Murder in Rock & Roll Heaven Read online

  “What’s Cumby’s?” Gregory asked.

  “Cumberland Farms,” Tommy replied. “It’s a convenience store.”

  “Thanks, Tommy,” the weary traveler said, shaking his head. “I’ll take your word for it.”

  Gregory watched as Tommy disappeared up Rock City Road towards the mountainous area. About a minute later, walking down Mill Hill Road, the thoroughly confused new arriver studied the curious surroundings astutely, passing by several closed restaurants, bakeries, food markets, and other businesses, all of which were built in regular homes re-purposed for commerce, all of which had simple wood & glass doors, and all of which lacked locks. After strolling past a large brick house of worship, and a couple of folks milling about in front of a gothic concert hall, he saw the Cumberland Farms store with its lights on at the end of the block as Tommy Bolin had described.

  “Bingo,” he smiled and hurried towards it.

  Stepping quickly through the rickshaw-populated parking lot and past four refill stations, he opened the wood-framed glass door to the convenience store and entered. A young man of about 21 in a yellow Cumberland pullover, white pyjama bottoms, and sporting a shiny yellowish pompadour, is dozing off in a chair behind the counter with his bare feet up on the glassy work surface. Next to the chair was an electric, maple stained, big body Gretsch guitar sitting on a stand.

  “Hey,” Gregory introduced himself, knocking on the counter. The young man, snoring like a sleeping giant, barely moved a muscle. Gregory knocked again. “Hey!”

  The loud bang jarred the clerk awake, almost causing him to fall off the chair. Accidentally crashing into the guitar, he caught it just before it hit the floor.

  “What the hell?” the startled young man roared, then softened his countenance when he saw there was a customer present. “Oh, cool. It’s Will Smith.”

  “I’m not Will Smith,” Gregory corrected him.

  “Man, Will,” the clerk laughed, “you were hilarious as Fresh Prince.”

  “I’m not Will Smith,” Gregory maintained.

  “I like that movie with the robots, too,” the clerk continued, ignoring his customer’s plea. “Pretty deep. How’d they film that?”

  “I’m not Will Smith,” Gregory attested firmly.

  “Tell me something, though,” the Cumby’s clerk wondered, completely ignoring Gregory’s protests, “they really didn’t need to make that third Men In Black, right? You agree?”

  Gregory could feel his blood pressure rising. “I’m not Will Smith.”

  “Wow,” the clerk nodded. “Will Smith in my store.”

  Me without my gun, Gregory lamented mentally, shaking his head. “Okay. Um, which way is it to Seattle? I don’t even know how I got here.”

  “Ah,” the clerk smiled. “A newbie, huh?”

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” the young man answered. “Just saying.”

  “Can I use your phone?” the Fresh Prince lookalike asked. “I just wanna call for a ride.”

  “The phone!” the astonished clerk belted.

  “What’s with you guys and telephones,” Gregory asked, surprised, “like they’re poison or something.”

  The clerk pointed to the old fashioned, two-piece, black metal rotary phone on a wooden shelf jutting off the brick wall by the metallic, smooth-edged, 1950’s-era soda case.

  “Geez,” Gregory squinted as he eyed the ancient devices. “Modernize much?”

  “Here,” the clerk said, handing “Will Smith” a clean rag.

  “What’s this for?” he asked.

  “Nobody ever dusts that phone,” the clerk admitted, “because no one uses it.”

  “Oy,” Gregory moaned. “You’re killing me.”

  Walking over to the antique, he picked up the heavy metal receiver and, hearing a dial tone, called a number. The last time he’d seen a dinosaur like this was in a Hitchcock movie, and like that film, it felt like he was dialing forever. He listened as the phone rang. And rang. And rang. No one answered. Hanging it up, he trotted back to the clerk.

  “Did the phone even ring?” the clerk asked.

  “Of course,” Gregory replied with incredulity. “I guess they’re still asleep. You got a map?”

