They gathered around the body at midnight.
All four members of Lilith Skulls—Amy, Petra, Ty, and Cat—hovered above the once pink face of their band manager, Jeff, who laid in a barren corn field outside a New Jersey dive bar. His corpse now illuminated by moonlight and the weak beam of Ty’s flashlight.
There were no obvious signs of death other than swollen blue lips and a stain on his jeans that Petra assumed had dried in the balmy September breeze. To investigate further would involve rolling him over and exposing skin, and no one would volunteer to do that.
Cat spoke first. “We should call someone.” She was the drummer, and the youngest by mere months, something, up until recently, she had leaned into quite hard. She was also anxious, incredibly indecisive, and prone to outbursts, but she also provided the van since her father was a plumber. Therefore: indispensable.
“No,” said Petra, without hesitation. It was clear from Jeff’s skin, now gray and filmy as brackish water, that nothing could be done for him. Should be done for him. “At least, not yet.”
They had just finished their set at the Shanty (inaptly named since they were forty minutes from the shore) when Jeff had scurried off to get payment from the owner who pulled back on the envelope to grumble, “I thought I was getting Stereo Soul.” Jeff’s response was a laugh and, “You wish.”
Then after loading up the van alone and in need of gas money, the girls had searched for him only to find him like this: legs splayed out like a starfish and hands at his throat.
Ty leaned over and toed Jeff’s flannel open with the tip of her Doc Martens, revealing the T-shirt beneath.
“Can’t believe he’s wearing Stereo Soul,” Amy said in disgust as she crouched down and yanked on Ty’s arm. The flashlight’s beam was a betrayal.
“Son of a bitch couldn’t have bothered to wear our merchandise at our show when he croaked,” Ty said, her voice deep and aggressive, and as practiced as it was natural. “Still pissed that they took our spot at Jerseypalooza.”
“He gave them our spot,” said Petra, crossing and uncrossing her arms over her brother’s Army surplus jacket. “We earned it, and he handed it away to those tools.”
“They’re his clients, too,” said Cat softly.
Amy said, “The only ones he cares about.”
“Cared,” said Petra. “Sucker’s dead. His underhandedness means squat now.”
“God,” said Cat. “All those managers gonna be clamoring for them. Heard Dirk Jones made a play for them.”
“He’s as predatory as Jeff.”
“Takes a bigger cut, too,” said Cat.
“Let the sharks have them,” said Petra. Stereo Soul was not their problem right now; Jeff, unfortunately, was.
Amy touched Petra’s sleeve, causing Petra to flinch. She removed her hand. “We need to call someone, Pet. His wife…”
Ty scoffed. “She’s better off. Especially after what he pulled tonight.”
“The redhead,” Cat whispered with a disapproving shake of her head.
“You play with a scorpion,” said Amy.
“Yeah,” said Ty softly. “Jeff was scum.” She caught Cat’s eye who repeated, “Scum.”
“Enough,” barked Petra. She began to rub her temples. Of the four of them, she ruled the band. She was lead vocals, lead guitarist, lead everything. Someone had to take charge of this mess, and that someone was a 22-year-old NYU dropout from Staten Island.
Ty sidled next to her and draped a tattooed arm across Petra’s shoulder. “What do you suppose we do?”
Both Cat and Amy stared at her just as a warm breeze coasted across her cheeks. Likely Jeff’s spirit had ditched his body to assault her at that moment.
Petra tilted up her chin. If a decision had to be made, then she would make it. “First, we get the money from tonight’s gig.” She gestured to Jeff’s body.
Everyone groaned. Someone would have to touch him to get the cash from his pocket.
“Then,” said Petra with a grin as wicked as the dark clouds smothering the moon, “we hire that new manager.”
###
Five months ago, Ty had spotted the redhead in the passage between the stage and the club’s only dressing room, a space so narrow it was as if the walls were conspiring to squeeze out all the light.
They were at an April show in a New Brunswick haunt, beloved by Rutgers seniors just shy of graduation. The beer was cheap and plentiful, so Ty had few complaints.
A ska-band, or something like that, was performing for an audience of ten—mostly friends from the dorms if Ty had to guess. Lilith Skulls wasn’t set to go on for another hour, and they weren’t even the main attraction. A grunge band from Newark was billed as the headliner.
