The Mourning Mail (final release candidate #7)

Chapter 22

My mind and body are no longer what they were when I was in my twenties, and visiting a bar after 11:00 p.m. on a weeknight now requires preparation. After taking in some carbs with leftover lasagna and a few hours of nap time, I was all set.

It was about ten as I readied myself to head out to The Casbah. I wore distressed black jeans, a tight charcoal V-neck sweater, a cropped and studded leather bolero, and black stilettos. As I walked to my car in the apartment parking lot for tenants, the dark-colored Dodge in the row behind my Toyota started its engine and turned on its headlights. I instinctively raised my left hand to block out the high beams that the Dodge had flashed in my eyes. The driver lowered his beams, but the experience irritated me more than it should have, and I wasn't sure why. It was just a little thing, and there was no reason to believe the incident was intentional.

The Casbah has a definite vibe that fits with its history—there's a "real rockers play here, posers go home" feel. It's easy to understand why locals consider performing there quite an accomplishment for an up-and-coming musician. That would be especially true for one not yet old enough to drink legally.

Once the bouncer directed me to the small round top Terrence had reserved, I ordered a Scotch and soda. I listened to the band play for the half-hour before the break. Though of a generation beyond mine, I had to admit their music was pretty good, certainly better than the alcohol the establishment served. And so, that would make for an excellent topic to start my first face-to-face conversation with Terrence.

Terrence unslung his guitar a few minutes after 11:30 and headed my way. He appeared to be around nineteen, dark-complected with curly black hair, slender, and no taller than I am, if that.

"This is a sweet venue for a local band—how did you land this gig?" I asked as Terrence took the seat across from me.

"The Frenetic have played here before. I auditioned for them a while ago and played with them at a private party when their lead guitar went to jail for a DUI. Now he's sick with COVID. He's still fighting it after three months. The band liked my sound and remembered me. They asked me to help them out again. Don't tell anybody my age; I'm supposed to be 21 to play here."

"You have my word," I said with a soft grin. "So, your mom's husband says she's in Europe having fun, but everybody else thinks she's in trouble, maybe worse. When we were on the phone, you said he killed her. What makes you think that?"

"That douchenozzle doctor hates animals," Terrence replied. "I'm pretty sure he tortured them back in elementary school." Terrence's face became dark red when upset, enough that I wondered if he had an underlying medical condition.

"So, when I got my new apartment with two of my friends, Mom gave me Bentley to keep. Bentley is Mom's chihuahua-spaniel mix, and she loves him a lot. She used to come over every other day to play with him, take him for walks or to the park, and run through the water at the beach."

As soon as Terrence calmed down, his face returned to its healthy color. The deep red seemed to be a reaction to specific triggers; in our conversation, almost anything to do with James Seaver.

"So, I take it she hasn't been around to see Bentley?" I asked.

"It's been almost a year since I've seen her. She wouldn't go away like that. She just wouldn't. My mom's not perfect, but she cares about Bentley and me. And my mom doesn't like change that much. Traveling isn't her thing."

The last part confirmed something Darrell had said. "What was your mom's relationship with James Seaver like?" I asked.

"He used to con Mom all the time. But he knew I liked Darrell and Emma, so he didn't even try to fool me. When Mom wasn't listening, that cracker would call me her 'colored boy' to make me mad and act out, so it would look like it was my fault that we didn't get along."

Terrence's face had turned red again.

"After Mom divorced Darrell, she kept saying how hard it was for someone her age to find a good man, so she needed to be happy with what she had. Mom kept saying Granddad had looked out for us, and things would improve once the court was through with PawPaw's estate."

"Do you think she was just waiting for the right opportunity to get free of the doctor?" I asked.

"Maybe. I don't know what Mom wanted," Terrence answered. "If she even knew, it would have surprised me. I co-wrote one of our songs called 'Simpering Dog.' Mom was like that when she was around him, but that wasn't who she was. She wanted him to acknowledge that he cared about her, not just her money. Before they married, he'd play that game like it was her fault for misunderstanding him, but he didn't give a rat's ass how she felt after they said their vows. They always fought, mostly about money, and he didn't like her friends. Or me."

"You know that the doctor claims she's doing the same thing she did right before she and Darrell divorced?" I asked.

"That was different," Terrence said. "Mom and I would exchange notes on my Facebook page when she left the first time. She asked me not to tell anyone, so I didn't. I tried to let Darrell know she was okay without saying anything, and I think he knew."

"When did you last hear from your mother this time?" I asked.

"It was almost ten months ago," Terrence said. "You can tell from the last time she updated her Facebook page. I know she's dead because she always added things to her timeline when she was alive."

"For your sake, I can only hope you are wrong about that. I wish I could offer something to prove your mother is alive, but I can't. I can only imagine what it must be like not to know."

Terrence's eyes were tearing up as he fought to maintain control. "Just please, please tell me as soon as you hear something, whichever way it goes," he said. "You're right; the hardest part is not knowing. I feel like I owe her to keep the faith, but it's hard to shut out that Mom's not been around."

We could both see his bandmates taking their positions back on stage, and Terrence apologized for not having more time as we said our goodbyes. After the break, I kept my seat through their first song and reflected on how his mother going missing might have affected Terrence. I experienced a flush of guilt about not giving Terrence more thought before meeting him. I realized I hadn't considered Terrence an audience member when I mapped out how to write this story. My conversation with Terrence hadn't produced anything new concerning his mother's disappearance. But it would positively affect how I would tell his mother's part in all of this.

The circumstantial evidence showed that Theresa was dead. James Seaver had likely murdered her, or at least was heavily involved. And sadly, like Brian, Theresa, too, would make for an imperfect victim.

I was still pondering Theresa's circumstances as I headed to my car. It was hard to tell in the poorly lit club lot from several car lengths away, but something I saw out of the corner of my eye made me do a double-take. Wasn't that the same Dodge two-door sedan I saw back at my apartment? Thinking about it, I shook my head at my silliness—there must be tens of thousands of those things in San Diego.

And that was precisely the type of vehicle someone might own if The Casbah was one of their hangouts. Still....