Secret Vows

His cell chimed a familiar ring tone. Reaching across his body, Jason picked up the phone. “Good morning, Mrs. Jones.”

Ana’s giggles came through the earpiece. “Good morning, Jay. How are you?”

Jason smiled. “Wonderful.”

“I’m calling because Mom claims she hasn’t heard from you.”

His smile vanished quickly. “Tell your mother that I’m okay.”

“I’m not going to act as a go-between—”

“But you are, Ana,” Jason accused his twin sister, “when you accuse me of not checking in. I shouldn’t have to tell you how old I am because we share the same birthday, and at thirty-three, I don’t believe I should have to check in with my mother. You never did when you went away.”

There came a beat of silence. “It’s because I didn’t live at home at thirty-three. Within months of graduating law school, I moved out and got my own place, while you’re still living at home. It’s about respect, Jason. Mom didn’t even know you were gone until she spoke to Diego who told her that you’d made arrangements with him to fly to the west coast. You could’ve left a note.”

Jason ran a hand over his cropped hair. He knew Ana was right. And it was because he still lived under his parents’ roof that his mother felt he was obligated to let her know if he planned to be away for a while. All of his siblings had moved out in their twenties, and he’d stayed much too long. Recalling what Chase had said the night before—about not having a wife monitoring his coming and going—brought everything into focus.

“I’ll call her, Ana, and let her know that I’m okay.”

Jason knew his mother’s apprehension came from the alleged feud between Serenity and Slow Wyne Records because Ana had won the bidding war to sign singing phenom Justin Glover. Basil Irvine, humiliated because he’d lost to a woman, had taken a contract out on his rival. The assassin hired to kill Ana had missed his target. Tyler Cole had taken a bullet to the head intended for Ana. Fortunately Tyler recovered, and Ana had gone into hiding where she’d married her protector.

“Thanks, Jay. Mom hasn’t been herself since we discovered one of our employees was spying for Slow Wyne Records.”

Jason nodded although Ana couldn’t see him. “That’s over, Ana.”

“Is it really?”

He heard the apprehension in her voice. “Of course it is. Basil’s six feet under, so he can’t bother anyone again.”

The carefully orchestrated plan to take out the CEO of the L.A.-based record label was reminiscent of a plot from a cold war spy novel. The operative was in and out of Basil’s palatial Beverly Hills mansion in fewer than twenty minutes, having never been seen. Basil’s houseboy discovered his boss’s lifeless body. He called Basil’s brother and then the LAPD. The medical examiner’s report confirmed Basil had died from a massive coronary, attributing it to a combination of alcohol and antianxiety medication. Basil’s younger brother Webb had assumed control of the label and, unlike the deceased CEO, had elected to stay out of the spotlight.

Jason chatted with Ana for another two minutes before ending the call. He touched the cell’s screen for his mother’s number, holding the phone away from his ear when she launched into a tirade about how his disappearing act was hastening her demise.

Waiting for a pause in the ranting on the other end of the line, he said in a calming voice, “Mom. I’ve never known you to be so melodramatic.” His attempt to placate Serena backfired when she switched from English to Spanish, the words tumbling over one another. His mother was born in the States, but raised in Costa Rica after her mother had married a Costa Rican government official. Jason heard his father in the background asking his wife to calm down. Jason was tempted to hang up when David’s voice came through the earpiece.

“What did you say that set your mother off? She’s hysterical.”

“Dad, come on. You know how she is nowadays.”

“No, I don’t know how she is,” David countered defensively. “All I know is my wife and your mother is having an emotional meltdown.”

Jason repeated the conversation he’d had with Ana. “It’s apparent your wife and my mother is under the impression that I’m a child who has to check in as if I were on work release. Would it make her feel better if I wore an ankle monitor?”

There came a beat. “Jason, I want you to try and understand where your mother is coming from. We came very close to losing Tyler, when we all know that bullet was meant for Ana. This is the second time Martin and Parris have found their children’s lives at risk, and that is a situation no parent should have to experience.”

“What does this have to do with me, Dad?”

“I want you to be careful, son. We may have chopped off the head of the snake, but this snake is different because it has the uncanny ability to grow another head. One that belongs to Webb Irvine. One of Simon’s investigators found a witness who claims it was Basil and not Webb who’d stomped a man to death. Meanwhile Webb did a term for his older brother because, as a fifteen-year-old, he knew he would be sent to a juvenile facility rather than jail.”

“But Webb did go to jail,” Jason argued. The man had spent ten years in a California minimum security prison.

