Marge leaned back and pretended not to hear.
Twenty minutes later, Miles Marlowe turned right into a gated complex, then slowed the Buick to a stop, rolled down the window, and pointed to a spot where he wanted the detectives to park. Oliver maneuvered the Cruiser into the tight space on the first try while it took Miles five minutes to ease the Buick into a space that was roomy enough for an African elephant. Finally, the old man got out and hobbled over to Marge and Oliver. He was stooped over, but even in the prime of his height, he must have been a short man. He wore thick glasses and had a gigantic nose. His eyes were milky blue and slightly rheumy. His best feature was a thick mop of snow-white hair. The agent checked his watch. “Don’t worry. I already called Priss to tell her that we’d be late.”
Oliver checked his watch: 3:03. “Is her place a far walk from here?”
“You’re standing right in front of it.” He pointed to the house. “After you.”
The development was filled with luxury homes with a minimum of thirty-five-hundred square feet of interior space sitting on an acre plus lot. There were an assortment of architectural styles and Priscilla Huntley’s piece of the rock was a variant on the Tudor mansion. The front lawn was emerald green, with a stone walkway lined with leafy bushes of red and pink roses, English lavender in full bloom, yellow and white daisies, and rosemary sprouting lilac-colored blossoms. Ground cover swirling around the brush included sage, mint, and thyme. A soft breeze emitted a scent somewhere between sachet and stew.
The house was fashioned from bricks and stucco that formed high peaks, and was topped by a slate roof. A massive stained-glass window ran from the top of the door’s keystone to just below the dormer window that sat in the middle of the pitch of the roof. Square mullion windows sat symmetrically on either side of the entrance-a recessed set of heavily carved, walnut double doors. The old man rang the belclass="underline" it chimed low and melodious and went on for several seconds.
“‘Springless Year,’” Oliver whispered to Marge. “Probably their biggest hit.”
To Oliver’s surprise, Priscilla Barrett answered the door.
She had aged well. In Oliver’s recollection, she had never been youthful-looking, even when she was a young pop star, but that might have been due to her conservative style more than her face. Even when she had been a singing sensation, Priscilla’s hair had always been coiffed, her makeup had been expertly applied, and she was always dressed fashionably. In that regard, Priscilla hadn’t changed a whit. She had well-tended, shoulder-length platinum hair, wide blue eyes, and a hint of pink cream softened her lips. She wore a silk tunic over slim-fitting jeans, her feet housed in platform espadrilles. Her fingers were slender: her nails long, with white French tips.
“Miles, my love, so good of you to act as an escort.” As her voice softened, it became sultry. The old man smiled at the compliment. “Can you be a love and take the children for a walk?”
“I thought I might stay here with you, Priscilla, and make sure these two don’t get out of line.”
“Nonsense, the boys need you more than I do.” Slowly she moved her gaze over to the detectives. “The boys are my Yorkies. They adore Miles.” A pause. “Besides, I think I can handle these two on my own.”
Marge offered a hand and made the introductions. “I’m Detective Sergeant Dunn and this is Detective Oliver and I assure you there’s nothing to handle.”
“I don’t know about that.” Back to Miles: “They’re in the kitchen. Take them off my hands. Imelda will help you with the leashes.”
“I don’t trust them alone with you, Priscilla.”
“Oh don’t be ridiculous! Go on, Miles.” She threw open the doors. “I’ll be fine.”
Miles had no choice but to go. When he was gone, Priscilla heaved a dramatic sigh. “I love my critters, but they’re unruly. I thought about calling that dog expert on TV. I don’t know if he’ll do the dogs any good, but the publicity wouldn’t hurt.”
“I was looking online at all your reviews, albums, and performances,” Oliver said. “You seem to be doing just fine in the publicity department.”
“One can never get too much publicity.”
They were still standing outside.
Priscilla was still looking at Oliver. “How old are you?”
“Old enough to know that you haven’t changed at all.”
Priscilla smiled. “I bet when the Major and I used to come on the radio, you’d turn the dial to another station.”
“Then you’d be wrong,” Oliver lied.
Priscilla said, “Okay. Name our four number one hits.”
“‘Springless Year’…but that’s a no-brainer because it’s your doorbell tone. Uh, let me think…‘Petunia and Porky’…a little sappy for my taste. I did like ‘Jammin’ ’ and ‘Request for Lovin’.’ I don’t remember if they were your number one hits or not.”
Priscilla tried to hold back her delight. “I’m impressed. Either you’re sincere or you’ve done some homework.”
“A good cop comes prepared. This brings us to why we’re here.”
“Yes, I suppose I should let you in.” She stood aside. “Come on. I hope you like pink.”
PRISCILLA LED THEM up the grand staircase into a twenty-by-twenty square room: pink walls, pink carpet, pink ceiling, pink light fixtures, and pink furniture that included a desk and chair, and two love seats facing each other with a pink coffee table between them. The walls hosted a slew of framed vinyl records, three of them platinum, three of them gold, and a complete archival history-print and photographs-of Priscilla and the Major-with a big emphasis on Priscilla. There were hundreds of black-and-white snapshots: the duo with two presidents, with senators, governors, mayors, foreign dignitaries including royalty, and countless other celebrities. At least six major magazine covers, six covers of Sunday magazine inserts of all the major newspapers. Space not taken up by photographs was occupied by newspaper clips and reviews, everything framed in pink.
Marge felt her heart beat a little harder. The piece of nylon fabric that had been salvaged from the charred body had pink threads. She carefully looked over the room and even read a few articles. She was amazed that the duo had been that big. Oliver had told her that their music was a little corny, coming out in a time when political protest anthems were all the rage. Later, the folkies and acid bands had given way to sex-heated thump-a-minute disco and dance music, made even more frenetic by the frequent use of cocaine by the clubbers. Priscilla and the Major didn’t fall into that genre, either, yet they spanned the late sixties through the seventies and into the early eighties before they were done in by familiarity and age.
“Wow,” Marge said, “this is something else!”
“Why bother having the stalkers build me shrines when I can build my own?” Priscilla said.
“You have stalkers?”
“In my heyday, I had many, young lady. I had everything from fans that waited hours to buy Priscilla and the Major tickets to bodyguards and gigolos. I had the paparazzi and journalists hounding me all the time. I met the most important people of the decades, including several queens, a couple of kings, and a few presidents. And I thought it would never end.” A wry smile. “But it did.”
“This is amazing,” Marge said.
“It is a constant reminder that it is better to have made it and gone downhill than to have never made it at all. And there is quite a bit of recompense even when one fades into the woodwork. I still have money and I can shop without being mauled. I don’t live in my memories, but I sure as hell enjoy them. Whenever I feel blue, I come in here and feel very pink. Now sit down-both of you-and tell me why you’re here.”
Since Oliver was clearly on the woman’s A-list, Marge decided to let him handle the details. He rooted in his briefcase and came up with the colored pictures of the scanty forensic evidence they had gathered from charred Jane Doe. “This is really going to tax your memory.” He handed her the pictures. “We found this bit of fabric. We were wondering if you could possibly identify it.”