Ty stared at the redhead from her perch at the corner. A single bulb flickered above, casting the woman’s hair in faint lemon. Ty knew she wasn’t a natural ginger—her hair went through too many stages of varying hues. At one show, it took on a copper tone. At the Kean Battle of the Bands, the woman’s hair was nearly carrot-colored, having faded to a light orange by the time Ty saw her a month later at a joint in South Amboy.
The redhead caught Ty’s eye and acknowledged her with the slight lift of her chin.
Ty’s chest clicked into place, like a combination lock hitting its last digit.
Of course, that was when Jeff appeared, waving two tickets for Stereo Soul between thick, sausage fingers. He leaned his bulky frame against the black painted walls, Timberlands crossed at the ankles. The woman laughed—to Ty it sounded like an insane guitar rift—then reached for the tickets, only for Jeff to pull them back. Teasing, sure, but he wanted something in return. And if he didn’t get it, he’d take it.
The redhead playfully swatted Jeff’s shoulder before reaching into her bag to withdraw an unlit cigarette. Smart. Can’t attack a woman when she can literally burn you.
Ty pushed off the wall and emerged from the shadows. She said to Jeff, “Got a minute?”
Momentarily caught off guard, he squinted at her in the dimly lit space just as the redhead plucked the tickets from outstretched fingers. “Thanks, Jeff. I’ll be sure to let the guys know how much I appreciate this,” she said in that cool voice of hers.
Ty wondered what that level of appreciation meant and if she had just swapped one dirtbag for another.
As Ty approached, and the redhead retreated, Jeff sighed and ran a meaty palm over his scruff. “What do you want, Tracey?”
She flinched. The minute Ty had left high school, she changed her moniker and never looked back. Unfortunately, contracts signed between managers and clients required government names.
Ty balked for a moment before regaining her composure. The goal was getting the redhead away from Jeff. Everything else was gravy. So Ty reached for the easiest of excuses—money. “Can I get an advance on next week’s gig? Rent’s due.”
Again, Jeff sighed, an exhalation of women.
Jeff’s only redeeming quality was his ability to get the band gigs. Before they’d be lucky for a spot in a lineup at a county fair in Langhorne. They needed him or they couldn’t get their fee without having to resort to tears—that was where Cat came in handy—and phony threats from dads with imaginary law degrees—Petra’s domain. Lately, though, Jeff’s currency had been depreciating.
Every gig, the girls would save a portion of the payout in hopes of hiring a proper lawyer, one who could get them out of their predatory contract with Jeff, signed by a bunch of giddy 20-year-olds in a moment of foolishness. Unfortunately, it was going to take a lot of gigs, in a lot of dives, to reach that point.
Jeff pointed his thick finger in Ty’s face and said, “Learn how to budget,” and walked away in a huff.
Mission accomplished.
Grinning, Ty went to the bar. She pounded the top with her fist to get the guy’s attention and ordered a bottle of their cheapest beer. The redhead turned to her and raised her voice to be heard above an awful trumpet solo. “I appreciate what you did back there with that creep.”
Ty nodded and clinked her bottle against the redhead’s now empty one. Leaning into the woman, Ty said, “Is Stereo Soul worth it?”
To her dismay, the redhead mooned. “They’re gonna be huge, and I want to be on the ground floor.” The redhead leaned into her. “You should’ve seen the crowd at Jerseypalooza. They were going wild for Stereo Soul. They’re the next Pearl Jam.”
Ty balled her fists. That spot was supposed to go to Lilith Skulls. Ty hadn’t spent one year buying liquor for an underage college girl whose uncle worked at Epic Records for nothing. There had been one open slot, and Jeff used it for Stereo Soul—his boys.
“Yeah, well, we’re amazing too,” said Ty quietly.
The redhead grinned. Then Jeff showed up, forcing the woman to slink into the crowd, swallowed up by the camouflage of bodies in black T-shirts.
Jeff signaled to the bartender, then turned to Ty before resting his elbows on the bartop, taking in the pitiful crowd. The crowd wouldn’t grow much for Lilith Skulls, not at this dump.
“Listen, tell Petra you’re gonna get bumped off the Delaware festival in September,” he said.
