzan’s favorite scent - woodsy, sharp, mysterious. She hadn’t pampered herself in a long time. Maybe a pretty soap might make her next visit to that dreary shower stall almost bearable.

  “Yes, it would be rosemary," said the herb woman. “You are definitely a rosemary type. It’s for remembrance, you know. But I don’t believe that’s the one for you today, my dear. Sage is just the ticket. Sage is for protection, you know. Always a good idea when going through difficult times.”

  The woman handed Suzan a light green oval of soap the size of a lemon.

  How on earth, wondered Suzan, was a bar of soap going to protect her? And from what danger, body odor? The woman was clearly more than a bit spacey.

  “Well, thanks, but I’ll just have the rosemary.”

  “If you say so,” said the woman, bagging up a chunky square bar. Before she closed the top of the bag, Suzan noticed she tucked a sprig of some dried herb in with the purchase.

  “What’s that you put in the bag?”

  “Compliments of the management. A little something just in case.”

  Suzan wasn’t going to pursue the matter. You encourage the crazies and soon you’re caught up in their delusion. Wouldn’t it be nice if all problems could be solved with a hand full of dried weeds or a bottle of snake oil.

  She paid her for the soap and tucked the bag into her purse. Because she had said she would, she shot a few photos from different angles of the varied wares displayed on the table. Thanking the woman, she edged away from the stall back into the crowd. It was silly but there was something that had unnerved her about the woman. She tried to shrug it off. The world was full of people making a living off other people’s ignorance, vulnerability or desperation. This woman had a good patter. Probably did palm readings on the side. Still, she picked up on my . . . what? My nervousness, fear?

  Never far from the surface of her thoughts was the knowledge that a killer walked free in this city. And if Sean’s killing wasn’t just a random act of violence, then his murderer was someone he knew, someone Suzan might cross paths with tonight at Jax’s. Someone who may not take kindly to her nosing around. If so, she would need more than dried sage leaves and bangles for protection. She would have to keep her wits about her.

  She couldn’t exactly steam onto the scene identifying herself as Suzan Pike, Sean’s widow. She learned from the cops that he had been using the obviously phony stage name of Stephan Wolf but someone might recognize the name Pike. There was no way of knowing if he had told his house mates or the other band members his real name or wher
e he was from. She couldn’t take the chance of using her own name. She would use her maiden name of Sullivan and convert Suzan to Ann. Ann Sullivan prowls Seattle looking for bad guys.

  Damn! What if she gets carded or someone searches her purse? She should have thought this through before she left Bellingham but it was too late to worry about it tonight. She’d have to cross her fingers and pray to stay under the radar. Tomorrow she’ll email Claire and ask her to get Tony to help. He made fake cards for them all when they were in high school. He was a genius at that sort of thing. With a computer and a good laser printer it must be even easier these days. Claire was sure to have a photo of her that he could use.

  And if he refuses to do it? He wasn’t exactly her biggest fan right now. Claire had to make him see that the whole idea was to find out what happened to Sean. If nothing else that should induce him. Still, even if he goes along with it it’s going to take a few days. Tonight she was on her own.

  Maybe if she looked more like she belonged in a punk bar . . . Suzan wandered down to the lower floor where there were a collection of funky consignment shops. She put way too much of a dent in her budget with a worn out leather jacket that could have belonged to James Dean. To complete the outfit she splashed out for a grey sleeveless concert t-shirt so faded it was impossible to make out what band it originally touted. Maybe not the perfect camo but it would do in a pinch, at least she hoped so.

  Chapter 10

  Jax’s was cramped, dark, loud, redolent of stale beer and already at barely eight p.m. filled with the blue haze of too many cigarettes. Suzan paid the cover charge to a mountain of muscle by the front door. Luckily he hadn’t asked to see identification. She didn’t know whether to feel relieved or insulted.

  She noted the reader board. The band that night wasn’t Scalplock but she held out hope that one or two of the band members might be in the crowd, or people who knew them.

  The walls, what she could see of them through the smoke, were layered with handmade concert announcements and gobs of lavishly applied red paint. It was a narrow room with a bar down the left side, and a collection of microscopic mismatched tables and chairs. Snugged to the right wall was a low stage, not much bigger than a drum riser. Any band playing here couldn’t squeeze in more than a trio. A strip of empty floor in front of the stage was probably intended to represent a dance floor.