Page 50 of Ghost Town Boogie

Even Maude’s favorite Johnny Mathis wouldn’t soothe him at the moment.

After several restless minutes he told Anna to rest if she could, and he left the loft. He went downstairs, headed to the room in the back, and grabbed one of the boxes that held some of the uncleaned records from the Miller house. He’d found evidence of Crystal’s murder in a 3 Doors Down sleeve. Where would the number of that Cayman account be hidden? There couldn’t possibly be anything here about Jack’s murder. According to the ghost he’d been taken, tortured, and killed. There wouldn’t have been time to leave a clue in an album, or anywhere else. But was there evidence of the crimes that had led up to Jack’s death? They might have to hope for physical evidence of some kind in the grave he shared with Crystal, but other than that...

It was called grasping at straws, but at the moment that was all he had.

He wouldn’t sleep tonight; there was no way. Might as well take his time with this effort. It was unlikely he’d find anything, but it wouldn’t hurt to try. In his usual manner, Colt laid microfiber cloths on a waist-high table and mixed up his special cleaning liquid, which was nothing more than distilled water mixed with a little mild cleaning liquid. Another bowl of plain distilled water was set aside, and then he began to clean.

The remaining albums he’d collected from the Miller house had been hastily arranged in two plastic milk crates which were just the right size for an LP. No need to rifle through, since he had no idea what he was looking for. He started with the crate nearest to him.

Tonight Colt didn’t bother to play the albums after cleaning, as he usually did. Instead he cleaned, rinsed, dried. After giving the vinyl a few minutes to make sure it was good and dry, he returned it to its sleeve and then into another crate. He didn’t wait for one record to be completely dry before he started on the next album, so he remained in constant motion, back and forth, losing himself in the task. Some of the covers themselves needed to be wiped down, but they were mostly in good shape.

He figured it was likely anything of interest — like a Cayman account number — would be hidden in Jack’s albums, the ones Colt had listened to himself, so many years ago. Even now, on the occasional afternoon when he was feeling nostalgic, he turned to the music of his youth. It would be easier if the albums were arranged that way, but they weren’t in any order that he could identify. Billy Joel. Metallica. Nirvana. Weezer. A few of the selections might even have come from Nina or Don’s parents. Tommy Dorsey. Benny Goodman. Bing Crosby. Maude would love some of these.

He couldn’t imagine the Millers in their youth, dancing and laughing to the music of the 60s and 70s. The Rolling Stones; The Beatles; Simon and Garfunkel. Like most of the others, these albums were in great shape, vinyl, covers, and inner sleeves.

Until he got to one that looked out of place. Whose would this be?

Duck Rock; Malcolm McLaren. This record had gotten wet at some point. The artwork, front and back, had bubbled and peeled away from the cardboard sleeve. There was a touch of mold in one corner. Normally if he ran across an album like this one he didn’t bother to try and save it, unless the vinyl inside was rare and potentially valuable. In this case, though, he couldn’t toss anything.

Besides… Duck. Jack had said something about duck. Sawyer had killed Nicole over a framed duck photo, or had her killed, perhaps hoping the information he wanted was hidden inside. If he’d found what he was looking for, he wouldn’t have burned the Miller house or attacked Emily.

Duck.

The vinyl was visibly damaged, badly scratched. Colt cleaned it anyway, out of habit. There was no inner sleeve, no paper or plastic protecting the vinyl. No wonder it was in such bad shape.

He set the album aside to dry, then picked up the cover. He was about to toss the outer sleeve since it was in such bad shape, but at the last minute decided to pull at the corner of the artwork that had already started peeling. As he lifted up an edge of the thin, fragile paper, he found evidence of glue around the edges.

He continued to tug gently, easily, and soon there it was, a very small slip of paper folded in half and encased in the kind of plastic wrap you might find in any kitchen. The entire package was flat, small and almost unnoticeable.

Was this the Cayman account number? Duck. Jack had protected his precious money much more securely than the evidence of Crystal’s meeting with Walter.

Colt unwrapped the sheet of paper and unfolded it. Sure enough, a long number was written neatly on that slip of paper.

Below the number was a scribbled note.

What have I done?

Colt grabbed the crate of finished albums, rifled through, and grabbed the 3 Doors Down album where he’d found the pictures. He flipped the album over to read the track titles. Sure enough, there it was. Duck and Run.

“Shit.”

Maude popped into view, much too close to his face. “Someone’s here. I don’t like him, I don’t like him at all. Apparently he picked the lock while Nicole and I were chatting. The intruder was halfway up the stairs before we saw him. How rude…”

A murder mystery was probably not the best choice of reading material, all things considered. Anna hadn’t studied the books closely, she’d randomly grabbed one from the shelf hoping reading, reading anything, would help her unwind. Reality was too much for her to handle at the moment. Fiction or not, this story was not going to help her ease toward sleep.

After Colt went downstairs she set the book aside and closed her eyes. Not to sleep, that wasn’t going to happen, but to organize her thoughts. She’d often thought her life in Nashville was too boring, too predictable. Sometimes she’d actually wished she could shake things up.

Right now, boring and predictable sounded pretty good. The problem was, Colt was neither. No, he had the potential to shake her life up in a big way. She could go back to Nashville where she knew what each day would bring, or she could stay here and see what happened with a man who saw ghosts, a man who kept secrets… his secrets and others.

If she stayed with him, ghosts would be watching all the time. At least, she assumed it would be all the time. Were there ghost-free spaces in Seawolf Beach? When her family home was repaired or rebuilt, could she live there? If she stayed, no matter where they were, she’d always wonder who, what, was watching. When they made love, when they talked about his business or her writing music, when they argued... There would be no secrets. Not from the dead.

Eyes closed, mind on all the choices ahead of her, she almost dozed off. Her thoughts continued to spin, but she was physically and mentally exhausted. She felt herself easing toward the sleep she’d been so sure wouldn’t come. The door to the loft opened with a creak, but she didn’t open her eyes.

“Find anything?” she asked in a sleepy voice.

Colt didn’t answer. She took that as a no.

“It was a long shot.”