W Is for Wasted

are. How cool is that? Can I buy you a drink?”
    “Don’t think so, but thanks. It’s just about my bedtime.”
    “One drink. Come on. Are you having Chardonnay or Sauvignon Blanc?” He caught my look and laughed. “You didn’t think I knew about white wine, am I right?”
    “Ask if they have anything better than the stuff they’ve been pouring. Failing that, I’ll have ice water.”
    “Be right back.”
    I watched him edge his way through the crowd, and for a moment I flirted with the idea of pulling a disappearing act. Seemed rude when he’d actually been a help to me, telling me where Anna worked. While I waited for his return, I went over Anna’s comments. She hadn’t actually admitted her mother had perjured herself at Dace’s trial, but that was the conclusion I’d reached and it was one she hadn’t refuted. No wonder two of the three kids were so belligerent. In effect, Evelyn had hung her husband out to dry. No alibi in their minds was equivalent to guilty. Perjury is a criminal offense and I couldn’t see why she’d admit to it unless it was true. She’d be opening herself to prosecution unless the statute of limitations had run out, which I didn’t have a clue about despite my reassurances to Anna. In point of fact, even if she’d lied, it wouldn’t have a bearing on the legalities of the situation. All three principals were dead—Herman Cates; his accomplice; and Terrence Dace, the man he’d falsely accused. Dace’s conviction had been overturned, but Evelyn’s sly admission carried more weight in the eyes of his children than the court’s reversal. The claim bothered me. The timing bothered me as well. Why would she suddenly ’fess up? That’s what I couldn’t understand. She hadn’t flat-out accused him of anything. She’d simply opened a door, fanning a small ember of suspicion in the minds of his kids. At this late date, I doubted there was any way to determine the truth.
    Above the background noise, which was gradually subsiding, I heard a smattering of applause and then a male vocalist. I thought it was the jukebox, but Big Rat reappeared at that moment and handed me a fresh glass of white wine. “There’s Ethan.”
    “You’re kidding me.”
    I moved to the doorway and checked the raised dais where the band must have been setting up while the pool match was going on. Ethan sat on a wooden stool in a pool of light, head bent over his guitar. A hush settled and then he began to sing. He wore the same outfit I’d seen him in at home—jeans, desert boots, a long-sleeve white T-shirt with a placket down the front that he’d unbuttoned partway. He looked utterly unlike the man I’d talked to earlier. His vocalizing transformed him from an ordinary mortal to someone from another realm. I blinked, trying to reconcile this image with the man I’d seen only hours before. His voice was mellow; his manner, relaxed. What struck me was the soul shining through his song. Maybe it was technique or maybe he had a natural sense of showmanship. He seemed oblivious, so absorbed in the music he might as well have been alone in the room.
    I checked the crowd and saw the same rapt attention. He seemed totally out of place in such a common setting and, at the same time, he seemed completely at home. It dawned on me that these people were here for him. The lounge was packed with avid fans, loyal followers who came specifically to hear him perform. I’d seen this before, this otherworldliness, and it had taken me years to sort the truth from the illusion.
    My second husband, Daniel Wade, was a musician. The first time I saw him, he was playing piano in a bar in downtown Santa Teresa. It was late. The air was smoky in the same way it was smoky here. I don’t even remember now why I was there or whether I was in the company of someone else. Daniel, with his cloud of curly golden hair, leaned over the keys like an alchemist. He played like an angel. His talent was magic, the philosopher’s stone that promised to turn base metal into gold. I saw him through a haze of longing. I fell in love, not with the man, but with a mirage. Watching him play, I’d assumed he was as remarkable a person as his music implied. I wanted to believe. I projected onto him qualities he didn’t possess, qualities that only
appeared
to emanate from somewhere deep inside. I don’t know that he was aware of the effect he had, so I can’t accuse him of trickery or deception. He was accustomed to admiration