“That was only after he’d turned eighteen. There had been bad blood between Basil and Leon Burke because Leon owed him money, but the situation got worse when Webb got Leon’s thirteen-year-old sister pregnant, then denied the baby was his. Leon extracted revenge when he cut up Webb’s face. Basil retaliated by kicking him to death.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Jason asked his father. “Basil’s dead and I doubt if Webb is going to follow in his brother’s footsteps.”

“I doubt it, too. But this is not about Slow Wyne Records. It’s about your mother. She’s earned the right to worry about you because she is your mother.”

Jason exhaled an audible breath. “Okay. I’ll give her that, but she can’t expect—”

“I know what you’re going to say,” David interrupted, “and I agree with you. You’re an adult, and you shouldn’t have to check in. Just promise me you’ll be careful, and I’ll make things right on this end.”

“I’ll be careful, Dad.” He’d say anything not to prolong the conversation.

Jason wasn’t argumentative by nature, eschewed confrontation and occasionally stepped in as the mediator during a family conflict. Unlike his older brother Gabriel, Jason never ingratiated himself into his sisters’ romantic relationships. The only love-related advice he’d given his siblings was not to get involved with anyone in the music business. Fortunately they’d heeded his warning. Alexandra had married a man who worked for the CIA, and Ana had recently married a U.S. marshal.

“Thanks, Jason.”

“No problem, Dad.”

He ended the call, shaking his head. Jason could not have imagined his day would begin with family drama. After all, it wasn’t the first time he’d taken off without letting his parents know where he was going. If they’d wanted to know his whereabouts, then they only had to ask Ana. But things had changed because Ana and her husband divided their weekends between Boca Raton and the Keys.

Jason had come to Mission Grove to get away from the chaos, madness and mayhem that had everyone in his family on edge for the past three months. All he wanted to do was go into the studio and write the music that had haunted him for more than a year. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he headed for the bathroom. He planned to be dressed by the time the cleaning service arrived.

Los Angeles, California

Webb Irvine came to his feet when the man he’d waited days to see was ushered into his home office. He hadn’t known what to expect but it wasn’t the pale, slightly built, seemingly emaciated man wearing small oval sunglasses, making it impossible to discern the color of his eyes. His gaze went from the shaved head, narrow face and down to an ill-fitting black suit. It was impossible to pinpoint his age. He could’ve been anywhere between thirty and fifty. Webb smiled and the network of scar tissue along his left cheek was reminiscent of blisters. What had been a shockingly handsome face was now hideously deformed.

He nodded to the woman whom he’d come to depend upon to keep his household running smoothly and to covet his innermost secrets; she was his mother. “Thank you, Donna,” he said softly. “And will you please close the door.”

It wasn’t until after the death of his brother that Webb had asked her to come and live with him. At first she’d balked, then relented. After all there was more than enough room in the Hollywood Hills mansion for them not to run into each other. Webb had fired his former housekeeper because she was a snoop. The woman didn’t know he’d installed cameras throughout the house, and every night before retiring for bed, he’d view the footage. At first he’d believed it was a fluke and that she was just straightening up his desk, but when he saw her attempting to open the wall safe behind a painting, he knew he had to fire her. His mother could care less about his business dealings. She was grateful he’d moved her out of Watts to an upscale community where the price for homes started at seven figures.

Webb took his visitor’s extended hand and then gestured to two facing off-white leather love seats. “Please sit down, Mr. Monk.”

“It’s just Monk, Mr. Irvine.”

Waiting until the man was seated, he walked over to a well-stocked bar. “Would you like something to drink, Monk?”

“No, thank you. I just celebrated my sixteenth year of sobriety.” He lifted a frightfully thin hand. “It won’t bother me if you have something.”

Webb smiled again. “Congratulations on your sobriety.”

He hadn’t outlined what he wanted from Monk, but the fact that the man had agreed to meet with him would warrant a celebratory cocktail after he left. Opening the built-in refrigerator, he took out a bottle of sparkling water and poured it into a crystal glass. Sitting opposite Monk, he raised the glass in a salute. “I want to thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”

Monk wanted to tell the man with the scarred face that he’d only agreed to come in person because Webb Irvine had been recommended by a mutual friend. “Tell me what you need, and I’ll let you know whether it can be done.”

“Are you familiar with Serenity Records?”

Monk nodded. “I’ve heard of them.”

Putting the glass to his mouth, Webb took a deep swallow. “They’re my direct competition and...”

“And you want them eliminated,” Monk said, reading Webb’s mind.

