Page 52 of The Heartstrings of Harry
I yanked open the bathroom cupboards in search of a house deodorizer, a scented candle, anything that might mask the smell of excessive masturbation. Nothing. I opened all the doors and windows hoping a breeze might blow the stink of solo sex away, but there wasn’t a puff of wind in the air. I grabbed a newspaper and fanned the room, but it only seemed to spread the waft of wanking. I’d read once that serial killers masturbate up to seven times a day, and I panicked even more. “Jesus Christ, she’s going to think I’m Jeffrey Dahmer.”
I needed to buy something to take the smell away.
I also needed to buy—“Dinner! Shit! I’ve got nothing to cook for dinner.” I remembered Pascal’s new range of freshly baked pies. AndBud’s Bloomswas next door. I called Gage and asked him to take care of the store. Only when I hung up did I notice the three missed calls on my phone, all from a number I didn’t know. I must have been too busy whacking off to hear the phone ring.
I ignored it, grabbed the keys to the truck, and left the house.
* * *
The moment I stepped intoPascal’s Patisserie, I felt a strange energy in the air. Customers seated at tables inside the café gossiped excitedly as Lonnie Larson, Benji’s mom, came rushing up to me, tucking her notepad and pen into the pocket of her waitress’s apron.
“Harry! Have you heard the news? Oh, you must have, you’ll no doubt be the one they need to cordon off the streets and help set up the stage.”
I shook my head, confused. “Cordon off the streets? Set up the stage? Lonnie, what on earth are you talking about?”
“You don’t know? There’s going to be a big rock concert, right here in Mulligan’s Mill. You know Dean Reeves, Andy’s son? He’s a big rock star now and he’s going to hold a concert in the park. They’re calling it ‘Dean’s Homecoming Concert.’”
The shock of the news made me physically queasy. “He’s doing what? When?”
“This Friday night. Apparently, tickets are almost sold out already. His fans will be pouring in from all over the country.”
“He can’t.”
Lonnie looked confused. “What do you mean, he can’t? Isn’t this what he does? Sing songs? Record albums? Perform concerts?”
“Yes, but… not here. He came here to get away from all that, not to bring it with him.”
“I guess he changed his mind. Now, what can I get you?”
Hurriedly I ordered a chicken and leek pie, then—based on recommendations from Bud himself who clearly knew the difference between a marigolden-girl and a real marigold—scooped up no less than four bunches of the most aromatic flowers I could find, before racing home, packing the food in the fridge and sitting the flowers in a sink full of water to keep them alive before returning to my truck and charging over to Andy’s.
When I pulled up out front, I saw that Andy’s truck was gone. He must have been out on a job, and I was thankful for that at least.
I ran to the front door and knocked on it loudly.
There was no answer.
I knocked again, even harder, and when there was no response, I raced around the side of the house, across the back yard and up to the door of Dean’s studio shed.
“Dean? Are you there?” I rapped my knuckles frantically on the door.
Dean pulled it open while I was still knocking.
He was standing there, wearing nothing but a towel he held around his slim waist, his firm young body shiny and wet.
“Harry?” he said. “Everything okay?”
“No. What’s this I hear about a concert? Are you seriously going to put on a concert… here… in Mulligan’s Mill?”
“Astrid called you, huh?”
“No.” I remembered the missed calls. “Maybe. Someone tried calling me.”
“That was Astrid. The concert’s her idea, and she’s moving full steam ahead with it. She’s already had the permits cleared through Sheriff Gates, then she was going to call you to go through the logistics. The AV production team arrives tomorrow. They want to start building the stage in the park first thing in the morning.”
“But… but… I thought you came here to take a break from all that. What happened to lying low? What happened to getting away from all the chaos and craziness of LA.? Not to mention, you have a stalker to worry about.”
He didn’t answer, at least not straight away. Instead, he reached forward, grabbed the front of my T-shirt, and pulled me into his studio, shutting the door behind me.
