Ruby Tuesday

By Baron Birtcher

Former LAPD detective Mike Travis returns in a novel of sex, drugs, rock and roll—and murder—from the award-winning author of Roadhouse Blues.
 
The mystery has fascinated the music industry since 1977—the year when some tapes went missing from the Stone Blossoms’ final recording session for one of the most anticipated rock albums of all time. The band’s charismatic leader committed suicide on the same day.
 
Retired cop Mike Travis learns about the puzzling history in the worst way possible. After sailing from Catalina to his family’s old beach house in Kona, Hawaii, he discovers there’s been a bloodbath. Five victims have been murdered, including his childhood friend’s wife and a former Stone Blossoms guitarist, Danny Webb. And when his friend is suspected of going on a jealous rampage, it’s up to Travis to prove his innocence. 
 
Turns out Webb was involved in a multi-million-dollar deal—providing he could produce the lost tapes. Travis knows just how toxic greed can be, but even he’s not prepared for the violence to come . . . and just how close to home it will hit. 
 
“A fast-paced look at the dark side of music and greed. I couldn’t put it down.” —Brad Freeman, K-Hawaii Radio
 
“The climax is fast-paced, just how a detective needs to work when he finally puts it all together.” —Rapport magazine
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Media
• Release date: Jun 25, 2024
• ISBN: 9781504096065

Baron Birtcher

Baron Birtcher spent a number of years as a professional musician, and founded an independent record label and management company. His first two novels, Roadhouse Blues and Ruby Tuesday, are Los Angeles Times and Independent Mystery Booksellers Association bestsellers. Birtcher has been nominated for a number of literary awards, including the Nero Award for his novel Hard Latitudes, the Claymore Award for his novel Rain Dogs, and the Left Coast Crime “Lefty” Award for his novel Angels Fall. He was the 2016 Silver Falchion Award winner for his novel Hard Latitudes and the 2018 Winner of the Killer Nashville Reader’s Choice Award for his novel South California Purples. Birtcher currently divides his time between Portland, Oregon, and Kona, Hawaii.

Book preview

Part One:

STONE BLOSSOMS

North Hollywood

Summer, 1977

CHAPTER ONE

Nancy Lee tapped her gold Cross pen on the faux-wood veneer of the booth’s table top; impatient, waiting on the arrival of her five o’clock interview.

Fuck this, she thought, and pulled another cigarette from the pack.

She slid back the sleeve of her peasant shirt, and checked the time. Nearly six o’clock. Almost an hour late. Five more minutes is all he gets.

She plucked a match from the book and lit up, blew twin plumes of smoke from her nostrils. She caught her reflection in the mirror behind the bar and smiled to herself. The time that asshole—what was his name?—said she looked like a dragon when she did that. He’d meant it as a racial slur, pissed off about a tough review. Hell with him. He’s long gone, and I’m still standing.

It wasn’t the first time the Rolling Stone reporter had been kept waiting by some ego-inflated musician, but her tolerance had diminished in proportion with her rising status. Her articles had become renowned for the prophetic qualities. She had seen the tragedy of Badfinger coming, and written an uncompromising cover piece. She had uncovered rip-offs by unscrupulous business managers that landed a couple of them in prison. She’d done the last interview with the Supremes’ Florence Ballard only days before she died of a heart attack. Hell, she’d even predicted that Frampton would leave Humble Pie, probably knew it before he did.

Nancy took another drag off her cigarette, tapped the lengthening ash away, and flipped open the notebook she carried in her fringed leather purse. She reread the questions she had written there. Her eyes took in her own handwriting, but her mind wandered back seven years to the first time she had been introduced to Harley Angell, unofficial leader of the mega-band called Stone Blossoms.

Seemed like yesterday. The chaos inside the Rainbow Bar. His quiet charm had drawn her into a protective cell within which she gave herself over to him completely. Well, almost. They had both been so young then. Everything so new, so thrilling.

