Page 80 of Naughty Dreams
Returning to the present, Roy introduced himself to Milton. His belted slacks were ironed and the crisp open-necked button down had a silk vest over it. His shoes were polished brogues. The blue eyes were direct, and there were streaks of gray in the black of his hair. He looked able to manage a hefty load of responsibility, and his grip on Roy’s hand was firm.
“I’m very sorry,” Roy told him.
“Yes.” Milton’s voice was a Midwest accented tenor, but strong as a bridge cable. “We’ll help DJ however he needs it. And you, Mr. Bloodwell,” he added. “I’ll make sure the staff follows your every instruction.”
“Thank you. That makes a hard job less so. If you have any questions or concerns at any time, let us know. And when it comes to whether or not something is safe or normal, no one relies on their own judgment. Bring anything out of the ordinary to whichever security detail is on shift.”
Milton’s sober expression said he understood. “What do you need right now?”
“G told you I want to meet with the full staff?”
“Housekeeping and the gardener are already here, and the maintenance and landscaping teams will arrive in the next hour. I’ve told them you’ll be meeting with them then, as you requested. Derrick is in testing the additional firewall on thehome system that you directed Miss G to install, but will join you at the meeting and be available for your direction.”
Derrick Monroe was in charge of home security and reported to Henry. The lean forty-something had served in the Army in his twenties, worked as a police officer in Asheville until thirty-five, and then gone into private security. He was solid. He had a home in Asheville, a wife and three kids.
“Good. I’m going to tour the house and grounds and check some details. You can help DJ get settled.”
Milton’s expression reflected the bleakness it had shown when DJ spoke to him. “He said he didn’t want to be disturbed until further notice. He said he’d call for a meal when he was ready for it. There are always some snacks and drinks in his room.”
“Okay.” Roy would address that later. “Just curious, Milton. How long did it take you to stop calling him Mr. James?”
“Pardon?”
“You still do a brief hitch when you say ‘DJ.’”
Milton’s mouth tightened in a faint, humorless smile. “About a month. On Day 28, he told me if I didn’t realize he wasn’t a ‘Mr.’ anything, he’d put muddy shoes on the furniture, hang from the rafters like a naked bat, and worst of all, put my least favorite music on the house-wide speakers all day long.”
“Sounds like him.”
“He’s a mix of mischievous boy and honest, very likeable man.” Milton pressed his lips together at what he obviously deemed too personal an insight, and added apologetically, “It won’t be the same here without them.”
“No, it won’t.”
Milton produced a slim phone from his coat pocket. “I’m sure G has told you how to reach me if you need me. I always have it on me.”
“Already in my contacts list and on speed dial.”
Roy went over a few more details with Milton, but as expected, G had covered most of it. He let the man go about his duties and started his self-guided tour.
Since Ollie and Jason had DJ, Roy began with the outside, specifically the four-car garage.
He knew Pete had a thing for cars, but his five extra vehicles were at a storage place in Asheville. The one he’d left here last was a vintage black Corvette. Steve had a blue Toyota GR Supra. Looking through the passenger window, Roy saw an extra pair of the red-rimmed sunglasses Lonnie liked to wear, with tiny black cat faces dotting the arms.
No surprise, Tal had a Harley Davidson motorcycle. Imagining how often he’d driven it shit-faced, Roy hoped God had given his frazzled guardian angel whatever a heavenly reward was for a being already from heaven.
Though Tal was the only band member who had his own place, a pricey apartment in a secure building in Asheville, he’d left the bike here when they departed for the tour.
Given how recognizable he was, DJ had long ago given up having his own vehicle. When their career had started to take off, they’d upgraded from the old van to a fifteen passenger Ford with lots of amenities and plenty of room to carry four band members and their equipment. But when their success went from that to tractor trailers and tour buses, they’d given the Ford to a roadhouse band in Asheville they liked.
Roy left the garage and walked the east and west garden paths. The foliage bordering them was well tended, ground cover like ferns and clumps of wildflowers pulling in the natural feel of the forest around the property. Underneath pergolas covered with blooming vines and shady trees with sprawling branches were benches, swings, even stacks of large rocks with flat tops. Then he came upon a more unlikely piece of garden art.
The van hadn’t been abandoned to a junkyard when it was retired. The panels had been painted with musical notes, swirling around instruments playing themselves. Caricatures of the band were visible against the windows, like a Scooby Doo cartoon. Steve was driving while giving the peace sign, and Pete hung out the window just behind him, grinning and holding up a bottle of beer. Tal’s arms snaked out so he could bang on the painting of a drum kit below that window. A cigarette dangled from his lips.
DJ was in the back, the view through one window showing his propped-up, sneakered feet, the next window showing him lounging back in the seat, his guitar in his lap as he plucked at it.
Roy’s gaze fell on a bronze plaque near the van.Early days, never to be forgotten.
A few more steps down the path, around a bend that still provided a good view of the van, was a cedar barn door swing, wide enough to accommodate the man sitting Indian style on it in bare feet.