  The clerk pointed to a man-sized, metallic rotary display stand towards the back of the shop that was filled with maps. Gregory immediately went over to it, found a chart that said ‘Woodstock,’ and opened the leaf-fold direction finder. The town he was in, he noticed, was smack in the middle of an oval island which, according to the pamphlet, had an area of about 60 sq. miles. Completely surrounded by water, there were no bridges, roads, tunnels or passageways, according to the map, off the island.

  “What is this?” Gregory shouted, holding the chart up. “A joke?” He scooted back towards the front of the store. “This thing says I’m on an island.”

  “So it seems,” the handsome clerk nodded.

  “That’s ridiculous,” the bothered visitor complained. “I’m starting to get frustrated. How the hell could I be on an island if….?” A realization popped into the confused stranger’s head. His memory, he realized, was beginning to clear up. “You know what?” he informed the clerk. “I think I was in an accident.”

  “Probably,” the blond clerk mused.

  “I was driving to Jack in the Box to get something to eat when, I don’t know, I think I crashed or something.”

  “When was this?” the clerk inquired.

  “That part I don’t remember,” Gregory admitted. “It’s like I lost a lot of time. What day is this?”

  “Thursday.”

  “No, I mean, what date?”

  “August 4th, 2016.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Gregory suggested. “I was heading to Jack in the Box for lunch on August 3rd. That’s yesterday.” Scanning the counter, he saw a folded newspaper, picked it up, and read the date.

  “Thursday, August 4th, 2016,” the skeptical customer read. “Well, I’ll be hog swallowed.”

  “You’ll be okay,” the clerk assured him.

  “This is weird, man,” Gregory admitted. “Trippy. I’m on an island and don’t have a clue how I got here. How do you get off this rock? I didn’t see a bridge on the map.”

  “You have to petition.”

  “Petition who?”

  “The Council.”

  “What Council?”

  “You’ll see,” the clerk promised him. “In due time.”

  “Petition to do what?” Gregory asked. “Get off this rock?”

  “Yep.”

  Gregory shook his head. “That makes no sense. Where’s the bus terminal? Where’s the marina?”

  “There isn’t any.”

  “Any what, buses or marinas?”

  “Neither,” the clerk insisted. “There’s the Triangle. It’s the trolley that goes from West Beach to East Beach to South Beach. A complete triangle. That’s it. No way off.”

  “You know what,” Gregory gnashed his teeth, “this place is beginning to get on my nerves.”

  “Blow a gasket if you want, man” the clerk warned him. “Just know it attracts bad karma.”

  Gregory rubbed his hands together in frustration. He could almost feel his heart doing somersaults in his chest and steam gushing out from both ears. I’d better calm himself, he thought, per the advice of my doctor. His father, troubled for years with hypertension, finally blew an arterial fuse when he lost his job and died a broken man of only 49 years old.

  “You’ll get used to heaven,” the clerk promised, pointing downward.

  “Why do you guys keep calling this heaven?” Gregory asked, spit almost flying out of his mouth. “Where am I? Some Rainbow Family Burning Man hippie commune somewhere?”

  “Do you want something to drink? A pop? Some water?”

  “No,” the frustrated stranger answered, then changed his mind. “Yeah. I’m parched.”

  “Help yourself to whatever you want.”

  “The good news,” the PI said, “is I’
d gladly pay you for the drink, but you see, the bad news is, I woke up this morning in a park where I have no clue where it is, some joker stole my clothes then left me with this stupid sheet to wander around like I ain’t got no sense.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” the clerk insisted. “It’s on me.”

  “Thanks.”

  Gregory returned to the old-fashioned glass & metal soda cooler and poured through the carbonated collection. The first bottle he picked up was filled with purple liquid and called, “Alyssum,” he read. The second bottle, filled with a bright orange liquid, was called, “Calendula.” The third bottle, containing hot pink liquid, was called, “Sage Blossom.” Holding the bottle up in the air, he turned to the clerk. “What kinds of sodas are these?”

  “They’re all made from flowers,” the young man informed him.

  “Flower sodas?” the shopper queried, putting the bottle away. The fourth selection he retrieved, filled with bright blue bubbly liquid, was called, “Borage Blossom. Naturally sweetened with pure cane sugar.” He turned to the clerk again. “Do they have, like, normal drinks in here?”