Crossing his legs, the president and CEO of Slow Wyne Records stared at the toe of his imported slip-on. “I think I better give you some background information on my dilemma. My late brother hired someone to eliminate Ana Cole. She’s responsible for the day-to-day operation of Serenity.” He paused long enough to take another sip of water. “Basil hired a sniper to take her out, but they missed and shot one of her relatives.”

“That was his first dumb mistake,” Monk drawled. “If you want to eliminate someone, you get up real close and personal and put a bullet in her head.”

Webb gritted his teeth. He wanted to tell the man in black that he shouldn’t speak ill of the dead but he didn’t want to alienate him. Not when he was prepared to pay him an obscene amount of money to give Basil in death what he wasn’t able to obtain in life.

“You can’t go after her again,” Monk continued.

“I know. That’s why we’ve shifted our attention to her brother. His name is Jason Cole.”

“Where does he live?”

“Boca Raton, Florida. We had someone on the inside at Serenity that told us he still lives in his parents’ home, but mentioned he may have a place in either Washington or Oregon.”

“Did this person tell you which city?”

Webb shook his head. “No. She’s no longer working there.”

Monk rested his hands on his knees. “Tell me about this Jason. Is he married? Does he have a girlfriend or children?”

“I believe he’s single. I’m not certain whether he has a girlfriend, and I doubt if he has children.”

“That doesn’t matter. It’s easy enough to find out about his kids.”

“If he has kids, then I don’t want them touched.” Webb didn’t know how, but he could feel the heat of Monk’s gaze behind the dark lenses.

“I don’t know what you’ve heard about me, Mr. Irvine, but I don’t kill children. If Jason has children, then it would make him more visible. After all, children have to go to school. I will eliminate your Mr. Cole using my own methods. You’ve been told that my fee is half down and the other half when the job is completed. Once I pick up my final payment, you will never see me again.”

The sweep hand on Webb’s gold timepiece made a full revolution before he asked, “What if you don’t complete the job?”

Bloodless thin lips parted in a feral grin. “I’ve never started something I didn’t finish. But if I don’t, barring divine intervention, then you’ll be out a half million dollars.” Reaching into the pocket of his jacket, Monk took out a cell phone, placing it on the love seat cushion. “This phone will be our only contact until the job is done. I’ll call to give you updates. If you don’t pick up, then I’ll call again because I don’t believe in leaving voice mails or texting.”

“If I miss the call, then I’ll just call you back,” Webb said.

Monk shook his head. “You won’t be able to call me because I’ve blocked all outgoing calls. Once we conclude our business arrangement, the phone will be deactivated. You’re in security, so I know you’re familiar with burn phones.” Monk flicked his wrist, glancing at his watch. “I don’t want to be rude but I must leave. My taxi is waiting and the meter is running.”

Webb stood and walked over to his desk. He picked up a large expandable pleated envelope, handing it to Monk. Earlier that afternoon he’d opened the safe and counted out five hundred thousand dollars in hundreds and fifties. He normally wouldn’t have had more than ten thousand dollars in the safe, but that was before Basil passed away.

When Basil’s houseboy had called to say he’d discovered the lifeless body of his boss sitting in a chair in his home office, Webb had rushed to the Beverly Hills’ mansion and emptied the safe. He didn’t own a counting machine, so it’d taken him almost three days to tally more than six million dollars in cash. 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.

Walking off the stage, she returned to the bar to fill beverage orders. Immediately after her aunt had passed away, business at the restaurant had decreased appreciably because there were days when Bobby refused to get out of bed. Greer had taken time off to fly to the West Coast and have an in-depth conversation with Bobby, pleading with him not to let Stella’s dream die with her. His comeback was that there was no Stella’s without his wife. It took a while, but Greer had convinced her uncle to restructure, incorporating family-style dining with activities that would attract a more diverse crowd. The result was two days for table service and four days for buffet dining.

Also her uncle had resisted raising his prices when everything was going up. Thankfully he owned the building outright so, instead of mortgage payments, he only had to pay property taxes. Karaoke night always brought in new customers who would eventually become regulars, and hiring the live band had reestablished Stella’s popularity. Greer picked up two pitchers of beer, mulling over which song she would sing.

* * *

Jason really didn’t want to commit to sitting in with the band because it meant rehearsals and playing four-hour sets on Fridays and Saturdays, but the band had willingly performed as session players whenever he had needed driving, funky baseline tracks.

“I...” His words trailed off when he saw Bobby’s niece approach their table with a pitcher of beer in each hand. Their eyes met when she set them on the table. Reaching into the pocket of his slacks, he withdrew a money clip and handed her a large bill.