Ty halted, sputtered, and spilled beer on her shirt. “No! You promised.”
“I know,” said Jeff. “But when they heard that I repped Stereo Soul, they wanted the guys instead.” He grinned. “Next time.”
This was how it was going to be: Jeff stealing their gigs for his boys.
Ty grabbed a napkin and wiped at her shirt, but it was no use. She’d smell like beer for the rest of the night. “Tell her, yourself,” she spat at him, but she knew Jeff wouldn’t. He was scared of Petra.
And he should be.
###
Cat could argue that this whole mess started with the van.
Back in May, Jeff had gotten Lilith Skulls a gig in Montclair. Sure, they had to open for Stereo Soul, but it was near the university and the students—fried from studying—were the largest crowd the girls had played for in months.
Equally fortuitous was that Cat’s father had finally bought a new vehicle for his plumbing business, and so he had gifted his old Dodge to the group. “I’ll take care of the collision insurance,” he’d told them.
Cat had spent hours peeling off the old vinyl lettering in hopes Amy could paint a design on the dingy panels. She was already drafting a new logo during soundcheck when Stereo Soul had arrived. Jeff had negotiated some type of clause in their record contract, which meant the boys showed up to the venue in a shiny, black Chevy truck with a trailer hitch.
While Cat was wiping off sweat she had accrued from hefting their equipment inside, Stereo Soul had hired two young roadies to carry all their gear. One of those roadies had shoved Cat out of the way as he carried in a bunch of steaks from a restaurant down the block.
She hovered outside the door of their dressing room while the kid set up bowls of M&Ms, fresh fruit, fancy IPAs, and finally their dinner.
A leftover Wawa sub was the only meal Cat was going to eat this evening. Amy joined her then and said, “Why are you lurking?”
Cat pointed. “Look. A whole bowl of M&Ms.” Then for emphasis, she repeated, “A whole bowl.”
Amy rolled her eyes. “Don’t let Petra see you salivating over this; she’ll ream you out.”
A hand ruffled her hair. The bassist for Stereo Soul sidled past her wearing a flannel over a black T-shirt. He stepped on her foot on his way to the candy bowl. “If it isn’t our little sisters.”
“Kiss our asses, Scott,” said Amy.
Scott picked up a bottle of beer, frowned and then put it down. “I’ll give you ten bucks if you run to the store and pick up a six-pack of Coke.”
“We’re not your crew,” said Amy.
Cat said, “Can’t you drink the stuff they have here?” Free soda was free soda.
Scott made a face as if Cat had suggested he stick a straw in the gutter. “Fountain drinks taste so watered down.”
He wagged a brow at Amy.
She said, “Send your roadie. We’re on in ten minutes.”
Scott laughed and fell back onto the leather sofa. “What a dive.”
“When Jeff signed you, you were playing Bar Mitzvahs,” said Amy.
“And when he signed you, you were nothing more than our sloppy seconds.”
The other members of Stereo Soul began to trickle in, pushing past Cat and leering at Amy.
She grumbled, “Soundgarden wannabes.”
Cat said, “Are you going to watch our set?” But either they didn’t hear or were purposefully ignoring her. It was hard to tell the difference.
Jeff’s admonishing voice barked, “Girls!”
Always girls. With Stereo Soul, it was gentlemen and a deferential head nod.
Regardless, Lilith Skulls put on a good show, so good even Jeff received a compliment from the venue manager—a woman. Amy had given away a ton of sample cassettes; she even managed to sell a box of Lilith Skulls T-shirts, stamped with a design she had worked on for weeks.
Riding the coattails of Stereo Soul might’ve hurt the girls’ pride, but it didn’t hurt their bottom line. And they coasted that high until Cat went outside to retrieve the van, so they could load up. Only it wasn’t where she had parked it.
Petra arrived then, hefting her guitar and rolling a speaker on a dolly. “Where’s the truck?”
“I don’t know,” said Cat, panicking. “I left it here where Jeff said we could.”
Petra yelled, “Jeff!”
He didn’t show. Petra threw up her hands and went back into the club, tugging their cranky manager by the sleeve like some kind of toddler. She pointed to the empty spot and said, “Did you move the van?”