Stone Blossoms had just finished their first night as opening act for the Allman Brothers Band at the Forum in Los Angeles. The beginning of a fifty-five date summer tour. The performance had blown them all away. Everybody. The cheers from eighteen thousand dazzled fans nearly shook the arena apart as the Blossoms’ set came to a close.

After a ten minute encore jam on Willie Dixon’s Born Under a Bad Sign, the group was manhandled into a customized Greyhound bus and headed for what became an all-nighter at the Rainbow. The band was still in shock when they pushed through the front door.

Stone Blossoms’ manager, Mark Miller, worked the room. He didn’t miss a beat introducing the band members to reporters, reviewers, and label executives. Knew all of them by name. Kept the boys moving, making the rounds of all the movers and shakers, trying to keep the ban’s attention off the groupies long enough to give a few interviews and get a few photos. It had been Miller who navigated Harley Angell through the noisy crowd to the bar stool that Nancy Lee occupied, nursing her beer. Still wet behind the ears in her position with Rolling Stone.

Even at the time, it struck her how innocent he seemed; tall and smooth faced, carrying himself in that aw-shucks sort of way he had back then. Youthful green eyes complimented an olive complexion and dark, shoulder-length hair that infused him with a rugged Celtic handsomeness. Shyly uncomfortable and charismatic at the same time.

From Angell’s first words, Nancy had been taken by his self-effacing manner, his easy smile, the way he avoided direct eye contact.

Only in retrospect did she remember shaking off a premonition that the business would transform him into something unrecognizable, something hollow, hard and cynical.

Nancy exhaled gray smoke and crushed the butt into the ashtray with the others.

A hand touched her shoulder from behind.

Nancy?

She started, knocked over the remnants of a gin and tonic that had gone flat. Melted ice and a wedge of lime slid to the floor.

God, I’m sorry, Angell said. I didn’t mean to scare you.

He slipped into the booth, along the naugahyde bench across from her, and Nancy caught her own reflection in his mirrored sunglasses. The beginning of their ritual. The exclusive interview he granted her before the release of every new Blossoms album. Only this time, it had been a long time coming. A very long time.

No, I was just— She let it hang there.

He reached across and offered her his hand. It felt warm, dry and strong to her as he enfolded her slender fingers. An unexpected heat on the back of her neck, and she wondered again why she had never tried to seduce him.

—I was a million miles away, she said finally. I guess I didn’t hear you come in. She gathered her napkin into a ball and wiped up the spill.

He slid off his shades and used them to hold back his long brown hair. His eyes, she noticed, were rimmed in red, quarter moons of faded purple underneath. Three days’ growth of beard. A tired smile that briefly touched his lips, and failed.

Angell studied her, appreciating her exotic beauty. It’s good to see you, Nancy, he said softly. You look beautiful. As always.

Always a gentleman. I wish I could say the same, Harley.

He was silent for a long moment, then shrugged.

There had been a growing spate of rumors floating around town that the long-awaited new Stone Blossoms album was badly bogged in one of those ugly tangles of creative differences among band members. The group had been in the studio for over twenty months already, and nothing but negative speculation about the sessions ever circulated anymore. After a string of enormously successful albums and three sold-out world tours in a row, the burden of loving up to its own legend was taking its toll on the band.

You look like hell, Nancy said.

Red eyes blinked. Long hours.

His faded denim jacket fell open as he leaned against the backrest and spread his arms, the trademark turquoise choker circling his neck.

Getting any sleep? She tapped the side of her nose.

The tired smile appeared again. It’s under control.

We don’t need any more casualties, Harley.

It’s not me you should be worrying about.

Nancy shook another cigarette from the pack and offered it to Angell.

No, thanks, he said, but reached across the table for the matchbook. She took one between her lips and allowed him to light it for her.

Kevin Demers getting arrested is nothing new, Harley. Drummers always pull stupid crap like that. Bonzo Bonham, Keith Moon. Same old shit.