  “Try it,” the Cumby’s employee advised him. “You never know.”

  Reluctantly, Gregory secured the Borage in his hand and returned to the front counter. “It’s like I’m in another world,” he groaned, approaching the clerk.

  “Maybe this’ll help you,” the young man suggested, taking the newspaper off the desk and handing it to Gregory. “It’s today’s Heavenly Times.”

  “Yeah, I already saw that,” Gregory said, trying to twist the cap off the bottle of pop.

  “Here,” the clerk said, flipping to page six. The two men stared at a black & white picture of a horrible car accident. The autos were so mangled that people would be hard pressed in trying to figure out their individual makes and models. One thing was for certain – no one could’ve escaped that crushing accident alive.

  “What is this?” Gregory asked.

  “Read it.”

  The new arrival began reading the blurb. His eyes widened then stiffened in confusion.

  “This is pretty realistic,” Gregory admitted. “It says one of the fatalities was me. That kinda looks like my car, too. Pretty good hoax. Who put you up to this tomfoolery, Barry Pepper?”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Come on, stop playing,” Gregory scolded him. “He’s played some practical jokes in the past, but this…” he motioned to the store, “…this is really going far. Well done, though. Well done. I don’t know why he went through all this trouble, but I’m impressed.”

  The PI, now thoroughly intrigued, scanned the ceiling. “Where’s the camera? How is Barry seeing this?” He cupped his hand around his mouth and aimed his frustration at the ceiling. “Come out, chicken shit! I know it’s you! This must’ve cost a fortune!” He turned to the clerk. “Okay,” he acquiesced. “I’m done. Call Barry out. I wanna get back to Seattle cos I didn’t sleep right last night. That mofro must’ve put something in my drink, then dragged me to this place when I was unconscious.”

  “You were drinking a lot last night?” the clerk asked.

  Gregory thought about that for a moment. “You know,” he admitted, shaking his head, “I don’t remember anything from last night at all. I got nothing. What’s your name, man?”

  “Eddie,” the clerk answered. “Eddie Cochran.”

  “Well, Eddie Cochran,” Gregory muttered through gnashed teeth, “tell that joker to come on out, huh? I think this has gone on long enough.”

  “There is no Barry Pepper here,” the young man insisted. “No tomfoolery, as you put it.”

  The confounded “Fresh Prince” shook his head in disbelief then handed his soda to the calm clerk. “Can you open this for me?”

  Eddie took the drink, removed the top with a bottle opener fastened behind the counter, and returned it to its owner.

  “Thanks, Eddie,” he said, sipping some of the pop.

  “How’s it taste?” the clerk asked.

  “Like soda,” Gregory answered. “Kinda sweet, but it’ll work. What else should it taste like, by the way?”

  “I was just curious,” Eddie answered. “We never seem to sell those.”

  “What?” Gregory asked angrily. “First you tell me to get this, then you tell me no one gets these. Something’s wrong with you people in this town.” Frustrated, he turned and exited the store in a huff, moaning, “There’s gotta be somebody playing with a full deck around here somewhere.”

  “Later, Will,” the pompadoured clerk stated to deaf ears.

  CHAPTER 2

  Strutting back up Mill Hill Road drinking his soda, Gregory crossed over to a man and woman both dressed in white shoulder-to-ankle tunics standing by the concert hall across the street. The gentleman was holding a brown, cloth-covered attaché in his left hand. The woman, attired in a multi-colored turban, red vest, and wearing several strands of beads around each wrist and her neck, had a smile as warm as the midday sun.

  “Excuse me,” he interrupted the duo. “Where can I get a bus or a taxi?”

  “There are no buses,” the woman replied in a rough voice which did not resemble her good looks. “Just the trolley. There are no designated stops. You can hop on anywhere.”

  “Even down by the Village Green?”

  “Yes,” she answered. “Doesn’t run that often, though.”

  Gregory nodded. “I’ve heard that. Thanks. Do you have a phone?”

  “Sorry,” she apologized. “I walk everywhere.”

  He looked at the gentleman who shook his head and shrugged.

  “That’s okay,” Gregory stated. “I’ll just go back to the gas station.”

  “What gas station?” the man asked.