Jeff shook his head. “Nah, but I gave the keys to that roadie so he could run out for soda.” He scratched at his goatee with short nails. “Surprised he’s not back yet.”
Petra roared at him, “You did what? They have their own van!”
“Relax, doll. Theirs had the trailer on it. Kid said it was a pain in the ass to use it for an errand, so I figured there’d be no harm in taking Cat’s hunkajunk. I’m sure he’ll return.”
He did return. On foot.
When Cat asked about the van, the guy pointed into the darkness. Cat assumed that it was the direction of where the Dodge had ended up. “I hit a pole,” he said, without a hint of shame.
Cat lunged for him, her fingertips inches from his eye sockets; Ty, so surprised by this outburst, barely held her back in time.
“What’s the damage?” Petra asked calmly.
When his response was nothing more than a sheepish shrug in Jeff’s direction, Cat grabbed him by the jacket and shook him. “What’s the damage?”
It took the Stereo Soul drummer and Jeff to peel her fingers off his coat.
Cat began to wail. “My father’s gonna kill me.”
“No, he won’t,” said Petra, once she sandwiched herself between Cat and the roadie. “Stereo Soul is going to cover the repairs.” She turned to Jeff and growled. “Right?”
Jeff nodded several times in acquiescence while the boys groaned. “Not our fault, they don’t have decent insurance.”
As the guys boarded their new Chevy, Jeff patted the shoulder of the lead singer and said, “I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry.”
Cat should’ve realized that Jeff taking care of it meant not doing anything at all.
When the insurance company labeled the van totaled, they offered Cat’s father a measly $500, a third of what it would cost to fix the smashed front, to take it “off their hands.”
Lilith Skulls had to use their lawyer money to pay for the damages.
They would not be free of Jeff for a long time.
###
In June, Lilith Skulls performed at an all women’s music festival in South Jersey—without Jeff having ever been informed.
That was Petra’s idea. “What he doesn’t know, he can’t take,” she’d said.
But getting said gig—that was all Amy. She was good at this sort of thing. She had a knack for networking, a skillset she picked up during her day job as an admin for a small real estate company.
There, Amy met all sorts of people who helped her out. The mechanic who was searching for a new garage fixed the damaged van for cheap. The couple in search of a five-bedroom colonial with a pool hired Ty as their live-in nanny. She even met a shrink who gave Cat much needed therapy on a sliding scale.
But most fortunately, Amy had met a woman who did events coordinating for music festivals along the entire East Coast. Amy had made sure that the woman’s bid on a renovated Cape Cod in Madison was the only bid the seller’s received.
And so when Amy asked if her band could perform at a summer festival outside of Philly, the woman happily agreed to add them to the lineup, placing them only two spots before the headliner.
A position that could change their trajectory.
“That was incredible,” Petra squealed as she unwound her guitar strap from her chest.
“Did you hear that crowd?” said Ty. “I swear, at one point, I think someone was chanting my name.”
“The redhead?” Cat asked absently.
“She’s not here.”
“She only trails Stereo Soul,” said Petra dryly.
“Anyway,” said Ty. “This was the most fun I’ve had in forever. And the best part is that Jeff is not here.”
“Agreed,” said Amy as the girls gathered their gear and headed down the steps into the staging area in the grass.
While Ty and Cat went to grab the dolly from the van, Amy hung back, watching the next group perform—a band out of Syracuse that had a keyboardist channeling Tori Amos. The hip gyrations were quite impressive.
A voice said, “You girls were amazing.”
Amy turned to see a dark-haired woman in a floral dress and black boots approach her. “You remind me of Hole.”
Amy glanced to see if Petra was still upright, if the comparison to her favorite rock group hadn’t blown her over.
The woman held out a card. “If you girls are looking for a manager, I’d be willing to take you on.”
Petra practically elbowed Amy out of the way as she thrust out her hand for the card. “Dana Baum,” said Petra, practically cooing the name. “You manage Mighty Mice and Bitter Honey.”
“I do,” she said.
“Do you only rep female artists?” asked Petra.
“I think there’s enough men in this business that I can focus solely on women. So are you currently being managed?” Dana leaned in close, so close Amy could smell her perfume. A skeptical brow went up. “Word is Jeff Giovanetti is your manager, but I don’t see him here today.”