I guess I should be flattered, he smiled. "Our drummer gets DUI’d doing rooster tails with his Fatboy on Zuma Beach in the middle of the night—and you worry about me."

It’s different.

You’re right, he said and turned his eyes toward the window. Two days after that, he’s arrested at the Riot House with two underage groupies and an eight-ball of Peruvian flake.

The Continental Hyatt House. Party Central. When the heavy bands were in town, it practically rained TV sets from the windows of the top floor suites.

Like I said, she answered. It’s different.

Nancy opened her notebook and placed it on the table. She wrote the date and time at the top of the page. How about we get started by—

A young waitress interrupted, and Nancy watched the look of surprise register in her eyes. Sudden recognition.

Aren’t you…?

Harley Angell, he said, almost a whisper. He extended his hand.

The girl took it in hers and giggled involuntarily. I can’t believe it, she said. One of the faithful. "I mean, the Stone Blossoms are, like … this is just so cool."

Thanks, he said as she released his hand.

She made no move to take their order or walk away, just couldn’t stop staring. Awkward moments.

Nancy Lee cleared her throat.

Sorry, she said. What can I get for you?

Bloody Mary, double, and heavy on the Tabasco, Angell answered.

And for you, ma’am?

Ma’am? Jesus.

Gin and tonic.

"Anything else?

Not right now, Angell said, and watched the waitress slowly retreat to the bar.

A Bloody Mary? Little late in the day for that, wouldn’t you say?

My day’s just getting started.

After a few beats, Nancy regrouped. She made a sudden gut decision to abandon the set of questions she had prepared; she would go for it casually, conversationally. She had the feeling that she’d get to that inside edge of things if the interview was less structured. He already seemed far more guarded than usual.

So what’s going on, Harley?

Not much, he said.

Sarcasm doesn’t suit you.

Noted.

Seriously, what’s happening? The world is wondering where the next Stone Blossoms album is, and all we hear is rumor and innuendo. Infighting and drugs and drama.

On the record, or off?

Gimme a break, Harley. Why are we here?

She saw him stiffen, and his eyes glanced out past the window again.

Okay then, he said. On the record: Recording is going without a hitch and the band is getting along splendidly. Never better. The album should be out ‘any day now,’ and the boys and I are extremely excited to get it out there.

Through all the years Nancy and Harley had been through this dance, she had never seen him like this. He had to stretched thin to be so disingenuous with her. But there was something here. She could feel it.

‘Splendidly,’ Harley? she said. Seriously? I hope that’s not from your lyrics. For Christ’s sake. The vehemence of her tone surprised Nancy herself, and she dialed it back. She had a great deal of time invested in this relationship and it was a big interview, even for her. No one from the Stone Blossoms’ camp had spoken to the press in well over a year. Practical media blackout. Radio silence. This was sure to be another cover story.

Listen, she said. "You agreed to talk to me. It’s obviously important. The band has been subject to rumors of a breakup over this record. Something’s got to be said. Wouldn’t you rather that someone be you."

Angell closed his eyes and sighed.

Nancy leaned toward him, her tone softer now. "You know, there’s talk that this could be another studio stillbirth like the Beach Boys’ Smile project."

Oh, bullshit, Nancy. That’s a crock of—

—and your drummer’s more hell-bent than ever to kill himself. And how about Lyle Sparks? He’s walking around town looking for a solo deal. Then there’s you. You look like you don’t know wouldn’t know what month it is if I asked you.

Harley Angell opened his eyes and met her gaze, nodded. He aged five years in that moment. Can I bum that cigarette now?

Nancy slid the pack across the table. She waited quietly while he lit up, and watched him collect his thoughts.

The truth is—

He stopped himself, weighed his words as he waved the matchstick dead and tossed it in the ashtray.

Yes?

The truth is that the album’s almost done. His words rolled across a blanket of exhaled smoke.

You’re kidding, she said. That would be big fucking news.

