his collection.' Arthur's hands closed protectively around the DVD. 'Tuck doesn't know I've got this. No one does.'
'What about the guy who filmed it?'
'Drove his car into a pole while under the influence.'
'Sorry to hear that. I need a copy of that DVD. Could you burn one for me?' I heard myself and winced. Arthur had kept this film secret for 25 years and he'd admitted he'd felt much more than friendship for Genevieve. This had to be painful for him. I cleared my throat. 'Please?'
For a heartbeat I thought he was going to refuse, then he nodded slowly as if it was painful for him.
I had to come clean. 'Would you mind if I uploaded a clip to YouTube and my Facebook page? I'm also doing a blog.'
'I know. I googled you and the band,' Arthur admitted. One corner of his mouth lifted. 'Six gold records, 11 years of national and international charity work and all you can talk about is my biscuit dunking?'
I blushed. I knew blogging would come back to bite me.
He grinned. 'Sure, put something up, but only a snippet. Something with Veevie. I know just the thing. Tuck'll go troppo.'
I had to laugh.
'This won't take a minute,' Arthur said. He put the disk back in the computer drive. While he set up the burn, haunting synthesised singing segued through the garage-studio. He and Monty put their heads together, talking software samplers and synthesiser loops but I was preoccupied.
I'd told Monty I remembered my dreams. I always had, until the accident. Since then I'd been falling asleep and waking like one dead, until I moved into One-Eight-One. I'd slept there three nights now, the first two I'd had nightmares about Nathan. Last night was the first time I hadn't woken in a sweat of fear. Last night it seemed I'd dreamed of a Genevieve James instead. Over and over again.
Arthur's DVD cast a new light on her murder. She had been an integral part of the band and, according to O'Toole, Tucker used to knock her around. What if Tucker had been furious with her for wanting to leave them? What if, in a fit of temper, he'd grabbed the knife from the kitchen bench and stabbed her? Had she run out to the taxi to get away from him, then been too weak to lock the doors?
I'd only been trying to wind him up today. But maybe- maybe Tucker wasn't so much an arrogant prick as a murderous prick, who was hiding a gangrenous secret that could ruin him. What if Walenski's 'educated guess' was wrong? I shivered. On consideration, yanking Tucker's chain didn't seem like such a good idea.
But I was still going to upload the clip of Genevieve singing. It was too good to pass up.
'Here.' Arthur thrust the DVD copy into my hands. 'That's the whole thing, plus I've converted two clips to mpegs. Upload the You Don't See Me clip of Pia and Tucker first to stir up interest. Hint you have something that showcases Veevie. When you've got them buzzing, then upload the I Don't Need You! clip with Veevie and Tucker.'
'Gee, thanks.' I grinned. This guy knew marketing. 'Can I hire you to work for me, Arthur?'
'This is so much fun,' a lopsided smile split his face, 'that I'd pay you.'
If it wasn't for him we wouldn't have this DVD or Walenski and access to his book. I touched Arthur's arm briefly, felt the swell of his bicep under the jumper. 'No, really. I appreciate what you've done.'
He shrugged. 'We all have our reasons.'
Yes, he hoped I'd uncover the real killer. That wasn't my goal at all. Was it?
Okay, so I wanted to explore the wellspring that the Tough Romantics' creativity sprang from. Four year's of study and I still didn't understand creativity. What drove people to create? What made one person successful and not another? Creativity wasn't enough. Lots of people with talent never made it. You had to be a bit obsessive. You had to make sacrifices.
What were you willing to give up for success?
The DVD was playing on Arthur's wide screen and we both turned to it as Genevieve sang I Don't Need You! with Tucker.
'I always preferred the original version,' Arthur admitted. 'But no one would listen to me.'
I glanced at him and, for an instant, it was the totally-exposed 18-year-old Arthur who looked back. What drove him to go in to politics? He was too honest. 'I don't get it. Why are you standing for election? You'll be eaten alive.'
He laughed and, as I watched, 25 years of life seeped back into his eyes. 'You wouldn't believe the things I've seen.'
And done?
'I'm going to make a difference, Antonia, and politics is the shortest path to power. I've been laying the foundations for years with my charity work.'
Arthur was that calculated? How could he be both the boyish idealist and the cynical manipulator?
'Sometimes to beat people at their own game, you have to play by their rules,' he said.
Was I part of his game? Was his help all part of a larger plan? I looked to Monty who was watching Arthur like he'd done something interesting.
Arthur glanced at his watch. 'Damn, nearly two. You'd better go.'
At that moment, I knew the biscuit dunking was deliberate, one of Arthur's little victories over his wife, and I doubted Pats would ever realise.
When we got back to One-Eight-One, Monty put the kettle on, while I ran upstairs to set up my laptop and upload the first clip. I wrote a cryptic blog: Promised you something big. Here's a teaser.
That would set the cat among the pigeons, as Nan would say.
Speaking of cats, Smokey was nowhere to be seen again; off on rat patrol I guess.
I ran downstairs, still smiling and checked the snail-mail to see if there was anything for Grace and Scott. Nothing, but there was a manila envelope in the letter box. I scooped it up and ran through to the kitchen.
'Guess what Monty? The manuscript fairy's been!'
'What are you waiting for?' He finished stirring a coffee and slid it down the bench to me. 'Open up.'
I broke the seal and pulled the next chapter out and fanned the pages. Same paper, same faded manual typewriter ribbon. On most of the pages the text had one or two corrections in faded blue biro, but others were completely clean. Obviously freshly typed. Monty joined me at the kitchen bench, his expression almost hungry. I felt the same way.
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