Amy opened her mouth to confirm. No sense denying the truth, but Petra cut in, “We’re looking for new representation.”
Not a lie.
Dana cocked a brow. “Really?”
“Yes,” said Petra.
“His contracts are notoriously predatory and hard to weasel out of.”
“No sh—” Amy began.
“We’re coming to a dissolution,” said Petra.
“All right, then,” said Dana. “The minute you’re not under contract with him, give me a call.”
Amy waited for Dana to stride across the field before she whirled on Petra. “We don’t have enough money in our lawyer fund to get out from Jeff any time soon.”
Petra’s eyes followed Dana’s back. She slapped the card against her thigh. “This is an opportunity we can’t pass up.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning we’re gonna find a way to get rid of Jeff.” Petra cocked a pierced brow. “You in?”
###
In the end, it wasn’t Petra who brewed the plan.
It was Cat.
“We poison him,” she said to the girls as they set up in her garage on a muggy, sticky July evening.
Ty spit out a guitar pick; it landed in her palm. “Excuse me?”
“Jeff,” said Cat. “We poison him.”
Petra immediately grabbed the leather strap and yanked down the garage door, enveloping them in darkness and heat.
“Don’t be insane, Cat,” said Amy with a little shake of her head. She wiped sweat from her brow. “We don’t know the first thing about poisoning someone.”
Ty stared at Amy. “That’s your takeaway from this. That we don’t know how?”
The girls began talking over each other, their voices a cacophony of sounds all arguing the same thing—logistics.
Can we buy arsenic like it’s 1890?
Do autopsies check for rat poison?
Amy must know a guy.
Maybe Petra can just scare Jeff to death.
Petra waved them down, signaling for quiet. “This is senseless. There’s no way we can,” she lowered her voice, “poison him without screwing up. Without getting caught. Arrested.” And then for even more emphasis, “Imprisoned.”
When Petra had suggested to Amy that they work on getting rid of Jeff, she meant more like devising a blackmail scheme—take photos of him screwing a Stereo Soul groupie and mail them to his wife—not kill him.
She supposed that no idea was off the table.
No one said anything for a moment. Then Cat cleared her throat. “He’s allergic to clams.”
“So?” said Ty. “I can’t eat dairy. Doesn’t mean if I go to Benny Tudino’s, I’ll die.”
“Yeah, but you won’t go into anaphylactic shock,” Petra said slowly. “Jeff’s allergy is really severe. He carries an EpiPen.”
If the garage had been brighter, someone might’ve clocked Cat’s eyes darting right to left, the gears in her brain clicking audibly.
“The Shanty,” said Cat. “They do a wing and seafood buffet every Friday night before the bands go on stage.”
“Are we booked there?” asked Ty.
“No,” said Amy. “Jeff hates that place.” She grumbled, “Now we know why.”
“Schedule it,” said Petra.
“Ok,” said Ty. “Then what do we do? Perform at the Shanty and hope Jeff stops by? Touches clams? Seems unlikely.”
“Maybe not,” said Cat.
Ty challenged, “What if he doesn’t show? Wouldn’t be the first time he didn’t come to see us play.”
“He will if we go around him,” said Petra. “One thing Jeff hates is when we take charge. He’ll be so pissed that we booked our own gig, he’ll be sure to show up, just to collect the cash.”
“The only issue will be getting him to willingly ingest a clam,” said Amy.
“Or unwillingly,” said Petra.
“Or unwillingly,” Cat repeated.
Ty frowned. “What the hell do you both mean?”
###
Back at the Shanty, Petra watched the scene unfold before her—the paramedics lifting Jeff’s body onto the stretcher while an Old Bridge Police detective paced around an indentation in the grass; his partner interviewed a copper-haired woman in an alcove of light next to the Shanty’s dumpster.
Ty joined Petra standing between a shed and the backdoor. They said nothing.
“He was always flirting with me at shows. Like aggressively,” said the redhead. “Last time, he tried to put his hands on me, but my friend stopped him in time. To be honest, I was only here to pick up tickets for Stereo Soul from a friend in Lilith Skulls.”
“God, these names,” groaned one detective. The other said, “Lilith Skulls is the band who performed tonight?”
“Yeah.”
