Chapter 10
Skye circled the block, refusing to park, simply enjoying the drive.
Clay didn’t mind the detours. Marcelle tucked closer, burrowing against him for warmth, shielded from the rushing air.
He could have stayed in motion all day, and a reluctant sigh left him when Skye finally slid the car into an open spot across the street from the music store.
Marcelle lifted her gaze, framed by the lacy fringe of her dark lashes. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m enjoying snuggling with you,” he admitted, “but the damp air isn’t good for your throat. How about hot tea while you shop?”
“That would be nice.”
Clay hopped out of the rumble seat. “There’s a café up the street. I’ll get you tea with lemon while you go inside to warm up.” Marcelle scrambled out and gave him a wicked grin he couldn’t interpret, but he liked it. A lot.
“That’s so sweet.” She kissed his cheek. “Thank you.”
Remy jumped out, hurried around to open Skye’s door, and escorted her to the sidewalk. “Drink whisky instead. I refilled the flasks. We’ve got enough to get us through lunch.”
“Remy, Remy, Remy.” Marcelle tsk-tsked. “Caffeine and alcohol are abrasive and cause unnecessary friction in your vocal cords. I’m sure Bastien’s mentioned that before.”
“Doan think so,” Remy said. “And even if he had, I’d tell him what I’ll tell you. It’s a good thing I doan need my vocal cords to play drums.”
“From what I’ve heard,” Marcelle said, “you only need one hand to play drums while you beatbox your entire kit with your throat and lip muscles.”
“What’s a beatbox?” Skye asked.
“It’s beatboxing, and it’s like scat singing,” Marcelle said, “except you make drum sounds.”
“Show me,” Skye said. “Marcelle taught me scat singing last night.”
“Say ‘boots’ and ‘cats’ together,” Remy said. “It preps your mouth. Boots, cats, boots, cats. Now make the sounds—that gives you kick and snare. Then you mix in others.” He grinned. “Oomph. Crack. Bonk. Wash.”
“I thought I knew a lot about music,” Skye said, “but you all know things I’ve never heard of.”
“Doan worry about it.” Remy waved her off. “Beatboxing can be annoying. Elliott Fraser’s wife outlawed it the first week I met her. Said I could finger-drum all I wanted, but no beatboxing.”
“Demo your talents later,” Clay said. “It’s breezy out here. Anybody else want tea?”
“No, thanks.” Skye slipped her arm through Remy’s. “Boots, cats, boots, cats…”
Remy added a couple of oomphs and bonks as they entered the music store.
Marcelle hung back a moment and gave Clay a regal little wave. “See you inside.”
Clay strode up the street, savoring the fact that he cherished his time with Marcelle—more than he’d expected, more than he could easily explain. If she accepted the job in Richmond, he’d see her again. If she didn’t…
He pushed the thought away and lingered at the café entrance.
The small eatery had a tin ceiling and plain linoleum floors.
All ten tables and eight soda-fountain stools were taken.
The kitchen at the rear ran loud and fast. The place served bottled soda and takeout, but didn’t serve hot tea by the cup.
After a brief negotiation and a few extra bills, Clay secured two cups, a teapot of steaming water, tea bags, lemon wedges, milk, and a tray. Overkill, maybe—but he preferred attentive to stingy, especially if it earned another kiss on the cheek. Or better.
He navigated the intersection without spilling, but the music store door defeated him. After attempts with his chin, elbows, and knee failed, he knocked.
A slim, gray-haired man with deeply creased eyes pulled the door open. “You must be the double bass player.” The jaded tone carried an immediate dismissal—another unimpressive musician in an endless line.
Clay stepped inside, balancing the tray. “Is that what I’m playing now?”
“I was told you could play anything.”
“That’s an exaggeration,” Clay said easily, “but I can fake it until I make it.” He smiled. “You must be Mr. Mac. Skye spoke highly of you.”
“Your friends are in the back.” Mr. Mac gestured with a stiff wrist, as if it pained him.
“Are you a violinist?” Clay asked, guessing at the source of the strain.
Mr. Mac stared at his hand as if it had betrayed him. “Double bass. Gave it up.”
“Because of your wrist?”
Mr. Mac wiggled fingers stiff as chopsticks. “Wrist and fingers. Made more money selling instruments than playing one.”
Clay nodded, genuinely interested. “They say to keep playing because the alternatives are worse.”
“They hurt all the time,” Mr. Mac said. “Doesn’t matter if I play or not.”
Clay moved deeper into the store, ducking beneath guitars, sitars, banjos, and mandolins hanging from the ceiling like stalactites. Shelves brimmed with record albums. Upright and grand pianos crowded the next room beside trumpets, cornets, flutes, trombones, and saxophones.
“Where’s Marcelle?” Clay asked. “I’m surprised she’s not playing the trumpet.”
Mr. Mac glared at him like he was gum on the sole of a boot. “Rehearsal space in the back. She’s in there.”
Remy paced in front of the drum sets in the next room. Clay set the tea service on a table.