No, I’m not. We’re in the final stages of mixdown. It’s supposed to be this big secret that we’re so close, but … The sentence trailed off into nothing, a shrug, a chord not struck.

Nancy looked at him in disbelief. She hated things that sounded too good to be true. She’d been bitten before.

He read her expression. I’m not gonna lie to you, Nancy. It’s been torture, but the damn thing’s almost done.

What about the rumors? All the fights we’ve been hearing about?

He took a drag on his smoke as she snuffed hers. We’ve had our troubles, sure. But I think it’s all just a symptom of being cooped up in the studio for months on end. That, and not having taken a single break from the recording-touring grind. I mean. how many years has it been?"

She waited him out.

You know, the Blossoms haven’t had any real time off since the first album took off. That’s all the way back in ’seventy. We’re all restless as hell. It shouldn’t surprise anybody that we’re getting crazy.

Go on. The story was already formulating itself. Her brain buzzed. The jazz. She loved when it happened this way. Nancy scratched notes on the pad in front of her without taking her eyes off his face.

Well, you gotta remember: On top of all that pressure, the albums have grown more complex, the recording techniques more sophisticated—

—Not to mention, she egged him on. Every new album has outsold the one that came before.

His tired eyes hardened. You handling me, Nancy?

No!

Angell’s fingers drummed a rhythm, something old, Buddy Rich, maybe. "’Cause I’m not going to be fucking handled."

I know.

He glanced away. Okay, sure. There’s a lot of pressure there. Some of it’s been laid on us by our label, but a lot of it is internal, too. We create it ourselves, as artists, you know?

Nancy Lee remained silent, let the interview play itself now.

There’s been some tough going this time around. Personally, I mean, he continued. With the albums selling so well, there’s been more and more internal strain between the band members to get songwriting credits. The problem is, you can’t just divide up an album and say, ‘I’ll write three songs, you write three songs, and that other guy’ll do three more.’ It’d be great if you could, but the fact is that not everybody has stuff that fits.

You mean shitty songs, Harley? Not everybody writes as well as you do.

He laughed for what seemed to him like the first time in weeks. You’re handling me again, but I’ll take it. Not everybody can contribute songs that are strong enough. At least not this time.

But Harley Angell does, she said.

He glanced away, shades of the old modesty. He didn’t answer.

So the rumors of infighting among the songwriters are true? She persisted.

Angell sat up straighter, steeling himself for something. Nancy tensed.

The waitress returned with their drinks, leaving the glasses at the edge of the table. After a quick sideward glance at Nancy, she placed a plain white cocktail napkin in front of Harley. Some extra sway as she walked back to the bar without another word.

There was a change of electricity between them. Nancy silently cursed the waitress’ interruption.

He turned the napkin over without looking at it, his eyes old again as they returned again to Nancy. Girlish swirls in blue ink. A name and a number. He folded it once and put it in his shirt pocket.

She tried to reshape the silence, bring him back on point. Come on Harley, so the rumors of infighting are true …

Harley Angell stared into his drink, then used a sprig of celery to stir the ice. She saw that he was concocting an answer, privately debating how truthful to be.

There’s a lot of money to be made from writing songs, he offered at last.

And…?

And that simple fact fed some pretty bitter disagreements over album content. The money.

The after-work crowd was beginning to fill the place. A group of men in suits, ties pulled down from splayed collars, dragged in the daylight and took familiar seats along the bar.

But you worked them out?

Yeah. We worked ’em out.

"Fought them out?"

He removed the celery stalk, licked it, brought the glass to his lips and looked over the rim at Nancy.

Brings out the green in your eyes, she said. The celery.

He laughed in spite of himself. And you’ve never written your name on the back of a napkin?

Hell no, she smiled. Well, maybe Jagger.

He laughed again. She had him back.

What about drugs? she asked.

What about ’em?

"Come on, Harley."

Okay, look. You know as well as I do that drugs are a fact of life in this business. But it’s under control. Kevin Demers is insane. And you’re right: The things with the motorcycle on the beach, and the groupies is just another day in the life for him.