Ty tensed, but Petra put a steadying hand on her shoulder.
“So then what happened?” he asked.
“Um, well, we were in the back, you see.”
“You and,” he flipped pages in a notebook, “Tracey Gunn.”
Ty winced.
“Anyway, I met her back there to grab the tickets, and he spotted me.”
“Jeff Giovanetti?”
“Yeah.” A sigh, then an eye roll. “Like I said, I try to avoid him; he’s a creep. When he saw me getting the tickets, he said,” she lowered her voice in an imitation of him, ‘“you should be thanking me.’”
“What did you do?”
“Nothing at first,” she said. “I’d just eaten a plate of fried clams that Ty gave me from the buffet, and I was about to order a beer from the bar to wash it all own. But the dude grabbed me.”
“He grabbed you?”
“Yeah, he grabbed me and shoved his tongue down my throat. Next thing, he starts coughing and backing away and he runs outside. That’s the last I saw of him until the girls came in screaming.”
“The girls of Lilith Skulls?” he said.
“Yeah.”
Amy and Cat appeared now. The four of them stood in a line, a phalanx against whatever was about to come.
The detective turned and tapped a pen to the small pad of paper he held, the way a smoker might hit the butt of a cigarette against a pack of Marlboros. Man was probably jonesing to light up, thinking about nicotine and, hopefully, not motive.
Hopefully.
He looked at them and said, “You’re Lilith Skulls?”
They nodded.
“Huh. I expected you to be older.”
Ty shrugged.
“Did you know he had a deadly clam allergy?”
They shook their heads.
“He didn’t talk much about his personal life,” said Petra while Cat batted her lashes and rubbed vigorously at her nose, as if stemming off tears.
“We didn’t even know he was married,” offered Amy.
The detective exhaled and stared at them: Petra with her arms crossed. Amy resting her head gently on Ty’s shoulder. Cat’s lip wobbling like a top.
They were talented at more than just playing dive bars.
He said, “Go home, ladies. We’ll be in touch if we have more questions.”
Petra tugged them along to the van, keeping an eye on the one detective who was climbing into a police cruiser with his partner.
“What do you think they’re going to do next?” Cat whispered.
“Probably notify Jeff’s wife,” said Amy. “I kinda feel bad for her.”
“She’ll get over it,” said Petra. “They’re gonna rule this a dumb accident. I know it. Look at those two.” The cruiser sailed past them, kicking up dirt and rocks. “They can’t be bothered to look further than their guts.”
Amy sighed. “Hope you’re right, Pet.”
“She is,” said Cat, pushing the subwoofer back so she could close the door. “Especially when they tell the wife he had an allergic reaction because he assaulted a woman.”
“Speaking of,” said Amy. All four girls turned to see the redhead coming into view.
She still looked shellshocked, the flush of her cheeks matching her hair. “What a night,” she said.
“What a night,” Ty agreed.
“Thanks for the tickets,” she said. Then squealed, “Backstage passes, too! How did you manage?”
“Guys owed us a favor,” replied Ty.
“Lucky me.”
As the redhead climbed into a blue hatchback, Cat asked Ty, “Do you know her name?”
“Nope,” said Ty. “And now it’s awkward.”
Petra had more pressing questions to address. “How in God’s name did you get her to agree to eat fried clams from the buffet?”
“Told her they were Scott’s favorite.”
“She really will do anything for Stereo Soul,” said Cat.
Amy asked, “How did you know Jeff would kiss her?”
“I didn’t,” said Ty. “That wasn’t part of my plan. My plan was for her to drink from the beer bottle, and then to offer it to him. He basically dug his own grave.”
Petra nodded, impressed. Amy clapped Ty on the back. Cat tossed the van keys into the air and caught them.
“Rehearsal tomorrow?” Petra said.
The girls nodded. “I’ll call Dana Baum in the morning,” she said.
Cat climbed into the driver’s seat, squirmed for a second, and plucked an EpiPen from the cushion.
Amy’s eyes widened. “Cat!”
“What? I didn’t want to take any chances.”
“Damn. Remind me not to cross you.”
Petra said, “We’ll toss it out the window once we get to Route 18.” Petra twirled her finger in the air. “Let’s roll. We’ve got new music to write.”
