Cat and the Rock Star

Chapter 3

A black stretch limo dropped Cat and Demas at a private hangar in the corner of LAX, where they boarded a 13-seat Gulfstream. The cream colored seats were comfortable, and they took off around 11 p.m. with an ETA of 8:30 a.m. at Newark Liberty International Airport. A dark-eyed, dark-haired stewardess named Layla served them Veuve Clicquot and shrimp cocktails. Then Cat pushed a button, converting her seat to a bed, and drifted asleep to the sounds of Good Thief, Demas's band.

It seemed only a few minutes later when Layla shook Cat awake. Demas was still asleep across the aisle, a blanket tucked up under his nose, his long blond hair covering his eyes.

"Miss Montgomery," Layla whispered. "We'll be landing shortly."

Layla woke Demas and gave each a little case with mini-hair brush, toothbrush and paste, and other toiletries. Cat did her best to pull herself together in the washroom.

"What'll I tell Bobby's mom?" Demas asked as the jet descended.

"Tell her you've realized how important Bobby was in getting your career started, and you want to honor him," Cat said. "Whatever you do, don't mention ghosts."

They landed at another private terminal, and a second black limo whisked them out of the airport headed west. The old neighborhood was a small town called Paskerville, population five thousand, forty miles southwest of Newark. An hour later, they pulled in front of a small white two-story house that looked like it hadn't been painted in fifteen years. Its front porch was screened in, and Cat saw an empty rocking chair inside.

"Bobby's old place," Demas said. He and Cat got out of the car. Demas pointed across the street at a faded blue house a few doors down. "That's where I was born. No plaque in front. Guess I'm no Elvis Presley."

She followed him to the front door of the white house. Demas pushed the doorbell, but nothing rang. He knocked, then knocked again. As he looked back at Cat, the front door squeaked open, and a small woman with a Roman nose and sharp blue eyes peered up at him.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

Demas stared at her. "Mrs. Marron?"

"John?" She frowned and pressed her lips together, glancing at Cat. "John, what are you doing here?"

Cat eyed Demas. The expression on his face was similar to the old woman's. Neither of them wanted to be having this conversation.

"I ... I ..." Demas pointed at Cat. "This is my publicist. She'll explain everything."

Jesus H! What a wuss! Cat pushed Demas to the side as she walked past, taking a deep breath. She smiled. "Hi, Mrs. Marron. I'm Cat Montgomery. We're doing a retrospective of John's music, and he insisted we find some way to acknowledge your son and how important he was to starting John's career." This must be the longest lie she'd ever told.

The woman looked at Demas reproachfully. "I'm not Marron anymore. I'm Baker. But my husband died five years ago."

"I'm real sorry to hear that, Mrs. Baker," Demas said.

"Mrs. Baker, could we come inside for a moment and talk?" Cat asked.

Mrs. Baker pointed at Demas. "He and my son didn't get on too well. In the end." She looked at the musician. "You really hurt Bobby."

Demas's clothes and hair were rumpled. He looked like a drowned rat that had dried out. "I ... I realize that now, Mrs. Baker." He stuck his hands in his pockets. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Baker. I really am."