What about the rest of you? I’ve heard that there’s been some pretty weird shit going on in the studio.

He wiped at his nose reflexively. She was right. There had been way too much booze and coke in the studio over the last few months. Exhaustion suddenly deflated him.

Angell tried for a disarming smile, but only managed to look dismal, drained. Got any other questions?

Sure. Let’s talk about songs, Nancy asked, letting him off the hook. What’s the new album going to be like? Give me a preview.

"At the mention of the music, a faint spark returned to his features.

Harley Angell began an animated monologue about the songs. He seemed genuinely excited. The album was going to be titled, Lifeline, he revealed.

Who came up with that?

He waited a beat.

I did. It’s the title of one of my songs. It’s pretty much become the central theme of the project.

In what way?

He stared into his glass again, avoiding her eyes. Because it’s all I have left.

The naked loneliness of his statement struck Nancy like a fist. What does that mean?

The music. The band. This album. It hung in the air between them until a burst of drinking-buddy laughter rattled across the bar.

Angell straightened himself and absently fingered the turquoise choker around his neck, a finger on the touchstone.

Please don’t print that last thing, he said softly.

Harley—

He waved her off, gathering himself again.

He talked a little more about the 48-track recording methods that allowed the band to explore new musical textures, and expounded upon the new sound that permeated the album. When Nancy pressed him further about specific songs and songwriters, he demurred and told her she would have to wait and hear it just like everyone else.

After nearly two hours of conversation, Angell was spent. He tipped away the remnants of his third Bloody Mary and looked at his watch.

I’m sorry, Nancy, but I gotta split. I have to get back to the studio.

I appreciate your time. Really. She signaled the waitress for the bill as he slid off the seat across from her. He stopped then, touched her hand for a moment, stood, and started for the door.

Harley? She said.

He turned.

I’m glad you’re happy with the music. I hope it’s huge.

From your lips to God’s ears, he smiled, but it was shot through with melancholy.

Nancy Lee felt an indefinable emptiness as the front door swung shut behind him.

CHAPTER TWO

How did it go, Mister Angell? His driver asked.

Okay, JD, he said. It went okay.

The driver smiled. He had really grown to like this Angell guy.

You want we should go to the studio now? Six years driving limos in southern California and his voice still oozed south Chicago.

In a couple of minutes, Angell said. I just want to sit here and get my head together first.

JD caught his eye in the rearview mirror, nodded, and closed the privacy screen between them.

Harley Angell settled against the soft black leather seat and closed his eyes.

He silently reviewed his performance with the reporter, hoped that his enthusiasm for the songs would somehow overshadow the flood of negative speculation that had been swirling around out there.

His opinion of the new material was high, but he prayed that the threads holding the band together were not so visible to Nancy Lee. A heavy load of artistic credibility rode on the success of the new album, and he felt the full weight of it on his shoulders. Harley had tried as hard as he could to conceal the animosity that had germinated during the last tour, but it had come into full bloom in the dark confines of the recording studio.

If we can just make it through this album …

He squeezed his eyes tighter and tried to press the creeping dread from his mind. Sounds of passing traffic were dulled beyond the tinted windows. Real life. Normal life. Jesus, how long had it been?

Nancy Lee had been dead right about another thing, too. Drugs had fueled an escalating battle of egos among the band’s creative forces, of which Harley was preeminent. The group’s other songwriting team, lead singer Christopher Morton and guitarist Danny Webb, had been in a constant state of war with Angell over whose songs would go on the album. The arguments had been arbitrated by their producer, Tom Foster.

As the record neared completion, though, it looked like the final product would consist of seven songs penned by Harley Angell, two by Morton and Webb, and one by bassist Lyle Sparks.

It was supremely ironic, he thought, that the very same creative energy that had propelled Stone Blossoms to five consecutive multi-platinum albums—the two most recent of which setting world-wide sales records—was turning out