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Authors: Meg Gardiner
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autobiography?”
“No. Did she leave notes? A draft?”
“Notes, photos, lots of recorded ramblings. She wasn’t writing it herself.”
“Ghostwriter?”
“Man named Ace Chennault.”
Jo took out a notebook and wrote it down. “Know how I can reach him?”
“He’s around. He’s a music journalist, was on the road with her for the last few months, gathering material.” She smiled briefly, a flash of teeth. “There’s family, and then there’s entourage.”
“When was the last time you spoke to your sister?”
“Yesterday morning. She called to make sure I’d gotten the tickets she sent.”
Jo stopped writing. “I’m sorry, I should have known you were at the concert.”
“Yeah.”
The clipped syllable sounded like pain itself.
“How did she sound?” Jo said.
“Soaring, but agitated. Sort of . . .” She tilted her hand side to side. Comme ci, comme ça. “Disconcerted. Fizzing like peroxide.”
“How long had she sounded that way?”
“A few weeks. But she could swing from mania to depression within days.”
Rapid cycling indicated a deteriorating psychological condition. It meant the bipolar disorder wasn’t under control. Rapid cycling could result from the disorder’s progression over many years, or from poor medicating, self-medicating, or a patient going off her meds.
“Did she ever have mixed episodes?” Jo said.
Vienna frowned. “Not as far as I know.”
“What was she like when she was hypomanic?”
“Like a Saturn rocket. Full throttle, roaring straight for the sky. Incredibly creative. She’d write songs and record all night. Funny and outgoing.”
“And when she experienced full-blown mania?” Jo said.
“ Challenger . Blast off, screaming for outer space, ka-blooey. ”
“Did she engage in dangerous behavior?”
“She’d hit the sack with every man in arm’s reach. Snort cocaine, even out the coke with vodka-and-OxyContin smoothies, cool off by driving the Pacific Coast Highway, headlights off, hundred miles an hour. Surely you’ve seen her mug shot online,” she said. “I posted her bail.”
She stared at the whitecaps on the bay. “Listen, I’m venting here. But the last few years, Tasia worked at managing her life. She quit the drugs and the booze binges. Stopped being promiscuous. She didn’t crash into the dark, dark holes like in the old days. She didn’t have weeklong sleepless jags where she rewrote the Ring Cycle as an epic about stock car racing. She was stable.”
“Did you see her often?”
“No. She has a house near Twin Peaks, but she’s been touring.”
“Did she talk to you recently about ending her life?” Jo said.
“No.”
“Did she seem to be making any preparations—had she given away any of her possessions? Made a will?”
“Wrote a will ten years ago. Otherwise, no.”
“Did she have any enemies?”
Vienna turned her head slowly, and gave Jo the remorseless grizzly bear gaze. “The police played her ‘I’m going to be assassinated’ recording for me. It was . . . shocking. But I have seen no evidence that anybody killed her. If you have any, tell me. I mean now, Doctor.” The gaze didn’t relent. “I want the truth.”
Jo knew that Vienna didn’t simply want the truth; she needed it. Without it she would live like a wounded animal, bleeding and pain-stricken, burdened with doubts and guilt her entire life.
Jo hoped she could help provide her with it. That’s why she did the job.
“I don’t yet know what happened, but I’m trying my best to find out. Could anybody have wished your sister harm?”
Vienna fought her emotions. “Real harm, not conspiracy theory bullshit? People are saying she took a bullet meant for Searle Lecroix, or that the stuntman shot her—he has a Muslim name, Shirazi, so it’s a jihadist plot to destroy country music. Or she was given hallucinogenic drugs that made her shoot herself.”
That, Jo thought, was actually an interesting possibility.
“She made enemies
“No. Did she leave notes? A draft?”
“Notes, photos, lots of recorded ramblings. She wasn’t writing it herself.”
“Ghostwriter?”
“Man named Ace Chennault.”
Jo took out a notebook and wrote it down. “Know how I can reach him?”
“He’s around. He’s a music journalist, was on the road with her for the last few months, gathering material.” She smiled briefly, a flash of teeth. “There’s family, and then there’s entourage.”
“When was the last time you spoke to your sister?”
“Yesterday morning. She called to make sure I’d gotten the tickets she sent.”
Jo stopped writing. “I’m sorry, I should have known you were at the concert.”
“Yeah.”
The clipped syllable sounded like pain itself.
“How did she sound?” Jo said.
“Soaring, but agitated. Sort of . . .” She tilted her hand side to side. Comme ci, comme ça. “Disconcerted. Fizzing like peroxide.”
“How long had she sounded that way?”
“A few weeks. But she could swing from mania to depression within days.”
Rapid cycling indicated a deteriorating psychological condition. It meant the bipolar disorder wasn’t under control. Rapid cycling could result from the disorder’s progression over many years, or from poor medicating, self-medicating, or a patient going off her meds.
“Did she ever have mixed episodes?” Jo said.
Vienna frowned. “Not as far as I know.”
“What was she like when she was hypomanic?”
“Like a Saturn rocket. Full throttle, roaring straight for the sky. Incredibly creative. She’d write songs and record all night. Funny and outgoing.”
“And when she experienced full-blown mania?” Jo said.
“ Challenger . Blast off, screaming for outer space, ka-blooey. ”
“Did she engage in dangerous behavior?”
“She’d hit the sack with every man in arm’s reach. Snort cocaine, even out the coke with vodka-and-OxyContin smoothies, cool off by driving the Pacific Coast Highway, headlights off, hundred miles an hour. Surely you’ve seen her mug shot online,” she said. “I posted her bail.”
She stared at the whitecaps on the bay. “Listen, I’m venting here. But the last few years, Tasia worked at managing her life. She quit the drugs and the booze binges. Stopped being promiscuous. She didn’t crash into the dark, dark holes like in the old days. She didn’t have weeklong sleepless jags where she rewrote the Ring Cycle as an epic about stock car racing. She was stable.”
“Did you see her often?”
“No. She has a house near Twin Peaks, but she’s been touring.”
“Did she talk to you recently about ending her life?” Jo said.
“No.”
“Did she seem to be making any preparations—had she given away any of her possessions? Made a will?”
“Wrote a will ten years ago. Otherwise, no.”
“Did she have any enemies?”
Vienna turned her head slowly, and gave Jo the remorseless grizzly bear gaze. “The police played her ‘I’m going to be assassinated’ recording for me. It was . . . shocking. But I have seen no evidence that anybody killed her. If you have any, tell me. I mean now, Doctor.” The gaze didn’t relent. “I want the truth.”
Jo knew that Vienna didn’t simply want the truth; she needed it. Without it she would live like a wounded animal, bleeding and pain-stricken, burdened with doubts and guilt her entire life.
Jo hoped she could help provide her with it. That’s why she did the job.
“I don’t yet know what happened, but I’m trying my best to find out. Could anybody have wished your sister harm?”
Vienna fought her emotions. “Real harm, not conspiracy theory bullshit? People are saying she took a bullet meant for Searle Lecroix, or that the stuntman shot her—he has a Muslim name, Shirazi, so it’s a jihadist plot to destroy country music. Or she was given hallucinogenic drugs that made her shoot herself.”
That, Jo thought, was actually an interesting possibility.
“She made enemies
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