  “That one down there,” the detective answered, pointing to Cumby’s.

  “They don’t have gas,” the stranger told him.

  “Yeah,” Gregory nodded. “I figured as much since there doesn’t seem to be any cars around.”

  “Where do you want to go?” the gentleman asked him.

  “Seattle,” the PI answered.

  “Seattle!” the turbaned woman coughed. “Hate to tell you, but, you can’t go there.”

  “Why not?”

  “You just can’t,” she insisted.

  “That’s ridiculous,” Gregory scolded her.

  “She’s right,” the gentleman interjected. “There’s no getting off this island.”

  “Then how did I get here?” Gregory asked incredulously.

  The woman and the man look at each other but nary a word slipped from their mouths. The PI sensed they knew something about his ordeal but simply declined to enlighten him.

  “Geez,” Gregory moaned, “every freak in this town is off their medication. I’m going back to the gas station and get out of here before I go cuckoo, too.”

  “That’s not a gas station,” the woman shouted as Gregory walked away.

  “Whatever,” he shot back.

  Snorting, he went back to Cumby’s at a quickened pace. Curious about what the couple had mentioned about there being no gas, he gazed at the pumps. To his astonishment they were, in fact, electric vehicle filling stations and not gas pumps. Opening the convenience store’s glass door, he entered. The clerk, he noticed, was nowhere to be seen.

  “Hello?” he shouted, glancing around the store. “Eddie Cochran!” Receiving no response, he quickened towards the back of the store and, entering the door there, saw the restroom to his right.

  “Eddie!” he shouted, knocking on the door.

  Receiving no response, he opened the door which, he noticed, did contain a lock but it wasn’t engaged. Realizing the clerk may have stepped out for a while, Gregory exited the store.

  After strolling about 1/10th of a mile, he arrived at Patty’s Egg Nest, a diner that resembled an elongated log cabin, this one with an open face. Several people were sitting around tables in the front of the store enjoying their breakfast and chatting up a storm. A waiter,
carrying a basket of warm bread, exited the diner and placed the basket on a table occupied by four men of varying ages, all wearing long sleeved, shin-length multi-colored shirts with narrow collars, light brown or red pyjama pants and bamboo slippers.

  “Excuse me,” Gregory motioned to the waiter, similarly attired in loose-fitting clothes. “Do you have a phone I can use? I have to call a taxi.”

  “Oh,” the waiter informed him, pointing to the table at the far end of the outside dining area where three men and one woman were sitting. “A taxi driver’s right there.”

  Gregory nodded and walked over to the table. “Morning,” he introduced himself. “The waiter said one of you’s a taxi driver?”

  “I am,” the oldest, a grey haired gentleman, answered. “Need a cab?”

  “Yeah, but I don’t want to bother you while you’re eating.”

  “That’s okay,” the gentleman smiled. “Where do you want to go?”

  “Seattle,” Gregory responded.

  All four diners looked at each other momentarily then burst out in laughter.

  “What the hell?” Gregory exploded. “What’s so funny?”

  They all simmered down.

  “Hate to break this to you, buddy,” the driver explained, “but there is no Seattle.”

  “Bullshit,” Gregory retorted. “I’m tired of hearing that story.”

  “And even if there was,” the driver laughed, pointing to a nearby rickshaw, “it’d take us forever to get there.”

  “Pshaw!” the angry PI snorted and went off in a huff.

  Up the road he saw a few people milling about, all of them similarly dressed in colorful, roomy attire. Feeling he’d get the same response as everyone else around, he passed right by them, went back to the Village Green and plopped down on the yellow bench. Casually, he massaged the aching soles of his feet as the hardness of the street was beginning to take its toll. Looking up, he watched as people, mostly men, ambled by on the street going about their business, all seeming to have no cares in the world.

  “Happy lot, eh?” he heard a man’s voice utter. Looking to his left, he saw a rather good looking gentleman of about 45 with salt and pepper hair standing there. Cleanly attired in a nice, crisp, white suit, white shirt, light blue tie and matching light blue shoes, he looked like he was headed to a fancy Spielberg-sponsored Oscar bash in Hollywood.