“Can you make it work?” Clay asked.
“I’m figuring out what a kit looks like with the bass drum, tom-tom, snare, cymbals, blocks, hardware—everything I need.”
“What about a hi-hat?”
“There isn’t one here.” Remy kept sketching, labeling parts. “Did you find a guitar?”
“I haven’t looked.” Clay nodded toward the front. “I heard something about a double bass.”
“Can you play it?”
“About as well as I play most instruments,” Clay said. “Different strings, different scale length, different technique, but other than that…”
Marcelle entered then, carrying two trumpets. “You’re acknowledging you’re a multi-instrumentalist.”
“Multi-instrumentalist, yes. Talented? Not so much.”
“I heard you play guitar,” she said. “You’re good.” She set one trumpet down and poured tea. “Thank you. Want some?”
“No. I thought Skye might like it with her whisky.”
“Skye!” Marcelle called. “Clay brought you tea.”
“Keep it down,” Remy said. “Whisky is illegal here. Remember.”
Marcelle leaned closer to Clay. “Mr. Mac doesn’t care. Wouldn’t surprise me if he had a speakeasy in the cellar.”
Skye appeared. “An entire tea service? That’s impressive.” She poured a cup and added milk.
“Do you want whisky in it?” Remy asked.
“I shouldn’t start drinking this early.” Skye checked the time on the diamond watch on her wrist. “We need to hurry. Shopping, and I don’t want to miss lunch at the Walnut Room.”
Marcelle lifted the second trumpet. “I’ll take this Bach Stradivarius. It’s expensive, but I want it. I’ll pay you back.”
“Remy and I are on an expense account,” Clay said. “You can have what you need.”
“Thanks.” She handed the trumpet to Skye. “What about your guitar and double bass, and Remy’s kit?”
Remy held up a page. “I’ve made a parts list. Mr. Mac can assemble everything and deliver it to the house.”
“I need to figure out what I want,” Clay said.
Remy followed him into the front room. “How come I didn’t know you played all these instruments?”
Clay shrugged. “It’s not important.”
“You’re a one-person band.”
“I can play several,” Clay admitted, “but I’m not anywhere near as good as you and Marcelle. I’m functional.”
“Functional works.”
Clay stopped short, eyes on a guitar hanging like a relic. “Look at that Martin.” He pointed. “At home, this would be the holy grail.”
“Try it,” Marcelle said.
Clay unhooked it, tuned it, and strummed a few chords. “It doesn’t get better than this.”
Mr. Mac approached. “You interested in that one?”
“We’ll take it,” Remy said. “Along with this kit, Marcelle’s trumpet, and we need a double bass.” He handed Mr. Mac his drawing. “Can you put this list together and deliver everything?”
“To my residence,” Skye said. “This afternoon, if possible.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem.” Mr. Mac’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Starting another band?”
“Something like that,” Skye said. “All we’re missing is a sax player. If you hear of one, let me know.”
“Haven’t heard of anybody,” Mr. Mac said. “But if I do, I’ll send them your way.” He glanced toward the basses. “Which one?”
“The Mittenwald,” Clay said without remembering he shouldn’t. “Dick Kniss had one like that.”
Remy leaned close. “Nobody knows those people.”
“Right.” Clay cleared his throat. “Never mind.”
He tested the bass quickly—position, tension, pluck. Marcelle moved closer, eyes bright.
“I love the double bass,” she said. “Warm, full-bodied. We can jam.”
“Let’s not,” Remy cut in. “I want to get out of here.”
Mr. Mac reached for the bass. “I’ll deliver everything this afternoon. Do you want to include the tea service?”
“You can keep it,” Clay said, gathering the cups.
Remy provided the bank information while Mr. Mac wrote.
Skye offered Mr. Mac an awkward, fingertip handshake. “Thank you, Mr. Mac. It’s always a pleasure doing business with you.”
Outside, Skye said, “His business has been slow lately. I heard he’s buying more than selling.”
“I’m glad we gave him some business,” Marcelle said.
“He didn’t like me much,” Clay said.
“You remind him of the musician he used to be,” Skye said. “Like you, he’s a multi-instrumentalist, but he can’t play because of his rheumatoid arthritis.”
“If I lost range of motion,” Clay said, “I’d be more upset about drawing.”
“You’d have to shoot me if I couldn’t play drums,” Remy said. “Life wouldn’t have much meaning.”
“Aren’t you going back to school?” Clay asked.
Skye blinked. “School? What for?”
“I was a medic in the Army. I want to pursue that.”
“Like medical school?” Marcelle asked.
Remy shrugged. “We’ll see. But first we find Bastien.”
The music store had bought them a brief hour of distraction, but Bastien was still their center.
Skye hurried them toward the newspaper office so Remy could correct the ad. Remy kept a guarded calm, but Marcelle’s alarm was palpable. The stakes were clear: if Bastien didn’t surface within twenty-four hours, Clay vowed to push Remy to use the brooch to track him down.