The Roundhouse: A Crime of Passion, Part VI

“Rachel hasn’t come home for a week,” said Liz. She lay on her side atop a picnic table in Sevier Park, dunking cucumber rolls in soy sauce and dropping them into her mouth like grapes at a toga party. “I mean, she’s OK and everything. Sometimes she just goes off by herself for awhile.”

“How long have you been roommates?” I asked.

“Mmmm, let’s see... she moved in after the workout party...”

“Excuse me?”

“She threw me a workout party for my 30th birthday,” she laughed, sitting up Indian style on the table top. “Everyone wore workout clothes. We had sit-up and push-up contests.”

“Sounds like a dream come true,” said Stan, supine on the grass, sweating out his hangover. A small thermos top of gray liquid sat on the grass near his nose.

“You keep drinking that coconut juice, Stanley,” warned Liz, “or I’ll make you run laps.” She threw a piece of cucumber roll at him. It bounced of his rib cage with a hollow thud and landed in the grass.

“I love you,” he groaned.

“So, she left right after the wedding?” I asked.

Liz put her plastic sushi container back into her backpack. “Pretty much. She’s been acting a little strange lately. Keeping a crazy work schedule, staying up late. If I don’t make her food, she doesn’t eat.”

“Sounds intense.” I flicked an insect away from my nose. “I heard she slapped a guy at the wedding.”

Liz laughed and and rolled her eyes. “John Deaderick! That was probably just Rachel’s way of showing affection.”

“Charming.”

“You know, like in elementary school,” she lay back down on the table. “If you liked a boy, you hit him.”

"So she likes him?"

"Oh, who knows, I can't figure that girl out anymore. You know, she once wore one-piece jump suits for an entire year."

"Why?"

"Why not?" Liz traced her finger along an old pair of initials scratched into the wood of the table. "Rachel has her own set of rules. I just try to have fun watching her."


The sun had finally sunk behind the trees, leaving the park bathed in luminescent pink afterglow of the day. A breeze was pushing the air around, breaking up the humidity a little. For the first time since that morning, I felt like I could breathe freely.

“Liz,” I said, “I didn’t know what to expect when we showed up at your studio today.”

She rolled over onto her back and examined the clouds. “I kind of thought you were more the ‘not showing up’ type.”

“Uh... I quit drinking.”

She turned her head towards me, eyebrows raised. “Really? How do you feel?”

“Better. Why aren’t you mad at me?”

“Oh, leave it alone already,” Stan grunted, picking himself up off the grass and waddling over to the table. “She’s not mad. All’s forgiven. Blah blah blah.” He indicated with his nose that he wanted a cigarillo. I handed him one and lit it for him. “Would it have hurt you to mention all this before we met her, though?”

“I figured you had enough on your mind already,” I said, “and I thought you’d understand. I kind of took you for the ‘love ‘em and leave ‘em’ type.’”

“How touching. All this tragedy is making me thirsty.”

“OK, but no more brandy today.” I popped the top on a Budweiser from the six pack I’d bought, poured it into my empty Starbucks cup and set it in front of him. “Go easy on that.”

“Just enough to take the edge off,” he agreed before sticking his snout into the cup.

Liz shook her head. “How can you not drink but feed Stanley booze all the time?” she asked me.

“He can’t help me until I want to help myself,” Stan replied, licking his chops. his tail began wagging and he wrinkled his nose, squinting into the distance. “Cockapoo, nine o’clock.”

Down the grassy hillside three figures were now approaching the table: a stout man in a baseball cap, a bearded fellow trailing behind him and the aforementioned black Cockapoo, who was sprinting towards us for all she was worth.

“DANIEL!” Liz shouted.

“Friends of yours?” I asked.

The Cockapoo leapt from the grass onto the table top, nuzzling Liz’s neck and licking her face.

“Women,” said Stan, shaking his head at the spectacle. “Christ.”

“Well hello, Elizabeth,” said the man in the baseball cap, arriving at the table, slightly out of breath from his trek up the hill. “I see Pasha remembers you. What an intelligent animal.”

The Cockapoo suddenly bounded off the table and took up pursuit of a chipmunk that had just emerged from a hole twenty feet away.

“David, Daniel Tashian. Daniel, David. Stanley,” she looked over towards Stan, who had killed the beer and returned to his bed in the grass. “Daniel.”

“The groom has arrived,” said Stan.

“Gentlemen, Lady, it is a pleasure to meet you awl,” Tashian intoned in an approximation of a Savannah accent, throwing back his head and opening his arms as if addressing the Senate floor. “The reason I have gathuhd you here today...” He broke the pose and chuckled, then turned to the bearded man, who was standing about eight feet behind him, a pencil poised over a small notebook. “Goodman,” he said, in his normal voice, “did you get that?”

“I got it,” replied Goodman.

“So, Daniel, how was the honeymoon?” asked Liz.

“The missus and I took a week of respite in the colonies,” he switched back to the accent. “We adopted the mores of the natives as our own, dining in their primitive fashion and gallavanting about upon their lily white beaches wearing no garment or trifle. In such fashion, the marriage was consummated on numerous occasions.” He smiled into the distance and waited.

“Got it,” said Goodman.

Tashian continued, gesticulating with his hands, “Every morning, a brown man appeared with a steaming carafe of brew squeezed forth from the java bean...”

“Daniel...” Liz interrupted.

“... and a bowl of ripened figs. PASHA!” Tashian’s eyes suddenly widened and he jogged off in the direction of the Cockapoo, who was happily writhing on her back in what appeared to be the remains of a dead animal.

“Nice to meet you,” nodded Goodman, who set off behind Tashian at a leisurely pace.

“Oh boy,” I sighed, watching the procession continue across the lawn. “I guess we’re going to need to talk to him, too.”

“Why are you so interested in Rachel, anyway?” asked Liz.

“Well...” I bought some time by lighting a cigarette. “Do you know the band, One on One?”

“Of course. They’re the hottest band in Nashville.”

“Well, I’m kind of representing them now. Stan and I. We’re going to be booking their gigs.”

“Really?” smiled Liz.

“Anyway, they need a new bass player...”

“... and Rachel plays bass...”

“... Exactly. Stan thought it would be a nice touch to have some feminine presence in the band.”

“Actually, I think they’re doing fine on their own,” added Stan. “Those haircuts.”

“Totally,” said Liz.

“So I just wanted to ask around about Rachel. Make sure she’s solid.”

Liz smiled and hopped off the table. “David Mead,” she said, “you’re a terrible liar.”

“Don’t worry, it’s not a big problem in the detective business,” cracked Stan.

Liz grabbed her backpack from the table and pulled it over her shoulders. “You know, it’s really not so bad to see you,” she laughed. “I’ve had a few visions of this moment that involved a semi-automatic weapon and an enema bag...”

“I love you,” said Stan, nodding off in the grass.

“... but this was pretty pleasant.”

“Look, can I call you?” I asked. “I’m... we’re probably going to need a little more information at some point.”

She considered it for a moment, then pulled a Sharpie out of her backpack, grabbed my hand and wrote her phone number on my palm. “There. It’s permanent. You can’t forget this time.”