Secret Vows. Rochelle Alers

Basil had drawn up a will, leaving Webb everything: house, cars, jewelry, money in several personal bank accounts and Slow Wyne Records. He now was the head of two companies. Slow Wyne and a security company selling high-tech surveillance equipment.

      Webb had contacted his former cellmate to ask if he knew someone to help him with a personal problem. Ian Scott had spoken to his father, a shadowy man with ties to organized crime. Mr. Scott had quoted a figure and Webb had agreed. He would’ve paid any amount of money in order to bring down Serenity Records.

      Monk gave him a warm smile for the first time. “Thank you. There’s no need for your mother to see me out. I know the way.”

      “How did you—”

      “How do I know that your housekeeper is your mother?” Monk asked, reading Webb’s mind.

      He nodded numbly. “Yes.”

      “Do you actually believe I’d meet with you in person if I didn’t check you out, Mr. Irvine? I know everything about you, and I do mean everything. You have a good evening.”

      Webb waited a full five minutes and then returned to the refrigerator for a split of champagne. The pop of the cork echoed softly in the meticulously furnished home office. He’d spared no expense when it came to decorating his home. For Webb the house, personal tailor and on-call driver were surrogates for what he reviled most. He hated the opposite sex. It was because of a girl’s lie and his denial that her brother had disfigured his face. It was Basil who’d exacted revenge for the mutilation, and Webb had repaid him by Webb confessing that he’d killed his assailant, pleading self-defense when Basil would’ve been charged with second-degree murder.

      He heard movement and turned to find his mother staring at him. Donna Gibson hadn’t passed her surname or any of her physical characteristics along to her sons. Both looked like the men who’d gotten her pregnant.

      “How did it go?” Donna asked.

      Webb filled two flutes with the bubbly liquid. “Good.” He handed her a flute, smiling when their eyes met. “Now we wait.”

      Chapter 5

      Mission Grove

      Jason knew he’d remained cloistered much too long when he opened the refrigerator to discover he’d run out of milk. It was apparent he’d drunk more café con leche than usual. He glanced at the clock on the microwave. Where had the day gone? It was after seven.

      Scratching his bearded cheeks, he decided he was ready to leave the house. He didn’t want to believe he’d been in Mission Grove for ten days, and in all that time, he’d ventured out once. He’d driven into town to shop for enough groceries to stock the freezer and pantry for at least a month, and it was time he replenish the perishables.

      Time had stood still for him once he descended the staircase to the studio. He’d spent hours writing music, stopping only to take power naps, eat, drink copious cups of coffee liberally laced with milk and sugar, return emails, shower and change his clothes. He’d been in the zone composing pieces that were different from what he’d written before. They weren’t for the artists signed to Serenity Records or any other producer wishing to pick them up for their label. It was for himself. The instrumental reflected his present state of mind. It was moody, atmospheric, otherworldly. His bare feet were silent as he walked across the kitchen to the staircase at the rear of the house. It was time to shave off the beard and end his self-isolation.

      * * *

      Jason found enough space in the parking lot to park the Range Rover next to a Volkswagen Beetle. It was Thursday and Stella’s would probably be filled to capacity. An unlimited buffet and karaoke drew regulars and wannabe singers like bees to flowers.

      He preferred eating at Stella’s rather than many of the upscale Portland restaurants. He liked the home-style dishes and the laid-back atmosphere that beckoned customers to come in and stay for leisurely casual dining. Tuesday and Wednesdays catered to family dining with table service and the rest of the week offered a buffet with choices of main dishes, soups, salads and desserts.

      He was always a curious spectator on Karaoke Night. Some of the performers could barely carry a tune, and those who could occasionally flubbed the lyrics. There had been a young teenage boy with an amazing vocal range, but when Jason had approached him asking him to make a demo tape for Serenity, the kid had claimed his parents were totally against him singing secular music. He’d been one of the rare finds whose talent would thrive in the Christian music market.

      Jason waited in line to pay the fixed price for the all-you-can-eat buffet first. Drinks from the bar were not included in the price. Thereafter he wended his way through the throng, while searching the crowd for Chase. Smiling, he spied his friend at a table with several members of the house band. The drummer waved him over. Jason shook hands with each of the men at the table. They were a motley-looking group, having unkempt beards and eschewed haircuts, and favored multiple piercings and tattoos. However, their appearance did little to belie their talent.

      “Where the hell have you been?” asked Doug, the lead vocalist and guitarist.

      Jason’s dimples deepened in his clean-shaven face when he flashed a broad smile. “Sorry about that, but I got caught up writing.”

      Doug waved to a waiter, pointing to the empty pitcher on the table, then putting up two fingers. “Can you pull yourself away for a few hours on Fridays and Saturdays?” he asked Jason. “The band needs you because we just lost our keyboard player and female vocalist. They ran off to Vegas and got married because she got tired of being his baby mama.”

      “It’s about time he did something noble,” Chase mumbled under his breath.

      “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re about to begin Karaoke Night,” boomed the MC’s voice through the speakers set up around the restaurant. All conversations halted. Dressed in a red top hat, matching silk shirt with checkerboard suspenders, black knickers, argyle knee socks and a pair of oversize bright yellow shoes, he strutted across the stage like an inebriated clown. He stopped, reached into the pocket of his knickers and put on a large red clown nose. The restaurant exploded in laughter. “For those of you who are here for the first time, let me to introduce myself. I’m MC Oakie. If I look different tonight, it is because I’m going to change it up a bit. We’ll have singing, and maybe we’ll be able to get in a little dancing. Right now I’m going to ask the waitstaff to stop what they’re doing and come up on the stage.” He beckoned to Greer. “Come on up, Greer. Your uncle will not fire you if you take a five-minute break.”

      Jason couldn’t pull his gaze off Greer as she walked up the steps to the stage, the other waiters following. She looked different tonight. Her hair was a mass of tiny curls that bounced around her shoulders and framed her incredibly beautiful brown face. He was sitting close enough to notice the light cover of makeup that accentuated her eyes and lush mouth. Chase had mentioned she’d gone through a contentious divorce yet, looking at her, she radiated poise and confidence. Jason smiled. She’d changed her running shoes for a pair of red clogs.

      MC Oakie took off his hat, cradling it against his chest. “Every week I watch you guys lip-synching with your customers. Tonight I’m going to flip the script because it’s your turn to entertain everyone and no lip-synching.” Hooting and whistling followed the announcement. He bowed low. “Ladies, you’ll be first. Think about what you’d like to sing because you’re not going to know when I’m going to call your name. You may leave the stage now.”

      * * *

      The increasing heat in Greer’s face had nothing to do with the overhead spotlights. She wanted to pull off MC Oakie’s red nose for putting her and the others on the spot. He was right about lip-synching because she was guilty as charged. She enjoyed singing in the shower and also when cooking and cleaning the house. She’d been one of those little girls that used a hairbrush as her microphone. She’d also sung in the school choir from grade school through college. Her mother had accused her of choosing the wrong career path but Greer knew she didn’t have the temperament to go into the music business.